Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow

It snowed last night for the first time of the year in Carlisle long enough to make it through the day and stay--a solid two inches of white. This is certainly cause for celebration, which I assuredly take part in, though not as much as I would like to. See, its the last week of classes, which means finals week is right around the corner, and I'm in the midst of turning that corner as we speak. So I haven't had much time to sit, relax, and enjoy the new fallen snow. Although, I did get a chance to pause for just a moment and think about the gleaming pearls that hung from branch and building alike.

It got me thinking, these couple of weeks are very much like the first snow. With the last week of classes, there is so much excitement on campus. Everyone is itching to get home and sit close to their fireplaces, dozing drearily, and not doing any work at all. It's the promise of a long relaxing winter break that gets us students through the torture of the ending of the semester. But the more I get involved with these last two weeks. The closer paper due dates and finals get, the more stressed I get and the less I begin to think about winter break. Instead, I'm thinking about how I will get through class tomorrow without sleeping tonight. Or, there is no way I'm going to get enough research for this paper. Or, I have no clue what I learned in this class, how am I supposed to take a final in it. And so, the final weeks become more of what feels like perdition, than the good harbinger of sleeping until noon everyday. Because, hell, I've got 35 pages to write in one week. That's a lot of work; I'm not asking for much, but I do like to, you know, eat and sleep. Those things are nice, but work I have so work I must.

When the first snow falls every year, whether you're a child or an adult, I think one of the first things that comes to mind is a snow day. Time to sit by the fire, slowly melt into dreams, and do nothing all day. Snow becomes an omen, a symbol of what is next to come, much like my last weeks of school. Yet after this initial excitement wears off, snow is more of a job than a day off. There is salt to lay, wood to chop for the fire, driveways to shovel. And in the midst of all of this, your lips have gone blue, you can't feel your fingers and toes any more. You're pretty sure that your socks have disintegrated into more of a liquid than a solid. And somehow, even though its 10 degrees outside, all of your stuff is soaking wet inside and out. What comes next? Well only the back pain from shoveling, the shivering from cold, and the bruises from falling. Yeah, gotta love that snow.

But, in spite of all of this I do love snow; I do love school. As I have a brief moment before I head off to the next "driveway" to shovel, today's snow has me pause, even stop, and think of what is so beautiful about where I am. Looking at clean, white, unbroken snow is one of my favorite joys. Seeing the sun glisten off of the slightly brittle sheet of "snow ice," looking up at the crystal blue sky, and smelling snow. I love the way snow smells; its clean and new and invigorating. I need to enjoy the snow more; not enjoy the hopes of a snow day, but the actual snow, the beauty of the white picture laid out before me, before footprints have ruined it, before shovels have thrown it. I need to enjoy college for what it is, enjoy the classes and the last weeks for the relationships with friends, the late nights learning what I love in the library. Enjoy the snow, even as I shovel it away (so I can work away the cold and prevent the slips and falls). Because it is more than worth it for a little bit of a sore back, for a little bit of a fried brain. Its just another workout, getting stronger, getting smarter, preventing the slips and falls; all the while getting the blessed opportunity to work among a scene of great minds and the crystallized beauty of snow.

Doctor, Doctor Give Me the News

With the impending doom of the swine flu ravishing our campus, students started becoming pretty worried in the last week before Thanksgiving break. It wasn't that they realized papers and project dates were swiftly closing in and they just weren't feeling up to the task. It wasn't that they were afraid of carrying disease to their homes and families. It was the possibility that the college might cancel the Thanksgiving dinner because of the flu pandemic. Normally our dinners are pretty average when it comes to colleges. A few lines ranging from entrees to the grill to the salad bar; in reality, not too bad of a deal. But the Wednesday before Thanksgiving break, the school brings out all the stops.

