My Thoughts
Looking through the rearview mirror at what has been so quickly passing, receding, winking out of sight, then as soon forgotten; all newness ages before aging eyes with their blinking. It is but the softest whisper which so teases thoughts too tired to trouble; yesterday too soon forgotten, today fleeing fast away, tomorrow but a promise never to be met. Old habits have lost their favor; few are any more inclined to don such poor attire, evocative of best forgotten memory. The cassock, the collar, the distinctive tri-cornered biretta worn by parish priests, the tunic, scapular and cowl, the hood for monks or friars, the veil for nuns, all eschewed, exchanged for modern artless dress. Old distinctions have turned to bland; religious wear, once black and white, brown or gray, have become kaleidoscopic, indistinguishable from the ordinary and the common.