My City of Dreaming Spires

It's amazing the difference a year can make. A year ago, I was sitting on my living room floor, wondering what the next year would bring. Would I like Oxford? Would I make friends? Did I make the right choice?

Now, looking back, it's hard to believe that there ever was another choice. This year of Oxford was made for me, and I was made for it. It was challenging. But it was golden.

And I am oh-so-grateful for the opportunity I had to study there. To live there. To love there and cry there and just be there. So, so grateful.

I've decided to include a personal essay that I wrote one of the main lessons I learned while at Oxford. If anything, I hope it will capture some of the wonder of the city, the necessity of growing pains, and the beauty of choosing to belong.

Oxford is a city of tales. From Dorthoy Sayers to Philip Pullman, great thinkers and storytellers have drawn on the conversation and atmosphere of Oxford to create wonder and inspire inquiry. There must be something in the Cherwell water, some river spirit that breathes imagination into poets, novelists, artists, and even professors.

Sooner or later, Oxford becomes a part of everyone's story.

When it comes down to it, I suppose the main reason I went to Oxford is because I wanted to make Oxford a part of my story. I applied for graduate work at Oxford because I thought it would challenge me and give me tools and opportunities to become a better scholar . . . but I ultimately came because it is what my heart wanted. I yearned for these yawning, century-old buildings and cobblestone streets to become my own; I wanted to lose myself in the bookshelves of the Bodleian; I hoped to fulfill all of my wildest Hogwarts dreams by simply stepping into the Corpus Christi dining hall. Oxford was my idea of heaven, with history, books, and endless possibilities for learning and growth at my fingertips.

I soon found that heaven can be overrated.

After the initial wonder of arriving in Oxford ("Look at these gardens! Listen to those bells! Feel that English rain!"), real life knocked at my door and, without asking permission, settled in. My course was challenging and I worried that I would not have the amount of time I would like for adventuring or exploring. I ached for my close relationships back home. That English rain continued to pour and painted everything grey and gloomy.

The bright, shiny pin of reality burst my ambitions. There was no possible way I could do everything that I wanted to do--rowing happened the same time as that club's opening social, which was on the opposite side of town from the lecture I needed to attend, and I hadn't even started on the readings. All the same, as an incorrigible overachiever, I still attempted to do everything, afraid to miss out on Instagram moments, afraid that missing out on opportunities meant that I would not have that "perfect" Oxford experience I dreamed of having.

One night after a formal hall, I was struck with a sense of world-weariness. It frightened me because I had not expected to feel so empty at the place of my dreams. As I walked along Magdalen Bridge, it dawned on me that I was experiencing something that I had only read about in books. I was feeling the pangs of poshlost', an untranslatable Russian term best described when someone aims for "the falsely important, the falsely beautiful, the falsely clever, the falsely attractive" (V. Nabokov).

I had analyzed Russian literary characters who had wasted their lives because of poshlost', and now I analyzed its effects in myself. I was trying too hard to be everything to everyone, which left me feeling superficial, stretched, and selfish. If I could not change my outlook, I could see my graduate experience at Oxford leaving me hollow and disillusioned. The prospect scared me.

However, being able to name that fear empowered me. It allowed me to take control of the situation. That night was a crossroads for me as I assessed what I honestly wanted out of my Oxford experience. I was chasing the phantom of a dream--a "perfect" Oxford experience that didn't exist--instead of simply breathing the night air, enjoying the intellectual struggle, and engaging myself in the relationships around me. I did not want the "falsely beautiful" in my life; I did not want a social media saga. I wanted to engage myself in what mattered most--relationships and growth, both as a scholar and as an individual.

I did not have to go to every single networking event, extemporaneous seminar, or fancy dinner. The perfect did not have to become an enemy of the good. Opportunities would come and go, but missing out on one or two (or even a couple hundred) did not mean missing out on my Oxford dreams. I had to choose what was most important to me, and then fully immerse myself in those experiences and friendships, meeting the good and the bad with determination and grace.

