Our selves, our souls and bodies

What comes to mind when you hear the word “adventure?” Skydiving? A safari? Riding a camel around the Great Pyramids or maybe river rafting in the Grand Canyon?

According to Merriam-Webster, an adventure is “an exciting, unusual and sometimes risky experience or undertaking… it involves bold action, unknown outcomes and a sense of exploration…” (www.merriam-webster.com)

I am an almost 68 year old woman. I am not an explorer. I’m not an athlete. Anticipating “the unknown” fans my generally manageable anxiety into full flame. But I have a thing for the Appalachian Trail (I’m section hiking it bit by bit) and during Covid, the rabbit hole that I went down was all about bush-craft and camping and outdoorsy stuff. I’m still deep in the rabbit hole, apparently.

This summer, in-between two trips to Maine for family events and a trip to Vermont for a wedding, I planned two adventures: a solo camping trip and a solo backpacking trip. The “solo” part is what adds to the adventure for me- it makes it riskier and, for me, a little daunting. I approach these trips with huge excitement and great trepidation. It is a very weird mix of energy. Ask my husband and he’ll tell you that before each trip and each time he drops me off at a trailhead with a full pack and enough food for several days I say, “Maybe I shouldn’t do this… maybe I should just stay home,” and he patiently says, “You’ll be fine. You know what you are doing. You’re smart.” And so, off I go.

I undertake these adventures for several reasons: to spend some time alone since my work is very “people forward” ( I do love my work, but the counter balance of solitude is good and restorative), to challenge myself, to experience God’s creation, and to build confidence and experience.

Now, camping isn’t exactly challenging though it calls for a different attitude about things like electricity, running water and flushing toilets. All of those are at a minimum when camping. For this year’s trip I picked out a campsite in mid-coast Maine not far from a lighthouse that we’ve traveled to many times at Pemaquid. The campground was within walking distance of a stunning white sand beach (unusual for Maine) and had a handful of tent sites at the far end of the campground. I picked the one at the farthest point that backed right up to the forest.

Camp life checks all of my organizational buttons. I love setting up a tidy and efficient camp; stringing a clothesline between trees to host soggy beach towels; getting all of my essentials in the right spot; and practicing camp cooking using my dutch oven, twig stove, campfire, and propane burner. I love zipping into my tent at night and turning on the set of string lights that make the inside of the tent feel like a woodland fairy house. I love blueberry pancakes with real maple syrup and the challenge of cooking a wood-fired pizza, and sipping coffee in front of a morning fire in the chill of the day. I also love lying on the beach with a good paperback, hiking around the campsite to see other’s camping set-ups, and the sounds of the forest- the wood thrush and crows at dawn, and the pack of coyotes yipping as they hunt at night. One morning as I made my way into the forest, I came eye to eye with a wild turkey who clearly had not intended on sharing his space with me. We had a stand off. After a while, I retreated. Turkey, one. Me, zero.

Nothing too adventurous took place doing my camping experience. Merriam-Webster might not even have called this an adventure, but the biggest challenge for me was internal; while not physically arduous or bold, having an entire week of unstructured time is a challenge for me. Oh, sure, there’s breakfast, lunch and dinner to orient oneself. There’s high tide and low tide at the beach to pay attention to. There’s a daily walk to get in, and daily writing practice. But the hours in-between? It’s awfully hard for me to r.e.l.a.x. It’s not in my nature. I want a plan. And I want to get on to the next thing. So, while camping looks pretty lazy, it can be its own “work” in a different way.

Backpacking is a different story.

There’s a start line and a finish line. And a lot between the two.

My backpacking trip was just two days and one night on trail because of impending weather and family plans. But I still covered 21.1 miles in two days.

The section that I am working on these days is part of what we call “Rocksylvania.” From Port Clinton, PA to the Delaware Water Gap, the Appalachian Trail (AT) is noted for its challenging tread-way filled with rocks of all sizes: bread-box and cooler sized rocks (my least favorite) that call for agile rock-hopping, giant boulder clusters that require some hand-over-hand climbing and scooting along on one’s bottom, and flat sections strewn with “shark-fin” rocks whose sole purpose is to grab ankles and destroy trail runner shoes. 21 miles of this was about all I could take in two days; it is slow going for me. Others seem to glide along the surface of these rocks- but for me, each step is calculated and careful.

I have 4 fears when hiking. 1. Snakes. 2. Falling while hiking alone on rocks. 3. Bears. 4. Scary, unsavory people who want to do me harm.

Two of my fears came true on this trip.

Spoiler alert: there were no bears and no unsavory people.

