Bracing for the Subsequent Wave

How living in Kazakhstan has prepared me for confinement

Khan-Shatyr Mall - designed to resemble a Central-Asian yurt

It’s the day after Switzerland has made another big announcement regarding new restrictions due to the pandemic.

I don’t know about you, but these kinds of announcements get me thinking about making cinnamon buns.

As we are looking once again at increasing physical distancing measures, old familiar patterns from my time in Kazakhstan are starting to resurface for the second time this year.

Now, I want to be clear: initially, Kazakhstan was a move I was really excited about – it was to be my biggest adventure to date, and I had all sorts of expectations of how it was going to pan out.  We were moving to the country’s new capital city, called Astana (now it is Nur-Sultan), and I was really excited to experience everything about living there.  It didn’t hurt that before the move, it became the most interesting thing about me – you are moving to Kazakhstan!  Cool! Um, where is that exactly? (Usually followed by the inevitable Borat reference…)

Some of my pre-conceived expectations were well-grounded: I knew Astana was remote and I knew it would be cold.  After all, it’s located in Siberia.

But where my expectations started to lead me astray was thinking I’d be fine, because I was from the prairies in Canada.  I’d braced cold winters before, driving winds, and remote, vast vistas without a tree in sight to interrupt the view. Besides, I’d already lived in Prague and knew the isolation of not understanding when people were saying hello or goodbye or when No actually meant Yes.  I was prepared for that this time, and I started learning Russian before the move.

So, I was completely floored at my reaction, a couple of weeks after my arrival, when I climbed to the top floor of the Baiterek tower.

Initially, I was swept away by the astonishing architecture jutting out of the steppe: the presidential palace modeled after none other than the White House itself; a glass pyramid cutting into the sky; an enormous shopping mall shaped like a giant yurt that I knew to have an indoor beach perched at the very top, just to name a few of the sights.  All this surrounded the tower I was in that visually represented a Kazakh folktale of a mythical tree and a golden egg.

The view of Astana from Baiterek tower

But soon an icy terror crept over me, when I realized beyond this amazing eye candy, there was nothing but steppe as far as the eye could see. The horizon only disappeared many, many miles away, only once the frosty ice crystals in the air began to blur sky and steppe. Nothing else blocked my view.

The Steppe

My reaction of panic was completely unexpected.

Despite my past encounters with isolation, I was decidedly under the misconception that simply living in a remote, isolated place side by side with others would automatically invite a sense of community amongst those inhabitants. 

Arriving home after that barren epiphany, my first instinct was to turn inward. I put my energy into taking care of my new home and my family by cleaning windows, decorating with familiar paintings and throw pillows, and baking and cooking things that consumed long hours in the kitchen.

My next step was to get out and explore the steppe.  Every day, whether it was 0ºC or -30ºC, I layered my warmest clothes over my infant who was strapped to me with a baby carrier and we walked.  Sometimes we trudged through the snow around that glass pyramid, spotting the occasional Arctic Hare, other times we strolled along the river, following the tracks of cross-country skiers.  I knew from experience that my feet touching the ground in as wide a radius as possible from my apartment was a critical part of me starting to feel at home. 

Our neighbourhood pyramid

Before long, I was ready to get intentional about building community: I started up Russian lessons again, and I found ways to connect with other classical musicians, with other moms, with others who felt “other” and over time I created essential connections that allowed me to find a sense of belonging in the context of the beautiful Kazakh culture.

Spring Festival

I’m sure it’s no surprise to you, dear reader, how I’m noticing the parallels between life in Kazakhstan and life in a pandemic world. 

After an initial burst of stress baking and window cleaning back in March, I began looking for ways to reach out, ways to make art, ways to create human connection both online and in an isolated, physically distanced world.   I started sending out recordings of solo piano pieces, in an effort to minimize the physical distances, which branched into live online performances and my live interview series, Well-Tempered Bernadette: A Piano’s Tale of 5 Cities.  I brought baking to my neighbors.  I walked, hiked and ran a lot.  I started my program the Musician’s Compass, which helps other musicians who are looking to build their own new communities and moving in new directions.

After a return to a new normal, this second pandemic wave has certainly felt like a big set-back: like some kind of twisted joke.  This time, we know what to expect, and we are pretty sure we’re not going to like it.  These days, I incessantly check the news, to see if my concerts have been canceled yet, to figure out if I can meet my friends for one last coffee, to assess how much time before I’m back to teaching online.

If we do end up in confinement again in the coming weeks, I know that I will need to continue intentionally building community around myself, for the sake of my family, my friends and for the sake of my art.  I know it won’t be a walk in the park.  I also know that I’ve done it before, and I can do it again.

But I may take a bit of time to bake some cinnamon buns, first.

In front of the Baiterek tower, a new season