Author: Tricia

Sounds Like Bombs to Me

I’m not a fan of fireworks. I prefer to see the tiny explosions of fireflies lighting up as they dance across my yard. I love the quiet drama of a sunset, purple and orange streaks exploding across the sky. For the thrill of big noise, I’ll take a sometimes terrifying summer thunderstorm. Nature is the boss and her destruction intense –  but she does not intentionally target populations like man does with bombs that, by the way, sound just like fireworks. 

It’s almost 9 PM and I’m on my porch catching the last of this stunning day that was July 4. And boom – the first explosion in the neighborhood is off. Now a smattering of smaller machine gun sounding explosions. For anyone who has heard the real thing – this sucks. I had it easy. I was getting paid to be in a war zone and was able to take breaks and be in Italy or Austria ordering good wine and cappuccinos within hours. I knew people who could not leave, who didn’t want to leave their homes. To become refugees. So they did their best to protect themselves and family while bombs fell. They ventured into the street to get water, food, firewood, running on streets where they knew snipers hid in burnt out buildings ready to arbitrarily shoot them in some sick game. And this was a pre-drone time. I can only imagine how terrifying things are now. I don’t want to imagine either – but here I am – imagining. 

Because I remember these sounds I hear from my front porch – as mortar shells exploding in Bosnia and Croatia. Once on the drive up into the mountains above Sarajevo for a meeting with a braggadocious man (now living in the Hague for war crimes) a tank fired off into the city. Our car was heavy and armored but the force of the explosion lifted the SUV. We made the rest of the drive silently, deafened and wondering about who and what was hit this time. How many injured, how many dead?

Don’t get me wrong – I once enjoyed watching the sky lit by exploding flowers and falling stars shot off on a barge in the distance. I have oohed and ahhed and enjoyed the festive atmosphere of a fireworks display. They are beautiful. But from my porch on a summer night it feels ominous and I think about war.

Sorry to be a downer but that’s my take. And besides, fireworks, especially uncontrolled neighborhood pyrotechnic displays are terrible for wildlife, little kids and pets.  

There’s a brilliant organization around here (https://wildlifeincrisis.org/ ) that rehab every kind of critter. They’ve reported an increase in injured animals being brought in because of fireworks. And the internet is full of people looking for pets that ran off in terror. Our long gone Cairn Terrier Tetley hated them.

Here’s to sparklers!

Peace!

A Robin’s Nest – and my bout of NIMBY

A robin built a nest on my front porch and I’m not thrilled. I know, I know! I feed the birds all winter, keep the bird bath clean and full and yet here I am getting all NIMBY when it comes to sharing my space. I was thrilled to see a local osprey fly off with one of the branches I’d collected from my recently downed oak tree imagining it’s new life as baby bird home. But when my feathered friend chooses my sweet porch to build in, well, I wasn’t happy. A little too close? What kind of hypocrisy is this? I have reflected on and chastised myself for this poor attitude. I don’t offer the following as a defense, simply an explanation.

With the warmer days, I get to expand my living space outside and I’ve been busy cleaning up. The front porch is my favorite spot to drink my tea in the morning, ponder the yard and life. And now, I feel thwarted. I had my chance and confess, I considered removing the nest when I saw the beginnings of grass stuck in the corner space right above the pillar next to where my laundry line begins. I really thought about it.

Momma Robin won. I did not touch the nest. This morning I watched her fly back and forth, beak full of damp leaves or wads of earth and now bits of dropped flotsam litter the area. After depositing her load into the nest, she hops in, shimmying down with a fluff of feathers to make sure it’s just right. Within a few days she’s woven the messy strands of straw into a formidable little home.

Don’t get me wrong – I love birds and respect a nest. I’ll skip whole sections when pruning my privet hedge at the slightest suspicion there’s someone nesting. When cardinals settled in to raise their babies in between the branches of a rose against the breezeway windows, we tiptoed passed for weeks. But this spot is my Grand Central. I am always in and out and live out here as soon as the weather warms. I hang my laundry off the line at least once a week.

