And then the chapter ended.

I walked out of Pembroke College and didn't feel much. Just a warm, calm peace. I walked out into the street, crossed into Christ Church meadows, and took a nice long walk. The stillness didn't seem to admit I was finished with undergraduate life. You don't think that kind of thing comes quietly.

But nonetheless I've finished. Grades have all got to be sorted, and I've got a presentation blah blah but really, the true substance of my degree is finished with an essay on Gerard Hopkin's God's Grandeur for Andrew. It's a beautiful piece, something only Andrew in his absurd wisdom would assign in philosophy of religion, as we talk about God and reason and the creature-ly-ness of who we are. Eight weeks of term in Oxford have wrapped up an experience spanning more than four years, in Los Angeles and the Sierra and South Africa, filled with more remarkable people and more experiences than I could ever merit. The giftedness of it all holds me hostage -- I don't know how to respond but in a stupid, humble thanks, and I know there is no real method of repayment.

To finish college is not to finish an education. In fact, with college behind me, I can do a lot of the work on my education I've always wanted to but never found the time. This education is a constant process, a process of seeking understanding in life for its own sake, that pure motivation that so defines what I feel in my humanity.

Yet something in me cannot accept that this formal academic process is through. In all my interests, undergraduate life feels like it has opened doors of understanding that I can feel beckoning me in all directions. Who knows what the future will hold, I suppose. But what I have earned is a nice, long break, to live with my feet and not just my mind. Travels and adventures await! I live in Oxford for a while, and then take on into the great unknown that is the next few months. Ireland, France, Morocco, the possibility of climbing Denali with Killian in May.

Jesus Hall.

Wednesday market in Gloucester Green.

OUMC climbing weekend!

Back to Jesus College from the Bod.

Jesus College.

Light and color in Lincoln College.

Thames River.

Oh! Look at that!

About to head to the Union ball!

Christ Church and Christmas lights over Cornmarket street.

Christ Church College.

Cambridge.

Big dyno!

Steve on a V2 I think, in Dartmoor.

In the Thick of It

Well, now all the passivities of the start of term are long behind me. I haven't blogged since Scotland, and a lot has gone on since. My tutorials have gotten going -- a main course on philosophy of religion, and minor one of the history of economic thought. Both are exactly what I had hoped for, and are going really well. Adjusting to the freedom of the one-on-one, once a week tutorial system has been interesting, as I've never had so much "free" time in my life nor had so much input on the content of my classes, but both are so welcome.

 I'm really trying to do good, thorough work on my classes. They are 99% of the reason I can to Oxford. I came to give myself a chance to make the most of my education -- the frantic busy-ness of Azusa life had made it desperately hard to get the most out of my classes, which endlessly frustrated me. I'd made the decision two years ago, after coming back from Alaska my junior year. I came out of the woods so to speak focused and motivated, and returned to Azusa profoundly aware of what an opportunity this education was. I was stung by how little attention I could give it in the insanity of that social/academicish/working/playing life. I'd resolved to make the most of my chance at school, cap it all off, with time really set aside for that kind of work. So I wound up here.

Most of my days are spent in libraries. Oxford is littered with libraries -- the most remarkable of which is the Bodleian Library. It's a copyright library, which means its gets a copy of every book published here in the UK. The only US equivalent is the library of Congress. The only way to store all the books is in caves underneath the city and a huge warehouse a few miles out of town. It is in pieces all over town, with the most amazing part being the Radcliffe Camera pictured below. It's an epic, circular dome of a building, with beautiful stone arches and two floors inside filled with reading desks and windows. There is probably no better place to study I have ever seen -- besides up star rock at High Sierra... but anyways. It is an inspiring place, and a real honor to use as casually as my small-seeming personal courses. Sometimes I still feel like I've snuck in.

I'm in a library of some sort, or reading in my room, from 10am to 6pm usually. If I've done my reading well, the papers come quickly. My tutorial in econ has a reading list filled with works like Wealth of Nations and Das Capital, while my religion tutorial is so open-ended that I've yet to make up my question for friday's paper, much less self-supply the necessary reading list. I'm thinking of either a response to a Freudian critique of religion, or looking at what Tillich means by "God." Leaning towards the first. That's the kind of stuff that takes up most of my waking hours, and some of you might not be jealous but I feel blessed.

I've been spending time with the climbing and surf clubs, and even the dodgeball club. The amount of drive students have at Oxford in general is remarkable, and it comes out in how many diverse and prolific student-organized clubs exist. That is one of the many magical things about this place -- people have drive, energy stoke, in some direction. People are in motion, engaged somehow with something, from their studies to climbing to freshers at dance clubs every night. And while I can't say all of it is meaningful, there is something contagiously refreshing about people in motion. It's a positive feedback-loop that makes me want to stay here for longer than one term, that's for sure.


As far as getting involved is concerned, I'm still looking for a musical outlet. I've improved a ton on the mandolin just through all the hours I've put in this summer and even this semester, and looking around for open mics and folks jams. Got some leads, but nothing I've been able to jump on yet. It warms British people up quite nicely to hear a mandolin for some reason, so I've been walking around with mine a good bit and meeting people for little other reason than that.




