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.
ooh that story line fits in very well with the idea of treaty. because isn't that what the native leaders were trying, are trying to do? "Rebuild something that was torn down."
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