Monday, April 17, 2017



I was out in the desert at Joshua Tree last week without wifi, but here's how my arts and culture Holy Week piece begins:

Mary Ann O’Connor, 69, is a cradle Catholic and the oldest of seven children.

She was born in Santa Monica, grew up in the San Fernando Valley and trained on-site as a nurse at L.A. County-General — an experience that had “a huge impact.”

She worked bedside for 12 years, served two years in the military during the Vietnam War and then moved into management and hospital leadership. And for the last four years she has traveled to the L.A. Catholic Worker soup kitchen on Skid Row to wash and tend to the feet of the poor.

“You really can’t do something like this without a place like the Catholic Worker,” Mary Ann said. “If you tried to do it anywhere else, you would have formalities related to licensing and liability.

“But you walk into the soup kitchen at Gladys and 6th, the heart of Skid Row, and you are free to do the work, not as an expert, but responsibly, thoughtfully,” she added.

Karan Founds-Benton, the lead person and organizer of the foot care ministry at the Catholic Worker, has been Mary Ann’s teacher and mentor. “Through her, I came to love the work. I owe her so much,” she said.

By and large, people make a commitment to show up by signing up when they come to the kitchen for their Thursday noon meal. The foot washers usually start with a list of about 12 people, and they take walk-ins when they can. They work from 8 a.m. to noon every Friday.


Tuesday, April 11, 2017



Gil Baile, follower of philosopher/theologian Rene Girard, and a philosopher/theologian in his own right, is the author of the stellar and important Violence Unveiled.

His new book is called God's Gamble

An excerpt:

"Was the outcome of Christ's incarnation and death a foregone conclusion, or did something hang in the balance?...Did Jesus's Passion pose any risk for the Triune God and for the created order stamped with a Trinitarian ordination? Having chosen to bring the created order into the Trinitarian communion through the one creature endowed with true and truly consequential freedom, was the outcome of the plan of redemption--foreseen by omniscience though it was--nonetheless truly dramatic? Was there a sense of a divine gamble on the outcome of which both Jesus's Resurrection and the continued existence of the created order itself depended? "Is there not, right from the start, writes [Hans Urs von] Balthasar, "something we might call 'hope' on the part of Father and Spirit, namely, the hope that the Son's mission will succeed?"

Whatever unimaginable degree of divine condescension the Incarnation itself must have entailed, might we not draw closer to the heart of what Balthasar calls the theo-drama by framing Christ's culminating plunge into the realm of sin and death as quite literally the greatest gamble of all time: the "momentary" interruption within the Trinity of the world-sustaining exchange between the Divine Persons. As preposterous as this may sound, no one has captured this possibility better than did Joseph Ratzinger. Commenting on Jesus's death on the Cross, he writes:

When the human instrument comes to fall away, the spiritual action which is founded on it also disappears, temporarily. Thus something more is shattered here than in any ordinary death. There is an interruption of that dialogue which in reality is the axis of the whole world. The cry of agony in Psalm 21, "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me," makes us perceive something of the depths of this process.

The Passion of Christ consists of a series of the most important events in history and beyond, but these events are also--and even more importantly--traces of and evidence for an inner-Trinitarian event of literally earth-shaking scope and consequence. For what is at stake is the survival of the created order, imperiled by man's misused gift of freedom and threatening the irreversible disfiguration of creatures divinely destined for participation in the communion of Trinitarian Love. Giorgio Buccellati saw the cosmic peril in Christ's godforsakenness prefigured in Jesus's temptation in the wilderness:

In the tempter's view, the possibility that Jesus might succumb to temptation would have caused a seismic rupture such as to rent asunder (again, in his view) the very core of trinitarian life, hencethe order of being in its integrity. If so, it was by avoiding sin that Jesus saved the whole of reality from ontological collapse.

--Gil Bailie, God's Gamble, Angelico Press, 2016, pp. 218-220.

In my clumsy way, I tried to get at something similar several years ago, in a post called "Waiting Without Anxiety."

