Reminder of frailty

When you are old and your bones are frail, a rainstorm can become the enemy.  The pavement becomes slick, like an ice skating rink.  There are no skates, though, only the chance to fall, and falling is the last thing you want to do if your bones are vulnerable. Falling can be the beginning of the end.

Saturday my mother was that frail woman. She disappeared inside her black coat, trying to get warm, feeling the cold despite the layers. Her knuckles gripped the shopping cart until they were white with effort, and the fear of falling eclipsed her characteristic joy. When I looked over my shoulder,
I saw a stranger.  A stranger and yet she was my mother.

What about this was so unsettling for me?  Is it still a surprise to me that my mother is eighty-three and not the younger mother who raised me?  Do I expect her to tromp across a parking lot with no concern for oncoming traffic or the slickness of the road?  No, it is something deeper than that, something more personal.

I found a window into my thoughts this morning at Lynn's blog.  Reflecting on the idea of being a "feather on the breath of God" she says, 

Surely it's in our nature to want to presume in our existence some measure of personal gravitas-- something akin to that mysterious austerity of presence which the Hudson River School artists sought to capture in the word sublimity.  We want our lives, our legacies, to have weight.  Wouldn't we all rather be likened unto a foothill in God's mountains, or an anchor in His ocean... even just an arrow in His quiver?

and

If we are weightless as feathers, it is because Christ bears our weight... It's not about feathers at all.  It's about how we apprehend the wind. 

God is breathing.

(you can read the whole post here.)

Somehow being gripped by Mom's frailty has translated into a reminder of my own.   But that is not a bad thing.  I am frail, but I have the breath of God.  I can fly. 


On Saturday we made it through the rain and fell into the car, happy to have the heater vents to warm our hands, grateful to be dry.  Now the rainstorm has ended, the parking lots have dried out, and the Thanksgiving weekend traffic has cleared.  But that vision of my dear, frail mother remains.  Once again, my mother is my teacher, and I love her for it.  And thank you, Lynn, for being the connecting piece that I needed to put my anxiety to rest.

Underneath all the texts, all the sacred psalms and canticles, these watery varieties of sounds and silences, terrifying, mysterious, whirling and sometimes gestating and gentle must somehow be felt in the pulse, ebb, and flow of the music that sings in me. My new song must float like a feather on the breath of God. 

~Hildegard of Bingen~

Nana is here

And look who is taller now? Sorry, Nana!



~ Three generations ~

New read aloud

Voyage of the Dawn Treader

in preparation for:

Opens December 10th

Advent

First Sunday of Advent

“The house lights go off and the footlights come on. Even the chattiest stop chattering as they wait in darkness for the curtain to rise. In the orchestra pit, the violin bows are poised. The conductor has raised his baton. In the silence of a midwinter dusk, there is far off in the deeps of it somewhere a sound so faint that for all you can tell it may be only the sound of the silence itself. You hold your breath to listen. You walk up the steps to the front door. The empty windows at either side of it tell you nothing, or almost nothing. For a second you catch a whiff of some fragrance that reminds you of a place you’ve never been and a time you have no words for. You are aware of the beating of your heart…The extraordinary thing that is about to happen is matched only by the extraordinary moment just before it happens. Advent is the name of that moment.”

Frederick Buechner, Whistling in the Dark

HT: Lent and Beyond: An Anglican Prayer Blog

Tree Day

It's not Black Friday, folks.

It's Tree Day!

We had sunshine in the sky and snow on the ground for the annual search.

Why are they lying in the snow?

I guess cutting down the trees just tuckered them out.

Look at those satisfied smiles.

The Friday Clive

"We ought to give thanks for all fortune: if it is "good,", because it is good, if "bad" because it works in us patience, humility and the contempt of this world and the hope of our eternal country."

Thanksgiving Day

It is a beautiful day in Oakdale,California.






The sun is shining and the leaves are audibly falling in the orchard.
Don't let that sparkly sunshine fool you, though.
It is chilly out there.

Happy Thanksgiving, friends!

Give us that due sense of all Thy mercies
that our hearts may be unfeignedly thankful;
and that we might show forth Thy praise,
not only with our lips but with our lives...

