I’ve been singing in a wonderful community choral group, the Academy Chorale, for nearly five years. No matter how tired I might be on a Tuesday evening, by the time rehearsal is over, I always leave feeling rejuvenated, energized, and uplifted. These effects have led me to research the benefits of singing, particularly singing with others.

It turns out that the mental, emotional, and physical benefits of group singing have been well documented. Group singing has been proven to relieve anxiety, lower stress, and elevate endorphins (which help relieve pain and induce feelings of pleasure and euphoria) and other neurotransmitters. Oxytocin, a hormone released during singing, has not only been found to alleviate stress and anxiety, but also to enhance feelings of bonding and trust, which may explain why studies have found that group singing lessens feelings of depression and loneliness. In fact, a year-long study on people with mental health problems, carried out by the Sidney De Haan Research Centre for Arts and Health in Canterbury, England, has shown the some 60 per cent of participants had less mental distress when retested a year after joining, with some people no longer fulfilling diagnostic criteria for clinical depression. That’s pretty impressive! Perhaps therapists should prescribe group singing for their patients along with antidepressants—or even in place of them! After all, there are no negative side effects of singing.

Come to think of it, these benefits at least partly (if not entirely) shed light on the feelings of bliss people report while chanting in a group. When I was in Ananda Marga, the Indian-based spiritual group I was a part of for over 18 years, one of the practices we did almost every day was chanting. At the time, none of us knew of research linking group singing to any of the benefits described above (and likely hadn’t even been done back then), so we concluded that what we had been told was the truth: the bliss we were feeling while singing and dancing was due to the power of the guru and of the mantra we were chanting. More likely, it was due to the surge of endorphins and oxytocin in our bodies.

Indeed, some studies have indicated that, when singing with others, our heart rhythms synchronize, making singing with others like a guided meditation. Researchers in Sweden have found that when we sing in unison our pulses speed up and slow down at the same rate. This synchronicity produces a sense of calm similar to the effects of yoga and is believed to be because singers coordinate their breathing, with the pulse going down when exhaling and going up when inhaling. This coordination has an overall effect of slowing the heart rate, close to the effects of yoga breathing and guided breathing, both of which have been shown to bring down blood pressure.

So when we choral group members practice and perform beautiful and uplifting music together, we not only inspire ourselves and our audiences, we also get a serious and long lasting uplift in mood—and physical benefits as well. What could be better?

After writing the occasional blog article about a mishmash of topics, and after much thought, I’m settling on a new focus (and soon a new title) for my blog. It’s important not only to have a focus to one’s blog, but also to write about what is compelling. For quite some time, I’ve found myself singularly uninterested in the several articles that I’ve been working on but not quite finishing, and that’s why I haven’t posted anything in quite a while. Writing, of course, can sometimes be a slog, but it’s gone far beyond writer’s blog or procrastination (though I’m certainly subject to both). I’ve recently realized that my lack of motivation has stemmed from a lack of real interest in the topics I’ve been writing about.

My new focus, or rather, my narrowed focus (as I’ve written in the past on these topics before) will be mostly on writing and singing. Both inspire and motivate me, and I feel I have valuable insights and experience to share. My book The Orange Robe, while not exactly a best seller, is still being purchased and read, and I’m currently working on a semi-autobiographical novel, (though the main character is male – and that’s all I’m going to say about this project at this point; that is, I may write about the writing process, but not about the plot!) As far as singing goes, I’m in an excellent community choral group that I’ve been singing and performing with for several years. And I enjoy the monthly Open Circle I attend for singers and musicians, where I play guitar and sing with others.

I’m already working on my first article on my new theme, about the benefits of singing in a group. These benefits, which are many, have been well documented, and I’m learning all sorts of fascinating information about the studies that have been done. Stay tuned!

A feline creeps through the undergrowth, its yellow eyes fixed on the animal it is tracking, then pounces, leaping and ensnaring its prey with its claws. As the cat’s mouth closes on the unfortunate creature, it squeals and writhes, trying to escape, to no avail . . .

