Balance

It came as no surprise to him that I was traveling around the world, conducting research on poetry as a reflection of society. I just remember the look on his face when I told him; this calm happy look, almost proud, but not giving it away too quickly. It was the look of a teacher remembering that one quirky student (with her nose constantly in a book, slides obscure references to Thoreau and Whitman into every day conversations to see if anyone would notice).

"None of this surprises me."

And here I am, further down the line, a daunting 8 months later, having traversed the width of the world, I find myself in Dublin, Ireland, wandering through the campus of Trinity College. And I laugh at myself as I stand infront of the statue of Oscar Wilde; the image of my dear teacher's face flashes into my mind- again, with that not surprised expression on his fae. Of course I would end up here, on this campus on a rare beautiful blue skied day in April, rubbing shoulders with the ghostly likes of Mr. Wilde, Mr. Beckett, and Mr. Joyce. Of course, right? But it still hits me in these moments, how close I came to being a barista at some Starbucks in a small Pennsylvania town. And I feel immensely lucky and grateful.

When I received this fellowship, it came with a small biography about Mr. William Bristol, the man who made all this possible. And beneath his name and picture and the title "The Bristol Fellowship" was a mission statement in italics:

Discovery of the self and the world

In a conversation with my mother a few weeks ago, while sipping coffee in a Viennese cafe, I disclosed to her my doubts about half of that mission statement. It seemed to me that I had certainly discovered the world, but that in doing so, I had lost myself numerous times. At that time, I believed I had already found myself two years prior, while traversing the Iberian Peninsula (aka Spain and Portugal). I told her, in a slightly disappointed tone, that I didn't feel any different than the girl who began this journey 7 months ago.

Of course, that sentiment isn't even remotely true. I know that now, as I near the end of my journey.

The funny thing about searching for yourself is that its a mission always doomed to fail. What I mean is, while we're out there, looking for ways to define ourselves, filling in online social networking sites, joining clubs and fraternities or whatever, we're just adding more dust, mud and earth to bury our true selves. Underneath all those layers of labels, underneath religion and nationality and egotistical labels we like to slap on ourselves to make ourselves feel better, is our true self- already there, just being. You are not what you write in your facebook profile. You are not what your passport says, or your drivers license. No, sorry, you are not your Greek Society or your fifteen minutes of fame or your honors society or your glowing transcript. You are not that story you tell yourself. As soon as we spend some time and stop trying to become what we are and just be what we are, its like wiping dust off the mirror. No hidden treasure, just what was already there all along.

While wandering in an old monastery in Lower Austria, I stumbled across this sign on a wall. All around me were beautiful books, reaching from floor to fresco painted ceiling, but all I could do was stand there and read this sign. Maybe I'm slightly nuts, but I just think its beautiful.


I guess what I mean to say is, I've spent a lot of this year waiting for some incredible realization to take hold of me. I've been waiting to find a place in the world, or someone or something to make me feel at home. But as a dear friend in Melbourne once told me, "Home is in your head."

It really is. And it still surprises me every time.