Thanks for that prayer, Carol

Gerontology practicum: the holiday version

When our friends invited us to their ranch for Thanksgiving, I knew that my mother would want to stay here. And that she wouldn't mind if we went. This took me YEARS to understand...well, I can't say that I understand, but I do accept that she is being honest and determined. She and I view holidays very differently.

I have my theories of why Thanksgiving is such a non-holiday for Mom. She was a single mom, she was tired, she didn't enjoy cooking, and getting the house in order was exhausting. Her daughters (that would be me and my sister) did not help. We weren't asked to help, and it sure never occurred to us to offer. Add all that together and what happens? No fun for the mamasan!

When I moved out on my own and invited Mom to our home for Thanksgiving dinner, she firmly announced that she was going to stay home, on her couch, eating whatever she wanted and NOT getting overheated and anxious in the kitchen. She was not going to struggle through holiday traffic. She was going to stay home and be happy. I thought she was nuts.

You see, I look at this day a little differently. Thanksgiving is, in fact, my favorite holiday. I get to prepare and eat some of my favorite foods, we gather around our table with many of our dear family, and it is in the midst of beautiful autumn. But, I have the luxury of having a helpful husband, a man who is known for his delicious pumpkin pie. I feel very comfortable asking for help, and my children even offer. Thanksgiving is a lot easier when you're in it together.

Since Mom moved here in 2003, we have again enjoyed having holiday meals together. She does not need to drive anywhere. She can make a dish or two without any chaos or stress. She can stay as long as she wishes, and she can go home for a rest if needed. It is the perfect arrangement for her.

And it is perfect for us, too. She is there to play her crucial role as Gravy Muse, and our meal is much better for it. Having Mom at the table is always a plus; she is a dream guest, full of interesting conversation and laughter. She appreciates the food and makes me feel like a million bucks for making it. I love it.

But this Thanksgiving will be around a gargantuan table in a Victorian farmhouse in the midst of acres of walnut trees. Familiar foods, favorite friends, a beautiful place to roam, hours of talking as we cook, and guarantees of deep talks and plenty of laughter. We are anticipating JOY.

But Mom would rather stay here. She's not up for the travel, and she's not up for too much noise (and we will be a noisy bunch.) In decades past, this would have resulted in a huge argument for us. But I get it now: Mom is not wrong, and I am not right. We are different. Period. The day is not important to her; what matters to her is family, a beautiful meal, time together. And so we will do that in December, when Madelaine arrives home. A second Thanksgiving with the whole family; it will be an added layer of joy.

Happy Thanksgiving, Mama. Our gravy won't be the same without you, but we wish you joy and quiet and rest. Love you!

Carl Sandburg (1878 - 1967)

Autumn Movement


I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.

The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.

The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go, not one lasts.

HT: Steph

Cornbread stuffing fiasco averted

A huge sigh of relief has been breathed here at the house. The cornbread stuffing recipe has been found; a friend sent it along via email, so we are on schedule for Thanksgiving yumminess.

If you are interested, I posted the recipe on my food blog here .

For those still living on the plain bread side of the stuffing debate (aka:Staci): come to the cornbread side; we'll be waiting with open arms!

The Spirit of Food

I was amazed when I went to the table of contents of The Spirit of Food and found the following names:

~ Ann Voskamp
~ Lauren Winner
~ Robert Farrar Capon
~ Wendell Berry
~ Alexander Schmemann
~ Luci Shaw
~ Andre Dubus

What a collection of literary friends, all in one place!

From the back cover: "You are invited to a feast for the senses and the spirit! Thirty-four adventurous writers...all bring a keen eye and palette to the larger questions of the role of food - both its presence and its absence - in the life of our bodies and spirits."


Gems from its pages:

"...this offering to God of bread and wine, of the food that we must eat in order to live, is our offering to him of ourselves, of our life and of the whole world...It is our Eucharist. It is the movement that Adam failed to perform, and that in Christ has become the very life of man: a movement of adoration and praise in which all joy and suffering, all beauty and all frustration, all hunger and all satisfaction are referred to their ultimate End and become finally meaningful. Yes, to be sure, it is a sacrifice but sacrifice is the most natural act of man, the very essence of his life." Alexander Schmemann


"On Sunday morning as I watch my priest lay the Communion table for the gathered believers, I remember why eating attentively is worth all the effort: the table is not only a place where we can become present to God. The table is also a place where he becomes present to us." Lauren Winner


"In Little Lent, the Orthodox abstain from meat and dairy for four weeks before the feast of Christmas. She prepared all of her usual foods in their simplest forms: borscht with vegetable broth instead of pork, salads with oil instead of mayonnaise and sausage. She practiced this as a quiet reminder that she was preparing body and soul for Christmas.

