Friday Poetry Blogging

The Upper Midwest doesn't do spring well, or at least not according to the standards of, say, England, which I'm told actually has a discrete season of spring. In Michigan we alternate between cold, gray, Novemberesque rains; sudden, strange bursts of 75 degree, sunkissed weather that send schoolchildren out the door in the morning in shorts and flip-flops; and snow or ice storms. And then it's summer in earnest, at the end of May. Peas and primroses do not do well here. And it is very rare that our Easters, unless they're very late, in any way resemble the popular Easter Day image of flower-kissed meadows and butterflies and fuzzy nestlings. (Unless you count, say, the hardy offspring of early breeders like crows and owls, whose pictures would probably not sell a lot of Easter cards.)

Here is a poem about late springs.

Friday Five: It's Going to Be a Loooooong Week

The RevGals' Friday Five:

Will this Sunday be Palms only, Passion only, or hyphenated?
At our place it is Palm Sunday, complete with cardboard palm fronds to wave around...and it's going to be mostly about the kids, from what I understand.

Maundy Thursday Footwashing: Discuss.
For the past several years our church has had, in lieu of the traditional Maundy Thursday Eucharist service, a kind of agape meal -- stew, homemade flatbread and other accompaniments -- with a narrated liturgy, culminating in Eucharist around our tables, with participants serving one another the bread and wine. At the beginning, as we enter into the fellowship area, members of the Worship Committee meet us and, instead of washing our feet, wash/dry/lotion our hands. It's still a way of modeling service and humility, I think, and is both logistically easier and less intimidating for worshippers than the footwashing.

Share a particularly meaningful Good Friday worship experience.
Tenebrae services really move me -- the stripped altar; the reading of Jesus' last words and the loud thud of the Bible being shut; the silent procession out of the church. (Our congregation has a hard time with the silence.)

Easter Sunrise Services--choose one:
a) "Resurrection tradition par excellence!"
b) "Eh. As long as it's sunrise with coffee, I can live with it."
c) "[Yawn] Can't Jesus stay in the tomb just five more minutes, Mom?!?"
Oh, I love the early service -- not only for the evocative atmosphere, there in the faint but growing light of sunrise, but because it frees the rest of the day for celebration with family and/or friends. I once attended an 11:00 a.m. Easter service; just not the same.

Complete this sentence: It just isn't Easter without...
"Christ the Lord is Ris'n Today"!

Bonus question: Easter Vigil:
Believe it or not I have never been to one...my congregation had an Easter Vigil for a couple of years but I think the service burnout got to people. If it were logistically feasible for me to pack in this observance I think it would be really cool.

Doing Theology

This weekend I could be going to a one-day workshop on Lutheran theology at our synodical office -- it's actually a class for aspiring Synodically Approved Ministers, or SAMs; we lowly bush leaguers at the bottom of the lay ministry hierarchy may tag along for credit. Instead, I'm going to a party. What the heck.

My question, though, is why Lutheran theology isn't front-loaded into the program in the first place, so that students have some conceptual scaffolding to support all the biblical studies. I mean, we have Dan Erlander's Baptized We Live as an assigned reading, but no one ever seems to follow up on whether we students actually read it or got it. And I've heard enough un-Lutheran theology being promulgated by Lutheran laypeople whose adult catechesis seems grounded in pop-Christian books and radio to think that maybe Lutheran adult education needs to seriously revisit "What does this mean?"

Another rather disappointing indication that all the sweat and tears and angst I poured into my application was for nought. Ability to fog a mirror seems to be the major qualification for enrollment; after which there is no evaluation process in which I am a partner, no feedback, no mentoring except for peer support groups, no indication that anyone cares about my actual spiritual/vocational formation.

I'm hoping it'll be a good party.

Veggie Tales

Whole Foods Market.

Wow.

During an excursion to Ann Arbor this weekend I had my first Whole Foods Market experience. Oh, my. Ohmyohmyohmy. Fellow Traveler said that I appeared to go into shock upon entrance, and stayed that way most of the visit. I forgot half the things I'd wanted to buy there. The produce...the meat and fish and poultry...the various deli islands...the shelf merchandise...the cheese...the cheese!...


Ohmyohmyohmy.

And semi-dittos for the Trader Joe's just down the street. What a fun place to shop...and great prices.

