The measure of my anxiety

 

The opening to at least one season of Downton Abbey shows the servants setting the table, using a ruler to precisely align each table setting. I am having a spot of surgery this afternoon (nothing serious, nothing major, I hasten to add) so have been trying to sidestep my anxiety by doing some prep for Thanksgiving dinner. Which we are hosting on Thursday.

I pulled out the china from the cabinet and brought up the extra silverware from the basement. I set out the serving dishes. I ironed the table runner feeling both old-fashioned, (ironing the linens?!?) and soothed. I find ironing very soothing, it's one of the things Parkinson's made so difficult and my ability to do it again a source of almost as much gratitude as folding my socks.

Was the table runner centered? I adjusted it and contemplated it from various angles. Maybe? Ah — the Downton Abbey scene flashing into memory — I have a ruler in the kitchen. Yes, in fact it was centered. Now if only I can stay centered!

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O Cecilia!

 Writing this reflection gave me a serious Simon & Garfunkel earworm last February!

I will give thanks to you, O Lord, with all my heart;
I will declare all your wondrous deeds.
I will be glad and exult in you;
I will sing praise to your name, Most High. — Psalm 9

On this day, we celebrate the memorial of St. Cecilia, so it is not surprising that a line in the opening verse of the psalm caught my eye: I will sing praise to your name. Cecilia is, perforce, the patron saint of music and musicians, of all who give voice to God’s praises in song.

Over and over in the psalms, we hear the imperative: Sing! Qui cantat, bis orat, said St. Augustine (perhaps). To sing is to pray twice. Music propels a text out of two dimensions. It pulls us into a space where beat and timbre, harmony and counterpoint can rouse us, can give shape to what is ineffable, unutterable.

I take a deep breath to begin the entrance hymn, and encounter God’s expansive grace, enabling me to be just a little bit more than who I was a moment before. I feel the pew shiver under my hands as the organ digs into a deeper register, my awe of the all-powerful, ever-living God literally palpable. I hear the woman behind me in line for communion break into a soprano descant and am reminded that in prayer, as in music, we are called to be one Body, one Word, our differences intricately woven into a stronger and more beautiful whole.

St. John of the Cross called prayer the breathing of God in the soul and of the soul in God. So, whenever I sing in prayer, the living Word of God breathes within me, and I, alive with that Word, breathe within God.

— From Give Us This Day, November 2025

Light from light

I am giving a day of retreat at a retreat house in Bryn Mawr on the first Tuesday of Advent:

“God comes to us in light and in shadow. Aflame in a bush calling out to Moses, brilliant in the star that led wise men to a savior in a manger, and radiant in Christ transfigured on a mountain top. But as poet Rainer Marie Rilke noted, God can also be found deep in the darkness. A billowing cloud led Israel through the desert, the Holy Spirit overshadowed Mary so that she might bear the Messiah, a voice from a cloud spoke of a beloved Son. As we await the celebration of the birth of the Light of the World, join us as we pray with these luminous images.”

I spent today sketching the texts for the four reflections that will frame the day and working out the discussion/sharing sessions that (I hope) will draw people into conversation with each other and the material. It was such a grace to have an entire day to devote to writing and thinking, to work at an unforced pace. This is what I am looking forward to in the next phase of my life!

And I learned how to use my phone to capture what I am thinking aloud and transcribe it for me. I had been using Dragon dictation on a PC when I didn’t want to type, but it’s nice to be able to not have to mov between devices (the phone syncs automatically to the laptop). 

Quantum quacks

Could I fund my retirement not by writing, but by hawking “zero point energy wands” sold by a real quantum mechanic? 

For  $119.97 (marked down from $169.99) you can buy a “scalar energy tool… infused with a full spectrum of over 18000+ beneficial vibrational frequencies.” Made of a  “ proprietary blend of semi-precious minerals, bioceramics, and crystals.” Ah, and a free wanding guide is included. 

Zero point energy is the inaccessible energy that a quantum mechanical system can have. For example, at absolute zero molecules are still moving, quivering in their places. This residual kinetic energy isn’t recoverable, by physics or by a wand of any sort. The wanding guide would be funny ("Drink a glass of wanded water before wanding yourself as it frequently speeds things up as your internal water molecules listen more effectively to the wand energy.") except that the list of maladies they purport to treat tells you that they are preying on the vulnerable. Cancer pain.

So definitely not how I'll be funding my retirement. 

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Walmart sells them for $19.99.

I'm not linking to the wanding guide or the wands themselves, because I don't want to give them more visibility.

“Quantum quacks” is the title of my next column in Nature Chemistry — about semantic drift and the woo that clings to “quantum” these days. It’s framed around zero point energy wands.

Tiny transporter

 

The family chat is sprinkled with photos of what we are cooking and baking. A way of being in each other’s kitchens when we are far apart. I can drool over Math Guy and his husband’s focaccia stuffed with mortadella. A loaf of Crash’s sourdough brings back memories of tending the starter during the pandemic. Math Man’s breakfast omelet. 

Today I am trying a recipe for an orange cranberry loaf. (The recipe suggests it freezes well and I am hoping I can slice and freeze for an occasional treat with my afternoon tea!) Photos of the process went into the family chat. Crash’s partner responded, “I wish you could send that overseas!!”

“We need the transporter, at least for loaves. Like how much power should it take for a little one, the size of a microwave?”

Math Guy bounced in to suggest that you just need a tiny fusion reactor. Which reminded me of the time he created a ball of plasma in the microwave, a little tiny sun hovering between two halves of a grape. 

Next kitchen renovation? Never mind a pot filler for the stove, I want a tiny fusion reactor and a toaster oven sized transporter to beam a slice of cake across town or across the Atlantic.