Wanderings

Walking back to my dorm after work or class often comes as a chore. I often don't, actually. I prefer to find a place to sit and do homework or strike up a conversation to pass the time until the next thing I need to be at. I feel so tired, (especially on Wednesdays, when, try as I might, I can never get enough sleep. Figure that one out.) and have so much to do, that walking to my room would be an unnecessary expenditure of time and energy.

Today, however, I had to go pick up a few things for my next class. Walking without worrying about what time it is and whether the professor will start teaching 3 minutes early gave my mind more freedom to wander. While I could probably write a book on the beauty of this campus—the clear blue of the ocean and the warm sun, so full of life that the paved roads sometimes shimmer like the sea—it is merely background to the world inside my mind.

It would probably be impossible to trace the places that my mind can go in the eight minute walk—my emotions prompting thoughts just as tangible as the events of my day, and those thoughts being interrupted, or joined, by observations of the world around me. I think I have some of the world’s best kept secrets in my head. When a deep thought is interrupted it disappears and will not be recalled until it so desires. It’s almost as if it wants to be known, but only to me. It will not let me grasp it for long enough to express it. A salamander will run across the path and I will realize I am almost home and will have to write a blog now, so I should probably start thinking more focused thoughts.

Squirrel!

Sprawled on my back on a blanket in the grass, I squinted and guarded my eyes from the unseasonably warm sun. It’s January; every day is unseasonably warm in San Diego. But not every day is quite so warm, or quite so perfect for a picnic at the park with someone I love.

Ben, my boyfriend, and I had just finished a goofy wrestling match, which resulted in a small blanket-burn on his arm, and one half-squashed tangerine rolling around on our blanket. Ben was telling me something when a movement behind his head caught my eye.

“Squirrel!” I exclaimed, much like a talking dog from Pixar’s UP, though I reacted before I could consciously make this connection.

Ben turned and looked.

“Squirrel!” He said, and we laughed, watching the animal begin to climb a palm tree.

As we grew silent, the squirrel froze. For a moment, it held still as a statue on its vertical perch. Suddenly, it looked directly at us and stared.

“Human!” it must have been thinking.

Or maybe “food!” or “college students!” or “public display of affection!”

Ben tossed our squished tangerine toward the tree as a peace offering, but after a taste our squirrel rejected the fruit and returned to its tree. I watched it scavenge in the nooks and crannies for more suitable food until I looked away for a moment. It was gone when I looked back.

Maybe the squirrel ran off to go tell his friends about us. I wonder what it told them? Sure, I’ll probably never see it again, but that’s not true of all the eyes that have stared accusingly at us in our years of Christian college romance.

So, if you’re out there, Mr. Squirrel, I’m sorry for having a serious conversation in your presence. It’s not open dorm tonight.