I’m not sure how to navigate now. Do I not use the porch? I want her to feel safe and comfortable raising her babies here. I’ll have to figure it out and so will momma Robin. She still takes off when she sees me in the window. So now I’m a little worried I didn’t make her feel welcome.

I looked it up – incubation period is about 2 weeks and another 2 for the babies to move out. Did you know that most bird nests are protected under the Migratory Bird Treaty Act (MBTA)? Don’t tell our current administration about this though – God forbid that any vulnerable living thing be protected. That law will go the way of all the other protective legislature if the emperor gets wind of it.

What an opportunity to recognize and work on myself. I left the nest alone. I obeyed the good law. I’ll love my neighbor. Now I’ll settle in do my best to practice this lesson on living my life with integrity from the best teacher ever: nature.

Support our National Parks.

https://ourparks.org/

Changing Gears: A Writing Conference

It’s been 4 months since I stopped working and I still marvel that every day is all mine. I was a responsible employee and 8 AM to 5 PM belonged to the company. I could have been a goof-off since I worked from home but my boss trusted all of her team and I honored that faith. I confess I cooked up the occasional soup and definitely scrolled through my phone too much but I did not go shopping or have lunch with friends on the clock. My time felt owned. I needed to stop working to reclaim my consciousness. It was time to find my own rhythm to the days before there are no more left.

I’d been doing advance planning for a year or so before my last day of employment. Like riding a bicycle up hill, a biker needs to anticipate the slope and shift gears as pedaling gets harder. Before I stopped working in December, I did a lot of adding up income vs bills, I joined the YMCA so I’d have an exercise routine, planned trips and read a lot. 

I read for inspiration on how to live a rich and creative life over a certain age. This is how I found Oldster Magazine (https://oldster.substack.com/) – an online publication created by the writer and editor, Sari Botton. Oldster includes a great interview series with interesting and off-beat people I can relate to, about what it’s like to age, to be – old! Sari was one of the instructors at the Southern Vermont Writers’ Conference (https://greenmtnacademy.org/pages/southern-vermont-writers-conference) that I just attended. She had posted in Oldster about scholarships for writers over 65. I applied for and won one! What a gift! I returned a week ago Friday, from a nourishing and inspiring 5 days in Manchester VT. I’m still processing the experience but here are some thoughts –

There were two other workshops on offer but I signed up for Sari’s 5 day workshop on Writing Compelling Personal Essays. I struggle to describe what feels like a time of alchemy, especially in that windowless hotel conference room of our workshop. Sari asked big questions and used prompts to get us to go deep in our writing. And we did. In those 5 morning sessions, our little group grew braver by the day, writing pieces that made everyone else cry. Hearts were shared in all their broken beauty. The writing was superb.

Initially I wanted to shy away from writing about what I think of as old pain as if sadness and sorrow can be packed away in the closet like clothes that no longer fit. The 8 of us in Sari’s group wrote about profound losses, heartbreaks, struggles – and created beauty. Pain cracks us like nothing else, opening our senses up to the profound, the stuff of life. This is what interests me and what I want to be doing – mining the riches that live even in the darkness. There, like the bottom of a compost pile, is where fertile material lies.

By the end of the week this group felt like a tribe and remains a goal post for me to be honest and go deep. Being open, seeking and truthful feels like resistance these days and I’m all in on that. Each paragraph of writing shared, set another stone for the way. Comments were insightful and generous. We listened to each other carefully, honoring and following each others voice. There was humor, sass, sexiness, gentleness, tears spilled for ourselves and for each other. A kind love grew in our mornings together under Sari’s gentle, smart guidance. 

I didn’t arrive or leave with a specific intention about writing, I only know that writing compels me and a day feels better when I do it. I don’t want to write in a vacuum. Having readers and getting comments, (thank you!) enriches me as does working with other writers. Life might feel solitary but we are not alone. What reader doesn’t find that to be true after reading something that resonates? Perhaps, someone will find comfort, solace in my writing, may feel less alone.