Did God himself not know how the events of what we now know as Holy Week would pan out? The more I think about it, the more I think not.

A simple way to say it is that God would never ask Christ and thus us to do something he hadn't done or wasn't doing himself ("If you have seen me, you have seen the Father."). He wouldn't ask us to hold the tension of an anxiety he hadn't himself consented to hold. The whole thing HAD to be a gamble.

Thank you, Gil Bailie, both for the book and for my inscribed copy.


I'm headed out to a cabin in Joshua Tree with no electricity and no running water for the rest of Holy Week! Sardines, crackers, vinegar mixed with gall...let's see if I make it.

Wishing one and all a deep Semana Santa. I'll bring my camera.

Monday, April 10, 2017


My avoidance of PR may have hit a new low. I myself didn't realize that as of April 1, my newest book is out!

I'd love for you to read it.

Here's the press release:

Holy Desperation by Heather King
New Book Offers Spiritual Survival Guide for Desperate Times

Heather King’s new book Holy Desperation: Praying as if Your Life Depends on It (Loyola Press, $13.95 paper back, April 1, 2017) combines mysticism, 12-step wisdom, and a clear-eyed view of human nature into a survival guide for desperate times. “When life has driven you to your knees, this is the prayer book for you,” says King, a recovering alcoholic. “No one knows better than a drunk who’s been struck sober that things happen on a level we can’t see.”

King reclaims prayer for those who feel beyond the reach of God, debunking the myth that we have to shape up before we come to God. Prayer is not about becoming good, it’s about becoming fully human.

A survivor of years of hard living, King’s first prayer of desperation was said on her knees while she was strung out and half-drunk. “I was thirty-four, and it was the first time in my life I had ever sincerely prayed. I had just had what we drunks call a moment of clarity,” King writes. “For me, the moment consisted of the realization that if I didn’t stop drinking, I was going to die.”

Her recovery remains the central fact of her existence, King says. When she joined the Catholic Church twenty years ago,“the paradigm of Crucifixion and Resurrection, the parable of the prodigal son, the merciful God, the conscience-based teachings—all made perfect sense to me.”

King offers ways to pray when you’re uncertain that God exists or when you feel that you’re beyond God’s reach. Practices she has found transformative are Lectio Divina, a slow, rhythmic reading and praying of scripture passages; the Jesus Prayer, a brief, repetitive prayer; and examination of conscience or moral inventory—the basis of Ignatian spirituality, 12-step spirituality, and the Gospels. She also recommends the Divine Office: “If you don’t know about the Divine Office of the Catholic Church, you are missing one of life’s great mysteries and joys: psalms, feasts, solemnities, saints, and holy days; birth, death, resurrection, the whole cyclical pageant of the liturgical and human seasons.”

Prayer leads us beyond ourselves—beyond our own suffering and into a life of purpose, lived for the good of others. As King says in Holy Desperation:

• Prayer can help us wake up “from a narcotic culture that at every every turn numbs without ever really killing our pain.”

• The Gospels are meant to have practical application: “The teachings of Christ apply first, forever and always at the personal level: to our daily interactions with our fellows, to our relationships to money, power, and sex, to our secrets resentments and fears.”

• “Prayer gives us the increasing ability to discriminate between the true and the false, the authentic and the fake, the excellent and the mediocre, the vital and the inert.”

• “The sign of a follower of Christ is not necessarily that we have only healthy relationships and our checkbooks are balanced and our children are going to Ivy League schools. The sign of the follower of Christ is that we get a kick out of life.”

• “Spiritual awakening consists in our ability to rejoice at the awakening of another.”

• “I began to see that I had always loved God and that what I did each morning —sitting quietly watching the light, listening to sparrows, feeling incoherently grateful, letting my mind wander to the mysteries of the universe as prayer—was a form of prayer.”

King eschews the idea that prayer, or mysticism, for that matter, are esoteric matters. “Mysticism is not antithetical to reality. Mysticism underlies reality,” she says. “Prayer means nothing if its fruits can’t be communicated to a person of reasonable intelligence and goodwill in a way that is completely relatable and understandable. What is our prayer for if we’re not able to sit down with another human being, face to face, and say, ‘Tell me your story?’”

