In “To Charles Cowden Clark,” John Keats, feeling uninspired and “not oversmitten” by what he has just written, adds, “Yet, as my hand was warm, I thought I’d better/ Trust to my feelings, and write you a letter.”

He goes with the flow, trusting his warm (hot?) hand. Like the three-point-shooter, basketball’s unique practitioner of confidence and skill; make half of them, you lead the league. You have to be good and trust yourself.

. . . wrote in a “constant endeavor to fence against the infirmities of ill health,” he said in the dedication of his novel The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy. He wanted to “beguile (the reader) of one moment’s pain,” since “every time a man smiles . . . it adds something to this Fragment of Life.”

Fifteen years ago. Mass hadn’t started, it was not too big a crowd, but it was like walking into a school board meeting before it’s called to order.

And as in some board meetings, the calling to order did not entirely silence some, who took mass as chat time.

It was a family group, with infants in arms, people you like to see. But couldn’t they be quiet?

In the spring of ’02, I dropped in at Old St. Pat’s on Ash Wednesday for my annual reminder that I am dust and unto dust will return — good to keep in mind when I am tempted to take pride in my considerable accomplishments — only to be told by a feverishly smiling 35-ish woman-with-ashes that God loves me, or something like it.

She did not tell me to have a nice day, I’ll give her that.

I believe God loves me and do not object to being reminded of it. But what about paths of glory leading to the grave and all that, in this case the time-honored “Dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return”? I believe also in resurrection, but what about death and its brand of finality? You can overdo reminding people about it, but you can underdo it too. Not good…

Undeniably tart comment in 2002 by Reader D-1, who reports her church

redone in “a rainbow of colors,” including purple and pink and “new shades of blue-greens . . . all radiating from [a] once dramatically stark huge crucifix above the sanctuary, which now looks like a Divine Mercy wannabe, clashing with modern stained glass windows already there in bold blue, green and yellow.

“The ‘liturgy committee’ . . . saw autumn approaching and brought out last year’s hangings on either side of the crucifix in vivid orange and yellow, with nosegays of artificial orange/yellow flowers. Streamers of artificial leaves cascade down the walls of the nave between stations of the cross.

“We have either become the Rainbow Coalition or been taken hostage by Puerto Ricans. Not to say that would be such a BAD thing, but if you are not color blind you wish you were.”

I have a…

Reader D-2 says he just read C.S. Lewis’s Mere Christianity and “got the impression that community is . . . different [from] exchanging peace signs, holding hands during the Pater Noster or nodding graciously to familiar faces in the vestibule.”

He read in Mere C. “something about unity with Christ is more important than ‘being nice.’ Either way, [he’s] not in a mood for being nice to people who ‘disrespect’ the commUNITY by showing up in torn jeans.

“Then again, it’s been a long time since [he’s] been in church with any regularity, so the changes appear to [him] even more stark. And dismaying.”

“Never mind me,” he adds. “I’m just getting old and cranky.”

To which I respond: None of that stuff. With age comes wisdom. Say that after me: With age comes wisdom . . .

We’ve had crying rooms for people with babies. Was it time now for chat rooms?

It would be a way of recognizing that some people worship, ah differently from others.

Not better or worse, you know, just differently.