Perhaps the most important lesson I have learned here is that life at Oxford is just that: life. There are challenges, including tears, loneliness, long nights in the library, and blisters from cobblestoned streets. There are regrets. There are events I wish I could have atteneded and people I wish I could have become better friends with.

My Oxford experience has been far from perfect. But it has been very good. Oxford has become mine . . . but not in the way I expected. To be honest, I was expecting perfection--a glorified version of all of my favorite Oxford stories rolled into one. The reality is much better than the dream, because it is something I can hold, critcize, and ultimately love, not just idealize.

At the same time, Oxford can never completely be mine, just as I will never completely belong to Oxford. Oxford has lived so many lives, and there are so many lives in Oxford. So many times and seasons are lost to me; there are evensongs and brunches I never attended; societies I never joined; different colleges I never properly visited. Those parts of Oxford belong to someone else's city of dreaming spires.

But for me, my Oxford consists of library epiphanies, Merton Street in morning glow, Magdalen Bridge by moonlight, jogging in Port Meadow, and a hearty dose of friendship. It is not everything, but it is more than enough to be a part of my story, to soak into my skin and fill my soul.

Learning to Let Go (A Tribute to My Messenger Bag)

09 August 2016 

Dear Pavel (my messanger bag from Ukraine), 

Well, it's been a good run. Four years, three months, two weeks, and three days of a good run, to be exact. 

I remember the first time I saw you. I was a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, naive young missionary, just a week into Ukraine. 

In my naivety, I thought that I could "get by" with my hands and a small, simple beaded bag I had brought with me. My trainer soon helped me see the error of my ways. 

[Young missionary and my wise trainer.]

She took a look at my beaded bag and then a long look at me as I tried to stuff pamphlets in it. 

"You're going to need a lot more space," she said. 

And she was right. 

So on a warm Monday in late April, we went inside a nondescript shop on Lenin Prospekt in the city we lived in. Inside was dingy, dark, and smoke- and body-odor filled, but the shop was semi-organized. Shoes, belts, and bags filled the store. 

My trainer handled the talking while I looked around for a bag I wanted. I saw you out of the corner of my eye and I knew. So when Sister Hudson asked me which one I wanted, I pointed to you. 

"That one. That one up high." 

To be honest, you initally caught my eye because you were an attractive messenger bag. 

But what won my heart was your character, which was branded boldly on your side: 

"Polo Qisi," I read. "Valued. Simple. Decent. Fashional. Classical. Humanistic." 

[No one is as humanistic as you.]

I still haven't a clue what you meant by those words.

But you had me at humanistic.

[Doing humanistic service with my humanistic bag.]

You were an excellent mission bag. You carried pamphlets, copies of the Book of Mormon, a Russian Bible, photos from home, my "Masha and the Bear" wallet, and often an apple or two without complaining. 

You saw me through thick and thin. You came with me from city to city--Donetsk, Kharkov, Mariupol. You experienced bitter winds and balmy summers. You saw despair, anger, hope, and love in the faces of people I met. you heard stories of faith, of doubt, of miracles. Oh, the stories you could tell! 

You came with me from Ukraine. I was a sadder and wiser woman; you were a worn bag. But, like the land you came from, you were resilient and had a lot of life in you still. 

And me? Well, I am simultaneously lazy and resourceful. Which means I decided to keep you with me--from BYU and beyond that, to Oxford. 

Again, you've experienced a lot with me--running to catch trains and planes, scores of dates, trips to Kansas, Massachusetts, London, Croatia, St. Petersburg, Red Square, the Baltics--you are a world-class traveller. 

But all good things come to an end. 

I noticed it a couple of months ago--back in January, I think. Your inside zipper broke off. 

Then you started peeling. 

That classical, decent, humanistic faux leather started coming off in bits, and then chunks. It looked like you had some kind of bag leprosy. 

More recently, you've exhibited signs of aging as you've grown holes inside yourself, making it easy for me to misplace things--usually Chapstick--in the very bottom of the bag. You've also started molting more than usual. It's normal with age; don't be embarrassed. 