Some days it is so frustrating to be stuck here in the white-bread-and-bologna region of the state -- it's not really about cost of food, by the way, but rather local culture -- where the chances of either a Whole Foods Market or Trader Joe's ever locating here are about equal to the chances of unicorns being discovered in the state forest. I keep telling myself that at least I have access to a friendly, fairly comprehensive, reasonably priced food cooperative 45 miles away...but still...

Anyway, I was feeling inspired today after work, so I made myself a vegan supper, courtesy of ingredients from my humble coop -- Tofutti faux sour cream, which is one of the few soy analog foods that I think is just as good as the real thing, and seitan, a traditional Chinese food made from wheat gluten -- if you kneaded flour for a long time under running water until all the bran and starchy stuff sloughed off, you'd wind up with seitan. Seitan, like tofu, is useful in that it's quite bland and absorbs the flavors of whatever you cook with it; unlike tofu it has a pleasant chewiness. And this is what I made, with contact-grilled asparagus (pre-rolled in olive oil and kosher salt) on the side:

Seitan Stroganoff
4 oz. Tofutti sour cream
1/4 cup water
1 tsp boullion (I used Better Than Boullion mushroom base, a very handy substance to have in the fridge to perk up soups and sauces -- it's a little spendy but lasts forever)
1 TBS flour
a good grind of pepper
Mix all of this together and set aside.

Meanwhile, sautee in a little oil until soft:

1 medium onion, chopped
1 clove garlic

Add:

8 oz sliced mushrooms
1 8 oz package seitan, chunked (a few splashes of tamari soy sauce makes it taste a bit more meaty and substantial)

Continue cooking until mushrooms are soft. Add the sour cream sauce to mixture. Simmer for another 5 or 10 minutes. Adjust seasoning to taste. Serve over whole wheat noodles.

Now, if you like steak the way I do, you are never going to mistake meatless stroganoff for the original...but this was pretty good. The Codeman, who is a fairly adventurous eater for a dog, would have none of the seitan, but he did lick all the Tofutti sauce off.

Your Ecological Footprint

Think you're living lightly on the earth? Take this test, and you may be unpleasantly surprised to learn otherwise. (I learned that if everyone were as resource-squandering as myself, statistically speaking, we'd need 2.6 planets to sustain us all.) Warning: You need to think in metric on this website, or have a metric converter handy, to answer some of the questions.

Leave Me Alone

I heard there's a meme going around somewhere called "What Famous Painting Are You?" I think that right at this moment I would be The Scream, and what I'm screaming is Leave Me Alone! My income tax conundrum, since Mom died, necessitating outside tax preparation help for the first time in my life...my four bosses (that is not a typo)and the various frustrations associated with work...intermittent health anxieties involving myself and the people and pets around me...my fibroid, which I sometimes picture as the in utero monster in Alien...even, sadly, my church, which sometimes feels like a needy, cheeping little baby bird...my lay ministry program, which is turning out to be a huge disappointment on multiple levels, although I feel compelled to soldier on until the end...my house, which I have no time or money to keep up...

Gaaaaah! If this were the survival of the fittest being played out on some sun-scorched savannah, I'd be Lion Chow.

I am so tired right now I'd like to sleep for a week. I'm too tired to write...to read...to think.

Friday Five: Rivers in the Desert

This week's RevGalBlogPal challenge:

I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert. Isaiah 43:19, NRSV

"As we near the end of the long journey toward Easter, a busy time for pastors and layfolk alike, I ponder the words of Isaiah and the relief and refreshment of a river in the desert.

For this Friday Five, name five practices, activities, people or _____ (feel free to fill in something I may be forgetting) that for you are rivers in the desert."

1. My domestic life. My weekdays tend to be pretty spiritually arid, to follow our metaphor. My weekends -- generally spent in domestic pursuits with Fellow Traveler, at either of our homes -- are oases of love and calm and contentment. There is something about having someone waiting for you (or in my case my special human someone, plus three canine faces pressed against the windowpane) at home at the end of a Friday afternoon that erases all the Sturm und Drang of the workweek; and at the risk of sounding a little "cosmic" I think that feeling of home is a foretaste of our coming home, at the end of things, into the presence of God and the Communion of Saints.

