A Breather

Life finally let up a little bit today. Last night was movie night, a not-making-much-money fundraiser that is really an excuse to watch climbing movies on a giant theatre screen with crazy surround sound. It was a pretty stressful event to put together, but together it went, and everyone loved it. We actually made money this year, as opposed to last year when we didn't make enough money to cover the sodas we bought to sell as refreshments!

Then this morning I had my last midterm exam. Staying up till 3 in the morning for 4 consecutive nights really does something, because I've never had an exam go so smoothly since high school. Tonight was the last night of the class I've been teaching which has taken up way more time than it should have.

So, stress is gone, weather has turned gorgeous, and things are looking up. Still poor, and still not getting nearly enough climbing in, BUT I'm in love, I love what I do and I'll be skiing and ice climbing within a few weeks.

I've counted my chickens.

Afternoon

Sometimes the best thing to ever happen in a day is getting punched in the face by a rain drop.

The storm had been approaching all day; the temperature slipping a few degrees at a time, naked trees shivered as the wind began to race. It hovered over the high, snow-dusted high peaks of the Adironaks for the early afternoon. In the few minutes between when I entered my classroom to when I left with a dissappointing grade, the clouds had raced across the broad lake and raged overhead.

I've realized that I love what I do and I love what I study, and I love who I'm going to be in the future. But the means of getting there right now are simply so frustrating, overwhelming and discouraging.

An sudden pit settled into my stomach as I ran from the classroom, clutching my exam. The pit worsened and threatened to envelope me. Bursting through the double doors, the rain that had been hesitant to fall all day slammed into my flushed face. It beat the pit out of my body and left it in a puddle at my feet.

All that was left was me and the rain.

every minute of life makes it shorter.

On the way to my classes I pass the hospital. There isn't any smoking allowed on the hospital ground, so all of the staff, patients and nurses (who you'd think would know better) cross the street and puff away on the corner of the university green. Walking through the cloud of smoke a couple of times a day isn't pleasant, but the people out there sucking their butts seem like "the type"-the one's who don't suprise you when they pull a gleaming pack out of their pocket. Sometimes walking by this group really bothers me - on a beautiful fall day, I want to watch the Norway Maples finally give into the change of colors, not having it interuppted by an aggravated hack or a crackling, burned voice on a cell phone.

Lately though, a man has started making a daily appearance at the smoking ring. He isn't a nurse or a doctor or any of that: he's a patient. He sits in his wheelchair, wearing the white and blue spotted gown under a tattered red plaid dressing robe. There is a drip bag hanging from the metal stem above his with a thin plastic tube tracing downwards into his emaciated, paper thin forearm. His eyes are hollow and sunken and his whispy white hair flutters it soft breezes. His thin, long hands shake as he slowly lifts the white cigarette to his dry lips. He doesn't seem to move as he inhales, he sits still, as if forcing the smoke to travel into his lungs by sheer willpower.

At first, the man was always alone, and always at the same time of day. His felt slippers would sometimes slip down his feet and cast an afternoon shadow on the cracked and work concrete. The eyes were always empty.

One day, women started to visit him. He wouldn't talk much to them, but they seemed to dote on him. As days wore on, the sicker he seemed to get, and the more people came to visit him.

I am waiting for the day that he won't be out there, that his usual spot by the bench would be vacant.

so this is it.

Why not, I think to myself. Everyone else out there has one, so why not me. I need a place to organize my thoughts, to get things down. Truth be told I can't stand keeping journals; whenever I sit down to a blank page to write about myself I find that I have nothing to say. In lieu of journals, I began to collect random thoughts and tid bits. Flashes that would enter my mind would get scribbled down on the margin of some page of notes. Inevitibly, these would be lost, and I wouldn't know the difference.

Why else? I'm not a computer person in the least. I'm not a member of generation Y or Z or whatever we're on now. I'm not doing this to become queen of the digital universe. But perhaps, just maybe, in the tumultuous times that I'm sure are about to sweep me up, having some sense of continuity with something I've created will float me through. On hellish days, maybe I can read my own words and be reminded of what really matters to me, and what I really, truly enjoy out of life.

Lastly, I suppose this is a way for me to keep in touch. I love my family and friends, but it feels as though everyone I know is exploding outwards in this ever expanding world. I'm not writing this for anyone else than myself, but maybe knowing that my parents or friends could just check in on me will be enough to make it worthwhile.