Lockdown 2.0

 

It’s setting day – the most wonderful and sometimes terrible day of the year. The boats will head out and launch pots into the sea and lift them tomorrow to find what waits.

 

I never feel so proud as when I see my cousin out on the water, knowing that this is what my family has been doing along this coast for over 200 years. That connection to the land and the sea is what I missed when I lived away for so many years.

 

It’s good to have lived in a place long enough that you know the daffodils are early this year, to know that the catch is more abundant than usual, and that a hillside once clear cut has regenerated over the past 25 years; it’s good to live in a place long enough to see babies grow into men and women.

 

This is where half my heart is today, the other is in reflection on our recent re-entry into lockdown. This province has done amazingly well; we’ve all been bragging about the safety of these shores throughout the last year. And that message took root. People from all over the country decided that Nova Scotia would be the best place to weather the storm of the pandemic and bought up almost every piece of property they could find—pushing housing prices through the roof- relatively speaking.

 

The pandemic has in some ways been extremely good for Nova Scotia – it’s increased our population and is bringing in new blood -- families and professionals -- to our small villages and towns. Because people, rightfully so, want to get away from crowed streets and townhouses with postage stamp yards. People want the wide-open spaces where the virus is unlikely to find them. Where you can still ramble outside without seeing another potentially infected soul. That place is here, right here in the remote, often overlooked, eastern tip of this province.

 

But the remoteness of this place is a mirage, driving to the city for the weekend or the day is not unheard of now. It’s not the once in a blue moon event it used to be when I was a child. Forty-five years ago, I don’t remember ever going to the city of Halifax for fun—we went for hospital stays at the IWK Children’s Hospital and doctors’ visits—never for shopping and museum visits as I do with my own children.  

 

If we were still as remote as we were back then, the province-wide shut down would make little sense—but these days –anyone from any part of the province could be anywhere. And are. There’s shopping; you can’t buy much in this small village and have to go to a bigger area to buy most things beyond groceries. There’re sports; many youths in rural communities belong to teams that are based in other areas of the province and travel beyond the confines of home base for tournaments. And there’s family; not very many people live in the small rural areas where they started off—they come home from the city to visit, attend weddings and funerals. We are a province where ‘home community’ casts a wide geographic net.

 

Hence lockdown; everywhere.

 

My experience of lockdown last year, and currently, has been very good. And I feel guilty about that. I was looking forward to having the kids home again all the time. I like to see them more but I have to admit the main reason I wanted them home was so I could do this; write.

 

Strange to say, but with the kids at home I will get more alone time, shut up in my office. We recently got a new puppy, and his presence has changed our lives more than the pandemic.

 

We now get up at 6 a.m. -- not easy for two teens—to answer his cries. I had to move my workstation from my office upstairs to the open area of the living room where the puppy spends his days. And walks are more frequent, no matter the weather.

 

We split our days of doggy duty but with the kids in school- that meant I had the full school day looking after the little fluff ball. Hard to concentration on writing while keeping a watchful eye on the pup.

 

With the kids at home, I get to move back to my office and sequester myself in this space with my “working” sign on the door.  It feels a bit like heaven to have this time back.

 

And I don’t have to run to the store for every little thing anymore. I am back to a once-a-week shop. The kids can’t ask me to go and pick up this or that—they have to be patient and write it on the grocery list. They have to make do with what is in the cupboard. That cuts down on lots of lost time in the day that had been stolen by ‘quick’ trips to the store. It’s also probably healthier as I can’t make a run to the store for ice cream, chips or cookies when the craving strikes.

 

Now, once again, I can only work from home. No driving to events or to meet people for interviews. This also frees up a lot of time.

 

And it is spring; the weather has been good—so good I think we are going to have to start mowing the grass soon. Some people already have. The early spring means we can still visit the grandparents –outside and are not stuck in the house with nothing to do.

 

For me, I can guiltily say, the third wave lockdown, is a welcome break. The beginning of the first lockdown was the least stressed I have been in ages—I felt better than I had in years.

 

But for many people this will be a challenge. Regular health care is disrupted—they’ve stopped regular blood collection in this area due to all the COVID-19 testing they have to do. Elective surgery will be pushed back again. And many workplaces have closed-leaving employees jobless for the time being.

