tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-328468222024-03-12T23:48:11.305-04:00Mystical Murmurs: My Interfaith LifeI'm a spiritual director and an ordained Interfaith Minister. Fascinated by all world religions, I have an attraction to Progressive Christianity, Buddhism and the earth-based traditions. A volunteer hospice chaplain and vigil volunteer, I also have an interest in end-of-life issues. And as a crone, I'm hoping to age gracefully into whatever life brings next. Talk to me!The Rev. Judy Vaughan-Sterlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374700116650144335noreply@blogger.comBlogger303125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32846822.post-41889744703308506842021-01-03T14:25:00.000-05:002021-01-03T14:25:14.811-05:00Ruth Ann's Strawberry Salad<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-n24aGmti97Q/X_IOhVhp0oI/AAAAAAAAEaM/K2LN1qyYVnER8X7Aq_OwbHn_Q6axFlJXQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/p_v14al95nrhv0362.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1416" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-n24aGmti97Q/X_IOhVhp0oI/AAAAAAAAEaM/K2LN1qyYVnER8X7Aq_OwbHn_Q6axFlJXQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/p_v14al95nrhv0362.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> My mother hated to cook. HATED it. In a later era, and with some investment and encouragement (which she never got), she might have been either a concert pianist or a college professor. Instead, she was a secretary, and retired to be a housewife. I may be biased, and my own preferences may be showing (whoops!), but I don't think she was ever very happy.<p></p><p>So, not liking her role, she read a lot and cut corners. She was the 1950s queen of frozen food. Canned foods were also high on the list -- green beans, for example, which were boiled until they were a sodden mess. </p><p>It didn't help that Dad was a picky eater, and wanted nothing more than, as the Brits say, "meat and two veg." Though I do have a suspicion that the Brits ate <i>much</i> better than we did, most nights. <i>Much better</i>.</p><p>Meat was always, always well done, if you consider that flaky brown stuff we had meat. I never knew meat had any taste, and to this day I lean vegetarian -- although veggies didn't have much taste, either.</p><p>There were no salads. I lived at home till I was 20 years old, and never had a homemade salad. Dad wouldn't eat them. </p><p>What a miracle it is, then, that I do have a few recipes from my mom that I treasure. I'll post one now and then. You'll notice, with a smile, that they involve little actual cooking. Because ... Mom. </p><p>RUTH ANN'S STRAWBERRY SALAD</p><p>This was as close as we got to a real salad. Note that it calls for <i>frozen</i> strawberries and <i>canned</i> pineapple. It also calls for bananas, but Dad wouldn't eat those. I do use them when I make this.</p><p>You may, of course, make this with fresh strawberries and pineapple. I don't, simply because I'm afraid the liquid proportions would be off. I do use sugar-free jello and light sour cream, because when I make this I tend to gobble some at every meal until it's gone. </p><p>2 <b>small packages strawberry jello, regular or sugar-free</b></p><p><b>2 cups frozen strawberries</b></p><p><b>1 8-ounce can crushed pineapple (<i>not</i> sliced. Why? Beats me.)</b></p><p><b>3 mashed bananas (the hand-written recipe says "<i>peeled</i>, mashed bananas," because ... Mom)</b></p><p><b>1 pint sour cream, regular or light</b></p><p><b>Dissolve jello in 1.5 cups boiling water, in a heat-proof dish. Slice frozen berries into jello, then mix in mashed bananas. Drain pineapple, reserving juice. Add in pineapple and add no more than 1/2 cup of reserved juice to jello mixture. Mix, cover and refrigerate. </b></p><p><b>When jello is firm, spread sour cream on top. Use as little as you like, or the whole pint. Go for it. Think of it as thick frosting. I do! Then refrigerate till mealtime.</b></p><p>Mom made this recipe often. I think she got away with it because Dad thought it was dessert. Just saying.</p><p><b><br /></b></p><p><br /></p>The Rev. Judy Vaughan-Sterlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374700116650144335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32846822.post-38807158183787911882020-09-18T13:51:00.001-04:002020-09-18T13:51:41.300-04:00Autumn, and a scourge of geese<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> My mother and grandmother loved the change of seasons, especially the arrival of fall after a long, humid Delaware summer. The minute the mercury fell into the 50s at night, out would come the blankets and comforters. The furnace would purr into life in the early, cool mornings. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lUjWd-SkZwg/X2Qvu561JjI/AAAAAAAAEUk/jgMGZDgWjyEoghXwgnU-dNlvpKiNRPHbACLcBGAsYHQ/s225/firethorn.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lUjWd-SkZwg/X2Qvu561JjI/AAAAAAAAEUk/jgMGZDgWjyEoghXwgnU-dNlvpKiNRPHbACLcBGAsYHQ/s0/firethorn.jpg" /></a></div><br />Gran, who lived with us, would cut bouquets of pyracantha (which we called "firethorn") from the bush in the backyard and place them around the house. There was always one large bouquet on our hearth. It proclaimed the change of season in the heart of our home. </div><p></p><p>My mom even had different curtains for the cold season -- I think this was a thing in the 1950s and early 60s. I'd come home from school one day and -- presto! -- the whole house would be changed into winter garb. I wish I could say this is a tradition I've maintained. I'm lucky if I remember to wash all the linens, much less change them for seasonal ones. </p><p><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FlY5qu57s3c/X2QpAD1lfmI/AAAAAAAAEUE/VaVDo6NTpvM0r0GMSHR0UdKEYKUUZcJEACLcBGAsYHQ/s279/geese.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="181" data-original-width="279" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FlY5qu57s3c/X2QpAD1lfmI/AAAAAAAAEUE/VaVDo6NTpvM0r0GMSHR0UdKEYKUUZcJEACLcBGAsYHQ/s0/geese.jpg" /></a></p><p>And it wasn't autumn at our house until Mom called me into the yard, pointing up at the sky. There'd be a flock of Canada geese, all obediently lined up in a perfect "V" formation, heading south to warmer climes. Often they seemed to be following the Delaware river, about a mile from us. The sight was as predictable as pumpkins, every fall.</p><p>This is definitely a tradition I haven't maintained, since the Canada geese we have no longer seem to migrate. We are stuck with them all year long. If you see them in the air, they are simply flying from one public park to another. I call them a "scourge," because the word "flock" just sounds too benign. </p><p>Anywhere in New Jersey you can see them, but I encounter them most often on my walks around a nearby lake. There may be up to a hundred, basking in the sun and decorating the lakeshore with goose guano. If I'm very lucky, one will fly over my car in the parking lot and baptize it for me. Isn't that just special?</p><p>If I walk very quietly, I may get past the geese without their noticing. On a really unlucky day, the Goose Feeding Lady will be at the lake at the same time I am. I know she means well, even though she's feeding them stale bread, which is not healthy for them (they enjoy cracked corn, which is healthier for them, and I know I can buy it at Wild Birds Unlimited, but I refuse). </p><p>Feeding the geese, I've read, is a Bad Thing. Not only does it increase their dependency on humans, but it encourages aggression. When they are done swarming around the legs of the Goose Feeding Lady, they usually turn their attention to me if I'm in the vicinity. Before I know it, I have a scourge of fifty hungry geese closing in on me. And no food for them. So far, I've been able to shoo them away from me while power-walking along the trail. They haven't caught me. Yet. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S9zHj0P5BwA/X2TzZ_ciTZI/AAAAAAAAEU0/rpwfpcx5JtsGEDceFNAHEiTgPg4X2jsmwCLcBGAsYHQ/s276/goose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="276" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S9zHj0P5BwA/X2TzZ_ciTZI/AAAAAAAAEU0/rpwfpcx5JtsGEDceFNAHEiTgPg4X2jsmwCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/goose.jpg" /></a></div><p></p><p>Maybe a little bag of cracked corn in my pocket would not be a bad idea after all.