Murderers among us

I saw him the other day-- the face in the crowd that always reminds me of what has been lost. I thought about going over to him and describing the pain he inflicted on me, the thoughtlessness of his words, his total incomprehension of the human heart. I wanted to tell him that when I see his face the word that comes to mind is murder.

It was coincidentally the anniversary of my uncle's murder the day I saw the man in the mall; the man who once, upon knowing who I was, spoke to me a great length about the man who murdered my uncle and, by proxy, my grandfather who died several days later of a broken heart. The man in the store had grown up with the killer; such a nice guy. So many good times.

When I see that man I think of all the good times my uncle never had with his grandchildren, all the days when my cousins must want to tell him something about their lives but cannot. I think of what the killer took from all of us.

The murder happened when I was living in Bangkok. I had just started my Masters degree and got an early morning phone call from my father. He was crying on the phone. I was helpless half a world away.

A few days later I got another call; my grandfather had died. I just stayed in my one room apartment and sat in the shower for days so I wouldn't know how many tears I shed.

So now when I see that man, I see murder, I see loss, I see pain.

I sometimes think about which is worse, to lose a loved one by accident, by disease or by violence. Having experienced all three I reckon to lose a loved one by someone else's hand is far worse than any other loss. There was an alternative, a different path the killer might have taken.

I cried in the shower this morning as I thought of the last time I saw my grandfather. I was heading back to Thailand after a visit home and he cried as I went out the front door of the small white house across from the beach where I had always known him. Something in his heart told him he wouldn't see me again.

My grandfather was not a crying man. I can only remember seeing him cry once before and that was when my mother announced she was leaving my father. He went out to one of his fishing sheds to wipe his eyes and didn't come back until we had left the house. And it was my uncle who helped us move in the middle of snow storm; tears in his eyes.

The first time I came home after the murders was the hardest. I saw a man walking towards me at the annual come home week parade and for a moment I thought it was my uncle. It shook me to realize that he was gone and that it was my cousin, his son, standing in front of me.

That trip home was a difficult one. In my absence I had lost five family members and I remember the trip mostly as a pilgrimage of grief; first to Massachusetts where two aunts and a grandfather had died and then to Nova Scotia to confront the murder of my uncle and subsequent death of my grandfather.

I don't know how many years it has been since my uncle and grandfather died. Every year I wonder about how long it has been because this pain doesn't end. Time doesn't replace what has been lost. What was needlessly taken from my family.

I am so angry.

HaiKube games

S-girls sentences

Violet looks sadly into water.

Life shines with grand, sweet promises.

Watching water with gentle, sweet thoughts.

For life looks clear not curvy.

We are heroes that quickly light life in all.

We many thugs are desperate for candy.

I finally found the villain’s body.

I finally met a time doctor. (Doctor Who)

Those fantasies light her dead brain.

Lois's sentences

We live in an unparalleled universe with livid, hot emotions.

We radicals with lofty, smooth ideals are frequently grounded by age.

We hellbent doctors are heavy with regret.

No heart returns to the alternate love; save in the last days.

If glancing thunder should travel inside her mind, sanity would be restored.

Never travel with the last bottle for you'll surely come to a bad end.

Your through with love, pluck the shelter from your heart and let devastation rule.

If next my ritual charm should fail, the wheel will cease to turn.

One hellbent for fertile love will sow a barren garden.

Parallel lots hoped for a logical conclusion to hate.

Balance any shady hope as if it was the weight of water.

She embraced the simple melodic hand of fortune.

Confession-- a short story

I killed a man.

I was heading south of the city on a moonless night. The asphalt stretched in a straight line beyond the reach of the headlights and the stars were sending secret messages to their neighbours.

Two hours out and I had encountered only a handful of motorist. It was a weekday, after midnight. I had delivered my cargo to the fish market in Bangkok. I don't like the city; no sky, no air, no sea. I turned around for the trip home; driving through to daylight and the call to prayer from my father's minaret.

I was caught in several police road blocks coming into the city. I rolled down my window and held out the customary bribe. I held the money in my hand, tightly folded so they could not determine the denomination of the bill until I had secured my passage. I keep a wallet full of small bills for such occasions.

The truck was overloaded; it always is on these runs. The back bumper threatening to hit the pavement at every dip in the road.

The shrimp were quickly unloaded; heading to tables around the world. I got my money, some coffee and noodles from a street vendor. They weren't halal but I was hungry and no one but God and I would know.

