May 19, 2006 - 8:58 a.m. I am coming to grips with the fact that I have a weird double major and no plan. I've been getting lots of practice telling all the people at home whom I don't see so much anymore that, yes, I'm doing great, and, yes, my chemistry-english combination is a weird one, but, no, I don't know what I'm going to do. I'll rattle off a few options, but really I don't know. I feel like I did as a child walking through our living room in the dark, the moon casting threatening shadows on what during the day I knew to be our furniture. My heart seemed to leap up into my throat, and my head swam with fear. But I knew the way through that room. I knew exactly where the coffee table was, exactly how long the wall was on which I ran my hand for security. I fought two opposite instincts--the first to run through the room as quickly as possible, avoiding as much as possible the threats of my imagination. The other instinct was to walk slowly, carefully, fearing that something might be different: a toy along the path, an error in my judgement of the end of the couch. I feared that I might hurt myself if I rushed, but this alternative involved a painstaking slowness and anxiety at every step that something unexpected might be waiting. Now is not much different. I worry about taking a wrong step in my blindness, about closing doors that were once open. Or of rushing through and wasting the journey. I'm getting around to hopefulness. I know the way through. I know that I need only step after the other, trusting that the path that I am on, the path I know, will lead to a destination. The exact identity of that destination is uncertain. Yet nothing is to be gained by fear. Left, right. Left, right. ...before & after...