This life is lit by small moments, slight miracles. Here, in Oxford, I encounter situations I never thought possible, never-never lands that don't require wings.
On a promise to a friend (our very own John Kennedy) I will write of what I have come to know as home here. The warm, wide room that looks out onto Woodstock Avenue. A college that borders Caterbury Road. Perhaps it is the rain, the raw, fallen leaves of autumn, but it is no mistake that Alice in Wonderland was drawn out of this small world. There are winding streets--North Parade, a cobblestone avenue where Christmas lights blink year round; Merton street, a precious, if empty street, strewn with short, smiling homes. There are nights at the late bar, 2 pound ciders and rounds of pool (and Boggle!). There are long bike rides on my rickety, purple-pink Raleigh bike...basket filled with groceries and articles, an overwhelming desire to wear tights. Conversations about prime ministers and converse sneakers; everywhere is decorated in scarves.
This is a place I never expected to be. And, due to that realization, I am able to capitalize on what are the true magical moments: small winks of wild surprise that take my breath away each day: the skinny staircase at New College made out of giant stones; a chapel library; year-round Summertown; wicked right turns; radishes from the garden club; rowdy rugby matches; school girl outfits; babies with British accents; Harry Potter outfits; dancing, daring, laughing, laughing, laughing.
The people I have met here have (honestly) far exceeded my expectations. While there are, of course, women I have befriended, I am shocked by the close male friends I have made...something that was (aside from the few special ones who know who they are) never a big part of my life.
Of course, what I am studying matters very much to me. However, my desire to write is overwhelming, incredible. If I was not so excited by the still-novel nature of this city, by sandwich shops and long walks, by the university parks and the way my windows open directly onto this world, I would write my life away here. There is not enough space, in writing and time, to describe this place I have found and carved out for myself. I sit here, staring at the ripening green tomatoes on my windowsille, my own collection of scarves, 1970s decor, strawberry scented laundry, and I know that I belong.
