I learned several things in college: My Social Security number, how to draw editorial cartoons and the joy of a Saturday afternoon football game. But its funny, the most important lessons were the quiet ones that were taught in odd moments in unexpected places. And many of those lessons were ones that I didn’t appreciate until years later. Like today.
My oldest son was working on an English paper recently and my mind went back to the 500-word, five paragraph essays I had to write in my early UT english classes. I didn’t consider myself a good writer back then (and probably wasn’t), but I got good grades. I figured out the drill and learned how to tell a decent enough story in a properly structured way.
My sophomore year, my English class was over “The Hill” in one of the engineering buildings. I don’t remember much about the class or even the teaching assistant’s name, to be honest, but I do know my friend Julia Gibson Hammer was in the class with me. (Julia, I include you in this tale because you might remember the prof’s name).
I settled in for several weeks of more 500-word essays.
Until one day the professor (short, fairly heavyset, thinning hair) began a different lecture. He began talking about how we need to live our life in the moment. How we should just engage and live deeply. That we should not be like Gerridaes (water striders or water bugs) and skim across the surface of our lives.
I sat in that Engineering classroom, listening to an English teaching assistant tell me one of the most important lessons of my life. And it went completely over my head.
Until today. This evening, I’m saddened by the sudden death of someone who I liked and respected. I continue to mourn a loved one who is in the early stages of dementia. Thursday, I watched my son get wheeled into surgery. And I earlier that morning, I nearly tore my fingers off my drawing hand.
I am feeling very, very mortal. And tired.
And then I thought of the Gerridae. I thought of how much life I’ve wasted just skimming. Maybe it is time to go deeper in the water. Maybe it is time to appreciate the remarkable gift of life a little bit more.
I raise a toast to that unnamed teaching assistant. You, my friend, were wise before my ability to realize it. And I raise a toast to the Gerridae. While you skim, I’ll start to live.