If you have come here tonight on Rosh Hashanah and feel that there is nothing to examine, no wound in your life to heal, no relationship to repair—then I hope you will listen especially closely to the shofar.

Death is a regular part of my job, which makes small talk weird for me at parties.

In this heartbreak what we carry forth is our humanity in newly revealed form—our hearts tender and delicate.

Miles away in a different life...

May you be tender and gentle with yourself

My vet said, “She's telling you thank you for letting her go.”

Loss binds us together undeniably.

Grief is welcome, a sacred part of the mourning.

There was an audible gasp when they heard he* was gone A whoosh of air that sounded exactly like the bottom falling out of his mother’s** world the winds of mortality brushing his father’s** face the last breath of a kind soul All the years of struggle have settled into silence: Unsought,...

Acknowledging that our dream was not happening didn't end the grief, but it did offer closure.

May we know that the infinite web of life and love holds us all and holds all the stories.

The words we cast to fill the silence left by one we loved never are enough.

Breathe in for caregivers of all kinds who give of themselves to make other people’s lives better, more whole.

Memorial Day is not to be celebrated. It is to be observed, scrutinized, and witnessed on behalf of the true witnesses of our human failure to love our neighbor as ourselves.

It can be a lonely time for those of us whose arms are empty.

Can I do it again? Do I even dare? Do I have the strength? Because the cradle might be empty—again.

I am afraid and exhausted from the constant fear. I don’t know who to trust for information about the virus.

Impermanence, mortality, ashes, dust: this is the truth of being human.

We gather because we need community to do all of this holy work.

When we feel overwhelmed, we gather to find a path, to find new ways forward.