Kristinadrummond’s Weblog

I want a bookshelf. In fact, there is nothing that I want more right now than for all of my books to be neatly stored in one place. Instead, my literary library is unevenly divided between Glendale and Santa Barbara. I have about thirty books crammed onto the one shelf that my apartment offers as storage, and it isn’t enough. It’s not that I have endless amounts of free time in which to brose through old stories— I hardly have time to read my mail. But I desperately miss the ability to grab a favorite Jane Austen novel or a childhood classic and flip through a few well-loved pages. Actually, what I miss is being settled.

I realized yesterday that by the end of August, and not counting each time we moved on England Semester, I will have moved seven times in the past year. Seven times! * (See list below) Seven times of lugging around bedding, toothbrushes, clothes, shoes (including the brown boots that ironically now match with my wardrobe but are too warm to wear in Southern California) DVDs, lamps, and books. As you could imagine, packing five boxes of books and a large wooden bookshelf has not been on the forefront of any moving lists.  No wonder I have found myself longing for roots lately. Constantly relearning where you store your extra towels or that one bottle of nail polish that you own is exhausting, not to mention slightly suggestive of living out of hotel rooms.  Though it has been exciting to live in so many different places over the past 365 (probably due to the fact that I’m only 22) I look forward to the day when I am so sick of the nooks and crannies in my apartment, that I rearrange the furniture just to add novelty to a room. I look forward to having a place to stack my mail…I look forward to stability.

Yet.

Yet I have been blessed by a new ability through this process—the ability to distinguish more clearly between the “needs” and the “wants” of living, and to define these terms for myself. Capitalism can condition us to think that we need more than we actually do to live “comfortably”.  And let me tell you, after moving seven times in one year (remember, this is not counting the times we moved on England semester, which was about once a week for four months) you begin to realize what is actually essential. Yes, I need clothing—but I do not need ten different cuts of jackets. True, a teakettle is handy—but I’ve been pleasantly surprised at how well a normal pot works to boil water. My desk has been demoted to manila folders, which hold the same information while taking up significantly less space. My wall clock is now an alarm clock perched inconspicuously near my bed…basically it takes me about an hour to gather my stuff and move in/out of a home.

Though it is wearying to move so frequently, it has also been freeing. It has been a reminder that life is not about my “stuff”. It is not about a place, or the comfort of a particular home. My comfort and security should be in my God, not in the things that fill my bank account or house. And more and more this year, I have had to draw on Him as my source of comfort and serenity. The fact that my faith, my family and my friends have not been in transition makes it easier to forget that my life revolved around change this year. The changes have been rich, exciting, transforming. That doesn’t mean I’m not ready to have a bookshelf again. Someday…

*Westmont Dorm to Goleta

Goleta to Glendale

Glendale to England

England to Glendale

Glendale to Summerland

Summerland to La Brezza Apartments

La Brezza to Country Club Apartments

I’m back.

I write that as an irony; I have been “back” in the country for five months now…but for some reason it has taken me the entirety of that time to come back to this blog. Perhaps it was the self-conceived perception that nothing interesting enough to write about has happened. How can the mundane routines of my life post-England compare to entries of castles and cathedrals and culture? Or perhaps my lack of entries was an unwillingness to accept that my travels were…well, over.

Today as I sipped my coffee from my Summerland home, with the ocean peaking over the hedges out my window, something hit me—I’m graduating in a week. And this is something that I need to process in writing.

Yes, I’ve technically been graduated for the past semester, but next Saturday I am donning the cap and gown for the symbolic march. I didn’t expect to have such a myriad of emotions during this time—a very small, resistant part of me is excited. But this excitement is tainted with unexpected grief and detachment; in one week my Westmont experience will come to a final, conclusive, close. Dear friends will move to different states. Some will get married. Most will get jobs. We’ll all sink our teeth into responsibility and adulthood and Westmont will become something we reminiscent over.

I’m trying to shake off my slight bitterness today that I’m already in the “reminiscing stage” while my housemates are celebrating. Today is their last day of classes. You can see the combined joy and exhaustion on their faces as they shoulder bloated book bags for the last time. I wish that I could shoulder this alongside of them.

Their jubilant relief tonight is something that experienced during the last week of England semester. It was somewhat anticlimactic to celebrate my last final exam, or to sweat out that last twenty-page paper, when everyone surrounding me was gabbing about future class schedules. My celebration was calm, private. I remember retreating to a sitting room at St. Gabriel’s’, curling my feet under me and leaning against the radiator in a quiet, satisfied contentment. I had finished college. I was done.

