tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16880227571741116532024-03-05T09:12:15.455-08:00Candlemaker DaydreamsVictoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14445999072033523755noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1688022757174111653.post-31667430944853488982012-03-11T16:28:00.001-07:002012-03-14T16:19:26.839-07:00Midnight in StokholmA few notes about my Spring Break in Sweden so far: written from my hostel in Stokholm. <br />
<br />
Flew into Göthenburg Friday night after my last Aesthetics tutorial. I felt so drained-- so beyond exhausted. This term has truly zapped every last ounce of my strength. I dreaded waking up and starting another day: feeling so physically burdened even after a full night's rest. I think I was shaking after I finished my last tutorial with T. My mind was running on exhaust fumes. Despite that fact, I think I ended my postcolonial lit tutorials with him on a positive note. We had a fantastic conversation about the nature of good and evil as it pertained to Rushdie's <em>The Satanic Verses</em>. I was trying to explain my views on good and evil, referring to St Augustine's theory. Overall, a pretty amazing conversation. For once he had to cut me off and say we needed to stop. I was almost on the verge of asking what I should read for next week. So hard to believe tutorials are over. Forever. I don't know if I can really accept that yet. <br />
<br />
When we arrived in Göthenburg, we found our hostel, which was actually a very nice place. Clean. even had a tv. and we had the room to ourselves. Saturday we spent the day taking a ferry to the islands on the coast. The bus system wasn't too difficult, but it was complicated by the fact that we couldn't pronounce (or remember how to spell) most of the stops: Jorkingaten?, Saltholmen?, etc. The islands were beautiful though. We sailed along to the last stop, an island called Vrängo, and explored the place. A few people got off on the stop with us, but other than them we really didn't see a soul on the island. It was chilly, but the sun shone so warmly that we didn't find it cold. The water at the edge of the beach was so clear that you could see the seaweed waving down at the bottom for a good ways out. Casey collected sea shells and bits of green seaglass on the little patch of shoreline. We also climbed up a bit of the small island mountain to see the view of the coast, which was pretty stellar. Coming back down we followed a woody trail and stumbled onto a nature reserve. The pathways led us to another open beach area with picnic tables and campfire sites. I could vividly picture a pretty Swdish fmaily with blonde children packing a picnic lunch with bread, cheese, and cider-- eating and playing by the shore during a long August afternoon. You couldn't imagine how lonely it felt on that island. So quiet and deserted, but oddly not sad. Ireland possessed a tragic sadness which somehow oozed out of its misty green hills, but Sweden seems oddly cheerful in its cold loneliness. As though it is content to smile and endure the frozen winter months. They paint their houses yellow to match the sunlight they carry in their jacket pockets.<br />
<br />
Today we took a train from Göthenburg to Stockholm and saw a good bit of the countryside on the 3 and a half hour trip. I read a few essays on <em>The Sound and the Fury </em>and watched the yellow fields of Sweden roll past my window. I'll always associate yellow fields with Sweden now: yellow hay fields and red houses-- ice covered lakes and yellow summer homes. Stokholm seems like a nice place-- somewhat more nice than Göthenburg, which seemed a little run down. This is the major city of Sweden, so it makes sense that it would be more modern and well kept. After arriving here and finding our hostel, we went looking for the Royal Palace, and eventually found it after some wandering and stopping to take pictures of the frozen lake. The ice is beginning to thaw in patches, and break up into jagged pieces, like a broken mirror floating in a large bathtub. It was another lovely day, and the sun was setting over the harbor as we found the palace, so we were able to take a few lovely sunset shots of the palace and the bridges over the lake. For dinner we found a little hole-in-the-wall place and asked for a very Swedish meal, though we couldn't by any means pronounce its name. It was some kind of roast beef(?) with a uniqely flavored sauce over rice, lettuce, and french fries. Odd, but delicious after I got used to the flavour. Katie and I split a little carton of Ben & Jerry's ice cream on our way back to our hostel, and it cost us about 400 SEK, which is about... 4 dollars? ish?.. we're having a very hard time figuring out how to transfer crowns to pounds and dollars in our heads. Tomorrow we leave for Copenhagen and will have a whole new currency to deal with, but it'll be a new adventure.Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14445999072033523755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1688022757174111653.post-52918997766418293672012-02-28T05:10:00.002-08:002012-02-28T05:13:43.096-08:00Gertrude Stein<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Today, I found a new appreciation for <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FJEIAGULmPQ"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3d85c6;">Gertrude Stein</span></a>. Listen to how she tastes her words! Read them aloud yourself a chew them slowly. In a lecture today, I learned she was intimately influenced by Picasso's art. She said she was alone in understanding him because she was trying to do the same thing in her writing that he was trying to do in visual media. She asks you to accept writing which is barely about something. Think about what individual words can do.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3d85c6;">If I told him would he like it. Would he like it if I told him./<br />
Would he like it would Napoleon would Napoleon would would he like it./<br />
If Napoleon if I told him if I told him if Napoleon. Would he like it if I told him if I told him if Napoleon. Would he like it if Napoleon if/<br />
Napoleon if I told him. If I told him if Napoleon if Napoleon if I told him. If I told him would he like it would he like it if I told him. </span>Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14445999072033523755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1688022757174111653.post-35378643299953633992012-02-26T08:48:00.000-08:002012-02-26T08:48:27.369-08:00Sun<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">“You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet</span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it</span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for</span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">picking” -- “Blackberry Picking” by Seamus Heaney</span></div><br />