 

Families with young children are hit especially hard. Parents have to run homeschool again and deal with kids who would rather be out seeing friends and doing all their regular activities. But most of all, child care—whose going to take care of these children if the parents are still working? That is still a circle that can’t be squared. It can’t be the grandparents which is the typical fall-back position. So who? Nobody but you—so there goes work, there goes money. Lockdown is extremely tough for parents of young children.

 

I know how difficult and necessary it is to work as a parent with young children and that is why I feel so guilty for welcoming this lockdown as a respite from the world. I know this is a crushing situation for them.

 

And that leads me back to setting day. In this neck of the woods lots of fishermen have young families—so now when both parents are needed at home as much as possible—they’re operating one-short. This couldn’t have happened at a worse time for fishing families. But like everything else, these parents will make it work but with difficulty and stress.

 

I am ready for the third wave. I have noise cancelling headphones, pay coming in, and freedom to roam the woods and beaches. I wish all could be so lucky.

It's good to be wrong

Last week I got an email from my ex-partner regarding a birthday gift for our daughter. Upon first reading, I thought he had once again failed at the very minimal parenting job he had been assigned. His participation in our family life amounts to video calls and sending gifts for Christmas and birthdays. And given that very limited role he has managed to screw it up from time to time by not sending the gifts that were requested.

Due to minimal contact with the kids, my ex doesn’t know what they like, are interested in or take part in on a day to day basis; so, we give him suggestions for gifts. He doesn’t always take those suggestions and when he doesn’t it’s aggravating. What does a middle-aged man know about what a toddler, a child a teenager wants—nothing.

 

When I saw an email asking if I had gotten the lights that our daughter had asked for, my years of experience suggested that he had not bought them and thought I did. After a moment or two of frustration, I read the email again—always best to take a beat to reinstate calm before you reply to an email—and saw that what he wrote could be interpreted in two ways; he either thought I bought them or he mailed them and wanted to know if they were delivered.

 

In the spirit of peace, I gave him the benefit of the doubt and chose to respond as if the latter scenario was playing out. And, to my surprise, it was. Two days after the email exchange, the lights arrived in the mail. I was very pleased to have been wrong.

 

That started me thinking about how good it is to be wrong. Most of the time being wrong is horrible. It’s definitely not good to be wrong when it results in plane crashes, nuclear reactor meltdowns and sunken ships. But there are instances; many of them involving interpersonal relationships, where it is good to be wrong.

 

Many people can never admit when they are wrong. They feel it reduces their power and status. But being wrong and admitting it can be beneficial.

 

Admitting you’re wrong is a real power move. People respect those that can admit to being wrong. They don’t respect people who are wrong all the time, but if on occasion you change your ideological position, admit to a mistaken idea, accept that your answer is flawed or in error; this increases the confidence others have in you. It demonstrates that you are capable of change, are open to ideas, and are willing to accept criticism. Wouldn’t everyone appreciate a partner, boss or political leader that had those qualities? Because not one of us humans are always right.

 

It is only in the past 10 years or so that I have been able to easily admit to being wrong, to see the grey areas in my political and religious beliefs and be more accepting of others and the ways they are wrong too.

 

The good thing about being wrong is that you can learn. You don’t have to maintain that what you thought when you were 20 is still correct when you are 40. Life will teach you time and time again that you are wrong; frequently. The thing to do is accept it.

 

There’s nothing in life that will teach you more about being wrong than being a parent. If there is one thing that I am sure I am right about, it is this phrase that I have made into a mantra over the last 20 years, ‘There’s no right way to be a parent and about 1,000 ways to do it wrong.’

 

The people you need to say ‘I was wrong’ to the most are your kids. It took me a while to learn that but luckily not too long. It’s even more important if you have more than one child because you will be called out for unfair treatment no matter how hard you try to behave and apply the same rules to each child.

 

Being wrong in everyday life is a reason to rejoice. It means you’ve learned something new. You’ve opened the door to other possibilities and imaginings. Being wrong widens your world as you search for the answers you thought you already had.

