Mystical Murmurs: My Interfaith Life

It's been a rough week, hasn't it? I first learned of the Paris atrocities in an unlikely place: the grocery store. Like many shy people, I excel at eavesdropping, in putting together a story from mere scraps of conversation. The story I put together was a horrible one. I don't have to tell you how awful it was in Paris last weekend. You've read the newspaper and seen the news. As I continued to listen patiently, it was not hard to discern the opinions of the other grocery-buyers. The man two orders ahead of mine was particularly adamant: "Let's nuke 'em back to the Stone Age," he muttered, apparently unaware that an action like that would probably return all of us to the Stone Age. "It's those Arabs!" his wife exclaimed, lumping in many fine nationalities with a few terrorists. "They should stay in "Eye-rack!" "But they don't," her husband commented, both to her and to the family ahead of me in line

Last weekend, my husband and I made a family visit to New York State, where he grew up. When we're up there, we always make a visit to the Colgate University cemetery, to check on the graves of his mom and dad. Elwyn taught French language and literature at Colgate for something like 45 years. He passed in 2006; my mother-in-law, Grace, followed him in 2011.  They were the best in-laws you could ever want, and I miss them a lot. We have started following the custom of leaving a rock on top of the headstone to signify that we came to visit. So we did that, and headed back to the car; rain was threatening. But I had one more stop to make. For thisis the real moment of sadness. I love Elwyn  and Grace, and I'm sorry they passed away, but i k ow they had happy, productive lives. What really moves me -- what brings tears every time I'm   there --  is the grave of a toddler named Ian, who is buried on the hillside just below them. I've done some research, so I know Ian died

Air clear as crystal Sunlight a gentle caress Days of late summer. Now, I'm not a poet, but every now and then a haiku peeks around the corner in my mind and I have to snag it. While I was sitting on my porch on Saturday afternoon, I caught the one above. It was as perfect a summer day as I hope to see. The temperature was somewhere in the 80s. The air was clear, the sky a brilliant blue. The neighborhood was quiet, so quiet. I suppose everyone had left for a last, end-of-summer, Labor-Day-weekend fling. It was so quiet that all I heard was cicadas, doing their buzzing call-and-response. One hummingbird came to the feeder, but didn't stay long. I imagine she is preparing for her trip to a southern place in the sun. In a week or ten days, I will give up on the hummingbirds, wash the feeder, and put it away till spring. Then I'll haul the heavy bedclothes to the laundromat, wash them, and store them away for that first cold snap. Because it's coming. Just

One of  the things I've been able to do with increased time off is make myself available during the daytime to the hospice organization where I'm a volunteer. Usually I do vigils -- sitting with a patient who has entered the dying process. Death from natural causes is often a lengthy process, as the person slowly winds down. Vigil service isn't for everyone, but to me it's a very holy time. It's an honor to be present with the patient and his or her family as the transition to the next stage of existence (whatever you feel that is) approaches. Lat Friday evening I sat with Edward. He was 95 years old, and had only infrequent visits from his daughter, herself just recovering from a painful surgery and unable to drive. Ed was past talking -- and may not have known I was there. But I held his hand anyway and spoke words of reassurance from time to time. I tried to surround him with a warm, loving aura. It's all you can do, really. For the vigil volunteer, f

One of the hanging plants on my front porch harbors a new family of wrens. From robins to wrens, it has been a season of wild procreation at our house. Among only the non-humans, fortunately. The wren parents have been very diligent. All through the holiday weekend I watched them, as they took turns feeding their hungry brood. The wrens were not as trusting of me as the robins were: they developed their own little routine for getting past the chair where I was sitting. They hopped first to the woodpile, then to the porch floor, then immediately dove off the edge of the porch and hopped sneakily along the ground, below the porch's edge, till they reached the path. Then they made a daring flight across the path, and continued along the side of the house until they reached the location of the best food. They made this same return trip, and they must made this circle about 40 times while I sat there trying to read Walden . All of a sudden, I was roused by a piercing squawk. Looki