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Religion notes:
Via Philocrites' Guide to Unitarian Universalist blogs: the Guuild - UU Religious Professionals Knitting.
On the op-ed page of today's New York Times, a quarter-page ad commemorating the 400th anniversary of the Episcopal church in North America.
My current church-related docket includes two more services for Cookeville, a sermon for Nashville, a set of child dedication certificates to letter, and a band gig for a birthday celebration. After July, though, I'll be taking an extended break and participating only in lay leading (once a quarter), hymn leading (pinch-hitting as needed), the fundraising table (once a month), and chamber choir (one rehearsal and performance a month). It means formally dropping out of the main choir and band (not that I've been able to participate in either this year with any semblance of regularity or reliability) and ending the monthly eastward shlep.
( passion for the unattainable )
The bottom line is that life is good. Messy and not wholly manageable, but definitely good.
I left for this morning's walk to the library with two books to return. On the way, I paused at a yard sale (to benefiting a youth services group) and saw several police officers getting ready to direct traffic around a 5K race through the 'hood. On the way back, I passed by two more yard sales, stopped at the bakery, and watched the runners/shufflers/stragglers streaming past a water station near the B&B. I arrived home with two pints of soup (honeydew melon and Caribbean mango), a chocolate-chip scone, a beat-up cutting board, and a copy of Nathaniel Hawthorne's A Wonder Book.
Last night there was quite a bit of rain, and the living room reeked of wet dog as I worked. Today the sun is shining, and the songbirds are out in force. The rest of the day will be devoted to laundry, errands, and writing. The joke is on me: If you'd asked me twenty years ago what I wanted, it wouldn't have been this. When I was seventeen, I was terrified of dogs, I was thirty pounds lighter, I regularly wore makeup (a habit I'm thinking of resuming -- but probably not this year *g*), I had yet to nosh on my first avocado or sip my first Scotch, and I doubted I would ever own a house or return to the South to live. Ten years ago, I would have told you that I liked steady paychecks too much to consider freelancing, although I was working sixty-hour weeks as a retail buyer (plus commuting daily between Ann Arbor and Detroit) and not getting much of anything else done outside of it. I had yet to visit San Francisco or Edinburgh or Tokyo, I wore oversize men's clothing more often than not, and I probably downed more wine and whisky each week than I have the whole of this year. (Ah, how I miss my old metabolism.)
I'd be lying if I claimed I'm not apprehensive about aging, but I shouldn't be: if the pattern holds, and I do my part, life will keep getting better. So: laundry, errands, and writing. (And the mango soup, and maybe a haiku, and definitely scritches for the leek-chomping dog.) And love to you all, and praise for such joys.
( passion for the unattainable )
The bottom line is that life is good. Messy and not wholly manageable, but definitely good.
I left for this morning's walk to the library with two books to return. On the way, I paused at a yard sale (to benefiting a youth services group) and saw several police officers getting ready to direct traffic around a 5K race through the 'hood. On the way back, I passed by two more yard sales, stopped at the bakery, and watched the runners/shufflers/stragglers streaming past a water station near the B&B. I arrived home with two pints of soup (honeydew melon and Caribbean mango), a chocolate-chip scone, a beat-up cutting board, and a copy of Nathaniel Hawthorne's A Wonder Book.
Last night there was quite a bit of rain, and the living room reeked of wet dog as I worked. Today the sun is shining, and the songbirds are out in force. The rest of the day will be devoted to laundry, errands, and writing. The joke is on me: If you'd asked me twenty years ago what I wanted, it wouldn't have been this. When I was seventeen, I was terrified of dogs, I was thirty pounds lighter, I regularly wore makeup (a habit I'm thinking of resuming -- but probably not this year *g*), I had yet to nosh on my first avocado or sip my first Scotch, and I doubted I would ever own a house or return to the South to live. Ten years ago, I would have told you that I liked steady paychecks too much to consider freelancing, although I was working sixty-hour weeks as a retail buyer (plus commuting daily between Ann Arbor and Detroit) and not getting much of anything else done outside of it. I had yet to visit San Francisco or Edinburgh or Tokyo, I wore oversize men's clothing more often than not, and I probably downed more wine and whisky each week than I have the whole of this year. (Ah, how I miss my old metabolism.)
I'd be lying if I claimed I'm not apprehensive about aging, but I shouldn't be: if the pattern holds, and I do my part, life will keep getting better. So: laundry, errands, and writing. (And the mango soup, and maybe a haiku, and definitely scritches for the leek-chomping dog.) And love to you all, and praise for such joys.
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