Houses and Homes

Right now, I’m sitting on a couch in Oxford in a house that is not mine, sipping black coffee and thinking. I have 4 days before I leave the UK for the last time. I’ve already written a post about how I feel about leaving Oxford, so I won’t rehash that. I want to talk about something a little more specific, namely my house. I call it my house, because although it never really belonged to me, it FELT like mine. It felt like home. And I suppose that’s natural. Aside from on campus housing and my brief spell housesitting, this was the first time I’d really lived on my own, not even having even the option to go home on the weekends or even to call. A dorm room doesn’t feel like home. Neither does a constantly dark apartment whose living room is occupied by your Moroccan suite mate who doesn’t like sharing a room and whose temperature is constantly fluctuating between 50 and 85 degrees.

Something was different about this house, something I can’t quite put my finger on. Maybe it was the environment. Aidan has been a constant element in all three, but Katie and Clare, though new additions, were more amiable companions than my suite mates of the past. They were certainly more present than their predecessors were. I think have grown quite accustomed to hearing Clare singing Beyonce and Nicki Minaj songs at the top of her voice and morning talks with Katie after she got back from her run. I’ve gotten attached to our little study nook in the sitting room, to the way the sunlight hits my bed in the morning, to cooking dinner with Brittani, Kalie, and Stephen next door. I’ll never wake up in that bed again, cook on that stove, or read on that couch. Never again will I bump over that pot that held the loose board to the fence, never again will I smell the fresh rosemary growing by the door as I fumble for my keys. And for some reason I don't quite understand, these realizations sadden me.

The house had it’s problems. The lock stuck, the shower leaked, the boiler was finicky, and the internet was inconsistent at best. But I loved it despite these imperfections, or maybe because of them. This is the first place I ever had Thanksgiving away from home, the first place I ever roasted a chicken or turkey, or baked a pie on my own. I miss already the noises and smells and sounds that accompanied my daily routines, and it felt very strange when I had to retrieve my luggage from my room. All the dishes and food and linens and appliances and other things were all packed up in boxes that lined the wall by the doorway, and the place felt very different. It seemed as though the place had never been lived in at all. It was. . . dead. Deserted. I felt like I was standing in a tomb, not the place I had made my home these past 6 months. I didn’t like the feeling. I still don’t. Soon I’ll be back in the house I grew up in, and it strikes me how much people like me like to create a false sense of permanence about things like this, whether it’s about people, homes, school, jobs, cities, or whatever other thing you can think of to fill in the blank. When we find something we care about, we can’t stand the idea of losing it; can’t stand the idea of it no longer being there in our lives. Growing up in Newnan, it felt like life there would last forever. High school on the first day felt like it would be much longer than the short 4 years it turned out to be. Already I feel like my time at Mercer has flown by, and my hiatus in England is already gone. Nothing in my life, not even me stays the same for long. It’s a scary thought. Maybe that’s why people like for me look so desperately for permanence. We aren’t afraid of eternity or the permanent, we’re afraid of the idea that everything will continue with us and pack us up in boxes like a bunch of old dishes, put us in the ground, and forget about us. People can go crazy thinking about it for too long.

What a Difference 4 Months Make

So I’m sitting on a plane from Geneva to London at the butt-crack of dawn, exhausted, broke, probably smelly, and very content. How do I describe the myriad of experiences I’ve enjoyed and lessons I’ve learned from my trip to Europe? I don’t just mean my trip to the continent, either, I mean over this whole semester abroad. Since I’ve left the States, I’ve done thousands of things that I’d never done before: I’ve climbed mountains in 5 different countries, I’ve explored castles, cathedrals, alleys, closes, lochs, mountain trails, country roads, and underground crypts and passages, I’ve tried local beer from 7 different nations, I’ve seen plays at the globe and Stratford, I’ve wandered through strange cities, and gotten utterly and wonderfully lost. I’ve roasted and carved turkeys and chickens, planned my first Thanksgiving feast, tried foods, wines, beers, and bread I’ve never heard of, and I’ve laughed with, cried with, eaten with, and lived with so many new people. I’ve paid homage to some of my academic and literary idols, visiting their homes, their colleges, their old haunts and pubs, and even their graves.