HEATHER KING is a Catholic convert with several books, among them Stripped. Parched; Redeemed; Shirt of Flame; Poor Baby; and Stumble: Virtue, Vice and the Space Between. She writes a weekly column on arts and culture for the Angelus magazine of the Archdiocese of Los Angeles. King lives in LA, and blogs at

# # #

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE Contact: Kelly Hughes, 312-280-8126



Friday, April 7, 2017



This week's arts and culture column is about a way of teaching religious education that is all about touch, smell, sound, rhythm, contemplative silence, work and beauty: Namely, the Catechesis of the Good Shepherd, a method based on Montessori principles co-founded by Hebrew scholar Sofia Cavalletti.

Here's how the piece begins:

Sofia Cavalletti (1917-2011), co-foundress of the Cathechesis of the Good Shepherd, developed a three-level, nine-year method of religious education for children based on Montessori principles.

A native of Rome and a Hebrew scholar, she had neither the background nor interest in children’s education. But asked by a colleague in 1954 to teach a religion class to young people, Cavalletti read aloud from the book of Genesis. And a 7-year-old named Paolo, wept.

Those tears of joy amazed her. Through a teacher named Gianna Gobbi, Cavalletti learned of the child’s natural capacity for contemplation, love of order and silence and delight in work.

Together they developed a space for combined learning and worship that they called an atrium, and a method — the Catechesis of the Good Shepherd (CGS) — that has changed very little to this day.

A couple of Saturday mornings ago, I drove to Fillmore, a ranching town outside Santa Paula. Here, Richena Curphey, a librarian at Thomas Aquinas College by day, has established a CGS atrium for the children of St. Francis of Assisi parish.


Tuesday, April 4, 2017



“People wish to be settled; only as far as they are unsettled is there any hope for them.”
--Ralph Waldo Emerson

I am back from Death Valley.

The trip was not "easy." The trip in many ways was kind of harsh.

My rear "spoiler" (which sounds hot-roddy but I drive a Fiat; the little ledge above my rear window) blew off on the way out. For several miles I kept hearing what sounded like pebbles hitting the underside of my car: I looked in the rear view mirror, saw nothing, kept going. Only upon reaching my hotel the first night did I see it was gone, leaving an unsightly oblong patch rimmed my dried glue on the roof of my beloved vehicle. As car repairs go, I figured this would be several hundred dollars.

Death Valley is huge, isolated, desolate, sparse. There is no cell reception. I saw about three clumps of wildflowers (wildflowers were one of the many reasons I'd come) the entire time.

Badwater, the lowest point in the lower 48 states, consists of miles and miles of open, utterly empty salt flats. My second day I parked there, walked way out, and lay down. Miles of openness and utter quiet and mountains on every side.

I got alone with God, and what I felt so strongly was the anguish of my heart. So much fear. Will the ice run out? What if my car breaks down and I can't even call AAA? What if no-one ever loves me? What if I never learn to love anyone else? What if AT&T doesn't refund my $17.64? What if back home my hollyhock seedlings are wilting? What if I get Alzheimer's? What if God is mad at me for being so weak, so broken, so lukewarm, such a baby, so stubborn?

From Badwater, I went to Zabriskie Point and hiked down into the badlands a bit. Just as I was leaving, a rogue wind blew up.

As the afternoon wore on, what with the dust and sand, visibility was virtually nil: the highway patrol I learned later, had issued a don't-drive advisory. I arrived at the Amargosa Opera House Hotel, former home of one of my heroines: ballerina Marta Becket, just in time to avoid perishing on the road. Marta died this year and I wanted to say a prayer for her soul and ask hers for mine. The wind howled and I do mean howled all night. I tucked up the curtains so I could see the boughs of the trees in back wrenching and twisting.

On my way out the next morning, with 50 miles to the nearest gas station, my "Check tire pressure: low right rear wheel" light came on."

