Thursday, December 29, 2011

A Little Painting of Me.

I spend too much time looking at myself in the mirror. Indeed, I think we all do. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to live back in a time when water was the only reflective surface I could see myself in, naturally and beautifully. When I look in the mirror too often, it isn’t even vanity really, I think. Oftentimes, it’s me being too self-critical.

For my painting class this semester, I had to paint a self-portrait, and instead of using a photograph we used the more legitimate method of gazing in a mirror and painting. I struggled to look serious and expressionless—my professor said that a natural facial expression that captured all moods was the goal.

We began with a charcoal sketch, just a simple study. The technique is to connect something across one’s face; by that, I mean connect the darks across the planes of one’s face rather than drawing the line of the nose, the ovals of the eyes, etc. I became immersed in the close study of the shadows under my eyebrows, eyes, along the side of my nose, on my upper lip. The features of my face took shape on the paper before my eyes. Soon, my professor broke my reverie to ask me to stand back and look at my drawing. I set it on the easel, stepped back, and was shocked to discover a witch gazing back at me. “I” had a large nose that easily could have sported a wart, a pointy chin, a large forehead.

Each of my insecurities sat on the paper before me, confronting me with the skewed perceptions I have of my own appearance. I think I have a large nose and that clearly came across in my drawing. The study spurred me to step back with my painting and try to distance myself from the subject—me. I needed to think of the portrait as a painting of a figure. As my professor noted, portraiture is a difficult genre because too often portraits are boring. To be a phenomenal piece of art, a self-portrait doesn’t need to achieve likeness; it needs to achieve a creative and skilled execution of artistic principles and an understanding of the human figure.

For weeks, I gazed at myself in the mirror and watched a figure come to life on my canvas. First, I had a bob, as I decided the hair should come last. My eyes were too large. My whole head was too big. I changed the angle of my face. I played with the background color. The shirt I wore finally stayed blue.

The light played across my features and threaded through my hair. My eyes settled into their right size and color. Gradually I molded my cheekbones and temples, chose the right darkness of shadow on my neck, and brought my lips to life. We watched videos of artists sketching and mapping out the face on top of a study of the skull; understanding the planes of the face is crucial to creating a strong portrait.


I had anticipated painting my own portrait and imagined that each stroke of the brush on canvas would be felt on my flesh itself. In reality I did touch my face at times to understand my features, but overall I forgot I was painting myself. Sometimes I think that painting is like that moment you arrive at a destination and realize you don’t remember the drive over. I lose myself and yet I find myself. Never has this been so true than when I painted my own face.

It felt like rediscovering who I am. It felt like appropriating my insignificant facial features for a higher purpose—art. My professor told us that he has painted over twenty self-portraits. One hangs in his office and a student once commented on the fact that he kept a portrait of himself there. My professor started and told the student that to him, it was just a painting of a figure, done to the best of his ability; he overlooked the fact that it was of himself.

I wonder if I’ll ever reach that stage. I hope I’ll paint another self-portrait. Or twelve. It isn’t vanity: it is one of the greatest challenges I’ve experienced. And I think it can lead to profound self-growth. Who knows? Maybe one day I’ll even gain the self-confidence to pose as a nude model for a drawing class. Hmmm…I’d better not get ahead of myself.

Sunday, November 27, 2011

A Bus to Nowhere; A Bus to Everywhere

I’m riding on a bus somewhere between Philadelphia and Washington, DC. The sunlight gently enters the bus, which is somehow permeated by a twilight calm. People on the bus are so close together, elbows touching, breathing the same air, and yet, they sit eons apart. I feel like we’re all caught in a weird in-between state, some heads caressing the windows, looking for support; some eyes glued to phones and iPods; some hoods are up, with people staring in the distance, looking for unknown answers.

We’re completely anonymous—besides the few groups of people who know one another and subject the rest of us to their incessant conversations about nothing. Absolutely nothing. We drive through forest after forest, on smooth highways heading into the escaping sunlight. It feels like winter; it feels like timelessness; it feels like forever.

I’ve done a good deal of traveling this thanksgiving break. Driving on roads that seem to go nowhere, immersed in floods of traffic, car upon car upon car. The white lines that separate lanes of traffic seem to guide our destiny, entrusted to the bus driver whose name I don’t even know for the mere price of $25; the white lines flicker and continue ceaselessly, without fail.

As I sit on this bus going somewhere, I think back to a discussion I had with a friend, about people that lived hundreds of years ago and felt that their village was the centre of the universe. One could live one's entire life and see only 250 people. That’s it. 250 people.

How life has changed. I must have seen 500,000 people this trip alone. Easily. Riding a bus across DC. Swimming through travelers at Union Station. Boarding a bus to Philadelphia. Wading through people at the Philadelphia station. Riding train after train to New Jersey. Struggling through hundreds to board the New Jersey transit to New York. And then New York City itself—just count the hundreds and thousands that I saw in minutes, pouring up escalators, herding down sidewalks, adding up as the day progressed. In many ways those people really were nothing more than tallies, that don’t even begin to approach the significance of even one of the 250 villagers I might have known had I lived 400 years ago.

And now I travel back in this sea of anonymity to DC, back from New Jersey, back from Philadelphia. Sometimes I think that all my traveling over the past four years has destroyed that girl I was, leaving Kansas sometime ago. I’m exactly the same. Yet untethered, a bit lost, with a shifting sense of reality. Here I am traveling into a sunset in some unidentified state. Sitting next to my roommate, the only person holding me down to earth at the moment.

I’ve had such a spectacular thanksgiving break, as I usually do, far from home but adopted by friends and their families. Somehow it is precisely when I am in moving vehicles that I realize my own mobility, the fluidity of my life. I hunger for a map that would tally the miles I have walked and journeyed in my life, to have these trips to Smalltown, Suburban, USA documented. I think about the people who, but for the grace of God, I never would have encountered, met, loved; I think of the huge network of connections that link me to people all across the globe; I think that some of my best reflecting occurs when I feel aimless and anonymous, in some foreign land, even if it be an unknown road in Pennsylvania.

I don’t want to go back and confront all my work for school. I don’t want to allow this semester to slip past me. I don’t want to accept the fact that soon I will begin all over again. Persistently I’ve had this feeling that God holds me in the palm of His hand. Even in the middle of nowhere, even when I’m confronting the results of my own actions, even when I feel vulnerable and alone, He picks me up and sends me a sign that I will never be alone. Even when I question if that life of only knowing 250 people in total would have been somehow better and easier and simpler. Whatever road I travel, whomever I meet, wherever I end up, He will be.

Sunday, November 13, 2011

Three Highlights of My Wonderful Week

ONE.

“Going to California, a suitcase in my hand”; “Another sunny day in Cali-forn-I-A”; “California! Here we come!”; “Dream of Californication.” These songs actually apply to me now: just a few months down the road, I’ll be living in California. This week I was accepted to Teach for America as a Bay Area corps member. Wow. Wow. Wow. I’m still in shock. I know what I’m doing after I graduate, a problem that so many of us seniors dread solving.

And I’m grateful—profoundly grateful—to know. But I’m also shocked. And scared. And nervous. And shocked. And overwhelmed. Soon I’ll be a real adult. Part of me questions if I’ll feel less or more disconnected then than I do now. I feel like a constant in-betweener, starting over and leaving and starting over.

It’s what I’ve always wanted. But it’s the opposite of what I want too. I mean it’s exciting to have these opportunities to cross the country and the globe, to meet new people, to start new phases of life. But I want to slow it down and immerse myself in the familiar. I’ve invested myself in these people, these Washingtonians, New Yorkers, New Jersians, Pennsylvanians. And I’ll be leaving again soon. Leaving them, it feels like.

Can you picture me there, in California? I’m struggling to do so. Of the ten cities I listed as preferences when I applied to TFA, I somehow thought I’d end up in Memphis or New York; I don’t know why. California was one of my first choices, and yet I kept saying, again and again, “But California. Really?” I question if I’ll love it there as much as I hope I will.

I picture the beaches, wonder if it’s really sunny all the time, if I’ll ever feel like a West Coaster as I now feel like a pseudo-East Coaster. From the middle of the country, to the east, and now to the west. I’m not sure if it’s progress or just confusion.

My mental image of me in California, of my life there, is only beginning to form. But I know it will take shape and grow in the space sitting between me and my future there.

And I also know that soon that space will cease to exist.

TWO.

The leaves fell like rain around me, red, gold, orange, yellow, brown, tinged with hints of green, swirling, dancing, dropping to kiss and graze my shoulders, hands, pooling around my feet. It was an undeniably beautiful, beautiful fall day—one might even say the perfect day to see Mt. Vernon. It’s been sitting there, waiting patiently, on my DC bucket list, and the months are quickly slipping by. It was time, the right time, to go.


Visiting these country homes, whether it be in England, France, DC or wherever, makes me feel patriotic, like I’m crossing between different worlds and different eras, walking the rooms and paths of people I’d never have the power or influence to meet today. I learned a few things about Washington at his house, and not the typical read-the-plaques-at-the-museum-listen-to-the-tour-guide-droning-on things about his presidency and the Revolutionary War and American history.

I feel like I connected more to who he was, who he really was, in wandering around the estate he constantly dreamt of when fighting battles and forming the United States of America. He wrote repeatedly that he just wanted to go home to Mt. Vernon, and there I was only yesterday, wandering around the home and lands he longed for. I saw the giant trees that had to have been planted in Washington’s time or earlier. I enjoyed the view from his massive back porch, overlooking our beloved Potomac. I strolled through the brightly colored blue and green rooms of his home, that he personally chose the colors for. Lafeyette’s key to the Bastille prison given as a gift to the new leader of liberty, exotic hand-chosen china branded with his seal, his desk chair with an overhead fan operated by foot pedals, his pristine and cozy white bedroom shared with Martha.


