There's a certain path I must take to my Monday morning meetings: a concrete walkway suspended over a fading campus. And for the past seven weeks, I have noticed its symbolism: its hinted allusions to the way I see this process. It is the glimpse of the fear of falling--the risk and height and chance--the careful steps I need just in case I trip. Surrounding one side of this pathway is a (similarly) concrete wall. The bricks are thick and heavy, weighted by a greying shroud of cement. But within this very stiff enclosure--like this rigid, clouded judgement I have set myself--there are gaps and patches and tracts of light. It is only in this seven weeks that I have seen them--seen them and the beautiful view they allow of the lake and fields and geese below. Of the serenity and stillness and lushness of another, new perspective. Thus I think of my mind--of the way it is piecing together new associations, now. Of the little gaps in what has been perpetuating tension. I relish that. The new greens that come into view as summer progresses, just as I relish the new things I am doing, the new experiences I surround myself with. (And trust me, they sometimes feel so tiny but so minuscule all at the same time). Because with them there are these glorious, glorious branches of sunshine--of contentment--which rest a little easier on my stomach--and my head--and, oh!, my heart.