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.