Before

Danny, a widower of three years, needed a change. He and Norma had been together for 45 years—a marriage that felt like a rollercoaster ride, filled with joy and laughter, highs, lows, and losses that only brought them closer. When they first met in the ’70s, both were seekers, captivated by the spiritual teachings of the Far East. Norma worked as a bookseller at Brentano’s. For a few months, she attended EST workshops, believing she’d found the Holy Grail, but she soon discovered its flaws. Instead, she immersed herself in the works of Ram Dass, Lao Tzu, and Buddhist philosophy. While Norma turned to Buddhist philosophy, Danny explored diverse traditions. He studied Bahá’í texts, worked in Maharaj Ji’s kitchen on 42nd Street, and engaged in spirited debates on religion and philosophy. He found meaning in the sound of ‘one hand clapping,’ grounding himself in Buddhism and yoga.”

At NYU, before they met, Danny would roll out a yoga mat for his daily practice in the walk-up apartment between B and C on 8th Street. It was a tenement building with a common toilet in the hallway on each floor, a police lock on his apartment door, and a clawfoot bathtub with a top on it in the kitchen that he used as a table. The barred windows were always propped open, letting in the sounds of the city—the distant hum of traffic, laughter from the streets below, and the shouts, the kiais of the Young Lords practicing karate in Tompkins Square Park. A dog-eared copy of Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse lay on top of his copy of My Land and My People by the Dalai Lama, its margins alive with underlines and scrawled notes.

Meanwhile, Norma’s collection of spiritual texts was just as diverse: the I Ching, The Tibetan Book of the Dead, and the writings of Thich Nhat Hanh, whose voice had emerged as a call for peace during the Vietnam War. Norma had been raised Protestant with a German Catholic mother and a Scottish Protestant father who briefly converted to the Morman religion at the 1964 Worlds Fair in Queens, NY. She attended Sunday School at the Church of Latter-Day Saints in Scarsdale until she was 16 and then turned on and dropped out.  After graduation she attended a local community college and had just finished a Summer Stock production of West Side Story where she played the role of Anybody’s—a tomboy who made heads turn with her spirited charm. She was working two jobs now, saving to travel through Europe with her friend.

It was Valentine’s Day in 1975 when Cupid’s arrow struck. Danny and Norma had met a few years earlier at LuJon’s, an Irish pub, introduced by a mutual friend, but hadn’t seen each other since. This time, it seemed to be love at second sight. Norma was working behind the bar at Keltie’s with Danny’s childhood friend Jonel. Danny walked in expecting to hang out with his buddy and saw Norma behind the bar. The dim light cast a warm glow on her, and as they were reintroduced, Danny reached for her hand. The moment her hand touched his, something inside him fell into place—a mix of courage and a certainty he couldn’t explain.

“Marry me,” he said, louder than he had meant to. All the heads at the bar turned as a hush fell over the room. Norma tilted her head, her smile warm but teasing. “Don’t you think we should get to know each other first?” The room erupted with laughter as Jonel slid a stein of beer in front of Danny and said, “Congratulations.” Facts being stranger than fiction, they moved in together on her birthday, April 22nd, just a few months after meeting. The following year, on May 23rd, 1976—America’s Bicentennial—they were married. The trip to Europe she had been planning with a friend was lost in the frenzy of their building a new life together.

Their weekdays were busy: Danny finishing his studies at the Printing Industries of Metropolitan NY school in Manhattan and Norma working at the bookstore by day and waitressing by night. Sunday mornings in their apartment above a wedding dress store on Mamaroneck Avenue in White Plains echoed with the sounds of Motown, the jangling guitars of The Beatles, and the meditative hum of Ravi Shankar’s sitar. The aroma of fresh-baked bagels filled the air as they dined, folding and refolding the Sunday Times. Afternoons were spent catching matinees at the local theater, and evenings often involved playing Yahtzee with Norma’s cousin Alex and his wife Suzanne, interspersed with discussions about passages from the Tao Te Ching. Now that Danny was working as a printer, he was able to publish a poetry magazine called Salad Days. Those early years, rich with music, laughter, and poetry, laid the foundation for a life they would build together. But everything shifted once children entered the picture.

