Mystical Midget

Seasonal Disappointment Disorder

2012-02-02T13:44:00.002-05:00

I'm a victim of an affliction I like to call Seasonal Disappointment Disorder.

This is a fancy-sounding way of saying I don't like the weather. One simple question: where's winter?

People with Seasonal Disappointment Disorder, you see, like seasons, and, as creatures of habit, get all discombobulated when the seasons don't flow smoothly by. We like predictability. We like consistency.

We assume, if we buy a nice, red parka with fake fur around the neck and hood, we will actually be able to wear that garment during the winter -- even if we do look like Kenny from South Park when the hood is pulled up. OK, I'm exaggerating (but not about the resemblance to Kenny). I have actually worn the parka two or three times this winter. But, most days, my poor old green quilted jacket is getting a run for its money.

So, where's winter? Yesterday it was 61 degrees here in the Delaware valley. On our way to the commuter train, I and my fellow travelers shed layer after layer of winter clothing, like snakes shedding their skins. Good thing we didn't leave them behind on the ground, like so much litter.

Don't get me wrong -- I do like the teensy weeny heating bills this winter. But I also like enough snow and cold to remind me that winter has arrived, and to allow me to snuggle in front of the fire with my dogs, sipping a cup of tea. On my porch at home is a woodpile, which looks almost exactly the same as it did in October, when my son stacked the wood for me. I'm sorry -- I feel silly building a roaring fire and then opening several windows because of the heat.

I'm getting a little old to blame it on hot flashes.

Winter Feast for The Soul

2012-01-18T08:42:00.000-05:00

I'm definitely in a post-holiday slump. It's the season of blah: the time between New Year's and the beginning of Lent. I don't do winter sports, and even if I did, there's been no snow! Spring seems a long way off, even in the fairly mild weather. I understand that the bare trees have their own beauty as they send fingers into the gray sky, but many days I fail to see it. I look forward to Lent, but even that's way out on the horizon. I guess I have a touch of SAD, Seasonal Affective Disorder. My dad certainly had it, and my son does, as well.

One restorative measure I can take is a day-long retreat. In early February, I may plan one. Another thing I can do is the Winter Feast for the Soul, a forty-day celebration of kindness, connectedness, and gratitude, which began on 1/15 and finishes up at the beginning of Lent. The program includes online, guided meditations in several faith traditions, including a set of interfaith meditations. The website lists lots of resources for celebrating this time of year: 40 minutes per day for 40 days.I'm getting a late start on this, but actually it's never to late to do spiritual work, is it? Check it out with me!

Elderly animals video

2012-01-13T16:38:00.001-05:00

Just came across this on Facebook. It's about five minutes long, but well worth it if you're an animal-lover, especially if you've loved an older animal.

http://vimeo.com/29632448

Best dog in my world

2012-01-06T21:52:00.000-05:00

I'm relaxing tonight, dogs all around.

Max and Amber, the 5-year-old standard poodle littermates, are on the bed with me. For some reason, they feel that they must lie on their sides with their legs stretched straight out, so that they occupy most of the available space. Every now and then, when they are dreaming of prey (poodles were originally hunting dogs in Germany -- no pink bows or painted toenails there), their legs twitch as if they are running, and they give a sotto voce "yip" every now and then.

But the queen sits on the floor next to the bed. Shadow, my first standard poodle, is now fifteen and a half, and no longer gets up on the bed, mainly because she can't jump anymore, but also because she can't see where the bed ends and empty space begins. So she sits patiently on the floor.

I'm a great fan of older dogs -- I could see adopting a few more. There's a wisdom in older animals, human and canine, that gradually replaces the exuberance of youth. I know the end is coming but I treasure every minute. Dogs, especially large dogs, never lived this long when I was a kid; I know Shadow is on borrowed time. She can still climb the stairs fairly well, but she won't go downstairs unless I walk backwards in front of her, holding her collar. She lost bowel and bladder control a few months ago. I have become an avid fan of Swiffer products, and have cornered the market on air freshener.

Knowing when to let go is the tricky bit. I see no sign that Shadow's in any pain. She still eats heartily. She still snarls at her younger furry companions, just as she always has. She has borne the indignities of old age better than I probably will. So the time is not yet, but it's coming. This is the part I don't cope with very well.

We brought Shadow home in the summer of 1996, when our younger child started coming home from grade school alone -- she felt better coming home to a house with a nice big dog there. And so Shadow has helped me raise my kids. Since that younger child is now nearly done dental school, you can see how long Shadow has been part of our lives. That's a venerable contribution to any family's life.

So parting won't be easy, even though I trust we'll be together again on the Other Side. In the meantime, Shadow is my treasure. And I'll trust that, when the parting comes, I'll be able to stand it somehow.

Out of darkest December ...

2011-12-23T10:15:00.001-05:00

And, with the Winter Solstice, into the light.

Very gradually into the light. It will be weeks before I notice a slight lengthening of the daylight, and it will feel like a tease. Day will be longer, but the ground will still be frozen and, potentially, snow-covered.

There are homey comforts to be enjoyed in winter, of course: sitting with dogs by the fire, being snowed in on a workday, Christmas Eve in church, a hot mug of spicy herbal tea.

But December has sometimes been a hard month at my house. Sixteen years ago I said farewell to my mom, Ruth Ann, at her funeral on December 20th, as a snowstorm raged (now wasn't that fun!). And on the 19th of this December, we said goodbye to my mother-in-law, Grace. Fortunately this time, there was snow on the ground only, not piling up around us.

So I have reason to dislike December. Clearly, I have difficulty keeping in mind the message of Christmas: it's hard, but it will pass; the Lord is Emanuel; He is here. Fear not.

Fear not, said the angels.

OK, I'm trying.

A midget mea culpa

2011-12-06T12:11:00.000-05:00

It's my fault, as much as anyone's. What do I do now?

I paid bills last night -- 10 of them, including a couple of charitable contributions. This took me a whole twenty minutes on my computer, even stopping to let the dogs out and in again, and pausing to grab a can of Diet Coke.

Then I went downstairs and turned on the TV. And there it was, right on CNN -- the Post Office is in worse shape than ever. Half of the processing centers (including a BIG one near me) may have to close. People are going to lose jobs. This sucks. Merry Christmas, you're unemployed.

What now? Go back to writing and mailing checks? Send Christmas cards? (I had to give that up years ago; besides, we have a wonderful parish Christmas card now that we all contribute a message to, and it goes to everyone on the mailing list. Too tempting to refuse). I'm afraid I'm not a good enough person to take a step backwards from e-checks, e-cards, and e-mail.

Which makes me wonder ... what other kinds social problems am I helping to cause, without even meaning to?

Is this what's called "structural sin"? And what do we do about it?

Early Dark

2011-11-29T14:36:00.000-05:00

The early darkness of the coming winter usually doesn't bother me, but this year I feel differently, and it's bothered me since the time-change. I suppose J. and I are becoming more than normally aware of our own mortality, as his mom, the last of our parents, seems to have entered her final weeks. Our oldest dog, Shadow, seems to be entering her final stretch as well, though I have no reason to think she's in any pain. We're also watching a loved one cope with addictions, and anticipating a potential job loss next year. These are all difficult events. It's hard to see past them somehow.They loom large, and we find ourselves in their shadow.

Life in general is difficult for many people we know right now, as we wait for things to get better in so many ways. Waiting through sadness is harder than for future joy. Yet I guess Advent is all about waiting; in fact, it's about waiting through difficult times. Who had harder lives than people in sub-Roman Palestine? Certainly not me, though the temptation to whine is strong.

And so we wait, lighting the Advent candle every night, and trying to avoid the commercial monstrosity that Christmas has become now. "We wait in hope," as we sing in our Advent introit at Church.

Even so, come, Lord Jesus.

Making progress, one centipede at a time

2011-11-08T19:32:00.000-05:00

Anyone who knows me well is aware that I am absolutely phobic about spiders. Spiders, in fact, have no reason for existence in my personal universe. I don't give a damn what other bugs they eat, or whatever other good things they do for the ecosystem. Pffft! Spiders go with cans of Raid like mustard goes with hotdogs. A few years ago, however, after a guilty struggle, I did become able to tolerate a spider's presence on my porch -- providing it stayed at the uninhabited end of it, down by the wind chime, spinning its nasty webs down from the porch roof to the top of the woodpile, and with the assumption that the spider would conveniently freeze to death (or whatever happens to spiders in the fall) long before I would ever need the wood.

I guess you could say I kind of feel negative about insects in general.

Now, in my defense, I have to say that I am downright fond of certain creatures that don't make most peoples' top-ten list: snakes, rodents of all kinds, and lizards of any variety. In fact, I managed to heartily embarass my children at Parents' Night at camp, when I was the only mother (my daughter kept repeating) who wanted to hold the snake at the nature center (I can still see the looks of mortification on the kids' little faces).

Until recently, having read quite a few books on Buddhism, I thought I was really making significant progress with the interconnected-of-all-beings idea. In fact, I was sitting on my bed one night curled up with the three dogs, reading a new book by Thich Nhat Hanh, and thinking cozy thoughts about the welfare of all beings. Out of the corner of my eye, however, I detected a suspicious gliding motion.

It was a three-inch-long centipede on the ceiling. It stopped right above my innocent head.

I removed my innocent head from target range, and retreated to the end of the room. The dogs, unaware of my mortal danger, looked up in bewilderment.

Now I had a real problem. My husband was traveling -- normally I would I point out the insect visitor, and then retreat to a safe distance while he proceeded with the kleenex. My son was up in his room (with his girlfriend); no hope there. The dogs were oblivious. I was on my own.

I told myself stories about the centipede. It wouldn't drop down on a web. It was just as afraid of me as I was of it (even I don't believe this). I looked at the smiling picture of Thich Nhat Hanh on the bookcover. He would tell me the centipede was my brother. The centipede and I were one with all creation. All creation is good. Therefore ...

It started to move. It glided (eeewww!!!) across the ceiling towards the bathroom door. I waited, transfixed. It crawled onto the bathroom ceiling.

Boldly, I sprang forward and slammed the bathroom door with a mighty crash. Trapped! Certainly it would not come back. Right?

I used the other bathroom while my husband was away. The dogs slept with me. I managed not to kill my brother centipede. Moral progress is made like ths, in tiny steps, I think.

And on hundreds of little legs.

Eeeewwww!

When Halloween was in the dark ...

2011-10-31T12:44:00.000-04:00

When I was a kid, Halloween was my favorite holiday. Probably some children feel that way still. And there was a whole "Halloween season," which started right after school reopened in the fall. By the end of September, the classroom was decorated with pumpkin drawings and construction-paper cutouts of ghosts and witches (I don't remember cornstalks. I imagine they were not yet in vogue). But the best thing about Halloween, in the early 1960s, was the freedom of Halloween night.

Hard as it is to believe, Halloween trick-or-treating back in the day was done in the dark, absent hovering parents. Parents stayed at home and watched TV, after helping us children get into our costumes, handing us flashlights, and warning us appropriately about getting run over (this is the only warning I recall ever receiving). Costumes could be more-or-less the same for several years. "Blue fairy again?" Mom would inquire, and I consented to be the blue fairy until I outgrew the costume.

I always trick-or-treated with Cathy and Chuck, my sibling friends from around the block. We basically ran wild for two or three hours after dinner, through neighborhood after neighborhood, finding our way back home shortly before bedtime. No one kept track of us (there were -- gasp! -- no cell phones). Mom and Dad would look up when I arrived, admire the size of my candy-stuffed pillowcase, and advise me not to eat it all at once. No one checked for razorblades, poison, or any other items of ill-intent.

By the time I raised my own kids, trick-or-treating had migrated from the evening to the afternoon. My kids enjoyed it, but for me, it had lost a lot of its glamor. What's scary in the afternoon, in broad daylight? Not much. I took a half-day off so I could trail around behind my son and daughter, sometimes in the company of adult friends of mine. Trick-or-treating was now a group activity for parents, too. It was ... shall we say ... ho hum.

On Halloween night, by the time I get home from work, Halloween activities are long over. Everyone turns out their porch lights, to discourage teenagers who have ignored the curfew.

A Halloween curfew. I realize the point is the safety of kids, but my happy memories are at odds with this dangerous world.

Sign of the Times?

2011-10-27T09:59:00.000-04:00

Another chunk of my childhood seems about to drop off and float away on the river of time. I should be used to this by now, but it gets me every time!

The link above is for the church where I grew up, the Cathedral Church of Saint John, in Wilmington, Delaware. I learned recently that the Cathedral will be closing in July 2012, for lack of funds. I knew there were financial problems, but I had no idea it had come to this. I have never before heard of a diocese without a Cathedral, though perhaps I am naive to be so horrified by this thought.

Below is an excerpt from the History portion of the Cathedral's website:

The Cathedral Church of Saint John is the Cathedral for the Episcopal Diocese of Delaware and the seat of the Bishop of Delaware. June 13, 1857, the cornerstone was laid, and the church was consecrated on November 3, 1858. Alexis Irenee du Pont is credited with founding the church and donating the funds for its construction. John Notman of Philadelphia who designed the Athenaeum on Independence Square as well as Saint Mark’s Church in Philadelphia, designed the church.

Because of the use of pointed arches, the design is considered Gothic; however, it might be more accurately described as typical English Village Church style. The church is constructed of Brandywine granite about three feet thick. Mr. Notman adhered to the old custom of sitting the church to meet the North, South, East and West compass bearings. The church itself was 116 feet long with the altar at the East end, and the center aisle runs East and West. The open roof has all its massive oak rafters, purlines, jack and hammer beams open to view. The total cost of construction including the land was $26,173.49.

So the Bishop will have no seat, and I will have no chance to return, as I have occasionally, to the place where my parents were married, and from which they were buried, where I was baptized, confirmed, and married (both times!), and where my Dad was confirmed just four months before he died. The nave seemed endless to my child's eyes, and bears a striking resemblance to that of the church where I worship today. I also remember a quaint childrens' chapel up on the top floor, and a large wooden model of the Cathedral itself, with little doors that could be opened and shut. Like a church dollhouse!

If I come across additional pictures at home, I will post them. Meanwhile, I am trying to plan one more visit, before the Cathedral doors close forever.

It's wrong. It's just wrong!

Courage and Faith

2011-10-11T11:02:00.000-04:00

A Facebook friend of mine, Jeff, died recently. He was only 54, younger than I am, and had suffered from muscular dystrophy. Close to the end, he had only 10% of his lung function, and was on a ventilator.

I was saddened by his passing, but I'm amazed by his courage.

A week ago Saturday, Jeff had a party. Twenty or so of his closest friends were there, as were his parish priest, his two adult children, and his physician and hospice nurse. After feasting on his favorite foods, including large quantities of chocolate, Jeff gathered his friends together to watch as he received Last Rites.

At that point, the doctor administered to Jeff a dose of ativan, and, at Jeff's direction, removed his ventilator. With his children at his side and his friends offering comfort, Jeff died peacefully.

This is a beautiful story, and I know we would all like to die peacefully at home, with our families and friends at our side. The question is, would I have the courage to make the decision Jeff made? Would I step forward in faith, have the ventilator removed, and trust God to bring me home?

The very thought of this makes me hyperventilate. I'm really fond of breathing, to the point that I can't watch movies about deep-sea diving (I had to leave during The Abyss). I am, in fact, not a fan of pain, or even of discomfort. My idea of hardship makes me embarrassed, and would make you laugh.

