Because I was on the west coast I visited my daughter in San Francisco and my son and daughter-in-law in Los Angeles. I also spent a day at the Cathedral of Our Lady of Angels in downtown L.A. and wrote an article about it for Christian Century.

I'm home now, but busy and somewhat stressed trying to keep up with deadlines. I just turned in thirteen pieces for a preaching book for Abingdon Press. The website is flourishing and this ministry brings people into my life from around the world. I'm trying to write more carefully and seriously about the liturgical year and the mystical life, hoping to put the work I've done for a couple decades now into some sharable form. I'm leading retreats in July (Massachusetts), September (St. Louis) and October (Long Island).

Bill and I put in a new garden in front of St. Aidan's. Now that I don't grow cutting flowers in rows for the farmers' market, we put in a bench and created a shape for a “garden room”. You can't see the “room” yet, but when the dahlias are up (and as tall as me!) a visitor will be surrounded by a wall of colorful flowers. Bill will add a picket fence, which will soften the look of St. Aidan's from the front and enclose the cottage garden with a classic flourish.

On our Rogation procession, we blessed this new garden. At the center is a David Austen English Rose, which we planted in memory of my friend Frano, who died of cancer in September. Frano was a brilliant gardener and a faithful, loving friend since our teens. When I'm stressed I can make a cup of tea and sit with Frano's rose, surrounded by beauty, which Frano taught me so much about.

Meanwhile, we had started lots of seeds indoors in our "seed rooms":  broccoli, cabbage, cauliflower, kale, collard greens, parsley, chard, lettuce, celery.  By mid-March they were yearning to be transplanted into larger containers.  At the same time, it was time to plant peas outdoors.  We moved into action, and since then, it has been pretty much non-stop activity, both indoors and out.  By now we have planted many of our seedlings into the garden, and direct-seeded peas, beets, carrots, turnips, daikon and parsnips.  We have also planted lots of fruit trees and bushes, such as Asian pears, mulberries, gooseberries, blueberries, blackberries, rhubarb and kiwis.  It has been a marathon of planting, as April always is.  

In addition to the "normal" hyper-activity of April, this year we have a new focus:  we got a cow!  Yes, Jiffy arrived on Easter Monday.   She is a Jersey, is eight years old, and is pregnant, expecting a calf in August.   Sr. Carol Bernice is the main "milk maiden."  Milking can be like a meditatiion, and others have joined Sr. Carol Bernice for this, as well as for general cow-care.  Bill has put weeks of work into turning the former field house into a milking parlor, the former caretaker's garage into a barn, and the former playing field into a pasture.  The addition of a cow is momentous for our little farm.  Her milk is rich and delicious, her manure is like gold for the garden, and her presence elevates the level of consciousness on the farm.  And Sr. Carol Bernice, while definitely tired from all this new responsibility, seems radiant.  

Delia, our new postulant, has been using her creative powers to revision the lower part of the orchard, where we have raspberries and other bush and tree fruits.  She has rejuvenated the raspberry patch, planted blackberries, and is currently putting her mind to the most beautiful and enlivening way to grow hops.  

The spring harvest is already in progress:  asparagus, scorzonera greens, sorrel, rhubarb, Turkish rockett, onions from last year, and all manner of herbs.  It's delightful to be eating fresh salads once again.  Although we appreciate the staples that get us through the winter, like potatoes, carrots, beets and rutabagas, we do so appreciate being able to eat fresh greens again.

So winter is over, spring has sprung, we have been jolted out of our winter dream-time, and summer is not far away. It has been a rude awakening, but maybe by May Day we will be able to take a little breather, relax for a day or two, and then get ready for the push to the second stage of planting, after the last frost, when we plant out tomatoes, peppers, eggplants, and other of the more sensitive plants.  Here's to the new growing season: may it be prosperous for all.  

Mid March.

This is not right—at least not "right" for what we've become used to over the past hundred years and more. Those plants move into high gear in April, and usually late April, not in March. And this is mud season in the northeast—but we have no mud at all. We did have enough rain to fill the rain barrels last week, but not nearly enough to soak the ground so thoroughly that we'd have mud.