The body and soul formation was not something that I had ever taken seriously. As a lifelong, devout Protestant, I had thought a great deal about my soul. As an American, I had obsessed a great deal about my body. But I had rarely considered body and soul in mutual relation. Everywhere I went in Russia as an exchange student - and I was drawn instinctively to churches - I witnessed a fuller understanding of the body and soul in communion. "Sometimes if I cannot pray," Olga had said at the entrance to the cathedral, "I come to the church and light a candle."

At that time, I would have called Olga's gesture an empty ritual. I might have considered an inability to pray a personal failing, and I wouldn't have thought it could be remedied or substituted by lighting a candle. But Olga allowed this bodily action to stand in the place where her mind and heart might lag, and I found the possibility moving." Amy Frykholm


Some of the essays come from favorite books of mine:
Mudhouse Sabbath (Lauren Winner)
Supper of the Lamb (Robert Farrar Capon)
What Are People For? (Wendell Berry)
For the Life of the World (Alexander Schmemann)

After the flurry of Thanksgiving hoopla has settled down to a weekend at home, to hours of sipping hot toddies and slowly but surely decorating our Christmas tree, I am hoping to read more. What beautiful writing.

For now I know enough to say: Highly recommended!

Around the blogosphere

** Reading my adopted niece's blog this morning reminded me how much I miss my not-coming-home-for-Thanksgiving girl. I am grateful for the tutor at Gutenberg College whose family is welcoming Madelaine in for the holiday.

Know a lonely college student in your community? Make sure they have a seat at a table for Thanksgiving. They'll be so grateful (and their parents will be, too!)

Just a few more weeks, Madelaine!

** Tonia has begun writing online again, and she is blowing me away with her words. I am honored to call her my friend.

** There is lots of excitement about Thanksgiving around here. On Wednesday we are heading to a favorite place, the home of friends in the valley. Never again can we say we always have Thanksgiving here; this will be the second time in the last five years we have gone to a friend's house for the big day. I was eager to cook, my friend was eager to recover from some surgery, and there are twelve children who are eager to play and laugh and talk and burn calories before The Big Meal.

What are we cooking? All the usual suspects. Some things we're trying new, though:

Ree's Sweet Potatoes . For Lisa, with love.

A fresher recipe for Green Bean Casserole thanks to Cooks Illustrated.

Cranberry Chutney from Orangette in addition to the ordinary cranberry sauce.

Current challenges include:



finding the recipe for my beloved Cornbread Sausage Stuffing. The page from Martha Stewart's Entertaining fell out a few years ago, and now it is Gone. I miss its smudgy, dripped on, ripped up list of ingredients, and I am wondering if I can recreate the masterpiece without it. This could become an emergency!

Also, Mom is not coming with us, and so I will be without my Gravy Muse. Who knows what the gravy will be like, but our friends are still willing to have me rattle around in their kitchen, crazy risk taking fools that they are.

So, happy Monday, and if you happen to have a copy of the original Entertaining book on your shelf, feel free to email me the best tasting stuffing recipe in the world. That would make my day.

Compline for a stormy Sunday night

Be present, O merciful God, and protect us through the hours of this night, so that we who are wearied by the changes and chances of this life may rest in your eternal changelessness...

Look down, O Lord, from your heavenly throne, and illumine this night with your celestial brightness; that by night as by day your people may glorify your holy Name; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Emily Bronte

"Fall, Leaves, Fall"

Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the autumn tree.
I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night's decay
Ushers in a drearier day.

The Friday Clive

"No event has so corroborated my faith in the next world as (Charles) Williams did simply by dying. When the idea of death and the idea of Williams thus met in my mind, it was the idea of death that was changed."

More reasons I love my mother: a recent list

1) We were having a discussion about the wonders of Gaudy Night by Dorothy Sayers, and she recited the last line. By memory. With feeling.

"and no hand plucked his velvet sleeve."