They open up the cafeteria and set up a table that stretches along each side of the hall. The line for this thing is unbelievable. People start lining up at 4pm, by the time I got out of swim practice the line was outside of the building and nearly into the plaza--thats about 30 yards, and that's just to get into the cafeteria. Once you've gotten through the initial line, you get into line for the cornucopia you are about engorge yourself with. As you move inch by inch, more and more dishes come into view. Finally you grab your plate that is actually too hot to hold and start going at it. You can always tell who the freshmen are because they actually take up room on their plates for the fruit and salad that's laid out at the front of the table. Too seasoned for that mistake I patiently await what's to come next. At my fingertips are vats of stuffing, tubs of green beans, and sweet corn in bowls too big to lift. Here's where the real dinner starts, I need to lay a base level of all three to cover my plate. Then the heavier stuff, you get the mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes and fish. Once I've reached this level, I can't expand outward on my plate, since I've already reached about a centimeter off the edge in every direction. The only place to go is up, so I pile it on. At the end of the line are the chefs standing ready to cut off slabs of ham and turkey at your bidding, the missing piece of the mountain I've constructed on my plate. Finally making it through this table--or row of tables--I move on to the gravy, which cascades down the Rockies equivalent of a dinner plate. Now I'm ready to eat right? Well not quite, now you've got your corn bread, rolls, pumpkin bread that I need to shove in every pocket I've got (good thing I decided to wear my jacket). Now the battle of the evening begins. You elbow and shove your way through the masses of starving students to find a table. It's like trying to find a parking space in Walmart on Black Friday. You just need to awkwardly wait at a table where it seems like they might be pulling out, then rush in on it before anybody else gets there. It gets rough out there, I've seen people throwing jackets and bags in front of others, people grabbing and diving for chairs; but my group finally found our seats and the feast could begin.

The hard part is, all of this isn't the end. You need to pace yourself through the dinner, enjoy some of everything, take awhile getting through the meal, and when you've settled yourself enough to actually stand again you leave and make your way to the next room. Give the door person your ticket and you've entered into a wonderland, an entire hall--that's right not just a room, but a hall--filled with the most delicious desserts. They've got everything from blackberry pie to chocolate death cake. Naturally, I like to test the limits and go for the death cake. This is the stage in the night where you actually see people laying down on the floor because sitting in an upright position cramps their stomach too much (and yes I may have been one of those people). After struggling through this massive piece of diabetes waiting to happen, I slowly, painfully begin to stand up and make my way back to the desserts. No, I'm not shoving another one down--well, not immediately. I just take a peanut butter cake for the road and head home to lay down and not move for a few hours.

So, you see, one of the most important days of the year for college students--the college Thanksgiving meal, because what kind of athlete or scholar would go into something without training or studying. The doctors and the school cleared us for our practice Thanksgiving meal, after a night like that you can't be anything but prepared for the real night just a week away. Man, you gotta love this time of year.

You Gotta Have Heart

Well its been a busy couple of weeks up here at Dickinson. The dreaded swine flu has hit us pretty hard claiming about 20 cases a day and 8% of our student body so far. My yearly sinus infection is in full swing. I won't go into any great, nauseating detail, but let's just say I'm thoroughly addicted to nasal spray by now; there's just no way I'd be breathing without it. My swim team is no survivor of this influx of disease by any means. Just this week we lost six girls and three guys to the flu, a few of us have our sinus infections, and one guy has mono. So we're kinda hurting a little. But practice must go on, and so everyday we come in to practice, those skipping who can't stand long enough to walk over; everybody else just running to the bathroom when necessary. And of course all this practice isn't for nothing.

That's right this weekend was our first official meet. Yes, my Thursday and Friday nights have now become insurmountably boring with our new in season curfew--I'm basically stuck to doing homework and sleeping. It also means waking up at 7am on Saturdays to warmup and making multiple-hour bus rides to our opponents pools. Yes, it's a lovely thing this swim season. But it's also the time where the team bands together, where there are deafening cheers for the close races whether it be for first or third place--because every last point counts. It's the time where four guys stand behind the block and cheer and yell and swim till their lungs burst for their relay and for their teammates.

