Of the Stones of Oxford

I wrote a few weeks ago that the academics were looming ahead of me, challenging and beautiful. Now, I am in the midst of those hard parts of the structure of Oxford. Exactly 48 hours ago, I lay in bed at 1:30 AM and realized that all the research I had done toward a paper on Freud would get me no where. I needed to change topics. And, I needed to write this paper by Wednesday. And, I had signed up to cook dinners two nights this week for our food groups. And I was on kitchen cleaning duty this whole week. And, I was leaving for Paris in four days and still needed to work everything out with the folks I was staying with. I had reached the impossible mountain, and still only at the beginning of term.

I closed my eyes and whispered the words of C.S. Lewis I have so often whispered in those moments at 1:30 in the morning when you realize there is no possible way, "All this trying leads up to the vital moment at which we turn to God and say, 'You must do this; I cannot.' " And, there was nothing else to do. All my time management skills flew out the window with my Freud paper. Suddenly, and due to no neglect on my part, I was faced with researching and writing a 8 page paper in forty-eight hours. But, at least I didn't have to go it alone.

And somehow, Somehow!, beyond all human possiblity, I just finished the last sentences of that paper. 2,036 words, all about two people I had never heard of 48 hours ago. Everything looks to unfold perfectly with the meals, the dishes, Paris...

God is so good!

Of Hampton Court Palace

The paper stewing safely in its own juices, I shall take joy in turning away from writing to come to my blog and...write more.

Hampton Court Palace has been built and rebuilt during various eras. Some walls housed Henry VIII, some commissioned by James and his queen. Whispers ring down the halls of ancient spectres and vines cover up the cracks in the brilliant brick. The painted Roman busts have lost their sheen, but not their potency; an almost reverent atmosphere fills the air with once graced the presence of the Monarchs of Antiquity.

Yet, England has so often brought me the Feeling (that deep and almost painful yet beautiful one of seeing the rustic, the important, and the ancient) that I failed to regain it for some time, even in the palace. Here had the royals walked, and yet... It left me cold. Pleasantly cool, at least. The garden was beautiful and the company was absolutely wonderful. The tapestries hung in their sedate splendor on the walls, but somehow (even in my acknowledgement of the wonders surrounding me!), my historic paths did not bring what they always had.

Then, I came to the bathing room of Queen Anne. Behind the elaborate wall stood the grand tub, lavish. But, in front of the wall, a set of her possessions were displayed. In the center was her mirror.

The window at my back, my face was cast in shadow as I looked at it through the glass. The sunlight lit up my hair and left my blue eyes dark. I saw the face which had briefly greeted me every morning, then turned away to become more familiar to all others than to myself. There is a strange feeling in seeing oneself in the glass.

All other times, we depend on others to know ourselves. But at the glass, you stand there looking through yourself, beholding that which you know the least about in yourself. And, in that mirror, the Queen had seen herself. There, she had seen her eyes, her hair, her imperfections. Her perfections. This bore her back to herself without any flattery, any forgiveness.

And a mirror would have been rare in those days. Perhaps it was the royalty who needed it the most-something to keep their hold of who they really were. Almost less of a luxury than a punishment. No one but the royalty had to look their own selves in the eyes each morning, and no one needed to as much as the royalty.

The familiar lump filled my throat and my heart went deep. Here was the Feeling. It is a telling thing that it came from seeing myself reflected in antiquity. I love when the literal and the figurative merge.

Hampton Court was altogether beautiful, despite the tarnished silver, the clouding mirrors, and the fact that I never got to see the much-admired kitchens.

Mappae Mundi

As if titling the blog in Italian wasn't bad enough, I have to go and title a post in Latin. Sorry, friends. I promise I'll write it in English. Not knowing any other languages, I can be trusted to do that much.

The name means "world maps", the topic of the paper I'm writing this week. 2000 words should not be difficult to compose on the subject, considering that the subject has filled countless large, well-illustrated volumes (most of which my eyes have encountered in some way or other this week). Yet, those last 200 words (precisely!) elude me.

And somehow, getting on my blog and telling you about it has failed to add any more words to that precise, insensitive word count.

So, in the medieval mindset maps were not primarily for geographic use. Maps were created in order to teach the viewer about the world. The whole world-not just the physical aspects.
In those ages, before Locke and Hume, the physical and the spiritual had not been divorced in the minds of men. The allegory of the world meant that the physical truths led the complete soul into a greater understanding of the spiritual.

Here, John Calvin was tragically wrong--discarding the physical in favor of the spiritual. The Medievals understood that each aspect of reality unites to give us a full picture of the world-spiritual as much as physical.

