Leafing By

Remember September when we were all bright-eyed and filled with the kind of enthusiasm that had us promising to do all of our General Education readings and actually show up to section? Yeah, me neither. Still, there was definitely a passion at the start of the semester. But sometime between midterms and group projects, that passion packed up and took a sabbatical, leaving us in a state lovingly referred to as “burnout.”

Now, as Cambridge winds start to feel like personal attacks and the sun decides to clock out by 5 p.m., it’s not just the end-of-semester fatigue that we have to face — it’s seasonal gloom too.

We’ve reached the time of the year when our existence feels reduced to a string of deadlines, and we’re left pining for a sliver of sunlight. It doesn’t help that the trees, once lush, stand stripped of their grandeur, while the grass crunches underfoot. In this stark landscape, where campus green spaces seem just as drained as us, motivation can feel as scarce as the daylight.

Why would I ever venture to Leverett, Dunster, or Kirkland outside of the rare occasion I find myself rushing through because of some mission — grabbing a meal, attending a meeting, or heading to office hours?

As a dedicated Lowellian, I’ve pondered this more times than I care to admit. Still, in my prattling about the green spaces at Harvard, I’ve arguably overlooked the real gems: the House courtyards.

While it’s certainly easy to exclusively show love to our own House courtyard — it’s right there, close to our rooms, and there’s a certain aesthetic pride that comes with it — are we not missing out?

“Shortcut?" I thought, eyeing a barely visible gate obscured by dense bushes while hurrying to my neuroscience lecture in the Biolabs.

The familiar red hues of Annenberg Hall and the sheer height of William James Hall had always guided my walk to class, but a few days before midterms, that discreet invitation to detour was too tempting. I gave in.

Slipping through the gate, I was met with Adolphus Busch Hall, its meticulous stonework standing out boldly against familiar surroundings. Crafted by the renowned architect German Bestelmeyer of Dresden, Adolphus Busch Hall’s presence is both intriguing and oddly out of place. But right then, it felt like I'd gate-crashed a private courtyard, perhaps reserved for a swanky Center for European Studies barbecue. With no one else in sight, it took me a bit to realize that this haven was not an elite club, but a gem open for all.

As a freshman, I vowed to stay as far from the Science Engineering Complex as possible. Fast forward to my junior year, and I’m practically married to the place, clocking in from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m. I’ve become friendly with the FlyBy lady, begged security guards to help locate my perpetually lost AirPods, and even splurged on a BlueBike membership for late-night treks back. I wouldn’t be surprised if I soon find myself taking advantage of those SEC showers — such is the life of a Computer Science concentrator!

During one of my long days at the complex, an inadvertent exploration led to a discovery. Only after three long years, and countless hours in the SEC, did I stumble upon the tiny Engineering Yard tucked away in the back.

Stepping into the yard feels like entering a different world: Lush greenery envelops you in a vivid tapestry of various hues. The air is filled with the fresh scent of foliage, a gentle reminder of nature’s presence amidst the urban landscape. The soft crunch of gravel underfoot guides you along a meandering walkway, inviting you to explore the yard’s many nooks.

Not too far off the beaten path lies a part of campus that most undergraduates seem to avoid: the Harvard Divinity School. You may ask yourself, “Why on earth would I find myself at the Divinity School? Isn’t it just teeming with monks, introspective philosophers, and, let’s be honest, a few internally-confused cult leaders in the making?” Maybe, but tucked away amidst the grandeur of the gothic buildings, there’s a spot that even the most devout of skeptics would find hard to resist.

As you meander through the Divinity School courtyard, the stone and grass walkway, the sturdy benches, and the metallic tables all blend seamlessly, offering a harmonious combination of nature and architecture. Tall trees provide shade, their branches swaying gently in the breeze, creating a calm atmosphere perfect for studying or introspection.

While the courtyard itself is a gem, offering students a green space to work or relax, there’s something else that’s easy to miss. Shielded by a barrier of tall, whispering bushes is the HDS Labyrinth. It’s not immediately obvious, and many might walk past without giving it a second thought, but it’s there, waiting to be discovered.

As the first week of classes begins, so does the relentless grind. Syllabi in hand, many undergraduates will make their way to a beloved study spot — Lamont Library. Trudging past Wigglesworth Hall, mentally preparing for the ascent up the steep staircase, most people keep walking, eyes on the prize (or looming deadline). In their hurriedness, students often miss the hint of green in their periphery — the verdant clue that just a stone's throw away lies Dudley Garden.

Now, I get it. Lamont Library, with its allure of caffeine and the promise of productivity, often overshadows this hidden gem. Nearly a decade ago, a Flyby article beckoned students to this green haven. But years have passed, and the garden remains an enigma. These days, speaking of “Dudley Garden” is more likely to elicit an image of the Dudley House kitchen. Though famed for its vegetarian delights, the co-op eatery is not quite the oasis I am referring to.

In 1949, Harvard decided to tip its hat to Thomas Dudley, one of the College’s founders, by establishing the space. However, before this serene spot became the garden we know today, it was home to the Dudley Gate. That gate, erected in 1902, was bulldozed in 1947 to make room for — wait for it —Lamont Library. Dudley’s spirit, resilient as ever, bloomed back in the form of an ornamental terrace and sundial.