Caren and Kim, who launched the Southern Vermont Writer’s Conference, created something wonderful by bringing together this group of writers and instructors – weaving together a community of strangers, many becoming new friends. If you write, check them out – they’ll be doing it again next year. You’ll want to be there!

Pruning Fruit Trees and Intent

Peach and pear trees in New England should be pruned in late winter while still dormant. The trouble with this schedule is I am also still hibernating. However, I recently managed to brave the cold and tackle my 2 pear and 2 peach trees. I waited until most of the snow melted to avoid injury. Other than the odd branch poking me in the face, I came away unscathed.

Even after giving away cut branches to other hopeful souls willing to gamble on blossoms emerging from sticks, plenty remained. The wattle fence from last year turned out to look a bit ragged but was useful and effective, not only in preventing visitors from stepping off the front deck onto dangerously wobbly steps, but also providing me with kindling all winter. I just burned the last of it and have prepared the new branches to create another natural barrier. Hopefully this one will be pretty as well as practical.

Still to be cut are a few higher branches that require a ladder to get to. Last year it crossed my mind that I’m getting too old to be climbing my trees. This year I intended to enlist a pal to stand by in case I fell while swinging my handy little electric saw around. But who has time for that? I felt safe and stopped at the first glimmer of self-doubt or weariness. I’m stubborn but careful. I did wait for the snow to melt, after all.

I wrote about pruning and making my wattle fence last year (click underlined link above to read) and maybe I will again next year. Maybe the trees and I will both be around. This is a wish and a hope. I think it’s important to send hope out to the universe while also nurturing it in our own hearts.

Pruning is a kind of hope and commitment towards the future. Otherwise everything goes to shit. Cutting off what’s not needed requires attention and care and can’t be done willy-nilly. I’m hanging on to that. Sometimes I feel the darkness encroaching so I look for light. Sometimes that means forcing myself out in the cold to trim my trees.

Amazingly, as hard as last year’s cuts were, more branches grew back even longer. I have 7 foot pieces in my pile. Last year I wrote: “I know that these harsh cuts were necessary if the trees are to thrive.” While true, that sentence now makes me a little uncomfortable. We hear some version of this from the liars as they gut our government. One difference: we don’t hear the word ‘thrive’. They are not interested in us thriving or in some cases, even surviving. These guys are in it only for themselves. They are not doing this for you or me. We are the serfs.

I recognize the importance of cutting back. I am all for getting rid of waste, increasing efficiency and finding fraud but skill and best intentions are required for making cuts. Fraudsters should not be doing that job. These are nefarious men driving us deeper into debt as a country and individuals as they scheme and get richer and richer. It’s obscene. We’d get rid of the deficit and pay for health care, education – basic human rights – if these same creeps would pay even just their fair share of taxes. Nope. That’s not in the cards. We need a new deck of our own.

We cannot give up hope, nor stop speaking up. Make sure your representatives are really representing you and let them know if you think they’re not. It gets easier to make calls and the young people answering the phones are great.

I suggest signing up for daily emails from the link below. Craven is a very smart activist who suggests different simple acts of resistance. It took me less than 5 minutes to make calls working off easy scripts provided in this beautifully titled site: chopwoodcarrywaterdailyactions@substack.com

By the way – the peaches and pears mostly get eaten by the wildlife. It’s nature’s way and there is enough to go around – we need to share.

Keep the faith, make the calls and don’t lose sight of your joy!

Doing Sensible and Human Things

I booked my trip to a yoga ashram in the Bahamas back in November, not realizing I’d depart the day after inauguration of the evil one. Fortuitous, right? Packing up and leaving the country for a week of meditation, yoga, good food and the Caribbean was a perfect preventive step against being overwhelmed with anger and despair. So far so good.

These are my pals – not me!

