One Month.
I’ve spent one month thinking about how to write this post, and I’ve even begun several drafts, only to abandon them.
One month ago, I walked to the bus station in Gloucester Green, Oxford, at 3:30am with H and two of my housemates.
I fell asleep on the bus to London, and awoke to see Heathrow Airport looming before me like an alien city from H.G. Wells’ imagination—hundreds of two-eyed lamposts standing in formation before the lighted levels of the terminals.
One last coffee at Café Nero.
One last look out the window at English soil (or concrete, rather).
And then Seatac, home, Christmas, and the end of 2011.
A week or so ago, I had dinner with Jordan, one of my closest Seattle friends, and her parents.
We talked about Oxford and how I’ve changed.
We’re meant to change. Donald Miller talks about that in A Million Miles In a Thousand Years; one of his friends did a year-long study on the physical change that occurs in our bodies throughout our lifetimes. We are designed to change, inside and out.
I am convinced the most beautiful praise one can hear is this: “You’ve changed; you’re different now, and it’s so good.”
When our friends call out the changes in us, we have evidence that it’s actually happened. The comments I receive from those who know me solidify my Oxford experience. Those around us testify to our progress.
They say humans fear change. If wonder, though, if we truly fear remaining unchanged.
If you’re anything like me, you sometimes question whether or not you have changed.
You make progress; you break a habit, form a friendship, strengthen a virtue.
But the questions, the doubts, creep in. You’re not really any different. You’ll never change. You’ll be stuck like this; accept it, this is just the way you are.
Meanwhile, “the writer, who is not me” (to steal a phrase from Don Miller) speaks to us softtly, saying,
“If anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation: everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new!” (2 Corinthians 5:17)
“I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert” (Isaiah 43:19).
At dinner with Jordan and her parents, she described God’s love as standing under a waterfall.
I told her that is exactly what my time in Oxford felt like. I felt like my life was overflowing, like I was living the way I was created to live.
Every little detail felt crafted, written, by Someone who knows me.
This is what He wrote:
"You love liturgy, academic Bible study, and song lyrics full of meaning.
Let me place you in a church that gives you all of these, as well as students your age to meet with and befriend. And you will walk into this on your first Sunday in Oxford. I know the songs that will fill you with hope most. I know the place you will cry when the stress and worry weigh you down. I know every soul that has prayed to Me there, the humble prayer of confession that I rejoice in and answer with generous mercy and perfect forgiveness.
"You love reading, story, libraries and books.
Let me give you a teacher who will show you how to write stories here, in the city where so many stories have been written and lived. You will meet Rachel, a young woman with the same literary passion as you—I painted your souls the same color so you could discover each other now, at the right time. Also, you will spend at least 30 hours each week in the magnificent libraries of this city, enjoying their beautiful, aged resources. I know every book you will touch, every place you will catch your breath at the words in them, and the passages you will reread as you try to grasp their meaning.
"You love beauty in palaces, cities, the countryside, and the sea.
Let me show you the kind of countryside that feels like it is alive—the personified moors and heaths of Thomas Hardy and Emily Bronte. Oh, and I will place you by the Irish Sea, the Adriatic, and the River Thames, where I know you'll adore their different shades of blue, green, and gray. You will explore Hampton Court Palace, Muncaster Castle, and the Doge’s Palace; and you will wander through the streets of Rome, Florence, Verona, Venice, Oxford, London, and Whitehaven. When these cities were built, I knew you would be here one day; I knew the places at which you would stop and stare."
And that is just an excerpt.
Standing under a waterfall is an extraordinary experience, but in this world of time and emotions and the up-and-down trudging that is being human, it cannot last forever.
One day it will, and I will dive in and swim in the Living Water like they do at the end of The Last Battle.
For now, though, I am back in Burien. I am working at the bakery, slowly making over my little upstairs bedroom, spending time with my family, and turning 21 on Monday.
Those of you in the area, if you are interested in meeting up, do let me know. Most (read “all”) of my friends are back at their various universities now, so this extrovert is struggling to get her fix of conversations from interactions with customers at the bakery and visits with my older brother a few times a week.
But even (or especially) here, working my 40-hrs.-a-week at a job that is not a career, life is happening. We strive for excellence in all we do, so that we will not be ashamed. When I look Him in the face, the hope that overwhelms me is that I will hear Him, smiling, say, “You’ve changed; you’re different, and it’s so good.”
It is time to live like we cannot die.--Beth Moore
xx Jennifer
Showing posts with label grad school. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grad school. Show all posts
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
"You Can Make Anything by Writing"--C.S. Lewis
I suppose I should begin with something about the Ball last Friday.
Imagine the cocktail party from Breakfast at Tiffany’s; throw that into one of Gatsby’s parties; mix in a little highschool dance at the gym, complete with the sweat and hormones; put it in the mansion from Atonement; and douse the whole thing in sticky-sweet neon-colored alcohol.
That was the Union Ball.