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>The Rev. Judy Vaughan-Sterlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374700116650144335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32846822.post-15799085098820771032020-09-07T19:22:00.001-04:002020-09-07T19:22:45.567-04:00A quiet nightIt’s a quiet night here on the porch. The sun will soon set (noticeably earlier every night now), and the birds are taking a last few nibbles. <div><br></div><div>Max is gone now. The treatment we hoped would work was not a success, and after hours of seeing his kidney values go in the wrong direction, we agreed with the vet that it was time to let him go. </div><div><br></div><div>It’s brutal. If you’re a pet lover, you know how bad it is. The grief just bursts you open. Breaks you. When I sit at my desk, the nearby armchair is empty now, for the first time in 14 years. It’s about all I can stand. </div><div><br></div><div>Grief is hard. Relentless, for a while. Grief reminds you of every loss you’ve ever endured. Other pets. Humans you also loved. The people affected (or killed) by Covid-19. Grief breaks all that open again. It’s a bad feeling, to say the least. </div><div><br></div><div>And yet. </div><div><br></div><div>Every loss, every breaking-open, presents a growing edge. Maybe we become more sensitive to others in their own grief. Maybe we are able to help. We mourn, we heal, we move on. It’s what humans do. </div><div><br></div><div>We know loving has hurt us, but, in time, we do it all over again. </div><div><br></div><div>Rest in peace, my sweet boy. I’ll see you again. </div><img id="id_fb4d_18f3_1b0f_7a66" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/aprxVk8wtWyaDlgOd_ZvZmZ2DorkA7kMHWt-SnuITiTNQwpGMwDT1h-VZmnxQKs" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 392px; height: auto;"><br><br>The Rev. Judy Vaughan-Sterlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374700116650144335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32846822.post-88884931383957710492020-08-29T11:06:00.001-04:002020-08-29T11:06:32.070-04:00Birds in the RainHere I sit on the porch, watching two sparrows on the seed sock and listening to a gentle rain. My best friend gave me the seed sock for my birthday, since I’ve been trying to lure the local goldfinches. I saw one up on the telephone wire the other day, observing with his little head tilted while the sparrows fed. He seemed approving, but did not commit. I saw him later at the other feeder, where the big birds go. Come on, buddy! I’m trying to feed you here!<div><br></div><div>My 14-year-old dog, Max, stayed overnight at the local animal hospital, to receive treatment for his UTI. We hope the damage to his kidneys can be somewhat reversed. If it were plain-vanilla organ failure that afflicted him, we would have had to let him go. But an infection? I feel like I should fix that. Last night he was responding quite well. Below is the photo the hospital sent me after they admitted him. </div><div><br></div><div><img id="id_bd86_6c10_9a_3f75" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/vtU5MpzfJvpUinm5OgugMFj9OJ5Ta577JJ9fBwN6mj6CH2Lq_aNmOdnX46Q7neU" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 392px; height: auto;"><br><br>He’s at the Mt. Laurel Animal Hospital. I have never found a more caring bunch than these folks. They have 50 vets, so there’s nothing they can't handle. Best part? They’re open 24/7/365. For our next dog, we’re going there for all our care. </div><div><br></div><div>Anyway, hopefully Max will be home soon, feeling better. Fingers crossed!</div>The Rev. Judy Vaughan-Sterlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374700116650144335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32846822.post-41034712249514548492020-08-04T13:02:00.000-04:002020-08-04T13:02:29.919-04:00Grace's Boeuf en daube (beef stew from Provence) This little cutie-pie is my mother in law, Grace Sterling (nee Lloyd), when she was all of about 20 years old. When I met her, Grace had returned to nursing after a hiatus of many years. She worked in the nearby community hospital in Hamilton, New York, and was greatly loved there. In due time, she spent nearly 4 years in the skilled nursing wing, where she was lovingly cared for by nurses whose lives she had touched. She passed away with some of them by her side on December, 14, 2011, at the age of 86.<div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Whh6AookkxQ/XymJulj6plI/AAAAAAAAEQ4/p-k9oLzONGkWeODuSvlVLgkYVb4Gg0p5QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/img025.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1641" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Whh6AookkxQ/XymJulj6plI/AAAAAAAAEQ4/p-k9oLzONGkWeODuSvlVLgkYVb4Gg0p5QCLcBGAsYHQ/w257-h320/img025.jpg" width="257" /></a></div><div><br /><div>Grace could do anything, or so it seemed to me. On a snowy night, with a doctor snowed in at his home, she delivered a baby with not much on her side except common sense and her own experience of two births. "Well, maybe just push a little," she told the mom, and then caught the baby as he made his exit. I found this story quite exciting, since I'd had c-sections myself and found the whole natural birth process quite mysterious (not to mention terrifying). </div></div></div><div><br /></div><div>Grace could also cook. My father-in-law was a professor of romance languages at Colgate University, and was a great fan of French cuisine. Grace's <i>specialite de la maison</i> (sorry, I can't seem to find accent marks), was called <i>boeuf en daube, </i>a delicious beef stew from Provence. A <i>daube</i> is a stew made with wine, meat, and veggies. Most of the recipe below is just as Grace made it, though I use an entire 750-ml bottle of good Merlot instead of the two cups she always used. I also add mushrooms and olives, to complete that Mediterranean effect.</div><div><br /></div><div>Grace's <i>Boeuf en daube</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>3 T olive oil</div><div>3 lbs beef chuck, cut into 1- to 2-inch chunks</div><div>2 med. onions, coarsely chopped</div><div>4 cloves garlic, coarsely chopped</div><div>5 carrots, peeled and sliced</div><div>6 plum (Roma) tomatoes, coarsely chopped</div><div>1 c. green or black olives (or mixed)</div><div>1 lg. can mushrooms</div><div>1 tsp dried sage</div><div>1 tsp dried thyme</div><div>4 whole cloves</div><div>3 (1/2 inch wide) strips orange peel</div><div>1 bay leaf</div><div>1 tsp salt</div><div>1 tsp ground black pepper (or to taste)</div><div>1 750-ml bottle red wine (use Merlot; don't be cheap !)</div><div>Water to cover</div><div>16 oz wide egg noodles</div><div><br /></div><div>In large, ovenproof casserole, heat 1 T oil over medium-high heat. Brown beef in batches on all sides; remove beef and set aside. Add remaining 2 T oil to pan. Reduce heat to medium and saute onions and garlic for 5 minutes. Stir in carrots, tomatoes, olives, mushrooms, sage, thyme, cloves, orange peel, bay leaf, salt, and pepper. Add browned beef and red wine. Add water, if necessary, to cover. Stir and heat to a gentle simmer.</div><div><br /></div><div>Meanwhile, preheat oven to 250 degrees (that's right, 250. Not a typo!). When mixture begins to simmer, remove from heat, cover, and place in oven for two hours, stirring occasionally. Uncover and bake two more hours, or until beef is very tender and stew thickens. Serve immediately over cooked noodles, or cool and serve next day, when it will be even better. This also freezes very well.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>HOW I DO IT</b>: I make this in my large crockpot. I use a good cut of meat with lower fat, and skip the browning. Into the crockpot goes everything at once (not the noodles, of course). I cook it on low for ten hours. We can whittle away at this for most of a week. It's J.'s favorite dinner.</div><div><br /></div><div>With fall on the horizon, I'll be making this fairly often.</div>The Rev. Judy Vaughan-Sterlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374700116650144335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32846822.post-75439367610231604772020-07-31T21:24:00.001-04:002020-07-31T21:46:20.150-04:00Good Lammastide!