During my week away I rarely looked at my phone and read only headlines. I badly needed a social media and news detox. Newly retired, my abundance of time coupled with a motherly compulsion to follow the LA fires and Molly’s proximity had me spending way too much time scrolling.

On the way to evening Satsang

Scrolling is a solitary pursuit but at the ashram I was surrounded by community made up of a diverse group including students doing their teacher training, swamis, karma yogis and vacationers like myself. I managed to connect with too few of the oh-so-many interesting people during long vegetarian meals and barefoot beach walks. Every day I had deep conversations about life, the world – inner and outer – with kin spirits from all over the planet and across generations. Returning home to my quiet life did not feel lonely after so much fulfilling sociability. Inspiration still reverberates and I am reminded that community will save us.

Can you see the little red booted bird?

As will art, including music, writing, plus much laughter, dance, walks, nature and most of all – love! We cannot let the monsters diminish us or our joy!

The other day Molly shared this quote to live by from C. S. Lewis written after the bombing of Hiroshima:

“If we are all going to be destroyed by an atomic bomb, let that bomb when it comes find us doing sensible and human things praying, working, teaching, reading, listening to music, bathing the children, playing tennis, chatting to our friends over a pint and a game of darts—not huddled together like frightened sheep and thinking about bombs. They may break our bodies but they need not dominate our minds.”

The entire essay remains relevant. This passage leapt out at me as so true – just substitute recent events (or not!):

“What the wars and the weather and the atomic bomb have really done is to remind us forcibly of the sort of world we are living in and which, during the prosperous period before 1914, we were beginning to forget. And this reminder is, so far as it goes, a good thing. We have been waked from a pretty dream, and now we can begin to talk about realities.”

Current reality isn’t good. I feel like we need to stay informed, talk about and figure out what we can each do. It’s terrifying. The presidency was bought by the richest man in the world who has already staged a kind of coup – stealing private information, waltzing around like it all, we all – belong to him. Now they (think) they have us where they want us. The tech bros and the emperor (who has no clothes) are all bad. I am not clear about my own footing, where to step next – but hey – it’s the year of the snake – a time for shedding skin and re-birth. It will be uncomfortable for a time but I believe that the reality of what these creeps are trying to put into place will hopefully become apparent to the fooled ones. I believe that we’ll be okay. We’ll find a way to live – better for all. We have to.

There are so many lessons to be learned from history across the world, and in our own communities from those who have long lived under injustice and oppression. Now more than ever, in whatever ways we can, we must fight against authoritarianism, to protect the vulnerable, the earth, each other. We can do this.

Here are a few links of people and organizations I follow for factual information and guidance on how to push back. Please feel free to add your suggestions in the comments.

(Robert Reich suggests: “…you might call your senators and representatives in Congress and tell them you don’t want Elon Musk messing with your Social Security or anything else. That number is 202-224-3121.”

Democracy Now

ACLU

Robert Reich Substack

Heather Cox Richardson – History Behind Today’s Politics

Southern Poverty Law Center

Under the Desk News on Instagram

Fires Raging – What’s the Plan?

For days I followed the news and social media and studied regularly updated Los Angeles fire maps to count the scant (5!) number of blocks of buffer between the ‘Recommended Evacuation’ zone and where my daughter lives.

December 2024 – Foreboding clouds over the Pacific Palisades.

During the holidays Molly, Rufus and I walked along the spectacularly gorgeous stretch along the Pacific. Not long after I returned to Connecticut, news cameras set up on that same sidewalk to report on the flames destroying homes in the Palisades. Smoke hung like nuclear clouds behind the newscasters over the lovely-now-deadly hills that border the Pacific. On one of our walks in December the ocean was particularly wild and clouds were almost frightening, hovering over the mountains in the distance. I took the photograph above. It seems like a disturbing premonition of things to come.

December Walk through what will soon be in the recommended evacuation zone.

