The New Yorker is too ironic this week for even me....

I love irony. Most of the time I look at life as ironic and it gives me both possibility and hope.

I love the cartoons in the New Yorker magazine. Mostly because they are so ironic.

But this week's edition has a couple of dozen cartoons and every single one of them (by design and irony, I'm sure) is about Donald Trump. Some are laugh out loud. Some are ponder and chuckle. Some are find someone to show it to. Some are just to smile about. The last one (by design and irony again) is of a cartoonist at his desk and his wife/secretary is at the door saying, "that Trump cartoon you did yesterday just happened!"

I liked them all and liked how ironic it was to have every cartoon deal with the same subject, even if it was The Donald.

But it raised an issue for me. Should we still be laughing?

The Trump Clown Show was a hoot for a long time. In fact, the whole Republican field (14 of them at one point!) was ripe for humor, irony and satire. But now that we're down to two very scary possibilities (Trump and Cruz) and one not so scary 'impossibility' (Kasich)--should we still be laughing?

I'm still pondering that question.

returning is good....

I've complained a bit about my new computer--and one of the complaints is that if I turn away for more than a minute or so, it goes to sleep.

It actually doesn't 'go to sleep', it starts a slide show of all my photos. But I do have to sign back on to keep doing whatever I'm doing....

I've been doing stuff tonight that causes me to look away for a time. And every time I do, the photos start.

At the Making a Difference Workshop in Ireland, the second or third time we practiced Centering Prayer, someone bemoaned having so many distractions.

(I don't know what you know about Centering Prayer. Here it is in a nutshell: sit comfortably, INTEND to be with God who dwells within you, clear your mind and whenever you notice a distraction, use a prayer word to return to the center.

Pretty simple. In fact, so simple it drives people crazy who want to "do it right". You see, there is no "right or wrong" way. It is a prayer of 'intention' and if you 'intend' to be with God, whatever shows up is what shows up while you're being with God.

Basil Pennington, who gave the workshop Centering Prayer, used to reply to people who complained of having to use their word to 'return' so much by saying: "You had to use your word 50 times? How wonderful to 'return to God' fifty times!!!")

I'm going to apply that wondrous and sacred wisdom to my computer taking me off line if I don't touch it often enough.

The first photo I always see is of Mimi looking back at me and pointing in wonder to the bridge in Sydney, Australia. The other photos are all of people I love and pets I love and vistas I love.

So, when my computer takes me off line from now on, I'm going to say to myself, "how wonderful to 'return' to Mimi and all these memories again and again...."

Feels better already....

sudden Spring

After the post-Easter snows and days of rain, I looked around today at Spring.

Granted, I'd been gone two weeks--one in Ireland and one in West Virginia (neither of which seemed further along in Spring springing than Connecticut!)--but today it was all there.

The trees are budding, flowers are everywhere, birds are in profusion, the world is simply glorious.

Bern brought in a bouquet of jonquils from her garden--6 different kinds!

I wore shorts today. (The joke is that in New England people wear shorts with a hoodie.)

Winter wasn't nearly as brutal this year as in recent years, but the darkness and chill tend to drive down the Spirit. I'm writing this at 7:43 p.m. and there is still enough light to read on our porch.

Light is what is needed. Light brings the world to life.

As sudden as it seems, Spring has come in abundance.

I'm back....

Monday: drive to Bradley Airport, leave at 8:30 pm, go three terminals in Philadelphia, catch plane to Pittsburgh, get picked up by Dan and drive to Wellsburg, West Virginia (45 minutes) arrive about half-an hour after midnight. Sleep in Dan's Roman Catholic Rectory.

Tuesday: up at 7. Drive to Washington, PA to pick up Tony, Bern and Dan's first cousin, drive 5 hours to Princeton, WV, approve Angie's casket and deliver her burial stuff. Check into motel. Fall in motel shower hitting right calf, left foot and forehead. Go to Garrath and Monica's home outside Princeton with our son, Josh, who arrived after a 7 hour drive from Baltimore, eat with various cousins and high school friends, drive to motel at 10 p.m., watch the New York primary results, sleep.