Of course, not having been in Jeff's position, I can't begin to imagine what life must have been like on the ventilator. I have no doubt he made the right choice, and that he was welcomed into the open arms of God. I have no doubt that we are all welcomed into God's arms, no matter how fearful we have been of death. That's my trust and hope.

But that ol' yellow streak up my back is about a foot wide.

Rest in peace, dear Jeff, brother in Christ. And pray hard for faith and courage for the rest of us.

Cruel, cruel summer

2011-09-23T13:54:00.000-04:00

A hearty welcome to autumn!

I am generally glad to see summer end, because I don't like the heat -- even having lost quite a bit of weight over the last few years, I am still not comfortable in summer. And this summer has been like the "cruel, cruel summer" of the old Bananarama song: we had family drama, work drama, unrelenting heat, bad storms, trees down ...

Enough drama. It could always have been worse, but even so, I'm glad the season is over. In the middle of a violent rainstorm, as I was slogging along soaked to the knees, a fragment of Psalm 73 popped into my mind:

¹⁴ For all day long I have been plagued,
and am punished every morning.

So it's time to move to a new season. As an academic librarian, I have long been attuned to the beginning of the fall semester: it's a time of higher energy, more optimism, a new beginning. Let's move forward.

Walk across my swimming pool!

2011-09-21T15:25:00.000-04:00

I got home rather late last night, after a long, fruitful meeting with a directee, a meeting accompanied by some excellent General Tso's chicken (the Holy Spirit moves quite often, now as in the Gospels, through a shared meal; or it could be that I simply like to eat, especially Chinese food).

To my sheer delight, when I flipped through the channels, there was the 1973 film version of Jesus Christ Superstar, which most people reading this are too young to remember. This film, along with Godspell , actually helped to bring me back to church after a long absence. I was tired last night and wanted to sleep, but I had to stay up to hear "Herod's Song," featuring the wonderful Josh Mostel as Herod Antipas. Even in the negative context of the Gospel story, the song is very amusing, especially the immortal lines Herod directs at Jesus:

"Prove to me that you're no fool --
Walk across my swimming pool!"

a line I have been humming all day, to the mystification of my (younger) co-workers. Here's Josh Mostel on Youtube. I especially like the honky-tonk piano accompaniment.

For Sale

2011-09-17T20:31:00.000-04:00

My Family Home

I was in my hometown last Tuesday for a business meeting. And I couldn't help it -- I had to check up on my family's former home, the house where I grew up -- which had seemed abandoned the last time I saw it.

To my great relief, it's been cleaned up and is on the market! This is the photo from the MLS listing. The house sits in the shade of an enormous maple tree, almost the only large tree left on the property. When I was small, however, this scant quarter-acre was my Eden. Back in the day, when my grandparents lived with us, their green thumb and love for trees were in evidence. On the front lawn you'd have found, in addition to the maple, a blue spruce, a magnolia tree, azaleas, and boxwoods. In the back yard were a tall birch, a peachtree, a Japanese maple, lilac and hydrangea bushes, a vegetable garden, a rose bed, and yet another maple tree. There was also a slender mimosa tree, planted by my father on the day I was born. I can still feel the shade of those trees on my face, and recall the scent of the lilacs, which bloomed prolifically.

After my grandmother died, most of the trees and shrubs slowly died off, too. We always cut the lilacs to take to the cemetery, but they eventually faded away. The birch died of a blight; the roses died of neglect. My mother was not a gardener, nor was my dad, and they slowly had the ailing plantings removed. My dad claimed it was easier to cut the grass without having to cut around bushes and trees. But to me it seemed a comparative wasteland.

Never mind. Yet another family will now have the chance to make this little house their own. Time passes, and perhaps another little girl will grow up there.

The house is a steal at $199,000. But if you buy it, please plant some trees!

O Canada!

2011-09-16T08:22:00.001-04:00

I'd like to personally thank our friends north of the border for the beautiful cold front taking over our weather today. The air is crisp and clean, autumnal, the very first hint we have had of approaching fall. My window was open all night. What a blessing the turn of the year is -- the revolving of the seasons speaks directly to my spirit.

"This is the day the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it!"

The River of Time

2011-09-01T12:18:00.010-04:00

On a recent Saturday evening, about twilight, I was cleaning up in the kitchen and found myself staring out the kitchen window. The sky was overcast, and the rampant vegetation in the yard lent a peaceful, greenish cast to the light. Birds flocked to the newly-filled feeders. There were the pileated woodpecker, the catbird, the usual flock of sparrows (those good little laborers in the vineyard!), and the goldfinches that I have come to think of as "mine," since I finally figured out how to attract them.

Funny, isn't it, how we come to think of things as "ours." I recall my mother and grandmother, in the house where I grew up, standing in the kitchen, aprons on and sudsy water to their elbows, and looking out the kitchen window into the yard that was "theirs." It was a different scene, of course, in addition to being a different window: my grandmother was a great gardener, so in those days they looked out on hydrangea, lilacs, beds of roses, a vegetable garden, a peach tree. That backyard seemed like heaven to the little girl I was then. My own backyard, by contrast, is wild and weedy, and we refer to it kindly as the "woodland garden," as we watch it wildly growing out of control.

As the years passed, of course, the women looking out the kitchen window changed, grew older. Where my grandmother and mother had stood was, in time, just my mother. Now it's just me, looking out a different window onto a different scene. In a few years, my daughter, perhaps, will stand here looking out.

The river of time flows. One Sunday this summer, my husband and I went to a couple's twenty-fifth-anniversary renewal of their marriage vows. It was a touching service, a reminder of how some things grow in richness over time, are not defeated or diminished by it. The group in attendance was small, the mood buoyant. We wished the couple well for their second twenty-five years. At that point, they will be eighty and eighty-one.

On the way home, we did something I nearly always do when I have occasion to be in my hometown: I drive past "my house," that house where I grew up, where I lived till I was twenty. It was difficult to part with it, fourteen years ago. My parents had been the original owners. They had it built in 1949, and in great excitement my dad, who was a commercial photographer at that time, documented the construction in an album: every stage, from the removal of an enormous rock in the center of what would be the basement, to the pouring of the concrete walk. They loved their house; moving into a bigger one as their fortunes rose never seemed to occur to them.

The house has sold twice in the interval since dad died, and I had been generally pleased with the fate of "my house." The owners seemed to be taking good care of it. One of them pulled out the azalea bushes under the front windows, the pink ones I always thought of as clashing with the red brick. I cruised by, and approved. Later a security system sign went up out front, and a new coat of paint appeared on the front door. Again I cruised past, and approved.
After my friends' ceremony, however, instead of cruising past I stopped the car dead, and J. and I looked at "my house" with dismay. It looked abandoned. The windows stared blankly at us. A weed as tall as I am had sprung up in front of the windows, where the clashing azaleas had resided. The huge maple tree on the front lawn appeared to be dying, and the magnolia tree that had been my grandmother's joy had grown into a tangled, unpruned mess. The bushes at the end of the drive had nearly grown together in the middle. It was an appalling mess. It looked very sad. There was no "For Sale" sign.

That evening, I searched for a real estate listing, but found none. It wasn't for sale! It really was abandoned. This morning, it's all I can do not to pick up the phone and call a realtor back home and ask for information, if there is any.

But I guess it's better not to do that. Did I mention I sometimes have trouble letting go? What would I do with "my house" anyway, now that the folks I loved have gone, borne off down the river? It's just a house now, after all.

Besides, I can always cruise by in the fall and check on it.

Woman mistaken for hamburger ...

2011-05-28T19:40:00.003-04:00

Life can be so silly sometimes.

In my latest episode of silliness, I was quietly making hamburger patties in my kitchen, accompanied by my oldest dog, Shadow, who is nearly blind and almost completely deaf. When the burgers were finished, I stowed them in the freezer, picked up the container of bread crumbs, and reached down to stroke my faithful, furry friend, prior to washing up.

She can still smell just fine, it seems.

Smelling meat, she clamped down on my fingers good and hard. This is a girl who loves her food. She wasn't missing out on this!

I yelled in pain. Shadow jumped, knocking the bread crumbs out of my other hand. We had an eruption of bread crumbs several feet into the air. I said a few things that would, as Anne Lamott puts it, "make Jesus want to drink gin from the cat dish."

Fortunately, the skin was not broken. But I wondered if the last joint in my finger might be broken, when it swelled up and got very red. What do you do for that? Go to the ER? I could just hear the conversation:

Me: Hi, my dog bit me. She might have broken my finger.
ER doc: What type of dog was that?
Me: A poodle. A big poodle.
ER doc (thinking, What did you do to piss her off? Call her Fifi?): Your poodle bit you?
Me: Thought I was a hamburger.
ER doc: You thought you were a hamburger?
Me: The dog thought I was a hamburger.
ER doc: Ma'am, do you have any medications you take regularly? ...

You see the problem. Who's on first? This finger is just going to have to heal without medical intervention. What kind of person has a finger broken by a poodle?

I'm not going there.

Greetings from the blogging deadbeat!

2011-02-04T09:41:00.017-05:00

Oh, OK, you're right ... It's been awhile.

I, like many people, got through Christmas and collapsed. Why do I do this to myself every year? I don't even have little kids to use as an excuse. Next year, all I want is a candle in the window and a wreath on the door. Hear that, J.? Adjust!

On the other hand, I wouldn't mind having an itty bitty tree (say three feet tall), with all my glass ornaments (icicles, raindrops, snowflakes, etc. on it). And white lights, of course. See, I'm already caving in!

At the moment, however, I am stewing over the fireplace. There was an article in our newspaper recently about how terribly polluting wood-smoke is, so I have been feeling guilty every time I light a fire. Particulates! Yuck. So I have a decision to make, now that the firewood is nearly gone and spring will be here soon (I hope). Do I purchase a cleaner-burning fireplace insert that still burns wood? A pellet stove? (somehow that makes me sound like a guinea pig) Or some other contraption? I could use some advice on this.

Or ... do I give up my fireplace entirely? Surely not!

A Turnstile Encounter

2010-12-10T11:52:00.002-05:00

It's cold here, so I was wrapped up this morning, and had my chin down, tucked under my scarf. My hat was pulled down over my forehead. With my full work backpack, I must have resembled a slowly-moving rummage sale -- a pile of clothing on legs!

As I approached the turnstile where I exit the commuter train and head for the subway, I found my path blocked by a figure. Pushing up my hat so I could see, I regarded an earnest-looking young man about my son's age. Dark curly hair, navy peacoat, multicolored scarf. I started to weave around him, which is my standard operating procedure in public places.

Then he spoke. "Jesus loves you!" he said.

I stopped weaving and looked at him. "Thanks. He loves you, too!" I answered.

He smiled. "I know. Jesus loves you!" he exclaimed to the next couple, right behind me, and I continued on my way.

But now I was smiling instead of cringing from the cold. What would the world be like if we all knew God's love, all the time?

The Villa d'Este, or, a tonic for broken-hearted liberals

2010-11-05T10:50:00.021-04:00

OK. We voted. And the Republicans pretty much cleaned our clock. However, Rob Andrews (D.) won again in NJ's 1st Congressional District (yay, Rob!), and Christine O'Donnell was defeated in her Senate race in Delaware. So ... not a total loss. I am not throwing myself under the bus. Not until 2012, at least!

But, enough whining.

J. and I went to Italy in October, to celebrate our 30th anniversary (actually, our anniversary was in May, but we were too busy to go then -- a sad comment on American life). One of the many places we went was the Villa d'Este, located in Tivoli, about 15 miles outside of Rome. I had been here once before, and it is one of my favorite places on the planet.

The Renaissance villa was built in the middle of the 16th century, and is impressive on its own. The Italian gardens, however, are stunning, situated on a terraced hillside. There are nearly 500 fountains, and all -- all -- are run by the water pressure of a partially-diverted river. No machinery at all!

In some ways, this visit was bittersweet. I first saw the Villa in 1969, with my parents, as I was on the verge of turning 16. That visit took place after dinner, as night was falling. I recall standing on one of the higher terraces, as the soft lights came on throughout the garden. I could see Mom and Dad below me, by a fountain.

They're gone now -- they've been dead a good many years -- but I thought they might be glad I was seeing this place again.

You! And you! Go vote tomorrow!

2010-11-01T12:24:00.001-04:00

VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE!!!!!

Did I mention that you should vote?

Bad dream

2010-10-28T11:19:00.007-04:00

I dreamed last night that I was being pursued by a dancing teapot, like the one in Beauty and the Beast. Surreal! And the worst part -- the teapot had Christine O'Donnell's face and brown hair. No, I will not attempt a sketch! It was too scary! The teapot chased me down the street and nearly caught me -- but I was able to duck into a small enclosure that might have been a voting booth.

For those of you who are mercifully insulated from the coming midterm elections, Christine O'Donnell is running for the U.S. Senate in my old home state of Delaware. She is the very lightweight Tea Party-sponsored Republican candidate. She describes herself as "a conservative Christian woman," and has been heard to say that God has called her to win, and that prayer affects her poll numbers. She also admitted that she "dabbled in witchcraft" as a teenager.

Now, I personally don't care about her teen history. What makes my skin crawl is the Tea Party, that misguided bastion of 1950s conservatism with its religious-right platform. Those folks creep me out. We have to seal their political fate on November 2.

I hope Christine is right about prayer affecting her poll numbers! You know what this liberal Christian woman will be praying for, don't you?

Remember: VOTE BLUE on Nov. 2!
Or don't complain to me when your civil rights go away.

On Death Row, or, I WON!

2010-10-10T17:26:00.006-04:00

My two faithful readers (or was it three?) will rejoice to know that I finally won the battle with my borough. Now I hardly rejoice to announce that any tree has died, but I grew weary of worrying that this particular decaying specimen would fall on my house, car, dogs, or husband (not in that order,necessarily ...).

Several weeks ago we had a windstorm of mighty proportions, and our street required a lot of municipal overtime cleaning up fallen branches. Imagine my delight when, returning home the next day, I spied the red X on my tree -- the sign of imminent removal. Someone noticed its obvious deadness!

If I had been brave enough to paint the red X myself, this might have been over long ago! Farewell, dear Hazard!

SHE'S BAAAAAAACK!

2010-10-01T09:51:00.003-04:00

Ok, it's been a long time. I was recently scolded by my friend Leslie because I had not blogged in so long. Mea maxima culpa est. I guess I was just taking a little vacation from having an opinion on everything.

Imagine that.

Well, no more Mrs. Nice. Stay tuned.

The post-Easter slummmmmmpppppp ....

2010-04-05T12:54:00.004-04:00

It's hard to believe that Lent is over, and Easter Sunday has come and gone. Of course, I realize the Easter season lasts for fifty days, but I guess I'm in a slump after all the activity of Holy week -- a very emotionally exhausting five services in five days, plus cooking, food shopping, and all the other usual tasks that can't be set aside. I want to sit in the sun now and snooze, like those critters to the left, who are resting from their Easter-Day labors.

That sounds like a very good idea, in fact: sitting in the sun. I may never come back in!

Is it spring yet?

2010-02-09T15:04:00.008-05:00

OK, I've had it. I do love winter, but ...

Lots of snow on December 19th. A ton of snow last weekend.

And tonight? More snow. Snow continuing tomorrow. High winds. The fun just keeps coming.

Meetings are cancelled. Doctor's appointments are cancelled. My street looks like the frozen tundra.

I got these tulips last Sunday, after the plows had passed and I could finally get out to buy food. They're all that's keeping me hanging on.

That, and the thought that work might be closed tomorrow .....

Our tax dollars at work!

2009-12-24T10:28:00.002-05:00

Now here's a government program I don't mind supporting with my hard-earned taxes: NORAD's Santa Tracker.

