Transformation is a normal part of life. Ask any butterfly. But that doesn’t mean we won’t need to be dragged there kicking and complaining. How many times have you heard someone declare, “That’s it! I’m done with earth: this is the last time I’m incarnating here.” Or “Beam me up, Scotty!” Have you thought it yourself? As any caterpillar can attest, life doesn’t seem to work like that. And (apologies to the Star Trek fans) I’ve never heard of a God called Scotty. The hard reality of life is that if we want to live in a better place, we have to make the world a better place. With our bare hands if necessary. Painted by the author while on a silent retreat. Teresa of Ávila pointed this out 500 years ago. She was a brilliant theologian, a mystic and nun, who was reported to have the power of levitation, although it was apparently not under her control, because if she was going somewhere that floating off the ground would be embarrassing, she pleaded with her sisters to hold her down. She was also a reformer of the church, a speaker of truth to power, deeply committed to making the world a kinder, juster place. A woman of action who saw the suffering and injustice in the world, and rolled up her sleeves. “Christ has no body now but yours. No hands, no feet on earth but yours. Yours are the eyes through which he looks compassion on this world. Yours are the feet with which he walks to do good. Yours are the hands through which he blesses all the world. Yours are the hands, yours are the feet, yours are the eyes, you are his body. Christ has no body now on earth but yours.” -Teresa of Ávila If we lean into this invitation to partnership with the ineffable, loving, divine mystery that goes by many names, then we are all being asked to roll up our sleeves, pour out our hearts and consciously birth compassionate, loving action into the world. If we want to be in heaven, we’ve got to help build it. Right here where we are, right now. My dear Eileen O’Connor clearly had the same idea. “Let your footprints mean help.” Short, simple, and especially poignant as the desperately ill Eileen spent much of her short life unable to walk. I just spent a week on a silent retreat, and realised this is Eileen’s call to action, too, expressed through my novel about her. Like many religious orders, Eileen’s nuns are dwindling in number. They have loyally carried Eileen’s baton of compassion and caring for others for over a hundred years. Their calling to provide free home nursing care to the abandoned sick poor in Sydney has now passed to a lay organisation, The Brown Nurses. But we can become part of the story too. Eileen and her sisters have left a legacy of kindness, and we are all invited to pick up that baton and pass it on.

I walked into my office for a Zoom meeting, something I’ve done without incident hundreds of times. But not this time. There was a butterfly on the inside of the window. Astonishing, but practical action was needed. It was cold, so the butterfly was easy to catch. Wondering how she had got in, I cupped her in my hands and breathed on her till she was warm enough to fly, then released her into the garden. I watched her soar up into the cloudy blue sky. Mission accomplished. I went back into my office. I noticed another butterfly. And another… six butterflies, scattered around the room. Mesmerised, I took photos. Then I caught the six in turn, and put them in the garden. Close inspection revealed empty chrysalises on the walls, ceiling, and frame of a painting of Eileen O’Connor, the real-life heroine who inspired me so much that she transformed me into an amateur portrait painter and a published author. There are no coincidences, and I can’t think of a better place for a caterpillar to earn its wings than resting there. The butterflies safely rescued, I assumed – wrongly – that this was an isolated incident and went back to normal. Until 16 days later: more butterflies. Twenty-five days after that. Ten days. Four days… repeated hatchings of Nature’s flying miracles fluttering at my window hoping to get out to the garden beyond. Just when this recurring astonishment and wonder risked becoming monotonous, a crisis refocused my attention to pinpoint precision. I had assumed it was over, and decided to dust the bookshelf while I waited for yet another Zoom meeting to start. Fortunately, I noticed the butterfly clinging drunkenly to the spine of a book, before the casually flicked duster reached it. It didn’t look at all well. By now, I had learned that butterflies affected by cold look sluggish and respond well to warmth. I turned on the heating and resumed my anxious vigil. I offered the butterfly my finger, and it crawled painfully, but without fear up my hand. It was clear there