The IKEA of My Heart

I know this will come as a utter and complete shock to many of you readers, but I like to have a plan. I'm a typical, overbearing, A-type personality that finds solace in list making and life planning. I want to know where I'll be, what I'm doing, how much it will cost, why I'm doing it, and I like to know all of this at least six months in advance, in written form, preferably in triplicate. Who else but me would have a love affair with a backpack because it's basically a life plan in a bag? 

That being said, I am at point in my life where currently I have no plan.

None. 

Zip. Zilch. Zero. 

I don't even know when I will be able to have a plan again.

And I'm freaking out.

I'm not quite to the point of rocking myself to and fro in a dark corner of my room, but I have definitely consumed a concerning amount of Diet Coke and chocolate muffins in the past two weeks. My room is basically where all the Diet Coke cans of Leeds come to rest in peace. I'm thinking of naming them all. 

I have a myriad of options facing me and no idea where to turn. Do I stay on for my PhD despite the fact that I was turned down for funding? Do I defer my acceptance and reapply for funding? Do I go home with just my MA? Do I stay in England and get some insignificant job so I can live here awhile longer? Do I join the circus? Do I continue to bank on my acceptance letter arriving from Hogwarts? SO MANY OPTIONS.

On top of all of this, my perfectionist side is not pleased with my current grades. I'm not failing, but I'm certainly not excelling. I'm quite average at the moment. And this kills me. Which is why I'm forcing myself to admit my average-isity to you, my internet world. I want so badly to please everyone and make everyone proud of me. So many people have told me that they love following my adventures on Facebook, love that I'm living here, love that I'm furthering my education, love that they are living through me, and I'm incredibly scared and embarrassed to tell everyone that I'm not as amazing as they want me to be. I'm not a genius; I'm not supremely brave or awesome. I'm just me and I'm treading water right now.

I don't mean this in a 'Oh, woe is me, feel sorry for me and say nice things to make me feel better' kind of way. This is just an issue I'm wrestling with at the moment and admitting it is cathartic and helps me process.

I know, in my head, that this is all a part of God's plan. I know that this period of waiting and resting in the unknown will draw me closer to Him. He has never ever let me fall before and He certainly will not now. I know that, in a year, I will look back on this time and laugh at my frantic stressing, but that being said: now is a time of silence and questions. If my head could tell my heart what it knows, and truly make it believe its potency, that would be awesome. But my heart is way too plan-focused to accept that information right now. 

I think my heart is like the IKEA warehouse. Lots of numbers and aisles and organization. The unknown has no barcode, no shelf number, no pretty coloured bins in which to be placed. Instead, the unknown is like a rogue shopping cart dashing about in the warehouse of my heart careening into my nicely-organised life plan aisle, complete with odd, Scandinavian-named Budget Desks and Schedule Dressers, and messing up my decorative pillow display of Control. 

So there you have it. My confession. My deep, dark secret. It's raw and it hurts, but it's truly and authentically me and I'm proud of that. 

I Finally Understand Dora the Explorer

I have been remiss as a blog writer. I have left out probably the single most important person in my life in all of my posts and I am truly ashamed. He has sat by my side patiently, watching me write, hoping his name would be mentioned. At night, I am sure I have heard him weeping from the neglect he's suffered at my hands. He whom my soul loves has supported me through the long year abroad and it is time I introduced him.

He--this glorious, wonderful, supportive, kind, forgiving, expansive one--is my backpack.

Are you laughing? You shouldn't be. You should be so lucky to have a backpack like mine!

I am extremely picky when selecting a backpack to purchase. I meticulously examine numbers of pockets, zipper placement, laptop sleeves, colours and patterns, straps, and fit. Many are rejected and few emerge as true contenders. It's basically American Idol-Backpack Edition. Obviously, I'm Simon Cowell with a bit of Randy thrown in (Dude! You're my DOG!).

