In her column “Snippets & Sketches,” Lily reflects on what it means to live a beautiful life.

The forest is still and silent. Light filters amply through the trees, hovering upon the green grass.

My bicycle jounces on the uneven road. I turn around a bend in the road and a monument of stone rises up, guarded by two sphinxes. I read the placard: Here lies Leland Stanford, Jr. …

I am filled with something like reverence. In this campus obsessed with the future, here is a tangible remnant of its past. It is a much-needed reminder that Stanford had a past, that this campus was once alive with people, not us, and concerns, not ours. To me, right now, that is an immensely comforting thing.

I leave my bike by the road; it is solitary, as am I, and gracious in the sunlight. I feel as if I am in a picture — one sketched in color pencil on the pages of a storybook.

Down a little ways, I come across the cactus garden. A magnificent yucca rises in the middle, crooked and spiny, its alienness more striking than any comeliness. The garden is immaculately tended. It reminds me of the Zen gardens I saw in Japan: each leaf in its place, paid care and attention.

Soon, I arrive at the modern art museum. The first exhibit is of mosaics of crushed crystal. One is black with streaks of neon yellow and pink, the colors luminous against the glittering black.

Nearby is a small study filled with books. I enter; my gaze lights upon The Poetry of Wordsworth. I read a few stanzas; it has been a long time since language felt so lovely in my mouth. I laugh at myself: here I am, in an art museum, and I have instinctively drawn towards a library.

There are many more rooms, but I exit towards the neighboring Cantor Arts Museum. I wander into an exhibit about magic. The walls are hung with sketches of witchcraft; books of folklore lie in glass cases. I reflexively start reading all the placards, and it is a while before I realize the way I am going through the museum, I might as well study a deck of flashcards.

I slow down and let my gaze wander over a sketch. In the confusion of dark ink, it takes a few moments to distinguish the witch, the roiling cauldron and the spirits she summons. An artist devoted countless hours to each detail, yet it is a rarity for us to bestow mere seconds on a piece. There are so many pieces! What is one to do?

Too soon, I yield to my watch and head back.

Stanford is vast. Stepping out of my usual routes feels like stepping out of time. My day-to-day life is dominated by deadlines, calendars and the endless game of fitting all I have to do into twenty-four hours. I can sleep eight hours a day and do my p-sets on time and eat breakfast and exercise regularly, but if there is no white space in my calendar, the days grind to the bone. If I have not the space to think, I begin to lose myself. That’s why I came out here this morning, I suppose: with a vague idea of getting away.

Up ahead, Hoover tower is fair in the sunlight, sketched against the pencil-blue sky. I enter time again.