Joyful moments have been chasing me all week. The gorgeous singing of

oh for a thousand tongues to sing the great Redeemers praise at St

Michael's last Sunday and the happiness at 8 o'clock in the morning of little kids on their way to school on Columbus

Avenue, the pleasure of singing with my pals Heather and Christine, the

grateful deads broke down palace.

The euphoria of an eight-month-old great-nephew,

a spoonfuls of Pablum were brought to his mouth.

And of course the arrival of spring after that weird unwinter that we had,

and now Tulips and jonquels and hyacinths appear in the park.

Plus the surprise of hearing a woman in Maryland whistling impressively through her front teeth.

It's not all raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, but I must say it's rather joyful.

You ask a Midwestern or how are you and we tend to say not bad or could be worse

Feeling that it would sound glib or boastful to say delighted. And we men in particular tend to adopt a sort of

of easy-going grumpiness as suitable for all occasions, but I think it's bad luck not to acknowledge that I am

very fortunate to have added my tone to the thousand at church

singing the great Redeemer's praise.

So lucky to lift my voice with the two women's in trio to an audience up in Vermont, to see that

ecstatic little boy finding the joy in Pablum that the Grateful Dead tried to find in acid.

I'm tired of conversations with fellow liberals that start with ritual

lamentations about the horrors we read about in the paper.

We're right to be aware of the horrors, but the display of outrage at cruelties I have not experienced strikes

me as show-offy. Donate money to organizations that relieve suffering, volunteer at the

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