You say tom-ay-to

... and I say to-mah-to...so goes the song my mother used to sing. For some reason, tea and salt are back in the news again in the UK tabloids.  There doesn't appear to be any contemporary hook for the piece, though tomatoes do come up: Use less salt in a cup of tea than you would on a tomato, advised a Reddit user back when the controversy was fresh. I would say, probably a lot less!

An eye for the extraordinary

Annie Dillard died yesterday. I was looking for Bird by Bird on my shelves yesterday (by Anne Lamott). I know it is here — because there is no longer anywhere else — but I kept bumping into Dillard. The Writing Life. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. That weasel essay. I gave it up for the day.

Today I tried again. Book by book. But no Bird by Bird. Instead I pulled Dillard's The Writing Life off the shelf. Its bristling with sticky notes, notes from past Michelle to present Michelle, I suppose. Or a note from the universe to remember Annie Dillard's gifts to me.

I gave the reading at the undergraduate commencement this spring. Traditionally the choice of reading is left to the person giving the reading. And of course, it should be short. The students I had taught in the first year writing seminar were graduating and I wanted something that might reach back to that class (titled  “Women who see through walls” and reading women poets, mystics and scientists — and some people who crossed those lines). I decided no wild life from Mary Oliver . “Antidotes to Fear of Death” by the late Becky Elson (an astrophyscist and poet) felt a little too dark for this event. Annie Dillard’s weasel essay called to me, but also felt a bit violent..stalking your calling? But Dillard? Yes, Dillard! I used a piece from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek written when she was young (though not quite as young as the graduates.) There is some stalking, but no blood.

"For the scientists, mathematicians, social scientists, humanists, poets, writers, for all of you who have peered through the walls of the universe, dug under them, clambered over them, taken them apart, and made something new…stone by stone. From Annie Dillard, “The Waters of Separation” in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek:

“The gaps are the thing. The gaps are the spirit's one home, the altitudes and latitudes so dazzlingly spare and clean that the spirit can discover itself for the first time…unbound. The gaps are the clefts in the rock…they are the fissures between mountains and cells the wind lances through, the icy narrowing fjords splitting the cliffs of mystery. Go up into the gaps. If you can find them; they shift and vanish, too. Stalk the gaps. Squeak into a gap in the soil, turn and unlock—more than a maple— a universe. This is how you spend this afternoon, and tomorrow morning, and tomorrow afternoon. Spend the afternoon. You can't take it with you.” 

(Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, Harpers, 1974, p. 269)

 

Monk mode

64A distraction-limiting lifestyle trend 
MONKMODE 

— NYT Crossword Sunday, 13 September 2026

A friend sent me an article yesterday about the sale of a Trappist monastery in Colorado. The community had grown too small and so the remaining monks were returning to the community that had spawned them. The author wonders about the ways in which the vocation of a monk and the yearnings of those who go into the wilderness parallel each other. She quotes Douglas Christie  in The Blue Sapphire of the Mind: Notes for a Contemplative Ecology, who describes the “desire to be immersed within an immensity—to become endlessly, hopelessly lost in it, tumbling down, out, into a vast space, borne along, carried ever deeper by love—is itself endless.”

To me the call to the monastic life is the antithesis of a trend, however trendy it may seem at the moment. Nor am I at all certain that "distraction limiting" is the best description of a monk's life. Having never been a monk, I can't really say, but immersive would be one description I might reach for. Attentive. Still. Mindful. Simple. Extravagant. Open. Cloistered.  

Whatever it is, it's not an antidote to a loud and chaotic world. Martin Laird OSA in Into the Silent Land suggests, "This is why most people don't stick with a contemplative discipline for very long; we have all heard all sorts of talk about contemplation bringing inner peace but when we turn within to seek this peace, we meet inner chaos instead of peace. But at this point it is precisely the meeting of chaos that is salutary, not snorting of lines of euphoric peace." 

Perhaps the call to the monastic life is like a rickety ladder leading into the unseen depths. At times you may cling to the ladder for dear life, too terrified to go down another rung.  Or breathlessly, you dart up until you see the feet of the monk above you,  to be sure that you are not alone. Then there are the moments where you simply wait, drawn neither up nor down. The ladder shakes and creaks. And whatever is in the depths is calling your name with such intensity that eventually you will continue to descend.

Magic decoder

I have been blogging in this space for more than 22 years. Almost a third of my life? When I began in 2004, blogs — online diaries — were having a moment. People wrote about science and parenting and hobbies and teen-aged angst. MySpace was a year old, and reaching a global audience. I ended up on what was then Blogspot and is now Blogger for reasons that now escape me. There were monetized mommy blogs and science blogs and hobby blogs and blogs that started and after two posts stopped. There was WordPress for the blogger who wanted to micromanage every aspect. There were readers that tracked the blogs you read, letting you see updates at a glance. And then there weren’t. MySpace had a meltdown and lost more than a decade of users’ content. (Always back-up!) And a couple of years ago, MySpace became read only. The rise and fall of blogging. 

Now there are Substack and Medium. Blogs by another name.

And here I am, still blogging. Still on bare-bones Blogger. I have written 2140 posts, 300 of them remain in draft. A total of 653,464 words. How do I know that last? I learned Python and wrote a few hundred lines of code to take a feed.atom file (what Blogger gives you for a back up) and turn into a tidy Scrivener project, each post in its own document along with any images, tagged with its publication date and carrying its metadata along. I can pull up all the posts from 2015 and turn them into a cleanly formatted file (PDF or Word or RTF or…). I can collect all of Barnacle Boy’s adventures. [His comment: “My whole childhood is on there.” Not quite, see below!] Or everything I tagged “Ignatian.” I can mine my own data. How many em dashes have I used over the years? It’s like having a magic decoder ring.

Why have I kept up the blog all these years? The tag line at the top of my blog says (in Latin , because everything always sounds more profound in Latin, right?): Tenet insanabile multo scribendi cacoethes.“An inveterate and incurable itch for writing besets many.” It besets me and certainly the blog scratches my itch to write, the need to wrap words around what I notice.

Writing is thinking through your fingers, said Isaac Asimov. I write to think through things, to clarify and sharpen my ideas, my arguments. It’s what was so devastating to me before I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s, when my typing mysteriously became glacial and writing by hand impossible. Denied my usual tools to write, I felt stripped of my ability to think. Ideas swirled around, but it became harder and harder to capture and refine them. (Note the absence of posts in early 2024. Note also my gratitude for the diagnosis and the medication that has given me back so much.)

The blog is a seed bed for my writing over all. On occasion it has led to opportunities to write for print, more often I can pull a phrase or return to an experience years past in a new piece of writing, the details kept fresh in a post. I certainly could have kept a private journal or written some version of morning pages, but the discipline of writing cleanly and clearly for a public audience, no matter how tiny, made those bit and pieces richer.