I slid behind the wheel, my seat readily complying to my body; its familiar companion.

Clear, dark, lonely nights-- they're the best for driving. I make good time. The road is magic under these four wheels; it disappears before the universe registers my presence.

The radio is on but there is not much I want to hear so I tune into silence. The night grows deeper and I don't mind. Nights are meant to be like that-- lonely.

The headlights of the truck reach out and caress a rider. The motorcycle has no lights, and the rider no helmet. There is a hitch in the stride of the truck and a brief shudder reverberates through the steering wheel. The bike and rider are gone and the night flows through me.

I roll down the window and drink the humidity, subconsciously listening for an animal's howl. I hear nothing. There's nothing now but I know there was something, someone -- and I know what I have done.

I am travelling 120 miles an hour on a straight, dark highway with flooded rice fields banking the margins. There is no surviving this. No need to turn back.

Doubt claws at me as the miles pass. I have a clear picture of a stunned bird flapping helplessly in the middle of quiet city street one fall afternoon. That was a different life. Another life that I failed to save. I watched the bird from the safety of the sidewalk. It was starting to rain; a cold rain in a northern city very far from this place.

I thought about rescuing the bird from its certain death but I didn't know what to do with that life. It would be a burden, a question, an inconvenience. I watched as a car turned onto the street and killed the bird. I could have at least done that-- I know about the killing of things.

But now I can't turn back. I could search the highway all night and never find the scene of the crime. It's a long, dark road reflecting back on itself mile after mile.

The rider, like the bird before, has died or will die soon. I killed them both. This is my confession.

Empowerment

A few weeks ago, during a beautiful fall day on campus, I was reminded of the fear inherent in being a woman. I was walking back to school from the new Chocolaterie with my 10-year-old daughter at my side. A young man crossed the street with us and started a conversation. He appeared to be a university student; he had the prerequisite back pack, wore black framed glasses and was walking towards the campus as were we.

He started to talk about his recent acupuncture appointment and the remarkable feeling of wellness he was now experiencing. The conversation moved on to areas of study. When I asked him what he was studying he gave a vague and slightly nonsensical answer which immediately tweaked my bull shit radar.

I reassessed the situation and thought about how he would see me; a small woman, single mother, with child in tow. I was a good target and I knew it.

I have read a lot of forensic reports; have studied forensic anthropology and have had an interest in forensic psychology. A university campus is a rich hunting ground for predators and I thought I might have encountered one.

I started to increase the distance between the man and myself. And then he grabbed the top strap of my backpack and tugged me towards him. The backpack was full and I momentarily lost my balance. Once I regained my equilibrium I quickly altered my route in opposition to his, all the while outraged at what he had just done but fearful to confront him about his inappropriate actions. A confrontation could escalate the situation if he was truly a threat. If he wasn't, if he was just oblivious to how he had violated my space, a confrontation might be 'a teachable moment'. But with my daughter by my side, I could not risk any possible negative outcomes.

My daughter and I headed off towards my car where I sat for a few moments to regroup. I was upset by what had happened, mostly because my daughter was with me. I thought about what I could have done better-- not taken part in the conversation in the first place? I don't like that option. I don't want to live in fear of every friendly man that I meet. Sometimes people are just friendly. But as a woman it can be hard to tell what will start as friendly and end as scary.

This may seem like a small incident and maybe nothing at all to some people. But as women we face these little incidents, moments when we are reminded that our bodies may be taken, that we may not be able to protect those that we love, that we may face unwanted attention, at any time and in any place.

I would like to say that I am strong but physically I am a small woman and there is nothing that will ever change that. After a similar instance in my twenties, I spent a few years in the gym, working to overcome that physical reality. But no matter how much I could bench press or how many bicep curls I could do in a row-- my strength and stamina would never match most men I would encounter in my life.

It is an uncomfortable feeling; this powerlessness.

Women live with the possibility of violence every day. It isn't something that I think about on a daily basis but it is something that simmers under the surface.

I hate that I have to live with this. I hate that my daughters will have to live with this. I hate that no matter what consciousness raising efforts we have promoted in recent decades; things have not changed.

Respect my body's autonomy. Give me some space.

How very dull

Last night I walked with you,
through the mirror of imagination.
A second self that arrived fully formed,
not stunted and disfigured.
You never knew pain, hardship, or loss.
Nothing caused you discomfort.
How very dull you were.

I always come home

I don't think about it much. Usually on birthdays I am amazed by yet another unexpected year. When I turned 40 both my father and I were surprised I had lived this long. I wasn't supposed to-- medically speaking.