They are oriented (thus the east or "orient" is at the top, instead of the north), because Christ's return is coming from the east. In the center of the earth (they reverently call it "the navel of Christ"...kind of funny), Jerusalem stands. Every single aspect of these maps teaches about the geographic, spiritual, historical, and political.

I wish medieval ages hadn't died away and we could still teach all those things at once with the beauty and simplicity of those times. What does Mapquest reveal about our age, I wonder?

The marvellous ruins

Yesterday, we took the trip of which I had heard startling rumors last spring

Some say that as the group went to Stonehenge in their double-decker coach, they nearly fell off a cliff and had to jump for their lives.

The story was a bit exagerrated and warped (though not as much as I had expected to find). On our journey to Old Sarum, Salisbury Cathedral, and Stonehenge, we were informed of the truth. The bus had, apparently, nearly toppled into the great ditches around Sarum, dug to keep invaders at bay. Well-planned ditches--made with foresight. It isn't every ancient civilization that can anticipate the technology of millenia to follow, and adequately defend against it.

We parked at the foot of the hill. Just a bit of history as we climb that edifice--Old Sarum is a military fort, with a great ditch dug all the way around in the Iron Age ( between 775-743 BC), and another, greater ditch dug around in the Roman Age (43-407). There once stood a castle and a cathdral. Now, there stand only the remains of crumbled stone walls, worn by the wind and rain. The stones shone dully.

We passed the deep barricades to the site of the long-ago castle and cathedral. There we were, among the standing ruins overgrown with moss and lichen. All around us was impossibly green, healthy grass and impossibly old, mythic land. A hundred guests were entertained among these very walls. Back when they were the most majestic rooms of the island. Back when a roof connected them.

Back when the works of man were whole.

Now, we stood amidst the crumbling ruins which had once held so firmly together that men could not disjoin them. At last, gentle water had done what men could not.

More impacting than the swept castle were the ruins of the cathedral. We climbed down into the earth, where the bishop's treasury once was. Now, it is empty, and the grand room in the heart of earth opens up to the heavens. All nature fills it's windows, now. In brokenness, the bishop's treasury holds its greatest riches.

So was Old Sarum--filled with a commentary on eternity.

From there, we went to Salisbury Cathedral, with its 404 foot tower. We felt every step of the climb we took (and we did not go to the very top). Out among the gargoyles, we behold an unspeakable view which made me glad, for once, that it was not raining. God through the ages had made all that was in sight flourish in the most brilliant reds and greens.

The sunbeams through the clouds alighted softly on the countryside and every eye which took in that sight must crave to see such beauty in vain until they behold the magnificence of the angels. (I do not compare to seeing God, for seeing God will be so much greater that I will not act as if there is any comparision between He who is the Maker of Beauty and His creation).

On our ascent, I marvelled at the craft of worship. Where I sit with a pen and pour out praise in rhyme, others bear rock and ore to astounding heights and, with humble beauty, offer a hymn of the sky-line to the Lord.

Oh, that my poems might be a cathedral! That people could enter into my worship to create more worship! The fecundity of God's glory is breath-taking. Ever bit of it, properly proclaimed, multiplies in the ear and eye which had no hand in its formation, and sends more glory to God. If love is good to gain because the gaining of it by one man increases its bounty among all men at large (unlike gold, where one man's gain is another's loss), then worship is the same. Every act of worship makes a temple, wherein more can echo their worship to the One and Only Lord of Hosts.

To walk through the Cathedral was to imagine what songs had echoed here, what young words of Luther, when those texts made their way this far, and what prayers breathed out in anguish have long since been answered.

Another remarkable construction was nearby (perhaps a sort of worship, as God is just and praise of justice must relate to praise of God). One of four remaining original copies of the Magna Carta, copied after the signing of the original by King John and sent throughout England so that all would know of the agreement. The eyes that first glanced across these words beheld a revolution in thought, like nothing they had ever seen before. This manuscript reformed the workings of English thought and even the world's understanding of its leadership.

As a friend remarked, "They're so humble about it." Certainly, the Cathedral folk were. Unlike the Declaration of Independence back home, there was little fan-fare or signage to draw attention to it. The Magna Carta spoke for itself.

I have little to say regarding Stonehenge, I'm afraid. Suffice it to say that I have no idea how it was built, but all of the ingenuity of the construction and design seems to spark its viewers into their own kind of creativity. Everyone comes up with the cleverest pictures around Stonehenge.

Good job, you faithful ones who made it all the way through! Pat yourself on the back.

A week of Brittania

On Monday, we received a lot of tea and several lectures of orrientation.

