Recently, I blogged about my enjoyment of a sport I'm no longer able to practice : kendo-style sparring with padded swords (boffers, to those in the know). The same back injury that keeps me from sitting down as I type these words took the sword out of my hands for good--though the glory--at least with my 9th grade students--lives on. I shared that story on the blog partly because it keeps my spirits up, in this long and pain-filled winter , to think of myself as active and athletic, rather than as injured and middle-aged. (Perhaps it's most accurate to admit that both are true.) But I also enjoy the irony of apparent contrasts: the aging Quaker lady, peering through spectacles on the bridge of her nose, who enjoys the immediacy and physicality of whacking somebody with a great big implement of destruction--while trying not to get whacked in return. But there have been a number of thoughtful questions in response to my story, both here and in person. Wasn't this bef
Welcome to the online journal of a pair of Quaker Pagans.