The terrible destruction of the fires, the awful loss in communities across the city, is heartbreaking and shocking. Winds have whipped through those gorgeous dry mountains forever. This latest destruction is historically the worst – because of humans. Greedy humans, mostly men, who ignore climate change and care more about their own wealth and survival than us little guys. Most wars can also be tracked back to the same base intentions. When I worked in peacekeeping at the UN my boss would in whisper to me, refer to the leaders sitting around negotiating tables as gangsters.

And today in this country we make our own version of gangsters, official. Welcome to the autocracy. Inauguration day.

I have no idea how to navigate these next years but I will do my best not to live in anger. I will turn to and build my communities and find new ones. Neighbors coming together is a powerful thing. We see this in LA and hopefully, in our own lives. I certainly have. Hope and love lives in communities as do solutions.

My first instinct is as a parent – to protect my child. No matter that she lives across the country and is a grown woman taking excellent care of herself. I watch the flames, worry about the smoke and bad air, climate change. I fear for her future with this new administration. Yes, she is white with the privilege that comes with it – but she is a woman. I fear for young women and tell them to stock up on birth control for starters.

Here’s a ray of hope: today is the day we celebrate Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday. Initially my reaction to inauguration day being the same as Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday celebration seemed terrible. An insult to his legacy. Now I realize, this is a sweet invitation to focus on remembering MLK and looking for hope and a way – rather than pay attention to the depressing pomp and parade of oligarchs ready to take the reins. Martin Luther King Jr. offers us a different door with a path to follow. We must keep the dream alive! Be Love. We can do this.

*The King Center: Established in 1968 by Mrs. Coretta Scott King, The Martin Luther King, Jr. Center for Nonviolent Social Change

I find Timothy Snyder’s list still stands and provides . Author of On Tyranny – a book I purchased and sent out to many friends last time this nightmare was in power. Time to dig it out again. Or just refer to the list link above.

PS: Molly is safe and loving her life in beautiful California.

Wonders

Canyon Country

My Tasmanian handyman recently told me while fixing a leak in my basement that the ‘on’ position for light switches in Australia, is down. To turn ‘off’ the switch goes up. Completely opposite to here. Also, water swirls in the opposite direction when going down the drain.

Yesterday I flew from NYC to Los Angeles to visit my daughter and woke at 3 AM California time — 6 AM in the morning at home in Connecticut – thinking about this stuff. I lay wide awake pondering time, distance and space. I’ve just retired after a lifetime of working – thus, have the leisure to wonder at existence. Of course I know about the differences in hemispheres (although the switch tidbit was new to me!) but it’s been awhile since I’ve focused on how amazing and profound it all is. Flying across the country helped launch me further into this state.

The day of my departure from Connecticut, I left my warm bed at 4:45 in the morning to catch an early morning flight. Within hours after take-off, I was peering down at the wide and empty plains of Missouri, then the Colorado Rockies, the Painted Desert, the Grand and many other fine canyons until reaching the Pacific. I always opt for a window seat. On this flight I noted that few other passengers cracked open the plastic shutter, apparently preferring the darkened airplane cabin to the views outside. I thought about but resisted inviting the sleeping young woman next to me to gawk at the amazing landscape below. I suspect she wouldn’t be interested.

Luckily, my daughter is susceptible to my enthusiasm. Molly also marvels at the world. Last night, walking through a grocery store parking lot she pointed out planets in the darkening sky. Turns out there were no stars to be seen but shining away, above us and brightest of all was the planet of love: Venus. We hooked arms and peered up at the sky together.

Today marks a full week of no longer working. I pinch myself, free to feel and wonder unencumbered by demands on my time, free to move through space, be awed by magnificent landscapes and the flutter of a hummingbird zipping by. (thank you California!) Free to think about my friends and family around the world, perhaps sleeping as I’m awake, easing into summer as we in the north, hunker down for dark cold days.