My current backpack is everything I could wish: white and green, with a green, turquoise, and pink pattern of swirls, hearts, spirals, and--best of all--birdies! It has padded straps, three layers of zippered pockets as well as a smaller, zippered pocket on the very front, which is my designated key pocket. Every day, when returning to my room from a slew of intense research, adventuring, or shopping, I take comfort in the familiar motion of walking up to my door, swinging my backpack off my shoulder and around to a secure resting place on my hip, and reaching into the front packet to extract my pleasant, jingling keys that offer the promise of entrance into my home. This small routine, though it might seem redundant and silly, is my favorite part of the day.

I truly do not believe I could have survived the past months without my backpack. It holds my life within its infinite zippers. He has been a book bag, fashion accessory, grocery holder, pillow, jacket, pseudo-kangaroo pouch in a bizarre animal impression, and confidant.

When I moved from California to England, he was there. He carried my dearest treasures on my back in a physical hug as I said goodbye to my family, my friends, and everything familiar.

When I arrived in Leeds, he endured smashing into walls, being dropped on the floor, and getting kicked to and fro as I wrestled my belongings to my dorm room, then to another dorm room when I moved, then the final dorm room when I moved for the last time (I'm usually not this needy, I swear!).

When Callie and I went backpacking in the Peak District, he held all my valuable possessions conveniently out of the way (though there was a brief moment where he unfortunately trapped me between himself and a rock due to my overpacking him, but we got through this obstacle: see photo below).

Most recently, due to the submission of two assessed essays and dissertation research, my backpack has been extra heavy. He never complains, but I do. I have taken to walking gorilla style: doubled over, with my arms hanging down in front of me. Callie usually protests vociferously to this ridiculous shuffle when we walk through the heavily-populated park. My backpack never complains though.

When I have my backpack, I feel safe. I know that I can fit everything I could possibly need, want, or desire for the day (and mostly likely even a brief apocalypse stint) inside. On a good day, I will carry my wallet, laptop, laptop charger phone, daily ration of Diet Coke, some form of dessert, a jacket, various books or research material, painkiller, tissues, phone, a brollie, and a host of other items. If every bus in Leeds broke down simultaneously, my phone died, and I somehow found myself utterly alone and injured in the middle of St. George's Field in Uni, I know I would be ok if I have my backpack. Obviously, I wouldn't be happy, but I'd be ok. 

I guess, as a child, I never truly understood Dora's relationship with Backpack in Dora the Explorer. Her ballad to her Backpack's provision annoyed me and usually caused me to change the channel in disgust.  However, and usually to my extreme horror, Dora's anthem tended to stick around my head the rest of the day. But now, I understand--no, I applaud--Dora and her devotion to her purple friend.

In fact, I invite everyone to join along with me and Dora in singing a rousing chorus of the Backpack Song:

'Backpack, Backpack!

Backpack, Backpack!

I'm the Backpack loaded up with

Things and knickknack's too

Anything that you might need

I've got inside for you!

Backpack, Backpack!

Backpack, Backpack!

 YEAH!'

Once Upon a Time

Many of you liked my Facebook post about getting trapped in a hostel bathroom, so I thought I would use this opportunity to give you allllll the details: mostly because I think this is the most ridiculous thing to ever have happened to me and I want to milk it for all it is worth. This will hopefully be a nice anecdote to my previous, overly-contemplative posts.

Once upon a time (because all good stories must start with once upon a time to truly be good):

I went traipsing about London with my friend Bethany, who is fabulously zany, brilliant, and bubbly. After a whirlwind day of sightseeing and Tube riding, I collapsed into bed at a granny time of 9:30pm due to the effects of walking 6 kagillion miles while fighting the worst allergies known to man, which turned me into a verifiable snot zombie. I awoke to a pitch-black hostel room feeling energised and thinking 'Yes! It's probably around 5am! I slept soooooo great! I'll sleep a bit more and then OWN this next day' (in which we were traveling to Cardiff, Wales to stalk Matt Smith: 11th and most fabulous Doctor). I eagerly looked at my phone to confirm my flawless plan, only to discover that it was 11:30pm...For a brief moment I considered the fact that I had slept through the entire next day, assuming that Bethany must have gone to Cardiff without me, met Matt, run away with him to live in the TARDIS (sorry Mark) and leave me to my Rip Van Winkle-esque slumbers, but then I realised that was just silly.

