On Rummy and Buckeyes

It's raining. The whisper of water falling through leaves sounds unmistakably of home, and the chapel bell is tolling the quarter hour.

Has it really been over three weeks since I barreled eastward on the Empire Builder? Are the welders that taught me how to play gin rummy in the observation car on their way to another construction site? Was the almost unnerving sense of inevitability I felt during that 1800 mile train-ride justified?

The questions are always easier. Time is a tricky fellow, and I haven't seen those beaming, grease-stained faces since North Dakota. This school has challenged every element of my being, like always. But it was a challenge I was looking for, after all.

And last Friday the world was a time-lapse video of falling leaves and warm fall winds. The atmosphere itself seemed to be glowing golden, and as I sat beneath a big-leaf maple (ancient) with my religion class discussing Islamic philosophical discourses (yet more ancient), I had a hard time feeling lost or overwhelmed. My brain hummed almost musically as I processed my existence in terms of Sufi mysticism, and I wanted to learn Arabic so that I could really understand how one word can mean "experience," "discovery," and "rapture" all at once.

In front of my dorm there's a grove of buckeye trees. These trees frequently cause me to be late to wherever I'm going, for I can't walk through that treasure-trove of glossy buckeyes without stopping. I hit people with perfect projectiles, and I fill my pockets until they are lumpy and bursting with those waxy wooden marvels. My favorite thing to do is roll the sun-warmed buckeyes in my hands like meditation balls, words, or barely-remembered dreams...

I love the sound of rain falling at night.