But this is no scene out of a nature documentary about a tiger or leopard. This is my backyard and the feline in question is a female cat that has been roaming the neighborhood and my yard for the past few months. When she first appeared, I thought for a moment that she was our resident groundhog, because she was seated just outside our veggie garden, as the groundhog was wont to do. Then I saw the black and tan strips. I tried to chase her, but she just flopped over and exposed her stomach, as if she wanted me to pet her. Then I went inside and grabbed a rolled-up camping mat to chase her with. I had no intention of hitting the cat, just scaring her, and it worked. She ran, and I chased her to the gate that leads out to the field behind our house. My feeling of relief was short lived, and I soon felt a twinge of guilt and worry, thinking, What if she can’t get back home or gets attacked by something out in the field, an off-leash dog or a fox?

I needn’t have worried. A few days later, there she was again, sunning and licking herself near the garden as if she owned the place. She did the same stomach roll, and thinking she likely wouldn’t scratch me, I picked her up and deposited her outside another gate, this one leading to the front of our property and out to the street. Then, figuring she was getting in from under our gates, I took some large pieces of firewood from our stash and placed them at the bottom of all three. That didn’t deter her at all. My husband, David, was first to witness her jumping up to the top of one of the gates and then jumping down into our yard. Now what?

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a cat hater. Far from it. But I am a strong believer that cats should be kept indoors. In the U.S., outdoor cats are responsible for the deaths of between 1.4 and 3.7 billion birds, and between 6.9 and 20.7 billion small mammals, such as meadow voles and chipmunks. While I love all animals, if you asked me to choose between an outdoor cat and a bird, the bird would win out every time. While I can’t really claim to be a birder (no “life list,” and I can’t distinguish among all the sorts of sparrows that visit my yard—though, of course, I can identify the invasive house sparrow, the kudzu of the bird world), my love of birds has me feeding our backyard birdies and giving them water.

Back to the cat, whose name, according to a tag on her collar, is Luna. She gradually won us over, coming up to us while we sat on our back porch or in our gazebo, jumping up on our lap, or lying across newspapers we were reading, purring, stretching out, offering her tummy for a rub. I began to feel conflicted: Luna was turning out to be a very sweet cat, but she was still an outdoor cat. Despite myself, I started to look forward to seeing her in my yard, and when I was out there with her, I kept a careful eye to make sure she didn’t get anywhere near our bird feeder or bath.

Then came the day David and I were engaged in a major fall cleanup of our veggie garden. Luna turned up and after coming to us for some petting, settled near the garden, licked herself, then rolled up for a nap. She was still sleeping when we finished our work and went into the house. A little while later, I went back outside to collect some late-season raspberries from our bushes at the back. As I approached the bushes, I heard squealing, looked down, and caught sight of Luna with a vole in her mouth. The cat was under a shrub, but I managed to catch hold of her and tried to make her drop the vole. Luna held on to her prey and got away, but I grabbed her a second time and shook her, and she dropped the vole, which quickly scampered away. Luna then immediately started searching intently for the vole, and I could do nothing to deter her. I certainly tried, grabbing and depositing her outside the gate, but she immediately jumped up to its top and back into our yard and continued searching. I stayed out there for a while longer, following Luna around as she stalked beneath the shrubs and flowerbeds. I don’t know what became of the vole, as I eventually gave up and went back into the house.

Now when Luna comes, I ignore her or pick her up and place her outside the gate, hoping she’ll take her hunting elsewhere. But whenever I put out seeds or put water in the birdbath, I feel like I’m setting the table for Luna and luring birds to their deaths. I’ve witnessed her jumping up onto the baffle below the birdfeeder (maybe just trying it out; there were no birds around right then). I’ve also found some feathers around the feeder from time to time, and hope against hope that if a bird has died, that it died being a meal for a hawk and not being the plaything of a cat. For that’s what people who allow cats outdoors to stalk and catch birds or voles or chipmunks don’t understand: Their pets don’t kill because they’re hungry. They kill because it’s their instinct. And since domestic cats aren’t native to North America, maybe they should be considered an invasive species themselves—especially the outdoor variety.

I called the number I found on Luna’s tag and left a message asking that she be confined to her yard (there are ways!) or kept indoors, but so far, I haven’t heard back. If you own cats, please, please, please keep them indoors! Billions of birds and small mammals will thank you, and so will I.

