Because I wasn’t going to believe I actually graduated Boston College until I had the piece of paper in my hand and even then, I believe it was our class speaker who said it best: “it was like a beautiful dream you didn’t want to wake up from.” Thank you to my family and friends for being a part of this wonderful experience. xx Dara
a graduation message from my resident director
“What I can tell you now is that if you want it to be, BC will always be your home. Those relationships that mean so much to you will continue to, no matter where you are as long as you put in the effort. And the school itself isn’t going anywhere….so don’t worry about that. My only advice is that you remember what is most true about yourself. Know what those things are and keep them in focus. When problems come and frustration happens, if you can call to mind what you have learned about yourself from your experiences in the classroom, in friendships, on retreat, on a service trip, or wherever it may be, it can be a tremendous help.”
—Ryan Mulderrig, in a ‘goodbye seniors’ e-mail
The man seriously knows how to craft just the right message for any given situation.
Boston College, my playground for the past four years, in all its New England autumn glory. Am I excited to graduate? Yes. Yes I am. College is supposed to be the best four years of your life—isn’t that what everyone says? Four years down and well, I hope it’s not. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t shed a tear or two when I think back to both good and bad times I’ve had here (mostly good). Without you, BC, I wouldn’t be the person I am today. And the person I am today? I’m pretty pleased.
I’m not even going to get into huge debate. The truth is rather evident—all mothers are the best. I’d be hard-pressed to find a love more fierce than a mother’s love. And when I think about the countless times my own mother has wordlessly sacrificed anything and everything to ensure my sister and I are happy, one thing becomes clear through the dark haze of any trouble: that there is no truer best friend than a mother.
Vogue: The Inimitable Carey Mulligan
“As I hug her goodbye on the corner of Oxford Circus, and she heads off into the headlights and horns of London traffic, I am reminded of something she told me of Daisy: ‘The Gatsby thing is a wonderful escapade, but it is an escapade. It’s not real life. She’s smart enough to know when to come home.’”
—Tom Shone for Vogue
The poets, then, did not invent the subject-matter of their sagas, but merely coloured the existing facts.
Lactantius, divinae institutiones, I, II, 23.
My lightbulb moment of “Art & Myth in Ancient Greece” class this semester is when I realized the sheer imaginations of the ancient Greeks.
“One of the strange things about living in the world is that it is only now and then one is quite sure one is going to live forever and ever and ever…and one knows it sometimes when one stands by oneself in a wood at sunset and the mysterious deep gold stillness slanting through and under the branches seems to be saying slowly again and again something one cannot quite hear, however much one tries. Then sometimes the immense quiet of the dark blue at night with the millions of stars waiting and watching makes one sure; and sometimes a sound of far-off music makes it true; and sometimes a look in someone’s eyes.”
—Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden
Photo: yesterday’s sunset at my parents’ home in Shrewsbury
As the undergrad years are winding down, I’m starting to hear more and more from friends about the amazing things they are doing post-grad. The latest: a major congratulations to my beautiful friend Melanie for getting into (and accepting!) a position in the family nurse practitioner program at Columbia University! (Pictured above at The Smile in New York City, a new favorite café)
“Drooker recalled his first thoughts after hearing the news from Boston: ‘A bomb at a marathon, right at the finish line of a festive occasion—it seemed almost like a mixed metaphor, incongruous and absurd. Those are just the things that flashed through my head as I started painting.’”
Thought Catalog: The Marathon
“Perhaps the strangest thing about all this was how little I cared about who was responsible for the attack. I’m sure I will. I’m sure one day, when I learn who did this, I’ll lose sleep, and feel rage, real rage, and want to see them (or him, or her) killed. I’ll want blood. I’m no better than anyone else.
But yesterday, watching the events unfold, watching the looped video of the initial blast, watching that runner, the one who went down when the blast hit, watching his legs crumple, one and then the other, as he goes down, watching all that, I found myself not caring at all who did this. And it wasn’t some zen state that made me like this, not some Gandhi-like understanding of the nature of man, not some peaceful trance where I knew this person or people would get their karmic comeuppance if I just believed in the balance of the universe. There was none of that shit.
It’s almost like I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. It was some strange unearthing of that asshole Bostonian in me–Nah, pal, you fucking prick, I’m not even going to give you your 15 minutes. I don’t even care what your stupid cause is, or what you believe. You killed a child of Boston. An eight year old. You hurt a lot more. Innocents. Someone will take care of you, and you will pay for this. But right now, I don’t care who you are.
What I chose to care about was this: the people who ran to help. The ones who rushed area hospitals and tried to donate blood. The journalists who refused to speculate and calmly delivered what they knew, what had been verified. The EMTs and Boston PD who rushed into the carnage.
Those are the names I want to know. Those are the pictures I want to see looped over and over again on cable TV. The people who were good.”
—Nathan Savin Scott, for Thought Catalog