Now really, one can hardly complain about beautiful flowers and the lack of mud tracked in the house, or sliding down the hill in a slush of mud. The obvious renewal of life each spring is a joyous experience and I don't know anyone who doesn't like it, or who wishes it would just hurry along its way to make room for summer. That's certainly not my feeling, anyway.

But climate change appears to be happening at a rate so rapid that even the most "out there" scientists are astounded. No one had any idea how quickly climate change would become evident. I wonder about our little farm: will we have to learn all new ways to grow food in a dramatically changed climate? what will happen to our water supply? how can we protect not only the plants but our home against strong winds?

There are many things to worry about during our lifetime, and climate change is certainly one of them. It will be difficult to make good plans when we really don't know just what's going to happen. I'm not a head-in-the-ground kind of person, and I will continue to learn as much as I can about climate change, and make the best plans I can—maybe they'll work. Maybe they won't.

But in the meantime I'm also going to relish the beauty and hope that springs into our lives each year, even if it seems to arrive at the "wrong" time. We should never miss that experience of awe and beauty and wonder, because whenever it comes, it reminds us that life will win, one way or another.

By then it may have been too late to convince Jesus to rouse himself and walk with haste across the Mount of Olives toward the desert. By then Jesus may have already thrown himself to the ground in agony, sweating blood, weeping in mortal torment. Perhaps this was part of Jesus' plan. He had to face alone the coming contest with evil. Even Judas knew the women would stay behind to clean up. He knew the women would not have obediently let Jesus pray alone in danger, but argued with him to stop fussing and get a move on.

Nevertheless, the women and common sense remained in Jersualem until too late, leaving Jesus alone in his agony.

Was it the kind of death he was going to die? He's not about to drink hemlock surrounded by admiring friends hanging on his every word. He faces the most obscenely cruel torture perfected over centuries by the cleverest people on Earth, devised to maximize terror not only for the victim but for the populace. Seven last words? Barely able to breathe, he will have just enough air to stay alive and suffer.

Did he believe he would redeem humanity by the offering of his body, by the shedding of his blood? Did he believe he would harrow hell and rise from the dead? Or did he sense the silence of God and wonder whether his mission had been yet one more messianic illusion? Let this hour pass from me. Remove this cup from me. In these prayers, did he mean his death or something even more torturous, dangerous, difficult, and mysterious?

Sit here while I pray ... remain here, and keep awake.

Padre Pio writes, “How many hearts in the course of the centuries have responded generously to Thy invitation ... May this multitude of souls, then, in this supreme hour, be a comfort to Thee, who, better than the disciples, share with Thee the distress of Thy heart.”

When a friend suffers in agony, it is enough to be present and say nothing. And so, we do.

One of our occasional activities during this time is watching films.  We have a subscription to Netflix (yes, alas). We all have such different tastes (one Sister likes science fiction and fantasy, one favors romantic comedies, and so on) that it is hard for us to agree on anything to watch communally, but we occasionally manage to find something of interest to all.  My own inclinations steer me in the direction of documentaries and films about current social, political, or environmental situations.  I am fascinated by Middle Eastern films, and lately have been watching the works of Kurdish film maker Bahman Ghobadi.  Three of his films that I highly recommend are "A Time for Drunken Horses" (2000), "Marooned in Iraq"(2002) and "Turtles Can Fly" (2005).  Mr. Ghobadi uses the medium of film to communicate to the world some of the difficulties facing the Kurds, the largest ethnic group in the world without a country of their own.  

I first became aware of the plight of the Kurds when I rode the Peace Train in 1995.  Along with 221 other women and eight men, we road the rails from Helsinki to Beijing, crossing over the borders of nine different countries, and stopping in each to meet with people there and learn about some of their issues and concerns.  In Turkey, we learned about the difficulties of the Kurds living not just there, but also in Iraq, Iran and Syria.  An ethnic group spanning the corners of four countries faces a myriad of challenges, including shifting political boundaries, wars, ethnic persecution, differing languages, and often the scorn of the countrys' dominant ethnic groups.  Many live in refugee camps.  It is difficult for people to find work, to meet the basic needs of a family, and to integrate fully into the dominant culture.  