As I write, Santa is all the way over on the far side of the International Date Line, making good progress in Southeast Asia.

It's certainly great to be using these sophisticated (and expensive) defense systems for something other than defense.

Merry Christmas, NORAD folks!

A Bedtime Story for Christmas Eve

2009-12-23T09:34:00.017-05:00

My mother died of lung cancer fourteen years ago this past December 15th. It's amazing to me how long she has been gone! She was diagnosed only in the autumn of that year, passed away quietly at home on a Friday evening, and was buried in the middle of a wild, early snowstorm on December 20th. I was grateful that she had been spared most of the physical suffering that usually accompanies this type of cancer, and had resigned myself to letting her depart in peace.

My Dad, however, was inconsolable. Since retiring, he had built his whole life around Mom. She was the sun around which his little planet revolved. He had planned to die first, and could not believe that she had somehow predeceased him. He had no hobbies. He had no faith to sustain him. He insisted that no one had ever felt this way before; no one could help him with his grief. He would not come home with me for Christmas. He wanted to be alone.

In the late afternoon of Christmas Eve, Dad went to the cemetery, as he had done every day since Mom's funeral. It was twilight, and the gate attendant warned Dad that he didn't have much time to visit. The snow was fairly deep; Dad parked as close as he could, then struggled along the path he had already created to Mom's grave. Overcome with despair, he knelt down in the snow to say a prayer -- an unusual activity for him. As he finished his prayer and tried to rise, a deep weariness seized him. It penetrated every bone. All he wanted to do was to lie down next to Mom; he realized that, in that cold, he would not be getting up again. He looked around, and not a soul was near. The sun had nearly set, leaving only a streak of pink on the horizon.

Suddenly, as he told me later that night, two people seemed to be at his side. One was a man in his fifties, the other a young woman of about twenty-five. Both were dressed in warm winter clothing, complete with hats and scarves. Each gently took hold of one of his elbows, and assisted him to his feet. The man said nothing, but the young woman smiled at him and said quietly, "Your wife is fine."

Dad was, naturally, startled and bewildered. He thanked them for their concern, and managed to walk quickly to his car, which was only twenty feet away. Turning to thank them again, he drew in his breath in surprise.

They were gone, of course.

In great confusion, Dad dropped his keys, retrieved them, got into the car and wept. He was not sure what had happened. He drove home and told no one but me, his only child, of his strange experience. He refused to believe he had seen angels. He had been an internal auditor for a bank, a "bean-counter." Bean-counters didn't see angels, he claimed.

But I knew. Our cemetery is a vast, open space in the flat expanse of the Atlantic coastal plain. Erect headstones are not permitted; all markers must be flat, bronze plaques. Trees are few and far between, and none are in the vicinity of Mom's grave. There is nothing which could have prevented Dad from seeing his visitors. I struggled to convince him how blessed he had been.

I initially thought I had struggled in vain. But in January of the following year, my Dad was the oldest of the new confirmands at the Cathedral Church of St. John, in Wilmington, as I stood gratefully with my hand on his shoulder. Unfortunately, he contracted a stubborn form of pneumonia later that winter, and passed away in the early spring, just three months after joining the Episcopal Church.

I don't visit the cemetery often, because in my heart I know they are not there. I last visited Mom and Dad in the high summer a few years back, at noon on a blazingly hot day in July. I sat cross-legged on the grass for my silent visit. I suppose I am always really hoping the angels will return, to assure me that my parents are fine.

Bugs buzzed around my head, the recently-cut grass prickled against my bare legs, and the air was filled with the whine of the eighteen-wheelers out on Route 13. No angels appeared, however. I imagine they only come when someone is in extremis, as my Dad was that night.

But every Christmas Eve, I remember: this is the night my Dad saw angels! Thanks be to God!

And Merry Christmas!

A snowy Advent 4!

2009-12-22T15:21:00.013-05:00

As you'll see from the photo of our front porch, our region got an unexpected snowstorm last weekend, and it turned out to be the second-deepest snowfall for us since records have been kept: a whopping 23.2 inches. We don't usually get this kind of snow in December, so we were taken by surprise! I took the photo towards the beginning of the day, so it doesn't do justice to the magnificent drifts which replaced these later.

While many of our neighbors were able to sit inside by the fire, J. revved up the snowblower, as our son had to go to work -- the Post Office never closes, apparently. On Sunday morning, since the car was cleaned off, I thought I might as well go to church.

It was a lovely service! Those present were the priest, the organist, two choir members, and a chalice bearer -- no one else. But how many do you need, anyway? Our rector removed her snow boots, revealing Christmas socks with Santa Clauses and snowflakes, hung a stole round her neck (on top of the Christmas sweater), and said mass in her socks. The organist played as usual, and we 2 choir members belted out the hymns. We had a full sermon and the Eucharist, followed by coffee and cookies. It was a perfect Advent 4! I'm so happy I didn't stay in bed.

November harvest

2009-11-06T12:25:00.016-05:00

I took a day off recently, and sought the quiet and comfort of my favorite retreat house, Francis House of Prayer. This is a sprawling farmhouse in the midst of 72 acres, most planted with soybeans. The view to the left is from the back of the house, and you can plainly see there is a labyrinth cut into the lawn!

There, under the watchful eye of Sr. Marcy, I gathered with 10 other people to enjoy a day with God. It's so quiet there in the fields! It was a lovely fall day: chilly, with clouds and patches of blue sky, and a light wind. This is my favorite time of year, as the old year draws to its close, the days grow short, and I look forward to nights by the fire. I wandered outside after doing some lectio and still-prayer, to enjoy the glorious view. The leaves were sadly past their peak, but the open sweep of farmland seems like heaven to this suburbanite.

The picture to the left is not very good (the light was fading), but you can see my favorite bench, with fields of soybeans beyond. Now, I come from a long line of farmfolk on one side, but my own farming knowledge is limited to the occasional tomato plant or small pot of herbs, or to flowering plants I keep on my porch in the summer. So when Sr. Marcy mentioned to the retreatants that the soybeans would be ready for harvest in about two weeks, I was surprised.

It seems late for harvesting anything, at least to me, but what do I know? Just as the rest of us are battening down for winter, the humble soybean, apparently, is coming into its prime. The plants don't look like much, as you can see: in fact, they look rather dead, as if they had already been harvested! The soybeans themselves are about the size of peanuts. and hang from slender stalks.

So I sat on my bench and thought about soybeans ripening in the cool autumn days and chill autumn nights, and about God's harvest surprise. As in the natural world, so in the human world. How many wise older people do you know, folks who have come into their own after the job was done and the kids were raised, and started new careers, businesses, hobbies just as their families were about to consign them to the rocking-chair? I know many myself. I would like to be one of them.

Late bloomers, those soybeans -- kind of like me.

Why I did it ...

2009-10-22T11:11:00.002-04:00

My two or three faithful readers will have noted that I took down the last three flames I had posted about the troubles at my former parish.

This was not done to minimize those troubles, or the exquisite pain they have caused to all my friends who, along with myself, became unwelcome in the place where they had worshiped, in most cases, for decades.

Nor was this done because I lost my nerve. I haven't. I tried to speak up to the Rector when I saw things going terribly wrong at the Church on the Pike, and I tried to maintain that commentary on this blog as the situation evolved (or devolved, depending on your point of view). Now, every time I drive by the church, I expect to see a FOR SALE sign out front.

The situation has become so grave that it is now in the capable and godly hands of our Bishop. I have said what I thought needed saying. Now, the Holy Spirit and the Bishop must do the sorting-out, and those of us who still care about the Church on the Pike must continue to support and love those who remained there till the end.

She's baaaaaaaack!

2009-09-13T20:18:00.022-04:00

It's September already? Where did the summer go? Not that we had much of a summer until the middle of August. But who's complaining?

Well, I suppose it's time I account for myself. I was busy this summer, though not, obviously, busy with blogging. A short summary of the season (with some pictures) is now in order.

At the end of July, I attended a convention in Washington, DC. I went a day ahead of time, and spent the day at one of my favorite places in the universe, the National Cathedral. I did the tour and attended the noon Eucharist. And I shopped ... and shopped ...

We sent the Little Princess off to dental school!

I had some unexpected gardening success: my hibiscus, now in its third summer, bloomed gloriously; and the clematis I had given up on did the same.

I completed two blankets, in similar granny-square patterns, for the Linus Project, which gives blankets to children with cancer.

And I have lost 35 pounds, and I'm only 5 pounds from the goal!! Stay tuned.

It was 40 years ago today

2009-07-09T19:32:00.016-04:00

Do you remember what you were doing in July of 1969?

Quite a lot happened that month. In Britain, Charles became Prince of Wales; I recall watching the ceremony on (black-and-white) TV, and wishing I could meet him. Probably just as well I didn't in the event.

The United States put a man on the moon. I watched those grainy images as well.

I was fifteen, about to turn sixteen, and I had my first boyfriend, a guy named Bob. He later became a doctor, and turned out to be a wife-abuser or something equally nasty. Bob, if you ever read this, thanks for dumping me! I survived the heartbreak somehow!

July of 1969 was also the month I went to Europe with my parents -- a whirlwind, two-week jaunt to London, Paris, and Rome.

None of us had ever been on an airplane before. Mom made us all dress up -- it seemed like quite an event. Nowadays I fly in jeans and a tee-shirt (this happens to be what I live in, anyway ...), but I remember I had a two-piece outfit, a flowered skirt and matching vest, with a white shirt underneath. And new sandals. I was absurdly overdressed for a long night flight into Heathrow.

In London, it rained (what a surprise!). During a shopping trip, my parents bought a mantel clock in Girard Street, and had it shipped back home. How eagerly we waited for our "English clock" to arrive! It's one of the things I treasure most, and it's ticking away downstairs on my own mantel as I write. We saw Piccadilly Circus, and (of course, it was the 1960s) Carnaby Street. I ate a lot of pizza -- there didn't seem to be much else I liked.

In Paris, the weather was better. We stayed in an upscale hotel where the waiters placed your napkin on your lap and peeled the orange for you. This creeped me out at the time, and probably still would. I practiced my French incessantly, for better or worse, and we walked on the Champs Elysees, where my mother bought a green-and-white dress in a little boutique.

Rome was my favorite! The taxi drivers cheated us, but they were so charming you didn't mind. The catacombs were musty, dark, and awesome; we spent most of a day there. We saw umpteen churches -- Santa Maria Maggiore stands out in my memory, as does St. Peter's, of course. But my favorite excursion was to the Villa d'Este, which had Renaissance gardens, grottoes, fountains, and was gorgeous and wild in the evening as the sun set.

It was the trip of a lifetime, Mom kept saying. She had never been to Europe before; Dad had not been back since the war. They always intended to go back yet again, but life got in the way, I guess. In the end, death got in the way, and they never went back. I have all the pictures I took with my little Sears camera, but I can't seem to locate them.

After Mom died, I was cleaning out her clothes closet, and there was the Parisian dress. It's funny what outlasts us: a few pieces of green cloth, a clock, some misplaced pictures.

And a lot of good memories.

A Blessed Time-Out

2009-06-26T10:37:00.021-04:00

I'm home and blogging again, after a wonderful journey.

From June 9-14, I was on retreat in Wisconsin with other affiliates of the Order of Julian of Norwich, and then attended our annual JulianFest at the same location. What a heavenly interlude! I would like to be able to do this more often!

This was my very first experience of a silent retreat lasting longer than a day. The facility we used this year is the Redemptorist Retreat Center, located on Crooked Lake in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin. It's a fabulous place, as you'll see if you hit the link. I had my own room with a private bathroom instead of a shared one, and more private time than I had believed possible in my busy life.

In fact, after a day fraught with travel delays due to thunderstorms, I had trouble settling down to silence. Out for an early-morning walk the next morning, I noticed that the house of the resident monks was outfitted with a most impressive satellite dish, and found myself pining for CNN.

Fortunately, this longing passed when I discovered the labyrinth. It is large but of simple construction: a fine gravel base on which the paths are demarcated by larger rocks, most about the size of a fist. I walked the labyrinth several times while I was there, and took pictures to bring home. At the Church on the Hill, we have been sighing about not having a labyrinth (we have the space, but we haven't felt that we have the know-how). But this design is one that I feel we might be able to execute ourselves! What a nice feature it would be for the community, since we are located at the intersection of busy county roads.

Our lakeside location was another source of great peace. Crooked Lake is beautiful! To the right is pictured one of my favorite benches. The weather was cool and sunny, the water inviting, but unfortunately the canoe was off-limits to us retreatants. But there was a dock upon which we could walk, with another bench at the end of it.

The retreat center also has an excellent library, where I curled up in a chair during our two silent evenings and digested an entire biography of one of my favorite saints, Edith Stein. I also found many books on the ministry of spiritual direction, in which I am very interested.

I am ready to go back here, anytime!

Abba Arsenius and Me

2009-05-26T19:02:00.009-04:00

OK, you already know I'm different ...

I was one of those odd teenagers who love to stay in their room and read. Of course, I had friends, and I saw a lot of them; but if no one was around, no problem! I loved solitude. I stayed happily alone and read, or wrote stories.

My mother actually locked me outside in the summer! Fearing this, I often concealed a book in a plastic bag underneath the hydrangea bushes. I am fond of hydrangeas to this day.

As an adult, I still love solitude, especially when I get to share it with dogs. I spend my lunch hours reading, either in a remote corner of the courtyard, or in a cozy place I have discovered up in the stacks, by a sunny window. I love the anonymity of the subway, and dread to meet someone I know on the platform, since I'm not good at small talk. I have been known to scurry to the other end of the train if I see a familiar face (and am not seen first).

So I wasn't much surprised when, having recently picked up a copy of The Sayings of the Desert Fathers, I discovered in it others who found solitude agreeable to their nature and profitable to their souls. Of course, the solitude of the desert was rigorous: the abbas often did manual labor to support themselves, survived on a very simple diet, and were plagued by all sorts of temptations that arise in solitude. And yet ... I see myself, there in the desert.

Take Arsenius, for example. His sayings were among the first in the book, as it is arranged alphabetically.

Born in Rome about 360, he was well-educated and well-born, and served as tutor to two Roman princes. In 394, however, he left his well-appointed life, sneaked off into the desert and became an anchorite. He was well-known for his asceticism and habit of silence, and apparently other anchorites found him somewhat forbidding. In fact, his behavior sometimes approached the curmudgeonly:

Blessed Archbishop Theophilus, accompanied by a magistrate, came one day to find Abba Arsenius. He questioned the old man, to hear a word from him. After a short silence the old man answered him, "Will you put into practice what I say to you?" They promised him this. "If you hear Arsenius is anywhere, do not go there." (p. 10)

Obviously, he was a little extreme in his love of solitude (and his lack of manners!). But I do see his point. He probably would have liked to have as his epitaph my personal favorite:

IF YOU CAN READ THIS,
YOU ARE TOO CLOSE.

Just what I needed

2009-05-10T19:57:00.006-04:00

I've been doing some interesting reading since I last posted. Did you ever come across a book which was exactly what you needed, just as you needed it? That's what this one was like for me. I may send a copy to my former Rector.

The book is Holy Adventure, by Bruce G. Epperly, a pastor and seminary professor in Lancaster, PA, and was written, in part, as an answer to the theological viewpoint expressed in The Purpose-Driven Life. This fact alone would be enough to make me giddy with glee, but in fact it's a really good read!

