Cymru

In my last post, I mentioned the waves of nostalgia that wash over me this time of year. When I noticed the date today, I realized that it was on this day nine years ago I arrived in Heathrow Airport for the first time. The memory of the trip over itself is a blur. I vaguely recall leaving behind a hot Texas summer, a short layover at O'Hare, and a long flight where sleep proved evasive. All around, I heard variations of the English accent I had so much loved, and that alone was enough to make me smile. However, it took me asking the passport control agent three times to repeat herself before I could answer her questions (her accent was quite thick, and my head was a bit fuzzy from the lack of sleep). Still, once that little hiccup was resolved, I collected my two suitcases (I would argue that since then, I have managed to fit all my necessary possessions in two suitcases or less), and I spilled out into the arrivals area. (I'll try to keep my asides to a minimum, but I have to say watching the opening scene of Love Actually always reminds me of my second trip to Heathrow, when I wasn't emerging a complete stranger actually had a couple of friends there to greet me. I'll save the harrowing trip I took to get to Wales for the spring semester, but all the struggles, worries, and frustrations were immediately erased by smiling, familiar faces.)

Back to the initial arrival: Since everyone was arriving at different times throughout the morning, the bus that was to take me and my fellow study abroad students to Wales wasn't scheduled to leave until 12:00. It was only a little after 6:00 when I arrived. Having two large suitcases made exploration a bit tricky (I was on my own at this point, so no one to watch my bags), and I was little more than concerned about how easy it would be to find the others.  The novelty of being in England was waning, and I was beginning to feel overwhelmed. I needn't have worried, as a couple hours later, I saw a familiar red object in the air. It was the folder each student had been mailed weeks earlier in preparation for their time abroad. Even more surprising, the folder was in the hands of an acquaintance from my home institution (Greg, who I had met a few times through campus ministry and through my friend Matt...Greg played quite an interesting role in a surprise birthday party now that I think about it. I forgave him that, though...). I quickly moved toward him, relieved to see a familiar face. Soon, there were lots of us, exchanging life histories, travel plans, and the like. I didn't know at the time how much an impact these people would have on my life, but the newness of it all renewed my enthusiasm, and I couldn't wait to get out of the airport and explore.

My fellow travelers, St. Govan's Head

Still, there was a three plus hour bus ride west to take us to Carmarthen (Caerfyrddin in Welsh, which translastes to 'fort of Merlin'), and we had yet to meet the man who would become our intrepid leader on so many adventures. Indeed, we would have to wait longer, as it was his trusty sidekick, Mike, who met us at the airport and directed us to our coach. Our bus driver (whose name alludes me at the moment, which aggravates me!) was a bit gruff, and I admit, if I thought the accents I encountered at passport control were difficult to comprehend, I hadn't been prepared to deal with the Welsh accent. Still, we were able to load up and get on the road in no time at all.  

My eyes remained glued to the window for much of the journey to the place I would call home for the next few months (I had come to Wales intending only to stay for the fall semester), marveling at the lush greenery, rolling hills, and how everything was just so British. I will admit that when I had signed up for my semester in Wales, it wasn't my first choice of country, but it was by far the best deal. I first saw it as an entry point to explore England and Ireland and the rest of Europe. Little did I know then how deeply it would permeate into my soul.

Most everyone else quickly fell asleep, letting the exhaustion from hours of travel to overcome them, but I couldn't sleep if I tried. In a bout of inquisitiveness not usually of my nature, I asked Mike all of the questions that came to mind, probably trying his patience more than was fair of me to do. Still, I wanted to know as much as I could about what I was seeing, where I was going, and anything else I could learn. (I had already read all of the recommended reading, so I wasn't completely ignorant, but as Mike was an American who had done the same program years earlier and was living in Wales while getting his masters, I figured he would have a lot more insight that one could not glean from a book). As I watched the scenery pass before my eyes, I could not wipe the smile off my face, not knowing how to if I tried. I was making a dream come true, and the elation I felt could not be dimmed for anything.

