Ruminations on Ruminations at Oxford

The year at Oxford wasn’t what I expected it to be, and I’m OK with that. In all honesty, I don’t quite remember what I was expecting my time there to be like while preparing myself last summer, reading up on the differences between American and British English, talking with friends who had spent time at the University, buying jars of peanut butter to stow away in suitcases...just in case. We often hear people say that things we’ve yet to experience rarely meet our expectations, and I often understood failed predictions invariably as disappointed predictions. There wasn’t breathing room in my life-philosophy for surprise, or at least a conscious embrace of surprise, “surprise” defined as the flouting of what we had expected. Certainly, there is a range of pleasantness to surprises: the flat tire on my bike that greeted me a few weeks ago deserved a grimace and accompanying “ugh.” Disappointment is a real thing. However, what matters is the posture with which we approach the betrayal of our expectations, whether we choose to play along with the new direction or respond with bitter reluctance. Wallace Stevens saw life as a stream down which we ought merrily, merrily, merrily row our boats, whistling a tune as though life were but a dream in which we were whisps of smoke.

This notion of “choosing our response to life’s circumstances” tended to strike me as the kind of pitiful, embarrassing guidance you might find in a spineless self-help book. I held a philosophy that valued grief and disappointment as somehow more poignant than joy and gladness, seeing the latter two as exhibited by the slightly ignorant and/or delusional. I had unwittingly adopted a kind of scholar’s melancholy: the realest feelings are the heaviest feelings, and levity is mere flippancy in the face of the human condition. An irony of my year at philosophical Oxford is that, of all places in the world, this was the one where my imagination began to thaw as I discovered and embraced the “joyful laughter that echoes through Creation” as some theologian put it. I had not expected this, and celebrate the surprise.

CS Lewis played an integral role in this spring awakening, as though his mirth reached through heavenly spans into my life. Other’s words can do that, can reach across generations and personalities to meaningfully grace our lives. One of my tutorials was on Lewis’s writings, which meant that I was in constant , if pretend, conversation with him – my mind was always full with his thoughts, words, delightfully witty prose, and insight. A central theme I discovered in his work was his notion of a jovial reality: at its core, the universe in which we live springs from beneficence and love, that it isn’t the victim (or result) of meaningless, destructive chaos. Having matured during the height of the Modernist movement, Lewis recognized a disconcerting cultural trend that assumed the latter perception about reality, which was undoubtedly influenced by the two World Wars. This notion bothered Lewis, who had fought in WWI and lived near London during the Nazi bombing raids of WWII, for he saw it as an alarming and unreasonable turn from belief in a loving God who cares for each of his beings, flaws, virtues, and peculiarities included, yet who allows them to act of their own accord.

For Lewis, grief, disappointment, and pain were real things, and each had significant weight in his life. Yet he found a deep conviction in providence, in “the laughter of things beyond the tears of things,” as Frederick Buechner puts it. The laughter of Sarah at the news of her pregnancy, her son who she ends up naming Isaac, Hebrew for “laughter.” The laughter of the lame man made healthy near the pool called “Beautiful.” The laughter of a mangy, broke street performer when you plop your bag of loose change at his feet. The laughter when you feel the embrace of a loved one after months apart.

It seems to me that Lewis’s confidence in a joyful reality came from his belief that when we pray “Thy Kingdom come,” God’s Kingdom really does come through into our world in the midst of our loneliness and confusion and sorrow and helplessness. We often imagine God’s Kingdom coming as a shocking, publicized, international political overthrow, something that declares itself in flashing lights, yet Jesus talked about it differently, describing it as like finding a buried diamond, or as yeast working in a loaf of bread. It’s a surprise when we notice it, yet it’s happening all around us, inside and outside of church walls, through Christians and nonChristians alike. It’s happening in particulars. It isn’t happening in a way measurable by our mechanical standards, as though we could post time lines that measure incremental Kingdom-arrival like donations for building projects: Creation will always be groaning until the end of time.

Until then, God’s Kingdom – his rule, his way of doing things – is sprouting up like fresh grass through cracks in a city sidewalk. It has taken some time for this notion of God working his redeeming, restoring way into our world to sink in, probably because my imagining of his Kingdom is so influenced by stories of coercive, heartless, industrial and capital expansion that deal in abstract numbers and impersonal aims; our imaginations need re-training to recover realities of God’s character and love and joy.

