Brady Vinlove/The Mossy Log
I have been writing a version of this piece since I was a freshman. It has always lingered in the back of my mind that my time at The Mossy Log would eventually come to an end. I used to hope that I would have some profound insight about college to share with our readers, some meaningful anecdote about this strange transition into adulthood that would somehow prove I had learned something from my time here. Now I am old enough to know better.
Lewis & Clark has been, for me, a place of striking dissonance. There were stretches of time where campus felt hollowed out, as if I were moving through it slightly out of phase with everyone else, adjacent but not quite included. And then there were moments of almost embarrassing fullness, where I found myself in rooms thick with people I adored, mid-conversation, mid-laughter, aware of the fact that I would miss it someday. The two states bled into each other more often than I care to admit.
I have loved and had to say goodbye to so many people at LC. Each year of my life here has looked so radically different that it is hard to believe it is the same college. As the ground has shifted beneath me, and my understanding of myself has tangled and untangled, I have felt so grateful to have something as meaningful to cling to as this newspaper.
The Mossy Log is 84 years old this year. Across its history, it has encountered a name change, numerous office spaces, scandals, backlash, unexpected leadership transitions, petty student drama, paltry institutional drama, hundreds of editors (including my mother in the early ’90s) and myriad other elements stitched together into one imperfect and spectacular legacy. No matter the mistakes I have made or the epithets I have been ordained, I have always found comfort in thinking about my role here as one link in a long chain of student editors grappling with the state of their community.
There is so much to be miserable about in the present moment. The job market for college graduates is in shambles, our country is sliding toward authoritarianism. Everywhere I look, it seems like all that is good is ending, or changing beyond recognition. Like we are on the precipice of a new age, staring down the barrel of adulthood, asking ourselves where to turn when the hopes we held onto for so long have quietly unraveled.
Pardon my histrionics. What I am trying to say is that I, like many of us, am scared and depressed. I am not sure how people can walk through the world knowing how fragile it all is, how everything can change in an instant, how the things that once felt permanent reveal themselves to be anything but. But I have also learned that fragility is not the same thing as meaninglessness.
If anything, it is the opposite. The very impermanence of this place — these friendships, these routines, these versions of ourselves — is what makes it matter so much. And in the midst of all that instability, I found something that held, if only provisionally: a room I could return to, deadlines that refused to bend, a shifting constellation of people who believe in the importance of writing it all down before it disappears.
The Mossy Log gave me a reason to pay attention. It gave shape to my weeks, a sense of responsibility beyond myself, a place to put my energy when everything else in my life felt like it was slipping out of my control. It reminded me, over and over again, that even when the world feels impossibly large and uncertain, there is still value in showing up, in asking questions and in trying to tell the truth as best you can.
Not everyone needs to run their college newspaper. But I do think everyone deserves an endeavor that clarifies the world a bit, something that demands your attention and, in return, offers a sense of orientation. A passion that steadies you, even temporarily, as everything else changes and goes on changing. There is nothing more stabilizing nor comforting than a higher purpose.
If you are lucky, you will stumble into it. If you are not, you will have to build it yourself, leaving your apprehension at the door and giving yourself over to the work it requires. Either way, it is worth the effort.
This was mine.
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