Dear friends,
Another week has passed here in Oxford, and if I were to tell you about it, I would probably summarize it by using the words 'angst' and 'douchebag' quite frequently. "Really Sara? You would do that? That doesn't sound like you."
I've definitely gotten to that point where I wake up thinking about going home and go to bed thinking about home. I am just really so very ready to go home. I think that this program should not have given us a spring break, because it is really very hard to transition from traveling back into academia. Especially when that 'academia' no longer involves beautiful gospel topics and Albus Andrew, but nasty British landscape topics and history video series.
I am currently writing an essay on Julian of Norwich. Perhaps I should be interested, but I'm just really very not. I think that I'm not a very well-rounded person. This is unfortunate but is just how things go I reckon.
Wow, I'm writing about really boring things right now. Good thing I have a brief story that I've been saving up for awhile now. So one time I was sitting in the large, ominous, silent library while I was working on an essay. All of a sudden, I sensed that something was wrong. Music was playing. I looked up to see a guy frantically opening and closing his laptop. He had shut it, and then removed his headphones, but the music hadn't stopped. While he feverishly tried to stop the music, everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at him. He continued to make panicked motions and finally looked around at all of us staring at him. 2 seconds passed. Then, in desperation, he grabbed the laptop off the desk and literally ran out of the library, with the music still playing. The readers at the desks glanced around at each other with smirks on their faces. Ahhh, Bodleian reader bonding. Poor guy. Of course then he had to make a walk of shame back to his desk to gather the rest of his belongings. Man, I almost wish that had happened to me. Nothing bad ever happens to me anymore. It's a dang shame.
So here's something maybe you should know. I am officially going to Princeton Seminary this coming fall. Technically I've been officially going to go there for about 5 months now, when I told them I was coming, but then I also told Duke Divinity School that I was going to go there as well. Since I obviously can't go to both schools, I was going to have to tell one of them no. I finally got my financial aid notification from Duke yesterday. They are offering me $30,000 in loans. Princeton is offering me free tutition. Thus, I think I'll go to Princeton. I'd be a lunatic not to do so.
So, it's nice to have that decision made!
Except now people have started to tell me things like "New Jersey is the armpit of America." "Jersey is really dirty." "You are going to get stabbed and die." "You are going to fail and die." "You are going to get stabbed, fail, and die."
So, I guess I'm getting excited for that.
No, I reckon it'll be good. I've only gone to the east coast once, for the national spelling bee (woot woot!), so I hope it's a good fit for me. I hope that not everyone is a pretentious tool. I hate pretentious tools. One thing that I have reaffirmed while being at Oxford is that I don't particularly like to hang out with people who are like me. Hanging out with people that are all really driven and focused on success makes me super angsty. I mean, I would never want to hang out with myself, so why would I want to hang out with people who are like myself? So, basically I hope Princeton is not filled with people like me. Or maybe I can get a job at a coffee shop and hang out with people that are chill and not angsty all the time. Actually, one of my greatest desires for awhile now has been to bartend my way through seminary. We'll see if I make that happen. I think I'm too short to be a bartender. We will see.
I have also more or less officially decided that I will be spending my summer in Orange City. Of this decision, I am ridiculously pleased. Really, so very, very happy. Making the decision completely goes against the normal way I make decisions, considering I'm not sure I'll have a place to live, or jobs, and it may very well be a very financially unwise decision. Regardless, I'm doing it because I want to. Sometimes I think it's okay to do things that make you happy. Oh, and let me know if you are aware of any living/job opportunites. I mean, I may have an apartment...and a roommate...and a job...but it's still all completely undecided. I think I'll still have a job at the coffee shop, but I won't be given enough hours to only work there. I'm going to apply at Blue Mountain (swanky Orange City restaurant), and I hope to God that they hire me. Hopefully my chances are good since I think they always need help, and some of them know me from the coffee shop (which is right across the street), and I have like 6 years of experience as a server. I hope it works out. I think I have a job cleaning someone's house once a week as well. Basically, I just plan to pimp myself out to anyone that wants me to do something. (Hmm...in a completely ethical/moral way, I mean...) I adore working. Absolutely love it. I remember in high school telling one of my teachers that working was my identity. She insisted it was not. She was wrong. She's also the one that told me I would have a nervous breakdown in college. She was wrong.
Oh yes, I went to Belfast last weekend. It was absolutely glorious. Really, probably the highlight of my time in the UK. I kind of feel guilty for thinking that; I feel like I should have an Oxford highlight instead. As of right now, though, my favorite part about Oxford is the clouds. We'll see if I can make a better memory that that.
Anyway, Belfast. I stayed with/hung out with friends that I had met last spring on my SSP to Belfast. Just picture amazing, wonderful people and that would be these people. I finally got to drink my Guinness in Belfast (which I had been denied last year -- darn NW rules), and I did so while watching an apparently monumental rugby match in a pub with very enthusiastic Ireland fans. Again, amazing.
I was so glad to get away from the program here and just be in real life. I feel as though Belfast may be that place that I'll always try to return to in my life. That can be a life goal.
Well, I did that thing again where I wrote for a long time about completely inconsequential things. Now I'm going to go make oatmeal. I'm planning to not buy groceries for my last three weeks here and instead live off of a bag of oatmeal. I always end up doing this weird thing where I deprive myself of groceries in order to meet some strange goal that I've set. It's okay though, mom, because I got a real meal for lunch during the Angst/Douchebag classes, and then I just have to fend for myself at supper. Basically, I'm a stronger breed than most humans.
Yes, well, that is that. Hope you're doing well.
Best,
Sara
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Thursday, March 19, 2009
"Come Back To Me, Albus Andrew. Come Back To Me Is My Request."
Dear friends,
Another Thursday=another blog post. However, this time I have not emerged fresh out of another tutorial experience. And what a grim day it was.
Today marked the beginning of the portion of my time here that the program has so aptly titled "Angst: A Historiographic Approach to the Methodologies of How to Make You as Angsty as Possible." I've always wanted to get credits for angst. Now the opportunity is mine to seize. The participants in my program sometimes refer to the Angst class as British Landscapes, just so they can pretend to their schools and families that they are learning something substantial and worthy of credit at their home institution. Underneath this fondly assigned label, though, we all know that the class is very terrible and lives up to its name by being properly angst-inducing.
So, now that tutorials are over, I have 3 main things going on.
#1. Angst Class
#2. Writing and researching for my "Dissertation"
#3. Douchebag Seminar
"Wow," you think, "I have got to get me into that Oxford program. A Douchebag Seminar sounds right up my alley."
To elaborate further, my entire schedule has been changed drastically. You see, the Oxford term consists of eight weeks of tutorials. Then, all the students go home until the next term. There are 3 eight week terms throughout the year. Thus, I have finished the real Oxford portion, and we are now doing fake Oxford things so that we can fulfill requirements at our home institutions and be allowed to do this whole study abroad thing. Thus, a normal day for me now will consist of waking up early, vying for the shower at the same time as forty other douchebags in my house, and then playing a game called: "Try as hard as you can to walk the 35-minute path alone and avoid 40 other douchebags walking in the same direction." I failed miserably at the game this morning.
Upon arrival at 9:30am, we immediately settle in for a one hour film that hurls us wildly through British history. 10:30 brings tea time while I sit amongst a crowd and think about how angsty everyone is making me. 11:00 brings another one hour lecture about something British and landscape-ish. 12:00 brings lunch. Yay free lunch (that my tuition paid for)!! Then we're all supposed to scurry off and spend the rest of our lives in the library until the next day starts. I only have 2 essays to write for this class, but the topics that I have to pick from are very terrible. From my first day of "class," I can summarize what I learned by dropping a few names, but not knowing at all what those people did. How unfortunate.
The Douchebag Seminar began today as well. Some people refer to this as the Integrative Theology Seminar, but again, we all know what it really consists of. This was maybe the angstiest hour of my life because 8 students and 1 facilitator sat in a pretentious circle and talked about pretentious things that were completely pointless. All we did was talk about theology in some horribly abstract way and use words and phrases like "patterns of judgment," and "metaphysics." Actual mention of the Bible occurred very few times. I utterly despise theology in the abstract. There are things I can appreciate about biblical theology--a lot of things--and overall, I think it can be a quite worthy enterprise. However, there are terrible ways to go about theology, and I think that my Douchebag Seminar is going to be a crash course in worthless ways to discuss theology. (Of course, you perhaps should realize that this is me talking. I evaluate most things in a pessimistic manner. However, in my opinion, the Douchebag Seminar is worthy of rampant pessimism.)
The one thing that does make me happy is the prospect of working on my dissertation. The only problem is that I don't have much time to devote to that since I have the Angst and Douchebag classes eating into my time. I don't know why pointless things have to infringe upon my scholarship. Angst.
In other news, I did just return from Wales. Wales was perhaps one of the most beautiful places I have ever been. It was a very chill trip. We hung out, went to castles, and hiked a mountain. The hike was probably my favorite part. I like to accomplish things.
Tomorrow will consist of a field trip to a cathedral somewhere north of London and then I will depart at 1am to catch a bus to airport where I will board a flight to Belfast. Even though I just got back from break, I really need another one. Belfast will be wonderful. I'll arrive Saturday morning and leave Sunday night so it will be a very quick trip, but I am terribly excited.
There is perhaps more I could write about, but I must really get to bed in preparation for the early morning "fight 40 douchebags for the shower" game.
