November 2nd, 2022—I was born a naturalist, nature is deep in my soul. For as long as I can remember my sense of self is intimately tied to my lived experiences in nature. The world of trees, frogs, birds, storms, flowers, and the seasons were my first mentors. My relationship with nature has informed my approach to teaching, student mentoring, and university leadership. When I’m stuck and the answer is less technical and more ineffable, nature often provides the metaphors I need to envision the way forward. Or when I’m looking for an image to make the complex qualities of human living more concrete, nature is often there with an example.
A case in point. I was recently leading a campus-wide retreat for faculty and staff. A group who regularly attend a monthly conversation I host that explores the interface between the call to serve and institutional imperatives of productivity and efficiency. During the retreat, we examined the theme of personal and professional thresholds or moments of transition. I invited participants to consider autumn, a season of change, as a metaphor for the various thresholds in their work. I noted that without transitions from green to gold, yellow, and red, fall would be dull. Imagine, I asked participants, what if autumn refused the invitation to transformation and change? I suggested, imagine if you never crossed thresholds in your teaching or learning. Where would growth or development come from? I noted that, attending to thresholds with integrity and fidelity, at the boundary of the call to serve, is an important aspect of being present to self and others.
During one activity, we considered a poem that spoke to the importance of looking backward to the people and experiences that have brought us to this moment of transition. In the natural world, the past has an important impact on the present. The quality of the soil, the amount of water, and weather patterns directly impact fall colors. Participants in the retreat reflected on mentors who informed the depth and richness of their personal and professional soil. In small groups they shared both their learnings from the poem as well as their written reflections. In the group I joined, one participant spoke with care and honor of the folks who attend the monthly meetings. They named everyone on the retreat as their “Bright Light People” for the ways their presence on campus acted as beacons when faced with tough choices and transitions.
I was immediately taken by the notion of Bright Light People, folks on campus who shine in a variety of ways equivalent to all the lights in nature. Some shine like the sun, others like the moon, some like the stars, and still others like the dew on multi-colored fall leaves. I started calling to mind all the people I know on campus who are my Bright Light People. There are so many. I know them, as I know the bright lights in nature. When I see them, my spirit is raised, just as seeing the fireflies of an eastern summer brings a smile to my face and joy to my heart. I know that when I’m stuck and unsure of how to proceed that I can search them out and seek their guidance.
On campus, we recently honored the faculty and staff who made significant contributions to the life of the institution. There were awards for service, scholarship, and teaching. The folks on the stage were the university’s Bright Light People. After the luncheon, as I walked across campus, I wondered if any of the people I passed were past recipients of awards. Who were the faculty and staff who were previously recognized for their excellence in supporting the work of the university. It seems so easy to lose track of the Bright Light People, once the stage is taken down, the dishes packed up, and the celebration fades into the day-to-day tasks of work.
Imagine if all the bright lights in the night sky were suddenly dark or no longer noticed? Imagine, what it would be like if all the Bright Light People were gathered together as constellations of presence? Their shining light, like the constellations in the sky, would tell the story of care, service, and research. We mortals walking across campus, could look to them as anchors of hope and fidelity to the call to heal and care for others. The ways they navigate transitions between personal and professional competing interests would be inspirational.
I find many elements of my job trying and tiring. Yet like rough trails or inclement weather in nature, they are an important part of the ecology of work. Terry and Renny Russell in their book, On the Loose, note that “one of the best-paying professions is getting ahold of pieces of country in your mind, learning their smell and their moods … which contour lines on a map mean better cliffs. This is the best kind of ownership and the most permanent. If feels good to say, ‘I know the Sierra’ or ‘I know Point Reyes’. But of course, you don’t—what you know better is yourself, and Point Reyes and the Sierra have helped.”
I know this is true. My travels in nature are more about who I have become than a cataloguing of peaks, trails, and National Parks. I know this is true in the classroom. The ecology of student, professor, and text is rich with learning opportunities. To paraphrase the Russell brothers, “it feels good to say I know the classroom, but of course, I don’t—what I know better is myself and the classroom has helped.” And when I get lost or stumble on the institutional roots of conformity, I learn something about stepping with greater care. I also find my Bright Light People. They are my colleagues who shine through the mist and fog, guiding me back to my calling to serve others.
Who are your Bright Light People? The individuals who invite you to see beyond your current work to a truer notion of self in place? How do they set the stage for a transition to a new way of being? How do you act as a Bright Light Person for others? For me, I know who some of these folks are. I try to stay close to them in times of transitions. And I also remember, that some of my Bright Light People are the plants and animals that live and thrive in nature. They too are great teachers and offer wisdom on how to navigate thresholds. I need to only slow down and pay attention. Many are showing the way right now as they prepare to hibernate or store food as the world transitions from fall into winter.