Now, while all my friends breeze through this rite of passage together, I struggle to find my place among the festivities. During the past few months I’ve tottered on the edge of independence and inclusion. I have planted my feet in the working world, while trying to reach out and touch the edges of my old Westmont community. I made an effort to go to campus and see friends and professors—only to be met by the prodding, semi-serious, “what are you doing here?”, as if by graduating early I lost my ticket onto campus. I want to shout back—I belong here. This was my home too…and I would have stayed if I could.

All this to say…finishing college during an abroad program was an interesting way to end. In a sense, I simply faded out of Westmont. I went from being insanely involved as an RA—to simply not there. Yet, I am grateful that I did finish this way. England Semester gave me a confidence and a sense of independence that I would not have had if I hadn’t traveled. And having a semester to adjust to graduated life, while living in a beautiful beach house with four great friends is a blessing that I’ve celebrated each day.

Summerland Beach—my home since January, and probably the most idyllic place I\’ll ever live.

Brown boots? Brown boots? What the crap do brown boots match with?!

I’m sitting in my hotel room in London, with clothes exploding from my obnoxiously red suitcase, practically tearing up because I can’t find anything to match my new boots (actually tearing up when I remember how my favorite black pair fell apart), when I realize…I’m not really upset about the shoes.

I am leaving London in two days. And not just London, but the entire UK. England semester is over—College is over. I will be back in sunny California in two days, where my accent will no longer set me apart, but blandly blend me into the background once more. Back to friends, family, and routine. Soon all I’ll have left of the past four months will be postcards, pictures, and stories to recycle.

I’m not ready. Of course, I’m ready to go home and see all of you. I’m ready to grab a shake at INN-N-OUT or lounge in Coffee Bean to catch up with people. But this has been such a reality shift that I don’t know how to let it go….or how to prepare myself for the tirade of hearing “how-was-it?”  come at me from every direction.

The fact that we are leaving has been hitting everyone in the group a bit differently. Still, we are all reacting the same in the sense that we are clinging to these “lasts”. Last tube ride, last plays, last time we eat at “Food for Thought” or go to Monmont coffee. Last game of Hawaiian ping-pong at St. Gabriel’s. Last, (and, ironically, first) group picture. Last chance to take all the photos I can of double-decker buses and the red telephone booths.

Today we had a group picnic to celebrate the end. We gathered food from Burrough Market (which has to be one of my favorite places in London. It’s an outdoor and covered market that is like farmer’s market on steroids.) We split up into groups and bought different parts of the meal…which became an elaborate feast of fine cheeses, bread, olives, sun dried tomatoes, quiche, cheesecake, fruit, and fresh veggies. Even just the process of buying the food and interacting with the different vendors, and enjoying the live Christmas music being played in front of a Christmas tree, was wonderful. The picnic itself was held in the lobby of the National Theater and was a great time to have everyone together….before we jumped on the tube to go see our first play of the day—a Matthew Bourne production of Edward Scissorhands. It was all dance and it was gorgeously choreographed and performed. I am truly going to miss the theater. Anyone up for finding shows when I get back??

Now, as I rummage through my suitcase trying to piece together a somewhat clean outfit (all of our hygiene standards have become a little more lax on this trip) I have given up on the boots. They are lying dejectedly in the corner of our tiny hotel room as a reminder that sometimes it’s ok to let things go. Part of life’s journey is about moving on…continuing the adventure no matter where you are. I know that coming home will be like taking a long, deep breath. It will be satisfying and terrifying at the same time. I will probably experience some of the happiest and regretful moments all at once—stepping off that plane will be leaving four months of precious memories. But it will also be stepping into arms of those that I love and have missed.

So here we go. See you in two days…

His fingers strum against the guitar, the notes melt into the piano’s harmony. Our voices tangle through the melody, rising and falling as we each find a reasonable pitch. A mess of sound—off-key, pristine, beautiful, all becomes one voice.

The room is large and dark, and our four bodies make a mere wrinkle in its stillness. Iridescent lights from behind closed doors and shut windows glow blue. Yet warmth hangs in the air and wraps me in comfort. Nestled among months of travel, of wrestling suitcases up narrow staircases, of reading a new map each week, of grappling with theater in the rare pauses we have to think…this moment freezes time. It is only the four of us, in a dark room, with a guitar, piano and a collective memory of song lyrics. For the moment, we do not worry about what comes next—what paper is due, what city we will next call home. Small talk is swallowed in the songs. Music replaces chatter. And I am at peace as I sit shoulder to shoulder with friends.