While preparing to head to Oxford, I imagined that I would meet intelligent people, read and write overwhelmingly much, and learn a different culture. These things all happened, in one way or another, yet I could never have predicted the conversations I would have, what I actually would read and write and learn, how I would change. These particulars invariably surprised me. I grew thankful of the surprises, and began to trust what I had known all along, that God loves us, that he works to fill our lives with joy as we seek and honor him. It’s a continual process, marked with uncertainty, fumbling, and grace, this seeking to live in relationship with God, yet, as we do, we learn that, beyond all religious jargon and institutionally-general assertions of God’s love from churches and churchmembers alike, God knows our hearts and our stories. He knows what we need to discover life, real life, and leads us to these sustenances. Discovering the reality of this particular love is a perpetual epiphany, one that confirms in our souls the best thing: it’s good to be who we are, where we are, alive. We need reminding. A quote from “American Beauty:”

“…That's the day I knew there was this entire life behind things and…this incredibly benevolent force, that wanted me to know there was no reason to be afraid, ever. Video's a poor excuse, I know. But it helps me remember... and I need to remember... Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world I feel like I can't take it, like my heart's going to cave in.”

And this picture of a hot air balloon above the University:

Welcoming May in an Oxonian Way

After a substantial hiatus, here is something I've written about the recent past. Over the last few months, I've traveled about a handful of countries, Britain included, and plan to write on those soon. Soon, of course, is a relative term.

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May Day in Oxford has traditionally been one of its biggest festivals: local pubs remain open all night on April 30^th (normally they close around 11.30), people dress in all types of folksy outfits, and the atmosphere is one of communal jollity, all culminating early the following morning when the town (at least those who wake up, or fortunately, and maybe a bit drunkenly, find their way, in time) congregates in front of Magdalen College’s chapel tower to hear the boys’ choir sing hymns to the rising sun. Afterward, Oxford students traditionally attempt to jump off of the Magdalen bridge into a branch of the Thames, though police have attempted to quell this effort in past years because numerous youth have broken legs on the riverbed – Oxford students, mind you. Whoops.

Though I opted for a few hours of sleep instead of the typically-collegiate all-night romp, I greeted the morning before sunrise and biked over to the bridge with my pajama shorts under a pair of jeans and a fleece to cover my sleep-drowsy head. The morning cold woke me enough to keep my balance on the bike, a welcome aid.

Weaving through the people sardined in front of Magdalen’s tower was a strange experience in itself: though I often hear people, and philosophers (who are people too), wonder if they have experienced something in reality or a dream, I could never honestly relate. Dreams were always weird or recognizable enough to be easily delineated from reality. However, this morning was slightly different, as I was still drowsy from rising, and the most of the people I saw were drowsy from the evening’s activities. Thankfully, I had my camera along with me, and can verify that, yes there were two girls and a guy fighting one another with blow-up rafts while sitting on the shoulders of friends and, yes that kid was wearing a white, three-foot hat and strumming half-hearted songs on guitar.

The choir arrived on top of the tower around 6.30, an hour after the sun had officially risen (I checked the national sunrise charts the night before to determine when I really had to wake), evidenced by the small, robed arms waving through the stone fences 44 meters (Oxford’s tallest building) above the restless and weary and merry heads. Though the morning had been mostly cloudy, the sun began peeking through blue sky at this time, and it seems that the choir director wanted to wait for this visibility for the song to start. On this morning, he gets to determine when the day begins, and it felt like we were all waiting for a new year to begin, waiting for the angelic melody to declare the day to our ready ears.

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The song the choir sang sounded similar to those I have heard at the Evensong services, those hauntingly beautiful services often sparsely attended and usually only by older members of the community that have attended from the days when their parents would bring them each evening for the daily rituals of traditional English Anglican services, who know when to kneel and when to turn and when to begin to pray: I know. I watch and follow them.