<img id="id_b413_cdd7_49e0_e582" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/yBulm-V9R1sxnaZqN3VAKC0E9NmZzhzUOVbAleLNEpE3C2HCaeIfHZaLheYSvMc" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 392px; height: auto;"><br><br>On August 1st, English villagers celebrated the feast of Lammas, in honor of the wheat harvest. The term “Lammas,” in fact, derives from the Old English phrase, “hlaf-maesse,” or “loaf-mass,” when a loaf baked from the newly harvested wheat was blessed at the local church. Lammas was also the occasion of country fairs, often held with the intent of hiring new laborers for the continuing harvest season. <div><br></div><div>Of course this celebration, like many others appropriated by Christianity, is much older. Lammas, known as Lughnasadh in the Wiccan/Pagan cycle — the Wheel of the Year — honors the Pagan god, Lugh, on the occasion of his marriage. It is the first of three sequential harvest festivals in this tradition: Mabon and Samhain are the others. </div><div><br></div><div>We shouldn’t fail to notice that Lammas is a “cross-quarter day,” lying equidistant between the summer solstice, known as Litha, and the autumnal equinox, known as Mahon. By the time Lammas rolls around, we are descending into the dark, the season of shorter days and longer nights. Already, the days have become perceptibly shorter. </div><div><br></div><div>This time of year works a change in me. As the heat begins to wane, I have more energy, and begin to look forward to autumn. Like a squirrel stockpiling nuts, I have been cleaning out cupboards, discarding and recycling, making space in case I have to stock up again for the continuing pandemic. The pandemic hangs over all seasons this year, all holidays, all festivities. </div><div><br></div><div>And yet a change from my typical summer torpor is very welcome. Good Lammastide to you!</div>The Rev. Judy Vaughan-Sterlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374700116650144335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32846822.post-1010435967584665912020-07-23T12:43:00.000-04:002020-07-23T12:43:00.081-04:00The Long SorrowThis is day #134 of the Long Sorrow.<div><br /></div><div>I call it the Long Sorrow not because I have been deprived of my precious routine and activities, but because so very, very many have been deprived of their precious lives. And because many more people are now dying, and will die, largely because Donald Trump and his Republican cronies do not care. <br /><div><br /></div><div>My husband and I are older now, with those famous "underlying conditions," so we began quarantining on the 12th of March, and we have not really stopped. I have groceries delivered, and have ventured out, gingerly, to a few places, mainly to buy bedding plants. I did have minor surgery on the 1st of July. Oddly, I felt safer in the hospital than anywhere else, except at home. My husband is playing tennis again (outside only, and with great caution). I am enjoying my garden and my front porch, and I'm very grateful that winter is a long way off. </div><div><br /></div><div>Church is open again, with many rules and restrictions, but not many have chosen to attend in person. For the next three weeks of the Rector's vacation, I will be helping to lead Morning Prayer -- from my study, via Zoom. Choir, of course, is suspended indefinitely, since choristers are super spreaders. I take long drives and warm up my voice in the car, using the warmup playlist I formerly used on the way to practice and services. It is not much. but it is something.</div><div><br /></div><div>Mainly, I am grateful, on day #134, to still be breathing when so many people have died. Those more religious than I seem to believe God will protect them from the virus, or at least heal them if they catch it. In view of the fact that every single one of the 143,193 souls lost so far probably had many people praying for them, I think we can leave God out of this picture. Pandemics are a natural evil, and we understand that natural evil happens. But in the case of the United States, natural evil has been exacerbated by governmental evil. This is something we cannot, must not, forget.</div><div><br /></div><div>We can vote the current government out, of course, and I hope we will. In the meantime, I'd just like to say:</div><div><br /></div><div>To all who have died, or will die, of COVID-19, both the general population and healthcare workers,</div><div> <i>I will not forget you.</i><br /></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>To all who are serving selflessly as EMTs/Paramedics, physicians, nurses, and in allied health disciplines,</div><div> <i>I will not forget you.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>To the scientists who have tried to lead us on the right path, despite being attacked by our government, and to those attempting to develop therapies and vaccines against this terrible disease,</div><div> <i>I will not forget you.</i><br /></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>And to <b>Donald Trump</b>, whose blatant ignorance, callousness, and malfeasance have cost so very many lives,</div><div> <i>I will not forget you on November 3rd. And I will never forgive you.</i></div><div><br /></div><div> </div></div>The Rev. Judy Vaughan-Sterlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374700116650144335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32846822.post-18197410835926947802020-05-20T12:26:00.000-04:002020-05-20T13:27:49.167-04:00How I learned Russian and wrote a novel while sheltering at home!!!<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
OK, no I didn't! But I think you knew that.</div>
<div>
<br></div>
<div>
I hope you are all having a wondrously creative time in lockdown. Knitting up a storm, learning the piano, finally learning how to make a <i>roux</i>, n'est-ce pas? I had all sorts of plans too, now that my favorite activities -- hanging out with friends, volunteering as a chaplain, church, choir, tai chi classes, and eating out -- have all gone down the tubes.</div>
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2VW4u8HtP1o/XsVRZD6hwvI/AAAAAAAAEEo/Y0tAZDyxCmsbjrTB4nLgvApKS-j5PG2XQCK4BGAsYHg/potato.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="224" data-original-width="224" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2VW4u8HtP1o/XsVRZD6hwvI/AAAAAAAAEEo/Y0tAZDyxCmsbjrTB4nLgvApKS-j5PG2XQCK4BGAsYHg/potato.jpg" width="200" id="id_431_9c67_58db_50de" style="width: 200px; height: auto;"></a><br>
<div>
<br></div>
<div>
I was going to redesign my front garden. I did spread mulch and plant a few new things, but the result is much the same as last year.</div>
<div>
<br></div>
<div>
I was going to add a spiritual direction page to this blog, hoping to drum up clients from the spiritually fluid and/or the spiritual-but-not-religious crowd.</div>
<div>
<br></div>
<div>
I was going to weed my library in order to assemble a donation for the local public library (which is, of course, closed right now). </div>
<div>
<br></div>
<div>
I thought I might learn an easy instrument, since using the vocal cords for singing seems to be way, way off in the distance. </div>
<div>
<br></div>
<div>
I have certain areas of my house which desperately need to be cleaned up or out.</div>
<div>
<br></div>
<div>
None of this has happened. Where is my ambition? My sense of purpose? Why am I addicted to <i>The Man in the High Castle? </i>Psychologists suggest that many of us may be depressed. I don't feel depressed, but I'm certainly not myself. </div>
<div>
<br></div>
<div>
I do have small achievements. That pile of towels on the laundry room floor? I finally got those washed. <i>Yay, you!</i> says my inner cheerleader. It takes so little, these days, to make me feel like I've accomplished something. <i>Well, look at you, </i>I say to myself, <i>You loaded the dishwasher! Good girl, now take a break. Have a snack!</i></div>
<div>
<i><br></i></div>
<div>
I imagine I'm not the only person struggling a bit with the "new normal." Since I don't feel like myself, I will have to get used to feeling like someone else.<br>
<br>
But who will I be when this ends, if it does???</div>
<div>
<i><br></i></div>
<div>
<i><br></i></div>
<div>
<i><br></i></div>
<div>
<br></div>
