Visiting Dignitaries My sister Becca is here till Sunday morning, and I have to say I am fairly exhausted. Who knew that going downtown could be so tiring? Plus it's been so incredibly hot here. I'm going to struggle with going back to Nebraska and 90+ temperatures and 80% humidity if I think this is bad. I guess it doesn't help that I got baked by the sun the other day and now I feel like a lobster. In any case, it's been interesting having Becca around. She is sleeping on the floor; we've somehow managed to squeeze a mattress into the remaining space in my already tiny room. Which means that it's pretty cramped in here. And my room feels really messy, which makes me feel a little stressed out... but it's not. It's just full. Beth and I have been playing guide to Becca's tourist, which has been fun, but a little difficult after awhile. I keep forgetting that this is her first time to this city, and these things I've been staring at all semester are new and exciting to her. I loved the look on her face when she came around the corner and saw Big Ben for the first time. Her jaw just dropped. It reminded me of the way I felt the first time I looked down past Trafalger Square and saw the gold gleaming off the towers of Westminster. All the postcards were true. And it filled me with such a sense of awe. But now that I've been here for five months and I've been downtown countless times, I tend to think "Oh, it's just Big Ben again." Don't get me wrong, I still can't believe I'm here, that I've been here for so long. I guess it's just all part of the process of feeling at home in a place.

Fifteen Days It seems crazy that I'll be leaving England for who knows how long in only two weeks from tomorrow. I finally start to feel at home in this country, and then I have to get ready to leave it. I started sorting through papers today. They had grown from little stacks into mountains on my desk. I look around my room, and I wonder how I'm ever going to fit all of this into three suitcases. I was dreading living in a room by myself after two and a half years with roommates, but now I'm dreading going back to school in the fall and not having my own space. Fortunately, there will be that in-between time, the transition period where I readjust to my own culture. The image of my grandma's house sparks another set of thoughts. Questions about fitting in, about whether or not I will be different or the same, if I want to be the same. So much of this semester has altered the way I think about life, the way I see myself, the way I see others, the way I see my country, the way I see my family. How can I have these experiences and not be different? There have been people in my life this semester that have become a part of me, and inevitably, I'm not the same person as I was before I met them. They've influenced me, whether for good or for bad, and either way, even if it's a minute shift, there's a difference. The interesting thing will be to see how much others see it in me, if at all. I've warned my little sisters to keep an eye out for changes and to let me know. I'm sure my mom will notice if there's anything out of the ordinary. I'm trying to pin down the change here, and I think I probably won't be able to figure anything out until I get back to the States. I will still be learning from this experience years from now.

More Questions Yesterday in our Lit class, our professor got off on a huge tangent about existentialism and how certain aspects of existentialism can be present in Christianity. This sparked a huge debate about the nature of knowing if God exists compared with not knowing and still decided to "take the leap" through faith. Several people were adamant that, through the Holy Spirit, a person can clearly know and believe, whereas several other people were very firmly stating that there was no way anyone could ever tangibly know about God's existence, and it's in this not knowing that makes our decision to trust God so purely one of faith. For all we know, we could be leaping off and no one will catch us, but we believe through faith that God will "catch us" so to speak. I'm not sure where I stand on this. I understand the premise put forth by those who don't think you can ever truly know, but at the same time, isn't it admitting that God might not exist? And in that, is one denying the existence of God, which clearly goes against any sort of Christian belief? People were quoting Dostoyevsky and Kirkingaarde, and it was getting beyond my understanding. But I did understand some of Chip's points, that everyone goes through a "crisis of belief," and comes to a point when they can't rationally explain God or his existence, and yet have to choose to continue believing. I've experienced moments like that. But at the same time, to me, this seems to go against the traditional Calvinist idea of Irresistable Grace- the idea that God calls us and we cannot resist Him. Maybe I think that I'm continuing to choose God despite the fact that I can never really know He's there, but really it's God not letting me go. I never took a leap; instead God reached over and grabbed me. I don't know.