The Union Society decorated their building so each room was different. Upstairs, there was a live jazz band and a small dance floor, and another room lined with bookshelves and plush velvet chairs had an enormous chocolate fountain. Downstairs was the main bar, the Statue of Liberty, and posters of New York City (the theme was New York, New York). Out in the courtyard, under a white tent, they served hot dogs, doughnuts, popcorn, and “candy floss” (cotton candy”). The tent connected to the dance floor, normally the debate chamber. The men were all in tuxedos and the women were in gowns, boas, fur, pearls, lipstick, and even a few Lady Gaga-esque couture dresses.
The dancefloor was packed for most of the night, and exceedingly entertaining (the British, you see, are not the best dancers, but they are very enthusiastic). Wandering the grounds, I met two grad students—one from Finland and one from Israel—and we talked for quite a while. The Finn could speak six languages, and we ended up conversing in Spanish for about a half-hour. The Israeli and I discussed Israel (obviously I was dying to hear an opinion for someone who’s actually lived in Israel, since everyone else seems to have one).
In the end, we picked our way through the alleyway leading to Cornmarket Street at 1:15am—past the entwined couples and clouds of cigarette smoke—and took a cab home. It was quite the experience!
Now, it’s the middle of fifth week, which means Fifth Week Blues.
Everyone has been exceptionally unmotivated. I’ve fallen into a 3am-11am sleeping pattern. It’s 1:23 right now and I feel wide-awake. I know the only remedy is to get up early one day, but all arguments are void before a warm bed.
But, to prove I’m not such a sluggard as you may think, I’d like to inform you that I wrote my statement of purpose for the first round of grad school applications this week.
Bam.
I spent the first half of this week trying to compile my last two essays into one piece (responding to claims that Bronte’s Jane Eyre and Gaskell’s North and South are anti-Christian) before realizing I should probably start reading Daniel Deronda, by George Eliot, since it’s 600 pages and I need to finish my essay about it by Friday night. I watched the BBC production of it, though (if you like Masterpiece Theatre, I recommend it. Gorgeous costumes, and Romola Garai makes a fabulous Gwendolen Harleth), so the reading should go by faster, since I'm just looking for quotes/examples not overall plot and themes.
This is essentially my fifth “finals week” in a row. If I had known I could handle this workload I would never have complained at APU. Each week I read between 450 and 650 pages of fiction—one or two novels—followed by parts of one or two books about the author, and between three and eight scholarly articles or chapters out of books that pertain to my essay question. This takes about three days. The next day and a half consists of drafting, revising, reading aloud, and editing my essay. Every Monday morning, I read my latest essay aloud to my tutor, who has already critiqued it in writing.
In your average American university, I would have at least two weeks to do this. Even as an English major, I had less than three papers like this per class per 16-week semester.
All this to say, I was glad to have the diversion of my Statement of Purpose this week, even if it put me a little behind.
Tomorrow I have my third Creative Writing tutorial, where I’ll read the first draft of my latest story. It’s almost completely in dialogue, which was HUGELY difficult for me since I’m most comfortable writing description.
I’ve been realizing how much writing changes the way you see the world. I can’t believe I stopped for so long. When I was a child, I wrote stories and poems all the time, but I haven’t done anything like that—except for journaling and an occasional creative school assignment—for years.
Now, I listen for juicy details in the conversations of people I pass on the street; I scribble metaphors on napkins or band-aid wrappers so I won’t forget them; I take a few minutes to write a descriptive paragraph about that barefoot girl in the library who looks like she just walked out of a Dutch painting (seriously).
Today, I had coffee at Blackwells with an Irish friend from church. She’s a third year studying English here, and she writes too. Speaking with her was such an encouragement; I couldn’t help but think of Anne of Green Gables’ “kindred spirit” philosophy. She never raises her voice, but has enormous, expressive blue eyes and the loveliest accent I’ve ever heard. I fall into a kind of sing-song English when we speak; it’s impossible not to imitate some of her phrasing and intonation. We talked about how we feel we belong in Oxford; it’s like we never realized how little we fit in with most people at home until we came here.
I asked her if she saw the moon when she was walking to Blackwells. It is full and the sky is clear, and I stopped on the sidewalk to take a deep breath in when I saw it, fat, round, and glowing creamy white. She laughed and said, “Jennifer, if I phoned any of my flatmates right now, I’m sure they wouldn’t know what the moon looks like right now.”
Writers notice the moon.
It’s such a blessing to find someone so far from home with such important similarities. Ok, maybe noticing in the moon doesn’t seem like an important similarity, but it’s an example of a Lewisian alignment of the minds, trust me.
Discussing what God’s been doing in each of our lives, what opportunities are coming up and what we are passionate about, was an incredible reminder that our God “is able to do immeasurably more than all we can ask or imagine.”
XX Jennifer
P.S. Coming up this Saturday, a trip to Stonehenge and Bath!
Imagine the cocktail party from Breakfast at Tiffany’s; throw that into one of Gatsby’s parties; mix in a little highschool dance at the gym, complete with the sweat and hormones; put it in the mansion from Atonement; and douse the whole thing in sticky-sweet neon-colored alcohol.
