QCR (for the one person who knows what that stands for)

"Perhaps it's impossible to wear an identity without becoming what you pretend to be." --Valentine Wiggin, from Orson Scott Card's Ender's Game.

Scary thought, right? the thought: that the mask I wear will become my face, if I leave it on; that my identity is not a fixed crystal that I can choose to hide or show, but a construct built of reflections and shadows; that the external me will inevitably permeate into the core that I think of as untouchable. . . that I am what I act like.

But what if I pretend to have it all together all the time? Will I actually become a perfectly composed and coordinated person?

So far, it's not working.

In which I am a bizarre specimen of humanity

In the past few months, I have frequently spent two or three hours talking over dinner. I have left several of them feeling bitter about the amount of homework I should have gotten done during those hours. Others, though, I left feeling pleasantly rebellious against the world of productivity. Some of these long conversations were fun, some useful, some informative; some were a combination of two or three of those; some were simply frustrating or unsatisfying.

The one I had today revolved around the definition of a (mathematical) limit. (". . . such that for an arbitrarily small epsilon, there is a number delta such that the value of the function falls within epsilon of y for every x within delta of a." "This is music to my ears!")

Based on a comparison of my feelings toward today's long conversation to previous ones, I think I can conclude that I would feel more connected in a relationship (of whatever sort) where we spent hours talking about math (or other abstractions) than one where we spent hours talking about the relationship.

What the heck does that say about me?

And there was much rejoicing.

Today, I was walking to buy breakfast, and it hit me: springtime.

I promise, I've been paying attention all along. I've noticed a tree white with flowers here, and there another blushing pink and purple, and by this road a burst of daffodils, and in that garden tulips like flames. I have not been immune to the sun's growing strength, and the wind's new gentleness. But each moment has seemed like an isolated occurrence. Added together, I could string them like beads into a necklace to ward off winter. Still, spring was a talisman, a charm, an icon, a picture--something to look at or not, to wear around my neck or put in a drawer. Today, though, spring escaped the strings and drawers, and leapt out of its frame. It swirled around me and I saw suddenly that it was everywhere.

When the weather turns from nasty to nice as it has in the past few days, I know in my bones why the line goes "Now is the winter of our discontent." It is easy to be discontent when the gray sky looms close overhead and the wind shrieks around the building and claws at you when you venture outside. It is easy to be depressed when twilight sucks the day away at four in the afternoon.

But when the sun is warm on your skin, and the trees soften their stark silhouettes with so many small blossoms--when the wind croons instead of screeching, and dances across the new leaves--when the grass is green, not gray--when the robins skip and flirt--when the sky is sapphire blue after a late dinner: it is easy to be happy. And I am.