Oxonian Anecdotes: Glow of Stone

Sometimes it is difficult to recognize captivity until freedom is granted. For weeks I had been planning, with five of my housemates, a trip to Canterbury and Dover. We had reserved the hostel, rented the car, and mapped out a rough itinerary. As the morning of departure came near, I panicked. Driving off to the English coast hardly seemed like a responsible thing to do. Two hundred pounds had been stolen from my wallet during the first week of the semester and financial strain had haunted me ever since. Also, the essays for which I would be held responsible in just a few days weighed on my mind so that I actually developed a headache. “This is a ridiculous idea,” I thought. “I don’t have the time or the money to go, let alone enjoy myself.” The one unavoidable obstacle that prevented me from staying in my bed that morning was the group waiting for me. I could not tell them no; as hard as I knew it would be to recover when we returned, I also knew that it would be harder to face their disappointment if I remained.

I had not slept the night before, plagued by insomnia, and considering my mental state, it is no wonder. I thoughtlessly stuffed my backpack, applied enough make-up to compensate for my groggy state, and joined the gathering crew in front of The Vines. The car was there. It was a shiny green hatchback which we immediately nicknamed “chia pet,” appropriate not only because of the leafy color, but also the rather small interior. The latter characteristic was of most interest to us, a group of six embarking on a three hour-long journey. The four smallest bonded in the back seat, while the two drivers negotiated the joys of driving for the first time in the UK.

Though the drive was lovely and the company charming, I could not shake the feeling that I was making the wrong decision and that nothing that might happen in the next two days would be worth the misery to which I would return. Every muscle in my body was tense, despite my growing fatigue, and even my companions could not help noticing that my usually chipper demeanor was suffering. I hated being an obstacle to their excitement, but could not find it within me to rejoice; my empty wallet and the blinking cursor in the middle of my unfinished essay at home were the only thoughts to which I could respond, and that response was acute anxiety.

This attitude of desperation endured throughout the day although, for the sake of my companions, I worked harder at hiding it. We arrived in Canterbury, checked into our hostel and then strolled into town. It was a quaint little city with cobblestone streets, an endless supply of interesting little shops, and a town center complete with two musicians and their repertoire of American pop music. All of these things would have typically brought me lightness of heart, but not today; my chest felt as if it were filled with lead. It was not until the sun was setting that I began to see things in a different light. We entered a large courtyard through a tall stone gate adjacent to the town square in search of the famed Canterbury Cathedral. We found it. It stood surrounded by short green grass and illuminated by the amber-colored rays of the retiring sun. The warm glow of the grey stone took my breath away. The structure was majestic and intricate and wholly overwhelming. We sat within its shadow in awe of the antiquated power; we felt life in the inanimate formation, as if it were somehow watching over us in that moment.

It was all worth it. Right then I realized that no matter the consequences of that trip, I could withstand them in honor of Canterbury Cathedral. I felt ashamed, knowing that I had allowed and even nurtured the anxiety that robbed me of the experiences of the day. I had wallowed in self-pity rather than seizing a likely once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I was in Canterbury, England with a group of good people, experiencing something special and yet, up until that point, was allowing my mind to be held captive by worry and fear of regret.

Lucky for me, the weekend was not nearly over. We made ourselves makeshift pizza in the crowded kitchen of our hostel. Whether Indian flatbread really makes the best pizza or it just tasted that way in light of my new-found freedom, I may never be sure. We watched the rugby World Cup in an over-packed downtown pub, pretending to be devastated at each sign of the impending English defeat so that our apathy might not make us victims of drunken British disappointment. In the morning we worshipped with the congregation of Canterbury Cathedral, a surprisingly warm church body, and then conquered the white cliffs of Dover before finally squeezing into chia pet for the last time.

The music erupted from the speakers around me: “You can’t always get what you want. You can’t always get what you want. You can’t always get what you want, but if you try, sometimes, you just might find you get what you need.” Our singing voices and the sound of the air tearing over the open windows nearly drowned out the radio as we sped down the road toward Oxford. The song had never meant much to me before, but right then, nothing could have felt truer.[1]

[1] We also listened to Jesus Freak. It didn’t have the same effect.