Why Medieval Literature and Oranges Belong Together -- Mihi
Mihi is a Latin term--it means "to me" and is intended to imply a self-deprecatory caveat on the part of the author. At least, that is how I mean it.
I have been reading Beowulf all day and listening to a song called 100 Years, about the stretch of a person's life and the moments in it (he singles out the ages of 15, 22, 33, 45, and 67). Part of this reading time I spent at Starbucks, but returned soon because the atmosphere at our local franchise is intolerably chilly. They have no fireplace.
When I got back, I picked up two works by Lewis and began to search them for clues as to the medieval mind and the intentions of medieval authors. These works are Studies in Medieval and Renaissance Literature and The Discarded Image. Perhaps it was the intense cold outside, or perhaps just flipping those particular pages, but the latter book took me to another time and place....
I was nineteen. It was Spring Break in my Sophomore year at PHC, and my family had decided to chase the sun down to Florida, where my great-aunt had long desired us for a visit. That was the trip that taught me how to drive a golf-cart, but I only mention it by-the-by.
I had not had enough time to finish The Discarded Image, which was required reading in Dr. Hake's Western Literature I. Being still young and intensely conscientious, and (as I have remained) very much interested in Lewis, I took the book on vacation with me. And now we come to the oranges.
I don't know whether you have ever been to Florida. We were staying in the central part of the state, where oak trees grow vast and moss-wreathed. My auntie's house backed up to a golf course; I remember vividly the slope of the hill and its crowning oaks. I could have built a Swiss Family Robinson's house in those giant trees. Their moss-beards swayed gently--I was delighted with the sensation of bare arms in March. I flung myself down under an orange-tree in the backyard and began to read.
It was an enchanted afternoon. I can hardly say why---except that the sun came down-dazzling with velvet but not burning warmth, and I had brought an orange which was like a sun that one could eat. Sunshine inside and out, therefore, was my mead, and Lewis fired all my imagination; he wrought upon my brain bright images of an age that understood fire, courage, greatness, kingship, and gift-giving.
The taste of oranges, if you have ever noticed, is something both sweet and fierce, and pure. It is the fruit that I most associate with clean passion. The whole afternoon was a clean passion. I came away to dinner with a feeling of having drunk from some fountain of golden water. I wanted to act, to be brave and generous, to laugh at death, to give honor to something deserving of it. In short, I felt like a Christian.
So, now in the middle of a winter-grey day, I smile to myself. I am not here at all. I am under that orange-tree again, a young girl among the towering hero-oaks, with a taste of clean passion under her tongue.
I have been reading Beowulf all day and listening to a song called 100 Years, about the stretch of a person's life and the moments in it (he singles out the ages of 15, 22, 33, 45, and 67). Part of this reading time I spent at Starbucks, but returned soon because the atmosphere at our local franchise is intolerably chilly. They have no fireplace.
When I got back, I picked up two works by Lewis and began to search them for clues as to the medieval mind and the intentions of medieval authors. These works are Studies in Medieval and Renaissance Literature and The Discarded Image. Perhaps it was the intense cold outside, or perhaps just flipping those particular pages, but the latter book took me to another time and place....
I was nineteen. It was Spring Break in my Sophomore year at PHC, and my family had decided to chase the sun down to Florida, where my great-aunt had long desired us for a visit. That was the trip that taught me how to drive a golf-cart, but I only mention it by-the-by.
I had not had enough time to finish The Discarded Image, which was required reading in Dr. Hake's Western Literature I. Being still young and intensely conscientious, and (as I have remained) very much interested in Lewis, I took the book on vacation with me. And now we come to the oranges.
I don't know whether you have ever been to Florida. We were staying in the central part of the state, where oak trees grow vast and moss-wreathed. My auntie's house backed up to a golf course; I remember vividly the slope of the hill and its crowning oaks. I could have built a Swiss Family Robinson's house in those giant trees. Their moss-beards swayed gently--I was delighted with the sensation of bare arms in March. I flung myself down under an orange-tree in the backyard and began to read.
It was an enchanted afternoon. I can hardly say why---except that the sun came down-dazzling with velvet but not burning warmth, and I had brought an orange which was like a sun that one could eat. Sunshine inside and out, therefore, was my mead, and Lewis fired all my imagination; he wrought upon my brain bright images of an age that understood fire, courage, greatness, kingship, and gift-giving.
The taste of oranges, if you have ever noticed, is something both sweet and fierce, and pure. It is the fruit that I most associate with clean passion. The whole afternoon was a clean passion. I came away to dinner with a feeling of having drunk from some fountain of golden water. I wanted to act, to be brave and generous, to laugh at death, to give honor to something deserving of it. In short, I felt like a Christian.
So, now in the middle of a winter-grey day, I smile to myself. I am not here at all. I am under that orange-tree again, a young girl among the towering hero-oaks, with a taste of clean passion under her tongue.
posted by Praelucor at 3:41 PM
1 Comments:
Beautifully written :).
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