What was not silly, and indeed extremely pressing: literally, was the realisation that I desperately had to pee. This involved fighting my way down a very long, dark corridor frought with the peril in the form of islands of people's belongings strewn about my path, eagerly lying in wait to entangle my feet and throw me to the ground, which would result in the very real possibility of my untimely death from a severe pillow beating at the hands of my 20 fellow bunkmates. But my bladder persisted in its complaint.

I trudged blearily to the bathroom, feeling proud of myself for remembering the key card to my room, without which I would have had to knock to regain entry, again resulting in an aforementioned pillow death. There were two rooms right next to each other, both with toilets, both offering relief, and I, I chose the one on the left, and that has made all the difference.

The next bit does not need to be narrated, but assume that I felt much better afterwards.

I washed my hands, sleepily greeted myself in the mirror, and turned the handle to the deadbolt. It turned fine, but it wouldn't stop. I kept turning and turning and turning the handle in increasingly faster circles, quickly awakening to the understanding that the deadbolt was not moving. At all. Which meant the door would not open. At all.

I stared disbelievingly at the traitorous portal. Then my A-type personality kicked in and I snapped into problem-solving mode. Because the hostel was a refurbished house, the door was not just a stall door under which I could squeeze. It was a very sturdy wooden door with a metal lock and deadbolt: so that exit strategy was not viable. I saw another door in the bathroom, but it was also locked and appeared to be a simple storage closet (or a door to Narnia...we'll never know). There was no window either, but that would have been impractical as I was on the third floor and not Spiderwoman. However, this also meant that it was boiling hot inside my tiny prison.

I began to panic at this point as my escape options waned. I tried the lock again, but to no avail. I realised that I had no other option. I had to call for help.

This presented its own set of problems. (A) I didn't really want to be a bother. It was quite quiet outside from what I could hear and most everyone in my room was asleep. (B) I'd never called for help before and had no idea how to go about it! Do you just scream bloody murder? Or is there strict protocol? Maybe I should gradually build to an insistent scream or maybe it was best to start at a high decibel.

I decided to start small with a demure, 'Ummm, hello?' I also decided that it would be an added good measure to knock on my side of the door, which felt deliciously ironic. I tried this routine and then spun the lock just to see if it had changed its mind about reconnecting to the deadbolt...it hadn't. I decided to go to level two. This involved adding a small, plaintive, 'help???' and 'please?' to my script. 'Ummm hello? Help?? Please??' *knock knock knock* This went on successively for about a minute or so, with the occasional lock spin, until finally, the sweetest of sounds reached my ears. A female Australian voice returned my request with a 'Hello?' back! (Her voice sounded remarkably like Claire from Lost...not a good thought to think in a situation like mine, so I am thankful the comparison came to my my mind afterwards).

I explained my situation and began laughing, because I finally realised how ridiculous and hilarious the entire ordeal was! The lady outside kindly asked 'Are you crying or freaking out?' I said 'both.' She then told me not to freak out and went down to reception while I contemplated what it would be like if I had to live in this tiny loo for the rest of my life. My sleeping arrangement would probably have been leaning over my legs in a yoga/toilet-using pose. Though at least I would have had water. Entertaining would be a nightmare though so I decided I should really evacuate as soon as possible.

Eventually, Kind Australian Lady returned with Reception Man, who, I could tell, clearly thought I was making up the whole thing. Unversed in the art of breaking helpless, sleepy girls out of toilet rooms, Reception Man's brightest idea was to ask me 'Can't you just break the door down?'

If only he could have seen my withering stare.

I explained my California origins and how this did not result in me growing up a female wrestler imbued with super-human strength, but he stuck by his suggestion.

I tried to break the door down. My body does not make a good battering ram. He should be thankful the least thing I said was 'Owwwwww.'