In contrast to the God of Rick Warren, a God who has planned out our entire lives prior to our birth, and who knows exactly what he expects from us, Epperly posits a God whose creation is not yet finished, who expects us to be companions and co-creators with him, and who is eager to see the results. This process-theological approach is about as far as you can get from the fundamentalist, reductive view of God as the omniscient creator who has everything figured out in advance (how boring!). The God of Holy Adventure gave us free will so we could choose among possible futures, for ourselves as well as for creation.

What comes through most strongly in this book is the sense of mystery and excitement -- two things I find completely missing in Warren's ho-hum, "it's-all-in-the-Bible-just-go-read-it" approach. Without a sense of mystery, basking in the certainty that we know all the answers, we would risk doing great harm:

A sense of God's deep mystery provides the antidote for too much certainty about subjects such as the afterlife. Too much certainty perpetrates violence upon persons and belief systems alike. It can lead to exclusion, objectification, and spiritual abuse in faith communities; intellectual abuse in academics; and emotional abuse in relationships. When we think we have all truth, we create artificial boundaries between companions and outsiders, saved and unsaved, orthodoxy and heresy. Those outside our religious camp can become the objects of spiritual warfare and violence when we assert that to become one of "us," others must forsake their deepest insights and understandings of the holy and unconditionally accept ours. We may even threaten anyone who does not hold our views with the ultimate act of spiritual and ideological violence: eternal damnation and alienation from God. (p. 193)

This book was a breath of fresh air for me, and left me uplifted and hopeful. I may be giving copies of this for Christmas!

Tropical Easter eggs

2009-04-10T11:16:00.008-04:00

It amuses my kids that I still love to dye Easter eggs -- not for them, but for myself! It's just not Easter for me if I don't have eggs. I put into them all the love and care that I can't seem to summon for the Christmas tree.

Every year, however,my Easter eggs come out pale pastel, sort of wan-looking if I'm honest. This year, I decided I wanted bolder, more "in-your-face" colors. So I experimented with the "recipe."

I bought two packages of the PAAS Easter egg dye (instead of just one), and when I mixed the colors I used two tablets of each color plus 4 1/2 tablespoons of white vinegar. After the tablets dissolved, I put in the recommended amount of water (1/2 cup). And voila! Brighter eggs! Tropical eggs, perhaps?

Which reminds me that I could make pineapple casserole to go with the ham ...

Almost-Palm-Sunday update

2009-04-01T12:56:00.008-04:00

I know, I've been a little bit of a slacker lately. But here's what I've been up to.

Passed the 30-pound mark on the diet. 10 more to go, and then I'm stopping at a good, healthy weight. No, I will not be as thin as I was when I got married. Suck it up, J.!!

Bought pansies in flats and hanging baskets just about the day they appeared at the garden shop. I'm already pining for my porch, but it's been a little too cold to sit outside. April will be better!

I've been missing my neighbors (I have great neighbors!). We tend to get isolated in the winter. It's pathetic to have to say hi to your next-door neighbor on email. I will make more of an effort when we're all outside pulling weeds. Or not pulling them, in my case. Weeds are green, after all. I just leave them alone.

Got invited to be a presenter at an ordination!!!! I'm over the moon about this. I even bought a lovely dress with a bright red jacket --red being the appropriate liturgical color --for the occasion (may I recommend J.C. Penney? -- they are practically giving clothes away. Given how often I have an occasion to wear a dress, who wants to spend buckets of money on them?).

Stopped drinking and joined AA. It was time, ladies and gentlemen. Maybe past time. Maybe far past time.

The Little Princess got into dental school (!!!!!!), so we've been doing the inevitable financial aid forms (the Parental Bank is closed for grad school).

We just started a Julian Gathering at church, so I've been helping with that. It's a great group, and we're growing every month! We have still-prayer for 20 minutes, then healthy snacks, then we read and discuss sections from Mother Julian's writings.

Signed up for JulianFest in June, and for the 3-day silent retreat preceding it. This is new ground for me. I've been to silent retreats, but 3 days sounds kind of looooong.

A bunch of us from church are going into Philly for a Tenebrae service on the Wednesday before Easter. I've never seen this service, but I'm told it's moving and dramatic.

I get to be Jesus in the Palm Sunday Passion reading! I have always wanted to be Jesus! In my former church, I remember only male Jesuses. I guess I will read in my alto register. LOL!

I'm singing Faure's Requiem with a large choir on Palm Sunday afternoon. So now I have it blasting in my car wherever I go, trying to remind myself what it sounds like.

Well, Holy Week looms before us. It's my favorite week of the year. I hope yours is good!

Flower Show Pics

2009-03-13T19:11:00.017-04:00

As promised, here are a few pictures I took at the Philadelphia Flower Show last week. This year's theme was "Bella Italia," and I thought the show was even better than usual. My friend and I wandered through the displays for nearly two hours, before we ever made it to the vendors!

If there were ever a welcome tonic to a long, cold winter, it's the sight of thousands of spring bulbs all in bloom at once, in great profusion.

I don't know how the little Celtic cottage made it into a show on Italy, but I'm very glad it did.

I'm already looking forward to next year!

Flower Show Eve, or Is it spring yet?

2009-03-05T11:45:00.011-05:00

At long last, it is Flower Show Eve.

Never heard of it? I celebrate it the day before my friend Jess and I take the afternoon off to go to the Philadelphia Flower Show. This year's theme is Italy.
Here in the Northeast it has been brutally cold (for us), with highs in the 20s and single-digit lows. This has been the coldest, windiest winter I recall in my not-so-short life. Last weekend, the first weekend of March, to add insult to injury, we had snow. I love snow -- in January and February. In March? Not so much. Winter gets old by March. I can hear you New-Englanders snickering at me as I write this ...

The Flower Show is perfectly timed to arrive just as the spirit is pining for a tender bud or two. My friend and I will probably start off with a festive lunch in Chinatown before hitting the show. Then we'll spend the afternoon taking in the colorful sights and sweet fragrances, and try to restrain ourselves at the vendors' displays -- always a fruitless endeavor.

Next week: pictures, right here. I promise!

A somewhat-diminished Midget

2009-02-18T10:26:00.003-05:00

So, in 12 full months of dieting, I've lost 25 pounds.

I'm grateful, even thought it seems like it should be more. My husband lost 100 pounds in seven months! But then, he was perfectly single-minded about it. I am rather hit-or-miss about dieting, as about much of the rest of my life.

It's nice to feel better on the subway steps. Walking is also a lot easier. But there has been one unintended consequence:

I'm cold all the time!

It used to be that I would be the one the neighbors saw, in the throes of a hot flash, sitting out on the porch in a tee-shirt when the temperature was 9 degrees! Now I am huddled under an afghan, with a large dog cuddled on each side and one on my lap. Isn't it spring yet?

Anyway, just 15 pounds to go. I hope this doesn't take me another year!

Double-Digit February!

2009-02-11T11:17:00.003-05:00

Happy Double-Digit February, everyone!

I am always a bit happier when the tenth of February arrives. Most years, the weather has begun to moderate somewhat; we have often had our last snow; and if you look closely (very closely, with a lot of hope!), you can see the very tips of crocuses peeking from the earth.

This morning, the birds were having a convention in my yard -- at first light, when they woke me up! Thanks, birdies (grumble, grumble).

At the Church on the Hill, we are beginning to gear up for Lent. The Julian Gathering's first official meeting will be on the 19th of this month, and the chapel we are constructing from an old Sunday School room now has a new rug (rolled up and waiting for paint to be selected).

At home, our sometimes-wayward son is back in college and doing well (at least, today!). Our daughter has had several dental-school interviews, and is hoping for a few more. It seems like it will be an exciting spring, once it arrives.

How about you? What are you planning for spring?

The tree with the lights in it

2009-01-19T18:46:00.004-05:00

I'm just your basic wannabe mystic, I'll admit. But I've slowly been reading my way back though the works of Annie Dillard, whose writing I first encountered while teaching Freshman English. Now, Annie seems like a true mystic to me, and I never get tired of her muscular prose and her visionary approach to the world. My favorite of her books, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, has a fascinating chapter entitled, "Seeing." At the end of this chapter she describes an experience of seeing the "tree with the lights in it":

I saw the backyard cedar where the mourning doves roost charged and transfigured, each cell buzzing with flame. I stood on the grass with the lights in it, grass that was wholly fire, utterly focused and utterly dreamed. It was less like seeing than like being for the first time seen, knocked breathless by a powerful glance. The flood of fire abated, but I'm still spending the power. Gradually the lights went out in the cedar, the colors died, the cells unflamed and disappeared. I was still ringing. I had been my whole life a bell, and never knew it until at that moment I was lifted and struck. I have since only very rarely seen the tree with the lights in it. The vision comes and goes, mostly goes, but I live for it, for the moment when the mountains open and a new light roars in spate through the crack, and the mountains slam.

Winter is finally here ...

2009-01-15T11:48:00.002-05:00

Winter has settled in here in the mid-Atlantic -- with a cold thump.

I just learned that the low in North Dakota was -44 degrees this morning! So I guess we can't complain about our projected low of +9 tomorrow morning.

The dogs don't care much for the cold, however. When I put them out in the yard, they stand and look at each other, as if puzzled. What is she thinking, putting us out in weather like this? She wants us to do what?

Now if we could just get some snow. About two feet would be fine -- enough to shut down my place of employment for a day or two. I love being snowed in!

Snow, please!

A New Year, a clean slate ...

2009-01-02T16:38:00.002-05:00

Notice that I'm not using the word resolutions ... this is more like a plan. Plans suggest flexibility, fluidity, adjustment. Resolutions suggest, well ... resoluteness. None of that here! But I am hopeful, even if not resolute! So here we go!

Listen more; talk less. Pray more; talk less. Stop whining when you do talk.
Lose the remaining weight. 23 pounds is good, but it's not enough to be healthy. So keep dieting. Stop at 115. Then have a hoagie.
When you get to 115, go on a cruise with J.
Don't worry that there is no money for a cruise (or for anything else).
Save the chardonnay for Friday and Saturday. Your waistline will thank you. Your liver will be ecstatic.
Do NOT check on your 403b(7) retirement account several times a day. Check it only on Friday night. Wash down with abovementioned wine if needed.
Spend more time with friends. What're you saving vacation days for? You have no money to travel with!
Carry a dollar in your jeans pocket when you go to work. Someone might need it more than you do.
Politics (including church politics) is so last year! Get over it.
Go on more retreats, including a silent retreat.

Well, there you have it, the ten parts of the plan. All are good, commonsensical ideas. We'll see if I can manage them!

Off to a slow start ...

2008-12-15T09:23:00.003-05:00

I read somewhere recently that some people are "Christmas" Christians, while others are "Passion" Christians.

I must fall into the latter category -- I find Lent more meaningful than Advent, and I am completely absorbed by the time the Triduum arrives. That's the most important time of the year for me.

By the time Thanksgiving is over, I am ready for a break. But here comes Advent! There's no place to hide! Overnight: total-immersion Advent!

At the mall, yesterday, when I finally began the little bit of Christmas shopping that I am going to do, I kept hearing that Christmas song on the loudspeakers, the one that insists that Christmas is the happiest time of the year.

So I must be missing something. Christmas wears me out. A local radio station began all-Christmas-music-programming *before* Thanksgiving! It's the middle of December and I've already been caroled to death!

And merchants must be truly desperate, because at least 80% of my email this morning was from online sellers wanting me to know about drastic sales. Sigh.

Now Easter has largely remained beneath the commercial radar. I guess that's one reason I prefer it.

Turkey tales

2008-11-28T18:42:00.009-05:00

Pride goeth before a fall.

It began with the turkey. The turkey had to be better this year!

I went to the market on the Saturday before Thanksgiving, and bypassed the frozen turkeys in favor of a fresh one, a nice little 13-pounder. I have trouble getting frozen turkeys defrosted in time, no matter how soon I put them in the fridge. So this year would be different. The turkey would be fresh.

If I noticed the words organic and free-range, they failed to register.

Until I got to the register, I mean. Imagine the deer-in-the-headlights look on my face when that turkey rang up at $41.11. I stared blankly at the bored, gum-snapping teenage cashier. How could I admit to her that I wanted to trade in my organic and free-range turkey, unpolluted by antibiotics, used to the happy, carefree life outside the coop, for a deep-frozen, overfed lump of turkey which would end up, even after days of defrosting, in my sink on Thanksgiving morning with me cursing at it?

Naturally, I lacked the nerve to trade in the bird. Once in the car, I hurriedly peeled the price label off. Whew! What J. doesn't know wouldn't hurt him.

On Thanksgiving Day, I roasted the bird just as I normally would. All seemed well. Before dinner, I carved the breast meat: nice and juicy and tender. Then I went for the drumsticks -- J.'s favorite.

They wouldn't detach from the bird. I got out my electric knife, and ground away at them, the blade singing loudly on the bone. I pulled and tugged with my carving fork. I grabbed hold of one leg and twisted viciously. Nope. They weren't going anywhere.

"Where are my drumsticks?" J. asked, as he sat down. I had to admit I couldn't get them loose.

"What's wrong with this turkey?" he asked from the kitchen. "Are you sure you cooked it long enough? The legs don't want to come off."

In the end he got one loose, with a loud snap.

At the table, as the rest of us enjoyed the tender white meat, J. looked like that painting of Henry VIII, while tearing at the drumstick with his teeth. And glaring. Glaring at me. "I've never had a turkey this tough," he sulked.

After dinner, J.'s habit is to carve up the rest of the turkey, so we can dispose of the carcass, while I rest in the living room from my labors. "The meat doesn't want to come off," he yelled. "Why is this giving me such a hard time?"

"I don't know," I yelled back. It must have built up its muscles running on the free-range. You know, where the deer and the antelope play.

"Please don't buy a turkey like this again," he shouted.

Trust me.

My eye is on the sparrow

2008-11-25T16:03:00.005-05:00

Actually, that's all I'm seeing at my backyard birdfeeder. Sparrows.

Back in the summer I had quite a variety of birds: cardinals, tufted titmice, chickadees, and a bird which I think was a type of woodpecker. Now? Sparrows. I know all the birds haven't flown to warmer climes. The question, then, is: where are they?

I posed this question to my friend, who looked at me with pity before asking me what I was using as feed.

"I don't know," I said. "Seed. I get it in bags at the grocery store."

My friend winced, and gave me the address of a nearby birdseed emporium. I found my way there, and was suddenly in bird wonderland.

There I found every birdfeeding and bird-watching accessory known to man. Ground feeders. Pole feeders. Squirrel baffles. Birdhouses of all sizes, even bird apartment-buildings for purple martens. High-powered optics for viewing birds. And a puzzling array of foods: nyjer seed, peanuts, corn, you name it. Plus several seed blends, in enormous 20-pound bags.

After browsing around in delirium, I hesitantly approached the woman at the counter. She was a friendly-looking type, a little older than I am, with a pleasantly outdoorsy outfit of flannel shirt and jeans. I explained that I needed new birdseed, because I was only attracting sparrows.

Her demeanor changed slightly. "Are you buying your seed at the grocery store?" As if this were a destination of ill repute.

Guilty as charged. "Well, um ..."

"Millet!" she snapped, as if leveling a curse at me.

"Excuse me?"

"Those blends are full of millet. That's garbage, filler. Only sparrows will eat that." She patted my hand. "Let's get you some real seed."

I trailed in her wake, ashamed to have been feedy garbagey food to those little, brown garbage-eaters. Twenty minutes later, I staggered out of the store with a 20-lb. bag of pricey mixed seeds. No filler here! Nothing but the best!

When the birdfeeders became empty again, I filled them with the new mix. How exciting! I waited for the birds, in their wondrous variety, to descend on my little buffet.