 

Admitting that you are wrong promotes peace. If every person, religion, nation was steadfastly correct and unyielding in their positions and beliefs—war would be never ending. If we all have to be right, and none of us can be wrong, there is no room for compromise. You’ll be stuck on the last page of The Butter Battle Book with no hope for what might be written in the sequel.

 

I recently watched the tv series Little Fires Everywhere. (Spoiler) In each episode, the main character Elena sees one good intention after another fail and set off a cascade of negative outcomes. Despite that, and what her husband and others try to tell her, she constantly replies to any criticisms by stating that she is ‘a good person’. I believe that she means to be—she’s just a good person who is wrong. But episode after episode she keeps walking the path of the self-righteously correct.

 

In the finale, as she sits watching the results of her numerous efforts to correct others’ mistakes and hold them accountable, she finally sees that the person most wrong, most responsible for everything falling apart, is herself.

 

Unfortunately, this is fiction, and rarely do we see so clearly our own mistakes or admit them to others. But if we do, life will be better. For Elena—only through admitting that she was wrong can she hope to retrieve her life and loves from the ashes around her. That might be true for us all.

 

 

Media is the message

A bit of news snuck in under the mess of commentary on Trump and vaccine rollout this week and you don’t know it yet—but it's ground-breaking and will impact your life from now on.

Google has acquiesced, in part, to the demand by the Australian government on the behalf of news organizations, that Google pay for the right to use what these organizations create.

 

This is the first domino in the social media / information empire universe to fall in the fight for pay by news agencies and journalists.

 

It’s clear, as a journalist, how I will benefit—although maybe not for those who don’t understand how the system works.

 

Most people understand, at least on a surface level, how copyright works—people get paid for the use of their creative work—be it music, words or images—every time it is used. Of course, this doesn’t always happen—this is what that little message before a DVD warns about – piracy. Not that many people are watching DVDs anymore in the age of streaming, but some people may remember what I am talking about – particularly the warnings issued on DVD’s produced by the BBC which are very entertaining in an endearingly British way.

 

Copyright—this likely means little to you, except that it’s a hassle and prevents you from gaining access to the music, movies and books you want. But for the creators, it means bread on the table and a roof over their head.

 

Everyone wants access, but access can’t be free or there will be nothing to access. And while many people see creatives as unemployed or hobbyists, spending nights wrestling the creative muse after their day job; creative fields are the day job and should be recognized as such in the form of remuneration; ie money.  

 

In the news business, it is generally accepted that journalism is a profession. So much so that it has been deemed one of the top reviled professions in North America, right up there with lawyers.

 

What the general public doesn’t know, is there isn’t any form of copyright payment when social media platforms redistribute news media content. And most people probably think that doesn’t matter. But it matters; a lot.

 

If you can get all your news for free, why would you pay for it, and by that, I mean buy a digital or hard copy subscription to a newspaper or magazine. Of course, you wouldn’t. It doesn’t make any sense to pay for something that’s free.

 

But it isn’t really free; nothing is. News is created by journalists and journalists aren’t cobbling it together out of the goodness of their hearts. Although in some cases you’d be willing to do so but then there is the matter of food and shelter which requires some financial gain for the work you do.

 

The day job of journalism is paid for by the media outlet which earns money from advertising and advertising needs eyes—countable eyes.

 

I have to admit that I don’t know that much about the business side of the news industry although I have been part of it for almost 20 years. But I do know that while most people think it is subscriptions that make the money that keeps an organization afloat, it is actually the advertising. And the advertisers want the best value for money. That means eyes on the paper or screen to see the ad which circles back to subscribers.

 

So, in a roundabout way subscribers are what keeps a media outlet above water because without them there are no advertisers.

 

Journalism and news media have been in a transformational period ever since the explosion onto the landscape of social media some 20 to 15 years ago. Independent newspapers, such as the one I work for, have been forced out of business at an alarming rate in the last decade. Even the heavy hitters such The New York Times, The Guardian and the Globe and Mail have been trying to figure out their place in the new media landscape with limited success—or such success so as to drive out smaller papers in the wider market.

 

It comes down money—if the news organizations aren’t paid for their product, they no longer have the means to create it. And you know who doesn’t pay for the news, major internet and social media companies.