There are lots of dogs in my neighborhood, all kinds of breeds, and most of their humans follow proper doggie etiquette, having their pooches on leashes and cleaning up after them. I like to think that those who don’t are people just walking through, who live some streets over. That was the case a few winters ago, the day I just happened to look out my bedroom window to see a woman I didn’t recognize walking a large black dog on a leash. She paused in front of my snow-covered lawn, which the dog promptly walked onto. He crouched, delivering several large turds that stood out in stark relief on the snow. The woman seemed to debate with herself for a moment and then, perhaps not wishing to venture into the white stuff herself, led her dog away up the street. There was no way I was going to clean that up myself. Racing down the stairs and putting on my shoes and socks, I grabbed my parka and took up the street after her, reaching her just outside the Starbucks on the corner. “Excuse me,” I panted, a bit out of breath, “you know your dog pooped on my lawn, right?” “Oh, I’m so sorry!” she said, “I’ll clean it up right away!” And so she did, much to my immense satisfaction.

Not that I hate dogs. I’m actually a dog lover, though my husband and I don’t have one of our own. We’ve been on the fence about getting a pooch (from a shelter, of course) for some time now. We go out of town a lot, and don’t like (well, I don’t) the idea of having our pup stay with some stranger more than a few times a year. Whenever we pass a dog (all but the ugliest get this treatment), we’ll say, “What a cutie!” or “Look and see!” or “There, there!” sometimes petting the cutie in question. But that doesn’t mean I agree with what their humans sometimes end up doing.

Take the local park, for instance. There is a sign informing that all dogs must be on a leash. Most follow this, but I’ve noticed that those who don’t tend to be those with large dogs. I often go for walks in the park, and I don’t like being confronted by a large Lab or German shepherd, sometimes wandering far afield of its human. I know if I said anything, the human in question would likely say (and people I encounter thus sometimes do say, without prompting, as I move to the other side of the path), “Oh, he’s friendly. He won’t hurt you.” ‘I don’t know your dog,’ I think. ‘He’s big, and I have every right to walk in the park without being afraid of being jumped on by your canine friend.’ I consider reminding these folks that their pooch should be on a leash, but what if the owner answers with a bit of hostility, and the dog comes at me? I suppose these people feel entitled to have their dog exercise sans leash. I sympathize and agree that every dog deserves some unfettered exercise—and I have some simple words of advice: Take your dog to a dog park!

Racial stereotyping and the killing of unarmed black men in the United States. The war on the poor. The Arab-Israeli conflict. The planet on the brink of catastrophic climate change. Species on the edge of extinction. While it many appear overly simplistic, it is my belief that at the root of all these seemingly diverse and intractable problems is a lack of empathy.

Empathy is the capacity to understand, be aware of, be sensitive to, and vicariously experience the feelings, thoughts, and experiences of another; in other words, the ability to imagine walking in another’s shoes (or on another’s paws). If we were able to empathize with those we demonize, kill, consign to poverty, or condemn to extinction, then we’d likely act differently—very differently.

To see what I mean, let’s examine a handful of these problems: racial stereotyping, the war on the poor (another way of stating what many politicians in Washington are up to these days), and species on the edge of extinction.

Racial stereotyping on the part of many Americans has tragic consequences. The stereotype of the black man that is fixed in white America’s mind, that of someone likely violent and armed, who abuses or deals drugs, has directly contributed to the epidemic of recent deaths of unarmed black men at the hands of police. From the choking death of Eric Garner in New York City last July; to the shooting death of an unarmed black teenager, Michael Brown, in the St. Louis suburb of Ferguson last August; to the case last fall of Tamir Rice, a black 12-year-old boy playing with a toy gun at a recreation center in Cleveland, Ohio, shot within two seconds of police arriving on the scene; to the case this April of Walter Scott, an unarmed black man shot eight times in the back as he ran from police in North Charleston, S.C., the number of cases in the country in the past year is just shocking—a true epidemic. And in several cases, the tragedies have been further compounded by grand juries concluding that there was not enough evidence of wrong doing for the officer involved to be held for trial. (Thanks to a video shot by a brave bystander of the incident in South Carolina, the police officer involved in the case was promptly arrested and dismissed from the force.) While there has been plenty of outrage at these events, far too many Americans have been of the opinion that each of these black individuals (I can’t say “men” because that boy in Ohio was only 12) had done something wrong that led to his death—thus blaming the victim. (While it is true that Michael Brown had robbed a convenience store right before he was shot to death by police, that fact does not in any way excuse his murder at the hands of police. The fact that matters, is this and only this: At the time of his murder, Michael Brown was unarmed.)

