RCIA, Yeats

WINE comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That’s all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift my glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.
— Yeats, “A Drinking Song”

RCIA is ramping up again soon and I’ve been asked to take over/restart/reboot the neophyte year. There’s not a whole lot support offered to new Catholics in after the post-Pentacost mystagogy concludes and this needs to be rectified. I’m simultaneously excited and a little nervous, but we’re meeting as a team in a couple of weeks and I’ll hopefully get a bit of clarity. If not, well, Veni Creator Spiritus.

Closing in on the end of the long long trip through Yugoslavia with Rebecca West, her husband, and the odd couple, Constantin and Gerda. There’s nothing in the on-deck circle at the moment. I’m glad to have read it and have learned a fair bit about the Balkans, or at least West’s impressions, in the process.

It’s hot here. The hottest part of the year. The squash is done, the cucumbers nearly so, and both are about to be replaced by beans. Tomatoes have formed an impenetrable thicket. Only the peppers are standing tall. I have a few experimentally drying in the garage. We’ll see how that goes. This morning I skipped Lauds to get in an early morning run before the day got too hot. Then I got back and my work day commenced immediately. So I felt great from the run, but not great from laying aside prayer and meditation to do so. Not a mistake I intend to repeat.