Major Essay

Rewinding on Chevy Lawn

It’s still September, so the summer humidity still lingers, making it so tonight is not as cold and crisp as the impending autumn’s weather. My twin brother’s oversized red Patriots sweatshirt does the job. The crickets chirp away, part of their nightly routine. After frustratingly hearing their constant chattering for a couple weeks, and consequently realizing it’s an every-night kind of deal, now, almost a month in, their sound no longer annoys me. Rather, their chitchat fades into the jumble of ambient noise around me. The soft rustle of leaves, the growling engines of passing cars, the lively conversations of wandering students, and the chirping of crickets, no longer catch my attention. Underneath a tall, stately tree in the center of the lawn located to the right of Chevy I sit in one of the black adirondack chairs. You know the ones, where the seat is slightly angled down backwards so your body slides in, nicely conforming with what at first looks to be an uncomfortable sitting apparatus. Sitting here, in my chair, the loudest noise comes from my own voice inside my head. 

Let’s rewind for a second (ah yes, rewinding, something I’ve come to love doing — but more on that later). Mazemakers, the day camp located in Weston I attended as a kid and have worked at for three summers, instills the value of community in its campers, a value that becomes apparent during our tradition of Night Circle. At about eight o’clock on the last night of camp when Mazemakers has its highly anticipated sleepover, after the hustle and bustle of the Open House, the campers line up to head to Night Circle — a sentimental time of reflection, filled with appreciation for camp and our community. The whole camp walks in silence, weaving in and out of buildings on Meadowbrook School’s campus, to an unfamiliar location. The path we follow is marked by many little electric candle discs. We eventually reach a quiet room. It’s dark. The only light provided is from more of those little candles in the center of the room, which reveal a single counselor sitting. The campers sit in a circle surrounding the counselor and candles. From there, a 15 minute reflection begins, where the counselor urges campers to look back on their camp session, rewind if you will, and examine the strong community that’s been built. Then, the campers have the chance to thank the camp. So, as they sit in a circle, one by one, they raise their squeaky voices in the silent room to say thank you. “Thank you Mazemakers for giving me some of the best friends I’ll ever have.” “Thank you Mazemakers for making me feel accepted.” “Thank you Mazemakers for being my home away from home.” After several expressions of gratitude like these, the whole camp whispers “Thank you Mazemakers” into the middle of the circle. Even the counselors whisper this, for many of us have grown up attending this camp and have formed an inseverable bond with it. I can remember, as a camper, leaving Night Circle clutching my friends tightly, my eyes welling with bittersweet tears. 

Fast forward to the week of Sunday September 20th, 2020. “Ignatian Examen with Resident Minister Fr. Chris, Wednesday 9/23 at 7pm”, reads the virtual flyer my RA sent to my dorm floor’s GroupMe message chat. I disregard it quickly because I know I’m not going. Wednesday evening comes along and in my dorm room my roommate mentions she was interested in attending the examen. Fast forward half an hour later, I’m standing outside Chevy talking with a priest about how nice the weather is for an outdoor activity like this examen, an examen which I am “so excited” to attend. In reality, the only reason I attended was to appease my roommate, who had mentioned her desire to go two times now. I sensed she really wanted to go, but not by herself. I felt bad, so I went. I expected it to be some super religious oration that would have very little impact on me. Turns out I was wrong. 

We walk to the middle of the grassy area to the right of Chevy underneath the tree and sit in a circle. The crickets are singing away. Otherwise it is quiet. I scan my surroundings. Still not knowing what an “examen” is, I sit waiting for Fr. Chris to start. Turns out it’s a reflection. This one in particular was a look back on our day. Fr. Chris told us to rewind all the way to the moment we woke up, and from there he guided us through our day until we got to the current moment. And as I was sitting on the cold grass, thinking about the sunny walk to my 9:00 am Modernism and the Avant Garde class, I raised my bent head slightly, suddenly snapping out of my reflection for a moment, and immediately noticed the lights. All of the buildings on Upper Campus have orange lights on them, so although it’s dark out you can still see. It was almost like they formed a circle of light around me, as I sat on Chevy’s grassy plain. There are also the blue emergency lights, and the white lights from lamp posts and inside dorm rooms where its inhabitants have foregone closing the shade. These create patches of light that line the roads around Upper Campus. The darkness, the silence, the circle, the lights… all felt familiar.

Arrive at the present. Sitting in my adirondack chair on Chevy lawn, in the same area in which the examen took place, I stick my hands in my sweatshirt pocket, as it’s gotten a bit chillier, and feel the smooth case of my airpods. I don’t take it out to listen to music, in fact I don’t even have the urge to. Instead, I let my fingers curl around it and my focus remains on the task at hand. I do that which Mazemakers taught me to do from a young age and which, after having a summer without camp, the examen reignited in me: I rewind. 

You would think, sitting outside, in the open, at night, I’d feel exposed and unprotected, but strong brick buildings more or less uniform in style, with roads winding through them and their grassy lawns, surround me. I feel sheltered. They provide just the right amount of privacy and security for me to carry out my reflections. The overwhelming feeling I get from this exact place however, is that of home. The campus buildings, the peaceful night time atmosphere, the glowing lights, all remind me of Mazemakers — a place which has become my second home every summer. As personal a task as reflection may be, at college I’ve realized that I’ve only ever been able to do it when I feel reminded of community and home. The times in my life where I have truthfully and intentionally reflected have been at Mazemakers, my house, or my high school. Given the difficulty associated with the transition to college along with the added obstacle of a global pandemic, I haven’t yet developed a strong sense of community here at Boston College. It isn’t my home yet so I rely on those tangible details around me which remind me of Mazemakers in order to feel comfortable enough to get into a deep state of reflection. 

So, here in my adirondack chair, as the soft breeze brushes against my cheeks and the crickets chirp their nightly tune, I scan my surroundings, with my eyes darting from building to building as if they are attracted to the lights on each one. I breathe in slowly, taking in all the details, details that ground me and propel me into reflection.