Mom on religion

Mother on the phone, with the immediacy of mortality, says she grows less and less religious. All the teachings of the world offer good lessons, but she hasn't heard any description of heaven that she likes. Funny how our beliefs have converged, Mom and I: no interminable praise sessions with noisy angel choirs for us, no divine egomaniacs, thank you. Though she might not admit it, she probably doesn't even wish to be reunited with all her relatives. We don't like funerals, want our ashes cast across waters of the lake. "I believe in Mother Nature," she says.

Isaiah felt God's presence not in earthquake, wind or fire, but in a gentle whisper passing the mouth of his cave. Fine, let the prophets hear and say what they will. Sneaky God, always making fools of us. So we are. So what?

I see and feel great power in summer wind blowing across wheat fields. That open, wild voice proves me small, yet the humility bears no barb of shame, no sackcloth and ashes. Sunlight conceived us, falling on dark, germ-laden soil. The same elements that comprise our flesh are essential to every body in the universe. We are children of all. Come my day of farewell, I'll lose my mind, and let the remains ride golden waves until earth can't keep track of me or remember anymore.

Mom says she feels privileged to realize what so many take for granted, that every day is a gift. I learned the same lesson recovering from depression.

The video was shot near Eden Mills yesterday afternoon.