Maybe I will read more about the science of earth shifts but for now, it’s the being part that interests me. I am here, now in the present and that’s just a fact – for every second there is. It’s as if, after years of focusing on day to day routine of my life as an employee, that I’ve been freed to dust off and switch my lens from macro to wide angle. I try to fathom and catch up to the miracles of this spinning world. Billions of us beings, breathing, hearts beating, simultaneously. New hearts emerge as others exit in every corner of the earth. It’s all a marvel!

The Day After

I cannot believe we are here again. Last time I spent 4 long years being furious. Now I resist the pull of anger, determined to not to be poisoned. I am angry but also, I am grieving the lost glimmer of hope for social justice. The truth has been made clear: this country is controlled by the very rich. White men who only care about themselves. They won. Now they plan to close the door, batten down the hatches. The despicable silver-spoon billionaires now laugh at the rest of us.

I vow to do what I can to let love fill the space where anger wants to live. I will love, stand with and protect my daughter and other young women, people of color, the LGBTQ community, immigrants and refugees. Those of us who care must now protect and love each other more than ever.

On Wednesday morning after learning the results of the election, I wanted to pull the covers over my head and hide all day. Instead, I kept the commitment I’d made to read to students in a nearby city. When I arrived at the school, I randomly picked one of the titles selected for the volunteer readers. I chose The Oldest Student: How Mary Walker Learned to Read by Rita Lorraine Hubbard and was assigned to read to a class of 5th graders.

The teacher welcomed me and told me her class is bilingual and not all the students speak English. She would help as necessary. I introduced myself, and could see from the children’s faces that most did not understand me. I speak no Spanish. So I read slowly.

One boy, more confident and fluent than the others, chimed in where he could to translate key points. Clearly he had taken on the role of a good leader and was keen to share the joy and wonder of the book with his friends, translating what he could understand so they too would at least get the gist of the story. Every bright face followed along as I pointed at the illustrations.

The story is a true and amazing one. Mary Walker began life as a young child slave forced to pick cotton. She was freed with her family at 15, worked to help her mother support her siblings, married and raised her own children while always working. She never learned to read. Pausing after each depiction of Mary’s life I asked them: can Mary read? And they answered: NO! Mary finally did learn to read when she was 116 years old! I asked then: can Mary read? And the class gave me a resounding YES! They got it. The room thrummed with an air of understanding and awe as much at Mary Walker’s longevity as her late life accomplishment. Ah, the joy of reading!

And the tears. While reading, I sometimes felt like crying. Because of the story line, because of the election results, and because I imagined that the hardships suffered by Mary Walker are probably not unfamiliar to these children’s families. Their parents struggle to feed, clothe, protect them as parents do. Most do this at all costs. I’d wager a good percentage of that class, maybe even all, are undocumented and we know what that means. What will 2025 hold for these children?

Judging by the level of their English, I think most are recent arrivals. Perhaps some came through the horrors of the Darien gap – a terrible trek of terror and misery that so many families endured to get here. Hoping for a better life for their children. Hoping for LIFE. During the years I worked in Bosnia and Croatia during the war there, I witnessed the desperation of families forced to flee a home, their roots. Imagine leaving your language, your family, all that is familiar and comforting. No one leaves their home unless they must.

Here we are. On the brink. The American people have spoken and now have what they want. But not all of us. Not these children, not me.

An October Saturday Report

Chickadee Breakfast

Wrens, sparrows, robins, blue jays and the rest of the gang stopped by all summer to splash in the bird bath but for the first time since spring, I’ve starting filling the bird feeder again. For months, there’s been no shortage of berries and bugs for them to eat but now that cold weather is creeping back on us, I want to them to know I’ll be here for them.

Saturday was a glorious warm October day and I spent time sitting on the front porch watching the feeder action and soaking in the sun. A few squirrels foraged for seeds in the fallen leaves with the mourning doves, who prefer the ground for eating – their unwieldy bodies challenged by my vertical feeder. A blue jay noisily announced it’s arrival before gorging on sunflower seeds. Nuthatches and chickadees skittered about joining in with lots of peeping, other jays squawking and squirrels chattering – when they all suddenly quieted. After the audible mass flutter of wings as everyone took off, the yard was silent. There must be a bird of prey around, I thought and briefly looked up at the sky and through the branches. No sign of anything. I returned to staring at my phone and drinking my tea. Whoosh! On the lounge chair a few feet away from me, landed a gorgeous and very large hawk – facing me – both of us wide eyed.