2) When writing a note to a friend, she used the word insouciant. I only know this because it became quite the stir at church, causing everyone to run for their dictionaries. I guess insouciant isn't a very common word, but it is marvelous.

insouciance: lighthearted unconcern: nonchalance

3) Roasted beets with orange peel were her idea. Yumola.

4) She became a Wendell Berry fan last month. She loved that Nathan Coulter begins with one word: Dark. I love that she loves that.

Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch

On the Art of Writing.

"...the Art of Writing is a living business."

"...let me remind you that you cannot use the briefest, the humblest process of thought, cannot so much as resolve to take your bath hot or cold, or decide what to order for breakfast, without forecasting it to yourself in some form of words. Words are, in fine, the only currency in which we can exchange thought even with ourselves. Does it not follow, then, that the more accurately we use words the closer definition we shall give to our thoughts?"

Luke 19: 37-40

And when he was come nigh, even now at the descent of the mount of Olives, the whole multitude of the disciples began to rejoice and praise God with a loud voice for all the mighty works that they had seen;

Saying, "Blessed be the King that cometh in the name of the Lord: peace in heaven, and glory in the highest."

And some of the Pharisees from among the multitude said unto him, "Master, rebuke thy disciples."

And he answered and said unto them, "I tell you that, if these should hold their peace, the stones would immediately cry out."


There is something very comforting about the fact that if I should fall down on the job, if I should "hold my peace", nature itself would pick up where I left off, a relay of worship not solely dependent upon me.

November

"The season of colds, which ran all the way through to the end of February, started in November, when the magical, golden enchantment of autumn days (the wine of the seasons, when the year held its breath at the approach of frost and fire) turned into the raw damp of the backend of the year, clogging leaves packed underfoot and chilling fog pervading everything. If I had to draw a picture of November, I think I would draw an old man in a grey macintosh, blowing his nose. Even the smoky delights of fireworks and baked potatoes on bonfire night do no more than hold off the depression of those creeping fingers of darkness and cold."

The Hawk and the Dove by Penelope Wilcock

For two people who absolutely LOVE November, this is a strange quote to choose as a favorite. I think it is the "wine of the seasons" comment that charms me. My daughter says that Wilcock is describing November so vividly, and that we love those qualities that she finds depressing. Of course, we live in Northern California, and this book is based in wet, cold England. We spend the broiling months of July and August dreaming of the "creeping fingers of darkness and cold." Every autumn I breathe a sigh of relief and contentment.

A repost from 2007.

Tony Woodlief: Somewhere More Holy

I had enough of parenting books years ago. Not that I didn't have anything to learn, it was more that I had so much to learn that I gave up on easy answers and lists of things to do. So what am I doing with a book like Somewhere More Holy ? I am not sure, but what I do know is this: I read a few quotes that Ann posted and I found the narrative pulling me in.

And the reason I stayed? The reason I found myself sitting on the bathroom floor reading in the middle of the night, afraid to wake my husband with the light and yet unwilling to put the book down? Tony Woodlief knows grief. Someone who has experienced the death of a child knows something about what stands still when the rest of life is spinning. He knows sin and suffering and annoyance and regret and how risky love is. He writes:

How can God's invisible attributes be clearly seen? Perhaps they are invisible because we look in the wrong place, on the wrong terms, with wrong expectations. Grace is in the small places, if it is anywhere. 'Paradise has simply clothed itself,' goes a hymn by the Syrian Christian Saint Ephrem, 'in terms that are akin to you.' Later he writes:

The breath that wafts
from some blessed corner of Paradise
gives sweetness
to the bitterness of this region,
it tempers the curse
on this earth of ours.

Perhaps to speak of earth's bitterness is too negative for some; but who has not tasted it in his suffering? If you have not suffered, then you have not lived, for to persist on this earth is to endure the brokenness of things, perhaps chiefly of ourselves. But still a sweetness blows from heaven, grace in the small things."

Woodlief can tell a story. A believable story. A sweet and scrappy and lovely story. He is honest and encouraging and self-deprecating:

"Maybe it is closer to the truth to admit that the times when we force ourselves to be loving and patient and selfless - even though it can be a struggle - are really part of who we are just as much as the us that snaps at our children. And maybe all of us have a better view of our fitness to raise children if we remember three things: that everybody messes up, that our children love us in spite of it, and that God gave us particular parents these exact children. These blessed mirrors reflecting what we are and what we strive to be. I don't believe God is accidental about the children he gives to us."