Norma had difficulty getting pregnant. When she finally did, something had gone terribly wrong. Jessica, born with multiple birth defects, was rushed from White Plains Hospital to Weill Cornell Medical Center. Every day, they drove to the city so Jessica could nurse. Norma held her in a rocking chair, softly singing. She used a breast pump to provide the nurses with milk for her at night. One doctor after another met with the couple. Each an expert in one of the many anomalies that Jessica was born with. Each began their explanation with the same phrase. Best case… and worst case… In each instance it turned out that Jessica suffered from the worst case.   The hospital halls blurred as Danny paced, the hum of machines in the high-tech neonatal room a constant reminder of Jessica’s fragile fight. Despite the doctor’s efforts, she couldn’t thrive and died in August, just a few months after her birth. The grief tested their faith and resilience. Norma withdrew. She didn’t want to live. It took everything Danny had to cradle and cajole her back to life.

The death of a child often drives couples apart. The heartbreak of losing Jessica might have been too much if Danny hadn’t already traveled the path of grief, having lost his father as a teen. Together, they sought answers, undergoing genetic testing to determine if they could have healthy children. When the doctors gave them a clean bill of health, they tried again.

Norma threw herself into caring for their two healthy boys, born three years apart. Danny set aside his poetry to support the family. Jessica’s loss had changed them. Norma became an unshakable advocate for her boys, immersing herself in books on child development. Danny shifted careers, leaving printing behind to help nonprofits evolve through technology.

In the back of her mind, Norma always waited for the other shoe to drop. She would flash on the doctors “best case… worst case scenarios” Danny would often measure his own mood by the smile or frown on her face. The one thing they both agreed upon was that losing Jessica had left a huge hole in their hearts and their souls. They could fill that hole with hate and despair or they could fill it with love. They filled it with a fierce passionate love for each other, their sons and with more than enough left over for their friends and family.   

Decades passed. Their boys grew into amazing men, moved out, and started families. Norma retired early and spent her time showering her grandchildren with love and traveling. Her friend Arlene, needing a travel companion after her husband passed, took Norma on adventures to Africa, Europe, and Scandinavia. Norma’s plans to travel before she met Danny were finally realized. Postponing her trip had been worth it. Instead of the backpacking adventure she once imagined, she explored Europe in style, flying first class and staying in five-star hotels and luxurious safari camps. She marveled at the golden savannahs of Africa, the vibrant colors of Scandinavian skies, and the ancient streets of Europe, capturing each moment with her camera. Her photos of giraffe, zebra and elephants were amazing. She told stories about the people she met. The African tracker trained by his grandfather who led the safaris and warned her about the hippos submerged in the water.  But just as her dreams of travel were realized, Norma fell ill, and their world tilted on its axis.   

On Christmas Day of 2018, Danny rushed Norma to the hospital. The diagnosis: Stage 4 Neuroendocrine Tumors. Treatable but not curable. The woman who had ziplined across Victoria Falls, sent Danny crashing into walls on the squash court, and taught her son to throw a perfect spiral became so thin and frail she would faint attempting short walks.

Danny was able to work from home to care for her. From diagnosis to hospice took three years but felt like a lifetime. Those years, marked by hope and heartbreak, stretched endlessly, each milestone tempered by the looming shadow of what they both feared. Every treatment brought a flicker of hope, only to be met with setbacks. While Danny prayed for the best, Norma’s bravery faltered at times under the weight of worst-case scenarios.

Three years in, after the chemo had gone wrong, her oncologist admitted there was nothing more to be done. Norma confided in the therapist from Memorial Sloan Kettering, “I’ve never felt alone or unsupported. Danny has always been there for me. I’m worried about him. What will he do when I’m gone?”

Danny, overhearing, tried to diffuse the weight of her words with humor. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “I’ll either date two 35-year-olds or move to an Ashram.” Although he said it with a smile on his lips there were tears in his eyes. Norma knew the joke was armor for the pain they couldn’t name. The therapist promised Norma she’d stay in touch with Danny, and she did.