The snake was provided to me early in the morning on my second day. A big, beautiful, timber rattler who, at 7 AM was just soaking up the first rays of sunshine on the trail and not yet fully awake. Luckily, I was fully awake and saw the snake about 18 inches before I would have stepped on him/her. I backed up, zoomed in for a photo and left a very wide berth in the underbrush to make my way around. This snake was so sleepy that it didn’t even rattle for me. Instead, I was rattled. And I hiked on, using the adrenaline to get me up the two miles to the top of Hawk Mountain. 1,050 feet of ascent. There was a lovely view at the top and a sweet old guy (my age) in OG cut offs with some garden clippers cutting away branches from the viewpoint at Dan’s Pulpit. We shared some pleasantries and then headed in different directions- he, down the hill, and me, back into the forest of rocks.

Miles and miles of rocks later, I fell. It was on a flat spot. The rock that got me was one of those little ankle biters that, in spite of my best intentions, threw me off balance and I went down hard. With a 25 pound pack on my back, it made the impact even harder. I hadn’t been on the ground for more than a second before I knew that I was ok. I was bashed up below my knee and bruised on my wrist. but nothing was broken, there was no real harm. I was “turtled” and had to remove my pack in order to roll over on to the rough rocky path and get myself up again. Rattled again.

The rest of the hike was pleasant once I hit a wide, soft forest road that gently descended to my finish place. I was grateful, again and again, for the smooth terrain in the last four miles and grateful for the plentiful white blazes painted on the trees. (Earlier, I had struggled finding my way in the rocks and got turned around twice for lack of sufficient markings.)

There were many beautiful vistas, lovely people along the way, and a sunrise to beat the band. The glory of God’s creation- even the snakes and the rocks- is amazing.

I’m home now. There’s a backpack to unload and gear to clean up for the next “adventure.”

#

PS For those of you who are worried about me getting injured and stuck in the forest, be assured that I always carry a Garmin satellite “In-Reach” with me and, if needed, it has an SOS button to summon emergency responders.

I returned home from my annual retreat late yesterday afternoon. There was a bit of a “step down” process from leaving the retreat site (The Appalachian Trail in MA) to pulling into the driveway in Mechanicsburg- I had a stopover in Wellsboro, PA to attend church and lead services at St. Paul’s on Sunday, making up for a snow cancellation from early January… This “step down” process gave me an extra night of quiet in a hotel and put me in full recovery mode after spending a week in the woods; I bought some skin pampering products at CVS to restore my roughed up hands, enjoyed a very long shower, placed the hotel armchair in a puddle of sun near the window to read a new novel that I’d picked up at the bookstore, and took myself out for a nice dinner. It was peaceful- and a little lonely -after several days in the companionship of my daughter Emma trekking up and down mountains, setting up the tent, taking down the tent, filtering water, taking pictures and enjoying a hiker’s diet of gummy bears, instant coffee, freeze dried dinners and tuna in foil packets.

This was our third annual hiking trip together in the week after Easter. Each year Emma’s school is in recess during Easter Week and it is a good week for me, too, to get away after a long Lent and busy Holy Week. We are section hiking the AT and, inch by inch, making our way to Maine. We are not “slaying miles” or “bagging peaks…” We take our time and keep the daily mileage in the single digits. This works for us as “armchair to trail” hikers; if we ever spent more than 5 consecutive days on the trail we might break into double digits. but in the interest of not risking injury and actually enjoying ourselves, we embrace modest goals. On this trip we hiked from Salisbury, CT to a few miles north of Great Barrington, MA.

There were some great highlights of our trip, but there was also the joy of the daily rhythm of backpacking that made it a real retreat: Meetings, emails, and appointments were traded in for following white blazes painted on trees, moving from one campsite to the next, and searching for level tent sites out of the reach of “widow makers” (dead trees). Progress was marked by reaching the summit of the day’s mountain (or two) and the satisfaction of zipping into one’s sleeping bag at the end of the day- (sometimes when it was not yet fully dark.)

The two of us have established a nice pattern to our backpacking; Emma takes the lead and knows just when to stop on an ascent so that I can catch my breath. She must have eyes in the back of her head to know when I have stopped and need a break. We both collect and filter our own water but she takes the lead on getting the tent set up while I get the stove started to make dinner. This year, Emma took on the fire making job; there’s nothing like a warm fire at the end of the day to add a certain “je ne sais quoi” to the camping experience.

We saw no bears or snakes, no deer- not even squirrels. I believe that our chipmunk count was 1. We do make a fair amount of noise tramping through the woods so that’s not a big surprise. We spied a few turkey vultures riding on the wind, heard countless woodpeckers and a couple of barred owls calling back and forth.

Sage’s Ravine was the first stop on our hike. It is a magical place on the CT/MA border that looks like something from a fairytale: emerald green, moss covered rocks along a crystal clear running stream… a steep rock face hemming in a field of ferns that runs right up to the water’s edge. Filtered sunlight through pine trees and a forest floor carpeted in pine needles, acorns and blankets of moss. Just stunning. After camping here for our first night we hiked along the stream in the ravine for about a mile to reach the next section of trail.