<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The warm, evening sun cast long shadows on the grass and I could feel the rays literally seeping into my skin. The sun had become orange from its long day spent warming the earth, and chilly wind was beginning to blow through my light jacket. A dying sun. I was reminded of that scene from <i>The Magician’s Nephew </i>when Lewis describes the sun in Jadis’ realm as large, red, and cold, not like the bright, yellow, warm sun from Digory’s world. Jadis explains that this is because Digory’s world is young, and her own is old, breathing its last breath before destruction. This sun felt as old as the sun from Jadis’ world, but not quite as sad. There is always a sadness to death, but this sun felt resigned to her end. Ready for it. As though she was finally falling asleep at the close of a life well-lived. She had warmed the young girl, Earth, and imparted to her some knowledge of love. Also, something of forgiveness. Not atonement, or justification. Just forgiveness, and love. Always love. She wouldn’t be the sun if she didn’t love with all of her being. The dying star bled on my toes, and juice from a ripe orange slice slipped down my lips, and guitar music lulled me to half-sleep. Staring up at the sky so blue, like water. The warm Mediterranean ocean must have fed into sky at the horizon somehow. A plane swimming through the current and leaving white foam in its wake. </span></span></div>Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14445999072033523755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1688022757174111653.post-1491165106485318692012-02-21T05:17:00.001-08:002012-02-21T05:19:26.029-08:00Lang Lang<div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQmsstPvwRblRkgowKEhONgNb8gIihyEqlQvCLEtpQxn7RK4Qn8SukLaAlRpRWFPbZlinEMC3kDDYZmefi_2wzVeUdTDX6eaqYFnjMdGK2K3Y-_-OOTSz9BbTU-ZbUwyivIM3fLcx5NSRp/s1600/Sheldonian+ceiling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQmsstPvwRblRkgowKEhONgNb8gIihyEqlQvCLEtpQxn7RK4Qn8SukLaAlRpRWFPbZlinEMC3kDDYZmefi_2wzVeUdTDX6eaqYFnjMdGK2K3Y-_-OOTSz9BbTU-ZbUwyivIM3fLcx5NSRp/s320/Sheldonian+ceiling.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">Yesterday, Shannon and I went to see Lang Lang give a piano, master class at the Sheldonian Theatre, which we had bought tickets for back when we had first arrived in Oxford. Sixth week finally rolled around today and we sat with excited anticipation in Blackwell’s cafe, enjoying hot chocolate and cramming in a little study time in before queuing up to get our tickets outside the theatre. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span style="font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">We walked in Door A, and up a set of winding stairs which led us to the balcony of the theatre. I skipped around to the center of the theatre, which was oddly shaped-- kind of like an oval, with one flat wall, which we were facing. On that wall was a large, ornate, silver organ. In the center of the floor was one grande piano and chairs surrounded it on all sides. The range of ages in the audience was surprising. Elderly people, students, and very young kids in little suits, fidgeting in their seats, awaited the beginning of the class.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span style="font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">As Shannon and I sat down, we couldn’t help but admire the sheer splendor of the place. The ceiling was painted with a heavenly scene of angels, gods and goddesses sprawled out on rose-colored clouds. Probably patrons gods of music, I would assume. A plump, baby angel above my head seemed to be wrestling with another baby, and simultaneously trying to shoot someone with one of the arrows in his quiver-- an arrow of love maybe? Long portraits of Victorian-looking men hung on either side of the straight-backed theatre, their eyes looking down at the performers from their perch. The windows on every side let in a good deal of light, so the theatre attained an even more ethereal, airy feel. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span style="font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">The audience hushed as Lang Lang stood and welcomed the crowd. He then had three Oxford pianists come forward, one at a time, and play a piece, then he would critique their performance. As the first player began, I slipped out a bag of starbursts from my purple backpack, trying to hide the candy from the hawk-eyes of the balcony attendant, and we quietly munched on the fruit-flavored candy as music began to swell and fill up the theatre with its presence.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span style="font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">I thought the first player was pretty talented. A young man, quiet and somewhat shy, who seemed to play fairly flawlessly. When he was finished, Lang Lang said he had a nice touch, but there were certain things he could improve on regarding the emotions he brought to the piece. He could play this bit with more gentleness, this bob with sharper ferocity. When he demonstrated how bits should be played, my mouth almost dropped open. He was magnifacent. His fingers stroked the keys, coaxing a sound out of the instrument that I almost didn’t know it was capable of producing. His fingers were delicate, like a dancer’s foot rolling through a tondue, into a ron de jambe, with such strong grace. One thing that interested me was the way he explained how the pianist should play by telling him, with language. He said at one point, playing strongly, “And then this is another world”, and he paused and began to play with a caressing, soft touch. We were in awe. The last player was also phenomenal. Shannon was unsettled, calling the piece “sneaky”, but as he finished I let out a relieved exhale-- finding that I had been holding my breath the entire time. This piece was just that powerful.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span style="font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">For those few hours, I wondered if these exact feelings had been experienced by people scores, or even hundreds of years before me. I could imagine the audience in Edwardian or Victorian dress, fanning themselves and discussing Darwin’s new theories in the wings. For that instant, I sensed history coagulating in my mind, and couldn’t help but feel delighted. </span></div>Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14445999072033523755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1688022757174111653.post-86505026929729741832012-01-24T07:25:00.000-08:002012-01-24T07:25:09.382-08:00Blur<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtX27h0Io-8ZELY9Kyrx2KqCXo9g0_zXfX4GoAADWcdiwqn74yRciGaspmmCv2t1Gb_DO5k71u1Xoll3LHBRbtc9Kng6FdKcWfdS41vvMpvc8QyRG750V0NAMIqCmXK66OKP2zcpdH_vh1/s1600/IMG_4802.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtX27h0Io-8ZELY9Kyrx2KqCXo9g0_zXfX4GoAADWcdiwqn74yRciGaspmmCv2t1Gb_DO5k71u1Xoll3LHBRbtc9Kng6FdKcWfdS41vvMpvc8QyRG750V0NAMIqCmXK66OKP2zcpdH_vh1/s200/IMG_4802.