Goddesses and Veggies

I come from a long line of strong, intelligent women—women who weren't always able to pursue advanced degrees but who hungered after knowledge and treasured the riches of the past. Among their ranks are pioneers who sacrificed everything to travel westward in their search for religious freedom, a great-grandmother whose fit of laughter jump-started her heart after a heart attack, and a grandmother who taught me, as she lay dying from cancer, that pain is a part of life but misery is optional. These women transformed knowledge into strength and good humor and wisdom. In my mind, they each embody Veritas—that towering goddess of Greek and Roman Mythology.

Growing up, I worshiped my mother—Valedictorian of her graduate class, deep thinker, powerful mover-and-shaker, and all-around goddess. I wanted to be just like her.

My mom came to Boston for the first time in September, 2009. Together, we walked the cobblestone streets of the North End, made the pilgrimage to Louisa May Alcott's grave in Concord, and ultimately stepped through Johnston's Gate (passing the word “Veritas” inscribed on the columns to either side). 

 I watched her stand in Harvard Yard and breathe in the scent of decaying leaves. I saw her pause at the base of Widener Library like a Greek Goddess come home, corinthian columns rising above her. She even snuck into one of the lecture halls. Standing at the very front, near the podium, she was swallowed by the emptiness of the room, but her presence was more than enough to fill it. With absolute gravity, she wagged her finger and told me to eat my veggies and never talk to strangers. Now she winks and brags to friends that she has “lectured” at Harvard. (Goddesses do tend to have a great sense of humor.)

Four years to the month after that experience, I entered Harvard Yard again—this time as a student. I found myself giving a non veggie-related lecture at a Harvard conference, and instead of standing at the base of Widener Library, I was suddenly ascending the staircase and beeping past security. I didn't feel much like the Greek Goddess I had seen in my mother, but I did feel a sense of responsibility to her and to all of the goddesses who came before her.

I think I was drawn to Harvard for two reasons (among others): First, I sensed a rich legacy of learning embedded in the very bricks and mortar of these buildings—buildings that have survived for hundreds of years and will probably survive for hundreds more. I felt a deep respect for the past. Secondly, I believed that tradition is meant to built upon and that metaphorical buildings are constantly being raised and leveled in the name of truth. I wanted the opportunity to contribute something to the larger body of knowledge approaching Veritas.

On my journey towards graduation, I have experienced moments of frustration, moments of illumination, and moments when I just wanted finals to end and I didn't feel anything remotely as noble as an obligation to Veritas. Luckily, Veritas is patient, and she never gave up on me. (Neither has my mom.) I entered Harvard Yard through Johnston's Gate, and on commencement day, I will be entering the world through that same gate. I hope I can learn to bear the standard of Veritas with the same strength, good humor, and wisdom demonstrated by all the goddesses who came before me.

And yes, I'll try to remember to eat my veggies.

Happy Mother's Day, Mama! 

Circles and Seasons

The process of coming full circle rarely feels circular. 

We imagine hurtling ourselves on linear trajectories—away from, beyond, toward—and when we land where we started, there's almost always a moment of surprised recognition. Point B is Point A!  We're back where we began, and yet something is different—or we're different (or both).

On my very first day as an Arts in Education student at HGSE, I wrote, “If we consider 'art' a term for a deeper form of education, then other disciplines become art forms of sorts when participants achieve a certain level of intellectual thought and elegance of expression. All true learning is artistic.” Then, on my final day in class, I found myself re-articulating the idea that art is a form of education and that education is a form of art. The words had remained largely the same, but the year had imbued them with a richer meaning. It had also chipped away at their formal exterior to expose a million living, breathing questions. Rather than becoming a conclusion, my full circle experience was—and continues to be—another beginning.

In a month, I will cut across the country as I leave behind five years' worth of Boston-based networks and resources and settle in the Salt Lake Valley, just forty minutes from my childhood home in Utah Valley. My flight will be direct, but my larger journey has been anything but linear. I left Utah in 2004 to begin life as an undergraduate, and now, after ten years in Arizona, England, Ukraine, Boston, Franklin, and New York, I am turning westward again. I will be coming “home” to family, to friends, to the community of my youth—but I'll also be stepping into a new life that is entirely my own. I remember experiencing the same strange sensation when I returned to the U.S. after eighteen months as a missionary in Ukraine. My home environment hadn't changed much, but I had, profoundly. Home felt both familiar and oddly foreign.

These recent years on the East Coast have also been marked by a brief transition away from Boston and, unexpectedly, back again. My orbits, both large and small, have tended towards circularity.

The earth moves that way too, of course—around and around in tight circles. Its larger trajectory is forward but circular, held always in careful orbit. I wonder: what is the force that holds my own intellectual orbit in place? What is the center point, the origin of that fierce gravitational pull? For me, I think it is Truth. When I recognize an element of truth (expressed in a conversation or a book or a painting or a lecture), I tend to feel a strong pull towards that thought or object or idea. I first approach it directly, squarely.  Then, inevitably, life turns my linear trajectory into a circular one, and I find myself circling that idea and viewing it from every possible vantage point in a 360-degree rotation. What was two-dimensional slowly becomes three-dimensional. I begin to learn. By the time I reach Point B and discover that it was Point A all along, the destination matters far less than journey.

When my flight descends into the Salt Lake Valley, I know I will catch a glimpse of the mountains and experience another full circle moment. I look forward to embracing that moment and using it as an opportunity to pull back from my tight, inner orbit and reflect on my larger orbit. I imagine I will feel a magnified sense of the mixed emotions that I'm experiencing now: gratitude, nostalgia, uncertainty, a waking anticipation.

In Salt Lake City, I plan to actively seek opportunities to challenge myself as an artist and also as a teacher-learner. (Both teachers and learners facilitate the exploration of ideas, and the two identities are almost impossible for me to separate at this point.)  I want my teaching practice to become an art, and I want my art to remain an important facet of my teaching.

In my mind's eye, the path ahead is relatively linear. Still, I know that one day in the not so-far-future, I will probably stumble into another full-circle moment. . . and another. . .and another.

The sun's gravitational pull gives the earth the axial tilt that creates the changing of seasons. As I continue encountering full-circle moments, I hope I will feel a profound gratitude for past seasons of my life and for the people and experiences that have guided my trajectory. I also hope I will feel a very real excitement about the seasons of my life that I have yet to encounter. In the words of C.S. Lewis, we are all born with a balanced desire for both change and permanence. We experience seasons, “each season different, yet every year the same, so that spring is always felt as a novelty yet always as the recurrence of an immemorial theme” (Lewis, p. 257). There is a beauty in finding our personal journeys echoed in the natural world and in seeing them reflected in those around us. 

That, itself, is both an education and an art.