Our campus is beautiful. There's no doubt about it. England in Spring is beautiful and the sun was shining today which is why there was such an intense, apparent division between the glory of the day and my irritated mood. To describe me as grumpy or sulky would've been kind compared to the intense loathing of the universe clearly obvious to those sitting with me in the car. I didn't feel well and was impatient; I hadn't slept well, and the very second we drove onto campus, the word "fuck" slithered out of my mouth - and not in the way one might say it, like a quick flick of a rubber band around one's wrist. It was more like a sigh "fuck" and was immediately pointed out as condemnation of my motherly persona, my son's accusation as sharp as the little finger he used against me.
I reluctantly made my way to my office where I checked the morning emails, sighed another "fuck" and decided I would try to find solace in nature. I put on my walking shoes and made my way down a new path, one that was created by an Eagle Scout and therefore one that had been cleared for walking, big yellow warning signs planted among the foliage warning any unsuspecting ambler that water exists sometimes and can be deep or dangerous. I imagined myself falling into water and floating down stream to anywhere but here, but then the practical side of me kicked in and I saw the reality of dragging myself out of the river, making my way to the sports centre on campus, and standing under a hand dryer. I didn't have that kind of time.
At the end of the path was a small opening. Spring bluebells bloomed so big it looked like the ocean. Sunlight that speckled through the trees en route now beamed on the open clearing next to the water. I found a tree stump and sat. I soaked in as much as I could, eyes shut, and let myself breathe. I allowed myself to listen to the water, the occasional breeze through the trees, a bunny hopping in brush, the birds singing. I opened my eyes and looked at the scenery, broadly at first, and the more narrowly. Butterflies flittered around me, as did small dragon flies and floating pollen. Ants carried on with their work, moving up and down, single file, on the branch closest to me. And I breathed. And then cried - not because I was so angry at the world, though that probably did have something to do with it - but because I realized in sitting there, I hadn't actually scene the world in this minute detail in months. I cried because of how stupid that is and how unfair. I cried because I don't allow myself to sit and be and all I wanted to do was to sit there and be for as long as I could. I set an alarm to remind myself about when to return to the reality of today. The walk softened me a bit. A colleague even said I looked like I was treading more lightly than usual.
Our campus is beautiful. There's no doubt about it. England in Spring is beautiful and the sun was shining today which is why there was such an intense, apparent division between the glory of the day and my irritated mood. To describe me as grumpy or sulky would've been kind compared to the intense loathing of the universe clearly obvious to those sitting with me in the car. I didn't feel well and was impatient; I hadn't slept well, and the very second we drove onto campus, the word "fuck" slithered out of my mouth - and not in the way one might say it, like a quick flick of a rubber band around one's wrist. It was more like a sigh "fuck" and was immediately pointed out as condemnation of my motherly persona, my son's accusation as sharp as the little finger he used against me.
I reluctantly made my way to my office where I checked the morning emails, sighed another "fuck" and decided I would try to find solace in nature. I put on my walking shoes and made my way down a new path, one that was created by an Eagle Scout and therefore one that had been cleared for walking, big yellow warning signs planted among the foliage warning any unsuspecting ambler that water exists sometimes and can be deep or dangerous. I imagined myself falling into water and floating down stream to anywhere but here, but then the practical side of me kicked in and I saw the reality of dragging myself out of the river, making my way to the sports centre on campus, and standing under a hand dryer. I didn't have that kind of time.
At the end of the path was a small opening. Spring bluebells bloomed so big it looked like the ocean. Sunlight that speckled through the trees en route now beamed on the open clearing next to the water. I found a tree stump and sat. I soaked in as much as I could, eyes shut, and let myself breathe. I allowed myself to listen to the water, the occasional breeze through the trees, a bunny hopping in brush, the birds singing. I opened my eyes and looked at the scenery, broadly at first, and the more narrowly. Butterflies flittered around me, as did small dragon flies and floating pollen. Ants carried on with their work, moving up and down, single file, on the branch closest to me. And I breathed. And then cried - not because I was so angry at the world, though that probably did have something to do with it - but because I realized in sitting there, I hadn't actually scene the world in this minute detail in months. I cried because of how stupid that is and how unfair. I cried because I don't allow myself to sit and be and all I wanted to do was to sit there and be for as long as I could. I set an alarm to remind myself about when to return to the reality of today. The walk softened me a bit. A colleague even said I looked like I was treading more lightly than usual.