I know that this is the whole point of going, to bring history alive, to learn more about the man behind the presidency and the renown and the legends. And I fully realize that I don’t really know who Washington is, today any more than two days ago. Nonetheless, I feel like I learned something important about him in his taste for bright colors, his beautiful porch, and his magnificent land. I could have lived there happily, and he did live there happily. Somehow that seems important to me.

I wandered around and thought about how good it was that I had taken a little alone time, a little retreat time for myself, off campus. It made me feel so connected to the past, to DC, to America, to the fall, to this time in my life. It made me feel like I was once again connected to something so much bigger than myself.

THREE.

Banana Grams on a Friday night—perhaps not the college norm. But it’s definitely one of the highlights of my week. My roommates and I started a tradition at the beginning of the year to fix dinner once a week, rotating cooks and inviting friends to join us. The staples are the roommates, delicious food, and a game of Banana Grams after dinner. Perhaps that in and of itself says a lot about who we are—a group of dorky college students.

But I think it says so much more too. Every single dinner surprises me with how delicious it is, how comfortable I feel with these people of mine, how time can fly by just sitting at home and doing “nothing.” We talk and laugh and eat and eat and eat and laugh. In that order. By the time Banana Grams rolls around we’re usually full to the point of exploding and sleepy with contentment.


We sit around the table, nibbling on leftovers, clashing elbows, sipping wine, mixing the little scrabble-like squares on the table, picking letters, making designs, laughing. Someone proclaims “Split” and we start scrambling to form words. Everyone asks random questions about spellings and seems to compete in forming the most ludicrous of made-up words. “Peel.” Laughter. “Peel.” Someone squeals at getting a Q. “Dump.” Really? I just got rid of that letter. Fabulous. “Peel.” Are you sure bro doesn’t count? “BANANAS.” The rest of us glare at the winner with resentment. Then we laugh and celebrate the most creative words. Repeat.

It’s so simple. Why do we do it again and again? Why is it still so fun? We played for two hours this Friday after dinner, and I was wondering if someone would start yawning and suggest we quit playing, but it was beautiful to look around the table and think that this was the perfect Friday night. There’s something weird about being a senior and realizing that precisely when we can go out so easily, we don’t have much time left; there’s something to be said for the best use of time being spent with those one loves. Undoubtedly my Banana Grams partners are people I love, and I can’t imagine a better Friday night than this week’s.

Wednesday, November 2, 2011

Back to Paddington

Time, time, time is on my mind. I travel the world and experience all stages of life in the space of my mind; I revisit the past and dream of the future; I try to grasp the present as it forsakes me in the span of a second. It’s all a dream really—an unforgettable dream, that haunts me and eludes me and tempts me. I feel as though I’ve seen the world and know nothing of it simultaneously.

This weekend, the early winter shocked us all and forced me to pull out my winter coat from the bowels of my closet. I shoved the hangars aside and the dresses swirled around my arms, attempting to ensnare me. Finally, I found the very last item, my beloved winter coat that I’ve had for years. I pulled it out reluctantly, but gently, and slipped it on. My fingers dug into the pockets and met some missing tubes of lip gloss and some slips of paper that felt like tickets. I pulled them out and discovered London Paddington train passes.

And I was back there, in an instant. A friend told me that to return to Oxford now would be like returning to Narnia as a grown-up, which I thought was so wise, so fitting. And those tickets were like a taste of journeying back. It’s funny how tangible things make it all so much more real. I love to scrapbook, and sometimes I feel like I’m collecting evidence to make the case that I’ve lived a beautiful life. When I read about Prague, Venice, London, Oxford, Rome, I’m struggling to make the connection: I’ve been there; I really have. Look at this photo for proof.

C.S. Lewis once said that he thought of Euston station whenever he heard the word London. For me, the word Paddington will always drag me back there, vividly, whether I want to go or not. I remember the birds, the cold (it was always cold in Paddington), the sense of isolation, the little hidden (heated!) waiting room I finally discovered, the Upper Crust I would get lunch or dinner at, the sense of anticipation as the departure screen finally read “boarding” for my platform. Paddington made me feel anonymous but a part of something bigger than myself too—the railroads that transformed England, the modern trains that are efficient and quintessentially British, the possibility of penetrating the English countryside.

The weather takes me back, too. When I remember my travels, I think of my Vienna, my Athens, my Stonehenge. A crisp day, both gray and bright, brings me back to Bath. Winter twilight belongs to London; a magnificent, fiery sunset will be tied to Venice indefinitely. My memories of these places feel almost two-dimensional now, reduced to a type of weather, and yet they are also warm with rich sensory memories. How I wish I could revisit these places and bring new seasons, new memories, new depth to my associations. I’m hungry for more travel, while also craving stability.

I want to go back; I want to stay here. I want to grow up; I want to remain exactly this age. I want something new; I want to be in a place long enough to claim it as my own. My life at the moment is a struggle to want any one thing concretely, steadfastly. I’m subject to fears and endless bouts of wistfulness.

I wish I could progress beyond these posts chalk full of nostalgia. Don’t you know I want to go forward, forward, forward? But stop, hold me, let me just savor now. Not back then, or then, or whenever—just now. I just want a steady, exciting, comfortable now.

Monday, October 17, 2011

Why, Hello There

I have sadly neglected my blog for far too long: I apologize for so profoundly slacking. Life has been a whirlwind, but then, what else is new? It feels as though I’ve entered a new stage in my life, even in just the span of time between my last blog post and this one.

I’ve been working hard on my first job application; I’ve started writing my thesis; and somehow midterms have sneaked up on me. Midterms in and of themselves are not incredibly noteworthy (besides the fact that I haven’t taken an academic test in like fifteen months, since I just wrote essays for a year)—it is just that a midterm represents precisely that: mid-term, half way through my first semester of senior year.

That’s right: senior year. How did that happen? I’ve been thinking “one-fourth of your senior year is already gone” again and again, certainly more than I should be thinking of it. It’s hard to stay positive about this year passing by when I feel so utterly powerless to slow it down or fully soak it in.

The rhythms of my life are more consistent now that I’m half-way into the semester. I have my steady constants between my work and class schedule that take up such a large portion of my week. It feels as though I simply cram anything and everything else into the little gaps of time remaining, so that my week is cordoned off, each section given its allotted task and duty to fulfill. I miss spontaneity. I’m back in this city of mine and have all these grand plans of things I simply haven’t gotten around to doing.

I want to go to Ben’s Chili Bowl (finally), to Bus Boys and Poets, to see the new MLK Jr. Memorial, to revisit my favorite Smithsonians, to go to the top of the Washington Monument (that is now under repair indefinitely), to return to the Library of Congress, to tour the Capitol. We have this expression about getting stuck in the Georgetown bubble, simply meaning that this town of ours is engrossing, fulfilling, sufficient to meet our needs so that we forget we are a part of a greater whole, this sprawling metropolis of DC.

Every time I do venture forth into the city, I feel alive and plugged into the larger urban heartbeat. I can’t help but think of all the people who’ve explored this city before me, to compare its architecture with cities from around the world (that I’ve now had the good fortune to have visited). It feels somehow as though my time is running out, to spend with DC, to be a student at Georgetown. I was talking with a friend this weekend about how it is so exciting to get to experience all the “adult” things that come with growing up, but it is also depressing to feel closed off from the “young” things—like being a student and making stupid mistakes that are acceptable as a teenager.

The fact that I struggled to find time to write this simple blog post, which I so enjoy doing, is a sign in and of itself that my schedule is a little too confining. That’s something that I truly miss about Oxford—the independent study system that allows one so much freedom in terms of one’s schedule. But being back here has also allowed me to feel a little more invested in my community: there is a sense of unity in being in a class, being back in some of my old student clubs, working, living, and hanging out with old friends.

Slow. Down. Life. That is what I want to say to time, to gain back control of these evaporating hours. I want to live this year so fully, so beautifully, that while I may look back and say, “I wish I could be a senior once more,” I won’t look back and say “I wish I could have done that year differently.”

Saturday, September 17, 2011

A Run through My Streets

One brick, five bricks, twelve bricks. Four, nine, fifteen. My feet are flying across the ground, but they’re steady, methodical in their progress. I look over at my running partner, roommate, best friend, and wonder what she’s thinking as she runs. Her focus, her effort is written in her features; she looks so alive, as I feel alive when running.

It’s hot, and I’m perspiring in a not-quite-ladylike manner. I feel my ponytail grazing the middle of my back, the breeze on my arms, the muscles tensing and releasing in my legs, the contact of my feet on the pavement.

And my eyes wander, as they oft do, taking in the distinctive townhouses, the American flags, the trees that will soon don their fall colors. Mostly they focus on the ground I’m about to cross over, however, as I am the queen of clumsy klutzes. “The Hilltop” is a nickname for Georgetown, but it takes on a whole new meaning when one runs across its surfaces. The history of Georgetown permeates its streets; in terms of practicality, the crumbling, uneven bricks make me question if running is compatible with my health: I see a rolled ankle in my future.

We run, we run, we run. My breath quickens as we continue uphill; the inner mantra, “You can do it, you can do it, you can do it” silently wars with my weak body.

