Week 8 - The Heart of Time
There are mathematical patterns in everything; even us, I say, as crazy as that sounds. And I know she's the one because she laughs when I say that, and kisses me on the cheek.
But I mean every word, every phrase, and I believe it in the same way that I believe the proofs that my work is founded on. She doesn't see it, yet, but I do.
-
We met for the first time in high school, where I was the awkward, nerdy math student that had comically large glasses and she was the shy, nerdy fantasy and science-fiction reader. We were in all the honors and IB classes together, but, owing to our adolescence and the pressure of others, we never exchanged too many words.
We both orbited the sun, but were on vastly different orbits - until one of our mutual friends prodded me to ask her to prom. It was silly, I remember thinking, because prom wasn't even something I was interested in going to. And yet, something struck me, and I gathered up my courage and asked her one day, after class.
I recall her taking her nose out of a Tamora Pierce novel to look at me, push her glasses up, and then coolly, calmly, tell me no.
-
That moment was the first point on this chart; whereas before we might have been two lines on different planes, something changed. It wasn't immediate, and it wasn't clear, but it was present. And observing it here, I can take my finger and trace the arc of our paths to where they would cross again.
-
The second point was almost at the end of college; we had gone to different schools but were both back for the summer. I went to the library one day, looking for something to read, and was pretty much on autopilot until checking out.
She told me me later that I was actually fully on autopilot, and didn't even recognize her, though she was the one checking out my books. She didn't say anything at first, waiting to see if I would recognize her, and only spoke up when it became very apparent that I didn't, and wouldn't.
We said hi to each other, of course, but didn't have that much time to catch up, as there were others behind me. But she was always more aware than I was, and added a book to my pile and slipped her phone number into it. I was so oblivious, I didn't even realize there was an extra book until I was halfway through it, and found her note.
Ted Chiang, it was, The Lifecycle of Software Objects. It's on our bookshelf now, dog-eared and worn after a thousand readings, often out loud, to each other.
-
It's strange, to think of how far we had come in that short amount of time, and how it would've failed if we had done things earlier. I think of the two of us as variables that slowly crystallized into ones that fit this particular equation, two spirals that met and met again until they merged.
-
It was gradual, really, like the end of an asymptotic slope. There were movie dates and kisses in the rain and all of the other things that people did normally. There were calls from across the continent, and sometimes across the world and too many time zones, and there were occasional fights and misunderstandings, of course.
Above it all, though, there was simply comfort. Shared joys and shared pains, and snuggles after dinner and hugs in the morning. She moved in, and there was some adjustment, and then it was like we had lived together all our lives. We were engaged, and then we were married, and it was simply right.
We learned from each other, and grew towards each other, and while we always had our separate interests, we also enjoyed what the other did. I learned to fall into the stories of far off lands and distant stars; she learned to see the beauty in Euler's identity and Einstein's equations.
She is truly the love of my life, and I hers.
-
I was never one to believe in destiny or fate; but viewing our lifetimes and movements, there is an undeniable rhythm to it, a frequency, a certain curve to our interactions. We touched once, and then again years later, and more and frequently after that. It really is two spirals meeting - and to a mathematician, the question is, what happens when the spiral comes to a point?
For a long time, I wondered, but I have my answer, now:
She came home one day, beaming with joy, and all of a sudden, I see the endpoint of the spirals, see what all of our time together has come to.
A new line comes out of our joined paths, and I can't wait to see what shape it will take, what the future holds for our child.
But I mean every word, every phrase, and I believe it in the same way that I believe the proofs that my work is founded on. She doesn't see it, yet, but I do.
-
We met for the first time in high school, where I was the awkward, nerdy math student that had comically large glasses and she was the shy, nerdy fantasy and science-fiction reader. We were in all the honors and IB classes together, but, owing to our adolescence and the pressure of others, we never exchanged too many words.
We both orbited the sun, but were on vastly different orbits - until one of our mutual friends prodded me to ask her to prom. It was silly, I remember thinking, because prom wasn't even something I was interested in going to. And yet, something struck me, and I gathered up my courage and asked her one day, after class.
I recall her taking her nose out of a Tamora Pierce novel to look at me, push her glasses up, and then coolly, calmly, tell me no.
-
That moment was the first point on this chart; whereas before we might have been two lines on different planes, something changed. It wasn't immediate, and it wasn't clear, but it was present. And observing it here, I can take my finger and trace the arc of our paths to where they would cross again.
-
The second point was almost at the end of college; we had gone to different schools but were both back for the summer. I went to the library one day, looking for something to read, and was pretty much on autopilot until checking out.
She told me me later that I was actually fully on autopilot, and didn't even recognize her, though she was the one checking out my books. She didn't say anything at first, waiting to see if I would recognize her, and only spoke up when it became very apparent that I didn't, and wouldn't.
We said hi to each other, of course, but didn't have that much time to catch up, as there were others behind me. But she was always more aware than I was, and added a book to my pile and slipped her phone number into it. I was so oblivious, I didn't even realize there was an extra book until I was halfway through it, and found her note.
Ted Chiang, it was, The Lifecycle of Software Objects. It's on our bookshelf now, dog-eared and worn after a thousand readings, often out loud, to each other.
-
It's strange, to think of how far we had come in that short amount of time, and how it would've failed if we had done things earlier. I think of the two of us as variables that slowly crystallized into ones that fit this particular equation, two spirals that met and met again until they merged.
-
It was gradual, really, like the end of an asymptotic slope. There were movie dates and kisses in the rain and all of the other things that people did normally. There were calls from across the continent, and sometimes across the world and too many time zones, and there were occasional fights and misunderstandings, of course.
Above it all, though, there was simply comfort. Shared joys and shared pains, and snuggles after dinner and hugs in the morning. She moved in, and there was some adjustment, and then it was like we had lived together all our lives. We were engaged, and then we were married, and it was simply right.
We learned from each other, and grew towards each other, and while we always had our separate interests, we also enjoyed what the other did. I learned to fall into the stories of far off lands and distant stars; she learned to see the beauty in Euler's identity and Einstein's equations.
She is truly the love of my life, and I hers.
-
I was never one to believe in destiny or fate; but viewing our lifetimes and movements, there is an undeniable rhythm to it, a frequency, a certain curve to our interactions. We touched once, and then again years later, and more and frequently after that. It really is two spirals meeting - and to a mathematician, the question is, what happens when the spiral comes to a point?
For a long time, I wondered, but I have my answer, now:
She came home one day, beaming with joy, and all of a sudden, I see the endpoint of the spirals, see what all of our time together has come to.
A new line comes out of our joined paths, and I can't wait to see what shape it will take, what the future holds for our child.