When one's pen goes silent for three years, what's the first line to come out. Christian Wiman tell us. Listen to his beautiful reading of "Every Riven Thing" too.
On this Mother's Day, in some odd way, I can think of no more fitting tribute than to listen to Ms. Boorstein reciting these lovely lines from Pablo Neruda.
A poem about friendship and intimacy, waiting and being present in the moment that is heartbreaking and heartening in its song.
Bedridden with an incurable illness, writer Paul Martin on navigating paths of pain and difficulty, and the depth and mystery of joy.
This week we feel especially privileged to do the work that we do. A brief post by our senior editor about the decision-making behind this week's show and why it matters to us.
With the tragic shootings in Connecticut, let us turn to some of our wisest elders for light, hope, and a way forward.
A sacred space doesn't have to be a cathedral or a mosque or a synagogue. For our guest essayist, it's a city square she shared with a friend with cancer. Read this lovely essay and then tell us what is your sacred space?
“Another level of your life opens up when you recognize that you have a life that is inside.”
~Roshi Joan Halifax
The Zen Buddhist monk and medical anthropologist talks to Krista Tippett about her life, Buddhist faith, inspirations, and the vast concepts of death, compassion, grief — and neuroscience.
How do we respect the depth of a Christian snake handler's faith — and talk about it without caricaturing or lauding his life?
We heard from so many people asking about the StoryCorps audio of Annie and Danny Perasa who ended this week's show. Here's an extended, animated short of the lovely couple talking about love and dying. An absolutely moving five minutes.
Recently I spoke to a class of college students — by way of Skype — in southern Minnesota. We talked about how religion is portrayed through news media. As often in my experience, this was a critical discussion about the narrow and often inflammatory way religion comes up, and usually in the context of politics.
I asked them if they felt at all represented in media portrayals, or how they might. One young man in the back of the classroom said, “I don’t think there is any real expression of what it means to be religious now. It’s different.”
He’s right. I think about this all the time. There has been a dramatic break with ways of being spiritual and religious that held, in the West, for many generations.
Richard Rorty's lament reminds us of the solace of poetry.
A story of learning and friendship and circles of learning in which each person is a teacher — of learning how to live with death and learning how to live.
Last fall the idea to visit the family graveyard came to mind for the first time in ages. Día de Los Muertos seemed like the perfect excuse to make the journey. I allowed life and distance to keep me away, however, and I never went.
I am not Latina, but I did develop a strong appreciation for Mexican culture while studying midwifery on the Texas/Mexico border. When I moved home to Georgia, I kept a piece of Mexico in my heart. Since the first idea to celebrate my ancestors Mexican-style entered my mind last year, the urge had only grown stronger. So as November approached this year, I resolved to do it. I invited my two sisters. One said she’d bake a casserole and we planned to picnic at the cemetery. On October 31st, they both cancelled on me. I was determined, however, and went anyway.