This is only the latest in a string of questions I've been asking myself this semester. The early ones dealt with notions of right and wrong. So much in life is not clearly dictated as purely good or purely bad. And when I came to London, I was confronted with more freedom in the way I lived my life, and I didn't know if exercising that freedom and doing certain things was going against what glorified God. Looking back, that should have been the guiding question, but instead I focused more on the need to find validation or condemnation in scripture. I also wondered what a Christian life was supposed to look like. A lot of my friends here are Christians, but they don't necessarily live what I've always understood to be "good" Christian lives. Did that negate their claims to faith? Or were they "exercising their freedom?" What right do I have to try to determine their position with God? And how much of my Christianity is determined by what I've always grown up believing? Just because the people in my little circle of life live one way doesn't necessarily mean it's the right way. Do I believe things simply because I've been trained by my fundamentalist Christian sub-culture to believe them? Am I simply conforming to "social norms?"

This leads back to the discussion in class yesterday. We have been reading The French Lieutenant's Woman by John Fowles (a very good book, by the way); Fowles is an existentialist. In the book, he directs his characters to stop acting in bad faith; that is, making decisions in life influenced by others or social norms, and then blaming your decision on them: you couldn't help it because that's what your friends or your family or your culture expect from you. Rather, one has to come to the realization that they are responsible for the decisions they make, and that they determine their own existence based on the decisions they make. This led to the discussion on having to choose Christ and believe that he is the only way to salvation. There are things in this world that aid in our understanding of this: the Bible, the Holy Spirit (?- I'm trying to work this out, so I could be misstating this here), other Christians, Nature. But none of these will ever lead us to full, inflexible, provable knowledge that God exists. I think this is what some of the people in my class would say. And I'm still trying to figure out if I agree with them or not. I'll probably spend my summer reading The Brothers Karamazov and some philosophy books, which is huge for me, because I've always hated philosophy. I am encouraged by the fact that at least I'm asking questions. There are so many people who just blindly accept what other people tell them, and they never truly look at what they believe, understand the ramifications and implications, and still believe. I don't want to be the kind of person who just follows blindly. I want to understand what I claim to believe, and if I find problems with what I've thought, work to find out what is right. And I think I also have to acknowledge that it will never be possible to fully understand or believe completely rightly. I'm broken, I'm sinful, and I can never attain that perfect ideology or philosophy or theology because it doesn't exist in this world. But I can continue to "work out" my salvation in "fear and trembling." That's really all I can do.

Creativity. I was looking at another blog just now, one by Alex Beauchamp, a freelance writer from Seattle. And I was amazed at how I resonated with some of what she said about being a writer and having a desire for creativity, particularly in this article: Baby Steps. I feel sometimes like I have such a strong desire to write, to express myself in a creative and artful way. But I've never been successful; I've never been particularly artistic. I've always done well with music and writing, but the other side, the photography, the painting- I've never stood out as incredibly gifted. Yet I have a desire to incorporate these things in my life. Sometimes, I like to envision a life lived in bold colors, with freedom and satisfaction in knowing that I'm doing what I want to do. I'm still young-- I have time to work out this vision into reality. But I want to succeed. I don't want to just live it for awhile and have it flop. I want it to be the satisfying existence that it seems to be for others. And the risk that's involved always frightens me just a little, just enough to prevent me from ever taking that first step. Of course, I'm still in the process of getting to the point of adulthood; I have yet to graduate from college. But there's a life I want to be living that I'm not. And I don't want to merely look at other people's lives and copy them. I want it to be my own thing. But what that is exactly, I'm not sure of yet.

Simple Minds A friend and I were debating about peanut butter today. Should chunky peanut butter be less expensive than smooth? I mean, they don't have to do as much smoothing, therefore the work that goes into producing chunky peanut butter is less, and should be reflected in the price. But then we wondered if perhaps the peanut butter producers make smooth peanut butter and then add chunks afterwards, which would then reverse the previous idea, and would require smooth peanut butter to be cheaper. Unfortunately, we didn't really come to any serious conclusions about the price of peanut butter in today's market. In other news, I still have a cold. My nose has been stuffed up since the first week of February. I don't think that the people I've gotten to know this semester know me without a cold. So, when I think I sound stuffy and plugged up, it's normal to them. I don't like that. I don't want people to think that I'm congested perpetually (although this has been the case lately). I can sound normal! I'm desparately hoping that it's just some weird allergy, and that when I get back home, my nose will clear, and I can speak and sing unhindered.

