I took out a six-month subscription to The Budget, a weekly newspaper by and for plain Anabaptists (to quote the wiki). I probably won’t subscribe to it long term but I’m really interested in the scribe letters.
Yesterday, Rachel and I walked to our graves. A nice way to delay the day when we’ll be carried there.
Lamps and candles glow
in morning dark, as we read
together in peace
No, I've never watched Peaky Blinders. The hat reminds me of my grandpa.
Quite a story: “How Chinese spies used lies, love and betrayal to target the Federal Reserve”
The squat pen rests, snug as a gun
Charles Taylor, via the estimable Donny: We are deeply moved, but also puzzled and shaken. We struggle to articulate what we’ve been through. If we succeed in formulating it, however partially, we feel a release, as though the power of the experience was increased by having been focussed, articulated, and hence let fully be. This is a needed articulation of an experience I’ve struggled to understand. Occasionally when writing something, especially when it’s deeply important to me, I have felt something like that emotional release.
“we are not hedonists, and were not created merely for our own happiness or pleasure”
The grace of a clear mind
Caring for my mom makes me increasingly grateful for a clear mind. Here on the cusp of fifty years old, I am in some senses at the height of my powers. What I have lost in physical ability has been compensated for by patience. What I have lost in mental agility has been compensated for by judgment. Watching her decline, I understand that my mental clarity is today’s grace: it is not mine by right, and will not last forever.
The local HVAC company we use puts out a newsletter with company news (like employee of the month) and a community calendar. It’s hokey and awesome. And, of course, the September issue has a persimmon pudding recipe.
Joscelyn Godwin, The Mystery of the Seven Vowels:
Yet I will add, in all seriousness, that no animal would have served better as a hidden symbol of Iaô than the patient and unmusical ass, which cries as best it can the name of the Unknown God.
I was not expecting to find a joke–much less a funny one–in this book.