On Facing The Reality of Leaving

As the tradition goes, I’m feeling the most inspired to blog when I have the least time to do it and other needs are far more immediately pressing. Exactly twenty-four hours from right now (3:41 PM), I will be pushing my bicycle out of the Vines’s bike shed and up the gravel slope that leads to the driveway, then whooshing down the hill and pedaling to Norham Gardens for my C.S. Lewis tutorial. And, as of right now (3:44 PM), I have not a single original word written on my essay.

For the past few weeks, it’s been difficult to focus on academics—even to focus on enjoying Britain, England, Oxford, and the Vines—because I feel crushed under the pressing weight of everything I’m about to lose. Because, twenty-four hours and two weeks from right now (3:47 PM), I will, geographically, be somewhere over the Atlantic, but more significantly, flying away from Oxford. Everything tells me that the short-term nature of my time here should have sharpened its sweetness, and perhaps it has; perhaps, if my stay were more permanent, I soon would grow indifferent to the narrow little cobblestoned alleyways and the charming post boxes and the weathered spires of the colleges and churches. Perhaps I would tire of everything (huge paned windows with sills wide enough to sit on, leather couches to sit in and not on, and, beyond words I am capable of forming, the people) about the Vines. Perhaps. I doubt it.

It seems impossible for me to focus on C.S. Lewis and Shakespeare and, yes, even you, Jane Austen when I don’t know when (or even, heaven forbid, if) I’ll ever see Sarah, or Hannah, or Jonathan again. Sarah and I went to a Christmas crafts fair at our little church on Friday night and, in the midst of stitching felt flowers and birds, a lady, noting our non-English accents, asked where we were from. “Arkansas, I said, “in the South,” while Sarah answered, “Canada, actually—Ontario.” The woman laughed. “Practically opposite ends, then!” She didn’t mean any harm, and she didn’t do any, but she did probe (unknowingly) an already-aching hurt.

Considering that—to my knowledge—nearly everyone who reads this blog is at home in America, this will not be a pleasant post to read. All I can say is that I’m sorry for my gratuitous whining about leaving, but please note that my sadness is because of the leaving Oxford, not because of the coming home. Loving England hasn’t lessened my love for America. Perhaps, in the aforementioned theoretical situation in which I came to England permanently, and my return to America wasn't a sure thing, secured in a pre-booked flight, I would long for America in the same way I long for Oxford even before I’ve left it. And it isn’t precisely that I don’t want to fly home for family and friends and Christmas two weeks from tomorrow; it’s that I know I can never, ever come back.

Oh, certainly, with the time and money, I can book a flight to Heathrow, pop on the Tube and step off at the Oxford City Centre any time I please. But I can never enter this moment again. This semester is, I think, best explained when encapsulated into a single moment. I can have a drink in the Eagle and Child or go see Wycliffe Hall or, yes, go back to the Vines, but the moment will have passed—the dear old house I want to call “mine” will belong to new students, and even I will be different. I know that even I, by then, will have changed, and it will be normal and even healthy that I will not love Oxford and the Vines in the same way that I do now. Logically, I know this. But I’m terrified for this moment to end, and I know I’m helpless to stop it from ending. I want to make the most of the moment before it slips past. I want to gorge myself on Oxford. I want to wander down High Street looking up at the stars and ride the bus into town alone, lights flashing by outside my window, and I want to play the card games I haven’t made the time to play and I want to have a tremendous Christmas carol sing-a-long around the Vines keyboard; I want to drink PG Tips with milk and sugar in one of the good mugs and talk about feminism or “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” or political philosophy; I want to love purely and without waste in the time I have left.  

How can I possibly write about the symbol of the veil in Till We Have Faces when I feel so overcome by the need to not waste the last of my Oxford moment?

Current time: 4:41 PM. Twenty-three hours until tutorial.

Fifteen days until home.

Home for Christmas

     Twilight is falling over Headington.

