The other day, my dad asked me about the meaning of a song and, loving both the song and discussing meaning, I immediately took the bait and plunged in to the discussion. "Hallelujah" by Leonard Cohen is a song that has stuck with me for quite some time and, while I often feel the lyrics and recognize it as a beautiful and heartbreaking work, I've never really taken the time to consider it in its entirety, to see how it coheres and how it can be understood as a complete work of art. What is Cohen saying through all of his imagery and allusion? What is he relating to, relating with?
Listening to the song, my dad felt that it's title didn't suit the song - at it's best being a mistake, at its worst being nearly blasphemous. And I suppose I've always seen the song as a somewhat sarcastic proclamation that "God be praised:" "Life are awful, yet God is good," as though a positive proclamation is a pouring of salt into a wound. However, if one approaches the song believing that Cohen means what he says, that there is some irony to the fact that God is good yet life so often isn't, and realizes that the Bible is a story of this irony and of God intervening into lives of brokenness and despair as people seek Him, I think the song takes on an earnestness that isn't evident at a glance, or isn't obvious to a culture that readily dismisses any hint of earnest yearning.
See what you think:
First of all, in reading or listening to the song, I think it's important to remember that Leonard Cohen has deeply Jewish convictions and writes/creates from that point of view (in his poetry he writes G-d instead of God). So the word "Hallelujah" to him means "God be praised," not "Jesus be praised" as a Christian would recognize it.
Secondly, I believe that he is writing a worship song that is very Psalm-like in the sense that it is written from the posture of a broken, confused, frightened person seeking to praise God. For him, this emptiness results from broken love, and he starts with two Old Testament stories.
The first two stanzas:
Now, I've heard there was a secret chord
That David played and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
It goes like this: the fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you to a kitchen chair
She broke your throne and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah
David committed adultery with Bathsheba, and proceeded to write many of the Psalms from the baffled (bewildered, perplexed) brokenness that resulted from his sin:
"Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me. Do not cast me away from your presence...Deliver me from my bloodguiltiness, O God, the God of my salvation; Then my tongue will joyfully sing of Your righteousness" (Psalm 51 - the whole Psalm works to this effect).
And Samson, in a similar way, lost his anointing because of his sin with Delilah in disobeying God by telling her the secret of his strength. Afterward, realizing the disaster, he cries out to God:
"O Lord God, please remember me and please strengthen me just this time, O God, that I may at once be avenged of the Philistines for my two eyes" Samson (Judges 16.28)
Sin is simply, and impossibly complexly, separation from God, and I think everyone knows this in some way, though they might never use Christian language to express that. We're all longing for wholeness, for connection, for clarity, and these songs and cries express that - Cohen's no less than the others'.
The third stanza is a bit trickier:
You say I took the name in vain
I don't even know the name
But if I did, well really, what's it to you?
There's a blaze of light in every word
It doesn't matter which you heard
The holy or the broken Hallelujah
In singing this, I think Cohen is recognizing the fact that, at some level, we're all agnostic: we never have complete certainty of who God is, of his name ("We all see through a glass darkly, as Paul puts it in 1 Corinthians 13). If we did, there wouldn't really be room for faith, or for trusting him (you haven't anything to seek if you've already found it in its entirety). He does exhibit frustration, though, at this disconnect: "What's it to you if I said your name without believing in You? You decided not to fully reveal yourself to me," and I see that as coming more from frustration than humility. However, he then says that, no matter how "holy" or "broken" our praise is, it doesn't really matter: we're simply trying to praise God, no matter "which word You heard." Ultimately all of our attempts to love God are imperfect, yet there is a "blaze of light in every one," and I interpret that as meaning that our praises of God are charged by the part of God that is in us that wants to praise himself, the image of God in us connecting with Himself. CS Lewis describes prayer as "God speaking to God" in the sense that we become conduits for his love and praise. And sin, separation from our Source, certainly inhibits that.
The last stanza is one of humility:
I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you
And even though it all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah
I think the first two lines are a kind of defense as to why Samson and David committed the adultery they did: they couldn't sense God's presence with them, and, ultimately in the wake of that sense of disconnect, "touched," or tried to recreate some semblance of that sense of connection in sleeping with the women in their stories. They didn't consciously think "I don't sense God, so I'm going to give in to temptation," yet on a spiritual level this seems to have occurred. And I think this is ultimately the motivation behind sin: trying to reconnect with God, to mend that disconnect, in ways that aren't God. And it's our struggle, while on earth, to connect with God and help others to do so while existing in the chasm between the proclamation that "God is good" yet "life isn't always great." There is a tension in living there, in recognizing how far we are from God yet imagining what life might be like in complete connection with him. Faith is responding to that might be like, living toward that and from that. It's not an easy thing to assert that life as we know it isn't all there is, that there is a true possibility for restoration and that, I think, is the very definition of hope.
