a song of magic

As a little treat to myself, I ordered a copy of A Severe Mercy to be delivered to me in the Lower Reading Room of the Bodleian along with several large volumes on the philosophy of religion. After sludging through an essay on "Evil and Omnipotence," I picked up Vanauken and flipped to the chapter where they arrive in Oxford. It seemed so much more alive and meaningful to me since I now understand the Isis, the Trout, Woodstock Road. I can envision where they walked, biked, and talked. I can now see, more clearly, why this is a city they would have loved.

I also learned that some of Davey's ashes were scattered at the little church, St. Margaret's, in Binsy. Hopefully, I'll be able to find time to make a vist there and read 'Under the Mercy,' just as their friend did as he spread her ashes about.

Several passages from the chapter on Oxford seemed to capture some of what I am feeling and experiencing in this city...

On our crossing of the Atlantic... we had wondered how it would be to come to the England that we knew so well in books... would it be, essentially, a foreign country, or -- well, not foregin? But by the time the ship was coasting along the white cliffs and then proceeding up the Thames, we had begun to think what we later found to be true: that coming to England was like coming home, coming to a home half-remembered -- but home. (p. 75-76)

Coming back to oxford, we were always, it seemed, greeted by the sound of bells: bells everywhere striking the hour or bells from some tower change-ringing, filling the air with a singing magic. We explored every cranny of this city of enchanted crannies and unexpected breathtaking views of towers and spires. We were conscious all the time of the strong, intellectual life of a thousand years. (p. 79)
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today's pleasures

// Making coffee in a French press -- so exciting! I plan to purchase one when I return home.

// Our lecture this morning on Spirituality and the Metaphysical Poets. I do believe my face glowed with happiness the entire hour. John Donne, George Herbert, Richard Crashaw... it doesn't get much better.

// Picking out postcards at Blackwell's Art & Poster Shop

// Having dinner in the backyard with my lovely food group

// Studying in the Upper Reading Room at the Bodleian. Whenever I looked up from A Grief Observed, I could see statues perched on top of the building across the street set against a sparkling blue sky. And the room itself sported old portraits in gilded frames, stained glass, and many academics typing away on their laptops with piles of books at their side

// A nutella and peanut butter milkshake from Moo-Moo's (per Derek's recommendation) -- delicious!

(photo: Becky (middle), Lauren (right), and I enjoying our milkshakes outside of the Bodleian)
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gaudy or glorious?

Throughout the past three weeks I've spent in Europe, I've visited several cathedrals and churches, all of which have been beautiful, grandiose, and awe-inspiring in some way. This morning I attended St. Andrew's, a less formal and more homey Anglican church. As we walked in, we had to wade through a sea of children and young parents, which was certainly a welcome sight. The liturgy was also slightly more similar to American Anglican form. For instance, when the vicar says "The Lord be with you," the congregation responds "And also with you," as opposed to "And with thy spirit," as the church we attended last week did.

Despite the little differences, it's a reassuring and comforting feeling to know that around the world, we are all speaking the same words, praying the same prayers, greeting each other with the same words, being charged to "go in peace to love and serve the Lord." The liturgy unites people in a beautiful way.

But as I've been snapping photos of these cathedrals and marveling over the intricacy and magnificence of their architecture and design, I also find myself wondering if God is pleased with them. Is God glorified when a beautiful building is constructed and dedicated to his use, or would he be better pleased if his people assisted widows and orphans, fed the poor, comforted the brokenhearted? There is something about an ornate cathedral that lifts my mind, that reminds me that "the world is charged with the grandeur of God," that turns my thoughts toward the beauty of the Eternal One.

Yet sometimes it also feels pretentious. I remember that Christ was born in a lowly manger, that he lived among the margins of society, that while these cathedrals were built, the poor continued to suffer. How do we reconcile our desire for and delight in the beautiful with Christ's example of humble, ordinary, and service-led living? I feel there must be a balance... yet I'm not sure what form that balance takes.

(photos: left, Bath Abbey; right, Canterbury Cathedral)
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through my eyes (#3)

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photo 1. my roommates and I at Stonehenge (Becky on the far left, Alyssa in the middle) -- they are both incredibly sweet and lovely.
















photo 2. Salisbury Cathedral. We took a tour with a charming older gentleman, who wore knee socks, a plaid shirt tucked into his shorts, and said "chums," "chaps," "gents," and other amusing and adorable terminology. he took us up to the tower, basically the top of the square part of the tower... right before the spire begins. the spire, interestingly enough, is the oldest surviving spire in England, dating back around 700 years.

















photo 3. small children at the entrance to Old Sarum, a ruined Iron Age hill fort, reenacting a battle. there were many shouts of "kill the vikings!" and other war cries. this photo marks the beginning of the charge of the shielded children. adorable.








