the harris fine arts center (hereafter referenced to as the hfac) is a large building.
there are five floors, various hidden practice rooms, printing labs, galleries, offices, studios, lounges, classrooms, performance halls, recital halls. the list goes on. a lot of the building is underground with no windows and too many whitewashed walls.
sometimes it's magical. you'll be close enough to touch the head of
c.f. payne in a classroom with artists lining the walls and sitting on desks while a heavenly chorus sings from the gallery downstairs. (the gallery is big. echoing is inevitable.)
and sometimes it's even more magical. because you'll be sitting in a class that you're
[not] underqualified for
[but you won't realize that until much, much later], waiting for the professor to walk in and sign your add/drop card because you want to be an artist so bad it hurts. you'll be early to the class and the only one there amongst tables curiously stained with charcoal or paint. then someone with red hair will walk in with a big black portfolio. she'll tell you she's trying to add the class too. you'll see her artwork and still feel underqualified, but you'll feel better because she is there on the same terms that you are.
and then (the most magical thing) one day you'll be completely away from the hfac, sitting on your twenty-three-year-old teal couch on a saturday morning wearing flannel when someone knocks on the door. you open it and realize it's another group of freshmen looking at your apartment. but you'll recognize the red hair and know that there was no way she accidentally knocked on the door.
proof that
heavenly father cares about you. (about me.)
proof that he knows what's going to happen in your life,
and what you can and can't handle without a lucky red-headed roommate.
the red hair looks especially festive when it's st. patrick's day.
