Mary van Balen

Exultation is the going
Of an inland soul to sea,
Past the houses—past the headlands—
Into deep Eternity—

Bred as we, among the mountains,
Can the sailor understand
The divine intoxication
Of the first league out from land?
Emily Dickinson


With the surf pounding beside us, my daughter and I walked the beach this afternoon. My lungs appreciate deep breaths of salty sea air. My heart and soul appreciate the gift of the sea. Emily Dickinson had it right. For this inland soul anyway, going to the ocean is cause for deep joy.

I remember the first time I experienced the ocean. I had finished freshman year at college. My parents, my sister, brother, and I took a trip to the East Coast. Though Mother's family was from Massachusetts, we had never been. I'm not sure what beach we visited first, but I will never forget the moment. Sounds of pounding waves were the first hint of the immensity of what lay ahead. Then, walking beyond the dunes, I saw it. I was overwhelmed with its beauty. Its energy and power. Surely, this was holy ground.

I have never recovered.  Read More 

"A Morte da floresta é o fim da nossa vida" which is Portuguese for "The death of the forest is the end of our life."
(The quote printed on the white t-shirt often worn by Dorothy Stang.)




In "Give Us This Day," a reflection on the life and mission of Sr. Dorothy Stang, murdered advocate for poor farmers in the Brazilian Amazon and the rainforest that is their home, was places on the page facing this morning's Mass reading from Genesis 1:20-2,4a. It seems fitting to reflect on the life of the courageous woman from Dayton, Ohio and the words of scripture recounting God's creating the universe and this earth out of primal chaos. "God looked at everything he had made, and he found it very good."

So did Dorothy. She loved the rainforest and the poor people it shelters and helped indigenous people farm small plots enabling them to make a living without decimating the forest. She gave her life protecting them and their home from greedy land owners and loggers who exploited both for personal gain. Dorothy was murdered walking on her way to a meeting with local farmers, the Bible her only "weapon."  Read More 

"I think you have a cricket in your basement," my sister said after spending the night in "the guest room," a queen bed in the, thankfully dry, basement.

I investigated, and sure enough, the cricked was chirping loudly and stopped abruptly for a few moments when I turned on the lights. Her hiatus was brief, and then her song bounced off the cement block walls once again.

Today, I found her, clinging to the side of an old brick next to the wall behind the dryer. I moved the dryer and she stopped her fiddling. We looked at each other. Well, I imagined she looked at me. I know she knew I was there.

"Thank you for your song," I said, "but you can't keep playing in here."

I walked upstairs and returned with a plastic container that had held treasures from my trip to the Northwest. I gave a slight bow to my guest, managed to guide her into the container without damaging her delicate instruments, and carried her upstairs and out the side door Read More 

No, not a "lousy T-shirt." While admitting to a bit of beach envy, I was happy to receive the bounty of my brother-in-law's garden and produce from their refrigerator which would not last the week. Michael's homegrown eggplant, peppers, tomatoes, and potatoes inspired me to create my own ratatouille this morning. I threw in some zucchini, onion, garlic, and fresh basil and thyme snipped in the rain from my potted herb garden.

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According to James Lipton’s book An Exaltation of Larks, a group of turkeys is called a “raft,” as in a large, often motley collection of things: a raft of books. (p 47). I do not intend to challenge the term found in the 1486 book by Dame Juliana, "The Boke of Saint Albans," or the earlier "Egerton Manuscript," 1450, but rather to add to it my own term of venery for a gathering of these birds based on personal experience.

One evening last week, all of us attending the writing workshop at Collegeville, ate dinner at the Episcopal House of Prayer just down the road from the Institute. After wine and lentil stuffed peppers, we walked to see the Oratory that sits next door. Chairs circled the diameter of the prayer room, pillows and mats dotting the space between the edge and the center circle that was filled with sand and held an ornate brass cross on a tall standard. The space above the center telescoped out in softly lit layers that drew the eye to the evening sky.

A small rectangular space sat at the four direction points, a window looking out at the nearby woods. Four women were gathered in one of these, looking outside and discussing a bird in their view.

I heard snatches of their conversation:

“Do you think it’s a wild turkey?”

“No. I don’t think they can fly that high.”

“Maybe it’s a turkey buzzard.”

