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Senior Pictures and College Application Essays
It was a summer spent scraping cow manure in barn aisles that significantly molded my outlook on life. I'd taken for granted my rural life on a twenty-acre mixed livestock farm and orchard, but my work this past summer on a dairy created an appreciation for many ideals that I had overlooked. I discovered that the best time to reflect on life's meaning is at four in the morning while waking up cows. Working seven days a week scraping manure, feeding calves, and milking cows has provided insight into why my parents raised me in a rural community. The experiences living and working on farms has flowed over into other areas of my life. The autonomous nature of farm work has encouraged me to deal with many problems myself, searching for solutions in everyday routine. Yet I remain eager to learn from the farmers who live in my community. It takes motivation and determination to work day in and day out no matter the weather, the day of the week or overwhelming tiredness. What I learned most is the dairy farmer's unique knowledge and passion for several hundred herd animals. Working with vulnerable and dependent beasts requires responsibility and humility beyond what I'd known and has shown me each day is to be taken as a new challenge. No task is dealt with lightly. Surprisingly, teaching young calves to drink, caring for their mothers as they produce milk, and dealing with the large "tributaries" of manure has taught me about life. Finally, after years of apathy toward a rural upbringing, I’ve come to appreciate the importance of the attributes it has instilled in me.
French author Jean Giono's simple short story "The Man Who Planted Trees" sets a standard for defining a greater purpose in life. It is a fable that takes only 20 minutes to read but a lifetime to fully appreciate. Giono tells the tale of a solitary man living in the lower regions of the Alps whose daily routine changes the lives of thousands of people for years to come.
The story revolves around an old shepherd, Elzeard Bouffier, who moved away from society following the deaths of his son and wife. Everyday as he went out to tend his sheep, he planted 100 acorns and seedlings spread out across 10 different spots in an attempt to reforest the parched, wind-swept region. Through his efforts the whole region was repopulated by thousands of oaks, birches, and beeches. As the barren area revived, no one realized it was the work of one hermit who created this new life and beauty through his quiet determination. Giono states in his opening paragraph, "If this performance [of human character] is devoid of all egoism, if its guiding motive is unparalleled generosity, if it is absolutely certain that there is no thought of recompense and that, in addition, it has left its visible mark upon the earth, then there can be no mistake." That is the life for which we ought to yearn for: to work for the good of others without seeking anything in return. This point of view coincides with Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn's conclusion in his speech to students at Harvard: the human purpose is not material happiness as our bodies are doomed to die. He says, "–(man's) task on earth evidently must be of a more spiritual nature–It has to be the fulfillment of a permanent, earnest duty so that one's life journey may become an experience of moral growth, so that one may leave life a better human being than one started it."
Giono and Solzhenitsyn have helped define for me a worthy calling in life. My efforts and hopes should transcend the modern markers of success: wealth, status, influence. Rather, I want to strive for that "unparalleled generosity", always working for the good of others without expecting compensation for it. I've not always understood this because for so many years I believed the way to leave an impression on this world was through a visible position of influence. That was my misconception coming from a small rural town where change is frequently small, subtle and often unwanted. I believed true change in the world came only through the decisions of important people living far from where I live. But in light of the humility and perseverance of Giono's old shepherd in a simple fable, I see my rural community differently. It is the seemingly ordinary person who most often impacts the lives of those near by. At my school I've felt like a big fish in a small pond. What I hadn't realized is that my most long lasting impact can be made when I work away from the spotlight and put my ego aside. Some of these efforts include restoring salmon habitat, picking up litter on country roads, and planting trees along a stream bank. Appreciating my rural town and school has been a challenge for me because the world beyond has always seemed more attractive and significant. But through my parents, teachers and church community, I've been given a sound foundation to build upon. Giono's little book, written half way around the world in a different language, helped me see this. Before I read it I was still skeptical that my community could teach me anything; I felt only authors with "life-changing" books could tell me truths I didn't know. But I'm still in high school; I'm still naïve; and I learned I was wrong.
Working in a fellowship of purpose with the old shepherd and those like him, heeding the call to "fulfillment of permanent earnest duty," I want to become a "tree planter": unnoticed, unacknowledged, but day-by-day taking steps that one day will help change the world in which I live. I have to admit to myself I don't need to be a person of powerful position, status, or wealth to change the world, to leave this life a better human than when I started it. I simply need to go out each day planting my seeds, because someday they'll be a forest.
It is one of the great unwritten laws of our day: all middle school cross-country teams are required to have at least one pudgy kid who brings up the rear in every practice and every race. Picture a winded pre-teen puffing through rounded red cheeks while not so gracefully stumbling his way down a worn trail, knowing all too well that familiar feeling of defeat. Coming in last doesn't hurt so much by midseason. As if going through puberty, being overweight, and getting good grades didn't make me feel awkward enough, compiling yet another "top notch" performance over 1.5 miles certainly helped cement my standing in the junior high social ladder. Defeat was a constant for me during my 7th grade cross-country adventure. It takes a great deal of effort to shrug off one's own shortcomings, but a season of last place finishes was an amazing remedy for taking myself too seriously. These particular three months of my 12th year of life helped me learn that experiencing failure does not condemn one to mediocrity. In fact, it was perseverance in the face of continual defeat that taught me that I was learning a lot more by struggling not to come in last than what came so much more naturally to me: coasting to good grades. It took a season of "bringing up the rear" to prove that defeat is a part of life which can be embraced as readily as achievement. More importantly I proved to myself that I could push through something I wasn't good at, while granting me greater compassion for those who try hard but finish last. I'm glad college applications don't require a foot race.
Ben Gibson
