Hello, my morning glories! Firstly, I am sorrowful to say that my posts will probably be a tad sporadic over the month of May, what with the Theology and Religious Studies Tripos Part I exams which loom ominously on the otherwise clear, blue-skied horizon. But I am learning a lot from the glorious springtime - when I feel lonely or sad, I can wander to see the tulips in Clare College or the wildflowers in the meadows, and the thought comes to me: "But it's alright, isn't it? There are still flowers!"
I am spending most of my days lying by the river in the sunshine [as opposed to the library, where I feel that the cloistered, feverish atmosphere of all-night studying would be a bit psychologically damaging], reading about Moltmann's "deification of the cosmos" and the menstruation rites of San Francisco witches. And yesterday afternoon, two very little girls shyly tottered towards me and gave me two big handfuls of beautiful white blossoms they had picked. Which made my whole day lovelier.
This morning did not go well - I spent forty-five minutes panicking over what to wear for my ARC interview [after all, most of my clothes are best suited to picnics in magic woodland glades with Merryweather from Sleeping Beauty and Christian Louboutin], tried to exchange a misguided dress purchase only to be refused by the shopowner [please tell me we've all made such mistakes... I ended up having to buy the dress I'd been intending to swap it for, anyway, and splitting the profits on the unwanted item with an enterpising market-stall holder], and ran right into a dreaded ghost [who was buying, would you believe it, flowers].
Tired of waiting, you burst your bonds, impatient flowers, before
the winter had gone. Glimpses of the unseen comer reached your
wayside watch, and you rushed out running and panting, impulsive
jasmines, troops of riotous roses. You were the first to march to the breach of death, your
clamour of colour and perfume troubled the air. You laughed and
pressed and pushed each other, bared your breast and dropped in
heaps. The Summer will come in its time, sailing in the flood-tide
of the south wind. But you never counted slow moments to be sure
of him. You recklessly spent your all in the road, in the terrible
joy of faith. You heard his footsteps from afar, and flung your mantle of
death for him to tread upon. Your bonds break even before the
rescuer is seen, you make him your own ere he can come and claim
Why not make like Alice and dress to sing with the flowers?:-