Because the blog is public, and not anonymous, I have tried never to write anything I would be ashamed of seeing on the front page of the New York Times. Or to write about students or colleagues or family in a way that embarrassed or denigrated them. (So, no, my kids’ whole childhoods are not here, and there is not a juicy academic roman á clef to be dug out of the posts.)

I have met some amazing people through the blog, some have become incredible friends and colleagues outside the confines of the interwebs, some who I only know as a screen name on a comment. What is a writer if there are no readers? 

I have enjoyed having this space to think aloud, to wrestle with ideas that had no other place to go. I hope to continue to enjoy it for years to come (and yes, I back up regularly!). Thank you for reading!

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The interface keeps suggesting I “correct” blog to blob. 

I have eaten of the tree of knowledge

A couple of years ago I went around the corner from my back yard to find a substantial snake coming the opposite way. The snake quickly headed under the forsythia and I decided to go around the other way. I hadn’t seen any snakes in the yard since, though I’d seen snake skins on the sidewalk, and earlier this week a large snake on the side of the road nearby. So I knew they were here. Somewhere.

Today I was doing a bit of yard clean-up. I tidied up my pile of kindling, ready for the first cool night and a fire. I thought I’d deal with a raised bed under the apple tree, and the old tarp that was covering it, weighted down by some bluestone pavers.I stacked the pavers, pulled up the tarp and there was a tiny snake, not even a foot long and no thicker than my little finger, wrapped into the top of an upturned pot. Whoops! 

No picture, alas, by the time I went in and got my phone, it had decamped. Also, alas, my snake identification skills are non-existent. The picture with the post is from an encounter in the Maryland mountains some years back, and this one I could identify. I am certain that the little one I disturbed was not venomous.

I have eaten of the tree of knowledge (even if the apples are long gone), the knowledge of good and evil. Or at least the knowledge of snake habits, and decided that perhaps today was not the day to turn that pot over, particularly with my naked hands.

“I will put enmity between you and the woman, and between your offspring and hers; They will strike at your head, while you strike at their heel.” Genesis 3:15

A Tale of Two Offices

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way..." A Tale of Two Cities, Charles Dickens

The office was full, the office was empty. I have everything packed, I have nothing unpacked. I once had two offices, now — incredibly — they have collapsed into a single reality. Things are still jostling for space, the beakers of bright colored markers and sharp pencils patiently wait for me to decide whether they get tucked into a drawer or live on a desk. I sometimes despair of taming the chaos. 

Everything remains before me, even as nothingness blooms on my calendar. I have new projects hatching into those empty spaces: I'm learning to code in Python — my 7th coding language, a retreat to prepare and give, some exploratory noodling around for a new book. Older projects are simmering: two books in various stages of completion, a couple of talks on tea coming up. 

And there are tendrils of grief. I watched the Bryn Mawr back-to-school reel on Instagram and realized how deeply I miss the brightness of my classes, their energy, their curiosity that drove my own. I miss having that other space on campus to call home, where I hung my keys in the little cubby by the door and like Mr. Rogers donning his sweater, draped Dr. Francl across my shoulders. 

I ran into a former student this morning at the pharmacy waiting to get my flu shot (and my Covid vaccine and my shingles vaccine...I got my tetanus shot a couple of weeks ago thanks to the epic altar crash, I am awash in immunity). She came over, offered me her coupon reward for getting her vaccines and then vanished before I had a chance to catch my breath and ask her how she was and what she was doing. I miss the students.

"(Be)comings all involve goings. I keep musing about how Christ holds all these things in tension: birth/death; emptiness/fullness; light and darkness; dance and stillness….and perhaps that’s what it means to be fully human, to live in death and life, light and darkness?" 

I am going, so I must perforce be becoming? But what and how and when? Where I know — my study!

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Images: My office shortly before I packed it up, and right before I closed the door on it. Last photo is of my space as a first year graduate student (a corner of a windowless office on the 3rd floor of what is now Rowland Hall at UCIrvine.) Until very recently the black and red organic chemistry textbook on my desk was still on my shelf.

The quote is me, which someone else captured and tagged as wise. 

Rearranging deck chairs

A futile or pointless task is sometime described as “rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic.” My study at home has been in chaos for months now. Between finishing off the manuscripts for two books and packing up my office at the college, I have just let entropy have its way. But I have been doggedly working my way through the stuff that came home: boxes in the dining room, bags in the entryway, bin and boxes and bags in the living room. All that stuff needing to find a spot to live (aside from the floor) or be gone…

Last weekend I finally emptied the last box in the dining room and have only a bin left in the living room. The rest has been shelved or stashed or sent off. Or moved to my study floor where no one but me sees it. Except on Monday evening I agreed to record an interview for an evening news show Tuesday afternoon, inviting who knows how many people to see my working space.  Something had to be done and fast.

Since I no longer have my college office as a back-up, Tuesday morning had me taking the semi-organized piles and really sorting them. More stuff went into the recycling. And hey, the Lent book and its Spanish translation have been proofed, so all those books can get re-shelved. Same for the stuff I used to prepare to preach this week. There were still a lot of piles, which I then lined up like those deck chairs in front of the shelves where they did not show on camera (I checked!). I did the interview (you can see it here - about the Nancy Grace Roman telescope that launched this week), whew. 

What surprised me was how much less cluttered it feels with those deck chairs re-arranged. I am not tripping over them when I try to get stuff from the shelves. Each pile has a focus, which I can now tackle one at a time. Sometimes just getting the deck chairs lined up makes a difference, if nothing else I have a clearer evacuation route from my study!

An examen for the present moment

My parish has been running a reading and discussion group called “Theology Untapped.” We meet monthly and over the summer we have been working our way through Pope Leo’s new encyclical, Magnifica Humanitas. The encyclical is long (45,000 words!) and the conversations could only begin to explore the theologically rich and pastorally challenging landscape that the pope walks us through. The conversations provoked some passionate, almost heated, conversations. I had some thoughts (which were shared in the parish bulletin this weekend)…

While it is tempting to call this the encyclical about artificial intelligence (AI), Magnifica Humanitas’ principal focus is the inviolable dignity of each and every human person as a cherished daughter or son of God. AI may be the current challenge to our humanity, but there have been others in our history —  slavery —  and there will undoubtedly be more in our future. How do we respond to current technological developments, including AI, in the light of faith and two thousand years of Catholic social teaching? What serves our sisters and brothers, particularly those unseen and those living at the margins, and what strips them of their humanity, turning them into living, breathing widgets, where productivity becomes the principal measure of a person’s worth. That’s the question Pope Leo is asking in Magnifica Humanitas, and it is the question that’s driven some intense conversations among those coming to Theology Untapped.

