Jennifer Lemma is a philosophy instructor at Walla Walla Community College.
Opening August’s backpack is fairly difficult because, well, we seem to have misplaced it. We retrace our steps, trying to recall what we were doing before we lost it. Nevertheless, for a panicked moment or two, we cannot remember where we put it. When we do recover it, the relief of finding it is obscured by the realization of its curious contents.
July’s backpack contains the right stuff. As with so many philosophical discussions, the right stuff is a perplexing load to haul. If the pack is carried one way, it is burdensome; when it is worn another way, liberating. This month’s philosophy is anything but trendy. It is not fashionable, but the right stuff rarely is.
June is a sneaky month of transition. It is the month wherein we celebrate a slew of graduations, enlistments and marriages. Paradoxically, it is also the month we take vacations, celebrate Father’s Day and look forward to warmer weather. We simultaneously celebrate profound rites of passage and look forward to benign distractions of non-commitments, of whimsy, of pleasurable summer pursuits.
We don’t open this month’s backpack on a vista, in a peaceful setting or during a moment of sweet contemplation. This month’s backpack is found in the trenches. It is inaugurated in schools and reinforced in hospital wings. It is ripped open and then gently passed from one soul to another in mourning.
April’s attitude is cheeky, defiant and contagious. It is like an unruly hairstyle that won’t fit neatly under a hat. It’s surprisingly substantive, however, despite its love-at-first-sight optimistic brashness and its throw-caution-to-the-wind spirit. Its depth takes us off guard.
March’s backpack was left outside by accident, so it is pretty damp, fairly muddy and kind of stinky. Opening it hesitantly, we are a bit apprehensive about its contents knowing the papers are rain-damaged and most likely ruined.
Chained from childhood to one another in a darkened space with a fire lit behind us, casting shadows on the wall, the cave becomes our representation of reality — albeit a false one.
As we prepare to open January’s backpack with the hopes of finding some contemplative, stoic musings inside, it slips from our hands and falls down a cliff.
December’s experienced backpack sits on top of a pile of junk mail, circulars and printable coupon offers for discounts on a host of stuff.
November is misty, cool and enigmatic. It is charming, but not charismatic like December. It is resourceful, but not unpredictable like October. Determinedly placed between these two months, November is its own entity. It declines persuasion by cultural trends, but assuredly recognizes the influence of surrounding customs. It is dignified and respectful, but by no means is it dull or boring.