I limped into Shoshone, commandeered a guy to help me fill my tires, and continued down the lonely desert highway of Route 127. Fifteen or so miles shy of the 15, sitting untrammeled on a nice wide shoulder on the opposite side of the road from the direction I'd been travelling, I spotted my oliva verde spoiler,

I wheeled over, nabbed it, once home brought it to a body shop, and the guy simply snapped it back on. No charge!

This frees me up to concentrate on my many dental problems.



Friday, March 31, 2017


This week's arts and culture column is on a book that is deeply dear to my heart.

Here's how the piece begins:

“Surely the Lord is in this place and I did not know it.”

— Genesis 28:16

D.J. Waldie, born in 1948, was raised in the Los Angeles suburb of Lakewood, a planned suburb of 17,000 homes incorporated in 1954 and the first of its kind in the West.

He still lives in the same 957-square-foot house his parents bought in 1946. For decades, he worked at Lakewood City Hall, most recently as deputy city manager.

And in 1996, he established himself as one of the finest writers our city has known, with the publication of “Holy Land: A Suburban Memoir.” The book is divided into 316 sections, or “fragments,” some as short, for example, as “The grid is the plan above the earth. It is a compass of possibilities.”

Waldie does not drive and has said that he ordered his writing around the reflections that came to him during his 25-minute walk to and from work each day.

On one level, “Holy Land” is history, geography and sociology. We learn of the three Jewish developers who envisioned and built Lakewood, the 30-man construction crews, the concrete-mixing trucks that waited in a mile-long line to erect as many as 500 homes a week, the eucalyptus and red crape myrtles planted at precise intervals along the identical streets and the post-World War II home-buying frenzy.

On another level, “Holy Land” is a memoir “of a place more than an account of a life,” Waldie has said.


Thursday, March 30, 2017


I’m at a certain Hot Springs Resort outside Death Valley and let’s say the word “resort” is used loosely.

It’s the kind of room where you walk in and immediately think “A lot of people have had sex here and most of them smoked.”

Who cares, though. The room gives on one side into a hallway off of which are four or five private hot springs bath rooms that if you don’t have contamination fears, which I don’t, are kind of great.

The sliding window has no screen so I slept last night open to the night-cool desert air. There’s no food or drink to speak of (I brought plenty, camping-style myself) so I opened one of my cans of double shot Starbucks espresso, heated some water in my electric kettle, threw in some instant coffee, mixed all (twice) in my travel mug, and I’m good to go for several hours.

The drive yesterday from Pasadena was lovely. I caught up on some phone calls on the way, and though I did go the wrong way on 127 from Baker for 35 miles finding myself in the East Mojave’s Cima Dunes and having to reverse track, driving with virtually no-one else on the road—and this is the height of wildflower season—was its own kind of treat. I listened to Russian pianist Maria Yudina, one of my many heroes, who was openly Catholic in Stalinist Russia and was once summoned by Stalin himself in the middle of the night to play Mozart’s Piano Concerto I believe Number 22.

After checking in, yesterday afternoon I drove through Shoshone to within 9 miles of the park (which is gigantic, with 30- or 50-mile increments between “points of interest”) border and, desirous of a hike, spotted a dirt road meandering through the desert scrub, wheeled over, parked and set out. Apparently this is BLM land which means it is open to one and all for free camping, dirt-biking and whatever.

Five minutes in, I came upon a gentleman in a somewhat soiled white T-shirt and khaki pants sitting on the tail of his pickup truck bathing his feet in a basin of water. He had set up camp there. Just like pioneer days! I imagined him panning for gold in the mornings. He had a cultured accent and was friendly without being creepy and we had a nice chat. Then I continued on and hiked up this fairly steep trail for a bit, enjoying stupendous views of the valley floor while perched on a no doubt billions-of-years-old rock escarpment.

This morning in prayer I realized all over again that my heart has become hardened against certain people. No, no, that can never be the way. “I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh” [Ezekiel 36:26]. Please, PLEASE do.