After her passing, Danny found himself adrift. His mind was in a fog, hollow under the weight of grief. He tried returning to normal—writing, yoga, dinners with friends—but everything felt muted, like a painting drained of color. And yet, the idea of the Ashram lingered—a flippant remark that had become a seed of something larger.

Despite the loneliness, Danny took small steps toward healing. He continued meeting with Norma’s therapist for periodic check-ins. She reminded him that losing a spouse was like having part of his soul amputated. During one session, she suggested joining a bereavement group at the JCC in Scarsdale. Reluctantly, he agreed.

The group met weekly for eight sessions. Danny walked in to his first session and noticed that he was the only man in the circle. Having spent years at Planned Parenthood, he felt at ease among women. The ages ranged widely—one was in her late twenties, or early 30’s nursing her child at the meetings; others were closer to Danny’s age. Their shared loss created an unspoken bond. Tears flowed freely at mentions of birthdays or anniversaries, and the tissue box was passed around regularly. During this time, Danny struck up friendships with Debra, Jeanette, and Leanne. Their shared grief transformed into genuine camaraderie: They began meeting for dinners and hiking along trails in Westchester.

It turned out that Debra, Jeanette, and Leanne were avid dance enthusiasts. Debra invited Leanne who had studied ballet to her weekly Israeli dance classes. The four of them began frequenting events at the City Center in Manhattan. Danny a novice, found himself at everything from Sting’s experimental dance collaborations to a classic performance of Alvin Ailey of Cry and Revelations. Debra created a WhatsApp chat for them giving the chat a name. “The Core Four”. “We used to have our ‘person,’” she wrote. “Now we have our people.” One long weekend, they escaped to the Berkshires, enjoying candlelit dinners at Tanglewood and late-night conversations about love and loss. On the drive home, they learned that President Biden had decided not to run in the 2024 election, instead endorsing Kamala Harris as the next Democratic candidate for president. Excited by the news, Debra and Leanne threw themselves into the campaign, knocking on doors and making calls for Kamala. The Core Four grounded him, but as their discussion turned to finding a companion, he kept circling back to his quip to Norma about the Ashram. One autumn night, while looking through Norma’s books, he found her copy of Thich Nhat Hanh’s No Death, No Fear:

“The day my mother died I wrote in my journal, ‘A serious misfortune of my life has arrived.’ I suffered for more than one year after the passing away of my mother. All I had to do was look at the palm of my hand, feel the breeze on my face or the earth under my feet to remember that my mother is always with me, available at any time.”

Norma had died on January 17th, 2022, and Thich Nhat Hanh had died just five days after her. He joked to himself that Thich must have decided life wasn’t worth living without Norma in the world. The image of the two of them sitting cross-legged—Norma entertaining him with stories of the adventures of Norma and Dan—made him smile. It reminded him of the time he had walked into her hospital room, where she was receiving a treatment of a special drug mixed with radioactive material that cost $54,800 per session. The room had been packed with doctors, nurses, and the guy with the Geiger counter, all laughing hysterically at her stories. Laughter followed Norma wherever she went. In her absence, the silence was deafening.

These memories were so vivid. He knew he needed a way to honor the journey he and Norma had shared while stepping into the life she’d wished for him. The next morning, he planned his trip to Thich Nhat Hanh’s mindfulness retreat in France. Plum Village was founded in the 80’s as a sanctuary for mindfulness practice and Engaged Buddhism. The community, inspired by his teachings, offers a place for deep reflection, healing, and connection. Thich Nhat Hanh’s brand of Buddhism centered around applying mindfulness and compassion to everyday life and social action, bridging the gap between spiritual practice and worldly concerns. The village has become a beacon for those seeking peace and understanding in a chaotic world, blending meditation, walking, and mindful living into daily routines.

He told himself it was temporary, a few weeks to reset. But deep down, he hoped it might be more—a bridge between the life he had lost and the one he was still learning to embrace.

