I was looking out my window this afternoon, trying to ignore what appears to be poison oak on my arm, and I noticed that spring has, for all intents and purposes, arrived. The sycamore tree is sporting small leaves, all soft and pale green. I was reminded of Laura Ingles' Farmer Boy and the old farmer's saying that the time to plant wheat was when the maple (or was it oak??) leaves were the size of a baby's squirrels ears... I remember Alice wondering to her brother how they knew what size baby squirrels ears even are. I am rather happy that it is basically spring already, but I wouldn't have minded a month or even a month and a half more of winter. I've found that (as long as I am properly dressed) I like the cold (or perhaps it it because it gives me a reason to dress for the weather...). I like the occurrence of real weather here in the land of nearly perpetual sun. I will miss the fogs and mists more than I will let myself notice...
~ ~ ~
I was sitting at lunch today with one of our tutors and a rather random assortment of fellow students, listening to them discuss deep and weighty philosophical matters. I think the conversation began with a discussion of the "where," "whatness," and purpose of music... I did not say much, if anything, but then I never do. I sat and listened, going over what was being said, comparing it to what I've heard from others and what I think myself. All the while, in a back corner of my mind, I was wondering at how much we take conversations like this for granted. I'll wager (with all of my years and experience to back me up) that you'll find few other places where such discussion is an everyday affair. I wondered too that the ache, which I usually associate with beauty and love, was slowly being drawn out. Per'aps I am meant for the philosopher's life after all...