Mystical Murmurs: My Interfaith Life

We scrambled all day yesterday to get ready for Hurricane Sandy. It was arduous: the hunt for flashlights and batteries, the attempt to consume frozen food, hauling the outdoor furniture inside ... you know the drill. Or maybe you don't. I certainly didn't. We've been told to prepare for up to ten days without power. Ten days? Ten days!  It's a whole new definition of hardship for me, little suburban hothouse flower that I am. So, I have an armada of flashlights, camping lanterns, and candles, ready to deploy at a moment's notice. I bought those non-perishables, too: crackers, fruits, nuts, and the ever-popular peanut butter. How long can I live on peanut butter and Wheat Thins (reduced fat version)? What I'm lacking in this experience is ... well ... experience.  I have no idea what to expect. The last time a powerful hurricane really hit the Delmarva area, I was an infant (yes, it was  that long ago). At the moment we have only light rain and a br

Autumn is my favorite season.  I look forward to the retreat of summer's heat and the arrival of crisp, dry air.  Unpacking the seasonal decorations, buying that gallon or two of apple cider, and trying a new variety of apple -- all these things help me mark the new season, keep me aware of the passage of precious time. The autumn equinox is always observed with extra candles at my house (in this respect, as in others, I am a little bit Pagan), and I look forward to the extra hour of sleep that the end of Daylight Saving brings. And I don't mind the early dark.  Mom used to say there was no better feeling than to draw the living-room curtains at night, and to know that everyone she loved was safe and well fed. By the beginning of October, my son has always got plenty of firewood stacked for me, and that first fire of the season prepares me to settle in for winter. We haven't yet had the first fire -- last year we had such warm weather that I could probably number the fi

My little Episcopal church was founded in 1789, a little wooden church on a hill. The original wooden structure was replaced by a stone church in the middle of the nineteenth century.  The church has historic landmark status (my friends in Europe find this hilarious), as does the surrounding churchyard. Among the worthies buried there are one Aaron Chew, for whom the Chews Landing area is named. He was a Revolutionary War hero, as the story goes. One of his buddies, who contributed a few pence (but not many) to the church building fund, was a guy named G. Washington. Read more about the church and its history, if you're interested,   here . We're very proud of our little churchyard, but I had assumed that by this date all the plots were spoken for, if not actually inhabited. Not so! There is, in fact, some real estate still left there. And J. and I are now the proud owners of two plots, near the southern churchyard fence, under some towering trees, and with an unbroken view

I always feel optimistic when I turn the page of the calendar on the back of the kitchen door from August to September. Call it a memory of school days, my own or my children's; call it the promise of a new season starting; maybe it's just the hope of relief from this summer's blazing heat. Whatever the source, I get a burst of energy as August ends. Today we are enjoying the rain delivered by the remnants of Hurricane Isaac, heading out to the Atlantic. The rain was not constant, however, so I was able to fill the five bird feeders and carry the potted hostas out to the back patio, where they'll eventually die back and become dormant till spring. I think the hummingbirds have gone on their long migration, so I stored that feeder for the winter. The bedraggled baskets of impatiens refused to stay alive in the heat we had this summer, so they've been replaced on the front porch by hanging baskets of mums in that deep cinnamon color I love. I am ready for fall

After two mass killings in a two-week period, I am way beyond upset. Way beyond sad. Way, way beyond. So let's talk about guns for a minute. I know a tiny bit about them. My Dad was a marksman in the European theatre in World War II. I think this actually might mean he was a sniper. I know from remarks in his diary, written while he was a P.O.W., that he shot a few people. OK, it was wartime, and that's what warriors do. Dad's view of killing in wartime was uncomplicated, and I don't know that he ever suffered pangs of guilt later. He did what the war demanded of him, including a seven-month stint in Stalag VII-A. He was a hero, in my eyes -- it was, after all, the Good War. Long before I was born, Dad was collecting guns. He loved to go to the practice range. He had ten or fifteen guns, safely locked in a cabinet in the den. I knew they were there. I was forbidden to touch them, and never had any interest in them anyway. The guns never seemed like a threat to me,