Is it right to start the countdown? It's already almost the middle of May. I don't know how this happens, how time slips through my fingers like sand. It's just the way it is, the way it always will be. I can't believe that I'm heading home in four weeks. Four weeks from today, I will be landing in Omaha, Nebraska and rushing into the arms of my expectant family. I'm already dividing up the remaining time; compartmentalizing it makes it seem even shorter. Two weeks left of class, only three actual periods of Oak Hill courses. A week with Becca, showing her London, hopefully making her love it as much as I do. Finals week, but only two tests. Free time till Monday, the nineth. I can already see the days starting to pick up speed. It was already a week ago that I was looking forward to yesterday. We keep reminding ourselves to live for this moment. To not sacrifice today for the sake of tomorrow. And yet, I can't help but look forward. It's part of who I am as a human being, looking forward to what is not yet, and at the same time, trying to balance it with what I'm doing now. It's the eternal dance, one that I'm constantly trying to learn. I feel like I'll never quite get the steps right.

To call it just another night out wouldn’t be enough. Nor would it be enough to simply call it memorable. Although it may have started that way. Another excursion, another ride on the tube. Another five quid snatched from my hand into a methodical machine that clinked out fifty pence and a travel card. I knew though, that somehow, today was different. There was a shimmer, a dewy glow to everything. On the way to the tube station, the clouds were racing each other across the sky, the slower ones darkening as lighter ones, sun washed and feathery, slipped past. It had just rained. It must have rained in drops of color, because everything looked brighter, more alive. I thought of C.S. Lewis and The Last Battle; was I getting a glimpse past the shadowlands? The air was rich with moisture, and freshness wafted from every living thing I passed. It made me feel more alive just to be walking beside budding trees, to watch the sun sparkling off glistening blades of grass, to see the shy purple of the magnolia.

I was headed downtown to listen to a concert. I’ve been to several concerts since I first stepped foot in this glamour town, this city of light and darkness. Each performance had exceeded my expectations, and I hoped that tonight would do the same. The sun had not yet set when I slithered my travel card into the gate, snatched it back and headed towards the escalator. Nor had it sunk beneath the horizon by the time I emerged from Embankment Station and gazed out past the street and stone-faced people to the Thames and the Royal Festival Hall beyond it.

This is my favorite part of London: the stretch of wide sidewalk that spoons with the south side of the Thames. The sphinxes are there, guarding Cleopatra’s Needle with bronze paws and smirking lips. At night, the Hungerford Bridge is lit up like an expensive cocktail, and from either direction, I can see panoramic views of the city. Along the sidewalk, wrought-iron fish with gaping mouths are intertwined with coiled lamp posts. Between every lamp post for a mile in either direction swing white light bulbs, casting dancing shadows on the trees that hold hands overhead. I can amble along this path in the day, curiously watching the people that hurry past; I can stroll it by night, wide-eyed and stirred by the dizzying array of colors displayed through the miracle of electricity.

Today I couldn’t take the time I would have liked to enjoy the beautiful sky; the concert started in an hour, and I wanted to grab a steaming cup of coffee before settling into seat number R44. I make it to my seat with time to spare, and I was even able to watch the sky darken and weep over the city before taking the lift to the fifth floor and R44. The players began to file in as I mused over the difference between “philharmonic” and “symphony.” I now know that Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary considers them to be synonyms, but at that moment, I was wondering if maybe Phil’s Harmonica made for one too many players in the traditional symphony, and as essential as the harmonica was to the piece, they solved the problem by changing the ensemble’s name.

