In Their Words

Posted on May 8, 2014 by edcol52

In the months since Jake’s death I have received scores of private messages on Facebook, texts, phone calls, emails, voice mails, and snail mail letters from Jake’s friends. I wanted to share some of them with you so you can get a glimpse of who he was from his peers, the people he spent his days with. Reading these is truly a bittersweet experience for me. Sweet because of all the good he did, the people he helped through hard times, the joy and happiness he spread wherever he went. Bitter for all the people he didn’t get a chance to met, who won’t benefit from his light and love. That he is gone is a tragedy beyond dimension. But Jake, like everyone of us, is a stone dropped into the pool of the universe. His influence ripples outwards, and continues to do so today. Who knows what the people he touched will accomplish because of his encouragement, his friendship and his love. From the words of his friends you can get a clearer picture of who he was, is and will always be. Sail on, Jakey Jake.

(These are messages from many people. Each one separated by a  – – -)

 –  –  –

 It has taken me some time to finally be able to sit down and write you. As you may remember, Jake was one of my best friends all throughout middle school and high school. Those years were very important to who I am now as a person, and I can tell you that a huge part of that is because of the influence your son had on me. With every moment we spent together, I grew to love your son much more. As a friend, your son was the perfect combination of intelligence, kindness, willingness and eagerness to work hard, compassion and sincerity. The best part was that Jake never cared what anyone else thought, and sometimes, while we were growing up, that caused him to struggle. But, that it itself was what drew me to being so close to Jake for so many years. Even as a young teen, when things are changing, Jake was the one person I could rely on to make sure I kept pushing forward, and stayed true to who I am, to follow my passion and to never pursue things I didn’t love.

Your son was and still is an inspiration to so many people. I, myself, would not be where I am today if it wasn’t for him. Our senior year, Jake and I worked on a stem cell project for our physiology class, where Jake said “I’ve learned about these things called stem cells, lets do our project on that.” This was the first time I realized how cool science can be, and pursued a degree in biology and now am getting a masters in public health.

The trajectory of my life and my career is because of Jakey. I am currently in Georgia, and because of the New Year will not be able to make it to the funeral tomorrow, which devastates me, however, as your son was loved not only by myself, but by my parents, so they will be in attendance. If there is anything I can do, please do not hesitate to ask. Thank you for bringing into the world someone life changing. He will be missed.

–  –  –

 I am currently in the process of writing you both a formal letter where I will share my emotions and other buried memories of your son, but literally as I am writing this letter… I had to stop and describe to you this fabulous nostalgia – what I remember so strongly of Jake’s personality was his ability to explore such vast worldly subjects, and his terrific knowledge and deep understanding of life and to not only question the unknown but to challenge it as well. His mind was like a labyrinth of insight and he always had something useful or hilarious to teach me.

I will forever remember him for this unique quality and for his ability and drive to teach others. Thank you Jake and I miss you dearly.

–  –  –

I’m so sorry for your and Terry’s loss.  When I heard about Jake’s passing I was immediately flooded with memories of time spent with him.  I was lucky enough to know Jake from our Elementary school days and have always considered him a lifelong friend.  Him and I both were extremely interested in how things worked and trying to solve problems by thinking outside of the box.  He was always willing to pass his knowledge on whether it be about candle making, cooking, or even welding in your backyard.  I was unfortunately out of town for Jake’s memorial, and would have loved nothing more to have been there to show my love and support for Jake, yourself, and Terry.  I would like to extend myself in keeping Jake’s legacy alive whether it be helping with the library at your temple, or getting involved with any future events.  Please let me know how I can help.

 –  –  –

Just want to thank you for having such a wonderful son. He helped me through what may have been the roughest patch of my entire life, I really mean that. I miss him a lot today. A lot of Jacob and my conversations were about the metaphysical and the afterlife so somehow in a way I was prepared by god for his passing, if that makes sense. I miss him so much today. How a human being can fade away is indeed tragic, but to me he is eternal at least in the annals of time that he spent supporting me on my journey. Thank you so much for bringing him into creation.

