The Same Cycle I reached the Arizona Inn at 5:30 a.m. and circled the inner brick walkways along with other early morning joggers attracted to the deep green and vibrant manicured lawns. I stole glances of the native plants I ran past. I loved the slender tinted green branches of the Palo Verde; the silly looking pancake of a cactus, the prickly pear; the spindly and winding ocotillo; and the stately soldier, the saguaro. The scent of creosote intoxicated me. On my way home I focused on the dark peaks and curves of the Rincon Mountains. I preferred their mystery at this hour—silhouettes without texture, an unexamined pro³le of peaks, curves, and valleys— the beauty of the earth from a distance, like the view astronauts possess from space, the swirl of our existence. As the sun inched higher, darts of lavender and magenta, swirls of sa²ron and old gold tangled with one another. Soon the colors of the day’s early canvas would evaporate into blinding fumes of dust and light, and I would feel disappointed by what further illumination revealed: wrinkles and folds, weeds and smog. Back home, as I styled my hair and applied makeup, I felt proud. Another day, another three miles, part of a regimen in my quest to get thin. Both my pride and the release of endorphins—those feel-good brain chemicals—made it worth the agony of getting up before dawn. After a few prayers, I rode my bike to campus to make an 8:30 class. After physical geography, which frankly bored me, I raced to Modern Grammar and Usage—much more interesting for this English major. Brit Lit was next. However, this was one English class that didn’t captivate me. Where were the women writers? It seemed as if every “major” author
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