The first piece was quintessentially modern, written by Julian Anderson and entitled “The Crazed Moon.” I kept imagining a yellow, grinning face above restless waters of a nameless sea, waxing and waning at its own will, holding its breath and turning a violent shade of red, then blue before finally setting. The music was hard to listen to; modern music usually is. I remember a piece about the bombing of Hiroshima that included the sounds of airplanes flying overhead followed by the feeling of the explosion—skin melting, glass shattering, buildings crumpling—and culminating in an eerie silence. It was one of the most painful pieces I’ve ever heard.

The second piece was much more traditional, a piano concerto by Mendelssohn. A small asian man, wearing a blue silk shirt with what appeared to be intricate polka dots (I was sitting close to the back of the auditorium) and black pants walked modestly onto the stage and gently sat on the piano bench. For the next thirty minutes, I was mesmerized by the hands, one moment dancing, another moment plucking, another moment caressing the crisp ivory keys. His fingers moved like spiders, spinning harmony and melody into a complex web of song. He could make the piano croon, he could make her whisper, he could make her shout. At one point, the music was so gentle and tender, I felt like I was intruding on an intimate moment between two lovers. I could barely breathe as I watched the music flow out of him like a silver thread. For an instant, I could see that the music wasn’t something he created, but something that originated far beyond himself. He was merely the vessel that was pouring out notes like an offering. He held the entire audience spellbound with his magic, and when he concluded, there was uproarious applause and calls for an encore. After coming out and bowing three separate times, he finally reappeared with an older man carrying an odd instrument. He introduced him as his father and the instrument as a Chinese violin. It only had two strings, and when the old man pulled the bow across them, it sang an eerie chant, exotic and dark. During the intermission, my mind played through the various similes and metaphors I could use to describe his playing, but nothing seemed adequate. I kept wishing for a simple pen and notepad to scribble my thoughts in. They were flying faster than I could keep track of.

I had been looking forward to the third piece all evening. Symphony no. 2 by Sergei Rachmaninov, one of my favorite composers. I have been raised on classical music like it was milk. One of the CD’s I remember the most was a collection of Rachmaninov’s works, and I knew that after hearing the opening bars, I would be transported home; I would probably be setting the table, and my mom would be in the kitchen, pulling loaves of bread out of the oven. I knew all this, and still I was unprepared when I heard the first few lines of music, swelling and washing over the crowd like waves lapping a white sand beach. My heart expanded in my chest, and I seriously wondered whether I would be able to survive all five movements of the symphony. I closed my eyes and hummed along with the melody in my head, feeling the rise and pull of the phrases. I could feel the longing stirring inside of me when the music ached. I felt the leap of authority when the music sounded its battle cry. I could feel the tears springing to my eyes when the music mourned. The best thing about Rachmaninov’s music is the drama, the passion and the power combined with bitter sadness, arching, sweeping lines of melody and dense, rich chords that resonate in every fiber of your body. I felt all this and more, and when the music finally stopped, I couldn’t stop the applause that shook my arms and threatened to pull them from their sockets. I could feel the joy bursting through my skin. I had been rocked by the song exuding from the bodies of the musicians; it had rocked them too. I watched them drag tired bodies from black, plastic chairs, and recalled the way the concertmaster had rippled like a salmon in his seat, remembered the way the music flew out of him like lightening. I was tired too, although it was with a light heart that I took the lift down to the ground floor and walked out into the windy night.

It had started out as just another day; going to class as usual, signing the sheet to say yes, I had received my five quid, taking my tea with two sugars and milk. How could I have known that the day would end indescribable? Even what I’ve set down here on these pages doesn’t do it justice. But I can say with certainty that it was more than just another night out.

Snowing in April? No, the sky is a glorious shade of blue. Only a few clouds are being herded by the wind. And yet, through my curtains, I see white flakes dancing and swirling, playing on the fingertips of angels. There is an apple orchard over the garden wall, beyond the library. The petals are floating on the breeze, making me think of manna descending from heaven. I can smell the sweet blossoms through my open window. The sound of leaves unfolding in the warm sunlight is like a sleeping child's easy breathing. Spring is the rebirth and awakening of the virile, dreaming earth.

