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.

That Book on the Table

 

That book on the table - don't leave home without it. Don't let your feet depart your home without a book in your bag. That's my simple motto. Maybe I don't get to read it, but maybe I will. Waiting for someone to arrive to meet you? Read. Grabbing a coffee or meal on your own? Read. 

This January has been glorious for my winter-loving heart. I am sad to see the month come to its end. The cold, crisp days, and dry air that makes you feel alive and like you want to take a good, long walk. The sun is welcomed to warm the air and a jacket is needed. Warm drinks are enjoyed most often. You look for reasons to be outside, no sweating as you step out. The sky is crisp blue.  High cirrus clouds are wisps of ice crystals streaking across the sky. Venus shines brightly in the sky after sunset. Jupiter has been showing up as well. Blankets are needed and add a cosiness to your evening. 

I could go on and on in my (probably unpopular) opinion, but I didn't even mention the perfect environment to read lots of books! I am reading The Way of a Pilgrim, a collection of tales by an unknown pilgrim, discovered in 1884 in Russia. There has been a lot of speculation about who the pilgrim was. The tales are told through the eyes of this wandering Russian Orthodox pilgrim, who is on his way on a lifelong journey. It's warming tales of simple joys, suffering, then comfort, mistreatment encountered in the world, then some relief and glory to God. Meeting kind strangers on the road. Being offered bread for the journey. The ideas throughout the book circle around prayer and consistent prayer - praying at all times. What does that look like? The pilgrim wonders this and wanders asking this of everyone he meets. The pilgrim says the Jesus Prayer all day until he is breathing it like it's as natural in his daily habits as his walking from place to place each day. 

I grew so used to the prayer of the heart that I practised it without ceasing, and finally I felt that the prayer was functioning entirely of its own accord and repeating itself in my mind and heart without any effort on my part, not only when I was awake, but also in my sleep, so that nothing interrupted it for even a second, no matter what I was doing. My soul praised God continuously and my heart overflowed with unceasing joy.

The book is spiritual guidance in a gentle way, showing dependence on God we can scarcely imagine today. The only thing we can truly rely on is God, and His love and grace towards us that we don't deserve. He finds this out in multiple ways as he journeys through various trials. He loses his precious books as they are stolen from him. After a time of mourning, he stumbles across the thieves and gets his books back. He learnt in the meantime not to rely on the books for his devotions. Do we stay faithful when things are rough? Are we keeping our eyes fixed on the Lord? When we don't have answers? When we feel alone?

This book is encouragement for the road we are all on, in different places and levels of understanding. We will never fully understand. But faith leads us to trust in the Lord, whose ways are higher than ours.

The monk continued to persuade me that the very words of the Gospels contained a beneficial power, since they recorded what God Himself had said, "You don't need to understand, you must simply read diligently. According to one saint, you might not understand the Word of God but the demons do and they tremble with fear..."

January Days

 

The cold earth slept below;

         Above the cold sky shone;

                And all around,

                With a chilling sound,

From caves of ice and fields of snow

The breath of night like death did flow

                Beneath the sinking moon.

(Percy Bysshe Shelley)

I wake up to the cold air - undeniably wintry in the 30s. Blankets on my bed keep me cosy all night, but getting out of those warm covers seems a daunting task. But! These are the Winter days so rare around these southern parts. We don't have caves of ice and fields of snow, but we sure do have a cold earth sleeping below the cold sky. In all Shelley's beautiful words there underneath is a dreaded feeling, like death on the breath of night. His life was tragic and in opposition to the beauty that life had to offer, yet somehow he was able to create such beauty through his words that can often trace in their sources back to the source of all, God. He may have rejected God in his own rebellious ideas yet I can't help but appreciate his talent and use of language. He may have seen some wintry night as dreadful and bitter, set out under the moon to visit. That may be how many people feel when it is bitterly cold and icy. When there seems to be no end to the darkened days. 

When the sun has shone these recent days, it hasn't warmed the land. The air still holds onto that icy blast from the north, and I delight in it. The difference of season, the utter relish of inspired cold that sets my mind to all the creative things. Poems pop into my head, words and ideas spring up like blooms shedding bulbs, and I seek to be outside with nature in this change of weather. Colder, much colder than usual. This kind of weather always splits me into two - one part of me wants to be outside on walks letting this cold sink into me as I explore and see the world with fresh eyes (once a summer zone now a winter wonder) letting my mind wander as my feet wander, and the other part of me wants to sit with a cup of coffee/tea donning a thick sweater to write novels and stories, poems, and discourses on the weather or stories related to my inspired state.

Every true artist does feel, consciously or unconsciously, that he is touching transcendental truths; that his images are shadows of things seen through the veil. In other words, the natural mystic does know that there is something there; something behind the clouds or within the trees; but he believes that the pursuit of beauty is the way to find it; that imagination is a sort of incantation that can call it up. 
(The Everlasting Man)

I read G.K. Chesterton's The Everlasting Man every morning with my coffee and warm porridge. I am getting close to finishing it now. A re-read of this was essential and I am enjoying it so much. He tells the story/history of all mankind through the lens of the Christian story, the ultimate Story. He reminds us that we don't know the details of prehistoric man, as they were pre-history. The myths and pagan ideas of early history all unfold, manifested in a worship of nature. The hopelessness of fallen civilizations from Troy to Carthage lead up to the strangest story in the world. Jesus was not just a teacher, for those who claim Christianity is like the other religions. Not the case. None of the other heads of religions like Buddha or Mohammed claimed to be God. Jesus does. He turns everything upside down in our world. He is either a lunatic, or God incarnate. It's the strangest story of all. All the old myths, new myths, fairytales, etc are not pagan, but Christian. As Chesterton writes, the world of Peter Pan doesn't belong to the world of Pan, but the world of Peter.

That is the paradox; everything that is merely approaching to that point is merely receding from it. Socrates, the wisest man, knows that he knows nothing. A lunatic may think he is omniscience, and a fool may talk as if he were omniscient. But Christ is in another sense omniscient if he not only knows, but knows that he knows...
This is where it was a fulfillment of the myths rather than of the philosophies; it is a journey with a goal and an object, like Jason going to find the Golden Fleece, or Hercules the golden apples of the Hesperides. The gold that he was seeking was death. The primary thing he was going to do was to die. 
(The Everlasting Man)

It all leads to purpose fulfilled, the story isn't an aimless wandering around. It is the embrace of ultimate sacrifice. What a joy - we get to be (undeservedly) part of this divine purpose.