devarim

I decided to send a query email to Ms. Podhurst anyway; one never knows what exceptions may be made until one asks. (Which reminds me: always, always, always ask. Particularly for scholarship money.) As I was flipping through the old files to double-check for all of the relevant essays, I came across the following little piece that I included with my Yale Law School application. (This is not the essay I intend to submit, if Ms. Podhurst will entertain a submission frm me.) Rather than the "personal statement" requested by most schools, wherein the applicant expounds on her passion for The Law, Yale required an essay, on any topic, of no more than 250 words.

For some reason that I failed to record for posterity, I elected to include this essay with my University of Michigan application as well. I was admitted to U of M but chose not to attend (or even ask for scholarship money). Alas, I was rejected from Yale, which still smarts a bit - though, upon reflection, I can't imagine having gone there at all, or being any the happier for it.

I spent many flustered days wracking my brain for a topic, something that would show off my writing skills and make me appear intelligent without seeming flighty, something unique but not crazy. I finally struck upon the snowflake, though not due to any raging storm outside my window. Rather, while staring at the nearly blank screen of my boyfriend's computer (he was later upgraded to "husband") for quite possibly the five thousandth time that day, my eye settled upon a pair of paper snowflakes I had cut out and taped to his monitor some days or weeks or months past. (I really can't recall when I had stooped to that level of creative boredom.)

I've reposted the essay here, for your reading pleasure.

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A snowstorm separates us from our daily lives, leaving us to read, to think, to share stories and renew friendships. Memories of sledding and snowball fights lead us to anticipate the next storm, despite the isolation it may bring. Children decorate windows with paper snowflakes and learn to examine real flakes on a swatch of black fabric. They marvel at the symmetry and beauty of each flake. The snow teaches a lesson of individuality: no two flakes are alike, and in that uniqueness is the essence of being. While our attention is diverted to their apparent perfection, we forget that the core of every snow crystal is a speck of dust.

This could mean that beauty is superficial, but a more fitting interpretation is that beauty grows from imperfection. Without these bits of dust, the ice crystals could not form. A seemingly perfect snowflake is the product of an atmospheric impurity. While a blizzard can gild a barren landscape, snowflakes may be nature’s way of hiding her smaller blemishes. Just as a speck of dirt is the seed for a snowflake, an impediment may be the foundation for a great success. One man overcomes stuttering to pursue a career in television. A difficult childhood evolves into a literary masterpiece. There is little incentive to improve without the occasional challenge.

Each of us is a snowflake: unique, beautiful, and formed around imperfections. Intricacies conceal our flaws, but this beauty would collapse without a blemish at its core.