Derry, too, was covered in snow

This morning (well... afternoon) I woke up to the brightest day I've ever seen here. Snow reflects light. I think everyone in Ireland should probably spend the whole day outside so they can finally get enough Vitamin D.

[Dublin from the Gravity Room-the top of the Guinness Storehouse. Photo Credit: Juliet G.]

Yesterday, Juliet and I walked out of the Dublin Guinness Storehouse and I was enjoying the adventure of walking on ice-coved cobblestone roads and crunchy snow (though I was enjoying much less the biting cold). I saw some kids sliding around ahead of us as they bent to clump the snow into small weapons. Just as I was turning to my friend to say something like: "Aren't the kids in Dublin so cute? You know, playing in the snow and all?" one of the boys, not reaching my shoulder in height, yelled something incoherent at me, wound up his snowball-holding arm, and chucked the cold thing right toward my face. Thankfully, I ducked in time and managed not to fall down because of the ice.

[Juliet on the treacherous streets]

He made a break for it and ran across the road toward his other buddies. Wide-eyed and stunned, I looked around for a second trying to decide if he actually meant to hit me in the face. With a quick assessment I decided he, in fact, had aimed directly for my face. I turned around and yelled lamely after him, "Hey you! You, you young kid! That was such a bad idea! Poor choice!!!!"

Then I looked at Juliet as she, too, struggled to walk in trackless-but-fashionable boots and, laughing, shared my amazement, "That kid actually tried to hit me in the face. Stupid kids."

After our 4-hour bus ride home, we saw that Derry, too, was covered in snow. We hailed a Derry taxi and rode back to the student Village. As we pulled up, I was delighted to see dozens of people out on the only little hill within the village. They were decked out in hats, coats, sweatpants, and wellies for warmth; equipped with plastic blow-up chairs, trash can lids, and cardboard boxes for sledding; and armed with many many tightly packed snowballs for war... Someone made a facebook event for a Duncreggan Student Village snowball fight. For the next several hours people were outside (and sometimes inside) our flat causing a ruckus and enjoying the rare snowfall in Derry.

Later that night the girls came in covered in snow and freezing. "Hot chocolate!!" They squealed. "Put the milk on to warm, Rebecca!" And I did.

People watching in Milan is not like people watching anywhere else...

[Angela and a man in Army gear in front of the train station by her house.]

I flew to Italy yesterday morning.
After my traveling companion, Juliet, and I arrived in the Milano Centrale train station (pronounced Mee-LAH-no chin-TRA-lay... ahhh Italian), we spent a few hours people watching. We staked out a spot to sit next to one of the main stair cases. Few people go around the side of the station to take the escalator or search for an elevator. Instead, most people take the three flights that lead up to the cavernous space near where the trains leave.

People watching in Milan is not like people watching anywhere else. Being one of the world's fashion capitals (right there with Paris and NYC) and being Italian, the people just look good. They wear stitched leather shoes, mix their blacks and browns fashionably, and never before have I seen such a number of elderly ladys with fur coats and tiny dogs.

One older gent, in particular caught my attention. Even though Juliet was mid-story, I had to hush her quickly, "Juliet, look! Man lighting his pipe, man lighting his pipe!" I forced myself to nod my head vigorously so as to keep from pointing. He was walking quickly enough to lean into the long gait carrying him past us. His brown fedora, brought far down onto his forehead, had a ribbon of warm color where the leather strip usually buckles. He carried a leather bag in one hand and used the other to light the wise-looking wooden pipe held between his lips. I could see the strong flame flicker from his movement but, as if he often successfully lit his pipe on the go, he had no problem puffing out the first bits of smoke before he left our line of vision.

That night we at italian pizza (hand made and wood-fired by some really kind Arab men), drank wine and made our own focaccia bread with Angela's family's olives. Today we slept in (Juliet and I had only had a 4 hours of sleep traveling here) and then traveled out! We had cappuccinos in a cafe by the train, visited the Castello (several museums inside), walked to the Duomo, listened to a pianist in the cold, and ate the best Italian gelati.
I love Italy.