On our hike we climbed several mountains: Lion’s Head, Bear Mountain, Mt. Race, Mt Everett, Mt Bushnell, June Mountain and East Mountain. The terrain ranged from “gentle ups” to bouldering and climbing up steep ascents with the aid of wooden blocks nailed into rocks to grant us some footholds… and the “downs” ranged from pine needle strewn footpaths to gnarly, treacherous troughs of boulders and knee-busting rock hopping . The weather added its own challenges- our ascent to the top of Mt. Race was in a shower of blinding corn snow (big, granular pebbles of snow just short of hail) and, as we made our way across the exposed ledges of the mountain we were denied the spectacular views and saw only fog and snow. We had a special interest in Mount Everett since Emma’s first born is named Everett, and getting up there was a trip: we climbed up a super steep gully of rocks, picking each foothold carefully. When we got to the top we took refuge under some scrub pine, out of the whipping wind. Emma picked up a small stone from the top of Mt. Everett to bring home for her Everett, as a memento.

The cold temps continued for most of our trip (silk sleeping bag liners for the win!) and we made sure to sleep with our water filters and phone batteries in the bottom of our sleeping bag to ensure that they would not freeze. On the coldest morning we woke to slushy ice in our water bottles despite their having been wrapped in our extra clothes and stuffed into our boots overnight. There is a deep appreciation for coffee made tent-side and sipped while still half-zipped into one’s sleeping bag on a cold morning.

Hiking in April in CT/MA does not afford a lot of company on the trail. Most thru hikers are still in the southern states in April. We did meet one hiker, “Footbridge” who camped with us for 2 nights; he was completing his AT trek and had just the northern states left to do- CT, MA, VT, NH, ME. A seasoned hiker, social worker and former REI employee, he had some good trail wisdom to share with us and was good company along the way. He told us about his tradition of eating an entire cheesecake each time he stopped over in a town; and, in Great Barrington, he kept that tradition alive!

It was a blessing to have this break. I love my work but I also love the re-set after a busy liturgical season and I love spending time with my daughter and being in the woods as the season turns and winter (mostly) gives way to spring. The trees budding, the birds singing, the water flowing in the streams- it is not just a metaphor for new life, it is new life, and there is nothing that says “Easter” more than that.

Today I will go to the grocery store. I’ll sort through hundred of emails that have piled up and reluctantly put the tent and my backpack into our basement storage space. I’ll color in the 1/16 of an inch on my AT map that we traveled this week (inch by inch, literally, ) and offer a prayer of gratitude for this time afforded to me.

I’m down here in my prayer shack working to claim a few minutes- maybe even an hour or more- away from email and phone calls. It’s Friday afternoon and my two sermons for the weekend are finished. I came down for a cup of tea, to make a fire in the wood stove, and to listen to the rain fall on the tin roof. I love it here in my little hermitage. It is peaceful. There are woods outside all of the windows and my faithful cat Wobbles (he’s really more of a dog than a cat) sits outside and waits for me. In inclement weather he hides out of the rain under the shed. I’ve tried to invite him into this 80 sq. ft. space but it’s too tight for him. He yowls at the door until I let him out.

It was about 48 degrees when I arrived a while ago. Because the space is so small it only takes about 20 minutes to get a roaring fire going that heats the place up to toasty warm. The thermometer on the wall tells me that it is now 71.

This is Part 2 of my Plan 2026. As I wrote in Part 1, each year I come up with a challenge to stretch myself. Not a resolution, per se, but a challenge to see what it is like living in some different capacity. I hinted around in the Part 1 post at this year’s challenge and am ready to “speak” to it, now, with some clarity.

The 2026 Plan: In 2026 I will not consume any ultra processed foods.

On the occasion that I am a guest in someone’s home or church, I will eat the foods that are prepared for my enjoyment. My aim is not to be elitist or judgmental about others’ food choices or to eschew hospitality, but to create some parameters for myself when I am the one standing at the stove or pushing the cart around the grocery store. I don’t see this an an expression of “orthopraxy,” (a form of disordered eating) as much as a social experiment, kind of like when I tried living for a month and feeding my family on the amount of money given to a family of 4 in SNAP benefits. I do believe that there will be health benefits for me in this and, if I happened to lose some weight or lower my blood pressure or cholesterol in the process, I would not complain. But that’s not the sole goal.

Before I explain more about what it means not eat ultra processed food, let me add that this post will not be put on Facebook or shared widely. This blog has but a few subscribers and so it’s more of a record for me than some great announcement or news that needs to be broadcast across the diocese. It’s personal, but there is something about a handful of subscribers that can keep one accountable. (I also prefer writing when I think that someone besides me is going to read what I write- it is oddly motivating knowing that someone is out there, but not so much that I tend to the finer points of grammar or punctuation…sorry.)

So what makes food processed, minimally processed or ultra processed?

Corn on the cob is not processed.

Peas in the shell, broccoli on the stalk, eggs from the neighbor… are not processed. They are foods that are “just like God made ’em.”