I thought I had lost you in St. Petersburg. I was searching for something when I felt a bit of cardboard. I was afraid that I had destroyed you somehow. Instead, I found what makes you sturdy at the bottom--some sort of old Spanish cardboard box for Chicken Soup Mix. (How that ended up in a Ukrainian bag, I'll never know . . . perhpas you're really a Spanish emigree?) 

But you weren't dead yet. Just roughened up a bit. 

Being the good, tough bag you are, you kept fighting until I realized today that it might be better to give you a final resting spot here in Oxford. 

You won't be coming back to America with me. It makes me sad, too. But we both know your time is at hand. You're on your last legs, and I'd rather leave you here in "England's green and pleasant land" than to risk that journey across the pond. 

I think it is a fitting send off: leaving a piece of my Ukrainian heart with my British love. There's something symbolic about the two of you coming together in life and death. 

What I'm trying to say is, thank you. For everything. I'm a better--and more organized--woman since you fell into my life four years ago. 

With love, 

Megan 

a feeling i could be someone.

[Joan of Arc, by Jules Bastien-Lepage]

"Dear God, please let me make something this beautiful--something that speaks of my time and place." --J. Kirk Richards, about this painting.

Isn't that the artist's prayer? Every artist's prayer?

We each have a wish to create something that will allow those after us to taste what it meant to live in our time and place.

Because, as Sappho wrote: "I declare that later on, even in an age unlike our own, someone will remember who we are."

And perhaps, just perhaps, that is why I keep writing. Imperfect as I am in this craft. But that someday, somewhere, I will create something that will speak of what it means to be a young, striving, ambitious Mormon woman in the early twenty-first century.

More particularly, what it means to be me in the early twenty-first century.

I might not have control over who tells my story once I'm gone. But at least I can leave conclusive evidence that I lived. 

For the future to remember. 

And that will have to be enough. 

dreaming as we ran

The weather has been unseasonably warm for Utah this winter.

Like, 50-60 degrees. In February.

It's spring when it should be winter. And I know that I should be more worried about global warming and droughts and precipitation, but there's nothing I can do to change the weather.

So I'm just enjoying it.

Because honestly, this weather is beautiful and good for the soul.

I have no idea what that purple light is. But it's kinda cool. 

This weather has allowed me to run outside a lot more than I have in the past couple of months. Because, as much as everyone loves running in freezing temperatures, strangely, I prefer not to. (Actually, the real reason I don't like running when it's cold and snowy is not because it's cold, but because I'm afraid that I'm going to slip . . . I hate falling on ice . . . and I hate pain.) 

But, this weather has allowed me to run. And has reminded me why I do it. 

Because, honestly, I'm not really a runner. I only run to stay in shape. I rarely run to train for a race, and I have never experienced a runner's high. 

But running does remind me that I live. 

There is something exhilarating and invigorating as my feet touch the ground in a steady rhythm on the pavement, matching the pounding music of my heart. Those harmonies together, combined with the melodies on my ipod--songs of dreams, cities, hopes, and love--course through me and keep my soul and body in sync. 

but if you close your eyes, does it almost feel like nothing changed at all? and if you close your eyes, does it almost feel like you've been here before? --"pompeii," bastille. 

Today's a holiday. That means I'm at home. And so I ran. In my hometown. I haven't done that in a long time. I'm used to running those Provo streets--going past student housing, Center Street, and "Enter to Learn, Go Forth to Serve" signs. 

But today I ran along my old bus route, past brick houses, past horses, fields, bridges, and parks. The white peaks of Mt. Timpanogos smiled at me, gleaming with sunlight. And I was reminded of how much more there is to this world. My world. My world is so much more than mountain paths and magic stop signs. But then, that is also what I am made up of. 

There was something at once both familiar and new, running these paths I have walked and driven--a new kind of intimacy with these roads, as my heart pounded through my veins and my feet echoed my heart. Becoming one. Like holding someone's hand and feeling their pulse course through your palm. Or placing your head on someone else's chest and hearing--no, not even hearing, but feeling--their beating, living heart . . . or is it yours you feel? After a while, you can't tell the difference. And maybe that's the point. 