Letters From the Ashram – Part One

Danny stepped off the train in Sainte-Foy-la-Grande, a small town in southwestern France, where the scent of fresh bread from a boulangerie mixed with the crisp country air. The cab ride to Plum Village meandered through hills patched with vineyards and quaint farmhouses, each view calming his restless spirit. He arrived at the ashram just as the evening bell rang—a sound both foreign and familiar, like the echo of a memory he couldn’t place.

Plum Village was as serene as he’d imagined. Plum trees dotted the landscape, their branches heavy with promise. A soft breeze carried the fragrance of wildflowers, mingling with the earthy aroma of tilled soil. Here, time seemed to bow its head, passing more slowly, tenderly. Danny knew he would write letters home—letters that would connect the tranquil present to the jagged edges of grief he shared with his bereavement group back in New York.

Day One

Dear Debra, Jeanette and Leanne,

I arrived at Plum Village yesterday. It’s hard to describe the stillness here—it’s not just silence; it’s a quiet that feels alive, like the trees and the air are holding their breath with me.

Today, during walking meditation, I felt the crunch of gravel under my feet, the sun warming my back, and the coolness of shade under a grove of trees. Thich Nhat Hanh calls this “coming home to yourself.” It reminded me of our talks in the group about how grief leaves us untethered, like leaves swept up in a storm. Here, I am learning to settle—if only for a moment.

I sat by a lily pond this afternoon, and for the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel compelled to move or do. I think of all of you often our conversations and laughter that fills the silences. I hope each of you find a place like this, even if it’s just a quiet corner of your own.

Yours in the silence, Danny

Day Two

Dear Debra, Jeanette, and Leanne,

There’s a practice here called “mindful eating.” We sit together in the dining hall, each of us with a simple bowl of soup or a plate of vegetables. No one speaks. Instead, we focus on each bite—its texture, its flavor, its journey to the plate. At first, it felt strange, but then I noticed something: the soup wasn’t just soup. It was the rain that nourished the carrots, the sun that ripened the tomatoes, the hands that chopped the vegetables. It’s the kind of awareness I never thought I’d need, but here I am, learning to taste life again, even its bitterness. I thought of you all during this practice, of how we agreed that we needed to savor the little joys despite our grief. I hope you all are finding some sweetness amidst the salt.

With gratitude, Danny

Day Three

Dear Debra, Jeanette, and Leanne,

Last night, the community gathered for a tea meditation. We sat in a circle, cradling warm cups of herbal tea, and shared a few words if we felt moved to speak. A young monk told a story about a plum tree outside his window. He said, “The blossoms come in spring, and the fruit ripens in summer. But even in winter, when the tree looks barren, it’s alive and preparing for what’s next.”  I thought of all of us, sitting in that circle at the bereavement group, barren yet alive. This place is teaching me that our winters—our grief—are not lifeless. They are seasons of preparation, of quiet growth beneath the surface. I see your faces in the plum blossoms here. I hope you can feel the fruit ripening in your own time.

Peacefully, Danny

Each evening, after the last bell, Danny would light a small candle by his bedside and reread the letters before tucking them away into his journal. They were more than updates; they were whispers to his friends, to himself, and to the future he was just beginning to see beyond the horizon of his grief. At Plum Village, he wasn’t just writing letters; he was rewriting his life.

Letters from the Ashram: Part Two

Danny found himself settling into a rhythm at Plum Village. The days began with the soft toll of the morning bell, summoning everyone to the meditation hall. There, their collective breaths merged into a quiet symphony, filling the space with a palpable sense of unity. Silently they left the hall to begin their walking meditation before they share a silent breakfast together.

Afterward came work meditation—a practice that surprised Danny with its simplicity and depth. Cleaning, gardening, or chopping vegetables became acts of mindfulness, each movement anchoring his wandering thoughts to the present moment. These small, deliberate tasks grounded him in ways he hadn’t anticipated. But it wasn’t just the work that steadied him—it was the people. The shared silence, the gentle smiles exchanged during tea breaks, and the quiet camaraderie of living intentionally together made him feel part of something greater.

At night, he attended a yoga class taught by three instructors who worked seamlessly as a team. The sessions were filled with basic poses, but the teachers’ attentive guidance transformed the practice into something profound. They moved among the students, adjusting postures and suggesting props to help even the less flexible participants benefit from each pose.