I cannot begin to convey how all these things have affected me. How can I describe St. Patrick’s Cathedral or the Alhambra? How can I explain the serenity, the peace, or the spiritual weight I felt there? How can I express how learning at the feet of scholars like Francis Warner, Barry Webb, or Julia Cresswell has so fundamentally changed my studies, my reading, my thoughts and my writing? How can I put to words the majesty, the grandeur, the magnificence of the heaven-shaped landscapes that I’ve seen since coming here? I’ve seen the cliffs of Moher’s staggering peaks, the snow-crowned Swiss Alps, the view from Arthur’s Seat, the tranquil depths of Loch Ness, the clear bay of Le Leman lit up with the lights of the city, and countless other wonders that my weak words cannot ever capture. How can I put to words the incredible sense of awe, humility, and smallness that those sights have inspired in me? How can I tell you what it feels like to watch the sun set in Grenada and to drive up to the city, lit like a sea of little candles leading up to the Alhambra? Or what it’s like to see the streets of London or Geneva gleam like a giant Christmas ornament against the night sky? How can I capture the sensation of sprinting up a mountain with old and new friends, heart and adrenaline pounding, then surveying the sprawling city beneath you, with the wind crying in the night, tearing at you face in a violent gale that might knock you clean off the mountain? How can I put on paper what it feels like to wake up seeing the sun rise over Edinburgh Castle, perched on the rocks like an eagle?

It seems almost hopeless to even try to capture on paper the things I’ve done, seen, tasted, smelled, climbed, explored, felt, discovered, or learned in the course of four short months. A list can’t capture the nutty hale taste of Spanish coffee, the deliciously pungent tingle of French wine, the sharp bite of an Irish wind, the gentle kiss of Scottish rain. I can’t do justice to the tastes: the salty, crisp of Irish potatoes, the warm oil and butter of Italian bread, the sweet sharpness of a Spanish pomegranate, the light creamy delight of English scones with clotted cream, or the smokey, sweet burn of Scottish whisky. I can’t explain the simple comfort I get from a cup of tea while listening to a soft Irish rain, or from the dull glowing laugher shared by friends around a bottle of Spanish red wine. I cannot explain the feeling of power, of excitement, of accomplishment I felt sitting at the top of mount Holyhead, the Alps, or Arthur’s seat so high above the world, then running, racing, sliding, tumbling down at breakneck speed. Words on a page cannot convey the myriad of purples, gold, reds, and pinks that the Spanish sunset paints on the clouds, the sparkle of lights that line ripples of the Thames, or the staggering lushness that fills the deep green of the British and Irish countryside.

I’ve tried to express it. I’ve tried and I’ve failed. For 2 pages and 3 previous drafts I’ve attempted to put my experience to words, but to no avail. Maybe that’s why I had trouble keeping up with my blogging and writing while I’ve been here. Maybe I knew how short my attempts would fall. But I can tell you one thing that this ordeal has done to me. As much as I’ve seen, tasted, experienced, and done, I know that this was only the briefest of glimpses into the sprawling wonder of the world. As much as I’ve done over these short months, I know there is infinitely more out in the wide world that I haven’t done yet, and even more that I may never do. I want to drink deeply from this cup until I burst, to savor every taste of this wild, precious, and brief life that I can. Brittani told me before we arrived that I would get the travel bug. That’s only half true. I’ve got the life bug. I want to learn, read, write, taste, create, experience, love, laugh, and discover until the day I die, whether it happens in a small town in Georgia or in the streets of Europe. I am a learner, a writer, a reader, a wanderer, and a questioner. To then end of my days I will always be so. Learning that by itself would have been worth the trip.

Leaving My Heart in the City of Dreaming Spires

I am sitting at my kitchen table in my house at oxford for the last time, wishing a great number of things. I wish that I had worked more on this blog, that I had managed my time better at Oxford, that I had gotten more involved with student life here, that I had gotten more involved at church, that I had been to more of the museums and plays and concerts, that I had saved more money for my trip, that I had read more, that I had spent more time on my papers, that I gotten Liverpool tickets, that I had done countless other things here, but they all really boil down to one regret: I wish that I was coming back for next semester. I understand that is something that I couldn't do from the get go, but it doesn't lessen the blow of having to return to America. My friend Sarah said yesterday that she was just now remembering what we were retuning to and she was not necessarily looking forward to: "I forgot how ugly everything is in America! And everyone's so fat!"

I don't know that I agree with her on the whole. I don't think America is all necessarily ugly, and it certainly has its positives. I have missed several things: netflix, water fountains, family, friends, biscuits, pancakes, and several other things. At the same time, I feel a lot like all those fictional characters who stumble into another world like Narnia or Albion, finding their own world falling short of this vibrant new one that they must now leave. It will be good to go home and see everyone for christmas, but I am leaving a piece of my heart here in City of Dreaming Spires. I will miss several things here too. Goodbye pubs and pub food, local English beer, and watching the matches with Simon. Goodbye Oxford libraries, the tutorial system, the Warners, and both of my wonderful tutors. Goodbye Eagle and Child, Folly Bridge Inn, and the White Horse. Good bye pound land, primark, British public transportation, free museums, and George and Danvers. Good bye cathedrals, meadows, and all the beautiful architecture that will no longer adorn my walks to class. I hope to return to you someday. Meanwhile, it's off to London, Spain, and Switzerland before my final journey home.

