World Spins Madly On

I like that music has the ability to conjure up a whole host of memories with just one note, one chord, one word.  That the opening to a song, be it guitar, piano, or voice, can pull me back to certain moments and memories in my life, can connect me to people, places, things in a second.  

I am, in no way, a music buff.  But I do like music, and for a year now have held a special, large place in my heart for Deb Talan and Steve Tannen, the husband/wife duo known as The Weepies.  I remember randomly visiting their myspace while I was dog-sitting last summer, falling in love with "World Spins Madly On" from their album Say I am You.  To date, it has made 126 appearances on my iTunes (not counting how often it blares through my headphones or my car speakers via iPod).

I love that it is the background song to my most girlie of moments, namely:

1.) Afternoons at Barnes & Noble, reading through Cold Tangerines by Shauna Niequist and, in spite of myself, finding much truth about being a Christian/woman/human being.

2.) A beautiful road trip to Ohio for Elise and Austin's wedding.  I listened to it all the way to High Point, NC, then all the way to Ohio, then all the way down to Indianapolis.  When I listen to the song, my mind always sees mountains.  I like that.

3.) It is intricately connected with my adoration for The Jane Austen Book Club.  Though I've never read the book, I listened to some of it on CD on that some road trip.  Since then, I've seen the movie, and now can't seem to watch it without thinking of The Weepies.

4.) This same song plays during a scene in Friends with Money.  I love this movie.  I have no idea why.  Catherine Keener just shines, though, and there is a certain heaviness that accompanies this script, depicting the lives of four women in an eerily realistic light.  I often watch it when I'm depressed, a necessary escape that leaves me grateful for what I have.

There are, of course, many more moments, too many to remember, to know.  I'm just glad for the few that I can count, and for words that keep me company during some of my brightest and darkest hours.

When I Ache

When I ache my heart tightens, my eyes squint, and I try my hardest not to cry.

Rarely am I successful.

Though it was a little over seven months that I stepped off a plane at London Gatwick Airport, I feel as if it was just yesterday.  And though it's been over four months since I stepped off a plane at the Hartsfield-Jackson Airport in Atlanta, I have yet to forget what happened during the three months I was gone.

I'd like to say that I can forget, that I can compartmentalize all my feelings and emotions and pretend that even though life sucks I'm still okay.  But that's a lie.  I feel too much, I think far too much, and those feelings are now a part of my makeup.  Sigh.

Sometimes I wish that I wasn't so intentional, that I would stop slipping letters into envelopes and licking the flap shut, or typing paragraph upon paragraph before hitting send, or clicking a name and face that pops up in facebook chat and saying, "Hi."  I tell Alasdair that I get weepy every time someone from L'Abri sends me something.  He tells me that's because I love everyone so much.

And I do.

My family is scattered across cities, states, and countries.  We'll never all be together again and I can't help wallowing over this realization.  Daily.  Sigh.

Love, London

I was perusing the Chicago Tribune this morning, cutting coupons and looking to see if there were any interesting articles when I found the whole front page of the Travel section devoted to this city: London, England.  Intrigued, of course, I read through the reporter's list of "Don't Miss" and "Skip it?" attractions in this city where I just spent a significant amount of time.  This is my take on what he had to say:

"Don't Miss"

1. Tower of London: I visited this site the first time I came to London back in 2004.  It was okay.  Not great enough to go back this past trip, but interesting nonetheless.

2. Westminster Abbey: um, is it possible that I've never been inside?  We tried!  In 2004 we tried to make it to Evensong but it never happened.  Ah, well.  I say I haven't gone inside as an incentive to go back.  2011, here I come!

3. Portobello Market: I went to Portobello Road twice before finally making it to the actual market.  The reporter says it has the best lunch in London, and I'm not surprised.  My best lunch there was a toss up between a smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwich at an eatery called Gail's or a lemon & sugar crepe at a place my friend Heather took me called Kitchen & Pantry.  This guy mentions the Ghanaian stew without telling you where to get it.  Not such great reporting, eh?