What I Miss
I'm back in London, and after getting all rested up, I'm able to look back on my two-and-a-half week trip around Great Britain and Ireland with satisfaction. Some of the high points: playing with swords (aka sticks) on Hadrian's Wall, the full Northumberland breakfast at the Once Brewed (I highly recommend this hostel- what wonderful people!), the little chocolate shop off of the city walls in York, the Shambles, Beauty and the Beast in Edinburgh, the three-day Haggis tour of the Highlands, cruising Loch Ness in search of Nessie, the Isle of Skye and Macurdie's Exhibition, Hamish the Hairy Coo, walking around Derwentwater near Keswick, watching F-15 dodge the hills of the Lake District, baguettes at the Oasis cafe, playing "Guess Who" at the hostel in Keswick using questions like "Does your person look like a Russian insurrectionist," Kevin and juice at the Embassie in Liverpool, watching Man. U play Arsenal in a Temple Bar pub in Dublin, going to the Guinness brewery, seeing the Book of Kells, finding Reeses Pieces and Hershey's chocolate after a four-month withdrawal, sitting on the window sill and writing at Barnacle's in Dublin, the best banana split I've ever had in my life, the little man who wriggled under a flaming limbo stick, finally making it back to London after 13 hours of travelling and waiting. There is so much more I could mention, but I doubt you would be interested. I have never been so happy to pull into Southgate as I was at 1:45 am Saturday night/Sunday morning. I had been comforting myself all day (through all our travel incidences that made a 7 hour journey 13 hours) with the idea of sleeping in my own bed and sleeping as late as I wanted, and I finally got to my room, opened the door, and found a strange girl at my desk! It turned out she was visiting my friend at the college and was using my room to sleep in, so I ended up having to sleep on a cot in my friend Ryan's room. I was slightly disappointed (okay, so I got a little teary eyed, but I was also extremely tired) at not sleeping in my own bed, but it still was the best night's sleep I'd had in almost three weeks. I woke up the next morning feeling like I could handle living in London for another five weeks, compared to the feeling of utter homesickness I'd had the night before. I still am missing home, some things in particular, like Oreos, Ranch dressing, Peanut Butter M&M's, Reeses Peanut Butter cups, real Coke, Bugles and Doritos (the American versions), my minivan, my stereo, the freedom to travel wherever I want whenever I want (realistically speaking, of course), church (especially on Easter), dollars, family, my bed, my grandma. I leave again on Wednesday for Sweden to see my sister; I'm getting so excited! I can barely believe it's been almost a year since we've seen each other. Thanks to modern technology, we're able to communicate almost daily. It's strange to think that even fifteen years ago, that wouldn't have been possible in the same way it is now. Crazy.

Land of the Mad, Passionate Scots
I have become jaded. Travelling Great Britain is not all it was cracked up to be. I'm not done yet; Ireland is my next stop. But I'm tired. I'm tired of cities. I'm tired of shops sucking the money right out of your pockets. I'm tired of trains full of crazy people and open (but reserved) seats. I'm tired of rock-hard beds and sleep sacks. I'm tired of hostels from hell. Every major city is beginning to look the same, and every hill, highland and mountain is beginning to slope into one big mass of heather and rock. Don't get me wrong, I am trying to soak this all up and savor every amazing moment, but another part of me just wants to go home. And I don't be back to London. I mean back to good old, down home, red-white-and-blue, corn-fed, football-crazed Nebraska. This semester keeps dragging out, and although I am making enough memories to last a lifetime, I'm feeling the urge to pack up my suitcases and jump on the next flight to Omaha. At the same time, though, I really don't want to go home. There are things going on that make me want to be anywhere but there. And although I'm exhausted from bus and train hopping, I have loved everything I've seen. The three-day Haggis tour through the Highlands was incredible. I took a cruise on Loch Ness and went monster hunting. I drank crystal clear water on the Isle of Skye. I walked in Glen Coe, and saw the battlefields of Bannockburn and Culloden- places that are etched in my mind as vital, heart-breaking and unforgettable moments in the history of my family. So, it's not all creaky beds and bumpy bus rides. However, I understand the phrase "there's no place like home" more than ever now that I've gotten as far away from home as I can.

