At 4:30 this morning, the dogs began barking like there was an intruder. You know the sound: high pitched, angsty, unapologetic. Relentless. 

 

There was a hint of an unfamiliar scent, almost reminiscent of skunk, but not quite. As I opened the door to let the dogs outside, the smell became pungent, stuck in the cold, thick, salty air. 

 

My best guess is that mink were in the yard and marked up the area; but I didn’t grow up with or around mink and it was the first time I’ve ever smelled them. I’ve heard they have a strong scent. 

………

 

A year ago today, my daughter and I arrived in Canada. I never would have predicted we’d still be here, borders closed. Like every single person across the globe, our lives changed … literally overnight. 

 

The evening before we left, I had a strong sense the borders would close and if we were to spend time at all with my then-boyfriend (now husband), we needed to leave. As soon as possible. 

 

So, I listened to my intuition. I didn’t feel I had much choice—the “gut” feeling permeated my whole body. There was an urgency, an immediacy that I could not ignore, even though at the time, it didn’t seem rational. My logic said: Why on earth would the borders close? … I thought this “thing” would be over quickly.

 

In the morning, my daughter woke up to suitcases (more than we usually took on our regular weekend trips to Canada) and bags of groceries, on the floor, ready to go. 

 

Because there hadn’t been a plan to leave, she was surprised and confused; I always take a lot of care to plan ahead and let her know about that plan, step-by-step. This is especially important since she, and I, are autistic. 

 

I didn’t want her to feel the intense, emergent feelings I felt, so as she rubbed her eyes awake, wondering what was going on, I lightly quipped that we’d go up to British Columbia since school had closed for a few weeks. I rationalized: I worked from home and it’s what we did anytime there was a break … it just made sense to go be on the beautiful island where David lived, instead of being at home. 

 

And it did make sense.

 

But, that looming feeling that things were not going to be the same, penetrated me, and the active ‘push’ to leave as quickly as possible persisted.

 

Intentionally, my daughter and I took the scenic route out of town, winding along the Yakima River, through the deep canyon. 

 

We counted hawks: they always followed us on our travels. The sun was bright, the sky clear indigo. Sagebrush was just about to bloom, which would eventually erupt into a semblance of green on the arid hills. As we drove along the carved basalt, I was overcome with how many years it took for me to appreciate the valley’s raw, unique beauty. Its dry air. Its rugged desert terrain. 

 

I knew I was saying good-bye for much longer than I could anticipate. An old, familiar grief, a mourning, crept deep in my bones. I began to quietly cry. 

………

 

The decision to leave was not taken lightly. While I felt there was no way I could ignore the intensity of this inner knowing about imminent border closures, I also couldn’t shake that I had no idea when I’d be home, but I knew it would be more than the two weeks we were all told during the initial “lock downs.”

 

I was certain I wouldn’t be there when my dying step-grandma finally passed. (This was true.)

 

By the time we got to the other end of the canyon, 30 minutes into the drive, we heard that the Canadian government closed its borders to everyone but the US “for now.” Shocked, but persistent, we kept driving, not knowing what would happen by the time we reached the border … or if we’d even reach the border in the old car that I had just been advised, that morning, by a mechanic, NOT to drive 300 miles.  

 

With the two dogs and one cat in tow and a renewed AAA membership, we made it across the border. The car was miraculously fine, too. 

 

Then, two or three days later, the US-Canadian border closed. 

 

I haven’t been home, since. It’s unclear when I will, due to border and immigraiton restrictions.

 

………

 

Globally, all of our lives have changed. Every one of us. We are bound together by this experience.

 

We’re shrouded in the unknown, the mystery. We’ve come face-to-face with what’s really important to us. We’ve had to make hard choices, even when it’s felt like we haven’t had much of a choice. 

 

We’ve had to be innovative (afterall, it wasn’t easy to get toilet paper for awhile!) and go with the flow. We’ve had to shuffle through countless contradictory pieces of information to learn what’s true. 

 

We’ve had to find a way to be strong and surrender, simultaneously. Surrender to what we don’t know. What we can’t control. We’re still doing this, one year later.

 

………

 

There are many blessings in my life. I’m privileged and fortunate to be writing this at all: I’m here. Breathing. Telling this story. I’m white, so there’s a lot of stuff I’ll never have to deal with. I have work. My husband has work. 

 

I’m living in an idyllic location with its natural beauty and its relatively low COVID rates. My now-husband and my daughter are here and healthy. 

 

I’m not alone.

 

And it would be a lie if I didn’t admit that I profoundly miss my family, or that I choke back my tears when I face the truth that I genuinely don’t know when I’ll see them again. 

 

This breaks my heart and a year later, it hurts more than it did six or 12 months ago.

 

So, I think about families during the different wars in the past … and I am comforted by technology that can now connect us. 

 

I remember that I’ve practically been ‘trained’ for this, after having lived the better part of 10 years in multiple countries and continents, far from home. Though, this time is different. In the past, I had the choice to return to my family, if needed … and I always made friends, had a community, wherever I lived. This time around, this hasn’t been the case. (Yet.)

 

………

 

The truth is, I’m finding my way. I think all of us are finding our way, if we’re being completely honest.

 

One year on, I’m surprised to be learning about mink and why they mark their territory … and how they smell.

 

Hawks have been replaced by the eagles who fly in our yard, resting at the top of a large cedar tree, each morning and late afternoon. 

 

Instead of sirens and car alarms, I hear the splashing of seals or the motors of boats in the harbor. 

 

The Canadian Geese are back and soon we’ll see them roost and give birth again. 

 

Living on an island, my day is influenced by the literal tides. 

 

The desert has been swallowed by the ocean, right on the edge of fjörds. 

 

But when I look east, especially today, part of my heart soars across the Cascades, over the ice-age floods and volcanic, miocene Yakima folds where I’ve lived many years … then southwest to the lush, green Willamette Valley of my childhood. From above, slightly displaced, “seeing” my family from a distance, a small, mournful cry escapes as I circle northwest, over two borders, back to the Salish Sea.