The store fronts are beautiful, eclectic, and make me wonder what the spaces were used for a hundred years ago. Graveyards holding someone’s soul mate, daughter, grandfather. A school built for black students when Georgetown was segregated. Construction on someone’s front stoop. An owner taking his massive dog for a walk. A stream of pedestrians impeding our progress.

And yet we run, we run, we run. I’ve gained a second wind. My mind crosses back over the ground we’ve covered in all our runs: across Key Bridge, to DuPont Circle, passing our grocery store, by the Waterfront. The monuments usually beckon from the horizon, reminding me I’m home in DC.

My headphones slip out of my ears as we near the finish line. I wave hello to a passing friend. Suddenly I hear the sound of our feet on the pavement, now that the music no longer drowns it out. It’s therapeutic in its repetition, thump, thump, thump; our feet are dancing together, quietly but surely.

Somehow this is the perfect run. My body is tired, yes, but it nonetheless feels energized from running. The last few blocks make me want to sprint to a finish, and my muscles feel strong, sure, reliable. Faster, faster, faster, done. I breathe deeply, wipe my forehead, turn and smile at my friend, and we’re home.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

A Bittersweet Beginning

It’s been far too long since I last wrote. Well, a fun blog post at least: I’ve done all too much writing for school already, two weeks in. School is hectic; I’m overwhelmed; life is crazy.

My blog usually acts as a therapeutic release, an update, for myself and others, as to where I am both physically and emotionally. But where am I now? Where am I?

I’ve wondered before what it would be like to return to high school now, having matured and developed more self-confidence. In some ways, I feel like returning to Georgetown has been a similar—though less dramatic—kind of return. I’m just…different. The exact same. But different. And other people have changed and matured too; but our friendships remain—so where does that leave us?

I catch myself feeling like I’m waiting for something, something indescribable. It’s as though life has thrown so much at me over the past year that I am bracing myself for something grand, something surprising. My future looms ahead, with promise but with an intimidating haziness—where will I be, what will I be doing one year from now? There’s never been a time in my life where the answer to that question has been quite so unclear. It’s taking shape even as we speak; but still, my future has both a terrifying and thrilling uncertainty to it.

Oxford was exactly what I needed after an extremely stressful sophomore year. And now I question how to cope with not returning to its loving arms. Coping has certainly been much harder after returning to Georgetown in terms of being confronted by the fact that I am here and will not—both am not and will not—be there. I’m a little nervous for how I will feel once the term starts in a few weeks. I’ll probably wish I were at bridge club every Monday night, as I do now. I’ll probably close my eyes and be flying on my bike down High Street; sipping tea while gazing at the Camera; laying in a meadow with the sun on my skin; drinking cider in a cozy pub.

Sometimes I consider how obsessed with images our society has become. That could be taken in a million directions but I mean specifically in terms of photography. I personally have thousands of photos and look to them for comfort. But how comforting are they? They have the power to make me tear up, to make me nostalgic, and to some extent, they make me fixate on the past. There’s a danger, I think, in missing Oxford too much. Just as I had to be careful not to miss out on the study abroad experience by missing Georgetown and home too much last year. It’s hard. Oh, yes, it’s hard.

I feel God so profoundly in my life. I look at my decisions and struggles to come to Georgetown, to go to Oxford, to take certain classes, join certain clubs. Stepping back from myself, I imagine people looking at my photos and talking with my friends to piece together who I am. I’m so proud of the experiences I’ve had; I’m so proud of the people who love me more than I could ever deserve. One of my roommates mentioned the importance, the meaning of considering all the love one has in one’s life rather than hungering for more or different relationships. Just realizing, soaking up, appreciating that love.

It hit me strongly, touched me deeply. My life is a rich conglomeration of people reaching out to let me know I am missed, I am loved, I am valued. And I simply pray that I won’t wish for what I cannot have. That I will cherish where I have been and carry back the lessons I learned. That I can be inspired by the love of God in pouring out the same love I have received to others.

There’s a part of me, left behind in Oxford. But simultaneously, I was given so much from my experience there that my homecoming has been all the sweeter. It feels so good, SO GOOD, to be back. I have more friends, in terms of quantity but also quality, now than ever before.

But then there’s Oxford. So where does that leave me? I think study abroad, coming home, where I am now is: bittersweet. That’s it, the answer. My location, my emotions, who I am is bittersweet.

Sunday, August 28, 2011

Welcomed Back by Irene

Here I am, laying curled up under my new bed set, in my new dorm room, at my old school in my old city. A hurricane survivor. English major. One of the rare Kansans. Drinking Twinings tea out of my Oxford mug to ward off pangs of homesickness.

How does life manage to push us around so easily? I look at the blog post I wrote just a week ago and think of how far I’ve come in so little time. Seven days. 168 hours. Missouri. Kansas. Dallas. Washington, DC. Friends, family, friends. A room of my own, a room to share.

It is the weirdest feeling to wander around my old haunts, favorite places, re-warm benches, retrace steps. Somehow it feels as though DC is accepting me back with open arms, and yet, simultaneously, she says win me back. Adore me as I deserve. Make an effort to span my city’s miles, neighborhoods, stores, stops. I have to relearn, slightly, what used to be mine.

And I will. It’s funny too how protective I felt of DC last night as Hurricane Irene pounced. I wondered how many people I know and care about would face power outages, fallen tree branches, floods, fierce winds. I prayed that DC would not be ravaged as North Carolina was. My friends and I snuggled up with my newly-purchased wine glasses, fuzzy blankets, and junk food to watch a movie, as the rain plastered the windows, beating relentlessly.

It feels so wonderful to be with my people again, these friends whom I have been separated from for all too long. I keep trying to peek ahead and know what my final year as an undergrad has in store for me. What a glorious feeling to be on the brink of it; and yet, already this year is escaping me. Despite myself, I dread the wrap-up, the moving on, the growing up.

It’s fun to see the incoming freshman class, looking so young and a little nervous, a little unsure of themselves. I was just there but there’s some formidable occurrence that stands between freshman me and senior me: coming into my own. Feeling comfortable in my own skin. Being blasé about starting conversations with whomever. Relaxing in even somewhat disconcerting situations, going with the flow, playing it by ear.

As the tropical storm rampaged through DC, my thoughts were with the homeless; with returning students struggling to get back; with new students adjusting to their new campus in the midst of a hurricane. My arms were around some of my best friends, as I smiled at the feeling of coming home. My heart was still bruised from goodbyes in Kansas and England, trying to beat its way back.

But really, truly, everything in me says, “This is going to be a good year.” I’ve dreaded it starting because that necessitates it ending all too soon. But now it has started. I’m in the middle of something beautiful.

Sunday, August 21, 2011

Two Days with a Best Friend

Isn’t that ridiculous? The mere thought of spending two itty bitty days with one’s best friend—in an entire year.

I miss her already. And want her back. My best friend and I met thirteen years ago at diabetes camp. We had a few years where we remained skeptical of the other’s charms but eventually we hit it off. One year after camp, the friendship eased into phone calls (this was pre-cell phone, so no low-key texting available) and letters. Every progressive year our friendship deepened, matured, took on more meaning and worth.

Now, my best friend knows me better than anyone else, I believe. Perhaps you scoff at the idea of best friends spending only two days a year together, but trust me—it’s not by choice. And we are amazingly close considering the distance restrictions our friendship has been under. Via text, phone calls, skype, facebook, postcards, and letters, we keep in touch. At this point it feels so natural to talk not face-to-face; as though the words I type truly are spoken and heard; as though the language of technological communication is the only true language.

But then again, we slipped right back into seeing one another in person, too, this weekend, as though we have the luxury of seeing one another daily, weekly, monthly, even biannually. And hopefully this year we’ll have that much at least, two visits rather than one.

I never would have thought a long-distance friendship could mean so much, could endure such lengthy separations, could foster such intimacy. It was so incredibly beautiful to be able to look in Jess’s eyes while she spoke. To elbow her when she slipped in a snarky comment. To hear her laughter in all its wonderful realness. To eat together, shop together, drive together, dance together.

Sometimes I step back and look at how blessed I am with my friends and family, and I attempt to see God’s hand in my life, to feel His plan and treasure His closeness. I attempt to question why He gifted me the friendships I have, and I thank Him for blessing me with people who make my life wonderful, ease my trials and pains, and expand my joys.

On the eve of returning to my beloved school, where I will reunite with so many friends, I treasure the proximity of my best friend while we are in the same state, for just a few days more. After being half the country and then half the world apart, it feels lovely to just close my eyes and picture the gap between us in all its surmountability.

We laughed as we parted. Hugged several times. Reached out our hands as the distance between us widened, knowing the feet would become miles, then thousands of miles. It seemed so ironic, the jolt out of physical closeness that we had so easily slipped into. But then again I’m still in denial mode. I cling to the illusion that I’ll be seeing her tomorrow. When I try to grasp the reality of our parting, I know that our closeness defies distance, inconvenience, long months of separation.

I’ll be seeing you soon, Jess. Until then.

Saturday, August 6, 2011

And So Summer Draws to a Close...

Summer is evaporating, the days are slipping away from me. I accidentally sleep in and ignore my alarm on a daily basis. I have perhaps one thing a day scheduled, like a skype date or lunch with a friend—so bearing that in mind I should have loads of free time. Should being the key word.

With GRE prep and summer reading for my thesis, a significant chunk of my day is tied up. Then chores, spending time with the family, working out, running errands, etc. eat up another significant part of the day. Any remaining free time, the little there is, I pour into my summer projects of painting and scrapbooking—the creative outlets too bulky to haul to school.

