Spires that Drowse and Dream

 

The moonlight over Radcliffe Square
Small sunset spires that drowse and dream,
Thin bells that ring to evening prayer,
Red willow-roots along the stream,
And perilous grey streets, that teem
With light feel wandering unaware,
And winter nights with lamps agleam,
Globed golden in the violet air.

From "Lay" (1916), Dorothy L. Sayers

Okay, so I don't have moonlight over Radcliffe Square in a photo, but I have the poem to imagine it. Sayers' imagery is so lovely and mysterious, moody, and accurate. Thin bells are always chiming around the square, echoing off the stone, globed lamps rest on the steps of the Radcliffe Camera. Spires dream and drowse, to borrow from poet Matthew Arnold (Oxford's dreaming spires comes from him- "And that sweet city with her dreaming spires, She needs not June for beauty's heightening,") and I certainly felt drowsy leaving the Bodleian library after working hard all day. I've had the immense joy and privilege of spending most of my March days researching in the Bodleian Libraries each day.  

Sharing about a time that was like a dream (the best kind of dream) is more difficult than if I was just sharing a quick weekend away visiting some interesting site. I can state facts and details of this and that, but to invoke the feelings and joy (the inner longing always there gets these glimpses that glow like warm lamps but move by too quickly) is much more challenging for how can I put those experiences into words that are worthy of expression?

We shall start with the basics - stepping into Radcliffe Square. 

Depending on the time of day you come into the square, you will either be greeted with a quiet hush (early morning and later evening) or the chatter and clamor of tourists if during the day. Big tour groups, small tour groups, and perhaps a whole class of youth could be passing through, stopping for photos, and some guide telling them about the Bodleian Library. The guide probably says how it now has almost 14 million volumes in its collection, with a huge offsite facility in Swindon that holds more than $8-9 Million out there, and readers can request delivery of books from offsite to have delivered to a library to read there. Maybe they talk about how the Bodleian Library is not a lending library, so readers can only read books there in the reading rooms, they cannot leave the buildings. Or that the Bodleian is a legal deposit library, meaning, they have the right to have a copy of every book published in the UK, which is now up to around 1,000 new books everyday. 

The Radcliffe Camera is always a favourite site to admire, with the Old Bodleian squarely rising up behind it with those dreaming spires lofty above. 

I've visited Oxford many times, over 10 now, and my question has always been around - how can I study there? How can I spend time finding and reading books there? Well, this time I got to do just that, to fulfill my greatest desire for getting to know Oxford even better. Come along with me in that great and inspiring adventure. 

Oxford Golden Sunshine Arrival

 

O Lamb of God: that takest away the sins of the world,; grant us thy peace.
(from the Litany)

I arrived in Oxford on a bright sunny day, and these bright sunny days have lingered - I am questioning if I carried the sun and blue sky with me, but the rain will come soon enough. This is England after all.

Arriving just in time for the tradition of the pancake day relay runs at Oriel College was a bit cheery after a very long journey. As I was standing in the porter's lodge, the students gathered just outside in the quad with excitement and the race started. Shouts and laughs continued, as the students dressed in their Oxford sub fusc participated in this tradition. 

First order of business after getting into my home away from home was to walk the streets of Oxford to say hallo to the Bodleian Library, Blackwell's Bookshop, Sheldonian Theatre, Bridge of Sighs, Turl Street, etc. They all greeted me this day with their glowing stones, basking in the bright sun. I couldn't get over the deep blue sky we've had for so many days. 

I did some essential grocery shopping since I can cook for myself. It's been quite fun to get completely different foods and am picking out all the British vegetables to cook up for dinners and British apples to eat each day. Carrots, parsnips, onions. Basic things I could eat everyday and be very happy. Good tea was a first purchase at Bird & Blend on High Street. I already have a list of my preferred foods I will be going back for on my next food shop day.

After a lunch at the best lunch spot, The Vaults and Garden (complete with a pot of jasmine green tea), a delightful thing I got to attend was a lunchtime organ concert at Queen's College. The young organist played Bach, my favourite. During term there are many lunchtime concerts at various colleges, it's a treat to include if you can. I'll try to catch more this week before term ends. 

I was treated with a dinner in hall at Oriel, before dashing off to the Ash Wednesday service there in the Oriel College Chapel. I always like to attend an Ash Wednesday service to start off the season of Lent. It is a humbling and heartful service, encouraging a mindful and meditative attitude of heart, to prepare for the Lenton journey. 

Those first arrival days are always exhausting, full, hectic, and full of good reminders of why this place continues to draw me in, and I always feel a deep, deep thankfulness. I am simply melting in with the scenes of Oxford now, and it's pure joy.

To live, to live, to live!