And waited.

And waited.

This morning, first thing, I heard the dogs barking by the window. This was a very good sign, as their mission in life seems to be making sure I am alerted every time a bird enters the yard.

And there they were, in throngs, at least twice as many as I'd ever had at my feeders before, and ... they were all brown.

They were sparrows!

Why am I not surprised?

2008-11-10T10:05:00.011-05:00

OK, the election is history. The lawn signs are gone. I am sleeping like a baby, in the knowledge that Obama will be our next President. It's now time for me to turn to the other issues that matter to this blog.

One is the Prop 8 fiasco that has taken place in California, where a slender, 52% majority voted to deny a basic human and civil right to a significant segment of the human population. What next? It's a slippery slope, ladies and gents. It's not much of an imaginative leap from marriage to property ownership, enfranchisement, and other basic rights. Are you going to take those away from the LGBT folks as well?

Of course, speaking prominently on the question of Prop 8 was one of its major supporters, Saddleback Church's Pastor Rick Warren, who appears on this blog from time to time whenever I need an example of a wolf in sheep's clothing, or a portrait of an aquatic bottom-feeder. In justifying his views, Pastor Warren had recourse to the Bible, a 2000-year-old collection of documents written by many authors in a tribal civilization where cultural paranoia was often in evidence. Of course, Pastor Warren believes that the Bible and all it contains is the inviolable word of God, from the depiction of God's six-day labors in Creation to the quaint story of Adam and Eve. In fact, he states, God has told us what to think in the matter of marriage:

"For 5,000 years, EVERY culture and EVERY religion -- not just Christianity -- has defined marriage as a contract between men and women," Warren wrote. "There is no reason to change the universal, historical definition of marriage to appease 2% of our population. This is one issue that both Democrats and Republicans can agree on. Both Barack Obama and John McCain have publicly opposed the redefinition of marriage to include so-called 'gay marriage.' Even some gay leaders, like Al Rantel of KABC oppose watering down the definition of marriage. "Of course, my longtime opposition is well known. This is not a political issue, it is a moral issue that God has spoken clearly about. There is no doubt where we should stand on this issue."

Rick, Rick, Rick. It must be wonderful to be able to go through life without doubts, leaning on the the Bible in every situation. That way you don't ever have to think. You can just agree with every opinion expressed by a mainly illiterate, nomadic people who lived several millennia ago. Forget any reference to the modern world. Forget that the LGBT population totals far more than 2% -- probably 10-15%. It's not about appeasement, Rick. It's about justice.

Forget that we have brains, and we're supposed to use them -- along with our hearts. Forget that Jesus stood for inclusion, for the power of love against hate, for the dignity and value of every being.

That muffled sound I hear is Jesus weeping.

I'm Judith, and I approved this message ...

2008-11-04T09:57:00.000-05:00

OBAMARAMA!

I want the shiny, red leather jacket!

2008-10-23T14:28:00.013-04:00

I've been thinking ... about Sarah Palin and her $150,000.00 buying spree, financed by the RNC.

Since Palin's clothes are going to be donated to charities after the election, maybe she could send this red jacket my way! I might even, eventually, lose enough weight to fit into it! If not, I could simply admire it on the hanger.

Of course, some people will say I should stop whining and just buy my own jacket. So I did a little online sniffing, and though I could not find Sarah's exact jacket, I did find a similar one at Neiman Marcus. Isn't it just divine? And the best thing is the price tag.

It's only $1,395.00! I should snap it up!

Oh, but wait. I forgot I'm paying $653.40 every month for my son's health insurance. Just in case he needs another hernia repair. Or gets into an accident. I'm such a worry wart!

Maybe I could put it on layaway -- I hear that's the next big thing, since none of us has any money left. Let's see , $1,395.00 ...

That's $10.00 per month for the next 11.6 years. Or, I could just shop where I normally shop.

Old Navy.

Lament for an oak tree

2008-10-18T12:30:00.004-04:00

I'm a tree-hugger -- I'll admit it. And when we bought our house ten years ago, one of its many selling points was the mature oak tree standing on the front lawn, along with equally lovely maples and locust trees spotted around the property. So it was with dread that I read, a few years ago, about a blight that was striking oak trees in my state.

I took a good look at my tree, and, in truth, it didn't look so well. The leaves turned brown early, but not because it was fall (it wasn't). Over the next two years, the tree looked worse and worse. I lamented -- I grieved -- and I called the department in our borough responsible for trees located within four feet from the street: the Shade Tree Commission (I kid you not). I connected with a nice man named Jim, who came by while I was at work, and reported that my tree "needed pruning," but that I would have to get in line with the 20,000 other shade trees in the borough.

Sigh. A week or two ago, I called Jim again.

"It's dead, Jim," I said, paraphrasing Dr. McCoy on Star Trek.

"No, it just needs pruning," he replied.

"Jim, it has dead branches dangling over the road," I mentioned helpfully. "They could fall on anyone's car, or child," I elaborated, hoping to instill the fear of litigation.

"We'll get to it eventually," he assured me.

Right. "It's an eyesore!" I exclaimed finally, hoping to appeal to his feeling of responsibility for falling property values. "It's dead!" I exclaimed again.

"Like every other oak in town," he replied, and I finally gave up.

Later, walking two of the dogs, I noticed that other, clearly dead, oaks on my street are marked with a red X. I assume this means they are to be cut down.

I'm off to the hardware store for red paint.

It's dead, Jim!!

This kind of says it all ...

2008-10-16T14:28:00.004-04:00

"US Republican presidential nominee Senator John McCain (R-AZ) reacts to almost heading the wrong way off the stage after shaking hands with Democratic presidential nominee Senator Barack Obama (D-IL) at the conclusion of the final presidential debate at Hofstra University in Hempstead, New York, October 15, 2008. REUTERS/Jim Bourg."

Debate night chez Midget

2008-10-16T09:20:00.003-04:00

As your resident political junkie, I have been glued to the TV for all the Obama/McCain debates, and for the Palin/Biden debate, which was arguably one of the great comedy shows of all time. I have not been able to get J. interested in watching, however -- he says he knows who he's voting for already. So he goes out to run 5 miles, and I snuggle down on the bed surrounded by dogs.

Last night, fortified with a glass of wine and a big bowl of popcorn, I settled in. Shadow waited patiently for an occasional piece of popcorn. Amber reclined on her back, legs in the air, in what a friend of mine calls her "slutpuppy" pose. And Max growled occasionally at John McCain. I think he just doesn't like the squeaky, whiny voice.

He didn't like Sarah Palin, either. She probably said "Doggone" one too many times for his taste.

The ABC speaks out

2008-10-09T15:12:00.004-04:00

I have often been critical of the Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, particularly in his dealings with the ECUSA and his treatment of Bishop Gene Robinson vis a vis the recent Lambeth meeting. The ABC has really nailed the financial crisis, however. He has this to say on his website. The entire piece is excellent, and details how modern people have lost sight of the fact that the global economy, and its financial products made by men, have the power to desperately hurt real human beings. The paragraph that most struck me, foe of any kind of fundamentalism that I am, was this one:

Fundamentalism is a religious word, not inappropriate to the nature of the problem. Marx long ago observed the way in which unbridled capitalism became a kind of mythology, ascribing reality, power and agency to things that had no life in themselves; he was right about that, if about little else. And ascribing independent reality to what you have in fact made yourself is a perfect definition of what the Jewish and Christian Scriptures call idolatry. What the present anxieties and disasters should be teaching us is to 'keep ourselves from idols', in the biblical phrase. The mythologies and abstractions, the pseudo-objects of much modern financial culture, are in urgent need of their own Dawkins or Hitchens. We need to be reacquainted with our own capacity to choose — which means acquiring some skills in discerning true faith from false, and re-learning some of the inescapable face-to-face dimensions of human trust.

Pet blessing service

2008-10-06T13:07:00.006-04:00

At the Church on the Hill, pet owners got together this past Saturday afternoon to remember St. Francis, and to receive the annual blessing on our pets.

The weather was splendid, cool and crisp, as we gathered in the lower parking lot. At my former church, we did this service inside, but the Church on the Hill is barely big enough to accommodate people, much less furry creatures!

I took my three standard poodles: my geriatric Shadow, who's 12, and Max and Amber, who are 2 years old. Shadow is a little blind and a little deaf, and approached the whole thing with a zen-like resignation. Not so the youngsters! They had never before been on the split lead, so they spent a lot of time figuring out that they had to walk nicely right next to each other. It was very funny to watch!

We had about 15 dogs in attendance, and one bird. One of the dogs was a chihuahua, and totally adorable; unfortunately, Max suspected she was a rodent, and made every attempt to eat her! Her owners were very understanding, and there was no harm done; after all, her owner pointed out, poodles are hunters, and she does resemble prey!

We stood in a big circle, and after the brief service, the Rector asked us to introduce our pets as she blessed them. Each pet was blessed individually; some appreciated it, but some were wary! As the service finished and the crowd about to leave, someone recalled that we have a horse living behind the church. We looked over the fence and down the slope, and there she was, in the gully. Her owner was also there, and led her up to the fence for her blessing. He told us her name was "Georgia Peach," because that's where he bought her. Georgia Peach got a little skittish when she saw the dogs, and ran back down the slope. So she had her blessing from afar!

Heartbreaking pet story

2008-10-02T14:06:00.003-04:00

My canine-loving heart is just breaking over this story in today's Philadelphia Inquirer.

I want to run right up there, fill my car with dogs and cats, and bring them home. The kennel operator potentially faces over a million dollars in fines -- but apparently no jail time.

I say lock 'im up and throw away the key.

The Post Turtle

2008-09-25T11:30:00.003-04:00

I just got this joke on email, and I can't resist posting it (pun intended). This will leave you no doubt where I stand, assuming you had any.

While suturing a cut on the hand of a 75 year old rancher, whose hand
was caught in the gate while working cattle, the doctor struck up a
conversation with the old man. Eventually the topic got around to Sarah
Palin and her bid to be our next Vice President.

The old rancher said, "Well, ya know, Palin is a post turtle." Not
being familiar with the term, the doctor asked him what a post
turtle was. The old rancher said, "When you're driving down a
country road you come across a fence post with a turtle balanced on
top, that's a post turtle".

The old rancher saw the puzzled look on the doctor's face so he
continued to explain. "You know she didn't get up there by herself,
she doesn't belong up there, and she doesn't know what to do while
she's up there, and you just wonder what kind of dummy put her up
there to begin with."

OK, I spoke too soon ...

2008-09-18T15:01:00.005-04:00

I knew I couldn't stop blogging for long.

Just call me Ladel Torque Palin.

At least, that's what the Sarah Palin Baby Name Generator suggested. Now you give it a go!

Sqeegee Jester Palin?
Thor Surprise Palin?

Oh, no, I'm going to need a 12-step program for this also!

Confessions of a political junkie ....

2008-09-18T15:01:00.002-04:00

Yes, it's true.

I have been neglecting my three faithful readers while remaining glued to CNN. I repent!

But with the debates beginning next week ... I may need a CNN 12-step program!!! Or new eyeglasses, at the very least.

Bear with me!

Joe Biden and I go way back ...

2008-08-26T19:41:00.005-04:00

Just kidding! He doesn't really know me, of course.

But I was 19 years old and working as a student Radiologic Technologist at the Delaware Hospital (another career, another lifetime ago), on December 18, 1972, when the word got around that newly-elected Senator Biden's family had been involved in a devastating car crash outside Wilmington.

You could have heard a pin drop. I recall the day had been slow otherwise; we waited for more news.

Biden's sons, Beau and Hunter, arrived for x-rays; I wasn't on the case, but lingered with my colleagues in the hallway. I don't remember hearing anything about the boys' condition (they survived and are fine!). But I do remember, as if it were yesterday, when the news arrived that Neilia Biden and the Bidens' toddler daughter, Amy, had been killed instantly in the crash.

Delaware mourned -- truly. I moved away in 1977, but the memory lingers. We all felt terrible for the Biden family.

Well, time passes, and I moved to Pennsylvania, then to New Jersey. Politics wasn't much on the radar as I raised my kids. But I am just delighted to see Joe Biden on the ticket with Barack Obama. Joe has worked so hard to get this far.

I may not have voted for him the very first time I was old enough to vote (memory fails me, and I come from a staunchly Republican family). But I will certainly vote for him this time around!

On crickets and spiders ....

2008-08-25T14:44:00.005-04:00

This weekend someone at church happened to mention he'd heard that crickets and spiders usually first appear at the same time during the summer. I'd never heard this; it sounded like a old wives' tale to me.

Last night, sitting on my porch, listening to a medley of cricket-songs, I recalled what he had said. And, yes, at the far end of the porch, there she was: the orb-weaver, or her descendant, swinging gently in the light breeze, backlit by my neighbor's garage light.

Well! this is a nasty development! The hair on my arms stood straight up. Her body is at least an inch across. Her legs are red-striped. YUCK.

I know, I know -- she's part of God's creation. But so is toothache, and I don't have to like that, either!

She'll be fine as long as she stays at the other end of the porch. I'll try to appreciate her. I'll try to list 5 reasons for liking her ....

You go first.

Is it fall yet?

2008-08-18T12:00:00.004-04:00

OK, I know I'm rushing the season.

But I am SO OVER summer. Not that I am a real enthusiast in the first place.

After a blistering July, we are having a relatively mild August here in the Delaware Valley. Even for those who like to complain about heat (that would be me), there hasn't been that much to complain about. And the days are getting shorter; the nights have a first hint of coolness. I should be rejoicing.

But I am exhausted all the time. I have so many projects that I planned to undertake this summer. So many small improvements I wanted to make at home, things taking no more than 10 minutes, things as small as changing a light bulb. Have I done any of them? Noooooooo ....

I know this will be a familiar lament for any of you who suffer from summer SAD (seasonal affective disorder), as I do. And I am fortunate to have only a mild case! Even so, I'd like to curl up in a dark room and sleep till about the middle of September.

But I'm going to stay out of direct sunlight and soldier on.

Lambeth. Sigh.

2008-08-08T13:02:00.005-04:00

I don't know what I really expected from Lambeth 2008.

I gather, from my reading, that lots of talk and prayer took place. That new relationships were forged, and multiple points of view expressed in love. That the Holy spirit was palpably present. This is all to the good, of course -- nothing to sneeze at. I suppose we are lucky there was no outright schism. Of course, the bishops who really can't stand us weren't there.

Progress? I don't know. The idea of an Anglican covenant is still very much alive. We are still urged to refrain from ordaining LGBT folks, and not to bless their unions. So what has changed?

My new hero is Bishop Marc Andrus of California, who says the following on his blog:

In not abiding by the moratorium on same-sex blessings I take it as incumbent on me and on us in the Diocese to actively labor to both understand the position of those to whom that moratorium is important, and to convey the reality of our life together to the world. I must redouble my efforts at inhabiting a deeper unity.

A deeper unity would be wonderful, but not balanced on the backs of those who feel excluded from the Church. Bishop Andrus, to his credit, understands exactly that.

Bishop Robinson's Lambeth Blog

2008-07-24T09:25:00.004-04:00

I've been engrossed lately in reading Bishop Gene Robinson's Lambeth blog, which you can find here. I recommend it to everyone. Though he has been, sadly, excluded from the formal proceedings, Bishop Robinson has managed to connect in a positive way with many, many people who are showing support. Please join me in praying for a successful journey for him, and a bit more tolerance on the part of certain Bishops I will not name. But we all know who they are.