–  –  –

I’ll never forget last spring walking down Venice Blvd. with Jake when i was unreachably out of my mind, with him by my side non-judgmentally listening to me vent about my own world. He was enthusiastically relating my whole ordeal to star wars, thus making me laugh when nothing could possibly make me smile… Jake and i talked about spirituality pretty much whenever we’d hang out, and i feel blessed to have gotten to see that side of him. He deserves to be here among the living making us happy. But i believe that he lives on in a good place…. in heaven with the light side of the force  , no doubt.

–  –  –

I remember one time M. and I were in downtown LA at a holiday party for her uncle’s business. This must’ve been several years ago. We got into some trouble and knew Jake lived downtown. I called Jake in a panic. He ran 20 blocks to rescue us in the middle of the night. Thank you Jake. Miss u, RIP

 –  –  –

 When we were maybe 14 I’d come over to jake’s house (slash your guys’s house) and jake and I would look at each other and say “……..let’s build something…..” all the time and we’d grab scraps of anything we could find lumber, computer parts in jakes room, metal, glue, anything random we could find to concoct anything for fun, it was so much fun.

–  –  –

Jake helped me through one of the hardest times in my life and I am sure I would not be the person I am today, I would not even be here today, if it were not for having such an amazing friend as Jake. I can’t even begin to explain how much I love him and miss him, but I thought you should know that every day since his passing, and today especially, he is with me in my heart, I think about him every day and I also think about his family, wishing, hoping, and praying for you. I think it’s been a long process of trying to wrap my mind around him being gone. It truly is a tragedy, but I can’t think of a single other person that this world could have been luckier to have. His life was a blessing, and I will cherish his memory forever. Today, like so many days since, I have been listening to past voicemails from Jake on repeat. And every time I hear him say the words “I love you” I get in a pit in my stomach as I ache to return those words to him once more. You must know that Jake was loved by so many, but I wanted to let you know that I exist and I carry Jake with me every day. Thank you for bringing him into this world, he changed my life for the better and I will be eternally grateful for that.

–  –  –

The very, very last thing on earth that you need worry about is that anyone who knew Jake will forget him. That would be like trying to forget the sun or the best birthday party ever. As much as I grieve for his absence, I smile and am grateful for the gift of his presence. A comet has shot into another part of the universe.

 

Posted in Daily Ramblings, Friends and Family, Friends Write, Honoring Jake, Jake Colman, Jake's Spirit, Memory | Tagged , , , , , , | 9 Comments

Hercules or Sisyphus?

Posted on May 5, 2014 by edcol52

hercules-bronzeWe all know about Hercules. He was the son of Zeus, king of the Gods, and Alcmene, a mortal woman. Zeus’ wife Hera was jealous of her and while she couldn’t really do anything about the situation, she vowed to make Herucles’ life as miserable as she could. She drove Hercules temporarily mad one day, whereupon in a fit of rage, he killed his wife and children. For atonement, Apollo sentenced him to serve Eurystheus, the King of Mycenae for twelve years. As part of this service the King ordered him to perform a series of twelve labors, tasks so difficult that they seemed impossible. Of course, with his great strength and cunning, and the aid of a couple of sympathetic gods, he accomplished the impossible, and the rest is history.

Sisyphus on the other hand was far less heroic. He was an inveterate sinner and con man, who tricked Hades, the god of the Underworld time and again. Sisyphus eventually ended up in in Hell, eternally condemned to roll a huge boulder up a hill, only to have it roll back down again. I am not sure which of these two stories more closely describes what I go through daily. There are times where I feel as if I have been ordered to perform a series of impossible undertakings, and there are days where I feel as if I have been condemned to a futile task for all eternity.