4. St. Paul's Cathedral: tucked away in London's financial district, Mom and I went here before a trip to the Borough Market.  We should have walked along the Millenium footbridge instead of taking the tube.  Ah, well.  We happened to get there in time to partake in the eucharist.  It was a sacred moment for sure.

5. London theaters: I've seen both the Lion King and Wicked in this town.  Contrary to the reporter's view that the theatres surround Leicester Square, there are several outside the vicinity--including the one by Victoria Station where we saw Wicked.  

6. Buckingham Palace: I've not seen the changing of the guard, but I have seen it at night and it's breathtaking.  

7. The Tate Modern: go if you have a really long time and a love for modern (not necessarily contemporary) art.  It's very crowded.  Of course it is--it's free.  I love it, though, just on the basis of the walk between it and the Borough Market.  It's the only reasonable way to get there from the London Bridge tube station, and it's worth the footwork for the view across the Thames.

8. London Eye: Mom and I went when it was dark and raining.  If I could do it again, I would go on a sunny day.  

9. Covent Garden Market: one of my favorite spots in the city, I found both a tea strainer for one pound and a ring for four pounds at this market.  Love it!

10. Hyde Park: when I go back, I'm convincing fellow L'Abriers to take a picnic to this park.  I've heard it's wonderful for that purpose.  It was too cold to appreciate it while I was there, but if ever I live in London I will frequent it often.

Places he missed: Camden Market and Trafalgar Square!  How could anyone leave those two places out of a "Don't Miss" list?

"Skip it?"

1. British Museum: yes, true, it is dull once you get past the mummies.  But it was worth going considering I had Eri, who is Japanese, Lee, who is South Korean, and Wesley, who is Chinese-American, with me who could appreciate the Asian art.  Also, losing one of our friends in the largest museum in London and finding her again gave reason for God's existence so I do have quite fond memories of this place.

2. Thames Tour: we took this tour in 2004 and even during the summer it was freezing.  We got off at Greenwich, visiting a not-so-great market and trying to find our way back to the city through what seemed like a rough neighborhood.  Beware of pick-pockets signs were everywhere.

3. Harrods: I hated this place.  We went in 2004 and I had no desire to go back.  It's gaudy, overpriced, and worthless.  London is already overwhelming without the need to go to the most overwhelming department store I have ever visited.

4. Oxford Street/Piccadilly Circus: okay, Piccadilly Circus I can understand, but Oxford Street is great.  I spent much time shopping there, and have fond memories of my time there with Elizabeth.  With the exchange rate improving, clothes were actually affordable.  Though, truly, I would recommend Kensington High Street for shopping.  Much easier to navigate.

5. Royal Albert Hall: I don't even remember seeing this place.  Must really not be worth it.

6. Jack the Ripper tour: really?  who would actually do this?

Places he missed: the British Library.  I know this is blasphemy coming from a writer, but going here ruined an already ruined day.  The only point of going would be to look at original manuscripts from English authors and Beatles lyrics.  Skip it.  Really.  Just don't go.

Writing this makes me miss that city--that country!  If all goes well and I can find a job and live on my own for awhile, I plan to go back some time in 2011.  Either summer or fall, and either for a month or the full three-month term.  If I go back to L'Abri for a term I would only go as a helper.  Part of me would prefer the month so I could spend time in Ireland, Scotland, and Holland along with England.  We will see.  Patience, ah, such a wretched virtue.

Baby, Life Goes On

There is so much to say, and I would say it if I felt compelled.  But I don't.  Some musings are best kept inside of our heads, or shared when we feel it is necessary.  I guess these things I can share, though:

I finished a rough draft of an essay.  It's the first I've written since I wrote for the L'Abri blog back in April.  I've been working on it since I got back from L'Abri, but haven't had the drive to complete it.  Tiffany's desire to compile a book of memories from Spring Term '09 has been the push, and I've stumbled ahead, using writing as an excuse for therapy.  Oh, to have an outlet such as this.  To create, to meet with our Creator on such an intimate level.  