   The streetlights have come on, and store displays shine out over the street. A young woman cycles past the almost-deserted Starbucks where I am; she’s bundled up in a scarf and mittens, and I feel even cosier in the dim amber lighting. My macchiato is long cold, but Billie Holliday whisper-croons through my headphones, and I feel a little shiver of sheer joy. I can almost taste it: the arrival of the holiday season, and that particular magic it brings to night-time in the city.

     I can almost taste the holiday season, not exploding onto supermarket shelves and window displays, but creeping out slowly: it is the warm autumn sun glimmering on red-and-gold-and-brown leaves, wet on the pavement as I pedal hard through the crisp air; it is the taste of pumpkin and nutmeg in the muffins I made from Mom’s recipe (almost like home but not quite, like everything in England); it is soft sweaters and mittens and the homey warmth of a scarf around my neck; it is 1940s Christmas music playing (only through my headphones, because it isn’t socially acceptable to play Christmas music yet, but I still take a quiet comfort in listening alone, anyway).

     I think I expected that summer fading and mellowing into autumn and, in turn, chilly autumn days portending frosty winter ones would make me even more homesick. After all, we so often associate the holiday season with home and loved ones that, I feared, the anticipation of Christmas might feel stale and hollow. But I think the opposite is happening. I haven’t run away from the holiday season; the holiday season has come to me in Oxford, and it feels oh-so-much like home.

I Have Confidence in Sunshine

Clearly, good intentions of regular blogging have fallen to the wayside as my academic Oxford career has accelerated. Perhaps “fallen to the wayside” is too passive a metaphor—“ripped to bloody, mangled carcasses by the savage attacks of academia” might be more accurate.

A quick and dull summation of what I’ve been doing: Monday-Friday, I get up hopefully by 7:30 (but usually at 8:00) in order to bike into the SCIO offices by 9:30. We’ve been progressing through a series of documentaries by Simon Schama called “A History of Britain,” each segment of which lasts an hour. 10:30 is tea. At 11:00 we have a lecture—a few of my favourites have been on English perceptions of the Revolutionary War, John Locke and his philosophy, and women writers from the Restoration up to Jane Austen. Noon is the long-awaited lunchtime.

Technically after that, we’re free for the day—but of course, no one is really free. It’s our assigned case studies that have really been keeping me busy. The case studies are essentially 2,000- to 2,500-word research papers in which we choose from a list of questions about British history, literature, philosophy, et cetera, and make an argument to answer the question. My first question, due last week, was:

1.      “The women of the Arthur legend proved more problematic for later interpreters than did the men.”

And yes, you smart-alecks, I realize that technically that wasn’t a question. We have the next two case studies due next week—a very sneaky act on the part of our professors to fool us into thinking we have more time to write than we actually do, if you ask me.

What’s that you say? Are you insinuating that I’m writing this blog post as a form of procrastination?

…I can neither confirm nor deny that theory.

Next two questions I’m working on are:

2.      Are Shakespeare’s women representative of his age?

and

3.      Do screen adaptations of Austen betray her writing or, as Butler has claimed, signify its universality?

I realize that looking at all of these questions together makes me look like a blazing feminist. Hmm. Draw your own conclusions.

Basically, writing one of these suckers means a lot of thinking, a lot of writing, and a lot of reading.  A LOT of reading. The nature of the questions is really quite subversive—you think it’ll be fairly easy to answer and then as you’re researching, before your eyes, it mutates into this monstrous task. So many definitions to nail down and clarifications to make. It’s like Hercules and the Hydra.

The good news is that it doesn’t seem insurmountable. Difficult, sometimes excruciating, yes—but doable. I feel especially good after receiving my first case study evaluation back yesterday. I had been so nervous about the silly thing. I even had a nightmare that Oxford graded on a 14-point scale and I was awarded a 2. While my actual grade will remain a mystery until the end of term (a terrifying prospect for those of us who are extremely grade-motivated), I received some great feedback.

No, Ginger, you didn’t just get here by some fluke. If you work hard, you can compete academically.