I was expecting my usual summer ennui, the days and weeks and months stretching out interminably before me. With a seven-week summer (due to an Oxford end date and Georgetown start date), however, I’m struggling to cram everything in. I’m hungering for one of those summers of childhood: spending the majority outside in the sun, practically sprouting gills from swimming so often, being an indeterminate part of a gang of neighborhood kids, siblings, and cousins; popsicles dripping, tricycle tires whirring, jump ropes slapping the pavement, the crisp, refreshing turn of the pages of my childish books. Movies, forts, pranks, road trips, ice cream, baseball, barbeques—the whole idyllic summertime.

I’m adjusting to this pseudo-adulthood thing. And with how much time I’ve spent wrestling with the decision of my post-grad life, I feel all too adult. I want college to go on and on and on—but then again, who doesn’t? It’s college.

Lately, as I begin to look forward to returning to Georgetown more and more, I’ve been recognizing the fact that I won’t be returning to Oxford as well. And suddenly my breath is caught in my throat, demanding I pay attention to my emotions. My eyes are tingling, on the verge of tears. I miss Oxford so badly it’s a physical pain for a moment, like I’ve lost a part of myself. Then it subsides and I’m me again. Fine.

The numbness resumes.

I wondered what it would feel like to live in the interim between two lives, between Oxford and Georgetown. It feels much different that that other transitional time I wrote of so long ago, between Georgetown and Oxford. It’s not bad, necessarily, it just feels very surreal; and unavoidable things keep painfully dragging me back down to earth: “What are you going to be?”, “What do you want to do?”, “Where do you want to live?”, “What would make you happy?”, “How will you afford whatever decision you make?”.

Oxford is a huge part of this nostalgia of mine. What a beautiful, idealistic, dreamy year that was, liberated from a GPA, provided a respite from the weighty questions plaguing me now. I want it back.

But really I’m too young to be nostalgic. I’m tired of worrying about the future, of studying for the GRE and questioning if I should be studying for the LSAT instead, of looking at schools to apply to and already bracing myself for rejections, vividly sitting through botched interviews I might have in my imagination.

Do I really want to go back to my childhood? Do I really want to live last year over again, even though it was the best year of my life? No, I don’t.

Because to do so suggests that then was better than now. And I’m going to be a senior in college. I want to spend a little more time looking forward with an expectant, positive anticipation. I have a lot to look forward to.

I find the most comfort in the knowledge that He grasps my future, firmly and lovingly. My fears have to be confided in Him and handed over; I pray for peace and direction, perseverance in pursuing whatever lies ahead.

“A man’s steps are directed by the Lord. How then can anyone understand his own way?” –Proverbs 20:24.

The future is there, waiting for me. And I have hope and faith that it is something worth anticipating.

Sunday, July 24, 2011

Miles and Miles of American Soil

I’ve always felt that with a car and gas, you can go anywhere, do anything, be something. The highways wind across the states, connecting people and subcultures and possibilities. I made a mental map with lines that crossed from coast to coast, representing my many family members, finally pooling together in Colorado.

For our family reunion this year, we met in Estes Park, right in the Rocky Mountains. Which meant we had zero phone service but an unbelievably beautiful view. The mountains surrounded us, making me feel protected by coolness, enveloped by the sublime; yet, simultaneously, the rigorous hikes it would take to scale the mountains, the awesomeness of their surfaces made me feel like their reaches were utterly beyond me.

The altitude made all of us a bit short of breath. I braved some easier hikes, and we typically branched out for various activities during the day, like touring the haunted Stanley Hotel (inspiration for The Shining), before meeting up to make s’mores and play games and eat snacks well into the night.

The unanimous favorite activity of the week was whitewater rafting down the Poudre River. We sat on the rim of the raft, planting ourselves with our feet braced against the sides, wielding our paddles like vicious weapons against the current. Whitewater rafting is something I’ve always dreamt of doing and yet couldn’t picture myself doing. In all the photos from the rafting, I have this huge grin on my face; it made me euphoric. The shock of the cold water, the thrill of the dips and waves, the sense of woman vs. nature, the sound of the powerful current and our guide's voice all fused together into an invigorating, heady experience. We collectively groaned as we headed back into the bus all too soon, and I thought of how addicted to whitewater rafting I’d be if I lived somewhere that had easy access to it.

Following our family reunion in Estes Park, about half of us headed to Mount Rushmore. The drive was stunning, through Wyoming and into South Dakota. Seeing Mt. Rushmore itself was wonderful; the four presidents seemed to represent the diversity of liberty, the rich history of this country of mine. After Mt. Rushmore, we began the long journey home.

The scenery seemed to melt the more and more we progressed, the miles wiling away the sharp peaks of the Rockies, the craggy hills of the Badlands, the gentle slopes of South Dakota and Nebraska, before finally smoothing into the golden, parched flatness of the Kansas plains. The temperatures rose, too, as the miles mounted, back to the record highs that have plagued Kansas this summer: a sweltering 105 F the evening of our return.

I felt such pride in my country, as I drove across miles and miles of her surfaces, as I had traversed so many in Britain. My homesickness for England has been a dull ache lately, still faint from the numbness. A box of Magnum ice cream bars in Walmart in Colorado; a random red telephone booth in South Dakota; a 1905 nickel imprinted with Lady Liberty (that reminded me of the Queen’s face on British currency) in Nebraska—the small tokens of a far-off land that once felt as though it belonged to me.

But I really do feel like God has blessed me with a strong American summer, as though He is allowing me the pleasure of being wooed by my neglected love, the good ‘ole U.S. of A. Between revisiting Georgetown, quality family time, a wonderful trip across several states, relaxation, and big decisions that are stressing me out, it feels like I’m caught in a whirlwind of numbness, distraction, and happiness that both hide and abate that hurt.

That pain is still there; and if I could afford to do so, if I could recreate that beautiful Oxford world of mine (complete with friends), I’d rush back tonight. But I’m beginning to feel more and more expectant of this year to come. Me, a senior in college—how did that happen? And how much more will I be blessed with this year? Faith and trust bring me peace; and that peace eases in joy.

Friday, July 15, 2011

Mischief Managed: The End of Harry Potter

Watching the final Harry Potter film made me cry. I sat there, thinking of what it means to be at once caught up in the moment and to be so aware of the moment; thinking of what it means to know a childhood is at an end, ushered out with such a spectacular finale.

There’s something wonderful in watching the people in a theatre watching the movie, sometimes warranting more attention than the movie itself. Of course, with Harry Potter, I was only able to tear my eyes away from the screen for a fleeting moment, as I leaned down to sip my Diet Dr. Pepper. I looked around at the faces, totally and completely engrossed in the screen. And I thought, this is something. This is a pop-culture phenomenon. A book series that has swept the world over and enraptured it, captivated it, claimed it.

We are all a part of something bigger than ourselves. A work of art that allows us to transcend ourselves. There were moments of the film that left me breathless, in awe of the fusion of some of the best of written art, performed art, digital art, sound art. There were moments that were heartbreakingly beautiful in their culmination of seven books, eight films. But what were those books and films, independent of their own worth—what were they to me? Hours of bliss that went on and on and on, beyond the limits of hours. I took my childhood dreams and hopes and poured them into the books and films that suddenly appeared and answered a need I had.

The epilogue was disappointing in its nature, exactly as it had been in the book. It felt like a forced conclusion, an insulting, abrupt reminder that it has all come to an end. I looked at Daniel Radcliffe, Emma Watson, and Rupert Grint during the final scenes, thinking of them as adults, guessing their emotions at finishing a project that has consumed their childhoods. They must feel elated. Shell-shocked. Empty. Free and liberated. Fulfilled and disappointed and unsure—of what the future holds.

They felt a joy in the final scenes that complements the reluctance, the sadness, the mourning on the part of the audience. For us, the new magic is done. We can look forward to revisiting words we’ve read before, many a time; we can anticipate watching movies on a rainy day that we can quote verbatim. They will be new for me again only when I read them to my children and watch their excitement, their joy, and their wonder as they visit Harry’s broom cupboard, ride the Hogwarts Express, enter the halls of Hogwarts for the first time.

I didn’t really cry during the movie because Fred had died. Or shed another tear because Snape died a death he didn’t truly deserve, after living a life he hadn’t really deserved. I didn’t feel another few tears slip down my face because Hermione cried when she couldn’t rightfully prevent her best friend from sacrificing himself—and so she offered to sacrifice herself too.

I cried for how much Harry Potter has meant to me. The film, as a representation of the entire thing, the whole endeavor, had earned my tears. It humbly demanded them. Oh, how I needed some small form of emotional release for everything I was feeling as I watched the final two hours, the final hour, the final half an hour, the final few minutes, the final scene. I wanted, I want, it to go on and on.

But the new stage is done for Harry Potter and for childhood. As the already-worn bindings of my books can attest to, Harry Potter and I know each other well. I will visit the pages of those beloved books again and again, until I meet death as an old friend (hopefully). Albeit reluctantly, however, it’s time for that unwritten span of time that lies between Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows and its epilogue. That span of time between childhood and the climax of adulthood.

As wonderful as growing up with the characters of Harry Potter has been, as comforting as that which has already been written is, as challenging as being a full-blown adult will be, I can’t truly doubt that this stage will be wonderful too.

I mean after all, look at how magnificent a childhood it was.

Friday, July 8, 2011

Oxford Withdrawal

Who would’ve guessed that I still haven’t succumbed to tears, haven’t broken down about leaving Oxford? I hope that my deep, and I think abiding, love for that place has been apparent this year. I’ve anticipated a moment, this dark moment, when I realize, definitively, that I’m not going back anytime soon.