Minimally processed foods are those that have been “handled” but without the addition of anything besides their own ingredients, like…

Cornmeal (corn ground into meal)

Whole milk that has been pasteurized.

Beef from the farm down the road that has been slaughtered, inspected, and aged in the butcher shop right on the premises.

Those are pretty easy.

Marion Nestle, author of What to Eat (2007) and What to Eat Now (2025) explains other categories as have been determined by NOVA, the brainchild of a Belgian nutritionist. Unprocessed and Minimally Processed foods are the first category. Then there are Processed Culinary Ingredients (oils, sugars, butter, flour, salt). The third category is Processed: canned, fermented, cured and cooked foods (often with processed culinary ingredients added) and the fourth category is Ultra Processed: industrially manufactured products usually containing nonfood additives used cosmetically to impart color, flavor or texture, along with culinary processed ingredients. (What to Eat Now, Marion Nestle, North Point Press, 2025,pg. 28-29.) Think Pop Tarts. Frozen macaroni and cheese. Tater tots. Doritos. Most brands of ketchup and other beloved condiments.

Nestle goes on to say this: “Ultra processed foods are industrially produced, contain additives that you cannot easily find in supermarkets, and are designed to be irresistibly delicious…If you are not sure if a food is ultra processed, consider whether you could make it in your home kitchen. If you can, it is unlikely to be ultra processed.” (pg. 29)

Nestle’s book is 750 pages long. Its subtitle is “The Indispensable Guide to Good Food, How to Find it, and Why it Matters.” I won’t give you more of Marion Nestle here, but I commend the book to you.

Putting food on the table that is minimally processed has a number of benefits, as I imagine them:

Food cooked from its “whole” state is generally more affordable.

The process of “cooking from scratch” requires us to slow down a bit. The “convenience food” industry developed as our time at work and away from home became greater and greater, because of societal demands. Because of my job, this “slowing down” comes by spending most of my day off in the kitchen, preparing food for the week ahead. I love it. The radio is tuned to the classical music station WHYY in Philly, the kitchen warms up, and at the end of a long morning I have most of the week’s food prepped and in the fridge (ask my husband about the threatening sticky notes that say “for Wednesday dinner! Don’t eat!, etc.)

Eating whole foods is better for one’s health. I’m not a scientist but I am pretty sure that brown rice is better for you than Cheetos, and a bowl of steel cut oats with a little almond butter is going to do you better than a frosted blueberry Pop Tart.

I’m looking forward to working my way through Nestle’s updated version of her book so I can understand more about what is, now, mostly intuition for me.

I have been known to enjoy a Pop Tart from time to time, mostly on the trail, but overall, I don’t think that this will be too difficult. It has, already in just the first week of 2026, gotten me to look more closely at labels and to put some things back on the shelf: a brand of pasta that I usually buy has some preservatives added to it, lots and lots of foods have added sugar in them, and, if there are ingredients that I can’t pronounce or buy to add myself to the food that I’m cooking, it’s not coming home with me.

Let’s see.

A few updates from time to time maybe, but that’s the Plan 2026: Little House on the Prairie meets my Mechanicsburg Kitchen?

I couldn’t resist this morning’s sunrise. I got up, turned all the lights off in our hotel room and snapped this photo while Glenn was in the shower. We are headed home to Pennsylvania this morning after a glorious week in Sonoma and Bodega Bay with our girls, their husbands and our three West Coast grandchildren.

Last year, I took a similar picture from the same hotel on the same day:

The picture that I took on Jan 2, 2025 was the second in a series of photographs that would run for the whole of 2025, capturing the dawn each day.

Here is the sunrise that started the whole thing: I took this from our bedroom in Bodega Bay at the dawning of 2025 on January 1:

I mean, after a display like that… who wouldn’t want to capture day after day of spectacular morning light shows?

I took photos wherever the dawn found me- all over the diocese in Central Pennsylvania, in Maine, Massachusetts, Florida, Georgia, Texas, California, Missouri, Virginia… and Quebec, Canada and the Dominican Republic.

When on a work trip I used my iPhone compass as I settled into a hotel room in the evening to determine where I’d have to look in the morning. On more than one occasion I wandered through a hotel lobby in my pjs and out to the parking lot to capture the moment.