I realize, this is what I’ve been missing: the familiarity of being with people who you love, who love you, who won’t judge whether or not you sing the right words. I’ve missed the normality of staying up late, picking up a guitar, and stumbling through music together. This semester has been crammed with memories—my bulging collection of photos can attest to that. But though sharing a laugh over mulled cider in Oxford, or seeing how many times you can take (or avoid) the tube in London, or making it the top of the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, are all exhilarating in themselves…there is something sacred about singing “Let it Be” in a dark room with people you care about.

And tonight, I realized that I will be coming home with so much more than photographs, memories, and an expanded “world knowledge”. I will be coming home with new relationships with these twenty-seven people that I have been living with. Over the past three months they have been a family to me, and they have held a mirror to my face and shown me the depths of my own bitterness and kindness. I have seen how even the smallest seeds of gossip can plant enormous tensions. I have shared tears and hugs of forgiveness, and have wondered how God manages to forgive us everyday without falling to pieces in exhaustion. Loving people is exhausting. Being in community is exhausting. It forces you to see past the clever veils that we all try to wear, and deal with the brokenness that we all bear so silently. But the silence is breaking and we are learning to see each other for who we really are—people who curse, and hurt, and trample fragile relationships while trying to build them up…but also people who keep trying even though we fall into the same ruts of temptation and weakness, and keep hoping and loving and giving and thriving.

So tonight, as the guitar strummed and the voices of my dear friends filled the quiet gym, I was overwhelmed by how far we’ve all come from the strangers that awkwardly exchanged glances at LAX. And I’m confident that when we return to this same airport in less than a month, it will not be to say goodbye. 

So although I’ve pasted a smattering of Paris pictures up, I should back up a bit and explain what I’ve been up to since we left Woodbrooke (the Quaker Center).

St. Gabriel’s—

We stayed at St. Gabriel’s for a week. It was a lovely brick building snuggled in a tiny town called Ditchingham. Next door was a convent, and St. Gabriel’s is affiliated with it, although the building itself was not a “nunnery” (as Maresa called it—a Hamlet reference for those of you who haven’t been breathing and sleeping Shakespeare). It was the farthest removed we’ve been from “civilization” and it was wonderful. Imagine stepping outside and seeing a one-way dirt road with rolling fields that stretched out in every direction. The first day a couple of us wandered down the road and took the “public footpath”—which led us straight into the throngs of pheasant hunters. As birds squawked out of bushes and guns went off in the distance, we decided it was probably best to turn around. The next day the “public” footpath dumped us in the middle of a cow pasture. The cows were literally following us in a line as we trudged through the muddy field. It was pretty comical and I felt as though I’d stumbled straight into an episode of “Little House on the Prairie”.

Later on that week, somewhere between plays and poems and papers, I went on a sunset walk with Kathryn and Shannon. We ended up walking for about four miles, and found the most gorgeous open field I’ve ever seen. You could spin around full circle and see nothing but nature. A rabbit even hopped across the field in front of us. It’s been so interesting to find out how much I enjoy being in large cities, but also how breathtaking and peaceful it is to be surrounded by nature. As the three of us left the field an old man on a bike rode by. He pulled over and talked to us for about forty-five minutes. In such a small town he knew immediately that we were visitors, and asked where we were from.  (Upon hearing that we came from California, we were all asked who we voted for—this is the first question we get asked when we meet people here). His name was Henry and he seemed to come from a story book—he had a large tin pale of bird seed dangling over one of his handle bars, and was about to go feed his pheasants. Apparently we had been wandering through his field, but he didn’t seem to mind and told us to come back and visit next time we were in the area.

Paris—

So you can imagine how much of a shock Paris was after such a quiet week. It was the polar opposite of St. Gabriel’s—but each was great in its own way. Paris did not disappoint me. I was able to fit in so much sight seeing…and yet it didn’t feel hurried or stressful. I loved meandering through the streets with Maresa and my friend Jenn…there are cafes on every corner, and famous icons at every turn. I could go on and on about it, but I think the pictures will suffice for now.

London—

We spent three short days in London, but they were packed with activity. The first day back we actually left the city for a day trip to Hampton Court Palace—where Henry VIII lived after he stole it from Wolsey. We did an audio tour there and explored the palace gardens and interior. We saw a production of Love’s Labors Lost that night as well (which was slightly disappointing because it was fairly dry). The next day in London we toured the National Theater; we went backstage and saw how they made the props and sets. We returned that night to the theater to see Ray Fiennes star in Oedipus—it was one of the best productions we’ve seen. Funny enough, we have seen a good portion of the cast of Harry Potter. We saw Fiona Shaw in Ireland (Aunt Petunia) Filch and Dumbledore were in a play called No Man’s Land, and Ray Fiennes plays Voldemort. Not only that, but I have now been to Platform 9 3/4, the stair case where they filmed Hogwarts, the dining hall, and the place where J.K. Rowling wrote the first book on napkins.

