Some Updates

I really don't know what to write, but it seems that some sort of information is in order. Accept therefore, in a forgiving manner if you will, this collection of thoughts impressed on my mind by the moment, the chief concern, or the unfortunate fact that I have been reading Romantic poets (ick!) for Brit Lit II since mid-January. I fear that they are having an effect on my mental and scriptoral style, in spite of the fact that I heartily dislike Romantic poetry. Ah well, ut Deus vult.

The weather is by no means "at the top of golden hours" (Wordsworth, I believe, speaking erroneously of the situation in France during the Revolution), but it is moody and warming. On Saturday my younger siblings exhibited more than a touch of spring fever, in which madness I gladly joined them. We went to the library with the windows all rolled down, a holiday in fact, and linked arms, singing, on the way back to the car with out books. I daresay people stared, but we couldn't help being happy.

The weather could not be more in accord with my mental and emotional state. Some days are a perfect blaze of sunshine, while others seem gloomier than the cold rain outside, but most are a mixture. We had spatters of snow the other day in the lands on either side of the River, and I have had my icy spells also. Never have I felt so perfectly divided; never have I been so unable to devote myself entirely. My feelings rebel against this state of affairs in every particular, but my will, which is I believe submitted to God, remains steady. Yes, and if it did not, I am sure the rest of me would fly apart.

I will give some details by way of explanation. Tomorrow morning I shall rise early and spend the day in Virginia, but I will be far behind on all the goings-on of the weekend, and indeed of most social activities, since these tend to begin at the same time as I leave campus... that is, in the evenings. I will drift from class to class, see my roommate and friends, but again have no idea of their hourly lives, whether physical, mental, or spiritual. Yet I will be there, and not at the office, and so will simultaneously fall behind on the in-jokes at work, the progress being made on the project for which I am chiefly responsible, etc. etc.

At 5 pm tomorrow I will leave school and come home, my second hour-plus drive of the day, and try to reconnect with the life that I left behind eight hours previous. I will have succeeded pretty well by 5 pm the next day, after eight hours spent at the office. But early the following morning (Wednesday) the process will begin all over again.

Every twenty-four to thirty-six hours I shift roles completely. In the one instance I am totally on my own for all decisions affecting what I do, where, how, and why. Not only this but I am a student, in a subordinate role to professors and in a quasi-professional role with my classmates. I must quote authorities and submit my arguments to scrutiny. I have the safety of knowing that someone else will check up on my thought process and ensure its veracity. Nothing I do matters much, because it is all a thought-experiment which will hopefully teach me to think.

In the other instance I am part of a household which will often make personal decisions for me, by the simple fiat which arises from all members working together to make the family schedule run smoothly. Not only this but I am a project manager, in a superior role to employees under me, quite thoroughly professional. No one else is assigned to verify my information, which is a frightening thought when one recalls that everything I do matters very much, because it is all being written down for the education of children across the country, and will be taught by their parents as fact. Thus if I say, "a simile is thus-and-such" it must needs be thus-and-such, or I shall have mistaught quite literally thousands of people. There is no comforting presence of a professor above my head, no safety net at all. "No, don't quote authorities to me," my boss said. "You are the authority now. Just write it." The effect was much the same as it would have been if she had said, "The Queen of England has died, and you are queen now. Just run the country."

And so I teeter back and forth, trying to bridge the gap by such paltry means as wearing the same clothing every day in both places, attempting to fix my mind only in the present, switching terminology, slang, and sublanguages as necessary. I try to ignore the increasing artificiality of conversations with friends at school---conversations which, because I am so much absent from the real life of PHC, have begun to sound like empty rituals which once had meaning and significance. "How are you?" "I'm well, and you?" "Fine, fine...." Whose fault is it? No one, no one at all is culpable. It is only a necessary thing, and a disheartening, bittersweet thing, to be a phantom where I once was flesh.

But it does not wound me at the deepest place; I am not heartsick. I only see that it is so, and am sorry, and wistful for a little while sometimes. Yet I am also sure that it is right for me to be in these circumstances, where God has placed me, and so go forward with a certain serenity which is unshaken even by the fear of fading from sight. I have had dear friendships, and dear friends, these three years and a half. I value them at their worth, as that of finest gold. But shall I complain of God's will and God's gifts in the present, and refuse to be comforted, because that which he gave me in the past cannot continue into the future? Foolishness! Senseless, heartless, faithless! Be silent, aching memories.

Nothing runs smooth for me just now. Fortuna spins her wheel, and her changes change her changes evermore (Dante, Inferno). Yet I learn most when I seem to myself most unsteady, as indeed a Peter on the waves. Christ said, "Come." I say, "Amen, I am coming. And come too, Lord Jesus!"