I wonder sometimes at the dimensions of time. Seasonal like this Equinox and tied to movements of the universe. Linear or cyclical and tied to human history, the decisions and actions of individuals and communities. Or even the way we think of our personal age or lifetime, as in “length of time.But I think there’s another kind of time we might call thin or packed full, apparently random, where a split second can change everything in a life: direction, plans, capabilities. Yes, there is shock, anger, and discouragement at times. But in this kind of time there are also moments I call grace, though someone else may call them fate and maybe they are both.
Six weeks ago I was struck by a vehicle while riding my bicycle to the downtown farmer’s market. I am walking and talking, but it’s put me in the slow lane temporarily—slow of moving and slow of thinking. I find myself looking in on human goings-on as a semi-outsider. Watching and listening to the daily rush of life from the sidelines. Somehow I see and hear more in this state. Some of it comforting and some of it disturbing. Let me tell you about the comfort.
The week after I was hit I saw our building janitor, Sahwa; I was on my way to a doctor’s appointment. After I told her what had happened she said to me, “You weren’t killed? How come you weren’t killed?” She thought for a moment. “In my culture we would give a big donation,” she said. “Give a big donation to something! That’s what I would do.” Her words stayed with me. Later that day, I came home and made some donations. Her name I would come to learn means, Angel, in Arabic.
That first week too I attended a memorial for sexually exploited women in Edmonton. It’s something I try to do every year for women who go missing, are murdered or die prematurely because of their time in the sex industry. The organizers were handing out tobacco ties: loose tobacco tied up in little red pouches, an Indigenous tradition. “What do you do with them?” I asked? “Make an offering to the earth. It’s a way to give thanks. To pray.” I took one. I knew right away what I wanted to do. As soon as I could walk as far as my favourite lookout on the river, I shook the medicine free and gave thanks for the healing that had brought me there.
A couple of weeks ago now, I was renewing my membership at the art gallery and an old workmate hailed me. He’s on long-term disability leave he told me. He had had a brain tumor. He showed me the crescent shaped scar on his scalp where they went in. He didn’t know if he would be able to return to work. What he was focusing on instead, he said, were people. People. People. He said it three times. I took that to mean relationships. We took some selfies together. He gave me pause: what am I focusing on at this time?
Last week I met with a friend whose cancer has metastasized. When I asked her how she is, she was straightforward. “It’s progressing. But it’s okay. As I said to my husband, I can do everything I want to.” And that floored me. Can I do everything I want to? Maybe not in my current physical and mental state, but when I’m healthy, am I doing everything I want to? And even now, am I being everything I can? Am I choosing fully?
My final revelation. I take little walks, a few times a day to gain strength. I was strolling by the St. Teresa of Calcutta school in my neighbourhood this week. The sign outside read, “With children comes hope.” I live in a very diverse neighbourhood. Children of every creed (Buddhist, Muslim and Christian), ethnicity, racial background. The students were on their lunch hour and they were in every corner playing. The older kids helping the younger ones on the swings, the boys and girls playing soccer together, football and basketball. Everyone getting along, having such raucous joy. Hope.
And so these are my humble offerings to you this fall equinox, these messengers and messages, a small lesson on the depth of time.
