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| Lauren Reuss ('22) |
College is kind of like IKEA. The experience is both exciting and frustrating; it’s home to everything under the sun; with food, friendly and knowledgeable people, and neat attractions (and yes, I do consider fancy kitchen sets neat and attractions), there is something for everyone to enjoy. Be it in the form of a new couch or a nursing degree, both offer you the chance to make your dreams a reality. Sorry to burst the bubble, but the novelty does wear off. You thought you’d save by purchasing the furniture to assemble, but upon opening the box, you find parts to be missing, unfold the instructions just to throw up your hands and say “it’s all Greek to me,” (or your favorite phrase in times of frustration), and hope for a miracle as you build the masterpiece yourself.
This is college. When you first step foot onto campus, in what is to be your humble abode for the next eight months, the object of your spirit for the next four(ish) years, the subject of your pride from this day forward, and into your first class, you are filled with wonder. This is the oyster of which they’ve spoken. But it doesn’t last. Not because the university isn’t what it’s cracked up to be or the classes are easy, but because you went into the experience waiting to be overwhelmed; you expected an ever-lasting, all-encompassing, soul-selling, life-altering awe to fill up the empty crevices of you.
I had been warned by a particularly profound statement by C.S. Lewis, yet I still took the moment, or rather my entire first semester, for granted: “Say your prayers in a garden early, ignoring steadfastly the dew, the birds, and the flowers, and you will come away overwhelmed by its freshness and joy; go there in order to be overwhelmed and, after a certain age, nine times out of ten, nothing will happen to you.”
Not only do you have this unrealistic expectation of this new chapter of life, but you repeat it so often, going through the motions, that the meaning dissipates until its just another day, another class, another grey afternoon sitting at the high-top tables alone, nursing yet another burnt, caffeinated milkshake, staring at the cars passing by the panes of the Ville Grille. You heart is empty, but your stomach is full. You tire of living this life you believed would be perfect, building a fantastic resume without genuine care for the organizations and their mission, getting involved where you feel like the square peg in a round whole; you don’t fit because you are more than the provincial. And vice versa, of course, where you just aren’t enough and keep questioning what it is others have that you just can’t seem to muster.
It’s then the epiphany comes, and you realize college is so much more than that; you now know of the tremulous history of Post-Communist Russia and how to draft research proposals. You can ask your companions what they like to do in a foreign language and understand how to deliver a speech without having written a cumbersome and lifeless safety-net… but that’s not what makes the world revolve and people tick, or babies laugh, and allows friendships to blossom and inspires humanity to flourish. It’s all just the surface. The sooner you realize that no text book holds the answers to life and no blackboard assignment will change the planet, you hold a wealth of potential more; the world is here and now and is a much wiser, better teacher of the lessons that will mean something beyond what a dust-covered, frame-held diploma will when you are old and grey. Go for it.
Somewhere in this mix, I was taught the keys to learning consisted of amassing a library wide and deep and finding mentors to pour into you as you make the great journey through your life-long education. While this is a dandy idea, it wasn’t really the method I took to gain insights into my “new” world. I had to teach myself and let others teach me, tear down my aloof façade, shatter my glass cage and actually take a gander outside of my comfort zone to really learn. It’s no longer about reading or memorizing or practicing the right steps enough to pass. The demanding work you put in is not the stuff they warn you about within the too-cold cement walls of grades one through twelve. It’s a learning curve.
College is full of learning curves- from learning about the curvature of lines to determine the state of the economy, to learning that your curves no longer fit with the shape of your slacks or the larger of your two dress skirts- but the biggest and most astounding learning curve for me did not take place in the classroom or at the gym. It took place in the cafeteria, and on the sidewalk, and in the over-priced coffee shop, and just outside the residence hall elevator at two in the morning with an old friend.
Read anything you can get your hands on, of course, but above all, talk… and even more importantly, listen. Learn from the strangers standing beside you while waiting for your asiago bagel on an unexpectedly busy morning. Share your day with the cafeteria staff and those equally irritated souls in the forever-long bookstore lines. Stop existing in the bubble that defines you, because no-one can relate more to the state of a struggling college student than a kindred spirit. McGraw-Hill offers a plethora of definitions, but they can’t help you understand the difference between being alone and lonely, or feeling happiness versus existing in the more rare and precious state of joy. See your mistakes as an invitation to become the best version of yourself. Each problem you encounter sheds light on all the good in your life and just how appreciative you ought to be for the trivial things your loved ones always reminded you of like packing an umbrella on a supposedly bright day or adding a scarf to your attire to save your bitten, cherry nose. It may be different, and I’m still struggling to find myself and where I fit, but I promise I’m learning.
So maybe you walked into this gig thinking it would be heaven on earth, or that this superstore in all its glory held the answers to life, yet now your visions have fallen to reality. Even though it came without clear instructions, if at all, and some integral pieces were missing, it’s okay; your endeavors worked out, and they will continue to do so until you give up on pursuing what is likely to be the greatest, most rewarding mistake of your life. The stars haven’t aligned just right, but I promise in time they will. Maybe things don’t look quite the same as imagined, but that is the miracle which makes the story. Don’t wait to make it a masterpiece.
Books that inspired my confessions in this blog:
C.S. Lewis’ The Four Loves
ISI Book
Louis L'amour Education of a Wandering Man
Lauren Reuss, of Mt. Washington, Ky., is a first-year McConnell Scholar at the University of Louisville where she plans to study communications, economics, Spanish and political science.