The Hill From A Distance: The not-virtual world
This post is part of a new blog series called The Hill From A Distance that highlights how the St. Olaf community is moving forward together, even when we’re apart. Each week the series will feature a message from a campus leader — and this week President David R. Anderson ’74 reflects on how the physical world around us has taken on more meaning in a virtual world.
Sometimes it seems as though life is virtual nowadays. You can’t escape that word. At St. Olaf we’re having “Virtual” Honors Day, “Virtual” Reunions, a “Virtual” Last Lecture, “Virtual” chapel services, a “Virtual Celebration for the Class of 2020.” Friends and families gather “virtually” to stay in touch while staying at home.
Don’t get me wrong: these are all good things. We can’t let the coronavirus rob us of milestone occasions or of the company of one another. These are the glue that holds a community together, and we should be thankful for the technology that enables all of us to be together “virtually.”
But I’ve been struck, while sheltering in place, by how much more aware I have become of the tangible and the concrete. I think that’s a function of two things: less movement and more time. When you’re staying at home, your physical world suddenly gets smaller. Your house. Your yard. Your neighborhood. And because so many activities and experiences have been canceled due to the virus, you have more time to experience the physical reality around you.
I’ve been struck, while sheltering in place, by how much more aware I have become of the tangible and the concrete. I think that’s a function of two things: less movement and more time.
For example, I normally don’t think much about birds, or even notice them, except maybe to appreciate a lilting birdsong in the back of my mind as I rush off somewhere. But now, the orioles have come back hungry, as they do every spring, and we’ve put grape jelly out in feeders. I find myself actually pausing to look at them now, eyeing them jockeying for position at the feeder, listening to their songs, watching them swoop to a perch.
Same thing with plants. Early spring is glorious in Minnesota. In your yard you know where the hostas are going to emerge because you planted them there. The bleeding heart by the edge of the driveway comes up green, but you know the red is coming fast. After one particularly sunny day, the redbud tree explodes with color. You knew it would. You’ve been waiting for it. When you’re home all day, you see spring unfolding in detail in a way you hadn’t before.
When the virus finally lets go of its grip on our world — and that day can’t come too soon — I imagine that we will all reflect on how it changed us. Perhaps one way is that we will have become more local, more attuned to the places we occupy, more observant, more at home.
When the virus finally lets go of its grip on our world — and that day can’t come too soon — I imagine that we will all reflect on how it changed us. Perhaps one way is that we will have become more local, more attuned to the places we occupy, more observant, more at home.
I hope that you and those you love are doing well, that you are “at home” at home, and that you are finding moments of calm and peace amidst the anxieties and worries of this time. Best wishes.
David