Never Despairing of Life

There is a way of living and thinking that I would name negative, another that I would name active. The first consists in seeing always what is defective in people and institutions, not so much to remedy them as to dominate them, in always looking back, and in always looking for whatever separates and disunites. The second consists in joyfully looking life and its responsibilities in the face, in looking for the good in everyone in order to develop and cultivate it, in never despairing of the future, the fruit of our will, and in understanding human faults and miseries, expressing that strong compassion which results in action and no longer allows us to live a useless life. ...

As we go along, let us spread ideas, words, and desires, without looking back to see who gathers them.

Elisabeth Leseur

This was written long before the advent of Facebook, but I feel that it and other such social media are too often used to foster the first way of living instead of the second. Such temptations are always around us, to take the path of disunity. We have to remain vigilant to cultivate the second way of living.

Created in the image of a story-telling God

We are story-telling creatures because we are created in the image of a story-telling God. He is the great Author, weaving together a complex history full of heroes and villains, side plots and side characters. He uses motifs and archetypes. He has favorite themes and tropes. He keeps track of every thread. No sparrow escapes His notice. He writes epics between rival anthills, comedies involving frogs, tragedies about field mice, dramas in the deepest oceans. our Lord is a master Weaver. He spins galaxies and whirlwinds, stitches garments for the forests, unrolls the mountains and hills like a Persian rug, embroiders the stories of men's lives into an enormous tapestry, and encompasses the entirety of human history — from the shiver of Adam's chest as he drew his first breath, to the final trumpet call when all shall be remade.

To be human, to be created in His image, is to tell stories.

Christiana Hale, Deeper Heaven

Carmen Navale - Think of Christ and echo him

Putting this the day before the proper day since that falls on a Sunday this year.

With sweat and blood and Blackwood pine
We laid her keel and faired her lines
Heave, lads, and let the echoes ring

With her keel tight-caulked she swims right well
Let torrents fall and wild gusts swell
Heave, lads, and let the echoes ring

The tempests howl, the storms dismay
But manly strength can win the day
Heave, lads, and let the echoes ring

For clouds and squalls will soon pass on
And victory lies with work well done
Heave, lads, and let the echoes ring

Hold fast! Survive! And all is well
You've suffered worse, He'll calm this swell
Heave, lads, and let the echoes ring

Satan acts to tire the brain
And by temptation souls are slain
Think, lads, of Christ and echo Him

With fixed resolve we scorn the foe
With virtues armed we pray and row
Think, lads, of Christ and echo Him

The king of virtues vowed a prize
For him who wins, for him who tries
Think, lads, of Christ and echo Him

Mashup of 2 translations: Tony Krogh, Anglandicus

I discovered this prayer in The Path of Celtic Prayer by Calvin Miller. However, the book didn't have the whole thing, as I discovered when I went looking for a version to copy into this post. This is going into my quote journal.

For those who don't know Columbanus was an early Irish missionary who traveled through Europe with his brother monks, evangelizing on the way. He viewed life as a pilgrimage and wrote this song which reflects that idea so well. I can see it in my mind's eye, the boat of men singing a call and response maybe, the crashing waves, the serious struggle accompanied by the joy of triumph making it upstream.

Journeying up the Rhine in 610, Columbanus and his disciples supposedly chanted his famous ‘boat song’. One can almost hear the Irish monks dig their oars into the Rhine’s formidable current as they struggle upstream. The poem compares the surging storm waters with the trials and struggles of the Christian life. Columbanus sees the tempests and storms of life overcome by the one who is in Christ. He frequently used the analogy of storms at sea as a picture for hardship and trials.

Anglandicus blog

Columbanus embarking, by an unknown artist
Source

Meditation on a Pudding

MEDITATION ON A PUDDING

Let us seriously reflect of what a pudding is composed. It is composed of flour that once waved in the golden grain, and drank the dews of the morning; of milk pressed from the swelling udder by the gentle hand of the beauteous milkmaid, whose beauty and innocence might have recommended a worse draught; who, while she stroked the udder, indulged no ambitious thoughts of wandering in palaces, formed no plans for the destruction of her fellow-creatures; milk, which is drawn from the cow, that useful animal, that eats the grass of the field, and supplies us with that which made the greatest part of the food of mankind in the age which the poets have agreed to call golden. It is made with an egg, that miracle of nature, which the theoretical Burnet has compared to creation. An egg contains water within its beautiful smooth surface; and an unformed mass, by the incubation of the parent, becomes a regular animal, furnished with bones and sinews, and covered with feathers. – Let us consider; can there be more wanting to complete the Meditation on a Pudding? If more is wanting, more may be found. It contains salt, which keeps the sea from putrefaction: salt, which is made the image of intellectual excellence, contributes to the formation of a pudding.

Samuel Johnson

This never fails to amuse and delight me.

The Old Dutch Masters and a Mexican Restaurant

A little lagniappe from my quote journal. Doesn't this paint a wonderful picture?

