Sometimes I lament the loss of the wide-eyed curiosity that made me transcribe every word spoken in every class in my notebook and the enthusiasm for learning everything that generated a page long list of classes I had to take at the beginning of each quarter. I miss the way that my mind hopped from one new idea to another, skipping in glee with all the possibilities for future study. I wanted to be an expert on every single book that we read in SLE [Structured Liberal Education] and my other freshman courses. I still take great pleasure in most of my classes and immerse myself in reading and discussions, but I have perceived a certain mellowness in myself, a steadier rhythm in my thinking. Knowing so much more about cultural history, social theory, and philosophy than I did before Stanford, I also have a more realistic idea of what it takes to truly know a field. As my last quarter as an undergraduate approaches I am gathering in what I have learned and letting go of all the classes that I won’t get to take here.

With this gradual sobering of my buoyant and prismatic intellectual enthusiasm I have come to appreciate a subtler source of nourishment — the satisfaction of focused and prolonged study in one area. Though I was always attuned to the idea that such in depth study was beneficial, it has taken a real reckoning to bring myself to turn away from my prior more fanciful, fragmented exploration into the darker, more tortuous realm of the honors thesis. There I found myself adrift, captain of the biggest boat I’d ever seen with no knowledge of how to steer. The thesis is spoken of as a culminating academic experience, yet it felt like a brand new endeavor, of a very different nature than anything I had embarked on before. I felt completely unprepared. Yet with each stroke of my paddle, I saw that I had the power to carve out the river around me. And, as I began to focus my research, the boat shrank to a more maneuverable size. The waters still rock me and the journey ahead is long, but I have my sea legs now.

Though my study list for my major in Interdisciplinary Studies has changed considerably since I constructed it at the end of sophomore year, one sentence from my statement of purpose still rings true: “Secondly, I am interested in the human need for meaning and how this is manifest in the search for and creation of meaning. ” Though I did not see how the work of John Dewey connected to my original study plan when I chose to study his philosophy of education, I have arrived in my thesis at the very questions I proposed a few years ago. I have had to turn away from many tempting paths of inquiry and activity, but I have gained access to new windows for looking at the world. Dewey has shaped how I see my own experiences (I am studying his philosophy of experience) and my current and future work as an educator. Several times a week I introduce a thought in a conversation with, “As Dewey would say... ” My thesis companions — studying Beckett, Steiner, and the mikvah (Jewish ritual baths) — and I tease each other and ourselves for the way we inevitably veer towards our theses in thought and conversation. Yet it is no laughing matter. For another couple months, Dewey will permeate my experience on many levels. His words sift through my mind and I build bridges of meaning, scribbling and typing, declaring with each word my acceptance of this worthy ordeal.

Kendra Joy Berenson