The Rev. Judy Vaughan-Sterlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374700116650144335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32846822.post-49765679246417259312020-04-13T14:52:00.001-04:002020-04-13T14:52:46.577-04:00The Easter Grinch<img id="id_5ec6_4d21_6146_f579" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/_f5qZhawSuIoyOa6thFQOnaIF_pUcXW07apYxOzf3cX9ZlMjO4NCUP1cdZnK-QI" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 392px; height: auto;"><br>Above is a picture of my pisanki, highly-decorated Easter eggs given me by a dear friend. They appear in my dining room at the beginning of Lent every year, and never fail to grace my Easter table. I dyed some hard-boiled eggs as well, but it would not be Easter without the pisanki, those reminders of spring and resurrection. <div><br></div><div>Aside from the pisanki, nothing about Easter was normal, and I feel I turned into an Easter Grinch. Church, of course, was online. I’m getting adjusted to that, but my laptop kept notifying me that my internet connection was unstable. We had many attendees, which may have been a factor. In any case, audio and video kept freezing for me, especially during the sermon, which was unfortunate. I needed a few words of hope and glory! Grinch grumbling on my end occurred. </div><div><br></div><div>At dinner, there were only three of us this year. Our son’s girlfriend had been invited, but she is quarantined up in Bergen County, one of our New Jersey hotspots. Our daughter, her fiancé, and his kids are quarantining in Myrtle Beach. Our meal was the meal I had bought for Christmas, before I realized we were invited to our daughter’s house. It consisted of a filet mignon roast from our nearby Amish market, and lobster tails. I had shoveled all of it into the freezer before we left home on Christmas Eve morning. The roast was delicious. But ...</div><div><br></div><div>Note to self: don’t freeze lobster tails for 4 months. Probably you should never freeze them at all. And don’t EVER freeze Pillsbury crescent rolls. You’ll be sorrrrry! When the package didn’t pop open, I sensed doom. More Grinch grumbling ensued. </div><div><br></div><div>Then there was the weather. I have many friends in the south, so I had the Weather Channel on most of the day, keeping track of them as the orange and red bloomed across the TV screen, and the warning boxes popped up. What a hellish thing to go through. Thankfully, I believe my friends are all OK. </div><div><br></div><div>So, I’ve had happier Easters. Fortunately, Easter doesn’t depend on me, or on my mood, or on who gathers around my table. Or on whether I’m serving rubber lobster. Or on whether I’m channeling the Grinch. </div><div><br></div><div>Easter, like Christmas, comes anyway. Jesus does just fine without my help. If I learned anything from Dr. Seuss, that was it. </div>The Rev. Judy Vaughan-Sterlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374700116650144335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32846822.post-44974868981753861302020-04-09T10:53:00.002-04:002020-04-09T10:56:43.493-04:00Noon Meditations<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Last week, I joined a small meditation group hosted every weekday at noon by a friend with whom I went to seminary. Meditation is always a good thing, but it seemed to me that I needed discipline and accountability with my meditation practice right now (since it tends to be spotty under normal circumstances). </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tPxZZIkyQVw/Xo8tb9SiJbI/AAAAAAAAD-0/CLF0r-OoYFUB8sPjTQCpS1IwmOAHbI4uACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/meditation.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="563" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tPxZZIkyQVw/Xo8tb9SiJbI/AAAAAAAAD-0/CLF0r-OoYFUB8sPjTQCpS1IwmOAHbI4uACLcBGAsYHQ/s200/meditation.png" width="187" /></a>The first week, the sessions were devoted to <i>tonglen</i>, a type of <br />
meditation involving breathing in the suffering of others, then breathing out compassion. It's more complicated than that, probably, but that is how we boiled it down for our own purposes. It can lead to a feeling of heaviness and sadness, but also to a sense of having added, even if by a tiny fraction, to the amount of compassionate, healing energy in the world. Since I'm not an essential worker, it gave me something purposeful to do right now, besides cowering in my house. If you're interested, a resource is listed below.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-w0YOI6Xy1Fk/Xo8xek_uMUI/AAAAAAAAD_A/6yMpMhCGpxAj3w4mTFQL2Ru70JB2J6y2QCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/lokah-samastah-sig.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="870" data-original-width="870" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-w0YOI6Xy1Fk/Xo8xek_uMUI/AAAAAAAAD_A/6yMpMhCGpxAj3w4mTFQL2Ru70JB2J6y2QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/lokah-samastah-sig.jpg" width="320" /></a>Yesterday, we tried something different: chanting with Amma. If you don't know about Amma, you should: she's a living saint, they say. You may have heard her called the <i>hugging saint. </i>People of many different faiths stand in line for hours to hear her teaching, and to receive a hug. Next time she is anywhere near my location, I plan to do the same. She is also a global philanthropist. Anyway, she has a practice called the White Flower Meditation for World Peace and Divine Grace, in which the mental image used is that of white flowers raining down everywhere -- a blessing for all beings. The chant which accompanies this is: "Lokah samastah sukhino bavanthu," chanted on a single tone. This graphic shows the meaning of the words. These words are chanted 108 times (the sacred number 108 signifies, in Hinduism, the wholeness of existence). It's a beautiful chant, and a lovely experience. More information is below.<br />
<br />
Stay tuned for more adventures in meditation. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OcVv52-wbm8/Xo8z2z-icjI/AAAAAAAAD_M/bX6CRmxz7uUjMLiUz2guy7vWLbHqO0DlwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/tonglen.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="327" data-original-width="214" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OcVv52-wbm8/Xo8z2z-icjI/AAAAAAAAD_M/bX6CRmxz7uUjMLiUz2guy7vWLbHqO0DlwCLcBGAsYHQ/s200/tonglen.webp" width="130" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Resources: </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>Tonglen: the Path of Transfornation</i>, by Pema Chodron.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Amma's website: <a href="https://amma.org/">https://amma.org/</a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Amma's White Flower Meditation:<br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nl34PVz_jNc">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nl34PVz_jNc</a></div>
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tPxZZIkyQVw/Xo8tb9SiJbI/AAAAAAAAD-0/CLF0r-OoYFUB8sPjTQCpS1IwmOAHbI4uACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/meditation.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a>The Rev. Judy Vaughan-Sterlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374700116650144335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32846822.post-66717760658659940052020-03-28T11:19:00.001-04:002020-03-28T11:38:55.022-04:00This feeling of grief<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ncYetz4niBc/Xn9uoycVH-I/AAAAAAAAD60/iIlWGp54AcU28wa7cEWLN_r_lUYo1hh8ACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/light-dark-dramatic-storm-clouds-260nw-707812063.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="280" data-original-width="431" height="129" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ncYetz4niBc/Xn9uoycVH-I/AAAAAAAAD60/iIlWGp54AcU28wa7cEWLN_r_lUYo1hh8ACLcBGAsYHQ/s200/light-dark-dramatic-storm-clouds-260nw-707812063.webp" width="200" /></a></div>
