sounds of... (early May 08)

I lay in bed, the window near my feet open enough to let in a hint of the river's rush, the low hum of a passing car or truck on the nearby highway, the occasional footsteps on the sidewalk below... and... nothing. Earlier, I turned off the fan I usually keep on for white noise to block weekly noisy occasions, such as after the hour when the Thursday night college bar crowd disperses. Tonight is a Sunday night, so it is traditionally a little calmer, more serene. After putting fresh sheets on my bed and cracking my window, I hesitated before pressing play on my iTunes. Nights like this don't need anything else.

I experienced a moment of serenity when I snapped the photo above. This tranquil slice of early green trees, grassy hillside, and stairs descending downward comes alive especially in early morning April or May light. Part of the beauty of my college's situation on top of a hill is the sun's uncanny ability to reach us first. Mornings like this were a rare sight for me while I was a student; however, this particular 6:15AM occasion was to prepare a piece of nature art, outside our manor of a history building, for a philosophy class I passed with a sliver of luck. I reached the hill first, watching for my friend Julie to appear with her bucket so we could collect dandelions (mini Andy Goldsworthys, we were). I have a series of photos from this morning, and I remember taking them with the thought "wow, I have been here for four years and it's like I'm seeing this for the first time." I recall Julie and our friend Leah thinking the same things as we put together our little art exhibit outdoors.

Yesterday, almost two years later, I stood in that spot in another capacity: preparing to host over 200 students as part of the admissions office for our college's admitted student day. The light, the beginnings of green was almost identical. Around 7AM, as I rushed back to our commons center from that side of campus, I passed the little spot where my two early-morning accomplices and I had watched the sunrise while we decorated a triangle of grass with dandelions. The sun fell almost the exact same way on the hillside; even though recent renovations have drastically changed our little plot of land, it's still there in some form.

Those occasional, valuable flashbacks -- quick images provoked by sunlight on trees, the smell of Malt O' Meal, and mistaking current students for old friends -- are there, in a way, to remind me why I remain dedicated to this cluster of buildings on a hill: to bring new people into the story.

To quote an alum I met as a first-year, from the class of 1955: there's an intangible magic to this place.