[The side of the Castle...]


I know I haven't blogged in quite some time. Juliet took a few minutes and blogged last night. She inspired me.

And I like the tourists here.

The waters turn white from jumping onto the top of the strangely hexagonal rocks. They race in and out, in and out. These pillars of stone form the mythic Giant’s Causeway, a unique formation of rocks that were, as they myth tells it, built and partially destroyed by giants. The ocean’s waves arrive and make their crashing, leaping turn back out into the mass of the Atlantic. The sound booms and the white water sprays upward.

The textures in this place are mad. All of the rocks are in cleanly cut stacks, about a foot in diameter. The stacks are unevenly worn away, forming something like hexagonal checkers pieces stacked one on top of the other because of a kinging. Hop scotch here would be epic. Now this place, this inlet of beautifully strange rocks in front of these magnificent cliffs, is a true wonder. Everyone should visit.

And I like the tourists here. They’ve walked or ridden down the long path below along the ocean or the path above along the cliffs and don't seem to be in a hurry. Upon arrival they stand, wander, play about. Pairs and trios find a spot to sit here on the western, sunny side of the rocks. They feel the warmth of the sun, squint their eyes, scrunch their noses, look at each other, sniff the air clean ocean air and smile.

When we first begin walking on the Causeway I look up and see a sort of mist beginning to cover the land farther from us. Turning to my friends I call out, “Hey, it’s raining over there, I think.” And then warn, “It’s about to rain here, too, I think!” Sure enough, the rain runs right over top of us while the sun still shines. I hear a stranger say, “Look out for a rainbow.” Turning around, I breathe deep and close my eyes in reaction to such beauty. A full rainbow stands between me and the cliffs. There are neither leprechauns nor gold, but a gentle peace in abundance as the bright colors begin to my left in the ocean and arch into the sky, returning at the rocks splashed in tide waters.

I and my friends sit on the rocks accompanied by the sonorous and constant waves. Rhey gently comments, “I think this is, like... good for my soul.”

Bright clouds silhouette a mountain pass, creating the background for a mini inlet between the two small peninsulas of the mysteriously formed rocks. Wet, darkened stones shine bright white and grey as the sun hits them.

People give each other turns standing at the crest of the rocks; their bodies cast shadows onto the mist from the crashing waves. This eerily but comfortingly plays on the dramatic light. When the sun has fully arrived I can barely look to the water it reflects the sun so brightly.

“I’m finally starting to feel happy here,” I say, looking at my friends. This place, this journeying out into a new land, it is good for me.

I talked with an warm older Irish lady as we sat waiting for our bus to leave the Causeway. She had a face that looked as though she’d lived through many dark days but smile wrinkles giving light to her eyes. She said, looking out over the hills toward the ocean, “There’s a peace about this place. It’s the infinity of the sea and the light. It’s brilliant.”

I could see humans planting bombs.

[Looking out over Belfast!]

This past weekend I went to Belfast. On the bus there my friend gave me a full hour lecture concerning Northern Irish history and the current state of political affairs.

The bus was pretty full from the start, and we didn’t know the bus’ political composition. In light of the very real bombing last week here in Derry, this was a legitimate concern to me. While she was talking I glanced around, noticing the elderly people sitting a few seats in front of us. I perked my ears to hear the young men around us quip about the RA (IRA). Though I appreciated it, I wanted to hush her relentless (and enthusiastic) retelling of sectarian violence, terrorism, and oppression. These people lived the troubles. They know the rebels, the paramilitaries, the dead, the fear.

I confessed to her, “I simply don’t see any reason for the violence. I’ve spent the last two years concerning myself with the possibility of legitimate causes for a terrorist’s activity. Now that I’ve seen it happen in real life it seems so useless. So dumb and destructive and unwanted.”

