In Mourning

"Was it real?  Were we really there?"

My friend Steven, an Iowan I met at L'Abri, posed these questions (or something similar) to me last night as we resorted to facebook chat to wish one another a good night.  Gone were free Monday evenings when we would all gallivant in separate groups down to the Greatham Inn, only to reconvene on large leather couches next to the fireplace where the owners always kept the flames ablaze.  Or a different type of Monday evening when I was able to steal just one friend and sneak away to the pub to learn more about one another without the presence of thirty others to distract us.

"Was it real?"  Did I really go to England?  Did I really spend three months hoarding time and space in hopes that it could last just a little bit longer, that I could hold on to a different view of living, one that cursed modernity and embraced community?  These words I now cling to among others: boundaries, delayed gratification, reality, the present moment, cynicism, idealism, goodness and what is good?  I find myself making jokes in my head about Jim Paul, Andrew Fellows, Stefan Lindhom, even Scott Peck and Martin Buber.  I wonder what a lunch discussion would look like today: who would make the meal?  Would it be Marta with her Hungarian dishes--so good we stole helpings for other students?  Who would ask the question?  Wesley?  Helen?  A different member of the council of the brains?  Would we argue or agree?  Speak or sit in silence?  And why do I all of a sudden feel that every statement should be transformed with this little mark: "?"

Today I will have been home for a month.  And I have spent much of it in shock, mourning, really, this loss.  Recognizing that part of my reality, now, is allowing myself to do that.  

"You are REAL!  And we were REALLY there!"  

I typed these statements to Steven, assuring him that what we experienced has not been left in England, both of us agreeing that all of it now permeates who we are at this very moment.  And we are able to remember, able to show gratitude to the memories we now share with one another and with so many other dear and precious friends.  

Every time I wake up I move one day farther from my time at L'Abri, but I am okay with this.  Because each day is full of its own beauty and its own pain.  I'm grateful that three months have helped me better understand how to cope with it all, how to view it in a healthful and real manner.

be blessed (and live)

liz