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COMMENTARY CARDIGAN MOUNTAIN SCHOOL VOL. 2 NO.1
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PAID Permit No. I Canaan, N.H.
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CANAAN, N.H. 03741
NOVEMBER 1980
Views from the Plateau "Great Expectations"
student's voice hailed me from his window high in the dormitory behind me. It was just a few minutes befo_re the start of the evening study hall. I was on my way, "head down with my own preoccupations, to my own dormi tory house. "Look at the moon! Just look at that moon, Mr. Dalglish!" I took my eyes off the ground, turned. There, hung on a clear hard blue sky and rising in silver challenge to the darkening day, was the lunar splendor of beautiful New Hampshire above Cardigan Mountain to the east. I gazed in awe as I watched it float demurely above the topmost fringe of the ridge. I looked up at the young boy who had been stopped in his day by beauty, struck by great expectations. I could share with him joyously the excitement of wonder- a capacity I had thought on the wane among the sometimes
"Western civilization may not be able to survive long without fantasies any more than individuals can exist without dreaming." -Frank E. Manuel and Fritzie E. Manuel in
Utopian Thought in the Western World
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cynical young. I thought of the good-natured laughter that sometimes responds to Headmaster Wakely's frequent "It's a beautiful day in New Hampshire." But such an aesthetic pleasure is really not uncommon among us here; we cannot ignore it any more than could Whittier when he wrote: "Beauty seen is never lost." And then back in our study we looked up something of Tennyson we had remembered. His search for the finite had brought him to these lines: Flower in the cranied wall, I pluck you out of the crannies, I hold you here, root and all, in my hand, Little flower - but if I could understand What you are, root and all, and all in all, I should know what God and man is. Yet, we are bred on disciplines that take us from the IIlOments of truth when some sudden insight stops us to ponder the universe. A local broadcaster from WVPR Radio in Windsor, Vermont, gives us about a minute each day of his own ponderin1;;s on the natural world. He calls it "The Nature of Things.' He is Will Curtis, whom I thank each time he stirs my sleepy eyelids to go to the window. and watch something out there that waits for me. A sunrise, birds on the wing, the budding of a flower, the glittering fragments of light on the lake, a con-trail minutely drawn in the high sky on a cold dawn- or whatever, whatever indeed with which I can start the day with enrichment. But time calls me, bells ring, hurried footsteps remind me.