I'm over halfway through reading The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion.  How to describe this prose?  Creative nonfiction, yes.  An account of death, certainly.  A portrait of a marriage, of a woman (who happens to be an iconic American writer) recording the year after and the years leading up to her husband's death.  I can't say that I've spent much time extracting lessons from her words save for this: "That I was only now beginning the process of mourning did not occur to me.  Until now I had been only able to grieve, not mourn.  Grief was passive.  Grief happened.  Mourning, the act of dealing with grief, required attention."

I realize that I have only begun the process of mourning.  Up until this point, I have been grieving the loss of L'Abri.  I believe that I was grieving well.  As for mourning I'm not sure.  I reckon that reliving my term through pictures, music, and writing may or may not be healthy.  The writing, yes, I believe is healthy.  The music?  Sometimes.  But the pictures, sigh, they only serve to rip open my hardly healed wounds.  After so much talk of living in the present mine is being swallowed up by the past.

And the future.  This not-knowing business gets old quickly.  Though I do know now what I want to do, getting there is most of the battle.  Except to say that it's time to declare my own independence, to see that life goes on and it's up to me to go with it.

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

I'm Alive

I made it to L'Abri this past Tuesday.  It took me nearly an hour or so to get to Waterloo Station via the Tube.  Rush hour is not kind even when underground.  I made it to Waterloo around 9:30, and took the train to Liss at 9:45 (providence!)  Again, providence met me once I arrived because a taxi was waiting and able to take me to the manor house 2 miles away in Greatham.  The rest of the week has been a slight blur of making fast friends, frequenting many pubs, gardening, cooking, creating, and talking.  I am alive.  I am alive in many more ways than just having made it here in one piece.  

I wish I could explain this place better, but I believe it will take me many weeks and months to fully understand what this is that I am experiencing.  Suffice to say that I am where I should be.

I have to run now as a new friend, Leah, graciously let me borrow her mac to type this whilst sitting in a pub near the house.  But I do want to say that I spent last night walking 40 minutes to another pub located in the deep countryside, a walk that involved two awfully steep inclines, a field, and a muddy path all resulting in one of the most fun nights I've had in a long time.  I can't believe I'm in England.  Our walk back was even more adventurous as we took the long way back to the house via a very randomly placed "kebob" stand on the side of the road.  Led by the fearless "Wesley the Brave" and his "torch," we enjoyed the scenic route back to Liss and then Greatham.  I laughed... a lot.  I froze nearly to death.  But I am, as I said before, alive.  I love this.

Directions [by Joseph Stroud]

Anyone who knows me knows that I have an affinity for moleskine journals.  Sparked my junior year of college, I have since started a mini collection of unfinished yet severely tarnished journals.  In the spirit of this trip, I bought a new one: unscathed; unmarked that is until I went on a search for the perfect words to grace the first page.  Rifling through "Good Poems," a so-called textbook from my poetry class, I knew Garrison Keillor would come through for me with this compilation.  And he did, of course.  In the section entitled Trips was this poem by Joseph Stroud:

Directions

How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable

Seem to me all the uses of this world

Take a plane to London.

From King's Cross take the direct train to York.

Rent a car and drive across the vale to Ripon,

then into the dales toward the valley of the Nidd,

a narrow road with high stone walls on each side,

and soon you'll be on the moors.  There's a pub,

The Drovers, where it's warm inside, a tiny room,

You can stand at the counter and drink a pint of Old Peculiar.

For a moment everything will be all right.  You're back

at a beginning.  Soon you'll walk into Yorkshire Country,

into dells, farms, into blackberry and cloud country.

You'll walk for hours.  You'll walk the freshness

back into your life.  This is true.  You can do this.

Even now, sitting at your desk, worrying, troubled,

you can gaze across Middlesmoor to Ramsgill,

the copses, the abbeys of slanting light, the fells,

you can look down on that figure walking toward Scar House,

cheeks flushed, curfews rising in front of him, walking,

making his way, working his life, step by step, into grace.

peace to you,

liz