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.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
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.
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.
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