Good New Days

There are some days I will always remember.  Some days that are so intensely full of joy I don't know what to do but sit in the corner with wide eyes and listen, and give as many hugs as I can.  Here in Oxford, those days come far more often than I have any right to wish for.  They come as part of the routine.  To live here is to be very awake.

I met C.S. Lewis's stepson a few weeks ago.  Douglas Gresham, the son of Joy Davidman, spoke for an hour and a half at C.S. Lewis Society.  He elected to answer questions rather than deliver a lecture, and his answers were full and thorough and often blossomed into stories.  He was a gifted storyteller.  People asked questions about his family, being raised by Lewis, his life in America, England, and Australia, his writing, Lewis's writing, and his involvement in the Narnia movies.  He compared film and stage depictions of his story with reality.  He asserted some political views I could have done without, and related scenes from his childhood at the Kilns, which I could have listened to all night.  He said he was once criticized for writing an autobiography because he hadn't done anything worth it.  But, he told us, no one should be arrogant enough to write an autobiography because of the great things they think they've done.  His was worth being written because such extraordinary have happened to him.  And it was true.  His life has been extraordinary.

A good friend finished two grueling weeks of exams in May, and I was introduced to another delightfully bizarre tradition: trashing.  Friends of the examinees clustered behind metal barracades outside the Examination Schools, after subjecting ourselves and our bags to a security inspection, and there we waited for Rachel to emerge victorious.  When she appeared in sub fusc, wearing a red carnation to signify that this was her last exam, the caged party assaulted her with confetti, champagne, and gunpowder-powered party poppers.  (Say that five times fast.  I dare you.  Gunpowder-powered party poppers.  Gunpowder-powered potty papa.  Gunpowder-patta patta patta heyyyy, batter batter batter.  I give up.)

On May 24 the William Jewell College choir finished its tenth triennial UK tour in St Peter's College Chapel in Oxford.  I had been looking forward to a reunion with my Jewell people for months, probably driving people crazy with my jittery anticipation, but I underestimated what it would feel like to come around the corner of the St Peter's chapel and see those bright red robes and white collars, which I had spent so many sweaty hours inhabiting, singing with aching back and feet, packed into a space that was inevitably too small with elbows pressed against some of my favorite people.  It's been three years since I graduated from Jewell, and I only expected to know one or two people, but when I rounded that corner I was greeted by the faces of almost the entire Jewell music faculty.  The next few minutes were a blurred succession of warm exclamations and hugs from some of the kindest people I know--people to whom I owe enormous gratitude for some of my best memories, and for being where I am today.  The choir gave a stunning performance under their excellent new director, and I swelled with pride to hear the choir that will always be my choir making such music.  Two good friends came with me to the concert, and it was a thrill to be able to share this thing that was so important to me with them.  It meant a lot to me that both of them took the time to come.

That Saturday, May 26, marked two years since my Patrick died.  It hurt during the first year--a lot.  In the second year I have found myself recalling all of it with a more settled sense of fond, thankful contentment.  I am thankful for the two years I got to spend with the best horse I've ever met, who was a great friend to me as long as he was able to be.  I'm thankful for the adventures we had together, and for all the fun we had, and for the honest hard work he gave me.  And, when it all went wrong, I'm glad no one got hurt, and that his needs could be met.  And I'm thankful that he died quickly, while he was having fun being ridiculous, with the same inappropriate level of drama that he brought to every situation.  Your heart didn't just fail, Patrick--it exploded.  Well done, sir, well done.

All joking aside, that's really what I want to say to him:

Well done, Patrick.

I didn't spend that day being sappy by myself.  I spent it out on the Cherwell watching the season's big boat race, mysteriously named Summer Eights.  The riverbanks were packed with Oxford rowing fans exhibiting varying degrees of rabies.

After an entire day spent achieving a hard-earned sunburn (no mean feat in England), we retired to Wolfson for EUROVISION.  What, you may ask, is this obviously highly significant and so dramatically-named event?

WELL.

Eurovision is not any massive international effort to save the world or eradicate poverty or wage an intergalactic war on bloodthirsty vampire aliens intent on our destruction, as its grandiose name might suggest.  Oh no.  This is a song contest.

But this is no ordinary music competition.  We are not searching for the grandest symphony or the loudest ground-shaking rock concert or the most olympian aria.  No, this is an epic monument to Europop.

On the Continent, Eurovision is taken rather seriously.  Here in the UK, the attitude is somewhat less reverent.  While each country mounts its grandest spectacle of Europop power ballads, seizure-inducing light shows, fanciful costumes, and tornadic hair, British commentator Graham Norton offers UK viewers a constant stream of thinly-veiled mockery.  The champion of the evening was Sweden with this fabulous number:

However, my comrades and I felt that Russia's singing babushkas were far and away the strongest entry:

And that, ladies and gentlemen, brings us up to Sara's visit and the grand adventures thereof, which will be the subject of my next post.  Peace, love, and Eurovision.