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Blur</span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I ride around the carousel,</span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">and watch your faces blurring,</span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">like your spaces in my mind are</span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">stirring in within your smiles</span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">and your frowns; and while I spin and</span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">spin I cannot pin the traces</span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">of your essence down in</span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">place, like foggy</span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">photos in my bedside drawer. copies</span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">taken in our groggy haste to</span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">paste the image in our minds.</span></div>Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14445999072033523755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1688022757174111653.post-7935679608956796712011-11-30T09:17:00.001-08:002011-12-03T08:12:07.598-08:00Through Fire and Frost<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3zLZ7nPaZYH4pH5hPFR08bAL8O0swBu9fz4F0_HIMmZ4PrU0BhBIsOn3CupW10tNZwnl9CVgHzy6E2s51qczS2NgTPdoO9C0310sIQSSKp40BLTPOYIrNvKq3Z7m0nei8lne48KoKib2S/s1600/IMG_2608.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3zLZ7nPaZYH4pH5hPFR08bAL8O0swBu9fz4F0_HIMmZ4PrU0BhBIsOn3CupW10tNZwnl9CVgHzy6E2s51qczS2NgTPdoO9C0310sIQSSKp40BLTPOYIrNvKq3Z7m0nei8lne48KoKib2S/s400/IMG_2608.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">So, here we are again, close to the end of another semester. It is 8th Week of Oxford’s Michaelmas term, and I have one more tutorial paper to write, one 4,000 word long essay due next week, and then I will be flying back to South Carolina and this term will be completed. Work has been difficult. There have been several tutorials from which I have emerged with a less than optimistic outlook on my writing abilities. Each week I feel like I have to walk through a tunnel of fire and gravity to come out the other side slightly refined-- shaped into something new. But overall, I would say tutorials have been a very enriching experience.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">This past week, Oxford has been frosted and dipped in Christmas lights. There are trees wrapped in white on Broad Street and in the Bodleian Library square. Cornmarket Street is draped with Christmas lights and Blackwell’s book store has Christmas displays in the windows.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">About two weeks ago, I visited Blenheim Palace with a few friends from my program. We walked around the sheep-filled fields and breathed in the sharp bite of winter air for one of the first times this year. The palace was absolutely beautiful, and its courtyard was filled with Christmas trees, lights, and a Christmas craft fair. K, C and I were the only ones of my group who went inside the palace. As you entered the courtyard, tents were set up with booths displaying many different kinds of local crafts such as scarfs, hats, jewelry, and art work. Inside the palace was also decorated. Fireplaces blazed with enormous light, and dining tables were swathed in crystal and holly. My favorite room was the library, which consisted of a long hall with ornate books which filled the walls from floor to ceiling. The long windows of the hall afforded glimpses of the intricate English gardens, complete with fountains and statuary. On the other end of the hall was a large organ being played by a staff member of the palace. The thick music filled the room like a strong wine and I felt like my lungs were being filled with water. I breathed slowly and wanted to lie down in front of the fireplace near the books and the organ, and fall asleep.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Walking outside the palace rooms shocked me back into consciousness. K, C and I explored the gardens and winding grounds of the palace. There was a rose garden which still sheltered a few white blooms. I could imagine how luscious it would be in the summer months. At the edge of the lake, there was a waterfall cascading over mossy boulders. The scene looked like it had been spoken into being from a fairy tale I read as a child and have forgotten.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 36.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Last Saturday we held a Thanksgiving dinner party at our program house. Almost everyone from our program, plus our directors, professors and their families came over for the turkey, cranberries, dressing, and long-sought-after pumpkin pie (because apparently pumpkin is not a big thing over here). We strung popcorn on strings, cut out snowflakes, played cards, and at the end of the evening, a few volunteers entertained the group with songs, jokes, and fiddle playing. Uproarious laughter filled the house, and for a while it felt like I was a part of a home-away-from-home. I will be glad to be going home soon, but for now I’m going to enjoy the time I have left in this magnificent city.</span></div>Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14445999072033523755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1688022757174111653.post-66572911622877754212011-10-01T16:32:00.000-07:002011-10-01T16:33:05.902-07:00Let's go to Ireland<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEbwvOxGlNSUQYKqSdn9gu_l99CSuivE7EeL5gbxgApa9vilp7k6D39LEFTglhlh8ZnD08H6-yOhxiiWmenzc27BRcNwn-G0A0DZ0Oa7ddhrdAy4nKKvVS_c7388B9tSg3ME4YPnsrg8nM/s1600/Photo+on+2011-09-30+at+13.09+%25232.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEbwvOxGlNSUQYKqSdn9gu_l99CSuivE7EeL5gbxgApa9vilp7k6D39LEFTglhlh8ZnD08H6-yOhxiiWmenzc27BRcNwn-G0A0DZ0Oa7ddhrdAy4nKKvVS_c7388B9tSg3ME4YPnsrg8nM/s200/Photo+on+2011-09-30+at+13.09+%25232.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Friday, September 30, 2011</span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Currently, I am on the 11th bus of our journey-- backpacking through Ireland. Yes, it seems just as surreal to me. We started planning this trip about two or three weeks ago, when we found out we had a fall break from friday to tuesday. We knew such a long break deserved a far away destination-- there was no way I was going to spend this break lying around the house. So, I found a group of Vines people who all wanted to go to Ireland. Almost immediately, I hooked up with K, and we seemed to have almost the exact same ideas on where we wanted to stay and places we would like to see. No couch-surfing, or antique-Roman villages for us. We are all about cute Ireland B&Bs, and luxurious ferry rides to coastal island towns. </span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">But the planning always seemed so far off. We’d be going to Ireland eventually. Or we’ll worry about that next week. But it just hit me Wednesday night that we’d be leaving TOMORROW! Totally crazy. We’d all been so busy writing our case study papers for the British Landscapes course that the reality of vacation hadn’t set in. </span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">So, Thursday morning, we went on a school field trip to the Imperial War museum in London. It was a pretty impressive place with so many artifacts like uniforms and letters soldiers wore during the world wars. The holocaust exhibit was most memorable. They had so many graphic pictures of the atrocities committed against the Jews, and testimonial videos taken by holocaust survivors. I almost cried when one Jewish man spoke about how he had lost all faith in prayer because no matter how hard he prayed, none of his family or friends were saved. It was such an unexplainable tragedy. None of our hollow reasoning can make it any better.