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.

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.

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.