A distance

After graduating from college in '87, I stuck around for another year before leaving for good. Since then, I've been back to my alma mater only a few times.

Once (age 23) to see a movie -- "Room with a View," I think it was. Once (26) to visit my best friend, enrolled in graduate school there. Once (30) with my parents, who wanted to cheer me up after a divorce. And this past weekend (39) with my wife and young son.

It was a little unsettling to be there, because things seemed stuck in time. That's true at most universities, I guess, but at U.Va. the sensation is amplified because of the cult of tradition, the omnipresence of Jefferson, the historic architecture, and so on.

We toured the Rotunda and sat for awhile under the dome's skylight, talking about the added pressure doctoral students must feel, defending their dissertations in this weighty environment. Then we relaxed on the grass out front. It was a gorgeous spring day, clusters of red buds on the trees. A student tour guide was recounting the Great Rotunda Fire. A trio of young women were taking pictures of themselves -- one knelt with the camera while the others skipped arm-in-arm towards her.

Walking down the colonnade towards the statue of Homer at the other end, I had the distinctly odd sensation of possessing detailed memories that belong to another person.

After 20 years, I don't feel connected to college-age me; it's as though we're two different individuals. It's possible that shame plays a role in this sense of disconnection; I wasn't a very accomplished student. But I'm not convinced this is the main reason. The main reason, I suspect, is that "continuity of self" is not as stable as we often assume.

What is a "self", anyway? What does it consist of? If enough of the variables change, can we still speak of a continuous self?

Not only are the ideas of a 21-year-old different from those of a 39-year-old, but the way of thinking changes. The brain itself goes through alterations; thought processes are developed in some ways, curtailed in others. We feel differently when we are older -- mature emotions replace youthful ones, and we cope with them in different ways.

Add geographic displacement, career shifts, relationship drama (in my case, marriage, divorce and remarriage), friendships come and gone, becoming a parent, seeing one's parents age. On top of that, factor in changes in the geopolitical environment, in the grand story the world is telling about itself, which in turn influences how we see our place in the world.

At some point, sets A and B just don't overlap enough to make one feel...well, like "one".

Surfing the backyard

Spring means more to me than it used to -- a result, I think, of getting older and leading a more settled life.

Staying in one place, I've become more aware of the calendar of phenomena, also aware of how disengaged I've been from the natural world -- not even knowing the names of flora and fauna in our own backyard, or what those birds were that assembled in a tree outside the study window just after dawn Tuesday, kicking up a racket.

Song sparrows, maybe. I turned off the music stream coming over the computer speakers and tried to memorize the call. Then compared it to audio files available on the web. I'm still not sure.

This morning, same tree, different birds.

How odd -- having to turn to the internet to learn about something that's a part of our local surroundings. But where else to ask? It's not as though one can just knock on the neighbors' doors and strike up a conversation about finches and sparrows.

They might not know anyway; we're all recent arrivals, here on this cul-de-sac named for a developer's wife. Even our houses are newcomers.