[DULL SCHOLARLY REPORT ENDS HERE]

Overall, I’ve been surprised by my lack of homesickness. I had expected that the Missing would be an overwhelming longing for everything, and it isn’t at all. It’s strange, little things. I miss seeing Lydia’s volleyball games. I miss JBU chapel. I miss driving in the car blasting music with Luke and trying to pitifully hold up my end of a philosophical conversation with Kyle. I miss choir more than I ever anticipated.

Lately, I’ve had this peculiar longing lately for Christmas. I know it’s not even October yet, but I want to decorate a tree and listen to Nat King Cole Christmas albums and be a part of that mysterious Something Bigger in choir as we learn unspeakably beautiful Latin pieces for Candlelight. Christmas merchandise is beginning to trickle onto the shelves at Tesco. Today I caught a glimpse of some kitschy Santa Claus candy and felt such an instantaneous, visceral longing for home and family that I almost felt dizzy.

The moment came and went, and I emerged from the fluorescent grey light of Tesco and into the rare Oxford sunshine. Hopping on my bike to begin the long trek home, I felt that inner glow of knowing that everything will be okay, that I can do more than just survive this semester; I can thrive and learn and grow. I have confidence in sunshine, yes, but I also have confidence in me.

Cycling Perils

For students in Oxford, there’s one way to get around: your legs. Unfortunately, walking everywhere is both tiresome and time-consuming, so Oxford’s young academics use their legs to a different end: cycling. “Ubiquitous” would be the word to describe cycling here in Oxford. Bikes are everywhere. Bikers are everywhere. Bike racks are everywhere, and they’re always full.

The Vines is beautifully situated just outside town, which means a forty-minute walk or a brisk fifteen-minute bike ride to get to the City Centre. Perpetually sleepy college students+extra time to sleep in=bike. In theory, it’s a lovely idea: hop on, cycle through the quaint city streets, hop off, hair perfectly wind-tousled and cheeks glowing from the crisp autumn air. But the reality is a bit more…indecorous.

My new friend (and roommate) Sarah took our inaugural ride last night. A la If You Give A Mouse A Cookie, it all started with a cup of tea. Just a simple cup of tea. We started the tea kettle, placed the teabags in our chosen mugs, retrieved the sugar…and then realized that there was no milk in the house. English air, for those of you who’ve never experienced it, gives one a profound longing for tea, but only if there is milk to put in it. Doing without? Unacceptable. We decided to bike to a convenience store up the street. After spending an embarrassing amount of time trying to clip the headlights onto our bikes, we set off.

 Problem 1: the so-called “bike lane” amounts to a painted yellow lines right next to the sidewalk. The infinitesimal space between the yellow lines? That was our safe zone. All I heard was a panicked shriek behind me before a double-decker bus screamed past. None of the cars ever seemed quite far enough away for my liking.

Problem 2: Due to the general demand for bikes in the greater Oxford area, bike theft is a huge problem. We were given specific instructions on how and where to lock our bikes and told to remove the headlights when we dismounted so they wouldn’t get “nicked.” Unfortunately, we were not instructed on how to deal with shady men offering to give us £300 for the bikes and bring us “free” ones in return.

Problem 3: A bike is rendered useless when its chain slips off the gears. This evening, we had just enjoyed a delightful, nearly surreal dinner of fish and chips in the Eagle and Child, strolled through St. Giles’s Fair (the oldest in Europe, dating back to the thirteenth century), and were retrieving our bikes when it became glaringly obvious that mine wouldn’t work. A cursory glance revealed that the chain had slipped off. I ended up with grease all over my fingers, but I wrestled that sucker back where it belonged.

From there, it was a rainy half-hour bike ride uphill to The Vines—a good cardio workout and mildly unpleasant, but hardly fraught with peril. And when we finally tumbled in the door at the end of it, chilled, sweaty, and with rubbery legs, there was a cup of tea waiting for us. With milk.

The Sun Also Rises

For all my moaning yesterday, I woke up to have a beautiful sunny day in Oxford. Amazing what a little sleep will do—or a lot of sleep. I think I clocked in at twelve hours. Twelve lovely, luxurious hours.

