“They were the creatures of history, whose coming together was of a nature possible in no other day—the day was inherent in the nature… The relation of people to one another is subject of each to time, to what is happening… The more imperative the love, the deeper its drafts on beings, till it has taken up all that ever went to their making, and according to what it draws on its nature is.”
Elizabeth Bowen, The Heat of The Day
We spent our last night back at The Globe and reminisced about the full-circle we had made. While my fellows conversed lovingly about the memories, I sat in bitter contempt about the literary-ness of this circle. How dare they allow this to have an ending? I felt we would leave and the glue of our shared homelessness would dissolve the second we exchanged the last of our pounds for dollars. I ached for the all-too-familiar feeling of uprootedness and I was angry with myself for falling back into the illusion of comfort.
I could have told you a story about how I learned the importance of experiential learning or that I came back a more cultured person, but that seems like a lie by omission. There is something human and essential about looking intently at historical and inward wars, and there is blessing in being able to do so alongside books and people. I’ve held these memories inside for safekeeping. I still haven’t gone through all of my photos and I can’t bear to open my journals or class notes. I think I am afraid of what I won’t find, or that maybe the associations and sentiments are only in my head. Maybe London wasn’t that awesome or maybe, by putting it on paper, it will crystallize and uproot. But ending a story is a worthy endeavor. Home is, indeed, in your head. The world is, indeed, an orphan’s home, and it is such an incredible thing to be able to see it and be in it and remember it.