My only regret? His children are young. I am eager to hear his thoughts on raising teenagers, on bringing boys to manhood. I am confident it will be a story worth reading. For now, I highly recommend Somewhere More Holy . And you can read other eclectic thoughts from the pen of Tony Woodlief at his blog: Sand in the Gears.

Got 'er done

REX'S EAGLE PROJECT IS COMPLETE!

Before



After


We are all grateful for Saturday deliveries in the sunshine,


for friends there to work hard and bring good cheer,



and dear ol' Dad, the Scout Master Extraordinaire.

Congratulations, Rex! Only a few more steps to go and you're there!

Wendell Berry: Given

We travelers, walking to the sun, can't see
Ahead, but looking back the very light
that blinded us shows us the way we came,
Along which blessings now appear, risen
As if from sightlessness to sight, and we,
By blessing brightly lit, keep going toward
That blessed light that yet to us is dark.

Sabbaths 1999: VI

A lesson from Lark Rise to Candleford

It was movie night last night, another chance to watch Lark Rise to Candleford, and a brief bit of dialog in this episode hit me hard. It was a conversation between two people who live in different social spheres, and rather than making them strangers, it frees them to speak boldly to one another in a way those closer cannot.

Ruby Pratt (to Walter Arliss, recently returned home from many months at sea): Why must you always run away?

Walter: It ain't running away. It's the call of the ocean.

Ruby: Well, perhaps that's what you believe. But I know, you see. I am the child of a father who took to the road. I don't think anybody runs away TO. I believe we run away FROM. That's what I see in your face now...

Walter: I don't know how to be with them. I ain't got the legs for it. The soul for it. I fail them every time. I go because I see they're better off without me.

Ruby: Go home. Go and be with your family. Don't tell them about your tales of the sea. Ask about them. Their day. Their lives. Meet them. Try to see them.

I know I'm intruding, but I could not live with myself if I did not tell you what I know to be true. What goes on in a child's heart when her father runs.

Please. Try. For one day. Surely we can do for one day that which seems impossible for a lifetime.

My beautiful mother

The crisp edges of the pink-and-white-striped oxford shirt reveal a lot about my mother. Rather than pestering her with questions about her health and well being, all I need to do is check on her creases. And yesterday her shirt was a picture of ironed perfection, not a wrinkle in sight. Ironing is her passion. If she can stand, her ironing will get done.

We went grocery shopping, and she was on her own. She pushed the cart, she bent and lifted and crossed items off her well-planned list. She chose carefully the items that will help her with her dietary restrictions, and she splurged on a small mocha at the store cafe. She laughed with the check-out clerk and confidently announced to the bagging guy that we wouldn't need his assistance. She was positively buoyant.

It was June of last year when I learned that such a simple trip could be a miracle. We had no dreams for a November of errands and well-pressed shirts; it was the grim here and now, and treatment plans and tying up loose ends were all we had to look forward to. Those were raw days. We cried and we laughed, we made mistakes, and we got test results that frightened us. But life continued on.

Back in June 2009 I wrote:

So, what do you do when you know your time on earth is coming to an end? Well, it seems that we are finding out the answer to that. We are doing some special things...But for the most part we find that we continue on with what we have always thought was worth doing. We read as many books as we can fit in a day or week, we love textiles and continue to admire the sunflower yellow fabric we found at IKEA. I spend time watering and dead-heading the rose bush in the morning, and I continue to find myself overwhelmed with the laundry pile. It's all shockingly normal.

This has continued to be true (although the rose bush is horribly neglected right now.) But in some ways nothing has been "normal" ever since. We are wiser, but we are also scarred; we have changed, never to return to more innocent days.

I cannot walk over to Mom's house in the morning without wondering what I will find; will she be on the floor, ill with infection? Each time I open the door and find her reading at her table, or happily resting on the couch, I realize I have been almost holding my breath. It is not until I see her that I can tell myself to breathe normally.



When I walk past sunlight illuminating the edge of an antique white bowl, I stop and appreciate it. I didn't realize until recently that Mom taught me all I need to know about the beauty to be found in the rim of a bowl, the simple splendor of white shaped round. None of this was spoken, but she has always lived it in whatever circumstances she found herself.

