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.