My friend was quiet for a bit, then she said something profound. She said they (these Real IRA members who set off the car bomb) may have grown up in the homes of former IRA members who have a family heritage in the republican movement. She said it’s possible that they want something to fight for. She said they probably want to be a part of something bigger than themselves.

And all of the sudden they weren’t monsters without minds and without families and without dreams. I could see humans planting bombs.

Now. None of this realization makes what they did okay. But, so importantly, it re-humanized them to me. I was afraid because I thought I’d found a situation in which dehumanization was a legitimate response. And that scared me. The potential in me to dehumanize is just as real as within a Ku Klux Klan member. I must guard against this inclination.

[A mural along the Falls Road, a Nationalist/Republican area of the city. The left mural reads: "OPPRESSION BREEDS RESISTANCE]

-----------------------------------

As I spent the weekend in Belfast, as city still wrecked in sectarianism, I continued to think about violence. We watched Michael Collins with our newfound Belfast friends. [Michael Collins is an excellent movie--I recommend it to anyone. Liam Neeson... need I say more?] The movie is about the leader of Ireland’s war for the Republic. It is during these years that Northern Ireland voted to remain under British rule.

I want to believe that violence isn’t useful. But I simply can’t. Violence got Ireland their republic--alongside diplomacy, but definitely proceeding that diplomacy. Though it is hell, war gets plenty done from that hell.

What amazes me is the way in which being part of a cause, especially one worth violence, can saturate a life with meaning. And I find myself longing so deeply to be a part of a cause that demands everything from me. Something bigger than living. Something worth killing for.

It is so easy to get caught up in a pursuit of some greater cause. I confess that, in the past, justice has been my god.

As a person of this inclination I must check myself. Why do I want the things I want? Is it because I want to be near Jesus or because I feel a need to infuse my life with meaning? In my clearer moments, I want to follow Jesus until, if necessary, I lose my life. With the grace of God, those moments will become more and more often.

I still believe that the people of the Way are called to love their enemies: that never looks like killing them. I must remember that this doesn’t diminish the depth of our struggle. We must struggle in the name of our God... in love.

[The Peace Wall between the Unionist/Loyalist Shankhill Road and Nationalist/Republican Falls Road.]

People here find violence neither constructive nor effective...

I heard the huge sound and knew immediately it wasn’t fireworks. I leaned out my window to see what I could see. There across from the L shape of our flat's building I saw Melissa opening her window. “Did ye hear that?” She called across to me with her always enthusiastic voice, “Look! There’s fuckin smoke! Look at the smoke! I felt it shake. It’s a fuckin bomb.”

In seconds there were about 7 or eight people gathering in windows across the way and I could hear more people yellin from their windows below me. Imelda and Emma, my flatmates ran into my room speaking quickly; “Did you hear that? What the fuck was that? Awww, fer fuck's sake, it was a bomb... I bet it was at DaVincis, the hotel.”


More and more smoke was raising into the sky about a mile away. "Welcome to Derry," Emma said angrily, walking out of the room.

(Student's returning to their rooms after gathering post-explosion)

---------

A few minutes later, as dozens of students gathered together outside excitedly responding to the bomb, we heard from our friend Emer who had been driving home when the bomb exploded. She texted Emma, letting her know that she missed the bomb by a few minutes (it's on her route home) and that she was okay but shook up.

---------

Two of my flatmates are from the Republic. They both expressed awe and fear over the attack. "We're not used to this," Rachel said, referring the the people from the Republic of Ireland. Imelda confessed that she'd never been so afraid, "I'm rethinking my decision to come up here for Uni. I'm still shakin'."

The situation here is the following: there are some joint initiatives and power-sharing policies between the Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland, but since 1921 the northern province of the island, Ulster, voted to remain a part of the United Kingdom. There is a Protestant, majority in Ulster, as opposed to an overwhelmingly Catholic majority in the southern part of the island. The ones who are actively seeking to maintain connection to the UK are called Unionists (if non-violent) or Loyalists (if advocates of violence).