A lack of empathy allows these racial stereotypes to flourish, leading to such tragedies. And it’s not just police perpetrating them: The horrific massacre just days ago of nine African-American members of the Emanuel A.M.E. Church in Charleston, S.C., by a white gunman points to the dangers of such insidious stereotypes. While the shooter targeted women as well as men, his reported comment, “You rape our women . . . ” hark back to an entrenched and longstanding stereotype of sexually voracious men of color preying on white women.

Instead of demonizing black males, let’s put ourselves in their shoes. Imagine that you are a young black man afraid of something bad happening every time you go out of the house. Perhaps you’ll be stopped by police while driving at night. Maybe you’ll be targeted for walking through a mostly white neighborhood wearing a hoodie. Imagine what that would be like. Then picture yourself as a black parent having to give your teenager a talk about how to behave if stopped by the police. Imagine your terror when your child hasn’t come home at the expected time. Contemplate and feel what the strain of living with this fear day in and day out would be like. That’s empathy, and it could go a long way to bridging the gap between white and black.

And what about those politicians in Washington waging war on the poor? For that’s what cutting food stamp programs while refusing to raise the minimum wage amounts to. Many of those working at minimum-wage jobs work a minimum of 40 hours a week and yet struggle to pay their bills or to put food on the table for their family. That just isn’t right. But the politicians don’t seem to get it. Lawmakers making a six-figure salary (base pay for senators and congressmen is $174,000 a year) just don’t care about the working poor. And the reason those in Congress don’t care (besides the fact that the working poor don’t have money to donate to their campaigns) is that they lack empathy. They refuse to imagine what it would be like to be in this situation, what it would be like to work two jobs just to make ends meet, getting up way before sunrise in order to have enough time to commute to work by public transportation, as many of the working poor have to do. If politicians even briefly contemplated the struggles that someone working a minimum-wage job has to face day after day, perhaps they would change their anti-poor positions. (When you come right down for it, empathy should be a requirement to run for office. Someone should come up with a test!)

What about the other creatures inhabiting the earth? It’s imperative that we feel empathy towards them as well. Take the looming extinction of countless species due to human impacts. If one were to imagine oneself to be a polar bear futilely swimming for miles in search of sea ice in order to hunt seals, and finally drowning; or a bird returning from its winter home in order to nest only to find that the supply of insects it depends upon to feed itself and its young is not there, then our hearts would be moved and we would do more to fight for their right to live. Not to mention our own right to survive, which is, to speak quite frankly, more and more in doubt, for of course, climate change affects humans as well, and it most affects those least able to cope—those in poor countries, living in the lowlands of Bangladesh, for example, or on islands such as the tiny island of Tuvalu, halfway between Hawaii and Australia, whose people are already experiencing flooding that is contaminating their drinking water, and erosion eating away their land. If we pictured ourselves clinging to a tree while water rose around us during one of the many cyclones that kill thousands in Bangladesh, or living on an island witnessing our home being claimed by the sea, then maybe we’d do something to reduce our emissions and halt the relentless movement upward of the global thermometer.

So can empathy by itself save the world? Perhaps not, but it would go a long way towards making the world a far better place for all of Earth’s inhabitants to live. It’s definitely worth a try, so let’s get started!

We human beings are studies in contradictions, and nowhere is this truer than when it comes to sports. Take the NFL and its legions of fans, who, despite the heavy dose of violence meted out each week, sit in stadiums or riveted to their TV screens every Sunday cheering on their team. And not all those fans fit the stereotypical image of the fan as being brawny and male. It’s estimated that 45% of football’s 150 million fans are female.