I think that my stubbornness has formed a protective shield between me and that moment. That this is but a break from Oxford is a delusion I can’t shake off—and do I want to?

My time back thus far has been wonderful. Visiting Georgetown and being in DC for the fourth was exactly what I needed: a glimpse of how great (I think) senior year will be and a strong dose of patriotism. I can’t help but admit that when I sang “America, my home sweet home” in front of the Capitol at the fourth of July firework show and concert, I was very proud and felt so blessed to be home. Though I love England more than ever, America vied for my attention, and said, “hey, this is why you love me—I’m unforgettable, too.”

I had this feeling, as I walked around Georgetown, of intense déjà vu. Of walking on autopilot and ending up somewhere without knowing how I got there; even after a 14-month absence, Georgetown is my home, the routes to my favorite places ingrained in who I am. Even with how much I love and miss Oxford, I can’t deny these places that have so profoundly shaped me—my homes.

It’s disorienting, too, though, this question of which country has more of a claim on me. The answer is obvious—America, my home country. But at the same time, I find myself readjusting to the right side of the road, one dollar bills instead of one pound coins, and American accents as though I am a true Brit. Even though it is just readjusting rather than adjusting—a fine distinction.

I changed my language on Microsoft Word back from English (United Kingdom) to English (United States) today. I paused, wondering if I would start to cry. I find myself doing that, all too often—will you cry, Ellie? Are you hurting? Shouldn’t you be hurting?

This numbness is pervasive. But subtle. It taints my reunions and makes me feel slightly melancholy—deprived even of the drama of being fully melancholy. But at the same time...I can’t regret the lack of hurt. It’s there. Under the surface. I think what I need to realize is that it isn’t a quick band aid to be ripped off, a sobbing fit that can be confronted and then I can move on. This will be a long, long adjustment process. When I pack to go back to Georgetown will be one step. When term starts at Oxford will be another. When I miss my friends there particularly much will be another. When I crave a cider. And want to see those dreamy spires. Ugh, I have to stop this list before it gets out of control.

What I hadn’t expected was this feeling of remoteness from Oxford. Yes, the distance—and money it takes to traverse that distance—is a practical way in which I can’t return to Oxford. But somehow it is the endlessly aggravating end-date to my time at Oxford that feels absolute. Irrevocable. It’s the knowledge that I can’t go back, even if I could somehow scrape together the money and time. My little room will soon be occupied by someone else. Most of my friends are gone for the summer or for good. The year came to an end, without my permission.

And now I’m trying to cope and move on. And it’s not as hard or impossible as I had thought it would be. There are lots of little hurts, cushioned by this numbness. There are so many beautiful moments too, seeing and feeling cherished by those I love, hugging some of my best friends and family members as I have longed to do so many times for six or even 14 months.

This year has been unforgettable. My love for Oxford isn’t dissipating anytime soon. But I’m glad I’ve finally grasped onto something I couldn’t originally handle—the reality of how wonderful it is to come home, even when I had to leave another home to do so.

Saturday, July 2, 2011

The End Has Arrived

It’s fitting that my last night in Oxford would be spent awake, coaxing all my belongings into a few bags, peeling away those homey touches from the walls, wastefully throwing away all those everyday items that have made this place home.

I look around the room and remember how barren it looked when I walked in on my first day; I look around the room and wonder how my successor will enter it, live in it, walk away from it.

My last week in Oxford has been a whirlwind of activity. I visited Hampton Court Palace, London, Windsor, and Port Meadow, as well as explored Oxford itself more. I’ve had drinks with friends, nights out, last meals at my favorite places, souvenir shopping sprees, cream teas. My feet are a bit unhappy with me; but overall, I think it was the best strategy to distract myself from leaving and to live up my last week to the fullest extent.

I've denied this moment, this day, for so long; and somehow I can’t face the fact that this is really goodbye, even when I leave for the airport in less than an hour. As a coping mechanism I’ve somehow convinced myself I’ll be back in a few weeks. I cringe to think of my pain when I realize it’s really, truly, fully done. Over. Complete.

As I prepare to leave, I wanted to use pictures to convey some of the things I love most about Oxford.

My beautiful bicycle and the Radcliffe Camera.


Magdalen Chapel, where I went to Evensong weekly.


Christ Church Meadow: the dreamy summertime haven I had imagined it to be.


Croquet at Mansfield.


The dreamy spires of Oxford.


One of my favorite places to get cream tea at and gaze in awe at the Radcliffe Camera.


The classic Oxford alleyway.


The list could go on and on. I'm nervous to leave, dreading it, denying it. This is it. The next time I write a post will be stateside. Where these photos will help ground me, remind me of a year that has been so spectacularly beyond my hopes, so dreamy, so wonderful, that I fear it will slip away from me into an unreal, hazy fantasy.

I leave Oxford more in love with it than ever, incredibly grateful to have been blessed with this year, already missing all the friends I have made here. When I'm home, and slightly less loopy from sleep deprivation, I will sit down and consider this year in all its splendor more thoroughly. For now, I bid England farewell. A grateful, besotted, poignant farewell.

Sunday, June 26, 2011

Sprint to the Finish: The Race for Life

I made a rather rash decision about a month ago to run a 5K fundraising for cancer race in Oxford. I’ve never been much of a runner, but a friend mentioned the workout plan called “Couch to 5K,” a nine-week training plan geared towards people who are out of shape. With only four or five weeks to train, I decided to concentrate the work-out plan, skipping some of the beginning steps, and to get started right away, 3 days per week.

It was a bit rocky at first. Having to get out of bed in the morning is hard enough, let alone rolling out of the bed into tennis shoes to begin a self-imposed torture regime. I was able to run 13ish minutes before I started the plan. It suggested alternating a walk/run pattern (i.e. walk 5 minutes, run 8 minutes, walk 5 minutes, run 8 minutes), gradually increasingly to running 20 minutes, all the way up to 30 minutes.

I’ve always been jealous of people who can run, with just the sound of their footsteps on the road, feeling invigorated, clearing their mind to think. My style is more along the lines of breathing heavily, plodding along, and battling my mind every step of the way to stop. But it began to get easier, slowly but surely. Well, the workout became increasingly more difficult, but I was able to control my weak body a little better, to quiet it into the realization that I was sticking it out.

The runs alternated between being terrible (minute 3 of 25, feeling exhausted, legs of lead) and wonderful (minute 25 of 30 feeling as though I could run on and on). Running also provided me with a great excuse to explore the parks of Oxford, which have beautiful paths, some winding along the river and others shady and tree-lined. Summer here has been much cooler than back home, too, typically in the 60s, the perfect running temperature.

I would pray as I began some of the more difficult runs for God to help me persevere and make it to the end of the run. I longed for encouragement and to stop seeing the super-in-shape people everywhere, making me feel slow and as though I was struggling alone. And then my friends would tell me they were proud of me; I came across this older homeless man in the Meadow, who clapped every time I passed and told me I was doing great; and a girl began running at the same time as me who looked really upset every time, whose face seemed to convey the discomfort I was feeling (if that isn't too cruel to say). I felt like God was blessing me each step of the way somehow, providing me with signs to say, yes, you can do it. I won't let you fall.

Today was the big day—time to run the actual Race for Life in University Parks. My friend and I headed to the park, pinning our numbers on our shirts. I felt grumpy and questioned if I would be able to run the whole thing. We arrived and found 7,000 participants in all—a staggering number. They divided us into walkers, joggers, and runners. My friend and I separated so we could each run at our own paces, following the herd towards the start line.

The path was narrow and a good number—the majority—of the “joggers” decided to walk and obstruct the path. It was so difficult to pass whole groups of people, running off the path onto the bumpy grass ridden with holes again and again, trying to duck under branches and avoid having to stop running. The run was also, however, incredibly beautiful. I felt strong and kept thinking, “Yes, this is what I’ve been training for.” When I ran past the Radcliffe Camera, I thought how quintessentially Oxfordian the journey to the finish line had been. How the run was just one little measure of the progress I’ve made this year, how I’ve grown and challenged myself.

As I continued to wade through the walkers and joggers, I saw the “500 M to go” sign and knew the end was near. My headphones slipped out of my ears, I was covered in sweat, and I attempted to sprint to the finish. It was rather difficult, being still inhibited by the walkers blocking the path, but I got closer and closer and then I was there. Crossed it. Was Done.

I’d completed a rather simple task. But for me it meant something. It represented finishing my 36th and final essay at Oxford last Friday. It represented the challenge of starting my life over abroad. Of fighting my own chronic, though not terminal, disease. It signified that despite the obstructions, the discouragement, the hiccups, I made it. A small victory but one nonetheless worth fighting for.

Sunday, June 19, 2011

Falling in Love with Oxford

Summer camp is almost over and everyone is starting to filter out; instead of parents picking kids up, they’re going independently to board the buses to London, to make the hop across the pond and return to the States.

I want it to go on and on, like the broken record that I am. And in this beautiful, perfect, endlessly frustrating way, life keeps getting better and better, making it even harder to leave. My denial phase is wavering with the reality of goodbyes. Just over two weeks until England and I make an emotional parting—for who knows how long.

I’ve been to formal halls, punting, around more colleges, out to eat, to plays, to pubs, to libraries, on day trips, to run in the meadow. I feel...like my life is somehow out of control, with just a few more essays standing between me and being a senior (panic) and between me and returning to the States (more panic). This summer already has a ridiculous number of things for me to look forward to, but I can’t escape the fact that my response to leaving will be very deep, profound sadness. I wish I could leap over that mourning process of leaving and just smoothly transition from good to more good.