48 Hours in Transit

Well folks (the few of you that actually read this), it’s been a while. It’s been a long summer, one I spent almost all of living alone in Macon scraping together enough money to pay for this trip. A few weeks ago I went home for a few weeks before Brittani and I left for Europe, trying to sort everything out and spend some time with the family and friends before the trip. Wednesday night I left the States and it has been pretty much non-stop movement ever since. Over the 48 hour period between 11:15 on Wednesday evening and Friday evening I have hopped around between 5 different countries, more than I have ever been in my life. We left Atlanta that night, had a layover in France the next morning, and arrived in London that afternoon, took a bus down to Oxford to drop off our bags, and took a bus back to London to sleep in the hostel we had already booked. The next morning we took a train from London to Holyhead, Wales, and then we took a ferry to Dublin.

I had left the country only once before today, and that was to go to the Bahamas when I was 12. Since I was young and that's only a few miles from Florida, I’m still counting this as my first major international excursion. So far the experience has been surreal. I’m really not sure what exactly I think or feel about it yet. To be honest, I’m still not sure it’s quite sunk in that I’m here. Since we got accepted, Brittani and I have been poking each other, looking over with our ridiculous grins dripping with excitement, exclaiming, “We’re going to Oxford!” as if this were utterly new and previously unannounced information. And every time she or I would do this, it seemed to be just that. We were even doing it on the plane ride over, because even then it seemed like we needed to remind ourselves that this thing we had planned (and I use that term loosely) was a real thing and actually happening.
After the waiting for this since October when I applied for the program, the stress of trying to plan and pay for it, and the work I’ve done both to get in and to afford to go, my emotional response to this whole affair probably resembles a roller coaster of some kind. I say probably because I’m still really not sure. I’ve been tired from the trip the jet lag, and confused and worried from getting lost with Brittani on the way to the Hostel and London (we found it eventually), and I’ve been excited enough to burst for the 11 months leading up to this process. My body’s been in transit for 48 hours, so I guess my brain has a right to still be.

There was a considerable amount of stress before Brittani and I left as we realized how underprepared we were/are, and ended up having to drop our plans to go through France and Germany before term started, and opted for Ireland because it was closer, cheaper, and ultimately simpler.
There are a few things I do know about what I want out of this trip though. I want to grow and I want to learn as a person, as a Christian, and as a friend. My dad gave me some good advice before I left, and one of the things he said really struck a chord with me. He told me that if I want to get something out of this, to listen and watch as well as I can. I should be slow to speak and be less concerned about whether or not these people in Europe like me than about what I can learn from them. I should keep my eyes and heart open to what God has has for me in this trip and what knowledge I can take back with me, because those are the things that will stay. It was good advice, I think, and I’m taking it to heart. I’m going to try to see as many things and people as I can before this is over, but that’s not all. I want to know my friends better and myself better. I want to grow closer to God as I see more of his people and his creation. If I see more facets of his image and his handiwork, maybe I can learn something about him and something about myself.

For All the Books I Never Finnished

For All the Books I Never Finished

Why do I horde these piles of bound white leaves,
ink-stained gossamer strips of wood that are too thin to cover me,
too frail to shelter me from the wind and the rain and the heat and the unrelenting cold
of cruel, lovely mother earth––

Why do I stack these pages of Dante and Donne, Faulkner and Freud,
King and Kerouac, and Milton and Homer and a million others,
more than half I’ll never read, and far fewer than half I’ll ever understand––

Wouldn’t I be happier with piles of green leaves? Or strips of wood that blocked the merciless sun and pouring rain, that silenced the stinging howling wind of vanity that calls me a fool for considering to chase it?

Is it the ridiculous romantic notion to become the noble scholar,
the starving artist who only needs the taste of words on his lips,
who dismisses the world and its money with a fluttering of his hand and his pages?

Do I think that these new books will be any different than than the dozens of others,
countless tomes and volumes and leaves that lie in my room, discarded,
their words half-spoken and still-born in my head?

Do I think that the musty smell of ink and paper well awaken my senses,
sharpen my wits to see the poetry in the world I stumble through
lazy, blind, and thoughtless––

Will it open my eyes to creation, my ears to the music of the air and water and
and heartbeat of this city that I still know nothing about? Will it let me hear the
voice of the God I once knew or the calls of Caliope that I thought went silent?