Recently a few things have made me think about this thing, this life I precariously lead on the brink of medical calamity. I just read an article about a mom with Cystic Fibrous. The title of the piece was What It's Like to Be a Mom When You Have an Incurable Disease. I don't have an incurable disease but I do have an incurable condition and it can be life threatening at worst and life disrupting at best.

I have lived with it all my life so typically I don't think too much about it-- dealing with my medical difficulties and waiting for a twitch that may or may not send me to the emergency room is something I am used to. And I really don't think about it as a problem, until a flare up. Then I can feel mightily depressed because nothing I do can make this better; make it go away. And it is also something that people cannot easily understand. I do not have a disease; I have a birth defect – it was fixed to the degree that I could survive but not to the degree that it would not seriously impact my life.

I have rarely given in to the idea that this precarious medical situation should affect how I live my life. In only one occasion that I can think of did it alter my path; when I thought of joining the Canadian military and realized with my food restrictions and inevitable hospitalizations-- I would not be a desirable recruit.

In lieu of a life of excitement in the Canadian Forces I opted for life elsewhere and moved to SouthEast Asia where I knew no one and nothing about the health care system. I was fortunate and lucked into a great North American trained abdominal surgeon at a little known hospital in my third year overseas. But that was after several bad experiences at hospitals where I was made to go through rigorous and unnecessary test to diagnose what I knew was wrong but which they had never before seen. Rarely do I ever find a doc who looks at my scar and can identify its origin as the birth defect known as an omphalocele.

Generally I just keep on keeping on and don't think too much about the implications of having a chronic, occasionally life threatening, condition. But as I said a few things recently gave me pause. One was the article that I just read and the second was the question almost voiced by a recent acquaintance of mine. When I was describing my medical situation to him he started to ask if I was not worried about my children and if...and then the question fell off. But I knew what he was going to say. Wasn't I worried that this thing might kill me before my kids grew up?

In truth, I never thought about it. Firstly, because I never thought I would be able to sustain a pregnancy let alone have two kids. Secondly, life has taught me that it is impermanent no matter your current state of health. If everyone worried about dying and leaving their kids behind-- no one would ever have children.

I have taken reasonable measures; wrote a will. Informed cited guardians of their inclusion in that will. Talked to my kids about what I wanted done with my body when I die; a discussion I had with them recently when an opportune moment arose and I was not in the least bit sick. Life insurance is a reasonable step; but they won't insure me for my condition so it seems like a futile measure.

Death is the end of everyones story; I have never assumed that mine would be written by my medical condition. I live with it, it is not my life.

Once in my early university years I had to write my own obituary for a class project. In it I gave cause of death as a fall from a mountain side while out scouting for archaeological sites in the Andes. It never even occurred to me that anything other than adventure would end my days. It still doesn't.

Occasionally I do worry about my health and how my time in hospital affects my kids. Mainly I just hope they don't get too scared when I am sick. I tell them when they are upset about a recent stay in hospital -- I always come home.

Universal kitchen

The clock on the wall,
keeps time for another planet.
Fast in the summer, slow in the winter,
under the influence of a different star.
I lack the essential astrological knowledge,
to determine its provenance.
But one day,
I'll step over the threshold for a glass of milk,
and find an unfamiliar universe.

That is an oldie but a goodie-- going through some old files today. Written on March 10/2006

Proust Questionaire

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery? Unrequited love

Where would you like to live? The sea, the sea

What is your idea of earthly happiness? Being with friends when I want to be and being alone when I want to be

To what faults do you feel most indulgent? Despair

Who are your favorite heroes of fiction? Ada-- Poisonwood Bible

Who are your favorite characters in history? Lucy-Australopithecus afarensis

Who are your favorite heroes in real life? Terry Fox

Your favorite painter? Frida Kahlo

Your favorite musician? Leonard Cohen

The quality you most admire in a man? Trustworthiness

The quality you most admire in a woman? Strength

Your favorite virtue? Creativity

Your favorite occupation? Writing

Who would you have liked to be? Iris Murdoch

Your most marked characteristic? Driven

What do you most value in your friends? Availability

What is your principle defect? Judgement

What to your mind would be the greatest of misfortunes? To live in pain

What would you like to be? A writer

What is your favorite color? The greens of the forest

What is your favorite flower? Gladiolas

What is your favorite bird? Kestrel

Who are your favorite prose writers? Iris Murdoch, Barbara Kingsolver, Tolstoy

Who are your favorite poets? Robert Service, ee cummings, Leonard Cohen, George Elliot Clarke

Major error here-- forgot to include Dorothy Parker--Probably my most favourite poet.