Danny used two blocks to “raise the floor” as he transitioned from plank pose to downward dog. He walked the blocks back to his feet, leaving them on the mat before slowly rising to mountain pose. Matching his movements to his breath, he found moments of stillness within the flow. When his mind wandered and his breath fell out of sync, he gently brought himself back, a small act of mindfulness within the larger practice.

By the end of each class, he felt centered, his body warm and his mind calm. Each night, as he lay down to sleep, he fell into a deep, unbroken rest, waking each morning refreshed and ready to greet the day with renewed purpose.

Day Four

Dear Debra, Jeanette, and Leanne,

Debra, I thought of your beautiful backyard today as I spent the day on hands and knees in the garden, pulling weeds around a bed of lettuce. I worked alongside a woman named Donna who I had met in the yoga class. In the garden Donna told me that she was here for six months, learning to slow down after spending her career as an attorney and financial advisor. Donna shared how her life was a blur of airports and meetings and that she needed to find her center and explore a more spiritual journey. We talked as we worked, our hands sinking into the cool soil. She told me about the joy of rediscovering simple pleasures: baking bread, taking photographs while exploring the trails around the Ashram, and now, weeding. She laughed when I said I’d never gardened in my life, and she showed me how to grip the weeds just right, so their roots came free. It felt good to laugh. It reminded me of the laughter we shared when the Core Four had dinner at the Trattoria Della Arte before the performance at City Center. Grief has a way of making us forget that laughter can coexist with pain. Laughter and crying have something in common; they are beyond our control, and somehow manage to cleanse us of the pain we feel. The mysteries of being human!

Yours in discovery, Danny

Day Five

Dear Debra, Jeanette, and Leanne,

I’ve started to notice how Plum Village attracts people from every corner of the world. Last night, I sat under a tree with a group of expats. Maria, a poet from Argentina who spoke about loss with words that felt like poetry themselves; and James, an artist from Australia sketched me as we talked. He said I had the “look of a man in transition,” whatever that means. We debated what it meant to transition—not just between stages of life but between versions of ourselves. Maria chimed in with a line from a Rumi poem: “Try not to resist the changes that come your way. Instead, let life live through you.” I thought of all the ways I’ve resisted this new life without Norma. Maybe they’re right—maybe I’m still in transition.  

Sending you warmth from under the plum trees, Danny

Day Six

Dear Debra, Jeanette, and Leanne,

I need to tell you about a moment that changed everything. During a tea meditation this afternoon, I found myself utterly still—a stillness I hadn’t known in years. It was as if the world paused, and I could hear, perhaps for the first time, my own breath, my own heart. Afterward, I stayed in the meditation hall, letting the silence wrap around me like an old friend. It was there I began to realize something: all the years I spent searching for meaning through others—through Norma, through our sons, through the work I threw myself into after her passing—had led me here, to this stillness. To this moment where I could meet myself, face-to-face. I left the hall and wandered to the lily pond. The setting sun turned the water into a canvas of gold and violet. Sitting by the pond, I remembered our discussion in group about grief being a journey inward, about how it’s not just about letting go of the person you lost but finding the person you’ve become. Today, I think I met that person. He’s quieter than I expected but stronger, too. And for the first time, I feel like I’m not just moving forward—I’m moving toward something.

With gratitude, Danny

Each letter Danny wrote felt like a thread connecting him to the life he left behind, even as new connections blossomed. His days at Plum Village became mosaics of quiet work, deep conversations, and moments of unexpected joy. And though he didn’t know where this path would lead, for the first time in years, Danny was curious about what might lie ahead.

Letters from the Ashram: Part Three

The final week at Plum Village came too quickly for Danny. He had grown into the rhythm of the place, his grief no longer a weight but a companion he could carry without stumbling. The people, the work, and the stillness had stitched something back together inside him. As he prepared to leave, Danny found himself lingering over the walking meditations, savoring every moment like the last sip of a favorite drink. During his walk he had remembered Thich Nhat Han saying, “Walk as if you are kissing the Earth with your feet.” On his final evening, he sat under the plum tree where he had written so many letters, penning his last reflections before the journey home.

