I really did think today was off to a good start–but if this semester has taught me one thing, and one thing only, it’s that every day that starts out too good to be true won’t be true for very much longer.
I’m a diehard romantic and apparently I’m picky. I don’t get what the one has to do with the other, and most of the time I really don’t care. I like most romantic comedies, even if there’s a ninety-percent chance I’ll predict the entire movie before it’s over. When I’m surprised, I love it. When I’m blown away, I’ve fallen in love.
Music is one of those things that seems to capture the moment the moment I’m feeling it. There’s always a song playing, whether on my headphones or the radio or on the ring tones of the classmate who never turned off their phone, that just in a few verses, in a single melody, can sum up life in a matter of seconds.
Then there’s those times when I’m standing at the white board, three markers of three different colors in my hands as I try to solve a determinant in some new way to check my other answer, and I see how it’s supposed to work out in the end, but I can be fairly certain that I’ve made a careless mistake in my algebra somewhere because, very clearly, it won’t add up correctly. And yet I see it all at a once. The answer is right before me. It always is.
I thought I was going to be thankful for love today. But it seems like fate’s had its own way again.
I’ve been going to the gym lately. I’ve been building bridges lately. Partly it’s a pun, an allusion to my finally being able to do the asana (yoga pose) known as the bridge, which I’ve been practicing since the spring if not since many years before then, and partly it’s an affirmation of the number of connections I’ve been making lately.
So there I was, sitting beside the lake, sitting at one of the picnic tables eating my packed lunch, when along came a spider. It was a small one, so small I could barely make out all eight of its tiny legs without wanting for a magnifying glass, and it was just…there. It stayed almost stationary for a long while, crawling a little bit forward here or there, or just wiggling its legs around in the afternoon sun.
For as long as I can recall, I haven’t liked spiders. I’m not a clinical arachnophobe, but on occasion–typically at the site of a spider–I imagine I might as well could be. And yet, sitting there, watching the little guy go by, there was an absence of fear whose presence I never noticed: Things felt like they should be, and for a moment, as for many more lately, things just felt right.