I visited the (Charles and Ray, husband and wife as you may know) Eames House earlier in the week and have become entranced, like so many before me, with the Eames “philosophy” (although Charles apparently had affairs, which tarnishes the halo somewhat).

Still, “Take your pleasure seriously” has always been my own credo. Field trips are hard, but the best kind of, work.  


Tuesday, March 28, 2017


Oh friends, it is springtime in Los Angeles. I have been digging up Bermuda grass (also known as dubo, dog's tooth grass and, most accurately, devil's grass) in my native plant garden to the tune some days of several hours.

Apparently many people actually plant the stuff for a lawn but here in Southern Cal, and I'm sure points beyond, it is viewed as a noxious weed with unimaginably deep, gnarly roots that must be eliminated inch by inch!

Anyway, last Sunday I was able to steal away to view this white wisteria on Pasadena's Arroyo Boulevard that I'd spotted the week before on a walk. The neighboring town of Sierra Madre boasts a purple (more common than white) wisteria that was planted from a gallon pot in 1894, now occupies over an acre, and is listed in the Guinness Book of World Records as the largest blossoming plant I think in the world!

By the skin of my teeth, I am caught up on my writing, admin, social, spiritual and religious obligations, email and other correspondence (kind of), and gardening, and am thus stealing away for a few days to Death Valley, hoping to catch some of this year's wildflower display.

Peace, silence, solitude--first, though, I have to run to Target for a large supply of canned Starbucks double shot espessos to tide me over in case the Tecopa Hot Springs Resort and Amargosa Opera House Hotel are short on caffeine (not to mention Death Valley is a 4-hour drive each way).

Hey, I'm fasting from sugar for Lent (again, kind of). Cut me some slack.

Happy spring to all!


Thursday, March 23, 2017



I didn't have to look far for this week's arts and culture piece

Here's how it begins:

Nohtal Partansky, 26, is my downstairs neighbor.

He’s also a mechanical engineer at the NASA Jet Propulsion Laboratory (JPL) in Pasadena. He grew up in South Pasadena. So did he used to look at the stars as a kid?

“No, but I used to build stuff, K’Nex and Legos. [Remote control] cars, airplanes and rockets. One of my first inventions was a magnetic shoe holder,” he said. “I liked being outdoors. But it was never, ‘Look at the trees cause they’re pretty.’ It was, ‘Look at those trees cause they’re like a fractal!’

“When you like to build things, you like to know how things work,” he continued. “Science is just the description of how nature works. I’d watch Bill Nye and ‘The Magic School Bus’ [and it] made sense. I’d look at a tree and see how it made sense.”

At first, he wanted to be a doctor, like his mother. “But at some point I realized I didn’t want to help some guy who’s been smoking for 20 years with his lung cancer. Building was more interesting.”

Partansky’s last three years of high school were spent at Ribet Academy. “You know, that place off the 2 that looks like a prison. I’m half Mexican and half white so I didn’t really fit in with either of those groups.”

At UC Davis, he saw his friends doing machine shop. One of them made a gyro.

“That was cool. So I decided to major in mechanical engineering,” he said.


Friday, March 17, 2017


This week's arts and culture piece is a little report on a 3-day retreat from the world I took recently.

Here's how the piece begins:

The Center for Spiritual Renewal, located on the grounds of the nonprofit retreat center La Casa de Maria in Montecito near Santa Barbara, is a house designated for personal retreats.

A ministry of the Immaculate Heart Community, the center is located on El Bosque Road — “el bosque” means “woodlands” — and the 26-acre grounds are studded with towering live oaks and other gorgeous old-growth trees. Footpaths meander through citrus orchards, an organic garden and onto a hiking trail that goes miles into the Los Padres National Forest.

Everywhere is a tucked-away bench, overhung with hydrangeas or bougainvillea or toyon, on which to ponder. My first night, I sat overlooking San Ysidro Creek and watched the sycamore trunks turn molten gold in the setting sun.