2. Music. Of assorted kinds. Bach organ preludes...chant...worldbeat...jazz...blues...folky coffeehouse stuff.

3. Learning. I know I do a lot of kvetching here about my experiences in lay ministry training, but the consistent bright spot in the whole thing is the educational component. I love listening to our lectures, and asking questions. And I love learning in general; I think that resolving to learn some new thing every year in a systematic way -- Spanish or swimming or fly-tying or growing orchids -- is a splendid idea. Interestingly, I spend a lot of my 9-to-5 life feeling stupid; so building a knowledge base in some area or competency in some skill lifts me up and makes me feel like I'm living into the sapiens part of my enfleshed existence.

4. Prayer. As much as I enjoy a system of fixed prayer, I think the kind that really get me from day to day are the 5 a.m. extemporaneous kind. There is a certain honesty, a lack of artifice, lying there in the dark with no distractions and no excuses, that makes it one of the most real places in my life.

5. Nature. I was reminded of this the other day, reading some ancient and contemporary Celtic prayers from Iona, with their evocative images of sea and sky and shore. I think my concern about the environment is fueled in part by my own experience of feeling close to the Divine in nature.

Thanks, Wikipedia , for the Colorado River photo.

Friday Poetry Blogging

On my way to work this morning I saw several woodlots with galvanized buckets hanging from trees -- it's maple syrup season here in Michigan.

Now, you'd think there'd be all sorts of lovely, evocative, hooray-for-spring poems dealing with this annual ritual of the north...but all I could find was this rather macabre vision of working the sugarbush, from the maple tree's point of view.

Maybe I'll compose my own poem:

Pancakes, French toast, teriyaki
Maple syrup -- ain't we lucky!

Or not.

Mud Season

Watching a young citizen of Outer Podunk stomp through a supermarket parking lot in very large Wellingtons made me think of a line an old friend of mine used to use to describe this time of year: mudlicious and puddle-wonderful.

What's Wrong With This Picture?

I'm reading a depressing Yahoo! News factlet about the government of Uganda reneging on preserving a tract of its endangered rainforest. (Whenever I hear about petulant developing-world leaders gleefully despoiling their own countries while wilfully ignoring international pleas to cease, I'm reminded of that old girl-group song, "And don't tell me what to do...and don't tell me what to say...'cause you don't own me.") As I'm reading this I'm watching, from the corner of one eye, one of those decadent consumer-fantasy Target commercials...followed by the opening shots of a television drama about a serial killer who gets his gets his jollies watching people burn to death.

I think I'd like to be in a different species.

De-Clutter is Still De-bilitating

My Flylady experiment is not going well.

As you will recall, at the beginning of the year I decided I'd sign up for the daily Flylady e-mails nagging at me in a "Oh, mah pore precious li'l ol' sweetie" Southern belle way to pick up after myself and make my home more civilized.

After a couple months of e-mails, my daily reaction upon seeing the newest one is to want to crawl into a corner and whimper. Actually, I want to beat these women off with a baseball bat, then crawl into a corner and whimper.

I am so tired when I get home from work that the only thing keeping me from falling into bed at 5:30 pm is my dog, who expects dinner on the table.

In Flyladyland, of course, women do not work outside the home, so fatigue is no excuse for not swishing and swiping and "blessing" your home by keeping it regularly spiffed up. Yeah, well.

If someone knows of a de-clutter motivational program that isn't quite as Stepford Wives, I'm all ears.

The View From the Back Pew

This past Sunday Fellow Traveler and I did something in church we almost never do -- we sat in the very last pew, back by the sanctuary door.

The church was packed for a double baptism, and our usual forth-row pew-spot was taken. (One of our senior saints once whispered to my mother and me, as we all took our favorite places, "We're just like cows in the barn, headed for the same stanchions every time.") But we were not dismayed. You see, because of our small, cramped, user-unfriendly sanctuary with only one central aisle, attempting to leave church at the end of any given service is reminiscent of the cul-de-sac parade route scene in Ferris Bueller's Day Off. This Sunday, though, if we sat in the very back, we could make a quick exit before the parishoner bottleneck trapped us mid-aisle, zip home, eat our lunch and watch NCAA hoops all afternoon. It was a Sweet Sixteen miracle.

When I was growing up, my parents favored mid-sanctuary -- not close enough to the pastor to make eye contact, but not way in the back with casual attendees and squalling infants. Since I've been old enough to choose my own pew, I've always been a front-of-the-church sitter; well, as front-of-the-church as a Lutheran gets without coercion, which is maybe the third row. As a short person, I like sitting where I can actually see what's happening, and as someone whose dimming middle-aged ears were further compromised by a youth spent around farm equipment and loud rock-and-roll, I also like to hear what's going on.