Best,
Sara
Another Thursday=another blog post. However, this time I have not emerged fresh out of another tutorial experience. And what a grim day it was.
Today marked the beginning of the portion of my time here that the program has so aptly titled "Angst: A Historiographic Approach to the Methodologies of How to Make You as Angsty as Possible." I've always wanted to get credits for angst. Now the opportunity is mine to seize. The participants in my program sometimes refer to the Angst class as British Landscapes, just so they can pretend to their schools and families that they are learning something substantial and worthy of credit at their home institution. Underneath this fondly assigned label, though, we all know that the class is very terrible and lives up to its name by being properly angst-inducing.
So, now that tutorials are over, I have 3 main things going on.
#1. Angst Class
#2. Writing and researching for my "Dissertation"
#3. Douchebag Seminar
"Wow," you think, "I have got to get me into that Oxford program. A Douchebag Seminar sounds right up my alley."
To elaborate further, my entire schedule has been changed drastically. You see, the Oxford term consists of eight weeks of tutorials. Then, all the students go home until the next term. There are 3 eight week terms throughout the year. Thus, I have finished the real Oxford portion, and we are now doing fake Oxford things so that we can fulfill requirements at our home institutions and be allowed to do this whole study abroad thing. Thus, a normal day for me now will consist of waking up early, vying for the shower at the same time as forty other douchebags in my house, and then playing a game called: "Try as hard as you can to walk the 35-minute path alone and avoid 40 other douchebags walking in the same direction." I failed miserably at the game this morning.
Upon arrival at 9:30am, we immediately settle in for a one hour film that hurls us wildly through British history. 10:30 brings tea time while I sit amongst a crowd and think about how angsty everyone is making me. 11:00 brings another one hour lecture about something British and landscape-ish. 12:00 brings lunch. Yay free lunch (that my tuition paid for)!! Then we're all supposed to scurry off and spend the rest of our lives in the library until the next day starts. I only have 2 essays to write for this class, but the topics that I have to pick from are very terrible. From my first day of "class," I can summarize what I learned by dropping a few names, but not knowing at all what those people did. How unfortunate.
The Douchebag Seminar began today as well. Some people refer to this as the Integrative Theology Seminar, but again, we all know what it really consists of. This was maybe the angstiest hour of my life because 8 students and 1 facilitator sat in a pretentious circle and talked about pretentious things that were completely pointless. All we did was talk about theology in some horribly abstract way and use words and phrases like "patterns of judgment," and "metaphysics." Actual mention of the Bible occurred very few times. I utterly despise theology in the abstract. There are things I can appreciate about biblical theology--a lot of things--and overall, I think it can be a quite worthy enterprise. However, there are terrible ways to go about theology, and I think that my Douchebag Seminar is going to be a crash course in worthless ways to discuss theology. (Of course, you perhaps should realize that this is me talking. I evaluate most things in a pessimistic manner. However, in my opinion, the Douchebag Seminar is worthy of rampant pessimism.)
The one thing that does make me happy is the prospect of working on my dissertation. The only problem is that I don't have much time to devote to that since I have the Angst and Douchebag classes eating into my time. I don't know why pointless things have to infringe upon my scholarship. Angst.
In other news, I did just return from Wales. Wales was perhaps one of the most beautiful places I have ever been. It was a very chill trip. We hung out, went to castles, and hiked a mountain. The hike was probably my favorite part. I like to accomplish things.
Tomorrow will consist of a field trip to a cathedral somewhere north of London and then I will depart at 1am to catch a bus to airport where I will board a flight to Belfast. Even though I just got back from break, I really need another one. Belfast will be wonderful. I'll arrive Saturday morning and leave Sunday night so it will be a very quick trip, but I am terribly excited.
There is perhaps more I could write about, but I must really get to bed in preparation for the early morning "fight 40 douchebags for the shower" game.
Best,
Sara
Thursday, March 12, 2009
"Please don't forget me, Albus"
Dear friends,
One thing that I have realized about this blog is that I have gone about it all wrong. I don't ever really tell you what I'm actually doing in Oxford. In fact, mostly all I have done is try to tell you interesting stories while seeing how many times I could possibly insert the word 'angst' into a blog post. I realized this when a friend told me that she had directed someone who wanted to go to Oxford to visit my blog. This person is really going to learn nothing about Oxford, but rather only a lot about this strange 'Albus Andrew' figure who has taken over my life. That is all to say, I don't much care if I have gone about this blog wrongly. I, in fact, hate reading boring study abroad blogs that say things akin to: "Today I visited a castle. It was beautiful. God lived in the castle. I like God. I like castles. Therefore, I like castles with God in them." No thank you. I prefer my methods.
That being said, get ready for a new batch of stories about my tutorial experiences.
Today I had my last tutorial ever with Albus Andrew. It was a sad, but glorious hour. I was glad to see when I came in that he had lit the fireplace, likely in anticipation of avoiding my freak show of shivering on his sofa. We went through the usual routine of him saying, "Right, let's see how you got on then," and then me reading my essay on the fourfold Gospel aloud to him. When I had finished reading my last sentence [which happened to be a BAMF sentence], there was the usual long pause in which my mind races wildly while I try to figure out by his facial expression whether or not he liked it. Then he said:
Albus: "Let me start with a broad question. What are you doing next year? Have your plans for seminary come together yet?"
(Um what? Albus? Fourfold Gospel? Remember...we were talking about it?)
Sara: "Um, no. As of right now, both Princeton and Duke think I'm coming there in the fall. I'm going to need to remedy that at some point."
Albus: "And what do you want to do eventually?"
Sara: "Well, I've kind of been thinking for awhile that I wanted to use seminary as a stepping-stone to a doctoral program and go into academia, but Oxford has made me doubt that a lot. I mean, I doubted it everyday of my life before I came here, but Oxford has magnified that."
Albus: "Why?"
Sara: "[insert weaknesses and lack of abilities here]" I'm just not sure that I'm cut out to handle what would be expected of me."
At this point, Albus and I transitioned into territory that we had never ventured into before. We talked about the more personal topic of whether or not I suck at life. Albus lapsed into a 10-minute segment where he told me that he, in fact, thought I did not suck at life at all. He said many very good things that people should not reproduce on their blogs unless they wish to be written off as a pretentious jerk. Basically, he affirmed that he thought I was quite capable and he told me that it would be "disastrous" if I left Oxford thinking that I wasn't cut out for academia, because that just wasn't true at all.
To some of these comments I responded: "Yes well, I often feel as though I can be confident in my writing and my ability to express the content in an essay, but as I'm sure you've seen in our tutorials, I often struggle more with my ability to express things well verbally."
Albus Andrew thought about this and said that he had never thought that I couldn't articulate myself well, and that he had always thought I had responded relatively well to his questions.
Sara: "Well, maybe I'm just too hard on myself sometimes. I tend to be very hard on myself."
He agreed that if I felt like I was doing poorly, then it was because I was setting impossible standards for myself. I said, "I know I do this, but it's very difficult not to do this." Seriously. I don't know how to be a normal person that can be satisfied with the quality of my work. I may have the poorest self-esteem when it comes to academics of anyone that I know. Actually, it's bi-polar self-esteem. Sometimes I can feel very confident about my ability to do well, but most of the time the feeling of imminent failure overrides everything. I happened to be reading back through my facebook status reports over the last 3 years [lame activity, yes I know], but it was interesting to see how many times I had talked about failing at life. "Sara is upset to be failing at life." "Sara is happy that she has avoided failing at life." I really wish I would get over this. I remember one time my junior year getting a 95 on a paper and after seeing the grade, going on a failure walk in which I reprimanded myself by chanting: "failure, failure" to the tune of my footsteps. [WOW, these are maybe not things I should write in a blog]. Suffice it to say, I know that I'm not normal, and I know that I beat myself up too much, but I also know that I will always be this way. I don't see a shift in optimism coming my way.
Having expressed these sentiments about always doubting my abilities, I feel as though having Albus Andrew affirm me so greatly can give me a little boost to think back on in the future. Albus Andrew knows really nothing about me, and he has absolutely no reason to give me praise if I didn't deserve it, and yet he did. Thus, perhaps I can do things decently from time to time. I very much appreciated the opportunity to start from the bottom, and prove myself to him, even though it made me angsty as heck back in the day.
I was recently told that I shouldn't feel as though I have anything to prove, but I do. I really, really do. Maybe I shouldn't operate from this basis, but again, I have no idea how to not.
I was thinking the other day about how this whole tutorial experience has been quite similar to the first time I went skiing (which was only about 3 months ago). I, in fact, am generally quite terrible at physical endeavors such as these. In middle school basketball, when I was put in the game during the last quarter because we had basically already lost, I never ever made a basket. I would have dreams in which I scored points for the team, but in real life, I'm not sure I ever even took a shot. Needless to say, the prospects for my success in skiing were not high. Nonetheless, after about 2 hours of training, "Ski Master Dave" pointed and asked me if I was ready to go down "that hill." Having never gone skiing before and having absolutely no idea what "that hill" entailed, I enthusiastically agreed that I thought I was ready to conquer the hill.
The thing is, I had no idea that the hill, that I will forever refer to with a distinct string of cuss words, was roundabout a 18 mile straight shot to the bottom (of course you know this is not true). Thus, as I started confidently down the hill, I suddenly realized that I HAD NOT LEARNED HOW TO SLOW DOWN. "Hmm," I thought, "I am going really very quickly. There is a fence coming up." [insert lots of cussing, screaming, and crashing here]. This process continued as I picked myself up and hurled myself down the next stretch of death.