So here we are, locked down and shut in, waiting and praying for the first wave of coronavirus to pass. As a kid swimming in the Atlantic, I learned early how to dive under the breaking wave, to avoid feeling its force, emerging beyond it safe and sound. That’s the point of sheltering in place, too: avoiding the virus, letting it pass by like the angel of death on Passover.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I mind this enclosure much less than I expected to. As an introvert, I should not have been surprised. My husband and son are working from home, but I still have ample time on my own. There are so many things I could be doing around the house. I’ve done none of them. I can't seem to move.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As a hospice chaplain and vigil volunteer, I think I’m grieving for people I don’t know. Working with dying people and their families, I know how important the gathering of loved ones can be to a patient’s peaceful transition. Family members telling funny stories, praying together, watching those last breaths: these are the experiences families remember. And in a vigil, when the patient’s family is not local, very often that only person there is me. I’m not family, but I can hold a hand, sing a hymn, offer comfort. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This is what hurts: not only that coronavirus patients are dying, but that they’re dying alone. No visitors are permitted — the risk of contagion is too high. Doctors and nurses all love their patients, but at the best of times they have little opportunity to sit at a bedside. I fear many patients are dying quietly, all on their own, perhaps unnoticed for a few minutes due to the rush of duties. And then trundled off to the morgue, or to that special horror, the refrigerated truck, when the morgue is full. And then the phone call to the devastated family. Devastated, because these deaths are, unlike in hospice, not expected. And family members are denied the opportunity to be present with their loved one. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So it’s grief I’m feeling. It sits in the middle of my chest like a five-pound weight. It’s always present. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Can you feel it? What are you grieving today? We have so many things to grieve right now. </div>
The Rev. Judy Vaughan-Sterlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374700116650144335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32846822.post-9913924904036374542019-09-09T18:53:00.002-04:002019-09-09T19:12:04.911-04:00Finding my balance...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UEkbg3UtNbc/XXbYi3o1X7I/AAAAAAAAD0Q/xFM_ZaLvrDwaNR1Xv216GKOAkSFGe8UvwCLcBGAs/s1600/rockingchair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UEkbg3UtNbc/XXbYi3o1X7I/AAAAAAAAD0Q/xFM_ZaLvrDwaNR1Xv216GKOAkSFGe8UvwCLcBGAs/s1600/rockingchair.jpg" /></a></div>
I've been retired for a bit over two years now. I love not having to get up and go into Philly every day. It's a special treat not to have to ride SEPTA, which was always the weak link in my commute. I miss the people I worked with, but most of them have now retired, too -- and we are all in touch.<br />
<br />
None of us is ready for the rocking chair, at right.<br />
<br />
But I have to admit, I haven't yet hit my stride. My schedule is minimal: every Tuesday, and every other Wednesday, I serve as a volunteer chaplain in hospice inpatient units. I love this work! Yet I have no temptation to look for a paid position.<br />
<br />
My problem is that, barring a sudden disaster or diagnosis, most of what I would like to do can always be done tomorrow. Or the day after that. Or ... whenever.<br />
<br />
And so not much gets done. My garden is like me -- colorful but weedy. My house is not the cleanest. I have read my way through several mystery series this summer, but the serious reading I had planned to do has not been touched. I hate cooking, so I don't spend any time on that.<br />
<br />
I have managed to do a tai chi class in our local adult school at least once a week. But the gym membership has not been used in many months. I hope I can still find the membership card.<br />
<br />
So, here I am, just looking for motivation. All advice is welcome.The Rev. Judy Vaughan-Sterlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374700116650144335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32846822.post-22516178332341888582019-03-18T14:13:00.001-04:002019-03-19T10:52:31.601-04:00The Trump Effect<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RSKl_yWlaXM/XJEB3p4X50I/AAAAAAAADsk/h7SWk2BrQpoB9SIr_l5UrtWhODwfRxkrACLcBGAs/s1600/Trump.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="279" data-original-width="181" height="200" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RSKl_yWlaXM/XJEB3p4X50I/AAAAAAAADsk/h7SWk2BrQpoB9SIr_l5UrtWhODwfRxkrACLcBGAs/s200/Trump.jpg" width="129" /></a>Well, it’s been a year since I last posted here. Maybe my three constant readers thought I’d died. But no!<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Call it the Trump Effect. All I’ve done during the past year is watch the growing horror in the Oval Office clawing nearer to disaster with his tiny hands. I rode that wave of delight we all felt when the Democrats took the House. And I’m waiting desperately for Robert Mueller’s report (assuming we get to see it) and its nice, fat indictment for Trump. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But neither of those things may happen. Meanwhile, as I obsessed about the state of the union, the blog remained unblogged, the garden grew weedy, and I totally failed to do any work on myself (aside from tai chi, which I’ve done faithfully). No meditation, no hiking, no yoga, no Great Courses (I think I left off in the middle of a course on the Gnostics). I’ve become a dry leaf, rattling in a gale. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So maybe it’s time to take myself in hand. Trump is not going away today, tomorrow, or the next day. Spring starts this week I’m trying for a new attitude. Yoga, walking, more veggies ...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Or at least I can buy some V8. </div>
The Rev. Judy Vaughan-Sterlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374700116650144335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32846822.post-76821758656626501872018-03-18T16:19:00.001-04:002018-03-18T16:19:45.906-04:00 What will we call this time?One side of my family is from the south, from coastal North Carolina. Among other endeavors, they grew peanuts, and every autumn of my childhood we received a huge bag of raw peanuts, to be roasted and enjoyed. On visits to see these relatives, I also recall being driven at night through the Dismal Swamp, which impressed me as eminently worthy of its name.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QZViR7yREqg/Wq7Iv-_A93I/AAAAAAAADi4/V5cJ5-D9Fn0eOjS2spF8pjsknYfrdT0LwCLcBGAs/s1600/peanuts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="185" data-original-width="273" height="135" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QZViR7yREqg/Wq7Iv-_A93I/AAAAAAAADi4/V5cJ5-D9Fn0eOjS2spF8pjsknYfrdT0LwCLcBGAs/s200/peanuts.jpg" width="200" /></a>Like many of my other family members, those on the North Carolina side could be a bit eccentric. The one who sticks in my mind is Cousin Pearl, who at eighty had glasses like Coke bottles and rode a bike everywhere. In her house there was also a fascinating little room with walls lined from floor to ceiling by little apothecary drawers, in which she claimed to store “this and that. “ To this day, I have never learned their contents. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Cousin Pearl was a wonderful conversation partner for a young teenager. One topic, though, was off limits: the Civil War. Cousin Pearl mentioned this painful period only once, referring to it as the “Late Unpleasantness.” Though she was not born until 1880, Pearl had absorbed the anger and shame which must have come with the defeat of the Confederacy. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Is this how many of us will feel, I wonder, in the aftermath of Trump’s presidency, always assuming we survive it? Here we have a president with no observable moral compass, under investigation for obstruction of justice, money laundering, and possibly treason. He’s attempting to silence a porn star, lest she tell us the details of their affair. He fires non-political federal employees for political reasons. And he’s become Putin’s lapdog, even as we learn that Russian hackers have penetrated the command and control code of our electrical grid, and are likely once more to attempt to meddle in November’s midterm elections. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Dear readers, it feels like the sky is falling. And this is only Trump’s first year. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So what will we call this time? “Dark Ages” has, alas, already been taken. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I was pondering this last week as I binged on season one of a Hulu series called <i>Hard Sun</i>. The main characters are two British detectives who unwittingly come across the government’s secret information that the sun, within five years, is about to go supernova (or something; it’s never quite clear), frying the earth and all her inhabitants. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And so the question for the detectives becomes: knowing that the world will soon end, is there any point in worrying about law and order, guilt and innocence, accident or criminal intent? It’s quite an absorbing question, and I find the series riveting. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And then I wondered: in the U.S. , with so much open corruption on regular view, and with new and fresh examples every day, how long will it be until right action begins to seem optional? Until morality ceases to matter to most people? We see this happening already, on the lunatic fringe, where hate crimes and hate speech are on the rise. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When we look back on the Trump era, when it is finally over, what mark will it have left on us? What will be the name we call this blot on our national history?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I haven’t got an answer yet. I’d welcome suggestions. </div>
The Rev. Judy Vaughan-Sterlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374700116650144335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32846822.post-20560449638391819122018-01-17T13:14:00.000-05:002018-01-17T13:14:19.841-05:00I seem to have mislaid my waist .......<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/--RXYfJH5Y-0/Wl-QXURTf7I/AAAAAAAADiI/Y-jCaxJmjKMGFVm6yMRKe4mHcSFec_1SwCLcBGAs/s1600/lady.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="200" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/--RXYfJH5Y-0/Wl-QXURTf7I/AAAAAAAADiI/Y-jCaxJmjKMGFVm6yMRKe4mHcSFec_1SwCLcBGAs/s200/lady.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div>
Yes, that's right. I am in search of my waist. It has gone missing!<br />
<br />
I lost quite a bit of weight in my fifties. 18 months of counting points. No ice cream. No peanut butter. So much rabbit food that I nearly grew a cottontail and began hopping around on the lawn at night.<br />
<br />
But when I hit my 60s, my body turned on me, like a villain in a cartoon.<br />
<br />
And now my waist has disappeared.<br />
<br />
It used to be in the normal spot, and I was able to encircle it with belts and skirts. Now the belts just laugh at me. A skirt recently suggested I was ready to try elastic.<br />
<br />
Now, I could lament this loss of my waist. I could go on and on about yesteryear, and how I was once a size eight. Or I could resign myself to the loss of my waist, and somehow ... somehow ... go on without it.<br />
<br />
I hope it has gone to a good home.The Rev. Judy Vaughan-Sterlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374700116650144335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32846822.post-91045468308288585502017-08-14T23:38:00.000-04:002017-08-14T23:38:04.886-04:00Death of a neighborMy next-door neighbor, Carolann, was found dead in her home on the 5th of August, when the police, having been requested to do a wellbeing check, broke down her door. They were in her home for quite a while, so we hoped she was simply going to be taken to the hospital again. But no. When the police finally emerged, they informed the small group that had gathered that Carolann had died.<br />
<br />
While there was no wailing or gnashing of teeth, we were all sorry to hear this news. We had all had dealings with Carolann's eccentricities over the years, and many of these occasions had me on my last nerve. Recently we let her know that we wanted to remove a dying tree on the edge of our property, to make installing a fence a bit easier. In the end we installed the fence around the tree, since Carolann would not permit our tree removal folks to set foot on her property, and declared that if any branches fell on her bushes, there would be trouble.<br />
<br />
In retrospect, these are small matters, and all derived from Carolann's untreated mental illness, which seemed to have started with extreme hoarding, progressing to a paranoid refusal to answer the phone or open the front door. Carolann had a physical disability, too, which she said prevented her from coming outside. She had been a great gardener, so turning over all her gardening to others must have cut her to the quick.<br />
<br />
Her lawn and garden were maintained for a low fee by an old friend, but the rest of the house featured peeling paint and a tarp on one corner of the roof, which she could not afford to have fixed. I understand the inside of the house was stuffed full of whatever people hoard. No doubt some vermin had also found a home there as well.<br />
<br />
After the discovery of the body, a lieutenant showed up to direct the removal. When another neighbor asked if he knew the cause of death, the lieutenant replied, "Failure to thrive." This is a term I have heard applied only to elderly people in nursing homes. Carolann was only a year older than I am. I knew her church was delivering regular bags of groceries, but the lieutenant remarked that these were all hoarded inside the front door. He found loaves of bread from 2013. Carolann hoarded the food instead of eating it, and essentially starved to death amid the bounty.<br />
<br />
Mental illness can be lethal. In suburban communities like mine, it typically is treated quietly by professionals, and usually does not become obvious. But in Carolann's case, the lieutenant claimed, no legal intervention was possible. Carolann was neither overtly suicidal, nor a threat to others. She refused all the social services to which she was entitled. Help could not be forced on her.<br />
<br />
<i>Still</i>, the little voice in the back of my mind says, <i>Still, there must have been something you could have done.</i>The Rev. Judy Vaughan-Sterlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374700116650144335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32846822.post-45390588465361270592017-07-31T13:55:00.001-04:002017-08-01T09:32:04.143-04:00Free at last!<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-22oEuJ_NJYQ/WYCCmE4RclI/AAAAAAAADgI/rwooSZHAInc_xrBDVBfqRkOMmBIteEYUwCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_1518.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-22oEuJ_NJYQ/WYCCmE4RclI/AAAAAAAADgI/rwooSZHAInc_xrBDVBfqRkOMmBIteEYUwCLcBGAs/s200/IMG_1518.JPG" width="150" /></a><br />
Well, I did it! My last day at work was Friday, June 30th.<br />
<br />
For all my sentimental readers, I'd like to tell you that I woke up on July 1st and felt like I was dangling over the void. That the future stretches out before me like an undifferentiated, gray plain, wandered aimlessly by folk who have lost their reason for living. That I miss all the productive, life-saving work that I did in the law library. <br />
<br />
But I would never lie to you. I now feel like I can leap tall buildings, scale rocky heights (well, short rocky heights). And I can count with no hands the lives I saved over my career. <br />
<br />
Now I have time to read the morning office on my sunny front porch. Time to tackle little projects I have put off. Time to spend with my dogs and my husband (none of us is getting any younger). And I have volunteer work in a hospice facility that I find deeply satisfying. <br />
<br />
So don't hesitate. Jump! Why work one more second, unless you love your job? Take that leap!<br />
<br />
There's life on the other side. I promise!The Rev. Judy Vaughan-Sterlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374700116650144335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32846822.post-35684288364103971382017-04-18T10:55:00.001-04:002017-04-18T10:55:14.009-04:00Dread<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PK-Fw0dNdZ8/WPYiAhW-ySI/AAAAAAAADc8/bN2sEVhJHFIRTFeJVd_Y3rlMmXsuhE62QCLcB/s1600/bomb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PK-Fw0dNdZ8/WPYiAhW-ySI/AAAAAAAADc8/bN2sEVhJHFIRTFeJVd_Y3rlMmXsuhE62QCLcB/s320/bomb.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