 

How many people get their news from stories posted on social media? I would guess most people. Who is paying for it? A very small number of people. That being said, I must add a caveat; sometimes, direction to a news link on social media will result in new subscribers and that is a win for the media company—but I doubt that happens very often for smaller newspapers. Many people are content to read only a headline and never delve deeper into the article which would require them to pay for access.

 

This is an unsustainable model that will result in the collapse of journalism. But now there is hope- the brightest hope for this industry that I have seen since I began my career.

 

Google had threatened to stop providing search results for news organizations in Australia if the government passed a new bill forcing it to pay the country's publishers for the news links and snippets its search engine surfaces. But cooler heads prevailed and with more talk, an agreement was struck. 

 

Today Australians have woken up to less content on their Facebook newsfeeds, as that company has decided to strike back, unfriending Australia before the government passes the law forcing them to pay for content. 

 

The move in Australia, and the PM’s refusal to back down, has been noticed in Canada. This month The Liberal government reiterated its intention to push ahead with legislation forcing Big Tech companies to compensate news outlets for content.

 

I’m feeling a little woozy with all this potential for job security.

 

But the general public, why should they care about this? They might even wonder if it will result in some increase cost to them. The internet is supposed to be free; will that change if tech giants have to pay for news? It’s the rule of thumb that any increase in cost to corporations gets passed on to consumers. So why would Joe Public be in favour of this move?

 

Because despite the amount of vitriol directed at the media lately—especially in the past five years—you need us.

 

Without the media, government and business would not be held accountable, money would be spent in unknown ways, schools would be run according to unknown rules, regulations and curriculums; forest would disappear, people would be deported, and a myriad of other harms would occur or be occurring without witness.

 

The media is the watchdog. A dog that needs to be fed. And food cost money.

 

 

 

Joy List

There are certain people who love lists. I know this because I am one of them, and I know I am not alone because there are social media pages devoted to lists, there’s an entire sub-genre of journalism devoted to lists and I have a book titled Curious Lists: a creative journal for list lovers. If you are not a list lover, let me convert you.

Oh lists! How I love you, let me count the ways.

 

The first list I can accurately remember would be my Grade 1 spelling lists in Annie Doyle’s class at Guysborough Elementary School. In the beginning I was not fond of these lists; I am a horrible speller. But over time I grew to love them because it reduced the problem of spelling down to 10 words.

 

If you could remember 10 words for several hours; enough time to get to school and take the test, you would be a good speller. You would get a gold star rather than a withering stare. You would have achieved something through the use of the list.

 

And this is really what the first joy of list comes down to; achievement. The achievement can come from learning what is on a list or from crossing things off a list—either serves as motivation to action in pursuit of a goal.

 

I don’t have a spelling list anymore—although I probably should – but on good days, I have work lists, chore lists and grocery lists. They all bring me delight and fulfillment.

 

Work lists are essential. I easily forget evergreen stories I have pitched and have set aside until a later date for when breaking news is less likely to fill a newspaper.

 

When I need to make sure the editor has received all my stories, I need a list to make sure I have not forgotten to send one; that has happened. I have looked at the first draft of the paper and wondered where my article was only to find I hadn’t sent it.

 

I need work lists to provide a starting point as I sit down at my desk in the morning. What emails do I need to send, what research needs to be done, what phone calls need to be made. Without lists my work life would fall apart.

 

At home I need chore lists to make sure the bills get paid, the floor gets vacuumed and the kids get picked up or dropped off when needed. I did forget to pick a kid up at school once, but not my own, so that was worse.

 

I also need lists to make sure I attend meetings on time. There’s nothing I hate more than people who are late. I am always early for everything unless I am absent; having forgotten the meeting. Last weekend I missed a meeting—I had not written it on a list.

 

And then of course there are grocery lists. Any nutritionist will tell you that you need a grocery list—without one you might as well go to the store burn your money and give yourself scurvy and rickets because your diet is so poor.

 

Grocery lists have become even more important this past year as we have reduced our number of shopping trips to once a week due to the pandemic and the desire to reduce exposure to the virus. For once a week shopping, you need a list.

