Paradise Can Be Yours

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. . . by the week or month.

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Am I Woman, or Am I Nobody?

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The 1971 song, “I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar,” may have been rockin’ good in its day to wake women to the liberated life. But events in Washington this week threaten to replace Helen Reddy’s rallying cry with Emily Dickinson’s plaintive poem, “I'm Nobody.”

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Summer Shout

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Could it be coincidence? As we mark the official end of Summer 2018 tonight, I received word that one of my poems has been accepted for publication in a literary magazine—a poem that celebrates summer.

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One Perfect Day

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It seems that during my meditation each morning I find myself apologizing to The Divine for the prior day’s failings and asking for strength to do better in the day ahead.

Until last Monday, when a voice rose from deep inside and yelled: “Can’t you give Me just one perfect day in return for all the years I’ve given you? Just one?”

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Queer

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I was having tapas last week with three gay friends—two of them in a decades-long committed relationship, the third traveling solo these days—and the talk turned to the growing number of non-heterosexual gender identities and sexual expressions in vogue today. We didn’t have enough fingers among us to count all the ways people are making love, and lust.

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Why I’m Still a Catholic

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I entered the seminary near the end of my thirteenth year, in 1956. No pubic hair yet, but I was supposed to be embarking on a lifelong commitment to become a celibate priest. All the adults in my life took it seriously, and encouraged me.

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Staying Alive

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A dragonfly caught my eye the other morning. It hovered and swooped and showed off near one of the waterfalls at my house. The shenanigans of this beautiful creature with the ugly name halted me in mid-step as I was going about the routine of opening the house for the day.

I immediately understood what was happening at that moment.

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Killing our Kids

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“Whenever Mother’s Day rolls around, I regret having eaten my young.”

There was a time when I laughed at this classic Edward Frascino cartoon. Not anymore. Because a rash of related news items last week has me convinced that as a species we might not eat our young, but we certainly do a damn good job of killing them—physically and psychically.

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Tears of Saint Lawrence

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Look up at the night sky tomorrow, and you are spiritually connected to millions of other watchers across the northern latitudes, as well as millions more who have gazed in wonder through eons of recorded time.  

This is the time of the Tears of Saint Lawrence. The Perseids. The thousand points of light that soundlessly rip across the inky heavens each hour of this remarkable night.

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The Value of Grandparents

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My youngest grandson, Andrew, arrived on Thursday to spend a week with me in Vieques. He’s the handsome guy in the center.

As much fun as I hope we’ll have in the coming week, playing the role of a grandparent poses its own kind of pressure.

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