Mr. Ghobadi has created vivid portraits of life in Kurdish culture, and focuses on some of the above challenges.  In "A Time for Drunken Horses" he showcases of family of orphans trying to survive in a harsh climate in high mountains, and the particular difficulities of those who are disabled in any way.  In "Marooned in Iraq" he follows a family of musicians who have to cross a dangerous political border into various refugee camps in search of another family member, and the disastrous consequences of Saddam Hussein's attacks on the Kurds in Iraq.  "Turtles Can Fly" portrays life for children orphaned in the wars of Iraq and Afghanistan, many maimed by landmines.  One particularly poignant and almost surreal scene shows children and adults racing across the desert on crutches, frantically trying to claim prosthetic limbs that are being individually dropped from the sky by a Red Cross helicopter.  

He often uses non-professional actors; in many of his films he chooses actors from the very places he is filming, for example, children who are living in refugee camps.  His use of Kurdish music is delightful and unique.  At first his films can seem too loud, too busy and too chaotic, but one eventually realizes that he is just showing life exactly as it is, with all its noise, confusion and unrelenting human need, and without Hollywood glitz.  But he also reveals a culture that is at heart joyful, spontaneous and grateful, even under the most appalling and cruel circumstances.  I always come away from his films with a heightened appreciation of a people who have much to teach us, especially in terms of basic happiness even in the most dire situations.  

Genesis 9: 8 - 17

PSALM 25: 1 – 10

1 Peter 3: 18 – 22

Mark 1: 9 - 15

Mark's Gospel is in many ways very terse and to-the-point. The shortest of the three Synoptic Gospels it is a “Just the facts, Ma'am” rendition of Jesus' life, ministry, death and resurrection. The other two Gospels take Mark's “facts” and expand on them (perhaps to make them more memorable, since stories stick in the mind better than just a list of details. Matthew makes the story about the temptation much more interesting and easy to visualize. He also employs the literary device of three.

Each one of the “temptations” seems perfectly harmless at the outset. “Just turn all these stones (and believe me there are plenty in the Judean desert!) into loaves of bread. Wow, you could feed the world, and everyone would love you! Wouldn't that be a lovely thing to do? Just think of all the poverty, starvation, and war that could be eliminated in a simple gesture by the Messiah! ...Okay.. so that doesn't float your boat. Well then, you could jump off this high pinnacle in view of all the worshipers in the Temple, and they would recognize you right away. After all that's what eveyone EXPECTS of a Messiah. ... All right, you don't have to get testy about it. How about this...if you're so ABOVE all my reasonable suggestions, why don't you just bow down to me and get for yourself everything anyone could ever desire!” In the end, the “devil” is warded off and basically remarks, “Catch you LATER...”

The temptations here seem to call out to our better selves. Who wouldn't want to solve all the problems of the human condition? Who wouldn't want to be loved and admired by everyone. And who WOULDN'T want to have one's cake and eat it, too? The ego would be soooo HAPPY to have all this – be the recognized and successful hero! What could be the harm in that?

It's always tempting to take the easy way out, to do what requires the least amount of energy. But to do so weakens us. Challenge and adversity are what strengthen and inspire us to climb out of our daily ruts. If the hawk doesn't have to chase a rabbit, it starves. If the rabbit doesn't learn to run fast, it's eaten. One complements and teaches the other to reach beyond its feathered or furry self. Without one, the other fails. To solve all the worlds problems instantly would not make us better humans or competant beings of this planet. No other creature expects a deus ex machina to rescue it from its trials and tribulations. Nature abhors the vacuum of incompetance. We can only reach our evolutionary adulthood by taking a good long, hard look at what is expected of the human by the Universe and more specifically by Earth itself. We won't ever completely grasp it, but it's worth the effort anyway.