was something very wrong with it, so I carefully carried it to my desk and encouraged it onto a tissue box placed to catch the warmth from the air conditioner. Its wings were curved over its body in a limp C-shape, so heavy that it could barely keep its balance. Its abdomen was bloated and swollen. I’d never seen anything like it and had no idea what to do to help the poor creature. Then, something strange happened. It excreted a drop of clear fluid. Pooped it, I suppose, as I suspect butterflies don’t have kidneys. A surprising number of drops emerged over the next 15 or so minutes. The butterfly’s wings became lighter, and stood upright, their veins becoming prominent. It could stand straight and balance itself, and its abdomen was no longer bloated. I urgently interrupted my Zoom colleagues with a progress report and held the tissue box by the camera so they could admire the liquid caterpillar poop. And suddenly, it took its maiden flight to the inside of the window overlooking the garden, guided there by who knows what inspiration. I never knew that when a butterfly gets its wings, they are so heavy it can’t hold them up until it has pooped out all the metabolised caterpillar juice and traumas of metamorphosis that no longer serve it. And only then, it can fly. Eileen O’Connor’s courage and resilience in the face of devastating illness and disability, and her endless love and compassion, saw her establish a home nursing organisation to care for the poor in Sydney’s slums – from the cocoon of own sickbed! She also weathered hardship, grief and persecution from church authorities before her tragically early death at the age of twenty-eight, and, instead of growing wings, she earned Vatican approval as a Servant of God and is under investigation for sainthood. If you love an inspirational story and need a dose of transformation, pick up a copy of Every Inch a Saint.

If you love unforgettable stories that touch your heart, stories about facing life’s challenges with courage, faith, and resilience, then Every Inch a Saint was written for you. Set against the backdrop of World War I Sydney, the Spanish Flu pandemic, and the grinding poverty of the early twentieth century, this novel tells the true story of Eileen O’Connor, a severely ill, disabled woman who only stood 115cm tall, and, astonishingly, from her own sickbed, founded the Brown Nurses to care for the poor in Sydney’s slums. The more I discovered about Eileen, the more astonished I became. Here was a woman wracked by tuberculosis, partially paralysed, in chronic pain, who refused to be defined by her suffering. She chose life believing it had meaning. She believed she still had something to give. And she did. What it was, surprised even her. This is not just a historical account. It is a story about the power of hope and the human spirit. Every Inch a Saint is a celebration of the quiet heroism of women history nearly forgot. An acknowledgement of how grief and trauma can haunt generations, but, miraculously, healing can travel through generations too. Like many readers of historical fiction, I have always been drawn to almost forgotten stories. Not the records of great kings and generals, but of relatable people who endured challenges and suffering but never gave in to despair or bitterness. People I can look up to, who courageously and lovingly made a difference in their world. My novel invites lovers you into a different world: horse-drawn carts rattling through Sydney streets, overcrowded terrace houses, fear and war and the devastation of the Spanish Flu. And to encounter deeply human struggles that are universal. Loss, trauma, illness can turn our lives upside down in an instant. We search for hope when we are confronted by despair. How do we keep going in the face of overwhelming difficulties? Eileen’s life is a shining example of the power of perseverance. Her message of hope is timeless… and timely in today’s world. In Every Inch a Saint, the historical timeline is woven into a fictional account of a contemporary Australian family recovering from catastrophe and trauma. As they uncover their great-grandmother’s hidden recordings about Eileen, they begin to realise that healing is possible even after generations of pain. Early reviewers have called the novel “inspiring,” “engrossing,” and “richly compelling.” I personally found Eileen's message of hope, courage and compassion to be contagious. I hope you do to. If you are searching for historical fiction filled with emotional depth, spiritual themes, strong female characters, and ultimately a message of hope, Every Inch a Saint may be the story you need right now. Every Inch a Saint by Kate Clinch is available for purchase through online and physical bookstores.