Hearing the choir sing on this morning was different in the chilling morning breeze, squeezed in the crowd of delirious and delighted and rude and hilarious strangers gathered to celebrate at an ungodly-made-Godly hour, awaiting the sun and glad at its arrival. We weren’t hearing the hymns in a silently melancholy chapel, careful not to stir, self-conscious to see if we conformed to the established rituals, isolated in our pews. People heard the Medieval Latin hymns carried clear from above the hush of the crowd, people who have heard the Christ-story so many times from Christians desperate to reach this tired, post-Christian culture that the mention of Christ sets them either to laughter, defensiveness, or exasperation. People who have stopped going to Church, or people who go to Church because it’s so embedded in their lives as a norm that they don’t think about it as Church, as meeting for worship, but as What You Do on Sunday Morning.

We listened to the hymn as humans, weary and glad and alive, united for a moment in upward-looking thankfulness that the day had arrived, and in that moment something snuck past those “watchful dragons,” as CS Lewis puts it, those criticisms or questions or hardnesses that guard the hearts of people from God’s beauty and love and risenness.

After the first hymn, Magdalen’s Dean of Divinity read a benediction during which his congregation returned to their day, to their friends, to stories from the night before, to questions of where breakfast will be had and where Mike’s shoes might be: liturgy broke the spell.

As I rode back to St. Catz on my bike, I wondered if the morning at the bridge would be significant for some of those present, or if it would merely file in line, insubstantial amongst the other happenings of May-Day eve. Recent reflection shows me that it was significant in my life, though only time shows us the experiences that endure and shape us as we gaze retrospectively through our personal and communal histories.

The Girl

Forewarning: For those who have recently (and by recently I mean "In the last two months") begun to read my blog, and have recognized a particular pattern in the posts, mainly the "Studying/Living in Oxford" aspect, this post, while relating with the "Studying/Living in Oxford" aspect, will diverge to slightly more a more personal topic, that of friends. One friend in particular. One friend who is a girl in particular. So, if you'd like to hear more about Oxford specifically, I'd like to direct you to either Wikipedia or to Chao Ren's blog, the other student from Illinois Wesleyan studying at Oxford for the year. He's a jolly, warm man, and has a very big smile.

The beginning of this past week was not the highlight of my time here, for reasons I couldn't identify, analyze, and solve. Reading and writing on Shakespeare has not been overly overwhelming as of late, having found a good rhythm of reading and studying his works. It's fascinating to me how quickly one can learn a new language with diligence and patience; for those of you who have read Shakespeare, you may relate with the sense of learning how he shapes ideas, phrases, characters. It's very much a language of his own. Anyway, the work I was doing didn't necessarily contribute to my being down, "blahhness" as I sometimes refer to it in my mind, a few days ago, though I must say my mind will appreciate the rest of the coming weeks. As I mentioned to this friend the other day, the fatigue I feel isn't the same as the Stressful, Overworked Exhaustion that often accompanies the end of a semester at university back at home as much as it is the Ready to Read and Write and Think About Other Things for a While tired. It's time to rest and cross train, and a blog is certainly an aspect of that process.

So work was part of it, and I also found myself confronting a lot of inertia to overcome in bringing myself to meet with others: I love hanging out and enjoying others' presence, no doubt, yet I find myself in phases of varying desires to be around others. Coming to Oxford, I had built up much momentum in my mind and heart in preparation to form friendships with others, to risk spending time with others that might not be fun or enjoyable or easy to relate with. And others risked that on me. And I have found some very wonderful people, and they have found me, over the past two months. So many wonderful British students, as I've mentioned in previous posts, have welcomed us foreigners with genuine warmth and humor, and for that I couldn't be more grateful. For whatever reason, however, I begin to be dissuaded in my mind from spending time with others, from simply hanging out for the sake of hanging out. It could be that I'm afraid of wasting time, yet this is generally when I start to forget that, as CS Lewis writes in Letters to Malcolm, "Dance and game are frivolous, unimportant down here; for "down here" is not their natural place...Joy is the serious business of heaven."

Instead of figuring all of that out here, though, I'd rather focus on her.

Two days ago, I found myself at quite a low point, feeling as though I had been "going through the motions" of life for some time while here, not relishing what I was doing, where I was, who I was with. I felt off, wrong, crooked. BethAnne and I, according to the schedule we had planned for the week, didn't get to talk on Monday or Tuesday, and I sent her an email expressing much of this, trusting her to be one of the more caring listeners I've encountered, one who always lends a compassionate and helpful ear (or eye, in this case, since she would be reading). Though we didn't talk until Wednesday afternoon, she sent a few kind and warm text messages, letting me know of her prayers and thoughts.