I’ve always disliked football, for all its violence, its macho image—and have likened those watching it in stadiums to modern-day versions of Romans cheering on gladiators fighting for their lives in the Coliseum. Now that the negative impacts of football on players and their families are gaining more and more attention, (brain trauma and early-onset dementia in as high as one in three players, domestic assault, child abuse), some of those erstwhile fans are questioning their devotion to a sport that—there’s no getting around it—is downright brutal. Even knowing all that is wrong with it, some fans can’t give up their addiction and continue to watch games despite themselves. That’s why, despite my fondest hopes, the game isn’t going away anytime soon.

I’m not standing on the moral high ground feeling proud of myself, though. I have my own contradictions. And one of them is this: I love baseball. I always have, from a very young age. Sure, it’s not the contact sport that football is. There are the occasional collisions at the plate (rarer, now that baseball has outlawed blocking home plate) or the occasional batter being hit in the head with a fastball, but its players are not subject to the constant brain-jarring tackles (and resulting concussions) that football players are. Still, baseball has its downsides. I’m an environmentalist, so for me, the biggest downside (besides the ridiculous sums of money that men are paid to play it) is the negative impact the sport has on the environment. Consider that each of the 30 major league teams plays 162 regular season games. Half of those 4,860 games are played away from home, which means travel, lots of it, mostly on airplanes, and airplane travel is one of the biggest contributors to global warming. And that’s not all. Think about the enormous amount of waste generated at each of those baseball games. In recent years, most teams have initiated “green” programs to reduce the amount of waste generated at its games, but even if soda cans and glass bottles get recycled, there’s still a huge amount food, container, wrapper, napkin, and plasticware waste. And then, there are the baseballs. Each is used only a few times. The average number of baseballs used in one game is five to six dozen. That means anywhere from 291,600 to 349,920 balls are used in one season alone. All these impacts make baseball a far worse sport environmentally than football. (The NFL’s 32 teams each play only 16 games per season, for a total of 512, meaning far fewer airplane rides, far less trash generated, and far fewer balls used than in baseball.) You’d think that, since the environment matters so much to me, I would stop watching baseball. But I can’t. I fully admit to an addiction. I love the complexity of baseball, its rules, its rhythms, the battles between pitcher and batter, the statistics. I don’t know why. I just do. I’m a human being, which means I’m a study in contradictions. Just like you.

I was fourteen during the summer of 1964, and I had two big loves: the Beatles and the Philadelphia Phillies. I’d been in love with the mop-haired Brits ever since they’d appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show months earlier and since seeing them on TV, had spent all my allowance money on their records and fan magazines, and had scotch taped their pictures to my bedroom mirror. And the Phillies? I’d loved the game of baseball and had been an ardent Phillies fan ever since I was a little girl, and I well remember listening late at night to their West Coast games on the little transistor radio I kept hidden under my pillow. From the beginning of the 1964 season, the Phillies had been in first place and were heading for glory and a World Series berth. Or so everyone in Philly thought at the time.

My parents approved of the Phillies, but certainly didn’t look kindly upon the Beatles. My father, an immigrant from a shtetl near Kiev in what had been the Russian Empire, was old enough to be my grandfather, and he regarded with suspicion the writhing group of young men who had caused his quiet and studious daughter to scream when they appeared on Ed Sullivan that fateful Sunday evening. So, when I got a ticket to attend the Beatles concert that was coming up on September 2, he was none too pleased. How about, he suggested, instead of going to the concert, you go with me to a Phillies game? My father almost never took us kids anywhere (except for occasional trips to Atlantic City), and he certainly never took me anywhere on my own, let alone to a Phillies game. So his offer put me in a quandary. It pitted my two big loves against each another, with my father’s love thrown into the mix. In the end, it proved to be an offer I couldn’t refuse, and I caved in and gave my Beatles ticket away—convincing myself that I was now a mature young lady who was above all that screaming and hysteria. When the day came, we traveled to the game by subway on our way to Connie Mack Stadium. When we got off the subway and headed to the street, we were greeted by a taxi driver calling out, “Beatles or baseball?” (Looking back, it does seem odd that the driver should have called out thus, as the two venues, Connie Mack Stadium and the Convention Center, were nowhere near each other, but perhaps he had found himself caught up in in all the excitement: the Phillies in the playoff hunt and playing at home, and the Beatles performing in town. And “Beatles or baseball?” certainly had a ring to it!)

