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| The smell of sun dried leaves after the late summer rain evoked memories of husking corn in the backyard on summer nights. I may have lamented over this reminder of home if not for my imminent return to that big country across the pond. Five days left.
This will be my last entry. I don't know who reads this, and quite frankly, I don't care all that much. It is nice to know that some close friends and family read it from time to time, but that of course was the point. I've kept it as a way to feel connected to what at the this time last year was my only connector - my home, friends and family in the US.
I'm not sure why I came here. I don't know when I'll use the academic skills I've gained here. Eavesdropping on conversations in Japanese (as I just did in the supermarket, a conversation about which type of biscuit to buy) and asking for my sushi using the Japanese words may be the extent of my use of the academic part, but I don't really know.
And I suppose that that is what I've come to realize most this year... I don't really know. When I first gathered my keys from Richard the porter, I was sure that it was this year that I'd understand how to act grown-up. But as long as the future is uncertain, which I hope/presume it always will be, I'll be nervous and unsure and naive and not at all adult-like in the all-knowing way I had imagined it to be.
I've spent the last two weeks attempting to recover from the whirlwind of this year. I went down to Devon to visit J and his family and to Wales with him to go hiking. I was sure at some point I would take that "ahhhh" breath, and some great weight would lift off my shoulders. I didn't happen. But it was nice anyway.
I'm leaving this site with some photos from that trip and a poem. Thanks for reading.
Finally at a beach! (Devon)
Posing (kind of cold)
In Snowdonia, Tryffan Mountain, 1st climb
Me climbing Tryffan
J jumping from "Adam" to "Eve" at the top of Tryffan (amazing pic I might add)
Climbing to the top of Snowdon via the Crib Goch ridge (Snowdon behind clouds)
At the summit of Snowdon. Cold, wet and tired but satisfied.
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The Layers
by Stanley Kunitz
I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
"Live in the layers,
not on the litter."
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written,
I am not done with my changes.
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| He said it was "very good."
I am going to pass!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
(little jig) | | |
| The English Footpath
After adding bibliographic details to my footnotes and millions of "macrons" to various vowels, turning in my first full draft of my thesis to my supervisor, who appears to be on holiday, and strolling along uncharted territories on the Cam, I went for a run.
Someone bounced along one hundred or so meters in front of me for the beginning of the jog, clearly heading for the same bike path as I. She stopped about 15 minutes in, and because she looked like a runner, I decided to ask her about this footpath I'd seen up the bike path on the left. She said it went around to Grange road eventually, but was pretty uneven, and laughing, she added, "it depends what you're up for and how many scratches you want on your legs." I'd seen her before where I live. She was American, one of the exchange students here for the summer. In a stupid fit of superiority, which one develops when here for "longer than visit," I thought, "Ah, Stinging Nettles. I've been here a year, I can handle that," thanked her and ran off.
The first part was easy enough - a dirt path under low tree cover. Then the classic English footpath began, winding around farm fields. This footpath wasn't particularly well kept or much walked and was quite rough to run on. I dodged/jumped Stinging Nettles with a grace one only develops when very allergic to poison ivy, until I came to a ditch. Ditch in front of me, fence-thing to my left. It appeared at this point, I was meant to jump the fence - also not unusual on an English footpath. So I did. But, on the other side, there was little footpath to be seen, and while I tried to muster all the 'footpath'-vision of an English (wo)man, it came to no avail. Yet I had no other choice.
So there I was bouncing along, a bit more than usual given old sports bra and uncharacteristically large chest, in the middle of some field. I mean, I could see Kings College tower in the distance, but there was no end of field to be seen. I figured there should be some theme music to accompany this adventure. I eventually agreed with myself that this theme song would probably be more along the lines of a pathetically mewing sheep with maybe a thudding tympani in the background, for this was more of an exercise in high-knees plodding (with a hint of panic) than triumphant striding.
I escaped on to Grange road a while later, opposite my supervisors abode, trying to look confident as opposed to beaten and shocked, the way one might look if he were shot from a cannon unexpectedly, and made my way home. | | |
| The proximity of The End floats in every so often on the breeze, teasing me. | | |
| I smashed into my second door in a row. Pull, push. Push, pull. Smash. And I drop all my books, pens. Crash. I gather them all, wondering what a fool I must look and why I can never get a handle on this opening doors thing. Speaking of handles, I almost always pull, even if the sign clearly says PUSH. My brain works in funny ways. On glass doors, I 'll often process the note on the opposite side of the door, an inverted word of sorts, before the one facing me. I'll HSUP before I PULL; I'll LLUP before I PUSH. After prodding the door in the wrong direction, I'll give it an accusatory look as if to say, 'well, you could have ...,' but it had. Well, this particular incident in the library followed a brain-storming session in the 'tea room' in which I went from utter despair over the second section of my thesis to enlightenment (pun ... ha). This progression, combined with the subsequent door smashing incident or rather the Liz smashing incident, and perhaps the lull of dim lights and the patter of drizzle on the window as I sat engulfed by a blue-grey world of book dust persuaded me to muse about the little things. My conclusion: you LLUP and you LLUP and you LLUP some more until something clicks, and you PULL, and you might drop some things on your way, but you'll get through. | | |
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