Weather Report

The trip down to Mass in Huntington Beach was beautiful: a fresh, brisk spring day, temperature in the low 70’s and sunshine all day. We took the coast highway as always. The tide seemed higher than usual and the surfers were taking advantage of what looked from the vantage point of the Pacific Coast Highway like excellent conditions. The trip takes about a half hour; St. Mary's is something under 20 miles from this keyboard.

And, yes, all Masses are good but this one is the very best of all, being in the ancient Roman rite, done in the language and manner of our ancestors for as close to two thousand years as makes no difference. Whatever is buried right into our blood from immemorial habit that we must be certain to do if we are to be fairly happy (of course no grown man or woman can really be very happy for long—but I mean reasonably happy), and, what is more important, decent and secure of our souls. (More from The Path to Rome. What a great re-discovery that book is. And on my shelf all the time. Thanks once more, Steven.) And again: Of course there is a grace and influence belonging to such a custom, but it is not of that I am speaking but of the pleasing sensation of order and accomplishment which attaches to a day one has opened by Mass; a purely temporal, and, for all I know. . . .carnal feeling, but a source of continual comfort to me.

On the way to lunch we checked the surf again, noted that the sea birds are on their way north from the Bolsa Chica refuge, and sang as much of the triduum "Lamentations" as we could remember. Which wasn't very much. "Ierusalem, Ierusalem: convertere ad Dominum Deum tuum" was the only bit we both remembered in its entirety.