Keeping the Faith

This weekend, I went on a retreat to West Sussex with my church group.  With all the drama that’s been plaguing my daily existence lately, I thought it a wise idea to escape London for the weekend and spend some time enjoying the peace of the English countryside.

As the snow began to fall (yes, again) on Friday evening, we made our way to Worth Abbey, a stunning 1500-year-old monastery. 

Upon arrival, we went to prayer service, met some monks, and had a hearty homecooked meal.  As we cozied up to the fireside in our little house for some pleasant getting-to-know you conversation over tea and biscuits, our assistant chaplain casually mentioned that we had Mass at 6:20 the next day.  “Oh,” I said, “that gives us plenty of time to look around the 500 acres!”

“No, thats…am,” she confessed.   You could have heard a pin drop.  I hate waking up before noon, so you can be sure that this itinerary was not disclosed to me beforehand.  As she extolled the virtues of early to bed and early to rise, all I could do was give thanks that I hadn’t chosen the very tempting FILTER COFFEE (squee!) they had sitting in the kitchen.  I rushed myself to sleep, certain I’d never allow myself to get out of bed at such a sickeningly early hour.  My kind roommate Vanessa made sure to wake me up in time, however, so there I was- walking outside in the snow before the sun even arose.

an historic moment- greeting the day at 6 am

The roads were iced over, but thankfully I’d worn my trusty (if slightly uncomfortable) Wellington boots.  After a few calm and bleary-eyed hours, we had free time to explore the grounds.  The land was muddy, but the picturesque views more than made up for it.  I haven’t hiked that much since I climbed through those rocky national parks in Cinque Terre.

  

Not to get all philosophical, but it was really wonderful to have time alone for some spirituality and soul searching.  I have not woken up two days in a row at 5:45 am since high school.  I also don’t think I’ve gone two days without cursing since…8th grade? That sounds about right.

Monastic life requires discipline and stillness, becoming one with the silence around you and just listening.  That’s what we did for 48 hours. 

When we weren’t in the abbey, I willingly put my organic diet on pause to indulge in the filter coffee I so longed for, along with traditional English dishes like Yorkshire pudding.

The first night at dinner, one of the group asked me where I was from and I replied “Jersey,” just like I always do. 

Across the table, one of the girls perked her head up and eyed me quizzically.  “Really?” she pressed. “You don’t sound like it.  You don’t have the accent.”

Aghast, I nearly dropped my fork, before I remembered that I was in a country that contained the city upon which New Jersey was probably named.  I quickly corrected my mistake and she replied “Right, I’ll just say I’m from Full-Fat Old Jersey.”

“Original Recipe,” I countered.  I’ll never think of the phrase “Jersey girls” quite the same way again.

Of course, once back in London, the wheels in my head began turning furiously trying to catch up with their normal Sunday night pace.  Which internship to go to the next day?  I’d accepted two, because I have no loyalty and that’s just how I roll.  Thank God for choices and the semblance of free will we are afforded. 

The online magazine that won’t even pay me travel expenses for a month off Tottenham Court Road?  Or the one on the boat in which I have no title and may, at some point in the future, have to write about sex toys but will get paid travel expenses?

If you guessed the former- DING DING DING YOU ARE CORRECT!

www.emmainteractive.com – the website I write for, and now the focus of 90%of my waking hours

Despite the fact that it’s a longer commute which requires interfacing with the slow and saturated Piccadilly line AND starts a half hour earlier AND ends an hour later, I could not pass up an opportunity to write.  And well, I guess that’s all I’m doing now.  I write three days a week for 8 hours per day, and then I’m sent home with stuff to write.  On the days I’m not working, I’m going to class.  The weekends will be reserved for studying. I’ve bid my fond farewells to any hope I had of fun this term. 

Today,  I woke up at 7 am, and it didn’t seem so bad.  I endured the commute. I wrote all day. I walked in my Italian boots as the rain poured down and paid the tube fare home before stopping at Tesco metro to finally buy food after days of having nothing on my fridge shelf.  I came home, changed clothes, and went for a much-needed gym visit only to find that my earphones stopped working.  So I had to run in silence. 

Somehow, it didn’t seem so bad this time.  I still managed 3.5k, even without having eaten dinner.  When I got home, it was already half nine, and that is too late for a real supper.  So I threw together some cheese and cucumber and hummus in a bowl and continued article writing in my room.

I mean, things aren’t terrible.  I got the Joyful Joyful solo for the spring concert. I get to pretend I’m a soul sister again!! It will be the first time I get to do my kind of singing since… Leader of the Pack? Wow.  I have a lovely TV in flat 7 that has been left at my disposal for weekly American Idol viewing.  I’m pretty healthy, as are my loved ones.

Here’s the problem: all I can hear pulsating through the silence is the same thing I heard in that abbey, something I’ve been trying to tune out for awhile now, but it just keeps bubbling to the surface.  I can hear the words being spoken to me over and over again: GO.HOME.

Christmas break didn’t really help matters. Crying relatives in an airport will break your heart any day of the week and twice on Sunday, which is the day I left.

I’ve wanted to heed that pair of words ever since my wallet was stolen.  But really, I’ve been thinking them since the night I saw Jersey Boys. 

Can I go home now?  ::waves the white flag::

First, some much-needed sleep…

* It is possible my entire attitude will change in the next few days.  I’m a mercurial 21-year-old, after all.

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