9/2/2016 0 Comments WonderfulA lot can change in a year.
In the past year, I’ve seen more of the world. Hopefully I’ve become a better writer. I’ve acquired five jobs (yes you heard that correctly, five). I’ve gotten a new(ish) car. I’ve finally shed the last bit of a story that has been wrapping me up for a long time, making me feel shiny and new. I’ve grown close to some of the best people I’ve ever met; people I needed, people I love. A lot can change in a year. But one thing hasn’t. I have always been the girl who carries too much. Ironic, because I have a smallish body that isn’t necessarily strong and tiny hands that barely stretch an octave of piano keys. But in my mind, I can do it all; I can carry everything and I can stretch to the other side of the world. I think my strength is infinite. I think my hands are large enough to hold this array of opportunities, and to hold other hands too. I so want to do it all. I want to be it all. So I sprinkle bits of myself into the lives of too many, and why? I like to be needed I guess, but I don’t want attention. I love to be great at things, but don’t need glory. I just need at least one person to quietly think of me and think well of me. I guess that’s what I want. Like Hannah Brencher writes, “I want to be wonderful.” So I pick up opportunities and people and responsibilities like pebbles and place them in the small canvas and leather backpack I bought in London. After a while, they start to feel heavy. Day after day, I pick it up without enough sleep or fuel to propel my body, but my will does it for me. The tan leather is digging into the space between my shoulder and my collar bone, leaving a red mark. But I don’t let myself notice it. These pebbles are precious and they are mine and I can’t set them down. I have to be wonderful, don’t you see? This time a year ago, I was packing all my pebbles in a big tan suitcase. It’s funny now, but that suitcase was such a stressor at the time. How would I live out of just a couple bags for an entire semester?! I would do it again tomorrow, though. I would pull that tan suitcase—now a little scratched and worn—down from the attic and pack it again. I think I’d be better at it this time. This time a year ago, I was moving to London. And I wish I could say it was hard to move, but my soul knew she needed to get on that plane. London called me and changed me in the best ways. Other students I know say they never anticipated how great an impact studying abroad would have on their lives. But I did. I always knew. I expected that grand experience, and it did not let me down. I’ve always known I needed to go, needed to see. To be stretched and moved and changed. And what a semester it was. Typing this, I feel like a has-been in the worst way. I want to relive it. I want to keep it sacred. But in a few days, another group like mine will take their tan suitcases—or maybe they’re green or pink or black—and they’ll haul them up the five flights of narrow stairs in my old apartment building on the other side of the world. And to those students: I wish you the best. Say hi to the nice maintenance man with the long hair for me. Take a picture looking at St. Paul’s from the other side of the Millennium Bridge; it’s my favorite spot in the whole city. Eat all the almond croissants and drink endless cups of tea. Go to the park and read, often. I hope it is everything for you that it was and continues to be for me. I hope you find a part of yourself in that big, beautiful city that you’ve always known was there. In London, I found a girl who knew how to be happy with what she was already carrying. She didn’t need to pick up anything else to feel more accomplished. She could lay something down and not be stricken with guilt. She held out her hands to hold others’, but allowed hers to be held as well. She knew her smallish body was strong but could only go so far. Her hands were tiny after all, too small to stretch over an octave of piano keys. She was content and more present. She learned how to stop and breathe. Inhale, exhale. She had time for the things that make life precious and sweet; it turns out they’re not pebbles after all. They don’t leave you with red marks. And sometimes they’re not yours to carry. They are trips to a museum and sunny days in a park. They are late-night, sleepy-eyed conversations and endless cups of tea. They are big English breakfasts and two cappuccinos, please. They are simple and lovely. I loved that city, more than I can express in these little words. The ever-present sounds of traffic, the wide sidewalks and old buildings. The river and the flower cart at the end of the street. The standing shoulder-to-shoulder on the tube at rush hour while “Mind the Gap” is played over an intercom. The shows and clubs and concerts and ballets. The beautiful blend of laughter, languages and accents far below my street-side window. I loved every second of it. It was mine. It is mine. Even now I selfishly feel the need to protect my memories, to house them deep inside my consciousness. Like a photograph that sits too long in the sunlight, I have to keep them from fading. From letting their colors, sounds and feelings bleed together where you can’t tell one from the other and suddenly it’s not so special anymore. I’m afraid of that. I want to keep living in that moment. Because I didn’t just love the city, I loved who I was when I was there. I want to be the girl who doesn’t have to carry it all. I want to learn to breathe again. Inhale, exhale. I did it once and I can do it again. A lot can change in a year, right? London still calls me and reaches for my small, outstretched hand. For the first time in a while, I allow it to be held. And I am reminded how to be that girl I love. She was there and didn’t need anyone to quietly think she was wonderful. She already believed it herself. Written by Sarah
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