Wednesday, February 6, 2013

surprised by anastomosis

"We never lose them as companions on our journeys, and if we cross paths again, we have a joyful family reunion that picks up right where we left off."
--Neil F. Wack, C.S.C.

As I walked up to Piccadilly this afternoon, I saw a woman's face light up and she let out a little gasp of excitement. A double decker bus zoomed by, and after it passed, a man dashed across the street and into her arms.
My long lost friend! she cried, with a hint of sheepish irony, and they laughed heartily together at her overdramatic exclamation with all the joy of two friends lovingly overjoyed at each other's presence

There are few joys, I believe, that are as so chock full of ebullient, effervescent joy as the joy of reunion.
Anastomosis is the reconnection of two streams that were joined, branched out their separate ways, and have met together once again.
When my friend explained anastomosis to me in her elegant and simple terms, I had never been more struck by such a delicate beauty.
There's a word for the reconnection of two disparate streams.


One of my reunions this semester is with the PLS seminar. PLS Seminar, noun. English. Definition 1: Being stuck in a room with eight other students and forced to discuss philsophical works (knowing, knowing clearly and distinctly, that inevitably someone only had time to read half of the reading, and is trying desperately to cover their tracks.) Worst case scenario, a seminar is a sick, twisted intellectual manhunt. But if it magically somehow all comes together, it's enlightening, exhilarating, edifying conversation. An exchange of ideas that you are sent forth from energized and still)
I realized, as I submerged once more into the flow of conversation, that while everything worked much like my last seminar, I approached this seminar with a whole knew mind and a brand-new heart. And the same old opinionated stubbornness, and some brand new courage with which to air all the opinions that I had accrued.

As I walked into the Tate Modern one night, I pulled open the doors, and I felt an almost electric shock shoot through my body as I remembered exactly what I was thinking and feeling four years ago as I walked into the Tate and opened that same door.

As I walked down the Strand, I noticed a sign. A sign that stood out to me because of a conversation I'd had, and I began to recognize the streets, thinking: I've been here before. Excitedly, I picked up the pace, and retraced my steps with glee.

As we walked by the egg theatre in Bath, as I walked up the steep wooden stairs in an old familiar home, as I looked at the strangely familiar countryside speed by, as I wandered slowly through the Abbey, as I walked down a street corner that had the same shop on it as it did four years ago, floods of memories washed the scene in front of me with an air of mystery and magic, unveiling the myriad layers of stories that each place holds. If walls could talk, I don't think they would ever shut up.


As I sat waiting for my friend to arrive, I danced impatiently, awaiting with breathless anticipation for our own anastomosis.
I soaked in all the the people rushing by.
I followed the traffic's pattern as it twirled 'round the roundabout.
I egged on the the sun, as it tried to break through the cloudy sky; it succeeded sometimes, and a radiant bit of blue dazzled the world with its hope of light beyond the rain.
As I flew into the arms of my own long-lost friend, I felt an indelible smile spread over my face, and an untouchable warmth wash over my heart.
Those moments of reunion will always be the sweetest joy.

1 comment: