March 13, 2024, 8:28 p.m.

New hump day edition, excitement, and a poem

The Amateur Monastic

Past updates

Happy hump day, dear readers! Starting today, I'm going to try to give you two issues a week, on Wednesdays and Saturdays.

The classical public radio host I listen to on weekday mornings likes to exclaim, "It's hump day, by golly!" This makes getting over the hump a little easier for me. (He also frequently plays "Schwanda the bagpiper" on Wednesdays, not sure why.)

This week started out rough with the advent of Daylight Saving Time, an invention which I loathe and despise. Then it got worse when a cooking fire in my building had everyone grabbing their beloved pets and heading down the stairwell, out into the street at about one-twenty a.m. on Tuesday. I did not know there were so many cats in the building, since I never see them out for a walk. One young woman had two cats in carriers and a third small container with two little lizards, geckos if I guessed right. I did a little trick I had read about online: I took a pillowcase and put it over my arm, took hold of my bird Sunny with my hand thus covered, then once I had him, turned the pillowcase inside out. With him gently restrained, I was able to carry him down nine flights to the front door and then tuck him inside my hoodie for warmth once we were all outside.

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We sat outside for forty or fifty minutes while firefighters from two trucks went in and out of the building with different kinds of equipment. There was nothing to see, no flames or smoke, no drama, no hoses gushing; only a faint haze in the hallway and an acrid smell when we let back in. I sat on the bed for a good half-hour, petting Sunny more or less continuously the whole time. He simply melted over my hand and accepted all the love I could give, thus showing his love in return.

There must have been some property damage, but no one was hurt. I didn't really get back to sleep until around four a.m. and consequently didn't make it to work. I was happy to get back in the office day and check in magazines, talk to co-workers, and tell my fire story.

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I'll wrap up this edition with a poem I wrote this morning. The icon it references is below.

The Virgin of the Sign

POEM: The Seed

In Isaiah, a greening branch, a shoot

from the stump of Jesse, growing into

a wonder, a prince. In the icon, a child

already, praying within a halo, as

your mother prays during her increase.

In the womb of a young woman,

a single cell that divided, divided,

divided itself, embryo, fetus, neonate.

In my hand, a flat pale disk of wheat

and water, mixed, shaped, baked,

and blessed, meant to be eaten.

In me, Jesus, you become a seed,

the beginning of godhead growing

in me like an embryo, a new self,

a greening shoot.

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2009-06-01 12.15.28.jpg Rembrandt's wife is Merri-Todd Webster

You can support her work through Ko-Fi or PayPal

You just read issue #6 of The Amateur Monastic. You can also browse the full archives of this newsletter.

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