There was one moment when I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that I was home with these folk. A room full of 60 odd scholars--the lecturer says, "And you have every text written in English before 1850 available, online." The students looked like a little league team who just heard that Babe Ruth would be their coach. Grins were broad and eager, and excited whispering filled the room. It was a shiny moment in the life of a recovering nerd.

The week has been exciting and a bit frightening. We are to expect a plethora of writing and research, and will be graded in a manner meant to encourage progress. The rolling hills and inviting grassy planes remain, yet the stone towers of Oxford have come a bit more into focus. There are hard matters here, though the hardest may be the most beautiful of all.

With Schama and various British professors as guides through the years of Britain, our motley crew has sailed through the history of the aged isle from the Mesolithic period to the 13th century. I love my dear Biola and all my professors at it, but there is something marvellous about learning from someone speaking in a British accent. Every words sounds dignified.

The weather has been beautiful. For the first time in my life, I have had to purchase an umbrella. It's a wonderful souvenir, since it has the crest of Wycliffe Hall (my college) on it, and shall stay in good condition when I return to California, as I will have little need for its use.

I could write a whole post on the rain, but since I have been told by some that they are actually kindly reading this blog, I will not submit an audience to the ravings of the desert girl. Especially because my fellow Oxford students may be reading this and some may be less cordial to me if they knew I prayed for this sort of weather.

There is the week, save for the field trips. In the interest of this particular post not dragging on for always, I shall write on them seperately.

Old Sarum

Above us rise the fragile walls of stone
Which once were privy to the royal speech
Of ancient kings and mythic knights, unknown,
Which history has lost the will to teach.

Within the granite walls of high repute,
Such warriors of noble blood were met
Before the roaring hearth to tell dispute
Of wars now known, which then were worries, yet.

The majesty of proud and ancient halls
This day is pilfered to the bare remains
And lore the stones once echoed pass recall,
Though, still, the stone an echo faint retains.

Here, down below the height of level ground
We stand amidst the bishop’s treasury
Of stone and rock which heaven’s light has found
Since guarding roof betrayed the rectory.

That shield, blocking sun, now torn away,
Once-captived windows recreate the roof
And open up the heart of earth to day
To welcome growth where gold once piled, aloof.

The clouds and winds and every tree and beast
Now form what wealth is viewed in ancient cell.
In brokenness, and at its very least,
The treasury its greatest riches held.

The first Sunny Day in England

Today, I returned to town with one comrade from yesterday. We made the long treck to the Eagle and the Child, where we ate lunch.

Upon ordering bacon and eggs, I discovered that British bacon is entirely different than American bacon. It is not a thin slice, but rather a chunk of meat, almost as thick as it is long. It seemed very British, which was a pleasant surprise, as I thought I had not been adventurous enough.

Thus, we sat in the pub of the Inklings, excitely saying things like, "These walls once echoed the voices of Lewis and Tolkien, breathing the words of Narnia and Middle Earth aloud for the first time! Latin and Greek and Elvish have filled this space and there at the bar, brilliant minds have spoken the same words we have (for they ate bacon as well, no doubt). Here, people discussed the forming of our very nation! (Probably with less than fond words...). This pub has stood longer than the Constitution of our country. And some of its signers may have come here in their younger days."

It was exciting.

[More unremarkable shopping.]

We made our way to Crick Street for tea at 3:30. There, I mingled from a seated position with all who came near enough to speak with. The tea was excellent and the cookies very, very chocolately, but far more remarkable were the people. Everyone was so friendly and quarky and jolly. I cannot wait to get to know them better than I do now.

We left Crick for the Anglican church, St. Andrews. I have never stepped inside of a lovelier building. The stained glass windows must be gorgeous in the light! The stone bricks had the comfort of stability-they looked neither untested by time nor too worn to last. The high ceiling echoed our resounding praise to God so that every voice was lost in a general song each one shared. The sound of our harmony, our words, our praise of grace, made that magnificent church like the curtains of my room. The building offered a threshhold between the worshippers and the Worshipped. The aged walls, erected in praise to God, seemed to fall away and the veil flitted so that the angel choirs could almost be heard in a voiceless echo.

The service was wonderful, and I have rarely seen so animated a preacher, particularly speaking on the passage which has tragically been blurred by cliche-John 3 on being born again.

I think I will return to St. Andrews.

From there, we walked home and I plugged in my newly purchased adaptor and started to write more here. There we are! Caught up at last!

From the Vines

Saturday morn, I awoke late and decided that I was definitely in need of a working alarm clock. Noting that I had not eaten since the breakfast on the plane, I consumed the chocolate bar the dear Junior Deans had given each of us with our orrientation packets.

