Some work is written for examiners and committees. Some work is written for the record. This work was written for the body, mine and yours, and for everyone who has ever been told that rest is a reward still ahead of you.
To the Land
To the Sea of Cortez, whose salt and light and silence held me when I had forgotten how to hold myself. To the Cochimí peoples of Loreto, keepers of the land, the water, and the long memory, I offer this work with respect and gratitude for the ground on which it was written.
To the Secwépemc peoples of Kamloops, on whose unceded territory I live, study, and teach, I acknowledge this land as the foundation beneath all of my thinking. This creative expression project was shaped by the knowledge that land holds stories, that place is always political, and that presence is always a political act.
To the People
To every person who has worked without a contract, taught without a title, contributed without credit, or given their expertise in exchange for the promise of something permanent that never came, this creative expression project names what happened to us. It refuses to call it a personal failing. It insists on calling it structural harm. And it holds open the possibility that healing extends beyond the individual into the collective, beyond the personal into the political.
To the sessional instructors, adjunct faculty, contract workers, gig economy labourers, and all who live in the precariat, you deserved better. You still do.
To my students, past, present, and future, who showed up fully even when the system surrounding us fell short. Your curiosity, your courage, and your willingness to learn in the margins of an institution that made room for you inconsistently are woven through every page of this work.
To the Spirit
To whatever it is that held me beside the sea, the intelligence in the water, the patience in the stone, the presence in the pelicans who rested without apology, I offer this work as a record of having paid attention.
To the Creator, in whatever form that takes across languages and traditions and shorelines, for the thirty days, the light, and the slow return of something I thought I had lost for good.
Aquí estoy. Here I am. Still.