Set to Jet... Well, I'm off for Easter break. That's one nice thing about European education; you get almost a full month of break for Easter. And it happens to be in my favorite month, April! I'm travelling with a small group of friends, and we're hitting up all the great places in Great Britain and Ireland without rushing around too much. I'm really looking forward to the week in Scotland. I have spent a good part of the last two years dreaming about coming to the land of my ancestors, and now I'm doing it. I think, other than studying here in London for the semester, this is one the first BIG dreams I've had that I've actually fulfilled. I hope that I'm not building it up too much in my mind; that usually leads to disappointment. But I have seen so many beautiful pictures of the Highlands; I feel like there's no way I can be disappointed, because I'm simply going to be there, and that's enough.

How do you spell Crocket? I learned how to play crocket this afternoon. It's an interesting mix of bowling, croquet, and baseball. I think we lost, though. Something like 145-120. It's a really fun game, but it took me awhile to catch on. I kept thinking I was playing baseball, and somehow, that's just not the trick to scoring. I have yet to figure out what is. Until that glorious day, I will continue to stand still when I should be running, and run when I should be standing still.

My room is a mess. You would think that it wouldn't be terribly difficult to keep an 8x12 space tidy. But it is. My bed isn't made, there are clothes all over my floor, the desk is a jungle of papers and bracelets and a can of Pringles and computer equipment and tubes of Softlips and pens and books; My sink is overflowing with bottles and makeup compacts. A picture is falling off my wall. Somehow, I always feel that my mental state is vicariously connected and represented by the state of my room. My life is in disarray!

I would just like to give props to some of my favorite movies: Amelie (the kiss at the end is so achingly sweet), Life is Beautiful (I would love to have someone open their arms to me and say "Bonjourno, principessa!"), Schindler's List (the melody line written by John Williams moves me to tears every time I hear it), Dude, Where's My Car? (totally quotable, albeit really stupid... "and 'den? and 'den? and'denand'denand'denand'denand'den"), Dumb and Dumber (another good one for quotes...), Lord of the Rings (both, so far- they are so exhilirating; and Viggo Mortenson is so hot right now), Fight Club (such an incredible ending...wow), The Others (literally spell-binding), Breakfast At Tiffany's (a little quirky, which is why I like it so much), Braveheart (I am Scottish, through and through, so of course this one gets me), The Sting (the original Ocean's Eleven, and much more subtle), The English Patient (although I didn't like some parts, overall, the film is beautiful; I love Ralph Fiennes), American Beauty (talk about making you think...). There are hundreds more that I like; I can usually enjoy any movie, although it takes a little more for me to really love it. There's nothing like kicking back and watching one of your favorite movies (provided of course, that you have a big glass of coke and a tub of heavily buttered popcorn on hand).

On Love and Dreaming... For awhile, I was convinced that being a dreamer was a waste. Tears are the dreamer's penance. After awhile, it got too exhausting to try to find hope in every situation. I had gotten my hopes up, spent my days dreaming about love and being loved, only to be let down again. This trend finally got to be too much. My life was destined to be loveless. I felt dull and glassy-eyed, my smiles were faked; I just wanted to sleep away the world. I was tired of participating and being let down continuously. Fortuntately, it was impossible for me to continue in this manner. I eventually realized that, while there's a good chance that my hopes will be crushed again, it's not in my nature to be a pessimist. Everything in my being screams that there is hope, that there is something worth trusting and believing in, even when I can't see, touch, or feel it. I suppose I'm destined for disappointment, but I think I would rather aim too high and fall short than never aim high enough.

Things I'll miss:

Walking everywhere. Seriously, my legs are in the best shape they've ever been in. If I could, I would wear minis all the time and those little strappy sandals that make your calves look so sexy. Plus, it's so refreshing to walk outside; there's something in the air that perks you up, no matter how down you may be feeling at the moment. I personally enjoy the opportunity to walk with someone. Some of my best conversations have occured on walks into Southgate for groceries.

