Monday, Monday. Tra la, la la la la. Our twelve hour day ends with four hours of parent-teacher interviews. I am trying to edit some of the articles posted on the wall for our First Nations and Métis Leadership Literacy Project, but I am visiting with parents, colleagues and students. The day is a blur of relationship like rays of sunshine speaking from the clouds, side-by-side, circle in light and shadow.
I look at the pictures from the morning; my reflection waving in a frozen mud puddle is trying to tell me something. I smile. Look into that other me on the other side of the pond. It’s so quiet over there. So peaceful. I want to visit sometime soon.
Now it is late, late. Michael is dying a coat black for his drama production. I’m writing a letter on behalf of a parents group. I’m phoning around organizing a meeting. Arwen, my youngest, is lying with me. She sends herself to bed and I keep writing. It’s after midnight. I read a couple chapters from Nehemiah because my oldest, Victoria, told me to read the old story of someone who was trying to rebuild something that was torn down.