His next idea was to somehow shove a screwdriver under the 1/16 inch space between the door and the floor, which did work, but he had passed me an itty bitty screwdriver that stood no chance against the lock. I leaned my head despondently against the door and pictured how dating with a wooden door in between us would ensure purity in the relationship and help me not focus on looks alone.

Then Reception Man experienced a brilliant epiphany: HE would break the door down. All hail the chivalrous strength of the patriarchal man!

He began to pull, and pull, and pull on the door. And the door responded by cracking, and cracking, and cracking until finally he wrenched the door out far enough that the deadbolt slipped out and I burst out of the room into the arms of my Australian saviour.

After I hugged everyone I could see (which was just the Kind Australian Woman and Reception Man [whom I had decided to forgive for his 'break the door down' comment]), breathed the sweet air of freedom, and embraced my endless life of possibilities, I went back to bed.

And that is how I spent 30 minutes trapped in a hostel bathroom.

The End.


P.S. For proof that I did actually escape and engage in the pre-planned Doctor Who geekery, see photo below.

P.P.S. Had Bethany been awake, this entire episode would have been documented in film and print but, alas, you are only left with my blog post (though I'm open to screenplay options *cough* Disney *cough*

I'm Essentially Nocturnal Now

I do not remember a time in my life when I have been this busy. I also do not remember a time in my life when I have procrastinated this much.  It is to the point where I firmly believe I should be crowned Queen of Procrastination, Chatelaine of Cair Duvetvel, Empress of the Netflix Islands (if you caught my subtle Narnia reference, you get + 1,000,000 bonus points). I find it easier and much safer to adopt the ostrich approach to schoolwork at this point in time, mostly because the things I'm currently supposed to do are very real, very scary, and very grown-up. Did anyone notice that I'm a grown-up now? I sure didn't and I'd like a recount of the votes please. 

Last week, I turned in the first 2,000 words of my dissertation (applause is not required...but appreciated). It was both thrilling and terrifying and, for most of the week, I just wanted to throw up. One day, I quarantined myself in the Brotherton Library and worked on almost every single floor at varying points throughout the day. Then I completely lost it and found myself doing yoga in the courtyard outside at 10:30 at night, to the mortification/amusement of campus security (I invited them to join in...they declined). After that rather psychotic episode, I tried another method: working at my dorm with my fellow Sub-Warden. This was a very different vibe, but equally productive. Plus, we would randomly burst into song at various points of the work experience, which helped boost morale. 

Eventually, I'm not exactly sure how, I finished 2,000 words. To celebrate, I watched The Bachelor with Callie. Don't judge. LONG LIVE TIERRA'S EYEBROW!

Though this is the hardest academic assignment I have completed in my academic life thus far, because of the nature of what I am researching, I was blessed with some incredible spiritual encouragement this week. Part of my research involved reading some of George MacDonald's Unspoken Sermons. While reading, I came across one of those incredible quotes that you find when you least expect them:

'You must come out of this bondage of the law to which you give the name of grace, for there is little that is gracious in it. You will yet know the dignity of your high calling, and the love of God that passeth knowledge. He is not afraid of your presumptuous approach to him. It is you who are afraid to come near him. He is not watching over his dignity [...] It is you who think so much about your souls and are so afraid of losing your life, that you dare not draw near to the Life of life, lest it should consume you.'

This was one of those quotes that make you stop, sit back, and simply say 'Whoa.' I was expecting to find a quote to support my point that MacDonald believed fairy tales to be a God-given, mystical form to communicating divine revelation; instead, I found a spiritual teaching that slams straight to the heart of my own insecurities and misunderstandings regarding God, a concept that challenges my doubts and fears and leaves me bowed before God in humble adoration and thankfulness. 

I'm still terrified about my two upcoming essays and insanely difficult Icelandic test this Friday. I will probably still procrastinate (I hear Supernatural calling out to my from the tempting open Netflix tab). But at least I know that all the research and writing I'm doing has a point and a purpose, if for no other reason than to turn my heart back to my Saviour in worship.