 

Last year I came up with a life hack for grocery lists, to reduce the likelihood of losing your list and making it easier to follow in the store; write the list on a discarded enveloped cut it at both ends and wear it as a bracelet. If you use this method, you’ll never lose your grocery list again, but that would make me sad—bringing me to the next part of my joy list; the lists of others.

 

I love finding lost lists. They are so interesting; an anonymous doorway into other lives. Yesterday I found a list wet and bleeding ink onto the sidewalk, discarded in front of the post office. It was on a small rectangular piece of paper, torn precisely on one side, containing a short column of only three items: Cat stocking, dustpan, Lg. bag. What would you make of that?

 

The paper was neatly folded into eighths and the list was written in a fine hand in blue ink on the first quarter length.

 

Lost notes bring out my inner Nancy Drew.  Is the note handwritten or printed, in pen or pencil, on fresh or recycled paper, in one hand or multiple? There’s a lot that can be intuited in such a note.

 

Unfortunately, there are fewer lists to be lost these days; even before anyone has a chance to adopt my list loss defying life hack—the reason, smart phones of course. One more joy technology has unexpectedly erased from modern life.

 

If I thought a bit harder, I might come up with more lists that I love, but at this moment, the last on my list of comments about lists is the book list; those that we want to read and those we have already read. Again, I need both types. I can hardly remember what books I read last month let alone last year which is why I need a ‘have read’ book list. Without it, I start to read mysteries and think I am especially clever only to realize halfway through that I have already read the book.

 

December is one of my most favourite months, not only because I am a Christmas fanatic but because an avalanche of year end book lists are released at that time. And those are my most beloved of lists. They’re full of excitement, opportunity, adventure, and most certainly joy.

 

Lists in their multitude of forms, keep me on track, function as a reward chart, and provide fodder for creative thinking. 

Lists, what would I do without them—not much because I would have forgotten what I had meant to do.

Talk about book club: opening doors to a new universe

  

Book clubs aren’t really my thing but in the past year and a half I have joined two. One of which is on hiatus because of the pandemic and the other was created because of the pandemic. The first was an in-person monthly meetup to discuss books based on a theme; but the pandemic saw our gathering place shuttered and the end of the club for the moment.

 

The second club was started by a literary friend of mine from back in the Bangkok Women Writers Group days. She was looking for some social interaction from within the confines of her remote setting—something to get the ‘little grey cells’ moving. So, she sent a shout out to friends, family and former writer’s group members about an online book club idea.

 

I joined because –well, what is there to talk about these days. Nothing that we aren’t all sick of talking about already.

 

In an odd symmetry, the pandemic became Shiva; a creator and destroyer of worlds -- in this case book clubs.  

 

A book club becomes a world in itself; there’s commitment and duty to others, required tasks and times. It becomes part of your life and makes you a member of a new and evolving community.

 

Joining a book club is a way to enforce close reading. Generally, I read a book without putting much thought into what I am reading which is why I have read War and Peace twice; once for the story and once for all that literary stuff I was supposed to be noticing.

 

A book club also acts as a surrogate university. I have spent most of my adult life in university. I like to be introduced to new things and that is why I am, some might say, addicted to post-secondary education. I have a very broad range of interest; one might even call it catholic in the non-denominational sense of the word. But at this time, I am unable to attend classes due to the pandemic—I now rely on book club to introduce me to strange and wondrous things.

 

The most recent book I read for the online book club was an introduction – or perhaps a reintroduction—to a genre of fiction that I would not have picked up without inspiration from the book club.

 

The book was called Lovecraft Country – and in doing some research after reading, I found that it fell into this genre called New Weird. If there is one thing I like, it is weird.

 

I’ve always been a fan of magical realism and read a lot of science fiction and some fantasy when I was in my teens. In more recent years, I’ve been drawn to what I might call the grown-up version of these genres; speculative fiction particularly as penned by Margaret Atwood.

 

Lovecraft Country while weird was also familiar and it reminded me of how much I used to love Ben Bova, Carl Sagan, and Isaac Asimov. I decided it was time to read more widely in this new genre.

 

I did some research and found a few authors who fell into the New Weird genre and were available through my library. And here I’ll just stop to say; Libraries, how small my life would be without them.

