Mystical Murmurs: My Interfaith Life

On the verge of Christmas Eve, pundit conversations have turned from the horror of violence to the -- unbelievable! -- suggestion that teachers should be armed, kids' backpacks should be bulletproof ... I can hardly believe what I'm hearing. Instead of passing common sense gun-control legislation and addressing widespread mental health issues, it sounds to me as though we are giving up. Is violence now in control? Are we all going to retreat into bunkers, sandbag ourselves in, drink bottled water and eat from cans? Peer through bulletproof windows? Wear Kevlar vests to go pick up a half-gallon of milk? I don't want to live in fear. I don't want to live my life on defense. When do we become so afraid that there isn't anything left but fear? Haven't we seen, in the last horrific week, that most people are inclined toward compassion, toward acts of love and goodwill? I still believe most people are good, that a few sick individuals should not be allowed to s

Since the horrific shootings in Connecticut, I feel as though I've been wandering in a fog. I was home sick that day, last Friday when it happened, so I was aware early on that life had changed--again. Life changes (or it should) whenever we hear of an act of terrible violence near or far, but, as all the commentators say, "this feels different." This act of mass murder has peeled back America's the last deceptive layer of civility. What's been revealed -- the ugliness of a society in love with guns and violence -- is not easy to behold. It's as though we've taken a step back into the Wild West. So our Christmas tree is up; the lights, by sheer chance, are blue.  Josh Groban is singing quiet carols in the background. Last night, Santa went by on a firetruck. My neighbors have an obscenely fat, inflated Santa on their lawn (most years I would have a snarky comment about this, but alas...this year, it hardly seems worth the effort). So, I'm going t

Here on the cusp of Advent, I am having trouble getting into the season.Some friends suffered great losses during Hurricane Sandy. A dear friend has cancer. Another friend just lost an old, beloved dog. My husband is losing his job at the end of January. Of course, it could always be worse -- this almost goes without saying. But I'm just not ready for the Christmas onslaught. A local radio station started playing 24/7 Christmas music on Thanksgiving Day (seriously). The local Starbucks assaulted my ears this morning with jazzy versions of holiday tunes. The shops ... well, forget the shops. The mall traffic is unceasing, the drivers are hostile, all in competition for that ol' Christmas cheer. I'm staying home. But I am going to a women's quiet day this Saturday, at a local church. What I need is a quiet month, but this day will be a start. When I get home, I'll set up the Advent wreath -- I'm using votives this year, for a change. As our Advent introit p

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,

Today was the final service at the church where I grew up, the Cathedral Church of Saint John, in Wilmington, Delaware. As of July 31, the Episcopal Diocese of Delaware will no longer have a cathedral. I know this has happened for lack of funds; in my current diocese, quite a few churches have merged or closed in the last decade or more, and out cathedral is always in need of money.  At the altar to the left, I was baptized, confirmed, and married.  On July 8, I attended the 10:30 service and said goodbye. What will happen to the cathedral building is anyone's guess. The pipe organ has already been sold. I guess that's a good thing. At least something has been saved. Change happens. However, it often takes a good bit of us with it when it does.

Recently I attended my friend Anne's funeral. It was a moving and uplifting service, as the funerals for long lives well lived should always be. Anne was 102 1/2 at the time of her death, and had had no serious health troubles until last fall. This is certainly what we each hope for at the end of our earthly lives. In my former parish, Anne was our "choir mother" for many, many years. She maintained the choral library, mended our robes, kept attendance records (noting, on the appropriate dates, "Judy's little boy born" and, later on, "Judy's little girl born"). She taught me to sing alto, patiently correcting me and setting an example with her lovely voice. She was the choir's rock of ages and our resting place. She saw us through at least 4 choir directors (that I know of!), and multiple priests. Anne was widowed in 1969, after 34 years of marriage and two daughters. She never remarried, claiming that she'd had one good husband but

We've recently had, at our house, a rerun of that old series I like to call Family Drama.  It's not my favorite.  The characters are all grown up now, not that you'd always know it.  The "situations" are no longer cute, nor are they easily resolved.  They can be frustrating, anger-evoking, and heartbreaking. Whenever we have an episode of Family Drama, I have two strong impulses. One is retail therapy, at which I have become very skilled! With a potential job change in the household, however, retail therapy would be unwise. The other impulse is withdrawal, or as my mom used to call it, "going to ground"  -- perfect for me as an Enneagram type 9. If I can't make peace, solve the conflict, find the solution, or even get anyone to listen, I want to get the hell out of the way. Dive deep and let the wave break way, way over my head, so to speak. This is the cowardly way, and sometimes, I think, also the only sane response. With the Serenity Praye

