Friday, December 21, 2012

Continuity and Universality in New Places


It has been far too long since I put fingers to keys. This is due to the busyness of the end of term, a broken wrist, and a lack of impetus to artistically and articulately recreate some of my experiences. Term has technically been finished for three weeks, yet I feel in many ways that I have now more projects to complete than I did during term.

At the beginning of my "holiday," I travelled north to St. Andrews, Scotland to meet my good friend for her graduation. I had never been to St. Andrews before, but had heard enough description from my friend to have formed a rough mental image of this ancient university town. Yet nothing really prepared me for the beauty situated on the shores of the North Sea. Entering St. Andrews, one is immediately impressed by the awesome ruins of the old monastery and cathedral which were destroyed during the reign of King Henry VIII. However, the beauty which confronted me was that of wind, sea, rock, and sky. The contrast between the ruined masonry of centuries past, and the powerful blue sea, and white waves, rolling into and crashing upon the sand shores at the foot of the crag, on which a castle once stood, reinforced to me the fleetingness of our existence in relation to creation and eternity.

This momentary recognition, which hit me as I stood on the cliffs overlooking the sea, was not depressing, but rather invigorating. Being but a vestige of their former glory, the ruins of monastery and cathedral powerfully called attention to the glorious powerful structures they once were. Man, so long ago, with such limited technology, created such glorious works of art and yet, they still pale in comparison to the view of God's nature in whose imitation they were made. This realization is overwhelming: what a beautiful world we live in.
I don't know why but the sea seems to have a way of drawing thoughts such as these out of me; perhaps its the vastness of it, or the power, I am not sure which, but there you have it.

Today there stands in St. Andrews, overlooking the sea, a little Catholic church, which I attended on Sunday with my friend and her mother. It had been her parish when she was studying there. Through the process of writing this, I have been struck with the continuity of God's beauty and the Church throughout the ages. In spite of trials and persecution, there remains in St. Andrews, materially demonstrated through this parish church, a remnant of the past glory present in the monastery and cathedral ruins. This beauty, constantly manifested in the sea and the stone, is the glory of God's creation and a glimpse of the beauty promised in the New Creation.

Similarly to the continuity demonstrated for me in the beauty of St Andrew's, I was a week later struck by the universality of the Catholic Church. While attending Our Lady Seat of Wisdom Academy I was introduced to the tradition of the Rorate Mass. It became one of my favourite traditions. The mass is celebrated in the early morn in celebration of the Blessed Virgin and is prayed by the light of candles. As the mass progresses, the sun begins to rise, and the church brightens signifying the light of Christ coming into the world. The symbolism and the simplistic beauty of a church lit only by candlelight has an emotional appeal to me. On the second Sunday of Advent my parish here in Oxford announced that there would be a Rorate Mass celebrated during the following week. I was so excited and struck be the extreme gift of belonging to a universal Church: home is anywhere in the world.

As it happened, I was out till the wee hours of the morning the evening before the Rorate Mass; before my head touched the pillow,  I set my alarm for three hours later to walk to the mass. As my alarm went off, what felt like seconds later, I was extremely tempted to turn it of, flop over, and get some more much needed rest. However, the thought of missing the beautiful Advent celebration provide enough impetus for me to jump out of bed before I was able to shut my eyes again. I walked to the church in the stillness of the early morn with the birds singing. The bustle of Oxford life had not begun yet and I entered the candlelit church and was filled with peace.



“Rorate, caeli, desuper, et nubes pluant iustum,” ~ “Drop down dew, O heavens, from above, and let the clouds rain down righteousness.” - Introit from Rorate Mass


Wednesday, November 7, 2012

Remember, Remember...


Monday was Guy Fawkes day. I have always known about Guy Fawkes day, but I have never really experienced it before. It is interesting how much it is still celebrated here in England, despite the increasing popularity of the imported and competing North American 'holiday', Halloween, and the fact that most of my contemporaries seem extremely fuzzy on the historical significance and details of Guy Fawkes and the Gun Powder Plot.

I am sure all of my readers are roughly familiar with the story of the Catholic rebel who tried to blow up the House of Lords on November 5, 1605. The plot was to kill King James I and replace him with a Catholic monarch. However, the plot was discovered, Fox was tried for treason, tortured and hung, drawn and quartered. Apparently, following the trial and execution, an Act of Parliament was passed to declare the 5th of November a day of celebration for the king's deliverance; this act remained until 1859. 

I believe that traditionally on Guy Fawkes day, dolls of Fawkes are burned atop blazing bonfires. However, my experience tonight did not involve any dolls. Ironically, despite the morbid and Protestant propagandist origins of the evening's celebrations, my experiences transported me back and reminded me of a bygone era when neighbours knew each other, and children played together on a village green, as parents watched out the window of the local pub, perhaps a baby on their knee, imbibing the local ale. Indeed, this was not far off from the scene I was a part of. 

Returning from a day in the Vere Hemsworth Library (Oxford's Library for American History), I joined two of my British housemates. We heated some mulled wine and filled a thermos before mounting our bikes for a cycle to the outskirts of town. Turning down dark Wolvercote Lane, we heard the voices of children and the sound of fireworks as the bright lights began to fill the sky. Cars were parked all down both sides of the narrow lane, and families were walking down towards the pub, called The Plough. Outside the pub, in a field, was a blazing bonfire, about fifteen feet high and surrounded by people of all ages. In the gardens immediately outside the pub, stations for beer, mulled wine and barbecued food were set up. Looking through the pub windows I could see families sitting at tables set out in front of book covered walls, and older men standing round the bar.