 

Within a week of ordering, the library had delivered the full Southern Reach trilogy by Jeff VanderMeer as well as a few books by China Miéville along with other novels I had recently ordered.

 

With a weekend spread out before me like a fresh field of snow, I opened Annihilation- the first book in the trilogy-and didn’t stop reading until Sunday afternoon when I had finished all three books and could no longer ignore house or office work.

 

It’s been a very long time since I binged any one thing for that length of time; not movies, streaming TV series or books. That’s mostly because I lose interest; I no longer care what happens to the characters, if they live or die, or if the mystery is solved. But these books captured me- compelled me to refuse a dinner invitation (the only regular social interaction I’ve had during the pandemic), procrastinate about work (although that is a given in the life of a writer) and miss an online book launch and reading by friends of mine that I really did want to attend.

 

These books, like the novel that brought me to them, are part of a lineage of creation that flows back to H.P. Lovecraft. I have never read Lovecraft, but as a prolific reader I have come across his name from time to time.

 

And just when I was thinking of doing a little research of my own into that author, a podcast on Lovecraft and his current popularity happened to hit my playlist. A CBC Ideas episode—hard to believe that both the CBC and I were culturally on point.

 

The podcast mentioned the book Lovecraft County and defined the Lovecraftian genre as ‘Cosmic Horror’ which accurately described the Southern Reach trilogy although one might only think so after they have read the books—before it might not seem near descriptive enough.

 

And while I agree the term ‘Cosmic Horror’ fits, I find the more recent genre moniker New Weird less agreeable. These books reminded me of my favourite Stephen King novels: Tommyknockers and The Stand. Coming from Stephen King they are automatically cast in the horror genre although if you are a fan of King’s you know he masters many muses under that umbrella. So, I was left wondering what was so weird or so new about these books to merit the classification.

 

Sunday evening, I started a novel by China Miéville but maybe it was too soon after my affair with VanderMeer; I just couldn’t commit. What I did read felt a bit like Robert A. Heinlein and I have never been a fan of that type of science fiction. Plus, I usually need a break between genres and tend to skip back and forth between mysteries and novels on literary must-read lists.

 

Then the children decided to colonize my bed and the chatter eliminated the possibility of following any plot line let alone sentence. Given my seclusion, nestled in my blankets and pages for most of the weekend, I couldn’t reject their company.

 

I felt guilty for spending the weekend in bed; no physical activity, no fresh air on what was a sunny day, no accomplishments other than a stack of books that I could mark off as read.

 

But I was entertained; for a short while I could forget -mostly- about the pandemic. And if the value of entertainment wasn’t enough to assuage my guilt – thanks to the book jack design—I will never spell annihilation wrong again—and that’s a real bonus for a substandard speller such as myself.

A civil discourse

The fact that there is a paucity of civility across the political divide is clear but that is not the only place that respectful discussion has been in short supply. With the shouting match of competing dogmas that broadcast news has become, I forgot what it was like to hear, reasoned, respectful interviews.

 

The culture has created a storyboard where politicians and journalists are portrayed as advisories. Under the Trump presidency, what was already floating in the zeitgeist, was hammered down on a daily basis with the president constantly attacking journalists and the media in general.  

 

It has gotten to the point that I joked recently with an interview subject, who was a lawyer, that both of our professions topped the public’s list for ‘most hated.’

 

There is the assumption now, that journalists are out to get politicians, that we want that ‘gottcha’ moment.

 

But journalists, distinct from pundits who seem to have replaced journalists in the never-ending news cycle, exist to serve the public interest and not ride a personal hobby horse into the ground.

 

But it must be admitted, sometimes it is hard to put your feelings aside when someone is clearly lying or deliberately obfuscating.

 

On the other hand, we must consider what this job looks like from the other side of the microphone.

 

Interview subjects submit to our questions and answer to the best of their ability most of the time. In my estimation, that takes some bravery, some intestinal fortitude.

 

I have never been keen to give interviews the few times I have been asked. I get nervous, afraid I’ll say the wrong thing, or fail to make a coherent argument. It’s one of those situations where experience on both sides of the equation makes you a better person.