Being away from her for the past two and a half months has been no easy endeavor, the difficulty of which fluctuates week to week. Since she studied abroad in Germany last semester, she's encountered the ups and downs, ins and outs, victories and defeats of studying abroad, and has helped me in ways that continue to instill peace and courage and the freedom of joy that she's learned from others pursuing Godly lives. Her enduring email messages, letters, packages (packages!), patience, and endurance (enduring endurance...yep...) in our friendship lift me in so many ways, and I know it's no easy task for her being apart, either (being in scenic, historic, renown Bloomington-Normal Illinois at the moment). She makes me laugh more than anyone I know. She's an incredibly genuine, hopeful, witful, lovely girl, and I'm often astounded

This message feels like a shout-out to her, and I'm OK with that. One of the Proverbs in The Message translation (the translation I probably know best, for better or worse) goes "Don't draw attention to yourself; let others do that for you," and she isn't one to live, serve, love ostentatiously. So, draw attention to her I will, so that others will know a bit of her loveliness too.

Wednesday morning, I opted, at her suggestion, to rest from studies for a bit to read the Bible, pray, and write (about things other than Shakespeare and such) for a bit, and it was what my soul needed at the time: Rest. Strenghtening. Alignment. When we talked later that day, she helped me to process some of the stuff that had built up on my heart, helping to restore me to a certain levity and breathing-easyness. And she later quick to point out that it was not her that helped me out, that it was God's effect (sometimes I wonder why one of his names in the Bible isn't The Great Untangler, yet Prince of Peace does well to that end), and she's right: we prayed, we talked, we listened. And she helped me in that direction. And she does. I know my life is different because of her being woven into it, and I become aware of that the more I learn her and the more she learns me.

In his song "The Dress Looks Nice on You," Sufjan Stevens sings of his listener, "I can see a lot of life in you/ I can see a lot of bright in you," and this well describes what I see in her, and what I see in those I love, in those who love me. I really could go on about all the things I appreciate in her, and will (away from this blog...), yet want those who know me, who are reading this (I assume it's all people I know, unless I've suddenly become Really Famous), that your thoughts, and prayers (if you pray), and notes and letters and emails and smiles and jokes all help me along, all become "twigs" in this raft I'm building as I continue on down this life-river, as a good friend of mine puts it, and I hope to impart some twigs to you as well. We've each something to toss one another, even if it's simply a good hug.

And sometimes that's all we want.

To Cheese or Not to Cheese, Is It Really a Question?

Ben Franklin, in his delightfully witty Poor Richard's Almanac writes that "Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy." And, becoming more immersed in English culture, I'm realizing the verity of this claim. However, I would suggest one small yet crucial amendment to his assertion: "Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy, yet beer is nowhere near as wonderful as cheese." Other than peanut butter and jelly (jam, for the Brits) sandwiches, eating most any type of cheese brings me comfort and happiness in ways that never cease to amaze. To be sure, I don't appreciate all of them: bleu, swiss, gorgonzola, and sometimes parmesan are simply too much for this American palette. Yet, gift me with a slice of cheddar, or colby jack, or brie, or mozzarella on a cracker (Triscuit's roasted garlic, especially, if you were wondering) with a dollop of dijon mustard and, like giving a dog a good back scratch, you've made a friend for life.

Almost needless to say, stumbling upon this shop in Oxford's Covered Market quite literally caused my mouth to drop open, stopping in my tracks in the midst of scurrying shoppers clamoring for the wares of the place, any doubts I had about Divine intervention immediately evaporated:

The first time I stopped by the Oxford Cheese Company, I didn't try, or buy, any of their offererings, for I was struck mute and dumb by its magnificence. However, returning last friday with renewed focus I set out to buy a wedge of brie for a dinner with a few friends. After the coureous cheesier (like chocolatier? What is the name of the profession for one who harvests cheese? A dairyer? A derrier?) selected a wedge well-suited for four diners, forgiving my inability to convert pounds into grams, I asked to try a few samples from the other blocks. The applewood-smoked gouda was absolutely astounding. The chili-laced cheddar was eternally exquisite...and firey! I wanted to stay until I had sampled each chunk (except the aforementioned displeasing flavors) yet also did not want to outstay my welcome, or take the opportunity for delight from others, no doubt lingering in the shadows ogling the blocks, waiting to muster the courage to step into the exposing flourescent light and take part in the mystery that is eating cheese.