But that wouldn’t be real. And whatever this year is, it has been undeniably, beautifully real. The one unavoidable fact of my life is that I will soon be a fully independent adult; leaving is inextricably wound up with returning to Georgetown and confronting numerous important decisions.

Some of my friends from Georgetown visited Oxford this week, and witnessing their joy as they saw the town and colleges, and tried cream tea and punting, for the first time made me realize the novelty of it all hasn’t worn off for me. Will it ever? Doubtful. I was told I was glowing, that I clearly love Oxford and this year has been good for me.

This experience of a lifetime will haunt my lifetime. I’ve fallen in love with Oxford. And I can’t fall out of love because I have to leave. I just want to hold Oxford tighter and tighter. Close my eyes and deny the possibility of parting. Feel the sensation of being one with this place so strongly that I will vividly feel that sensation again and again, even thousands of miles away, as a comfort in my withdrawal.

I keep looking around and thinking, oh, I miss this place, drinking cider, walking down this path, being with this person, riding trains across the British countryside—on and on the list goes. And I forcibly have to remind myself, you’re not gone yet. You’re here. For just a bit more. Don’t disengage, don’t mourn pre-emptively. And yet there are also these moments of transcendence, which help with my sadness. When I fully realize how special whatever I’m doing is and that makes it more poignantly beautiful than it ever could have been independent of a melancholy undertone.

At evensong tonight, one of the intercessions was for those who will soon leave Oxford for good. My heart leapt, warring between “that’s me!” and “never!” The prayer asked that those who leave to begin a life elsewhere will prosper and live by God’s will, to the ends of the earth, to the end of their days. And I found comfort.

I asked a friend who leaves this week what all she wants to do for one last time before she goes. She responded that she feels pretty good and there’s nothing pressing, and she’s starting to accept that she is in fact leaving. And I thought about the gluttonous thoughts I’ve been having, of how many cream teas I can fit in and favorite sandwiches and glimpses of buildings and visits to places. Just one more, one more, only once more. Let me have one more and it won’t feel like I’m leaving. But her words startled me, in a wonderfully good way. I realized that my life has been chalk-full of goodness this term, and this year generally. That I don’t need to compensate for a lack of experiences because there is no such lack.

If I walked away today, if I were forced to leave summer camp a little early, I would be satisfied—though undeniably torn up about leaving—with the life I have lived here. And that is a beautiful realization.

Sunday, June 5, 2011

An End Date that Just Won't Shut Up.

I can’t say I didn’t expect to feel this way. But that doesn’t make it any easier.

I knew that it would be difficult for me to balance that impending date of departure with enjoying my remaining weeks to the fullest. There are constant little last’s and almost last’s and almost-almost last’s. Each one is a pang, causing my smile to waver, taking me out of enjoying the moment to realizing the fleeting nature of the moment.

This last week has been full of ups and downs emotionally, and I’m beginning to feel more and more like a pendulum. The peak of happy, questioning my happiness, swinging into the security of indifference, feeling slightly miserable, then peaking at melodramatic gloom; repeat. The peak of Englishness—countryside rambles, river outings, Pimms, strawberries, a rainy day, a successful attempt at the accent—slipping down into a weird, uncomfortable in-between, only here for a few more weeks, before peaking again at Americaness—envisioning my summer back home. I’m in a constant flux, trying to grasp something definite, like the number of days left, but also attempting to forget the stupid end date and just enjoy what’s left.

Balance. Balance is what I need. An awareness of valuing my last’s and appreciating my experiences, whilst not pressuring myself to feel the weightlessness of being here indefinitely.

The end date is there. Early July. Staring me in the face. Boldly, stoically, unchangeable. Here’s to me acknowledging it.

Would this year even be as wonderful if it went on indefinitely? I think I can safely venture to say that it wouldn’t somehow—even while I’m dreaming that it could. I’ve experienced so many firsts this year, the partner to my lasts. I’ve built a life in England but I’ve known all along that it isn’t a permanent life. Technically it could be eventually, if I decide I want to make it one and return someday. But Oxford won’t wait for me and remain the same. Remain the unique Oxford of my year abroad, filled with “my” people; she will change, evolve, progress with time and become other, different people’s Oxford too.

Most, but definitely not all, of my relationships have remained at a casual level, not as serious as those back home, with the people who’ve known me for three or ten or twenty plus years. Life here hasn’t been as bogged down with serious responsibilities, like a job or a GPA or thoughts of my post-grad future. This year has been a dream, teaching me so much by taking me out of myself, out of my comfort zone, into unchartered territory.

What would this year be like if it could afford to lose its novelty and become more permanent? What would life be like if I were a full-time Oxford undergraduate, reading English?

Those are questions I flirt with but can never really answer. And if I’m completely honest, I don’t think I want the answer. This year has been amazing, for exactly what it is. And I miss Georgetown and can’t imagine losing what experiences I’ve had there already, the future that awaits me back on its campus. Georgetown shaped me and made me ready for Oxford. I think Oxford has also readied me, for the rest of my time at Georgetown and for the real world of adulthood and independence. Precisely for its dreamy quality, its challenging and exhilarating nature, Oxford has made me hungry for more.

Yes, for more of Oxford. But also for more of that adult life that awaits murkily ahead of me. I can’t see it but He certainly can. The limitlessness of my future, that scares me now with its completely undefined nature, also holds a great deal of possibility. I remember, so clearly, feeling that way about Oxford too; and look how blessed, how rich my life here has been.

For now, I will take all the Oxford I can get. I will savor and adore her for what she has given me thus far; but I would never underestimate her in thinking she doesn’t have something more to offer me. One month, after all, is still a significant period of time.

Saturday, May 28, 2011

A Visit to Pemberly

I realize all too often that life is full of mishaps and let-downs and messy complications—but my visit to Lyme Park was a rather humorous extreme. My friend and I decided to visit the house used as Darcy’s Pemberley in the BBC adaptation of Pride and Prejudice. The estate is situated in Chesire, very close to Manchester.

We began the day early, taking a bus to the train station at 8:45; our train departed at 9:30; and we arrived at Disley (the town closest to Lyme Park) at 2:30. The trip began with engineering work on the train line, so we had to take another bus, then three trains. For lunch we quickly grabbed the only food available—some rather dubious sandwiches at a little cafe at the train station that were stuck in the microwave. Yum.

Upon arriving in Disley, we stopped at a local pub next to the station and asked for directions, which were very simple: follow the road behind the pub, it curves left, take the right fork when the road splits in two—it should be a ten minute walk or so. We start on the walk, uphill, in the rain, of course (it’s only fitting) and end up in the countryside. Half an hour into our walk, we were very concerned that we had gotten lost and approached the first person we saw, an older woman working at her stable.

With a concerned look and knitted brow, she responded, “You’re going in completely the wrong direction.” She said the pub was really close to Lyme Park and we should turn around; I assumed from this that we had somehow taken the wrong road from the pub. So we hiked back, leaving the sheep, cows, donkeys, and chickens behind us. The rain continued with some fierce wind, and I smiled, thinking “Well, this walk is certainly invigorating.” To say the least.

We arrived back at the pub and found a road tucked behind the pub itself—if you want to call it a road: it was more like a narrow alleyway, with a little sign reading, “Red Lane.” The exact road we were looking for. The directions from the pub were spot-on now that we had found the right road. We arrived at the entrance to the park in about 15 minutes, only to find that the last shuttle has just run to the house itself. So we had another mile walk to enjoy.

At the house, we went to purchase tickets and were told that we wouldn’t have time to see the house and the grounds before closing time. So we chose the grounds and ventured out to see the lake where Colin Firth had emerged in his epic wet-shirt glory in Pride and Prejudice.

The lake, at first glance, looked rather disappointing. But as we walked to the opposite side of it, the sun came out, dramatically, briefly, with absolutely perfect timing. The house itself looked much grander, more imposing, and fit for Mr. Darcy from this side of the lake. And, right when we were smiling the huge smiles of relief, clinging to this one moment of perfection on a somewhat, to be perfectly honest, dreary day—you’ll never guess what happened.

Mr. Darcy emerged from the water.


He fell in love with me at first sight (again—only fitting) and said that between my lovely American accent, addiction to literature, and affinity for rambling country walks I was the perfect woman for him.

While flattered, I couldn't help but feel that he was moving a little fast, so I told him I would carefully consider his proposal. We trekked back to the pub for a delicious dinner, mostly just enjoying the sensation of sitting down. But don’t assume too soon that the day’s mishaps had concluded, as we mistakenly believed. We enjoyed dinner a little too much and suddenly realized our train was due to arrive in just 5 minutes. Rushing to pay, we found their credit card scanner was malfunctioning. Finally we were able to leave and took off sprinting for the station right next door.

Alas, we were too late and had missed the train. Suprised? At this point I hope you’re not. The next train did not come for another hour so we went to hunt down a bus that would take us to our next train connection in Stockport. We successfully made it (some more sprinting was involved) just in time. After boarding the train, drunken football fans crowded on and spent most of the ride yelling at one another and singing in chorus. How enjoyable.

The ticket collector came by and I handed him my ticket. He asked, “May I see your rail card?” (I have a youth rail card that enables me to buy discounted tickets). Imagine my joy to have to reply, “I forgot my railcard.” The best part is that you do not simply have to pay back the discounted amount when you forget your rail card but must buy an entirely new full-priced ticket, which was £42. Lovely.