I know that the books will do nothing themselves.
They float, anchorless, without a mind to take root and germinate in.
A story, a verse, an idea will not simply come with the morning sun––

My God did not stop speaking, nor did the muse cease singing––
I know all I need to do is to bid the noise of distraction to stop,
to quiet the grinding gears of my mind and listen if I want to hear.

These books are real, not some 3 dimensional wall-paper to adorn my house
Nor is the pile an erected monument to an intellect I want everyone think I have.

But still they lie unread and still my pen sits idle, still full of ink that now begins to dry.
Still I buy more to throw upon the pile, all the while dreaming Quixotic dreams of
the thoughts and contemplations and inspirations that prose and poesy once brought me.
But still I never turn the page nor pick up the pen,
save to sign a check for some pretty book to lie unread,
all the while filled with dread that all I’ll ever write for the world to see is that ugly, frail
little wisp of a name–– that damning, doooming admission of wasted life.

Sharing a Meal

I think I understand why my parents cook for so many people now. I aways enjoyed eating those big meals, but I thought preparing them was a major pain. But this week, for some reason or another, I wanted to do a big dinner for everyone. It didn't exactly go as I planned. It took two more hours to get everything ready, and half the people I invited couldn't come. I burnt the second round of garlic bread, and I blew my money for a week on a pyrex pan.

But I loved it. There's a certain satisfaction you get from cooking for someone, from sharing a mealy you made. And it's not just from eating or being told your food is good. It's from serving someone. Helping someone. What is it about food, especially good food, that gets people to let their guard down? Why does sharing a meal bring people so much closer together? I hadn't felt that close to those people in a long time, and I probably won't again until the next time I cook.

I don't know what it is. I still don't, but I wanted to try again with breakfast. Pancakes had a few glitches too. This time WAY more people came than I expected. I ran out of eggs and buttermilk, and I think the second batch tasted a little powdery. Still though, I can't get over the feeling I get feeding people. Or the feeling I get running around the kitchen trying to pour drinks, tend three pans, and mix bater for the next batch. It's work, a LOT of work, but it's satisfying. Half the people didn't help with groceries like they said the would, and we didn't finish breakfast until 1 pm. But who cares? It made me happy to do it.

I may need to do this more often.

When I Remember. . .

"That boy is gone.
Sometimes I miss the way he wept at night.
To be still and not run,
To be rocked to sleep in your light.
These days there is not much that will bring tears to my eyes,
But when I remember who i am and who you are,
When I remember. . .
A cloud moves in, rain falls, thunder strikes, and sunshine breaks through the clouds.

I am walking blind,
So distracted that I dont even feel when you hold me.
When did I grow such thick skin?
You are my sunshine and rain,
My joy and sweet pain.
I'm a spotless stain.
That boy is gone,
But nobody moves me like you do
When I remember. . .

A cloud moves in, rain falls, thunder strikes
And sunshine breaks through the clouds
I can cry out of sorrow and joy
Every drop of rain turns into a crystal in the sun
So wash my eyes, my clothes, my skin, my bones, my soul
My feet, my love
I'm not forgotten
I'm in your thoughts cause I feel sunshine in the rain

To this day nobody moves,
Nobody,
Nobody moves me like you do."


It's funny when parts of your past poke their heads into your life again. I used to listen to those guys all the time when I was younger, but I never knew that they wrote this, or anything like it. This is the cry of my soul. I am something more than what I am now.

Procrastination is like masturbation: in the end, you're only screwing yourself

You know how everyone says that you can't be successful if you put things off until the last minute? It's one of those things I just sort of smiled and nodded to, but basically ignored. I had great grades in high school and college, was involved in everything, and was still incredibly lazy. I did my homework the night before, the morning of, or during class, and got through tests and discussions largely through my memory and my ability to bullshit. I figured if I worked hard during practice and rehearsal, turned in a passable assignment, and paid attention during class; I would be fine. There were a couple of close shaves, but I got A's, a starting spot, scholarships, and roles. I never took the idea of preparing very seriously.

Until this semester started kicking my ass. I have homework assignments out the wazoo, a job, passport and scholarship applications, 18 hours of class time, and no clue how I'm going to get caught up. Sorry, world, but Spring break was not long enough. I might have to mimic my roommate and hide myself away for a few weeks, venturing out only for class and food.

I'm really glad I'm the oldest. I used to hate it. I hated the responsibility, hated baby sitting, hated everything always being my fault. I got used to it, and even grew to like it. Now I thank God I'm not one of the younger ones. After seeing the people they are becoming, I think if I were younger I would be afraid of living in their shadows.

