Cross-Counrty

Here are a few pictures from Saturday's sunny cross-country ski. Cameron posing with my snow pants on (he only planned on being at the beach in Tofino this winter, not anywhere that had snow), and a couple of pics of the almost-full moon rising at the end of our afternoon.

It was wonderful to get out, but I felt a sore throat coming on which turned into a full-fledged cold this week. Another one to end off the month of February. Seems like it's been one cold or fever a month lately, coupled with a back that is still not feeling 100 %. Is it just me, or is illness becoming more and more frequent?

Cameron split all my wood, both the residual pile of fir that I had left, and all the new pine we collected with Ken and Shirley. That's a big help. Living out here I have started to realize jut how much of my time is dedicated to keeping myself warm and fed, and having a sidekick who doesn't mind helping with these things REALLY makes a big dent in my free hours. I've been trying hard to leave work at work, with minimal success at times, although every day hands me fresh practice.

I've been reading an author from Oregon who retired from teaching after ten years to pursue a writing life. Lots of his story hits upon the notes of my own life, of the struggle of trying to work within the confines of a system that is incredibly slow to change and toss out the notion of standardized expectations (for teachers and students) and evaluation.

With my extra time each evening I have also been doing a lot of thinking and considering. Who knows what the future of the school will be for next year, and who knows where life will lead me. I have been thinking about doing a master's in creative writing instead of in outdoor ed. I have always wanted to write, and for many reasons have not given myself a fair chance at it. Partly social, partly societal, looking into the social mirror rather than inside myself towards what I really want in life, all the expectation to make a steady paycheque.

"You've got plenty of time off over the summer to write," my father says. This advice coming from a man who has never taught or written for a single day in his entire life. It takes more than a month off each summer, which is what it becomes once I take a couple weeks to decompress after the chaos that is the school year, and then subtract the two weeks before school starts that I dedicate to planning and setting up my room, to write the way I want to. But at this point I will take it. And maybe one day I will have the guts to tell the chorus of expectations in my head to sock it. Maybe one day.