I have emerged from last week’s storm of performances, paper drafts, and an impromptu trip to DC with a lingering neck injury and a severely messy apartment. When I finally willed myself out of bed and into class (5 minutes late) this somber Monday morning, I realized that the worst has yet to come. It was much colder than I had anticipated, the sky was grey, and my eyes were as heavy as my backpack full of textbooks. After what seemed like years between my first classes and my first cup of coffee for the week, it began to snow.
The first snow of the season has always been a magical experience for me, but as I walked through the slow flurries, the flakes felt like hints of the blizzard to come. It was like I was approaching an inevitable avalanche in the distance, unable to turn back.
This blizzard is finals and the avalanche is the result of a semester of procrastination. Each light flake of snow can be a page of the immeasurable papers I have yet to write.
Henri Matisse once said, “Work cures all.”
My response: We’ll see…