Another month has flurried by, the semester has passed its half-way point, and registration for my final semester of undergraduate experience looms next week. Once again, I have conflicts between the things I most want to take, so fencing shall wait until who knows when, I shall be obliged to study art history, and who knows what shape the rest will present. I am glad, yet horrified, that the semester is approaching its end. It feels like it has gone too quickly, more quickly than last year, yet it also feels like forever. In a good way. I am being challenged in ways I have not before, and am attempting to eat carefully, and feel a touch of overwhelmedness most days, yet am generally happier and less despondent than I have been in the past. I'm still struggling to release my weary body from the grips of a nasty cold, and am spending far more money than I wish I were on food (special diet = special prices), am constantly behind or nearly behind on work, and have not truly begun the application process for graduate school. Yet. There is always a yet. I am processing more, in less time, and with less difficulty, than I was last year. I sleep better, think better, read better, feel better, and am generally more level emotionally than I was previously. Even without a solid diagnosis, I'm thinking this no-gluten thing is good for me.
That, and finding a church, and midweek fellowship, worship, and prayer, and the cheerfulness of my apartment-mates, and the sheer joy of being intellectually challenged... At this rate, in this direction, I will have much to give praise for come Thanksgiving.
I wrote a poem the other day. It began about fall, and ended about the fall. Leaves, to apples. Liminality, inspired by a book from one of my classes. But the conclusion? Not entirely sure how that came about, but this I will say: my Muse does like to surprise me. And gives good surprises.