Sometimes it takes a Herculean effort just to climb out of bed in the morning. What gets me up and going is that I made a commitment to myself to say Kaddish for Jake every day for the first eleven months. So I drag myself to shul at 6:45 each morning. I sit and wait for the end of the service as the words wash over me, so I can fulfill my pledge. I do it for reasons in my previous post, both for him and for me. I brought in a photo of Jake, which sits on a shelf in the back room. I can see it through a doorway from where I usually sit. Most mornings, I can’t even bear to look at it as I recite the prayer. He looks out from the photo, clear-eyed, as alive as he ever was, and I struggle to grasp that he is truly dead.

That task completed, I usually return home and fight the urge to climb back into bed, another test of strength of will. Occasionally I win the battle and continue on with my day. Often, I lose and go back to sleep for a few hours more. Hours I don’t have to bear my burden of grief. Some days it feels as if I am carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders, something Hercules did for a spell while he labored to gather the Golden Apples of the Hesperides. He ultimately tricked Atlas into taking back the world; I wish I could find an Atlas to lug this cargo for me. But I can’t. It is my load to carry.

Other days are more straightforward. I get up, do what I have to do that day, and gratefully go to bed. My tasks are far less heroic than Hercules’ but require no less an effort. It’s if I am walking through water, I am exhausted by the end of the day. The daily minutia occupies my time; shopping, writing, my search for work, chores around the home, the mundane routine of everyday life. And for moments, here and there, it almost seems normal. For a moment. And here is where Sisyphus comes in. Just when I think I have made some progress, have rolled my boulder closer to the top of the hill, the enormity of it all comes crashing in and spasms of grief steal my strength. I lose my grasp and the boulder rolls back to the bottom. I dust myself off, lean against the giant rock and start back up the hill again.

Albert Camus uses the Myth of Sisyphus as a metaphor for the absurdity of modern sisyphusexistence. Camus imagines that ultimately Sisyphus could be happy once he acknowledges his fate and accepts that the struggle toward the heights is enough, that “crushing truths perish from being acknowledged.” That when we become conscious of our fate, we are at once bound by the tragedy of futile effort, and yet, can transcend that tragedy to find fulfillment. Lofty words. I am still struggling with the tragedy, trying to comprehend my fate. I acknowledge my crushing truth, yet it persists. The Gods punished Sisyphus for his scorn of the gods, his hatred of death and his passion for life. For what am I being punished? For what was Jake punished?

So I swing between Hercules and Sisyphus. I call on my reserves of strength to make it through the days, celebrating the small pleasures of daily life, the little victories, only to see those efforts undone as grief ambushes me unawares. Would that I could divert clear river waters, as Hercules did to clean the Augean stables, to flush out the shadows of sorrow, the melancholy bandits that have made their home in my spirit. Sadly, that sorrow will linger forever. I am learning to live with it, but I will be pushing that stone of sadness up the mountain for as long as I can foresee.

The good news is that each day is another step forward. I get the rock just a bit higher on the mountain, and perhaps it doesn’t roll quite as far down. I don’t accept that this effort is entirely futile. I will always carry heartache with me, will always mourn the loss of my son, but in time, I am told, that the sharpness of the anguish diminishes to a more manageable pain. I am already seeing that the spasms, while no less painful, are farther apart and shorter in duration. I am learning to manage my chronic sorrow. I have a long way to go; I shall need all of Hercules’ strength, cleverness, and courage before I complete my labors.

 

Posted in Coping, Daily Ramblings, Grief, Healing, Honoring Jake, Jake Colman, Sadness | Tagged , , , , , | 1 Comment

What’s in a Number?

