A morning's meditation

Current Music: "Water Music", Handel

On Sunday mornings, as I walk back across campus to my room from breakfast, I like to stroll leisurely, looking at the sky and into trees. I often see squirrels running about. The school's main 'quad' is across the street from Napier Hall, where I live, and the quad is a beautiful place -- filled with trees and crisscrossed by red cobblestones. There is one particular tree that I like to sit under and read. The tree is quite tall and round, and its roots are developed such that it provides a perfect crook for my back, allowing me to sit -- or recline -- comfortably.

I have sat under this tree many times this semester, developing a fondess for it to the point that I think of it as "my" tree. The first time I did so was nearly at random: on a Sunday afternoon, similar to the one today, I made my way across campus from lunch and happened to decide to sit down. I sat there for an hour or so, reading The Blood of Flowers, and enjoying it immensely. Ever since then, it has been my custom to find time on a Friday, Saturday, or Sunday to sit under the shade of my tree and read.

The experience is always delightful. The scenery is gorgeous. The main quad is beautiful, but if I sit under the tree and look up into the heart of it, I see the multitide of brown limbs with their all their green leaves, and through them I can seethe blue sky. It's a beauty that can't really be described, at least not by me. Perhaps someone with a more poetic soul could. I can only invite you to try it for yourself one day -- to find a broad-leafed tree sometime in the early fall and sit under it for a while.

And so I sit with a jug of water and my book, reading quietly. I will often pause to listen to the wind blow through the trees and admire the leaves falling. I stick a leaf into my book at this moments, and lean back to enjoy the experience. Sometimes I close my eyes and just...exist. I sit there quietly, not think of anything in particular, just listening to the wind and feeling the sun on my face. It's completly peaceful.

On a Sunday morning like the one day, I listen to the footfalls of people on the cobblestone paths as they make their way across the quad and into town -- where they are going to church. I am not attracted to the idea of going inside a building and sitting, not on days like these. I am perfectly content in my cathedral of nature -- posts of tree trunks and a roof of green and blue wonder. I would not mind, however, being joined by other people in my spot under the tree. We could all enjoy it together. We could talk, tell jokes, play board games or something like that. .

As the sun climbs in the sky, it moves into my eyes and distracts me from reading. It's nearing ten o'clock: I have only spent an hour and a half out here today, but it's time to go in -- and so I do. I stand up, brush the dirt and leaves off of my jeans, and walk across the quad and down the steps and across the street. Someone I don't know is standing on the elevated porch of Napier Hall: he is dressed casually formally (khakis and a long-sleeved shirt) and is holding a bible. He asks me what I'm reading, and as it happens I'm reading Asimov. We talk for a few minutes, and then his ride to church appears and he goes off.

I go upstairs, where I watch From the Top -- a classical music program. I relax for a bit, and then watch an episode of Star Trek, the original series. It always comes on channel 47 for me, which is amusing given that 47 is the Star Trek franchise's version of Douglas Adams' "42". It's ubiqutious and sort of an inside joke for trekkies like myself who catch references to it in the scripts.

This is the Sunday morning routine I enjoy.