I'll admit it: Despite having been born in 1953, I was one of those kids who knew nothing about the old, original Cold War. We had no family bomb shelter, and as far as I can recall, none of our neighbors had one, either. We had no food saved, except in the very small chest freezer. Water? If it didn't come from the tap, we wouldn't have had any. Moreover, the Bomb was never a topic of discussion at our house. At least, not in my presence.<br />
<br />
I did take part in Civil Defense drills in elementary school, of course. Depending on the location of the classroom, we either hid beneath our desks, doing the ole duck-and-cover, or we did the same thing out in the hall, with our heads up against the row of lockers. But I don't remember the Civil Defense drills being explicitly about the Bomb. I wonder if my classmates knew why we were doing this? I remember absolutely no discussion about it in the classroom, before the drill or afterward.<br />
I did realize the Soviet Union was full of bad guys, of course. But these purported bad guys had nothing to do with me.<br />
<br />
Boy, was I ever naive! Either my parents purposely kept me in the dark, or we were sheltered by our school system, or both. In adulthood, when I asked my mom about this, she simply said the Bomb hadn't been worth talking about -- we lived near a few likely targets -- we would be dead anyway. Moreover, she had no interest in surviving a nuclear war, since life afterward would be unimaginably different and difficult.<br />
<br />
And so the idea of a nuclear war never really fixed itself in my mind. Until now, of course.<br />
<br />
I am not used to being afraid of too much, but I am afraid of this. I get up every morning and turn on CNN with a feeling of pure dread -- what will I hear? Will the little psychopath in North Korea have fired off a nuclear-warhead-bearing ICBM towards Japan? Towards Seoul? Towards Seattle? And if he does, what will the response of the taller psychopath in Washington be? And ... where will this lead?<br />
<br />
Gallows humor is not unheard-of at our house, but has really emerged from the shadows lately. Last Saturday night, J. suggested we watch a movie on-demand, "assuming we have time to finish before the war." As I saw him off to work this morning, he let me know he might be later than usual tonight. "Try to get home before the war," I answered, only half-kidding.<br />
<br />
Can we really be normalizing this? Trivializing it, reducing it to the level of witty repartee? Nuclear war? At least I don't have to be careful to keep it from the children, who are adults now. I simply can't really admit to myself that this is real.<br />
<br />
How it it all playing out at your house? I'd love to know!The Rev. Judy Vaughan-Sterlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374700116650144335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32846822.post-50629662646985843102017-03-19T22:19:00.000-04:002017-03-19T22:19:26.603-04:00A blessed Ostara!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Qs6YnHjNwbg/WM87hL6vlmI/AAAAAAAADcM/r-Xo5AbMkjsyuYbP-NtpsvYgwqU7eO8yQCLcB/s1600/ostara.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Qs6YnHjNwbg/WM87hL6vlmI/AAAAAAAADcM/r-Xo5AbMkjsyuYbP-NtpsvYgwqU7eO8yQCLcB/s320/ostara.jpg" width="299" /></a></div>
Spring begins tomorrow!<br />
<br />
A blessed Ostara to my friends who celebrate the 8 sabbats. Spring is something we can all celebrate.<br />
<br />
For more information about Ostara, click <a href="http://www.patheos.com/blogs/naturespath/2016/03/a-brief-history-of-ostara/" target="_blank">here</a>.The Rev. Judy Vaughan-Sterlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374700116650144335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32846822.post-59124430870235652672017-03-13T15:49:00.001-04:002017-03-13T15:56:44.875-04:00O, fickle Mother Nature!Below is a photo of eager, premature buds on the little weeping cherry tree we had planted last spring. We never saw it bloom last year -- we bought it after bloom-time. <br />
So during our record-setting February warmth, of course, it started to bud. "Don't do that!" I thought, each time I went by. "No more buds!"<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8WBCArKBZOU/WMb5NlkAcMI/AAAAAAAADbw/qKE0zPAykFMlcz8t_bnlakyyC_gvmLjUgCLcB/s1600/IMG_1441.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8WBCArKBZOU/WMb5NlkAcMI/AAAAAAAADbw/qKE0zPAykFMlcz8t_bnlakyyC_gvmLjUgCLcB/s320/IMG_1441.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
My grandmother, who lived with us during my childhood, planted a magnolia tree on the front lawn. It was an eastern exposure, and the tree stood completely at the mercy of cold spring winds blowing across the Delaware River. In the 20 years Granny lived in our house, she saw the tree bloom only 3 times! Every other year, a late cold snap or snowstorm would cause the buds to blast and fall. In the morning, there they'd be, littering the ground around the tree.<br />
<br />
So I'm afraid the same will happen to our weeping cherry, as the storm named Stella sweeps toward us. Though the tree itself won't be harmed, our spring may be a bit less colorful this year. <br />
<br />
I know: a true first-world problem. Still ...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Posted using BlogPress from my iPhoneThe Rev. Judy Vaughan-Sterlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374700116650144335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32846822.post-87801421683116340622017-02-10T10:24:00.000-05:002017-02-10T10:24:04.831-05:00Happy Double-Digit February!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0c1znaCfjOA/WJ3YTXTkllI/AAAAAAAADak/zLV2ru2zOvw1EvZJklC92tZy9V5k-to-gCLcB/s1600/icicles.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0c1znaCfjOA/WJ3YTXTkllI/AAAAAAAADak/zLV2ru2zOvw1EvZJklC92tZy9V5k-to-gCLcB/s200/icicles.gif" width="200" /></a></div>
February 10th -- Double-Digit February! -- is a day I celebrate with a friend from work. It seems like a meaningful date: winter is fast passing, and March lies just over the crest of the hill. One year he gave me a card with a big "10" on it, obviously meant for a tenth birthday. But I loved it, and have it still.<br />
<br />
I have started to look at garden and plant catalogs in earnest. At our last house, I had a beautiful flower garden. But for the last two decades, I haven't had time for gardening. With retirement approaching at the end of June, I will have time to devote to weeding. I need to shake off the laziness of winter.<br />
<br />
Looking forward: it's something I have had a hard time with lately. Since the election, in fact. As the news out of DC went from bad to worse, I found myself sinking into the mire, numb and numb-er. My greatest desire has been for sleep, for escape. But we can't give in to the numbness, can't become complacent. We will keep watching and protesting the Talking Yam in the White House.<br />
<br />
Nevertheless, life goes on. I saw, on a Buddhist website, the advice that we should remain engaged, but take solace in what is closest: our families, our homes, our gardens, our spiritual lives.<br />
<br />
So I'm going to try to do that.<br />
<br />
While watching what the Talking Yam is up to.The Rev. Judy Vaughan-Sterlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374700116650144335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32846822.post-55928081826607164372017-01-17T17:00:00.000-05:002017-01-17T17:00:51.802-05:00The Edge of Night<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OVYriulItGQ/WH6Om1YDa_I/AAAAAAAADZ8/oPM6ndQb9y4AAu_pV9-pjT78PSDqx-jAACLcB/s1600/edgeofnight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="148" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OVYriulItGQ/WH6Om1YDa_I/AAAAAAAADZ8/oPM6ndQb9y4AAu_pV9-pjT78PSDqx-jAACLcB/s200/edgeofnight.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
I'm very afraid, but I'm not sure how to explain the disquiet gnawing at me.<br />
<br />