Traditionally, the Protestants have maintained the greater amount of political, economic, and social control. In the late 1960s and 1970s a civil rights movement (inspired in part by the US Civil Rights Movement) advocating for just treatment of Catholics in Northern Ireland who at the time had fewer cultural, housing, employment, and educational opportunities than the Protestants. They were often treated unfairly within the justice system and targeted unjustly by overwhelmingly Protestant police forces. Nationalist (non-violent) and Republican (violent) groups wanted separation from the UK and unity with the Republic of Ireland.

Terrorist activities peppered and then saturated the movement against an oppressive system. The Irish Republican Army (IRA) bombed pubs and transportation centers. British soldiers and Ulster police attacked civilians. Targeted assassinations from the Ulster Volunteer Foce (UVF) and the IRA became more and more common. Today, nearly everyone in the country has been affected by this violence.

In the late 1990s and just after 2000 a peace agreement began demilitarization of the armed groups and started initiatives of inter-group reconciliation. Since the Good Friday Agreement much of the violence has disappeared.

People here find violence neither constructive nor effective... Most people. There are still some dissident groups, such as the Real IRA (RIRA), who believe they should use violence as a destabilizing force. They want to stir up a resistance movement for the independence of Northern Ireland from the UK. Thus the car bomb at the Ulster Bank.

Apparently, according to the RIRA "The role of bankers and the institutions they serve in financing Britain's colonial and capitalist system has not gone unnoticed...It's essentially a crime spree that benefits a social elite at the expense of many millions of victims" (http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/2010/sep/14/real-ira-targets-banks-bankers).

Everyone I've talked to from here would say something like what one of my flatmates said: "“Fuckin bastards. Psychotic, is what it is."

---------

As a result of this dissidant attack there's been a flurry of conversation about the terrorism here in Northern Ireland. Most of my friends from here have experiences, either recent or from their childhood, connected to the sectarian violence of the Troubles:
"You know that pictures of the people on Bloody Sunday? The guy with big glasses in the murals? That was my uncle."
"My uncle died in that attack."
"I was just a cadet for the British Armed Forces. We were fucking kids and the IRA were threatenin' to attack us."
"My granny hasn't marched since that day, Bloody Sunday."
"We were supposed to go out to that pub that night, but decided not to. It was bombed later."



If you're interested in more about the car bomb and responses to it:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-northern-ireland-foyle-west-11473586

Tattle Tale Socks

At the top of the hill I take my jacket off and sit gently down on the bench overlooking the River Foyle and the old Arts building. The day is a beautiful, a cool-in-the-wind but warm-in-the-sun kind of day. I was on my way to the practice rooms but I just had to take in some sun. (I think I've developed a Vitamin D deficiency since I came to Ireland. When the sun shines, every moment must be cherished.)

The fall leaves crisp by me, carried by the breeze, and I pull out my journal. I look down at these clothes I put on so carefully today: classic yellow cardigan, favorite rusty v-neck, black high waisted pants, kenyan earrings, necklace from my mom, and black hand-me-down shoes.

I try not to care that, when I cross my legs, my white socks are all exposed against my black shoes and pants. They sit there, those dumb socks, like little tattle tales, whining out to the world that I am not nearly as fashionable as I'd like to be.

I also try not to care that my belly noticeably nudges against my high-waisted pants and tucked in shirt. Tucked in shirts are not all that flattering most of them time. In light of this, however, I think I've started tucking my shirts in because my belly pudges a little. I tuck them in declaring, "I won't hide the way I am! I am who I am in this body! I am this!" I say, trying to smile.

After about forty minutes of enjoying the writing and the sun and the leaves and the bench, I put my jacket back on, tug my pant legs down a bit to cover my white socks, tuck my shirt back in, and head happily down to the practice rooms for the next several hours. And I do smile.

