SWORDFERN
Rooted, I used to think.

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Giving Notice - Friday, Sept. 29, 2017
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Rupert Part II - Sunday, Sept. 10, 2017


Saturday, Sept. 19, 2009 @ 7:56 am
Adjusting



I've realized that I'm going through various stages of adjustment.

Of course, moving to a new city and starting a new career will cause a cascade of emotions. I wasn't expecting it, though, as I don't remember it being like this when we moved to Victoria.

Some days, I am falling in love with this place and my new life. Other days, I am overwhelmed by the vast stretch of career development that looms before me and the impending Real Canadian Winter.

My job. I have my own huge desk and computer with two monitors. I have my certification framed beside me. I have a pile of manuals and textbooks in one of the cupboards. I have my ubiquitous travel mug near where my left hand rests.

My work is already extremely varied. I am drafting and designing septic systems. I am interpreting old legal disposal permits into modern-age drawings. I am amalgamating GPS data, satellite images, and condition assessments. I am calculating excavation volumes. I am, for once, being paid for not only for my careful hands.

I live in a house in a middle class subdivision. I can ride my bike to the end of the street and enter forested trails.



The forest starts here and doesn't end until it thins out at the rocky ocean edge, hundreds of kilometres from here. I can drive at night down the road along the river to the mill and the refinery and gaze up at the massive cartoon-ish factory that is the economic heart of this city. In the evenings, I listen to the wind blowing through aspens, pattering of leaves, the air September crisp.

In the house I have a large kitchen.



I am in love with this kitchen more than I should be. After years of living in tiny apartments, this amount of space is nearly obscene.

But the North excites me. I am learning and exploring, and becoming used to vast, open spaces. The gentle beauty of airy pine forests. The generosity of the people, mirrored in the offerings of the forest floor:




Roots | Shoots