And so Cohen sings from that posture "even though it all went wrong" (even though I completely messed up), "I'll stand before the Lord of Song" (a brilliant name for God) "With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah" (I became lost and hurt in my wandering - yet I only want to praise you, what I'm made to do).
So, that's how I see it. When I first listened to the song, I thought Cohen was saying "Hallelujah" with his tongue in his cheek, yet the more I think about it and listen to it, the more I see it as an earnest Psalm.
Thoughts?
(PS - more on Oxford soon... I haven't given enough time to updates!)
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Sunday, January 17, 2010
It's Good to do Good
(Back in Oxford! I wrote this the other day, and plan to send it in to the Argus, IWU's newspaper, yet it will probably shortened/edited a bit. The higher-ups probably don't want me encouraging students to shrug off the yoke of their professors. Just kidding. Kind of.)
We live in a world of universal standards, and in worlds of our own self-imposed expectations that linger in our minds and intimidate around every corner. And for many of us, this is especially true regarding academics, having attended school for the past fourteen-or-so years of our lives: Is this essay, this thought good enough? How will my professor find it? Is my work amounting to anything? Studying abroad at Oxford since fall, I find that these standards of goodness have become all the more predominant in my mind, even crippling so sometimes.
Academics here are structured quite differently than they are in the States (it’s kind of fun to refer to the US as “over there”) and most everywhere else except Cambridge. These two universities, since their inceptions in 1167 and 1209 respectively, practice the tutorial system, which means that, instead of frequently attending classes with others, students meet one-on-one or two-on-one with a professor (tutor) in their subject once a week, presenting a prepared essay. There are also optional, and encouraged, lectures to attend. Other than occasional class-like seminars, students largely participate in independent study according to their major and choice of topics. That studying and writing is done mostly in isolation is both wonderful and nearly suffocating at time: the intellectual freedom is refreshing and awakening, yet the independence often makes room for impossible standards to creep in: You’re nowhere near as intelligent as the author you’re reading! That’s not a worthwhile idea – too obvious! You’re probably wasting your time trying. Of course, those specific words don’t enter my mind when I’m trying to think: they stroll in as vague senses, engulfing or subtle, that want to lounge about for a bit and distract.
I don’t think that the desire to do good work is entirely a burdening thing: we wouldn’t have some of the wonderful things in this world if people didn’t respond to that itch inside themselves: Shakespeare’s plays, the pyramids of Egypt, the Mini Cooper. Whatever you look at and think, or feel, “That’s good” was probably created by people responding to the desire to do good, things that could have been created insipidly, to extrinsic standards, yet weren’t. There was some necessity involved: Shakespeare needed to put food on the table, the Pharoah demanded they be built, the British Motor Company wanted a fuel efficient car in response to a 1956 oil shortage, yet the creation of these things within their bounds seems infused with a kind of freedom, almost a joy. Turner’s paintings. Sufjan’s music. Spongebob Squarepants (of course, these are idiosyncratic and claim no universality…).
What, then, about these standards that try to choke off what we would create, say, do? I think that that question leads to another: what makes something good? When can we rest, content, with what we have said, or written, or drawn? Being a rather awful poet, I often wonder, for those who work and think through poetry, how does one know when they are finished with a poem, when they have a sense of its completeness? When can we have any satisfaction with what we’ve done? I think a hint to an answer has to do with the inherent desire for goodness that we have that becomes entangled with others’ standards. And I think we are trained this way when it comes to creating. It’s the difference between solving a math problem and writing an essay: one is right or wrong, the other is good or not good. I’d be wrong to say that anything you create and feel good about is automatically good: we need the comment and critique of those wiser and different from us, especially those we trust. However, when it comes down to it, only we can determine if that desire in us has been satisfied.