So I'm a back-bench newbie. And I'm telling you, it's a whole different experience there.

For one thing, I found my location very marginalizing. Even in a tiny sanctuary like ours, the service seemed very far away -- almost in a different room. It was hard to see; hard to hear.

And then there's -- God bless 'em -- the children. We were fortunate in sitting next to two young families with relatively well-behaved kids and well-thought-out coping strategies (lots of snacks and quiet amusements), but even so -- our congregation lets the kiddos run wild and free, so every five minutes we had to move our legs and let the little crumb-crunchers scoot past, up and down the aisle. Other little kids and even older, middle-school-aged kids, were constantly pacing in and out of the sanctuary.

The noise level is a lot higher in the back -- and not just due to children. I'm appalled at how adults who should know better just talk to one another all through the service -- and not sotto voce. And then there was the necessary but further distracting activity of the ushers and other helpers waiting in the wings, as it were, just behind us.

"Tell me again why we're sitting back here," whispered Fellow Traveler during a musical interlude. I pantomimed a dribble and a lay-up. "Oh...right."

Our back-of-church self-exile reminded me of what they told us in catechism class about worship services in the time of Luther -- clueless, mostly inattentive peasants crowded at the back of churches waiting for the Hoc est enim corpus meum and elevation of the Elements so they could call it a Mass and bail.

But I found my experience to be instructive as well. Among other things, it reminded me that those of us who find ourselves front and center need to speak and move in ways that can be seen and heard by the people in the farthest pews. It also made me wonder if there were logistical ways to re-incorporate the back-benchers into the service -- to lessen that seeming psychological distance between them and the worship proper, even in the case of distracted parents and hyper middle-schoolers and blabby others.

I'd encourage any of my good-do-bee readers -- especially folks involved in worship planning and leadership -- who've never spent a Sunday in the back pew to try it sometime. You'll learn something. And it will make you want to gather in the people who stay at the margins of your worship service.

Where All the Women Are Strong, All the Men Are Good-Looking, and No One is Queer

Imagine my deep disappointment to read this op-ed piece by Garrison Keillor.

Not only is Keillor's premise offensive and unfunny, but I'm sure I'm not the only reader bemused to have the morality and quality of my relationship critiqued by a thrice-married individual who left one wife in the midst of an extramarital affair.

And I'm sure financially strapped public radio stations all over the country are less than thrilled to have the creator/emcee of one of their dependable Pledge Week cash cows trash-talking a segment of their listenership. Nice.

Keillor once noted that the worst invective that one could utter in a self-effacing community such as Lake Wobegon was, Who do you think you are? I guess that's my question for you, Mr. Keillor: Who do you think you are?

UPDATE: This is from the Prairie Home Companion website:

"Ordinarily I don't like to use this space to talk about my newspaper column but the most recent column aroused such angry reactions that I thought I should reply. The column was done tongue-in-cheek, always a risky thing, and was meant to be funny, another risky thing these days, and two sentences about gay people lit a fire in some readers and sent them racing to their computers to fire off some jagged e-mails. That's okay. But the underlying cause of the trouble is rather simple.

I live in a small world — the world of entertainment, musicians, writers — in which gayness is as common as having brown eyes. Ever since I was in college, gay men and women have been friends, associates, heroes, adversaries, and in that small world, we talk openly and we kid each other and think nothing of it. But in the larger world, gayness is controversial. In almost every state, gay marriage would be voted down if put on a ballot. Gay men and women have been targeted by the right wing as a hot-button issue. And so gay people out in the larger world feel beseiged to some degree. In the small world I live in, they feel accepted and cherished as individuals, but in the larger world they may feel like Types. My column spoke as we would speak in my small world and it was read by people in the larger world and thus the misunderstanding. And for that, I am sorry. Gay people who set out to be parents can be just as good parents as anybody else, and they know that, and so do I. "

Okay. Apology accepted. But I would think that someone who's made a name for himself representing the sensibilities and foibles of the "larger world" between the coasts would have the insight to realize that his words would travel far beyond the insular world of arts and entertainment.