Many strange things have happened since I fell in love with a dead saint. Lower case ‘s’, because, although Eileen O’Connor’s saintliness is under investigation by the Vatican, it has not yet been officially confirmed. The falling in love bit at the beginning was unexpected, and, if someone had asked that 2018 version of me whether it seemed strange that while sitting in a chapel created in a former bedroom, I would become convinced I was in the presence of a saint who would go on to change the course of the rest of my life, I’m pretty sure she would have agreed it was strange. Maybe even impossible. But if someone asked the post-Eileen version of me the same question, I would say, ‘No.’ Falling in love with Eileen is the most natural thing in the world. As easy as falling off a log. Which, interestingly enough, is the same answer I’ve been known to give people who know I had a near-death experience long ago and ask me if dying is frightening. Maybe that’s one definition of a saint: someone who does the strange and impossible so gracefully that it seems natural and takes away our fear of dying? Since writing Every Inch a Saint, I am often asked two questions: what makes a saint? and how can we prove a miracle? They’re good questions, and I admit I’ve spent quite a lot of time pondering them, but if we asked that pre-Eileen version of me, she would say it was strange indeed that anyone would ask me, a life-long non-Catholic with no theological training, for my opinion of such things. The Vatican has a whole department filled with experts on miracles and saintliness, but saints and miracles are not content being neatly filed in filing cabinets behind locked doors. I believe some people radiate so much love, compassion and caring, and act with such obvious kindness, vision and power that they leave innocent bystanders in no doubt there is something very special and unshakably good about them. These attributes are profoundly recognisable to human beings no matter what our culture and creed. The language and labels we use are different, but the qualities are the same. Eileen O’Connor clearly had those qualities in spades. She was considered a saint in her own lifetime by many who knew her. People would collect soil from where she had sat, and take it home like a relic. Even the undertaker who buried her after her tragically early death was reported to say, “I buried a saint today.” So, I, a random, ordinary non-Catholic woman, am not the first person to come to that conclusion. And I am absolutely certain, now knowing many other people whose lives have been touched by Eileen, that I won’t be the last, either. And what about miracles? I’m happy to leave the finer points to the experts. Strangely enough, I don’t feel any need to prove or justify the little miracles I have experienced. It’s enough to know they happened. And my biggest miracle of all? I fell in love with a saint, and she made me brave enough to talk about it. Someone heard me, and it helped her. Then something happened and she was able to help someone else. A little spark of hope and kindness flowed through us, and none of us know where it’s going to end up. But it’s changing the world, one kindness at a time. That’s the miracle the world needs. And we’re all invited to be a part of it.

When I went into my office and saw a butterfly, I was surprised and delighted. The weather was cold, so the butterfly was easy to catch, and I warmed her with my breath before she was ready to fly. When I came back from releasing it in the garden, I found 6 more! Surprise wasn’t the word anymore. There were empty chrysalises on the walls and ceiling. I had brought a potted frangipani into my office for the winter, in the hope that it will flower in summer (I’m in Australia, so it’s winter here now). Caterpillars had hitched a ride in and fed on the accompanying mignonette plants in the pot. Mesmerised, I spent a pleasant hour admiring the butterflies and taking photos, before catching the six butterflies and releasing them in the garden. My office is a bit of a shrine, to my favourite saint-in-waiting, Eileen O’Connor, the inspirational star of my novel, Every Inch a Saint. Despite being desperately ill herself, and only three foot ten tall, this partially paralysed dynamo transformed nursing care in the slums of Sydney in 1913. Eileen didn’t just transform nursing care in the past - she transforms lives, too. Including mine, not just because of the effect learning about her courage and resilience in the face of overwhelming odds, but because when I had cancer, she transformed herself - from being an inspirational role model from history, to being a daily companion and source of strength through chemotherapy, surgery and beyond. And now, I had caterpillars transforming in my office… turning to caterpillar soup in their cocoons and resurrecting as butterflies. Right in the room I’ve been writing about her in. Butterflies appeared sporadically in smaller numbers over the next two or three weeks. And, as if to affirm the symbolic link between Eileen’s transformative work, and the fact that she has transformed me, there was an empty cocoon right on the frame of the portrait I painted of her, which graces the cover of my book. Butterflies are symbols of transformation and rebirth, of the soul… and of resurrection. Now that all the caterpillars have metamorphised, the mignonette plants – which I thought had died for the winter, as its seed pods had burst spilling seeds all over the floor – suddenly sent out new shoots. No caterpillars to eat them, the mignonette has had a resurrection of its own. If you love stories of courage and transformation, pick up a copy of Every Inch a Saint, available in online and bricks-and-mortar bookstores now.