How are we to respond, as individuals and as a parish community? As valuable as the discussions have been, we kept returning to the need for more than just words in response to the present moment. Yet it can seem daunting, what can one or two of us do to change the course of the world? Yet, as the pastor reminded us, the work of twelve fishermen arguably changed the world. Like the loaves and the fishes, what we bring to the table can seem like very little, but God can multiply our efforts. 

Pope Leo does not let us off the hook either. [sorry, I could not resist the pun!] Near the end of the encyclical he writes: “At this point, however, a subtle temptation may emerge, namely the thought that the problems are too big and we are too small, and that our choices, therefore, cannot make a difference. This is a polite form of resignation…We all have our own areas for action, and it is precisely there — and nowhere else — that we must choose whether to fuel the mentality of force (even if only through indifference, cynicism, lies or hatred), or to preserve the mindset of peace (with truth, moderation, closeness and care).” (Magnifica Humanitas 212)

Pope Leo suggests five ways we might navigate the present challenges: “the need to disarm words, building peace through justice, adopting the perspective of victims, cultivating a healthy realism and reviving dialogue and multilateralism.”

One of those attending the last meeting said he was so moved by Pope Leo’s challenge that he was committing to reading that one paragraph of Magnifica Humanitas (212) every day. I was inspired to do similarly, making of Pope Leo’s path an examen: How have I wielded my words? How have I worked for justice and so for peace? Have I had eyes for the poor, have I sought out such encounters? Am I listening closely to all the world and not hiding within my own bubble? What might I do going forward — tomorrow — to walk more closely with Christ on these paths?

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Want to try a bit of an Ignatian exercise? Begin by reading Jesus’ challenge in Matthew’s Gospel (Matt 25:34-40). Imagine yourself in the crowd, what do you hear? Now skip to the end of Magnifica Humanitas and read the section titled “We can all do our part” (paragraphs 212-228). Imagine sitting down with Christ and having a conversation about the five paths and your next steps. 

They have washed their robes

 

[T]hey have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb — Revelations 7:14b

My sharpest memory of last Saturday's epic fall on the altar is the sound of the water cruet breaking. It sounded like I imagine a hand grenade might, more of an explosion than a shattering crash. I remember sitting on the floor trying to process what had just happened. Was I hurt? Nothing hurt. But the blood on the hem of my alb suggested there was damage somewhere to someone. 

Shock is a funny thing. Sitting in the small chapel behind the main altar I was still trying to figure out how I had managed to get a spatter of blood on the hem of the alb, when I turned over my wrist to see the blood soaking through my sleeve. Right. My right wrist was dripping. And now it hurt. 

Once the immediate things were dealt with, and the wrist wrapped up so that I wouldn't drip on anything else, I took off the alb. I didn't notice the wine that had soaked the left side. (Really, shock is quite a funny thing.) One of the other servers drove me home, and we wondered if the alb was salvageable. 

When I discovered the next morning that I would need to get out both blood and all that red wine, it looked dismal. But if the problem could be solved, I have just the right mix of people in my life to help me tackle it: chemists, artists, Episcopal church women, priests and deacons, monks, and mothers. I put the robe in cold water to soak and posted my dilemna to Facebook. My friends did not disappoint! 

I learned about WineAway (which might also remove blood.) Would salt do it? Club soda?  Peroxide? Oxiclean? Would that take out the wine, too? Or maybe the Carthusian novice master was right and the water would be enough?

I ran the alb through a rinse cycle in cold water. I clearly am not as holy as a Carthusian. The blood stains are all still there.  (Perhaps I should have used holy water?) The violet wine stains, though, have utterly vanished. On to the Oxiclean. I made a paste of the stuff and worked it into the stains using a toothbrush. I let the alb sit overnight on an old white towel. By morning some of the smaller stains were totally gone! I rinsed and repeated, fascinated to watch the stain move from the alb into the towel, like paper chromatography. Three rounds — how Trinitarian — and the stains seemed gone. A final wash, and I hung it up to dry. 

My alb, once awash in (literal) blood and in the wine intended to become (literally) the blood of the Lamb was white. It feels like a small miracle.

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Larger miracles. There are a lot of moving parts in your hand, and the glass managed to miss them all. 

All the advice reminds you not to put the stained item in the dryer or iron it before you are sure the stain if out. Don't set the stain.

I am sure there is a homily/reflection in here about sin and reconciliation.

Sacred laundry

“There are many helpful Episcopal Church web sites about getting lipstick off purificators and candle wax off altar cloths but nothing about removing blood stains from albs.” From a 4:20 am text to Crash Kid and his partner.

My soon-to-be daughter in law shot back, “This is written like the opening line to a mystery novel I would want to read!!”

Maybe this is the next book? The current mystery is more practical. How do I get the blood stains and the red wine stains out of my white alb, currently soaking in cold water? Just like in a mystery novel, let’s use a little flashback here…

I was the altar server at the 5pm vigil Mass last night. We had a visiting priest who preached a banger of a homily, and I was trying to be attentive to both those weird “unique to this parish” things for the visitor and to the ways he prefers to preside. So, you know, I was trying to be mindful and attentive to the liturgy. Pride, as we know, goes before a fall. And it surely did.

The gifts were presented, I took the wine with me to the credence table at the back of the altar to collect the cruet with the water. As I turned and took a step I caught my foot in the hem of my alb. Suddenly I realized I was going to fall and there was nothing to stop me but the marble floor. My training in how to fall (thank you UCI Dance and El Gabriel) kicked in and I tucked and rolled. The water cruet flew from my hand and shattered with a tremendous crash. In seconds the altar was swarmed by people. I am mortified, also wet. As they began to help me up I looked at the hem of my alb and saw a bright red stain. Uh-oh.

"Someone is bleeding," I thought. Then a few seconds later,"It's probably me." It was. Off I went with two parishioners who are nurses to the small chapel behind the main altar where we staunched the bleeding. Presumably clean-up went forward, but I was out of play. The presider came back to make sure I was ok, and told me it was going to be a memorable visit. Someone popped back to ask me if the wine had been consecrated. No. Definitely not. Someone else said that the wine was sitting, apparently unspilled and unbroken on the floor. (As it turned out, a great deal had spilled, all over my alb, but I didn't drop it and apparently set it neatly on the floor. Huh.) They got fresh wine anyway. Good. 

We hunted up a first aid kit to bandage things up so I didn't drip on my alb anymore. The pastor came. It's communion, the helpers went out to receive, the ministers came back so I could receive. (Is this technically allowed? Is it covered under communion for the sick? Did I satisfy the Sunday obligation? This is Roman Catholicism, thereby there must be a rule. No one invoked it. There are definitely rules in place that cover what happens if the priest can't go on — see De defectibus.)

