The mail arrives, and rather than be full of junk ads for political campaigns, insurance companies, and furniture far too rich for my blood, it comes with three or four personalized advertisements for this college or that one. They are not addressed to me or Kelly, but rather to Zach, who, a year from now, will be wrapping up his senior year in high school. We'll know where he is going to college by then, a thought that seemed utterly impossible 17 years ago when he arrived on the scene.
I've been thinking a lot about my time in college, about the things I did, and didn't do; thinking about the lifelong friends I made there; thinking about the classes I took and the professors I studied under. I've been thinking about the music I listened to while in school, whether it was while studying, or working in the dorm dish room, or walking to-and-from classes listening to cassettes on my Sony Walkman1. I've been thinking about the movies I saw, and the papers I wrote, and the late night, deep philosophical debates I had with friends and dorm-mates.
A university is a place of learning — not just a place to discover the secrets of the universe, or to delve into the mysteries of human psychology, or the life cycles of insects, or whatever interests you — but a place to figure out who you are and what you want to do with your life. It is a place to meet new and interesting people, to try new things, whether it is a food or drink, a sport, a hobby. It is a place designed to encourage exploration and experimentation in all directions. Indeed, it is a unique experience in a life, an island of learning that is in many ways cut off from the real world. It is less haven and more heaven.
In his memoir I. Asimov, Isaac Asimov writes,
I dreamed I had died and gone to heaven. I looked about and knew where I was — green fields, fleecy clouds, perfumed air, and the distant, ravishing sound of the heavenly choir. And there was the recording angel smiling broadly at me in greeting… [I] asked, “Is there a typewriter I can use?”
In W.P. Kinsella's marvelous novel Shoeless Joe,2 after shagging flies and grounders in a cornfield, Shoeless Joe speaks:
“God what an outfield,” he says. “What a left field.” He looks up at me and I look down at him. “This must be heaven,” he says.
“No. It's Iowa,” I reply automatically. But then I feel the night rubbing softly against my face like cherry blossoms; look at the sleeping girl-child in my arms, her small hand curled around one of my fingers; think of the fierce warmth of the woman waiting for me in the house; inhale the fresh-cut grass smell that seems locked in the air like permanent incense; and listen to the drone of the crowd, as below me, Shoeless Joe Jackson tenses, watching the angle of the distant bat for a clue as to where the ball will be hit.
“I think you're right, Joe,” I say, but softly enough not to disturb his concentration.
For me, heaven would be a university, populated with countless interesting people: students, professors, faculty, staff. It would not be a place where, after a life well-lived, I would suddenly learn the meaning of the universe in one divine blast of knowledge. Rather, it would be a place where I could mingle with others, drink a pint at a local pub, watch a band, and in between, have limitless time to learn, to read, to study, and to slowly and carefully seek out the secrets of the universe for all eternity.
Of course, this is what I do every day right here on Earth. It is what I have done ever since I picked up a copy of The Nine Planets at the Franklin Township Public Library when I was five or six years old. It is why my hobby is learning. It is why it is a hobby that I will never give up. It is why, despite the turmoil, and trying times we live through, I see life very much like a university, populated with countless interesting people, a place where I can mingle with others, drink a pint at a local pub, watch a band, and in between, learn, read, study, and slowly, carefully, seek out the secrets of the universe. Would that I had the limitless time.