As I got into one horrible, death-defying crash after another and was continually helped up by a little boy, I realized that I could not quit because I had to somehow make it down the hill. Thus, I simply could not quit. Unless I died in the process, I had to keep going down that hill.
Why in the world am I telling you this? Because the whole process of my tutorials with Albus Andrew has been a little bit like having to get down that hill. As he would ask me a question and I would flounder and crash in a cloud of my own self-induced failure, I HAD to come up with an answer to his question. I could not quit. I had to get to the bottom.
As my day of skiing continued, I went back to the bunny hill and learned how to turn and how to slow down. After about 4 hours of this, I tried "that hill" again, and I made it the whole way down without falling. Amazing. The past three weeks with Albus Andrew have been like making it to the bottom without falling. In today's tutorial, I may have even won the prize for having the "maddest skillz."
That, my friends, is how my skiing experience is relevant.
I will very much miss my tutorial experience. Every evening (or the wee hours of the morning) when I would finish my essay, and the last pages dropped down into the printer tray, I went through a bit of a stapler ritual. For some reason, in my attempts to staple two separate copies of my essays, I would always staple one of the copies poorly. The other copy, however, I usually managed to staple very well. I would then meticulously check to make sure that I gave Albus Andrew the copy with the nice staple. Not that he ever would have noticed if he got the essay with a staple slightly askew, but oh my was this stapling process important to me.
Well, well...perhaps I have packed enough angst into this post to hold us all over into the next week. It should be pointed out, however, that Oxford is currently going quite well. Tomorrow will be my last Greek tutorial with Albus Jonathan and on Saturday morning I will depart for a 5 day trip to Wales. Of this, I am greatly pleased. I think it will be a delightful time.
I do thank you for reading these thoughts of mine. Perhaps I share more than I should on a public blog, but I believe that authenticity is one of the things I value most in life.
And on that note...
Best,
Sara
One thing that I have realized about this blog is that I have gone about it all wrong. I don't ever really tell you what I'm actually doing in Oxford. In fact, mostly all I have done is try to tell you interesting stories while seeing how many times I could possibly insert the word 'angst' into a blog post. I realized this when a friend told me that she had directed someone who wanted to go to Oxford to visit my blog. This person is really going to learn nothing about Oxford, but rather only a lot about this strange 'Albus Andrew' figure who has taken over my life. That is all to say, I don't much care if I have gone about this blog wrongly. I, in fact, hate reading boring study abroad blogs that say things akin to: "Today I visited a castle. It was beautiful. God lived in the castle. I like God. I like castles. Therefore, I like castles with God in them." No thank you. I prefer my methods.
That being said, get ready for a new batch of stories about my tutorial experiences.
Today I had my last tutorial ever with Albus Andrew. It was a sad, but glorious hour. I was glad to see when I came in that he had lit the fireplace, likely in anticipation of avoiding my freak show of shivering on his sofa. We went through the usual routine of him saying, "Right, let's see how you got on then," and then me reading my essay on the fourfold Gospel aloud to him. When I had finished reading my last sentence [which happened to be a BAMF sentence], there was the usual long pause in which my mind races wildly while I try to figure out by his facial expression whether or not he liked it. Then he said:
Albus: "Let me start with a broad question. What are you doing next year? Have your plans for seminary come together yet?"
(Um what? Albus? Fourfold Gospel? Remember...we were talking about it?)
Sara: "Um, no. As of right now, both Princeton and Duke think I'm coming there in the fall. I'm going to need to remedy that at some point."
Albus: "And what do you want to do eventually?"
Sara: "Well, I've kind of been thinking for awhile that I wanted to use seminary as a stepping-stone to a doctoral program and go into academia, but Oxford has made me doubt that a lot. I mean, I doubted it everyday of my life before I came here, but Oxford has magnified that."
Albus: "Why?"
Sara: "[insert weaknesses and lack of abilities here]" I'm just not sure that I'm cut out to handle what would be expected of me."
At this point, Albus and I transitioned into territory that we had never ventured into before. We talked about the more personal topic of whether or not I suck at life. Albus lapsed into a 10-minute segment where he told me that he, in fact, thought I did not suck at life at all. He said many very good things that people should not reproduce on their blogs unless they wish to be written off as a pretentious jerk. Basically, he affirmed that he thought I was quite capable and he told me that it would be "disastrous" if I left Oxford thinking that I wasn't cut out for academia, because that just wasn't true at all.
To some of these comments I responded: "Yes well, I often feel as though I can be confident in my writing and my ability to express the content in an essay, but as I'm sure you've seen in our tutorials, I often struggle more with my ability to express things well verbally."
Albus Andrew thought about this and said that he had never thought that I couldn't articulate myself well, and that he had always thought I had responded relatively well to his questions.
Sara: "Well, maybe I'm just too hard on myself sometimes. I tend to be very hard on myself."
He agreed that if I felt like I was doing poorly, then it was because I was setting impossible standards for myself. I said, "I know I do this, but it's very difficult not to do this." Seriously. I don't know how to be a normal person that can be satisfied with the quality of my work. I may have the poorest self-esteem when it comes to academics of anyone that I know. Actually, it's bi-polar self-esteem. Sometimes I can feel very confident about my ability to do well, but most of the time the feeling of imminent failure overrides everything. I happened to be reading back through my facebook status reports over the last 3 years [lame activity, yes I know], but it was interesting to see how many times I had talked about failing at life. "Sara is upset to be failing at life." "Sara is happy that she has avoided failing at life." I really wish I would get over this. I remember one time my junior year getting a 95 on a paper and after seeing the grade, going on a failure walk in which I reprimanded myself by chanting: "failure, failure" to the tune of my footsteps. [WOW, these are maybe not things I should write in a blog]. Suffice it to say, I know that I'm not normal, and I know that I beat myself up too much, but I also know that I will always be this way. I don't see a shift in optimism coming my way.
Having expressed these sentiments about always doubting my abilities, I feel as though having Albus Andrew affirm me so greatly can give me a little boost to think back on in the future. Albus Andrew knows really nothing about me, and he has absolutely no reason to give me praise if I didn't deserve it, and yet he did. Thus, perhaps I can do things decently from time to time. I very much appreciated the opportunity to start from the bottom, and prove myself to him, even though it made me angsty as heck back in the day.
I was recently told that I shouldn't feel as though I have anything to prove, but I do. I really, really do. Maybe I shouldn't operate from this basis, but again, I have no idea how to not.
I was thinking the other day about how this whole tutorial experience has been quite similar to the first time I went skiing (which was only about 3 months ago). I, in fact, am generally quite terrible at physical endeavors such as these. In middle school basketball, when I was put in the game during the last quarter because we had basically already lost, I never ever made a basket. I would have dreams in which I scored points for the team, but in real life, I'm not sure I ever even took a shot. Needless to say, the prospects for my success in skiing were not high. Nonetheless, after about 2 hours of training, "Ski Master Dave" pointed and asked me if I was ready to go down "that hill." Having never gone skiing before and having absolutely no idea what "that hill" entailed, I enthusiastically agreed that I thought I was ready to conquer the hill.
The thing is, I had no idea that the hill, that I will forever refer to with a distinct string of cuss words, was roundabout a 18 mile straight shot to the bottom (of course you know this is not true). Thus, as I started confidently down the hill, I suddenly realized that I HAD NOT LEARNED HOW TO SLOW DOWN. "Hmm," I thought, "I am going really very quickly. There is a fence coming up." [insert lots of cussing, screaming, and crashing here]. This process continued as I picked myself up and hurled myself down the next stretch of death.
As I got into one horrible, death-defying crash after another and was continually helped up by a little boy, I realized that I could not quit because I had to somehow make it down the hill. Thus, I simply could not quit. Unless I died in the process, I had to keep going down that hill.
Why in the world am I telling you this? Because the whole process of my tutorials with Albus Andrew has been a little bit like having to get down that hill. As he would ask me a question and I would flounder and crash in a cloud of my own self-induced failure, I HAD to come up with an answer to his question. I could not quit. I had to get to the bottom.
As my day of skiing continued, I went back to the bunny hill and learned how to turn and how to slow down. After about 4 hours of this, I tried "that hill" again, and I made it the whole way down without falling. Amazing. The past three weeks with Albus Andrew have been like making it to the bottom without falling. In today's tutorial, I may have even won the prize for having the "maddest skillz."
That, my friends, is how my skiing experience is relevant.
I will very much miss my tutorial experience. Every evening (or the wee hours of the morning) when I would finish my essay, and the last pages dropped down into the printer tray, I went through a bit of a stapler ritual. For some reason, in my attempts to staple two separate copies of my essays, I would always staple one of the copies poorly. The other copy, however, I usually managed to staple very well. I would then meticulously check to make sure that I gave Albus Andrew the copy with the nice staple. Not that he ever would have noticed if he got the essay with a staple slightly askew, but oh my was this stapling process important to me.
Well, well...perhaps I have packed enough angst into this post to hold us all over into the next week. It should be pointed out, however, that Oxford is currently going quite well. Tomorrow will be my last Greek tutorial with Albus Jonathan and on Saturday morning I will depart for a 5 day trip to Wales. Of this, I am greatly pleased. I think it will be a delightful time.
