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An Atheist's Almost Holy Pilgrimage

An Atheist's Almost Holy Pilgrimage

Returning to Notre Dame after the fire for a Yo-Yo Ma concert

Catherine
Apr 16, 2025
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An Atheist's Almost Holy Pilgrimage
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I have been an atheist far longer than I was ever a Catholic, but I suppose it never really leaves you. The guilt certainly doesn’t.

Guilt is something that weighs heavily on me these days. My mother, Donna, just spent a solid month in the hospital. She developed aspiration pneumonia, a common complication for those with advanced Parkinson’s, and, overnight, lost the little mobility she had left. For days, she was completely incoherent. Her neurologist said it’s normal that any infection at this stage will naturally increase confusion and decrease mobility. It’s normal. We are never not adjusting to a new normal with this disease.

On one of the last trips she would ever take to Paris—though we did not then know it—my mother ran into Yo-Yo Ma in the elevator of her favorite hotel in Saint-Germain. It was the highlight of her trip, if not her life. She worships the man. She hasn’t been able to return here in years. I’ve had entire apartments, relationships, lives that she has not seen and will not see. Her Parkinson’s, coupled with dementia, has progressed to the point where travel is no longer possible.

Many days this winter, I have been incapacitated by grief. Do I even have the right to grieve? My mother is still alive. I am a writer without words, unmoored without my way of navigating the world. There are no words to describe the relentlessness of this aching, endless sense of loss but I know I need to find a better way of handling it.

Recently, I was in the right place at the right time with the right friend who, without knowing any of this, invited me to attend Yo-Yo Ma’s performance at Notre Dame. I hadn’t been inside since it reopened and, to be honest, I didn’t even know that evening concerts like this were even open to the public. (They are, and you should go). It was the world premiere of a new piece by 32-year-old composer Lise Borel, performed alongside a children’s choir. I started crying before a single note was played.

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