Transience

Spring has always been my favourite season. This is an unfortunate thing for a girl living in Minnesota where spring lasts maybe two and a half days before either a miserable return to a seemingly unending winter or a leap to oppressively unbearable heat. (Sorry, Minnesotans - much of the year your weather is not really my thing.) Growing up in Nebraska, I thought spring was a glorious time of wonderful, fresh smells of new grass and lilacs, coupled with a giddy excitement about school coming to an end in May. (Again, Minnesotans, sorry - keeping kids (and teachers) in school until mid-June is rough.)

In London, I've enjoyed something of a return to my Nebraskan roots and love for spring. Flowers were blooming in early March and I got to enjoy being outdoors much sooner than Minnesota ever allows. Even though we had a relapse to a very grey and rainy April and dreary early May, the weather this week has erased any misery that caused. Sitting in the park eating lunch or reading a play for my dissertation, I recognize my good fortune once again to be in this lovely place.

These days are not without their emotional pitfalls, however. Even though I'll be in London for another few weeks, this most surreal year of my life is nearing its close. Messages from home are coming more frequently and thoughts (of work, classes to prepare, theatre to direct, students to teach, an apartment to find, a cat to reclaim, friends to see, bills to pay, and the like) break into my work more often and insistently than they have done since October. Dissertation pressure is beginning to mount, and I foresee a smothering level of stress in my near future.

Mostly, though, I'm getting a little sad about the lovely people I've met here who will soon no longer be a part of my daily - or even weekly - life. When I thought about spending a year in London, I imagined all the wonderful things I would get to see and do, but I could not have imagined the people who would do so much to shape my time here. Last night a group of my friends got together for the last time before we begin to go our separate ways. Typically, the evening was characterized by laughter rather than sadness, and the talks of philosophy, art, literature, and life didn't suffer because we knew it was the final time. If anything, they became more important.

Sigmund Freud's essay 'On Transience' deals with exactly this idea. He discusses that time limits placed on enjoyment of something should increase its value rather than diminishing it. Because an experience is temporary, we should relish it all the more; many people let the mourning for the impending loss lessen their joy in the present. If you've never read this essay, please do. It's not long, and Freud says all this more eloquently than I can.

Spring's ephemeral nature is partially the cause of my love for it; the first beautiful days after a grey and chilly winter call to me with their blue skies and sunshine, creating an intense longing to make the most of those precious gifts. And part of what I find so precious is knowing that my heady euphoria is entirely temporary as spring flowers and delicate breezes inevitably make way for their heartier summer counterparts.

Tavistock Square

This is how I feel about my stay in London. It was always fated to be of short duration, so appreciating its wonders is that much more important. The friendships I enjoy won't be ending because of physical distance, though they will be materially changed. That does not make them less valuable. I find myself occasionally mourning these changes that will soon come, but the incredible quality of these people and our time together won't allow me to mourn as it happens. In this case, as in the spring, beauty triumphs over transience.

Gordon Square

As I write this, I'm looking out my window over the house where Virginia Woolf lived; I see a perfectly blue sky only marred by a single airplane trail (insert Mrs Dalloway reference here). I'm in the middle of research into representations of females in contemporary mainstream American drama, and I'm about to do some more reading in the park. My work in 21st-century American drama means that I'm rereading Henrik Ibsen's 1879 play A Doll's House today (obviously), and the sunshine is calling me to come out and enjoy it. My hands and ego are a little bruised from falling up some stairs last night (the name Ann means graceful, also obviously), but nothing will diminish my enjoyment of these last weeks in London and this surreal and ephemerally beautiful year.

Mediocrity: A Rant

I might be an incredibly naïve person.

There are lots of people who wouldn't describe me this way, but those who know me best know that, at heart, I'm an optimist. I do genuinely believe that everything will work out for the best. Sometimes this is incredibly silly and it can be terribly hard to hang onto, but it's the way my brain is wired, so it's what I think.

My childhood was full of people telling me I could do anything I wanted to do, and I can't thank them enough for that now. Even when I wasn't particularly good at something, no one around me would ever discourage my attempt. As an adult, I know the impulse is to protect kids from making fools of themselves - as a teacher I've been guilty of this myself - but as a kid I relished the opportunity to try things for myself. If they didn't work out, well, I generally figured out something about myself or my limitations, but I figured it out on my own.

As an adult, I understand that the world places an incredible premium on money. Those who have it are somehow worth more than those who don't. Let's be honest: I'm a teacher - I don't have all the money, but it's never been what's most important to me. The concept that 'those who can't do, teach'? It's incredibly offensive, and yet it's staring in my face all the time: at parent-teacher conferences, in universities, in a casual conversation with friends or at a bar. 'Oh, you're a teacher? What did you really want to be? A writer? An actress? You're pretty smart. You could make more money doing something else, you know.'

Yes, I do know. I also know that teaching is my gift and my passion. Money is not, and it never has been. If it were, I definitely would have made different choices; I am smart enough for that. Making more money does not inherently make someone smarter, more deserving, more educated, more talented, or more anything, really. Because how did all the major money-makers of the world get to where they are? Someone taught them what they needed to know.

Recently a friend said to me that 'a completely fulfilled life isn't possible' and 'I long ago accepted the mediocrity of my life.' On one hand, it would probably be smart to agree with my friend. Expecting to get the best from all aspects of life is overly optimistic and, probably, unlikely. On the other, this is heartbreaking. I will not accept that mediocrity is what I deserve. I would never expect that for my students or my friends, and I won't expect it for myself. Mediocrity is not what my family raised me to expect. Mediocrity is not what I uprooted myself from a very comfortable life in Minnesota and moved across an ocean to seek. I will not accept that mediocrity is the best I can achieve.