I do thank you for reading these thoughts of mine. Perhaps I share more than I should on a public blog, but I believe that authenticity is one of the things I value most in life.
And on that note...
Best,
Sara
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Nerds are better in the Rainbow Pack.
Dear friends,
Two weeks have lapsed since my last blog post. My apologies: [insert boring comments about how busy I've been here.]
I'm sorry to say that nothing terrible has happened to me in quite awhile. I mean, come on, am I going to write about good things? I am nowhere near witty enough to make good things entertaining. My tutorials have been going really well lately. Last week, I finished reading my essay on why the Gospel of John was written, and after giving me no feedback for five weeks, Albus Andrew (without even looking up from my essay) said carefully:
"Well Sara, I don't know that I agree with everything you have said, but that is one of the best essays I have heard. Your other essays were good, but this one is really excellent."
(2 seconds of stunned, awkward silence)
(tentative tone) "Thank you."
(3 seconds of awkward silence)
Sweet Jesus.
I was in shock for about the next five minutes and had to force myself to be chill and not smile. I don't think I did a very good job of this because I was so distracted by his compliment that I couldn't concentrate on his questions for awhile. I forced myself to repress my joy for the next hour until I left his office and could smile like a giddy school-girl as I walked to the library. That moment will forever remain a moment that I can think back upon when I am convinced that I can do nothing adequately.
Ironically though, his good comment contributed to more angst in the coming week as I had now set a standard for myself that I didn't want to fall below. I HATE setting standards for myself, but this is a recurring theme in my life. My own expectations haunt me.
In other news, I've spent the past two tutorials with Albus Andrew shivering uncontrollably on his couch [that is, I was the one doing the shivering--this would not be ambiguous if I were blogging in Greek (how fun would that be?)]. The first week, before I had noticed that I was visibly shaking, he stopped mid-sentence and said:
"(Irish lilt) Are you okay? Are you warm enough?"
"Oh, uh, am I? ... I'm okay."
After this, I vowed to take a sweatshirt but conveniently forgot again this morning.
"Albus, will you turn on your fireplace, pretty please? Because I am freaking cold." Unfortunately, he didn't pick up on the subliminal messages I tried to send him by staring longingly at the fireplace, and this time he didn't comment on the shivering which made the fact that I was shaking uncontrollaby all the more awkward. I'm sure that he was wondering how to deal with me when I looked like such an angsty freak. Ahh well, good old Albus.
For an Albus Jonathan update:
Albus Jonathan: "Do you feel like there's a general sense of gloom among the program right now?"
Me: "Uh, I'm not really sure. I feel a lot less stressed than most people in this program. And I've been getting more sleep this semester than any other semester in my college career."
Yes, I really said that. Why the heck did I say that? Albus Jonathan then proceeded to quadruple the amount of Greek homework for my next tutorial.
Note to self: Always appear angsty.
Oh yes, one more thing, I totally taught Albus Andrew the word 'discombobulate' today. I used it in my paper and he said: "I have never seen that word in my life. What [the crap] does it mean?" I felt happy about this. I guess the word does look completely messed up.
In more shallow news, on my walk to the grocery store today, I stopped in a thrift store and found the most amazing trendy euro boots ever for 5 pounds. These are the sort of trendy euro boots that beckon me from the store windows with their nasty price tag of 30-50 pounds. Thus, I should probably pull an evangelical and say: "It was a God thing. It was as if God wanted me to have those shoes." I'm sure that was it. I mean, what else could it be?
Here is an awkward thing: My next essay topic is: "A theological opportunity or a historical problem--what should we make of the fourfold gospel?" The awkward part is that Albus Andrew put one of the books that he has written on the topic on my bibliography. I mean, of course I am going to read his book, but do I cite it in my essay? I feel as if that would be overly awkward. What would be exceptionally awkward would be if I were to quote him in my paper. Then I would be reading aloud my essay to him and quoting him. Sketchy. How would I phrase that? "As you comment in your book..." No way, dude. Any advice on how to deal with this predicament? Because if I don't cite it, I don't want him to think I completely ignored his book. Oh the trials of studying under tutors that are undoubtable BAMFs.
Well, I apologize that this post was rather mundane. Maybe another natural disaster will come my way in the next week. We can only hope.
Best,
Sara
Ps, I've gotten some amazing mail lately. Thank you greatly for your kindness. :)
Two weeks have lapsed since my last blog post. My apologies: [insert boring comments about how busy I've been here.]
I'm sorry to say that nothing terrible has happened to me in quite awhile. I mean, come on, am I going to write about good things? I am nowhere near witty enough to make good things entertaining. My tutorials have been going really well lately. Last week, I finished reading my essay on why the Gospel of John was written, and after giving me no feedback for five weeks, Albus Andrew (without even looking up from my essay) said carefully:
"Well Sara, I don't know that I agree with everything you have said, but that is one of the best essays I have heard. Your other essays were good, but this one is really excellent."
(2 seconds of stunned, awkward silence)
(tentative tone) "Thank you."
(3 seconds of awkward silence)
Sweet Jesus.
I was in shock for about the next five minutes and had to force myself to be chill and not smile. I don't think I did a very good job of this because I was so distracted by his compliment that I couldn't concentrate on his questions for awhile. I forced myself to repress my joy for the next hour until I left his office and could smile like a giddy school-girl as I walked to the library. That moment will forever remain a moment that I can think back upon when I am convinced that I can do nothing adequately.
Ironically though, his good comment contributed to more angst in the coming week as I had now set a standard for myself that I didn't want to fall below. I HATE setting standards for myself, but this is a recurring theme in my life. My own expectations haunt me.
In other news, I've spent the past two tutorials with Albus Andrew shivering uncontrollably on his couch [that is, I was the one doing the shivering--this would not be ambiguous if I were blogging in Greek (how fun would that be?)]. The first week, before I had noticed that I was visibly shaking, he stopped mid-sentence and said:
"(Irish lilt) Are you okay? Are you warm enough?"
"Oh, uh, am I? ... I'm okay."
After this, I vowed to take a sweatshirt but conveniently forgot again this morning.
"Albus, will you turn on your fireplace, pretty please? Because I am freaking cold." Unfortunately, he didn't pick up on the subliminal messages I tried to send him by staring longingly at the fireplace, and this time he didn't comment on the shivering which made the fact that I was shaking uncontrollaby all the more awkward. I'm sure that he was wondering how to deal with me when I looked like such an angsty freak. Ahh well, good old Albus.
For an Albus Jonathan update:
Albus Jonathan: "Do you feel like there's a general sense of gloom among the program right now?"
Me: "Uh, I'm not really sure. I feel a lot less stressed than most people in this program. And I've been getting more sleep this semester than any other semester in my college career."
Yes, I really said that. Why the heck did I say that? Albus Jonathan then proceeded to quadruple the amount of Greek homework for my next tutorial.
Note to self: Always appear angsty.
Oh yes, one more thing, I totally taught Albus Andrew the word 'discombobulate' today. I used it in my paper and he said: "I have never seen that word in my life. What [the crap] does it mean?" I felt happy about this. I guess the word does look completely messed up.
In more shallow news, on my walk to the grocery store today, I stopped in a thrift store and found the most amazing trendy euro boots ever for 5 pounds. These are the sort of trendy euro boots that beckon me from the store windows with their nasty price tag of 30-50 pounds. Thus, I should probably pull an evangelical and say: "It was a God thing. It was as if God wanted me to have those shoes." I'm sure that was it. I mean, what else could it be?
Here is an awkward thing: My next essay topic is: "A theological opportunity or a historical problem--what should we make of the fourfold gospel?" The awkward part is that Albus Andrew put one of the books that he has written on the topic on my bibliography. I mean, of course I am going to read his book, but do I cite it in my essay? I feel as if that would be overly awkward. What would be exceptionally awkward would be if I were to quote him in my paper. Then I would be reading aloud my essay to him and quoting him. Sketchy. How would I phrase that? "As you comment in your book..." No way, dude. Any advice on how to deal with this predicament? Because if I don't cite it, I don't want him to think I completely ignored his book. Oh the trials of studying under tutors that are undoubtable BAMFs.
Well, I apologize that this post was rather mundane. Maybe another natural disaster will come my way in the next week. We can only hope.
Best,
Sara
Ps, I've gotten some amazing mail lately. Thank you greatly for your kindness. :)
Saturday, February 21, 2009
"The Flooded Cowpath"
Dear Friends,
My regular Thursday blog post has turned into a Saturday post this week because Albus Andrew pushed back my Thursday tutorial to Friday, thereby entirely confusing my normal routine. That is to say, need not worry that I died.
I have found that I usually like to start out these posts by regaling you with the tale of my latest debacle. The angsty situtation for this week can properly be deemed: "The Flooded Cowpath."
Alas, think back to the angsty situation of two posts past--the canceled tutorial and the snow-covered, icy hill--that story should transition quite nicely into this story because lots and lots of snow, when melted, turns into lots and lots of water.
As I set out last Friday morning for my tutorial with Albus Jonathan, clicking down the lane with my newly attained trendy Euro boots, I thought I might take the scenic footpath that winds blissfully around one of the university parks. However, I hadn't gone too far down this path when I came to a locked door preventing me from going any further across the bridges (locked doors are becoming a bit of a motif, aren't they?). Considering the situation, I deduced that the water was too high, and that the path had flooded and I would have to go around. I then proceeded to click much more quickly with my trendy Euro boots, as I now had to trace my steps back and then take an entirely different path. I might also mention that at this point, the newly attained trendy Euro boots had caused a blister the size of a golf ball to form on my right foot. Regardless, I did not want to be late for my tutorial with Albus Jonathan so I clicked feverishy on.
