Dance of the cotton grass

Way back in July of this year, drenched in the warm, dry, brilliance of the the high Arctic summer, I would ride my bike up a steep sandy hill to a stream which flowed from out of lake. I would lie in the tall grasses and rushes by the edge of the steam and peer into the clear but turbulent current of the water and watch the Stickleback fish. They were tiny. Smaller than the stub of a well worn down pencil; no longer than 3 inches in length, yet they were strong enough to hold position in a swift current bound for a falls that fell into the saline head of the fjord. I could see them gulp food. I could see them stop their effortless hovering and turn to dart to gulp another quickly passing morsel. They were dancers of another world. Conditioned to control their bodies as the graceful instruments of performing lives. Though every cell of their beings was toned for survival, their efforts were executed harmoniously with the water's motions itself. Like birds soaring on air currents, a ballet of life.
For the past three years now I have been entertaining the idea of going to school again. Why not? I have time off when we are not away working on distant islands or other continents. Perhaps having had so much exposure to travel in the midst of so many professional academics, professors, scientists, artists, etc. has allowed for a culture of thirst for knowledge to grow within the petri dish of my intellect. We are fortunate to have enough free time in our lives to experiment with dreams. If Steve wants to build furniture out of wood in our shop, he can. If I want to take dance classes at an annex of the university, I can. He remodels the house, I build the compost. We walk to the view of the Twin Sister's Mountain range, seen from the north bank of the Middle fork of the Nooksack River, just behind our house. He researches fuel efficient battery powered adaptations that we could make to our little Geo Metro while I plow through the chemical chains found in the emissions comparatively, between Swedish Masonry wood burning stoves and conventional wood burning stoves.
These free form "thinkering,-tinkering", time episodes of puttering , lead to small ideas which blossom into bigger ideas which grow into large "Why -Nots?".
And so my cute little kitten idea of going to school has grown into an enormous jungle cat named, "MR. Whynot". Well, one good reason is that it would significantly cut into my lovely ski bum life style of waking up at 0500 to press the speed dial button on the phone (which instantly rings up the Mt Baker ski report, which usually has most excellent news), and then go racing about the house getting ready to go skiing while singing, "15 inches fresh pow, 15 inches fresh pow....." or something like that.
Another reason of hesitance is the field of study, which has ranged from physics to atmospheric chemistry to math to mechanical engineer, to dance, to philosophy to fine arts to machinist and most recently, from paramedic to information technologist.
Certified.
But back to the fish...........I think they have got it all figured out. Even though they might only live for only one short summer or one very long year, they can dance every day through the atmosphere of their medium and exist symbyotically with this graceful movement, which I call dance, which swimming is a sort of kind of, dance, or choreographed movement designed specifically for survival; could it be that some people have to dance in order to survive. I mean, in order to survive, by using the term, survival, as the purpose driven expression of one's happiness and contentment with life; of feeling alive. We all must have some thing that bring this sort of sensation to it's maximum, causing it to go triumphantly coursing through our veins, trumpeting "life"; whether it be skiing or riding a bike or conversing with friends over tea or coffee, or watching birds, or bees, or loving someone or building something or going somewhere new. So why not dance?
It seems so impractical and self indulgent, a B.A. in dance, after all, I don't want to become a professional dancer; or even a choreographer; we would have to move to the city. And though I wouldn't mind teaching, how practical is that idea? Would I commute to a studio in town or lease one of the old chicken barns near our house on Mosquito Lake Road? Getting a B.A. in studio arts would at least contribute to helping me develop my potential as an artist, or a designer, or a sculptor. And what about all of those other ideas, either continuing along in the trades or working towards being able to become a teacher, or a paramedic, at least those ideas have some sort of practical application.
Maybe having worked for so long in impracticable situations with whatever skills I have garnered along the way has suited me just fine, like the fish in the stream, gliding, and floating and gulping.
And dancing in that sparkling buoyancy of water, the medium of origins.
Why not dance then, "MR cat"?