The past two weeks have been entirely consumed with researching, writing, and tutorials -- hence the lack of recent posts. But essays have been written, tutorials gotten through, and consequently I am free from work during my last week here in Oxford. Though I am happy to be able to sleep again and not feel the nervous pressure twisting in my stomach, I am also sad to be so close to the end. There is no longer any reason for me to go study in the Taylorian or the Lower Camera. I likely will never have another tutorial in my life. My mind is not overwhelmed with Jane Austen's portrayal of duty and family, Lewis's ideas on getting to heaven and hell, the problem of suffering, or the feminist nature of Jane Eyre. And, likely, I won't have the opportunity to study in such a way, and in such a place, ever again.But, for the little taste of Oxford that I have been granted I am infinitely thankful. So many times throughout my stay here I felt entirely undeserving of being labeled a student in this city. Next to nearly everyone here I seem to know nothing. My hard work and mediocre brains are no longer sufficient for getting a "well done!" at the bottom of my paper. In casual conversations, words and ideas I am unfamiliar with get thrown around. Intimidating, yes. But not discouraging. Rather, I find it to be an invigorating and inspiring atmosphere. It makes me want to learn more. People are so passionate about what they are learning and studying and that excitement is contagious. And there is a sense here that everyone is, in some form or another, a student. It is truly a community of learning; some are just much farther down the path than others (such as myself).Being here has also forced me to question what sort of person I am and whether I am doing what it takes to become the sort of person I want to be. If I want to consider myself an avid reader, am I truly reading enough? If I want to consider myself somewhat intellectual, am I immersing myself in the things necessary to become one?Perhaps I am not. And perhaps this is because I am still not entirely certain what sort of person I want to become. It seems I should know by now but somehow I don't. Switching to HDFS was the right choice; I felt God's affirmation in that decision. But whether or not I want to continue down the path of human services and therapy, I'm not sure. Do I want to go that path or do I want to find my way into the world of the humanities again? Literature is truly what I love. Oxford has certainly reminded me of that. But I also love the idea of being there for people and talking through their problems with them. Where do I go from here? I'm not sure... and I am trying to trust that God will guide me to where he would have me go.(photo: Trinity Church, C.S. Lewis's home congregation and place of burial)-
On Saturday afternoon, a group of us made our way to the home of C.S. Lewis, the Kilns. We happened to time our visit during the one week the house is empty, and thus we had the great privilege of wandering inside the house. After a tour of the house by Nicole, we spread out on the lawn for a picnic dinner, and then ended our evening by walking down to the church where Lewis worshiped regularly and is now buried.
The beauty of the home and grounds surprised me -- it was an aching sort of beautiful, the kind that evokes a melancholy sort of delight. Perhaps this was partly due to a knowledge of the joy that occurred amongst those walls and gardens, but also of the pain, the struggles, the mental wrestling, the deaths that also took place in that home. It seemed to be a rather sacred place; God's presence seemed near, evidencing itself in the carefully cared for home, the heavenly pink flowers on the lawn, the notes left on the fridge speaking of the communal atmosphere that has inhabited the home for many years.
To commemorate my visit (and the fact that I have been spending significant amounts of time with his writings the past few weeks), here are some of my favorite Lewis quotes.
The books or the music in which we thought the beauty was located will betray us if we trust to them; it was not in them, it only came through them, and what came through the was longing. These things -- the beauty, the memory of our own past -- are good images of what we really desire; but if they are mistaken for the things itself they turn into dumb idols, breaking the hearts of their worshipers. For they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never visited.
-- from "The Weight of Glory"
Ah, the Saved... what happens to them is best described as the opposite of a mirage. What seemed, when they entered it, to be the vale of misery turns out, when they look back, to have been a well; and where present experience saw only salt deserts, memory truthfully records that the pools were full of water.-- from The Great Divorce
Heaven will solve our problems, but not, I think, by showing us subtle reconciliations between all our apparently contradictory notions. The notions will all be knocked from under our feet. We shall see that there never was any problem.
-- from A Grief Observed
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Should I ever have a house, I would love for it to have...1. a small pathway leading up to the front door2. lavender bushes surrounding the pathway3. a gate, slightly open, beckoning people to come in4. a front door with the door knob in the center5. windows surrounded by ivy that bounces and springs about in the breeze6. ancient trees forming a covering over the house7. a blue door with an arched top8. window boxes with flowers of every color and light, vivid green leaves popping out9. a small, spacious back lawn with benches tucked into corners, behind hedges10. white, lacy curtains fluttering about behind open windows(photo: a home on the Vicars Close, the oldest preserved street in England, located in Wells)-
Ah, but we want so much more -- something the books on aesthetics take little notice of. But the poets and the mythologies know all about it. We do not want merely to see beauty, though, God knows, even that is bounty enough. We want something else which can hardly be put into words -- to be united with the beauty we see, to pass into it, to receive it into ourselves, to bathe in it, to become part of it.-- C.S. Lewis, from "The Weight of Glory"
This passage puts into words the feelings I experience when I look at trees like this, or fields of bobbing grass, or magnificent scissor arches, or ivy drooping to cover open windows. Lewis puts it so perfectly and succinctly that I shall leave it at that.
(photo: a grouping of trees at Glastonbury)
1 // A view of the Taylorian Library, where I worked on my last two essays. The desk I worked at was located right in front of the crescent window farthest on the right, which looks out on the Ashmolean Museum and the many tourist groups roving about. 
