Growing up in an observant Jewish household, when I first ran into C.S. Lewis’ memoir, A Grief Observed on my parent’s bookshelf, the fuzzy idea that formed in my mind based was of a mourning period where all the proper rites and rituals were held.
When I read the book about five years ago I found that what the author meant was that he had observed and recorded the experience of grieving. I understand the impulse. The experience of the observer is from a distance, disconnected from the somatic and emotional expression. Once I may have thought this was denial of the experience. It isn’t.
I remember learning about the process of grief from the perspective of Chinese medical philosophy. Put very simply, the reason for the emotional swings and shifts of grieving is to allow the body to process the trauma slowly enough to avoid sudden shock causing a heart attack or suffer other severe physical damage.
The emotions of sadness, and anger, and the mental aspect of the intellect are supposed to take it in turn to dominate, each one being replaced by another before it becomes too extreme.
The sky is beautiful today. It was beautiful yesterday too. It’s a lovely time of year to be out in the country.
I remember in Peter S. Beagle’s book A Fine and Private Place the ghosts could only sense phenomena they had paid attention to in life. Only people who had listened to birdsong could hear the birds, only people who noticed traffic noises were bothered by the traffic going past the graveyard.
I don’t worry about post-death existence, but think about old age. Sometimes it seems to me that when the brain starts to break down, people are left with the habits they accumulated over their life. I want to be in the habit of appreciating beauty.
The dictates of the shivah force me back into experiential mode. I sit with my dog on the grass in my parents yard and just feel the sun on my skin. This lasts until she realizes a bird has come too close to her food bowl (i.e. within 200 meters).
When I was a child my parents sponsored S., a boy in a village in Kenya. They donated money every month that went to provide clean water to his village. The program did not allow giving money directly to the children of the village, but strongly encouraged the sponsors to send letters, photographs and paperback books
I remember writing letters to S., looking at photographs of his home, discussing what books he might like. I remember my mother deciding to send him 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, and I think Around the World in Eighty Days.
S. found my mother on Facebook a few years ago. He had moved to the city, gone to university, married and had a baby. He thanked my parents for inspiring him to read and study English, and eventually to go to university. He told us that he was supporting all of his younger siblings because his parents had been killed in a car accident, and he was in a position to do so because he had his degree.
My sister contacted him Wednesday night to let him know that my mother had passed, and he sent am email and asked her to read it at the funeral. He said among other things that he wanted people to know that my mother had not only directly changed his life, but also the lives of the eight people for whom he is now the sole breadwinner.
Thinking about his letter, I realize it provided one answer to the occasionally asked question of how one can justify sending money to people in other countries when there are children in need right here. The power of the exchange rate. I don’t know how much my parents sent every month, but they didn’t have a lot. Dollars, and books, go much further some places.
Now I am curious, how much did my parents give? My father doesn’t remember. I track down the name of the charity, go to their website: Plan International. 33 dollars a month. That’s all? I know I’m not supposed to make impulsive decisions about money while grieving, but charity is encouraged. I find my credit card. I’ve committed to building a school for a 3 year old girl in a country I’ve never heard of (I’m not that bad as geography). The wheel keeps turning.
Our lifesaving friend has brought soup, heated it in our kitchen, and served cups round. We have more than enough food, good home cooked food from many families on the moshav, but I find myself gravitating to the really stale jam cookies we were brought as part of the package of food we can offer visitors.
Jewish tradition doesn’t trust mourners to feed themselves. Hence the meals provided. My uncle is doing his best to make sure we actually eat them.
Shabbat is coming. Showering commences in shifts. Neighbors have brought food for shabbat, and a hot plate and an urn for hot water. Three families are in mourning on the moshav this weekend, so shabbat day has been scheduled down to the last minute. At least I don’t have to worry about racing between houses and keeping everybody fed like our unbereaved neighbors.
Wow.
You write so well.
I was wondering about that letter; now I feel like I know your Ima a little more.
Thank you, Yoel. I’m glad to hear that.
Havva you have your Ima’s gift of writing. Beautifully written from your heart.
Thank you so much, Lorrie. That means a lot to me.
Thank you.