Tuesday, May 22, 2012

A Place Only You Can Go

I’ve been thinking in numbers lately: miles between, hours left, moments enjoyed, pounds of belongings, dollars spent, years passing. It feels as though all of these numbers are weighing upon me, stretching me thin, wearing me down. I was recently told that God will break your heart again and again until it is left open. It certainly feels like my chest is open, vulnerable and aching after a series of grueling goodbyes. I’m not a crier, but the past few days have tested my emotions and prompted a few breakdowns.

When I studied abroad at Oxford, I questioned, despite myself, if I would have a great senior year at Georgetown or if I would spend the year wishing I could return to England. Yet, this week has been a long moment of divine grace—one of those times when you can finally see God’s hand as He blesses your tiny existence with belonging, rightness, beauty, and poignant joy. Senior week—beginning with a retreat and ending with baccalaureate mass—has been a culmination of everything wonderful in my year: friendship, Jesuit identity, spirituality, community, new experiences, family.

The week feels as though it lasted months, rich with beautiful moments, and yet, as though it also evaporated, leaving me with nothing left to grasp onto except some wispy memories, snapshots of vivid, disparate experiences that are already fading. Rolling down a hill, gasping for air. A Nats game in drizzling rain. Singing "Call Me Maybe" in unison at Leo’s. Standing at Frederick Douglas’s house. Splashing in the fountain. Mingling in Riggs and listening to my professors’ last lectures in awe. Watching my classmates being awarded honors with pride. Welcoming my family to my city. Entering Union Station for the Senior Ball, crossing the stage to receive my diploma, looking upon the crowd at mass on the front lawn, picnics in the early evening. The faces of people I love passing before me. The places I love fading in and out of focus. The experiences I have cherished dogpiling, conflating, blending together into a dizzying whirlwind of a week.

And now it’s done. Just like that. My belongings collected, hugs given, thank you’s sent, last’s had. A friend told me that we often put too much pressure on last’s—if the last time doing something is bad, okay, or great, it cannot touch, change, or negate all the previous times experienced. I’ve done my best this week to say yes to doing everything, to avoid infusing moments with nostalgia and sadness, and to appreciate my friends and family.

But this is so hard, so much harder than I would ever have imagined. I feel like of all the places I have lived and loved, Georgetown is the place where I have belonged the most. In some ways I feel like Margaret from North and South, finally realizing I have perhaps romanticized Helstone too much and that I do love Milton after all. Oxford was the best year of my life, but this year has equaled last year’s greatness in different ways. I see now that Oxford wasn’t an independent year, separate from my Georgetown career. It was a chapter of my college career that helped me to grow tremendously and to mature into an appreciation of my home university. I can’t regret the times I felt lonely and weary and discouraged, for they led to this year when I felt surrounded by love and invested in a strong community that challenged me to grow in new ways.

It’s funny how hard it is to leave a place of your own volition. I kept thinking, “Just get off the bus. Go back. POOR LIFE CHOICE. Why are you so masochistic? You don’t have to leave.” But I did. And it made me think of something my little brother mentioned when he came to visit me in England: “I hadn’t realized how hard it is to be the one who leaves as opposed to the one being left.” I watched the last of my friends fade in the distance, as I moved forward, past them, past home, past what I wanted to do—stay. Simply stay.

I’m home now, revived with sleep that I needed pretty badly, enjoying driving, spending time with family and friends, and seeing my dog again at long last. I have projects lined up and much to do over the coming weeks, but for now…I’m firmly in denial that I have graduated and that I will not be returning to Georgetown. Healthy, right? But really, how am I supposed to convince myself that this really is it, that this isn’t a summer break or a trip abroad—this was the end, the “final chapter”?

I’m concocting schemes to keep in touch with friends—my now indefinite long-distance friends—to the best of my ability. I’m already daydreaming of lying on the lawn at Georgetown, peacefully and quietly, because it has become a place worth dreaming of for me, a home where I feel at peace, comfortable, and safe. But most of all, beyond these distractions and avoidances and plans, I’m comforting myself with another piece of encouragement I received—the best is yet to come. People say college years are the best of your life, but you have so many wonderful things in store for you. Life is anything but over.

Bring me peace, Lord. Keep me centered. Help me to handle my grief and find joy this summer.