Giving Up Oxford

Okay, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit my massive disappointment in having to cancel my trip to Oxford, England, to present at the World Literacy Summit in April. Thankfully, the summit has been moved to online as a virtual event, but my heart still sinks in knowing that I cannot return to one of my favorite places in the world–well, at least, not for the foreseeable future. My last trip was in 2012, so I’ve been long overdue to make the trek back, & this venue provided a perfect opportunity for revisiting a city that first introduced me to the charms of the UK. My first airplane trip, my first summer abroad, took place in 1998 when I went to Trinity College, University of Oxford, for grad courses in literature–namely one on Austen taught by Sandie Byrne from Balliol, & the other on Dickens taught by Robin Gilmour of The Queen’s College.

The whole culture swept me up into a love affair with British life, & I’ve remained smitten ever since then. Even now to owning a corgi in the style of Her Majesty herself.

Confessedly, it breaks my heart to not return to the city of “dreaming spires,” as Hardy coined. There’s something that resonates in the core of me with Victorian fiction–maybe a past life, maybe some dreamy memory long forgotten that now stirs, or maybe something else I just cannot understand. All I know is that England has always provided me with a safe haven. When my father died, when my brother died, when I wanted to escape & lose myself in the British novels I had loved for so very long–Jane Eyre, Pride & Prejudice, Tess of the D’Urbervilles, Wuthering Heights, Bleak House, & even the poetry of Keats & Yeats. Some soul fragment connected, tethered there, & I yearn to go back once again, to see & experience the things that bring me so much pleasure. From Pre-Raphaelites to the haunts of the Bloomsbury Group, my heart beats with these persons of the past, creators of beauty & meaning. Gardens & theatres abound, & my spirit sings.

There’s just such a different feel to being in England–the pubs, the museums, the history, the old estates, the castles, the whole of it.

And it’s not as if I’m ashamed of my roots; I’m not. I’m grateful for the path that life has led me down. I’ve experienced places & met people that I’d never want to miss or forget. My heart takes solace in knowing that I’ve been on the right path. That same inner knowledge guides me here & now. I trust that the something bigger is meant to be. The timing is perfect. Things have fallen into place the way they should. Did I expect it? No. Do I accept it? Yes. One of the toughest lessons of my life has been to accept that I’m not always in control of my fate as much as I’d like to be. My brother Dan, the closest of my siblings, chose the following quote in his senior yearbook. A quote from “Invictus” from William Ernest Henley: “I am the master of my fate: / I am the captain of my soul.” That always remained with me, even after his passing. Within what we can control, right? I don’t think my brother would have chosen a four-year battle with cancer that claimed his life at 32 & leaving the love of his life behind to carry on without him. He couldn’t master the cancer, & he couldn’t captain the outcome. And that’s a stark realization in the face of adversity.

So, England presented to me a kind of removal from those harsh truths I experienced back home. It’s easier to lose yourself in the city of “dreaming spires” than it is to face the truths of life. And, yet, here we are.

This isn’t meant to be depressing blog entry & I’m not seeking solace or pity here–far from it. I know that I’ve been blessed with a number of experiences & accomplishments I never thought I’d ever have available to me. I’m instead grateful for the opportunity this global crisis provides to all of us in terms of growth & self-knowledge, the time to pause & reflect on life. As we slow down our pace of life & adjust to a new way of being, we start to remember the things that make life worthwhile. We start to remember that the material things don’t cut it. Going to England wasn’t about prestige or a kind of elitism for me, rather I wanted to come home to a place that allowed me to no longer be the daughter who lost her dad or sister who lost her brother. I could remove myself from the burdens of being the responsible person everyone needs me to be, like all of the time.

It can be exhausting to try to forever make the right choices & try to not let anyone down. You still do, of course. I mean, we are all human. But, still, we strive for that perfection.

My guess is that a journey back to Oxford for me wouldn’t be so much unlike Chris Baldry’s return, Baldry as the protagonist of The Return of the Soldier by Rebecca West. He’s a man who wants desperately to return to a time of innocence, of blissful ignorance of the harsh losses of life. Who can blame him? Punting down the Cam & losing yourself in splendid gardens seems so much more idyllic & romantic, right? Maybe that’s why nostalgia & kitsch provide so much comfort. We hearken back to times when life seemed simpler, easier, more understandable. We had less depending on us & more up in the ether of what could be, in a dreamscape of sorts. As we age, the gravity of life becomes more difficult to ignore. We see it there, on the horizon. But that shouldn’t scare us. It should only make us appreciate the here & now more, appreciate what we can do NOW to make things better. Be with the ones we love. Express how much they mean to us, no matter the distance.

And, so, even though I need to miss out on Oxford now, maybe I’m gaining something bigger? Maybe I’m understanding what I really want all the more? Maybe this knowledge can help me to understand my life & purpose all the better?

17 thoughts on “Giving Up Oxford

  1. I echo Sheree’s idea: plan ahead. Daydream about a future trip. Anticipation can be delightful.

    I’m in a similar spot. I’d become a dual Irish-American citizen, in part to prepare for a trip to Ireland to see where my family’s roots were there. (I’d checked out the English and Scottish branches of the family years ago.) But when I’ll be able to go, now? But instead of planning the trip in a few hurried weeks, to accommodate work, appointments, and dodge other tourists, now we can take our time planning. I’m disappointed, but I still have a future I can hope for.

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