I live in a forest, or so it seems. My backyard is filled with evergreen trees, birds of every species, and a stillness that makes the mind feel at ease—it’s only missing a waterfall or tranquil river. I sit here this morning drinking my English breakfast tea—now lukewarm—listening to the melody of chirping birds. Each whistle and tone is different, yet they all seem to pair perfectly together as if it were something Mozart composed—it reminds me of his Piano Concerto No. 21, Andante—so soft, so spring like.

This week I’ve been meandering through the forest-y back roads of Netherfield, England. And now, I find myself on a mossy cliff over looking a beautiful mountainous area where a valley hides below; the morning sun is kissing my pale face. I’m standing with my eyes closed, letting the cool breeze flush my cheeks pink and brush my hair every which way.

I stand as Elizabeth Bennet from Jane Austen’s Pride and the Prejudice—my favorite fictional character. I’m ashamed that I’ve been oblivious to the reason why I love her character so much. The shame has wrapped its hollow arms around me, enticing me to remember certain things about myself.

You see readers, my mom pointed something out to me a few weeks ago that really hasn’t left my mind. She pointed out to me that maybe the reason why I love Elizabeth Bennet so much is because she reminds me of myself.

What a glorious thought right? I quickly recalled how I think of Lizzy: I am an intelligent, quick-witted young woman who converses brilliantly. My honesty, virtue, and lively wit enable me to rise above the nonsense and bad behavior that pervade my class-bound and often spiteful society. Nevertheless, my sharp tongue and tendency to make hasty judgments often lead me astray… At that thought I cringed. What a not-so-glorious compliment.

I feel quite stuck as I try to decipher what my current state of emotions are at the thought of me being like the judgmental Elizabeth Bennet. A mix of sweet and sour, I can’t put my thumb on anything definitive. It’s moments like these—sitting in my forest of a backyard pondering whether or not I see myself as Elizabeth Bennet—that I wish I could give my inner core a larynx and microphone.

If my heart could speak right now, I wonder what it would say. I wish I could disentangle my thoughts, pen to paper, and give my heart a voice.

Most lately, I’ve felt the effects of rambling through this forest of sorts. I am not even sun-scorched yet, and summer has yet to begin. But as the school year comes to a close, and I think about how I want to spend my summer, I can’t seem to encipher the chemical equation. So it’s here—sitting listening to the sweet chirping birds, imagining I’m Lizzy on the top of the Derbyshire Cliffs as she sets herself free from all worries—I stumble into an oasis of truth and solace; I slowly verge into belly flopping into its sweet, refreshing waters once more.

This morning as I drink my English breakfast tea, as I ramble through the forest and find the words to fill this seemingly insignificant blank page, I try to remember who Elizabeth really is. She’s someone who overcame all obstacles—including her own failings—to find happiness. She navigates her way through familial and social turmoil to then reevaluate and discover that her judgment toward her true love was wrong all along; and that despite society and social expectations, she saw Darcy’s true nobility and how her error was seeing prejudice in him.

And with that thought, if I was even a tenth of what an amazingly, strong, elegant, vivacious young women Lizzy is, I would be honored. I hope to be as bright, complex and intriguing. I hope to never be afraid to speak my mind. And when I’m wrong, I hope that I have the astuteness to admit I am incorrect. Even though Elizabeth is sometimes prone to outspoken speeches and impulsive actions, she never disregards the propriety which the age insisted upon for women. I hope I am just like her, because the keen intelligence she exemplifies, her good sense, and her unconventional charm make Lizzy a character that flares with remembrance.

Speaking of flares, Maveners… that’s what I’m featuring. This week I’m featuring flared pants because they are one of the newest trends. I’ve spotted them everywhere—not so much in the forest or on Elizabeth Bennet, but you get the picture. I wore my flare denim pants last week to school, and found that five other girls did too. I was excited to see the trend catching on. Here’s my look and a close friends look:

When Kate Moss starts wearing wide-legged flares instead of the skinny jeans she singlehandedly made famous, you can bet the jig is up. Whether you know them as bell bottoms, flares, wide-legged pants, or the first point of order after a seventies fancy dress invite, the fact remains; they’re back in a big way this season.

And yet, if ever there was a time where there are no rules when it comes to the right hemline, silhouette, or color this is it. So what goes? It might well be a sense of social saturation that paired with a fitted jacket, extra long scarf and ballet flats, the skinny jean—once the proviso of punk musicians—has become the ubiquitous uniform of every mom, teenage daughter or workaholic that is on the run. Despite the vintage flower-child connotations, flared pants feel remarkably fresh right now.

Invigorated in my flares and inhaling deeply this new oasis of newfound peace and freedom of who I am and why, I accept my own traits as good instead of thinking they are nuisances. This week I hope that you, readers, discover yourself wandering through a similar, dense oasis in whatever wasteland you’re presently in. Grapple and brawl against the urge to lay down and expire; because friend, there is hope. There is water in this forest.

Summer is near, and even though the hypothetical forest I live in may seem like a desert at some points in time, I think this week I found the river I was looking for… Just by thinking hard about what my favorite character means to me and why, discovering and accepting myself, and remembering to keep the flare of fashion alive.

I’ll be reading more of Pride and The Prejudice, until next time, Uptown Maven