Most of my pictures were taken from our front porch that faces East, or on my morning walk around the neighborhood. I have lots and lots that look like this:

And, of course, not every day dawned in shades of pink-orange-red-yellow. I have lots that look like this:

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Every day, you ask? Every single day? Well, almost. I missed one day: 19 October, 2025. We were at our diocesan convention. It was Saturday morning. I was reviewing notes for our business meeting, drinking coffee and … distracted, I guess, is the best way to put it. I missed taking a photo. It’s said that it takes only 21 days to form a habit, but here I was, towards the end of October, more than 10 months into this project and… the morning photo completely eclipsed my mind. So much for habits. Later that morning, though (call it coincidence or even a “God moment,”) one of our diocesan priests approached me at a break in the meeting and waved her phone at me. “You know how you take a picture every morning of the sun coming up?” she asked me, “Well, this morning’s sunrise was so pretty that I pulled over on my way to this meeting and took a picture to show you. Here.” She put the phone in front of me and, sure enough- pinkish orange streaks against an agate background. “I’ll send it to you, ” she offered, not knowing that I had missed taking my own photo that morning. I thanked her and told her that she’d saved my “every day” streak…

At Easter this past year I was invited to attend the Easter Vigil at St. Andrew’s in York. They do it the old school way at St. Andrew’s, gathering before dawn on Easter morning outside around a fire. I made the short drive on the turnpike from our house to York in the pitch black and, as I was driving, I had an uncanny sense of connection with the women in the scripture story who made their way to the tomb “while it was still dark” (John 20) to tend to the body of Jesus. Of course Jesus wasn’t there when the women arrived. He had risen. When I arrived at York, we stood around the fire ring and kindled the new fire of Easter and then we processed into the church where we sat in candlelight and heard the beginning of the story of our salvation. I had been invited to preach at the service and spoke about the theme of darkness and light, of death and resurrection, the dawning the day and the dawning of our faith. I told them about my Sunrise Project. In my preparation for that sermon I learned that there are really three stages of dawn or twilight- the time just before the sun rises at dawn that marks the transition from night to day.  There’s Civil, Nautical and Astronomical Twilight. These vary depending on how many degrees- 6, 12 or 18- degrees below the horizon the center of the sun sits before dawn. These three grades of twilight are defined by how much you light you need to perform the function that you want to do: Astronomical Twilight allows for star gazers to still have a good view of the night sky and its stars, Nautical Twilight- is a bit brighter, allowing for navigating at sea, and Civil Twilight is the amount of light that you need to move around in villages and cities in order to get where you need to go without bumping into things. These are, perhaps, subtle distinctions but they pointed out to me that rather than taking pictures of the sun rising, I was really taking pictures of the liminal moments just before the sun comes up.. which, I discovered, is all about hope and faith.

In the sky at twilight- whether it hints at a glorious color show or a muted, soft lightening of the sky- there is hope. There is possibility. There is the edge of discovery and delivery. And that is faith.

As it turns out, my 364/5 days of picture taking was an exercise in faith. Standing in the parking lot of the Hampton Inn in Somewhere, Pennsylvania… on the beach in the Dominican Republic… on a pre-dawn walk through sleepy Old Quebec…. or standing barefoot on our front porch in the quiet of our neighborhood, I had hope and faith that God would deliver another day and another opportunity for me to live and breathe and have my being. What a privilege to draw breath and to live our fragile lives. Each day of this project reminded me of the grace of God in the gift of life and the opportunity, as the Benedictines say, to always “begin again.”

My project for this new year, 2026, is focused more on my health and social issues of food and food production so I don’t expect it to be as pretty as Project Sunrise 2025.

In closing, here are a few more to share from 2025:

“Arise, shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord rises upon you.” – Isaiah 60:1

Part One:

Every year I choose a challenge to take on for 365 days. In recent years, these challenges have included reading the top 100 Great Books (according to one list I found), sleeping outside in a tent at least one night per month, not drinking alcohol, adhering to a vegetarian diet, adhering to a vegan diet and, in this past year of 2025, taking a photograph of the sunrise every day.

My success rate is pretty good. I’m a disciplined person and when I set my mind to something, I generally stick with it. (The trouble is setting my mind to it…sometimes the things that would be the healthiest options for me are not the things on which my mind is easily set.). Of the examples given above, the only one that I failed at was the Great Books challenge. I veered off course in the middle of Don Quixote but did, before that and to my great amazement, make it all the way through Joyce’s Ulysses– admittedly doing only a cursory reading. My sister-in-law Joanne is part of a two-year study group in Cambridge, Mass that is parsing Ulysses one small bit at a time and, no doubt, getting infinitely more out of it than I did, tied to an armchair every morning for a half hour for months on end.

I have literary aspirations- I want to read more Charles Dickens, all of Shakespeare’s plays and sonnets, and more John Donne than I’ve got under my belt. I’d love to re-read some classics that I read in a hurry as an undergrad (English Lit minor) and barely understood- Faulkner, Woolf, Steinbeck. Reading George Eliot’s Middlemarch on a beach in Puerto Rico during spring break in my Junior year was an especially weird and unsatisfactory experience. I’d also like to break from my provincial English and (white) American framework and read authors from other parts of the world and of different racial and ethnic groups. I remember that when I traveled to Sri Lanka a few years ago I was encouraged to do some reading ahead of time and learn about the Sri Lankan Civil War and the great tsunami of 2004. I read the works suggested to us and I loved how I was able to connect and learn in advance of the trip.

But this year, I am drawn, again to consider my diet and food as I plan my 2026 challenge.