Oxford— a day trip to Oxford earlier this week gave us time to meander through the colleges and shops. Christ’s Church was a highlight—it’s the college cathedral that they used to film Harry Potter. But it was stunning inside with ornate stained glass and winding stone staircases.

Stratford—I’m currently in Stratford where our group is staying at three tiny guesthouses. I’m finally rooming with Maresa (yay!) and we’ve been having a great time wandering through Shakespeare country. The first night here we all went to see a rock-show version of Twelfth Night that began at 11 pm. The cast members threw pizza and beer into the audience…it broke every expectation of a “play” but was immensely entertaining.Today we are going to learn about stage make-up (and I think they will be doing demos on us!)

(We took a day trip to Kenilworth Castle yesterday )

Ok, with that you are all mostly caught up with my travels. Sorry this was so long and terribly written. There was just too much to be eloquent  

Paris could not have been better! We had wonderful weather (cold! But it didn’t snow like it was supposed to) and got to see everything we wanted to. I spent most of my time with Maresa, and my friend Jenn Duzan who met us there on Friday night. I met her when I went to Panama in high school and we’ve kept in touch. She’s studying outside of Paris this semester and was able to meet us there for the weekend. It was so great having her with us! She was a great help because her French was wonderful (as opposed to my three word vocabulary. I pretty much only said “yes” and “please” and “excuse me”. Oh! And I learned how to ask for the bill…but other than that I was hopeless

I couldn’t possibly explain everything we did because we crammed about a month’s worth of sightseeing into four days. (We took the metro 15 times on Saturday alone! haha) Here are some pictures to highlight the trip:

1. Maresa and I in front of the Pon Neuf Bridge. We walked along the Seine at night with Jenn…all the bridges are gorgeous and there are statues and museums (like Musee d’orsee and the Louvre) along the way. We stopped walking for a bit and had dessert at the world’s first cafe- it was founded in 1686 and Voltaire ate there!

This is the view from the top of Notre Dame. We only had to climb 415 steps to get there :-p

Maresa and I went to the top of the Effiel Tower at night. It was one of my favorite moments of the trip—but so cold!!!

This is a chapel called Sans Chapelle (and I probably spelled that wrong) It was almost entirely made up of stained glass walls.. 

The Moulin Rouge was anti-climatic and in a really sketchy area. But the Notre Dame was gorgeous at night!

Our second stay at Woodbrooke (the Quaker Center in Birmingham) has been a mixture of intense work and hilarious fun.

(Isn’t it a pretty building? —>)

We’ve offset the mountains of homework with several games of volleyball, badminton, and football (ie: soccer). Grady even organized a boat race for us! Maresa and I were rowing partners…let’s just say we were in our own league out there. We had the best time though. 

 On Saturday I went to an Aston Villa football game with John, Maresa, Shannon, Carrie, and Jeremy. Even though the game ended in a 0-0 tie, I loved it! The stadium was packed with fans decked out in the light blue and maroon colors of the team. The whole stadium would erupt in cheers; I wished I could have joined along. The f-word was thrown around just as often as the football. I think my favorite uses of it was “for f***’s sake!” and “you’re not wearing a f***in too-too” Haha. Someone spilled beer all over my purse, so all in all it was a very cultural experience.

I also got to go to downtown Birmingham to watch a play that was loosely based on the Tempest. Birmingham is a very industrial city, with the occasional church imerssed among the modern looking structures.

We leave tomorrow for St. Gabriel’s- another week of classes…this time staying at a convent. (I think? I’ll write more about it when we get there). Should be interesting…

How are you?

It seems that lately this question has become more difficult to answer. There is such deceiving simplicity in these three little words. They are thrown around casually, conversationally, and are usually answered in the same way.

I’m good.

When you ask me how I am, and how my semester is going, this will probably be my answer. I’m good…great even. But there are so many layers beneath this answer. Each day here is a year. I am never still; my mind and body are traveling even when I am at rest. I’m in a constant state of processing information, always hoping to find quiet space to dwell in new ideas, and never finding enough of it.

When I talk to you, or write to you, I want to present you with beautiful snapshots of my experience. But like postcards, these images are only two-dimensional. They can’t show everything, just a glossy, still, vision of real life. So, with the semester half over, what better time to write a bit about what goes on behind the simple answer…

It’s hard to say that “I’m having a great time” when coming out of a two hour play about depression and suicide. Bookend that with eight other plays  (only one of which was lighthearted- and even in that one there was death), and you get a pretty somber mood. But there is something wonderful about watching theater that deals with the rawness of human pain and being able to learn from it, wonder with it, and talk about it. There is something sacred about looking up at a stage and seeing a mirror of people you know, and—more frighteningly—yourself. I love walking out of a play and looking at the twenty seven faces of my group, and seeing twenty seven unique responses. A lot of the time, there are tears, frustration, smiles, confusion, or merely the mad rush to the “loo” before the “queue” gets too long.

