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!'