When I had gotten a little ways down the new path, a friendly British woman with even more trendy Euro boots stopped and informed me that the path I was heading towards was completely flooded over.
"Oh no," I said, glancing at her knee-high trendy Euro boots, "what did you do? Did you get wet?"
"No, I didn't go through--it's too deep--I turned around."
The blasted snow was going to get the best of me once more.
I was already running slightly behind for my tutorial, and if I were to turn around now and pick another new path, I would be at least 40 minutes late. Thus, having not yet seen the water level, I forged ahead. As I rounded the corner and the field path came into view, I saw that the path was indeed covered with nearly a foot of what could not be described as gently, gurgling water. However, having no choice at this point, I stooped down, pulled off my newly attained trendy Euro boots and socks, rolled up my pants like a young girl excited to go frog-hunting, and moved my way confidently into the gushing stream.
I cannot say that this was a good idea.
I did remember that it happened to be the middle of the winter while I was wading through the foot of ICE COLD water. Thus, I did what any girl would do as she waded barefoot through 300 yards of frigid terror. I cussed unabashedly.
When I got to the other side, my pants were soaked up to the thigh from the splashing water, and I was very, very cold. I shoved my feet back into my trendy Euro boots, minus the socks, and hoped that I had not contracted syphilis by wading through the water with my golf ball sized blister. Now being about 15 minutes from the location of my tutorial, I thought that I might be able to make it without dying.
I arrived finally at the house and was greeted by a nice lad and ushered in. Albus Jonathan poked his head into the doorway.
"Hello Sara."
"Hi," (looking downward) "It seems I got my pants quite wet. The cowpath is really flooded. Is there by chance a girl around that I might borrow some pants from?" (Remember, Albus Jonathan is the RD-type person for the other house students live in).
Albus Jonathan looked around and found me a girl who provided me with a lovely pair of sweatpants and put my own soaked pants in the dryer. I then proceeded to have a wonderful tutorial with Albus Jonathan in my socks and newly attained sweatpants. Having finished, I retrieved my warm and dry pants from the dryer, returned the lovely sweatpants, and headed out for the rest of my day in town.
Roughly six hours later, as I was walking back to my home for the evening, something struck me. Pants, in British-English mean UNDERWEAR. Thus, I had arrived for my tutorial, promptly informed my tutor that I had gotten my underwear wet, and asked if I might borrow some dry underwear from a nearby female. Oh. My. Goodness. I laughed joyfully all the way home. I had always been worried, and therefore conscientious, that I was going to make that mistake, but in the aftermath of my angst-filled debacle, I had completely forgotten to make the differentiation. Dearest me.
You ought to be glad, you know, that I have no common sense and get myself into these situations. They're probably going to end up being the highlight of my trip.
In other news, since last week I have comsumed my first, and second, Guinness. I am quite pleased that I enjoyed it as doing such was I believe my third listed goal in coming here. I have found a friend that enjoys going to the pub and discussing theology over drinks. Of this, I am most glad. A discussion of universalism makes a pint go down so much more smoothly.
I hate to tell you this, but I am enjoying Oxford a lot lately. A lot, a lot. I enjoy the clicking of my trendy Euro boots as I travel the 45 minutes into the city--I enjoy the crowded streets--and I especially enjoy the books I read and the essays I produce. I had a chat this past week with the "cutest, most brilliant English woman in the history of ever"/senior tutor for our program. When I had submitted to her the required progress report for how I thought my tutorials were going, I had mentioned that I was a bit concerned because Albus Andrew never gave me any feedback, and therefore I wasn't necessarily sure how to improve. She imformed me that Albus Andrew, in his own progress report on me, had reported that I was doing really very well.
"Albus! I wish you would tell ME that!"
He had also offered to be my long essay/"dissertation" advisor, which is not the norm, as he is an outside tutor. Thus, I'm going to get to keep Albus Andrew for another 4 weeks after my tutorial finishes.
I'm starting to like Albus Andrew so much. During my tutorial yesterday, I just wanted to give him a hug and bake him a casserole. Nonetheless, doing such might be the most inappropriate thing possible one could do to one's tutor. Also, I've never baked a casserole. Do you even bake a casserole? Or do you cook it? No one really knows.
For next week's tutorial, I get to describe and account for the distinctive emphases of the Gospel of John and answer why it was written. I am SO excited. As I begin doing some of my reading, I remembered/realized that John is most certainly my favorite Gospel. It is the best. I could definitely be a Johannine scholar and spend the rest of my life steeped in that literature. Not only does the 4th evangelist present a superhuman Jesus as speaking "as no man has ever spoken" (7:46), but he also portrays Jesus in a very human way--getting tired, weeping, having friends, engaging in long drawn-out discussions with his opponents (rather than the polished one-liners of the Synoptics). John is both so hard and so easy to understand. Scholars have described it anecdotally as a Gospel in which both an elephant can swim and a child can wade. Needless to say, I am super excited for this week's studies.
Also, to keep you updated, I have decided to do my "dissertation" on what the non-canonical Gospels offer to the discussion of the historical Jesus. I ended up picking this because it was the topic Albus Andrew had offered to advise me on, and I thought having his input would be fantastic as he is currently writing a book on the non-canonical Gospels. Booyah. Can't beat that eh? And he's going to hook me up with a super sweet bibliography.
Alas, I should probably go read now. It s a delightfully beautiful day and perhaps even warm enough to lounge outside with my books. Joy.
Best,
Sara
My regular Thursday blog post has turned into a Saturday post this week because Albus Andrew pushed back my Thursday tutorial to Friday, thereby entirely confusing my normal routine. That is to say, need not worry that I died.
I have found that I usually like to start out these posts by regaling you with the tale of my latest debacle. The angsty situtation for this week can properly be deemed: "The Flooded Cowpath."
Alas, think back to the angsty situation of two posts past--the canceled tutorial and the snow-covered, icy hill--that story should transition quite nicely into this story because lots and lots of snow, when melted, turns into lots and lots of water.
As I set out last Friday morning for my tutorial with Albus Jonathan, clicking down the lane with my newly attained trendy Euro boots, I thought I might take the scenic footpath that winds blissfully around one of the university parks. However, I hadn't gone too far down this path when I came to a locked door preventing me from going any further across the bridges (locked doors are becoming a bit of a motif, aren't they?). Considering the situation, I deduced that the water was too high, and that the path had flooded and I would have to go around. I then proceeded to click much more quickly with my trendy Euro boots, as I now had to trace my steps back and then take an entirely different path. I might also mention that at this point, the newly attained trendy Euro boots had caused a blister the size of a golf ball to form on my right foot. Regardless, I did not want to be late for my tutorial with Albus Jonathan so I clicked feverishy on.
When I had gotten a little ways down the new path, a friendly British woman with even more trendy Euro boots stopped and informed me that the path I was heading towards was completely flooded over.
"Oh no," I said, glancing at her knee-high trendy Euro boots, "what did you do? Did you get wet?"
"No, I didn't go through--it's too deep--I turned around."
The blasted snow was going to get the best of me once more.
I was already running slightly behind for my tutorial, and if I were to turn around now and pick another new path, I would be at least 40 minutes late. Thus, having not yet seen the water level, I forged ahead. As I rounded the corner and the field path came into view, I saw that the path was indeed covered with nearly a foot of what could not be described as gently, gurgling water. However, having no choice at this point, I stooped down, pulled off my newly attained trendy Euro boots and socks, rolled up my pants like a young girl excited to go frog-hunting, and moved my way confidently into the gushing stream.
I cannot say that this was a good idea.
I did remember that it happened to be the middle of the winter while I was wading through the foot of ICE COLD water. Thus, I did what any girl would do as she waded barefoot through 300 yards of frigid terror. I cussed unabashedly.
When I got to the other side, my pants were soaked up to the thigh from the splashing water, and I was very, very cold. I shoved my feet back into my trendy Euro boots, minus the socks, and hoped that I had not contracted syphilis by wading through the water with my golf ball sized blister. Now being about 15 minutes from the location of my tutorial, I thought that I might be able to make it without dying.
I arrived finally at the house and was greeted by a nice lad and ushered in. Albus Jonathan poked his head into the doorway.
"Hello Sara."
"Hi," (looking downward) "It seems I got my pants quite wet. The cowpath is really flooded. Is there by chance a girl around that I might borrow some pants from?" (Remember, Albus Jonathan is the RD-type person for the other house students live in).
Albus Jonathan looked around and found me a girl who provided me with a lovely pair of sweatpants and put my own soaked pants in the dryer. I then proceeded to have a wonderful tutorial with Albus Jonathan in my socks and newly attained sweatpants. Having finished, I retrieved my warm and dry pants from the dryer, returned the lovely sweatpants, and headed out for the rest of my day in town.
Roughly six hours later, as I was walking back to my home for the evening, something struck me. Pants, in British-English mean UNDERWEAR. Thus, I had arrived for my tutorial, promptly informed my tutor that I had gotten my underwear wet, and asked if I might borrow some dry underwear from a nearby female. Oh. My. Goodness. I laughed joyfully all the way home. I had always been worried, and therefore conscientious, that I was going to make that mistake, but in the aftermath of my angst-filled debacle, I had completely forgotten to make the differentiation. Dearest me.