The house, the former novitiate for the Sisters of the Immaculate Heart of Mary, is baronial: nine “distinctive fireplace mantels” imported from Italy, huge bathrooms with majestic sinks, teak-paneled ceilings, wrought-iron staircases, a library. Outside one spacious terrace faces south, another east.



Monday, March 13, 2017


untitled self-portrait

Recently I came across the book Cellblock Visions by Phyllis Kornfeld.

"Cellblock Visions  is a lively collection of inmate artwork, created behind bars, from county jail to death row – the alternative artworld flourishing today in American prisons. Men and women inmates, having no previous training, turn to art for a sense of self-respect, respect for and from others, a way to find peace. They transcend the cramped space, limited light, and narrow vistas. They triumph over security bans with ingenious resourcefulness - extracting color from shampoo, making paint out of M &  Ms and sculpture out of toilet paper."

One inmate is described as follows:

"Dewayne Williams is incarcerated for life in a mental health unit at a medium-security prison. His sentence was originally life, but was later reduced to first-degree manslaughter. He can barely speak except in a low rumble of one-syllable words, responding only to direct questions or asking for something he wants. For many years he was seen walking across the yard with a strip of duct tape across his forehead, his home remedy for headaches.

He was put on medication for epileptic seizures at thirteen (and has been on it all his life), but otherwise Williams had a normal childhood, functioning well in the family. There was no reported abuse and no show of violence on Williams's part until six months before the crime, when he began to rebel viciously against his mother's authority. he didn't fight with his father until one day when he was told to do yardwork. Williams' refusal was vehement, and later that day, he shot his father in the back of the neck.

In prison, Williams was a recluse, too antisocial to double-cell, but he did participate minimally in some programs. For a few years, an art class was held on the unit, and he showed up regularly, without being called. He was mild-mannered and dove into his painting without hesitation, worked with complete absorption, and when he was finished, signaled by shoving the paper across the table and holding out his hand for another sheet.

Self-portraiture is infrequent in prison art. When it does happen, the style is usually realistic, the pose, heroic. Tyrone O'Neil's [another inmate] portrayal of himself, seen later, goes much deeper to reveal layers of inner selves. Here, Williams's portrait is a single aggressive blast of identification.

If he could get red crayon or paint, Williams would use it to paint a broad stripe across his own forehead, taking off the duct tape first. He studied his reflection in a small mirror with great concentration to produce this untitled self-portrait [above]. He saw the red stripe across his head head, his pointed tongue, a vivid bush of facial hair (he was actually clean-shaven). He applied the medium with force. The face is blind with a fury that Williams himself does not speak of or act upon."

Friday, March 10, 2017


This week's arts and culture piece is on a wonderful, heretofore-unknown-to-me artist: Donald Evans.

Here's how it begins:

Donald Evans (1945-1977) “put his whole life and everything that interested him into the stamps of his fantasy world.” So says Willy Eisenhart, author of the wonderful “The World of Donald Evans.”

Evans was born in Morristown, New Jersey, to Dorothy and Charles Evans.

An only child, he grew up in a stable, prosperous and loving middle-class family. He liked to play alone. An older neighbor introduced him to stamp collecting when he was 6. He spent hours poring over the stamps, memorizing the names of the countries and capitals of the world, learning about the flags, currency, local customs and flora and fauna of fiefdoms, dictatorships and obscure islands.

His best friend for a time was Charles Fisk, who came from old money and whose well-traveled family, Evans recalled, “had a fascinating house full of collections of things and lots of encyclopedias.” The two boys built elaborate sand castles and palaces, made maps and calendars and invented characters. Charles’ was named Uncle Rich Harvest. Donald called his character The Queen.

When Donald was 10, he found he could render the places in his imagination “more real by making stamps from them and little letters.” He outlined the stamps in pencil, filled them in with pen and brush and made the perforations by pummeling out rows of periods on an old typewriter.


