I am not a particular fan of change. Some people embrace it whole heartedly, love it... I am not one of those. I'm getting better about because I accept that it is necessary- without change we stagnate and die- if not literally, definitely figuratively.

There is so much change going on now and I'm doing fine with it. What I'm having a hard time with is change in my church. That has always been very, very difficult for me. I'm a cradle Episcopalian, a fact of which I am very proud. My entire life, I have belonged to St. Paul's Cathedral, a church that has been located at the corner of Church, Pearl, and Main since 1817. (Not the present building, of course, but that's for another time, perhaps.) We have always tried to be inclusive and not conservative. Dean Smith, who was Dean when I was a child, was very supportive of the ordination of women. We have accepted and welcome openly gay men and women, refugees from Africa, single parents, former Roman Catholics, former Methodists, former whatever other denominations you can think of. We have tried to be in the public face with concerts, our amazing choirs, public leadership, what have you and now we are place that is being ripped apart. Things are changing and they need to change but that doesn't make it any easier.

By act of our Vestry, our Dean, Dean Farabee is leaving, is gone. His bitterness today, although warranted to some extent, was completely inappropriate. Good friends of mine are leaving because he is gone. And I, like many of my parish, are conflicted. I, personally, adore Allen. He is a great man. And like many great men, he has great flaws that could not be surmounted. We are in a place of turmoil and I know that it will work out but it's so scary. With everything being as crazy as it is in the world, one looks to his or her church as a place of continuity and stability. That is not mine right now. The structure is sound. I only hope that it remains so and rash words and decisions will not make people rue the day. Through it all, St. Paul's will remain the Sandstone, Gothic revival structure that it is. Thank God for some continuity in these troubling times, here and abroad

For those of you who dream of becoming one of the X-Men, I know I do, I just read an article that is about this little boy in Germany who has a genetic mutation that causes him to develop more muscle mass. As a result, he's freakishly strong for his age. See, there's hope afterall!

"Once a dream did weave a shade o'er my angel guarded bed..." William Blake.

It's a line from a poem, long ago forgotten by me, and yet that line stays, forever etched in my conciousness. Parts of that poem still reverberate, fragmented, split apart by too much other stuff and nonsense. I can't put it all together to make it whole. But that line forever stays fresh. Most likely because to me, that is such a beautiful sentiment. "Once a dream did weave a shade o'er my angel guarded bed." May all our beds be guarded by angels.

There's something so wonderful about childlike joy. It's an obvious thing, I know, but it is so rare that I actually get to give into it anymore. When I worked as a tutor for Americorps, I could give into it more regularly. You can when your work day consists of working with Kindergarteners through fifth graders. Today, actually right now, I'm in the midsts of a rubberband shoot out with my co-workers 10 yearold son. It's bring your child to work day so she brought her son. We're in a detante right now because there is a customer in the building. As soon as that person is gone, however, it is ON! Wherever you are today, see if you can do something similar.

I have a funny little habit at my job, actually at both jobs. When someone hands me their license, I look at their birthdate and mentally note what astrological sign they are and if they have a birthday that is the same as anyone I know. The man I just waited on, for example, is a Cancer with the same birthdate as my uncle. I do this all of the time. I suppose it's just me and my useless information thing kicking in again. Does anyone else do this?

In the Philharmonic Chorus, we are going to be singing "Carmen" at Artpark this summer. (For those of you interested, July 16 and 17.) This is a particular challenge for me, not only because it is a very difficult piece to sing and I am a horrendous music reader and, thus, must learn everything by ear, but the language is what is really killing me. I have to confess that I am one of those Americans that can only speak English (although I can speak English English and American English!). I took Spanish in highschool. My pronunciation was terrific but my memory for the words was shit. In College, I took Latin. Don't ask why. I just did. And after college, I wanted to teach myself French, and boy do I wish I had succeeded, especially now with "Carmen". The pronunciation has stymied me! And some pieces are so lightening fast! I doubt I could sing that fast in my own language, much less one that I'm not familiar with.

Usually, I wind up doing performances on a wing and prayer, and magically, they work out. I suppose I shall just have to trust this one to the fates as well. If it's a system that works, why change it now?

I believe that the word "hate" is in far too common usage. It cheapens the word. I, myself, am guilty of this. I "hate" everything- smoking, mushrooms, cockroaches, idiot drivers, stupid people... the list is endless. Now, I believe that I am required to up the ante, from plain old "hate" to "loathe". But why? Where will it end? I'm going to take a personal stand to bring back the true meaning of "hate!" and not use it for the trivial. This seems like an odd statement, even to myself... bring back the true meaning of "hate? No, I'm not about to go on some insane rampage, just do what I said and stop using it for the trivial. I think boredom is starting to get to me. Even I don't really understand me today!

I'm usually very composed, in any given situation, composed. It may be the influence of my British mother... those of you who know her know that she is the very image of composure and I have tried very hard my whole life to be like her. It's very difficult for a little girl to grow up with a beautiful mother. She never actually cared about her looks... that was just something that was a gift from God... but for me it was like I had to grow up and look just like her- Long red hair, green eyes, alabaster skin. The last I actually managed to get. The rest is curly blond with these strange grey, blue, aqua eyes- depending upon who you talk to, they'll give you a different answer. I look nothing like her and that was a very hard thing to deal with growing up. So, as I couldn't look like her, I would act like her. I had it down in highschool. I was cold, like ice. I never cried and was the Queen Bitch of the Universe. And I was so unhappy. Slowly, I realized that that is not who I am. I'm emotional. I'm a happy, fiercely opinionated, more than slightly off the wall, woman. I am who I am. I can still be ice cold and the Queen Bitch of the Universe when I need to be, but I've tried very hard to let go and be who I really am. The one thing I can't let go of is my composure. It's carried me through many a difficult situation. So as I stand her typing at my job in my cute suit, I remain, as ever, a picture of composure.

Do you ever have those weekends where you don't actually do what you WANT to do and it is jam packed with obligations. I don't think I actually WANTED to do any of the things that I did this past weekend. However, it still managed to be fun, just jam packed and now, at my job that just went fulltime, I'm exhausted from the weekend! Aren't they supposed to be restful? A break from working? And yet we all pack them so full, we never actually get to rest and relax. My vow is spend at least one day in a weekend for actually relaxing. Don't know how I'll fare in my quest, but I'm going to try my best.

I love flowers all flowers. Most women do. And like most women, I am particularly fond of roses. Today, one of my co-workers, who is in the throws of a new romance with a man that she actually met at Pleasure Island in Disney World (Who knew?) received roses, beautiful red roses. Although cliche, still soul achingly lovely. I'm happy for her, genuinely happy but it still stings as I have never had anyone send me roses. And so, I will wallow, just for a little while longer in my roses pity party.