The Big Read revisited

2008-07-22T10:58:00.007-04:00

I just found this on Closeted Pastor's blog, and thought it might be fun to pass along. I will never live long enough to do all this reading, I am sure!

And, before you ask, just seeing the movie doesn't count! I was already tempted by that!

1) Look at the list and bold those you have read.
2) Italicize those you intend to read.
3) Underline the books you LOVE (I’ve used an asterisk instead)
4) Reprint this list in your own blogs

1 Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
2 The Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien*
3 Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte
4 Harry Potter series - JK Rowling
5 To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee*
6 The Bible*
7 Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte
8 Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell
9 His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
10 Great Expectations - Charles Dickens*
11 Little Women - Louisa M Alcott*
12 Tess of the D’Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy*
13 Catch 22 - Joseph Heller
14 Complete Works of Shakespeare
15 Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier*
16 The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien*
17 Birdsong - Sebastian Faulks
18 Catcher in the Rye - JD Salinger*
19 The Time Traveler’s Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
20 Middlemarch - George Eliot*
21 Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell
22 The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald
23 Bleak House - Charles Dickens
24 War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy*
25 The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
26 Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh
27 Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
28 Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck
29 Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll
30 The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame
31 Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy
32 David Copperfield - Charles Dickens
33 Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis
34 Emma - Jane Austen
35 Persuasion - Jane Austen
36 The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe - CS Lewis
37 The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
38 Captain Corelli’s Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres
39 Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden
40 Winnie the Pooh - AA Milne
41 Animal Farm - George Orwell
42 The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown
43 One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez*
44 A Prayer for Owen Meaney - John Irving
45 The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins
46 Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery
47 Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy*
48 The Handmaid’s Tale - Margaret Atwood
49 Lord of the Flies - William Golding
50 Atonement - Ian McEwan*
51 Life of Pi - Yann Martel*
52 Dune - Frank Herbert
53 Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons
54 Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen
55 A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth
56 The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
57 A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens
58 Brave New World - Aldous Huxley
59 The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon
60 Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez*
61 Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
62 Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
63 The Secret History - Donna Tartt
64 The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold*
65 Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
66 On The Road - Jack Kerouac
67 Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy*
68 Bridget Jones’s Diary - Helen Fielding
69 Midnight’s Children - Salman Rushdie
70 Moby Dick - Herman Melville
71 Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens
72 Dracula - Bram Stoker
73 The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
74 Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson
75 Ulysses - James Joyce
76 The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath
77 Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome
78 Germinal - Emile Zola
79 Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray
80 Possession - AS Byatt*
81 A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens*
82 Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
83 The Color Purple - Alice Walker
84 The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro*
85 Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert
86 A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry
87 Charlotte’s Web - EB White
88 The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom
89 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
90 The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton
91 Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad
92 The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery
93 The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
94 Watership Down - Richard Adams
95 A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole
96 A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute
97 The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
98 Hamlet - William Shakespeare*
99 Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl
100 Les Miserables - Victor Hugo

I guess I should start reading now!

And now for something completely different ...

2008-07-08T09:15:00.005-04:00

I'm hastily getting ready to go to Portland, Oregon, to a professional convention ... so I thought I would leave a little musical fun for you all while I'm gone. The group below is known as Joe Trio (I'm not sure why, because none of them is named Joe). They're based in Vancouver, BC, but tour all over. Check out their web site, which is is lighthearted and full of animal noises.

The Youtube selection below is described as "a Joe Trio take on Led Zeppelin's Black Dog and various JS Bach themes combined." The performers are, from left, Cameron Wilson, Allen Stiles, and Charles Inkman. Charles is my neighbor's brother, and a lot of fun to hang out with.

Enjoy!

What I did on my "staycation"

2008-07-03T19:19:00.017-04:00

That's the new buzzword now, right? "Staycation"? The word for time off when you can't afford the gas to go anywhere ...

Well, I recently took a week off, having realized that I was going to max out my vacation time and stop accruing new days otherwise. J. took a few days off, too, and we did day trips. We didn't especially save on gas, but at least we could sleep in our own bed at night and save a lodging fee.

The first day trip was to Cape May, NJ, an old Victorian resort still largely undiscovered by the condo builders (shhh!...). This is one of my favorite places in the world. The "boardwalk" is made of concrete. The carnival rides are nonexistent. It's very quiet. The picture above was taken as a storm passed by offshore. I love the dark sky against the sea!

We had a nice lunch (far too much food, but what the heck!) in a restaurant located on a pier.

Later in the day, it cleared up a bit. J. doesn't much care for the beach, so he went blissfully to sleep on a blanket while I roamed the shoreline, picking up the inevitable stones. The shoreline is segmented by jetties, I suppose to prevent erosion of the sand, and some surfers were attempting to ride the (rather small) waves near one of the jetties. My image of the surfer-boys did not turn out, but here is one of the jetties.
The waves are, admittedly, somewhat minimal, even with the storm offshore. But that's the East Coast, I guess. Not too many Hawaii-style waves are to be found here.

A couple of days after this trip, I got it into my head to go canoeing, because I know how J. loves the woods and lakes. So I rented a canoe from a rental service in Chatsworth, NJ. After an hour in the car, we finally found the place. The canoe rental fee was quite reasonable, and they hauled us out to the launch spot and picked us up three hours later.

We were canoeing the Wading River in the Wharton State Forest, part of the Pinelands Nation al Reserve. If you're interested in the history and ecology of the remaining wilderness in South Jersey, be sure to read The Pine Barrens, by John McPhee. I read this many years ago, when I first moved to the state. It may be out in a new edition.

In any case, the Wading River is aptly named, because under normal conditions it is never more than three to four feet deep. This is fortunate for me, because I managed to lean back to avoid an overhanging branch, and dumped myself into the water! I still have the bruise on my leg where I hit the edge of the canoe on my way out. It was an occasion of great hilarity for both J. and me, and in view of the heat, a great relief to be standing in waist-deep water (even with things -- snakes? fish?-- slithering around my ankles).

It was so quiet there. I could almost imagine myself a member of a Leni-Lenape tribe, paddling silently along. All we heard was birdsong. A large buck came down to the water to drink, but by the time I got the camera out, he had retreated in haste. He was lovely -- with a full set of antlers.

We canoed for the full three hours of the rental. I was surprised at how well I did, not being very athletic. I guess a little weight loss did not hurt! When we saw the second bridge, we knew it was time to beach the canoe and wait for our ride. This was the scene at the end of our journey.

Our ride back to the car came promptly, and before we knew it we were headed home. we stopped at a rural diner on the way, and talked about how we would like to have our own canoe, and do a lot more exploring of the Pine Barrens.

House for sale

2008-06-22T19:29:00.005-04:00

My house is for sale. Again.

I visited my hometown today, to help a friend and her dulcimer-playing husband celebrate the launch of his first CD. On the way back to the interstate, I cruised past the house where I grew up, and was dismayed to note a For Sale sign on the lawn.

This will be the second time the house has been resold in the 11 years since I inherited it and sold it after my mom and dad died. Nobody stays long.

As you can see from the picture, it's a compact little brick colonial, and at 1600 square feet, I guess it's not the McMansion of anyone's dreams. My parents built it in the postwar exodus to the suburbs for a whopping $16,000. That was big money at the time, I guess. I was in high school when they paid it off.

They lived there for 45 years. I don't think "moving up" ever crossed their minds. My dad had been a POW, and was happy to be alive. My grandparents lived there, too, and my grandfather, a handyman and carpenter, enclosed the screen porch, built bookcases of knotty-pine, and turned the room into a den. My mother painstakingly selected the delft tile which surrounded the fireplace.

Well, the realtor's website told the whole story. The bookcases in the den are gone. It's been turned into an exercise room. The living room has been painted in neutral colors. My mother's vibrant, blue tiles are gone. The fireplace looks like a gas fixture now. My tiny bedroom still has the white shutters at the window, but has become a computer room.

Nothing stays, does it? Soon my husband may have to contemplate the sale of his own family home, as his mother grows increasingly frail. I haven't much good advice for him. Except, perhaps ... maybe you don't want to drive by very often. Cherish the memories. We both love the poetry of Robert Frost, and this poem of his popped into my mind today, as I was driving home:

'Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay."

Only connect!

2008-06-11T22:57:00.002-04:00

I know that's a quote, up there in the title, but I can't recall who said it. Anyway, I went to the Order of Julian's annual JulianFest this past weekend, and spent two marvelous days doing just that. What a treat it is to see old friends, make new ones, learn more about Mother Julian, and have a change of scene.

Southern Wisconsin is so beautiful this time of year! There are flowers in bloom there that have been gone for weeks in the Middle Atlantic. Unfortunately, we also had heat, humidity, and impressive storms and heavy rain. And this Jersey girl experienced her very first tornado warning, on Saturday afternoon, as we all left our meetings and hurried into a lower hallway of the retreat center, where there were no windows. Thunder boomed overhead, and those of us who are locals made tornado jokes -- black humor on this subject apparently abounds among midwesterners -- while the rest of us waited somewhat nervously. As a certifiable "weather geek," I was dying to go outside with my camera -- but I had left it in my room!

The tornado passed south of us and went into a lake, we were told later. So we resumed our schedule of music, fellowship, and prayer (8 services in 48 hours!). Next year I hope to be there for the Affiliates' Retreat as well.

Hopefully without tornadoes!

Unprovoked

2008-06-05T11:13:00.002-04:00

My former Rector has been letting loose on his blog again, complaining about a former church member who continues negative blogging about Rick Warren "even though they left our church four months ago!" One of his responses to this is to quote again from Uncle Rick:

“If you wrestle with a pig you’ll both get dirty.”

A couple of months ago, this would have elicited a blistering response from yours truly. Now? A giggle and a yawn. I have said what I had to say. I am so out of there!

To paraphrase Dorothy Parker: "Loving my new church is the best revenge."

Sticks and stones ...

2008-05-30T19:32:00.005-04:00

I've been reading and thinking lately about eco-theology, a topic I've just become aware of, though it may have been around for years.

J. and I consider ourselves environmentalists-in-the-making. We recycle everything. Last month I recycled the gas/electric bill before I paid it (this was the source of much hilarity when I had to call them up and ask for the amount due). Last year, when the plight of the honeybee was in the news, J. called our lawn-care company and had them eliminate anything non-organic from their applications to our lawn (so now we have weeds; oh well; I'm the one who wants to turn the front lawn into a meadow anyway!). But we have miles to go before we make any impact, if we ever do!

So I've been reading Thomas Berry, who echoes my feeling that everything belongs, and that we and the earth and all its inhabitants are all interconnected. I could quote from every page of Evening Thoughts (but I won't, so I'll still have some friends left!). I cannot even begin to select a quotation from this book. Reading it was a marvelous experience. Go and buy it right now!

This may be the right time to talk about rocks. Years before I read Iris Murdoch's The Green Knight, I was bringing home rocks and stones from my travels. Mine don't move around on the shelf, unlike those in Murdoch's book, but they all seem to be individuals. And certainly they are all unique, like all humans. I would feel a real loss if any of them were gone.

Well, there you go. We all have our secrets! I like the solid feel of rocks in my palm. One fits perfectly in my hand while I say prayers at night. It makes me feel some elemental connection with places I've been, with people I've known, with God. Eventually I forget which rocks represent which places, and I think that's probably a good thing.

So I recommend rocks and stones as a way of connecting -- go collect some! And may yours move around on the shelf!

Diet Report

2008-05-21T22:21:00.002-04:00

Sigh.

After almost 4 months on this diet, I have managed to lose .....

(Drum roll, please) ....

12 pounds.

OK, it's 12 pounds I didn't need. And if I stopped having a couple of glasses of wine in the evening, it would be more. Maybe.

What I really want is a

HUGE BOWL OF PASTA!

and a

WHOLE BAG OF POTATO CHIPS!

But that's not happening. I shall continue with Lean Cuisine frozen dinners. My husband is enormously proud of me.

Because he doesn't see me sneaking peanut butter!

Three cheers for the California Supreme Court!

2008-05-16T10:01:00.002-04:00

Cheering for anything a typical Supreme Court does is not a normal reaction of mine, but there you go!

California rocks!

Taking the long, calm view

2008-05-14T14:57:00.002-04:00

I will freely admit that taking the long view is not something I'm good at. When I see an injustice, I want it fixed --- right now. And since we know God's time is not necessarily our time, I am often left waiting, with empty hands.

But after finishing Bishop Gene Robinson's new book, In the Eye of the Storm, I feel a deep sense of calm and peace about the turmoil we Anglicans find ourselves in, even if I think I know what to do to fix it -- right now. The exclusion of GLBT folks may not end right now, but it will surely end. After all, we have been through this before:

Our Anglican difficulties today aren't really new. They're just a new chapter in a very old conflict that started a couple of thousand years ago, and the Holy spirit has been there in the midst of every battle, large and small. People often ask me when this infighting will end. My response is always a rather pessimistic "never." Because just as soon as we make some serious progress on the gay and lesbian issue, God will point out somebody else we've been overlooking, just as God pointed out that we'd been excluding women and people of color and those who are differently abled. Remember that a lot of people said we didn't need to build handicapped access ramps because we didn't have anybody in wheelchairs. But when we built the ramps we had disabled people coming out of the woodwork. God won't be finished with us until we do what God wants, which is to embrace all of God's children. It's just that simple. (p. 161-162).

Not that it will be easy, or even linear. Bishop Robinson points out that we should expect reversals along with progress. But, even in the face of events like the 2006 General Convention, which I personally found extremely disappointing, we need to maintain a feeling of hope:

In the end I believe that the Holy Spirit shows up in the formal deliberations of the church and its councils. To the degree that we open ourselves to that Spirit, we do God's work. When we are too frightened to do the right thing, we sometimes do the wrong thing. Through it all the Spirit of God does not abandon us, but rather keeps coming back to inspire us and to lead us into all truth. (p. 166)

These are inspiring words from an inspiring man. Not only is the the best exposition I have read lately of the need for full inclusiveness, but it has made me hopeful for the first time in a long time.

Now if I could just be more patient ...

And De-Skunked!!!

2008-05-12T12:03:00.004-04:00

As I write, our daughter, M., whose nose is not as tolerant as mine, is de-skunking Amber with some substance she purchased at Petsmart. This process will culminate in a shower for Amber (in my shower). I have to admit I'm smiling as I imagine my slender, petite daughter wrestling a 50 pound dog into the shower. I hope I still have an intact bathroom to come home to!

Skunked!!!

2008-05-11T21:17:00.004-04:00

J. called me on his cell phone from the nearby woods, where he had taken the three dogs to run.

"Amber got skunked!"

'OK, how is she?" I asked.

"She wiped her face on my pants," he said.

"Well, her eyes were burning," I suggested. "How is she now?"

"She's rolling in the dirt," he replied. "What should we do?"

"Not much, necessarily," I replied. "We'll leave her outside for awhile. Maybe bathe her in peroxide. Let's see how she is when you get home,"

Of course, he was unconvinced, not realizing that dogs have been skunked for thousands (if not millions) of years.

When they got home, Amber was mostly herself (aside from smelling a little funky). Skunk smell has never bothered me much -- it's a sign that I'm (finally) in the country. I took J's jeans and proceeded to the basement, to put them in the wash.

And all the time I was thinking, "You weenie! What's a little skunk smell among friends?"

He's the country boy, I'm the suburban hothouse flower -- go figure!

The End of Faith?

2008-04-30T21:04:00.003-04:00

I've just finished reading The End of Faith, by Sam Harris, which I picked up in a bookstore on Dupont Circle while traveling on business in DC last week. Sam Harris is apparently a philosophy grad who is getting a Ph.D. in neuroscience, "studying the neural basis of belief, disbelief, and uncertainty," according to the back cover.