</span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">After that exhibit, I was pretty drained, but I tried to absorb the museum and accept the message it wanted to give, and then move on.</span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Once we’d finished touring the museum, our director dropped us off at Victoria station so that we could head out more easily. (awesome!) and then we made our way to the Victoria coach station. We had some time before the coach left, so we walked/intenselypowerwalked down the Thames to see Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. I was sacked out by the time we made it back to Victoria. </span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">We met back up with A, who had wandered off, back at Victoria coach station, and boarded the neverending train to our ferry. We left around 6 and got into P-Dock around 2, so I was wrestling around unsuccessfully trying to sleep on that coach for over 6 hours. Upon reaching the dock, I thankfully received a renewed burst of energy as we played cards and drank hot chocolate before boarding the ferry. And this ferry was no tug-boat, my dear, this was a legit cruise liner with seven decks full of amenities. We then proceeded to run all over the place-- exploring the game room, the movie room, and the upper deck which was perfect for viewing the twinkling harbor lights and the bright Welsh stars.</span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I was too over-tired to sleep after we finished exploring, so I took my laptop over to a quiet nearby deck with lots of tables, chairs, and outlets to read some of the Nathaniel Hawthorne short stories my tutor suggested I brush up on before our first tutorial next week. It was around 3:30 when my eyelids began to droop and I headed into the next room and sacked out on one of the coaches.</span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">So that was the two-and-a-half hours I have slept in the past 30 hours because at 6 am, we got off the ferry and on a coach headed to Cork. C and I are coach buddies. Since I opted not to bring my ipod in lieu of saving space for my mac, she has been sharing one ear of her music with me. That’s one of the quickest ways to ensure my affection, let me tell you. After transferring at W-, we arrived in Cork and hopped on a bus to Blarney Castle (but not before promptly losing A again). That place was absolutely beautiful! A thick fog hung over the deep green marsh land surrounding the castle and gave the area an air of mystery-- of magic. We climbed the moss-covered spiral staircase up to the top where we bent over backwards to kiss the Blarney Stone, which supposedly gives you the gift of eloquence. An area I particularly liked about the castle and the surrounding grounds was an area called the Poison Garden. It was a beautiful little plot which grew only extremely deadly flowers and plants-- one was a common plant found around Ireland which caused many infant deaths, most being intentional because the plant was given from mothers to their children. Such a terrible, yet romantic garden. I don’t know why, but I was struck by the irresistible poetry of the poisonous beauties. The whole area seemed to radiate an aura of goblin faerie dust. The rain began to get heavier and heavier and I wondered if I might drown under my purple rain coat and lie for ever under the moss and the deep blue hydrangeas.</span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">After finishing up at the castle, we headed back to Cork and (after finding A again) boarded a bus to Dingle (subsequently losing A again). And this bus connected at a little town of which I could never find the name. We wandered around aimlessly for a while, and I finally found a cash machine which would let me enter my pin number and take out some euros. And then, after much indecision, we decided to grab a quick bite at a local grocery store and head back to await our connecting bus to Dingle (where we found A again). I bought a loaf of bread, cheese, and digestives, and was delightfully satisfied with my dinner. I also felt strangely delighted with this backpacking across-the-country situation. Normally I would have expected myself to balk at the thought of such a venture. Carry all my stuff around with me everywhere? uh, no thanks.. But I’m actually really enjoying it. The whole experience is so.. liberating. I have all I need on my back, so if I feel like hopping on a bus to a new town, I just hop on the bus. Nothing holding me back-- tying me down. I feel so confident, like I could do anything or go anywhere now. so freeing</span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">So after arriving in Dingle, K, C, H and I began to wander around looking for our B&B (Emlaugh Lodge). We got dreadfully turned around, so K called Maggie, the B&B owner, who was sweet enough to drive over and pick us up (or “collect us” as she called it. We haven’t been able to see much of Dingle, since night fell before we arrived. But the air of anticipation is almost as good as, and maybe better than, seeing the place that is supposedly the most beautiful place in the world. We’ll see in the morning.</span></div>Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14445999072033523755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1688022757174111653.post-47724746944025240042011-09-24T06:42:00.000-07:002011-09-24T06:42:09.080-07:00In a Portsmouth Museum<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">written thursday, on the drive back from a field trip to Portsmouth, UK. feel free to comment if you want to discuss the poem with me.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In a Portsmouth Museum</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Finish your lemon ices, and we’ll move</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">to the next room. There, behind</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">the glass, are genuine musket balls,</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">and canons are past the tea shop, along</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">the beige wall. Rosary beads on that</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">table were excavated just last summer.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Scuba divers carved them out</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">from bedrock-- covered in layers of silt. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Delicate work, wresting</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">them from all those bony fingers.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Over here are surgeon's tools.