So everything is normal and yet nothing will ever be the same again. The sun still rises each morning, the laundry pile still reaches ridiculous heights, grocery shopping still needs to be done. But now fear is a choice away, and beauty is found in the most ordinary of places. Despite the continuing diagnosis of terminal cancer, my mother is alive and ironing. Seventeen months ago I never would have imagined it.

The Friday Clive

"Of course language is not an infallible guide, but it contains, with all its defects, a good deal of stored insight and experience. If you begin by flouting it, it has a way of avenging itself later on. We had better not follow Humpty Dumpty in making words mean whatever we please."

Spelling lesson

If this is your spelling list:




this is a great t-shirt to find yourself wearing:

Serendipity at its finest.

Our Chicken Is Slain

Dear Kate used to live in our granny flat, and she had this great idea of keeping chickens in her backyard. It was a repeated disaster, resulting in way too many dead chickens. The experience, however unpleasant, was fodder for the poetic muse of an eight-year-old who was watching and weeping. I know Kate will appreciate that I am finally posting Our Chicken is Slain; we've giggled about this poem for years.

Our Chicken is Slain

(by an eight-year-old I used to know)

How can the sun shine?
It ought to rain
We weep in our beds
For our chicken is slain.

Chased by a dog
Who ought to be ashamed
But instead is happy
That our chicken is slain.

How can we wipe away
The horrible, aching, throbbing pain
That comes from the realization
That our chicken is slain.

Cadfael in November

"Brother Cadfael was standing in the middle of his walled herb-garden, looking pensively about him at the autumnal visage of his pleasance, where all things grew gaunt, wiry and somber. Most of the leaves were fallen, the stems dark and clenched like fleshless fingers holding fast to the remnant of the summer, all the fragrances gathered into one scent of age and decline, still sweet, but with the damp, rotting sweetness of harvest over and decay setting in.

It was not yet very cold, the mild melancholy of November still had lingering gold in it, in falling leaves and slanting amber light. All the apples were in the loft, all the corn milled, the hay long stacked, the sheep turned into the stubble fields. A time to pause, to look round, to make sure nothing has been neglected, no fence unrepaired, against the winter.

He had never before been quite so acutely aware of the particular quality and function of November, its ripeness and its hushed sadness. The year proceeds not in a straight line through the seasons, but in a circle that brings the world and man back to the dimness and mystery in which both began, and out of which a new seed-time and a new generation are about to begin. Old men, thought, Cadfael, believe in that new beginning, but experience only the ending. It may be that God is reminding me that I am approaching my November. Well, why regret it? November has beauty, has seen the harvest into the barns, even laid by next year's seed. No need to fret about not being allowed to stay and sow it, someone else will do that. So go contentedly into the earth with the moist, gentle, skeletal leaves, worn to cobweb fragility, like the skins of very old men, that bruise and stain at the mere brushing of the breeze, and flower into brown blotches as the leaves into rotting gold. The colours of the late autumn are the colors of the sunset: the farewell of the year and the farewell of the day. And of the life of man? Well, it it ends in a flourish of gold, that is no bad ending."

There are many reasons to be fans of the Brother Cadfael mysteries by Ellis Peters. If you like British history, particularly the 12th century civil war, the historical details are many and the twistings and turnings of the warring factions make a great story. But it is the tales of the abbey life that I love, the rhythms of the day and the year made perfectly clear in the pages of each book. And the word choice...is there a better word than pleasance? It is perfect.

In Brother Cadfael's Penance, the final book of the series, Cadfael feels what could be a snapping strain on his vows as a Benedictine. I have never entertained notions of being a monastic, but I have felt the pressure of commitments pulling my heart apart. Any who love both child and parent, especially when that parent is aging and ill, knows what it is to be questioning where to pour their heart at any given moment. Cadfael's struggle is one that resonates beyond the Benedictine life, even for a woman simply doing battle with her laundry pile and a desire to be (at least) three places at once.

Cadfael: Highly recommended. Click on the book pictured above to see Brother's Cadfael's Penance and to find any other books by Ellis Peters.

Photo credit: Claire Wheeler. Photos used with permission.