Nothing un-thought

I am struggling with this blog.

I've committed to it.
I regularly regret this commitment.

I don't feel I have anything of significance worked out well enough to say. Why should someone take time to read anything that I write?

My writing, I've held, has actual meaning and is significant as it reveals what I believe is true. I never purposefully write falsities, whether for a research paper or a letter or a facebook comment. When I write for other people (and an indiscriminate number of people, as is the nature of online blogs), I feel as though I am bearing a part of my unrefined and unprotected soul.

This soul-bearing is most dangerous because it is really only true in the moment of its writing; I am not a fixed, definable entity. I change. The writing I do now is only a sketch for thoughts and ideas and parts of me. But what I've written here is--as it is permanently available for public access--carved in stone.

The problematic nature of the public is that is is a carving of something that's moving. It's not quite accurate.
What's written here is an eternal display (as if worthy of display) of a mere momentary sketch.

Yet! I will eternally be sketching and my transient conclusions will never be anything but that-changing. Therefore, If I hold to this notion of protection and privacy until some kind of internal conclusion or completion, I will never write anything for others to see...


And would this be such a tragedy? Is it so important that others see and know what I write? Would the absence of my thoughts, my words, my experiences and ideas be any great loss?

All of these experiences I'm having are so complex that any kind of articulated assessment of them seems premature and pretentious. I think nothing novel. Nothing original. Nothing unprecedented. Nothing un-thought as of today.

I am a processor of connections, a linker of worlds. A line drawer. A sketcher, some might say.
But maybe someone will see something useful or beautiful or worthwhile in a sketch or two...

I live in Duncreggan Student Village (the Village).

There's. So. Much.

I've been in Derry for just half a week.

I've met all 4 of my other flatmates and many of their friends (GREAT people, really! They've been takin care of me.)
I've meet about 30 students from China, the States, France, Germany, Spain, the Philippines, Taiwan, India... (O! And one of the other Americans speaks Arabic! He spent the last two years in Morocco and Egypt. I almost cried when I found out)
I've been to the campus pub for a free drink and good conversation, to a club for dancing, to a cafeteria for some cheap food, to Hannah's apartment for dinner with 5 other Americans (breakfast sandwiches!), to Rhey's apartment for cereal, to the three charity shops for cheap clothes, and to the prayer room on campus.

I think I might join the Gaelic team (check this out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JDwXzyZtKp0&feature=related).
I'm pretty sure I'm taking a piano course (along with a module on Genocide and one on Self, Identity and Conflict and in independently researched and specially supervised course with this brilliant politics professor).
I plan to travel nearly every weekend. I only have class Tuesday and Wednesday.


I am just in love with the Irish way of living together. I know I'm going to learn so much about community while I am here.Not only do the girls who are friends with my flatmates come over and eat full meals together (they've always invited me) but even the people who come by and clean the flats know each person they clean for by name. How often does that happen in the States?

Tonight, after I walked back from the international students' event, some people in my hall saw us from their window, opened it, and shouted for us to come up. We did and joined the party, playing guitar, drinkin beer, makin jokes. A very nice time.



I'm pretty excited about the relationships that are all coming so naturally with both the Irish and the other Internationals. Praise God.

Pray that I find a church.


I like this part of my room. I bought that painting at a charity shop in London... love

I am inclined to receive this

Hi all. It's been a few days. I apologize. For a little while there I wasn't able to get on my computer and for a little while I was too busy and for a little while I was sick. . .

On Saturday of last I woke up extremely late. Friday night was my transition from my first host family to the next, a student at Regent's College. Though I was sleeping on the wooden floor of a friend's dorm room, I slept well into the, ehem, afternoon. I was tired, to say the least.

