Older ways of thinking about life are more humane. I exist, not as a process or as some immovable modern substance, but as a woman, as a mother, with a certain age and height and history, with a certain store of knowledge and emotional responses. All these qualities are accidents, metaphysically speaking, but that does not make them unimportant. In fact, they are the stuff of my life. The becoming of accidents that come to be in me and pass away, as I enter into new friendships, learn new things, lose loved ones—all this is held in being by me as a personal substance. Accidents give me color and distinctiveness. I give them being.

All of this makes me legible to other human beings and thereby vulnerable to “categorical ­violence.” By allowing accidents—including my femininity—to make me legible, I allow them to delimit me; but they also reveal me to the world, to the community of embodied persons, who know me as formed in certain ways. Through knowing accidents, ­Aquinas writes, the intellect “penetrates to the interior” of the substance. The postmodern world is deathly afraid of being so transparent and vulnerable to others. But it has opened itself to other risks. The loss of the “home” of the stable self perpetually undermines contemporary people, who exist in a permanent, fluid exile. No wonder we, and our culture, are imprisoned within our obsessions with security and safety.

Butler’s trouble with sexed identity arises from her fear that stability opposes the permanent exile that is human life. Rather than being a word read from her body, she prefers to be the unfinished sentence, the perpetual refugee from sexed legibility. Of course, she is right that the intellect sometimes penetrates in order to colonize. But it is also the case that love begins with a true word, spoken and understood. What causes the most ­trouble—the sexed body—also initiates what is most dear.

Read it all.

"Butler’s trouble with sexed identity arises from her fear that stability opposes the permanent exile that is human life. Rather than being a word read from her body, she prefers to be the unfinished sentence, the perpetual refugee from sexed legibility." https://t.co/LPh4B7PX8c

— Ryan Haecker (@RyanHaecker) April 24, 2023

When I see blossoms spring,
And hear the birds’ song,
A sweet love-longing
Entirely pierces my heart,
All for a love new
That is so sweet and true,
That gladdens all my song:
I know in truth, iwis,
My joy and all my bliss
On him is all ylong. [is all because of him]

Of Jesu Christ I sing,
Who is so fair and free, [noble]
Sweetest of all thing;
His own ought I well to be.
So far for me he sought,
With suffering he me bought,
With wounds two and three;
Well sore he was swung,
And for me with spear was stung,
Nailed to the tree.

Read it all.

A medieval spring poem for Eastertide: 'When I see blossoms spring' https://t.co/EXG5ozzdhX pic.twitter.com/PkcayalnoU

— Eleanor Parker (@ClerkofOxford) April 22, 2017

Almighty God, who by the hand of Mark the evangelist hast given to thy Church the Gospel of Jesus Christ the Son of God: We thank thee for this witness, and pray that we may be firmly grounded in its truth; through the same Jesus Christ our Lord, who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.

25th April is the feast of St Mark the Evangelist who is depicted here with his symbol in the 'Harley Golden Gospels'.

BL Harley 2788; the 'Harley Golden Gospels', 9th century; Germany, W. (Aachen?); f.71v @BLMedieval pic.twitter.com/sqZ6YXY5Z5

— Ennius (@red_loeb) April 25, 2023

O God our Father, who hast taught us that our citizenship is in heaven, and hast called us to tread a pilgrim’s path here on earth: Guide us, we pray thee, on our journey through this world to the Celestial City; defend us from the perils that await us in the way; give us grace to endure faithfully to the end; and at the last bring us to thy eternal joy; through the mercy of thy Son, our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.

Dyna welliant…hyfryd o wawr yn Dolgrân…Bore da 👍🏼😃

Well that’s better…a gorgeous sunrise in Dolgrân this morning…Bore da👍🏼😃@StormHour @ThePhotoHour @Ruth_ITV pic.twitter.com/mHnCN7TsGm

— Aled Hall 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁷󠁬󠁳󠁿 (@AledHall) April 25, 2023

And he went down to Capernaum, a city of Galilee. And he was teaching them on the sabbath; and they were astonished at his teaching, for his word was with authority. And in the synagogue there was a man who had the spirit of an unclean demon; and he cried out with a loud voice, “Ah! What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have you come to destroy us? I know who you are, the Holy One of God.” But Jesus rebuked him, saying, “Be silent, and come out of him!” And when the demon had thrown him down in the midst, he came out of him, having done him no harm. And they were all amazed and said to one another, “What is this word? For with authority and power he commands the unclean spirits, and they come out.” And reports of him went out into every place in the surrounding region.

–Luke 4:31-37

Foggy mornings are nature's way of showing us that sometimes, the most beautiful things in life come wrapped in gray. Today’s fog over the Cove, Orleans, Cape Cod, Massachusetts. #StormHour #capecod pic.twitter.com/J3E3WTi0T6

— Darius Aniunas (@dariusaniunas) April 25, 2023