Reflection

When my parents were 86 years old, they moved out of their home and into ours. One of the few things that my mother insisted on bringing with her was a 2-year supply of Ivory Soap. Mom had carefully un-wrapped each bar from the paper covering it. Then, she placed the soaps in a used shopping bag, so that they would harden and last longer. Reduce, reuse, recycle that was what she believed and how she lived. That soap was as practical as my Mom, no fancy fragrances or additives, no sentimentality. My Mom believed in tangible things that you could touch, see, hear, smell or experience. When I was a child, I asked her what happens when a person dies? She said, “I don’t know. I haven’t done that yet.” When my mother died, one of my friends told me to expect a big wind. Apparently, a Buddhist monk had told my friend that when someone very spiritual dies, there would be a big wind. At the time, I laughed inside thinking of a literal big wind, like a hurricane or a tornado. I don’t know if my mother would have laughed or frowned at the thought of being described as a “very spiritual person.” But I do know that she defined herself an atheist.

I cannot see the wind itself, but I can feel it. In a strong breeze, I can see the effects of the wind as leaves flutter or branches swing. That does seem to me very like the spirit of a loved one who continues to move others after death.

My cousin B tells me that several years ago one of her friends died. She says, “He was not quite 48 and he left behind a wife and three beautiful daughters and an entire community in mourning. He was a very good man and his death was incomprehensible to those who had known him.” People said the usual clichés: “God works in mysterious ways;” “it’s a blessing for his pain to be over;” and, “we’re not meant to understand God’s ways.” But B could see that “underneath all that noise was rage and resentment that God had seen fit to take such a good man in such a cruel way and leave us all trying to make sense of a senseless death.”

Not long after this man died, my cousin began thinking about life and how precious and short it is. In B’s words, “all I seemed to have were memories and snapshots. So, I picked up my camera – something my friend would’ve liked – and began taking pictures again. I shoot people, animals, things and places that I love.”

Each life starts ripples that extend in ways we cannot predict or fully know.