When I finally left the campus for the day, I didn't get too far. I found myself the most-likely-arabic restaurant (Marco Polos, A Taste of Mediterranean Cuisine) and went in, ordered an english breakfast (NOTE: don't order english breakfast from and restaurant that specializes in pita, hummus, and falafel... it probably won't be very english, or very good.) I found out they were arabs and I said something arabic and from that moment we knew we'd be friends. Though, because I am bit better at Spanish than Arabic and the one man is better at Spanish than English, we mostly spoke in Spanish... for hours. We walked together to retrieve a letter I'd written to Teddy (my beau) in another part of town and enjoyed each other's company. At one point it took a good 5 minutes for me to ask "Have you ever eaten in the Eagle and Child Pub?" It's a pub in Oxford where C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkein used to met. Trouble is, I didn't even know the word for author in Spanish. Good thing we are both patient people.

That night I enjoyed the pleasant company of my hosts friends at Regent's College. We shared music and plenty of laughs.

Sunday morning I went early to Marco Polos and got free toast and hot morning drinks for me and a friend. "There is no money between friends," said Abu Naser when I pulled out my wallet. I love that so much.

I then quickly made my way out to Virginia Water, a place just outside of London, to spend the day with the people who hosted me my last time through London. The father is the vicar of a parish there. The family is just wonderful. They made me feel so at home; after the service I read C.S. Lewis' "A Pilgrim's Regress," drank tea, ate lunch with the family, and fell asleep curled up on the couch. Katie, the daughter I made fast friends with the last time I was there, and I watched Friends and attended the evening youth service together.

Truly God is good. That day was immensely encouraging. Here's an excerpt from my journal:

"I almost unabashedly accept the way my heart feels, beating a small rhythm and pushing life through my chest... And my beating heart, if I think about its presence, I am nearly confident of hope and a little sad of things left behind, across the large sea. Yet I am inclined to receive this. To know this. I perceive hope and excitement and still a persistant hesitation in my heart."

But God has been speaking to me about knowing Him as my first love. Truly as my first love. To read His word as a letter, a connection, with the most dear love of my life. To pray as if speaking and listening to the one I most want to hear from. To love others as a way to show Him love. Oh! May this be true in my heart.

We must have played Guess Who 15 times

God truly has provided all I need and filled this day with joy.

My first host and her family were wonderful... I stayed two days in a beautiful home in one of the nicest areas of London. Edwardian architecture, I was told.

I ate dinner with them the first night, leftovers the next (I came home too late for dinner) and sushi tonight. Toast for breakfast each day.

Her daughter, a treasure chest of curiosity and kindness, adored me for some reason. We must have played Guess Who 15 times and she asked again and again if I'd come back to see them in January.

Amy, my host, spent hours looking up hostels for me (just in case this second living situation didn't work out) only to find that they were literally all booked. She printed my plane ticket, asked me about my life, told me all about the best things to see in London, and drove me to and from Regent's College to drop me off at Hannah's for the second leg of my journey. Twice.

Today I saw the changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace...

went to St. Martin-In-The-Field's church for a free concert, some time in the chapel, and great lunch...

and just delighted in the tourists delighting in being together at Trafalgar square.

I am now staying with Hannah, a friend of a friend, at Regent's College. We just spent the last 1 1/2 talking in her hallway... So good. Tomorrow is The Mayor's Thame's Festival. (http://www.thamesfestival.org/) I'm pumped... and it's all free. Though it may rain.

Cheers,

from London

Later we talked about love.

(photo-Statue of Eros. The most photographed place in London)

I slept! Like the dead, I slept. Very happy dead.

This morning when I woke up I, for a quick moment, forgot about my travels entirely. "Rebecca?" someone called. And then I realized that my host in London was knocking on my door. "If you get up early it will make jetlag less difficult."

Functioning with so much more cogency than the night before, I gathered myself and my things for the day, ate breakfast and wandered off! I decided to first walk Regent's Park, a garden of the Queen herself! A boating lake surrounds much of the garden. The small body of water, lined by willow trees (sometimes weeping, especially when it rains), is play ground to hundreds of geese, ducks, swans, and herons.

