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.
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