We finally arrived on campus after having picked up the few students (one of whom, Ginny, was celebrating her birthday, so a shout out to her today) who had opted to do a home stay. The campus was small, even smaller than TLU. It was a good mile away from the town center, on top of a hill (this would make for many a long trek back when coming back from the grocery store or getting caught in the rain). We were given keys to our rooms, told to take some time to unpack and explore, and then given the option to have a welcome drink at one of the many pubs in town, Dri Eog (Three Salmon). There isn't much more to say. I enjoyed the evening, getting to know the others while nursing a Diet Coke (while only 20 at the time, the legal age is 18, but I still felt a little weird about the whole alcohol thing...). I vaguely recall wondering how we managed to get back to the college without getting lost on the winding streets (not the last time I would find myself wondering this, either), and I couldn't recall having ever felt so tired (I was running on about two hours of sleep for a forty-eight hour period, which leads to a little haziness even in the best of us, I think). But I was in Wales, and I would never be the same.

Nostalgia

There is something about this time of year that makes me reflect on memories of old. Actually, I am fairly certain it has something very much to do with the beginning of a new school year...even though I have been out of academia now for two years (since finishing my masters), I still find myself feeling that the end of August/beginning of September is meant to be a time of new experiences, transitions, change, but feeling the distinct absence of change, I look to the past to remember what all I have done.

It was around this time eleven years ago that I officially became a TLU Bulldog (complete with an orientation that mercilessly had on repeat "Who Let the Dogs Out"...there were some things I could have done without!). While there, I would meet my best friends, encounter great professors, and refine my interests, perspectives and principles. I also learned just how far a metal slinky would stretch before it would no longer retain its springy shape (about the length of a dorm hallway, if I remember correctly), how not to argue for the defense during a mock trial (it is not encouraged to make your 'jury' run up seven flights of stairs to prove a point), and how to avoid going camping with honors students at all costs (intelligence and practical knowledge are not always guaranteed to show up together). 

About halfway through my time at TLU, nine years ago, I found myself hopping on a plane to London, convinced that a semester in Wales would sate my ever-growing wanderlust. Looking back, I cannot help but laugh at such naive thought--that one semester would ever be enough to 'see the world'. I embraced the experience, forging fast friendships and throwing myself into what it meant to be an American abroad. Within three weeks of immersion in the land of missing vowels (tell me how you would pronounce the following: twydd, gwlyb, heddiw), I knew one semester wasn't going to do it. (I distinctly remember being on a train from Munich to Wurtzburg in Germany, watching the Alps zoom past, when it struck me that I couldn't go back to TLU that January. I blame this revelation for making the mistake of my travel companions and me getting off at Wurtzburg South. Note to future travelers--they are NOT the same place.) Good thing I stayed, otherwise I would have never had the chance to get hopelessly lost in a Cornish bog, sing in a Welsh choir, or make a brief cameo on the local television news (it was a walk on role, and really, my friend Lauren hogged the spotlight...). I became a much more confident, independent person during my time abroad, and I often think if I had a chance to revisit any part of my life, this would be it.

Seven years ago, I moved to Chicago for a year of volunteer service with Amate House. Having packed all I would need for the next year in two large suitcases and an overly-stuffed carry-on, I boarded my one-way flight to Midway, and I began my life in a convent with eight other volunteers. Not that I was a nun. Or any of the other volunteers for that matter. Far, far from it.  Nuns did live above us though.  My housemates taught me so much about what it meant to be socially aware, passionate, loving. While there were times I hated living in community just for its occasional claustrophobic grip, I couldn't have made it without each of my housemates. Their humor, their compassion, their love. I miss them more than I know, really, but in many ways, I know that they all are making a huge difference wherever they are today, and seriously, I am not sure how I ever got to be a part of such a wonderful group.

Beyond the interesting living quarters, my time with Amate House was perhaps the most formative in learning how different life can be for those who did not have the benefits and privileges I had growing up.  I taught English to high school freshmen, sophomores, and juniors during my time there. I was in over my head in not knowing how to control my classroom or be an effective teacher, and it was the first time I had ever been confronted with a challenge far bigger than I could handle. That didn't stop me from loving my students dearly and pushing myself constantly to do the best I could do for them. I learned just how difficult a career teaching is...that the good teachers out there share not only their knowledge but their hearts, their energy, their time...everything, really. But there was something about the community at St. Greg's that was more like a family. I never missed a boys' home basketball game. I helped out with the girls' softball team. Thinking back to my students, I cannot help but smile. By now, all of my students should have graduated from high school, and hopefully, some of them were able to attend college. I started out my year with the intent of changing the world through my students, and brashly dismissed the idea of planting a seed--I was going to do so much more than that. But as is always the case in these situations, I probably came out the better. 