I walked into the park and chose a section that looked less tame. It was woodsy and a waterfall sounded through it. I stepped of the traditional path and walked through a bit of mud to sit by the rushing water. I sat there thinking, and then praying and then reading in Genesis, Luke, and Psalms... and of course praying again. God met me there in that park, by those falls. I prayed psalm 23 for the first time with genuine feeling.

You see, this has been very difficult for me, for some reason. I've struggled with feeling quite sad and lonely (especially looking forward to 5 months) and less excited than I wanted to be.

But then! What a wonderful thing God did. He led me, like a good shepherd. I walked over bridges and by ponds and right into a rose garden. I've never seen so many roses! Pink and orange and white... Yellow roses called "Poetry in Motion" and red roses called "England's Best."

As I entered the next section of roses, (a circle of them, in fact) I saw a woman settled on a bench. I don't say sitting, because she was, in fact, making her home there. She had on her trolley 3 suitcases nearly the size of mine, two bags, and an umbrella. Two yellow shirts dried, draped across the back of the bench. It rained yesterday. I stopped to mention the beauty of the day and we got to talking about the garden. "Yes. You see the roses. Everyday they change, becoming different. Losing or growing," she said with an accent. Our small friendship began as I tarried there, chatting. She invited me to sit and for the next hour we proceeded to talk.

Through the awkwardness and in the joy we learned about each other's lives. She came from Romania to be an Opair but, to her horror, the situation turned out to be some kind of scheme and she's been homeless for 2 years now! She showed me her books, including the New Testament and Psalms book someone gave her. Later we talked about love.

She told me she appreciated that I wanted to sit and talk with her. "Most people, they see you with this," she said, pointing to her belongings in transit, "and they want nothing with you. They are not concerned whether you live or die."

Talking with her made me feel so alive! So real and human! I loved it. Before I left she offered me biscuits (cookies) and we hugged. Oh, and a squirrel got real friendly with us...

It Rained... but these people are exceptionally kind.

Arriving in London...

Only an hour after the plane landed, I couldn't help but think, "I've arrived in London and I've absolutely no idea what I'm doing. I can't find my bag. My phone won't work at all. My laptop can't be recharged. I don't know how many pence are in a pound. It's raining... I did get through customs, though!"

When I asked an airport employee whether I could find free wi-fi somewhere, his sympathetic reply was, "There's nothing free here, love. Welcome to the UK!"

Eventually, I made my way across the city on the Underground (the Tube, as it is playfully yet practically referred to here). I got to take the Jubilee Line. Isn't that a great name? I got off at St. John's Wood station. Also a great name. Then I finally laid claim to a table outside Beatles Coffee Shop where I ardently people watched, wrote, and shook my head side to side to keep from falling asleep. I was almost entire successful in avoiding slumber, though I may not have avoided looking slightly insane.

I'm currently staying in a former teacher's sister's home. What generosity on her part. Dinner, rest, a shower, advice for touring London.

I look forward to exploring tomorrow... without my huge 50 lb bag.

I really like the Brits. There's a kindess I've noticed in people here that I've not seen before.

Oh. And I found a painting here in a consignment store that is amazing. Bought it. I need something to put up in my new place!

CHEERS!

Floating...

All day long I’ve been floating in peace. I feel it around me and in me.

I fell asleep at about 1:30 last night (after packing all evening) and woke at 5 today. Running on fewer than 6 hours the night and day before, I’ve been pretty docile for a small lack of energy, but also because I don’t have a sense of urgency or anxiety. I’m pleased to say that, though just found out I may not board the next flight to London and I do not know when the next flight out is, I am still okay.

On sunday my friend, Rachel, asked me, “what are you worried about?” and immediately my mind began spinning about all the things, like wild animals released around me, I could worry about. However, after taking just one moment to review these creatures, I realized that nothing was worry-able: God is bigger and more able than any other power that might come against me or these plans.