He writes an impressive book, I must say. Since I am married to an agnostic who is the son of an agnostic, I figure it behooves me to pay attention to the opposition, even if I start off as a hard sell.

The basic tenet of the book, as I surmise, is that religion -- any religion -- that cannot prove its claims scientifically has no claim to anyone's belief. Harris also claims (correctly) that religion has become an inappropriate subject for criticism in the modern world ... a taboo subject, particularly as far as Islam goes (he presents a rather devastating summary of Islamic beliefs, which I am not qualified to critique). And he states, again correctly, that what's wrong with religious fundamentalism of any sort is its fundamentals: belief in the inerrance of its sacred texts, belief in their divine authorship, and rigid adherence to norms and rules which are essentially tribal in nature.

I cannot disagree with any of this, except the requirement of scientific proof. I think it is unlikely that we will ever have scientific proof of God's existence. I have also been reading Bishop Spong with great attention recently, and I agree with him that the gospels are unreliable as narratives of fact.

But is it all about fact? As homo sapiens, conversant in whatever languages we speak, we should be comfortable with simile and metaphor. With symbols.

I think something important happened on Easter morning. I'm not sure what it was, but I'm not sure that matters.

I think the Buddha was enlightened beneath his tree.

I think most religions have a slice of the pie. But I can't "prove" any of it.

But that doesn't impede my intuition, my belief.

Chomping at the bit

2008-04-17T22:27:00.005-04:00

Calendar-wise, it's spring. In terms of temperature, it's spring (68 degrees today, 74 tomorrow, in the high 60s or low 70s for the extended forecast).

The frost/freeze tables have me hamstrung. The popular wisdom I absorbed from my granny is that you never, never plant outside until May 15th. She was a great storyteller, and one story she loved to tell was the one about Pop-Pop's planting 60 tomato plants on the 20th of April, and how they perished in a late-season snowstorm.

But that was before global warming, I guess. The frost/freeze tables I consulted today suggested that our last freeze will probably occur by April 15th.

This would not be an issue, were the morning-glory babies not taking over my basement. I started them on March 15th, under lights, and they're now a foot tall, curling around each other and looking somewhere, anywhere, for an anchor to latch onto. I really want to plant them outside.

In the end, it's a judgment call, just like when I took my kids out of Catholic school and sent them to public school (this worked brilliantly for my daughter; not so much for my son). So tomorrow night will probably find me installing the babies on the porch in their container, training their tendrils around the garden obelisk which stands 84 inches high above them.

Or, maybe not. I might chicken out!

From the sublime to the offensive!

2008-04-10T10:34:00.014-04:00

I've just finished reading Thich Nhat Hanh's Living Buddha, Living Christ, his comparison of Buddhism and Christianity. What a delight it was -- I want to read more of his work. I felt elevated to a new plane of ecumenism! I've added a new link to the Plum Village Practice Center, where I got the photograph to the right. I'll be doing a lot more reading on Buddhism. I know I have lots to learn to learn from all religious traditions.

Well, maybe not all.

Thanks to MadPriest for his post on 3/29, alerting us to more words of wisdom spoken by my own personal nemesis. Pastor Rick Warren's enlightened stance on LGBT issues was quoted in the Monitor, published in Uganda, in the issue for that same day. I looked it up in Westlaw, and I think it's worth quoting in full (just for that full, rancid, fundamentalist flavor):

Famed American pastor, Dr Rick Warren has said he supports the decision by Ugandan bishops to boycott the forthcoming Lamebth [ sic] conference in England, United Kingdom.

The conference brings together Bishops of the Anglican Communion from all 38 Provinces of the Communion every 10 years.

"The Church of England is wrong and I support the Church of Uganda (CoU) on the boycott,"Dr Warren said on Thursday shortly after arriving in Uganda.

The Bishops are protesting the Church of England's tolerance a [sic] homosexuality. Announcing the boycott in February, Archbishop Henry Luke Orombi said that Uganda's action had been prompted by the invitation of bishops of The US Episcopal Church (TEC) who in 2003 elected as bishop, Gene Robinson, a divorced man living in an active homosexual relationship.

Rev. Orombi said the Archbishops of all the 38 Provinces of the Anglican Communion strongly opposed the election of Gene Robinson as bishop - and in a meeting shortly after the election "warned that, if they proceeded with the consecration, their action would "tear the fabric of the Anglican Communion at its deepest level."

Dr Warren said that homosexuality is not a natural way of life and thus not a human right. "We shall not tolerate this aspect at all," Dr Warren said.

Gosh! My head is spinning! From Nhat Hanh's book on the best attributes of Christianity and Buddhism to the prime example of Christianity at its worst (equaled only, perhaps, by the crusades and the Middle East policy of the Bush administration). How does this troglodyte continue to get into print? Why go to Africa to combat HIV/AIDS, if you're ready to throw other people under the bus? It's enough to make Jesus weep.

Go to MadPriest's post mentioned above to see some very unflattering pictures of Uncle Rick. Pastor Warren, crawl back into your primordial muck-hole, please, and take your offensive attitudes with you. The Episcopal Church does not need your help. I already know of a perfectly good one you've ruined!

BOTTOM FEEDER

Thanks to a dear friend (you know who you are!) who did the Photoshop stuff above!

An evening with ... Thich Nhat Hahn

2008-04-06T19:32:00.002-04:00

I have a good friend at work who has just introduced me to Thich Nhat Hanh -- his books, I mean, though I wouldn't mind meeting him in person. I have read only one so far: Living Buddha, Living Christ. I found it lucidly written and valuable for its comparison of Buddhism and Christianity. It has made me want to read more on Buddhism.

One especially thought-provoking excerpt is below:

"Some waves on the ocean are high and some are low. Waves appear to be born and to die. But if we look more deeply, we see that the waves, although coming and going, are also water, which is always there. Notions like high and low, birth and death can be applied to waves, but water is free of such distinctions. Enlightenment for a wave is the moment the wave realizes that it is water. At that moment, all fear of death disappears." (p. 138)

In a Christian context, if I were able to remember, every minute, that I am God's beloved child, that he is never separated from me, that I am never far from his watchful eyes, what troubles I could endure with a calm heart!

But it's remembering it that's the difficult part!

Easter Vigil: I get it!

2008-03-25T22:53:00.006-04:00

After many years of attending an anemic Easter Vigil, I finally understand what it's all about (proving that it's never too late to learn).

Our Easter Vigil started after dark. The Rector appeared on the church porch with a medium-sized pyrex bowl, into which she proceeded to pour a large box of epsom salts. I was perplexed, standing in the back of the nave with the choir -- I had never seen this before. Into the bowl she then poured rubbing alcohol. Moving back from the bowl, she set it afire with a barbecue lighter.

Wow! The flames rose up. It was our Easter fire. The Rector blessed it and lit the Paschal Candle from it. Then she extinguished the bowl by putting on its lid, entered the church, and began the Exsultet. As we processed down the aisle, the person on the end of every pew lit a candle from the Paschal Candle, then passing the flame to his neighbor's candle.

The first half of the service, the reading of lessons (including my favorite, "The Valley of Dry Bones") and the singing of hymns, was illuminated only by our candles, the light over the organ keyboard, and the light at the lectern. I read one of the lessons, and found it so dark that I had trouble navigating from the choir-stalls to the lectern. But that made it all more poignant somehow.

After the reaffirmation of baptismal vows, the Rector suddenly shouted, "Alleluia! He is risen!" The lights came on, we blew out our candles, and the organ launched into hymn 207, "Jesus Christ is Ris'n Today," my very favorite hymn from childhood.

And I got it, after all these years. We listen to our salvation history in the dark of despair. Jesus is in the tomb. Hope is gone. We search for clues, for a ray of hope. And then we get the good news.

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

The price

2008-03-20T21:56:00.003-04:00

Today I reached out on email to two women who were my close friends at my old church, asking after their families, giving them the news of my own, and wishing them a blessed Easter. It was a chatty little note, with a little news from my new parish mixed in. I thought it was a cordial note. I suggested lunch some Saturday.

I got back, "Happy Easter" from both of them. One line, more or less, including good wishes for my new life. I guess this is what it feels like to be thrown under the bus. I guess it's the price for being honest about what I saw happening at the Church on the Pike.

But sending that letter to my bishop was (as the commercial says).... priceless.

Dona nobis pacem

2008-03-19T09:09:00.007-04:00

Five years ago today I sat on my bed and watched the "Shock and Awe" campaign of the U.S. military against Saddam Hussein. Against the night sky over Baghdad, fatal blooms of yellow and orange erupted as we dropped bunker-busters. Take that, Saddam! And we were going to find his weapons of mass destruction and put him out of business, not to mention out of the presidential palace(s).

It didn't quite work out that way. The WMDs were MIA.

But it was OK, because we knew anyway that Saddam had been in cahoots with Al Qaeda, right? That Al Qaeda had been in contact with him prior to 9/11?

Nope, wrong again.

We had it all wrong from the beginning. That's the Bush administration: often wrong, but never in doubt. And people on both sides are still dying.

Kyrie eleison.
Christe eleison.
Kyrie eleison.

Palm Sunday: Pansy Attack!

2008-03-18T09:12:00.002-04:00

Palm Sunday dawned raw and drizzly here, with a thick layer of morning fog that had mostly burned off by the time I picked up my rider-to-church, a lady named Dorothy who is not able to drive right now. It was a rainy drive, but by the time we had arrived at church the drizzle had nearly stopped. We were able to have our Palm Sunday procession, from the parish hall down to the intersection, across the street and up to the Church on the Hill. This is the first Palm Sunday in years that it has not rained out a procession! We had a full congregation, and most of them processed. We even had a local police officer as our crossing guard!

After the service, the sun came out, and I developed an itch.

Well, it can't be holy week without flowers, right? Even a Holy Week as early as this one.

Soon I found myself at the garden center, almost against my will, having a real pansy attack. I love pansies -- I love the deep, pure colors against the spring-green leaves and the gentle way the flowers nod in the wind. I bought 4 pots: 2 in varying shades of blue, one in bright yellow and orange, and one in a deep, variegated burgundy. At home, I popped them into a pot on the porch that I had already filled with new soil.

Naturally, on Sunday night the mercury plummeted to near freezing. But the pansies seem to have endured it cheerfully -- much more cheerfully that I do. They're willing to wait for spring.

Me, not so much.

What I said ...

2008-03-11T09:26:00.006-04:00

Here's a copy of the letter I sent to the Vestry of the Church on the Pike, edited to protect everyone's privacy. Where I refer to recent parish history, you should know that we suffered periods of tumult resulting in "dissolution of the pastoral relationship" (meaning we fired our Rectors) twice in the last 20 years. So we have a history of conflict, but had been through a long period of healing. Until the recent nonsense!

My original email had some attachments, but I couldn't figure out how to attach those documents here. But you'll get the general idea of their content.

"Dear Vestry Friends,

This afternoon my letter of transfer arrived at St. [ ]'s. Forgive me for not saying goodbye to you all in person, but last Sunday was a difficult day for me. Moving to St. [ ]'s is the decision I reached following a process of discernment that began with the first departures from St. [ ]'s, back in September. After 5 months of prayer, tears, help from a spiritual director, input from my friends in the Order of Julian of Norwich, observation of certain trends here at St. [ ]'s, and a very painful meeting with Fr. [ ] in December, it still seems to me that St. [ ]'s is going down the wrong road -- at least, the wrong road for me and many others.

This is not simply a matter of my "not being able to change," which seems to have become Fr. [ ]'s mantra here in the last few months, nor is it simply that I "don't like" Rick Warren and his programs, though that is certainly the case. I have always been open to change, when I see the point of it and agree with the direction. I have particularly resented Fr. [ ]'s suggestion that those who do not agree with him have character conflicts, as he wrote in an email to one of us, and more recently, his assertion that a good leader must have a "strong character" (cf. Feb. 3, 2008 Annual Report, p. 13), which insinuates that those who have left have a fundamental character flaw. What an easy cop-out that is.

I do have strong objections to Purpose-Driven programming on content grounds. I remarked to Fr. [ ] back in December that I felt it was a simplistic, fundamentalist, "See Spot run" version of Christianity - I have read The Purpose-Driven Life once again since I made that statement, and my opinion has not changed. One priest to whom I spoke felt that he knew less about Christianity after he had read it. For people (including, I imagine, many Episcopalians) who don't have a literal view of Scripture, who don't believe that God designed every minute aspect of their bodies (birth defects included), planned out all the events of their lives in advance, or has an instructional purpose in all the bad things that happen to them, the Purpose-Driven Life is reductive and insulting. It's a myopic, fundamentalist fairy tale. The challenges of real Christian life seem to me to be much more nuanced. The Purpose-Driven Life sells Christians short!

Then there's the matter of the damage done to the congregation, including hurtful emotional damage done to quite a few individuals. Page 5 of the most recent annual report indicates that St.[ ]'s added 16 new members in 2007 (and 6 of those were babies baptized), while 91 (!) were transferred to inactive status, which I believe has to happen before they are removed from the membership roll completely. Has St. [ ]'s not been through enough in the past 20 years? Knowing our history, bringing in a program which is well-known to split congregations (see my first attachment) is an unconscionable lapse in judgment on the part of the Rector. I am also responsible for this, in part, because I was a member of the Vestry senior class that prepared the vision statement, and I accepted what Fr. [ ] wrote (which is the bulk of the document) without realizing what the real source was; I failed to do the research I should have done. On the one hand, many aspects of the vision of purpose and ministry have been implemented without asking St. [ ]'s members to goose-step along with Uncle Rick. One example is the Newcomers' Ministry, which was thriving the last I knew. Prayer Fellowship is also flourishing in its expanded format. But forcing people into one-size-fits-all programming designed for seekers, and attempting to enforce uniformity in belief and opinion seems draconian to me, and is a misuse of the Rector's authority. Uniformity in belief and attitude has never been an Anglican requirement (thanks be to God), and should not be an expectation of all a church's leadership. Vetting people who are to run for Vestry is another example of this uncanonical misuse of authority. The recent absence of Vestry elections (by provision of exactly the requisite number of candidates to fill slots) is also disturbing, and is potentially a violation of state law. This is not a criticism of your good selves; it is an objection to the Rector's iron grip on the process.

I don't know what has happened to Fr. [ ]; he no longer seems to me to be the person who came to us in 2001. I no longer recognize that gentle, patient person in him. I don't feel badly saying this to you all, since I have also said this to him. I am at a loss to understand what has happened to him.

I don't know if you have read any criticism of Saddleback and Willow Creek programming or not. I think you might be unlikely to have any handed to you at a Vestry meeting, so I'm attaching some documents that I hope you will read with an open mind. The first (mentioned above) is a Wall Street Journal article describing the breakup of an evangelical (!) congregation after their church became Purpose-Driven. The second attachment is an Amazon.com web page for a book I enjoyed reading: The Reason-Driven Life, which addresses Rick Warren's book chapter by chapter. It is both scathing and witty, and is written by an agnostic Biblical scholar and former born-again Christian. The final attachment is a review of a new book published by Willow Creek, following their experience with the REVEAL survey. It seems they are ready to admit that they've been attracting seekers but not keeping them, and that their methods are completely flawed. Back to the drawing board for them! If only repairing damage were so easy at St. [ ]'s.

My friends, I will miss all of you. I am very saddened by what I see happening in a church where I worshiped God happily for nearly 25 years. St. [ ]'s will always be in my prayers.