The old Dutch masters would have loved to perpetuate the interior of a Mexican restaurant, its patrons showing the cosmopolitan nature of the population of the State. A long, low-roofed room, with bare floor, an uncovered pine table, and hard bench, on which sit three noted politicians taking an evening lunch. ... Each has a steaming platter of chile con carne before him, and a plate of tamales in their hot moist wrappings of shuck. Behind them stands the Mexican host, tall, dark, dignified, and grave, yet watchful. ... Over them flicker the dim rays cast by an oil lamp, deepening the shadows, throwing half-lights into the obscurity of the corners. A tiny hairless Mexican dog sits motionless on the doorstep, while the sign—written in both English and Spanish—swings creakingly above his head. ... Only in the cities of Texas can be found that peculiar fusion of American civilization with Mexican life. ...

Lee C. Harby, "Texan Types and Contrast,"
Harper's New Monthly Magazine, July 1890

via Robb Walsh, Texas Eats

Sinking as a hedonist into novels

My mother read secondarily for information; she sank as a hedonist into novels. She read Dickens in the spirit in which she would have eloped with him.

Eudora Welty

Yes. Also Tolkien. And Dante. And Agatha Christie.

Clearly I've got a problem.

We're meant to enjoy Our Lord and, in Him, our friends, our food, our sleep, our jokes, and the birds' song and the frosty sunrise

It is one of the evils of rapid diffusion of news that the sorrows of all the world come to us every morning. I think each village was meant to feel pity for its own sick and poor whom it can help and I doubt if it is the duty of any private person to fix his mind on ills wh. he cannot help. (This may even become an escape from the works of charity we really can do to those we know).

A great many people (not you) do now seem to think that the mere state of being worried is in itself meritorious. I don't think it is. We must, if it so happens, give our lives for others: but even while we're doing it, I think we're meant to enjoy Our Lord and, in Him, our friends, our food, our sleep, our jokes, and the birds' song and the frosty sunrise.

C.S. Lewis; letter to Dom Bede Griffiths, OSB; Dec. 20, 1946

The immediacy of global bad news, the idea that being worried about something is action enough, the lack of charity shown locally — don't these sound all too familiar in our Facebook, X, social media world? 

Living locally is trendy for food. I like the idea of applying it as Lewis discusses above. We have plenty of chances to act and help locally. And while doing it, we mustn't forget the Lord is with us, mixing in small moments of joy.

Death doesn't have an opposite.

Death doesn't have an opposite. Death is a transition. It is no more the opposite of life than a bridge is the opposite of the land it connects. ... If we could get a glimpse of the eternal nature of our lives, we would view death exactly as we view birth: a necessary tunnel through which we must pass on our journey.

Mother Angelica's Answers, Not Promises

This seems important at this time of year, when light is fading and we've just passed All Saints and All Souls Days.

Say a prayer, not an editorial

Crater didn't know why the captain wanted him to say a prayer, but he gave it some thought and said, "Dear Lord, I didn't know Tilly, but I hope You'll take her into heaven. She messed up here at the last but that doesn't matter now, not to her and maybe not to You either."

"I said say a prayer, not write an editorial," Teller growled.

The gillie jumped in. For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes, blessed be the Lord thy God who loves thee still. Amen and good-bye.

Teller stared at the gillie, then said, "Well, at least that thing's got some sense."

Homer Hickam, Crater

Perfect!

Inhuman, Gelatinous, and Disembodied

Shall I say that the voice was deep, hollow, gelatinous, remote, unearthly, inhuman, disembodied?

H.P. Lovecraft, the Statement of Randolph Carter

Wow. And somehow I feel I know just how it sounded.

Lagniappe: The Ghost House

This melancholy and evocative poem by Robert Frost is perfect for October.

I dwell in a lonely house I know
That vanished many a summer ago,
And left no trace but the cellar walls,
And a cellar in which the daylight falls,
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.

O’er ruined fences the grape-vines shield
The woods come back to the mowing field;
The orchard tree has grown one copse
Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the well is healed.

I dwell with a strangely aching heart
In that vanished abode there far apart
On that disused and forgotten road
That has no dust-bath now for the toad.
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;

The whippoorwill is coming to shout
And hush and cluck and flutter about:
I hear him begin far enough away
Full many a time to say his say
Before he arrives to say it out.

It is under the small, dim, summer star.
I know not who these mute folk are
Who share the unlit place with me—
Those stones out under the low-limbed tree
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.

They are tireless folk, but slow and sad,
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,—
With none among them that ever sings,
And yet, in view of how many things,
As sweet companions as might be had.

What a queer thing Life is!

What a queer thing Life is! So unlike anything else, don't you know, if you see what I mean.

P.G. Wodehouse

This is just one of those inspired bits of incoherence that makes Wodehouse fans laugh and want more. Also, it's true.

All-consuming interests

For the faithful believer, understanding God and thereby living a godly life are all-consuming interests.

