The school year persists as the oddest method of measuring time. Students begin three-quarters of the way through a traditional calendar, take a break during the winter holidays and return for a few months before concluding in the middle of the (normal) year.
From a telephoto view, the blocks of time — high school, college, grad school — exist in concrete chunks. Graduation forms the cap to these blocked experiences, and thus, the mark of May as a sentimental time comes not from the end of school itself but from the reflection catalyzed by that end.
In other words, as my adviser at SAU wisely informed me, school provides a requisite period of contemplation about the time spent there. This, like many facets of school life, does not occur in the outside world.
As if another reason were needed to bolster the argument in favor of this amazing period of my life, the reflection syndrome only adds to the special significance of school vs. the world.
And as my adviser pointed out, this idea of reflection quickly loses value for many in their post-graduation years. Time speeds onward. No wedges of time are packaged neatly for meditation. A casting back of memories never surfaces.
My roommate, Kurt, and I discussed May’s feel, a time of closing. I never opened the thin book on my nightstand because starting a new project grates against the push to conclude, finalize, coordinate and end.
So it is with this blog. Like the failing strength of a witch’s broom, I noticed the decline a few weeks ago and have slowly prepared myself to let go. In this final post, I’ll briefly discuss the most important job we have as journalists.
We work as storytellers.
To spin C. S. Lewis’ advice, three areas of coverage suffice:
1) Stories we ought to tell
2) Stories we’ve got to tell
3) Stories we like to tell