That life force of a heart--beating, beating, beating--keeps us moving, breathing, bleeding, loving. I am reminded constantly of my heart while I run. I hear it in my ears. I feel it in my feet. I see it in the way my fingers turn red and painful with cold. My heart circulates, beats, believes. 

Hearts are incredibly resilient. 

How's your heart? 

Beating. 

Bleeding. 

Believing. 

Some people's hearts can hold more desires than others' hearts. But that doesn't mean those with big hearts are better than those who might be more contented or vice versa. Size of heart doesn't matter. But those desires do. Because in the end, we all get the desires of our hearts. 

Those beating, dreaming, living hearts that can hold and handle so much more than we ever thought possible. 

all we can do is try and live like we're still alive. --"chasing the sun," sara bareilles

We can always be chasing the sun. 

Confession

I recently finished a project at work where I looked through old Great Works response papers and found the best ones to use for examples and got rid of bad examples.

Let me just say, there were a few papers that left me wondering, "Really? This was in the pile as a good example? How did it sneak in here?"

Like this one.

[The student* is writing about Electra and about the inevitability of fate which factors into the play.]

"This point is illustrated by the grotesque murder of Clytemnestra being justified as fulfillment of a fate granted by Apollo. This reminds me of my high school days . . ."

What, wait?! Hold the phone. This reminds you of your high school days? What, are you confessing a murder to us in your Great Works paper? Did you grow up in inner-city Los Angeles? Did you kill your own mother? Do I need to call the FBI?

". . . this reminds me of my high school days where I would procrastinate assignments instead of giving in to the inevitable reality that I had to complete the assignment."

Um, no, sir. That is not a good comparison. Matricide vs. homework procrastination. Hmm. Let me think. Yep, still a no-go.

Ah, the joys of editing. You never know when you'll strike comedy gold.

*I have no idea who wrote this paper--his name wasn't on it. So if you come across this blog post and realize that it's your paper, I'm terribly sorry if I offended you.

. . . but thanks for the laugh, anyway.
 

Bloggity Blog Blog

My friend Erin asked me to guest post on her blog. Check it out! 

Honoring Brimhall

Like many of you already know, this year I decided to enter the Brimhall Memorial Essay Contest. Each year, the Brimhall Memorial Essay Contest allows BYU students to get to know one of the BYU founders--men and women who sacrificed for this university so that we could have it today.

This year, the honored founder was the man himself, George H. Brimhall. 

He's an incredible man. He gave all--his time, health, and talents to building up both the kingdom of God and BYU. He believed in the value of education, and he believed in the power of faith. And he knew that they had to grow together in order for the soul to be educated. 

Students and faculty loved him, because he loved them. He gave absolutely everything to these causes, he worked through depression and anxiety, and he believed in dreams. He believed in people. He believed in God. 

And I'm his fifth-great-granddaughter. 

It's an honor to come from such a person as George H. Brimhall. 

And I enjoyed writing an essay about him, his contributions to BYU, and the beauty of studying by faith and reason. 

. . . and winning the contest was just . . . awesome. I wish I had a better word for it. But I was so happy to find out that I won! 

The day I found out I won, my phone was being really weird. So when the guy called to tell me that I had won, this is how the conversation went down: 

Him: "Hello, is this Megan?" 

Me: "Yes." 

Him: "This is so-and-so from BYU Alumni. How has your day been?" 

Me: "Pretty good." 

Him: "Well, I have some news that will make it even better. You're the winner of the 2013 Brimhall Memorial Essay Contest!" 

PHONE LOSES SERVICE

Me: "That's great! I'm so excited! I, I, that's just great!" 

Him: "Hello? Hello? Hellooooooo?" (he's laughing) 

Me: Oh great. [I move out of the JKB and go outside. He calls again.] 

Him: "Hello?" 

Me: "Hi! Sorry, my phone lost service because I was in the JKB." 

Him: "Oh, I just thought you had passed out." 

I laughed. I'm still laughing. 

I didn't pass out when he told me, but I almost passed out when I read my essay to a full Marriott Center audience on Tuesday. Oh, my legs were shaking so badly. And I'm sure the guy next to me thought I was absolutely crazy. I kept breathing out, "Hoooo, hooo," and I'm pretty sure that at one time I said, "I can do this."