St. Patrick's Day Revisited

Since my only real connection to Irishness is a fondness for Celtic music and a significant other with some Irish branches on the family tree, St. Patrick's Day has always been one of those holidays I've largely experienced from the outside. And my "theology of suspicion" tends to kick in when I think about how, as Celtic countries became Christianized, women actually often lost legal rights and status; I think whenever we Christians start getting a little too cocky about the ethical superiority and all-around swellness of our belief system, the remembered witness of women, indigenous peoples, forced converts and others in our history should give us a corrective thwack on the side of the head. How ironic, how often it is that the "not yet" ideals of equality and harmony expressed by Paul find themselves grinding against the "now" of our enculturated prejudices.

But -- St. Patrick, himself a former slave, was by all accounts a compelling anti-slavery activist. Despite whatever misogyny he'd picked up elsewhere -- his Lorica, in its non-Bowlderized version, contains an amusing plea for divine protection against the evil machinations of "women, wizards and smiths" -- made a positive impression on many Irish noblewomen who left their families to found convents. And the conversion of Ireland, compared to the Christianization of populations elsewhere in Europe, seemed less bloody, less forced, more organic and less contemptuous of the previous culture.

So, anyway -- we didn't engage in any public St. Patrick's Day frivolity, but we did have quite a fine Irish-ish dinner Saturday night. Here are some of the featured players:

Guinness Glazed Brisket
1 corned beef brisket, rinsed and dried thoroughly (discard spice packet)
1 cup brown sugar
1 bottle Guinness Extra Stout
Preheat oven to 300 degrees. Rub brisket all over with brown sugar. Place in roaster (I spray mine with baking spray beforehand -- you'll be glad you did). Pour Guinness around brisket, and very gently pour a little over the top as well. Bake for 2 1/2 hours. Let sit for a half hour, then cut very thinly against the grain. (The original recipe suggested adding vegetables of your choice an hour before the brisket is done; this is WAY too late, because I added an extra half hour and still wound up having to microwave the veggies; I also found the vegetables a little too sweet for my taste. So I'd recommend cooking the cabbage, carrots, potatoes, etc. separately.)

Champ
This is, more or less, mashed potatoes with a generous dose of cooked chopped green onions added, and a generous dollop of real butter plopped into the middle of the bowl as you serve them.

Irish Soda Bread
3 cups unbleached flour -- pastry flour if you can get it
1 1/2 tsp. baking soda
1 1/2 tsp. salt
a pinch or so of sugar (but don't tell your Irish friends you added it)
1 1/2 cups buttermilk
Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Mix dry ingredients in a large bowl, using a fork. Make a well in the flour mixture and add 1 cup of buttermilk, stirring well. Slowly add the rest of buttermilk to make a soft dough like a biscuit dough. Turn onto a floured surface and gently knead for about one minute -- you do not want to overknead. Pat into a flat (maybe inch-and-a-half-thick) round; slash an X into the top using a sharp knife dipped in flour; place on a baking-sprayed cookie sheet. Bake for 45 minutes, or until bread is golden and sounds hollow when tapped. Wrap in a damp tea towel to cool. This simple recipe is surprisingly tasty -- especially, to me, the next day, sliced thin and toasted. And here's a fascinating fact I just learned: Soda bread became an Irish staple because hard whole wheat, the high-gluten variety you need to make yeasted bread rise, was scarce in many parts of Ireland; so soda became a predominant bread leavening by necessity.

Easy Bailey's Cheesecake
1 graham cracker crust, chilled in 9-inch springform pan
8 oz. pkg. cream cheese
4 eggs, at room temperature
3/4 c. sugar
1/2 c. Bailey's Irish Cream
Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Blend cheese and sugar together until smooth. Blend in 1 egg and Bailey's Irish Cream. Add remaining eggs, one at a time. Pour into chilled crust. Bake at 325 degrees for 45 minutes. Cool to room temperature. Refrigerate. Add whipped cream and chocolate curls if desired.




Artwork: St Patrick icon, Nicholas Markell, Bridge Building Images

The Friday Five "Have-Tos"

Well...after ingesting a gallon of coffee and diet cola, it's come to my attention that I missed an entire half of the RevGal Friday Five challenge: the "have-tos" of my day.

Since I've already accomplished most of the work ones, it being after 4 pm and all, this should be easy:

1. Pick up proofs from the printer down the highway in another community, and drop off some marketing stuff elsewhere in the general vicinity. (Check.)

