The "Grand Plan"

The long weekend before the beginning of classes is upon us. I've had my three administrative / professional development days at the school this past week. It's a nerve-wracking time, when I question whether I've made the right decision, being here for another year. I'm sure that everything will be fine once I get into the swing of things.

Since arriving back in Inuvik almost two weeks ago, I've gone through a torrent of mixed feelings. At first, I was glad to be back, glad to have a routine to look forward to again. Then, a little voice inside my head started to make me doubt myself. I'm starting year-four of my five-year plan. The plan was to find my passion in these five years, and to teach and save up in the meantime. I worry that I still haven't found that passion; furthermore, I worry that perhaps teaching is my passion. (You see, teaching was never part of the “grand plan,” but was supposed to be a transition into something infinitely more exciting, infinitely more unique. Just what that is, I have yet to discover.)

Since my parents have left after visiting me up here for a week, my “Inuvik parents” have been staying with me, until they find their own house/apartment after their summer of travels. I call two of my teacher-friends up here my “Inuvik parents.” They are pretty much the same age as my parents, and I'm a year younger than their eldest, and a year older than their youngest – I'm their “middle-child,” so to speak. They've really looked out for me these past three years, and have allowed me to vent all of my frustrations. And, believe me, my days have been full of frustrations. I've been both overwhelmed and “underwhelmed” by my students, by solitude, by the long winter darkness, by my own little insecurities.

Before the first snowfall, which could happen any day, as the first snow had fallen in September in the last three years, I must go and fly my kites out on the field in the middle of town. A friend had sent me a kite this summer to add to my modest collection, and I have yet to test it out. Freezing fingers and toes seem not to matter when I can turn my face up to the sky and see my kite at the end of the string, being gently held by a breeze. The world shrinks and becomes that colourful vessel, and I become someone else, someone braver, someone more at peace. Maybe kite-flying could fit into my “grand plan.” If only kite-flying were something I could build a life upon....