It’s easy, incredibly so, to get lost in impossible standards here at Oxford, to grow into a habit of seeing all I write and think as inferior. And yet, I think to how this place probably started: a group of friends eager to learn about themselves and the world. They wanted to read and write and do good things. With today’s ease of publication and communication, there is so much white noise meaningless and detached from real life, especially when it comes to academia. But, in the midst of necessity (that essay is due on Thursday!), there is opportunity to do good work, to do something that means something in your actual life, which means that it will also mean something for someone else, if in a unique way for them. “Good is a social word;” writes Bert Hornback, “its Anglo-Saxon roots also gives us the words gather and together. Good includes self with others.” Listen to that desire. Go into the world and do good. It’s what we’re meant to do.
We live in a world of universal standards, and in worlds of our own self-imposed expectations that linger in our minds and intimidate around every corner. And for many of us, this is especially true regarding academics, having attended school for the past fourteen-or-so years of our lives: Is this essay, this thought good enough? How will my professor find it? Is my work amounting to anything? Studying abroad at Oxford since fall, I find that these standards of goodness have become all the more predominant in my mind, even crippling so sometimes.
Academics here are structured quite differently than they are in the States (it’s kind of fun to refer to the US as “over there”) and most everywhere else except Cambridge. These two universities, since their inceptions in 1167 and 1209 respectively, practice the tutorial system, which means that, instead of frequently attending classes with others, students meet one-on-one or two-on-one with a professor (tutor) in their subject once a week, presenting a prepared essay. There are also optional, and encouraged, lectures to attend. Other than occasional class-like seminars, students largely participate in independent study according to their major and choice of topics. That studying and writing is done mostly in isolation is both wonderful and nearly suffocating at time: the intellectual freedom is refreshing and awakening, yet the independence often makes room for impossible standards to creep in: You’re nowhere near as intelligent as the author you’re reading! That’s not a worthwhile idea – too obvious! You’re probably wasting your time trying. Of course, those specific words don’t enter my mind when I’m trying to think: they stroll in as vague senses, engulfing or subtle, that want to lounge about for a bit and distract.
I don’t think that the desire to do good work is entirely a burdening thing: we wouldn’t have some of the wonderful things in this world if people didn’t respond to that itch inside themselves: Shakespeare’s plays, the pyramids of Egypt, the Mini Cooper. Whatever you look at and think, or feel, “That’s good” was probably created by people responding to the desire to do good, things that could have been created insipidly, to extrinsic standards, yet weren’t. There was some necessity involved: Shakespeare needed to put food on the table, the Pharoah demanded they be built, the British Motor Company wanted a fuel efficient car in response to a 1956 oil shortage, yet the creation of these things within their bounds seems infused with a kind of freedom, almost a joy. Turner’s paintings. Sufjan’s music. Spongebob Squarepants (of course, these are idiosyncratic and claim no universality…).
What, then, about these standards that try to choke off what we would create, say, do? I think that that question leads to another: what makes something good? When can we rest, content, with what we have said, or written, or drawn? Being a rather awful poet, I often wonder, for those who work and think through poetry, how does one know when they are finished with a poem, when they have a sense of its completeness? When can we have any satisfaction with what we’ve done? I think a hint to an answer has to do with the inherent desire for goodness that we have that becomes entangled with others’ standards. And I think we are trained this way when it comes to creating. It’s the difference between solving a math problem and writing an essay: one is right or wrong, the other is good or not good. I’d be wrong to say that anything you create and feel good about is automatically good: we need the comment and critique of those wiser and different from us, especially those we trust. However, when it comes down to it, only we can determine if that desire in us has been satisfied.
It’s easy, incredibly so, to get lost in impossible standards here at Oxford, to grow into a habit of seeing all I write and think as inferior. And yet, I think to how this place probably started: a group of friends eager to learn about themselves and the world. They wanted to read and write and do good things. With today’s ease of publication and communication, there is so much white noise meaningless and detached from real life, especially when it comes to academia. But, in the midst of necessity (that essay is due on Thursday!), there is opportunity to do good work, to do something that means something in your actual life, which means that it will also mean something for someone else, if in a unique way for them. “Good is a social word;” writes Bert Hornback, “its Anglo-Saxon roots also gives us the words gather and together. Good includes self with others.” Listen to that desire. Go into the world and do good. It’s what we’re meant to do.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, November 23, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Exploring Before Dark at Regent's Park
Last weekend, I visited London with a few friends also studying at Oxford through the same study abroad program (Butler’s IFSA). As it turns out, the train ride from Oxford to London isn’t much of a journey, only about an hour or so and the sun was out, which tends to make everything, well, sunnier. Trains are a wonderful travel, no matter the scenery: they’re quiet, smooth, safe – a good place to talk with others or be quiet and think about whatever it is your mind drifts to when you give it the chance to wander. Trains in the UK, and Europe, are especially great, though that assertion might be partly due to the fact that my basis of comparison is the Metra that travels to and fro Chicago. Oh, Metra, some days I want to curse you, some days I want to give you a hug.
