Stillness, Silence, and Solitude II

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Continued

Solitude

At home, I am not solitary. I live with my spouse, my dog, and two cats, in a vibrant retirement community in a college town where intellectual work, art, theater, and music flourish. Tourists stroll the streets in summer. I am always meeting people I know well—or not at all. This social identity feels so natural, so me, that it is hard to believe it is constructed or conditioned.

Entering solitude, for me, is like going home. Though I am far from my physical home, I feel more at home here. Alone, I am more aware of my feelings, more curious, open, at ease, and forgiving. In the quiet of this cold winter morning, I ask: Who is my essential self? Is it distinct from my conditioned self? Does my essence emerge in solitude, or in relationship with others, or somehow in both? The witness self—the continuous, conscious observer—appears more readily for me in solitude.

Still, I must be careful. I am convinced that truth lies in balance rather than extremes. Perhaps I value solitude so deeply because I have so little of it.

Stillness

I arrived with the hope that my days alone would be unstructured, guided by the heart’s promptings. I imagined staying in my pajamas all day, doing nothing at all. That fantasy dissolved when I decided to bring the dog. I have meandered from one activity to another, discovering that it is far easier to imagine being still than to be still.

What do I want from stillness? The word that arises first is settling. I long for the persistent sense of inner agitation to give way to calm. Through meditation, I have learned that this happens when I sit still for long periods. Buddhist teachings liken the mind to a muddy pond: when left undisturbed, the sediment slowly settles, and the water clears. In my own experience, my body settles first, then my mind, and finally my emotions; clarity emerges.

With clarity, my actions become more intentional. This week, in my efforts to be still, I have taken special care to cook nourishing food and arrange it beautifully in the mismatched bowls and plates I found in the cupboards. I eat slowly—and, of course, silently—savoring each mouthful, noticing flavors and textures, surprised and grateful. No conversation distracts me from chewing thoroughly, to the relief of my delicate digestive system.

I read slowly, reflecting on what I read, appreciating the symmetry and beauty of language, and letting words sink into my consciousness, hoping they will water the seeds of my own writing.

Slowness, I tell myself, is the first step toward stillness, as the dog and I head out on our thrice-daily walks. Snow, ice, and mud slow us down, and we accept and adapt to them all. He stops often to sniff each new scent. I stop too—standing still, looking around, breathing, inhabiting the moment.

Fast and slow, motion and stillness, cannot exist without each other. Neither is inherently good or bad; each has its season, even if I have my preferences.

Silence

It almost goes without saying that outer silence supports inner silence. Alone and still, silence becomes tangible. I soak it in, treasuring it. I resent the heater kicking on with its low hum, the sound of the upstairs neighbor’s truck pulling into the driveway, his boots pounding up the stairs, the clicking of my keyboard as I type. When these sounds subside, I sink into the silence and luxuriate in its nothingness. It wraps around me like the heat in an empty sauna.

For a moment, I imagine never speaking again, never hearing another word. I contemplate the silent emptiness of death, and while I imagine it, I notice a quiet gratitude arise. Then the heater kicks on once more, and I feel my body tense—just slightly—reminding me how much stress accumulates when we are constantly bombarded by sound. How restorative silence feels, with its sisters, solitude and stillness.

And yet, silence is not the same for everyone. If I could not hear, would I long for sound? My partner is functionally deaf. Without her hearing aids, she hears nothing at all. Deaf since early childhood, her experience of silence is marked by alienation, misunderstanding, and disconnection. For her, sound can be orienting and connecting—or overwhelming. She reminds me that silence, like solitude, is not inherently sacred; its meaning depends entirely on context.

As I bring these reflections to a close, I search my OneDrive for a poem I wrote some time ago and read it carefully, recalling the feelings behind the words.

THREE MAGI

Stillness
Silence
Solitude

Three Magi, wise and noble,
Enticed
By intuition,
A common secret dream.
Set off to find the source of all that Is—
of love,
of hope,
of truth.

Stillness ambles imperceptibly.
Motionless, she travels far—
deeper,
nearer,
clearer.

Silence speaks no words,
Adds nothing to the frantic roar
of hate,
despair,
and lies.

Solitude bears destiny as she strides forth.
Knows birth and death and all between alone. Her heart
a pulsing,
throbbing,
longing.

Three Magi,
seeking their soul’s star,
walk home.

