A picture of me.
I recently told a friend that I think, in Oxford, I was able to be the truest me that there is. Aesthetically, I was surrounded by beauty constantly, and was able to capture it in art and poetry and writing. I met people who poured into me like I had never experienced before, and allowed me to be fully myself and loved just the same. So much of me is wrapped up in my academic work, and in Oxford I was pushed to my limit. There was success. I got to drink tea and coffee with the ones I love everyday. We talked, discovered each other and ourselves. I shared my love of art with people who actually wanted to learn from me. Everything I owned was in a backpack. I discovered my heritage there, walked in my passions there and explored cities by myself there.
I can not put into words what it feels like to stand alone in the national gallery and take in Monet with everything you own on your back.
The choir at St. Paul's still reverberates off the walls and through me.
I can walk cobblestone streets in Oxford, and smell the books written hundreds of years ago- still.
In this picture, I am wearing all of my own clothes. Something that rarely happens in Southern California as I share a house with four other girls who are the same size as I. In this picture I am taking pictures, something I have a passion for. In this picture I am wearing a p-coat that was given to me by my mom when I was 16 and I'm sure in the pocket is stone from her mother's grave. There was not a moment here that I was not truly happy. Tired, yes; stressed, sure; but always so content with every moment.
I recently told a friend that I think, in Oxford, I was able to be the truest me that there is. Aesthetically, I was surrounded by beauty constantly, and was able to capture it in art and poetry and writing. I met people who poured into me like I had never experienced before, and allowed me to be fully myself and loved just the same. So much of me is wrapped up in my academic work, and in Oxford I was pushed to my limit. There was success. I got to drink tea and coffee with the ones I love everyday. We talked, discovered each other and ourselves. I shared my love of art with people who actually wanted to learn from me. Everything I owned was in a backpack. I discovered my heritage there, walked in my passions there and explored cities by myself there.
I can not put into words what it feels like to stand alone in the national gallery and take in Monet with everything you own on your back.
The choir at St. Paul's still reverberates off the walls and through me.
I can walk cobblestone streets in Oxford, and smell the books written hundreds of years ago- still.
In this picture, I am wearing all of my own clothes. Something that rarely happens in Southern California as I share a house with four other girls who are the same size as I. In this picture I am taking pictures, something I have a passion for. In this picture I am wearing a p-coat that was given to me by my mom when I was 16 and I'm sure in the pocket is stone from her mother's grave. There was not a moment here that I was not truly happy. Tired, yes; stressed, sure; but always so content with every moment.
2 comments:
Let's have tea. Next week. Real English tea. In pretty cups. With milk. And sugar. On my deck. A poor substitute for Oxford, I know, but maybe a little bit of "home" in multiple ways. :-)
Darling Ashley, I miss you very much, and watching the sun rise through our window while we drink coffee and write papers, and then skip morning lectures to write more. What a deep sense of home and contentment and beauty. I love you,
Kohleun
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