Location, Location, Location

I believe that sometimes having a firm sense of place can teach us more than any book. It can give educators that much ballyhooed "teachable moment." It can also remind us why we should seize every opportunity, or as Julie Andrews sang in that sappy film, "Climb every mountain . . ."

Now generally, I like to carpe diem as much as the next guy. But usually I slip up, get a little lazy and let the pedestrian facts of every day life slow me down. Once malaise sets in, it's way too easy to mock Julie "Ray, a drop of golden sun" Andrews. Every now and then I need a reminder.

My office looks out on the main mall of the Montana State University campus. Today, my view is exceptional. This morning, a bit before the carillons rang eight, our campus was amazingly quiet and beautiful. The trees and ground were speckled with chunky snow, but you could still see small splashes of autumn colors peeking through. Overhead, dark clouds formed a low ceiling. It was rather ominous and dark, yet it filled me with awe. Somewhere in the east, maybe where the clouds hadn't rolled to yet, a rich light pierced through and suddenly drenched the campus in warm light. It was gorgeous, really.


While I enjoy the quiet of campus before classes start, I thought everyone should see this. I thought of my students and wondered if they were up yet.

Maybe the better question would be had they gone to bed yet? Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

I decided not to track them down so early in the morning. We have an agreement. They don't call me after 10 o'clock at night, and I don't hunt them down in their dorms. While maybe they would have enjoyed the morning light show, I decided not to threaten our understanding.

At MSU, I teach a course for university freshmen that focuses on developing critical thinking, research, and communication skills. All this is mixed in with a large segment designed to help these fine young undeclared majors start choosing their path in life. In a course like this, carpe diem seeps into the curriculum in subtle peripheral ways. We read texts and analyze other forms of media looking for themes that can help these students answer some of the big questions they're facing. But honestly, sometimes, in the classroom it just feels more like talk and less like life.

I can see it in the students' eyes and can imagine what the discussion sounds like to them, "Blah, blah, blah, blah, Plato, blah, blah, blah, blah, paper due next Monday, blah, blah."

During those moments I would give anything for that shock of gorgeous light, where I could point out the window and say to my students who feel lack luster and uninspired, "Look at this world. It is yours. Now what do you want to do with it?"

As any half-decent, aspiring writer knows, when you want to sell a point, you show, you don't tell.

Today I would show my students the morning light. We'd take our lattes outside, bask in the light, and get a far better understanding of the symbolism of light and knowledge, without saying a word.

Plato can stay on the shelf for a day; these are a few of my favorite things.