a prophetic voice-

Glorious. There's no other word for the weather of the past two  days  here  in my little corner of the world. Sunshine, blue skies,  low humidity,  comfortable temperatures...and this morning, a  memorably beautiful  sunrise, the sky alight with pinks and blues,  with light and shadow of th e sort to drive any artist to her canvas,  knowing that capturing this  spectacle with  brushstrokes would  likely be impossible. As I sit here on my screened porch, I am surrounded by the  music of  birdsong, by the persistent scritch of cicadas, by the  whisper of an  occasional breeze though the trees, and I am  virtually overcome with  a sense of well-being, of joy, of gratitude  for this very ordinary day of  my life. With book in hand, here I  sit, sometimes reading, sometimes  simply being...listening... absorbing the peace and loveliness of this July afternoon. Life, after all, is actually made up of moments...strung together  like a  strand of pearls...precious, eac

  In May of 1996, I was part of a workshop and discussion held at an African-American church in Greensboro, NC. The topic was race relations, and the events of this past week in Florida and throughout this nation reminded me of the way I felt at that time, after listening to so many of the truly angry black speakers taking the microphone and speaking of their personal and collective pain... a pain they emphasized that those of us with white skin could never really understand. I found myself taking the microphone m yself that day and, with tears in my eyes, appealing to my sisters and brothers of another skin color to know and see and realize that I was t ruly trying to understand... trying to rid myself of my part in the racism so prevalent in our society...trying to reach out, only to find my hand figuratively slapped aside, my efforts rejected. I recalled this week the total frustration I felt that long-ago day and when I came home, I took pen in hand and, as is my

Re-shelving and sorting books today, putting them in alphabetical order by author, since that is the way I have found it is easiest for me to find the one I want. Surprisingly, I am far more likely to recall the author than the title of a particular book. I say surprisingly because I am increasingly subject to those little memory slips, lightly called "senior moments" by those who don't yet have them (though they will...I promise). For instance, today I was emailing a friend with the names of several other people who would be attending a meeting and one name just...went. Could not think of it for the life of me...though I could clearly picture the person's face, could even hear her voice. But do you think her name would come? Blank- that was my mind- one big blank. But in the book sorting today I encountered a book I had forgotten I had. Amidst my many, many, many volumes of poetry by various and sundry poets, there was Forever Fifty by Judith Viorst. Now I am cl

The ancient navigators sailed straight into the mouth of the unknown, wagering all. -DIANE ACKERMAN in Deep Play Have I ever done that...sailed into the mouth of the unknown... risking everything? Going to seminary felt that way at times...the long drive to an unfamiliar place...returning to a place of learning but this time tackling subjects which were Greek to me... gambling that my husband and son would manage somehow...that I could somehow balance all of the disparate elements of my life... cover all the bases myself- be pitcher, catcher, and clean-up hitter in a four-year game without rules or clear boundaries- and few guides to show the way. Going to Africa felt that way at times...the lengthy travel to an unfamiliar place...a sense of return to a place of heart connection, yet surrounded by different languages, different cultures...gambling that all would be well at home...that I could somehow balance the many sights, sounds, smells, demands which

And suddenly it is mid-July...summer is simmering, and here in Carolina the rains have been on-going, breaking records from the mountains to the coast, while forest fires continue to rage in the west. Reminds me to be grateful for whatever each day holds, however it unfolds. And summer foods are a special gift: home-grown tomatoes, corn-on-the-cob, peaches, watermelon, blueberries, green beans, peppers...virtually all of my favorite fruits and vegetables, making each dinner table a veritable rainbow of colors, a cornucopia of flavors.     The grands are loving summertime, too, spending long hours outdoors and relishing every moment of the somewhat intermittent sunshine. I see them growing brown and strong and, again, I give thanks for the gift of their presence in my life. Now that I have more time for myself, I have been cooking and baking, loving the time in the kitchen, imbuing each recipe with lots of love for all those who will share the abundance with me. I picture the smil