I fell in love this summer. It was a Sunday afternoon; the blue of the sky rejoiced, and the warm sun caressed those below her. It caught me unexpectedly, but the signs were unmistakable. I walked around campus with a silly smile on my face. Unexpected laughter periodically exploded from deep within. There was a sparkle in my eye, and life was wonderful.

The romance actually began near the end of last school year. It would linger, hidden, until the moment sleep claimed victory over my spinning mind, when it would pounce. Realizing the futility of fighting, I would calmly grab pen and paper and head downstairs to scribble uninterrupted for long periods of time, working on what I later realized was the first offspring of our love.

The claims of a busy schedule and the demands of daily life might have conspired to keep us apart, were it nor for the summer writing respite I was offered. I had been here in Eugene no more than a week when the splendor of an afternoon, the freedom of summer, and the press of an assignment combined to breathe life into a passion that had, until then, remained hidden. I found myself caught up in the act of creation--I couldn't wait to see what was next. I reveled in the unexpected excitement of creating, of writing, of exploring. It was euphoria.

We courted secretly, finding bits of time scattered throughout the day. Classtime actually served to propel the romance. Freewrites, writing from visuals, letters to imaginary people--all were fodder for a flame which seemed destined never to die. I even was offered glimpses of how this relationship might carry over into the busyness of my school year, how I could share this love!

We entered peer counseling and our relationship was strengthened. Vital habits such as "less is more" and "show, don't tell" were reinforced. We worked through these, learning as we went, and others approved. I was ecstatic.

But like many young loves, we too hit rocky ground. I filled my schedule with appointments and activities, assuming that I could squeeze our time together in just before bed, or right after class, or whenever I was not otherwise occupied. We fought, and I was left alone. I visited our favorite haunts, explored different options, but all that remained was a blank page, an empty screen, an unwritten creation.

Our third brain child was conceived in a moment of inspiration, but birthed only through hard labor. The days were gray, and my passion ebbed. False starts, aborted efforts. I had nothing to show. The future seemed bleak and hopeless. I persevered. The giddy elation of those first moments was not regained, but there remained a sweet assurance that this was a relationship that would endure. There would be hard times, desert times. Other areas of my life would take precedence and my new love would be forgotten. But I would return.

My grandmother prophesied that I would fall in love this summer. I think she had something different in mind.

--Molly Sloan (July 1997)

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