Wednesday: up at 7. Eat free breakfast in motel (biscuits and sausage gravy!!!), go to funeral at St. John the Evangelist parish (Dan celebrated and preached--Episcopalians received communion!!!) go to graveyard, Dan chokes up, I finish interment, say good-bye to Josh, have lunch with Monica at Applebys, I drive to Washington, PA, we drop off Tony, Dan drives to his rectory. Hurried, put together dinner. Sleep.

Thursday: up at 6, coffee, drive to Pittsburgh airport, discover our plant to Philly is 57 minutes delayed because pilot is sick and they are flying in a pilot from Charlotte, NC (no way to run an airline!) get seats near the front of the plane because we're going to go 3 terminals to catch flight to Hartford, run last 1/8 mile, last people on plane, moved to exit row, rehurt foot running, take wheel chair at gate to place to catch bus to parking lot (my first time in wheelchair...probably not last) find car, drive home, eat two eggs and three sausages and Daan with jelly, go get Puli dog from kennel, come home.

All is finally well.

That was my week so far.

How was yours?

Happy Birthday to me!

At 2:17 in the morning on 4/17/1947, I was born to Marion Cleo Jones Bradley and Virgil Hoyt Bradley at the hospital in Welch, West Virginia, 20 miles from Anawalt, where I would live for 18 years before going off to college.

Welch, West Virginia's only claim to fame is that Jack Kennedy came there when he was campaigning for President. He pronounced it "Welsh" but won WV in a landslide in both the primary and general election.

Anawalt, West Virginia has no claim to fame whatsoever. A town of 500 (probably 200 now) in the midst of the Appalachian mountains in Coal Country. It was in McDowell County. Anyone from there pronounced it MACK-dowell.

My mother was 38 and my father was 40 when I was born. No big deal today. My grand-daughter to be, Ellie, will be born to my daughter when she is either 37 or 38 and Tim, her father, will be 40 or so. But back then, deep in those mountains, having parents of that age was strange, to say the least. My parents were friends with my friends grandparents!

I was the first, last and only child of Virgil and Cleo.

An only child was weird and strange back then and back there as well. I don't remember a single other 'only child' from growing up. Just didn't happen.

Being an only child cannot be imagined, I think, by someone with siblings. But, over all, if I had had a choice, I would have chosen it.

Couple of things: only children are never bored--we learned from the womb to entertain ourselves; and only children are annoying because they don't get the boundaries very well...for example, if I come to you house and have to use the bathroom, I'll think nothing of looking in your medicine chest. I'll go through your refrigerator and kitchen cabinets as well. Only children think everything is fair game since they're the only one.

From time to time I lament my solitariness. But all I have to do is talk to someone with siblings for a few minutes to return to being glad I'm an 'only'.

When Cleo and then Virgil died, I longed for a brother to support me or a sister to let me cry. And there was none. Only children learn from the beginning that there is no one to play that role, like a sibling would. So, I supported myself and let myself cry. Worked for me.

One thing for sure, only children know how to be alone. Lots of people, I've learned as a person and a priest, don't know how to 'be alone'. I'm an extrovert, but my 'only' status means I have no problem 'being alone'. I just don't. Sometimes I prefer it.

Plus, 'only children' don't have anyone to argue with about memories. I've heard siblings, over and again, disagree about 'what happened' at some point. My memories are solitary and unchallenged. Mine alone.

And now I've lived longer than I ever imagined. I wasn't feeling too bad about being 69 until Bern said to me, "you're starting your 70th year." Gracious girl, you didn't need to say that.

69 is kind of cool since it isn't 70 and since that number has such rich and erotic meaning.

My Junior year of college I lived at 69 Richwood Avenue with Mike and Mike and Doc. We were delighted with our address. It could get you a beer from a stranger.

So, being 69--though I hate how old that is--is cool in an odd way. But Bern reminding me I'm in my 70th year was a downer.

And I never dreamed of living this long. I was going, as the song said, "live fast, love hard, die young and leave a beautiful memory".

Didn't happen. And I'm thankful.

69 for heaven's sake. Who imagined it?

Not me, for sure.

But I'll take it, thank you, Lord, and I'll take, with joy, whatever comes next.

Happy birthday to me!!!!