I can breathe!

Tonight I write in order to begin some kind of explanation of how God moving in and through the world in and around me. I only hope to, if even in some small or inadequate way, make sure that everyone knows that my life, as I remain in the love of Jesus, is known and shaped by God alone.

This morning I woke up in Bowling Green, Ohio. My small weekend journey to my university in Chicago is actually the beginning of my transition to the University of Ulster in Northern Ireland.

At 11:30 we left for Chicago (only missing our intended departure time by 1 1/2 hours). As we drove through Ohio, Indiana and Illinois, I absorbed the greens and the yellows of the countryside. The way the sunlight enlivens the rows of trees between fields of soybeans or planes of corn. With the windows down and the chilly September air rushing around our faces, Emily, Teddy, and I danced and sang and laughed and smiled. Such life in this air.

We arrived in Chicago and eventually made our way to Katie's apartment. No friend has ever thrown me a party, but Katie did just this today. She hosted some of my dearest North Park friends with small glasses of wine, a “Goodbye Becca” sign, a clean house lit with tea light candles, and merriment in her soul.

The community of people who came to this gathering tonight loved me. They believe God is in me, they wish me well, they prayed over me. There’s not a way I can properly write how wonderful affirmation--good, solid affirmation--is. This affirmation is not the puff-up affirmation, but a genuine, encouraging, life-giving affirmation

For the last few months I have experienced an uncharacteristically high level of anxiety and fear about my journey to Norther Ireland. I have hardly been able to think of a single good thing that will come of this journey there. But tonight! Tonight Ramon prayed, "take away the fear, God. All of it."

As people prayed, God reminded me of another perspective of experiencing life, a perspective free of suffocating fear. My friends prayed about peace and about God's presence and about His work and His goodness. They prayed about how He has called me and equipped me.

Praying out loud is especially wonderful because the moment the prayer is prayed, as long as I'm listening, God begins to shift and change me, bringing His breath of life into me. This pivotal part of the evening changed something in me. I can breathe!

JUST ONE MONTH

Jerusalem gave me a profound moment the second time I came to the city just outside its Damascus Gate. The gate, if you remember, where the taxi driver dropped me off and I was disoriented and scared...

July 31, 2008:

"Chris Awwad and I sat down outside the Damascus Gate in Jerusalem. Just one month ago I sat in this very place. This very bench. Then I was travel-worn and nervous. I looked like an Israeli youth and I couldn't understand a single Arabic word. Everything felt chaotic and intimidating. The people threatening. My body tired and my heart afraid. It's incredible the difference once month can make.

"Now, as we relax in the shade, I am not rested after our several hour bus ride into Israel but, Praise God, I have sufficient energy. I'm wearing jeans, a white T-shirt and a Kofiyya tied around my waist (the black and white checkered scarf associated with Palestine). The Palestinians around me talk excitedly together or sit pensively. One man rests his head on another's lap, chatting away. A child spins in a wheel-y chair. A few people eat falaafel sandwiches. The small breeze keeps us cool.

"I hear a boy shout: '5 shekels! 5 shekels!!' Another man greets his friend, 'Hello! How are you?' I can understand."

I often reflect on this experience. What a dramatic shift. During the month I spent in the West Bank I made friends. Palestinian friends... and that changed everything.

IT WILL BE

Nearly two years ago I went to Taybeh. On that trip I wrote over 100 pages in my journal. My handwriting is not large.

Since then I've written plenty, none of it exists in the public domain. Out of both discipline and desire I intend to write again.

What will become of this blog? Hopefully, it will be a cathartic use of the art of written expression. A place for confusion, expression, and hope as my life relates to a desire for transformation of conflict. I may write poems or short stories, commentaries or reflections. It may be academic it may be emotional. Whatever it is, it will be.