Maybe it is the cold, the deficiency of sunlight, the number of athletic contests, the academic push that began in December, the college waiting game, or an amalgamation of it all, but the end of the Winter Term often coincides with exhaustion. So it’s with no small amount of joy that students cross the line from the winter term into spring break. There’s a collective sigh of relief.
The autograph. I am not even sure that it happened, not even sure that I met the man, but he figured in my early life a long, long time ago when I was learning to play tennis. The book The Invisible Gorilla explains lapses like this, our misinformed memories. It’s unlikely that I ever got Arthur Ashe’s autograph, but for a long time I have believed that I did. And for a long time he has inspired me with his sportsmanship and grace.
I am not a musician. I played the requisite songs on the recorder and fumbled through the finger moves at ten, took drum lessons at thirteen, and failed miserably at both. I don’t sing, not even marginally well, but have taken enough lessons to appreciate the gifts of those who do. I grew up listening to the piano, and even today my mother, with a little brush up, has nearly eighty classical pieces within grasp. When I was growing up she practiced with the discipline of a concert pianist, so notes were always adrift in the house. I can’t quite muster my way through “Chopsticks.” Never could.
Friendships. They blossom in these years, emerge at different rates, and play different roles in our lives. I am not talking about the Facebook friends, the six or seven hundred “friends” that somehow have been collected, stored, and are managed through a digital platform. I am talking about something more rare. More precious. The kinds of friendships that I see find footing at Proctor.
There are certain memories of certain climbs that still make my palms sweat, still make my heart rate pick up: the crux pitch on Pingora in the Wind River Range, a harrowing descent from the summit of the Grand Teton in a thunderstorm, the chimney pitch on Castleton Tower. Those moments of physical challenge coupled with mental focus create strong, sticky memories. The only thing that has ever quite replicated that sensation for me in the same manner is public speaking. Delivering in front of a crowd.
This week started with an MLK Day program, and it ends with me on the road in Florida. It started in the Meeting House with a clip of Martin Luther King, Jr's “I Have Been to the Mountaintop” speech from April 3, 1968, and it wraps up in a Marriott Hotel in very flat Florida.
The moment that inspires: Patriots, Rangers, or a JV Girls’ Hockey Team?
The New England Patriots and their defeat of the Ravens was a contest described by Bill Pennington of the NYT as, “…a malevolent affair that seems to put both teams in a foul mood.” Still, the Patriots thrilled their fans with yet another Brady engineered comeback last Saturday with trick plays and tricky line-ups. A berth in the A.F.C. Championship game was secured just about the same time Proctor’s JV Girls’ game was winding down at Proctor.
Perspective. I first saw the news at the ski area on Wednesday night as skiers thumped up and down stairs in Yarrow’s Lodge to sit on the benches next to the television. They buckled and unbuckled boots, adjusted layers, talked about the condition of the hill and the jump outrun. Outside, the wind deepened the bitter cold, spilled hot chocolate froze instantly, and ski jumpers launched off the 38.