 

Last week I was in a situation where I asked an interviewee a question that was clearly unexpected. And as they answered the question, I did feel a great deal of respect for their reaction and for the position in which they put themselves; seems a bit like standing in a batting cage with the pitching machine running amok. Taking questions from the press is part of their job description, but that doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be afforded recognition for doing it well.

 

This morning I was listening to a podcast that I especially like which always has great reporting – Reveal. On this day I heard a great pair; interviewer and interviewee—clearly at opposite ends of the political spectrum but both affording the other respect.

 

The reporter Al Letson wasn’t throwing softballs but asking the hard questions in a tone that allowed the interviewee pastor Robert Jeffress to reply with respect; without belligerence on either side. I don’t think I have ever heard it done better.  

 

I will always remember this interview as a guide in my profession. And it is my hope that this civil discourse will become so common in the media landscape that it will not elicit comment for its rarity.

Modern death masks

I belong to a special group, a group of people who have lived through being turned inside out—so to speak. But this inversion didn’t take place out in the world, it took place before I was born; in utero.

The particular birth defect is called an omphalocele—and while I can write it with help from spell check, after more than 40 years of describing it, I still can’t be sure how to pronounce this strange condition.

 

For 40 years I was very alone in this medical mystery, a group of one. But several years ago, what I thought would be yet another fruitless search, found community. A community of new moms with what we call O-babies, a community of adult-O survivors and a community of O-angels because even with today’s advanced medical technology—babies with this defect often die.

 

It is these angels I contemplated last night. After a year or so in the various community groups, I decided to quit the O-angel thread. I didn’t want to look at dead babies anymore; I did not want to see the cause of someone’s extraordinary grief. I could send messages of condolences, but I wasn’t ready to be confronted by the images of the children that didn’t make it.

 

Last night as I was scrolling through Facebook I came upon a post of some cute newborn pictures. There was the floppy bow on the tiny hairless head, the scrunched-up neonate pose with the closed eyes, facing the camera; a loose-knit blanket draped over the back and shoulders.

 

The text informed me, that this was an angel, a child who had entered the world but couldn’t stay. It also thanked a photo studio, by name, for the pictures. And it was this that struck me the most; someone makes a living taking photos of dead children.

 

That’s a harsh way to put it and for the families who have lost their babies, I know these few pictures of their children are precious; but I am curious about this job and about this practice.

 

Death and the process of documenting it is something that has fallen out of favour in western society. Now we more often than not look to the possessions of the dead to remind us of what they were like in life. But a tea pot doesn’t preserve the face of the dead and the human mind fails to remember faces and features over time.

 

In a historic Gaelic house I once visited in Nova Scotia there was an unusual picture hanging on the wall. These days we’d call it a multimedia installation; at the time, I suspect, it was just how things were done. In the frame there was a mixture of elements- a palm frond cross such as you might get during Easter mass, some silky yellow fibres, and paint—in combination they made an image but not of a scene, not a place, more like a collage that pleased the eye without confounding it. It was beautiful in its strangeness.

 

I asked the docent of the house, which was part of a historic village preserved as a living museum, what the picture signified, and she told me it was a memorial. The silky yellow fibres were strands of a lost child’s hair. The cross would have been made for the funeral service. She went on to say that the Victorians, which was the approximate period of the house, were funny about death and their need to keep these morbid items in circulation within the household.

 

But perhaps, I think, it is our culture that is funny about death; trying to hide it away and confine it to a short service—leaving the bereaved to their grief never to be spoken of or seen again after the initial loss.

 

In the past people wore their grief, literally; widows’ weeds and black arm bands. And they wore them for more than a day or a week. While I don’t believe in prescribing how people should dress or feel, it would be nice if people could display their grief for more than a day- in recognition that grief takes time. We must be given the time necessary without feeling like we are abnormal for the sadness that won’t release our hearts after the death of a loved one.

 

In addition to the clothes worn by the grieving there were also funeral masks and works of art such as the one I saw, made to commemorate the dead and keep them with us.

 

In some societies, the dead reside with the living. They are part of the family; desiccated remains sit in a favourite chair for decades while grandchildren play at their feet.

 

I wouldn’t want to intertwine the lives of the living so inextricably with the dead, but I would like to have the cultural capacity to deal with death better. Perhaps it starts with pictures of angels.