What is the soul’s star I seek during this week of stillness, silence, and solitude? As I ponder the question, my witness-self watches thought-clouds drift across the sky of my mind: essential, real, true, authentic, love, compassion, home. Any of these could be my soul’s star. And these three wise magi—Stillness, Silence, and Solitude—are my companions and guides as I walk home.

I rise from the computer and walk slowly to the kitchen to boil more water for tea. The kettle whistles, breaking the silence. The dog stirs, stretches, and hops down from his chair to follow me. I look out the window at the fresh snowfall, still undisturbed. I remember that I have a few more days alone before rejoining those whose lives are bound to mine. I give thanks.

I give thanks.

Author’s Note

This essay grew out of a week-long solitary retreat in central Maine in 2023, and reflects my ongoing spiritual inquiry into stillness, silence, and solitude. Written as contemplative nonfiction, it blends my lived experience with reflective practice. My intention is not to idealize the three s’s, but to examine what they offer when approached with curiosity, humility, and balance.

Love in All Seasons

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“Farewell to thee! but not farewell
To all my fondest thoughts of thee:
Within my heart they still shall dwell;
And they shall cheer and comfort me.”

—Anne Brontë

One morning, a couple of years ago, as I accompanied my dog on his first walk of the day along a well-worn trail through the woods near my home, I was surprised by something I had not noticed before. I saw a path, intentionally bordered on either side by clean barkless branches, which led away from the beaten track over dead leaves, broken sticks, and brown ferns shriveled by frost.

 It was the height of tick season in Maine, so I hesitated to step into the underbrush, trailing my dog on his lead, but my eyes followed the branch borders of the path deeper into the woods.  There, on a stick wedged between two conjoined tree trunks, something brown and out of place dangled.  I couldn’t believe my eyes, so I had to get closer to be sure. 

Taking a deep breath and hoping no deer ticks would crawl up my legs or bury themselves in my dog’s curious muzzle, I stepped onto the path and gingerly picked my way about twenty paces into the woods.  My eyes had not deceived me.  A sturdy pair of men’s walking shoes hung by their laces, artfully draped over the stick. What could this mean?  Who would leave their shoes behind in the woods?  These lace-ups still had a lot of life in them.

Something prevented me from touching them—some intuition that this was a holy place.  I took a picture of them, and retraced my steps, my dog tugging me back to our usual route. However, the image of the shoes stayed with me for the rest of our morning walk, and the place where they hung became the destination for frequent pilgrimages in days to come.

After several visits, I began to suspect that these were my neighbor Simon’s shoes, and that they had been lovingly arranged in the woods where he frequently walked, his camera dangling from his neck.  Simon had died several months before, and I surmised that his widow deposited the shoes in a setting he loved near their home, where she could visit them often to commune with her husband.  I took the risk of asking her if I had guessed correctly, and she, blushing but shyly pleased that someone else had discovered her memorial, confirmed it. 

Over the last couple of years, my pup and I have visited Simon’s shoes countless times.  Cynthia, Simon’s wife, adds bits of flora to mark the seasons—sometimes delicate wildflowers in spring, ferns in summer, red, yellow, and golden leaves in fall, and, of course, winter provides its own decoration. Each time I set out on my pilgrimage, I look forward to discovering these simple but artful adornments.

All I know of Simon are these shoes and the few memories of her beloved husband that Cynthia has shared with me. By the time the couple moved into my neighborhood, he had already begun to decline.  I would pass him on my afternoon walks and receive a silent smile in response to my cheerful hello.  He was, by then, not much of a conversationalist, especially with strangers.  His soft-spoken words were sparing, but the few I heard were direct and gentle. 

I marveled that the memorial shoes were in such good shape.  According to his wife, Simon had worn them on hikes all over Europe and America.  Once, on a walking trip in Ireland, amid a powerful wind and rainstorm, he and Cynthia took refuge in a farmhouse along their way.  The family welcomed them to warm up and dry off at the hearth. So, Simon propped his feet in front of the open fire, scorching the soles of his shoes before he realized what was happening. Thrifty as he was, he saw no reason to replace the singed footwear. Like his shoes, Simon was humble, loyal, and resilient.

Simon’s memorial shoes, their constancy, adaptation, and beauty in every season, have become an icon for me.  A symbol for the humility that embraces and accepts what is, even when the reality is absence. Gradually, these old shoes will succumb to the elements and disintegrate, but not before they have taught many passersby a profound lesson.  We continue after death, transformed surely, but ultimately, reunited with the elements that made us, enlivened us, warmed us, fed us, cleansed us, and sheltered us. Finally, we come home.

