No More Excuses: Strolling through the sculpture garden

These first few weeks of spring quarter are strange. We’re in a window where everything feels still, suspended before the inevitable whirlwind of events. And while I’m looking forward to the stretch of perpetual fun ahead, I’d like to make the most of this pause.

Now that spring has sprung, it feels like a crime to keep biking between classes when I could be walking, soaking in the sun and fresh air. After quarantining myself in Green Library for the entirety of winter finals week, I think I deserve some time to reconnect with nature.

In search of an outdoor attraction, I thought: where to this time?

With the Arizona Cactus Garden on the opposite side of campus and the Rodin Sculpture Garden closed, I settled for somewhere simpler: the Papua New Guinea Sculpture Garden. I had passed it countless times on my walk back to West Lag, but never stopped by.

This sculpture garden sits on the corner of Santa Teresa Street and Lomita Drive, tucked away near Roble Hall. It’s slightly removed from the usual flow of campus, so walking through feels very intentional. You have to choose to enter. So I did.

The garden immediately enveloped me. A forest hidden between concrete roads and brick buildings. Tall wooden posts rose from the ground, each carved with intricate figures that drew my attention piece by piece. I moved slowly from one to the next, taking them in fragments rather than all at once. Animals, tricksters and vague forms layered together in ways I couldn’t quite make sense of. I traced the lines with my eyes, trying to understand how the characters connected. What story were they telling?

A nearby plaque offered a brief explanation, but it felt incomplete. I kept reading, then looking back up, then reading again. After a while, I stopped trying to fully understand it. It felt like enough to just look, making the most of my own perception.

The garden was created in 1994 by a group of 10 artists from Papua New Guinea. A plaque explained that they left behind not only their work, but “a rich collection of memories and friendships.” I tried to imagine these artists carving these massive posts together, embedding pieces of their culture into a place so far from home. Standing there, it felt like the opposite of everything else on campus — something made slowly and without urgency.

My attention drifted upward. The trees stretched endlessly, their branches dissolving into the sky. It’s the first time this year I’ve felt so small.

Not insignificant, just not responsible for everything.

I let my thoughts dull. The background noise softened and time slowed. Every so often, the stillness broke as people passed through.

This surprised me. I had expected the garden to be empty, but over the thirty minutes, there was a steady stream of people coming and going. Most of them didn’t stop. They were on their way somewhere else — to Roble, to class, to wherever came next. One person, on a phone call, paced along the path, looping the same route again and again. Others walked through quickly, barely glancing at the sculptures around them.

And yet, they had all made the same small decision: they chose this path. When there was a sidewalk that led directly to their destination, they chose the winding path. Even if only for a few minutes, they stepped into something quieter.

I realized I don’t usually make that choice. 

I move through things quickly. From one task to the next. One responsibility to another. I’m always trying to get somewhere. But standing there, I started to wonder where I was actually headed, not that same night but years from now.

There isn’t one place I need to be. I want to soak in the world — friendships, history, art, innovation — but none of these point toward a single destination. So why am I rushing through life, always looking for the straight path?

There’s little benefit in reaching this imagined endpoint sooner. But there’s so much more to gain from choosing the path with room for something else — to think, to learn, to grow, even if it takes time.

The quarter will pick up soon. It always does. The stillness will give way to deadlines, routines and the familiar rush of trying to keep up. 

But this time, I don’t want to treat that rush as something to outrun. I want to move through it differently, making room for detours and pauses, for the unexpected moments that make me more present, more aware, and able to think and grow.

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