A love letter to dorm life
Slippers. Decaf coffee and the occasional hot chocolate. Anywhere between 1 to 15 people in a space no bigger than a standard kitchen. Many a tear. Bipolar water temperature and apathetic water pressure met with equal grace. Dishes done in the bathroom sink, first date outfits tried on in front of the small hall mirror, movies watched on 13 inch screen laptops. A softness.
Moving into college was a dreaded rite of passage for me. I was anxious to begin my independent life but not at the expense of leaving, especially not leaving my home. My room. My kitchen. My front porch and back patio.
The first night spent in Pittman hall was angering. I felt disrupted and unqualified; trapped. But as days ticked by I found it to be a hidden beauty. Grieving became joy and I learned to share in all forms. Gracie Koester, if you ever read this, know how integral your pursuit of me became in my softening to college and its asks. I am not who I am without you.
Leaving the following April brought unexpected tension. I got home and missed home. The disruption was disrupted.
Then I moved to London.
Talk about getting the wind knocked out of you. 4,000 miles away from Southern hospitality, spiritual ease, ice water, iced coffee, and all versions of home I had known. I missed Samford and its kindnesses more than I realized I ever could.
I subconsciously brought back a lot from that move. Steadfastness, an appreciation for fine arts and British heritage, a renovated sense of style, and a tenderness for Samford.
Come sophomore year I moved into my sorority house. I grew very fond of it there. The walls were plastered with Jessie Monk's originals works and postcards and dried florals. I had a pink velvet loveseat that hosted many a deep conversation. I made lots of coffee and befriended alone time. God met me in sunlit slumbers on my beloved twin bed and in painful sobs in the hall with dear friends. And Whitney Fix taught me the importance of the final monologue in When Harry Met Sally, where Billy Crystal taught us all how much it means to breathe in the little things.
Back home. Home?
Four months, 120 days almost, in Nashville, Tennessee. A home for the honchos and the hillbillies, and me. And it was wonderful, but I would long for Birmingham in the still moments.
I grew fond of pilates, took to cooking, read several lovely books and spent a significant amount of time watching Friends for the first time. I changed a good bit, for the better I think. I battled resentment and covetousness and inconsistency, but also restored my relationship with my body and with food, which was overwhelmingly healing.
And junior year was upon me. This chronicle might have felt flat until now, I hope not, but I see clearly just how much this year in particular meant to me when it came to living. You can't fully appreciate something until it has passed, a ship sailing slowly but inevitably toward the horizon, there and then abruptly gone.
My space this year was a melody of florals and toaster waffles and conversations about art and love and life and I can't quite release my hold on it. Jessie, you are constant fountain of mercy and a well of wisdom, my friend! I witnessed so many pleasantries in this space: Jessie sketching and collaging, sweet first date stories, The Great Divorce, several dear guests, early risings and early restings, knock patterns, love and life documented in full.
Time won't stand still, but moves along with or without me. And I must rest.
Yesterday I picked up my key to a new home. A new place I must soften into, find tranquility in, create discipline in, weave reality into.
With that clock unwound I turn to the sounding alarm before me: "Time's up!" And I hold close what once was. A simple rite of passage once dreaded has assumed deep gravity and is a source of mourning and marvelling. So I leave this letter to the Messrs:
Dear dorm life,
Your stubbornness softened me, your graciousness emboldened me, and while I would never request a muggy laundry room or mildly moldy ceilings they were worth it. You taught me why quality time with self is just as imperative as quality time with dear ones, and at the same time I learned just how dear my people are. Never have I found myself feeling so known as I have in the last three years. I can't help but thank you.
From one storyteller to another,
Mary Grace