You ought to be glad, you know, that I have no common sense and get myself into these situations. They're probably going to end up being the highlight of my trip.
In other news, since last week I have comsumed my first, and second, Guinness. I am quite pleased that I enjoyed it as doing such was I believe my third listed goal in coming here. I have found a friend that enjoys going to the pub and discussing theology over drinks. Of this, I am most glad. A discussion of universalism makes a pint go down so much more smoothly.
I hate to tell you this, but I am enjoying Oxford a lot lately. A lot, a lot. I enjoy the clicking of my trendy Euro boots as I travel the 45 minutes into the city--I enjoy the crowded streets--and I especially enjoy the books I read and the essays I produce. I had a chat this past week with the "cutest, most brilliant English woman in the history of ever"/senior tutor for our program. When I had submitted to her the required progress report for how I thought my tutorials were going, I had mentioned that I was a bit concerned because Albus Andrew never gave me any feedback, and therefore I wasn't necessarily sure how to improve. She imformed me that Albus Andrew, in his own progress report on me, had reported that I was doing really very well.
"Albus! I wish you would tell ME that!"
He had also offered to be my long essay/"dissertation" advisor, which is not the norm, as he is an outside tutor. Thus, I'm going to get to keep Albus Andrew for another 4 weeks after my tutorial finishes.
I'm starting to like Albus Andrew so much. During my tutorial yesterday, I just wanted to give him a hug and bake him a casserole. Nonetheless, doing such might be the most inappropriate thing possible one could do to one's tutor. Also, I've never baked a casserole. Do you even bake a casserole? Or do you cook it? No one really knows.
For next week's tutorial, I get to describe and account for the distinctive emphases of the Gospel of John and answer why it was written. I am SO excited. As I begin doing some of my reading, I remembered/realized that John is most certainly my favorite Gospel. It is the best. I could definitely be a Johannine scholar and spend the rest of my life steeped in that literature. Not only does the 4th evangelist present a superhuman Jesus as speaking "as no man has ever spoken" (7:46), but he also portrays Jesus in a very human way--getting tired, weeping, having friends, engaging in long drawn-out discussions with his opponents (rather than the polished one-liners of the Synoptics). John is both so hard and so easy to understand. Scholars have described it anecdotally as a Gospel in which both an elephant can swim and a child can wade. Needless to say, I am super excited for this week's studies.
Also, to keep you updated, I have decided to do my "dissertation" on what the non-canonical Gospels offer to the discussion of the historical Jesus. I ended up picking this because it was the topic Albus Andrew had offered to advise me on, and I thought having his input would be fantastic as he is currently writing a book on the non-canonical Gospels. Booyah. Can't beat that eh? And he's going to hook me up with a super sweet bibliography.
Alas, I should probably go read now. It s a delightfully beautiful day and perhaps even warm enough to lounge outside with my books. Joy.
Best,
Sara
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Bastard Stew and Things of the Like
Dear friends,
First, a collection of interesting tidbits and short narratives:
I recently googled Albus Andrew. (I'm apologize that all of my posts are about Albus Andrew, but he provides for such fantastic blogging opportunities.) Anyway, googling your tutor is a terrible idea. Besides seeing all the great scholarship that he has done thus far, I found this report: "[Albus] Andrew is a skinheaded nutcase who needs to be locked up." "Gee," I thought, "I sure hope that's not my Albus Andrew." After that, I thought it best to close the web browser.
I'm assuming that Albus Jonathan feels quite left out seeing as how Albus Andrew gets all the attention. No worries, for Albus Jonathan provided for his own moment of glory during our first meeting. As we were discussing my translation of Xenophon and his Persian Expedition (biblical Greek, I long for you...), we got to a point where dear Xenophon, (or was it Kyros?) anyway, one of them was hunting game. Peculiar game he seemed to be hunting--ostriches, wild asses, things of the like. This being the case, when I asked my tutor what a certain Greek word meant and he replied that it was a bastard, you can only imagine why I would take it as natural that Xenophon was hunting wild asses and bastards. Perhaps a peculiar sport to the modern mind, but who doesn't like to enjoy a hot bastard stew?
It was only later when I had gone back to my translation on my own and come across the bastards in another section that I realized that, in fact, Albus Jonathan had replied that the word in question was "bustard" -- apparently a large, ground-running bird. Goodness me! Those English accents are tricky to say the least.
And again back to Albus Andrew: during the small talk portion that typically concludes our tutorial, Albus Andrew calmly asked me in his pleasant Irish lilt:
"Have you begun working on your dissertation yet?"
"Crap Albus Andrew! Making it through one of your tutorials is enough of a tenuous affair, don't you think we should deal with improving my competency therein before discussing my dissertation? Who ARE you?"
Nonetheless, I found out fairly quickly that he was referring to the long essay that I will write as a culmination of my time here.
"Of right," I said, "my twelve page dissertation." "No, I have not particularly begun my work on that."
I then rather cautiously asked him if it was typical to refer to such projects as dissertations. He looked as though he thought I was trying to trick him and answered cautiously himself: "I guess I'd use it to refer to any longer piece of writing."
"Dear Northwestern College,
I went to Oxford to write a dissertation. Now do you think you could give me those freaking honors cords?
Just checking in,
Sara"
In other news that is perhaps the coolest news you've ever heard, I found out that N. T. Wright did his preparation for the Anglican ministry at Wycliffe Hall, which is the hall I'm associated with here. In case you don't know, N. T. Wright is a BAMF. I hope someday I can be a BAMF just like him. I probably sit in his favorite spot in the library, where he planned to write a million great books. You don't get that everyday at Ramaker eh?
In terms of one bit that is more anecdotal: a friend of mine here described the British as those "walking along looking sad in their peacoats." Sometimes when I'm out in public, I'll catch myself smiling for some reason or another, and I have to immediately put a stop to that. The same friend described the Brits' reaction to having a stranger smile at them: (tear eyes away viciously) "OMG, I CAN'T BELIEVE I JUST SAW THAT." However, I have befriended in the slightest sense an adorable, older librarian in the theology faculty library. Today he commented on how I seemed to be clutching my red, frayed New Oxford Annotated Bible like it was such a precious thing. Once I told him about how when I hold it noticeably in public, God takes note of my righteousness, then he understood. He wanted one too, I could tell.
You might be interested to know that I have been considerably less angsty this whole past week. I feel as though I'm adjusting more and more, and my roommates and I have been interacting more so as besties lately. To illustrate the comfort level I have gained with them, I felt okay asking them the other night whether or not Philadelphia was a state. In retrospect, I really shouldn't ask questions like that outside of my head, but I had already shut down my computer and thus had no access to wikipedia. Geography really is my most terrible subject. It took me years to remember that London went with England and Paris went with France.
I think part of the change in my perspective is that I have realized that I will never "succeed" here in any sense of the word. As long as I am here, I am utterly, irreversibly dumb. Instead of being angsty about this, I have decided to enjoy it. I have decided to enjoy having no idea whether or not Albus Andrew thinks I'm a daft fool. In fact, it's really quite nice to not get grades on my essays. I will still get a final grade, but I will have absolutely no idea what that might be until I see it on my transcript. How about that for a angsty, obsessive, perfectionist eh?
I still wonder countless times each day whether or not I would find joy in a future in academia. I doubt my abilities so very, very much. The Oxford programme of study has a way of exposing all of my weaknesses, all the time. For this, I am both perpetually angsty and eternally grateful. Sometimes, I have this great fear that I might accidentally end up as a pastor. I don't know how one goes about becoming a pastor by "accident," but sometimes I worry that it will happen to me. I think that might be the worst thing I could foresee in the history of ever. I really have no idea what I'm going to do with my future.
So back to my dissertation, and here I readily welcome your advice because I have to make a big decision. I need to pick a topic within a week, and I have two topics that I really quite want to pursue.
a.) How important are non-canonical gospels as sources for the historical Jesus?
Thus, in terms of what we might be able to conclude regarding a historical account of the person of Jesus, might what we find, for instance, in the Gospel of Thomas or the Gospel of Peter be of any help?
Truly, this could be a really good time.
b.) My other option is to do something with textual criticism, which is what I was supposed to do my honors research on at NW before that fell through.
For those who might not be familiar with textual criticism, it refers to the process of trying to restore the original words of the New Testament manuscripts. The field of textual criticism exists because the original manuscripts of the New Testament do not.
Thus, I would pick an interesting variant that runs contrary to what is printed in most Bibles today, and I would explore perhaps why that variant was either introduced into the text or eliminated from the text.
For example, at the end of Luke's account of Jesus' baptism, the text reads: "And a voice came from heaven, 'You are my son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased" (3:22 NRSV). However, some of the manuscripts read something more akin to "You are my son, today I have begotten you." Now if you want to go all Bart Ehrman-esque, you might say that here we have an instance of orthodox corruption of the text--scribes smoothing out portions that might be preyed upon by various heresies. In particular, a heresy of the day that might be quite fond of the "today I have begotten you" reading would be that of the adoptionists--those who believed that Jesus was not divine at all, and had been more or less adopted at his baptism to be God's son. Thus, if Luke's original text read "today I have begotten you," then perhaps good-intentioned scribes smoothed over this a little, resulting in a reading that did not lend itself so easily to an adoptionist interpretation.
Wow, I did not plan to write so much. It's boring, yes I know. But I find it FASCINATING.
So, you get to help me, which sounds more interesting to you?