Posted on April 28, 2014 by edcol52

28Today is the 28th of April. Not a particularly significant date other than it marks four months since our beautiful boy died. Why should this day mean more than any of the previous 121 days since that dreadful 28th? Why do we place such import on specific dates? When it is a holiday or a noteworthy milestone in our lives, we tend to want to commemorate it, or in the case of a happy event, a birthday or an anniversary, we celebrate it joyously, (usually). If we memorialize a sad occurrence, a death or similar tragedy, we acknowledge it with somber decorum, perhaps a tasteful ceremony. We assign arbitrary segments of time, weeks, months, years, as meaningful intervals, and denote a particular day as one to be recognized. In my case, as time passes, it has started to even out. Each day since Jake died is just one more day, neither more nor less auspicious than the one before. There are days where the sadness is a little farther away, days that I am more melancholy, and days where overpowering sorrow suddenly ambushes me, but that is random and unpredictable, often sparked by an event, a recollection, a photograph, a remark, or just a fleeting thought. And yet, I can tell you how many days, weeks, and months it’s been since Jake slipped away that bright December morning.

Right now we are in the time of year called Counting of The Omer. An omer is a measure omerof barley that our ancestors brought in ancient times as an offering on the second day of Passover. Observant Jews count each day for the seven weeks between Passover and Shavuot, the holiday that celebrates the giving of the Torah on Mount Sinai. We are told that during that time, the Jewish nation, freshly escaped from Egypt, used the time to purify themselves and prepare for something momentous. They didn’t know what was coming, but they counted each day with mounting excitement. Similarly, today, these forty-nine days can be a time for personal reflection, and a reminder that our days are numbered and we should make each one count. Each day has a specific aspect of character that we contemplate, evaluate and if necessary strive to improve or correct. I am also counting the days, but there is a vast difference between my counting and the Counting of the Omer.

The counting of the omer is counting the days “until”. When we have something we are excited about, look forward to with eager anticipation, we count the days “until”. Like the countdown of a rocket launch, there is an end to such a counting. Eventually, the day arrives for the trip to Hawaii, the visit from a beloved friend, graduation day, blast-off, and the counting stops. Everyone who counts the days “until” is waiting for something. I am counting the days “since”. There is no end to this counting. I have nothing to wait for. Days pile up in endless rows, week by week one after another. They will continue to accumulate inexorably, month by month, year by year. I count the days, but I have nothing to look forward to. Like a convict in his cell, I scratch marks on the wall, keeping track of the passage of time. But unlike a convict, mine is a life sentence without the possibility of parole.

This past year I have been working on a photo essay on waiting. It started in a  doctor’s waiting room, (waiting for Jake, of course), cedarswait8and blossomed into more of a philosophical exploration of waiting, the aesthetic of the spaces we have constructed specifically for the purpose of waiting, and the differing psychology of waiting for, say, a root canal as opposed to new tires or a trip to Disneyland. I have photographed doctor’s waiting rooms, waiting areas at restaurants, banks, hospitals, auto mechanics, department stores, car washes, train stations, bus stops, barber shops, hotel lobbies, health spas; once you start to look for them, waiting spaces are everywhere. Each one has a distinct character, some are grim, some nondescript, some positively luxurious, but all have a commonality. They are places we go to wait for something else to happen. There is an anticipation, an undercurrent of tension in these places. As I wrote recently, I have a palpable sensation of waiting, that undercurrent of tension, but I don’t know what I wait for.

One of the plays that most impacted me when I was younger was Waiting for Godot. I have read it dozens of times. At various stages in my life I felt as if I was waiting for Godot; never as much as I do now. However, I don’t even have the false promise of his arrival, or the hope that he will come this evening. As the play ends, the character’s final lines are:

Vladimir: Well? Shall we go?

Estragon: Yes, let’s go

They do not move.

I feel like this so many days. “Yes, let’s go”, and yet I do not move. I am stuck for now in the present, trying desperately not to relive the past, unable to see a future. I think there will come a time, when that may be, I do not know, I will move forward; I am already taking tiny steps. There are setbacks, days where the unseen force of grief slams me backward. There are days where it is all I can do to stay afloat. And, there are days where I catch sight of something else. It is a shadowy, ephemeral glimpse through the fog. I can’t quite make it out. Perhaps I am counting the days until the fog lifts enough for me to see what that is, and where I am going. Until then, I shall continue counting, marking the days, weeks, months and soon enough, the years that have passed. What those years will bring, only time will tell.