Alright. Gotta get going on some reading from Davey Ricardo about the rent of agricultural landlords. The question is, how can I "apply it to the recent financial crisis"? We'll see.

Fall colors are out here. So beautiful. 





This blog is largely for all you readers out there, the folks who I want to stay in contact with somehow and can't skype you all every week and send you all mail. There is so much that is wonderful going on here, so many remarkable and interesting things around every corner, that I could never contain it all in a blog. Pass me a message or email if you want to talk more!

The Radcliffe Camera, part of the Bodleian Library.

A tower of the Bodleian Library.

Cute Little Clarenden Street. I live towards the end.

Entry to the Oxford Unions debating hall. Amazing things happen here.

Fall is in full force, and the colors are unbelievable.

Row on the Thames!

Christ Church meadows.

Magdalen College. Lewis used to teach here.

Lee working a 6c in Portland.

Portland, UK is a beautiful place to climb.

My backyard on a Sunday.

Francis on a ...6b? can't remember.

Main Bodleian building.

Inside the Union debating chambers.

Travel Week in Scotland

I’m sitting out near the Thames River in Port Meadow right now, safely back in good old Oxford. This last week was a week sans classes, and therefore “travel week” where we could pick up and go wherever we wanted so long as we got back for the start of Naught Week of Michaelmas Term. Oxford life should now start off with a bang, as we get our main tutorials and clubs get going and all the students move it.

            Knowing of our week-long freedom beforehand, we’d brewed a couple schemes up for an adventure – the first using motorcycles, the second mopeds, and the third a bus to Edinburgh. After realizing we didn’t know how to ride motorcycles, and then that getting anywhere via mopeds would’ve involved terrifying use of the freeway or innumerable and confusing directions simply to exit London, we decided it was off to Edinburgh.

            We stayed in a hostel right near the Old Town city center, with the exception of one night couchsurfing and another in the nearby town of Stirling. For me, it was something of a practice week for the months of travel I hope to experience after I graduate in December. And it made me so STOKED on this whole idea of longer-term, engaged travel (“Vagabonding” by Rolf Potts in my new Bible and should be yours if you are thinking of ever traveling at all in any way). We didn’t bring many things in our packs, and lived cheaply. Our days were largely unstructured, and we walked most everywhere we went. A whole week may seem like a long time to spend in one place, when there’s all of Europe spread before you as cheap as a RyanAir ticket – “Doesn’t it seem like you could see SO MUCH in that week?” Those folks are right, in some ways. You could physically transport yourself to a lot of places in a week if you really wanted. But there was no substitute for getting to know the bartenders at Sandy Bells after a few nights of rotating folk music, for waiting out rain and weather and finding eventual sunshine over the ancient skyline, for knowing the roads and pieces of histories and acclimatizing to the friendly air of the Scots. A week was not enough at all for a place like Edinburgh.

            We heard a lot of amazing folk music, had some unbelievable whiskey, hiked above the city on a dormant volcano, saw the sites of the Scottish reformation and the brutal retaliation it received, and even sang Wagon Wheel and Bob Dylan for a crowded Saturday-night pub. I’ve got the Royal Mile city center road largely memorized, and average only twice through a sentence to understand the Scottish accent. I’m practically dying to get up to the Scottish highlands, especially the Isle of Skye (famous for the sea kayaking!). I’m seeing a lot of Alaskan parallels (except here they’ve chopped all their forests, killed all their wolves, grizzly bears, and moose, and don’t really have glaciers anymore). We saw lots of un-ironic kilts and good bagpipe players and did indeed have haggis in a pub in Stirling.

            That way of intentional but open travel not hasty to move along to another place resulted in people-focused experiences and the kind of cultural rewards I’m only beginning to discover are possible. I’m now twice as motivated to really dig deep and save money and make something of my spring adventures. But, of course, after an academic butt kicking here at Oxford, where I can apply many of the same lessons of travel I’ve learned up in Scotland. This week we’re getting Bodlian cards, meeting with academic advisors, and touring the Union where I’ll definitely be attending the weekly debates. Stoked on all that too. Just got to get some sleep at some point!

Yup. That’s the word, big bird.

Oh! And if you haven't checked out the new Sigur Ros Album "Kveikur" yet, do it. Right now. They rock so hard this time around. As usual, incomparable. 

Waiting for the Tube in London, our one-day stay before Scotland.

Edinburgh Castle on a bluff above town.

In a graveyard near Edinburgh Castle.

The Conan Doyle.

Hume and the church have a wonderful history together.

Hiking up Arthur's Seat.

Arthur's Seat, a dormant volcano above the city.

Hostel life.

Me and Doug!

The train to Stirling.

The light coming through the clouds one evening from Salisbury Craig.

Good folk music was everywhere, always in small corners of wonderful pubs. This one was down by the ocean a good ways from downtown.

Buckingham Palace in London.

New friends we'd met in Oxford and stayed with in London.

Arthur's Seat looking over the city.

Sandy Bells, an amazing pub known for its impromptu nightly folks scene. Here, an army of fiddles playing traditional celtic tunes.

The Wallace Memorial, for William Wallace in Stirling. Seen Braveheart?