The ridge to the east hides the actual moment of dawn. What I see first is a brilliant outburst spilling westward over the ridge. When I got up from meditation this morning, the kitchenette outside the zendo was illuminated by soft yellow sunlight. I came downstairs and opened all the blinds. Now I’m sitting on a radiator (yes, sitting on a radiator; I miss the heated floors of Korea and this is the closest I can get) facing east. The sun has risen above the ridge and is tangling her long flaxen hair in the trees.
I nearly pulled an all-nighter this week. I feel chagrin saying that. At my age, I’d hoped I had developed better strategies for getting work done than blunt, brute force. It seemed so immature, to find myself starting a response paper for a class at 11:42 at night, fighting the panic rising as I stared at a blank Word document and tried to begin. What did I think about the poetics of the Shijing (“時經” The Book of Songs)? Eventually I thought enough to get a page out, single-spaced. Agony, that single page: my tongue felt thick in my mouth, so to speak, and I struggled over every sentence, obsessed over every word. It’s been over ten years since I last had to write anything like that, and I strained to draw my argument first into the open, and then to a reasonable close. I am out of this kind of shape. The intellect is a muscle; mine is moving in ways it hasn’t for years. Whether I said anything insightful, or even moderately reasonable about the text, I couldn’t say right now. I am tuckered out by the effort and exhausted by the foray into the early regions of dawn. The whole event had me reciting 4 am by Wislawa Szymborska to myself.
Back and forth to campus, back and forth to campus. I’m not a student in the proper sense, accepted and registered and numbered among the scholastic corp. But I have a way in. I am connected to the university by the fine and durable thread of my former years with them: I am an alumna. And the professors are kind, and the departments are kind, and they let me in, and so I go back and forth to campus and sit at the table and listen and learn, and write response papers from midnight to four a.m., wondering how on earth I did this at the frenetic and breakneck pace I did a decade and more ago. I feel young in other ways, though. Now I am old enough and far away enough from the sense of entitlement I carried around in those years to know, this is a rare and wonderful opportunity. I come to it breathless and probably a little too taken with the idea of the University. But I’m seduced and enthralled by it only because I know what a dream it is, and if it seems naive and young for me to be so eager and enthusiastic, then know it is an eagerness and enthusiasm hard-won.
Tomorrow evening I’ll join a small group of people in a classmate’s apartment to read John Milton’s “Paradise Lost” out loud. “To savor the language,” said the young law student who organized the readings. Yes. To savor. Everything.
Paradise Lost read aloud is a marvelous thing.
“The sun has risen above the ridge and is tangling her long flaxen hair in the trees.” — beautiful!
To savor everything. Oh, I appreciate that reminder.
[…] In response to Via Negativa: Downer and thus: Savor. […]