God bestows bounty; I guess the reception dinner is my attempt to do the same.
God blesses man and woman; I had better work on my toast... it strikes me that the father-of-the-bride's toast is what used to be a blessing, sometimes still is.
All those who gather under the tent will eat and drink, and yet my bounty will sate them for only a day at most. They will forget my toast - "blessing" - within twenty minutes of its utterance... and no one will seek me out in the future, happenstance in time of need to pray my advice, nor serendip in time of joy to seek me out and share; they will have forgotten me... except for that bungled toast I made.
Someone once said children are like Mercedes; you come to the Party and hand the keys to the Valet, and you just hope and pray that it's not like Parking Garage in Ferris Buehler. Those were the days, and not so long ago, either, when metaphors were silly and provoked a smile.
Now I rub my monk's tonsured head where the grey hair begins to grow back, and look to the needs of the people... and the other six samurai who stand guard.
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I've just been spending a bit of time catching up chez Montag.
(The Periodic Englishman is a good name for a pub, just saying.)
It's good you are about to bestow your blessing - they'd be missing God else. Mazel tov, yes?
Signs! Hearing from you,
"I am as light as a feather, I am as happy as an angel, I am as merry as a schoolboy. I am as giddy as a drunken man. A merry Christmas to everybody! A happy New Year to all the world! Hallo here! Whoop! Hallo!"
It is not quite yet Christmas - haven't even reached Midsummer's Day.
The wedding is on the feast of St. Wynfrith (better known as June 5)
and we are in the final push. I have not said a lot about it, as I am ruled by a strict censorship about personal matters, and haven't received any "imprimaturs" yet.
Thanks for the mazel tov for the yom tov.
And how are you? Since it is late spring, I think you may tend to hibernate, just as I do, in the winter months. It is rather like the final scene of Truffaut's "Fahrenheit 451", a light snow in the forest, early darkness, and a hint of the eternity of the art of words.
Thank you for the warm welcome. The winter was so long here, and is not yet over. I usually like winter, but now feel ready for the coming of Aslan. It is time.
Your continuation of the idea of anticipating Christmas even now before St. Wynfrith's day is a good deal of fun: you invoke Aslan and his coming to remind us of the land where its "always winter but never Christmas"... at least not yet.
I feel an unusual lightness, as if we floated on underlying themes and motifs. It makes me sad that our culture is fragmented, and each fragment only heeds its own "classic repetoire", and the only consciousness we share is Cable News.
Oh, well. I have never really thought on C.S.Lewis before. He is definitely not what people make him out to be; he is not what he makes himself out to be...
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