 And then, with the actor’s faces still burning against our eyelids, we jump on a bus, or squeeze onto the crowded tube, or walk the two miles “home.”

“Home” is another funny concept right now. The longest I’ve remained in one place has been two weeks, and yet I’ve felt at home so many different times. Home is the familiarity of being in my PJs, snuggled under covers, and scribbling in my journal with my Bible heavy in my lap. Home is the ten-minute Skype conversation with my family, and the facebook message from a good friend. Home is finding out that trees look the same in Ireland, Scotland, and England. It is realizing that I become my mother each time I stop to take a picture of a flower—and then another, and another… Home is going to church and singing Chris Tomlin’s “Indescribable”. It is realizing that there are no accents when you sing. Home is the single good cup of coffee I’ve had all semester. It is being reminded of all of you—my friends, family, and new friends on this trip—as I walk through a foreign city and see something that I know you would love.

So though I’m miles away, and have been away for two months now, I feel connection in the distance. I didn’t expect to feel this closeness. And yet, I am saddened that I am missing out on the inside jokes, late night laughs, and the tears that you’ve shared these past two months. This is time I can’t get back.

And I am in a time that you will never enter. As much as I wish I could pack you up in my purse and take you to see Fiona Shaw (Aunt Petunia in Harry Potter) in Happy Days, or the Gutenberg Bible, or the Tower of London, or the Irish countryside, or the way the cobblestone streets look after rain at night when the city lights splash on them like a Monet painting—I can’t bring you along. So I take pictures (1,250 and counting) and write entries in my blog in hopes that you can feel like you’re here too.

I want you to know ….

The absurdity of going to pubs with your professors

The nerdy joys of performing Shakespeare on the lawn of a Quaker center.

The pain of hearing a first-person account of the violence of Bloody Sunday in Northern Ireland.

The weariness of writing four papers and reading five plays in one week. The comfort in that everyone around you is doing the same work.

The holiness of God that is communicated by the splendor of St. Paul’s Cathedral

The freedom in roaming the streets of a foreign country, alone

The connection of meeting people from a different place who grew up watching the same TV shows.

The gluttony that I feel from eating out every meal

The sacredness of 4 o’clock tea time

The taste of chocolate Digestives (and how it crumbles so softly when dipped in tea)

The ecstasy of doing laundry after wearing the same pair of jeans for twelve days

The sadness in knowing that this will someday end

And the excitement we all feel when we think of December 8^th…coming home.

So, if anyone has made it through this post, you have had a glimpse into the first half of my semester. And you may understand why I pause a little before answering the question “how are you”…for there are so many layers.

We’re back in London, and after such a memorable time in Ireland with such gregarious people I was expecting the city to feel cold and dull. I was pleasantly surprised! It was comforting to check into a familiar hotel, and to spend the first day back confidently navigating through the city instead of wandering aimlessly. After a long day of traveling a group of us had an early dinner/late lunch at the Hummus Bros. The Mediterranean food was a fun reminder of home. I am definitely missing Armenian and Mexican food. (Apparently salsa here is like thin tomato sauce so I’ve avoided it). 

I had a glorious first day back with a visit to the Tower of London. It is my favorite thing that I’ve seen in the city thus far. I had no idea how much was actually there. It took us nearly four hours to go through it all. We started with a guided tour given by a Beefeater who obviously LOVED his job. He had a plethora of fun stories for us about the mysteries and murders at the Tower. I stood on the ground where Anne Boelyn was executed and learned that before she was beheaded she knelt and prayed. The executioner was so quick and efficient that when he held up her head to the crowd her lips were still mouthing the words of the prayer. 

After visiting the Tower Maresa, Molly, Shannon and I walked across the Tower Bridge and then across the London Bridge. We took lots of pictures but they aren’t on my computer yet! (So you’ll all have to wait in suspense!) Then we walked all the way back to our hotel…encountering many fast-walking, business-suit wearing people on the way.

Anyway, my prayers are with you all at home. I am sorry for being bad at communicating but know that I think of you all often and that I daily stress about finding affordable souvenirs for everyone. Cheers!

My favorite pub in Galway

Bike ride on the Aran Islands! One of the best days of the trip!

The beach at Galway, and our “band photo”