Room-inating

Courthouses are not renowned embodiments of calm. Far from encouraging the gravitas that is (or was) granted them by virtue of their status as society’s moral custodians, their environs are more likely to evoke memories of cramped and chaotic principles’ offices, where, outside of the forcibly-hushed radius of judicial earshot, variously put-upon people pace, panic, droop, or lip off about what nonsense brought them here. And as a lawyer, ever glomping about from chamber to chamber, muttering and tripping up like a Monty Python madman, I realise I’m usually not the most soothing of personas myself. The disconnect can beggar us. I will often meet someone, perhaps a new client, or a man I’ve grown tired of, maybe the sobbing partner of the locked-up slob downstairs, I will encounter parents, sisters, angry or listless, all manner of people needing some voice to steady theirs, or just a quiet space to sort out something important. But such spaces – in their temporal and physical dimensions, are extremely difficult to find in the few courthouses I’ve practiced in. Some, because they work there or through strength or cynicism have shaken it off, don’t seem to mind the lack of sanctuary: this just isn’t where you come to mellow out, as the thinking likely goes. But in my own, often fragile, aching mind, these pressurised places are most appropriate for such peaceful enclosures.

Other stress-inducing institutions, and the buildings embodying them, have figured out this quite simple equation. Think of the airports and hospitals you’ve been in: even though most people may not use them, it’s usually possible to find a little room set aside for silence, calm, prayer, contemplation, whatever you may need to empty or replenish. Call it a chapel, a refuge, a non-denominational comfort room, but the important thing is that it is present, and available for the moment you require. In setting even a tiny fraction of real estate aside for such soul-searching or spirit nourishing purposes, the architects recognise and honour the reality of this need. And this is a profoundly respectful human sign, in otherwise impersonal or belittling contexts.

Thunder Bay recently announced that it would be (someday) replacing its existing court, so rich in mould and linoleum, with a new construction. We’re already discussing what the building should look like, what it needs. Robbing room. A library. Private washrooms for lawyers, certainly. Maybe even a kitchenette. But, swallow-throated as I am when it comes to speaking up about these matters, I really do feel that a little sacred space – open to everyone who comes here – couldn’t hurt this business we’re about.