Day 66: Last Day of Kitchen Crew

Regent's Street

Nothing but studying and kitchen crew and family history today. At least everyone was here today; last time, all the girls left to go to Regent's Street to watch the cast of Narnia light the street. I filled in for someone who wanted to go, but everyone else just dropped everything to go. I wonder that it didn't occur to anyone that I wanted to go to?

But today was nice. Everyone was all nostalgic about doing dishes and busing tables. Good food tonight too--I really have learned to appreciate Greek salad and sitting next to Beno and Andrew reminds me of my brothers at home. I never realized how frustrated I've been with no job in England. I have all the time in the world! So when I don't feel like venturing out into the cold, I stay in and do homework instead. Explains how I get everything turned in on time. Even things like sweeping and vacuuming and doing the dishes; I wish I could do those things myself, but I suppose Theresa needs to make a living. Sigh. Don't we all?

Andrea was nice enough to buy us all Magnum bars. They're tasty, but man can I eat one per month at most. Some of these girls go to the Food and Wine every night to get theirs (the man behind the counter noticed and upped the prices, idiot). I guess P90X gives you one heckuvan appetite?

Day 62: A Synagogue in the West End

The most beautiful synagogue probably ever to grace the UK was a mere two blocks away, across from a Greek laundromat and Eastern Orthodox church. We huddled down a cobbled row while Brother Shuler knocked on a rundown door, wondering what he was doing. But apparently they don't use the front door at all--bit two dangerous in these modern times. Our experience was spent sitting and being lectured to by a beedle, staring and trying to read the sacred space. Here's my interpretation.



Judaism's Good, Better, Best

We slid into the pews (men newly adorned with skullcaps), and looked quickly around the room,

eager to use our newfound powers of reading sacred space. I was no different; I noticed at once that there are no people portrayed in the stained glass, the bookshelves of the Talmud, the Hebrew inscriptions above the pulpit. Everything looked so different from a parish church—and yet, I learned that here too is a sacred journey, and a way to discover what the Jews hold in high respect. These were made manifest through the separate levels in the room: the pulpit, the lectern, and the city Jerusalem.

The lowest level is the pulpit from which the rabbi and others speak from. The Jewish-equivalent of sermons centralizes here. Those lessons take the majority of a worship service, focusing on just sections of that day’s reading, perhaps ranging from a word or phrase to an entire chapter. The interpretation of the Torah is considered only one opinion of many branching from the same word or phrase or chapter. Part of Jewish culture involves arguing over points of scripture in order to arrive at a feasible, spiritual conclusion. It is at this pulpit that a girl fulfils her role in bat mitzvah, teaching the congregation about a scripture she found particularly meaningful before joining the women in the upper level seating (as she is now able to interpret the Torah for herself). Because sermons are merely man’s commentary on the word of God, this pulpit remains the lowest level.

The next level is a stage or platform across the way, facing east toward Jerusalem. This is where the sacred scrolls of Torah are read aloud during worship. This lectern stood in the relative center of the room, clearly in view of everyone attending. I would not be surprised if it were a sweet spot for acoustics. Reading the Torah is much more important than reading commentary, for it is the root of all comments, and Orthodox Jews regard it as the word of God, recorded by Moses. This lectern is where a boy fulfils his role in bar mitzvah, reading the Torah in the original Hebrew before joining the ranks of men on each side (as he is now able to read the Torah for himself). If we consider the Torah to be the Word then it appropriately is superior to any interpretation.

The highest level is a gorgeous facade of Jerusalem, haloed by creeds of Judaism and drawing every eye eastward to the temple. Above the dome is an inscription which reads, Hear O Israel, the One and Only God. Jews are monotheists, more so than Christians—this is the first belief that set them apart, before the temple and the Law. The temple to God was centered in the Holy City and was where His Law was obeyed and carried out. The Jews are promised that this temple will be restored to them, along with all the land in the covenant with Israel. It was this Law, temple, and priests that guaranteed the Hebrew culture surviving the Babylonian and Roman conquests, the only people to do so, living on to build a synagogue in the West End of London.

It is rather fascinating to see the ascension from interpretation to the Word to the Law. Whether it is a sacred journey or not, we can certainly see what the Jews hold sacred. All of these elements made an identity quite unique, as the beadle proudly stated. Whatever the opinions of the pulpit speakers below, or however a rabbi pronounces his vowels reading the Torah, every Jew has the promised land and the promise of God to keep him holding to his religion. What a beautiful and unifying principle, illustrated so simply in the space.

Day 60: The Bloomsbury Walk

Field Study Dr. Tate issued an assignment that screamed "nerdy research went into the founding"--it was called the Bloomsbury Walk, not to be confused with the Mrs. Dalloway Walk, nor the Wasteland Walk. I glommed onto a group of five or so girls and, armed with a sporadic map of Tottenham Court Road and the Bloomsbury District, we went off in search of Modernism. As is usually the case for exploring a different part of town, one becomes the leader and the others merely sheep. My sense of direction being nonexistent, I was wooly and contented pointing out that somewhere in Bloomsbury once lived the Darling children, who from time to time ventured out to Neverland. Unfortunately, several girls were trying to take the reins--at one point, I remember standing around outside a parish church, arguing about whether it was old enough to be facing east, as all churches once were. Bless the locals for pointing us in the right direction. This Bloomsbury Group included prolific writers and artists who ushered in, however snootily, the Modern movement. Our first stop was Virginia and Leonard Woolf's London flat (marked by a round blue plaque). I think it was a business now; a bunch of secretaries or something looked over at us cheering and laughed--another horde of perky BYU students, enthused about literature. A few yards away lived Lytton Strachey, and a few yards after that, Virginia's sister and husband, the Omega art movement. It was even better when we found one of Charles Dickens' homes (bombed in the Blitz) next door to the Starbucks where we stopped for a spot of hot chocolate. Autumn still thick in the air, we trolled through some gorgeous parks, including one with Mahatma Ghandi in bronze. Beth made sure to get some great pictures of him under all those poppy wreaths. Then T.S. Eliot's house, my favorite poet of all time, and back home again. I think I prefer visiting the places more than reading the works, honestly.

Day 59: E.M. Forster's Happy Ending

Film Review: A Room With a View (2007) So it was only supposed to be another made-for-tv movie, and modern to boot. Forster and Eliot and Woolf all knew each other; their group was infamous for snobbery and so-called sophisticated world views--with that in mind, I looked for it in this adaptation. The plot features a girl on holiday to Italy with her very nervous aunt; she meets a "deep-thinking" melancholy boy who comes to life at her companionship. Lucy wanders the streets alone one day and stares up at the marbled Renaissance nudes in the square, all her Victorian England prudery giving way to curiosity and organic wonder. A smiling Italian man approaches her, clearly complimenting her innocent charms, when a man stabs him in the back--everything slows, he coughs, and blood spatters on her perfect white Victorian dress. Lucy faints. When she comes to, her world is different. A man lies dead in the square, his murderer sobbing over his body. The boy George rescues her from this awful scene, and yet tells her that they are not so different from the Italians. Forster's modernism in the film is a rejection of this snobbish prudery and gravitates toward arousing faculties, passion, and incredible emotion. Lucy's devotion to Beethoven deepens as she tries to get away from George, engaged to another man completely unlike him--until she realizes the people in her world have quashed out their own passions and desires for an empty life of politeness and social-climbing. The odd thing about this story is that despite her new perspective, despite the chick ending, despite the hopes that becoming more human will make everyone more happy, George is killed in World War I. Is Forster trying to squelch the happy ending he has unwittingly made? Or is that merely the beginning of modernism? The film was really fantastic. I suppose the dampered ending is part of life; it is impossible to be completely happy for long stretches of time, after all--but Forster does give us the hope that we can find ourselves through loving another person wholly and completely. Lucy is still alive at the end, and we see that she is still grateful for the life she chose. It is a film about emotional honesty, identity, and humanity that really resonated with me--a high recommendation to anyone remotely interested in good literature.

Day 58: Dreams of Oxford

Halloween Liz's parents are here, as are a set of brand-new elders. I hope this London November rain won't convince them that a mission is a bad idea. I sat and read Preach My Gospel during sacrament and felt all the more determined to finish that darn Old Testament before going in myself. Brother Eden shaved his soul patch, much to Jani's dismay. There was so much SOUL in that patch. Everyone was so antsy in Primary, and this is like the third week in a row. Some kids are really doing their best to poison the rest, I think. What to do? You can't call these boys sissies, let alone strangle them. I have to teach 8-11 next week, and I'm a little concerned for my sanity. Too Expensive After scarfing some fantastic roast beef and sweet potatoes (couldn't help it, we all were starving), I surfed awkwardfamilyphotos until the fireside started. My favorite is actually not a picture, but a letter with Thanksgiving dinner instructions to her family--sooooo awkward reading it, you're laughing, and then you think of that sad, sorry sap the hag is married to. I guess everything funny is founded in something sad. The fireside was led by head of college at Oxford, a Methodist minister, named Professer Walder. His lovely tenor voice ensured that we found his topics of interest more fascinating than usual; Rachel confessed that she knew all along that homework was a bad idea from the start and she was just ahead of the curve. At Oxford, you have one class, one professor, one booklist, one essay a week, and some really fantastic discussions are the result of reading and studying and thinking and writing. That's MY kind of study. I think that's why I want to be an Honors graduate--we get to go and experience academia through study and discussion and culture, and I love soaking in that atmosphere. All our homework is stifling creative thought, I think. If I had oodles of cash, I would love to go abroad at Oxford. But maybe I just need a really smart book club to fulfill that need in the future.

