I fell asleep to NPR and woke too early. I set an alarm at thirteen minute intervals, just long enough to practice a Greek recitation before releasing to sleep again. Like breathing: awake for eight, asleep for five. So were the many half-starts, the spark of the mind against the will of the body. Finally out of bed, I practiced again in the shower. Listened to a recording of the same while shaving. The cadence of walking to Dr. Noe's office marked time for the phrases.
After the recitation was delivered, to some approval, today I had enough of post-effort satisfaction to warrant a little watching, a little attention. The world is putting on long-awaited white. Big healthy flakes stray from firm, interminable grey. That grey has rose, amethyst, lavender in it, too.
Nearing finals, now in Advent, with good snow, work and rest, I am surrounded in a circumstance that marks the wonderful betweenness of the station called student. As I look ahead to hard work, I rest on what already has been done. I anticipate the celebration of God with us, an obedience having been done, and in me being worked, and yet to be accomplished. A Creation furnished with necessities for endurance in such extremity teaches that in my own gloves and hat and boots, by base layers and sweaters, I likewise am alive in provision. I work, I rest, I try for rejoicing.
Today's recitation was the Lord's Prayer.
To Calvin's credit, though rest, perspective, wisdom and healing are perhaps expected to exist outside of academic effort (that is, some speak of a self-care that is always opposed to academic activity—others see school as only a place of strain), here such things are often, even constantly provided for by the texts and methods being studied themselves. I found this togetherness today, the challenge of learning Greek, and the invigoration of the Lord's Prayer, the former allowing a re-entry, a rediscovery, of the latter, familiar.