As one who had made a list of birds I might see while in Minnesota, I walked over and looked out the window to see the mysterious creature.  Read More 

But now ask the beasts to teach you,/ the birds of the air to tell you;/Or speak to the earth to instruct you,/ and the fish of the sea to inform you./Which of these does not know/that the hand of God has done this? Job 12. 7-9 from Morning Prayer



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One day last week and friend and I were walking through a small woods near my home.

"Maybe we'll see a Jack-in-the- Pulpit," he said.

I had seen them only once before. They are an early spring flower, and one needs to be out at the right time to spot them. As we walked we saw plenty of Mayapples, spreading their leaves and covering large patches of ground, like a crowd of umbrellas on a rainy day. We saw cut-leaved toothwort and whorls of spotted leaves that, while beautiful themselves, probably will sprout a flower in weeks to come. Then we saw it: the Jack-in-the-Pulpit.

Pushing up out of brown leaf cover, the mostly green plant stood straight, the leaf-hood, or spathe, curled protectively over the spadix, a slender spike that hides tiny flowers at its base. I remembered a small church in England I had attended while living with a friend outside London. The pulpit was attached to one of the columns, and had a baffle around and above the preacher, directing the sound of his voice out to the congregation. The sermon was bad enough to send me out early in search of some quiet place to pray which I found on the banks of the Thames.

The Jack-in-the-Pulpit was preaching much more effectively, crying out, as does Psalm 148, for all creation to praise the Creator. Read More 

I took advantage of a day off to accomplish a number of things: doctor appointment, hair cut, and repotting plants. The day was too beautiful not to spend some of it outside and my hospitable friend, Melanie happily offered her time and her place. We have walked paths that wind across her property in every season. We have watched for comets and stars in dark hours of the morning. As I drove to her home, I felt my spirit become lighter anticipating a shared few hours.

As I approached her driveway, I noticed bluebirds on telephone wires. I slid my camera into my pocket as we began our walk. The day was bright and warm for November. We wandered through her garden, edged with drooping sunflower heads and tomato plants that had littered the ground around them with small, orangey red globes. Mint was as pushy as ever. Her basil plant had been huge, and the blue berry bush still sported green leaves.

We saw bittersweet and avoided stepping on too many walnut hulls in an effort to save our shoes. On poor tree had numerous broken branches rubbed clean of bark and shredded by rutting deer.

When I walk slowly like this, I often look down at the ground, my eyes searching for familiar plants and flowers.

"Look, Melanie, a wooly caterpillar."

The words were barely out of my mouth before she saw another, then I saw another. Read More 

The morning after Halloween, my mom's large, silver mixing bowl filled with small candy bars sits on my table, tempting me. Why not have a bit of sweet to start the morning. I had feared this would happen. Being new to the neighborhood, I had no idea if trick or treaters would find their way to my door, so I prepared with a few bags of candy bars. When my neighbor appeared outside in the afternoon ready to take a walk, I asked her about Halloween "traffic."

"Sometimes we get a few," she said. "But not too many. I think they don't know which door to go to." She motioned to the row of flats.

It also doesn't help that my flat is located between two wealthy suburbs. I lived in one for a while and people from all over the city came with vans full of kids in costumes. It was safer. And the take was pretty good.

Before giving in to the call of a snickers bar, I prepared green beans for an evening potluck. Nothing fancy. Frozen French cut green beans, a little butter, salt, and fresh lemon juice. I toasted slivered almonds and put them on top. I saved a small dish to eat later. The longer I looked at the bright green beans and buttery almonds, the less I wanted to wait. Read More 

When my daughter briefly entered graduate school in science and math education, she did a short stint in an affluent suburban high school physics class. Besides being disappointed in the interest and knowledge base of the students, she was surprised by the software being used. Instead of actually building small "contraptions" to test various energy sources (springs, levers, weights, etc) the students manipulated models on a computer program.

"If the spring didn't work, 'click,' they replaced it with something else. If that didn't work, 'click.' No one was invested in the project. They didn't have to be. They just clicked their way to the correct answer, not having to give much thought let alone time to the process."

I thought of this conversation while reading an article in the Oct 8 edition of the New York Times, "Inflating the Software Report Card," by Trip Gavriel and Matt Richtel. Basically, the article reviewed rating systems for the success of computer based curricula and found them misleading.

My experience as a teacher and programming director as well as being the mom of three children tells me that acting on concrete materials is indispensable in the process of learning. Read More