Yours in Christ,

Judy"

UNCLEAN!!!

2008-03-07T22:47:00.003-05:00

OK, I left my church and found one I liked better.

But when I left, I wrote a letter to the Vestry, explaining my position, why I left, and what I objected to. I also sent them three attachments, in the hope that these would better explain my doubts: why I don't want to become a fundamentalist; why I don't think everyone needs to agree on every point of doctrine; why the "Purpose-Driven" programs are splitting congregations; and why the enforcement of uniform opinion is not in the least Anglican.

First, I sent the email to a friend on the Vestry, and asked her to distribute it to other Vestry members, since I didn't have everyone's email address.

In a couple of weeks, and following a Vestry meeting, it became clear to me that my friend's best intentions had gotten cut off at the pass -- no one got my letter.

So then I got really annoyed, and emailed the letter to everyone on Vestry for whom I had an address, on the supposition that a few are better than nothing.

And what have I heard back?

Let's see. Zip. Nada. Nihil.

Folks, it's like I don't exist anymore. I'm now a leper. UNCLEAN!!

But, gosh, I can't help thinking that God gave us brains so we could use them. No one at the Church on the Pike seems to be using theirs.

I could be sad. Or I could move on. In fact, I already have, with fond glances behind me ...

My bad!

2008-03-03T11:01:00.011-05:00

I've been tagged for two interesting memes, but I've had my head in a dark place and didn't notice one of them till today. My apologies to Psalmist, who tagged me way back on Feb. 8 for this book meme. I may be slow, but I do get there!

Book meme:
Pick up the nearest book of 123 pages or more. (No cheating!)
Find Page 123.
Find the first 5 sentences.
Post the next 3 sentences.

Oh, boy, I hope you're not holding your collective breath in anticipation, because I happen to be at my desk on my lunch hour, and the nearest book is (drum roll, please):

Lieberman, Joseph I. In Praise of Public Life, 2000

And the text, according to the rules of the meme, is:

"American politicians have become so hungry for campaign contributions largely because, as I noted earlier, so much of politics has become driven by and wedded to television, which costs a lot of money. In 1974, which was a midterm election year, a record-shattering total of$356 million was spent by the nation's political candidates (at local, state and national levels) on TV ads. That figure was unimaginable just a decade earlier."

OK, I warned you! And this is one of the more interesting books that has come across my desk lately. I might actually read this one!

The second meme comes from my friend Sharecropper, and fortunately I am not late on this one!

Blogging meme:

1. List three reasons for your blogging
2. List the rules
3. Tag three others with the thread.

1. Why I blog:

I'm a frustrated writer. I love horror fiction, and I wanted to be the female Stephen King, but it never worked out. Always had to make a living. Darned money!

It gives me another chance to try to put my faith to work, whether I manage to do that or not.

I get to meet cool, thoughtful people who care about the things I care about.

2. See above.

3. I'll give some thought to whom I want to tag. But I know how busy everyone is!

Back on track?

2008-02-25T19:37:00.002-05:00

Things have settled down a little at home. We have cleared the air, and we have a plan. That's all I can ask for right now.

So ... the diet resumes. I lost three pounds somewhere, but of course there are miles to go yet. I have stopped being hungry and resentful.

At least, I thought I had.

I came home to an empty house, so the only ones who had to be fed were myself and the three canines. Having provided for them, I microwaved a Lean Cuisine pizza (4 miserable points) for myself.

It wasn't bad, even if it did need a chocolate cake chaser. Lacking a chocolate cake, I sat there gloomily regarding my empty plate.

Then I noticed it. A teeny, tiny, nearly microscopic piece of sausage had escaped from the pizza, and landed on the tablecloth next to my plate.

But I was not the only one who noticed. Shadow, my nearly 12-year-old standard poodle, had fixed her beady little eyes on the prize. She looked from me to the sausage, quizically. I moved my hand a fraction of an inch closer to the morsel.

Shadow pounced. I pounced. Having hands, I got to it first. Down the hatch!

Oh no, I could hear her thinking, Has it come to this? She looked at me indignantly, shook her whole body, and walked away.

Has it come to this? Indeed. Will I be eating the Iams dog food next?

Patience among the thorns

2008-02-20T15:29:00.003-05:00

"Family troubles" have prevented me from blogging for awhile.

I don't need to burden anyone with the details. But somehow I had gotten the notion that, once my kids were adults, their problems would be their own. That they would have sufficient commonsense to solve them (better still, avoid them). That I would somehow be on a higher, "post-parental" plane, looking down benignly (sort of like the Deists' "watchmaker" God), while the kids made their own way.

Yeah, right.

Ain't happening.

I left home at the age of 20, and never looked back. Never needed to be rescued from myself. Never needed to draw on my parents' emotional resources. Never had them up all night, or pacing and muttering to themselves. So, nobody warned me.

No one told me that, when my child made a bad decision that broke his heart, mine would break also. No one warned me that adult children sometimes need more mothering than they did when they were little. That they could do things that would consume me with anger, amazement (not in the good sense), and fear. That I might not be able to sail gracefully into old age, worried only about stiffening joints and the health of my 401(k).

"These are the times that try mens' souls." I have been thinking this all day, but cannot recall who said it. More to the point, from a Christian perspective, Mother Julian assures us that "all shall be well"; and Luke Bell, OSB, a monk at Quarr Abbey on the Isle of Wight, believes that all our errors and troubles, even the most grievous, will end up woven in as bright threads in God's eternal plan:

"He uses the circumstances of our mistakes, and even our sins,
to create the beautiful pattern of his providence. In the radiant and final
beauty of the blessed in heaven, what was at the time a huge mistake
becomes a part of the perfection of the finished picture."
--A Deep and Subtle Joy, p.86.

So I'm holding these thoughts, trying to remain detached enough from my own distress to be able to offer the help needed at this time. And I'm praying that, in the end, the pattern comes out right.

Boy, am I praying.

I'm feeling frivolous today ....

2008-02-05T10:37:00.000-05:00

Which of Henry VIII's wives are you?
this quiz was made by Lori Fury

Saying goodbye to a church

2008-02-03T14:31:00.001-05:00

Today was my last day at the Church on the Pike. Ash Wednesday will find me at the Church on the Hill, hopefully with my transfer of membership already in process. I decided it would be good for me to start Lent in a new place. It was hard singing with the choir for the last time, going to coffee hour for the last time, leaving the parking lot for the last time. I'm pretty sure I made the right decision, but it hurts nonetheless. I turned in my church key, said goodbye to a few people I'll keep in touch with, and left quietly. Then I went (I blush to admit it) for a little retail therapy. It takes so little to cheer me up -- a handbag at 75% off will often do the trick.

This morning was the Church on the Pike's annual meeting, however, so I did stay long enough to see what the official spin would be on the many departures this past fall and winter. I was not disappointed. Those who have left were justly characterized as those who could not "buy into" the church's vision. This means, of course, all those who were unwilling to do the fundamentalist goose-step along with Uncle Rick Warren and his "purpose-driven" schemes for growth and glory. Yeah, I guess I have no buy-in. Guilty as charged! Micah 6:8 has always seemed sufficient to me:

He has shown you, O man, what is good;
And what does the LORD require of you
But to do justly,
To love mercy,
And to walk humbly with your God?

I don't know, is this too reductive? Do I have to take classes, sign pledges, and join a "life group" (whatever that is; it sounds like a life sentence) to be a member of the Christian family? Do I have to accept the Bible as literal truth, and believe that God planned out every aspect of my "purpose" before I was born? Isn't it enough to be baptized and try to live like a Christian?

If I have to follow the Saddleback and Willow Creek boys, I am in big trouble!

My new church, the Church on the Hill, is not into the "purpose-driven" stuff at all, thanks be to God. And the Lenten program there, which I've already signed on for, features the history of Anglicanism. It will probably have lots of intellectual content! So take that, Rick Warren! Take yourself off in your Hawaiian shirts and leave me alone!

Just call me Grumpy

2008-01-29T09:11:00.000-05:00

I went out into the cold this morning to bring in the newspaper, and got an unexpectedl treat. The sun was just coming up behind my neighbor's house, peeking around her garage in a pale blue sky crisscrossed by pink, fluffy ribbons of cloud. The landscape lay under a faint, optimistic, pinkish glow.

I didn't care. I don't feel optimistic. It's hard living with a guy who lost a hundred pounds on Weight Watchers. There's nothing like a convert to make everyone uncomfortable. I have gotten tired of his lovingly pointing out to me that I'm obese.

Not chubby. Not pleasingly plump. Obese. The "O" word.

I come from a whole family of cheerfully obese people, thank you very much. They enjoyed life; they enjoyed food.

They got diabetes in their 60s. They didn't enjoy that very much. So much for my argument.

So here I am, day two of Weight Watchers, glaring balefully at my breakfast of 3 Rice Krispies and a tablespoon of fat-free milk. "I'm so proud of you," J. exclaims, as he munches on soggy shredded wheat. He has been up working out for an hour. I have just dragged my carcass out of bed.

What have I come to? I am so hungry I could gnaw off my own arm. Maybe I'll wait till after lunch, and do it in front of all my colleagues. Can you see the headline? Dieting Librarian Gnaws Off Limb, Inquires How Many Points for an Arm?

My biggest regret of the day: I can't get my tongue all the way into the Yoplait Light container.

Pray for me.

'Twas in the Moon of Wintertime

2008-01-23T11:07:00.000-05:00

Last night the county college/community chorus started up practice again for the spring semester concerts, which will feature parts 2 and 3 of Handel's Messiah. So off my friend Carol and I went in the dark, cold drizzle, vaguely fearing that we could encounter black ice on the roadways.

Now, you've never spent time with Carol and me, so you don't know how we love to talk. We can, and do, laugh about the silliest things. I have nearly driven off the road many times when convulsed by laughter at Carol's humor. Last night, however, I kept my mind firmly on the road. Until ...

Carol pointed out the window, and we saw the sky had begun to clear, revealing tattered shreds of cloud backlit by the most gorgeous winter moon I have ever seen. I stared at it as long as I dared.

When I got home later, it was a still and perfect night, crisp and cold, with no wind. And the moon was still up, hovering brilliantly above. I was reminded of that Huron carol, 'Twas in the Moon of Wintertime, which goes like this:

’Twas in the moon of wintertime,
When all the birds had fled,
That mighty Gitchi Manitou
Sent angel choirs instead;
Before their light the stars grew dim,
And wondering hunters heard the hymn:

Jesus your King is born,
Jesus is born,
In excelsis gloria.

Within a lodge of broken bark
The tender babe was found,
A ragged robe of rabbit skin
Enwrapped His beauty round;
But as the hunter braves drew nigh,
The angel song rang loud and high:

Jesus your King is born,
Jesus is born,
In excelsis gloria.

The earliest moon of wintertime
Is not so round and fair
As was the ring of glory on
The helpless Infant there.
The chiefs from far before Him knelt
With gifts of fox and beaver pelt.

Jesus your King is born,
Jesus is born,
In excelsis gloria.

O children of the forest free,
O seed of Manitou,
The holy Child of earth and Heav’n
Is born today for you.
Come kneel before the radiant Boy,
Who brings you beauty, peace and joy.

Jesus your King is born,
Jesus is born,
In excelsis gloria.

I let the dogs out on the front lawn, and we stayed about 5 minutes in the cold. On that still, silent night, I could not stand to be in the house. I'll look again tonight for the brilliant winter moon.

Lunchtime with ... Beatrice Bruteau

2008-01-16T13:54:00.000-05:00

"Salvation" ... is not a matter of offering sacrifice to appease God. This is a primitive, not to say barbaric, notion. God doesn't need appeasing. God's "attitude," if we may so put it, is one of eternal steadfast love. What needs "appeasing" is the craving for life of the descriptive self and the fear of destruction in the sinner. Salvation is effected by someone loving the sinner and convincing the sinner of that love. "Greater love than this no one has, that one should lay down one's life for one's friends" (John 15:13). If the convincing gesture is "dying for you," then that gesture can be used because it convinces the sinner of the love. It is the love and the conviction of being loved that is salvific.

Beatrice Bruteau, Radical Optimism, p. 84

Lighting a candle tonight ...

2008-01-09T21:30:00.001-05:00

For Ken, who passed away on January 3,
and for his family who will miss him.

Not quite Martha Stewart

2008-01-04T22:41:00.000-05:00

OK, so it's a new year, and in the spirit of compromise, J. and I have reached an agreement about something that has been a source of argument for many months now. And our solution was so simple!

Fuzzy bathroom rugs. I have cornered the market on fuzzy bathroom rugs, predominantly blue ones. Don't go looking for any of these at K-Mart -- they're all gone.

They're all at my house. They cover the seats of all my furniture. They're rubber-backed and impervious to moisture, dirt, mud, and they're totally washable.

Now the three dogs can lounge with me on the furniture. If this is all I accomplish in 2008, it's quite enough.

Martha Stewart would never recover if she saw my living room.

Silent night

2007-12-24T22:50:00.000-05:00

Aside from the dogs' grumbling a little at the occasional street noise, it's dead silent here tonight. Or rather, it's a live silence, as if the earth is waiting. Outside, the sky is clear and cold, and the moon is brilliant and nearly full. Next to the moon shines Mars, so close to the earth tonight that it shines more brightly than any star I can see.

J., his mother, and his sister have gone to bed. The kids are sleeping elsewhere, to free up beds for family, and will be back in the morning. I am treasuring what is left of Christmas Eve, as the world and I wait for Jesus to be born yet again.

For the last week or so I've been engrossed in Matthew Fox's book, The Coming of the Cosmic Christ, a wonderful overview of Creation spirituality. I'm really loving the book, but every now and then the author says something that sends me spinning off on a tangent with memories of childhood, and then I realize that fifteen minutes have passed and I haven't read another word. But Fox's view of the spiritual interrelatedness of all things makes perfect sense to a person who picks up rocks and stones and brings them home. I have been doing this for years, and I can't tell you why -- but I have a whole collection of rocks from various places. I'm hardly a rock expert; I have no idea what they're made of, for example. All I can say is that it seemed important to pick them up and stick them in my pocket. I guess they speak to me in some way. I have a few on my desk, and they seem perfectly pleased to be here.

(I know, I know, you're all thinking, Man, she needs to get out more. Point taken!)

I guess that's why I love the language of the Psalms, where nature seems so conscious and alive. In the Psalm for tonight, Psalm 96, for example, we read:

Let the heavens rejoice, and let the earth be glad;
let the sea thunder and all that is in it;
let the field be joyful and all that is therein.

Then shall all the trees of the wood shout for joy
before the LORD when he comes,
when he comes to judge the earth.

I may just open the curtain here and take another look at Mars, my own personal Star of Bethlehem on this holy night, and wait (again) for Jesus.

An unaccustomed calm

2007-12-19T21:58:00.000-05:00

What's this about? It's 5 days before Christmas, I have all my presents wrapped, and I'm feeling a stillness that I haven't felt in Advent before. A watchfulness that I'm not used to. Normally, on December 19, I'm running madly from pillar to post, trying desperately to tie up all the loose ends. Either I have no loose ends this year, or I have decided to let them all hang. The latter, I think.

This is not like me; or maybe this is the real me. I have been struggling with things at church for so long that perhaps I have forgotten what a deep breath feels like. How peaceful it can feel to cut yourself adrift with another shore in your spyglass. Advent is the season of hope, after all.

Even so come, Lord Jesus.

Time out!

2007-12-12T10:52:00.001-05:00

Take a few minutes off from your Christmas shopping, and relax here!