SWORDFERN
Rooted, I used to think.

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Tuesday, Nov. 09, 2010 @ 9:53 pm
Vernon



So, here we go again, another pot of coffee maker tea. This time, though, the setting is more than slightly different. Flying south is even better than driving east. From where I am sitting, I see neither a single square inch of wood paneling, nor one poorly-framed piece of wildlife art. What's the most different is that I didn't pack my steel toes. I didn't bring my double long johns. I didn't pocket my Rite in the Rain field book. This time, I'm attending a workshop.

Work is so go, go, go. Too much work, not enough bodies. Staff meeting: When things slow down... And everyone has a little chuckle.

I'm in my boss's office. So, we're conducting a compensation review... Yes? And we found that there is a discrepancy between your tasks and salary. Oh?

Work work work. This is not what I ever intended my life to be about. Of course, I have the personality of a workaholic. Happy to be busy. Moderate perfectionist. Loyal to a fault. Outwardly modest, private ego. Scholastically, I peaked at age 17 and again at age 27. I'll ride the wave down more slowly this time, now equipped properly to manage the energy.

In a 19-seat plane, everyone gets the window and the aisle. I spent the flight alternately staring at the pilot working the dashboard and reading Elizabeth Hay's A Student of Weather. For a few moments I am lost in daydreams of the dustbowl 30's and the plane crashing suddenly into a mountainside.

My life, my life, my life, what is this, where am I, how did I get here? My blood is so steeped in British Columbia, where does my body end and this province begin? My birth certificate reads Lions Gate. Of all the towns that I've slept in. The roads travelled. The airways flown. Islands, mountains, lakes: my province.

My Mastercard this month reads: McBride, Prince George, Quesnel, Clinton, Ashcroft, Chilliwack, Hope, West Vancouver, Coquitlam, 100 Mile House, Aldergrove, Vanderhoof, and now Kelowna and Vernon.


Roots | Shoots