I questioned today how many more laundry tokens I’ll need in Oxford; just looked at the dull bronze coins in my hand, each a token of two weeks’ time. There are so many small signs, like the number of vitamins left to take before that day, circled in my planner, with a “:(” boldly proclaiming my feelings on the matter.
Why, why would I start thinking about how it will feel to leave when I should be focusing on enjoying still being here? Especially with a beautiful Oxford spring at my fingertips. This place is feeling more and more my own, with each day that passes. But with each day that passes, it is moving closer and closer to not belonging to me any longer.
I’m being seduced on two sides at the moment, by English history and English weather (English literature always gets me, nothing new there). Of course when I eat my lunch propped against the side of the Radcliffe Camera, intoxicated with the dreaminess of St. Mary’s, Brasenose, and All Souls, the sky is cloudy and rain seems imminent. But when I’ve just planted myself in the Upper Camera, the sky clears, the sun comes out and beckons me. The silent reverence of academia in the UpperCam lulls me into a sleepiness I can’t shake off and I must get out, immediately, throwing all my belongings back into my back-pack, dashing down the stairs, getting on my bike, rushing down the bustling High Street with the wind and sun moving right through me, reinvigorating me with the beauty of spring in Oxford. The ride only lasts so long though, until I have to return to the books—which, while lulling me to sleep, do have their own appeal.
English history intrigues me, overwhelms me, helps me to understand this country I’ve planted myself in for a year. I’m learning about Oxford during WWII, about London during the blitz, about heightened socialization during post-war reconstruction. All these small details make me feel connected to the British, almost as though I too am one with their history. The stories from the history books that are supposed to bring history to life for the reader, with a touching dose of humanity, really work for me—I can picture the evacuated babies’ nappies drying in the breeze at Tom Quad at Christ’s Church because I’ve walked through the Quad. I’ve been to the Tube stops where thousands of Londoners camped out during the blitz. I can feel the desire to preserve the beautiful historic places of England during the bombing raids—the fierce desire to protect Oxford. I read about the namesake of an ale I tried the other night, Spitfire, and how Britons were compelled to donate whatever they could afford, a shilling, a pound, even 10 pence to sponsor part of a Spitfire fighter plane—one type of plane that the R.A.F. used to heroically defend London and Great Britain from Nazi attacks. One by one, the facts connect me, delicately, even more with Oxford and with England.
I mean, really, what is this life I’m living. I am experiencing the antithesis of that feeling I wrote about (eons ago, if feels now—on the eve of coming to Oxford): rather than being on the cusp of something great, I am smack dab in the middle of it. The antithesis of so many things actually: old, burnt-out, bored, alone, suffering from seasonal-depressive disorder. I feel young and alive and as though all that is holding me together is my skin. It seems to be the fulfilment of things I’ve always dreamt of without realizing that I’d been dreaming of them. I’ve just participated in a croquet tournament while sipping Pimms. This week I’m going to a ball; next week I’m going to a Harry Potter themed formal hall. Soon I’ll go punting. Again, what is this life I am living? I don’t want it to end. Does it have to? I suppose so.
But not now, not yet.
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