September 10, 2012 § Leave a comment
Every sunny moment, almost without fail, when I look out my front window, there’s a rabbit snuggled up in the same lump of grass next to the sidewalk. He’ll spend hours there, basking in the glow of the morning or the evening sun. I hadn’t thought much about him until one day my roommate commented, “Did you notice he sits in the exact same spot every time? It’s like he’s made the perfect groove in the ground to fit his little bunny body.”
And so he has. He was there again this afternoon when I got home. Cuddled up and catching the last few rays of the waning summer sunlight. I headed out onto the front porch to watch him a little while longer. As I stepped onto the stoop, he tensed a little, but he wasn’t running from his treasured dip in the ground unless he absolutely had too. Not wanting to disturb his September afternoon rest, I quietly headed back inside and contemplated him further from the front window.
I then decided he had picked a pretty sweet spot to make himself at home. Besides the obvious, a house with two of the world’s best roommates, it really was a nearly ideal groove in the ground – he fit so perfectly. I wonder how many other spots he’s crouched in before he found this one? I’m honoured that it’s our house he’s chosen for his perch because I’ve made it mine too and I’ve got to say, it’s the bees knees.
How important is it that we each carve out our own little space in the world? Our own niche, own hideaway? Whether it’s somewhere fully exposed or tucked way back from prying eyes, everyone and everything needs a place where they feel at home. A place they can come back to and feel safe from the roar and rustle of the outside world.
With shifting family dynamics, jobs and even my own inner self over the last five to eight years, it’s taken me quite some time to find a haven I’m comfortable curling up in again. But I think I’ve finally found it. A place in time I’d like to stop and enjoy for more than a passing moment or two. I did a faery card reading last night, and one of the cards I pulled up was called The Guardian at the Gate. It stands for “passages to new life. Openings. Gatekeeping.” And the meaning behind the card:
“We are embarking on a new phase of our lives, and there will be no going back once this gate has been passed. That is the kind of transition the Guardian at the Gate leads us to – always to irrevocable change.”
I can’t help but think having my own two legs to stand on, firmly rooted in my own sweet spot, is what’s helped me be ready for whatever this next phase is. I’ve felt it coming for a long time now, I just didn’t know when it would hit. But here we are, maybe one or two more corners to round… and my next chapter shall begin.
April 26, 2010 § 12 Comments
On April 28th, we will observe a National Day of Mourning as established by the Canadian Centre for Occupational Health and Safety (CCOHS).
The purpose of the day is in “commemorating workers whose lives have been lost or injured in the workplace.” The CCOHS estimates that from 1993-1998, 14,190 people lost their lives due to work related causes. In my books, those 14,190 deaths that could have been prevented.
On August 10, 2005, a police officer came to my door. I had just come home from a 4 week trek through Italy and Southern France two weeks earlier to celebrate the end of my degree from the University of Alberta. I had begun my job search as soon as I was back in the country and had an interview scheduled that day in Edmonton with Enterprise Rent-a-Car. I never made the interview.
I was just about to step in the shower when the doorbell rang. I grabbed my housecoat and headed upstairs. On my doorstep was an RCMP officer. The next couple of minutes happened as if they were in slow motion. Every word, every detail is etched in my memory.
I looked at him a bit suspiciously as I replied “Yes, I do. He’s my brother.”
The RCMP officer looked at me and said “I’m sorry, your brother has been in an accident.”
That sentence hung in the air for a moment before settling on my ears. A million thoughts and questions raced through my head in the ensuing seconds about what could have happened before I answered “Oh my God! Is he okay?”
I expected to hear that he had been in a bad accident and that we should get to the hospital right away. Something like “Your brother was hit by a drunk driver and is in critical condition” was along the lines of what I was preparing myself to hear.
But life doesn’t ever bring us the news we expect. The RCMP officer looked right into my questioning eyes. I could see the answer then before he even said the words, but even a split second of warning wasn’t any preparation for what I heard next.
“No he isn’t. I’m sorry, your brother didn’t make it.”
I can hear those words as though the officer were repeating them in front of me now, they’re still that clear. I looked at the officer in disbelief and all I could muster was “Are you kidding me?” Of course, the answer was no. Wayne Jacob Peters of Millet, Alberta, born October 21, 1978, was found dead the previous evening 90 km north of Slave Lake around 11 pm.
The RCMP officer proceeded to ask if there was anyone he could call for me. My mom was in BC, but I got a hold of my dad. He happened to be in Millet. I now stood on the other side of the news. Having to repeat the devastating information I had received only minutes earlier to my father was worse than hearing it myself. As soon as he drove up, he rushed out of his truck and hugged me so hard. At 23, that’s a lot of emotion to take in in only a few minutes.
After that news and that hug, a part of me shut down for a very long time. It’s been only in the last month or so that I’ve began to understand the shock and trauma my system was subjected to, and that six years later, I’m finally able to start processing it.
The Workers’ Compensation Board proceeded with an investigation. Wayne was a chemical engineer working in cathodic protection. He was checking on a pipeline in Northern Alberta. On August 9, 2005, he was to meet his coworker back at the motel they were staying at by 7 pm. When he didn’t show up and wouldn’t answer his cell phone, his coworker knew there was something out of the ordinary. At 11 pm, Wayne was found dead by the rectifier he had been checking earlier. He had been electrocuted.
After reading the report from the Worker’s Compensation Board, no one party was at fault. There had been several factors at play with regards to the voltage going through the rectifier, and the fact that Wayne was performing tasks only intended to be performed by a certified electrician, which he most certainly was not. Mostly what I got out of reading the report was that his death, this work site “accident” could have been prevented.
Wayne was 25. He had a bright future as a chemical engineer. And now he’s one of 14,190 Canadians that died for no particular reason.
I’ve struggled for years with the suddenness of his death. I tried to tell myself that I was fine, people all over the world go through this too. I felt like I didn’t have the right to be angry with the rest of the world, after all, there were still people much worse off than I. But in doing so, I didn’t allow myself to find a way to come to terms with what had happened. When I heard an ad on the radio for The National Day of Mourning on April 28th, I felt like now I could give it a reason, even if it’s just to put my own mind at ease. He died so someone else wouldn’t have to.
I often forget just how little it takes to prevent an accident. Turning off your phone while driving, inspecting your equipment to make sure it’s safe, not performing a task you’re not specifically trained to do even though you may have done it before. And then something comes up to remind me of Wayne. And paying attention resurfaces as a priority in every task I perform.
My brother died so you and I wouldn’t have to, at least not from something we could have prevented. So, on April 28th, I’ll be joining people from over 80 other countries around the world not only to remember the dead, but to help protect the living. I hope you’ll join us too.