Goodbyes come
without cynicism
“To the attentive eye, each moment of
the year has its own beauty, and in the
same field, it beholds, every hour, a pic
ture which was never seen before, and
which shall never be seen again."
— Ralph Waldo Emerson
I began this school year simply
wanting it to end, literally counting
the weeks at the beginning of fall
term. I hesitantly returned to school
for a fifth year. I thought to myself,
"Only 10 more weeks until the term
ends," and I would come home each
day, curl up on my straw mat and
count the days away.
Aaron Shakra
Out of range
Eventually, 1 surrendered this rou
tine, and the procession of time be
came a backdrop for experiences that
grew from the earth of familiarity. I
talked with Julia Butterfly Hill under
the dawn redwood tree. I sifted my
hands through soil that has been
► worked for 30 years. I hosted an open
mic. I encountered new and beautiful
people each time.
So now, as it's finally over, I struggle
to exist in the moment I'm experienc
ing. I want it to be over when it's
happening, and then afterwards I miss
it. No final column could match the
sentiment flowing through this body.
My life has been a series of imper
fections that some might be tempted
to call mistakes. But when enough
time passes, I realize there are no
mistakes, and everything's strangely
as it should be. Only now, as 1 sift
through this pile of incompletes that
I attempt to finish in this last week of
classes in order to graduate, I discov
er the words to say this.
I've wanted so badly to be an adult
all my life, and now, as I am cast
away from this womb of academia
for the first time, I am finally won
dering where my childhood went. I
fear this detachment. Because this is
what I know, and this is what I am
comfortable with.
If only I could start it all over
again, I could have taken more
women's studies classes, taken more
African dance and drumming, Japan
ese literature courses — I could have
taken Urban Farm every term. If only
... no, such musing is pointless. 1 am
about to be born again, and it's
pointless to resist any longer. It is
time surrender again.
Because after all, these stories are
merely conception, a narrative I con
struct to order my experience, to mark
beginnings and ends. When I take
time to breathe, I know better.
Like Basho, I dream of setting out
on long journeys with nothing but a
few belongings and hanamuke (part
ing gifts) in my backpack. I wish to
Turn to SHAKRA, page 18B
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