The outcome of the game didn’t stick in my memory, but looking it up on Google, it turns out that the Phillies won, 2-1, against the Houston Colts. What I do remember is how upset I got with myself just a few days later about giving up the chance to see the Beatles. Stupid! I berated myself. It’s not every day you get a chance to see them! How could you have given your ticket away?! Towards the end of September, I felt even worse, as the Phillies, the team considered a shoo-in to play in the World Series earlier that month, had gone on a ten-game losing streak, and ended up in second place. No Beatles concert, no World Series. I felt bereft.

Luckily for me, the Beatles returned to Philadelphia a few years later. In the summer of 1966, they played at J.F.K. Stadium, and this time, I kept the ticket I had bought and went. It was hard to see them as I was sitting far away from the stage (they were wearing bright green suits and were so far away that they did kind of look like their namesakes, albeit with guitars), and you couldn’t hear much for all the screaming, but I was ecstatic anyway. And the Phillies? They didn’t get to play in the World Series until 1980, and I was long gone by then, wearing orange robes and teaching yoga and meditation in Fiji.

One hundred years ago, on September 1, 1914, the last passenger pigeon died in her cage at the Cincinnati Zoo. Thus ended the sad story of the mass slaughter of a species of bird that once numbered in the billions, whose migrations would darken the skies across parts of the country for days at a time. The extinction of the passenger pigeon came about because they were hunted relentlessly, tens of millions shot from the skies, stuffed 300 to a barrel and shipped by trainloads, where they were then cooked and eaten up and down the East Coast.

Today, thankfully, we have the Endangered Species Act protecting thousands of species from the fate of the passenger pigeon. However, the same mentality that lead to the pigeon’s demise is still too much in evidence today: the attitude that other species exist for our pleasure and sustenance, and the idea that if another species is inconvenient to our way of life, we should just get rid of it.

Take our typical approach to landscaping. We pour herbicides and pesticides on our lawns to achieve the green, weed-free look so many of us desire. Besides the obvious health risks of these chemicals, they also turn our lawns into ecological deserts. For gone are the dandelions and clover that native bees and other creatures so love, gone are the insects that insect-eating birds crave. (Not to mention that these plants can be eaten by us as well, and you never know when you might need them!) The same goes for our backyard gardens. We can’t tolerate the thought that our Swiss chard could get one or two insect holes—or that deer, groundhogs, squirrels, or rabbits should eat any of what we have labored so hard to cultivate. We put out traps to catch groundhogs or rabbits, then relocate them, feeling virtuous that we didn’t kill the darned creatures instead. (More on groundhog-trapping a bit later.)

Considering that these creatures have been here far longer than we have, you’d think we’d be a bit more humble and willing to share. Modern humans appeared a mere 200,000 years ago, while white-tailed deer first appeared 3 to 4 million years ago. The grey squirrel has been here even longer and is traced back 50 million years. Perhaps the prize for backyard species longevity goes to rabbits, the oldest known species of which having appeared at least 45 million years ago. We’re the new kids on the block, and these old timers have every right to exist alongside us. Instead of killing or trapping these creatures, why not try to coexist with them by planting things they don’t like (daffodils instead of tulips, for example) or by excluding them from the tasty plants they can’t resist? After all, an unfenced garden is akin to a rabbit or groundhog all-you-can-eat buffet, and you can’t blame them for dining! And here’s another radical thought: What if they do eat some of the plants we cultivate? Is that so terrible?

