People say that the more things change the more they stay the same.
Some days I agree. My life seems to be turned back on itself in recent weeks; things I haven't seen or done since the end of last year have come back to haunt or excite me, though a lot of water's gone under the bridge since April last.
This seems to be particularly the case here at the University, of course, if only because of our universal obsession with tradition, with the hand and eye of Mr. Jefferson, with the old patterns and the old fabrics of our world here. Once upon a time, for example, I heard a young lady telling her parents on the Lawn about this grand old tradition of the Second Year Dinner series that went back to Jefferson himself. As that tradition only started last year, I thought that this was a great example of our tendency to mythologize ourselves at the University.
Because that's really what it is: mythology. We all, I think, tell stories about ourselves as we walk through the world: the things we remember, the things we forget, the way we walk and talk and eat, it's all a silent way to reconcile our lives into a coherent whole. We're presented with a world that is actually just a series of disconnected fragments, shoreless, indefinite as God; it's a fundamental instinct to find a narrative flow and a unifying theme, to set order to a gulf of contradiction.
That's why I love this column so much. We don't get much of a chance to think here; the slices and slivers we choose out of the chaotic University to define our story get overwhelming pretty quickly, and whether you write your life on Rugby Road or on the football field or in Alderman or on the floor of Madison Hall, it's very hard to step back and look at the larger picture.
And the picture is worth a look. We're different here from maybe anywhere else in the world: some better and some worse, but no matter how you feel about it you can't deny that we're unique. It's even easier than usual to see that at this spectacular, glorious, incomparable time of year, when Grounds is fiery with its own beauty, and we celebrate our High Holy Days: Jefferson's Birthday, Foxfields, the last day of class, Final Exercises, and all the other vast dramatic moments when we mark the conclusion of yet another year.
So by writing once every two weeks for myself and the other six of you who read this, I get the chance to think about my life and our life and the University's life, poking into dark corners and laughing at myself and generally just enjoying what I think is the best place in the world.
So let me then mythologize this year: I had an abominable first semester. That seems to be a theme with me in the fall, and this year was no exception. There were a variety of reasons for the unpleasantness of those long darkening months, but all we need to know is that they sucked.
I went home for break and enjoyed resting with my family, but Jan. 1, I soared back down south and found myself standing in the sorrow of New Orleans.
That was a hell of a thing. For one thing, it snapped me out of my months-long funk; when you realize how desperately unstable and contingent our world really is, it's hard to be too dismayed by any of the blows that strike you.
For another, though, it helped me to understand what I really love about this place. Sure, the Lawn is the most beautiful place in America, and our traditions are a warm and pleasant blanket against the sharp corners of the world and the weather is incredible. Those, though, are really more superficial than anything else.
Because what I love about our incredible University, my friends, is the community we share here. I love my friends, and I love my teachers and I love those of you I'll never meet; we're bound, all of us, by a bond more fundamental than how we spend our time or where we come from.
I've made new friends this year, and I've realized that my old friends are even better than I ever knew. I've learned an immense amount about how to be a human and about how to live a life. And most of all, I've realized that coming south was the best thing I ever did.
So to all of you, my friends, those of you I hold to my heart and those of you who share this place with me, have a magnificent long hot summer. It's been a hell of a ride. And it's really only just begun.
Connor's column runs bi-weekly on Fridays. He can be reached at sullivan@cavalierdaily.com.
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