I awaken this morning with the same deep sadness I felt as I went to sleep; I feel as if I have been hollowed out. The murders in Paris, apparently by zealots with automatic weapons, exceed the horizon of my understanding. Trickling into the hollow they have left is numbness that tends toward astonishment. I feel stony now in this aftermath.
As a reaching across emptiness, I go back to the streets I’ve walked many times, to the garden where I like to sit. I admire the French for their capacity to create space, and light in that space, for their ideal of sharing that space, for their attempts to share that ideal even as they (like me, like we) are flawed. Here then, in sympathy and solidarity, is a short walk and sit, along those streets, in that garden.