It's a cold, rainy day in San Diego. The ocean is choppy and white-caps punctuate the normally smooth horizon. Dark clouds hang low and students rush to class tucked deep within their jackets and scarves. It's finals week and we only have a day to go until break. Freedom is close; for me, it's just one more test away.
This morning I was up early to take donated gifts to the IRC Office. While our gift drive was a bit last-minute and attempted to extract presents from broke students, it was a success. I hauled three large, brightly-wrapped christmas boxes to the office and imagine the little hands that will be opening them in a few weeks time. Little hands, joyful eyes, grateful parents. It's a beautiful thing and I'm so glad we did it. Next year we'll be able to spend more time on it and advertise better. But driving back to campus in the rain, my mind raced with new ideas, possible partners, events we could do, ways to publicize throughout San Diego. We're on to something great here and I desperately don't want it to "die" next year when I hand the presidency over...or when I graduate. So it's building partnerships now; establishing longevity. I hope it lasts.
Back home, I return to the familiar place before the stove, slowly stirring the pasta that still not quite al dente. It's been pasta and alfredo sauce for the past four days - lunch and dinner - and you'd think I'd have turned into the rolly-polly Carb Queen by now, but the noodles refuse to disappear no matter how many I eat. Yet, it's not Top Ramen, so I'm not complaining. Anything with alfredo means gourmet, right? My man calls as I strain the noodles into the sink. We catch up on my morning as I cool the steaming pasta with my breath; I tell him of the rain, the gifts, the possible speaker I'm corresponding with for February's event, my final coming up I haven't studied for, the monotonous details of the day. We talk, he looks out the window at the honking cars below, I rinse off my dishes, we sigh and say goodbye for the next three days. He'll be traveling in Northern Peru with a friend and is leaving his laptop behind. A smart decision given the high rates of theft on the Peruvian road. I blow a kiss and we hang up.
It's cold and rainy. Looking down over the treetops from my kitchen window, I watched the leaves flail in the gusts of wind blowing in off the ocean. White-caps punctuate the normally smooth horizon. My heart is restless, and I don't know why. I feel unsettled. Anxious. I feel disconnected with myself; unsure of what I feel or why. It's a strange feeling, but I'm going to blame it on the wind. The wind and the rain and the distance.
This morning I was up early to take donated gifts to the IRC Office. While our gift drive was a bit last-minute and attempted to extract presents from broke students, it was a success. I hauled three large, brightly-wrapped christmas boxes to the office and imagine the little hands that will be opening them in a few weeks time. Little hands, joyful eyes, grateful parents. It's a beautiful thing and I'm so glad we did it. Next year we'll be able to spend more time on it and advertise better. But driving back to campus in the rain, my mind raced with new ideas, possible partners, events we could do, ways to publicize throughout San Diego. We're on to something great here and I desperately don't want it to "die" next year when I hand the presidency over...or when I graduate. So it's building partnerships now; establishing longevity. I hope it lasts.
Back home, I return to the familiar place before the stove, slowly stirring the pasta that still not quite al dente. It's been pasta and alfredo sauce for the past four days - lunch and dinner - and you'd think I'd have turned into the rolly-polly Carb Queen by now, but the noodles refuse to disappear no matter how many I eat. Yet, it's not Top Ramen, so I'm not complaining. Anything with alfredo means gourmet, right? My man calls as I strain the noodles into the sink. We catch up on my morning as I cool the steaming pasta with my breath; I tell him of the rain, the gifts, the possible speaker I'm corresponding with for February's event, my final coming up I haven't studied for, the monotonous details of the day. We talk, he looks out the window at the honking cars below, I rinse off my dishes, we sigh and say goodbye for the next three days. He'll be traveling in Northern Peru with a friend and is leaving his laptop behind. A smart decision given the high rates of theft on the Peruvian road. I blow a kiss and we hang up.
It's cold and rainy. Looking down over the treetops from my kitchen window, I watched the leaves flail in the gusts of wind blowing in off the ocean. White-caps punctuate the normally smooth horizon. My heart is restless, and I don't know why. I feel unsettled. Anxious. I feel disconnected with myself; unsure of what I feel or why. It's a strange feeling, but I'm going to blame it on the wind. The wind and the rain and the distance.
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