That night, we enjoyed our brie, our gouda, with french baguettes, sliced granny smith apples, red and white wine, pieces of nitrite-loaded ham, and Americana folk music, stories, laughs, and smiles. It was a night to remember, mixed with both European and American culture, and we were all better for it, not in the least because of that dairy delight.

Oxford, Constantly Causing Me To List

Today marks my fourtieth day in England which means it's time for the much-anticipated "Things I Miss/ Don't Miss/ Am Neutral About" List! Many things are different over here in the UK, especially the people (instead of saying "That blew my mind" when seeing fireworks the other night, a British friend of mine said "That twisted my melon!" Definitely earned the laughs he got for that one), yet I'd like to take a look at the non-human differences over here. May it first be said that I do miss people from home: family, friends from Glen Ellyn and from IWU, yet don't want to attempt a thorough message for all of them - by the time I finished I'd probably be back in town for Christmas break. So, here's what I've recognized thus far:

Things I Miss:
- Free Printing (each page costs 10 pence, about 16 cents, to print here, which severely reduces the opportunity to create a collage of all my favorite footballers', authors', and friends' faces on my dorm room ceiling)
- My Dad's Mini Cooper (the fact that I see, on average, six a day doesn't assuage this pining - it makes me feel more like Tantalus from Greek mythology, forever reaching for that which he can't grasp. I suppose I could steal one...)
- a Real Kitchen with a Real Dishwasher and People Who Regularly Clean Their Dishes (the kitchen in our dorm fits about three people max, and seems perpetually dirty, despite the select few who find some kind of satisfaction in cleaning dishes. I mean, I'm not bitter...
- My Room at Home (in many ways, it's a small sanctuary for me. This deserves a post sometime soon, too)
- Warren (the name of my road bike at home. He's resting in the garage right now.)
- Fall in the Midwest (being my favorite time of year, it pains me slightly to think that I'm missing the turning of the leaves, the Halloween decorations, the brisk breezes, the unique, Ray Bradburyian atmosphere of the Midwest during this time of year. It's wonderful to be alive during the fall.)
- Free-ish Laundry (I include the "ish" because I know it costs my family money when I do laundry at home. I don't see that cost, though...mua ha ha).

Things I Don't Miss
- Traditional Tea Kettles (despite my penchant for the Antique, I've never come across a per-capita electric tea kettle possession like I have here. What an invention! What a reason to wake up in the morning! Westernized efficiency combined with the leisurely delight of a good cup of peppermint tea. Mm-mm)
- The "Non-Guy Fawkes Day Celebrating" Aspect of American Culture (I went to fireworks the other night for this holiday, which were comparable to those we see on the Fourth of July. To end the event, however, they burn a thirty-foot-tall wooden effigy of Guy Fawkes, to celebrate his capture in the midst of the Gunpowder Plot over four hundred years ago. They burn. An effigy. What?!)
- American Roads (there are many cobblestone streets here, another small delight, and one thing I've noticed about them: the lane markers and street signals all seem hand-painted, each a bit wobbly and more detailed than the mechanized stenciling of the streets in the US. The streets feel a bit more personalized here, and sometimes I choose to walk on the sidewalk for that reason)
- American-style Stress (people seem much less hurried and harried over here, they seem to breathe and laugh easier than back home and, surprisingly, I find that students at Oxford, while they take their academics quite seriously, easily turn from their studies to spend time with friends in pubs or wherever else. They are committed, yet not obsessed. I'm sure there are some out there I haven't yet met, though...)
- My Grizzly Man Beard (this month, I planned to do No-Shave November, an endeavor that ended epically last night after a week and a day of growth. It became too itchy and distracting and was hindering my self-esteem. I felt like a caveman, though perhaps someday I'll try to grow a true Mountain-Man patch. The good news, however, is that if my beard were to have grown for a month at the same pace it did this past week, I'd be able to wear it as a coat after a month, thus saving money on winter clothing.)

