Missing Oxford? A response to a simple yet stunning comment

Just a bit, anonymous. Just a bit. If I could live there and remain financially independent, I would, but those two circumstances seem mutually exclusive for someone who doesn't want to do menial labor and live in slum quality housing. Maybe when I become a famous writer I can move back to Oxford (or somewhere similar - maybe Burlington, Vermont) and write from there. The isolation, silence, and darkness are all great for creativity, but I wouldn't want to try to live a normal active life there unless I were a student at Miami, which I am not.

I think I miss the people in Oxford more than the town itself. I had some really great times there with people who are now scattered across the country in places like New York, Massachusetts, Texas, Illinois, and other parts of Ohio such as Kent, Columbus, and Cincinnati. Let's not forget Nate in Japan either.

Lately, I've been feeling a bit more reminiscent than usual about the "good old days" in Oxford. Summers filled with trips to Hueston Woods, College Corner, and Yellow Springs, (m)Eat Fest, frisbee tossing in deserted fields, hiking, biking, and bonding with the friends who stayed in town while everyone else disappeared.

Living in a new city has brought some of these emotions to the forefront of my mind, as I am faced with the reality of making mostly brand new friends, establishing support networks, and dealing with all new places. It's refreshing to live where I am, but I do get misty at times for that old place and time called Oxford, which I know no longer exists, at least in the same way as my memory holds it.

Thinking back on the time I had there, I realize what a confusing four years it really was. I had no idea what I was doing there. I had no real goals, no clear ambition, and a mind that was cracking, ready to shatter. While my time in the "city" of Oxford was wrought with mental turmoil, I did encounter a fantastic group of people who at one point in my life, I considered my whole world.

And now, I have moved on. I left nearly everyone behind as I made a dash for the East Coast. Since I made such a quick exit, I don't think I had enough time to really contemplate the seriousness of a move that would take me 751 miles from my home, and what it might mean for me as a person. Since my move to Boston, I have definitely grown. I have scrapped and saved to create from virtually nothing (I had less than $100 to my name when I moved) a life of financial independence here. Looking back, sometimes I can't believe it myself. In less than a month, I went from two-bit bartender at a mediocre Italian restaurant in Springdale, Ohio to assistant general manager at a 2 million dollar a year restaurant in Boston. Not only that, I have enrolled at Harvard University for fall term classes starting September 19th.

Often, as I walk down the streets of Somerville, I am struck by an awe-inspiring thought, "I live in Massachusetts." While this may not be so awe-inspiring for the approximately six and a half million other residents of the Commonwealth, it still blows my mind. It is even more impressive for me to say, "I'm going home," and for "home" to mean my little apartment just northwest of the great city of Boston, Mass. As I told my roommate, I don't think I'll ever get over the magnificence of this city. I really do love it, and I love living here.

But it's all those old feelings that still get to me sometimes. While I may live in a fantastic new city full of opportunity and new people, I still have a soft spot for Oxford, and the time that has become a quickly disintegrating past. As my friends continue to dissipate through the world, get married, and disappear, it becomes harder and harder to come to terms with the passing of all those good times. I suppose one of the hardest parts of being a human in a universe of constant change is realizing that you are powerless to stop time. All those things you once held dear will turn to dust and disappear. [That was unintentional poetry.] As the unstoppable march of time continues, our once strong memories of special times are chipped away to shards. All we can do is pick up those shards and build new memories with the pieces we have left.

I think the Brian puts the feelings into words quite nicely: "That place feels like the favorite pair of jeans, comfortable and familiar. But closer inspection is unsettling. The faces have changed, new buildings pop up and your friends’ house is no longer your friends’ house." more here. And be sure to check out his post on Metroblogging NYC on being home.


Thanks for the inspiring comment, Anonymous.