And I did do it! I read my essay in front of all of those people. It was so, so cool. Again, I just don't have good words for it. But it was just an amazing experience for me.

Here are some pictures:

This is me on that big, imposing stage. 

 Now I'm giving my speech. I look pretty passionate and intense. 

Full shot of me looking passionate and intense. 

After the Homecoming Opening Ceremonies, I got to go to the Founders' Luncheon, where I got to meet Elder Groberg and President Samuelson! I got to sit by President Samuelson during lunch, so that was neat. Best part of lunch? My cousin Jayne coming up to the "cool kids' table" with President  and Sister Samuelson, Elder and Sister Groberg, and myself, and asking me to sign her program. Ba-ha. 

With Elder Groberg and President Samuelson. 

Honestly, it was just such an honor for me to give my speech and feel special. It was wonderful, and I'm so grateful and humbled for the opportunity. Although the prize isn't bad either. :) 

-For those who are interested in reading my essay, I will put the link from the BYU Alumni Website as soon as they post it. For now, if you want to read it, please send me an e-mail or a personal message and I'll get it to you.- 

"Write more happiness into the world." 
        ~ Frances Hodgson Burnett (author of The Secret Garden and A Little Princess)

                                            . . . a good creed, if I do say so myself. 

A Writer's Confessions

Forgive me when I struggle to find words.
For you see, I think in prose and poetry--
Images fly faster than wind
and when they pause, I sing.
Is it any wonder my thoughts
get lost in translation?

"And her nose stuck in a book"

A few of my friends have posted this on Facebook and I just loved it. Well, most of it. I've made a few changes of my own, and they're in italics. But you can see the original here. 

Why do I love it? I think you'll find out . . . :)

A Girl You Should Date

Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.

Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality, but she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.
She has to give it a shot somehow.

Love her. She won't accept anything less. And know that she'll love you, and give you more than you can dream of. She's been planning for a storybook love, but it will be better than Elizabeth and Darcy's, better than Prince Charming and Cinderella's, because she knows that it will be REAL. But she also knows that happily ever after doesn't come easily. It never does in true love stories. Expect to work hard together, and know that she'll quote Shakespeare while getting dirty.

Trust her. Trust her ability to forgive, and to see you for more than you are. Because a girl who reads understands that mercy is as real as justice. A girl who reads has read Hugo and Dostoyevsky, and knows that mercy is what this world needs. A girl who reads knows that people need second chances. And that she needs second chances, too.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.
You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes.
                                                                                                             – Rosemarie Urquico –

So . . .

. . . my wonderful, artsy, classy friend Camille asked me to write a guest post for her blog. You should go check it out. :)




In other news, I still need to blog about my NYC/Princeton trip. But by that time I'll be posting about my MISSION CALL which has now been assigned and is coming on WEDNESDAY!!!!!! So, my apologies for the lack of blogging. School is a beast.

Thoughts

This summer has been rejuvenating.

I've found time to relax, which was definitely needed in my life.

I've found time to read again, savor a book, let the question it raises change my mind and often my soul, and become friends with the characters. It is an incredible thing to let someone's story change your life; that is why books are so powerful.

But perhaps even more important to me is that I've found time to write again. In the flurry of assignments, work, and other semester-drudgeries, writing my own stories gets put aside. I can't do that to myself. Fortunately, one of my friends and I created our own writing group to share our stories, and it motivates me to write. And the more I write, the more alive I feel.

I'm realizing that my hobby for writing is more than just a hobby--it's a need. I have a need to create beauty; I have a need to share stories; I have a need to use my imagination. I thrive on creation; on breathing life into characters. I feel complete by pouring my questions into a plot; my soul into a tale. I get excited when I think of new plot twists and character developments. I love it when my prose sings truth.

The stories I write are powerful. And I don't mean that in a prideful way, because goodness knows I have so much to work on. More than I'd like to admit.

But my stories are changing my life. And if that isn't powerful, I don't know what is.