The very first narrative in the Bible is a story of people and place: human beings shaped and designed to thrive in an environment shaped and designed for them.
We all know what "home" means. Sometimes it's a temporary thing, sometimes it's the place your heart and body belong to your whole life. But we know it when we find it.
Today I said goodbye to a place.
For those of you joining the program already in progress:
Tomorrow is, we're told, the day when ownership of the land on which the Encampment has stood transfers to private hands. We don't know whose. We haven't heard any credible rumours. We don't know what the new owner's plans are for the property, although there are a few safe bets.
All of which means that the Encampment's protection under the "Waterloo Ruling" pertaining to Section 7 of the Ontario Charter of Rights and Freedoms (look it up) will end when that piece of paper is signed and registered. Which means that the folks who've lived at the Camp (being not-stupid) and the County staff responsible for Housing and such have been transitioning people away and into whatever housing is available. For a few, it's the Shelter itself. For many, it's County-funded motel rooms. For some, it's a tent somewhere else. For some it's a boarding house, the likes of which was the epicentre of the snowball that created the Camp in the first place.
The Camp's population peaked earlier this year around 70. Today it's 3. Three who are holding on because they don't really have a choice. Although, advocates are working on it.
So today I said goodbye to the place. I walked through the tents, and around the perimeter. Took some pictures. Prayed. Remembered. I picked up an abandoned ceramic mug that caught my eye, and took it home as a memento.
I talked to the few people who were still there. Handed out my card. Met a young man for the first time who had stayed at the Camp earlier in the summer. He's staying in another town now, and came to look up a friend ("Where the hell is everybody?"), and to look for tools he might be able to use. Talked to another who said that if 'they' would put the dumpster on this side of the parking lot, he'd be able to do some cleaning up, but it's too far to carry the heavy stuff.
I recreated the first picture I ever took at the Camp. That snowy February day, it looked like a new neighbourhood where I hadn't met anybody yet. Today it looked like ghost town. (Cue music, as a paper cup gets its tumbleweed on).
Today I said goodbye to the place, but not the people. Since that February day, I have made friends and when I drove away from the Camp today for the last time, it was to go meet some of those people at their temporary homes in motels. I got lots of hugs.
Still, I will miss that place. I've learned on that ground (I know how to spell xylazine now), made friends, had my heart broken, laughed, worried, preached, prayed, cleaned up messes.
It occurred to me today, walking that circle, that the next time I'm on that ground, it will probably be asphalt and concrete. Sidewalks and straight lines. Which are not bad things.
But they're not... this.
Today I said goodbye to a place. But not to the people who made me feel at home.
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