Simon and Cynthia are not the real names of my neighbors.

Moriah participates in Book Fairs this Summer

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I will be participating in two local book fairs in August 2025, offering for sale my three publications: The Blue Room, a novel; You Can’t Get Blood from a Turnip, a collection of poetry; and I’ve Got Your Back, non-fiction.

The first event, 2nd Friday, Brunswick, is scheduled for August 8 from 4:00 to 7:00 p.m. in downtown Brunswick, located on Pleasant Street.

My friend and fellow writer, Nancy Collins, who has recently published a memoir entitled The Perfectly Imperfect Potter, will join me for this event. We’ll sell our books, visit with shoppers and other vendors, and enjoy the culture of Brunswick. Please plan to stop by as you explore the offerings by local artists, writers, musicians, and actors.

The second event is scheduled for August 23 at the Maine Book Festival, held at the Thomaston Public Library in Thomaston, Maine.

Please join me and other Maine authors, and share this with your friends!

What Now? Reprise

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It’s been over a month since I posted here and over two since I wrote the first “What Now?” article. Honestly, I don’t know what to think or say about anything these days. I’m tongue-tied. That’s as it should be, counsels the Tao te Ching: “Those who know, don’t talk. Those who talk, don’t know.”

Each morning, sometimes before and sometimes just after my meditation time, I read Heather Cox Richardson’s daily newsletter, Letters from an American. I choose to follow her rather than some other news commentator because I like her framing of current events in the context of history, and she’s a Mainer from near my home. Her newsletter and listening to the occasional few minutes of NPR while driving are my meager attempts at awareness of significant events in our country and the world. Like many of my friends, I feel a responsibility to be aware but cannot cope with more intense and in-depth exposure to the news. It is too depressing, frightening, and immobilizing.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve identified and clung to specific anchors that steady me in times of turmoil like this one—help me rise and fall with the tides but keep me from drifting in rough currents. Some anchors are rituals or repetitive practices that calm and focus me. Some are objects or words that inspire or guide me. I’m always looking for symbols that help me make meaning and keep me steady. 

A few weekends ago, I visited Blue Cliff, a Vietnamese Buddhist Monastery in upstate New York. The monks and nuns who live there practice the Thich Nhat Hanh Buddhist tradition. That weekend, they were celebrating the third anniversary of his death, or “continuation” as they call it. Besides a few American Buddhists from Maine, Vermont, and elsewhere, dozens of Vietnamese Americans from the New York-New Jersey area came to meditate, chant, hear Buddhist teachings, and eat delicious Vietnamese food. I was fascinated by the rituals and chanting, curious about the customs, and delighted by the food. It wasn’t the sort of silent, secluded retreat I typically seek or enjoy, but it had a simplicity, pageantry, and wisdom that moved me deeply.

One of the most potent takeaway images from the weekend was this wooden calligraphy panel that focused the eyes immediately upon entering their exquisitely designed meditation hall.

I was awestruck the moment I saw it—so profoundly true and precisely the message I needed to receive, an anchor I could cling to. This Is It. This moment, this place, this situation, this country, this world—this is all there is. So, stop wishing for this to end, for something else to come, to be somewhere else, to be rescued from this current calamity. This is it—the only thing you have to work with, the only reality, your only opportunity. So, embrace it, celebrate it even. Open your eyes, ears, and heart, let the right action arise within you and proceed from you, and let go of the burden of the outcome. This is it. Nothing more, nothing less, nothing other.

For an hour on Sunday afternoon, their gift shop was open for guests to browse and shop. I went looking for a token of the message I had received and found this simple postcard in Thich Nhat Hanh’s calligraphy. I purchased it and brought it home to place in the window opposite my meditation seat so, as candles flicker beneath it and the sun rises behind it each morning, I can look at it and beyond it to what is outside my window.  

This Is It—the only time and place I have. I am surrounded by the only people I can respect and love. This is the only moment when I can recognize beauty, speak the truth, be kind, and do justice.

The World is Coming Apart at the Seams

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The world is coming apart at the seams.

A stitched and restitched garment

Now, tearing

Everywhere.

I awake from tossing and turning,

Sleep that gives no rest,

From dreaming a companion seamstress,

Abandoned me midst ragged scraps.

My body is heavier than a mountain.