Finally we arrived back at Oxford and I couldn’t help but laugh. How many more things could possibly have gone wrong? Perhaps the trip wasn’t worth it. But I like to think it was. And to feel as though I am a tiny bit more connected to England. At the very least, I think I can safely say it was an adventurous and memorable day.

Sunday, May 15, 2011

The Beginning of My Oxfordian Spring

I questioned today how many more laundry tokens I’ll need in Oxford; just looked at the dull bronze coins in my hand, each a token of two weeks’ time. There are so many small signs, like the number of vitamins left to take before that day, circled in my planner, with a “:(” boldly proclaiming my feelings on the matter.

Why, why would I start thinking about how it will feel to leave when I should be focusing on enjoying still being here? Especially with a beautiful Oxford spring at my fingertips. This place is feeling more and more my own, with each day that passes. But with each day that passes, it is moving closer and closer to not belonging to me any longer.

I’m being seduced on two sides at the moment, by English history and English weather (English literature always gets me, nothing new there). Of course when I eat my lunch propped against the side of the Radcliffe Camera, intoxicated with the dreaminess of St. Mary’s, Brasenose, and All Souls, the sky is cloudy and rain seems imminent. But when I’ve just planted myself in the Upper Camera, the sky clears, the sun comes out and beckons me. The silent reverence of academia in the UpperCam lulls me into a sleepiness I can’t shake off and I must get out, immediately, throwing all my belongings back into my back-pack, dashing down the stairs, getting on my bike, rushing down the bustling High Street with the wind and sun moving right through me, reinvigorating me with the beauty of spring in Oxford. The ride only lasts so long though, until I have to return to the books—which, while lulling me to sleep, do have their own appeal.

English history intrigues me, overwhelms me, helps me to understand this country I’ve planted myself in for a year. I’m learning about Oxford during WWII, about London during the blitz, about heightened socialization during post-war reconstruction. All these small details make me feel connected to the British, almost as though I too am one with their history. The stories from the history books that are supposed to bring history to life for the reader, with a touching dose of humanity, really work for me—I can picture the evacuated babies’ nappies drying in the breeze at Tom Quad at Christ’s Church because I’ve walked through the Quad. I’ve been to the Tube stops where thousands of Londoners camped out during the blitz. I can feel the desire to preserve the beautiful historic places of England during the bombing raids—the fierce desire to protect Oxford. I read about the namesake of an ale I tried the other night, Spitfire, and how Britons were compelled to donate whatever they could afford, a shilling, a pound, even 10 pence to sponsor part of a Spitfire fighter plane—one type of plane that the R.A.F. used to heroically defend London and Great Britain from Nazi attacks. One by one, the facts connect me, delicately, even more with Oxford and with England.

I mean, really, what is this life I’m living. I am experiencing the antithesis of that feeling I wrote about (eons ago, if feels now—on the eve of coming to Oxford): rather than being on the cusp of something great, I am smack dab in the middle of it. The antithesis of so many things actually: old, burnt-out, bored, alone, suffering from seasonal-depressive disorder. I feel young and alive and as though all that is holding me together is my skin. It seems to be the fulfilment of things I’ve always dreamt of without realizing that I’d been dreaming of them. I’ve just participated in a croquet tournament while sipping Pimms. This week I’m going to a ball; next week I’m going to a Harry Potter themed formal hall. Soon I’ll go punting. Again, what is this life I am living? I don’t want it to end. Does it have to? I suppose so.

But not now, not yet.

Thursday, May 5, 2011

Connecting the Dots of a Few European Stops

Twenty-one days spent travelling across Europe. I can’t believe it really happened; it’s transformed back into a distant dream. Now that I’m back in Oxford once more I’m glad I took so many photos on my trip and bought postcards: they’re tangible and ground my fleeting memories, vivid, too beautiful, too many to be true.

The list of stops includes: Brussels, the Loire Valley (in the French countryside), Switzerland, Florence, Rome, and then I took a cruise to Athens, Rhodes, Ephesus, Istanbul, and Naples before flying back to London from Rome.

I’ve always dreamt of travelling. When I was younger I wanted to buy a world map and bright tacks, pinning, claiming each speck on the map I’d been to. Until each continent, each corner of the globe was mine. Until I’d taken those photos that come with the picture frame, too happy, too clean, too cliché to be real life. Until I’d collected memories and exotic experiences like precious souvenirs, to be shown and shared with others.

And of course—I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again—travelling is less glamorous and more work than it sounds. There have been countless times when I’m watching a movie or reading a book that I think, “How much did that cost?”, "How does she look that good after travelling for 18 hours?", “When did they have time to go to the bathroom?”, “Is that really feasible?”. It’s just funny when actually travelling, as an average student on a simple budget, to have to deal with all the practical details, annoying responsibilities, frustrating realities that get left out of an idealistic movie. Getting from one speck on the world map to another, for instance, can be slightly exhausting.

We travelled by rail pass, creating a smooth routine of waking ridiculously early, grabbing a pastry and caffeine, leaping onto our train with luggage in tow, and setting off to the next destination. It oscillated between feeling as though we had been travelling for ages and travelling for mere hours, in sync with my feelings of exhaustion and anticipation for the next place. We switched between languages and currencies frequently and relatively fluidly, the universal arrows, bathroom, and train symbols easing the transitions. It’s funny to enter a new place and realize how utterly far, how completely disconnected one is from any shred of familiarity. Just my suitcase, my purse, and my travel companion anchored me to the new places.

We made mistakes, we got lost, we laughed, we sprinted to catch trains, cat-napped, sought refuge in our iPods, attempted to journal the experiences into safe-keeping, tasted new foods, and tried to stick to a reasonable budget while not fixating on money.

Each place had a new energy and presented new challenges. I day-dreamed about the trip beforehand, imagining how it would feel to be in the different cities, see the different works of art, taste the different foods. It makes me laugh to think about the weird relationship between my expectations, actual experiences, and the snippets I took away from the trip. None of them match up.

Brussels is a city of light, waffles, frites, meandering; the Loire Valley is dreamy, a beautiful spring day, grand, delicious, relaxing; Switzerland is cold, serene, clean, expensive, and cute; Florence is what you would expect, old, Italian, thoughtful; Rome is historic, blasé, fashionable, poetic.

Despite my attempts to savor each moment, to not take any of the places or experiences for granted, my memories have already become blurred. The travelling time has smoothed into one tedious, exhausting, exciting, long train ride in my mind; the French countryside, the Swiss Alps, the outskirts of Rome are all one continuous journey in the space of my memory. My time spent in each city comes first in bright snatches, the highlights.

We rented and rode bikes alongside the Loire River to see chateaux, on a glorious spring day. Riding back, we got horribly lost and the stunning scenery had an ironic beauty: we were too exhausted and rushed to appreciate it, dreading nightfall, wishing we could be safely back in our town. But we made it, safe and sound and completely drained. Switzerland is beautiful mountains and greedy lungfuls of clean, pure air. Oh, and ridiculously good chocolate. Florence is David and the top of the Duomo. I had expected to be underwhelmed by David but he got me. I stood there for who knows how long, gaping, transfixed by the beauty of his form, the detail of his muscles and veins, the magnificence of his stature, the power of his hands. And the Duomo itself is a beautiful building but the view from its rooftop over all of Florence is spectacular, breathtaking, with the warm tones of the city buildings, the trees, hills, and vivid skyline all melding together seamlessly, flawlessly. Rome was a city of overwhelming excitement, between the Pieta in St. Peter’s, the Sistine Chapel, the Vatican Museum, the Trevi Fountain, the Coliseum, and the pinnacle, Palm Sunday mass in St. Peter’s Square with the Pope.

The cruise blends together in eleven days of luxurious relaxation, our belongings unpacked in one room, complimentary room service at our fingertips, fancy dinners every night, movies, games, reading for fun, going out, sleeping in. The cities we visited were wonderful and that would be one of my only complaints about the cruise—we spent too little time in the cities themselves. Athens is simply the Acropolis for me, with not enough time to see much else. Rhodes was underwhelming, Ephesus better than I had expected, with a staggering archaeological site, including the theatre where St. Paul preached to the Ephesians. Istanbul was a city of the senses: the taste of kebap and apple tea, the overwhelming colors and smells and textures at the Spice and Grand Bazaars, and the hauntingly poignant sound of the call to prayer from the mosques. Finally, in Naples we climbed Mt. Vesuvius, visited Pompeii, and ate wonderful, beautiful pizza.

Is this an adequate explanation of the trip I’ve always dreamt of? No, though I wish it were. But hopefully it’s a good beginning, a snapshot, a small commemoration of one huge blessing.

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

A Short Seven-Week Spring Break

The surreal quality of my life here at Oxford has changed slightly with the commencement of my seven-week long spring break. A real sense of displacement and disorientation has been dogging my footsteps as I travel around, stay put, and prepare to travel once more.

My first week of break was mostly consumed with working on some important applications; the second was spent travelling with my family; and I'm spending this third week here in Oxford. After my aunt’s visit that begins this weekend, I’ll quickly pack up and prepare all the last minute details of the three-week trip that will conclude my break. I’m in denial about how quickly break has already been evaporating. The days have been ticking past in a blur, and I have the sad feeling that I will wake up tomorrow to go home to the States. That day a few months from now keeps drawing my eye in my planner, and I return to it with a slightly masochistic fascination—the end date to my year abroad.

I had dreaded not seeing my family for an entire 6.5 months and was very relieved when my mom and little brother decided to visit me in London. Whenever someone visits me in England, I am confronted with the reality that hey, that person is visiting England—and I’m here, in the place that person is visiting—so, oh, yes, of course: I’m in England. It shocks me every time. My own thick-headedness was unexpected. In fact, how surreal this year is perhaps makes the most surprising quality of studying abroad.