Dissertation Lowdown: 10,000-13,000 words to go. Title: Due This Week. Topic: Using Gothic Constructs and Folklore Structures to Discuss Christianity. Mood:Ughughughughugh.

Pirates Invade my Bedroom

The alarm clock began blaring 'Pirates of the Caribbean' this morning at a very horrendous hour. I forced myself into the land of the living, figured out what day it was and why on earth pirates were invading my bedroom, and then I realised with a sinking feeling of dread: 'It's workshop day...'

For the past few months, I have been developing a workshop for Special Collections at the Brotherton Library focused on Branwell Brontë and his juvenilia. I and my project partner, Rachel, designed a workshop called 'Tiny Books for Tiny Hands: Unlocking the Door to Angria' intended to educate children on the unknown Brontë brother's story (the non-sordid version) and the 'tiny books' he and his sisters wrote when they were children about a magical kingdom called Angria. Today was the first of two presentations of the workshop and I was terrified. Everything with this workshop felt last minute and Rachel and I were running around like mad the day before trying to find quills and ink, printing posters, and finishing powerpoints. I just didn't feel I had prepared enough or would be able to pull this off. Despite my feelings of impending failure, after sending off a fervent prayer and hurriedly gulping some Diet Coke for good measure, I set out.

At first, it seemed we were doomed. The doors to the art gallery where we held the event were locked, no one answered the phone inside, and it was 15 minutes past when we were supposed to start setting up. How I wished I had a paper bag for hyperventilation purposes! Then, like magic, the gallery coordinator appeared like a fairy godmother out of the morning mist and we were off and running.

At 10:10am, I stood at the front of the gallery facing 16 expectant workshop participants. After a deep breath, I began with: 'Good morning! If you like this workshop, my name is Sara. If you don't like it, my name's Phoebe.' They all laughed and I knew everything was going to be ok.

I had forgotten how much I love teaching, how much I love kids, and how much I love people! I also hadn't even realised how much I needed to be reminded of those facts. With dissertation deadlines approaching and uncertainty about next year's plans overwhelming my thoughts, I forgot why I am even bothering to do all of this schooling in the first place. I left California, my family, and a job and students that I absolutely loved, so that I could become a better teacher. Every difficult experience, every not-so-good grade, every heartache, and every painful word of my blasted dissertation will help shape me into a stronger, smarter, and-with all the walking I do-maybe even a sexier teacher. (That sounds rather cheeky, but I'm a sucker for alliteration so I'm leaving it in)

This morning started off rather hellish, but it ended up being a day I'll never forget: a day full of wonderful reminders from God that I'm in the right place and going through the experiences necessary to make me the teacher I feel He's called me to be. I wouldn't trade the blessing of hearing an adorable 6 year-old read a brilliant story she wrote in a book she handmade for all the Diet Coke in Leeds (I know. The severity of that statement shocks even me.)

Dissertation Lowdown: 11,800-14,800 words to go. Title: Unknown. Topic: Using Gothic Constructs and Pagan Folklore Structures to Discuss Christianity. Mood: Idon'twanttotalkaboutit.

Snowflakes and Rejection

Once again back in jolly olde' England, I revel in the snowy winter wonderland that has transformed my beloved England into a very, very good interpretation of The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. Every time I go for a snowy walk, I expect to meet Mr. Tumnus carrying his umbrella and parcels past the Lamppost. While it has yet to occur, I hold out hope! England is magical place after all! I may or may not have stayed up until 3 in the morning the other night simply watching the sparkling flakes scurry and swoop past my window.

Classes have not yet resumed, so I am left with time to play in the snow and also worry about PhD applications as well as other fascinating trials and tribulations that comprise the life of a 21 year-old girlwoman (yes, I'm making that a thing). However, I was incredibly refreshed and replenished by Sunday night's church service this week. The Pastor focused on the rejection faced by Samuel when the Israelites demanded a King to rule over them, and how we as humans constantly face this crippling emotion. He detailed the different responses to rejection and I came to realise that I am known as a 'fighter.' In order to avoid experiencing rejection, I will push and push myself to be the best at everything I do, whether it be academic, personal, or spiritual. When this inevitably fails, I am utterly crushed and mentally berate myself for failing to be perfect (cause perfection is entirely possible...NOT!).