I went home, carrying the alb. Math Man took me to the ER. It took four hours and three rounds of X-rays to locate and removed the glass embedded in my hand. There were jokes. Math Man sent Math Guy photos of the damage (to reassure him I was told). "Stigmata!" he chortled. The transport tech wanted to know if I'd been in a bar fight. (It didn't occur to me that I must have reeked of alcohol, all that red wine on shoes and pants, which were at least black. Parkinson's has dulled my sense of smell.) 

There were apologies from the staff that it was taking so long, and thanks for my patience. I didn't tell them that I had once been in that ER and not had to wait. It didn't end well. Waiting is good.  Except that waiting gives the ghosts time to gather. 

This morning I picked up the alb from where I'd left it yesterday and noticed the violet stains everywhere. What? Oh. The wine. Which leads to the question at hand: how do you get both red wine and blood out of a white alb?

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Odd thoughts: 

Is the clean up protocol different if the wine had been consecrated? Short answer. Yes.

There is advice about cleaning blood stains in First Initiation into Carthusian Life (a manual for Carthusian novices, mostly on prayer, but with practical advice on mail and meals and laundry tacked on to the end).  Soak in COLD water and the stains will vanish in short order, it advises (But only in a Carthusian charterhouse, the rest of us might need to summon the imps of Oxiclean.)

Spelling: the sign “waive here” outside ED radiology (to open the door) a place I visited repeatedly; the clinical notes say I fell on the "alter".

"In Residence" - the Shonda Rhimes mystery we've been watching. Lots of flashback. A scene where the White House chef Marvella smashes glasses on the floor, screaming "Broken glass!"

French Sundays

On Sunday, Math Man announced he was taking a breather. Reading a novel, trying a new recipe (gazpacho - it was great) and watching the US Amateur golf (being played right down the road from us). The last few Sundays he has been busy: visitors, conferences, building new bookshelves to house the books coming home from my office. Nothing sounded like a great plan for a rainy Sunday. 

As I had my tea and browsed the news on my tablet, I noticed an article "French Sundays." The author advocated for a day of rest and recreation, based on the practice in France (where the law provides for a day of rest and many things are perforce closed on Sundays). Don't plan on chores, don't plan an elaborate brunch, don't plan much at all, in fact. Embrace the chance to noodle around, pick up a novel or decide at the last minute to take a walk with your partner. Above all, don't look at your work email.

All good ideas, but what really struck me was that this article managed to never once mention or even intimate that the practice was not merely a French curiosity, but had deep roots in religious traditions. Sabbath has been practiced for millennia. Though if it had, then it might have had to wrestle with the fact that the choice of Sunday as the day of rest is primarily Christian, and other faith traditions have made other choices.

________

Gazpacho recipe (after Julia Moskin's in NYT Cooking)

Makes enough for two for dinner with leftovers for Math Man's lunch the next day.

1 lb fresh tomatoes, cored and roughly chopped
1/2 bell pepper, seeded and roughly chopped
1 clove garlic, peeled
1/2 cucumber (peeled and roughly chopped)
1/2 small onion (yes,  roughly chopped)
1/3 cup good olive oil, extra to drizzle on top
1 tsp champagne vinegar
salt to taste

Put the vegetables into the blender (we did this in two batches) and blend until very smooth. While the blender is running, add the vinegar and then stream in the olive oil. Taste. The soup should be creamy, not watery. Add a bit more olive oil if it seems watery and then salt to taste. 

Chill in the refrigerator while you chill on the sofa. Serve in a glass, with an optional drizzle of olive oil.

Is my office bugged?

Is my office bugged? Short answer. Yes.

Well literally, yes. Also metaphorically. Or it least it feels that way. My latest column for Nature Chemistry is titled "Bug Bites," about the taste of bugs (and having a taste for bugs). It hatched while at my niece's wedding reception early in the summer. The crew of cousins got onto the topic from a conversation about cilantro (stink bugs taste like cilantro, as it happens), and then suggested I write about it.

As I was drafting the piece, I went downstairs to grab a second cup of tea from the carafe in the kitchen. I carried it upstairs, set it down on the desk, and got back to work. I absently-mindedly picked up the mug and noticed something off with the scent. It wasn't quite as floral as I expected. I peered into the cup to find a (dead) earwig bobbing about. Oh dear. Its alarm cocktail of dimethyl disulfide and dimethyl trisulfide had given my tea a mephitic edge.

I removed the unfortunate earwig, and drank the tea.

It seemed beyond coincidental that my tea should be bugged, was the universe listening in? I still can't figure out where it came from. I had rinsed the carafe with hot water before filling it with tea, and it had been tightly sealed. I had already had one cup of earwig-less tea in the mug. The sugar bowl is covered. Where did it come from? 

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I took a photo of the bugged tea and of the earwig I fished out, but it felt a bit too gross to illustrate this post. (I described it to Math Man over dinner who winced every time I said "mandible".) So the mug is my organic chemistry mug.

Proof

 

My seventh (!) book will be published this fall. A book of reflections for next Lent. The proofs came a couple of weeks ago, and once the manuscript for book eight (eight? eight?) went out the door, I had some time and space to devote to this devotional.

I still proof on paper, circling errors with a red ballpoint, pressing into the surface of the paper, leaving a literal wound to mark wounded text. I read it end to end, cold, then again side by side with the text I submitted. Were those snippets of scripture exactly what was in the lectionary? Quotes from the psalms sometimes are pulled from my memory (and my heart and my soul) as I write, not from any specific text. Better check against the source!

When the latest revision of the US English Catholic Lectionary came out, I didn’t add it to my collection. I have the most recent British one, the previous US one, but mostly I turn to the USCCB site or use Give Us This Day. The ritual books in my parish are stored behind the main altar, in a space reserved for quiet meditation in front of the tabernacle. So one afternoon last week, I laid the proofs on the small wooden altar, pulled the Sunday and daily lectionaries from the shelf, and with the Word before me, and the Word at my right hand, I proofed the pericopes. I could have taken the books and proofs to the small library next door, or to the sacristy, but this space felt right.

I used a book called Stones Before the Lord (about monastic architecture) when I taught a course on the history of contemplation in the West. Proofing on the altar left me feeling like I was laying stones of a different sort before the Lord. Stepping stones from Ash Wednesday to Easter, perhaps, or maybe a staircase cut into a cliff taking you from from a rocky beach on the wind-whipped Scottish coast to a chapel nestled high above. Or living stones, to use the image from the first letter of Peter, pulled from my own prayer. Stones I wanted to be properly cut and laid so they might support people's path though next Lent, and not be  stumbling blocks.

I found a few errors and marked them up, now it's headed back to Liturgical Press.

_______

Proofs. It's been a week of proofs. I proofed yeast last night to make pizza crusts. I proofed this book. I sorted through proofs of once new quantum mechanical theories, snapping a picture or two to remember the work I had done (and long ago published), then sent them into oblivion (actually the recycling bin!).

