We all like to complain about Dartmouth winters with wild over-exaggerations hibernating in basements, braving the tundra and so on. But I don't think we actually hate it that much. From a distance, though, it does seem miserable. When that fateful day comes when I actually have to put pants on and get off the couch to pack, I would much rather stay put with my blanket and cookies. Bond-a-thons, pajamas and lazy afternoons with family and old friends are hard to walk away from.
Freshman year, I spent the last four weeks of Fall term in Dick's House with mono, so naturally I dreaded coming back to Dartmouth after winter break. At that point in my college career, I was better friends with the night nurses than with my floormates, had no idea what I wanted to study and was faced with the task of getting back in shape for lacrosse season after a month in bed. I was returning to a colder version of the place that had already kicked my ass.
My flight out of Chicago was delayed. And then delayed again. In the terminal, there was nothing but a Wetzel's Pretzels and a popcorn vendor. My computer was dead. It looked like I'd be spending the night in O'Hare with a stale pretzel for dinner and a sack of caramel corn for a pillow. Miraculously, my plane took off and I sprinted through the baggage claim doors in Boston just before the last Dartmouth Coach was pulling away from the curb. Wheezing, I clambered aboard, found a seat in the back and put on headphones to avoid small talk with the kid next to me. The bus was full and everyone seemed to know each other. I felt like I was at a Christmas party I hadn't been invited to.
I closed my eyes and tried to get some rest, but my head swirled in a fitful half-sleep. Should I be taking distribs this term instead of random classes with cool-looking names? Will my liver burst if I play a game of pong? Will our lacrosse coach actually make us practice outside in January? The bus rolled into Hanover, and we all went quiet for a few moments to take in the familiar surroundings in their new light. Icicles hung from gabled roofs and Heorot was draped with Christmas lights. A snowman greeted us from the lawn in front of Topliff. The dim streetlights cast long shadows on untracked snow where students once ran, frolicked and stumbled. The only sound was the hiss from the undercarriage. Stepping outside, I felt neither excitement nor dread only a vague, glowing sense of empty space.
"Poetry makes nothing happen," W.H. Auden once said. Some might take this as proof that art is indeed frivolous and incapable of affecting real change in society. But Auden is too clever for that. In the modern world, the concept and experience of "nothing" is nearly extinct there's simply too much noise and speed. We crave those silent moments with the ineffable, but we need to slow down to find them. It's not the kind of thing you can find on your iPhone.
We live in a place ruled by excel spreadsheets, job applications, thesis-driven essays and emails called "blitzes." It's no wonder so many of us are stressed out all the time. But to each assault on the "nothing" that is too often absent from our lives, winter at Dartmouth offers a slower, quieter setting. After hours, follow one of those wide swaths that cut across our snowy campus. Observe the night. Breathe the stillness that hangs in the cold air. Freshman year, I worried too much. It's been three years now and I haven't outgrown worrying.
Thankfully, I haven't outgrown hope either, and this winter, I hope nothing will happen.
