“Everything exists for some end, a horse, a vine. Why dost thou wonder? Even the sun will say, I am for some purpose, and the rest of the gods will say the same. For what purpose then art thou? to enjoy pleasure? See if common sense allows this.”
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From Marcus Aurelius
01
Aug 2012
Category: It Is What It Is, Meditations, Nobility, Rome
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A Word of Hope
26
Jul 2012
Dear Friends,
I apologize for being distant these past couple months, as you may know, I just recently moved back to Dallas, TX. The move went well and I had started to get my affairs in order when suddenly, like a gust of wind, wedding season was upon me.
I traveled to Pensacola, Florida to witness the wedding of Martha and Jacob Reilly. They are happily married, the wedding was a great time, and I was able to gather some news about our beloved school. GGA was one of the main topics of conversation at the wedding. There is a great deal of excitement and hope surrounding not only the coming year for Gregory the Great, but also for the future of the school.
From the various conversations around the campfire (quite literally around the campfire) it is still as of yet uncertain what the future of the school will be; however, it is imperative for us to remain hopeful, even in the face of disappointment.
So I urge you to continue to pray for the school and to continue to support the Clairvoux Institute.
We have been taken care of thus far, and God’s will shall be done, what ever he asks of us.
In Christ and St. Gregory the Great,
Peter Bloch
Category: Hope, St. Gregory's Academy
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poem
17
Jul 2012
Woman Feeding Chickens
by Roy Scheele
Her hand is at the feedbag at her waist,
sunk to the wrist in the rustling grain
that nuzzles her fingertips when laced
around a sifting handful. It’s like rain,
like cupping water in your hand, she thinks,
the cracks between the fingers like a sieve,
except that less escapes you through the chinks
when handling grain. She likes to feel it give
beneath her hand’s slow plummet, and the smell,
so rich a fragrance she has never quite
got used to it, under the seeming spell
of the charm of the commonplace. The white
hens bunch and strut, heads cocked, with tilted eyes,
till her hand sweeps out and the small grain flies.
from The Writer’s Almanac.
Category: beauty, It Is What It Is, Poetry
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