 

"Where was it," Raskolnikov thought as he walked on, "where was it that I read about a man condemned to death saying or thinking, an hour before his death, that if he had to live somewhere high up on a cliffside, on a ledge so narrow that there was room only for his two feet - and with the abyss, the ocean, eternal darkness, eternal solitude, eternal storm all around him - and had to stay like that, on a square foot of space, an entire lifetime, a thousand years, an eternity - it would be better to live so than to die right now! Only to live, to live, to live! To live, no matter how - only to live!....How true! Lord, how true! Man is a scoundrel! And he's a scoundrel who calls himself a scoundrel for that,' he added in a moment. (pg.150)

I finished my re-read of Crime and Punishment this week and I love it even more than the first time reading. Partly, I think I am a better and deeper reader than I was many years ago when I first read it, and I think this is the kind of book that warrants re-reading. It is even better with another reading. And I will read it again, no doubt, in a couple years. 

I am no Dostoevsky scholar, but he is genius with characters. Getting into the depths of their minds and struggles. Of course, we are in Russia (Petersburg), and this book was first published in 1866. We follow in the innerworkings of the young man, Raskolnikov, a student who has fallen into some deeply troubled mindsets as he digs himself deeper into a hopeless mental illness. He has morals that counter his illness, as he cares deeply for people who are mistreated, wanting to rectify that and help them. He believes and convinces himself that he should take justice into his own hands. He feels he has the right to murder an old woman who schemes people with her pawning business. 

...devote yourself to the service of all mankind and the common cause: what do you think, wouldn't thousands of good deeds make up for one tiny little crime? For one life, thousands of lives saved from decay and corruption. One death for hundreds of lives - it's simple arithmetic! (pg. 62)

Raskolnikov believes in duty and conscience. He thinks it's his social duty to take one life for the betterment of the general public. He feels justified in his actions, and spends the next 400+ pages grappling through that, going through madness, illness, suffering, questioning, challenging conversations with others. Developing deeper relationships that explore these moral questions and challenge his ideas. Getting to know Sonya, who leads a virtuous life and who is patient with him as he goes through periods of madness; she is the one who can speak truth that plants a seed in him. He thinks he got away with his crime, but the police are on his trail. They know it was him, and they wait for him to confess. Will he confess, and take on the responsibility and punishment for his crime, or will he deny it and place himself in the throes of the justice courts?

He was ashamed precisely because he, Raskolnikov, had perished so blindly, hopelessly, vainly, and stupidly, by some sort of decree of blind fate, and had to reconcile himself and submit to the 'meaninglessness' of such a decree if he wanted to find at least some peace for himself. (pg. 515)

This book. It stays with you. You feel for the characters. The ending is so good, so good. I won't spoil it by noting it here, you must read it for yourself. 

Embrace the Page of Winter

 

All the words that I utter,
And all the words that I write,
Must spread out their wings untiring,
And never rest in their flight,
Till they come where your sad, sad heart is,
And sing to you in the night,
Beyond where the waters are moving,
Storm-darkened or starry bright.

- Where My Books Go, William Butler Yeats

The evening is getting colder. The air is changing. For several weeks we were warm with no signs of the winter air. Clouds gathered during the day, almost like a summer, but not quite. No thunderstorms in those clouds. But suddenly after a passing cold front, we are back into chillier temperatures and it is utmost delight to me. When I get to wear a sweater all day and drink warm drinks, I am cheerful indeed. I love to embrace the season, and have the experience of a proper season, which is harder to come by here in the south, but when it comes, I sure do pay attention and appreciate it.

After a long, busy week, it feels good to take it slower today. The weekend. It's here for a reason, and I seem to forget that sometimes. I have a list of all the things I need to do, but what about taking a breath? That's not on the list, but it should be. It's the thing most easily cast aside. It is often when I sit down to write that I slow down. Or when I pick up a book to read. It is why I prioritize these things, as I know I need it. I put on some lovely piano music and take a few deep breaths. Already I feel better. 

Oftentimes we leave the weekend for what we would deem fun - for the things we can't do during the week. It doesn't need to be complex for me. Just give me a book and let me read over coffee (and maybe some food). I don't eat out a lot, and if I go alone my book is my companion. It feels like a luxury, like a holiday when I do that. A treat I don't indulge in too much because it's usually when I travel that I have more meals out alone. Travel also provides a different kind of inspiration that draws on my observations. Sometimes a random thought will come to me as I sit there, maybe hearing some snippet of a conversation nearby or seeing something that reminds me of something else. These things are inspiration and I usually scribble away in my notebook. After several minutes I keep writing - maybe it is rubbish, maybe it turns into a blog post, or maybe the seeds of a story. But the experience itself is the fodder for the possibility. 

The words come, and if not written down, the words go, whisked away into the wind. Taking time to write things down is the best way to save it for later. Some of it may be shared with the world eventually. 

May you take time this weekend, and the week ahead - to pause and think, write, share,  discuss, whatever it is you do, that which is done for good.

Charms of Savannah

 

Foggy Savannah

Treetops obscured in cloud
The day wakes with resound
The higher you go, denser the cloud
Swallowing the city in shroud
A blanket of weather touching my head.

I plod down Liberty Street, a quiet tread
Muted by the undertones of grey
I tuck myself into Mirabelle to stay
With my pen scribbling jots in view
The cathedral standing graceful in hue
While towers rising into fog raising eyes
To the ultimate source, a surprise
To most who pass by, with astonished gaze
Maybe a moment their heart to God, so raise.