The weight of grief and hopelessness,

Countless tons of it,

Pins me, motionless to my bed.

But I must rise and stitch,

Though the garment is split far beyond my skill—

Rips gaping and subtle,

Ancient and new,

Fissures spread across the earth,

Among and between the nations

And now to us.

My thread is thin and frayed,

My craft, rudimentary and crude,

My tools modest:

Needle, thread and vision:

Do no harm.

Ease suffering.

Embrace what is and learn from it.

These, my implements for mending.

With them I practice sewing.

Insert the needle gently,

Draw thread

Through tattered fabric,

Hold it tenderly,

Mending its ruptures.

Come seamstress, tailor, join me.

Draw threads of love and beauty,

Kindness, patience, truth,

Through our torn world,

Stitching it back together again.

What Now?

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With All Due Respect has never been, nor is it about to become, a forum for expressing political opinion, mine or anyone else’s. However, I don’t feel I can overlook the outcome of the 2024 election at this web address. Its effects are too far-reaching to ignore completely. The people of the USA have elected a president who aspires to become an autocrat, a person ruling with unlimited authority. (Merriam-Webster Dictionary.)

I am bewildered by this outcome and have spent considerable time and mental effort in the last three weeks trying to understand how and why it occurred, though my gut always told me it was a strong possibility. I’ve listened to the various theories apportioning blame to politicians, political parties, educational elites, globalism, immigrants, and the “woke” culture, but I’m still baffled. I’m entertaining the possibility that I might never understand.

I’ve spent early morning meditation sessions asking myself what this new reality in America might require of me, a white woman, moderately well-educated, of the middle class (with working-class origins), a 72-year-old lesbian living in the relatively liberal southern part of the conservative state of Maine. Oh, and I also identify as a former Episcopal nun, now a practicing Buddhist-cum-Taoist.

I’m looking for an anchor to help me move forward into the unknown, changing, uncontrollable, undoubtedly challenging future. I want to do so with integrity, courage, and hope, but frankly, I’d just like to know how to put one foot in front of the other and not make a mess of things.

For the last two years, I have done the same thing each morning when I get out of bed. At home, this ritual is preceded by feeding my dog and two cats, making tea, and turning on my heating pad. I then stand before my stone statue of the Buddha and sound my singing bowl three times, sending delicately beautiful vibrations out into the universe, my way of greeting the new day. Next, I light three tea lights (no live flames allowed in my retirement housing) and recite three commitments for the day. 

When I am away from home, my routine gets simplified. I just call the intentions to mind:

  • Do no harm
  • Help others
  • Embrace the world just as it is, using everything as a means for further awakening.

Invariably, as I turn to walk across the room to my meditation seat, I become aware of some fresh insight, a spring of hope, or a surge of encouragement. I developed this daily practice after reading the Buddhist nun Pema Chödrön’s book, Living Beautifully With Uncertainty and Change. The book expounds Tibetan Buddhism’s Three Vows or Three Commitments. According to Chödrön, they are “methods for embracing the chaotic, unstable, dynamic, challenging nature of our situation…”

Sound like our situation? Yours and mine?

Recalling these commitments at the beginning of the day for the last nearly eight hundred days has provided a much-needed anchor amidst the exigencies of my life. On many mornings, they have pierced the prison of my limited perspective and illuminated a path forward when I have felt trapped, confused, misunderstood, vulnerable, tired, and scared—pretty much how I have felt ever since November 5, 2024.

The first vow or commitment is to do no harm in thought, words, or actions. I think of it as the refraining vow. If I can’t figure out how to think, say, or do good, helpful things, can I at least refrain from doing anything? After years of practice, I’m getting a little better at sometimes shutting my mouth and doing nothing. The thought thing is still beyond my reach.

The next vow is to help others. This one can be problematic for me, a compulsive caregiver, intervener, and do-gooder. I add the words “if you can” to the vow. It’s what’s known as the “Bodhisattva Vow,” the orientation towards opening our hearts in compassion for everyone to relieve suffering in the world.

The final commitment is to embrace life just as it is, using everything that happens to wake up and become more self-aware. This is the most fruitful of the vows for me. Sitting across from the three flickering candles in the early morning darkness, I often ask myself, “What does this situation weighing so heavily on my heart and mind have to teach me about myself? How can I see the truth about myself and respond with self-compassion, the will to change, and the patience to start anew?”