All Our Stories are a Variation on Her Theme Last spring, a catastrophe happened in my garden. After a couple of years of the worst drought on record, the tallest tree in my garden, a gum with two trunks, had its larger trunk fall. Some thirty metres of tree, complete with installed nesting boxes crashed to the ground. I hadn’t seen the toll of the sorrowful burdens it had been carrying: the impact of drought and age and rot on its heartwood. The pillar had certainly been scourged, but had carried its crosses with dignity, up to the last, when, just for a moment, it felt forsaken by its structural integrity and let go. There was considerable collateral damage: it landed on my home orchard, snapping fruit trees off at the ground, and destroying its bird-netted enclosure beyond repair. Being an insurance job meant many delays in the repair work, and I walked past the carnage many times, heartbroken. The fallen trunk, silent, abandoned, dead, a symbol of death and grief. A reminder that of our own mortality; a reminder of the crucified body of Jesus on his archetypal journey through the stages of human life. Broken and forsaken among the crushed hopes of fruit trees that had been about to send out fruitful spring shoots. Broken and dead, but watched over by its twin trunk, standing sentinel and still alive, reaching up into the sky. “When the tree falls, the garden remains.” One day, my silent grief at the devastation stilled. My eyes saw the fallen tree, but my heart’s ears heard words. “When the tree falls, the garden remains.” I blinked. My field of vision expanded: I saw the garden. I saw fruit trees sending indomitable shoots to meet the sun. Admittedly, they were getting tangled in the wrecked bird-netting, but alive. “When the tree falls, the garden remains.” Birds twittered. The sun warmed my back. The garden was unmistakably still present. Some months later, after the debris had been cleared and the orchard was safe again under fresh netting, I saw the resurrection happening in front of my eyes. The lost trunk had broken off about a metre above the ground. It was sending out new shoots. Nature wrote the first book. Resurrection: the cycle of life. Happening in Nature right now. Because Nature wrote the first book. All our stories are just a variation on her theme.

Anzac Day is a fitting time to put the spotlight on the priest who worked with Eileen O'Connor to establish Our Lady's Nurses for the Poor, a pioneering domiciliary nursing organisation, in 1913. Father Edward McGrath was a young priest called in to help Eileen's mother evade destitution when she was widowed in 1911. He was moved by the depth of Eileen's faith and her extraordinary courage in enduring unrelenting pain and disability from what we now know to be transverse myelitis due to tuberculosis. The unexpected collaboration of a bed-bound, young lay woman and a Catholic priest dedicated to caring for the sick poor garnered support from the wives of the premier and the governor general. It also drew the suspicion of elements in the church hierarchy who took offense to both the friendship itself and the fact that Eileen and Fr McGrath's shared enthusiasm and determination to make a difference meant they didn't always adhere to accepted protocol. Captain Father Edward McGrath World War I irrevocably changed their direction. The Provincial Leader of Fr McGrath's religious order arrived in Australia shortly before the war began. Dutch-born German national Fr Hubert Linckens traveled to Australia to sort out the finances of the Masters of the Sacred Heart and to investigate reports of poor discipline among the Australian Fathers. The outbreak of war meant Fr Linckens was unable to return to Europe, and somehow he was not interned here, so he made it his mission to find a priest to make an example of. Unfortunately, Fr McGrath became that priest, Falsely accused of an improper relationship and "flight from a monastery with a woman"! He was banned from further communication with Eileen and her nurses and banished from Australia. Fr McGrath became chaplain of the Cheshire Regiment of the British Infantry. In 1918, during a hellish counter-offensive near the town of Lens in northern France, half the troops were either killed or wounded. The six foot tall chaplain repeatedly ran out into No Man's Land under heavy machine-gun fire to rescue wounded men. He was awarded the Military Cross for his efforts. Fr McGrath's Military Cross in the Eileen O'Connor Centre A month later, Fr McGrath saw an officer shot down. He ran approximately 300 metres into No Man's Land to rescue the man and carried him back on his shoulders, under fire. For this, he was nominated for the most prestigious medal for valor in the Commonwealth, the Victoria Cross. In another cruel twist of fate, the ship carrying his paperwork was torpedoed by the enemy, and sank. The war ended soon afterwards, and the paperwork was never repeated, but the British officer he saved came to visit him many years later, when the priest was in his nineties and had finally been allowed to return and live under the loving care of Our Lady's Nurses for the Poor.

