The bells of mindfulness are calling out to us,

trying to wake us up, reminding us to look deeply

at our impact on the planet.

Thich Nhat Hanh

When, in 1770, John Woolman connected “retailed rum, sugar, and molasses [to be] the fruits of the labour of slaves,” he practiced the sort of mindfulness Thich Nhat Hanh espouses.

But sometimes that gets very complicated.

Every morning, rain or shine, hail storm or snow storm, The Boston Globe is delivered right to my door. Literally. Andrey Goncalves, the delivery guy, throws my paper from his car onto my front porch; most mornings, his aim is so precise the paper lands right onto my doormat.

Can you spot the mindful/environmental/spiritual dilemma? Of course you can! It’s that damned car.

“Should I continue to pay NYT BostonGlobe  $46.56 every month?” I began to wonder. “Environmentally, maybe it would be better if I walked to a store every morning where stacks of Globes had been delivered.”

Ah, but just as I was contemplated this, what should arrive with my morning paper but a cheesy Thanksgiving card from Andrey Goncalves!

So what, you might say. It came with an addressed envelope, you might point out. That card was obviously your Paper Delivery Guy’s underhanded way to get a tip.

Maybe so.

But Something about that card “spoke to my condition,” as JW would put it. I remembered Andrey’s faithfulness—even in terrible weather. And his excellent arm. I remembered how long he’s been my Delivery Guy. Which just might be saying something about how much he—and his family?—need this cruddy job? I regarded his name, considered what it might be like for anyone named “Goncalves” to survive in this economy, this anti-immigrant environment. And, cheesy as it was, there was Something heartfelt about that card which, indeed, asked me to take a moment to reflect upon the bounty that informs my cushy life.

What would JW do? Well, truth be told, I have no idea.

But TNH has this to say: “To bring about real change in our global ecological situation our efforts must be collective and harmonious, based on love and respect for ourselves and each other, our ancestors, and future generations.”

So here’s what I’m planning to do: Keep on shelling out almost fifty bucks every month for my newspaper. Keep on giving Andrey generous tips. And, on a rainy or snowy or miserable morning, when I hear that familiar thunk at my front door, to sleepily offer a prayer of thanksgiving to Andrey and all the millions of unseen, unknown men and women whose fruits of labor I partake every single, mindless day.

Wade Drayton, currently serving a life sentence at MCI-Norfolk for a crime he says he did not do, wants to appeal his sentence. An expensive proposition.So last night at the Friends Meeting at Cambridge (FMC) meetinghouse, forty to fifty people attended a fundraiser for Wade. There was wonderful folk music performed by Kristin and Jonathan Gilbert, the multi-talented Trecia Reavis sang, members of Wade’s family told stories about him and read his poetry; there was fellowship and laughter. The first such event organized by FMC’s Prison Fellowship Committee, the evening exceeded our wildest dreams! We’d been hoping twenty people would come; we raised far more money than we’d dared to anticipate.

As the evening wound down, we sang “How Can I Keep From Singing” together. In prison cell and dungeon vile/Our thoughts to them are winging. And I couldn’t help but thinking that when that many people collectively sing those words, Something happens.

The bells of mindfulness are sounding.

Thich Nhat Hanh

A week after my father died, my husband and I used a gift certificate from Jeremy and Vita (my husband’s son and his wife; thanks, you two!) to help pay for two Boston Symphony Orchestra tickets. Entering that august, lofty, historic auditorium, I realized that the first time I’d been in Symphony Hall, it had been my dad who’d squired our family there—for Tufts Night At the Pops in 1962. And I remembered a time when I’d been, maybe, six or seven, when he and my grandmother attended a BSO concert and, much as I had begged, had left me home. “You’re too young,” they’d declared. “You’ll squirm and fidget and bother the other concert goers.”

“I’ll be good,” I’d promised.

“Maybe when you’re older,” they’d told me. But we moved, my grandmother died; it was not to be. In college as now, however, whenever possible, I’ve attended concerts in Symphony Hall—but not in the black patent-leather mary janes I’d once imagined I’d wear on my BSO outing.

As I took my seat and perused the program, I was aware both of my own grief and my intense joy to be back in a space that has been such a significant place in my life.  My grief worried me a little: “There’s a lot attached to this evening,” I acknowledged. “I really need for this be perfect!”

Our orchestra seats were wonderful, we’d gotten there early enough for excellent people-watching and, oh, the sheer thrill to watch the orchestra members stroll in, schmooze, play a few riffs, tune their instruments. So far, so good.

But at about 7:55, two women in their late twenties/early thirties breathlessly brushed past us and took their seats beside us, just as the “Please turn off all cell phones” announcement flashed. But the woman beside me didn’t notice: She was checking her messages!

OK, Patricia, I counseled myself. You’re in a diminished state. You came here, tonight, with an unrealistic expectation for perfection. And, I reminded myself, you were raised in a family where concert-going behavior was held as something so significant, SO important, that you weren’t deemed worthy enough to attend.

But still . . .

Just as the conductor entered, the young woman slipped her Whatever The Hell It Was device  into her very nice evening bag (Spiffy electronic gadgetry, spiffy bags; please don’t judge me because I care for neither. OK?).

“Is that thing off?” I asked her. Firmly. But, I’m hoping, with a wee bit of gentleness, a tiny bit of I-know-I’m-a-mess-so-please-forgive-me.

But here’s the thing: That woman spent the entire concert with her head bent down while she leafed through her program. But, I realized, watching her with dismay, that’s what young people DO. (Some do.) In a crowd, on the T, waiting, walking along a crowded, city sidewalk, for crissakes, they bend their heads and check their messages, text, whatever.

No, she wasn’t a complete philistine. It was a sheaf of bound pages on her lap, not an eerily glowing electronic screen. (Thank you, Jesus.) But here’s the other thing: She missed an amazing, electrifying performance by solo violinist Pinchus Zukerman. Who, when he interacted with the orchestra or simply felt/took in Beethoven’s music, had been well worth watching.

Sad, huh?