Bruce Gordon, The Bible

Hey, that's me!

Lagniappe: The Underground and the Death Star

The Underground works all day and all evening, which means the brave men and women in high-visibility orange who keep it running have to work all night. The depot is so full of people banging bits of metal together and scraping things to make sparks that if you squinted you'd swear they were about to launch a last desperate attack against the Death Star.

Ben Aaronovitch, The Furthest Station

I just love his turn of phrase and ability to evoke a mental image. Plus, he makes me laugh.

Lagniappe: Finishing What the Luftwaffe Started

In the 1960s the planning department of the London County Council, whose unofficial motto was Finishing What the Luftwaffe Started, decided that what London really needed was a series of orbital motorways driven through its heart.

Ben Aaronovitch, Moon Over Soho

I've been rereading this series and especially enjoying the architectural comments and the details about police work that the author includes.

One of the most unexpected elements of P.C. Grant's character in the Rivers of London series is his continual disapproval of a lot of modern architecture. There's a reason that comes to light eventually but it is funny. And pretty accurate as far as I can tell.

Lagniappe: Never record anything ...

I rang her and left a message identifying myself and giving an impression of urgency without actually saying anything concrete. Never record anything you wouldn't want turning up on YouTube is my motto.

Ben Aaronovitch, Moon Over Soho

If only more of us remembered this, the world would be a calmer place. More boring, sure. But definitely calmer.

Lagniappe: Planned Improvisation

She glanced back at where my dad ... was having a technical discussion with the rest of the band. Lots of hand gestures as he indicated where he wanted solos to come in during the set because, as my dad always says, while improvisation and spontaneity may be the hallmarks of great jazz, the hallmark of being a great player is ensuring the rest of the band is spontaneously improvising the way you want them to.

Ben Aaronovitch, Broken Homes

Aha! I always suspected as much!

Lagniappe: A Copper Who Is a Wizard

"You're so boring," she said. "You'd think a copper who was a wizard would be more interesting. Harry Potter wasn't this boring. I bet Gandalf could drink you under the table."

Probably true, but I don't remember the bit where Hermione gets so wickedly drunk that Harry has to pull the broomstick over on Buckingham Palace Road just so she can be sick in the gutter.

Ben Aaronovitch, Whispers Under Ground

It goes on like that for a bit, but you get the point. Makes me laugh and that's it. Nothing deeper here to see. Move along now.

We are made for an existence that is constantly renewed through gift of self in love

The first reading, taken from the Book of Ecclesiastes, invites us ... to come to terms with the experience of our limitations and the fleeting nature of all things that pass away (cf. Eccl 1:2; 2:21-23). On a similar note, the Responsorial Psalm presents us with the image of “the grass that is renewed… in the morning it flourishes and is renewed; in the evening it  fades and withers” (Ps 90:5-6). These are two strong reminders which may be a bit shocking, but which should not frighten us as if they were “taboo” issues to be avoided. The fragility they speak of is, in fact, part of the marvel of creation. Think of the image of grass: is not a field of flowers beautiful? Of course, it is delicate, made up of small, vulnerable stems, prone to drying out, to being bent and broken. Yet at the same time these flowers are immediately replaced by others that sprout up after them, generously nourished and fertilized by the first ones as they decay on the ground. This is how the field survives: through constant regeneration. Even during the cold months of winter, when everything seems silent, its energy stirs beneath the ground, preparing to blossom into a thousand colors when spring comes.

We too, dear friends, are made this way, we are made for this. We are not made for a life where everything is taken for granted and static, but for an existence that is constantly renewed through gift of self in love. This is why we continually aspire to something “more” that no created reality can give us; we feel a deep and burning thirst that no drink in this world can satisfy. Knowing this, let us not deceive our hearts by trying to satisfy them with cheap imitations! Let us rather listen to them! Let us turn this thirst into a step stool, like children who stand on tiptoe, in order to peer through the window of encounter with God. We will then find ourselves before him, who is waiting for us, knocking gently on the window of our soul (cf. Rev 3:20). It is truly beautiful, especially at a young age, to open wide your hearts, to allow him to enter, and to set out on this adventure with him towards eternity.

Pope Leo XIV, Jubilee of Youth Homily, August 3, 2025

 This is truly a beautiful reflection. It makes me look forward to reading Pope Leo's thoughts whenever they come my way.

What kind of head-space am I going to be stuck in now?

There exists a quality of a book that I do not have a name for; it is approached by terms like “mode” and “voice” and “the writer’s world-view”, but isn’t quite any of these. I short-hand it as, “What kind of head-space am I going to be stuck in now?” And is it one I that will enjoy being stuck in? We seek out, I think, any favorite writer’s other books, even if they are varied, in the hopes of entering that agreeable head-space again.

Lois Bujold, reviewing Rivers of London by Ben Aaronovitch

I like that ... "head space." Of course, she is precisely right. This is from the review that got me to try the series, way back in 2015.