Grief’s half-life

I am slowly (glacially?) clearing off shelf space at home, so that some of the books in my office can have a spot. I skim the shelves, looking for books that I can’t imagine reading again (or that I could get from the library should I wish to revisit them). Intermingled with my and Victor’s and the kids’ books are some of Tom’s. Books from college courses, novels. In some ways Tom’s old books were easy to triage. He does not require physical copies of them on this earth, and I have no memories attached to them (we didn’t meet until graduate school). Off they go. 

Tucked into one shelf in the wall of books off the kitchen was a journal I didn’t immediately recognize with a photo of a pair of battered pointe shoes on the cover. I pulled it out and opened it to find letters I had written to Tom after he died. I read two and closed the cover. It seems they are still hot, radioactive, like Marie Curie’s cookbooks.

What, I wonder is grief’s half-life? And how many have elapsed? We say that after 10 half-lives have elapsed the material is safe to handle (less than 0.1% remains). But even then radioactive events are still occurring, randomly spitting out particles and gamma rays.

What's my name?

 

I needed the receipt for a recent flight. Easy-peasy, right? It was mailed to my work account. Except it didn’t show up. OK, I’ll get a copy when I check in. Ooops. I forgot to ask outbound. My bad. No problem, I’ll get it on the return. Yeah, no. There was no staff available for that in the steamy Frankfurt airport. You can get it online, madame. 

Props to the clear web site, clicked on “get receipt.” A webform appears which wants my ticket number, which I have, and my name. Which I know. I paste in the ticket number, type my name and hit the button. Nope. Nope. “You must use the same name you booked under.” Did I mistype my name? I must have. (Thank you, Parkinson’s, typos happen more often these days.)  I tried again, no typos. Hit the button. No? No. “ You must use the same name you booked under.” 

Ok, was my name truncated by the computer system? I check my boarding pass. Yeah, no. My name is what I think it is. First and last. Do I want to chat with an agent? I do. The AI agent takes my information, suggests I try the webform that isn’t working, then offers to pass me to a human. “You are number 486 in the queue!” 

I am working, so leave the window parked in the corner and periodically check. By lunch (two hours in) I’m 276 in line. Am I still there, the AI wonders. You bet. I wait four and a half hours to get a human (who the AI confesses is helping multiple customers at the same time, so don’t worry if they are slow.) 

The human suggests the webform. I point out that hasn’t worked. Can they give me a copy? That is against policy. Well, I asked, what can I do? Silence. I can email it to you. Awesome. “Can you doublecheck the email?” Sure, sure. I type in my work email. That’s it, I’m assured. It will take 15 to 20 minutes. “Thanks again,” I chirpily type. The chat ends.

Thirty minutes pass. No email. Five hours in and I am still without a receipt. I check to see if I can retrieve it through my credit card. And that’s when the shoe drops. That receipt says the ticket was issued for FRANCL, MICHELLE PROF/DR. Oh. It thinks my first name is MICHELLE PROF/DR? It sure does. The web form cheerfully regurgitates my receipt. 

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I note the booking form asks for your first name separately from the title. 

Interestingly enough, the typing of people with Parkinson’s has a distinctive pattern, which can be used to screen for possible Parkinson’s. A bit about the development of the screen is here. I did the screen shortly after my diagnosis and correctly directed me to consult a neurologist as it was positive for potential Parkinson’s.

UPDATE: So, a funny thing happened. It’s been about a week since I had this conversation. At 6:33 am today, the receipt showed up in my email. 

If there is room in your suitcase are you really ready to leave?

I am writing this sitting on a shady terrace at a little hotel perched above the Rhein, across the river from Bingen. It’s hot and humid for Germany, nearly 90F and not yet noon. Yet the morning breeze is pleasant, there are billing doves and assorted other birds providing a soundscape. The atmosphere reminds me of summer retreats at the Jesuit retreat center at Wernersville — now sadly closed — softly encompassing, encouraging a syrupy slowness and a deep appreciation of cooling breezes. (Also the noise of leaf blowers!) Despite the vibes I am neither on retreat nor on vacation, but here to give a talk at a chemistry conference.

One plane ride over the Atlantic, two train rides, and a taxi up to the hotel and I am still too early to check in. The desk offered to hold my luggage and suggested a “chilly” walk through the forest to pass the time until my room is ready after lunch. Or if I’d rather, I could use the sauna and pool. I refrained from saying I had already had the sauna experience today, on the train platform at Frankfurt airport where it felt like an August afternoon in Washington DC. Oof. I opted instead to read my book on the terrace and embrace the breezes.

I was also thinking of those retreats at Wernersville yesterday while I was packing. I am on the road for 6 days, and took only one bag, which zipped with ease in its unexpanded form. It worried me, what might I have forgotten?? Was I really ready to leave if I didn’t have to sit on the suitcase to zip it? I usually fill every inch. Then I realized, most of my recent travels have been to cold, damp climes. Sweaters. Sweaters take up a lot of space. I definitely brought no sweaters on this trip, where it is expected to be in the 90s all week. It also reminded me of a retreat where I gave a Jesuit a ride back to the Main Line.  When he tossed his one very small bag in the back of my Mini. I recall aspiring to travel that lightly. And perhaps now I do.

Firefly thoughts

 

I am in the throes of finishing a book manuscript. My co-author and I have been working on a book on the history of women chemists in the American Chemical Society for the better part of a year. The volume is to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the founding of the Women Chemists Committee. (The founding date might be April 14, 1927, when the committee met to recommend to the ACS that a women' service committee or early September, 1927 when the first women chemists' lunch was held. Anyway, next year marks 100 years.) The goal is to have the book ready for the fall meeting of the ACS in late August of 2027, which means we need to be done soon.

It's a tight timeline, and these days I am spending about 8 hours a day on it, 4 or 5 days a week. And when I'm done, I have not an tittle of mental energy or physical energy leftover to write for pleasure. (And yes, tittle — as in just a scooch. Which might come from Matthew 5:18 at least in the King James translation, which reads: "For verily I say unto you, Till heaven and earth pass, one jot or one tittle shall in no wise pass from the law, till all be fulfilled." In the Greek ἰῶτα (iota and hence jot) or κεραία (keraia), in Latin titulus or little typographical mark, hence tittle. And weirdly enough I am preaching on the pericope that just precedes this verse in Matthew tomorrow: Matt 5:13-16.)

Meanwhile bits of other writing flash in my brain like fireflies, briefly bright, then gone — or at least hovering dully about, hoping to meet up with some other words and make something new. 

Blink. The New York Times news quiz a week ago suggested more people knew what distinguished a Basque cheesecake from a regular cheesecake (55%) than could recognize the title of Pope Leo's first encyclical (only 39% knew it was Magnifica humanitas). I was surprised, the encyclical seemed like big news to me, but that just tells me I am in a bubble.