The two friends I was with, Anna and Danielle, arrived in London around 1:00 in the afternoon, with exploring on our mind. Our stomachs weren’t grumbling too loudly, since they both bought bagels from a scrumptious, small sandwich shop (The Alternative Tuck Shop – which will earn itself a post very soon) and I packed trusty comfort food: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and a granola bar. My failsafe. My solid rock in the uncertainty of this new land. We made our way to the Tube, our destination the Camden Market in the north of England. Upon arriving there, after a stroll through the borough, I was ready to leave. The area must have possessed the highest concentration of street vendors, of food and t-shirt and questionable paraphernalia, of anywhere on earth, Calcutta included. Sensory overload. Olfactory overload.
After wandering about for a good while, we miraculously found a burrito stand attended by a cheerful, heartwarming Irishman, who made us impeccably fresh and well-balanced (is it presumptuous to assume that you, too, are easily irritated at Chipotle’s probably-intentional disproportionate amount of rice-to-meat?) chicken and steak burritos. Score one for team us! A friend of Danielle’s, Grant, who is studying abroad at King’s College in London, met up with us shortly before our delicious discovery, and vowed to guide us to Regent’s Park as the sun’s descent further approached the horizon.
I had been to Regent’s Park while in London upon first arriving in England, yet only while jogging through, not absorbing the wonderful blending of natural growth and human cultivation of its gardens. The Queen’s Garden was our goal, because of its roses that were slowly dying to the impending winter. When we arrived at the gates, I was worn. Traveling, constantly making logistical decisions, accounting for others’ desires, remembering to keep your wallet in your front pocket, checking your surroundings around every turn, remembering directions, pulling off and donning more layers, working within time constraints, makes me tired pretty quickly. Though it had only been six or seven hours, by the time we arrived at the gates of the Queen’s Garden, I was ready to sit and be still and quiet, to fade into the background for a little while, and watch and listen. And, thankfully, that’s what I got to do.
Look at a few of the flowers I found:
It was good to sit on the park bench there, watching a French couple walking alongside one another, the father pushing a stroller cradling a fleece-swaddled napping baby, seeing a dad chase his toddling son through the garden, them both giggling at one another, hearing Danielle’s and Grant’s conversation drift from the bench a little ways away. There’s something restoring that comes from simply listening, seeing, trying to do no more, and no less. The roses were beautiful, and partly because they weren’t in their prime. Many of them were faded, wilted, calling it quits for the season. Yet there were a few that rewarded the patient explorer, full and vibrant, seeming to take one last stretch in the fading sunlight. I smiled in return.
The two friends I was with, Anna and Danielle, arrived in London around 1:00 in the afternoon, with exploring on our mind. Our stomachs weren’t grumbling too loudly, since they both bought bagels from a scrumptious, small sandwich shop (The Alternative Tuck Shop – which will earn itself a post very soon) and I packed trusty comfort food: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and a granola bar. My failsafe. My solid rock in the uncertainty of this new land. We made our way to the Tube, our destination the Camden Market in the north of England. Upon arriving there, after a stroll through the borough, I was ready to leave. The area must have possessed the highest concentration of street vendors, of food and t-shirt and questionable paraphernalia, of anywhere on earth, Calcutta included. Sensory overload. Olfactory overload.
After wandering about for a good while, we miraculously found a burrito stand attended by a cheerful, heartwarming Irishman, who made us impeccably fresh and well-balanced (is it presumptuous to assume that you, too, are easily irritated at Chipotle’s probably-intentional disproportionate amount of rice-to-meat?) chicken and steak burritos. Score one for team us! A friend of Danielle’s, Grant, who is studying abroad at King’s College in London, met up with us shortly before our delicious discovery, and vowed to guide us to Regent’s Park as the sun’s descent further approached the horizon.
