From
the library I walk to one of the Quiet Places on campus; take off my backpack,
and I am free. I make the short climb upward and watch the world around me, the stars above. I swing from the poles over my head, and sit
atop one for a while.
It
is cold. My ears, cheeks, neck, hurt
from it. The cold air and colder metal
cause my hands to ache, and I am glad. I
am glad to feel the sharp throb of my ears and ache of my hands; to feel the
pain in my body, to remember it's there.
I have hands. They hurt, and they
are part of my body, and they are mine.
They
are not just a tool for serving, not only an extension of my academic
mind. They are part of my physical body,
which I feed and sleep and, of late, otherwise ignore. But it is me, and I am alive.
And
with the sensation, the reminder of my physical body, the imagination slowly
starts to leak out from beneath the intellect.
I
can swing on the metal rods and pretend I am a gymnast, or look up at the stars
and imagine myself an astronomer of old, seeking the wisdom of God in the
artwork of the stars.
The
moon is the tiniest sliver: I try to write but it's too dark, and I cannot see
the strokes of my pen. So I clamber
down, reclaim my backpack, rejoin inhabited civilization.
Inside,
I feel my cheeks and ears burn. In the
bathroom mirror they are a blotchy red and white. My hands also burn; they are bright red and
ugly, with the veins and fingers starting to swell, un-shriveling in the
warmth. Once I can properly feel it
again, my left hand aches from the day's writing.
People
talk to me. The strangeness of my
thoughts fades away and I notice that I am hungry, tired. I recall that I have much yet to do.
My
hands have returned to their normal coloring, calluses slightly
enlarged from recent use. I am no longer
too warm or cold.
And
as the acute consciousness of my humanity fades, I must go back to "real
life" and the ordinary thoughts and tasks before me.
