The shelf half full.

The only thing flooding my social media these days are pictures of empty shelves – at Trader Joe’s, at Target, at Costco. Memes making fun of our toilet paper shortage, and photos of long lines outside grocery stores at 7am are everywhere. A sense of doom and despair. A sense of regret for putting off the task of grocery shopping week over week for the past month. A sense of urgency to ensure everyone’s nuclear unit is protected, and rations are secured for one’s family.

When I went to the grocery store though, I saw a very different picture. I saw a picture of abundance. Of shelves full of freshly baked goods and produce piled to heaps. Of every possible combination of flavors manifesting as salad dressing. Of milk and eggs and cheese in every type of packaging. Of people still smiling at each other with an unstated understanding of the human spirit.

In a country where brand abundance is our middle name and choice paralysis is a daily experience, we are being asked to conserve more than we are used to and to slow down. We are being asked to trust a distribution system and supply chain that has mostly never failed us, and for most of us that means never having gone a single day without food or simply the promise of food. Yet, scarcity has been feeding off scarcity and at a time when we need to come together as a community the most, everyone is feeling forced to fend for themselves.

Still, I did notice the toilet paper shelf mostly empty, but managed to find a two-pack of one-ply that had fallen out of sight and felt like I had won the lottery (desperate times). The last time I felt like I had to ration my toilet paper was the year I spent 15 years ago in Humjibre, a rural village with no running water, scarce electricity and just one dirt road in the Western region of Ghana. To paint a picture of what this experience was like for me, my first one in such a remote setting, I can only share an excerpt from an email I sent a friend about a week or so after settling in Humjibre. This email was sent from an internet café in the nearest town about an hour from the village by Trotro (shared taxi).

The village - We are staying in a room that tends to get hotter than outside, and there is no fan. Danielle and I are sleeping under a tight mosquito net. We are staying in the home of the local school headmaster and his family is really sweet. His daughter, Rosemary, mostly just enjoys watching us obrunis (foreigners) make a fool out of ourselves. Bathrooms are outhouses, camping style, with a hole in the ground. In our case, the hole is on an elevated platform with a cushiony toilet seat around it for our comfort. There aren't showers, but bucket baths. We get to bathe when it rains and our buckets get full. And we put Dettol in the bucket water to disinfect it. Unorthodox bathing aside, the village is beautiful, the people are amazingly friendly and the children are the sweetest, happiest little things. The children enjoy banging pots and pans outside our window yelling "obruni obruni!" When we get lost on our way back home, all the village children lead us to our residence, as they all know where the obrunis live. The teenage boys have bets with each other on who gets to talk to the pretty American (Danielle) and once one of them manages a conversation (which usually consists of “How are you, where are you going”) they all cheer and shake each other’s shoulders (their version of high-fives, I guess). They don't quite know what to make of me, so they call me "China” (I told them I’m Indian-Canadian, and India is in Asia, as is China). They often yell "China China" when they see me.

I remember returning from Ghana back to Toronto with a long layover in Dubai. The contrast of impoverishment and abundance, of humility and ostentatiousness, of nature and concrete, were stark. I felt disoriented, like entering a dark room after staring at the sun for a while. I felt nauseated, but I’m sure that was the desert heat. The familiarity of returning to my hometown was comforting. I quickly felt like no time had passed upon seeing friends and family – until I went to the store to buy a few supplies to stock the shelves in my apartment and return to my regularly-scheduled life. I remember staring at the shampoo aisle, trying to decide what shampoo to buy. I had completely forgotten what brand I used to use, and wasn’t familiar with many of the products on the shelf. Do I want shampoo that makes my hair shine, or leaves it volumized? Do I want deep conditioning or regular conditioning? Do I have normal hair? I didn’t realize I could have any other kind of hair! I remember feeling like the aisle was so bright. Could someone turn down the lights a bit so I can see? I left the store without buying anything. Why can’t there just be two choices like in Humjibre? The shampoo that was in stock and the one that wasn’t.

I am grateful to have so much choice. And at times, like in the case of toilet paper this week, I am also grateful to not. My time in Humjibre was heartwarming. It was humbling. It broke me down and built me back up again. I am grateful to have the perspective of life in Humjibre to call upon at times like now, when it feels like life as we know it is unraveling. Looking back, I am able to laugh at how ridiculous it was that I struggled to buy shampoo at the store. For the children of Humjibre, choice was defined differently, and happiness was as simple as finding pots and pans to use in their marching band.

These last few weeks have felt scary, uncertain and anxiety-inducing. The weeks to come may bring even more of these emotions. But what we are being asked to do is relatively easy for many of us. It is a return to simplicity. Instead of protecting ourselves, we could protect each other. Instead of feeling invincible we could recognize that we each know at least one person who is older or has an underlying condition. Instead of hoarding, we could conserve and share.

We have been given a chance to reconnect with each other, to find gratitude, to be humbled. And for however briefly it may help, I wanted to offer this alternative perspective.

Together, we will be ok.