LXXIX YEARS TE DEUM LAUDAMUS

 

Today I turn 79 te Deum laudamus. One step into my octogenarian I am still in demand as always: reading and writing old antiphons and hymns in Latin.

The warm verb of the Christian liturgy, the song of the birds, the citis that spreads its branches around my window, the radios, the computer at the ready, a dove cooing in the big fir tree in the central garden.

Nests of yesteryear There are no more birds today Memories and regrets, the hand of Providence that freed me from the sentences of my sins. The wine, the fury, the persecution, the loneliness. I'm a weirdo who stands his ground against all odds in defense of the truth or what I consider the truth.

Yesterday MJ and I went to mass at the Maria Auxiliadora school, I put my years, my perversions, my illusions, joys and failures at the feet of the Virgin.

Before the august image of Our Lady I burst into tears like a fool.

This gift of tears always happened to me every time I attended Sunday mass in that church among pine forests on the side of the train track. Loving effluvia of a devotion in which I have participated since my childhood.

The nuns are all much older. They no longer wear a habit. Don Bosco's daughters strictly comply with the instructions of the Vatican.

I thought while the oldest and run over chaplain priest made the Corpus Christi reservation that yesterday was celebrated this is over but love will continue.

I am a participant in this church in the great uproar in the midst of the turbo-sweep of politics.

  Effervescent Majadahonda had a football match and huge people drank snacks on the terraces.

  Many cars good standard of living. Spain despite everything in peace. We went to my daughter Henar's house.

My grandson Pelayo is a seraph, he is growing smarter than hunger. In the afternoon I read Turgenev's “Faust” in which he narrates his love affair with Vera Nikolayevna. Platonic love doomed to failure.

  The elegant Turgenev must not have been very successful with women, but his defense of sublime asexual love and his melancholy are reflected in his books.

  All of them short, linear, definitive of the Russian soul

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