2. Write a press release. (Check.)

3. Work on a newsletter. (Well...sort of.)

4. Buy a pound of can't-live-without-it Just Coffee Ethiopian yrgicheffe. (Check.)

5. Install a new shower curtain liner. (Tonight.)

I hope you enjoyed this peek into the glamor and intrigue of my everyday life.

Friday Poetry Blogging

Evidently basketball don't get no respect from poets. Oh, no. Unlike the scores of poems about baseball, you have to really work to find a basketball poem. But I found one , by Edward Hirsch. He shoots...he scores.

Friday Five: If I Could Do What I Want, What I Really, Really Want

This Friday's quintet query from the RevGalBlogPals: What five things would you rather be doing today than what you are doing?

1. Looking out at Crystal Lake from my new, interesting, agreeable workplace, anticipating a lovely St. Patrick's Day weekend with Fellow Traveler and the critters in a new Benzie County abode. (Hmmm...I think a leprechaun has pinched me and put me under a spell, or else I'm so spent from lack of sleep watching b-ball last night that I've begun hallucinating.)

2. Planting the mixed heirloom tomato seeds I got in the mail yesterday and placing them in my sunny dining room window.

3. Doing some long-neglected housework in the light of day, while I'm at least partially awake...which is the opposite of when I usually try to clean the house.

4. Taking a walk around my neighborhood.

5. Baking bread.

Slavery

It's especially timely, with the film Amazing Grace currently playing in theaters: Revisiting the subject of slavery. It isn't a "wayback" subject, either; some human-rights organizations estimate that there are now more persons living in slavery on this planet than ever before. And they're all over: children sold into servitude by desperate, indebted parents; sex slaves; enslaved prisoners of war.

Gannet Girl, on her blog Search the Sea shares the story of a freed slave. It will make you angry and sad and frustrated and ashamed, all at the same time.

Back when I was a younger chik, at college, I was an active member of Amnesty International; I think I wrote letters on people's behalf every single week. I also sent a few dollars of bottle-deposit money to an organization that helped rehabilitate victims of torture. As happens with many of us, once I became entrenched in the preoccupations of confirmed adulthood, I slowly drifted out of my activism; not because I had become disillusioned -- I thought then, and still think, that these grassroots efforts are not wasted, no matter how small on our parts and how big and scary the problem -- but because I'd gotten busy with the busy-ness of a working adult.

I've said here before that this is a fairly unstructured Lent for me; but one of the things I would like to reincorporate into my life is advocating for people outside my own circle of loved ones and friends and "tribe"; of regaining that outward-reaching way of living that I used to embrace.

Putting the Mental in Fundamentalist

Before tuning in to March Madness tonight (go State!), I happened upon an online discussion about marriage. A Christian fundamentalist -- a female fundamentalist, no less -- was giving her moral approval to arranged marriages, and even to the Old Testament principle that a rapist is obligated to marry his victim. Because, of course, "the Bible tells me so."

Now, I understand that it is a character deficit on my part, not being able to deal with others with equanimity and a certain detachment -- but I just don't know how to be around people this f*****g stupid. Especially when their stupidity is directly related to practices that demean and sometimes kill women.

Meanwhile...I just read on Yahoo! News today that more and more Afghan women and girls are reacting to the "traditional family values" inflicted upon them by fathers, brothers and husbands by setting themselves on fire.

The Sound of Silence

I grew up in an old hip-roofed stone farmhouse that my father had retrofitted on the inside with innovations like wood paneling in the living room. Evidently one day during this process the drill slipped, because one of the panels sported a little, perfectly round hole in the middle, just low enough for a small child to insert things into. I remember, one day, scribbling out messages on tiny pieces of paper, then rolling up the papers into scrolls and pushing them into the hole. I'm not sure why, or who I thought would find them and respond. But it seemed like a good idea at the time.

I thought about that the other day, after sending an e-mail to the lay ministry program informing them that I have a work conflict with our next scheduled retreat and won't be able to attend, and asking if I could nonetheless receive copies of any written materials given out at that retreat. Because, like the hole in the wall of my childhood home, my communications with this program seem to wind up in the same dark limbo of non-response. Not even a form-letter "Thank you for your input."

Yesterday I checked my e-mail. Wow! Not one, but two messages from the program. Maybe I was wrong, I thought. Maybe I'd get an actual personal e-mail from a Power That Be. I eagerly opened the letters.

They were group e-mails informing our class of another upcoming event; one a duplicate, sent by mistake.