I headed towards the fire with my friends, passing a giant oak tree, hung with a rope swing and holding a child. Closer to the fire there was another tree; two boys had managed to climb almost to the top limbs before being ordered down. We gathered around the fire, drinking our mulled wine and trying to find that perfect balance between freezing from the cold fall wind, and roasting in the extreme heat of the fire's flames. People pulled out sparklers as one boy heaped old chairs and wooden rowboats on the blaze sending the flames even higher. 



The fireworks continued and the fire did not wan. However, the crowd thinned, as parents took children home to bed. I lingered by the fire with my housemates, enjoying its warmth and watching the train pass by just behind us. The conversation moved from jokes and summer plans to philosophy and theology before we headed back to our bikes, which were locked to the split-rail fence by the pub, and cycled home. 


Monday, October 22, 2012

Matriculation

Today begins my third week of Michaelmas. I just learned recently to distinguish which term is which, and why they are named as they are. Michaelmas, begins on the feast of St Michael. Hilary, winter term, begins on the feast of St Hilary and Trinity, summer term, begins on the Feast of the Holy Trinity. This is just one of many traditions that remains firmly intrenched here at Oxford, speaking to a rich past.

Another such tradition was one which I participated in on Saturday October 13th, first week: Matriculation.  As it was explained to me, Matriculation, in past days included an exam, written in latin. It was through this exam that University officials were assured of new students' excellence and the students were then officially registered as members of the university. Although the examination has since ceased, (thank goodness!) the Latin ceremony remains an important tradition at the Universities of Oxford, Cambridge and Trinity College, Dublin, which also serves to facilitate the practical necessity of registration as a University member. One cannot graduate from one's program, and is not officially a member of the university, until he or she has matriculated. 

The entire day of October 13th is devoted to matriculating the new students at undergrad, graduate and postgrad level for all of Oxford's 38 colleges and 6 private halls, in a series of identical ceremonies at the Sheldonian Theatre. My day began by donning sub fusc, the garb which is worn for matriculating, as well as sitting exams and graduating. Then I gathered with all the other new students of St Hugh's College in the Gardens for pictures and subsequently walked in a long line downtown to the Sheldonian Theatre. As we began our walk the weather was lovely. However, within seconds it changed to rain and hail, causing all of us walking to raise our caps for the little inadequate shelter they provided. As we reached the Sheldonian, the rain and hale ceased and the sun returned. We entered the theatre and were seated along with the new students of three or four other colleges. 

As soon as all the students were seated, the Vice Chancellor entered and we all stood as he read the words which made us all life long members of Oxford University: 'Scitote vos in Matriculam Universitatis hodie relatos esse, et ad observandum omnia Statuta istius Universitatis, quantum ad vos spectent, teneri.'
‘Know that you are today added to the Roll of the University and bound to obey all the statutes of this University, so far as they apply to you.'

Following these brief words, the Vice Chancellor gave a short talk welcoming us all to Oxford, after which we were set free to roam the town in our sub fusc and fill the local pubs, along with the hundreds of other newly matriculated and curious tourists and onlookers. 

Here is the link to a video of the ceremony. 

Pre-Matriculation with a Class Mate in Subfusc
Walking to the Sheldonian in the Rain and Hale 

Friday, September 28, 2012

Return To Storybook England

I have been in England for almost two weeks now, but I am just beginning to settle in and finally have a moment to drop a line about my experiences and thoughts thus far.

When I arrived here in Oxford I had no idea where I was going to live for the year, so I stayed with friends outside of Oxford in the charming town of Charlbury - where I had lived last time I came to England. A few days after my arrival, still looking for a flat, I walked out of my temporary home in Charlbury heading for the train station. I had been feeling a little lost that morning, questioning my judgement and decision to jump continents for a nine month master's program here in Oxford. Yet, as I walked the familiar route to the train station the beauty all around me reaffirmed me in my decision.

I find when in England, especially the initial weeks, I am always struck by a much more intrenched and weighty secularism than I find back home. It is not something that I can really express in words, but rather it is something I feel through the scenarios in which I find myself, conversations I have with others, and the media with which I am bombarded. As I left for the station, these thoughts were uppermost in my mind.  However, as I walked these musings were replaced, as the beauty of the old buildings of Charlbury struck me as though I were seeing them for the first time. A rain cloud had just past over leaving everything clean and fresh. I walked through the graveyard which surrounds the Anglican Church of the town (parts were built in the 12th century) and could not help but think of all the Catholics who had worshiped here in times gone by. The hill I walked down, to finally reach the train station, was lined with wild black berries, just ripening. A little further down the hill, I passed over the river and gazed at the sheep grazing beneath the Old Rectory build in Gothic Revival style. As I reached the train station, I looked up at the sun peeking out from behind the clouds and was overwhelmed by the beauty all around me, both God-given and man-made, and how they complemented each other as Creator, creation, and sub-creator should.

There is a reason England is referred to as "Storybook England." The stories of the past are still there before one's eyes, if one only stops to look. Charlbury exudes a rich Christian heritage. I was filled with hope, for behind England's present secularism there still lies a deep foundation, half buried beneath the ground but peeping up above the surface. A really authentic culture is spoken through the art (using the word art broadly) that its people create. In England, an authentic culture has almost disappeared; however the creations of the past remain to encourage the present English to reembrace an authentic culture. If only they have the eyes to see Storybook England!

On a lighter note I am off to buy my sub-fusc for Matriculation

Cheers,

Hannah