Mystical Murmurs: My Interfaith Life

Today our anthem in choir was "Wounded Dove," a perfect choice for the 4th Sunday of Lent. We've been working on this anthem for awhile, since we're a tiny group of five and we need a LOT of lead-time. Well, we seemed ready. All systems were go. Right? Wrong. The tenor, our lone male voice, got sick. Unfortunately, the person with the next-lowest voice is ... me. I should have been OK. This tenor part was even written on the treble clef. It should have been a no-brainer. It sounded OK right before the service. I even looked it over during the sermon (don't tell!). I made handy notes to myself on my score.  Handy notes have bailed me out plenty of times. When it was time for the anthem, I opened my mouth with confidence. That should have been my first clue. It was a train-wreck.  First I couldn't seem to figure out what octave I should be in. Then I lost the beat against the womens' voices. Then I noticed I was in the wrong key. I mean,

My oldest dog, Shadow, departed this life in the evening of Thursday, March 1st, just about three months short of her 16th birthday.  She had a long and happy life, but she was old and weary. This was not a decision I ever wanted to make, but I think it was the right time for her. Our vet and his staff were wonderful! Shadow is at peace now. Me, not so much.  It takes nothing to reduce me to emotional rubble.  I know this will pass; it always does. Patience and self-care are required. And when  I have collected Shadow's ashes and brought her home, I will feel a bit more closure than I do right now. Our rector is also planning a service for all the pets in the parish who have died this year. I think this is a wonderful idea. So I am trying to focus on the happy memories: Shadow eating the table-pad right off the kitchen table (twice); Shadow pilfering all the dirty silverware out of the dishwasher, which I had left open inadvertently, and carrying it all into her crate so she

Having grown up in Delaware and spent many happy summer vacations "at the beach," I remember the Ash Wednesday Storm of 1962 clearly, and realized yesterday, as we marked Ash Wednesday, 2012, that the 50th anniversary of that event will soon be here. What a storm! At left is a newspaper shot of the storm raging off Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, where my family used to vacation. We stayed often in that very hotel pictured, the Henlopen, which was heavily damaged. It looks to me as if the boardwalk I expected to see in the photo above has been completely washed away. The storm arrived early in March, a perfect nor'easter, and perched over the mid-Atlantic coast through 5 complete high tides.  At least 40 people died, and many communities suffered heavy damage.  A childhood friend and her family lost their summer home in Fenwick Island, Delaware -- everything was gone but the foundation pilings -- and such a loss was not unusual. I lived to the north and inland, near Wil

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 lay

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