Okay now on to something more interesting: the other night I had what I'd like to refer to as "the best idea in the history of ever." While browsing flight prices on Ryanair.com, my roommate mentioned that she didn't even know what country most of the listed flights went to. After nodding my affirmation of this, I wondered aloud, "wouldn't it be fun to just book a flight to a city with a cool name and then just find out what country you were in when you got there?"
As one might imagine, this quickly became a "that's the coolest idea ever, and let's go and do it and remember it forever!" sort of thing. Thus, my roommates and I plan to book a 5 pound flight to a city with a cool sounding name and then figure out what to do once we get in that country. Is that perhaps not the most brilliant idea you've ever heard? It's going to be fantastic. I hope we don't die.
Well, seeing as how I have again written a ridiculously long post, I must now go prepare myself for Greek tutorial #2 with Albus Jonathan tomorrow. I do wonder what Xenophon might be hunting this week. Hopefully, another [insert expletive of choice] stew will be in order.
Best,
Sara
First, a collection of interesting tidbits and short narratives:
I recently googled Albus Andrew. (I'm apologize that all of my posts are about Albus Andrew, but he provides for such fantastic blogging opportunities.) Anyway, googling your tutor is a terrible idea. Besides seeing all the great scholarship that he has done thus far, I found this report: "[Albus] Andrew is a skinheaded nutcase who needs to be locked up." "Gee," I thought, "I sure hope that's not my Albus Andrew." After that, I thought it best to close the web browser.
I'm assuming that Albus Jonathan feels quite left out seeing as how Albus Andrew gets all the attention. No worries, for Albus Jonathan provided for his own moment of glory during our first meeting. As we were discussing my translation of Xenophon and his Persian Expedition (biblical Greek, I long for you...), we got to a point where dear Xenophon, (or was it Kyros?) anyway, one of them was hunting game. Peculiar game he seemed to be hunting--ostriches, wild asses, things of the like. This being the case, when I asked my tutor what a certain Greek word meant and he replied that it was a bastard, you can only imagine why I would take it as natural that Xenophon was hunting wild asses and bastards. Perhaps a peculiar sport to the modern mind, but who doesn't like to enjoy a hot bastard stew?
It was only later when I had gone back to my translation on my own and come across the bastards in another section that I realized that, in fact, Albus Jonathan had replied that the word in question was "bustard" -- apparently a large, ground-running bird. Goodness me! Those English accents are tricky to say the least.
And again back to Albus Andrew: during the small talk portion that typically concludes our tutorial, Albus Andrew calmly asked me in his pleasant Irish lilt:
"Have you begun working on your dissertation yet?"
"Crap Albus Andrew! Making it through one of your tutorials is enough of a tenuous affair, don't you think we should deal with improving my competency therein before discussing my dissertation? Who ARE you?"
Nonetheless, I found out fairly quickly that he was referring to the long essay that I will write as a culmination of my time here.
"Of right," I said, "my twelve page dissertation." "No, I have not particularly begun my work on that."
I then rather cautiously asked him if it was typical to refer to such projects as dissertations. He looked as though he thought I was trying to trick him and answered cautiously himself: "I guess I'd use it to refer to any longer piece of writing."
"Dear Northwestern College,
I went to Oxford to write a dissertation. Now do you think you could give me those freaking honors cords?
Just checking in,
Sara"
In other news that is perhaps the coolest news you've ever heard, I found out that N. T. Wright did his preparation for the Anglican ministry at Wycliffe Hall, which is the hall I'm associated with here. In case you don't know, N. T. Wright is a BAMF. I hope someday I can be a BAMF just like him. I probably sit in his favorite spot in the library, where he planned to write a million great books. You don't get that everyday at Ramaker eh?
In terms of one bit that is more anecdotal: a friend of mine here described the British as those "walking along looking sad in their peacoats." Sometimes when I'm out in public, I'll catch myself smiling for some reason or another, and I have to immediately put a stop to that. The same friend described the Brits' reaction to having a stranger smile at them: (tear eyes away viciously) "OMG, I CAN'T BELIEVE I JUST SAW THAT." However, I have befriended in the slightest sense an adorable, older librarian in the theology faculty library. Today he commented on how I seemed to be clutching my red, frayed New Oxford Annotated Bible like it was such a precious thing. Once I told him about how when I hold it noticeably in public, God takes note of my righteousness, then he understood. He wanted one too, I could tell.
You might be interested to know that I have been considerably less angsty this whole past week. I feel as though I'm adjusting more and more, and my roommates and I have been interacting more so as besties lately. To illustrate the comfort level I have gained with them, I felt okay asking them the other night whether or not Philadelphia was a state. In retrospect, I really shouldn't ask questions like that outside of my head, but I had already shut down my computer and thus had no access to wikipedia. Geography really is my most terrible subject. It took me years to remember that London went with England and Paris went with France.
I think part of the change in my perspective is that I have realized that I will never "succeed" here in any sense of the word. As long as I am here, I am utterly, irreversibly dumb. Instead of being angsty about this, I have decided to enjoy it. I have decided to enjoy having no idea whether or not Albus Andrew thinks I'm a daft fool. In fact, it's really quite nice to not get grades on my essays. I will still get a final grade, but I will have absolutely no idea what that might be until I see it on my transcript. How about that for a angsty, obsessive, perfectionist eh?
I still wonder countless times each day whether or not I would find joy in a future in academia. I doubt my abilities so very, very much. The Oxford programme of study has a way of exposing all of my weaknesses, all the time. For this, I am both perpetually angsty and eternally grateful. Sometimes, I have this great fear that I might accidentally end up as a pastor. I don't know how one goes about becoming a pastor by "accident," but sometimes I worry that it will happen to me. I think that might be the worst thing I could foresee in the history of ever. I really have no idea what I'm going to do with my future.
So back to my dissertation, and here I readily welcome your advice because I have to make a big decision. I need to pick a topic within a week, and I have two topics that I really quite want to pursue.
a.) How important are non-canonical gospels as sources for the historical Jesus?
Thus, in terms of what we might be able to conclude regarding a historical account of the person of Jesus, might what we find, for instance, in the Gospel of Thomas or the Gospel of Peter be of any help?
Truly, this could be a really good time.
b.) My other option is to do something with textual criticism, which is what I was supposed to do my honors research on at NW before that fell through.
For those who might not be familiar with textual criticism, it refers to the process of trying to restore the original words of the New Testament manuscripts. The field of textual criticism exists because the original manuscripts of the New Testament do not.
Thus, I would pick an interesting variant that runs contrary to what is printed in most Bibles today, and I would explore perhaps why that variant was either introduced into the text or eliminated from the text.
For example, at the end of Luke's account of Jesus' baptism, the text reads: "And a voice came from heaven, 'You are my son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased" (3:22 NRSV). However, some of the manuscripts read something more akin to "You are my son, today I have begotten you." Now if you want to go all Bart Ehrman-esque, you might say that here we have an instance of orthodox corruption of the text--scribes smoothing out portions that might be preyed upon by various heresies. In particular, a heresy of the day that might be quite fond of the "today I have begotten you" reading would be that of the adoptionists--those who believed that Jesus was not divine at all, and had been more or less adopted at his baptism to be God's son. Thus, if Luke's original text read "today I have begotten you," then perhaps good-intentioned scribes smoothed over this a little, resulting in a reading that did not lend itself so easily to an adoptionist interpretation.
Wow, I did not plan to write so much. It's boring, yes I know. But I find it FASCINATING.
So, you get to help me, which sounds more interesting to you?
Okay now on to something more interesting: the other night I had what I'd like to refer to as "the best idea in the history of ever." While browsing flight prices on Ryanair.com, my roommate mentioned that she didn't even know what country most of the listed flights went to. After nodding my affirmation of this, I wondered aloud, "wouldn't it be fun to just book a flight to a city with a cool name and then just find out what country you were in when you got there?"
As one might imagine, this quickly became a "that's the coolest idea ever, and let's go and do it and remember it forever!" sort of thing. Thus, my roommates and I plan to book a 5 pound flight to a city with a cool sounding name and then figure out what to do once we get in that country. Is that perhaps not the most brilliant idea you've ever heard? It's going to be fantastic. I hope we don't die.
Well, seeing as how I have again written a ridiculously long post, I must now go prepare myself for Greek tutorial #2 with Albus Jonathan tomorrow. I do wonder what Xenophon might be hunting this week. Hopefully, another [insert expletive of choice] stew will be in order.
Best,
Sara
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Dear Friends,
If a short film were to be made of my life as it took shape this morning, it would be perhaps the most wonderful short film you had ever seen. Why? Because other people's pain is glorious.
I would now like to tell you about what I will forever remember as:
"the worst morning of my life."
To begin, remember when I fondly recounted the recent snowfall to you and told you it was glorious and made me feel like I was at home? Well, I have quickly learned that snow in Oxford is a wholly different entity than snow in Iowa. People in Oxford do not know what to do with snow. They definitely do not scoop it, but rather think it wise to take care of it by letting passers-by pack it down with their trendy Euro boots. They don't seem to understand that simply packing the snow down turns the footpaths into paths of death.
Thus, after spending an angst-ridden night, and for that matter, an angst ridden week, writing a horrible, terrible, no good, very bad essay on a horrible, terrible, no good, very bad topic, I ventured out for what would presumably be a most dismal tutorial.
Fortunately, the morning offered to me about 5 inches of beautiful, fresh, fluffy snow.
