The dashed median snapped by as we followed US-12 out of Hillsdale. I cradled a fragile cardboard cup between half-conscious fingers and let my lethargic eyes hover on the streak of yellow that blurred down the middle of the windshield. Drained of vital energy from half a senior-semester’s worth of work and worry, my limp body sank deeply into the plush of the passenger seat. In the rearview mirror I caught a glimpse of two heads in the backseat lolling slightly to the side, surrendered to Morpheus’ primal demands. On my right a soft glow began to spread out through the heavy clouds as the day dawned on our escape from deadlines, word limits, grad school applications, and interviews.
After arriving in Ann Arbor, it took awhile for my mind to relax its tight control over the so-called “productivity” of each minute. Wandering through thrift shop shelves, I tallied the work I could have been doing, my anxiety mounting with each shapeless sweater. Eventually I could contain these obsessions no longer, turned frantically to my boyfriend, and blurted, “I have to write an article for the Collegian next week! What in the world am I going to write on?!” Without missing a beat, he snatched from the shelf a frying pan about the size of my fist and said with a mischievous gleam of amused delight in his eye, “You should probably write about how everyone needs a tiny frying pan.”
Well, alright then.
The variety of talents and depth of character I continue to discover in the people I meet at this school never cease to amaze me. One friend whom I have had the joy of getting to know over the last three years has been a particular source of wonder. Not only is she especially skilled in all the disciplines so very opposed to the natural bent of my brain, but she takes continuous delight in the processes and mysteries of those sciences. Every time I walk past her cozy study hovel, wherever it may be that day, she can’t help but inform me of some new fascinating factoid she has just learned. Whether it be that baboons form alliances in their mating rituals or that every pod of whales has its own dialect of whale-speech, she has the ability to draw me and every other passerby into the awe and joy she has for the miracle of life.
Watching the light behind her eyes that day in Ann Arbor while we accompanied her on a tour of the research laboratories at U of M was a blast. In cowed admiration, the other English majors and I hung toward the back of the group and simply took in the general shininess of it all. She excitedly asked questions about the different pieces of equipment and procedures of the lab, all with names of either three distinct letters chosen at random or four syllable words I swear do not come from any language spoken on this earth. The rest of us, uncomprehending of the majority of our surroundings, merely took pleasure in the circular gyrations of a tray of test tubes filled with something we didn’t understand that looked like it came out of a science fiction movie. It was a world we had only read about.
That day I was reminded of how easy it is to take everything for granted. Finding delight in our studies, the joy of my friend in her work, the childlike exuberance over the simple mechanics of whatever that machine was — all are rare occurrences in this world of sleep deprivation and caffeine addiction. I may never reach the point of being able to rejoice in the sound of my alarm or fill with wonder when I discover that I woke up still breathing, but I hope that I may learn to find delight in the unending layers of life’s miracles in my more conscious hours. From the heights of man’s ability to map the human genome, down to the simple, quirky joys of tree bark, the existence of narwhals, and the invention of the tiny frying pan, there is a happiness in life that transcends this moment’s fleeting discomfort.
The sunrise that morning would grow into a sacred display of primrose and gold, bathing the world in almost tangible light and divine love. That moment I felt a calm that didn’t depend on how many job offers I might receive next semester or how many colors garnish my graduation robes.
One day when I have a solid oak desk to call my own, I’m going to buy a tiny, fist-sized frying pan for it so that I can remind myself that life really isn’t as dreary as I think it is sometimes. And then I’m going to use it to make myself a tiny, perfectly-round egg, sunny side up.
Joy isn’t a very complicated thing.