I am delighted to announce that Every Inch a Saint: a Novel about Eileen O'Connor, Australia's Second Saint-in-Waiting has been released into a world that desperately needs her message of hope, compassion and courage against the odds. Eileen - and her message - is contagious, like measles, but nicer. Catch her yourself, and see what happens. What people are saying: "Spiritual readers are likely to find great inspiration and value in this novel, which consistently illustrates Eileen’s grace and the strength of her conviction; in real life, she’s long been considered for possible sainthood... remarkable and sometimes-transcendent narrative. "An often engaging story that shows how the past can both haunt and illuminate the present." - Kirkus Reviews “Now here’s a book for our times! One to love, share, and keep forever.” - Mary Lea Carroll, author of Saint Everywhere and Across the Street Around the Corner "Kate brings to the novel a rare combination: the clinical precision of a medical background, deep archival research into WWI and early twentieth-century Sydney, and a profound personal investment in her subject. She had access to Eileen's X-rays. She walked the streets where Eileen had lived. She was guided, she believes, every step of the way." - Australian Book Lovers https://www.australianbooklovers.com/learn-more/every-inch-a-saint Where can you buy Every Inch a Saint? Online: Amazon.com (Kindle and paperback) Australian options include: Booktopia.com and some physical book stores including Dymocks and Harry Hartog. USA options including Barnes and Noble and Indie book stores are listed on Monkfish Books At the book launch, where I was interviewed by fellow author Kerrie Thomson.

Seven years ago, I got the inspiration to start a novel about Eileen O’Connor, a remarkable Australian woman currently being investigated for sainthood. I started researching almost immediately, rereading the biographies about her I had brought back from her house in Coogee, collecting more, talking with two of her nuns, walking the locations where she had lived and served and died. I finished my first draft in early 2020. It was an act of devotion to Eileen, a labour of love. And then, the tables turned. Eileen became my support and inspiration through a serious illness and slow recovery. Gradually, I returned to writing and editing. After submitting the completed manuscript to local publishers and collecting rejections, a friend I had made online, American author Perdita Finn (who has written several books including The Way of the Rose) recommended I send it to Monkfish Books. And now, seven years after I began, I am counting down the days till official publication on April 7th! Every Inch a Saint: a Novel about Eileen O'Connor, Australia's Second Saint-in-Waiting  is now available for pre-order in print and on Kindle on Amazon.com  and Amazon.com.au  In Australia, compare prices on Booktopia ​​For more USA purchasing options see Monkfish Books

1911. A nineteen-year-old girl lies desperately ill. She has been sick almost her whole life, suffering from tuberculosis which has infected her spine, leaving her in unbearable pain, partially paralysed, and only three foot ten tall. Her family and priest fear the worst… We’d call what happened next a near death experience, in our terms, but she said afterwards she had been as close to death as it was possible to come, without dying. She had a vision of the Virgin Mary, who offered the girl three choices. To stay in heaven with her; that is to die and be freed of suffering. To come back to earth healed and live a normal life. Or to come back just as sick as she is, but use her suffering to save people’s souls. Life-size statue of Eileen at the Eileen O'Connor Centre, Coogee She chose the latter and willingly carried her cross. She came back and, from her sickbed, established a pioneering order of domiciliary nurses to care for the sick poor in Sydney’s slums. The young woman is Eileen O’Connor. She is under investigation for sainthood, because that’s the way a saint carries a cross. We’re not saints, but we still have our crosses to carry: illness, trauma, heartbreak. We carry our crosses, and sometimes we get crucified on them. But a humbling thought comes. What if we are a cross that someone else must carry? What if we are a cross that someone else gets crucified on, because