The eyes of Ron Swanson brooded over us all, watching with intense interest a scene with which neither he, nor his player, Nicholas Offerman, would ever have a stake in.
In all honesty, I was reminded of "The Great Gatsby"’s Dr. T. J. Eckelburg countless times throughout the night as some friends and I from Oxford College’s Ensemble of Shakespearean Actors got together to celebrate the close of yet another school year, all of us grown and tempered another 365 days older.
It had been some time since I had seen some of the people there. Emory University’s Oxford College is a curious affair in that as a two-year division of the university, students tend to be consistently in a state of flux. While they might bond tighter and more ardently than their counterparts who only attend Emory University’s Atlanta campus, the fact that the sophomores at Oxford College then begin again the following year as juniors at the Atlanta campus means that those they leave behind (classes, professors, freshman friends, etc.) necessitates a state of flux.
Confusing? On the outside looking in, probably. Long story short, I’m in a transition.
As a sophomore at the end of his two years at Oxford and continuing my studies next semester in Atlanta, GA instead of Oxford, GA there is a feeling of newness in the air. I am excited. Anticipatory. Not only am I going to reconnect with my friends in the year above me, but I’m also going to be exposed to a plethora of new opportunities.
It’s simple statistics, after all. More people means more chances for interaction.
Yet, there is a feeling of loss. Of sadness. Oxford College is a unique place on this Earth and I’m not sure anyone who hasn’t gone through the process like my friends and I have really can attest to it. The folks who haven’t had the midnight pancake breakfasts, the Ms. and Mr. Oxford pageants, or met the mischievous Lord Dooley holding the campus accountable don’t really know what it’s all about.
Certainly, that’s not to say that nowhere else has school spirit.
But, Oxford has so much spirit, even in ways that some people wouldn’t normally realize. The solidarity that forms among students here, the closeness that can develop in even just a few short weeks is unbelievable. I’ve made such passionate relationships here at Oxford, I think anyone would be anxious about losing that or letting that slip away.
Yet, like the eyes of Ron Swanson or T. J. Eckelburg or whatever your stand-in might be for God or fate or some other mystical force or nothing at all, I know that time marches on. That no matter how many science-fiction stories we write and myths we craft to the contrary, time is still that subtle thief in the night, come to steal the years.
And on a certain level, I’ve become okay with that.
Granted, at 19 I should be okay with progress. With the maturation of time. After all, life expectancy is higher now than it has ever been before in the history of human existence. Compared to some others, I have oh, so much time.
And yet, for the longest time, I was not okay with that progression. Change is scary. Humans are creatures of habit and disturbing that habit in any way, big or small, creates discomfort.
I’ve learned to lean into that discomfort.
Not to forsake stability, but to be flexible. To be adaptable. That’s how humans achieved our life expectancy in the first place, yeah? Adaptability.
There was a sweet sadness in Ron Swanson’s eyes that night. I’m a big fan of "Parks and Recreation," and Ron was always one of my favorite characters. His fierce loyalty and ardent ideals were relatable and admirable. Even so, despite occasional moments of tender openness, I believe few would call Ron Swanson sad, let alone sweetly sad.
But there it was, clear as day on his face that night. A sadness for the past, but a sweetness for those things yet to come.