The workshop

I went to Ireland to help lead a Making a Difference Workshop. I've been helping in that for over 20 years. It is a vital and transforming part of my life.

The group was fascinating. There were five members of a rabbinical school in Israel--4 women and a man (obviously this is reformed Judaism!) And one of the women was a German national with blond hair and pale skin. In addition there was an academic from Austria who is a trained leader of Centering Prayer. A scientist who teaches Centering Prayer--how cool is that?

The Irish were a mixed group: a priest who has been a missionary in Africa, whose name was (get this!) Paddy; a Presbyterian minister; a Church of Ireland lay woman who works for the church; a couple of nuns and a mix of RC lay folks.

By in large they were one of the quietest groups I've ever worked with, which gave me pause since I usually gage how well a group is 'getting it' from their conversation. But in small groups they talked like crazy. My psychological listening was that most of them were introverts--comfortable with two or three others but not in the large group. My two Irish co-leaders told me that Irish folks tend to clam up around foreigners--the Irish listening that people from other places are smarter than they are.

Whatever the reason, I fretted more about this group than any in years. But when the workshop was over I knew how wrong I was about them--they were great, just great and really 'got it'.

One of the mantras we leaders have is this: "the workshop 'works'!"

In spite of my fretting, the workshop 'worked'.  What made it ever more remarkable is that the workshop 'plays with language' and we had six folks for whom English was at least a second language. The German rabbi spoke 5! Besides, the Irish are a folk divided by a common language!

There was a time of parsing language when I said (another workshop mantra) "understanding is the booby prize". What that means is that once we think we 'understand' something we stop inquiring about it. 'Understanding' shuts down questioning and the workshop is about 'questions' not 'answers'.

Try explaining 'booby prize' to folks whose first language is Hebrew and German! Give that a try.

But it was all great. The Israelis would break into song from time to time--my first workshop with a soundtrack!

Amen.

Angie Pisano--requiescat in pace

My wife Bern's older sister died yesterday. He name was Angelina Pisano.

(When Bern and Angie's grandfather and father immigrated to the US, their name was 'Lachedicnola'--but the dumb Anglos who ran the coal company where they both eventually worked couldn't be bothered to figure out how to spell it so they asked Bern and Angie's grandfather what food he liked best. He had little English but did know what 'peas' were. So, the family name became "Peas". When the whole family was in America and people started marrying into it, no woman wanted to change her name to 'Peas', so they made it Italianized...Pisano...Italian for 'friend'.)

I really didn't know Angie. When I started dating Bern in high school Angie, though she still lived at home after several adventures in colleges and jobs, was most often in her room. I shared meals with her but never quite had a meaningful conversation.

After that and always, Angie was a distant island that we had visited but never lived on.

Looking back, it is clear she had several psychological issues. I won't put a label on them, but they hampered her in life. Though she was talented as a painter and musician, she could never live very long independently. She's spent the last dozen or more years in a care home where she was comfortable if not fulfilled.

She was so much older than Bern that they never really connected.

Angie was always 'out there' for the two of us, but never close by. I've tried to remember her visiting our home and really can't though she must have since we lived in Charleston, WV for five years while she was living there.

I've tried to remember encountering her at Bern's father's and mother's funerals--but there is little I can hold on to.

Of course we'll go to her funeral in Princeton, WV, one of the most southern places in the state. Getting there isn't 'half the fun'. It's no fun at all.

Monday night we fly to Pittsburgh and Dan, Bern's brother who is a RC priest, will pick us up and take us to Wellsburg, WV, where his parish is. The next morning the three of us and cousin Tony (Bern's age and lifelong confidant) will drive the 5 hours or so to Princeton. (WV is a very big state!)

We'll spend the night in a motel and the funeral will be Wednesday morning. After that we'll drive back to Wellsburg and Dan will take us to Pittsburgh the next morning and we'll be back in Hartford mid-afternoon Thursday.

Trying to get from Cheshire to  Princeton reminds me of the Irish answer to a request for directions: "If I were going there, I wouldn't start from here...."

Even though Angie hasn't be a vital part of our lives for decades and decades, she is 'family', she is blood.

We will travel to say good-bye.

Rest in peace, Angie, though I hardly knew thee....