We need to change how we understand “temptation.” In itself, it's not a bad thing. It can lead us to draw from the deeper waters within ourselves to effect growth and understanding. Temptation can challenge us to recognize the opportunities in all the chaos of our lives. It can prod us into taking the next necessary step toward our spiritual, ethical, and moral maturity. The following observation by Frances Hamer in her book, An Eagle to the Sky (1970), I think will make this point clearer: In it she describes the process toward first flight for one young bird:

“The.....EAGLET WAS now alone in the nest.

Each time a parent came flying in to toward the nest, he called for food eagerly; but over and over again, it came with empty feet, and the eaglet grew thinner. He pulled meat scraps from the old dried-up carcasses lying around the nest. He watched a sluggish carrion beetle, picked it up gingerly, and ate it. His first kill.

Days passed, and as he lost body fat he became quicker in his movements and paddled ever more lightly when the wind blew, scarcely touching the nest edge; from time to time he was airborne for a moment or two.

Parents often flew past and sometimes fed him. Beating his wings and teetering on the edge of the nest, he screamed for food whenever one flew by. And a parent often flew past just out of reach, carrying delectable meals: a half-grown jack rabbit or a plump rat raided from a dump. Although he was hungry almost all the time, he was becoming more playful as he lost his baby fat; sometimes, when no parent bird was in sight, he pounced ferociously on a scrap of prairie dog skin or on old bits of dried bone.

The male eaglet stayed by himself for the most part. He was no longer brooded at night. Hunger and the cold mountain nights were having their effect, not only on his body but on his disposition. A late frost hit the valley, and a night wind ruffled his feathers and chilled his body. When the sunlight reached the eyrie's edge, he sought its warmth; and soon, again, he was bounding in the wind, now light and firm-muscled.

A parent flew by, downwind, dangling a young marmot in its feet. The eaglet almost lost his balance in his eagerness for food. Then the parent swung by again, closer, upwind, and riding the updraft by the eyrie, as though daring him to fly. Lifted light by the wind, he was airborne, flying--or more gliding--for the first time in his life. He sailed across the valley to make a scrambling, almost tumbling landing on a bare knoll. As he turned to get his bearings the parent dropped the young marmot nearby. Half running, half flying he pounced on it, mantled, and ate his fill.”

There are always at least TWO viable options to take when faced with tempation: give in to it or fearlessly examine what is really being asked of us.

I like to think of Lent as “Spring Cleaning Time for the Soul” After all in Anglo Saxon it meant “spring” and even was the word for the month we call “March.” Spring cleaning may seem a painful trial and bother in the process, but the act of sweeping out old dusty bad habits and scrubbing our inner windows and mirrors is liberating and the brightness and light let through become our Easter.

Nothing [that] is destitute itself of life and reason can generate a being possessed of life and reason; but the world does generate beings possessed of life and reason; the world therefore is not itself destitute of life and reason.” Zeno the Stoic, 3^rd Cent. BCE

According to Zeno, then, God's Universe and our home, Earth are beings that give us the strength and ability to become our True Selves. Christ is the example that sheds light on this truth. And that's Good News

I love teasel — its long bare stems support extremely spikey seed heads. The seeds are long gone now, and the empty heads that remain could be used to comb fleece for spinning. They remain strong, with tiny hooks at the end of each spike.

Of course such a bleak, potentially painful structure reminds us that the season of Lent is upon us, a time for stark examination, when deep reflection just might strip us bare, as Jesus was stripped before his whipping. The teasel reminds us, too, of the wreath of thorns that will appear soon after his beating, crowning his head. 

But the bareness and spikes have their beauty, too. When I saw the dry brown bouquet this morning I remembered that teasel is also an instrument of healing. A tincture made from its first-year root can relieve the awful symptoms of chronic Lyme Disease. Perhaps this teasel can remind us that, inextricably entwined with desolation and barrenness, this season contains the hope of healing as well.

This Lent may we engage the hard, perhaps painful work of slowing down, opening up and listening deeply, and may the gift of healing be the blessing at the heart of this holy season.