On Thursday afternoons, campus shivers in anticipation of the weekend and murmurs under it’s breath with the frustration that accompanies studying for Friday exams. There never seems to be enough time in the day to fulfill all the wishes of a culture that busies itself with living, as opposed to being alive. I scribble in a notebook that’s seen better days, one reserved for only the most carefully whispered thoughts. The handwriting that embodies them, a little less careful. After scrawling my most recent musing, I release the worn corner gripped between my left thumb and index finger and let the pages flutter back to their natural resting position. I return my gaze to the laptop open before me, which teeters dangerously on the arm of my chair. The window directly behind me casts a glare onto the screen. The glare reflects a colder, yet somehow more inviting environment than the muted, studious one I’m meshed into this afternoon.
On the other side of the glass that separates me from the crisp, mid-winter wind, I can see the lake. A sheet of half-frozen ice, tinged a color somewhere between deep navy and downy gray. It’s a vast contrast to the sky, which is the brightest blue we’ve seen since October. When you’ve spent enough winters in the Midwest, you come to recognize that it’s always the coldest on sunny days. I turn my back to the sun and let it warm my spine through the panes. The tip of my nose creeps an inch nearer to the screen of my laptop. Maybe the closer my brain is to the blank document, the easier the words will flow onto the page. My subconscious begs for some sort of miraculous osmosis event to take place.
Another student appears at the other end of the hall and begins to walk towards my windowed corner. I sink lower in my chair to avoid eye contact, but also to solidify the impression that this is my spot. I try to make myself grow and shrink simultaneously. Big enough to take up all the space, so that no one would dare try to sit in the seat next to me, but also small enough to go unnoticed. A second student rounds the corner and begins to walk down the hall towards the first, his back to me. The taller student nods as he passes the shorter one and says, “Good to see you.” The distance between them grows too great before the shorter one can respond without having to shout down the hall, so he says nothing. It feels like one of those uncertain instances where one might wonder if they’re being rude by not responding, or if it would be more rude to raise their voice in an attempt to be heard. I believe the latter.
Good to see you. What an odd thing to say to someone, as if reassuring yourself that they’re still alive. Good to see that you’ve made it through another day. Good to see that I have, too. Judging by the level of mental exhaustion I’m experiencing (brought about by the [minimal] amount of progress I’m making on my econ homework), I’ll be as depleted as my GPA by the end of the semester.
I leave my corner to seek inspiration, and the commons are noisy. Spring is encroaching on the chill of winter, trying its darnedest to push through and glide over the slick shell of frozen dead things that remain on the ground, adhered to browned grass by ice. The commons imitate the sound it makes when you crunch through shivering, decaying foliage; simultaneously sharp and soft. Snippets of conversation fly up and bounce off the hollow, vaulted ceiling above, sharp. They float back down again, fragmented and blurry. Soft. I see more interactions taking place similar to the one I most recently witnessed. “Good to see you.” “How are you?” “See you later!” Surface statements, I call them. Phrases and questions that only barely skim the surface of a person’s existence. Questions similar to, “What’s your favorite color?” or “Where do you live?” The kinds of questions that you ask when there isn’t enough time in your day to ask the ones that really matter. The ones that penetrate to the bottom of a soul, like a diver seeing how deep she can swim before running out of oxygen. Sometimes I try to dive, and sometimes I run out of air before I can get back to the surface.
I think about the lake again, and the deceased flora that litters its shores. I think about the life cycle of a leaf. At this point in the year, encapsulated by ice, but soon forced to return to the dust from whence it came when the ice melts. Never more than a leaf, never less. Simultaneously destroying itself and renewing other things with its remains, reviving tired, thawing ground as it morphs into a small lump of compost. Funny how nature works like that. Funny how people do, too.
My mind flits back to surface statements and hollow ceilings. I begin to imagine what people might say or ask if given the privacy and the chance. Maybe if I hadn’t been sitting in my corner at the end of the hall, the taller student would have said something more to his shorter comrade. At this place where everyone says they are Called To Be, where everyone seems to know their Greater Purpose, somehow I find it hard to believe that everyone wants to be Called, or still feels Called three semesters later. If no one was sitting at the end of the hall, what kinds of conversations would take place? Would people cry for release? Would they interrogate God? Would they gossip? Who would they talk to, or would it be more of an internal monologue. Would they ask to be Called again. If they did, and they were, would they hear the same message? Does a Greater Purpose ever change?
I wonder if people feel alive here. I wonder if I do. I wonder a lot of things and inquire about a lot of souls, and more often than not, I’m that diver and I run out of air before I’ve reached my goal depth - or the surface. Then I’m stuck in the middle, and I have to kick and claw as hard as I possibly can to get back home. I don’t know if that rush of adrenaline is draining or rejuvenating. I don’t know if I’m learning or hurting. It seems, more often than not that the closer I get to understanding a person, the harder it gets to connect. Once the underbelly is exposed, it’s difficult for either of us to forget that we’re broken people in need of each other. How do we come to know each other? How do we get the answers without asking the questions that so many of us are afraid to answer?
Gently,
gently.
I take one last glance around the commons, feelings of admiration and loss coinciding within me like the unhappy collision of peanut butter and cheese. I wish we were all able to say a little more. To be a little more alive. It pains me to realize how this rushed atmosphere is not conducive for authenticity. I wish we could all be a little more brave.
But there just isn’t enough time in a day.
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