Four years ago, when my husband David and I moved to our new home, we dug up a sizeable part of the backyard and put in a vegetable garden. The first year, even though we knew we had a local groundhog, we didn’t put in fencing, deciding to experiment and see what would happen without it. Predictably, the groundhog ate most of what we had planted. We decided to capture and relocate the critter, until I learned from our local wildlife rehabilitation clinic that our relocated adult groundhog would likely die. (Groundhogs remain in the same territory year after year and most cannot adjust when relocated.) So that’s when we decided to groundhog proof our garden. We put in not only fencing (and a kind of fencing that a groundhog would find difficult to climb), but aluminum flashing buried a foot and a half below ground, so the groundhog couldn’t dig its way in. It worked, and now we coexist with our groundhog, who makes his (or her) home under our gazebo. Despite our garden being off limits to him, he still finds plenty to eat, managing to eat some leaves that poke their way out through the fencing. He also eats lots of clover, as we have a natural lawn abundant with what the lawn care industry would call “weeds.” We’ve named our groundhog Ryan (why is another story), and we often see him standing in the middle of the yard on his hind legs, gnawing on an apple that has fallen from our tree, as if he owns the place. When I go out into the yard, Ryan lumbers away, surprisingly quick on his feet for such a fat creature. A week or two ago, we noticed that he had worn out a perfectly straight line in our yard, from the apple tree to the fence that he runs to and under when he’s disturbed. We laughed and considered that it was a good thing the apples were nearly gone. Otherwise, Ryan would soon turn his path into a dirt track.

We enjoy all the wildlife in our back yard from the finches, nuthatches, cardinals, and chickadees; to the squirrels, rabbits, and Ryan the groundhog; to the native bees buzzing around our raspberry vines and clover. Sure, the squirrels eat some of our tomatoes (taking one big bite and leaving the rest), and the rabbits eat the young hosta leaves in the spring. But our lives are so enriched by the wildlife that we wouldn’t change a thing.

Just a few weeks ago, baseball fans in Philadelphia had little to cheer about, with the Phillies, so recently a repeat top contender, languishing in the National League East cellar. That all changed when the Taney Dragons, the hometown Little Leaguers, burst on the scene. A multi-racial and multi-talented team that electrified the city with their spirited play in the Little League World Series, it hardly matters that they didn’t make it all the way. They captured the imagination of the city—and the nation—thanks in large part (though not entirely, as there are many wonderfully talented players on the Taneys) to the awe-inspiring performance of Mo’ne Davis, the 13-year-old African-American girl who pitched a 4-0, no-walk, two-hit gem against Nashville on August 15. Striking out eight batters and getting herself into the record books in the process, Mo’ne became the first girl in Little League history to pitch a winning game in World Series competition, turning the expression “throws like a girl” on its head with her 70 mile-per-hour fastball (which translates to a 91 mile-per-hour fastball in the Bigs). The following Sunday, Mo’ne wasn’t pitching, due to pitching rest rules. No matter. She played third base and shortstop, drew a walk, and got a hit and an RBI, helping her team to a dramatic come-from-behind win. Some days later, she appeared on the cover of Sports Illustrated, the first Little Leaguer to do so. One could say that Mo’ne is getting all this attention because she is a girl (and an African-American girl at that) playing a sport dominated by males. Well, that’s partly true, of course, as Mo’ne is one of just eighteen girls ever to have competed in the 67-year history of the Little League World Series. But she wouldn’t be getting all the attention if she weren’t the fabulous athlete that she is.

As I cheered on the team, I watched Mo’ne with just a touch of nostalgia. When I was a young, I loved playing the game. The neighborhood kids would get together to play wiffle ball in the large backyard of a boy named Chucky. I played the outfield and, fast on my feet, could get to most fly balls. When it came time to bat, I would hit screeching line drives that few could catch. From time to time, some of the neighborhood dads would come to watch, and they’d shake their heads, almost as if wondering whether I was, in truth, really a boy. It was clear they found it hard to believe that such running, fielding, and hitting could be executed by a mere girl. But I never got the chance to play on a real team, as back then, there were no opportunities for girls to play softball or baseball. Baseball was my favorite sport by far, but I had to settle for playing volleyball and basketball. So, as I watched Mo’ne, I wondered what I might have achieved had I had the same opportunity to play. (The fact that a white girl growing up in the ‘50s and ‘60s in a mostly white suburb of Philadelphia, lacked the same advantage as Mo’ne, an African-American girl currently growing up in the city, does show that we’ve made at least some progress.)

I wonder if we’ll see Mo’ne drafted by and then pitching for the Phillies eight or ten years down the line. And why not? Baseball, unlike football, is not a contact sport (well, expect for tagging players out), nor does it matter how much you weigh or how tall you are. What does matter is your speed, your hitting—and your pitching. It’s time to challenge the sex barrier in Major League baseball. If Mo’ne can play in the Little League World Series, why shouldn’t she pitch for the Phillies? Oh, but, I almost forgot: Mo’ne’s favorite sport is basketball, which she hopes to play professionally some day. Too bad, Phillies! You sure could use her help.