Ellen's queen of everything: the prom, jr. miss, the golf team, the dance studio, the stage. Neil's a two sport letterman as a sophomore, and probably a better athlete than I'll ever be. Steve may be more gifted than all of us put together. I'm glad I'm not the youngest. I don't have to worry about proving myself, or trying to surpass them. Instead, I can just watch them and be proud.

It's really weird though, watching them. Neil can outrun me now, and he's almost as tall as I am. Steve is wittier and more athletic than most people I know in college. Ellen's almost in college. I'm twenty years old. This is nuts.

Halfway there, and so am I. . .

Today is a good day. Mr. Nicholson's check may not be huge, but it knocks out almost a sixth of what Oxford will cost. At this point, I really wasn't expecting it either, especially after Brittanni got one of the grants. But there it is, another thousand dollars I won't have to earn (or I can spend on travel expenses).

It's amazing how after two weeks of hell, things start to come together. Dr. Raschko wants to help me with grad school. I got to pray for a friend who I never thought would want it. I won some money. No class today, and my school won the game. Life is good. I know things will probably go from good to suck to good and to suck again before the next time I post. It's important to remember these times though. To many times do men curse the heavens after falling off the chair God made them. I know my life will never be perfect or easy, but every now and then I think He lets me know that it'll still be good.

I haven't gotten everything together yet. I've still got a lot of stuff to work through, and it'll be a sleepy day in class tomorrow. But storms can never erase sunshine, hard as they try to cover it up. I won't let anything let me forget the moments of grace I see, even if they are vastly outnumbered by moments of pain and failure. It's enough. I survived half the semester. Round 4, final bout of sophomore year. Next year I'm a junior. Weird.

Change

Like Aaron Gillespie said, "Times change, people change, and sometimes change comes looking for you." The second act of this whole college thing is about to start, and several things will not be the same. Enter and exit the love interest. Re-enter some best friends. We have major. We have goal. We still don't know what the hell we're doing. And the scenery is about to change again.

I wanted to post right after these things started happening: after I found out about oxford, after she and I started fighting, after the break up. I didn't think it was fair, and I'm too flipping busy, so I didn't. But I need to write, and one little poetry workshop once a week won't cut it. This probably won't either, but I need to vent, to think, to compose. I can't figure things out in my head. I have to do it here. I have to do it now. Carla Kimsey is dead.

After years of her being sick, after years of fighting this battle everyone said she would lose in months, after all the improvements, the miracles and the relapses, and the tears, she's dead. It never quite registers. When someone dies I never really figure it out until I start writing to them or about them. Even then it's so bizarre. It doesn't seem real. And those were people I barely knew. Aside from Mr. Ben, this was the first one really close to home, and he died when I was just a kid. Grampa Lauren was a hermit who only spoke to me three times in my life. Papa Dave was the same. Sasha was someone I knew, but didn't see outside of school or church. I didn't even know Ray or JR. But even those deaths shook me. I wrote about them. I cried for Sasha. I cried for my Grandfather.

Why aren't I crying now? When it matters? When it's someone I cared about, someone close to my family, I shut down. My brain doesn't register. I called Cathryn trying to comfort her, and I was useless. I couldn't say anything. I've never had a problem giving advice or being comforting. I do it all the time, sometimes for people I barely know. Why can't I do it now? Not that it would really change anything. Holy shit, I can't believe she's dead.

The Kimseys have always been like family. She was like another mom to me sometimes, especially when I was little. I still remember her taking me and Jon-o to soccer practice or picking me and Cathryn up from church. I remember her telling us to be quiet when I spent the night at their house. I remember her hugs and the tired gentle smiles she always had. Her sarcasm. Her strength. I remember her cracking jokes with my parents at the dinner table. She's been in the hospital for weeks and we never visited her. Our family never went over there. We've been supportive throughout this whole time, praying for them, loving them, encouraging them. But we weren't there at the end. At least I wasn't.

She always said that she was ready. That God had given her peace and she accepted whatever he had for her. And she didn't die in six months. She lived another 8 years. Isn't that worth celebrating? She said she would have traded what she learned from this for anything. That until now she didn't know how much God loved her, how much her family loved her, how much her friends loved her. Would I be able to say that? To believe that? I don't even know what to think about it. I have no clue what it must be like for her kids, the kids I grew up with.

Carla Kimsey is one of the most remarkable people I have ever met. She loved God and loved life through the calm and though the storm. She was a source of life, encouragement, and strength, even in her physical infirmity for all who knew her and many that didn't. The world is a poorer place without her. We all loved you Miss Carla. We'll see you again someday. Rest in peace. This is a change I don't ever want to get used to.