© 2014 Ed Colman

Posted in Ceremony, Coping, Daily Ramblings, Grief, Healing, Jake Colman, Progress, Sadness | Tagged , , , , | 14 Comments

Lessons of Holiness

Posted on April 25, 2014 by edcol52

Here is an article appearing on the Jewish Press website sent to me today. It speaks of the challenge of bereavement, finding our way forward and keeping our loved ones alive in our hearts.

The Lessons of Holiness Even in Death

Every week throughout the year we read a portion of the Torah, the Five Books of Moses, on Saturday, and each of those portions has a name. He discusses briefly the significance of the names of the most recent two portions and how they might relate to what we experience when a loved one dies.

In this article, the author likens the pain of grief after loss to coming into a darkened room full of furniture. Initially, we stumble and bump into the obstacles in the unfamiliar place, but as time goes on, even though the room remains dark, we learn where the couches, tables, chairs and bookcases are. We may never be able to illuminate the room again, and yet we more easily find our way without colliding with the furnishings. The key point is we have to learn to feel the darkness and how to navigate this strange new unlit world. I think it is a process that may take a lifetime of learning.  The catch for me is, that someone keeps rearranging the furniture. I am still tripping over the darn coffee table.

As time slips by, our loved ones drift farther and farther away. We struggle to keep their remembrances fresh, but “The challenge of death is to keep the person who has died alive in spirit.” We each do this in our own way, by writing, myriad forms of artistic expression, creating memorials, planting gardens, talking, sharing stories; this is a very personal process. But it is essential to preserve that vital connection; really, that is all we now have of our lost loved ones, our memories. By keeping those memories vivid and fresh, we insure the people we miss so desperately will live on in the love they shared with us, the effect they had on those of us that remain, and the deep love we have for them. That is something that will never die.

 

 

Posted in Ceremony, Coping, Grief, Healing, Jake Colman, Jake's Spirit, Memory, Other Media, Print Article | Tagged , , , , , | 6 Comments

Welcome and Thank You.

Posted on April 24, 2014 by edcol52

Just a quick note to welcome all the new visitors and followers to the Fountain today. Thank you for your generosity in taking the time to stop by, ‘like’ a post or leave a comment. I can’t thank each of you individually, but know your presence here means a lot to me.

I also want to thank Michelle of WordPress for “Pressing” my latest post and making it available to a wider audience. I sincerely hope that my musings touch some of you, and let others who might be on the same road know that you are not alone. One of my goals in creating this blog is to reach as many people as I can, and you all have helped.

Now back to our regularly scheduled program.

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A New Stage

Posted on April 21, 2014 by edcol52

I have encountered a new stage of grief. There have been volumes written on these stages, or more accurately phases. We don’t go through them step by step, but rather by turns, and I mean twists and turns, looping back on them, sometimes all at once, but not in any orderly fashion. These past few days I have been steeped in what I call the “disbelief” or the WTF stage. It is not Denial; that he is dead is an undeniable truth. There is no denying that I watched them lower Jake’s body into the ground, and that I was the first one to throw shovelfuls of dirt onto the plain pine coffin. It isn’t Anger, although I hold anger at bay daily, nor is it Bargaining; I have nothing to bargain with, the bazaar is closed. Not Depression, even though depression visits me often. Acceptance? What choice do I have but to accept this? This is a done deal, right? He ain’t coming back. It isn’t any of these; it is bewilderment that he is truly gone.