And why should I? There is a point when settling for less is probably the prudent course, but I don't have any idea when that will be for me. I am a teacher because I want to be, and I'm really good at my job. I will continue to look for happiness and fulfilment in all aspects of my life because that's what I deserve. And why would I dare to let anyone tell me differently?

Perhaps I'm naïve. Maybe I'm just stubborn. I know that I can't honestly tell students to pursue their dreams if I don't continue to do it myself. And maybe the refusal to settle will doom me to a life spent alone in the quest of something ... more. I'll be honest; I'd rather that than know I settled for less than I deserve. As a teacher, my students require a better example. As a person, so do I.

Mantra for the Week: Pudding!

In Thornton Wilder's play The Matchmaker (or the musical version Hello, Dolly! if you prefer), the lovable bumblers Cornelius Hackl and Barnaby Tucker leave Yonkers, NY, where they're supposed to be minding Horace Vandergelder's store, and spend the day in New York City (I think these names are hilarious, by the way). They are afraid they won't know if they're having an adventure or not, so they decide on a code word to let them know: Pudding. For Jill and me, this week was definitely pudding.

Jill and Sunny at Tower Bridge

Jill left this morning and one of her requests on the way to the tube was that I write a blog entry about her time here before she gets home to read it. After taking a three-hour nap, I'm ready to oblige - seriously, this touristy stuff is hard. I know I've said it before, but it's really true.

What have we done in the last week? Just about everything we had time for. The weather didn't much cooperate with her visit - it was pretty grey and rainy the whole week, and the temperature was a bit chilly - but we managed to do a lot of fun things, including some I hadn't done before. Probably my favourite new thing was climbing to the top of St. Paul's Cathedral. Typically I'm loath to pay the admission to get into London's big churches (but as I'm a good guide, we went to both Westminster Abbey and St. Paul's), so I've only been into St. Paul's once before and it was a very quick visit a decade ago. This time, we spent the time (and the £15) to do the tour justice and climbed to the top. Even though it was a pretty dismally cloudy day, the views were spectacular and the cool breeze felt really good after all the steps. A word to the wise: when there are seventeen signs saying 'Watch Your Head', you should do that. Right, Jill?

One view from the top of St. Paul's

Another highlight to the last week was renting a car to drive to Stonehenge and Bath. I'm not going to pretend to describe the whole day. Suffice it to say, getting out of London in morning traffic takes a long, long time; when it's windy and a little rainy, Stonehenge is not the warmest place to be; and there is never enough time in Bath. I think I've been there at least four separate times now, and I always feel rushed and like there's still so much more to see and do. It's such a beautiful city and it's a shame there aren't ever more hours to do it justice. At some point I'm going to have to spend a couple of days there rather than always making it a day trip out of London. We did manage to squeeze in a quick visit to the Jane Austen Centre, though - this is what happens when I'm your tour guide.

At cold and windy Stonehenge

Bath (photo courtesy of Stephanie Sinclair)

Sunny at Stonehenge

Renting a car was a definite adventure, and trying to get it back to London on time was more than we had bargained for. Nonetheless, a successful and hilarious day in the English countryside. What's better than that?

One of my biggest challenges this year is not having a smart phone. I didn't realize how much I unconsciously relied on it until it wasn't there; as Jill put it, we were suddenly living in 1997 again. Jill didn't have a phone at all this week and mine is, well, a not-smart phone. In the spirit of 'pudding', Jill and I left London last weekend for a quick jaunt to Paris. The morning had a somewhat magical start (my alarm didn't go off at 5:45 when I wanted it to and I still managed to wake up by 6:00 so we didn't miss our train), but we were a little less organized leaving for Paris than one might wish. The post-it note with our hotel information spent a lovely weekend alone on my desk in London. So with no way to check email for our hotel information, no GPS or maps with us, and my phone which died on the train, we arrived at the Gare du Nord in Paris. We knew the area of our hotel, so figured out the Metro and guessed which stop to take, found a map that gave two possibilities for our hotel, and picked one. We guessed right.

Although the weekend had a somewhat bumpy start, we had a wonderful time wandering Paris, the Champs-Élysées, visiting the Arc de Triomphe, Sacré Cœur and Montmartre, the Louvre, Notre Dame de Paris, and the Latin Quarter. Even the weather cooperated. 

On the Champs-Élysées

You know, I did a report on the Arc de Triomphe in fifth grade.

I spend much of my travelling life on guided tours, usually with students, but the freedom to walk and see things as we chose this last week is much my preference. Although there were still things we wanted to see and do, the flexibility to change plans, sit down for a pint, or enjoy something for an extra hour is so much fun. Additionally, the gift of reconnecting with a childhood friend for a week in two of the world's most fabulous cities is one whose value cannot be overstated. I've been a lucky, lucky girl this year: I have wonderful new friends I adore and with whom I've been able to explore, I live in my favourite city and get to see it every day, and lots of my favourites from home have been able to visit me. Don't get me wrong, I spent my fair share of time thinking about my life in Minnesota this week - partially because Jill and I went to see Singin' in the Rain last night, a show that's made me tense with fear since I directed it in 2004 - and I miss lots of things and people there, but there are no words for how much I love where I am today. Pudding!

More pictures from our week are on Facebook here. The album is public.