Day Seven

Dear Debra, Jeanette and Leanne,

Today, as I sat overlooking the fields at dawn, I felt something shift within me. The soft, golden morning light painted everything in a hue of quiet renewal. For the first time in years, I wasn’t thinking about what I’d lost or even what I’d been searching for. Instead, I felt whole. Meditation has become more than a practice for me; it has become a way of meeting myself where I am. Yoga has helped me stretch my body and the boundaries of my grief, turning it into something I can move with instead of against. And writing, ___ writing has saved me. Through these letters, I’ve rediscovered the joy of shaping thoughts into words, of letting my soul speak freely. I’ve begun journaling every morning to not record the past but explore the present. What I’ve found is startling: a deep well of gratitude, a sense of curiosity about the world, and a quiet thrill at what lies ahead. Even as I write this, I imagine the places I want to see, the stories I want to tell, and the simple beauty I want to soak in—all with fresh eyes. I’m no longer afraid of moving forward. It doesn’t feel like leaving anything behind anymore; I carry everything with me—Norma, the boys, my grief, and my newfound joy. For the first time, I feel ready to step into the world again, not as someone trying to heal but as someone who has.

With peace, Danny

Letter to Norma

Dear Norma,

Today, as I sit on a bench at the lily pond at Thich Nhat Hanh’s sanctuary, I can feel your presence in everything around me. The water ripples softly with the breeze, and dragonflies dance across the surface, their fragile beauty reminding me of your laughter—light, fleeting, but unforgettable. This journey to the Ashram has been one of discovery, not just of the world but of myself. Through meditation, I’ve learned to sit with my grief, to see it not as an anchor holding me down but as a tide carrying me forward. Yoga has stretched more than my body; it’s opened me to the possibility of joy, even after loss. And writing—writing has become my lifeline. In my journal and letters, I’ve found my voice again and can speak to you, to our boys, now men and to myself.

Norma, you always believed in the power of small, deliberate actions to change the world. I see now that your purpose was not just in what you did but in what you inspired in those around you. You taught me that love is both fragile and resilient, that it can endure even when everything else falls away. And now, I carry that love with me, shaping my days with gratitude and hope.

As I prepare to leave this sanctuary, I feel ready to step into the world again. Not as the man I was but as someone new—someone who has learned to honor the past without being trapped by it. Your memory will always be with me, not as a weight but as a light guiding me forward.

With all my heart, Danny

Reflections

As humans, we hold a profound capacity to connect deeply with another—to become an us. When we lose our soulmate, we lose a part of ourselves. Grief, though searing, becomes a sacred companion. It allows us to honor the love we’ve known and the lives we’ve intertwined, even as it reshapes who we are.

The Ashram was more than a retreat. It became a crucible for rediscovery. In the stillness of walking meditations, Danny felt the crunch of gravel beneath his feet and the rustle of leaves in the breeze. Shared tea ceremonies, with their quiet warmth and rising steam, turned into moments of communion—sacred in their simplicity. Through these gentle rituals, Danny began to celebrate Norma’s memory not with sorrow, but with presence.

Guided by Thich Nhat Hanh’s teachings, he came to understand that life’s essence resides in small, deliberate acts—walking, breathing, smiling. Even amid loss, there is an invitation to grow. With each mindful step, Danny wove together the threads of a self, shaped by love and softened by peace.

When he left the Ashram, he no longer carried sorrow as a burden. He carried it as a rhythm—a quiet pulse within him. The echoes of Norma’s laughter, the stillness of mindful breath, the strength forged in silent circles—all moved with him. As the sun rose and bathed the horizon in gold, Danny gazed ahead not with trepidation, but with curiosity. For the first time in years, his heart was open to the possibilities of what might come next.

This is not a story of survival. It is a story of transformation. Even in life’s darkest seasons, light can emerge. Renewal and unexpected joy wait patiently, ready to meet us when we take the next step forward.

Namaste.
The light in me honors the light in you.
And in that shared light, we find our way.

Discover more from The Stardust Journal

Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.