the return of the dove

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John Everett Millais, The Return of the Dove to the Ark, 1851

I miss the afternoons in Oxford when I'd climb the steps to the third floor of the Ashmolean and sit in front of this painting for an hour or two. I just kept going back to this one, even though the air conditioner vent was right next to it and made an awful noise. Something drew me in, something about possessive hope, something like the persistent widow. Whatever that is, I want it.

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around oxford

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Another week in Oxford is past! And it was full of much goodness - concerts at the Sheldonian (Albinoni's Adagio in G Minor!), more exploring around Jericho and East Oxford, studying Elizabeth Jennings and hearing Michael Ward, dinner at the Turf with wonderful friends, a day trip to Cambridge, punting on the Thames with Emma, a visit to the Botanical Gardens, a birthday afternoon tea (with lovely people + the best jam) at the Perch, making friends with a lady at a little craft shop, wanderings around Port Meadow and Binsey, browsing around the eclectic book shop Albion Beatnik, dancing in Jericho at midnight, blackberry and raspberry picking, church book sales, blue skies and sunshine, poetry recitations in the garden, banana bread breaks with Lily at the Woodstock Cafe, taking long walks after dinner in University Park, spending an hour or two at Blackwells most afternoons, a lot of reading and thinking and paper-writing too . . .

I know I have said it before, but I feel so grateful + blessed to be here. More pictures and stories to come!

[pictures of magdalen college,the radcliffe camera, near a favorite cafe, architecture around the city, friends after dinner at the turf, a view in the botanical gardens]
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a room of one's own

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"A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction."
(Virginia Woolf)

A small peak at my little space here in Oxford - it doesn't quite have the cherry-colored antique furniture or floral printed wallpaper that I have always envisioned a proper flat in Oxford to have, but with a bit of sprucing up - fresh flowers from the covered market, getting rid of the horrid green duvet, a bowl of fruit, stacks of books, art postcards and old maps tacked to the wall - I have become quite satisfied with it.

And Woolf is right, I think. After living in hostels and in shared rooms for quite a few weeks, I have come to realize that there is indeed something about a peaceful and quiet space that fosters the creative instincts.
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rainy days in oxford

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I am sitting with the ever-cheery Lily in the Vaults and Garden Cafe, just underneath the Radcliffe Camera in Oxford. It was a rainy Saturday morning here and I spent the early hours reading in bed as the rain made paths along the windowpane. When the sun popped out after lunch, Lily and I decided to make our way into town. We stopped by my favorite art store - the one I've been to four times in less than a week - so I could pick up some clothespins. Then I went on a failed attempt to find Frankie Magazine at several different bookstores. Now we are here, underneath ancient vaults listening to hum-drum chatter of old British couples and young tourist families drinking tea. It is crowded and busy, but we have a cozy little wooden table in the corner.

A few days ago I was at the Bronte cottage in Haworth. Yesterday I was in the chapel at Magdalen College where C.S. Lewis preached The Weight of Glory. In a few days we'll be traveling to Stratford-upon-Avon to see a production of Macbeth and tour Shakespeare's birthplace. But honestly, it's the unconscious moments and uneventful days like this one that I like the most - the days when we do nothing particularly significant but watch the rain and read books and wander around shops and drink lattes and spontaneously decide to walk down a little alleyway we haven't been down before. There is no expectation to take everything in or to have some sort of experience - it just is what it is. I am grateful for days like this.

[my shoes at westminster cathedral]
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