Past updates
If you ever had a Livejournal account, or if you're still active on Dreamwidth, you'll recognize the title of this week's letter as a long-standing LJ/DW meme. When you want to communicate but aren't seized by the Muse, five things make a post.
My favorite musical artist and limerence object, Hozier, has graced us with new music: a deluxe version of his second album, Wasteland, Baby! on the fifth anniversary of its release. It includes several songs released on EP and two entirely new songs; here's the album version and here's the new acoustic version. While the deluxe album seems to be available only on vinyl at the moment, I hope it will eventually come out in CD format, too. It's hard to overestimate the importance Hozier and his music have had for me over the last ten years; they have consistently and richly fed my soul life.
I'm currently in the endnotes of Joy Harjo's Weaving Sundown in a Scarlet Light: 50 Poems for 50 Years. I think it was a Facebook sharing of one of her poems that first got me onto Harjo, although I had heard of her before that. From reading her poetry I went on to read several anthologies of Native poets that she edited or co-edited, covering indigenous peoples from all over North America and including Hawai'i. I highly recommend her work if you haven't read her before.
Yesterday my church had a Quiet Morning for Lent which I attended. Morning Prayer at the beginning, Mass at noon to conclude, and three addresses by a visiting priest, Fr. Simon Hoke. I would link to Hoke's web presence, but he seems not to have one. He's a retired priest, old enough to be my dad, who lives in North Carolina and fills in at little churches there, as well as travelling to preach and give retreats. I had not heard him before; he was a genial man with a genuinely fatherly vibe who made us laugh often during his three talks. He also happened to be on the staff of Trinity Church, Wall Street, on that day in 2000 when the World Trade Center towers just across the street were hit by planes, and was treated for cancer resulting from the air pollution. There's a priest who won't be fazed by anything you can do or say. I made my confession to him for the first time in about fifteen years.
Further on that topic, I've decided I'm settling back into Christian identity and practice. It feels not so much like a decision, really, as a resignation: I found myself wanting to observe Lent, so I guess that means I really am a Christian. The reason, friends, is simple: I have been welcomed in many places, by many people--Pagans, Buddhists, Christians of other traditions--but the Episcopal Church is my home. I am old (well, middle-aged) and tired, and I want to go home. Inexplicably, that means the weird Anglo-Catholic parish where my late ex-husband used to be the organist. It is a much healthier and more functional community under the current rector than it was when my ex worked there, and I am grateful to be a part of it.
Sunny continues to moult, to grow new feathers, to imitate an onion (especially when he wants a nap), and to be very snuggly when he's in the mood. He is onionating at the moment as Satie's "Gnossiennes" play on the radio.
Rembrandt's wife is Merri-Todd Webster