I briefly prayed that someone else would be headed into town that I might safely join them, and journeyed downstairs. At once, I met with a group on their way out, and took to the path alongside them. The path was an enchanting one, a feast for the eyes of the girl from the desert. Conversation was merry, and often turned itself to our surroundings. The walls were aged and crumbled with the centuries. They were magnificient. No painting of any historical moment looked like history more than these ancient bricks.

We came to a bridge, called the Magdeline. The river below was flowing well, as rain has apparently been rather constant here. But, our eyes were not lowered. We heard the chime of ringing bells. Before us, a tree allowed the spires of one edifice to be glimpsed. Those towers pointing toward the heaven let our eyes join our ears and hearts. Heaven above was praised in all that I beheld, heard, and felt.

Through town we ventured and bought those daily things which are too mundane to blog about. I am in Oxford and will tell you tales of the spires, but not of my shampoo and outlet adaptors.

We returned to the Vines for a BBQ (apparently of a British fashion). My first meal in Oxford! Throughout this time, I spoke with old and new friends and generally slipped toward slumber. After a game of Mafia, then another, the evening was done. I went to fill my new diary and do devotions for the day.

The City of Dreaming Spires

So it was coined by the poets, and so shall I call my newly beloved Oxford.

On Friday, I walked the rather rustic path of Pullens Lane, along with Andrea. The air was filled with a rain almost like a mist. (I have experienced more different types of rain in these three days than I ever new existed. There is some which hangs in the air; some which you see falling all around, but you barely feel; big fat drops or tiny ones. Forrest Gump's description of the types of rain is brought to mind.) Between the trees overhanging our path, and the suitcases dragged behind us, we felt rather like we were on our way to camp.

Within the Vines (our great, British brick home), we received room keys from our lovely junior deans. I climbed the stairs to the first floor (British first floor is American second floor), and entered my room.

And saw the breath-taking sight for which any lover of creation, beauty, and England would have begged on her hands and knees to possess. Our eastern wall is nearly entirely taken up by the front window of the Vines. Fifty panes of glass--fifty framed masterpieced of sky and land and foliage. Even a lamppost. All fifty were lined by off-white wooden frames.

On each side, at least three yards apart, hang two unimposing curtains. Their know their place in beside the beauty of God's creation, and do not flash with color to seek glory for themselves but humbly (and remarkably) do the duty of curtains. They soften the edges of the window-frame to keep the eye from being entirely convinced that the natural artwork of the outdoors has ended and the inner walls have abruptly begun.

In room 7, I met another friend of far more esteem and worth, my rommate Bethany. She and I chatted for some time before I simply could not be awake any longer and fell asleep, thereby missing orrientation. In the evening, I met my other roommate, Katie, after listening to her and several friends discuss schools. After some sociallizing (including a trip to The Eagle and the Child, famed pub of the Inklings), I went to bed, again.

Thus ended Friday.

The Sceptred Isle

The plane ride was long, though I had prepared well for the length. I listened to Dante and watched the single star which had remained in sight all the night, as it slipped further from view. It lasted through the end of the Paradise. The movies and music and every comfort of United Airlines could do little to entertain me. Oxford was coming, but still hours away. Eventually, I settled into watching the map as we passed Greenland and Iceland. While sunlight crossed the western part of Europe, land came into sight. Ireland.

Then, the clouds began. The brown and gray below flitted in and out of sight, slowly replaced by green. Paths wound between sprawling grassy hills and vales, connecting together the grand homes below us. Here had Shakespeare lifted a quill like no man before or since. Here had Cranmer shaped the prayers of generations to the One True King. Here had the Bible first been put in English.

And here would I soon study, eat, breathe. Dwell. These grassy knolls would fill my pages; these aged and crumbling walls would prove that time could never sate my appetite for eternity; these cars and double-decker buses would bear me to the remote places, to nooks the locals did not find enchanting.

We wound between the clouds, my eyes ever roving for the vibrant green of the sceptred isle beyond the soft white.

At last, we landed. I found myself in England. All things were new and bright. The signs were British, the bathrooms were toilets, and the folk who aided me in becoming less lost all called me "love", which is an entirely endearing custom of theirs.

I mounted the coach and easily passed through the rainy countryside, where all things were filled with wonder, and my eyes could not open wide enough to take them in. This was a land of grazing sheep and drizzling clouds. This was a land of streets which refuse the signage of America, which might distract from the countryside.

This was the land of which I had read throughout my life. I could not fully believe that I had come to England.