For some time- decades, really – I’ve had an interest in food production as it relates to our environment and our health. I remember reading Diet for a Small Planet when it first came out in 1971 ( I was in Junior High) and I read the 50th anniversary edition when it was released in 2021. Its focus on food choices and how they relate to global environmental and social issues struck me as a young teen and still makes me think as I sit down to plan our weekly menus. In 2006 I read Marion Nestle’s What to Eat – a seminal work in learning about food production and how to eat healthfully- and I just got her updated version, What to Eat Now, that came out this year. I’ve also been captivated through the years by the importance of food and dining as a cultural focus, enjoying classic works of MFK Fisher and her Italian equivalent, Patience Gray.

Some of my interest has to do with having worked as a cook and caterer for several years when I was just out of college. And, as I became more interested in theology and Christianity as a practice and profession, it was not lost on me that food, hospitality, and gathering together in community is also central to a life of faith. The focus of our weekly ritual in church, after all, is a meal… a heavenly banquet at which we are nourished and fed by Christ himself!

Another theme that is hard to ignore is … aging. In my seventh decade, now, I’m all too aware of how one’s body begins to betray oneself and the increased efforts that are needed at “upkeep” if longevity and mobility are among our personal goals. I do want to remain active and mobile and agile. I do want to be sharp witted and aware. Food -and exercise- are key components of any plan to remain active and healthy in one’s advanced years. In the past few years I have lost flexibility, strength, and have – through the indignities of menopause- lost most of my hair. Today, I have a physical shape that could best be described as “pudding in a sack.” (Credit to my husband for that descriptor but relax, he’s not said it in reference to me.) And finally, as someone who never took more than a vitamin or a couple of Tylenol for the first 65 years of my life, I find that I am now on both blood pressure medicine and statins for unhealthy levels of “bad” cholesterol. For the first time I have one of those plastic 7-day pill boxes that sits on my bathroom counter, taunting me. Ugh.

I want to hike the rest of the Appalachian Trail when I retire in 2027.

I want to be healthy for my children and grandchildren.

I want to travel, to garden, to hike, and to live on… healthy and strong.

I’m still concocting the specifics of the 2026 plan, but stay tuned. Details to come in a next entry.

Dear friends,

I just got home (to Mechanicsburg). It was a long drive (3.5 hours) but a few podcasts kept me going- and a little coffee.

I’m happy to be home, of course, but already missing the BRC. It is such a special place- a place apart that, without even trying, gives you a new outlook on life. The rhythm of the country, the rising and setting of the sun, the surprise of a coating of snow that glistens on the lawn, the call of a coyote in the early morning, deer grazing with their heads down in the middle of the field- it is all a joy.

I took an early walk this morning back up Horseshoe Road. It’s a dirt and gravel road that goes up and up and up to the ridge on the other side from the Brookland Retreat Center. I passed neighbor Darryl’s house as I set out and he called good morning to me and shouted that he “hadn’t seen a bear in a few days,” up the direction that I was headed. I wondered to myself how fast I could run in my heavy hiking boots.

I saw no bears. Just stands of pine trees, the creek running, a few empty camps, and a blue sky streaked with clouds.

On the way back I hurried a bit- we were set to read Morning Prayer in the Chapel at 8:00 AM as was our pattern, and we were hoping that a friend and parishioner from Coudersport would join us. She did! We “topped out” at FOUR people this morning as we said our prayers; it was a joyful chorus.

Bishop Nichols and I spent the lion’s share of the day working. When Darryl asked what we were working on, I told him that we were “building a new diocese.” Our meeting went very well. Bishop Nicholas and I have been at this for a while and our working together is exciting. At the end of our time together we made a video sitting on the porch in the beautiful rocking chairs.

We had another visitor today- a woman who represented a local hiking club that is looking for a place to gather and to maybe share a meal and fellowship. It was good to meet another neighbor and to hear about the trails in the area and their maintenance.

Bishop Nichols, Amy (my week long companion and friend) and I shared some sandwiches and then we bid Amy farewell as she headed north to her family homestead in New York. What a good companion she was this week. She came with me to sit in the chapel for Morning and Evening Prayer as we “kept the hours,” helped with kitchen duty, took walks with me and got some of her own work done, as well as. We are good travel partners and friends. I am grateful for her time at BRC with me this week.

After one last spin up the hill and around the field, I reluctantly loaded my car, did a final check in the house (oven off, lights off, trash emptied, back door secured) and headed out.

Three and a half hours later, I was home. Glenn was just returning from the store and prepared to make his famous “you- are- home- from- retreat- stir- fry” and Wobs (my giant cat) gave me the cold shoulder for having been gone for a few nights.

All is as it should be.

