The night after it happened, I took a metro train to downtown Chicago. My friend and I were the only ones in the fluorescent lit cars.  We were surprised the trains were even running, but we were glad for the rhythm of a their scheduled stops.

A strange urban legend has been confirmed recently. At long last, reporters found people willing to go on record to discuss a long-standing but illegal practice having to do with spreading the ashes of loved ones.

He dreamed of the sound of the Jordan and the smell of soil, laughter along the river banks, the soft push of wind as his uncle handed him a wriggling fish, its scales slick and barbed. Then into his dream came Judah calling: “Wake up! The pilgrims are going to be generous today.”

He didn’t tell anyone where he was going–a rookie mistake, but he was no beginner. The wind worn rock, the water etched sediments, each boney snag reaching up from the desert floor: it was a familiar place, a landscape he had mastered.

When I was a child I had a small museum in the bedroom I shared with my brother. On the walkway toward our house, there was a hand painted sign directing visitors where to go, and near the entrance to our room I had a “pay what you can” donation jar.

I knew a girl once in Chicago who dreamed of living on nothing but air. I was just out of college, working at a library, and I’d met her in a small organic grocery store. We became friends and had many conversations which all came around, eventually, to spirituality.

When the 29 year old runner Zach Bitter broke the US 100 mile record in 11 hours 40 minutes, he did so at an average pace of 7 minutes a mile. To put that in context, to have a pace fast enough to qualify for the Boston Marathon.

There is a single light in the room, twin giraffes holding up the bulb beneath the shade. My daughters are in bed, their heads appearing from beneath the covers. I sit in an easy chair in the corner and read.