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At UNC-Chapel Hill, the bell tower chimes the hours. Today, I wondered if you actually have more time to get to class at noon than one. Doesn't it take longer for the bells to chime twelve than one? Those eleven extra bongs always make a difference. Let's just say it's my pedestrian theory of relativity.
My godchildren leapt into full-fledged Episcopalianness tonight and I was there as a witness. Bishop Curry laid hands on their heads and many other people too. His sermon was inspired. He talked about a friend who was 90 years old but not old. He reminded us that evil is live spelled backwards. He closed by relaying a recent experience of watching Elie Weisel, Desmond Tutu and the Dalai Lama on CNN participate in a "group hug." Equal to the bishop's message was the power in the ritual. I remember when the bishop laid his hands on me. Seeing the giddiness of my godchildren after the experience took me back.
Except for my sister, my family likes to relate movie plots and book outlines. Sometimes, the synopses carry on for ten minutes or longer. It's like living with the bard Homer and his clones. I have a hard time following plot summaries. I suppose the leap here is to try and listen or could it possibly be to insist on another topic?
A few years ago, I spent two hours looking on-line for the best swim goggles. I did not make a purchase. The memory of spending 120 minutes on this to-do list item has been a frequent reminder of how not to leap in life. The good thing is that whenever I do anything close to what I did then, I try to remind myself of my afternoon with swim goggle spread sheets. While I don't believe you can actually waste time, I think I came close.
A student in my class wants to work somewhere in Africa helping children with HIV/AIDS after she graduates. She wants to go next summer because who knows if there will ever be another chance. From my vantage point, this view of life no longer makes sense. You can do anything at any point, right? Or can you? Being intentional about that first leap out of college matters and it doesn't. What I do know matters is pursuing the dream. If you help her, let me know.
A friend told me you only remember five minutes from your entire college career, ten minutes if you are lucky. He remembered a history of jazz class he took with a trumpet playing professor here at UNC-Chapel Hill. If you only remember five minutes, that means you leapt over at least seven hundred days of parties, studies, uncomfortable moments and romantic encounters. We did not finish our conversation so I have no idea if there was more in his five or ten minutes.
I was standing at the bottom of a steep hill waiting for a bus. After a few minutes, I got restless and began to leap up the hill. My backpack was stuffed. I was hunched over. Cars whizzed past my effort. Five minutes later, the bus passed me. Five minutes later, another bus passed me. Twenty minutes later, I reached my destination. Am I better off for the effort?
I leapt out of the big city for an overnight visit with my friend Claudia who is building Stone House, a retreat center in Mebane, NC. Everything about this experience wakes me up. I am alone in a cabin. There is no door to lock. There is apparently no need to lock the door. Instead of trains and cars, all I can hear is the wind and the rain on the roof. I arrived crinkled up in stress. The solitude is beginning to seep in and wash away all that was pent up.
It’s stormy outside and I am writing on my laptop. As the sky brightens with lightening, I cannot remember whether I am in jeopardy of getting struck or not. Each time I hear thunder, I lift my fingers from the keyboard. I will leap now and keep going, knowing that if I survive, this entry will be a mere reflection of paranoia and if I don’t, I died doing what I love.
It's those first moments of quiet, after everyone has left the room, that are the hardest for me as an instructor. Any leap I have taken, in thought or deed, comes flying back my way for analysis. Was I boring? Did I make sense? Are they learning? Was I a fool? Am I teaching in a manner that would make my department proud, or at least, own me? The quiet never envelopes me in a blanket of kudos.