I look around my home, at the many photographs of Jake throughout his life, all the works of art he created that adorn our walls; I sit in what was once his bedroom surrounded by much of his ‘stuff’. His bookshelves with high school chemistry textbooks, binders full of notes, his eclectic collection of books: Kurt Vonnegut, Ray Bradbury, The Chronicles of Narnia, George Carlin, Mario Testino, Richard Avedon, Nutrition for Foodservice and Culinary Professionals, Robert Heinlein, Harry Potter, Shel Silverstein, Bram Stoker, Herman Melville, Nicola Tesla; the list goes on and on. I see the car models he delighted in building, clothes, old cameras, a ship model that his grandfather built; artifacts of a life now over. I look at the remote control submarine he used to play with when we stayed at hotels with swimming pools, and remember how that little plastic submarine netted us a visit to Disneyland as guests of Club 33, complete with lavish buffet and cocktails overlooking New Orleans Square. Jake had the gift of making such things happen. I look at the photo of Jake as the young chef, posed for his 6th grade yearbook, clad in his chef whites, happily flambéing strawberries at our stove. I see the pictures; remember all the moments of a person so full of life. He took so much delight in so many things, had so many gifts, unlimited promise; he could have been anything he set his mind to, and I wonder, how is it that he is gone? How can this be? It just isn’t possible. But sadly, in this universe I now inhabit, anything is possible.

Today, we did some gardening around the house. As I wheeled the green yard-clipping bin down to the curb for collection tomorrow, trash day, I rolled it over the section of sidewalk at the foot of our driveway that the city poured many years ago to replace an area cracked by a careless contractor. We saw the three sets of initials scribed into the concrete, EC, TS, and JC. Indelible evidence that he existed. Because what is happening, is that as the weeks drag on, 16 now, nearly four months, and this new life overwrites the one shattered by that two-minute phone call last December, the other bygone life seems so far away like the shadow of a dream vaguely remembered. But that life, the one that included Jake is (or was) the real one; the one that I hold fast to. This life I now live is the dream; a horrible nightmare that we will never wake from. It is a world where at any instant, pictures of that bygone lifetime rush at me, so vivid and real, it takes my breath away. I told Terry that yes, indeed Jake was real. He lived. We lived. He was our treasure, our all. He was such a huge part of our life; it is impossible to imagine life without him, and yet, we are stuck with it.

I have read, as time goes on, I will adapt to a “new normal”. That is bullshit. There is no such thing. This is in no way a normal life. This new life is so far from normal, that I can’t even remember what normal looks like. Sleepwalking through the days, wondering what comes next. We may learn to better navigate this surreal geography, find new ways to get to the end of each day, but I will never understand why this is so, why this happened to him, to us. To all of us. There are so many people who love him and miss him; as long as we all remember Jake, hold fast to the picture of him each of us carries, he will never fade. He lives in our hearts, in our memories, in the indelible imprint he left on this world. Why he is not still around is something that will always bewilder me; I may never get past this unknowable mystery. As far as I can see, I will be in the WTF stage for as long as I live.

Posted in Coping, Daily Ramblings, Grief, Jake Colman, Jake's Spirit, Memory, Sadness | Tagged , , , , | 59 Comments

Passover

Posted on April 16, 2014 by edcol52

The observance of Passover is one of the very first commandments given in the Torah to what will become the Jewish nation. It is a precursor to the creation of The Children of Israel, the bringing together of a subjugated and enslaved minority and making a free people of them. Every year, Jews all over the world, no matter what their level of observance, Orthodox, Conservative, Reform, or ‘other’, gather for the Seder, and a festive meal. We read the prayers, psalms, commentary by rabbis of a bygone age, and tell the story of the subjugation of the Jews by the Egyptians, the birth of Moses and his splitseabrother Aaron, their demand to the Pharaoh to “let my people go”, the plagues that God wreaks upon the Egyptians, Pharaoh’s final acquiescence and release of the people, the miracle of the splitting of the Red Sea, the final, utter destruction of the Egyptian army, and the ultimate liberation of the Jews. Epic stuff. (Note to self: might be a good idea for a movie.)