I've been looking for a metaphor to describe my growing trepidation about the impending Trump administration. The comparisons to Hitler have already begun to seem shrill, though they may, in the end, prove accurate. Well-reasoned articles on psychopathy and Trump have absorbed me for many months, but I can't go there (yet). I read a historical novel, many years ago, entitled, <i>Night Falls on the City. </i>It described the fragile brilliance of 1930s Vienna, prior to the Anschluss. But that's not quite right as a metaphor, either. Hitler's annexation of Austria was virtually bloodless. Many Austrians headed for the borders, but there was plenty of unforced cheering and flag-waving. That's a bit closer to our reality, but ...<br />
<br />
Then it hit me. <i>The Edge of Night.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>The Edge of Night</i> was one of the earliest soap operas on American TV. Running from 1956 through 1984, it had a <i>noir</i> feel that I don't recall other soaps having. It featured rapes, murders, gangsters, corrupt politicians, crooked cops, bribe-seeking district attorneys, greedy lawyers, schemes, counterschemes, conspiracies .... just what I'm anticipating from life under Trump.<br />
<br />
And the title screen was what I remember best. See above: the diagonal sheet of darkness overtaking the cityscape as an ominous basso voice announced the title: "The Edge .... of Night."<br />
<br />
Here we go, into the night. God help us.The Rev. Judy Vaughan-Sterlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374700116650144335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32846822.post-14541337967666913252016-12-13T10:24:00.000-05:002016-12-13T10:24:20.166-05:00Blue Advent Service this Saturday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ik6kA8d3LuM/WFAODro05lI/AAAAAAAADY4/BR4D0XXyDgwgsyl6PupzDIntkMpPZXQZgCLcB/s1600/bluedusk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ik6kA8d3LuM/WFAODro05lI/AAAAAAAADY4/BR4D0XXyDgwgsyl6PupzDIntkMpPZXQZgCLcB/s1600/bluedusk.jpg" /></a></div>
Let's face it: it's been a hard autumn for those of us who woke up on November 9th to find that Tangerine Man had been elected President. More recently, we've been watching him load his cabinet with the best Wall Street has to offer. North Korea is bloviating again, and now China threatens to give us trouble. Did I forget to mention Russia? It's probably just as well, since Tangerine Man and Volodya Putin seem to be best buds.<br />
<br />
Am I worried about the state of the nation? you bet your ass I am.<br />
<br />
Then there's the fact that not everyone becomes giddy with happiness this time of year. J's mother died on December 14th and my mother died on December 15th (not the same year, thank God!!), so this month is a downer anyway. Natural light is at its lowest for the year, a natural depressant for many people. In our parish, we have had several deaths, most recently a really tough one.<br />
<br />
On the home front, our daughter has moved to Albany, NY. Our son is about to move to Sarasota, FL. Both these events are happy developments for them. For me ... maybe not so much. But it's the way of the world today.<br />
<br />
For all who feel out of sorts and sad, St. John's is having a Blue Advent Service this coming Saturday evening at 6 PM, immediately following the regular Saturday night service. It will give us space to grieve whatever we're grieving, a place to admit that we're not at our finest at Christmas. And it will be a place where we can reflect on the return of the sun and the coming of the Son on the 25th.<br />
<br />
So if you feel like a truck has run over your Christmas stocking, come on over to <a href="http://www.stjohns1789.org/" target="_blank">St. John's</a>.The Rev. Judy Vaughan-Sterlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374700116650144335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32846822.post-77301078280698498582016-11-10T09:40:00.000-05:002016-11-10T09:40:08.662-05:00The election is over. It's time for Trump Watch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-K_KVuPzVhHg/WCSDDWXL1tI/AAAAAAAADXg/YEa455d-Jr0Qtgw4qkAS8YS3Mt1quh8CgCEw/s1600/161110113308-09-trump-protests-1110-super-169.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-K_KVuPzVhHg/WCSDDWXL1tI/AAAAAAAADXg/YEa455d-Jr0Qtgw4qkAS8YS3Mt1quh8CgCEw/s320/161110113308-09-trump-protests-1110-super-169.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
I get it, folks, I really do. We're all pissed off that Donald Trump was elected.<br />
<br />
But why are you protesting? Are you going to overthrow our constitutionally elected 45th president-elect? Really?<br />
<br />
This is not some banana republic, ladies and gentleman. This is the USA. So get a grip. No <i>junta</i> is going to depose the Donald.<br />
<br />
We did this, you know. We did this to ourselves. It's the simple math of the electoral college: Hillary Clinton did not win the states she needed to secure 270 votes. Women and minorities did not vote in sufficient quantities to ensure Hillary's election. We can argue about the electoral college -- personally, I don't see what purpose it serves, and I'd just as soon be rid of it -- but the math is clear.<br />
<br />
So save your strength, because you are going to need it. Move past your anger. It's time to be watchful. Stay alert. I call this Trump Watch (a la Helsinki Watch and Human Rights Watch).<br />
<br />
If Donald Trump attempts to do the terrible things he said he would do, <i>that's </i>when we take to the streets. Peacefully, but with determination.<br />
<br />
But this election? It's over. We need to move on, ever alert.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
The Rev. Judy Vaughan-Sterlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374700116650144335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32846822.post-7986227530230349742016-10-18T12:25:00.000-04:002016-10-18T12:25:04.969-04:00Tangerine Man<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LBC585NlZQA/WAZGySpwVzI/AAAAAAAADWg/u9mtq-x8GTszi3VBPsTcZ1EEOlDwB1ecQCLcB/s1600/tangerine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LBC585NlZQA/WAZGySpwVzI/AAAAAAAADWg/u9mtq-x8GTszi3VBPsTcZ1EEOlDwB1ecQCLcB/s320/tangerine.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
I've been so good.<br />
<br />
Do admit, I've successfully avoided the 2016 election on this blog. I made a pact with myself, even though my sense of outrage, over these many months, made my little fingers itch to be on the keyboard.<br />
<br />
But now, three weeks before the election, Donald Trump, the Tangerine Man (sorry, Bob Dylan) has finally driven me over the edge. It wasn't the recording of Trump boasting about his prowess in sexual assault, though that was an outrage. It wasn't his harping about Hillary Clinton's bad judgement, which seems to me the pot calling the kettle black.<br />
<br />
No, it's his insistence that the election is "rigged," and will be stolen from him.<br />
<br />
Arguably, the 2000 election was stolen from Al Gore, with the Florida recount and the Supreme Court's verdict in favor of Bush. But the whole system?<br />
<br />
The whole system?<br />
<br />
I guess Trump has forgotten any civics that he ever knew. He's forgotten that elections are run locally, and those who run them take them very seriously. I have friends who have been poll workers for years. These folks see the conduct of a free and fair election as their sacred mission.You wouldn't want to try pulling a fast one on them.<br />
<br />
So Trump can spout off nonsense about a "rigged" election. He's spouted nothing but nonsense, after all. The problem is ... people believe him.<br />
<br />
Who are these people, who believe that the Democrats can control the outcome of a nationwide election? They're the same folks who think immigrants are here to destroy our economy, Muslims want to blow us up, every household should have a gun, and the nuclear warhead is a real option in a conflict. Some of them have called for violence in the event that Hillary wins next month. That seems like sedition to me (but what do I know?).<br />
<br />
God help us. I try to be kind to Trump supporters, but it's getting hard.<br />
<br />
Damned hard.The Rev. Judy Vaughan-Sterlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374700116650144335noreply@blogger.com0