That was the Union Ball.
The Union Society decorated their building so each room was different. Upstairs, there was a live jazz band and a small dance floor, and another room lined with bookshelves and plush velvet chairs had an enormous chocolate fountain. Downstairs was the main bar, the Statue of Liberty, and posters of New York City (the theme was New York, New York). Out in the courtyard, under a white tent, they served hot dogs, doughnuts, popcorn, and “candy floss” (cotton candy”). The tent connected to the dance floor, normally the debate chamber. The men were all in tuxedos and the women were in gowns, boas, fur, pearls, lipstick, and even a few Lady Gaga-esque couture dresses.
The dancefloor was packed for most of the night, and exceedingly entertaining (the British, you see, are not the best dancers, but they are very enthusiastic). Wandering the grounds, I met two grad students—one from Finland and one from Israel—and we talked for quite a while. The Finn could speak six languages, and we ended up conversing in Spanish for about a half-hour. The Israeli and I discussed Israel (obviously I was dying to hear an opinion for someone who’s actually lived in Israel, since everyone else seems to have one).
In the end, we picked our way through the alleyway leading to Cornmarket Street at 1:15am—past the entwined couples and clouds of cigarette smoke—and took a cab home. It was quite the experience!
Now, it’s the middle of fifth week, which means Fifth Week Blues.
Everyone has been exceptionally unmotivated. I’ve fallen into a 3am-11am sleeping pattern. It’s 1:23 right now and I feel wide-awake. I know the only remedy is to get up early one day, but all arguments are void before a warm bed.
But, to prove I’m not such a sluggard as you may think, I’d like to inform you that I wrote my statement of purpose for the first round of grad school applications this week.
Bam.
I spent the first half of this week trying to compile my last two essays into one piece (responding to claims that Bronte’s Jane Eyre and Gaskell’s North and South are anti-Christian) before realizing I should probably start reading Daniel Deronda, by George Eliot, since it’s 600 pages and I need to finish my essay about it by Friday night. I watched the BBC production of it, though (if you like Masterpiece Theatre, I recommend it. Gorgeous costumes, and Romola Garai makes a fabulous Gwendolen Harleth), so the reading should go by faster, since I'm just looking for quotes/examples not overall plot and themes.
This is essentially my fifth “finals week” in a row. If I had known I could handle this workload I would never have complained at APU. Each week I read between 450 and 650 pages of fiction—one or two novels—followed by parts of one or two books about the author, and between three and eight scholarly articles or chapters out of books that pertain to my essay question. This takes about three days. The next day and a half consists of drafting, revising, reading aloud, and editing my essay. Every Monday morning, I read my latest essay aloud to my tutor, who has already critiqued it in writing.
In your average American university, I would have at least two weeks to do this. Even as an English major, I had less than three papers like this per class per 16-week semester.
All this to say, I was glad to have the diversion of my Statement of Purpose this week, even if it put me a little behind.
Tomorrow I have my third Creative Writing tutorial, where I’ll read the first draft of my latest story. It’s almost completely in dialogue, which was HUGELY difficult for me since I’m most comfortable writing description.
I’ve been realizing how much writing changes the way you see the world. I can’t believe I stopped for so long. When I was a child, I wrote stories and poems all the time, but I haven’t done anything like that—except for journaling and an occasional creative school assignment—for years.
Now, I listen for juicy details in the conversations of people I pass on the street; I scribble metaphors on napkins or band-aid wrappers so I won’t forget them; I take a few minutes to write a descriptive paragraph about that barefoot girl in the library who looks like she just walked out of a Dutch painting (seriously).
Today, I had coffee at Blackwells with an Irish friend from church. She’s a third year studying English here, and she writes too. Speaking with her was such an encouragement; I couldn’t help but think of Anne of Green Gables’ “kindred spirit” philosophy. She never raises her voice, but has enormous, expressive blue eyes and the loveliest accent I’ve ever heard. I fall into a kind of sing-song English when we speak; it’s impossible not to imitate some of her phrasing and intonation. We talked about how we feel we belong in Oxford; it’s like we never realized how little we fit in with most people at home until we came here.
I asked her if she saw the moon when she was walking to Blackwells. It is full and the sky is clear, and I stopped on the sidewalk to take a deep breath in when I saw it, fat, round, and glowing creamy white. She laughed and said, “Jennifer, if I phoned any of my flatmates right now, I’m sure they wouldn’t know what the moon looks like right now.”
Writers notice the moon.
It’s such a blessing to find someone so far from home with such important similarities. Ok, maybe noticing in the moon doesn’t seem like an important similarity, but it’s an example of a Lewisian alignment of the minds, trust me.
Discussing what God’s been doing in each of our lives, what opportunities are coming up and what we are passionate about, was an incredible reminder that our God “is able to do immeasurably more than all we can ask or imagine.”
XX Jennifer
P.S. Coming up this Saturday, a trip to Stonehenge and Bath!
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