Who are your heroes in real life? Terry Fox, my grandmother Dort

Who are your favorite heroes of history? People who were breaking boundaries -- Gertrude Bell, Albert Einstein, Sally Ride

What are your favorite names? Suki, Nate, Milton

What is it you most dislike? Lying, ownership

What historical figures do you most despise? The usual – Hitler, Mussolini, Suharto-- dictators in general

What event in military history do you most admire? Normandy—the courage of the soldiers.

What natural gift would you most like to possess? Forgiveness

How would you like to die? In peace with my children and friends around me.

What is your present state of mind? Busy

What is your motto? Look where you are going not where you have been.

Friends: I am interested in your thoughts-- please answer the questionnaire and post below.

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?

Where would you like to live?

What is your idea of earthly happiness?

To what faults do you feel most indulgent?

Who are your favorite heroes of fiction?

Who are your favorite characters in history?

Who are your favorite heroines in real life?

Who are your favorite heroines of fiction?

Your favorite painter?

Your favorite musician?

The quality you most admire in a man?

The quality you most admire in a woman?

Your favorite virtue?

Your favorite occupation?

Who would you have liked to be?

Your most marked characteristic?

What do you most value in your friends?

What is your principle defect?

What to your mind would be the greatest of misfortunes?

What would you like to be?

What is your favorite color?

What is your favorite flower?

What is your favorite bird?

Who are your favorite prose writers?

Who are your favorite poets?

Who are your heroes in real life?

Who are your favorite heroines of history?

What are your favorite names?

What is it you most dislike?

What historical figures do you most despise?

What event in military history do you most admire?

What natural gift would you most like to possess?

How would you like to die?

What is your present state of mind?

What is your motto?

No problem

This is the start of my modest campaign to get people to stop saying 'no problem'. I stopped saying it last year when I realized that when I said 'no problem' I was in some way indicating that whatever favour I had done for someone was of little consequence to me and therefore should not be appreciated.

It actually is of consequence to me when I do someone a favour or someone does a favour for me. I really got to thinking about this again yesterday when two people did favours for me and when I thanked them they responded with the now typical reply of, 'No problem'.

In the first instance my babysitter picked up a yellow shirt for one of the kids-- she's on the yellow team for winter carnival. I could have done it-- I actually thought about doing it but it was just one more thing to add to an already busy schedule and I decided she could live without a yellow shirt. Unbeknownst to me the child had already bemoaned the fact that she did not have a yellow shirt to the sitter and she set out to get her one. When I thanked the sitter she replied, “No problem.”

She took time out of her day to look for a shirt for my child. It may not have been a problem but it did take time and consideration and I think when we say no problem we downplay these things which are so important to how we live together as a society.

Yesterday I also asked someone for some information about an after school program. I sent a message to the recreation Facebook page. In the evening, after work hours, one of the staff from Recreation got back to me and answered the question. Once again when I thanked her she replied, “No problem.” Again, it was not a problem for her but it did take time and thought after her work day was supposed to be done.

I just want to call attention to this phenomenon of the 'no problem' reply. I want people to say 'your welcome' so that we will think more about the time and effort put into these every day favours. I think when we say 'no problem' we are selling ourselves short-- we need to think more about what we give and what we receive. I know I do since I banished the 'no problem' response from my repertoire.

It's hard—being a woman

It is International Women's Day and this day always makes me stop and think about what I am doing to further the cause of woman kind.

This day is important to me because I am a woman and even more so because I am the mother of two future women. It is because of them that I feel it is my responsibility to make being a woman easier.

The usual stories about unequal pay, unequal opportunity, and sexual harassment are often the talking points on International Women's Day-- but how do we as individuals fight such big culturally embedded inequities?

I don't have the answer to that but I do have an answer about how to make life better for the young women I have created-- show them the possibilities.

All of my life, any time I have started in a direction that was not what others perceived to be my path, I would meet with unconcealed doubt. Others doubting my ability has been something I have endured for decades and I am so tired of it.

This year I went back to school in science. The first response of most people when they heard that was my intention was, “That's hard,” accompanied by a pitying look that told me they thought I would not succeed.

I have faced this response anytime I have dipped my toe in scientific waters. Why is that the case? I can only imagine that the response would be different if I was a man.

