The
BBC television series “Wolf Hall”, though well-acted, portrays a meager kind of
majesty compared to what I’m presented with each day. Delycia and I live in a
fairly average New England village, but the splendor we see hour by hour puts
King Henry’s majesty to shame. His is a false majesty, made of fabrication and pretentiousness,
whereas the majesty of Mystic is made of legitimate miracles. Just now a slight
rain is falling with more real dignity than the king and his stooges could ever
summon up, and birds are floating around our feeders with the kind of authentic
magnificence that makes flashy courtly formalities seem frivolous and pointless.
Even this afternoon’s damp, gray sky has a brilliance that, for me, totally
trivializes the regal robes of Henry’s suave society. And just now a bird
somewhere out in the soggy weather sang a song that seemed way more majestic
than the pompous sentences I heard spoken on the episodes of “Wolf Hall”. I’ll
take a backyard in simple, stately Mystic over an ostentatious king and his
court any day.
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