Nearly thirty years ago, I received a phone call informing me that my great uncle, Morris, who had remarried at age 81 or 82, had died of heat stroke.  I got on my bicycle and rode in a daze for a long while.  While riding and watching the pavement move beneath me, this came to me:  "We are here to teach peace and practice love.  That's all."

I don't know if this is actually true or not.  I do not find myself guided by peace or love a fair amount of the time.  Maybe that's not the point.  A moment of love, or a moment of peace, may be all we can ask for; such moments may be a miracle in the hell realm that is also life.  I just don't know and have long since given up trying to figure out such mysteries.