Here’s my plea: If you find yourself weary… If you haven’t breathed mountain air for some time….If you need a break from looking at screens… if you want to stare at the dark sky and see it lit up with God’s gorgeous stars… if you need to re-focus, rest, invigorate, do something different…. try a trip to BRC. Getting there is an adventure all its own- the drive into the Northern Tier of the diocese is beautiful- and it is well worth the time.

Email our Property Manager Stuart Scarborough (sscarborough@diocesecpa.org) or check out BRC at http://www.brooklandcenter.org to find out how you can schedule your trip.

Thanks for reading along and letting me share this special place.

Love,

Audrey

Dear friends,

It is a joy to be in a place of such natural beauty and… get one’s work done at the same time!

This morning I woke at dawn and was greeted by a moody sky and a fresh blanket of snow. Waiting for the coffee to finish brewing, I stood at the long windows in the dining room of the retreat house and watched for deer. The clouds moved quickly in the sky, promising that they weren’t going to hang around for long and, indeed, in just a couple hours’ time it was pure cerulean overhead.

Fueled by a few cups of coffee another early riser (one of our guests) joined me on a quick two miles up and down Horseshoe Road, a largely untraveled byway that passes a few yards from the house. The firs were heavy laden with the night’s snow and we wondered about an interesting track that a we saw along the side of the road… rabbit? deer? (too small for Sasquatch (-: )

Another guest came in time for Morning Prayer and we joined in the chapel to hear the ongoing saga of the Maccabees and the ending of the Book of Revelation. (We saved the gospel reading for Evening Prayer.). It was lovely to hear the refrains of the canticles in this holy space, recited in unison. I thought of the generations of prayers soaked into these walls.

After church it was into the woods and up to the top of the ridge for another short walk. I wear blaze orange up here. You never know if a hunter is nearby, even on this private property. I traveled with one of our guests, The Rev. Janis Yskamp, who knows these woods well. She pointed out the different tracks left by wildlife (and you can see that we left some tracks of our own.)

Today was a “zoom day” and so it was staff meeting at 10:30, and two one-on-one meetings this afternoon. I finished up just in time to greet Bishop Nichols who is here for his first visit to Brookland. I am grateful for the internet and a good signal to allow me to do work while here… as needed.

Tonight we’ll keep the hours and read Evening Prayer in the chapel and then enjoy a quiet dinner. Bishop Nichols and I have lots of work to do and this is a lovely place to do it! Our other guest who is remaining is a good sport. Fortunately, she has ear buds so she doesn’t need to listen to bishops waxing on.

Home tomorrow night- but not until I’ve had at least another walk in the woods!

Love,

Audrey

Tuesday morning.

I have a whole day stretching out in front of me with no online appointments. That is a real gift.

I began the morning with a cup of coffee and a quick tour outside. There were deer tracks in the snow under the apple tree and the sun was doing its best to broadcast a new day from under a thick layer of clouds. I love the view of the retreat house from just up the hill- there were a few lights shining in the house that makes it so inviting and cozy against the snow and dark sky.

A few cups of strong coffee, a perusal of email and checking in with my siblings on our regular dawn “SibChat” text thread got me started.

After Morning Prayer in the chapel, my house mate and I spent some time reading and working and I finally got my walk up to the top of the hill. (Later on I learned from a neighbor that I had trodden on private land… so, tomorrow’s walk will be re-mapped.)

In the afternoon I worked for a short time on my needlework and then the caretaker of the Retreat House, Matt, stopped by. Matt is the Fire Chief in the town, an EMT, Boy Scout leader and a jack of all trades. He is also a great conversationalist and we learned some about the local area from him.

Towards the end of the afternoon, we ventured out on another walk, stopped over to say hello to Darryl, the next door neighbor and fellow Episcopalian, and made it back in time for Evening Prayer in the chapel and the arrival of another guest, who was coming for dinner and the night.

What a lovely way to spend the day: cozy in the house, out in the brisk winter air crunching through snow kissed leaves, visiting with people who know and love this place, and being together in prayer and community. Pretty great.

Tomorrow is a zoom day but another guest is coming for Morning Prayer and a hike before the computer calls me to the couch.

Sweet dreams.

Dear friends,

I’m here at the Brookland Retreat Center in the Northern Tier of our diocese enjoying a “Bishop’s Week in Residence.” I’m here because I wanted to open space up to others in our diocese who might be curious about this place and to invite them to come for a day, or to spend the night (there are 8 guests beds) or to share some conversation, a hike or a meal.

I love it here at “BRC.” The setting is bucolic. The retreat house sits at the edge of a country road with a gracious hill that rises up behind it to the woods. Just across the lawn and through a stand of cedar trees is the stone chapel (1889) which is in the “miniature gothic style” with red and white marble inside and butternut woodwork fashioned with wood from a nearby forest. The stained glass is mostly from Whippel in Exeter, England, and one of the figures in the window depicts the child of the founding father of the parish, Henry Hatch Dent. There is a graveyard that stretches out from the door of the church, and a long sloping field that is used by a local farmer to grow hay. (One time last summer the farmer and his kids were here while Glenn and I were visiting and we learned everything we now know about haying and farm machinery from their 8 year old boy.)