Blink.  There is a great recipe for a lemon Basque cheesecake that I want to try.

Blink.  What is retirement like? A question I get asked a lot. I don't really know. I'm working pretty hard to finish this book. And a talk for a conference in a few weeks. And a short essay for next Lent into Easter. Right, and that homily for tomorrow. (Essay is actually done and delivered. Homily is done, delivered tomorrow.)

Blink.  I wish organizations kept better archives.

Blink.  I am so grateful to take handwritten notes again. Yes, I know, people retain information more readily when they take notes by hand rather than on the keyboard, but that presumes you can. For the moment, I can. But am also aware and appreciate that I have other modalities available when I need them. 

Blink. Remember when blinking colored text was a thing on a web page?  

Blink. It's been deprecated, so this won't...blink. 

Done is good

Bryn Mawr has a saying, “Done is good.” It’s our version of “Don’t let the perfect be the enemy of the good.” Sometimes you just have to stop and say, “It’s done, and I am good with that.” Even if you could do more. Even if you can’t do more. It’s time to hand that thesis in, to take that final, to call it a day. Or a career. Done is good. Even if I could keep going. Even if I could not.

Commencement is always bittersweet, with an admixture of relief. The walk back across campus at the end of the day always feels like a moment of transition, leaving behind the chaos of Garden Party (which is exactly what it sounds like, a party in a garden with circles of chairs and tea sandwiches and cookies and ice cold lemonade — for more than a thousand people) for the serene and contemplative scholarly space that is summer. Past the empty tent, down through the arched oaks. 

The wispy ghosts of past commencements drift past. Most of the students I have taught I will never see again. We have spent hundreds of hours together, I can recognize many of their footsteps in the hall before they tap on my door. Gone, but also still with me. Faint outlines of two late colleagues lounge on the Moon Bench, looking back at me, whispering "Done is good!" 

This walk was particularly poignant, though it may not be my last. I can always choose to go to commencement, and for the next few years, when students I have taught will graduate, I may indeed go. But I will be a ghost of sorts, drifting in and out.

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Bryn Mawr gives its emerti faculty a medal to commemorate the event. You wear it to commencement. 

Seriously, I preach

Heidi Schlumpf has an article about lay preaching in Commonweal that I read with particular interest as I did an 8-week preaching practicum for Catholic women this spring. 

A couple of friends shared the Commonweal article on social media and in the comments on one post someone implied that those who grumble and push back against the prohibition of lay preaching at the Eucharist aren’t serious about preaching. If they were, they’d put their energy behind celebrating and preaching at the Liturgy of the Word or the Liturgy of the Hours (particularly Vespers, or rather Evening Prayer) where preaching by the unordained is permitted. Besides, he noted, it's a moot point, because the priest shortage means no one is going to be getting much access to the Eucharist anyway.

I bristled at this take. I wanted to say, "Dude, I think the prohibition should be eased and I take my preaching very seriously!" I did not. Also, there is not really as much space for licit lay preaching at liturgies outside the Eucharist as he seems to think. I didn't say that either. I did say that preaching outside the Eucharist tends to be marginalized.

I note the liturgical norms that restrict the homily at the Eucharist likewise forbid lay persons from reflecting on the readings at many (most?) celebrations of the Liturgy of the Word.  The norms for Sunday celebration in the absence of a priest restrict the homily to the ordained (in this case a deacon) regardless of whether they include distribution of Holy Communion. If a lay person must lead such a liturgy, then they must read a homily written by a priest or deacon (New Zealand's bishops also provide a collection of generic seasonal reflections.) Even on weekdays, the preference is for someone to read a prepared homily, though the UK bishops conference permits a reflection on the reading by a lay person (not to be confused with a homily). Per the USCCB "A Liturgy of the Word with Distribution of Holy Communion should never be scheduled for the purpose of 'providing a role' for deacons or lay ministers." In other words, lay leadership (and/or preaching) in this context is a last resort, not a regularized space for lay preaching.

The norms regarding the Liturgy of the Hours say that a lay person cannot preside if a priest or deacon is present. Can they still preach? The norms are silent on this point, and presumably what is not explicitly forbidden is allowed. But even this still leaves lay voices on the margins.  I have lived in some of the largest dioceses in the country (LA, Orange, Philly). I have lived most of my life in parishes staffed by. religious orders (Franciscans and Augustinians). I have never lived in a parish that regularly celebrates Evening Prayer on a Sunday (my parish does celebrate Morning Prayer every day but Sunday). Philadelphia's cathedral parish does not have public celebration of any of the Liturgy of the Hours as far as I can tell. Would people come out a second time for for Vespers? Probably not. And given the hunger that has been inculcated in Catholics for the reception of the Eucharist, I don't think people are going to line up for Vespers in lieu of a Communion service. (Though apparently you can swap in the Sunday readings at the LOH and follow with communion, so that would serve as an opportunity for lay preaching.)

I know for certain that I have “preached” at the Eucharist, in that a reflection I have written has been read at the time of the homily (sometimes with actual attribution, or as it was once reported to me, "written by a devout lady" which felt terribly medieval to me). At least once at a cathedral (though not by the bishop). If that is licit, why could I not read my own words? Or have my words blessed by an ordained minister ahead of time and read them with my own voice? Is it because my body is wrong? Not Christ-like enough? (I suspect that's the actual answer, a woman can never be as close an image of Christ as a man. Which grieves me, but that's another post.)

Seriously, I do get to preach (as one Carthusian abbot put it, the — presumably ordained — brothers were to preach with their hands, that is by the written word) a lot. I will preach to thousands of people in that sense every day next Lent, having written a book of daily reflections that comes out in the fall from Liturgical Press. I preach at retreats. I have contributed to collections of homilies. I reflect in Give Us This Day —which offers a veritable banquet of voices, from Augustine to my friend Fran, scientists and theologians, ordained and lay, saints and the rest of us. I believe that preaching, however I do it, is my vocation. How do I know? Of all the hundreds of reflections I've written or given, only once have I volunteered. Every other one has been asked for.  Called forth.

The Last Lecture

On the first of May, I gave what I imagine was my very last lecture in a chemistry course. This was not the last lecture of the movies, where a grizzled professor in a tweed jacket waxes philosophical about life within the ivory tower, students hanging on his every word. This was not the poignant last lecture of a computer scientist in khakis and a polo. It was just my usual last lecture of introductory chemistry: on nuclear chemistry, on rads and rems and banana equivalent dose and how nuclear reactors work. And about the pile in the squash court at University of Chicago. (“Was it ever used to play squash on again?” wondered a student.) And when I was done, I wished them a good summer.