Things I am Neutral About
- Good Granola Cereal (as described in a recent post, I found some great granola that comes with dried raspberries and pieces of yoghurt. Yum!)
- Literature (though I love my book collection, I'm not sure Oxford can be beat for reading selection and atmosphere...)
- Guitar (though I could use a capo, a benevolent British friend of mine, seeing my in my guitarless agony, offered to lend me his for the term. A Godsend! Now I'm one step further to fulfilling my dream of becoming an Irish street musician.)
- Cool People (though friends aren't interchangeable, and as I mentioned, I do miss those in the States, I've met some truly wonderful, heartening, and fun people here - another reason I'm glad to be here for the year.)

That's it for now, though I'm sure I'll amend this list as the year goes on and I'm continually more aware of differences between here and there.

Quirky People Coming Home to Roost

An aspect of Oxford that I’ve grown to love as I’ve noticed it is the quiet quaintness of this place. The stores, the streets, the proximity of places – there are so many nooks to explore and corners to turn, all of which creates a curious and quietly alive atmosphere. Students, no doubt, contribute to this, what does one call it?, quirkiness. I talked with a friend at dinner last night who told me about a friend of his who, when asked his favorite place in the town said the Ashmolean Museum, where he “can spend hours.” A museum! Not a club, not asleep in his bed, not the dining hall. I’ve noticed that students here seem OK with their peculiarities, more so than students in the States. They aren’t self-conscious when they talk about enjoying reading or writing, or going to plays, and they don’t say it in a pretentious, self-satisfied way. Granted, I have talked with a total of ten British students, and am sure that those with pompous tendencies abound, and students here are still students, with their complaints and stresses and uncertainties about themselves and the future. They are still people. Yet, the community encourages quirkiness, curious individuality, and I like that students go about that in quiet ways.

While walking through University Parks a few days ago, I came upon this curious mound of leaves and sticks beneath a few maples:

A human-sized nest, it seemed to me. Immediately curious, I read the sign planted in the ground nearby, explaining that the creation was the art project of a University student learning about birds’ nest-making processes. So what did she do? Made a nest! Why not? I imagine her walking lightly through a nearby forest, tweed bag in hand, listening to the crowing of birds and crinkling of leaves and sticks underfoot, wearing leather boots and black tights and a grey jumper, a very British outfit, eyes open for medium-sized twigs. She probably spent an afternoon searching, and another afternoon building, smiling at incredulous passersby, sometimes explaining herself to the bolder ones who ask her intentions. I imagine she’s worked on projects before and has moved beyond the defensive posture of one feeling ridiculed by others to a quiet confidence in the joy of her endeavor. And I imagine there are many students like that here, who live into the intellectual and creative freedom offered through the tutorial system, possibly realizing that life itself is about that kind of freedom, to pursue joys and questions and others.

I haven’t yet found a good enough word to express the flavor of life here, and will keep searching for a way. For now, quiet-quirkiness will have to suffice.

The Sweet Ride

So, the thought of a study-abroad-life-blog has overwhelmed me a bit over the past two weeks since I last updated. Perhaps it's the amount of reading and writing I do daily at this academic hub, or all of the things I think about during the day that might be worth writing about but also might be a waste of time, or perhaps it's the idea of a blog, of publishing unedited blurbs from my life for anyone to read that makes me feel a bit discouraged. Needless to say, I have an odd aversion to consistently updating others with my life via an online journal. Yet I still want to document things, to take pictures and make lists and explore little wonderings and wanderings.

I was walking around town the other day when a thought hit me, an idea that fits this conundrum and provides me an avenue for expression and documentation and space to write. So, I'll try it for a bit, though not strictly. Taking from Amy Krouse Rosenthal's style, and sticking to my initial desire set in the first post of the trip, I propose to explore small things and ordinary things and lovely things, one or so at a time.

