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Incongruously enough, the experience of being loved raised the same questions for me as attending at the death of my neighbor — what was human life for, and what did it mean?I wanted to find a place where people were talking about the tension between our unique lives and our participation in a greater cycle of life on Earth.Her door was open, and a shaggy man in a jean jacket was crouched next to her body.She was epileptic; she had had a seizure and broken her neck.

” Things have changed in Canada since my parents’ and grandparents’ time: In my experience, the only people thinking about whether you’re Jewish are other Jews.A few years ago, I found my neighbor lying dead on the floor in her apartment.We lived across the hall from each other in crumbling basement units, the kind where the rising story arcs of young people on their way to something better intersect with the falling ones of older, sicker people on their way to something worse.A few years ago I was walking across a university campus and a girl in a pink baseball cap sporting a bejazzled J ran over to ask if I was Jewish; she seemed to be representing a campus club.When I explained that I was Jewish on the wrong side, she said, “Oh.

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