Smells like a new horizon

Well, you’ve told me I should do it! Now you’re getting what you’ve asked for, let’s see if you like it. The musings of a little girl who went to a little law school called Georgetown in a little city called DC…

The form on Blogger tells me to describe my newly born blog. No subtlety at all in its request, either. How embarrassing for Blogger.

Well, Blogger, DC can be cold, and the word "epoch" represents a motley crew of things that warm my heart. It's a favorite coffee shop in Austin...it's the title of a soul-grabbing DeYarmond Edison song...it's a literary magazine at Cornell...it's...a part of a strange cosmological theory about evolution. ..

Oh, and it also has an appropriate definition for this chapter of the Life and Times of Kayla.

Well, I feel good about that introduction. Don’t you? It’s time for me to head off to sleep in lieu of more descriptive ramblings about what’s actually happening in my life. And so I leave you, dear reader, with one of my favorite quotes of all time.

“There have been times when I think we do not desire heaven but more often if I find myself wondering whether, in our heart of hearts, we ever desired anything else.  You may have noticed to books you really love are bound together by a secret thread.  You know very well what is the common quality that makes you love them, though you cannot put into words: but most of your friends do not see it at all, and often wonder why, liking this, you should also like that.  Again, you stood before some landscape, which seems to embody what you have been looking for all your life; and then turned to the friend at your side who appears to be seeing what you saw — but at the first words of gulf yawns between you, and you realize that this landscape means something totally different to him, that he is pursuing an alien vision and cares nothing for the ineffable suggestion by which you are transported.  Even in your hobbies, has there not always been some secret attraction which the others are curiously ignorant of — something, not to be identified with, but always on the verge of breaking through, the smell of cut wood in the workshop with a clap-clap of water against the boat’s side?  Are not all lifelong friendships born at the moment when at last you meet another human being who has some inkling (but faint and uncertain even in the best) of that something which you were born desiring, and which, beneath the flux of other desires and it all the momentary silences between the louder passions, night and day, year by year, from childhood to old age, you are looking for, watching for, listening for?  You have never had it.  All the things that have ever deeply possessed your soul have been but hints of it — tantalizing glimpses, promises never quite fulfilled, echoes that died away just as they caught your ear.  But if it should really become manifest — if there ever came an echo that did not die away but swelled into the sound itself — you would know it.  Beyond all possibility of doubt you would say “Here at last is the thing I was made for.”  We cannot tell each other about it.  It is the secret signature of each soul, the incommunicable and unappeasable want, the thing we desired before we met our wives or made our friends or chose our work, and which we shall still desire on our deathbeds, when the mind no longer knows wife or friend or work.  While we are, this is.  If we lose this, we lose all.”

-Clive Staples Lewis