As I was saying, we had our first meet this weekend amongst all the bacteria and viruses devouring our team. We have guys sleeping in between races, puking after races, and going into coughing fits through the whole meet. Our meet was against the Scranton Royals (who's mascot is oddly enough a wolf--explain that one??) who was supposed to be a tough team to beat when we were completely healthy. We arrive at the pool, do our warmup, and get ready for the meet to begin. First relay hits and we pull off a second place while Scranton takes first and third, not a great start, but our times weren't too bad. As the meet continues we don't hold up quite so well as our first relay. The next event was the 1000 freestyle and we had two guys puking at the end of it. The rest of the day was pretty much the same. Swim as fast as you can go (sometimes while coughing in the midst of the race) and then get out and vomit your brains out (by the way, my apologies to the weak-stomached for such descriptions). I'd love to say, that through such adversity our team came back to win the meet and prove that we were the better team, but no such thing happened--it was a blowout 122-67.

But I believe we still are the better team. No Scranton swimmers were lying on the ground after their events; no Scranton swimmers needed to be rushed into the bathroom or removed from the lineup against their will. No, but our swimmers dealt with such struggles and pushed through them. It is true, not all of us had great season opening times (although some of us did manage some great times), but every single person on my team pushed until there was nothing left. In the last relay of the day, I'm standing behind the blocks with the three teams--that's twelve people--who were left standing by the end of the meet. And looking into each of their faces, I knew they were all giving every last ounce of strength they had to those last four laps of the day. The race began, I finished my leg, scrambled out of the pool, wordless--breathless--staring at the teammates around me, determination still on their faces. Each leg went as mine did, the swimmer silently, heaving, climbing out of the pool sapped of all strength. We sat on the ground just long enough to muster what hoarse shouts and cries we could muster for those who still had yet to race their legs. And we finished our races in 2nd, 4th, and 5th, gasping for air, hearts pounding, muscles aching and stomachs turning, nothing left--job well done, meet well swam, goal accomplished. I've seen all I need to know that this season and this team will not be defeated with a score at the end of a meet; no, we are stronger than that, we have more heart than that.

What School Reform?

I recently attended an English class that was held in our library's Rare Works Collection Room. We are studying John Milton in this class (yes, that's the reason for the Milton interjections in a few of my earlier posts). So, anyway, we are studying John Milton and went to this library's room to see some of the earlier additions of his work. This is like being let down into the gold mine to dig around for a while to an English major. We are down there for class and our professor pulls out copies of Milton's "Paradise Lost" from the 17th, 18th, and 19th centuries. We are getting a look at some of the earliest prints of the greatest epic written in the English language; this is incredible stuff. We are looking at handcrafted paintings within handmade bindings that have lasted for these passed 400 years. And inside the cover of these books what should I find but the scribbled doodles of a student who's grandson has long since been buried.

This really puts it into perspective for you. Look back to your high school years and think of the kid in the back spacing out drawing pictures in the school book (maybe it was you, I know it was me every now and then). And that's the book that survives beyond all others. It wasn't the guy who kept his in great condition or even the guy who bothered never to read it and just threw it in his library mint condition. Nope, we get the copy of the person who had to practice the way he wrote his "s." Not that I'm complaining about a little dirt on this piece of literary gold I'm holding in my hands.

It just gets me thinking--400 years ago they were studying grammar, Latin, rhetoric, and science (among many other things). And they reacted the same way then that we do now...blocking out the teacher's voice and idly scribbling as you day dream. So school reform, what school reform? Classes, times, teachers may have changed but have the students? We all have a desire to learn and we all have our moments of daydreaming no matter how much the system changes. And these doodlers have written epics, formed free governments, created the atomic bomb, cured polio and small pox. With as much stress that is put on the school system, those imperfect letters written on the cover of a 400 year old book put my mind at ease. So what I have to say is to the young dreamers--scribble on to great things as many have done before you.

It's Very Refreshing

Yes, even more refreshing than those junior mints your snacking on; it's vacation. This weekend was Dickinson's fall pause--not break. It's far too short to be a break, and I give credit to my school to at least recognize that fact. Yet somehow it doesn't make up for the fact that we still don't get off any national holidays except for Thanksgiving. But, my, what a fall pause it was. Talk about relaxation, I did just about nothing when it came to productivity. I got home on Friday in time to sing the national anthem with my high school's alumni choir for homecoming, but after those brief minutes of old esprit de corps, I went home and stayed home until Tuesday when I left for school.