Public Transportation. The tube is my friend. The rattling and shaking can be an excuse to throw yourself into the arms of the good-looking, well-dressed business man next to you. It's so interesting to watch the people who get on and off; what variety exists in the human race! I love the fact that you can buy a day pass and go anywhere in London, and then when you're so exhausted after such a full day, you can use the same card to hop on a bus for that last stretch home. Plus, the little dinging noise that the "Stop" button makes is such a fun sound.

History. The oldest building in Lincoln, Nebraska is probably from the mid-nineteenth century. There are buildings in London from the mid-ninth century. I love imagining the millions of people from the past who have stood on the banks of the Thames and watched the water flow calmly by. I feel such an intimate connection with my past, knowing my feet have traversed the land of my forefathers. I have seen the places people read about in textbooks. I have experienced them in an intimate way; I have lived here, like the millions before me, rather than coming for ten days, seeing the sights, and leaving again.

Masses of People. Again, Lincoln pales in comparison to London. There, 250,000 souls. Here, countless millions. What once felt like such a thriving metropolis is going to now feel so pastoral and colloquial. I can sit in the middle of Leicester Square and watch hundreds of people walk past me each minute. I can look at their faces, guess at what their lives are like, wonder where they're headed, where they're coming from, and I can go for days without seeing someone I know. In Lincoln, I could sit on a bench at Gateway Mall, and watch people for awhile, but I would probably have to stop every few minutes to exchange polite pleasantries with whatever former friend from high school is currently passing by.

Culture. Sure, Lincoln has a symphony. But the London Symphony Orchestra (who appears on several of my CD's) is just a few tube stops away. I can see opera, ballet, West-End plays, musicals, rock concerts, art, films; all of this I can do here. I can go to clubs, I can hear Irish Folk music at a pub down the road. I can relax in St. James Park with a book of poetry and not feel out of place. Is this possible in Lincoln? In a minute sense of the word. Our libraries don't have centuries-old copies of music by people like Wagner and Beethoven, or the Lindesfarnne Gospels. Our museum features a small collection of dinosaur bones and some Native American displays, possibly an exhibit on nineteenth century farm equipment. You could spend days at the British Museum and still not see everything.

Pints. A pint is such a perfect amount of beer. It's going to feel so awkward to walk into a bar and have to say, "I'd like a...um... glass (?) of beer..." I won't know what to expect. An 8 ounce glass? A tumbler? A 16 ounce glass? A pint is so simple and standard. No qualifications, no worries. A pint is a pint is a pint.

Guinness. O, the frothy goodness! Enough said.

I'm sure there are a million more things I will miss when I go home. I still have plenty of time, though, to soak up the things I love about this country. And although Nebraska will never quite look the same, there are things from home that I am only growing to appreciate more by my absence.

Ever have it that... you just feel really sensitive about everything? You feel like you're probably annoying every single person you come across, and all those same people probably notice all the things you're overly self-concious of, like the way your shirt accentuates your poochy stomach and the soft part of your hip that tends to fall just a little over the top of your jeans, or the line of demarkation where your roots are starting to show. Then there's always the sensitivity to the comments people make. You wonder if they're offended, when really they're just biting their lip because they're hungry, or they have something in their eye, and that's why there's no eye contact. My personal favorite is always wondering how badly they're wishing I'm somewhere else, a hundred miles from wherever they are. Usually, in my estimation, they're probably wishing I was in Abu Dhabi. When I really think about it, though, all of these so-called sensitivities are just a result of a strange variation on pride. I'm so concerned with looking good to other people that I allow myself to be pre-occupied with what they're thinking about me. That's a fairly selfish position- very "me" centered. Can it really be called "bad self-esteem?" Possibly. But I think it probably stems more from a preoccupation with myself and thinking I deserve to have people look at me in a positive light more than a strong desire to make sure other people are happy and satisfied with their life.

