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Long live all maidens

easy and beautiful !

Long live mature women also,

Tender and loveable and full of good labor. 

Gaudeamus Igitur

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Sunday
Nov222009

Secrets of the Old

Good Sunday afternoon!

Fantastic out there, but apparently this is the last of the good stuff. We can start bracing ourselves. 

Please, no apologies about your zombied state. It's difficult to focus on a Friday afternoon. I understand about the need for winding down. It's so crucial to survival, this pacing and processing. Sometimes I see the younger set burning the candle at both ends but then they have a certain way of ignoring the superfluous ... the way we (wiser? and older women) sometimes don't. Talk about stress. I'm glad we made the decision to take the memoir course. It seems I'm always ‘doing’ memoir in one way or another anyway. A Dutch cousin of mine has just been added to my email list. I’ll correct his English and he’ll help me with my Dutch. My occasional journaling is definitely a form of documentation as well. And yes, there are secrets. Of course. Always.

Speaking of secrets. Again that song association in my head. I absolutely love the American composer, Samuel Barber (born the same year as my father, 1910) and his well-known Adagio for Strings gets to me every time I hear it. Check out this sound bite link:  HYPERLINK "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Adagio_for_Strings-Samuel_Barber.ogg" http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Adagio_for_Strings-Samuel_Barber.ogg. He also wrote Secrets of the Old, which I sang for a vocal class at university. It’s Yeats' words that capture my sentiments these days:

I have old women's secrets now

That had those of the young;

Madge tells me what I dared not think

When my blood was strong,

And what had drowned a lover once

Sounds like an old song.

 “What I dared not think”, then, in my innocent mid 20's, (I was a late bloomer) was cause for plenty of writing in those sacred journals of mine. But the voice, upon rereading, seems not to belong to me, as if my pen were being guided by the Holy Church Fathers themselves:

 January 3, 1970, 5:45 p.m.               10th day of Christmas 

 Last night was another one of those memorable evenings. Time flies in the company of friends who share ideals and hopes. Father Francis must have been inspired around 2:30 a.m. Ideas and lines of reasoning fell beautifully into place … good and evil … purpose to life … reason for living … God without a doubt the centre of all. How helpless we are without Him … lame …protoplasm of faith … idealism … being realistic … awareness … duty as laymen … acting … insecurity consisting of questioning things – a reason for this and that … divorce sometimes the lesser of two evils … vocations … mentality of Canadian men … German …thesis … antithesis … “this business of falling on love” … friendship … celibacy … “If instead of a gem, or even a flower, we should cast the gift of rich thought into the heart of a friend, that would be giving as the angels give.”(George MacDonald). God love Francis.

 

It could have been the reading of Linden Macintyre’s new book, The Bishop's Man, that made me dig up my university diaries and rereading that stuff blew me away. Did I even have a thought of my own in those days? I was in love, Sarah! With a priest! For God's sake! And that former priest will actually be attending my Bach concert next Saturday! I wonder if he’ll bring his wife. I communicate occasionally with two of his (still) priest friends of the Sacred Heart order (they sometimes attend my Bel’ Arte concerts and send annual Christmas greetings). I’m feeling just a little squirrelly right now (thought I was a big girl!) and still want to comment on your whole sad VP dilemma, among other things, from this morning's email. 

But later.

Going out for some air while there's a little warmth left from the sun. 

Adria

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