Tonight I invited those students who had traveled to Europe with me to have a night of reflection, to talk about their experiences, and to reminisce about our shared experiences. It was touching to see and hear the various things that affected them, the variegated impressions and preferences. Each had a place, country, or moment that they felt would be something that they would carry with them. For many, it was the cemetery at Normandy. For others, it was completing something they have always wanted to do--go to the Eiffel Tower, see a London musical, visit the Louvre.
It was gratifying to see the things that mattered to them, to know all of the work and stress and worry had paid off. It was a little different for me this time, however, as I had been in a support role throughout the trip, letting my coworker carry the majority of the effort. Despite that, I had been carrying a pretty heavy load of guilt about the fact that the trip had not been as consistent as I had hoped. We whiplashed between World War II experiences and tourist attractions, moments of sobriety and moments of fun. That made it feel less cohesive. Plus, with the shift in direction of the tour (which normally runs London, Paris, Bastogne, Berlin--I asked that it be reversed), I felt as though the logic of the war's prosecution was lost.
Of course, my original intent was to incorporate as much WWI as I could into the experience, but it ended up being too impractical. I was surprised to learn that a number of the students was disappointed in the cancellation of visiting Verdun, as it would have been more time on the road in order to visit a rather depressing place. Losing Verdun meant losing WWI as part of the narrative of our tour, and I regretted that.
Still, these hiccups and problems notwithstanding, the students who attended tonight's gathering left me with the impression that the ten days we'd spent together had gone well and made a difference.
Since everyone was sharing something that mattered to them, I felt it incumbent on me to share a thought or two. It was late and it was obvious the students wanted to leave, so I had to keep it short. I began by saying that I appreciated them, their flexibility, and their enthusiasm. I then pointed out that, despite the fact that I loved Berlin's structure and Paris' beauty, I loved being back in England. "When I'm there," I said, "I feel like I'm home."
I paused. "I also wanted to thank you for indulging me in going to Stratford-upon-Avon. While that experience wasn't the same as the first time I went, returning there was special. I struggle with depression, and being in Stratford made it where, for the first time in a long time, I could smile effortlessly."
To my surprise, saying that thought aloud--a private, intimate thought that only Gayle, I think, truly understands--pushed tears to the surface. While I'm too crusty and curmudgeonly to cry easily, today has been a hard day, depression-wise, and feeling safe enough to offer up that honesty to students and friends was cathartic. While I didn't actually cry, I probably could have, had I continued in that vein. Instead, I started a round of applause and dismissed them.
In some ways, it can be difficult to have incredible experiences, because the return to the mundane is so omnipresent. Traffic is frustrating no matter where you are, but being stuck in London traffic outside of Harrod's as it's lit up for the evening makes that frustration different, better (in some ways). But the gray grimness (and griminess) of a Utah January is all that I have to look at and appreciate now. Yes, the mountains are majestic, and I do love to look at them--and every place has its charm--but I feel complete when I'm in England. So returning from that sense of wholeness to the much more important business of living my life here, with my children, can create a dissonance.
But, upon reflection, I would have to say that, the bitter of the return notwithstanding, I'm grateful for the sweet of having gone.
It was gratifying to see the things that mattered to them, to know all of the work and stress and worry had paid off. It was a little different for me this time, however, as I had been in a support role throughout the trip, letting my coworker carry the majority of the effort. Despite that, I had been carrying a pretty heavy load of guilt about the fact that the trip had not been as consistent as I had hoped. We whiplashed between World War II experiences and tourist attractions, moments of sobriety and moments of fun. That made it feel less cohesive. Plus, with the shift in direction of the tour (which normally runs London, Paris, Bastogne, Berlin--I asked that it be reversed), I felt as though the logic of the war's prosecution was lost.
Of course, my original intent was to incorporate as much WWI as I could into the experience, but it ended up being too impractical. I was surprised to learn that a number of the students was disappointed in the cancellation of visiting Verdun, as it would have been more time on the road in order to visit a rather depressing place. Losing Verdun meant losing WWI as part of the narrative of our tour, and I regretted that.
Still, these hiccups and problems notwithstanding, the students who attended tonight's gathering left me with the impression that the ten days we'd spent together had gone well and made a difference.
Since everyone was sharing something that mattered to them, I felt it incumbent on me to share a thought or two. It was late and it was obvious the students wanted to leave, so I had to keep it short. I began by saying that I appreciated them, their flexibility, and their enthusiasm. I then pointed out that, despite the fact that I loved Berlin's structure and Paris' beauty, I loved being back in England. "When I'm there," I said, "I feel like I'm home."
I paused. "I also wanted to thank you for indulging me in going to Stratford-upon-Avon. While that experience wasn't the same as the first time I went, returning there was special. I struggle with depression, and being in Stratford made it where, for the first time in a long time, I could smile effortlessly."
To my surprise, saying that thought aloud--a private, intimate thought that only Gayle, I think, truly understands--pushed tears to the surface. While I'm too crusty and curmudgeonly to cry easily, today has been a hard day, depression-wise, and feeling safe enough to offer up that honesty to students and friends was cathartic. While I didn't actually cry, I probably could have, had I continued in that vein. Instead, I started a round of applause and dismissed them.
In some ways, it can be difficult to have incredible experiences, because the return to the mundane is so omnipresent. Traffic is frustrating no matter where you are, but being stuck in London traffic outside of Harrod's as it's lit up for the evening makes that frustration different, better (in some ways). But the gray grimness (and griminess) of a Utah January is all that I have to look at and appreciate now. Yes, the mountains are majestic, and I do love to look at them--and every place has its charm--but I feel complete when I'm in England. So returning from that sense of wholeness to the much more important business of living my life here, with my children, can create a dissonance.
But, upon reflection, I would have to say that, the bitter of the return notwithstanding, I'm grateful for the sweet of having gone.