This November is a hesitant time. The weather is conciliatory, neither warm nor cold (for this native, at least). The leaves have passed. Will there be a little snow? Notes pile by the window, books tower and jargon walks alongside on the way to class. I catch myself, without being aware, whispering descriptions of things around me in what patchy Latin or Greek I can stitch, fabric phrases uncomfortably fitted. The almosts—almost done, almost ready, almost resting, almost awake—mark thousands of daily precipices. I pause at each, tentative. I haven't yet learned to only plunge.
And the habit of struggling begets athletic vigor, wearing deep channels that wisdom might better flow. The wonder and terror of learning classics at Calvin—particularly in their source languages—is that process involves such self discipline, for someone of my natural daydreaminess; my constant desire only to wander from thing to thing. I have very much had to become (and am becoming) someone different in order to be well. It is now uncomfortable not to exercise, and the initial subtlety of reward and tremendous pain of learning are both now less so. Calvin and its circumstances have demanded a kind of responsibility I didn't know to have, but now require, and it is being worked into me.
Your education, do not be casual about it. It ought to holistically reform. In Cicero's Pro Archia, there are these magnificent lines defending a poet of disputed citizenship. Concerning the place of literature (here also education writ large, not only written works), he spoke:
Do, by all means, study Latin at Calvin. Also, come visit, and get just a whisper of that about which I write.