We gazed at each other in shock before it took off with a few flaps across the yard. No hunting in this neighborhood, at least for now! The moment was thrilling and I’m glad none of my feeder-friends became lunch. And what a fantastic cooperative security system they have!

Sound and Seagrass

Around 3, I took the kayak out for what might end up being the last paddle of the season. The sun, still deliciously hot, warmed the wind that made paddling tough but caused no chill. While the water looked relatively calm on the surface, the current was pushing me in directions I didn’t intend so I abandoned my intent to go straight across to the island about 20 minutes away. Instead I lingered near the sandbar that disappears at high tide. I floated, listening to the wind rustle through the sea grass. That was enough.

Sunday Worship on the Isthmus

While driving to the beach on Sunday, a trio of young women caught my eye. They were hurrying towards St. Thomas church, I suspect, a little late to 9 o’clock mass. I glanced at my dashboard clock – 9:10 and the church doors were closed. I was a child the last time I made a dash for mass. My relationship with organized religion ended shortly after my confessional encounter with a ‘father’ whose priest name I forgot along with the prayers he’d assigned me as penance for my venial sin. Nothing from that religion ever stuck again.

When Molly was about 6, Neil and I explored a few churches in the neighborhood – me grasping at straws in search of a miracle or at least guidance in navigating the tortuous road we were on. Also, I figured my daughter should get some religious exposure in spite of my own ambivalent faith. We landed for the longest period of time with the Unitarian Church – about the least churchy of all churches. Molly went to religious instruction celebrating the fun holidays of all major religions and that was enough for her. Neil and I both adored the minister who grappled with questions and peppered his contemplations with poetry. The walls were glass and in the warmer months, opened to bird songs and the rustle of leaves, scents and breezes wafting through. There were some fleeting moments of healing there.

Photo courtesy of Molly

I am no longer quite as church-averse as I used to be. I appreciate the value of community and a gathering of like minds toward a peaceful end can be powerful. I feel rich in friendship from different times and circles in my life and treasure shared meals, walks, adventures, laughter, tears. But for contemplation, I have long been content to retreat to my own space – loving the solitude of a kayak on the Sound. But that might be changing. Perhaps it’s my recent yoga-camp stints that opened my mind about finding a community for shared reflection. And prayer? Maybe. But not yet. I will wait to explore this when I’m done with working. For now I have freedom only on weekends and am loathe to sign up for anything that feels required. Yes, that Catholic stuff is hard to shake.

Another by Molly – taken on her recent visit!

I started this with the intention to write about being on the water, not to plunge into my spiritual journey! And yet, as I paddled away from the shoreline across the calm water with only the odd early fisherman speeding by in a motor boat – I exclaimed – this! This! THIS is my church!

Working on my miracle skills. photo credit – Molly

My paddling was strong and the sun felt good – not yet the glaring heat forecast for the afternoon. I quickly made it to a favorite sandbar. An isthmus of rocks and shells. It’s here that the start of the Norwalk islands begins for me and usually as far as my paddling ambition will take me. This morning, as I reached the sandbar, I pulled my plastic boat over the slippery rocks, took off my life-vest, glasses, hat and plunged into the cold water. After a few underwater strokes, the hum of the Sound in my ears, I popped my head out of the water with a gasp as much to express my elation as to gulp in air. This is my baptism! My first swim of the season out there on my own little beach for as long as the tide stays out.

Within hours, this isthmus disappears, rocks and shells clicking and clacking against each other in the waves as the water shifts. The sandy spot and others like it, will emerge and vanish, over and over again, the land shape and me changing with the tides.

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