Savannah always charms me. Not only do I get to spend some time with my dearest friend and hang a bit with her husband and two daughters, but I get to explore the downtown history, bookshops, southern hospitality, architecture, cafes, and old traditions (like horse drawn carriages slowly clonking down the streets with tourists riding along wearing big grins). I've been coming here for many years, so it hold memories of different visits, always with my friend joining into my days, and I am deeply thankful for that time with her.

We met up again for a day of exploring and visiting the bookshops and squares I gaze at with googly eyes. One of her daughters joined for the fun, and hopefully she enjoyed these excursions! We ate at a cafe deli enjoying lunch and hot tea (for her) iced matcha (for me). Highlight of the day was visiting Flannery O'Connor's childhood home, which sits on Lafayette Square, across from the cathedral where she and her parents attended. From the upstairs parent's bedroom there is a lovely view across the square and the cathedral towers rise into view over the tallest tree branches. 

I've wanted to visit Flannery's home for so many years, but it is not a drop-in kind of place. You need to book a tour ahead of time, and they limit the number of people, of course. The tour was such a delight. Our guide was a passionate appreciator of Flannery, and we learned many stories, history, and insights. We learned how the family came to live in such a beautiful home (thanks to their cousin Katie's generous spirit as she "adopted" them all). Flannery's name is Mary Flannery, which was how she was known to all her family and friends. I feel like I can call her Mary Flannery now that I've spent time hanging out in her home.

The fate of Flannery's family took a big turn when cousin Katie adopted them, giving them super low rent to live there and implementing fancy upgrades like gold molding picture ledges, other architectural elements, and the first refrigerator on the market. This is all during the great depression, which puts it all into perspective. Cousin Katie even had an electric car, yes in 1929!  The stories of Flannery were so fun: she was six years old when she told her parents that her childhood was over and she henceforth would call them by their first names, which she did from then on. When she was little she wrote critiques of all her books inside the front cover, whether it was a good or bad book. One children's book on display was opened to show inside the cover she wrote "not a very good book" and then initialed it, signing her authority. A very early book critic.

I've read some of the stories and the prayer book by Flannery. Visiting her home was the perfect excuse to buy another book by Flannery (Mystery and Manners), which I've already read now (and it was amazing), and feeling inspired to read much more, as she was the kind of person and writer worthy of being read and appreciated. True to her beliefs, independent, not afraid to speak her mind, she wrote "grotesque" stories that accentuate our sinful natures to show the opportunity for grace in each story, in which the character can make that choice. Her Catholic faith shines through her writings. 

The rest of the day was filled with more wanders, more book shopping, browsing, enjoying the glorious weather that still had a chill in the air, then stopping for burrito bowls for dinner. What a delightful time, and I acted like I was on holiday!

Dusk in Savannah

 

The writer operates at a peculiar crossroads where time and place and eternity somehow meet.
- Flannery O'Connor

It is starting to get dark in Savannah. The sky is changing to a milky blue above the old trees in Madison Square. The city feels moody and atmospheric. I wander around Madison Square in my favourite part of the historic downtown taking photos and smiling. The light is fading and changing the shape of shadows. Tree limbs form different canopies overhead as the glow from the lamps and leaves scattered all over bring me into an Autumnal mood. It is a mystifying vibe, seemingly on the edge of something, like an entrance into faerie might be at that lamppost. 

The feeling of this place is full of history at the same time, colliding with the mystical world of faerie. The leaves scatter across the grassy spaces, tall gallant trees border the paths, lanky in branch and limb, full of leaves. Lamps adorning the dark as dusk sweeps in while the sky high above the trees can be seen through the dappled clearings as crystal blue fading to a dusky grey. 

With the light fading I take photos and try to capture the scene and mood. It's hard to capture a feeling of a place in a photo, but looking down a path with leaves strewn and lamps glowing is a good start. It's a nice 57 degrees.

I had to take advantage of a dusk stroll. Thanks to my wait time at the restaurant, I got to take the square stroll taking photos. The squares get a bit spooky after dark, but at dusk it's magically mysterious and marvelous. It doesn't hurt that a favourite bookshop sits at the corner of the square. I dashed into it when I arrived, staying until they closed, picking up an essential book after saying hello to one the cats.

I really enjoy this area. The tree-lined streets and two bookshops within a couple blocks. A couple coffee shops close, too, all nestled within a short walk from one another. The old southern architecture is all around, and the charm greets you along any walk.

At last I am seated at the restaurant, outside along the sidewalk. Normally I am not a big fan of eating outside, but tonight it's perfect. A large oak tree is the canopy over me with strings of chunky twinkle lights intertwined. It's much quieter outside than in the restaurant anyway, and I write in my notebook the whole time. It does get chillier and chillier the longer I sit there, but I don't mind too much. Warm food is coming, fresh fries and a pumpkin curry that is out of this world delicious. I jot more notes and feel the thrill of a little adventure, enjoying every bite and every jot.