There have been some few people-- most of whom were women-- who congratulated me on my choice to return to school in the sciences.

But it is the disbelief that I, a woman should attempt to enter the sciences, that I feel I am constantly fighting. Although I am happy to say a majority of my classmates are female-- I think progress is being made but the final proof is who graduates with a BSc not who starts out in the program.

I entered a BSc program because I have always had an abiding interest in how the world works. I am curious about that rock on the beach, how plastic affects reproduction, and a million other things. I also entered the program to set an example for my children; to show them that science was not something to shy away from, that their questions about the world around them could be answered and they could be the ones finding the answers. That women can do anything.

So on International Women's Day I feel I am doing my bit in my little corner of the world by by making my way along this path to scientific knowledge.

It is hard-- being a woman-- moving beyond all the doubters.

This little light of mine

You never know where life will lead.

Just over seven years ago I had a big decision to make; I found myself newly single, with a 1 1/2 year old child, and pregnant.

I was living off the generosity of my family and had no idea what the future would hold.

I had just left all that I had established in the world as an adult; my job, my house, my friends and flew toward the unknown. I was completely adrift with no idea how I could move forward and had no way of turning back from whence I had come.

Finding out I was pregnant was a surprise although I had been trying to get pregnant ever since the arrival of my first child; I believe in the benefits of having more than one child. But then life got in the way and got messy. I wasn't looking for a second child anymore; I was looking for a way out. And I took the first available flight. But on the other side of the world I got the news that I was hoping for only months before. My timing needed work.

So my decision, which did not take me long to make, was to continue with the pregnancy. Although all I had to offer at the time was less than nothing financially. And love...I was not sure I had that either. Could I really love this new child? I was so devoted to my first child there barely seemed room enough for even the thought of love for anyone else-- let alone a baby that I knew would demand most of my already monopolized attention.

Time moved forward and so did that child inside of me.

Unlike my first pregnancy I really did not feel a great deal of connection to the life I was carrying. I think I was too busy getting through the toddler days that left me too exhausted to think about much else.

Eventually the girl arrived. As soon as I held her I knew that I had made the right decision and the love that I had wondered about came out in full bloom.

Within several weeks after my girl was born things became even less tenable-- I had to leave the United States and return to Canada. With a six week old infant and a 2-year-old toddler I drove to Nova Scotia and waited to see what would happen next.

It was hard going-- I have never been poorer but I never once thought I had made the wrong choice about that second child. She's a great light and life would have been tougher as a family of two.

My grandmother, ever practical, told me it was unfortunate I had had this little one. That didn't mean she didn't love the girl but she saw my decision as a harder row to hoe-- and well it might have been harder in some ways but not in others. I would have regretted not having a second child, not giving my first child a friend for life, a sibling.

This girl is fascinating, caring, funny, and a million other adjectives. I look forward to the next piece of wisdom she'll impart to me at the supper table. I love the way she values her sister, her grandparents, and her friends. She's a wonder. The best decision I ever made.

Happy birthday to his little light of mine. She's going to shine.

The Third Degree

It has been some months now since I set out on this latest voyage and now I have a few minutes to share this experience.

Returning to school is always a daunting prospect, no matter who you are or where you are in your life. I have taken on that challenge several times and each time is different.

The first time I went back to school after a hiatus of several years was to pursue a second degree in Kinesiology at Dalhousie University. I decided, after two years slogging away at the same job I had done while finishing my first degree; that I needed more education to get out of the dead end work life that a Bachelor of Arts provided.

I entered Kinesiology as a practical approach to a life that I intended to live in Nova Scotia. It was a program that promised a career and stable work. Some parts of the program I liked, some I didn't. But the few years between myself and most of my classmates seemed like a chasm as wide as the Grand Canyon. I was not going to break into that social group-- I was ahead of them in my life; had a partner I expected to spend the rest of my life with and was in the program to get the job that would sustain a family.

As they say, best laid plans; they certainly do go awry. Relationship failed and I decided to move away from what was practical ie: Kinesiology and move on to another adventure—in a land far far away.

After three years of speaking in truncated English and living a reckless life in South East Asia I found something to right my floundering ship; a Master's program in Bangkok. I jumped at the chance to go to school and put some meaning back into my life.

My Masters program was exactly what I expected it to be-- a small group of people with a common interest. We were a real mishmash of people; different ages and stages in life, different countries of origin with different academic backgrounds.

