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Long ago I stood on the balcony of a physics lecture hall, watched the leaves of a nearby tree shiver in the wind, and pondered the physics of their chaotic dance. Today I passed by the same building, watched the leaves dancing again, and thought:
Twelve generations of leaves have grown and fallen since I last paid them any mind, but the tree remains and each new leaf can still dance.
Twelve generations of students have passed through this hall since I learned physics in it, but the building remains and the class is still taught.
Twelve years of experience have shaped me since I first watched this tree, but I remain myself and I still think these thoughts.
These moments of clarity--these deep connections that grow between my memories, the land's memories, my future, and the land's future--are among the best things about returning to teach in the place where I once learned. Would that everyone had such opportunities.
Twelve generations of leaves have grown and fallen since I last paid them any mind, but the tree remains and each new leaf can still dance.
Twelve generations of students have passed through this hall since I learned physics in it, but the building remains and the class is still taught.
Twelve years of experience have shaped me since I first watched this tree, but I remain myself and I still think these thoughts.
These moments of clarity--these deep connections that grow between my memories, the land's memories, my future, and the land's future--are among the best things about returning to teach in the place where I once learned. Would that everyone had such opportunities.
