A Moment of Calm

Professors are cool. That reads sooo eloquently, doesn't it? But I do mean it.

Sunday evening, our CAS professor had the class over for a pre-Thanksgiving dinner. And it was wonderful. She has a fireplace in her home, a real, wood-burning fireplace. The paint in the room, the furniture, the trim were warm and welcoming. Homes are beautiful, beautiful places. We sat around the living room in an oblong circle, talked some, had some measures of silence, met her younger son (who was quite adorable), laughed, shared a sliver of life for a moment . . . it took me by surprise, the calm, the peace, the welcome, the feeling of home.

Jealousy

I admit, I am a glutton for punishment. I love my CAS class.
CAS: Communication Arts and Sciences.
CAS 101: Oral Rhetoric

Yeah, uh, speeches. So the concept of my loving the class and its contents seem a little contradictory. And it is, to an extent. I love the challenge. I love that it is familiar but new. I love that the professor is passionate about her teaching.

This is what gets me jazzed on subjects. When the subject is somehow familiar and new at once, and the professor/teacher/lecturer cares very much about the subject, about the students/audience, and pushes for a cohesive understanding of that subject, with perhaps the hope for genuine appreciation.

Anyway. Where does that jealousy element come into play? Our professor is going to a conference, so we don't have class next Monday. The conference is in San Francisco. !! I want to go to California. I sent her a list of to-dos (which is a joke as I've been in-in San Fran, what, twice?), the primary obligation being to watch the sun set into the ocean.

My ignorance of the area makes me want to do something there, to get to know San Fran. Is that weird or what? Me, want to get to know a city . . .

November Thoughts

This morning the sunrise was astounding. Not at first. At first I went to the field behind DeVos and decided that although watching the sunrise is more about the peace than the painting, this uneventful color scheme could be passed over for presentation preperation. Once the library had opened and I trucked up to the fifth floor, I looked east to see the sun peaking up, dripping with color.
It was all I could do to not run. I moved as quickly as my non running feet would take me back under the Beltline (all I wanted to do was take off my shoes and run, I was so excited), slipped off my flats, and moved up the hill to field bare-foot. It was gorgeous. I must have been there a half an hour, freezing my feet off until I finally bid goodbye to the horizon to clean up and head back to homework--but, oh! What a sight.
Mornings are best quiet. I suppose it isn't truly quiet with the Beltline roaring behind or Burton humming ahead, but there aren't voices. The birds chatter, squirrels fidget, the wind blows the switches of the willows, geese honk, but inside is a silent well of joy, of peace, of I think I can make it through this day after all.
Sunset was phenomenal also. Although I was constricted to the apartment and theology readings, from the sliding door the sky was permeated with pink . . .
Michigan has something I'm not used to, something that scared me at first, but something I have learned to love: a big sky. I can't imagine it bigger, but know it must be in the prarie states and parts of the south. The immensity is amplified by the distinction between land and sky (it cannot not mingle with any ocean) and the events that parade across daily. I'll miss this sky someday. For now, I'll just enjoy it. Mornings. Mornings in Michigan are the best part of November 2010 thus far.