At the Bodleian

There is a deep sense of history here.

(Obviously.)

Today I decided to read in what must be the southeastern-ish section of the Upper Reading Room of the Bodleian Library. It is a long room with tall, gothic windows that let in a golden light, pink squares set into the molding on the ceiling, long tables with little partitions for individual study, and books lining the walls between the windows. To my left, I look out over the Radcliffe Camera and the city with its ancient rooftops and stone towers jutting up into the sky; beyond is the blue dome of Christ Church on the edge of the City Centre. To the right, the square at the main entrance of the Old Bodleian, a stone courtyard, tall and imposing, that bids you respect these halls--or else. 

As it's about four in the afternoon, the setting sun is streaming through the windows adding a healthy, warm glow to the artificially lit room. It is completely silent, save for the creaking of chairs, the turning of pages, and the clickity-clack of students typing.

As I examine my surroundings more closely, as I am want to do especially in a setting such as this, I notice the windows especially. Set into the windows panes are small, circular stained glass images: a Madonna and Child, some other religious scene with angels, and something with archers that I can't begin to figure without taking a closer look. The window itself is, obviously, framed in stone. What's interesting is the white-painted, decades old wood that makes of the bookcases that surround it. The window and bookcases are in such contrast to each other in my eyes. Especially with the radiator sitting in the shelf beneath the window. I can almost imagine the room, or at least this one window, without the shelves next to it: the ancient, cold stone lit by candles and sun as students in robes with massive, leather bound books or noisy, rolled-up parchment sit around heavy, oak tables, studying their Latin or Greek.

You can feel the history of it in here in this 400 year old room. 

The interesting thing to me is how seemingly commonplace this room is to the students--to us students. We come in, grab a chair, open our books, and dig into our studies without a second thought. Doubtless, some of the greatest minds of the past few hundred years have studied in this room, thinking great thoughts, writing great words, and here I am with my phone and my Tolkien, laughing to myself about the elves. It's fascinating to me.

What's more, for all the grandeur of this place, the history, the majesty of Oxford, there is something disquieting about it. Perhaps after a week and a half, I'm feeling homesick. Perhaps it's the lighting. Or that I miss my friends. Or the rumblings in my soul about myself that I can't ignore (this stuff tends to happen when one is out on their own in a new place). Or maybe it's this place and that it isn't home.

--

As the sun sets, I realize it's a mix of all of these things. And that's okay. Admittedly, it's mostly that I miss my friends and family quite a bit and dearly wish they could be with me in this magical place.

And so, I'll go back to my Tolkien, to Rivendale with Frodo and Aragorn, knowing that despite what I feel, I know I am blessed to be here and must soak it all in. Because, honestly--when am I going to get to study in a room that's 400 years old again? When will I ever get to study in a place with this rich and full a history again? A place this grand and majestic?

Answer: probably never.