This just in: Glass half-empty

They call it Ingathering. It was traditionally the first Sunday of the church year in the old Unitarian congregations, dating back to the days when ministers took the summer off. The congregation would return in September for their Ingathering service and bring with them tales - and water - from their summer travels. Somehow the ritual of pouring many separate vials of water into a common bowl became a part of this annual event. Now a lot of churches that don't take the summer off still celebrate the start of fall programs by bringing real or imaginary water back from Lake Erie, the Bosporus, or wherever they went.

So why did the gravitational pull of all that great symbolism just bring me down? Prabably just my own bad attitude. Was it nice to see all their tanned faces? Yes, mostly. Was it cool to hear about their travels? Sure, whatever. Was it uplifting to hear the choir sing traditional nineteenth-century hymns about Common Ground and Standing Together? Not terribly. Did the old coot in the expensive suit have to hog the pulpit for a nine-minute account of his own special summer sojourn, and did that put a damper on the whole process? Yes and yes. Was it worthwhile to hear the minister explore the multivalent meanings of water? Of course. So why the chip on my shoulder?

Upside first. I love the symbolism of water, and Rev. Susan addressed it thoughtfully. Rain for the crops, a drink for the thirsty, wellsprings of life, devastation from hurricanes and floods, Noah, etc. Every person who poured a thimbleful of water into the big bowl IS a walking, talking container of water who creates waves in the world according to how they stir and circulate themselves. Very taiji. I drive home thinking of building a life-size Mrs. Butterworth bottle in the backyard to use as a rain barrel - a monument to the microcosmic human water cycle.

Then the downside. About half of the the summer anecdotes were of the self-aggrandizing, self-promotional, "let's talk about me" character. Neither the musical selections nor the quality of performance made me yearn to take part or hear more. I went home and put on a side of Brubeck while I made a batch of bread, a crock of soup, a batch of salsa, and a small jar (not a peck) of pickled peppers. Not at all transcendent, completely mundane, but more satisfying than sitting in the pew repeating responsive readings in unison. Since they're Universalists, they won't consign me to hell, but I've effectively consigned myself to outsider status.

Determined to finish the day strong, I took a quick bike ride out College Ave. to Hoover Reservoir, across the dam, and back while the bread was rising and the sun went down. More good water allusions if I'm receptive. (Note to self: Take a frisbee next time, and try out the Brent Hambrick championship disc golf course on the east side of the dam!) No major problems or revelations to report, just emotional flatness as water seeks its own level. I should be glad that there IS a bike and a trail and a reservoir I can get to. The bread and soup came out alright; I haven't tried the salsa yet.

No doubt I'm overreacting to minor bumps in the road, making tsunamis out of ripples, as it were, something in my internal psychobiological tides making me recoil from the external stuff around me. Hence a mismatch between my aspirations and my stepping up to make things happen. It's a familiar symptom of the Groucho Marx Syndrome that Woody Allen made famous: "I wouldn't want to be part of any club that would have me as a member." That would also explain why I'm considering taking up smoking cigars. No doubt this too shall pass.