Wedding

 

July 24, 2022

Sunday morning, an exact copy of the last ten mornings, down to the fact that a tremendous storm passed through in the night and, curiously, left no sign behind. TV programming went off so that hideous machine voice could tell us to find shelter. Much lightning, in fact, but as though the rim of a bowl were fire and we, the center of it, sat serene. 

(Later) I was wrong about leaving no sign behind: a corner of my eastern porch collapsed, the cement rotted away beneath it, eroded finally by the torrent. Put that on the list

J and L’s wedding rehearsal Friday. J dominated both events, and I’m glad for the time with him. My perception of him as a minor league Machievelli was not erased, but expanded by the perception that he is funny and humane and considerate and full of experiences he is delighted to relate– boyish, in fact, in ways that please. He is also very much enamored with being a bishop. No reason why you shouldn’t enjoy your job. He is off tomorrow to Lambeth, and expressed fury at the African bishops for bringing up once again issues of human sexuality when there are real and fatal crises on all sides. It’s like laboriously preventing ten year old rape victims from getting abortions when the seas rise and the forests burn and the bullets fall. What are some people thinking? Our bishop points out that some of the African bishops will appear with all three wives. They will say, “It is our culture.” Yes, exactly. 

Homeless people take shelter on the Parish Hall porch. L went out and gathered them and invited them to have dinner with us after the rehearsal.

The wedding came off well, if I am a judge of such things. I read my poem to some acclamation, and DJ sang Herbert’s “The Call” in a way I thought deeply lovely. Tears stood in my eyes. JB read the famous passage from Corinthians, and lines leapt out at me: “As for prophecies, they shall pass; as for tongues, they shall be silent.” The passing of prophecies and the silencing of tongues seemed blessing beyond imagining, a blue serene light at the end of turbulence. I had overeaten so grotesquely at the rehearsal dinner that I was still ill and did not attend the reception. On the 4th of July I began a fast to which, though I’ve yet to see results, I have been admirably and honestly faithful. On a few days I ate nothing at all. On many it was a tomato sandwich or eight ounces of guacamole. A roast chicken lasted four days, and then I was afraid it was too old and threw the rest to the crows. The wonders that need to be reported– despite seeing no difference in the mirror-- include that I’ve almost never been actually hungry, and my energy zoomed as early on the first day. Not only did I no longer have to take my dead-to-the-world midday nap, I couldn’t if I wanted to, buzzing with energy The normal-sized intake at the rehearsal dinner, therefore, annihilated me. Did not quite throw up, but wanted to. 

D arrived this morning from seeing a friend’s vineyard somewhere in Virginia. We had brunch and talked. He is very much the businessman. Turns out that his company is my second-most-profitable stock holding. Before he drove off, he wanted to know if I needed anything heavy to be lifted.