Unfortunately, the snow lost its appeal the first time I stepped in it with my low-rise, white sneakers and ankle socks.
I spent the next 35 minutes making the walk to University College to meet my tutor. This proved especially precarious on the hill that I usually refer to with lots of cuss words, as my shoes have not even a hint of traction. I fell and died only once, but since I was firmly clutching my frayed, red New Oxford Annotated Bible, God took note of my righteousness and saved me from sliding off the hill to be hit by the oncoming buses.
My growing angst at this point can hardly even be translated into the written word. Suffice it to say, within 5 minutes, my shoes, socks, and pant legs were thoroughly saturated. I was cold and with every step I took, continually at the risk of falling to a death I was starting to welcome.
When I arrived at last at University College, I leaned against the building wall with a crazed look in my eyes. Not only was Albus Andrew going to rip me to shreds for an hour, but he was going to rip me to shreds for an hour while I had sloshy, wet, cold feet. Unbridled angst held me tight in its grasp.
Nonetheless, I forced myself to go to his study one minute before 9.00--I no longer arrive early, because that translates into more time for my self-esteem to be crushed. However, when I got to the big red door that led to his office, the door without a doorknob was shut firmly. Since I had one time seen him get that door open by opening it trickily from the top, I thought perhaps he was now testing my physical strength as well as my mental strength. I thought to myself, "Albus Andrew! That is not kind of you! You know that I am really quite short. I cannot reach the top of the door in order to trickily open it like you do. Albus Andrew, I think your trick is beastly."
Thus, I began to knock loudly on the door, but not too loudly in case he was praying with someone or something awkward like that (I mean, he is a chaplain). Seeing as how this was to no avail, I sat dejectedly on the wooden stairs across from his office and thought about taking pictures of how angsty and forlorn I looked so I could entertain you with my most unfortunate situation. At this point, I was still convinced that Albus Andrew was indeed behind that door and was eventually going to come out and upbraid me for being late.
Now, while my angst was dripping on the floor, someone started heavily trudging up the stairs. "Albus Andrew? Is that you?" I put on my most forlorn face so that he would see how neglected and abandoned I looked. I mean, I know Jesus says:
"When you [are angsty], do not look somber as the hypocrites do, for they disfigure their faces to show men they are [angsty]. I tell you the truth, they have received their reward in full. But when you [are angsty], put oil on your head and wash your face, so that it will not be obvious to men that you are [angsty], but only to your Father, who is unseen; and your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you."
However, I thought: "Screw it, Jesus. Albus Andrew needs to know."
Much to my chagrin, it was not Albus Andrew, but rather an unknown man who looked at me while taping a note to Albus Andrew's big red door without a doorknob.
"Tutorials canceled today."
I might have just as well died right then and there.
"Jesus? I know I don't believe in the rapture and I'm sorry for that, but I've changed my mind. I think the rapture is great. Will you please come right now? Please Jesus?"
Why Albus Andrew? WHY?? There was nothing I could do at this point except for cry a little and turn around to go home. Suffice it to say, the walk home was perhaps even worse because my pants were now soaked almost to the knee, and it is much harder to walk up a treacherous, icy hill.
At this point, the crazed look in my eyes could have made the park rapists feel uneasy.
When I arrived home, after an hour and 45 minutes of a purposeless trip. I checked my email.
"Sara and Grace,
I am sorry, but I will have to postpone our tutorials this morning - my daughter's school has been shut."
"Your daughter's school has been shut? Well, as quaint as that is Albus Andrew, perhaps you could have NOT sent this email 16 minutes after I last checked my email before leaving the house to come meet you."
In a point of irony, I noticed that he signed his email, "Best, [Albus] Andrew." I don't even want to speculate on whether or not I should appreciate that or not. What is perhaps the worst part is that the tutorial now has to be rescheduled, and I now feel obligated to make my abysmal esssay better seeing as I have more time. Drat Drat Drat.
However, I guess it's always kind of refreshing to have one of those mornings where you can chant to the beat of your footsteps: "I..hate..my..life..I..hate..my..life..I..hate..my..life." It's clearly therapeutic to be in the throes of despair.
Well, I feel most joyful that I was able to share that with you. I actually had many other fun stories to share, but they will have to wait because this event clearly deserves a post of its own.
Best,
Sara
If a short film were to be made of my life as it took shape this morning, it would be perhaps the most wonderful short film you had ever seen. Why? Because other people's pain is glorious.
I would now like to tell you about what I will forever remember as:
"the worst morning of my life."
To begin, remember when I fondly recounted the recent snowfall to you and told you it was glorious and made me feel like I was at home? Well, I have quickly learned that snow in Oxford is a wholly different entity than snow in Iowa. People in Oxford do not know what to do with snow. They definitely do not scoop it, but rather think it wise to take care of it by letting passers-by pack it down with their trendy Euro boots. They don't seem to understand that simply packing the snow down turns the footpaths into paths of death.
Thus, after spending an angst-ridden night, and for that matter, an angst ridden week, writing a horrible, terrible, no good, very bad essay on a horrible, terrible, no good, very bad topic, I ventured out for what would presumably be a most dismal tutorial.
Fortunately, the morning offered to me about 5 inches of beautiful, fresh, fluffy snow.
Unfortunately, the snow lost its appeal the first time I stepped in it with my low-rise, white sneakers and ankle socks.
I spent the next 35 minutes making the walk to University College to meet my tutor. This proved especially precarious on the hill that I usually refer to with lots of cuss words, as my shoes have not even a hint of traction. I fell and died only once, but since I was firmly clutching my frayed, red New Oxford Annotated Bible, God took note of my righteousness and saved me from sliding off the hill to be hit by the oncoming buses.
My growing angst at this point can hardly even be translated into the written word. Suffice it to say, within 5 minutes, my shoes, socks, and pant legs were thoroughly saturated. I was cold and with every step I took, continually at the risk of falling to a death I was starting to welcome.
When I arrived at last at University College, I leaned against the building wall with a crazed look in my eyes. Not only was Albus Andrew going to rip me to shreds for an hour, but he was going to rip me to shreds for an hour while I had sloshy, wet, cold feet. Unbridled angst held me tight in its grasp.
Nonetheless, I forced myself to go to his study one minute before 9.00--I no longer arrive early, because that translates into more time for my self-esteem to be crushed. However, when I got to the big red door that led to his office, the door without a doorknob was shut firmly. Since I had one time seen him get that door open by opening it trickily from the top, I thought perhaps he was now testing my physical strength as well as my mental strength. I thought to myself, "Albus Andrew! That is not kind of you! You know that I am really quite short. I cannot reach the top of the door in order to trickily open it like you do. Albus Andrew, I think your trick is beastly."
Thus, I began to knock loudly on the door, but not too loudly in case he was praying with someone or something awkward like that (I mean, he is a chaplain). Seeing as how this was to no avail, I sat dejectedly on the wooden stairs across from his office and thought about taking pictures of how angsty and forlorn I looked so I could entertain you with my most unfortunate situation. At this point, I was still convinced that Albus Andrew was indeed behind that door and was eventually going to come out and upbraid me for being late.
Now, while my angst was dripping on the floor, someone started heavily trudging up the stairs. "Albus Andrew? Is that you?" I put on my most forlorn face so that he would see how neglected and abandoned I looked. I mean, I know Jesus says:
"When you [are angsty], do not look somber as the hypocrites do, for they disfigure their faces to show men they are [angsty]. I tell you the truth, they have received their reward in full. But when you [are angsty], put oil on your head and wash your face, so that it will not be obvious to men that you are [angsty], but only to your Father, who is unseen; and your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you."
However, I thought: "Screw it, Jesus. Albus Andrew needs to know."
Much to my chagrin, it was not Albus Andrew, but rather an unknown man who looked at me while taping a note to Albus Andrew's big red door without a doorknob.
"Tutorials canceled today."
I might have just as well died right then and there.
"Jesus? I know I don't believe in the rapture and I'm sorry for that, but I've changed my mind. I think the rapture is great. Will you please come right now? Please Jesus?"
Why Albus Andrew? WHY?? There was nothing I could do at this point except for cry a little and turn around to go home. Suffice it to say, the walk home was perhaps even worse because my pants were now soaked almost to the knee, and it is much harder to walk up a treacherous, icy hill.
At this point, the crazed look in my eyes could have made the park rapists feel uneasy.
When I arrived home, after an hour and 45 minutes of a purposeless trip. I checked my email.
"Sara and Grace,
I am sorry, but I will have to postpone our tutorials this morning - my daughter's school has been shut."
"Your daughter's school has been shut? Well, as quaint as that is Albus Andrew, perhaps you could have NOT sent this email 16 minutes after I last checked my email before leaving the house to come meet you."
In a point of irony, I noticed that he signed his email, "Best, [Albus] Andrew." I don't even want to speculate on whether or not I should appreciate that or not. What is perhaps the worst part is that the tutorial now has to be rescheduled, and I now feel obligated to make my abysmal esssay better seeing as I have more time. Drat Drat Drat.
However, I guess it's always kind of refreshing to have one of those mornings where you can chant to the beat of your footsteps: "I..hate..my..life..I..hate..my..life..I..hate..my..life." It's clearly therapeutic to be in the throes of despair.
Well, I feel most joyful that I was able to share that with you. I actually had many other fun stories to share, but they will have to wait because this event clearly deserves a post of its own.
Best,
Sara
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