If we think of Hiroshima at all, we rightly think of all who died that day. I’ve been thinking more recently about all who survived. What was it like for my father to attend school with classmates, every single one of whom had lost siblings, parents, or relatives that day? What is the collective trauma of a generation that grew up in a nuclear wasteland?

I felt invited to a new way of seeing, and how learning the different names of birds is a path to intimacy, to entering into a more personal relationship with creation. It was as if I was getting to know my non-human neighbors in a similar way to how we first share our names when introducing ourselves to someone we don’t know.

Tadaima. Okaeri. Itadakimasu. Like the greetings heard around the house that meter our days, the ordinary rhythms of daily life – work, school, chores, meals – provide the cadence of our life in community. Yet it is precisely this ordinariness that begins to heal what needs healing in each of us, Catholic Workers and guests alike.