I had been to Regent’s Park while in London upon first arriving in England, yet only while jogging through, not absorbing the wonderful blending of natural growth and human cultivation of its gardens. The Queen’s Garden was our goal, because of its roses that were slowly dying to the impending winter. When we arrived at the gates, I was worn. Traveling, constantly making logistical decisions, accounting for others’ desires, remembering to keep your wallet in your front pocket, checking your surroundings around every turn, remembering directions, pulling off and donning more layers, working within time constraints, makes me tired pretty quickly. Though it had only been six or seven hours, by the time we arrived at the gates of the Queen’s Garden, I was ready to sit and be still and quiet, to fade into the background for a little while, and watch and listen. And, thankfully, that’s what I got to do.
Look at a few of the flowers I found:
It was good to sit on the park bench there, watching a French couple walking alongside one another, the father pushing a stroller cradling a fleece-swaddled napping baby, seeing a dad chase his toddling son through the garden, them both giggling at one another, hearing Danielle’s and Grant’s conversation drift from the bench a little ways away. There’s something restoring that comes from simply listening, seeing, trying to do no more, and no less. The roses were beautiful, and partly because they weren’t in their prime. Many of them were faded, wilted, calling it quits for the season. Yet there were a few that rewarded the patient explorer, full and vibrant, seeming to take one last stretch in the fading sunlight. I smiled in return.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Not Gonna Lie, This Library is Hip
A smallish study break seems a good idea at this point in the day, after having finished one of the three Shakespeare plays lined up for my tutorial on Friday. I was asked to read Henry IV parts one and deux, as well as Henry V, to then write an essay to discuss. Shakespeare, like Classical music or Spongebob Squarepants, seems an acquired taste, for his plays don't always strike one as profound, enjoyable, or even comprehensible at times, which can be surprising given his enduring popularity. Yet, I'm beginning to move beyond all of the predispositions built up over the years of having heard others talk about him and his works, and feel that I'm starting to experience his works for myself, with the help of others, of course. Oxford seems as good a place as any for that to happen.
A lot of this Shakespeare reading occurs in the St. Catherine's library, usually in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that line the upper level walls. The architecture at this college is unusually modern given the general look of Oxford, yet it is a neat contrast with the much older buildings. There is a lot of natural light in the library, certainly designed with that in mind (in a Frank Lloyd Wright-esque way, no doubt), and the place is tomb quiet. Probably the most quiet place on campus, other than the chapel. Oh wait - St. Catherine's doesn't have a chapel (from the website: "The College is one of the few undergraduate colleges in Oxford without its own chapel, which adds to the inclusive and diverse feel of the place," a sentence loaded with implications of views on Christianity...). Sometimes when I'm bored, or restless, I wander about looking at all of the incredible literature sections. It's hard not to be wooed by Oxford's libraries, and I've seen some amazing ones already. Pictures to come.
Anyway, I enjoy coming here in the morning after a solid breakfast, especially if the sun is out. Since one wall of windows faces east and the other west, I tend to switch places after lunch if I return to read or write, like a snow buttercup flower. It's a cozy place, with nooks and crannies, and quite conducive to pondering things, or looking out the window, or spying on the librarians, each of which I may or may not participate in on a daily basis. A fun thing that happened the other day at the Catz library:
An 1866 version of Shakespeare's first folio from 1623, found, hiding in a bookshelf corner!
A lot of this Shakespeare reading occurs in the St. Catherine's library, usually in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that line the upper level walls. The architecture at this college is unusually modern given the general look of Oxford, yet it is a neat contrast with the much older buildings. There is a lot of natural light in the library, certainly designed with that in mind (in a Frank Lloyd Wright-esque way, no doubt), and the place is tomb quiet. Probably the most quiet place on campus, other than the chapel. Oh wait - St. Catherine's doesn't have a chapel (from the website: "The College is one of the few undergraduate colleges in Oxford without its own chapel, which adds to the inclusive and diverse feel of the place," a sentence loaded with implications of views on Christianity...). Sometimes when I'm bored, or restless, I wander about looking at all of the incredible literature sections. It's hard not to be wooed by Oxford's libraries, and I've seen some amazing ones already. Pictures to come.
Anyway, I enjoy coming here in the morning after a solid breakfast, especially if the sun is out. Since one wall of windows faces east and the other west, I tend to switch places after lunch if I return to read or write, like a snow buttercup flower. It's a cozy place, with nooks and crannies, and quite conducive to pondering things, or looking out the window, or spying on the librarians, each of which I may or may not participate in on a daily basis. A fun thing that happened the other day at the Catz library:
An 1866 version of Shakespeare's first folio from 1623, found, hiding in a bookshelf corner!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)