About 500 feet from where you are sitting, nestled between the Carlin Bridge and the Fenwick Porch, is a bench. It looks the same as the others: a sturdy wooden seat, black iron sides, sitting mostly unused, and typically hidden under about four feet of snow.
That bench is what brought me to Holy Cross.
It sounds stupid and somewhat irresponsible. But, when I was visiting colleges I kept hearing the same piece of advice — regardless of facts and figures, numbers and majors, my decision had to come down to where I could really see myself. So, I set out to find this intangible…something. I tried to picture my lanky figure perched under trees and relaxing in dorm rooms. I peered into campus coffee shops hoping to glimpse my future friends and attempted to mentally reserve library tables and a cozy spot to study.
Finally, on chilly, rainy, and otherwise terrible November day, touring a beautiful hillside campus, it happened. I could see myself reading, sipping coffee, chatting, and being what I thought was the epitome of a college student, all on that bench.
Now, I’ve never actually done any of those things whilst seated on that bench. But every time I dash by that spot on my way to Stein, it reminds me. It brings me back.
Each of us has those moments, that story. When it all began. How you got here, and why. Why you weren’t scared off by the wind, the snow, the stairs, and the long, wood-paneled hallway from Linden Lane to the Admissions Office. Why the white, manila-sized envelope delivered in late March was the one that finally sealed the deal. Why the bumper sticker you put on the family car was not green, not blue, not maroon- definitely not maroon- but purple. The dates, the names, the characters, the locations, they all change. But there is one piece we all own: coming here was the beginning of something.
But now, with every unknowing underclassman and distant relative asking us what our plans are, that beginning has started to feel a lot like an end. And we’re torn. Torn between knowing that we still have so much to do, to see, to be, and between meeting deadlines, making decisions, wrapping up loose ends, letting go. It’s easy to trade in that first-year optimism when you felt like you had all the time in the world to figure “it” out. Because now it’s as if we’re at mile 25 of the marathon, severely dehydrated, with some wicked blisters, feeling as though we’re going to limp across the finish line if we make it at all. Worried that this final, triumphant stretch will fly by with us hardly noticing, never mind enjoying it.
You may be sitting here stressed because you should have majored in accounting, should have done more volunteering, should have kissed the girl when you had the chance. And maybe you should have, because accounting majors seem to be doing pretty well for themselves right now, and she was totally into you.
But here’s the thing. We’re not at mile 25. We’re at mile one and a half. And your feet are just fine. You may have slept through the opening ceremony or neglected to train nearly as much as you should have. You may have found yourself tangled up with the wrong sort of crowd at the starting line. But this, this is nowhere near the end. We’re way too young for lasts, for conclusions. We can’t even rent a car yet. This has never been about you as a college student, you at 22, you as an athlete, a Pre-Med Concentrator or a SPUD volunteer. Rather, it has always been about you. The whole you. These were never meant to be the best four years, but the first four.
No matter if you’re sitting pretty or you’re a hot mess, know that you still have every opportunity to make this what you’ve always hoped it would be. What you hoped it would be lying in bed that first night, homesick and scared and excited for the future. What you hoped it would be lying in bed last night, homesick and scared and excited for the future. What hoped it would be wreaking havoc during shelters in place, waiting for the Kimball renovation to be done, mourning Boston and Paris, Ferguson and Newtown and one of our own, advocating for Romney or Obama, Bernie or Trump, and watching as we welcomed a new President here on the Hill, ushering in the new era of Holy Cross.
Some of you may choose to use the next 124 days to begin anew, realizing that it is never too late to reinvent yourself, to change, to work harder, to be better, to rediscover, to start.
Some may choose to stay the course, trusting you’re exactly where you should be.
We may not have a job or a career. We may not have any money or a place to live. We may not have a plan. But what we do have is time.
And it that spirit, I thought I would end with some items to add to your bucket list.
Keep going. Keep your friends close, your curiosity alive, and your heart open. Talk to your friend crush, or talk to your real crush. Go on a retreat. Explore campus beyond the beeline from your dorm to class. Venture into Worcester, not just Shrewsbury Street. Go sledding. Surprise and be surprised. Eat in Kimball, but plan accordingly. Don’t study too hard. Go out. Stay in. Catch up with your freshman year roommate, catch up with your current roommate. Go on a date. Appreciate all that you have. Get a little lost. Get a little found. Read your favorite book, sip some coffee, find your bench.
