The past week of my life was filled with monks, bells and chanting. It was also filled with family and travel.

We flew off to San Diego to attend a funeral for my husband’s grandmother. It was an expected death (she was 93) and yet difficult as it was the passing of life nonetheless.

Hubby’s grandmother, like hubby, was born in Vietnam. She arrived in the United States at the age of 60 and never learned much English. Her Buddhist faith was important to her and so her funeral was a traditional Buddhist funeral.

This entailed two days of services in which numerous groups of monks came and conducted ceremonies. As I mentioned, there was chanting. Seven hours (at least) worth of chanting (no exaggeration).

As all was conducted in Vietnamese, I was – at times – confused, bored, fascinated and haunted. And in the end I was deeply moved.