As I made my way up here this morning – along the river through Halifax, Duncannon, and Liverpool, through Selinsgrove and Shamokin Dam, up to Lewisburg, Williamsport and up towards Mansfield- I could feel myself relaxing into a slower pace and a different rhythm. Oh, I brought plenty to “do” (my laptop, some needlework, a half-finished novel and even that small wooden spoon that I’ve been carving on and off since Covid,) but pulling into the driveway, all of that became less urgent. I was happy just to “be” here.

The house is gracious and comfortable. In the past couple of years the furniture has been replaced and there are cozy corners to sit in to read. The kitchen has every single appliance, pot and pan that you could ever want (I brought mostly pre-made food from home for convenience’s sake) and the bedrooms are very comfortable, There are four bathrooms! The porch out front hosts six big rocking chairs that whisper a quiet invitation to rest and ponder.

As I unpacked my things I looked out the window and there were 3 deer in the field behind the church. I went over to the church and read Evening Prayer at 5 PM and then cooked a chicken pot pie that traveled with me from home.

There’s one guest here tonight besides me- that’s all that you need to read the psalms responsively. She’s a friend and good companion, and tomorrow I’m hoping that we will take a hike up the hill. The last time that I was here there was a fox at the edge of the forest at the top of the hill. I’ll keep an eye out tomorrow.

But that’s tomorrow. Tonight there is yet, a book to be read and slumber to come.

Love,

Audrey

One year after an adductoplasty

Author’s note: I’m writing this, really, for myself, to add to the record of my adductoplasty adventure and not to whine. That may surprise you because in this piece, I do some major whining. Feel free to scroll on.

To be fair, I never really asked.

I never queried my doc asking: “So, can I expect a full recovery, full mobility after this surgery?”

I was unpracticed, naive, and this was the first time that I’d “gone under” (except for 10 minutes back in 1982 when the dentist anesthetized me to yank 2 wisdom teeth out of my head) and… I’d never, ever, had any kind of orthopedic surgery.

My doc was very confident. She explained what would happen to me in the surgery (lots of bones to be moved around, tendons cut and reattached, and some titanium plates and screws added to hold everything in place…) and I really liked her. She was smart and listened to my (few) questions and I felt as though I were in good hands. I probably was in good hands. The C- success rate that I have experienced now, one year later, may not have been her fault. But I wanted- and expected- more.

My early days of recovery went right on schedule- if not a little better than expected. I graduated from the scooter to crutches, from the dreaded boot to a very large sneaker, and except for one small incision problem that led to a course of antibiotics, things were pretty good.

The doc didn’t think that I needed physical therapy but everyone that I talked to thought that was crazy. So when I asked for a third time, she wrote me a scrip and I attended dutifully twice a week for three months (and did exercises at home) to address problems with my ankle and hips, my arch, and the still tender toes.

At some point, it appeared that I had a stress fracture. (See previous post) and so I had my first adventure with steroids. (I didn’t think that the steroids did anything for me until I had a mystical experience early on Easter morning and later that day I found myself weeping while distributing communion…)

It was about this time that I just went silent about my old foot. Six months into all of this, no one wanted to hear about my foot anymore. I don’t blame them. I didn’t want to hear about it either. But in my final appointment with the doc which was at the end of May (7 full months after surgery) things still weren’t great. My big toe was “frozen,” my middle toe didn’t move at all on command and drifted over to cross over my fourth toe, and, my index toe was becoming a “hammer toe.” Add significant numbness on the top of the foot and in all but one toe and …. C-. My balance, too, was (and is) horrendous because only my pinky toe actually touched (touches) the ground in bare feet. I became a liability without shoes and in the shower, holding on to every grip bar and bannister available to me.

I guess that’s just the way it goes. When I seemed discouraged at the doctor’s office she reminded me that this was “major surgery.” “We rebuilt your foot,” she told me.

Another friend who had similarly invasive surgery on his foot told me that it “takes a year.”

OK. It’s a year. But it’s still, a C-. Still, a toe refuses to move, and still that toe drifts around, still my big toe is stuck, and my balance is horrendous and my foot is super numb.

I went on a solo backpacking trip in August (see two posts about that) and was determined to “be okay.” I was okay- or as okay as I ever am, climbing mountains. I was tired and winded but my feet held up until the last day when I went down a steep descent and jammed my toes into the front of my boots but.. that’s normal.

I’m going to keep hiking. I’m going to keep walking. I’m going to live my “normal” life even though my right foot would rather stay home.

A need a surgery on my left foot. Maybe not as extensive as the other foot, but I’m scared. I guess I need a new doc, too, though that makes me very sad. And, I may just carry on, and not do it at all. Time will tell.

This entry is for posterity’s sake, and I’ll go back to being quiet about my foot. Both of them.

Cheers.