It was how I wanted to end my teaching days, with a solid lecture, not a flashy performance, covering material that mattered. To finish as I had gone along all these years, with the needs of my students directing what and how I structured a course, a lecture, an assignment. With an eye out to what might matter for the world. 

It felt like a good landing, and one that I could not have managed without a generous portion of chemistry, given how my own neurochemical machinery was misbehaving. What was utterly impossible the previous time I had  taught this course — writing on the blackboard, scrawling comments on student papers — was once again possible. What was then merely difficult — constructing notes on the iPad, walking down the hall, gesturing at the board, projecting my voice — I can now do without thinking. I am grateful for the chance to retire on my own terms and not because Parkinson’s is pushing me out. I am grateful for the all the pieces and people that made this possible, from the meds to the 50 grams of metal on my Bic pen. PTs and OTs, neurologists and psychologists, spiritual directors and pastors, colleagues and friends and family. I absolutely could not have done this without all the help. 

There have been celebrations and notes and recorded greetings. Crash crashed my retirement party, appearing unannounced at the door last weekend from the other side of the Atlantic. His brother, Math Guy, said they had something to drop off. He wasn’t kidding. And I still have work to do, a couple of letters of recommendation left to write, grades to assign (finals are graded!). Saturday I will march in commencement and get the last word before I, and this last class of students, walk out of the tent and into whatever is next. 

Office hours

 

The hours left in my office are few. Today are my last scheduled office hours (which I generally don't hold in my office, but in the atrium space in my building). The last departmental meeting of my career was this morning. Friday is my last class lecture. 

I've written my (final) final exam.

I am noticing all the systems I have set in place to keep me organized, worn smooth over the years.  My teaching bag with its dongles and chalk and dry erase markers. There is a set of molecular models. Tissues for allergies. The vertical slots for each course (and research student) on the shelves by the door. The color coded plastic sleeves: green for general chemistry and blue for p-chem handouts. This morning I slid the last set of lecture notes (nuclear chemistry) into its sleeve, feeling organized and competent and in control. 

It feels odd coming to the moment where I have to dismantle these systems. Empty the cubbies of answer keys and roll sheets. Add the collection of plastic sleeves into the drawer at home that houses the ones I use to organize retreats (pink and yellow and white). Put the teaching bag on the shelf. Red pens. Will I need a red pen after next week?

The work of writing, at least for me these days, is organized in virtual folders, slipped in and out of Scrivener and Pages and Word. Only rarely printed out. Deadlines on the calendar (virtual, too). Will I miss the material culture of this life? Maybe. Probably.

Charting a moral course: Popes, presidents and politics

"Pope Leo should stick to his lane. President Trump has said it. Vice President Vance is so convinced of it that he tried to school the pontiff on just war theory. Pete Hegseth’s Pentagon staff called the papal nuncio on the carpet to make it clear. What is the Pope’s proper purview?"

Frankly, I don't recognize much of my Catholic faith in the pronouncements emanating from the White House. And sometimes I get annoyed enough to make a public stand. I suppose I could stand outside the White House with a bullhorn and read from the Catechism of the Catholic Church, or the documents of Vatican II, but instead I write. I am grateful for the Philadelphia Inquirer who has given me a space to do that.

"I hear this administration saying that our morals are supposed to be detached from our everyday lives. That our beliefs — or our unbeliefs — are an entirely private matter. If we aren’t making our choices based on our own well-formed consciences, whatever tradition has formed them, then are they our choices at all?

Faith and morals are precisely what inform my politics, what guide my thinking about economics and social policy and climate change...Are there any decisions I make where my faith doesn’t play a role? Sure. Do I want mango or lemon water ice at Rita’s? But for the rest of it, I want my moral compass to help me navigate these challenging times.

Conscience isn’t a lane; it is the map that lets us find our way through all the lanes. Pope Leo is reminding us to not leave it behind."

Know where you stand and stand there, said Daniel Berrigan SJ. I know where I stand and I will stand there as long as I can and as long as it is necessary. 

Read the whole thing at the Inquirer. And yes, I enjoyed some alliterative moments...

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For the record, the proper choice is mango!

For non-Philadelphians: Rita's is a purveyor of frozen confections, particularly "water ice" (pronounced "wodder ice"). Water ice (also called Italian ice) is more crystalline than a sorbet or gelato, but not as crystalline as a snow cone. 

Hobbies

Five more lectures to go.  On solids and X-ray crystallography. A short tour through nuclear chemistry, aware that these 100 or so minutes might be all they get on the topic in their chemistry degree. Memories of my own undergraduate training surface, where we got to use the nuclear reactor to do neutron activation analysis of milk samples. Can I find a photo of the reactor to show them?

Chatting with a colleague in the hall about my plans to write: "It's good to have a hobby," he offers. I bristle a bit.  I'm not sure that I would classify my writing under "hobbies." Sketching is a hobby, knitting is a hobby, fly fishing is a hobby. (Which two of these do I do?) A hobby feels too casual a classification, bearing a frisson of frivolousness. Writing for me carries weight, sometimes serious weight. So is it a job? an avocation? a vocation?

What does the OED have to say? A hobby is "An activity or interest pursued regularly in one's leisure time for pleasure." Or an avocation:  "an activity or line of work for which one has special talent or affinity; one's calling." Vocation, it  tells me,  derives from a summoning.

Writing is (mostly) a pleasure for me. Some of it is done in my "off-hours" from my paid job. This blog is probably a hobby. Regardless of the box I might drop it into, my writing is an integral part of who I am. The words call, and I cannot help but pick them up and start dragging them into place.

Qapla!

Qapla! Success! My latest column in Nature Chemistry came out last week. It opens and closes with Klingon — which may be a first for a publication in a scientific journal. 

Se'vIr lIngDI' tamlertej, tlhIngan Hol QaQ law' DIvI' Hol QaQ puS jatlh Michelle Francl. (More or less translates as "Should chemists publish in Klingon rather than English wonders Michelle Francl")

and 

TlhIngan Hol ghojlu'meH QaQ jajvam. (Today is a good day to learn Klingon.) 

Writing this piece I learned a bunch about synthetic languages beginning with Hildegard of Bingen's lingua ignota to Nobel prize winning chemist Wilhelm Ostwald's literal investment in Ido (an offshoot of Esperanto). He gave half of his prize monies to promote use of the language by scientists. Also  I was introduced to Volapük, which sounds like it could be Klingon, but is actually the name of another 19th century synthetic language.

The essay isn't about Klingon per se but rather tackles the issue of auxiliary languages and science. If English is the lingua franca of science, what is the cost to scientists who do not speak it as their mother tongue? Time? Visibility? Surely, but the ultimate cost is the work that doesn't get done as a result, or gets done more slowly. It costs us all.

So, a Gedanken experiment...would it level the playing field if we all had to publish in Klingon? Could you squeeze more science into a 15 minute talk if you did it in Klingon? Chaq!