"Life does not consist mainly- or even largely- of facts and happenings. It consists mainly of the storm of thoughts that are forever blowing through one's mind." -Mark Twain

I heard someone speak today about the amazing complexity of the mind and thought. The speed at which we think, the layering of thoughts, the nature of our thoughts, the ability to speak to someone, listen to someone and still have several different thoughts going on at once-- all of this blows me away. As the speaker described it, "what happens in our heads is one of the wonders of the world." Just stop and try to remember all the things you have thought in the past ten minutes. What amazes me is how frivilous most of my thoughts are, not to mention how inappropriate or dirty they can be. The orientation of our minds will evidence itself in our lives eventually, through a variety of means: the way we speak, the things we pursue, the goals we set for ourselves. I was really challenged today to examine what the orientation of my heart is. What is it that is on my mind when I'm just thinking to myself? Is it edifying or glorifying to God? Does it reflect my faith or my flesh? Just a thought.

On another note, today was another gorgeous day in London. I enjoyed strolling into Southgate, despite the frustrations that were taking me there. There is nothing like walking slowly in the sun and cool breeze, listening to the robins sing. I don't know the names of all the birds here, but there are some that wake me in the morning with their joyful melodies, and I just want to lay there and listen to them all day. And then there are the ravens that churl and squawk from sun up to sun down, leaving me wishing I had a slingshot or a gun to put them out of their misery (and end mine as well). I walked barefoot in the grass and watched the sun begin to set from the grassy expanse behind the main house and dining hall, and I saw them perched in the giant pine that towers over the daffodils, hopping from branch to branch, chasing squirrels from their precious domain. There's nothing like the feeling of cool blades of grass and mud between your toes; it makes me ache for a hometown summer, when I can be dripping from the heat and humidity, but my feet are perfectly content to curl up in the front lawn.

My life as a superstar.

I doubt anyone knows who I am beyond my little bubblicious sphere at school and home. But what if they did? I think I would like to be one of those quiet superstars; not like JLo, because everyone is pretty much fed up with her face being plastered on every girly magazine cover, tube station wall, and cheesy talk show ad. I hope that I could be refined and cultured, enjoying the limelight without growing obsessive. I would be the kind of superstar who appreciated my fans and didn't flip out and kill people like a ninja every time I got asked for an autograph. I would wear big, dark sunglasses and have a funky haircut, although it wouldn't be so wacked that I looked like I'd let a four-year-old cut my hair. I wouldn't try to do everything, like cut a record, make three films, start a charity, and open a design studio; I would want to keep certain loves only to myself. Not everyone has to know that I adore chocolate ice cream and that black licorice is one of my favorite flavors. Why else would I like slippery nipples (a drink for those of you who don't know) so much? But as a superstar, if everyone knew my secret loves, I would be getting half-melted boxes of chocolate ice cream sent to my fan-club headquarters. That would be pretty messy, and as a kind superstar, I wouldn't want to put my staff through that. If I was a superstar, I could afford to spend more time in London, walking along the Thames in the springtime, feeling the sun on my face and watching the gulls dance above the water. I could probably afford to lease a flat downtown; I could walk in St. James Park as much as I wanted to, and wouldn't have to worry about the cost of a tube ride down there every time I wanted to just lounge in the grass and read a good book. I could go to Westminster Abbey for church every Sunday and indulge myself in the sweet music of the choir. Honestly, though, I don't even have to be a superstar to enjoy all those things. Of course, I don't live in downtown London, but it's not that difficult to get there from here. It's spring, one of my favorite seasons, and I have the amazing ability to enjoy the beautiful weather in whatever way I choose. I have a bag of black licorice in front of me (no chocolate ice cream, I'm afraid-- I don't have a fridge), yellow roses on my window sill, and a book of Tennyson's poems by my elbow. Now, if there was a guy reclining on my bed/sofa, my life would be bliss. Even without him, my life is very good. Who would want to be a superstar, with all the pressures of fame and fortune? No wonder most of their lives are in shambles. I would rather be poor and content than rich and dissatisfied.