I got stung by a yellow jacket yesterday. It crawled up my leg while I was eating at a picnic table, and when I tried to brush it away, it stung me below my knee. Everyone else has been freaking out over the little monsters, annoying as they can be when they decide to sample your dinner. But of course I was the one to actually get stung. I was surprised at how bad it wasn’t — my leg was sore for a time after the initial pinprick, but ice cream, I discovered, does an excellent job of numbing the pain. I could even play Bust-A-Move while holding the container in place with my other leg. I can’t say it improved my performance at all, though.

I wish it would rain. The sun is all well and good, but frankly at this point it’s just being selfish. Not a cloud in the sky, hardly a break in the brightness and the heat, barely a breeze on the air. I wish the sun would melt before I do.

Life sounds unpleasant, doesn’t it? But it’s really not. Even with a fair bit of social tension and turbulence in Sub Free this year, the annoyances and discomforts are tempered with friendship and love. Relationships are at a different level now: they mean more, they’re more honest, and more real. I’ve discovered a few things about myself, too: when people are pained and unhappy and I can’t do anything about it, I feel so helpless and frustrated. And when I can do something to protect others, I might even have the strength to do it.

There was a time when academics was my entire life. I hear people now, talking about taking academic overloads: “It’s totally doable,” they say, “you just have to give up your social life.” There was a time when I would have gladly made that trade-off, and regularly did. But not now. Humans — they just kind of grow on you, don’t they?

χαίρω δε τῇ ἀγάπῃ.

I am now two decades old, and I am comfortable with who I am. This comfort has come and gone over the years, but each time it returns a little more mature and a little more permanent. This is a good thing; I am tempted to call it happiness.

My parents visited Reed last week and saw for the first time the life I’ve made here. They met my friends, saw my dorm room, watched me fire arrows, treated KC and I to dinner, and took me shopping. It was all not nearly as awkward as I had feared it might be. My dad even forgot the shotgun. ;)

I found the “Sarah Section” of all the stores last Saturday — everything fit, even the shoes, and especially the lovely green pants. Shopping is always one of those activities that can be immensely enjoyable, but only as long as you get to spend the time picking out things you like instead of spending millions of hours finding apparel that will “just have to do.”

The running shoes are serving me especially well, accumulating miles every night as I run with Ben and Erin. I managed five laps yesterday; that’s almost two and a half miles, non-stop — a record! I’ve also taken to telling stories to my companions, if I have my breath, little silly myths which somehow structure themselves on-the-fly as they come out of my mouth. Thank Anansi.

The sky has been glorious, full of fire and rain to herald in the Fall. Life is gentle now; a calm before the storm, I think, but I am prepared. I’m ready. Whatever may come, I am ready to live it.

Would that I could live and die like Steve Irwin. Not that I want to befriend crocodiles or get stabbed by a stingray or anything like that, but there’s something profound in the way the man died. The day I heard the news I was awed at how befitting his death was. The Crocodile Hunter just couldn’t have died in a car crash, you see, or some other mundane accident; it would have been far too tragic. He still leaves behind a wife and two children, but now he also leaves a great legacy, and a death more epic than half the ancient Greek heroes.

Fame and everlasting glory are not exactly my life goals, but part of being mortal is thinking about my own (and hopefully quite eventual) demise. For most of history I was not around, and someday I will cease to be once again. Change is as a constant in life, and each day I wake up a new person; certainly my component cells and molecules and atoms get recycled on a regular basis, leaving “me” to exist only at a much abstracted level. Perhaps the only thing that gives me continuation as an individual is the story I tell about myself — or told by those around me. Through this narrative, the random fluctuations of my brain have stabilized into discrete patterns of personality and behavior, recognized by myself and others as the “perfectly normal human worm baby” named Sarah.

I admit there is something appealing about being remembered. People remember other people by their stories (apocryphal or not), both when they’re dead and when they’re simply not around. If the conscious individual is a lie (and I have a sneaking suspicion that it is) then the only real existence we can hope for is in those stories. The stoic in me says that all things will pass, good and bad — sit tight and deal with God’s “manly love,” lead a life for others to look up to and admire! But this doesn’t ring quite true; for my inner hedonist reminds me that those we admire most are those who live life fully, savoring it like a fine dessert that’s so good it’s worth the fatal heart attack at the end.

Crikey.

. . .

PS. Many religions have a division between the body and the soul. Traditionally I’m not fan of such dualism, but clearly my current philosophy has not escaped it. The part that I am liking is the existence of individuals on the plane of symbols and stories; it brings me one step nearer the imaginary realms that I sometimes feel are so close to being “really real.” Not that physical reality is bad! On the contrary, if there is a division, it is fuzzy as dice and leaves no side superior. There is no spoon.