Monday, March 6, 2017



From a New York Review of Books article by Thomas Pakenham dated December 8, 2016:

Poets, [Fiona] Stafford* continues, are quicker than suburban gardeners to appreciate the virtues of the sycamore. She cites John Clare’s lyrical account of the “splendid sycamore” with its mountain of sunny green foliage. Its sticky leaves, he wrote, were a great gift to the world. We should listen to the “merry bees, that feed with eager wing,/On the broad leaves, glaz’d over with honey-dew.” Stafford also reminds us that Shelley’s bittersweet poem “Ode to the West Wind” was based on his experiences in the autumn of 1819, wandering in the sycamore woods around Florence. Shelley was in a wretched state; two of his young children had just died. That autumn it was the fall of the sycamore leaves that caught his imagination. The dead leaves were driven by the west wind—“Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,/Pestilence-stricken multitudes.” But the trees, he hoped, would “quicken a new birth.” For the west wind was propelling the “winged seeds” as well as the dead leaves. The dead leaves promised new life. “If Winter comes, can spring be far behind?”


*Stafford is professor of English at Oxford University and the author of The Long Long Life of Trees.

Friday, March 3, 2017



This week's arts and culture column is on one of the best books I've read in recent times, or really ever: "God's Hotel," by Victoria Sweet, M..D.

Here's how the piece begins:

“God’s Hotel: A Doctor, a Hospital and a Pilgrimage to the Heart of Medicine” is a 2012 memoir by San Francisco-based physician Victoria Sweet. The subject is Laguna Honda, a long-term Bay Area hospital that for years was known as “the last almshouse in the country.”

When Dr. Sweet began working in the early 1990s at Laguna Honda — “an elegant, though somber, riff on a 12th-century Romanesque monastery” — patients, nearly always poor, could stay as long as they needed to. There was a turret for a resident priest. There were open wards with a solarium at the end. There were nooks and crannies where the patients smoked, drank, played cards, gambled and occasionally had illicit sex. There was a greenhouse, a barnyard and — I kid you not — an aviary.

Perhaps nothing captures the spirit of Laguna Honda more colorfully, in fact, than that for a time the AIDS hospice ward had its own much-beloved hen.

Unhygienic? Maybe. “Although, as a matter of fact,” Sweet writes, “in the months when the AIDS hen roamed the open AIDS ward, she did keep her diseases to herself, as the AIDS patients did for her.”

Inefficient? Certainly. “But there was therapy in her inefficiency. I can’t document the numbers, but it was worth my while to walk into the AIDS ward just to see the spark of interest in those cachectic faces when lunch was served and the AIDS hen began her strut down the ward. It was a spark of life, an extra spark and sparkle that must have extended a life or two by a day or two, which, when you only have a few days left, is worth something.”



Tuesday, February 28, 2017


Fr. Paul Sauerbier, one of the many "random" folks from whom I receive emails, is a Vincentian priest who has established the Prodigal Father Foundation. 

His ministry is to reach out to priests imprisoned for the sexual abuse of minors—whom he calls “the modern-day lepers in our society.”

Read an interview with Fr. Sauerbier in the National Catholic Reporter HERE.

Not long ago he sent me a hard-to-find copy of a book by Caryll Houselander, one of my favorite spiritual writers.

And the other day I rec'd a photocopy of these stories which, being a walker myself, I felt moved, with his permission, to share.



I have lived in my humble half of this duplex for 15 years.
Without any knowledge or intellectual acumen, I happen to have chosen a spot that is one mile west of Home Depot and the Lockwood Branch of the Dallas Public Library and one mile east of the local Post Office, the local grocery store, my Compass Bank, and the Dollar Store.

That is my normal attire but without the cigar, and in wintertime long pants. I've come to realize that the hat and beard are almost like a uniform which is ironic since I have hardly ever worn clericals in the last 15 years.


1. So, recently when my intestines were bleeding a bit, scaring me whenever I
went to the john, I called my local gastroenterologist for an appointment
and walked the mile to get to his office. But I did not climb the stairs to his office on the 5th floor. I took the elevator.

