Purpose to Feet

So, I supposed to be training for a half marathon. Thing is, I'm pretty sure I'm training for a half marathon, and yet I feel lazy.

Even though yesterday I walked an estimated 6.73 miles to get all the shopping done. This means not only did I tromp around (and poorly dressed - it was freakishly warm yesterday) I also tromped around carrying 5-15 pounds of things.

I was supposed to go out again today, but England was all, like, "yeah... we don't do sunny days two in a row..." and I was all, like, "yeah...cool... I'm totally worn out from yesterday." So instead I stayed in and understood Alan Moore's argument to not have any graphic novels of his turned into movies.

I bike to work three days a week and run to work twice a week. All said it's 18 miles of biking and 12 miles of running. When I lived in Houston I was happy to get through 9, usually because the overwhelming heat made it a walk during the summer. And everyone knows that in the US if you see someone walking it means their car must've broken down. So vast improvement on my lifestyle? Yes. Heck, the last 10K I ran I ran so far under time that people missed my finish. Sure, here in the UK running is a SPORT. I mean, people FLY. It's actually encouragement to me to see others, little packs strapped on their backs, chugging to work the way I do.

But still, lazy. I feel lazy.

I wonder if I've gotten used to my good fortune. I run through cow and horse fields, then past some of the most respected college architecture in the world. Down past cafes, pubs, and through people who look in the morning shocked to bits to see someone willing to haul themselves - rain or shine - through the streets of Oxford.

Seriously, someone smack me!

Maybe it's a goal I seek, but it's not defined. It's good to have goals. One of mine is to run 50 half marathons by 50, yet I think in approaching this particular one I'm not looking to it like I looked to all my others. I look with indifference, even though I searched hard for a good one in London. Something I hadn't run before. Granted, about the time I run I will know - really know - if I'm running the London Marathon. A whole different beast, a whole different goal.

Have my eyes shifted off the 50 by 50 prize? Am I taking my home for granted?

It's something I need to sort, that's for sure. I find great solace in my slow by steady runs and bikes, but now I ache for purpose. Time to do some inner exploring...

On staying.

I have now spoken, independently, to two non-English about how they got over to England.

"Oh, I was supposed to be here for (generally a week, a month) and 11 years later, here I am."

Seriously, both of them supposed to be here for short term and they never left.

I've been asked how long I want to be here. Honestly, I'm up for any amount of time that is allowed.

When I didn't live here I would often spend a few days in London. This was often because I was done with whatever project and wanted to get out of the way of whatever colleague had housed me. I would wander down to the water, and stare at the London Eye. Now, people can complain all they want, but I really like the London Eye. For those who don't get to visit every structure during their brief pass through it's a great thing. Plus, it's well engineered considering the English wind.

I digress.

There are these benches that I think (memory failing) serve as nice little statues to the Queen's Jubilee. They have sphinxes propping them up, and are actually not that comfortable. I go and sit there anyway because it's a lovely view. However, right above the London Eye, right dead center, is the inward flight pattern for planes to Heathrow. (One of them, anyway.) Every time I look up at it, my heart literally sinks. I suddenly wish I could merge myself into the benches. I don't want to leave.

Now, you would think me having visited, worked, and lived here for six months would mean that I would eventually not feel this way. But sitting here, typing about it, I want to find a way to bolt myself down and not go. Maybe it's because I feel like I haven't finished whatever I'm here for. Maybe it's because I am supposed to stay.

I don't know.

But whatever I do know is, it's not time to go yet. So I need to get over this homesickness/sad thing.

I get by with a little help from my 100+ friends

Walking home last night I realized I'm in a unique place. And when I talk about place, I mean Oxford itself as a city. When I first came here my closest friends where all Londoners, and all of them moaned. "Why are you coming over here?" was a really common question. It was too expensive, too crowded, to inconvenient, too this... too that...

But, I'm in Oxford. Oxford is a transient town. It's very youthful because of the university, but it's also very accepting. People come here from everywhere, whether they are a tourist or someone wanting to learn English. Because of this you wind up with a much more open community. For instance, I can walk into the local pub frequented on Fridays and without fail will find someone to sit with. Even if I only know them through a friend of a friend of a friend. They don't care, they'll let you sit with them because of that encounter you had a few weeks back where you said hi.

So long as you position yourself with the same open tendency you can't really ever run out of things to do or places to go. You don't have to run around with loads of cash, nor think you'll be crammed and inconvenienced. Sure, sometimes I miss my car and the stores full of stuff I don't need, but perhaps the reason the bike paths and long walks were put into place is to remind you not to rush.

So, despite the bad few weeks I've had (which I'm pulling out of in case you were worried) I have to be grateful to the 100+ people I've met, sat with at a pub, apologized to when I bumped, crammed in on a bus or train with, and lamented when they were biking so slow ahead of me - thank you. Last night, after being very internal and miserable and feeling foreign I was reminded that most of us here are foreign, but we're here. Wherever I go, there I am.

I will not give up...

If there is one thing massive international upheaval has taught me, is that in order to survive one must remain flexible. Living and working in England is not a total cakewalk. There are standards I don't quite meet or understand, and times when I feel lost. Somedays I just wish I was home, but then things would pretty much be the same as England, but with words I understand and a massive heat index.

Words suck. Seriously, there is something to be said about those people who got together and decided to build the Tower of Babel. It would be nice if we could all just speak one language and get on with it, but even when you speak one language you can get tone wrong or not be descriptive enough and *poof* things can still come crumbling down.

I'm particularly good at that. I have a note that sits on my computer that says, "Read it again." Not that I do, but there is a note there. I am particularly bad with words at times, and even worse as a reader who generally skims.

Despite, I know that I'm still willing to struggle. Willing to pour over words like 'fine' and 'quite' and 'pants' and whatever they are willing to throw at me. To not want to scream at them when they tell me how cute it is when I say 'awesome.' Willing to read it again, to try again, and to hope that one of these days I finally master it. I'm just frustrated right now. Frustrated and feeling acutely foreign.

But I don't know how long I'll be here in England, so I have to take the good with the bad.

Anyways, I just got my super duper special members tour thing for the Royal Palace somethingorother I just joined. I can climb scaffolding next to stuff older than America. Seriously. So I gotta take the bad, because stuff like that is really 'awesome.'