The Sweet Ride
Let's talk about bikes. Let's talk about the joy of living is significantly augmented with the gift of bike. Let's talk about how good it feels to hop on the pedals on a brisk, sunny, breezy fall day, scarf wrapped and helmet buckled (as dad would have it), heading to the park to read and write, on the left side of the road because it's England, on the one-foot-wide green path designated for bikers and encroached upon by bus drivers. Let's talk about how I wandered around Oxford for three hours one afternoon in search of a used bike, to no avail, and eventually settled upon this magical machine after returning to the bike store twice because they prepared the wrong bike for me:
Let's talk about how awesome it is to attach a bungee cord to the package-carrier on the back to hold necessities such as a water bottle and jacket, or small woodland creature. Let's talk about how good it feels to pass someone who doesn't need to be somewhere as badly as you do, so you stand up on the pedals and pump and smile to yourself as you pass them, and imagine yourself sticking a wheel in their spokes to further insult their lack of vigor which makes you laugh to yourself because that's so uncharacteristic of you.

Though this bike isn't nearly as sleek as the hot rod I have at home, it provides swift access to the downtown area of Oxford, rides quietly, smoothly, and confidently. His name is Spencer, and he is a reliable friend in a territory becoming, with his help, more familiar each day.

We're Not In Kansas Anymore, and the Colors are Beautiful

Day 11

Today’s breakfast consists of:
- a lightly-toasted egg-and-cheese sandwich on wheat (sandwich at 8:30am? Of course!
- a bowl of a granola-y cereal I found at the grocer downtown that has chunks of yogurt and raspberry and happiness.
- Claritin (not much nutritional value, to my knowledge), a Vitamin C (more nutritional value) and a pink multi-vitamin (the mother lode of nutritional value.)
- Sunlight streaming through the blinds of the floor to ceiling window in my half of our en-suite room.
- Bon Iver’s “Blood Bank EP,” through headphones (Justin Vernon wasn’t able to make it over this morning)
- A lovely email from a lovely girl back home, a significant girl in my life, a life-giving girl.

I really couldn’t have concocted a better morning. Since arriving at Oxford, at England for that matter, finding a sense of home hasn’t been easy and the first coupe days here felt, at times, gut-wrenchingly strange and awkward, much like freshmen year at high school all over again. I forget how it is to walk into a dining hall seeing 96% unrecognized faces, no friend-anchor insight to grab a seat next to. Socializing here is an interesting thing: the central place of socialization at St. Catherine’s is the JCR (Junior Commons Room), which boasts a big-screen TV, pool tables, a fire place (that’s never been used, I was told), comfy chairs, and, last but not least, the college bar. At night, students, after finishing dinner and their day’s work, congregate at the JCR simply to hang out and have a drink. This certainly isn’t a strange occurrence – people in the States drink alcohol and meet with one another, sometimes at the same time. Yet, this is certainly not how I’m used to meeting others. I’ll generally meet people I know and then head somewhere.

This past week at Oxford has felt very much like the first week of freshman year at IWU, not a little bit because they pair visiting students with the freshmen here for orientation-type activities. The same element of meeting people, of figuring out how to live and work and play here, of wandering around knowing peoples’ names but not their favorite thing to read or what their real laugh sounds like, is consistent with the beginning of college. In many ways it does feel like I’m carving out a new life in unknown territory, yet now that I have a home-base to return to, a little nook that feels like me with its maps and familiar books and peaceful pictures, the half of my suite (I have to say half because my roommate gets the other half, our spaces divided by a curtain), the territory feels a bit more known. And I would say this is true for many things here.

London was very overwhelming in that sense. While I met some lovely American students who knew the town well and shared significant similarities with me, I still felt like a stranger wandering in a strange land, without a landmark in sight except for the touristy-ones. My map was not yet well-worn, and much less memorized, coupled with the navigation of relating with new people I was placed alongside. I tend to be an incremental person, wanting to slowly appreciate and explore and learn things, and the constant dousing of newness wore on me, this past week at Oxford too.

Yet, and yet, each day continues and I feel more myself, more connected with this place and the people here. Two days ago, I had some free time in the morning, a rare sunny morning at that, and I left St. Catherine’s small-ish campus in search of a quiet bench to read and pray. After ten minutes of walking down a trafficky (pedestrian and automotive) road, past towering, ancient-stone and curiously welcoming Oxford colleges, about to turn around, I happened upon Oxford University Parks, a collection of sports greens on the outskirts of town. By myself, I strolled across the fields, a lone park bench near some small trees (I wish I knew what type). When I reached it, I sat, and breathed, and looked around at the loveliness surrounding me: students in the distance walking to and fro class, the empty soccer pitches resting, waiting for the next games, an older couple sitting on a similar bench a few hundred yards away, the city center not too far off in the distance as indicated by the handful of steeples reaching toward the sky. I wasn’t distracted by a sense of having to meet people, or of having to appreciate where I was because of Oxford being Oxford. I was simply, and peacefully, there, looking around and seeing.

