My husband, Jon, just got back from a theological symposium held at our Alma Mater, Valparaiso University. It had something to do with the topic of time or whatever.
He goes to this symposium on a yearly basis partly to gather around the topic and more partly to meet up with his brother and two best college friends- all Valpo grads. So he’s been there more in the past five years than I have since graduating from there back in the 20th century.
Just this morning the conversation followed us right into nostalgia about that place and how formative those four years were to our becoming who we are now. I remember graduating from there on a day in May 1999 and wondering how I would ever be able to start afresh after the most amazing four years of my life where I met my best friends, got me a man, went on adventures, really goofed off at a level that was life changing and hilarious and actually walked away with a piece of paper saying I did the thing and have the official stamp to prove it! How does one go to college, graduate, and then go on to something else? One just makes a series of tiny decisions, mistakes, redirects, rinse and repeat over and over again until it’s 23 years later and here we are reminiscing on a Thursday about times gone by.
The thing about times gone by is that I know I was there, but I’m not sure if any of my memories are true. That’s probably diagnosable as a problem, but truly, having revisited all my childhood memories through the lens of adulthood and maturity, compassion and seeing the parts I simply could not know, I start to think all I can know firmly is that I was there. I know I can firmly say what I thought was happening, but I know I cannot really argue what was because I’m not sure. Don’t put me on record for any of it.
All of which is to say, I don’t trust my memories at all. Don’t put my memories on the stand, they will be easily refuted. Don’t ask me about what really happened. I couldn’t say. Time has not fashioned me into a reliable narrator about my own life.
Are you? Are any of us? I have this core belief about not being in this story called life- even my own life (I know it’s off, but there it is) and I assume that means that I’m not in anyone else’s story either. I would never dare presume I’m in anyone’s thoughts or story or memories. Hell, why do I make music? Because I truly believe it will be the only thing that I can do and leave as a flag in the sand proving I was here. Songs are all I have.
So I know I was there at Valpo. I know my name will show up on rosters and beneath choir photos labeling my existance. I know I have lifelong friends from there and a husband and memories of that campus and wearing shorts too early in April because I was so excited it finally felt like spring time, but who knows what’s lore and what’s truth? Who knows what time is really about?
What becomes of time after it has passed and joins ranks in our bank of memories that leave the realm of truth and enter the realm of story? And who are we without it?
Like all tiny liberal arts colleges with a faith-based history, Valparaiso may not be around much longer. Word on the street is they are selling off their art collection to re-do dorm and install HVAC. After it’s gone, do we mourn its demise or honor the changing of the seasons that never stop their changing? And us too? Us with our changing so slowly and with such subtlety that we forget and re-remember and live some more with our storied selves. Food for thought. Let’s brew more coffee.
I’m Hope Dunbar and this has been my symposium on time. Thank you.