The train journey felt, as it often does, matter of fact: I was travelling somewhere, I’d arrive soon, then my family would be there. I lugged my bag up the stairs and craned my neck around the corner. There they were, exhausted from jet lag but smiling. The thought crossed my mind, wow, we have ten whole days together. And suddenly, we were back at the train station, embracing, parting with a sweet “I miss you already! Love you!” It was over. Done. That’s the ultimate frustrating cycle, huh? Because I enjoy something, the time flies; because I enjoy something, I don’t want it to end. So therefore because I enjoy something, I’m forced to love that which is fleeting, and it becomes insubstantial, transient in my clutching, tightening fingertips.

We saw many of the things I had wanted to do in London, including the National Portrait Gallery, the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, St. James Park, the London Eye, a Thames River Cruise, Piccadilly Circus, the Tate, Oxford Street, and Portobello Market. London feels familiar, like it’s claimed me in the same way that DC has. During their visit we also ventured to Barcelona, which was not my favorite city, though still enjoyable overall. It felt a little out of date somehow, and the food was disappointing. I enjoyed the architecture, which was eclectic, surprising, cohesive only in its diversity. The beach was also a gorgeous shade of blue, though too cold to swim in yet. My jeans got a bit soaked and the sand stuck between my toes within the confines of my shoes as we left the beach. But then I realized, I have sand from the beach of Barcelona, Spain and the water of the Mediterranean Sea on my person. The tangible quality of discomfort slightly helped the reality to sink in. Finally, I dragged the family around Oxford to show them my favorite places and we made a quick trip to the Brighton beach. The trip really did feel almost over before it had started and at other moments like it lasted for ages. We had slipped back into that comfortable familiarity of knowing each other in a way that only family can. Saying goodbye was hard, certainly, but the awareness of how quickly the rest of my time here will pass made it easier. I’ll be seeing them again very, very soon.

My one relaxing week of break actually spent in Oxford has also gone by quickly. I had some unexpected additional applications to work on, errands to run, details to take care of in planning my three week trip. It occurred to me, while riding the train back to Oxford after telling my family goodbye, that I was going home. How ambiguous and heavy and nuanced the word home has become for me. If I left it at that, “I rode the train home,” it could be heading to multiple locations: Kansas, Washington, DC, or Oxford. Isn’t there something powerful in that? When I was in Barcelona, I anticipated returning to the UK, to England, to my family’s little apartment in London that we had rented, to Oxford, to my dorm room, to my computer that connected me with all my friends and family across the ocean. Thinking about how far removed I was from home, peeling back the layers of distance, made me feel...displaced. Like a vagabond. Like what was at the core of all those layers, the idea of one true home, had lost its meaning in the shuffle, suffocated by the layers surrounding it. But I'm learning to accept and love my three homes in their separateness and in their commonalities.

I keep learning more and more about this newest home of mine. With the weather warming up in Oxford, the perfect scene was set for me to return to it like a lover after a six month absence—smiling in a way that took up my whole face, feeling peace in the familiarity of that which I returned to, trust that I would be welcomed, hope for all that we would experience in our reunion. I anticipate the rest of my break; I anticipate the rest of my time in Oxford; I anticipate seeing my family once more. It will be all too soon before I write again, looking back to the entirety of my seven-week spring break.

Monday, March 21, 2011

An Unlimited Future...That Makes Me Feel Claustrophobic

It’s very odd to think about life after college. Hmmm, that sounds so lame. But I really think it’s terrifying.

Objectively speaking I guess my life’s pretty put together. I have no genuine fears that I won’t figure something out. But at the same, being an English major will give me so much freedom to do whatever I want—perhaps too much freedom. I’ve been spending the beginning of my break working on applications to write a thesis and to attend law school. Do I want to attend law school? Maybe. That’s the most definitive answer I’ve arrived at.

I think about this way too much, the scope of the decisions I need to make and the impact those decisions will have on the rest of my life. It isn't really even the pure decision of law school vs. grad school that intimidates me.

This is what is so scary about deciding what I want to do after college: choosing what kind of degree I want determines the pool of schools I apply to and what kind of job I will have and the part of the country I live in. If I choose to live in New York as opposed to Seattle or Chicago or Texas, I will make different friendships and probably meet, fall in love with, and marry a different man.

Every single person that I could ask for advice would inevitably tell me that I should not think about all these other things that I can’t control, to take it one step at a time, that everything will work out, that I can and will probably change my career a few times in my lifetime. Is that actually supposed to be reassuring? Of course it’s true, but is it comforting? My life lies before me like a choose-your-own-ending adventure book from my childhood. If I choose law over a PhD in English over a master’s in history, I know that being directed to turn to page 16 will lead to a series of completely different outcomes...almost a completely different life.

Ugh this is disgustingly melodramatic. And of course it all just serves to remind me how little control I ultimately have over the course of my own life. It’s all in God’s hands and I trust Him absolutely. When I was accepted to Georgetown and to Oxford, I felt His hand guiding and blessing me. It’s been confirmed in the rightness of my life, the purpose I’ve felt, the people I’ve met, the ways in which I have grown. I’ve been praying and thinking and oscillating between futures, but He sees what’s to come.

I wish I had ever had that clear, defined dream before me: “I’ve always wanted to be a ______.” It didn’t happen, though, as a child, and I doubt now that it ever will. That’s okay. My life is unfolding in this beautiful, frustrating, slow, surprising way. Sometimes it feels like a movie, at others a tragedy, and sometimes like a painfully dull slice of reality. But I’m beginning to feel more comfortable in my own skin, more confident that it will all work out. I can’t see what’s coming. I’m still so indecisive that it can take me an hour to choose what I want for lunch; now imagine the formidable task of choosing my future.

It’s not as simple as “leave your options open and apply to law school and grad school.” The application process for each is rigorous, expensive, and time-consuming. Nor will the advice “you have plenty of time to figure it out” suffice for any longer. In the next six months or so I need to at least choose between law and grad school. Yes, my future is open before me, with endless possibility. That’s not the problem. And I suppose I should appreciate that in and of itself. I have so much possibility in my hands: what a blessing. Perhaps there really is no right or wrong choice. I’ll find out.

Thursday, March 10, 2011

Will I Survive That Approaching Deadline....

It’s a heady feeling. That of being....very alive. A bit anxious. On edge. My toe is tapping, my fingertips dance aimlessly on top of the keyboard, without enough purpose to type anything. I gaze around the room, whether it be the solemn beauty of the Upper Cam, the soothing familiarity of the Mansfield library, or the crazy mess that is my own room.

The time in the bottom corner of the computer screen draws my eye, a bit too often. The deadline for the essay is approaching, perhaps twelve hours, eight hours, five, four, three, half, two minutes.

My eyes traverse the pages I’ve typed, on a hyper-aware, adrenaline-induced speed reading of my own words: do they make sense? is there a thesis somewhere in the mess of words? can I make the lines and lines of characters something cohesive, meaningful, with purpose, worthwhile?

As the deadline approaches, looming ever closer in its menacing finality, my doubts about the essay are magnified, intensified. What the hell have I written? Who would this possibly make sense to apart from me, the crazy writer of disconnected ramblings? Is my thesis too safe, does it work, will it develop into something better?

Have you ever literally read so much that when you put the book down for a break, your vision is a little fuzzy, your eyes watery, your body mad at you for being sedentary for too long? I mean, hey, I’m an English major: I should be used to it by now. But I really am doing much, much more reading and writing than I ever have before.

Some of the reading is enjoyable—particularly my Victorian lit. reading assignments. My history tutorial this term, however, demands caffeine daily: how can someone sit down to read a 500 page history book and actually remain engaged? It doesn’t matter that I take notes, indulge in small facebook breaks, listen to music, get up and stretch, tug on my left ear with my right hand to wake up my brain, chew on gum, tap my foot—the possibilities are endless with methods of attempting to stay awake; their lack of effectiveness is pretty uniform, however.

The study schedule here is so open-ended with short bursts of intensive stress. The days preceding the deadline are centered around going to the different libraries to read non-circulating books, avoiding my room with the very tempting bed (naps are ever so lovely), and trying to make enough progress through the readings to get a good handle on the material. Sometimes that happens after the first reading, the fourth, or not at all—even after reading a whole list of sources sometimes I feel completely unprepared to even approach a formidable essay prompt, let alone actually write the essay.

So what gets me through the essays? How do Oxford students do it? I can’t answer for them of course, but a few things help me actually finish my essays on-time: food/caffeine, friends, and non-academic events to look forward to, such as going to formal halls, getting tea, anticipating a bop, taking a weekend trip, skype dates, etc. “In two hours I’ll have turned this in and I’ll then get to go to...”

The essay will always, my friends and I say, get done. I trust myself to finish it, persevere, produce something even if it’s not my best work. And while sometimes it does feel a little bit like finals week for half of term, eight weeks truly is a concentrated term time that flies by with how busy everyone is.

Books don’t, perhaps, provide the enjoyment they once did for me. But I still love the smell of old books. Hearing “Jane Austen” mentioned by someone in passing is probably still pretty much guaranteed to make me smile. And I still lovingly skim the book bindings with my fingertips as I wander through the aisles searching for the latest that have been assigned. So while I am indeed writing this as a distraction from my twelfth and final essay of this term (due in about twelve hours), and am somewhat sickened at the pile of books resting next to me, I’m also excited to venture through some used bookstores this weekend to find some light, FUN reading to travel across Europe with me over break.