of some hurt we have caused, knowingly or unknowingly? We all carry crosses, we are all able to help someone else carry theirs. Have you ever watched trapeze artists swinging then tumbling through the air to get caught? And then swapping roles, so the caught becomes the catcher? Have you ever noticed that there is a moment, when the artist releases the trapeze, and spreads out his arms, making a cross of his body for a split second, before he spins through the air and is caught by his partner? And when he takes his own turn to catch his friend, it is the friend whose arms spread wide into the cross. Let us take turns to tarry a while and carry each other’s crosses, and catch each other so we don’t fall. Do we carry the cross… or does the cross carry us? Screenshots from this video: George Caceres and The Flying Caceres | Extended Sneak Peek Full Performance | Ringling

Words have terrifying power. A well-told tale can evoke emotions. Rhetoric or a compelling slogan can rewire the human brain: we see examples on the news and in advertising every day. Words also have limitations. On one level, they pander to our inherent biases and cultural associations. But go deeper, and we see they are squiggles on a page, or sound vibrations in the air, wannabe symbols attempting to convey a single message about an ultimately ineffable mystery that can never be accurately described. Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,There is a field. I'll meet you there.. -Rumi That field is wordless, I suspect. Filled with silence and wonder, and birdsong, brook babble, the wind whispering in the leaves. Breathe that in. That field is where we can meet each other in peace. Every division, every prejudice disappears when the words and name-calling stop. Rhetoric falls lifeless on the ground and wars cease to be possible. I found that field by accident, in an intravenous infusion clinic, when I was recovering from a life-threatening illness.   An 82-year-old man sat in the next chair. He was clearly anxious, facing a major surgery soon, and the way he managed his anxiety was to talk. He had terrible veins, so the nurse apologised in advance, thinking she’d need to have a few attempts to get a drip in. She said she'd say a prayer to Saint Jude whose picture was hanging on the wall in the room. The old man protested, “As a scientist, I don't believe in that stuff. I don't believe in miracles.” The nurse got the drip in on her first attempt. I responded, “As a former doctor, I do believe in miracles and the benefits of grace.” He agreed to disagree and began to pour out his life story. He said, “I don’t believe in God, I don’t believe in Allah. I don’t believe in Jesus. I’m a scientist.” He migrated from Yugoslavia after World War 2. He trained as a medical scientist and told tales of the changes he had seen during his career. Many times, his whole face lit up as he said how lucky he had been. A priest provided a fake birth certificate for his father, so his family could be accepted as refugees in Australia. He’d had a terrible accident decades ago, and was the first person in the city to receive a new experimental antibiotic, which had just been developed and probably saved his life. He told me of his fascination for how things worked, for nature, for increases in scientific understanding. His passion was evident in every expression and gesture, and he'd say, “How wonderful! How lucky I am.” He told me about the countries he'd visited and the temples and mosques and cathedrals he'd visited, their beauty and the wonders of their history and architecture. “I don't believe in Jesus or Allah. I’m a scientist. Isn't it wonderful, aren't I lucky?” After he said it for the third time I couldn't keep silent any longer. I told him, “I see the wonder and awe and the passion for life in you. We believe in the same thing we just call it different names.” A rose by any name smells just as sweet …

