“We can love with our minds, but can we love only with our minds?”
In a recent re-read of Graham Greene’s The End of the Affair, I was again struck by the above question, voiced by the main character, Bendrix. Posed after he has just been struck by the viscerally embodied emphasis of the art he encounters in a Catholic church, this experience prompts him to reflect on his own humanity.
As an institution dedicated to the care and formation of the whole person, Notre Dame—and, in particular, her students—should ask themselves the same question: Are we more than our minds? To better explain my approach to this issue, I first want to tell a story.
About a year ago, my roommates and I decided to walk the Camino de Santiago. Uniting ourselves in the footsteps of centuries of pilgrims, our plan was to journey through the final 100 kilometers of farmlands, mountains, and towns until we reached our final destination: the breathtaking Santiago de Compostela.
My first encounter with the Camino was nothing short of beautiful. As I gazed at the striking landscape unfolding before me, it felt as if the entire experience had been curated specifically for my delight. As small white boats sailed along the bay, rich mountains caught my attention, their grassy hills rolling far into the distance. My tennis shoes whisking with a carefree levity across the cobblestones, I felt incredibly blessed to unite myself with such a rich tradition. So far, so good.
Only a few hours later, however, such sentiments harshly collided with the reality of the trail. Exhausted from endless miles of walking, pain now coursed through my feet and up my worn legs. As the sun beat down on my face, I could feel the burns on my weakened body mixing with dirt and my sweat.
Try as I might to escape into some peaceful haven of my mind, I nevertheless felt weighed down by the growing demands of the hike. In my better moments, I would offer up what I was feeling, or turn and smile at the passers-by. But now the last remnants of such resolve had vanished. All I could hear was the recurring “snap” of my ankle, an ever-shrinking breath, and the cold, sinking experience of being abandoned to my body.
Little did I know that I would soon receive my wish. Looking forward, I realized I was lost. Preoccupied with my frustrations, I had wandered entirely from the trail—and also from my roommates.
As I walked along a stretch of highway, however, I heard a voice in the distance: “Elizabeth!”
Immediately, I glanced behind me: it was one of my roommates. Her eyes meeting mine, she broke into a sprint and enveloped me in a big hug. Embracing, the two of us doubled over in a mixture of grief and joy. We didn’t care that we were standing in the middle of the street. Full of adrenaline and relief, it didn’t matter that our faces were covered in loose hair and tears. We were just so delighted at seeing each other again. When eventually our whole quad reunited, we continued on the rest of our day’s walk joyfully, singing as we went.
From here, I wish I could tell you that the rest of the trip was pure bliss. Yet in the next twenty-four hours alone, we had to navigate everything from drunken hostel-mates to being stalked in an abandoned Spanish town. Despite my trip’s many messy memories, it nevertheless remains one of the most striking examples I’ve witnessed of what it means to be human. Whether it was my roommates’ recurring patience with my slow pace, or joining me in many a tear-stained Hail Mary, such offers of strength gave me love in and through my limits. When I was tempted to see my hurting body as a hindrance, their actions showed me the opposite—it was precisely here, exposed in my raw dependence, that I was given the freedom to be most fully myself. And for this, I am profoundly grateful.
Embodied care such as I received on my trip shouldn’t be a rare gift. Rather, the experience of mutual dependence ought to be a characteristic part of human life. It is an inescapable part of being a person.
The answer to what it means to be human at Notre Dame lies in how well we live this vision. One thing I deeply admire about the university is its support not only for students, but their families. No institution can expect to provide for all of its students’ needs. Yet Move-In Weekend programming, Junior Parents Weekend, and Graduation are all examples of how Notre Dame makes a conscious effort to invest in those who can—welcoming the siblings, mentors, and parents of its students, who both know and can help them best.
However, there are still many areas for improvement if Notre Dame hopes to live the full humanistic vision it proposes. While at lunch the other day, my friend commented on an all-too-common phenomenon amongst college students: We’ve largely forgotten how to interact with people outside our age group, most especially children. I know there are many benefits to a community of similarly-aged peers—Notre Dame has given me the most convenient means of building community that I’ve ever had in my life. Nevertheless, I can’t help but wonder about the effects of such an artificial environment.
Surrounded by other young, mostly able-bodied peers—not to mention very few binding obligations—it can be easy to form a disproportionately autonomous and self-directed conception about what it means to be human. Attending classes for a major we have chosen, we study, eat, pray, and sleep at hours which are most conducive to our needs. Though this routine can be disrupted by things like the occasional bout of sickness, when situated against the comfortable backdrop of campus life, it’s easy to dismiss such circumstances as mere momentary inconveniences in an otherwise easygoing life. This isn’t to say all college life is inherently selfish—especially at a place like Notre Dame, many people do find ways to give back. But devoid of natural opportunities on which to depend on others, charity becomes a “nice-thing-I-do-in-my-free-time,” rather than a normative part of daily life. This not only is so unrepresentative of the vast majority of the human experience; it’s also deeply isolating, and a profound loss to the full Christian vision of the person.
How can we recover the human experience at Notre Dame? While at a dinner a few weeks ago, I was reminded of a tradition from my home parish, known as ‘Donut Sunday.’ Consisting of a weekly coffee and donut social, this event drew close to 200 people every Sunday, crowding them into the small parish basement. As elderly couples helped each other with their walkers, family friends would hold conversations, babies and strollers in tow. Venture into the back, and you would likely be enmeshed in small hordes of children, running past with chocolatey grins.
At Donut Sunday, people of all ages could gather for fellowship over something as trivial as a shared sweet treat. I think there’s something to this organic kind of community. As to what creating this could mean practically on a college campus, one way is by relying less on technology and asking for more help. On an increasingly cashless campus, with robots promising fast, frictionless food delivery, it can be easy to turn to existing technological systems out of convenience. But when we increasingly outsource tasks to a phone, kiosk, or laptop, what do we lose? A culture of mutual care cannot exist without real, unmet needs.
More importantly, building a culture of dependence looks like creating the opportunities we wish to see and not being afraid to fail at them. Undoubtedly, Notre Dame is richly blessed with many amazing institutes and opportunities for student formation on campus. But we don’t need another program, lecture, or committee on cultivating a culture of dependency. We need to act. Want there to be more communal, embodied meals? Host a dinner with friends where you cook and enjoy each other’s company. Complaining about no Catholic parties? Host one. Don’t be afraid to take on something that you think is bigger than yourself. If you happen to find yourself overwhelmed, use this as an opportunity to ask for help.
Through sustained, collective efforts to make campus a more accommodating space for embodied human life, I’m optimistic about the fruits of such efforts. I only hope that this time, I can learn my lessons without getting lost.
Elizabeth Mitchell is a junior in the Program of Liberal Studies and Theology. She can be reached at emitche8@nd.edu.