So, back to my original questions, “What now? What might this new reality, the second presidency of Donald Trump, require of me?” After lighting the candles and reciting the three commitments this morning, I made a list: respect, simplicity, moderation, generosity, truth, courage, kindness, and resilience. I’m confident I will add more qualities as the new reality dawns. Or is it new? Will it require anything that every day of my 72 years has not already called for?

  • Do no harm.
  • Help everyone.
  • Embrace life just as it is.

Reader Comments on The Blue Room

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The Blue Room is wonderful. It is gripping. I intended to read for a few minutes and could NOT put it down. I forced myself to stop about halfway through because I was hungry. I can’t believe this is your debut novel. I would believe it if you said this was your fifth or tenth book. It is lovely, soft, precise, strong, enrapturing. –Corinne E.

*****

I finished your book last night. I got so enthralled I stayed up late to finish it. I really enjoyed it! –Nancy Collins

*****

What a wonderful novel you wrote!  It spoke totally to me, and I am going to read it again, leisurely so I can benefit from it and also write to you with details of what moved me the most. I hope you are considering writing another one!  –Pilar Tirado

*****

I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed reading The Blue Room.  It left me wishing for my own such space…Congratulations on your accomplishment! –Mary Born

*****

I just finished reading The Blue Room. I …am so impressed at how you fleshed out the story. Your emphasis on detail and colorful prose captured Kathryn’s essence and made her very believable and real to the reader. I guess knowing you and sharing our experiences with the writing group, I can, with empathy, understand the hard work and the commitment you gave to creating the book. You did a superb job and brought light to a topic that we need to know more about. –Deanna Baxter, Author of Willows By Flowing Streams

*****

Finished The Blue Room yesterday. Read it in 3 sittings. I enjoyed it a lot. I knew the writing would be clean: yours always is. It also flows well…I’m sympathetic to the characters—even Mom, eventually. So, good job staying away from stereotypes. Perhaps because I’ve been having back problems all week (my chronic pain, I guess)—I read some of TBR on my back in bed yesterday—I especially liked the latter part of the book on Kathryn’s fighting back against her pain, and also the chapters on her chronic pain group. There, I think, is your audience. –Richard Wile, Author of The Geriatric Pilgrim and Requiem in Stones

*****

[I] wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed and appreciated your new book.  I always knew you were an excellent journalist and academic writer, but congratulations on such a powerful novel, which I think will be of help to many people. –Anita Marson Deyneka, Author of I Know His Touch and A Song in Siberia

*****

I finished The Blue Room this morning. WOW, and congratulations. What a stunning, often heartbreaking journey through pain, both of the soul and body, you have shared with us. Thank you! I couldn’t put it down for the past two days.  I need to sit with it and let it all sink in. The story you have told is very impactful.  I had no understanding of chronic pain prior to this. My heart goes out to you and those who suffer and live with such pain. –Sandra Eldred

*****

What a book you have written!  I like the rhythm of your prose…it changes smoothly when it needs to. Your writing is highly readable, so the reader can easily keep pace with the story as it moves ever forward.

There is so very much in the story that is familiar to me! The time frame, the cars, the housing conditions, clothing and hairstyles, the methods and thinking and attitudes around work, school, family, gender roles, teaching, education, behavior, morals, and discipline—it stirs up so many memories—not all of them good.

This is a story that must resonate with a large fraction of the women of the world. Or at least the Western world. Western society lays relentless, conflicting, and impossible demands and expectations on women of every type, at home, at work, and in the wider community. Many spend all their lives and every iota of energy meeting the wants, needs, and expectations of everyone around them, but rarely for themselves. It is toxic, draining, and damaging. And we blame ourselves, second-guess ourselves, and believe that somehow it is all our fault.

All this to say, WELL DONE YOU!!! You must be very proud of what you have accomplished. Writing is hard work. Doing it successfully is harder still. Thank you for involving me a little bit in the birth of your book (it was great fun!) and for the lovely acknowledgment you have afforded me. –M.L. Whitehorne, Cover Artist and Astronomer

*****

Announcing my Novel, “The Blue Room”

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I’m pleased to announce that my first novel, The Blue Room, is now available on Amazon.com in Kindle ($13.00) and Paperback ($17.00) formats. You may also order it directly from me by emailing moriahfree@gmail.com

Thank you to everyone who has supported and encouraged me in its writing. May Kathryn’s story of healing and transformation resonate with all who read it, especially those who face the daunting challenge of living with chronic pain, illness, and emotional trauma.

