Huw Richardson was born in Atlanta under a different name about 55 years ago. I never knew my father nor any of his kin.
I’ve lived all over: I was never in the same house for 3 Christmases until I was over 40. I’ve not yet made it to 4. Rootlessness seems to be a way of life and every time I think I’m about to root, it ends up not happening. Yet I’ve made some amazing friends online. I’ve met some awesome people all over the world. I’ve met religious leaders and heads of state and famous movie stars. I’ve also managed to be debt free.
I’ve stood on the Hill of Tara and touched the Lia Fail. It did not cry out. I’ve kissed the Blarney Stone as well, if you can’t guess. I have illicitly touched ancient, holy statues to see if anything would happen and I have never used flash photography when I should not have.
I’ve been a bookseller, a call center drone, a trainer, a convert, a preacher, a monk, a planter, a secretary, a writer, and an activist.
My patron is Blessed Stanley Rother. When I’m in trouble, he’s got my back. He prays for me, along with Saint Rose of Lima, St. Catherine of Siena, St John Henry Newman, Bl Fulton J Sheen, and Bl. William Richardson. I’m trying to be a Dominican Tertiary, and I’m also Grand Knight of the St Joseph the Workman Council of the Knights of Columbus in San Francisco. This is home and I’ve found my roots by using my wings.
What’s next? I don’t know. Part of me want’s to just pick out a camper and gig my way around the world. Part of me wants to own a pub in Ireland and feed my soul with good music from until forever. Part of me has always taught. Some part of me dances whenever the moon is full. Another part of me kneels in awe in the darkness as all the stars spin but the cross stands still.