Sitting on the bench, reading a CS Lewis book, Letters to Malcolm, I felt a true sense of belonging here, in the midst of its newness to me (oldness to itself). This place will certainly come to me in increments, as will the friendships and the learning, and the less I feel pressure to absorb it all, the more I am able to. It’s good to be here. It’s good to be here for a while.

Away He Go

It’s an unsettling thing to live in a country different from one’s own, to intentionally place oneself in a wholly unfamiliar context and see what happens – what changes, what grows, what is challenged, what becomes quiet, what remains about and within oneself. Having spent only four days in London thus far, days spent largely with other United Statesians, I already sense some of the subtle contrasts of US culture and that of the UK. Before beginning that twiggy branch of thought, though, I’ll posit a “statement of purpose” for the writings to follow in the coming year, a request also asked for by Oxford in its study abroad application, in all its philosophical ambiguity:

“First of all, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I do not intend to transcribe a detailed schedule for you as an attempt to tell my story of studying abroad (though I may choose to do so once in a while, if I have a quite unconventional day or am fresh out of good ideas for a post). I do, however, intend to communicate the curious particulars of the days to come, for I find that these are what tend to interest me most in life: the lilt in my Irish friend’s voice, especially evident when he mentions his nation of origin. The compounding frustration of trying to find a reasonably priced, reasonably nutritional, reasonably delicious meal in a supermarket at 18:30. The mildly awkward music situation in the hotel lift, how it turns on when the lift begins moving and turns off when the doors open, as a strangely utilitarian European courtesy. The bleached, matching mullets of the two large, presumably Dutch women sitting next to one another on a sofa in the lobby. The background things. The things that interest me which, therefore, I tend to remember. Hopefully they interest you too.
I intend to try to not focus on myself. I get tired and bored of me rather easily, and since I’ll be around me a lot, I’ll enjoy considering other things. I intend to be honest, as honest as I can while maintaining a tact I hope to cultivate. It’s easy to fall into extremes with honesty – clamming up for fear of alienating another, unabashedly confessing for fear of not finding some way, any way, to connect with others. As a wise friend often says, there’s a balance to it.
I intend to invite you to glimpse into this experience with me. Let’s see what happens, this uncontextual adaptation.”

Being away from home and friends isn’t the strangest thing right now; I’ve dealt with the adjustment to living at college, being apart from friends during summer (and this fall, having left two months later than most), and have traveled a bit. Perhaps being in England still feels like a weekend trip. Perhaps I will realize “being here” more fully once I arrive in Oxford, or when I am given a look of disgust after putting peanut butter (I brought two jars – comfort blankets – from home) and jelly on a piece of bread for a sandwich (much like the look I gave to the cheese-and-pickle offering at today’s lunch buffet). Maybe I’ll realize it tonight when I wake wanting to read a Carl Sandburg poem from my favorite anthology and can’t. Maybe I’ll realize it when I walk into CS Lewis’ favorite Oxford pub, The Eagle and Child.

The strangest thing for me right now is a sense of being out of rhythm, physically (eating differently, not exercising on the same schedule), mentally (not writing and reading on my own, to the extent I did over the summer), relationally (meeting new people constantly, being away from my family, from BethAnne, from friends), spiritually (it seems that some from the UK like to flaunt the fact that they are very much a post-God culture, as if that were a good place to be).

I’m not upset or miserable here – just processing, and a bit worn too. I’ll probably do a lot of that on this site (thinking, processing, expressing), and I promise more humorous anecdotes and themes. I know I said that last time, honey, but this time it's true. You gotta' believe me. You gotta. Don't leave me.

Anyway, final thought: recently (the last two years, that is), life has seemed to be largely about rebalancing in new contexts, and it is a new balance I now have to find. It’s something that will change, will be challenged, and no doubt strengthened as I seek and remember my Center in this new place.

(Written 3 September 2009 in London (I like to write by hand before typing, though this causes a publication delay))