Read the whole thing here.

One last time

 

We have a mature thunder plum out front, which blossoms every spring and shades the driveway in the depths of summer. It leans out from under the protection of the great oak, which is 75 years old. A youngster by comparison. Last year I noticed it had developed a fungus, black crusts on a few branches. I've seen this before and I knew what it meant. Soon all the branches would be covered. There would be a last bloom and then the tree would have to become something else. 

I'm down to the last 8 classes of my teaching career, one last season to bloom as a teacher, then I, too, will be something else. (Though thankfully not covered with a fungus!) 

I will learn to say when asked what I do, "I write."

An adulterated Bible

In 1631 a typesetting error resulted in copies of the King James Bible where the 6th commandment (or 7th, depending on how you count) in Exodus 20:14 is rendered “Thou shalt commit adultery.” It was a scandal, the printers were fined (though in the end they didn’t have to pay), and most of the copies of what would become known as the Wicked Bible were destroyed. 

I have started to wonder if Hegseth and Trump have a similarly adulterated version of the Gospels, where the beatitudes in Matthew have been misprinted:

Blessed are those who mourn, for clearly they deserved what they got

Blessed are the strongmen, for who wants to be WEAK?

Blessed are those who show no mercy, nor quarter to the enemy either

Blessed are those who are sure that they know better than God what is righteous, for their morality should be enough for you

Blessed are the warmongers, for obviously this is God’s war and the rest of you ought to get down on your knees and pray for victory

All amid a steady chant of be afraid, be afraid, be afraid.

Sic transit gloria mundi

I am transiting at Dulles airport, headed to South Bend. I’d never been to Dulles before. Somehow I had imagined a small airport, but it is a sprawling thing. I took the train from C to A, enjoyed the video wall art in the tunnel — ads, then a short calm video of ocean waves breaking — then walked the length of the elegant international terminal (I have two hours between flights). It was hushed, with its Dior and Chanel kiosks and sleek glass-doored lounges guarded by uniformed personnel with iPads. (The Etihad lounge was apparently full up, there was a tumble of people on the floor waiting to get in, leaning forward hopefully at every departure.) Spacious gates, a vaulted ceiling hung with flags, sunlight streaming in. From here you could fly to Paris. To Rome.

But my gate wasn’t here. I followed the signs up the escalator. Across. Down another. Down one more. The corridors grew narrower, the ceilings lower, the light more artificial. No fancy oyster bar — burgers and chicken tenders were on offer, TVs showed 5 different sports games, people spilled out into the corridor. A woman walked past dressed in a full-on cat costume, ears and all, tail twitching happily as she chatted on the phone,. Two little kids dressed in lederhosen (really, I promise) whooshed by holding hands and singing. Where, I wondered, was Maria?

I popped out in a spot where each gate has subgates — A1A, A1B…A2F— a dozen gates all squished together in the space of two in the cathedral above. The microphone system isn’t working right. It’s hard to get to the desks. “Raise your hand if you asked for a wheelchair going to Raleigh!” Finding a place to sit is a challenge. Finding a place to stand is a challenge. The building shakes when a plane takes off.  I think of Dante and descending circles.

But. But despite the chaos and crowding (because of the chaos and crowding?) there is something so warmly human about this place. It’s more than an hour to my flight, but I have no desire to return to the sterile marble heights. I score a seat, sit and listen to the man across from me wearing a gorgeous blue turban telling his grandkids he would see them in just over an hour. “Just 60 minutes!” He beams.

The world is filled with glory, fleeting, but no less intense for that.

Talking heads

I’m at Notre Dame (the one in South Bend) today to record a podcast, one of a couple this month. I met the host of this podcast through the blog twenty years ago, when our kids were young, and over the years I have treasured our criss-crossing interests in theology and science. She also introduced me to rose congou tea, a cup of which is sitting next to me as I write. I am also going to the Madeleva lecture tonight — “The Wrath of God(dess): A Spirituality of Feminist Rage” given by theologian Tracy Sayuki Tiemeier. Several of the previous Madeleva lectures are on my shelf, including Kathleen Norris’ The Quotidian Mysteries: Laundry, Liturgy, and 'Women's Work’ and Sidney Callahan’s Women who Hear Voices: the Challenges of Religious Experience. Sidney Callahan is a Bryn Mawr alum, and came to speak to one of my (non-chemistry) courses. 

A couple of weeks ago I was privileged to sit down with Mike Laskey of the AMDG podcast to talk about how science and faith work in my life as a scientist. (This is a great podcast series, in my Saturday morning rotation, with tons of interesting guests, most with some connection to the Jesuits and things Ignatian — rare books, material science, astronomy, songwriting.) I talked a bit about awe and mystery and finding God in a handful of water. Also tea, perhaps because you can (sorry!) hear the noise of my tea cup hitting my desk periodically (also one loud beep from an incoming text — this was not my smoothest interview). 

Tuesday, after a hard PT session, I checked my email to find a request for an interview from EWTN Nightly News to talk about the Artemis II mission. Sure, when? It was 11:35. Could I do this at 12:15? I was sitting in my car, soaked in sweat in desperate need of a shower. 12:45? I got home, showered, professionally attired and to my office in time. Whew — shades of the first days of the great tea kerfuffle!

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Listen to the AMDG podcast here, and the EWTN clip here. 

Photo is from an interview for On The Media recorded at WHYY 11 years ago, about the Food Babe. 

The women gather

I ran across an Easter reflection from 5 years about an Easter morning spent cleaning the kitchen…

“As I scrubbed last night’s sheet pans, I wondered if this really was how I should be celebrating Easter, clad in a well-worn apron and wielding a soapy sponge. Or perhaps this is precisely how Jesus imagined the celebration as he knelt on the floor, a towel around his waist, washing feet. Women, up early to do the work of feeding the hungry and tending to the needs of the living and the dead. Women with the courage to stay in the face of unspeakable pain, and a scandalous death. Women with the courage to profess what they had seen, in the face of mockery and derision.”

...which kicked off a search for a song I had heard from Sweet Honey in the Rock: The Women Gather. I could hear the spare repeating line in my head. “The women gather…” 

And the women still gather. To stand witness to the unspeakable. To accompany the undesirable. To bury the dead. To shelter their children with their bodies. To beg for peace.

We still gather at Easter — the women, the men, the children — even as we are embroiled in this “war of choice.” Though it not the choice most of us would have made. Our leaders demand we pray daily, “on bended knee” — in the name of Christ —  for military victory. I cannot. I will not. 

Yet. I will pray. For the courage to stand witness to the Gospel, that promises the utlimate victory, over sin and death, For an enduring and earned peace. Not one bought with blood and terror, awash in tears.

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The rest of the reflection is here. Listen to The Women Gather here.