In the elevator, some ole man got on behind me. After he punches the button for his floor,
he slowly turns to me and in his gravelly ole man's voice, while pointing at me, says "You
walk faster than I drive!".

I looked at him in amazement then laughed,
then something clicks in my head and
I said to him "Were you the guy in the red
car?" And he says "yea!" At that point we
both got off the elevator at the fifth floor.

2. A couple of years ago I was walking the mile east to the library to pick up some of the books on CD which I had requested so that I could listen to them in the car for my weekend drives, Friday AM to Sunday PM, for my visits.

I'm half way there when some ole man with a cane comes out of his house accompanied by two of his daughters and a few of his grandchildren. I wasn't paying any attention to them and was almost past them when I hear this rickety voice belt out "I want that hat."  I turned and laughingly said "you'll have to chase me for it." Then he replied with "You're a legend around here!"

We all laughed and I continued my way to the library. And "NO"! They didn't offer me a ride!
3.    Last year when it was raining, I drove to
the Post Office, a mile west of my
house, to buy some money orders.
While I was standing in the Post Office, some
middle aged man comes up, stands in front of
me and pointing at me with incredulity and amazement in his voice, says "You have a car!"       Stunned, I looked at him and with mystification responded "Well ..... yeaaa".
He says in explanation
"I didn't think you had a car.
I always see you walking every place."
4.      When I'm in Dallas on a Sunday, I walk
the mile and half to St
. Bernard's
Church for the 11AM Mass, only
because it forces me to walk rather than drive the 3.3 miles to St
. Patrick's
where there is a celebration of the
Liturgy, verses "attending" Mass at St
Bernard's which is run by a somewhat
pre-Vatican II Argentinian religious
order wh
ich have the initials IVE.

Just enough people know me that, if at the end of Mass it is raining or there is some extreme of hot or cold, some church lady will ask me if I need a lift home.

With our triple digit heat in the 
summertime, when I arrive at Church, I go to 
the bathroom, take off my hat and dry my hair
with paper towels and re-comb it
. My body
does cool down and by the middle of Mass,
I'm freezing. I keep warm by singing to myself
in prayer for the
Instituto del Verbo Encarnado
"Don't cry for me Argentina, The truth is I never left you, All through my wild days, My mad existence, I kept my promise, Don't keep your distance. I don't sound as good as Madonna who played Evita in the Movie but it warms me up by keeping my mind off how cold the AC is in Church!

Thursday, February 23, 2017


This week's arts and culture piece is on the Santa Fe Dam Recreation Area, a little-known gem a mere half-hour (at midnight, maybe) drive from downtown LA.

Here's how it starts:

My friend Dave, an artist and a walker, has an unerring nose for out-of-the-way spots to explore at leisure.

A few months ago he started talking about a place with quarries and riverbeds and hiking trails by the confluence of the 210 and the 605 freeways. It was in Duarte, he said. He took the Gold Line from downtown Pasadena to get there.

My appetite was whetted. We made plans to go together one day, but Dave had to work and we had to take a rain check. So last week I drove out to the Santa Fe Dam Recreation Area — which is technically in the city of Irwindale — by myself.

Owned and run by the County of Los Angeles Department of Parks and Recreation, the park is open from 6:30 a.m. to 8 p.m. from Nov. 1 to April 30. From May 1 to Oct. 31, the hours are 6:30 a.m. to 6 p.m.

On a Wednesday, the sentry kiosk was empty — winter weekdays are free. Otherwise, the fee is $10 per vehicle.

“Santa Fe Dam Recreational Area,” reports the park’s website, “is nestled at the foot of the San Gabriel Mountains and is considered one of the many hidden jewels of Southern California. This 836-acre facility boasts a serene 70-acre lake with year-round fishing and nonmotorized watercraft usage. During the summer months, the recreational area highlights a five-acre chlorinated swim beach and the unique Water Play Area. The facility is home to many protected native plants and animals. The Nature Center is operated and staffed by volunteers of the San Gabriel Mountains Regional Conservancy offering educational, interpretive and walking tours throughout the year.”