Not to mention that I can never stay upset for very long. It’s too exhausting. I simply don’t have the stamina to keep it up.

I haven’t been feeling as homesick today—the wonder of walking the Oxford streets and realizing that this is home for the next three months took away my sadness. All of us at The Vines were also fitted for our bikes, today. I picked a lovely red model with a darling little basket up front. Yet to be named, but probably something Shakespeare in honor of my primary tutorial. Lady Macbeth, perhaps? We shall see.

It is funny, though, how the strangest things incite the homesickness. I had a bad moment earlier when, of all things, I pulled my winter parka out of the vacuum bag so it wouldn’t be permanently smushed. I had just taken off my tights because it was so warm outside and, as I knelt on the floor holding my parka, I realized that I would still be here when it was cold enough to wear it. It’s thinking about the long-term that brings all the anxiety and homesickness. Best way to cope, I’ve learned, is to take it one day at a time.

And administer heavy daily doses of Facebook.

With most of the introductions over (I haven’t met everyone yet—there’s forty-one students living in The Vines alone, plus fourteen downtown in the North Wing), today was a get-to-know-each-other-better day. Usually, for me, this is the most awkward stage in a relationship: past the cursory remarks but not yet to the conversations about shared experiences. But I’ve learned two things.

Thing I Learned Number 1: Everyone here has similar interests and is of a similar temperament.

Generally speaking, we all love literature and history, steer clear of math and the sciences, and have a bad case of Anglophilia. We’re all a bit eccentric in our own way, too—I met a girl who collects toilet flappers. After a trip to town this afternoon, I walked in the common room to find everyone watching Jeeves and Wooster. Best of all, after my new roommate Sarah said her dream is to open a children’s bookstore, I cautiously asked her if she’d seen You’ve Got Mail…AND IT’S HER FAVORITE MOVIE. It’s like I’ve discovered a whole houseful of soulmates. 

Thing I Learned Number 2: Everyone is nervous about getting to know everyone else.

                Nearly everyone I’ve met is a self-described introvert. It’s scary and draining for all of us to be interacting with fifty-plus people we’ve never met before.  Technically, that doesn’t make the process any easier, but it is comforting.

                Another good thing is that I’m almost taking this as a second chance at freshman orientation. I’ve learned to be so much more comfortable with who I am in the past two years at JBU. I’ll never be the life of the party, but, incredibly enough, I can hold up my end of a conversation with people I’ve just met. I’m even getting better at lighthearted banter. Hoorah! It’s a nice feeling. I wish I had been the person I am now back when I started school. But then, I suppose that this is a wish I’ll keep repeating the rest of my life. Best to learn from the past in order to do better in the present.

Well, that degenerated into moralizing drivel. Sorry. Overall, a lovely day in Oxford!

Hello/Goodbye

Moving to a new place is a confusing snarl of “goodbyes” and “hellos.” In the week before I left Siloam Springs, I was running around trying to give a goodbye hug to everyone, and now I’m stuck in a loop of “Hi-I’m-Ginger”s and “Where-are-you-from?”s and “What-are-you-taking?”s. It’s emotional whiplash: from the deepest expressions of love to the shallowest formulae of getting-to-know-you.

I say this because it’s been a long time since I’ve felt as loved and valued as I do having just left for the semester. Saying goodbye for three and a half months has, in one sense, been beautiful, because it’s forced me to be honest about how much I love my family and friends (and, fortunately, vice versa). No kidding around, no sarcastic teasing, just “I love you. I’ll miss you. I’m so blessed that you’re in my life.”

Conversely, it’s terrible coming to a new place and having to forge new emotional connections. It isn’t that I dislike any of the other students I’ve met here; it’s that I don’t know them. Without shared time and experiences, they’re strangers that I’m forced to engage with on a purely shallow level. I have no doubt that I’ll grow to love many people here, but I wish I could just jump straight to the emotional intimacy and skip the pleasantries.