At first I was very nervous about being back at school. My years teaching “It is a cat” to three-year-old kids had affected my ability to communicate in a rich and meaningful way. I felt that my mind had atrophied and had my doubts about my ability to write cogently on any subject let alone at a high academic level.

When I handed in my first paper, on Thai art, I was a wreck. It did not make matters any better that the Professor disappeared for three weeks and failed to return the marked papers for a month. After that first A, I got my confidence back and went on to finish course after course and write a fairly interesting thesis; if I do say so myself.

After I had left Dalhousie my academic confidence was shaken, not that I could not handle the work ( I was on the Dean's list) but whether or not I had the staying power to complete what I started. With my Master's degree in hand I fought back that uncertainty. And then I had a family.

I know I am happiest when I am learning something. And yes you can learn things without being in school but I need the force of deadlines and the guidance of professors to lead me to new things. Whenever I am not in school I feel something is missing in my life.

For years I have looked at a Masters in Adult Education that was available at a nearby university. As a single mother with two young kids I could not see any other way to get my educational fix-- the thing I needed to feel most content in my life. I got the application papers several times, had a meeting with the program chair and tried to read the relevant academic journals. I just could not make the project seem interesting despite it being the most obvious choice for me.

I had been working in adult education for more than a decade; a job I just fell into during my years in Asia and which I was lucky enough to continue doing when I returned to North America. But I have my own ways of teaching, tried and true techniques-- I was not looking forward to studying pedagogy and theory about things I had already conquered in the classroom. Not that I am a perfect teacher but I am set in my ways and have read too many ideas about teaching that I completely disagree with to want to pay to read such theories and then write papers and exams about them.

The other disincentive for doing the MA in Adult Education was that I already had the jobs that such a degree would prepare me for. I taught at the university, I taught in my home community-- all adult education programs. There was no where this degree would take me that I had not already gone professionally.

So I sat on the fence. Application forms for the MA languished in my desk for five years.

Last spring I got a serious itch; one that told me I had to do something new. I have always loved science and decided to take the plunge and apply for a Bachelor in Science. Kitchen science experiments with the kids just weren't satiating my appetite.

Of course it wasn't the best time to go back to school; I still had two young children and would have to take a double financial hit--paying for the courses and paying someone to watch my kids while I went to school. But I thought, either I start now or start later, it does not make much difference except I'll be happier if I start a new goal now. So I did.

The first semester I took only one course, in the evening and it hardly felt like going to school at all. I did not feel like I was 'back at it'. And the course I took was not particularly challenging. It was about things that I encountered in my normal reading life; climate change, health, earth history. I was looking to expand my horizons and hoped that when I got into more classes I would find something outside of my comfort zone.

This semester has certainly done that. I am now in the lab, running experiments, learning a bout things that I would not have encountered if I did not take these courses. This is exactly what I was looking for; finally I feel like I am back in school.

And being back in an undergrad program with people that could be my own kids might have been weird; I expected it to be. But it has not been. The students I work with in lab don't blink an eye when I counter their hangover stories with ones about how my kids kept me up all night. They don't treat me any differently than anyone else, they chat before class, and I don't feel like I am 20 years their senior-- although I am.

Acceptance from my classmates is a good thing. It makes going to class more enjoyable—that camaraderie is something that I have missed.

The third degree is very different from the first two. In some ways there is much less stress and in others more. When you first go to university you feel like your whole life depends on what you do there, the marks you make and the debt you acquire. And that is true; that is a lot of responsibility to carry around. At this time in my life, this degree is just gravy. I have several well-established career paths; not always stable ones but I can confidently say I am a journalist and a teacher. So this degree does not make or break my future.

And there is the money-- I have no loans, just pay as I go. In those respects things are less stressful.

On the other hand there is the stress of driving to and from university -- will the car make it another day, month,year? The guilt of taking time away from my kids to do my studying. The difficulty of working and going to school. And, at first, the stress of reentering the world of academia-- did I still have what it takes?

So far all those things are ticking over-- I have had exams in all of my courses and have been happy with the results. The winter driving sucks and I am saving money as much as possible for another car if/when needed.

I am much happier now that I am back in school-- have a new mountain to conquer and am using my brain in ways I haven't for years.

I have been meaning to write about this experience for weeks now – but there has been no time. Whenever I had a minute to write – it had to be for work. If I had a minute to read, it had to be for school. I have a total of 10 exams this semester but after the first few crazy weeks I am getting a handle on this school stuff and am starting to melt into it.

I am starting to love the third degree.