Day 57: Lost (Again) and the Raddest Costume Party Ever

Great Portland Street I tell you, you're absent for five seconds to get to the loo, and everyone except you knows about the Halloween party and has been thinking about costumes all week. All this was unbeknownst to me; this Saturday, I went to find Leicester Square by way of Picadilly Circus, hoping to see Chinatown as well. Of course I went without a map. My perfect navigation skills had never failed me before. As every other person would have predicted, I marched purposefully off in some direction. I ended up walking the length of Great Portland Street, far from Picadilly, Regent's, and Leicester Square. I bought an adapter for my alarm clock, hoping it would work, and then I sat for a few hours in a Starbucks, reading my book, safe from the sudden torrential rain. It was a delightful afternoon, full of walking and chocolate frappacino and a Korean baby looking over his mother's shoulder at me. The solitude and perfect agency of being on one's own is full entertainment for a full Saturday. American Halloween Home before the evening, and I decided to do a bit of homework. Girls came in and out of the classroom, asking what I was going to be for Halloween. After the third time of this, I asked why in the name of all that is holy I would dress up in a country where only Satan-worshippers celebrate All-Hallow's Eve and no one has heard of trick-or-treating. That's when I heard about the party. Naturally, I didn't think it was a big deal. I didn't have any means for a costume, and I assumed that most of the girls would be in the same boat. That evening, the party started at 7pm. I claimed to be a pedestrian, a Canadian, a Jehovah's Witness, a plainclothes officer, changing the answer every time someone asked. The Halloween party turned into some sort of fashion show down the stairwell; Napoleon Dynamite (Rachel) looked less-than-thrilled, despite having a liger (Amanda) at his command. Michael Jackson (Morgan) had a white glove and fedora; a paper bag princess (Annie) appeared next to the three fairies from Sleeping Beauty; Sarah Palin (Claire) could never be confused with Mary Poppins (Jani), and even the two guys appeared as Big Ben (two guesses who) and Santa Claus. My favorite was an angsty Bella Swan (Lauren), who wore horrible flannel and a white t-shirt, stuffed pregnant, labeled "Cullen in the Oven". The costume that won overall was Mount Rushmore--the four girls powdered their hair like german composers and wore a heroic white sheet that could not have been comfortable. So many pictures that evening--I turned out to be the only person who did not dress up. I took pictures instead. The servery was packed and hot--I slapped frosting and candy corn on a cookie and left. I tried to do some work, or at least to just sit somewhere--but Penny kicked me out in two different places. Happily I found Katy, Julie and Emily not participating in the festivities; I spent the rest of the evening chatting and laughing with them, overhearing the victory tunnels for the profs ("Saint Tate! Saint Tate!") and the cheers for Dr. Seely's victory at eating donuts on a string. I've discovered it is impossible to spend the day solitary and spend the evening in a party with more than forty people. But it was a rad party nonetheless.

Day 56: WALES TRIP--Water, Blood, and Spirit

Reflecting Eternity Our last weekend trip is at an end. It was really delightful to end on such a high note; we stopped in Herefordshire to see Benbow Farm. A congregation of Methodists met nearby; hundreds of people, who realized that their religion was deficient somehow. They decided to fast and pray for a messenger from God to bring them the full truth. A few days later, Wilford Woodruff arrived to tell them about the restored Gospel. One Brother Benbow offered them the pond on his farm to be used as a baptismal font. Hundreds were baptized in one day. We stood on the banks of this little pond, bundled up against the chilly mist. Some of the girls went up and read the history of Benbow farm; Nikki got up and told her conversion story, which left most of us in tears. Dr. Tate got some great pictures of us, just looking into the suprisingly clear, calm water, imagining the excitement of so many baptisms. I looked in and thought about serving a mission myself, hoping that those I teach would feel the stirrings of something long-forgotten , something like eternity tugging at their hearts and minds, feeling something familiar. Such a cool place. Similarly cool was Gadfield Elm chapel, the very first LDS chapel in existence. The building we visited had been rebuilt and rededicated by the church, had a little visitor's atrium with pictures and video recordings. The chapel has gorgeous walnut pews and a little Protestant organ; Jordan sat and played hymns they would have sung some 160 years ago. Penny led the music and we had a good time singing hymns like A Mighty Fortress is Our God, A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief, and the Spirit of God. So delightful. I wandered outside to take pictures and found Tony lingering there. "You didn't want to come in? It's a bit cold out here." "No. I hope you don't mind." I was about to ask why when several girls came spilling out of the building at once, wiping tears from their cheeks and piling onto the bus. Apparently they all climbed up into the loft, where a little television screen was. Morgan pressed a button and there was President Hinckley, talking about the Gospel going to all the earth, come from England. Everyone started crying. I was sorry to have missed out on such a spiritual experience...I turned around, still wanting to talk to Tony, but he had disappeared. It still bothers me. I guess the trip home was a lot different this time. It was our last overnighter, and we felt peaceful and a bit more patient with ourselves and with each other. Where does homework fall in the grand scheme of things, anyway?