Waverley Cemetery, where Eileen O'Connor's parents are buried This year when I made a pilgrimage to Coogee to honour Eileen O’Connor’s legacy, I went to visit her parents’ grave in the nearby Waverley Cemetery. I took a measure of good luck dispensed by someone who warned me it wouldn’t be easy to find and a photo of the grave in case that helped. I knew legendary Australians repose there too: bush poet Henry Lawson, and Fanny Durack, the first woman to win an Olympic gold medal in swimming, and I wanted to find them as well. I knew the cemetery ranges over hilly terrain on the cliff tops with spectacular ocean views. Charles and Annie O’Connors’ grave is not far from the fence along the cliff’s edge. I have an irrational fear of edges, so faced the twin hurdles of not having a useful map of the cemetery and not knowing if my courage would hold up as I got closer. The grave of legendary Australian bush poet, Henry Lawson and his wife Bertha The main entrance is far from the edge, so I got off to a good start. Established in 1877, the headstones are imposing Victorian gothic confections in marble and granite, marching down a hill that is deceptively reassuring in its gentle slope towards the azure blue beyond. I wandered, enticed to go beyond the architecture and discover the stories. Room with a View... In loving memory of Olive Lethbridge Cowper beloved infant daughter… aged 2 years And the gardener said, “Who gathered this flower?” Olive’s plot is full sized, so perhaps her loving parents came to join her. The grave is covered in crispy brown dead flower heads of some unknown weed.   Edward George Hall Aged 2 years and 8 months My Bud in Heaven In the midst of life we are in death This headstone isn’t ambiguous. Edward’s loving father joined him there, four years later, aged only 36, and his grieving widow followed, aged 47. Tragedies tripled.   In Memory of Our Dear Little Boy Thomas Gardiner Muir Born 21 st February 1886 Scotland Died 26 th March 1890 Born to parents so keen to give him a better life that they risked the long sea voyage from Scotland to Australia, only to have him die here just after his fourth birthday.   Surrounded by graves, the inherent, unavoidable tragedy seeped into my bones. Sometimes, it seems we live in an age of entitlement. Of wants and greed and ‘deserving’, the themes of modern advertising. Graves yawn, broken by time. Some have built-in vases, the promise that loved ones will bring flowers to honour the dearly departed parent, child, friend… the vases are empty. The generations of loving descendants are lost in the passage of time too. No one remembers them, either. The cemetery speaks: We aren’t entitled to anything. Not to surviving infancy, not to expectations of the health of our children. Not to life itself. How do we make sense of life when we are in the midst of death? What is left to measure a life by, if years - and time itself - are meaningless? If no one is left who loves and remembers us? What would the cemetery say to that? What would Eileen say? I wondered in the silence. Measure your life by what matters. Kindness. It is only our kindness that remains and only our kindness that we can take with us.   Eventually, I braved the steeper slope. The obvious presence of the cliff edge stirred my fear of falling, but I didn’t give up, I walked sideways, parallel to the edge, so I didn’t have to face it head on. Row after row of graves. None of them the O’Connors. Finally, I chanced on a cemetery worker and asked for help. Turned out, she doesn’t work here; her ancestors are here and she has been renovating their graves. She was generous with her assistance, but despite her knowledge and checking online databases, she couldn’t find them either. I pulled up the photo of their grave and she suggested I try to match the background: with no map and no compass the angle of a fence and a half-dead tree became my guides. A half-dead tree seems an appropriate signpost, doesn’t it? I’m sure God’s got a sense of humour.   And then I found it! I paid my respects and recalled incidents I remembered about them. The abiding love Eileen had for them. Annie and Charles O'Connor's grave Pondering impermanence, I listened to the ocean below. The same ocean that Eileen listened to as she lay dying on a sweltering day 105 years ago. It was choppy, with many small waves peaking. Each peak became a human head, as someone incarnated out of the cosmic waters. The little head popped up and bobbed along for a moment, thinking it was separate from all the other waves. Then it dissolved back into the ocean and disappeared. Wave after wave, head after head. Incarnating and dissolving.   In the blink of a cosmic eye, we all dissolve back into the ocean and discover there is no other, and we are all wet in the same ocean of love.