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little joys

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:: vivid fuschia roses on my way to town from WH

:: bells that can be heard throughout the city at the turn of every hour

:: the blue and red doors on almost every house

:: bikes of all colors propped up against fences, houses, walls, poles

:: the confetti dotting the street as students' exams finally come to an end

:: g & d's banana ice cream in a waffle cone

:: drinking milky tea as the sun beats on my back

:: curling up on a bench under the shade of a giant tree with a book

:: walking everywhere

:: our lecturer this morning -- an almost 80 year old gentleman who wore a teal striped shirt, coral slacks, a suit jacket with a navy handkerchief tucked in the pocket, and who had a personality to match his clothing
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through my eyes (#2)

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A photo of the hall where I attend morning lectures and where one of my seminars is held. The grounds are gorgeous, full of large, old trees with droopy branches. Since the weather has been perfect the past few days, we have been taking tea and eating lunch outside on the lawn. The girls in the photo and I were all about to make our way down town to the Wednesday farmers market, where I bought luscious strawberries and oranges and tried Turkish Delight for the first time. It was a rose-flavored variety, which, surprisingly, was quite delicious. Though I did feel as though I was eating perfume...
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and so it begins...

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This is the place I came home to this evening, after a long day of lectures and seminars. Today marked the first day of morning lectures (plus mid-morning tea) and afternoon seminars. Though I know I will certainly be pushed beyond my normal limits by my tutors, I now feel somewhat confident that I won't get lost amidst the many abstract musings, stunningly intelligent people, and eleven million books surrounding me. Am I intimidated? Most certainly. Am I feeling cognitively lazy and inadequate? Without a doubt.

But I keep reminding myself of Derek's words: it is only by being around people that are smarter than yourself that you begin to truly grow and become smarter.

And, surprisingly, the overwhelming sense of inadequacy is tinged with enjoyment -- and excitement.

through my eyes (#1)

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This is one view of the Bodleian Library, into which we were inducted this morning. We each solemnly promised aloud not to deface the books, not to bring anything injurious to the books into the library (i.e. rubberbands, sticky notes), and promised never to set fire to the libraries. In a room directly to the right of this photo, Shelley was expelled from the University for his publication of the pamphlet The Necessity of Atheism.
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my heart is fixed

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Finally, I have attended an Evensong service. At Christ Church Cathedral (see photo). Other than saying it was glorious and beautiful, I am not sure how to describe it. Everything in the service, except for the Old and New Testament Readings, is sung, in descriptive crescendos and long pauses over certain words. It is an all male choir comprised entirely of young boys who possess amazing sopranos. Each time their voices lifted, filling every corner of the cathedral, shivers ran down my spine.

As I knelt on my little red cushion, I thought about the fleeting nature of beauty. About how those boys' lovely voices will disappear with the onset of manhood. About how when I walked into the courtyard of Christ Church, I somehow could not grab on to it and carry it with me always; it was beyond my grasp somehow. About how the sun sparkling through the windows at the top of the cathedral will soon set.

Then the choir began to sing Psalm 57 and reached verse 7: "My heart is fixed, O God, my heart is fixed: I will sing and give praise." I was reminded that all of the beautiful sights and beautiful experiences are merely glimpses of the one eternal Beauty. Though I want to enjoy and revel in all of the gorgeous sights and opportunities here in Oxford, I want to make certain that I don't fix my heart on that which is fleeting but on that which is constant and forever.
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a beautiful & historied land

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Last night I stood beneath the Radcliffe Camera, gazing up at it through the misty rain while the strains of Bittersweet Symphony drifted around me from a nearby college. I am surely in Oxford, my friends. The beauty of this place, with all of its history and intellectualism, struck me last night, despite the frigidity and rain that left me wet and shivering. Ancient trees. Wildflowers popping their little heads out of stone walls. The ruins of a gate standing tall amidst the bustle of modern shops. The story behind every shop, every stone, every inch of ground in this city.

I feel so very privileged to be here for these next weeks. I don't feel as if I deserve to be in a place so academic, so cultured, so steeped in traditions and rituals I know nothing about. But I am grateful and I intend to make the most of it. Whether or not I measure up to the standards Oxford sets for an A, I am trying not to concern myself with, for I think that merely through trying my hardest and working to squeeze the most out of this experience, I will gain perhaps more than an A on my transcript could provide me.
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