When did I wake up? A long, long time ago when the alarm went off. And then? It’s hard to remember, but so much: advising group with my eight marvelous students, individual meetings with students, a quick lunch while discussing consciousness practices and potato chips, a short meeting with people at the college about the Goddard blog I do, a longer meeting with fellow faculty that included passing arouns a plastic bag of chocolate balls, more meetings and intense talks, a workshop I presented on mythopoetics and changing our lives, a long stretch of individual meetings with students that morphed into meatless Monday’s dinner, and eventually eating applesauce with a fork while sitting at this desk. Over the course of the day, I’ve conversed deeply with people about peace, language, our innate goodness, the stifling conditions of culture, myth and poetry, trauma and wholeness, self-care practices, spiritual and ecological education for adults, the work of the faculty council, how good the sweet potato soup was, and the difference between therapy and art.
This desk? It’s in room 202 of the Community Building, where my office has been for over a decade. Facing south with no shades, it gets so hot in the afternoons, even in subzero stretches, that I have to open the windows, and the computer is often broken, making loud wailing sounds or moving slower than frozen molasses. Yet it’s my room, my little home of work and talk and heart and soul, a place often buzzing around me as I keep listen to people tell me of work they’re doing that is changing everything.
Now the office is quiet. There’s nothing left to do for the day, except exhale a little more slowly, feel the slow fatigue in my eyes and the great comfort of the chair. The world is calm for a few moments, and I return to myself, satisfied, tired, grateful.