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">A quick chap could</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">amputate your arm in</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">three minutes-- sawing your</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">bone in two with jagged</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">knives. They couldn’t give</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">you brandy, or you’d</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">hemorrhage, and that’d be</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">the end of you, unless someone</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">happens to paint your</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">portrait as you lay gasping</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">through your shattered lung, or</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">jots down a few romantic</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">lines about you, or digs </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">up your skull </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">a hundred years later for</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">a museum display.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">If you’d kindly step inside</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">the doors, I’ll continue with the tour.</span></div>Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14445999072033523755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1688022757174111653.post-3484120433721789092011-09-14T13:22:00.000-07:002011-09-24T10:30:21.179-07:00HemingwayEveryone in the house tonight is locked in quiet, exhausted desperation, trying to finish their papers before the deadline tomorrow night. I'm already finished with my paper on Margery Kempe's madness, as well as I think I can be finished. I can't stop myself from re-reading it over and over again. Each time I seem to find a spelling error here, a comma error there. So, I can't seem to bring myself to submit the paper even though I know I won't make any more substantial changes to it tonight.<br />
<br />
Between these intervals of proof-reading, I finished reading Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms. I felt completely unprepared for Catherine's death. The shock of that sadness and poor Henry's devastation has left me feeling very down.. His stream of consciousness style and plain, matter-of-fact way of putting things was terribly beautiful.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: ff1, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; line-height: 16px; white-space: nowrap; word-spacing: -1px;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: ff1, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px; white-space: nowrap; word-spacing: -1px;">"</span></span>If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry." (ch. 34)Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14445999072033523755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1688022757174111653.post-16123000674318906202011-09-04T12:50:00.000-07:002011-09-04T12:50:35.759-07:00Initial Oxford Feelings<br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiERNzJJbjgzUxM43MZki1JqJ61HEFzo_03eOJ12PhYNyfe9U-dUxqXFHFmhfX9i_sXZVNQqwokDxrWB4Dr7M61UQ8VX5ehRApdjlfGkKSjSXhCGqntjTqe7lhi1JYWe3N7icu7n6NnZ5l1/s1600/IMG_2060.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiERNzJJbjgzUxM43MZki1JqJ61HEFzo_03eOJ12PhYNyfe9U-dUxqXFHFmhfX9i_sXZVNQqwokDxrWB4Dr7M61UQ8VX5ehRApdjlfGkKSjSXhCGqntjTqe7lhi1JYWe3N7icu7n6NnZ5l1/s400/IMG_2060.jpg" width="300" /></a><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The past few days have been a flurry of activity. On Friday, I moved into the house I will be living in this semester at Oxford. The house is huge and in a beautiful woody location about thirty minutes outside the hustle and bustle of downtown Oxford’s center. There are about forty other students who I will be sharing the house with, and I have three other roommates, so there’s never a dull moment around here. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This weekend has been full of get-to-know-you type conversations and orientation afternoon teas. Although all this activity has been tiring, I have willingly thrown myself into it. I’m almost scared to be left alone with myself because my homesickness starts to choke me and I can just barely hold back tears. Nighttime silence has become a time I long for yet dread. Visions of home and peace flood my mind more easily when I have nothing to distract my thoughts. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We begin classes tomorrow, and our orientation to all things Oxford. The coming of schoolwork will certainly bring stress, but it will be a distraction from this loneliness, so I welcome the work.. at least right now. Right now the year seems to stretch out before me like an unending highway, but I’m well aware that it will fly by just like this past summer, like every school year before now. I want to call this city and these people my home, as I learned to call Gordon my home. And maybe I will.. in time.</span></span></div>Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14445999072033523755noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1688022757174111653.post-14232795780579049652011-08-31T09:06:00.000-07:002011-08-31T09:46:34.853-07:00Holiday in London<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1AlHE88AIaxuo1RgoWOmyiOlQ2TBxx-Vk5k9iKNCRt6mkMGANiRkI1jmjoQm-4HYWMqKZMIIomM2EzPAI75uYnT4YnY3c0JUVf070YxebOzfxhWgoV2zZ69nhDkWgkYQKzPNsxf-VpkYY/s1600/IMG_1968.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1AlHE88AIaxuo1RgoWOmyiOlQ2TBxx-Vk5k9iKNCRt6mkMGANiRkI1jmjoQm-4HYWMqKZMIIomM2EzPAI75uYnT4YnY3c0JUVf070YxebOzfxhWgoV2zZ69nhDkWgkYQKzPNsxf-VpkYY/s400/IMG_1968.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">Written August 29, 2011-- my last day touring London</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">I have spent the last week touring London, England with my mom, so let me offer my first impressions of the city. London is old, really old. You are reminded of that fact every time you turn the corner. Almost every stone building features ornate molding or corinthian columns, and every park contains a Roman-esque statue of a general or otherwise distinguished Brit. Age is what largely distinguishes this city from others in America, but it has other unique characteristics as well. The city is not as hectic as New York, and the subways are remarkably cleaner-- and let me say that London has just about every city I’ve ever visited beaten in the public transportation department (except maybe Washington DC). It took a little bit of getting used to, but once you get the hang of it, London’s “tube” (subway) system is very clear and easy to use, much more so than NY, but maybe not as clear as Boston due to the fact that London is a larger city. The red buses are a little harder to navigate because we had a hard time figuring out where each bus made its stops, but once you know where you’re going and what signs to look for, riding the buses is a very pleasant mode of travel. London streets are even marked for tourists crossing the street; when you reach an intersection, the direction you should watch for cars is painted on the asphalt in big white letters. Thank you, Elizabeth. I also think you feel more safe walking around London at night than you would feel walking in NYC after dark. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">London is truly a tourist’s city. There are tourist attractions, ice cream vendors, t-shirt, novelty shops and restaurants everywhere. My mom remarked that she had never seen a city with so many restaurants, and that is definitely true. You are never at a loss for a little cafe in which to grab a sandwich and tea, even if it means those cafes are chains-- there was a Starbucks, Pret A Manger, and a Cafe Nero on just about every street. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">We met a couple from our home church who recently moved to Derby for tea at Kensington Palace one afternoon. They explained that it was exhausting to work here because of all the little things you have to do differently here that you would do without thinking about in America. For example, driving takes a lot more effort and concentration because you are driving on the opposite side of the road. (I think if I had to drive here I would have a crash within 5 minutes, what with the disorientation and all the buses barreling down on you.) The couple also said it took more concentration to read things because UK English is an “almost foreign language”. Ok, granted, they use some different phrases than we do in America, but on the whole I haven’t had a super difficult time understanding anyone (except our Polish concierge and the Chekoslavakian waitress), but maybe I’ll have more trouble in the future.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">One of my favorite things we did here in London was our visit to Kensington. Unfortunately, since the olympics are going to be held here next summer, the city is in an uproar renovating everything, and Kensington was on the renovation list in a big way. This meant that all the furniture had been moved out of the palace, but the state rooms were still open for visitors because in place of the furnishings, they had created an exhibit called “The Enchanted Palace”. It was like stepping into Alice’s Wonderland. The point was that you were supposed to go around to each of the open state rooms and find clues to royal secrets and figure out which seven princesses had called Kensington their home. Modern art and weird galleries were displayed in the rooms, and you got to discover copies of old letters that the princesses had written way back when they lived there. Princess Victoria’s room was called “The Room of the Sleep-Walking Princess”, and inside the dark room was a bed with about seven mattresses on top, dolls and point shoes were strewn about the floor, and a wolf was displayed running across the ceiling. The point was that although Victoria’s childhood was unhappily very restricted, due to the Kensington system, in her dreams she wanted to run like a wild thing through the woods. All in all, we learned a lot about the Princesses who had lived in the Palace, and afterwards we walked a loooong way around the palace park grounds and then had tea in the Orangery, which was delicious!</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">Touring Buckingham Palace was my Mom’s favorite touristy thing we did here. We were lucky we got to tour it when we did because the palace is only open for tours during August and.. I think September. She liked it more than Windsor Castle because the palace was just as ornate and beautiful as Windsor, but the furnishings felt a little more modern, and the layout of the place is more open and airy than the castle. She said she could see herself living at Buckingham more than she could see herself at Windsor, and I agree but you can’t deny that there isn’t anything much more beautiful than that ancient castle with its lush gardens. </span></div>Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14445999072033523755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1688022757174111653.post-50402499924266124682011-08-02T13:06:00.000-07:002011-08-02T13:06:46.166-07:00To Pass the MorningI wrote this one a while ago and just stumbled on it. I made a few changes and voila. What do you think?<br />
<br />
To Pass the Morning<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Calibri,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><div class="MsoNormal">Outside, the school’s brass bell chimes the hour,</div><div class="MsoNormal">(hours)</div><div class="MsoNormal">commemorating a moment.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I count them, one by one,</div><div class="MsoNormal">to pass the morning</div><div class="MsoNormal">noon</div><div class="MsoNormal">afternoon.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Meanwhile, all water in all streams flows</div><div class="MsoNormal">onward and evanescent clouds</div><div class="MsoNormal">float slowly through</div><div class="MsoNormal">our milky sky.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I like to nod at them as they pass </div><div class="MsoNormal">by and pretend we share</div><div class="MsoNormal">a connection—</div><div class="MsoNormal">that they exist,</div><div class="MsoNormal">and I exist,</div><div class="MsoNormal">which is another of those mysteries,</div><div class="MsoNormal">like whether a tree makes</div><div class="MsoNormal">a sound as it falls</div><div class="MsoNormal">alone in a </div><div class="MsoNormal">forest.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I think it does.</div><div class="MsoNormal">The falling sounds like a bell—</div><div class="MsoNormal">a brass bell—to mark its passing.</div></span></span></div>Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14445999072033523755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1688022757174111653.post-11873990864067085882011-05-25T19:34:00.000-07:002011-05-26T19:07:18.399-07:00Steel and Sawdust<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">This is a poem I wrote for the Idiom, Gordon's poetry and photography journal. The theme was: The City, so I just let my mind wander to when I recently walked the streets of New York. I'm not going to say any more about it although I've been told that the poem's meaning is rather confusing; but to me, it says exactly what it needs to say.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Steel and Sawdust</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">On our way to Central Park,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">we passed a skyscraper</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">under construction,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">steel beams poking</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">intothe atmosphere, like a</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">tower of Babel.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Buildings are your favorite subject.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">You could talk on modern</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">engineering from 59<sup>th</sup></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">to 95<sup>th</sup> and not grow weary</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">of describing angles, spires,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">complex structures.