After another healing walk on the wall….
My pubescent rejection of Catholicism was proud rebellion. Another easy rejection was poetry—the apex of ambiguity to me; the most insulting form of writing known to man. Imagine my surprise to find myself so drawn to it as I age. Nothing gave me greater satisfaction at the end of my turmoil over moving, than the lines from Little Gidding by T. S. Eliot I wrote in a past post.
And nothing gives me more joy than Gerard Manley Hopkins’ Pied Beauty during summer’s penumbra when the smell of autumn is in the air.