Don't get me wrong, this was pretty much the greatest four days I have had all semester. Let me try to fall more into the lazy college kid stereotype--the only reason I got out of bed in the morning on Monday was for a doctor's appointment. Hopefully this gives you an idea of how my pause went. So, in any event, I feel quite well rested and ready to tackle the rest of the semester with new found fervor--right? Well, not quite. It's pretty incredible how quickly I can fall into the swing of things, when the swing of things is doing nothing. I was ready to spend another couple weeks just hanging out with the family. The break, excuse me--pause, was great, but man can it be dangerous. I guarantee if I had any more work than some reading to do it would have been put off.

So maybe, as much as I hate to admit it, Dickinson isn't so wrong in giving us a pause. If we got a full blown break who knows how long it would take to get used to actually working again. The rest is fantastic, but let the pause be just that. Don't get trapped in the habit of leisure, let it be a respite for the work you have. The way I see it, if I had had two or three days more break I would be writing about how bored I was instead of how short, but relaxing, this pause was.

What a Pain

Recently I've been thinking a lot about pain. This could be due to the fact that I have two hours of muscle screaming, lung bursting swim practice every day, rendering me pretty useless and half asleep for a good part of the day. But, in any event its gotten me thinking about pain in a more general sense.

I think it's absolutely incredible how the body and mind work together and parallel each other in the way they work. Under physical exercise and pain, the body cracks, literally creating micro-tears in the muscles. Under stress and exhaustion the mind weakens and confusion sets in. Under deep emotional scarring we are shaken to the core with grief. And I'm about to make a pretty bold statement considering pain brings on confusion, scarring, and bodily harm (yes small, but think back to how your back felt after lifting that box that was just a little too heavy). I think all of this pain is better for us than if we had never felt any of it. Let's quickly take a look back at those shoulder-paralyzing practices and see that its exercise; it makes my body more fit and in shape and in general I'm healthier for the struggle that it is.

I'm certain the same must be true for our mental and spiritual capacities. Mental toughness is a phrase often thrown around in circles of academia. It refers to the ability to handle enigmas (both social and intellectual) and deal with them until they are worked through and solved, no matter how difficult it is or how long it may take. The mind might crack, but does not break, in a sense. Finally, spiritual growth must come from conflict, from struggle, from pain. John Milton writes in his Areopagitica that "Adam fell into of knowing good and evil, that is to say, of knowing good by evil." He's describing the conflict that man is presented with spiritually and is saying for all the evil that we see every day, it is a thing that makes us recognize how vital is that which is good. And for all the evil in the world, it led to the greatest good of having a perfect man walk among us on this earth. Another poet, George Herbert, says in his poem "The Pulley" that "If goodness lead him not / Weariness may toss him to my breast." Pain, anguish they bring us relationships, connections--perfect or otherwise.

I think people too often run from what is troubling or painful. They want happy lives and carefree consciences. To accomplish this they run or they stand on their own two feet--alone. My assertion is this, accept what pain may come in life, for it inevitably will. Lean into the punch as it were and take the force of it. You will probably fall down, and you definitely will get your share of TKO's, but this is life. The best part about getting knocked out is having someone else wake you up, some one else dress the wounds. You lean into the punch and you're not running on your own any more. You might be black and blue, but bruises heal...with each punch there's another set of hands helping you stand up, take the courage to reach out and grab those hands. Pretty soon you'll have an army behind you.

Like my swim team says, "Embrace the challenge; love the pain."

The Sweetest Place on Earth

Thats right, Hershey Park, the land flowing with milk chocolate and money. Every year our swim team goes to work at Hershey park for two weekends for a team fundraiser (to pay for gear and training trips). Well yesterday was my first day working this year at this chocolaty haven of fun and excitement.

Before I get into all the heart warming stories of my time, I need to recognize the real workers for Hershey Park. These people must be the most patient, optimistic people who have ever lived. I could barely last 9 hours, but there are people who go to work at the Super Duper Looper every day. You want to know about a hard job, forget rocket science, try making a living as the Storm Runner Guy.