Let's see. In the last week, the U.S. has experienced: an early-season tropical storm with severe flooding; raging wildfires; a crippling heat wave; and a lethal wave of thunderstorms accompanied by highly destructive winds. "Well, it's summer," you say. OK. But we had basically a non-winter last year on the east coast, and now we have the summer from hell. Hmmm ... My husband recently attended his college reunion, in Middlebury, Vermont. While he was there , he passed up a talk by Bill McKibben, Middlebury College's writer in residence, who has done more than any other single individual (I think) to get out the word about global warming. J. doesn't often do things that make me squawk, but this did. "You can't be serious!" I squawked. "You passed up Bill McKibben to play tennis ?" I was flabbergasted. " Who does that ?" Let me explain. I used to write a book review for the newsletter in a former parish. In this capa

Earlier in the month I attended the Order of Julian's Affiliates' Retreat and JulianFest, held this year at the Redemptorist Retreat Center on Lake Oconomoc in Wisconsin. We had nearly three retreat days of silence, followed by two days of festivity. I love the silence: I read, meditated, sat in the sun, took a few photos, perched on my favorite swing by the lake (at left), and played peekaboo with a woodchuck, who popped his head out of his hole and regarded me solemnly, trying to determine if I represented a threat or an opportunity. Best of all, in shared silence all social pressure is off, and I find that a great relief. Retreat addresses received in silence, meals taken together in comfortable silence, always provide me a womblike security and peace. Community develops in silence -- I used to find this counterintuitive. Now it seems natural and organic to be in shared silence, sensing the loving presence of friends. I'm part of several communities: among them a par

I finally made it into a book! the whole book, in fact, is about me. I am the star of every page! I'm reading Quiet: the power of Introverts in a World that Can't Stop Talking , by Susan Cain. If you're an introvert, know an introvert, live with an introvert, can't figure out introverts, or are driven crazy by introverts, read this book! If you're part of the working world that promotes extroversion as the ideal, read this book! I already knew I'm an INFP and an Enneagram type 9 (peacemaker; conflict avoidant). But Cain's book highlights many everyday ways in which I express my basic introversion.  I can read forever, losing all track of time; I feel I best express myself when I write; I like to work alone, and I hate having to supervise anyone else; and I don't do my best work on teams. And there's the vacation thing, a constant source of stress in my house. I could write a whole book about this myself. Vacation for my husband means sightsee

Last Friday, J. went to settlement on his parents' home. Actually, he didn't go -- he signed all the papers ahead of time, and then busied himself with all the small tasks required to completely empty a house: loading the car with anything left to be brought home, hauling away the last-minute trash, locking the property securely. Then he headed back to New Jersey.  Taking care of the house has been a big burden that I'm glad he's done with (as well as that 10-hour round-trip drive to central New York State).  And yet ... Now we've both been through the process of disposing of the family home, with all the attendant sorrow.  His family home was special to me, too. The house itself was an average 1950s-era "raised ranch" (I never knew that term until we listed the house for sale), but the location was magic. His mom and dad built the house in 1959, on a hillside outside their small college town.  In the 1970s, they also bought the wooded uphill lot next

Holy Week, like all of Lent that precedes it, should be a time of faithful reflection, of additional reading or other practices which deepen our faith. We should build in extra time for solitude, for retreats, for time away with God. Have I achieved this in my life? In addition to working four full days, here's the rest of my schedule for Holy Week. You be the judge!      Monday night :  pick up new glasses; buy a couple of small Easter gifts; LAUNDRY      Tuesday night : choir practice moved up to 7 PM; DO LAUNDRY POSTPONED FROM LAST NIGHT      Wednesday night : Tenebrae at 7:30; DEFINITELY DO LAUNDRY      Thursday night : choir at Maundy Thursday service at 7:30; watch in the garden, 9:00-? FINALLY DO LAUNDRY. LOW UNDERWEAR ALERT!      Friday (vacation day??) : dye 4 dozen eggs; buy some chocolate for kids; figure out what to have for Easter dinner, since J. doesn't want ham again ; food shopping? Noon: Stations of the Cross; 7:30: choir at Good Friday service;

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

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

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 exuberanc