I have struggled with this burden my entire life, but Sunday, the Lord helped me see that I am tired of it. I am exhausted by trying to be perfect. I cannot please everyone. I have horribly awkward moments. I make many, many mistakes. And that's ok. (My mother will be so proud of that last sentence). Because what the Lord showed Samuel, our Pastor, and eventually, me, is that He will never reject me, never cast me away because I mess up. I might fail an assignment (the very thought of which makes me literally quake in my soul), the guy I like might think I am a basket-case (not a bad thought actually...), I could make a mistake in my job, and (oh boy here's a biggie) I might not get into a PhD program. But no matter what: it's ok. The God of the universe has seen me, seen my innermost soul, and HE will not run away.

Once I come back to that incredible realisation, I wonder why I ever put so much pressure on myself in the first place?! Oh yeah, because I'm a silly, puny human! But I guess that is what snow is for. It is the 3am reminder that God took the time to design that tiny snowflake swishing past my window. Irregardless of life's trials and tribulations and despite my failures and insufficiencies, the snow will continue to fall, God will still love me, and I will still hope beyond all hope to find Mr. Tumnus in the wood behind my dorm.

Dissertation Lowdown: 11,800-14,800 words to go. Title: Unknown. Topic: Using Gothic Constructs and Pagan Folklore Structures to Discuss Christianity. Mood: September'scominguprealfast.

A Holly Jolly New Year: It's the Best Time of the Silent Nights

Where has Scholastic Sara been since her last revelational post? Since she discovered her critical super powers and took off to demolish her essays in a single bound? She's been in sunny CA :) After the quickest and most exciting three months of my life, I came home for a Christmas reboot. Unfortunately, my superhero cape was malfunctioning, so I had to fly United. This was unfortunate as the ratio for that scenario is Sara: Flying as Indiana Jones: Snakes. However, after 16 hellish hours, I was hugging my parents at LAX and dragging one suitcase full of Christmas presents home.

After a stop at the Brio family restaurant of choice: McDonald's, I was greeted by one very confused and excited puppy and the single most comfortable bed on the face of the planet: complete with flannel Christmas sheets. Home Sweet Home, indeed!

Being home has allowed me to recharge and stock up on food, holidays spent with family, sleep, and thrift store trips with my Mommy, before heading back for my next semester, not to mention some much needed Vitamin D! Furthermore, I have reveled in the silence of a home free of partying freshmen and general Uni cacophony.

I thought that coming home would feel like a vacation-a quick trip-especially since I've loved living in England much more than I originally anticipated. I wasn't expecting to fall in love with California all over again. However, my very wise Aunt saw through my problem instantly and offered me a solution. She told me that I have two homes, two families. I have my Mom and Dad, family and friends (and one insanely adorable niece) here in California, as well as my church family, who will always be here for me and support and encourage my dreams.

I also have my England family. These are the people who are walking with me as I embrace this new chapter in my life and take my first steps into the "real world." They are there with hugs when I am homesick, jumpers when I am cold, and songs when I am happy. This made me realize that I am not giving up my life here by moving to England; I'm simply adding more members to my family. In fact, I don't necessarily think I have to separate these groups into two distinct spheres. My world is simply undergoing an expansion.

So am I sad to leave California? Of course! I'll miss living at home, seeing my parents outside of a tiny Skype screen, hearing my little Annie call out "Sawa! Sawa! Tia!!!!! Where are youuuuu?!" when we play hide and seek, my best friend and I laughing so hard we end up lying on the ground gasping for air, driving my car around while blasting country music (Goodness gracious great balls of fire I forgot how much I love DRIVING!), and all of the comforts of home. But this time, when I board that plane, I am not facing the unknown, I'm simply embracing my expanded comfort zone.

Dissertation Lowdown: 12,000-15,000 words to go. Title: Unknown. Topic: Approved! Mood:Takingamuchneededbreak.