Shelter
As I type this, Hurricane Fiona descends upon the Atlantic coast. From my hotel window, I witness the chaotic rippling of water as winds batter the Halifax harbourfront at speeds of 120 km/hr. There is a word for the hush of wind softly through the leaves of trees, a kind of photosynthetic lulling. Psithurism. That’s not this sound. These winds charge towards you like the hurtling of a thousand trains. These winds are mighty. Biblical. A power reminiscent of that scene in Ben Hur when Charlton Heston as Moses summons them to part the Red Sea, his long robes and silver locks in tumultuous flight around him as he raises his staff.
I first visited Nova Scotia in the autumn of 2017 and I’ve been trying to get here ever since. In July 2021, I finally listed our home of twelve years in Waterloo, Ontario; the home in which my child aged from 1 through 13. Now my newly minted teen has begun eighth grade in Halifax. We had almost given up when, after a year, an offer of purchase arrived somewhat unexpectedly at the end of July 2022. The shock of it left us suddenly with just under a month to close our home, clear out and land on the east coast.
The plane hit the tarmac on September 1st and our initial month has unfolded like a patchwork quilt of temporary stays: two different hotels and a dozen nights at an AirBnB in Spryfield. When not curled at our toes or exploring Nova Scotian beaches and forest trails with us, our two-year old Shepherd/Lab mix has intermittently enjoyed doggy daycare the days we re-packed our cases and our car with all that we carried with us to yet another place of shelter.
Shelter. A term that evokes so much: the warmth of a hug; protection from elements; the coziness of lying under blankets listening to a storm. As Fiona hit the coast, we sew the final square in place and check into a third hotel for this final weekend. On Monday, the truck transporting our belongings pulls up to the rental home we’ve been fortunate to land in the Hydrostone area. We know we are lucky. Last night, all night, my thoughts turned to the humans I recently saw camped in tents in Victoria Park where I daily walked my dog during our second week, hoping they relocated to one of the available evacuation shelters. I wonder, too, about the wildlife: the birds and creatures of land and sea and how they survive a storm like this.
This morning we learn that Fiona’s left over half a million people without power in Atlantic Canada almost a week after affecting double that amount in Puerto Rico. Like the many reported washed-out roads, this morning’s social media also floods with scenes of uprooted trees and power lines, toppled over like fallen kings at the end of a chess game. We watch homes pulled into the sea, swallowed by waves. We are told the hurricane may delay our moving truck’s arrival on Monday. But we are safe. We are warm. We have food and water. Our landlords are checking on the state of the house that will be our home for the next year. We will have a roof over our heads. These days, that’s no small feat. Housing in many countries, including Canada, has become inaccessible with low inventory driving sale prices to rise along with interest rates. Many millennials continue to live with their parents into their 20s and 30s, unable to afford a downpayment or compete with skyrocketing asking prices.
Interest rates factored in my own decision to delay purchasing a home. A decision to rent meant I faced another challenge of finding a place available for an entire year that wasn’t already furnished. AirBnB hosts only want to rent their furnished spots and not for an entire year. Many ads I spied were only willing to rent until March or April. When the weather warms, they prefer instead to attract tourists willing to pay higher prices for nightly or weekly accommodation.
I haven’t been alone in the struggle to find a home here. There is not nearly enough student or affordable housing. Students enrolled in local universities remain on waitlists to find accommodation while already attending classes. Some are commuting from outside the city limits, as a result. I imagine this places undue burden upon students who must commute: the stress of missing classes due to weather or delays in transit under ongoing pandemic. What of the students so desperate they’ve agreed to pay higher rents to remain in the city centre? What are the invisible, hidden costs they additionally incur to their mental and physical health? Do they still have enough to feed themselves while feeding their brains and souls in academic pursuit? Finding shelter should never solely be about survival.
In the history of seeking and constructing shelter on this planet, we find proof that such sites held additional purpose and meaning to the obvious needs like protection from the elements or predators. As early as 7500 BC in what is now Argentina, hunter/gatherers placed their hands against the cave walls of their home to blow red ochre between their splayed fingers. Red dancers of iron oxide from the Bronze Age float out of the dark, skipping their toes above the water line in Kollhelleran, a cave on the remote western tip of the archipelago of Lofoten, Norway. An 18 year old out walking his dog in Lascaux, France, falls into a hole and discovers hunting scenes, exquisite renderings of bulls, horses and human interaction with wildlife crafted by some former version of ourselves seventeen thousand years ago.
Shelter is a basic human need and right. It allows us protection and a cathartic release from stress as well as the chance to make our own artistic mark upon our environment. We imagine these scenes and figures painted in a moment of leisure and relaxation from the day’s tasks. These discoveries offer insight to the minds of early humans and the vital role of storytelling — oral, pictoral, written — to our own history on the vast timeline of this planet. Even this long history of human existence we intermittently discover comprises but a dot upon Earth’s timeline.
If we are to survive along with other species, we must learn from these ancient, humble dwellings and the wisdom of our ancestors. What do we actually need to survive upon this planet? How might we live more harmoniously with ourselves and the myriad of species with whom we share Earth? How do we ensure that everyone has the shelter they require to exist versus succumbing to human greed, NIMBYism and the continued destruction of our one and only Home?
In the last days before COVID hit, I took a photograph of my child’s hand on the window of a favourite café we frequented for years that would regrettably fold under pandemic. The weather had turned cold and the heat indoors caused condensation to form upon the glass and my child reached up and placed a small hand upon it. As if to say, I am here. I am alive. Here is proof. I live. I breathe. I think and I create. And my soul is the soul of an artist. Here is a story I share. My imprint. Even should time fade or erase it. Right now, at this moment, I exist.
I imagine anyone visiting the Cueva de las Manos, the Cave of Hands, in Santa Cruz feels tempted to place their own hands upon those impressions made during the Archaic period of pre-Columbian South America; to reach out in recognition of what connects us as humans across the vast span of time and evolution.
As I unpack everything — literally, figuratively — within the unfamiliar walls that now house my child, myself and our dog, I will likely chat with my landlords about the possibility of renting the third bedroom to a student who may need it out there. We have witnessed an increase in global migration. Families in North America and Europe continue to open their homes and hearts to many who have been displaced by war or the impact of climate crisis. It’s something we might all consider because the crises we now face are global ones, driving home the fact that we are one ecosystem, sharing this planet together.
As the saying goes, “It takes a village.” Many hands.