Some of you may have noticed that I haven’t posted anything on my blog for quite some time. I have written a number of drafts, the topics of which, though interesting up to a point, haven’t really grabbed me. It might be the topics (my blog posts don’t have a particular angle or theme to them) or it might be that writing doesn’t speak to me in quite the same way as it once did.

What does is music. In fact, that’s how I’m spending most of my free time: in singing and playing. A few years ago, I joined an awesome no-auditions choir. Now, one would think that a choir that doesn’t require auditions wouldn’t be very good. That may be true in some cases, but not in this one. This choir of over 90 voices is awesome, and the music has been a revelation. If you had told me three years ago that I would be singing such complex pieces as Haydn’s Harmoniemesse, Vivaldi’s Gloria, or Rutter’s Requiem (and not only just managing – truly doing well), I would have waved my hand at you and said, “Yeah, right!”

Funny thing is, when I was a child in elementary school and people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would invariably say, “A singer.” I was in my elementary school and junior high school choirs, and sang in musicals in high school (Music Man, Oklahoma!) though never in a lead part. Then, in college, I joined the University of Pennsylvania Balalaika Orchestra, a wonderful ensemble of soprano, alto and bass balalaikas (the bass balalaika: picture a huge triangle with strings), mandolins, and a few guitars. We performed at Penn’s Irvine Auditorium, and one year, sitting alone on stage and dressed like a Russian peasant woman (complete with babushka), I sang a hauntingly beautiful Russian love song while strumming on my soprano balalaika, a la Dr. Zhivago.

Then I joined Ananda Marga, and my musical endeavors took a back seat to world-saving and teaching meditation. Somehow, I did find time to teach myself how to play the guitar and write a bunch of devotional songs. A few years before I left the group, I managed to get five or six musically inclined didis and dadas (monks and nuns) to do a tape with me. I decided to call it “Countless Shores,” and I had a cover designed, but that was as far as it went. (I still have the master tape, done on a souped-up CD player, stashed away somewhere.)

Getting back to the present, there’s another musical group I’ve joined, a bunch of musicians who get together every month in what they call an “Open Circle” to sing and play guitars and other instruments. The way it works is everyone sits in a circle and takes turns singing and playing, or just singing, or just playing, or just requesting a song. Having this monthly commitment gets me to practice guitar regularly and learn a new song or two well enough that I sound halfway decent by the time the next Open Circle comes around.

Practicing for both choir and open circle takes a lot of time. The choir especially requires a significant time commitment. You can’t just show up to rehearsal every week and expect to learn the music in time for the performance. You have to practice at home – from study CDs, online study tracks, or on your own piano – and if you’re not ready to put in that kind of time, then a choir of this quality is not for you.

Putting in the time. Just like writing. The difference for me between the two, though, is that I never dread sitting down (or standing up) to sing. And while I have experienced my share of writer’s block, I’ve never heard of or experienced anything called “singer’s block.” Those of you who know how long it took me to write my memoir, The Orange Robe, and why, know that I am perhaps too much of a perfectionist. I wrote draft after draft after draft, almost driving myself crazy with even the tiniest of editing details, and when you do that for a 350-page book, that indeed adds up to a lot of revising and editing! For someone who edits the hell out of everything she writes, it’s wonderfully refreshing to just pick up my music and sing. And another thing: writing can be such a lonely process. Singing in a choir or group is the opposite of lonely, and it’s uplifting and inspiring to add one’s voice to others and create something beautiful.

“Swan song” in my dictionary is defined as “the last act, final creative work, etc. of a person, as before retirement or death.” Well, I’m not soon to retire or die, as far as I know. And I haven’t entirely given up writing. I write all the time in my head; it’s just getting to the paper (well to the computer screen) that sometimes takes me more time now than it used to. Not only that, the main character of a novel I’m writing has been clamoring for attention, and I won’t be able to put him off for too much longer. So I know I haven’t given up writing for good. How could I? I’ve written this, haven’t I?