And just like that, I have already written so much, and I have barely scratched the surface of these memories. I should stop now, lest this post become even longer. One day, I will come back, flesh out some of the more entertaining memories (for those of you who have been part of the journey all along, you will find I am repeating myself, I am sure).  But until then, what do you think of this time of year? Were you like me, excited by the prospect of new classes, new friends, new experiences? Or did you want the summer to linger that little bit longer?  What are some of your fondest memories, the ones you revisit time and again?

Day of Rest...

Sunday used to be a day of rest, but the tradition of taking some time off to relax and recuperate from the other six hectic days of the week seems like something from the distant past. Long gone are the days of Sunday drives and Sunday dinners, days without agendas. Instead, it is just another day to be productive, to get things done. Something about our culture seems to encourage us to be on the go at all times, regardless of what our bodies, minds, or souls may say. No time for reflection, just more time to "do."

I am guilty of not taking time to rest and relax.  By 12:00 today, I had already made my grandma breakfast (homemade hash browns and a couple of eggs sunny-side up) and cleaned up the kitchen, mowed the lawn and tidied up the mess, taken a shower, and headed up to church for choir practice. Outside of the choir practice, if you add in weekly vacuuming, running errands, preparing meals for the rest of the week, and maybe a run to the library, you have my typical Sunday. If I do anything otherwise, I feel non-productive, as if I am somehow failing in being a good contributor to whatever--if I don't clean house, I am a lousy housekeeper. If I don't run my errands, I am not making good use of my down time If I don't exercise for x number of minutes, I am going to become a fat, lazy slob.

Now, I admit my evenings are quiet, but they usually are. And I guess that by most standards, I am fairly lazy. But I think back to when I lived in Wales, and I remember what it was like to live in a small town where every store outside of the grocery store was closed. There wasn't much one could do outside of hanging out with friends, reading, or taking a walk, so there was not any pressure to do otherwise. (Travel was also always an option, but limited funds sometimes precluded a trip to a larger town, and even then, many things had limited hours of operation.)

I recall how much I enjoyed my walk to church there, taking my time to stroll among the houses, no sense of urgency hastening my steps. I even lingered afterward to talk some with the members of the congregation, which is something I never do here. At some point during the day, I would sit in my room, BBC1 radio on in the background--nothing says relaxation than the quirky mix of techno, Brit pop, and the occasional Bhangra beat--and write in my journal. Sunday was my day to call home, too. Rain or shine, one could find me huddled in the little red phone booth outside the porter's office, checking on how things were going back home. Dinner with my friends lasted far longer than on any other day (there were times we were shooed away by the cafeteria workers). It was simple. It was quiet. It was amazing. I will acknowledge that many of my memories of Wales are surrounded by a warm, fuzzy haze that mitigates all of the negative thoughts and emotions from that time and accentuates all the positives. However, Sunday was consistently my favorite day of the week.

It wasn't easy at first to adjust to this slower pace. Initially, I felt there was always something I had to be doing otherwise. I felt like my day was wasted because I hadn't checked off an arbitrary number of "to-dos" from an imaginary list. Eventually, though, I embraced it, realizing that imaginary list bore no role in my greater happiness. Indeed, sometimes it caused an even greater distress, and I began to wonder what I had been missing in pursuit of being productive--what conversations, what experiences had been lost to complete one more task.

I wish I could recapture the Sundays in Wales. Sadly, as I have grown older, the outside noise has increased ten-fold, and it seems there is always so much more to do, so many things that need my attention that to take th time to shut it all out doesn't seem quite possible. I take that back. It is quite possible, but I am not sure I am ready to do something about it really. There are so many things right now that I want to change in my life, but I have, time and time again, underestimated the sheer force of inertia. It is possible to have the Sundays of yore, but it is difficult when it seems that everyone and everything are conspiring against you...and when you are your biggest impediment, it seems at least ten times harder. Still, it is with small steps that change can occur. Maybe sometime very soon, I will take the steps necessary to reclaim Sunday as a day of rest...and I will remind myself it is possible to stay unplugged for twenty-four hours and not have the world crash in around you.