************

Excruciating pain on the left side of her body wakes Kathryn from her trance of loneliness, stress, and exhaustion. She has pushed her mind and body beyond their reasonable limits; now, she is paying for it. She has ignored her physical and emotional needs and brushed aside her sadness while compulsively caring for others.

Now her body is screaming, enough! Stop!

But no matter what she tries, the pain does not stop.

Unable to work, sleep, or escape from the suffering and desperate for relief, she goes to see Dr. White, a pain management specialist. Their year of therapy transforms her life. The setting for her metamorphosis is The Blue Room. In this imaginary inner sanctuary, she discovers how the past has molded and imprisoned her and how she can set herself free.

Cherished Outcomes

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If you want to accord with the Tao,

Just do your job, then let go.

—The Tao Te Ching, translated by Stephen Mitchell

I’m a planner, but I’m not naïve enough to think that meticulously planning something will make it turn out exactly how I want it to. Decades of experience have taught me that control is an illusion—a dear one. Still, planning is in my bones, and I might as well embrace it as part of who I am. Planning, like everything, has its shadow side and its bright side. The shadow side is about clinging—to outcomes. The bright side is about creativity, fruition, and letting go.

Giving myself fully and genuinely to a task or project without getting attached to the final product is one of my biggest challenges. How does one go all-in on something without being wedded to the result? I care; therefore, I plan. I do everything possible to ensure the desired outcome has its best chance.

I’m talking about passion—giving everything you’ve got, then offering your beloved creation to the world and letting go. Huge risk, right? Like nursing an injured baby seal that has beached itself. You painstakingly feed it, protect it, and watch it regain its strength, then set it free with absolutely no expectation that you will ever see it again or faith that it will survive beyond your sightline as it heads out into the deep. Or, like a parent raising a child, I imagine, since I have never raised one.

A friend of mine advocates “holding things lightly,” meaning, I think, that caring passionately and relinquishing control are both essential to being fully alive. It is possible to be committed to an outcome and hold it lightly, ready to let it go. Challenging but possible.

Scientists tell us we are hard-wired for planning. Research has shown that some areas of the brain, known as the default mode network, carry out this planning function. They

“become active when our attention is not occupied with a task. These systems function in the background of consciousness, envisaging futures compatible with our needs and desires and planning how those might be brought about….Human brains have evolved to do this automatically; planning for scarcity and other threats is important to ensure survival….Our background thinking is essential to operating in the world. It is sometimes the origin of our most creative images.”  Why we are hard-wired to worry, and what we can do to calm down (theconversation.com)

So, we will plan no matter what, and sometimes planning, when unhooked from worry, can be a very creative and valuable form of flow state. If I am going to plan, I want to give it my very best effort. I want the idea and the plan for its execution to be as detailed as possible, take as many contingencies as conceivable into account, and be thoroughly tested, broadly vetted, and profoundly considered. I want to be wholly absorbed, plan passionately, launch my plan confidently and enthusiastically, and then let go of the outcome!

Why? Because no matter the outcome, whatever happens—success, disaster, or somewhere in between—is an opportunity for learning, growing, transforming, and embracing reality just as it is.

Sometimes, when I meditate, my mind is pulled toward a problem that captivates me or a situation that needs resolution. I try to turn away from the flow of thoughts and return focus to my breathing once, twice, three or more times. Finally, I will sigh and let my mind have its way, go with the flow. Sometimes, the most fitting solutions emerge from giving my default mode network free reign. I’ve learned, though, not to act on these plans immediately but to let them mull and mature for a while and to be willing to let go of them, to change my mind.

During my 71 years, life has required me to let go of hundreds of cherished outcomes for multiple carefully laid plans. It’s gotten easier as I’ve begun to notice a pattern of unexpected gains amid losses, of auspicious signs amid clouds of disappointment. Gradually, I’ve become more curious about than afraid of the unknown final outcome of life—my life.

This past week, the Christian Church celebrated Ash Wednesday, the day of the year when we look death straight in the eye and remember that we all came from dust and will ultimately return to it. “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” One of the ministers at the Episcopal Church in my town told me that some clergy are now reciting the words, “Remember that you are stardust, and to stardust you shall return,” when they imprint the sign of a cross in ashes on their members’ foreheads. The words point to our smallness and our greatness and are a sparkling reminder that we have always been and will always be part of the immense universe. How I cherish that outcome!