COLUMN: A lasting impact?

From Sonia Stumacher's "Fragments of the Sun," Fall '96 From Sonia Stumacher's "Fragments of the Sun," Fall '96Sobering as it is, making a permanent markFrom Sonia Stumacher's "Fragments of the Sun," Fall '96Sobering as it is, making a permanent markon the University - or the larger world -From Sonia Stumacher's "Fragments of the Sun," Fall '96Sobering as it is, making a permanent markon the University - or the larger world -might not be a realistic goal after all. From Sonia Stumacher's "Fragments of the Sun," Fall '96Sobering as it is, making a permanent markon the University - or the larger world -might not be a realistic goal after all. A pebble, tossed into a puddle, creates as it tumbles a series of tiny circular ripples, floating outward from the splashing point of contact. Stone meets water, and within moments the deep stillness of each is disrupted; the silent, unchanging harmony of their shared equilibrium unravels. Droplets scatter while widening waves extend to touch the wet puddle shores. The little pool overflows as its boundaries expand to include a foreign, rocky intruder. Unless you're outside after a rainfall, hopping over muddy puddles and streams dribbling along the street, wondering how the pools of water could be so utterly still, unaffected, even as you pass them by. Unless you're searching for a shred of purpose behind your existence, an intent behind your hasty flight along the sidewalk. Unless you're pondering the weight and meaning of your own movement in the world. Then, pausing and peering down into a puddle, you might realize that the pebble in your hand can somehow become more than just a stone. It sits in your palm, this wee lumpy rock, clenched tightly by your fingers which, all at once, bear the enormous capacity to disrupt a gentle equilibrium, to sink the stone into watery depths, to cause a ripple or two. You hold in your grasp the pebble of power. As someone must have once said, who shall throw the stone, shall make the wave. No kidding. But is this not, truly, the task we dream of accomplishing, albeit on a slightly larger scale? Do we not strive, always, even in the smallest of measures, to make our presence as human beings known, to cast the rock into the water? So you're here at Penn, working or writing or solving problems, taking exams, raising your hand, erasing pencil marks, balancing equations and avoiding run-on sentences. Maybe you're careful, doing exactly as you're told, following the guidelines in order to succeed, turning and bending and spinning around just as you're expected. Or maybe you're playing by the rules only so that one day you can beat them, change them, improve them, make new ones. No matter what, though, one thing is clear: you're doing Important Things. Making Your Mark. OK then. So here's what I'm wondering: What's so all-mighty significant about anything we're doing here? Who gets to decide what's crucial, what isn't? I read a Letter to the Editor in the DP on March 26, the author of which accused all columnists (pardon me, except Dave Crystal) of writing about virtual "non-issues." Well, of course! Look at me here, writing to you today about a pebble and a puddle. Is this important, or in any way an issue? So what the hell is an issue, anyway? Depends on who's reading. For some reason, though, we feel our presence in the world has to be known, stamped out, permanently affixed somewhere. Human nature drives us to express ourselves, to somehow extend pieces of who we are. We carve our initials into the world, to show we've been here. Indeed, something about the act of attempting, even in vain, to impose our existence upon the world makes us feel alive. And we throw the stone, make the splash, so that we might see with our own eyes the result of our actions, of our meager power -- and thereby confirm our concreteness, our lastingness, our permanence. Isn't such permanence, though, truly just a euphemism? We're mere mortals, after all -- souls and bodies that live and breathe, yes, but not forever. So perhaps all we can do, then, is push for the present moment to be powerful, creative and meaningful. I'll be gone within months -- from Philadelphia, from Penn, from America, even -- and soon you shall join me. Will anyone feel our absence? Will they even notice, in a few years, that we've departed? Maybe we don't have to strain ourselves to the near-breaking point, then, just to make a scratch on the ground, just to show we're here. And perhaps the mere knowledge of our impermanence, the quiet acceptance of our transient aliveness, full and bright but not enduring, could be enough. We exist, now, plain and simple. Maybe there's no need to prove it. Because even if you do cast the stone into water, even if you make a ripple, a wave, a huge momentous splash, the reverberations of your actions will not last. Soon, in just a moment or maybe an hour or even a year, the clash you have created with the force of your human presence will drift slowly, resignedly, into silence. The water will smooth, the rock will sink. And the deep, infinite equilibrium of the world will fall steadily back into its own, overwhelming, balance. "And it won't mean a thing in a hundred years..." -- Blues Traveler.