Plans are made to be broken and clichés are meant to be forgotten, but when the sun rises, even if the blade is blunt, it hurts all the same. I’m making no sense, and doesn’t that leave me without change?
Cut the homonyms, they don’t work as well in writing.
Where to begin? It’s been an adventure–and every step unexpected.
This weekend I attended the National Association of Campus Activities South conference, a weekend of educational sessions, showcases, and networking to bring activities to colleges across the South. I will no doubt draw upon this experience for a number of posts (so much happened in such a short span of time that I can easily foresee two or three other topics already), but today I’d like to talk about the end.
For all who know me, and especially for those who have just met me or don’t know me very well, it may come as a surprise to hear that I am the biggest introvert you will ever know. You may imagine me speaking in front of a group, or casually carrying on friendly a conversation, or introducing myself with poise and purpose, and surely then, surely then I must be lying.
It’s curious. This morning I went to a B’not Mitzvah for two girls who I helped teach in the fourth grade when I was their madrich. When I got to the synagogue, I ran into our director of adult education. She asked me if I was finished for the summer yet, so I told her I had been since the middle of May and was now researching colleges. She asked what I was studying and I told her math. Then she asked if I knew someone, and I didn’t, but I recognized his name as someone my sister had confirmation with years ago. He went to U of M and has since gotten his doctorate in math.
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.