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">You told me they’re rebuilding</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">the World Trade Center—</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">creating a memorial.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">New steel will rise from older ashes,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">phoenix-like.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">I thought of how my father’s father</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">made our house</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">from wood and blood<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and nail.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">How my mother carved</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">each year on bedroom doors.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">The smell of sawdust still</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">reminding me of goat’s milk and</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Father’s sturdy hands.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">But you talked</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">too quickly</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">too volubly</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">like buzzing in a 9 to 5</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">bee hive— turning out a product.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">I don’t really mind. The scent of </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">sawdust is meant</span></div><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">to be savored.</span>Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14445999072033523755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1688022757174111653.post-89512111140109075532011-05-23T18:47:00.000-07:002011-06-02T14:58:29.300-07:00Transitions<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">I am in a state of transition—from college life to home life. It is less difficult this time than last, but my depression has sunk in none the less. During my last few days at school, I supressed my swelling urges to cry over the friends I won’t see for over a year, since I will be in Oxford junior year, and the friends I may never see again. It feels like I just packed my leopard print suitcase for my sophomore year, and it's surreal to think how unbelievably fast the year has flown by. I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that regret appears at these crossroad moments. I wish I had spent more time with more people, wish I had traveled to more places, wish I had spent more time outside, et cetera, et cetera.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And now that I’m sitting back on the brown leather couch in my basement, the feeling presses all the more heavily on my chest. I don’t have much time for these thoughts though because I started my internship the very Monday I returned to New York.Summer breaks? What? People still have those?... So I’ll be waking up at 7 every morning to run off to a 9-5 day in heels and collared shirts. I’m psyching myself out already, thinking about how the monotony of the weeks will settle in over me like the grey clouds which refuse to vacate Schenectady skies. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Though I must say, I really am happy to be home around my family again. They are definitely my favorite people and home is wonderful, but something is still missing in me. I don’t know why I can’t just be happy in one place.</span></div>Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14445999072033523755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1688022757174111653.post-13153221577346137722011-05-04T18:40:00.000-07:002011-05-20T19:41:49.053-07:00Rain, Schubert, and Sandals<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix4ATNgjb-bRO6hsVdIOhxrnr6KX0doVUDxOBwJPtPidenaiin3Ctsd61s4cedSLBOpFXZ-h032KLuZzyJJ4GCpmCil77LPsUnrIn36zsAH15avCY6UaytxNP8MCjjMU-kl7UvUTK7yxlD/s1600/rain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240px" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix4ATNgjb-bRO6hsVdIOhxrnr6KX0doVUDxOBwJPtPidenaiin3Ctsd61s4cedSLBOpFXZ-h032KLuZzyJJ4GCpmCil77LPsUnrIn36zsAH15avCY6UaytxNP8MCjjMU-kl7UvUTK7yxlD/s320/rain.jpg" width="320px" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">It was warm out today, but the sky was overcast and cloudy. You could almost smell the rain that hung over campus-- like freshly cut grass and damp earth. I wore a sweathshirt and sandals, which is a weird compbination but somehow felt perfect. The gray sky made me feel completely sluggish, so I didn't work out today. My apathy may also have ben caused by the movie we watched in Human Rights class: Death and the Maiden. I can appreciate that there is horror and depravity in the world, but I didn't feel like having it shoved in my face so graphically this morning. Plus the movie has completely ruined Schubert for me. So for the rest of the day, I moped around campus like a zombie until I needed to head back to my dorm from the library. It had started raining while I was in the writing center and it was still coming down pretty hard. I pulled my hood up and stepped out into the rain, but it wasn't as cold as I had thought. The clouds were puffy and steel colored yet still bright. I began to run down the quad, breathing hard while my sandaled feet sunk into the wet grass. When I reached Chase I panted for a second and smiled.</div>Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14445999072033523755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1688022757174111653.post-88449484756245172842011-04-29T16:02:00.000-07:002011-04-29T16:02:36.946-07:00Narcissus<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZSeWHy41vfpr_p5GxzivwVG1n5-FMpUw3xfx9By8F0HeavXTSR9yB_BVNn2VaEmwKH3c-SzecaC0uIFa5-SNsWeGATU1rliEINaBtWRoxDHrMyU5a6XR7s2Ss7LFvcMf0zyJF1QOctrTM/s1600/daffodil.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZSeWHy41vfpr_p5GxzivwVG1n5-FMpUw3xfx9By8F0HeavXTSR9yB_BVNn2VaEmwKH3c-SzecaC0uIFa5-SNsWeGATU1rliEINaBtWRoxDHrMyU5a6XR7s2Ss7LFvcMf0zyJF1QOctrTM/s320/daffodil.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It was absolutely gorgeous today. The sun was shining over the bluest sky I’ve seen in weeks. Students have caught spring fever; they’re running around playing frisbee, eating outside on the quad, and lying out beneath the flowering pear blossom trees. The warmth made me feel incredibly lethargic, so I didn’t want to do anything, not even drive to the beach. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Instead I walked around the pond in the woods behind Gordon. As I ambled, I spotted a couple of daffodils growing alongside the path and couldn’t resist plucking a few to put in the green vase back in my room. I think daffodils are also called narcissus, named after the beautiful Greek who fell in love with his own watery reflection. I thought of the myth as I waded through Gull Pond and lay out on the rocks. The heavy sun drifting down like a blanket over my eyelids. What a dreamy way to die—</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">so calm, so languid. </span></div>Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14445999072033523755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1688022757174111653.post-68227904865543707892011-04-19T21:03:00.000-07:002011-04-19T21:03:31.929-07:00Embarrassment<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDtKIfcfXMdPqxaAmjauSx_BOCBwHYOCvZj2CxiiaP2tJ_UN_rHO0ctBii6V-P1QFy0Y3CHSuPyxJ6vwF54NAjkXCFTFaErlzej5_TUqGOf7Xb7FaM3nQNuuHYfOynN9q8yYYz_HJV5it2/s1600/park.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; height: 238px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; width: 366px;"><img border="0" height="240" i8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDtKIfcfXMdPqxaAmjauSx_BOCBwHYOCvZj2CxiiaP2tJ_UN_rHO0ctBii6V-P1QFy0Y3CHSuPyxJ6vwF54NAjkXCFTFaErlzej5_TUqGOf7Xb7FaM3nQNuuHYfOynN9q8yYYz_HJV5it2/s320/park.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I hate doing stupid things, especially in front of other people. But every time I get in my car to drive friends in my small group around, I always seem to embarrass myself. A few weeks ago I almost got into an accident when I was following my co-leader back from a restaurant. I didn’t see another car coming around a curve and we came a hair’s-breadth away from colliding. The girls in my car were visibly freaked out, and I too was alarmed. But I generally can keep a level head in these kinds of situations, and I pulled away without further incident. Then again last week, my small group went out for ice cream and I nearly had an even more serious accident in the parking lot. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I feel absolutely mortified that anyone would think I am incapable, or that people don’t feel safe with me, especially when I am in a position of leadership. I want to exemplify capable control, but I feel like I’m letting everyone down. These thoughts stick with me, and I can’t let them go.</span></div>Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14445999072033523755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1688022757174111653.post-2437274252529404322011-04-06T22:11:00.001-07:002011-04-29T16:14:51.507-07:00Breaking Point<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Tonight has certainly been an intense low point in my life. I am completely drained physically and emotionally, but I don’t want to lie in the dark and be left alone with my thoughts. It is the week of the Dance Ministry showcase and we have been rehearsing like madwomen. Every night for the past week I’ve been up till one in the morning running through dances, which is extremely late for me, and then I still have to wake up early and get my homework finished. Assignments began to slip through the cracks, but I held it together. It’s what I do.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But this afternoon I received an email with… less than pleasant news. I won’t go into the details, but I blame myself for the situation. And yet, it still hurt to hear my friend say these things to me—hurt more than I can say. I went to the gym and ran, pounded out my anger into the track. Slap, slap, slap. I had to see her that night because of rehearsal, but I avoided looking at her. Anger still gripped my exhausted body as we walked in a group to an evening chapel service.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The worship music began to play, and I felt the drums beat into my chest. I studied the words on the screen, praises to our Lord. A God who loves like a hurricane, furious and complete. I began to cry scalding tears, that I wiped away quickly. I wanted this to be God moving in some amazing way to heal me, I wanted it badly. But I feared it was just an effect of the powerful music swaying my emotions. I didn’t want to be fooled. I clenched my jaw, and sat down again.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Once the music ended, an old friend of mine stood up to speak to us. She told her lifestory and said how, one after another, things and people in her life were taken away. She was angry, furious at a God who would let these things happen to her. As she continued the story, I knew what came next. Her sister was killed—her sister. Even her own flesh and blood was taken from her.( I couldn’t stop crying.) How could God not be cruel?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But she didn’t end the story there. I don’t know how, but in the midst of all this suffering, she was able to let go of her anger toward God. She accepted the tragedies in her life—realizing that every moment is a gift that can be taken away without warning. So we should love while we can, and love deeply. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">My anger too began to melt away. How inconsequential are my petty sorrows in light of real suffering. And at the same time, my sorrow is understood by God—I believe He hears me. I’m not going to pretend like my pain is completely gone, but I am broken. I am humbled. And that is what’s important.</span></div>Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14445999072033523755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1688022757174111653.post-6985842347845270122011-03-23T17:37:00.000-07:002011-03-23T17:37:25.191-07:00Beginning <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQe2qFT8hxKeBhfQGrkhbkPEKNYBoDmWzfrkCB-2IwlnCVccBjDDtdlrjyXJxbXSL4n_2-JwnNwdLEsifJzHi4s2U1bfOY-_hYdMBtAn2RWp2c-c-rlnqqhqomkhU_gP3WGGCoQK6CgKdY/s1600/Gloucester+021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQe2qFT8hxKeBhfQGrkhbkPEKNYBoDmWzfrkCB-2IwlnCVccBjDDtdlrjyXJxbXSL4n_2-JwnNwdLEsifJzHi4s2U1bfOY-_hYdMBtAn2RWp2c-c-rlnqqhqomkhU_gP3WGGCoQK6CgKdY/s320/Gloucester+021.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
Hello reader, thanks for reading my first post. I started this blog to keep track of my thoughts and experiences as I study abroad in Oxford next year, but then I thought, Hey! I should have been doing this all along. What better way to explore and digest your experiences than by writing about them? <br />
<br />
In case you didn't know, I am a sophomore at Gordon College, majoring in English with a creative writing concentration and hopefully minoring in Philosophy. My days currently include reading Charlotte Bronte, debating theories on the philosophy of religion, writing papers on the Trinity, and driving through heavy traffic to eat heavenly Chik-fil-A sandwiches.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">The quote I wrote at the top of my blog page is a verse that I happened to open up to in my Bible today (2 Peter 3), and I thought it was pretty relevant for what I want to do in this blog. It reminded me that this life is so fleeting, and what really should matter is the kind of person that I am, or rather, that I should be— someone… who God would be proud of. Through writing, I hope that I will discover the person I really am, as well as the person I need to be. </span>Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14445999072033523755noreply@blogger.com0