Like I was saying, I got the wonderful opportunity to work at a peanut butter cup paradise. So let me share just a few key moments of my day. At 9am I was assigned to the thrilling ride: Tiny Tracks. Now Tiny Tracks is a little kid ride (Hershey bars or shorter), where a tot-sized train runs around a track two times through per ride, the whole endeavor lasting about 3 minutes a run going at a break neck speed that I could out-walk. So I show up to this ride, where an employee teaches me how to push the button to make it work, and then the masses came and did what they do best. Within the first hour I heard what would become the all too familiar screams of children being forced to take pictures with the weird smiling Hershey bar trying to put his arm around them, not to mention getting on those scary rides like the dreaded Tiny Tracks. Things were coming along just fine, for the first few hours: the bell on the train was ringing incessantly, parents were trying to fit into a seat in the caboose that an eight year old would be uncomfortable in, and of course the wonderful chorus of screaming voices and tear streaked faces (yes, we're still in the sweetest place on earth). But then 2pm rolls around and the rain came. Now among the cacophony of cocoa lovers and chocolaty rides, was a constant downpour. And with every drop of water, the rain was edging nearer and nearer to my already dampened skin. 6pm finally arrives and I leave this sweetened utopia with soaked clothes and a headache. I now have a 45 minute drive left ahead of me, crammed between the broad shoulders of two other swimmers.

After such a day, I grabbed a hot shower and turned in early for church the next morning. Well, I got to church the next morning and low and behold the sermon topic: Struggling with Grumbling and Complaining. Man, isn't life great.

What do you know

I've only just begun my junior year at college, and I'm already being confronted with interesting ideas. One that I can't seem to get out of my mind was first introduced by a professor of mine. She teaches one of my upper level English classes and was lecturing us on how no one in our generation knows anything. She was saying that the way we are taught has too many holes in its explanation of something for us to actually understand it. Therefore, we are a generation (and a class) who is coasting through life unable to attain the knowledge we need to thrive. Now this claim seems a bit extreme to me. If anything we are intelligent and we are given a system that teaches us we are just lacking a serious drive and motivation. But, like I said, I couldn't get rid of this idea, and as I continued to think about it, I noticed how this idea was recurring in my everyday life.

I've been discovering that my generation has a paradoxical balance of living. Maybe it is true that we don't know anything. I've noticed that people need a lot of prompting to act on most anything, they need help to get things started, they need company in action. Not that I'm trying to say this is wrong or even detrimental. It's a good idea to understand that you need help in something. But here comes the first paradox. People don't actually want help. They somehow work their way into getting help without accepting the fact that they need it or even want it. We live in a society thriving on believed individualism, but in reality, group dynamics and support.

Beyond this, we live in a world where people want to know and share everything (ie facebook, twitter, blogs). Yet I'm quickly finding most people don't say anything. As I listen to people talk for hours or just minutes I find myself wondering what it is they are saying that has to do with something they know or believe or that is even fundamentally part of their person. I don't mean to say that every conversation has to be serious and thoughtful, but people have become experts at shallow sharing; thus the second paradox. It is our nature to seek relationships and to share and understand with others; I think its also human nature to try to avoid embarrassment and uncomfortable situations. So instead of confronting the problem of letting another person know us deeply, we've constructed the facade of openness by inverting ourselves further within.

So, I've got to ask, What do you know?

The Embarkment

I guess I'll start off with a disclaimer so that that some people are disillusioned right off the bat. I want to warn everyone that this will not be the grammatical or even ideological masterpiece that might come from an English major (I have apprehensions about mentioning it at all). This will just be my raw explanation of how I see life and what's going on around me. Here's a place where I can let out my thoughts, visions, and beliefs as I wander around. I guess I'll take a little time here at the beginning to explain what I plan on documenting. What really is this "traveler's unfinished journey?" It's an expedition that has no map, that has no directions or GPS. It's an adventure and I am wandering and stumbling my way through it. Like any adventure there will be great times of struggle and exhilarating moments of emotion. I will have times of serious drive, but mostly times where I am totally lost. Those moments will be the most exciting, they will be when I discover great things about this journey. Cause that's what this life is, a journey that is never finished. So let's begin, let us embark upon this journey of a lifetime.