Seder means ‘order’ and there is a script for the ceremony contained in a book called the Haggadah. We go through a specific sequence of prayers and commentary, the eating of tablespecial foods (filled with mystical symbolism), sing songs, and give thanks for our deliverance. The entire purpose of the Seder, which throws the normal sequence of a holiday meal out of whack, is to pique the curiosity of the children and move them to ask, “What makes this night different from all other nights?” The reply details the story of slavery, redemption and freedom. We are commanded to relate the story to our children throughout all future generations, to insure that we never forget that once we were slaves, and now free people. The ultimate reason for the emancipation of the Jews and their Exodus from Egypt was to bring the Children of Israel to Mount Sinai in order to bestow upon them the Ten Commandments and the entire book of law, The Torah. In effect to create the Jewish People.

Many people think the purpose of Passover is to celebrate freedom. More specifically, it is the celebration of the transition from slavery to freedom, an important distinction. The Hebrew word for Egypt is Mitzrayim. It translates literally a ‘narrow place’. Each of us has our own personal Mitzrayim, our restrictions, our limitations, the things that hold us back and keep us from achieving our full potential. Passover gives us a chance to look at these aspects of our lives in the light of the bigger story, and whenever possible strive to transcend these limitations, to look for ways to redeem ourselves from whatever enslaves us. It is a time for deep personal reflection. This year I have much to reflect upon.

It is also the holiday most associated with family, tradition and continuity in the entire Jewish calendar, and as such is fraught with peril for us this year. This is the first year since Jake was born that we haven’t had a Seder. I touched on this in my last post as to why that is. He was such an integral part of every Seder. We had so many wonderful times throughout the years with family and friends, large gatherings and small; every year we went through the entire ceremony. One year we had character finger puppets and acted out the story. One year we found the idea for an interactive presentation of the ten plagues. This became Jake’s part to play. He presented each plague with enthusiasm and mystery, complete with water turning into blood, sick cows, pipe cleaner lice, rubber frogs and locusts, darkness and the skeletons of the first-born. No Seder was complete without him. When we got married, Terry’s cousin gave us a beautiful illustrated Haggadah for a wedding present. It has a special section titled “Thou shall narrate it to your son”. It tells the story concurrently with the main account in simpler terms, with more continuity, which we read to Jake and whatever childhood friends were present when he was younger. Now, there is no one to read it to; this year the Haggadah stayed on the shelf.

The centerpiece of the table is the Seder Plate with its array of symbolic foods, salt water, matzah, and wine. sederplateThere is a very good explanation of the significance of these foods and their relation to the story here. This year, the Seder plate had another set of symbolisms for me, some obvious, some not. The Shank Bone symbolized Jake’s culinary interest and all the times we cooked together. I remember when he was studying at the Cordon Bleu telling us a story of having to butcher a whole side of lamb, and cooking up “a grip” of lamb and eating it for days. The egg represented all the breakfasts, all the meals we had as a family, especially the last ones we shared in Palm Springs. The salt water is for the ocean of tears I have shed for him. Will continue to shed. The parsley is for his love of life and the delight he took in the physical world. The charoset, a mixture of ground fruit and nuts is the mortar that binds his spirit to me; the maror, the bitter herb is the bitterness of my sorrow at losing my precious son. We make a sandwich of the sweet charoset, the bitter horseradish and matzah, which we eat just before partaking of the meal. For me, this ‘Hillel Sandwich” is the combination of the sharpness of anguish mixed with the sweetness of recollection seasoned with the salt tears of sorrow, as all memories of Jake have now become.

During the synagogue service for Passover there is a moment where the Kohanim deliver the Priestly Blessing. At various times throughout the year, the Kohanim, the descendants of Aaron the first High Priest, are enjoined to bless the people. Not that they have a special ability to confer blessings, the Kohen is merely the conduit for the greater blessing from above. As a Kohen, something passed from father to son by birth, it is my responsibility to stand before the people and pronounce the threefold blessing:

The Lord bless you and protect you.
The Lord shine his countenance upon you and be gracious to you.
The Lord turn his countenance toward you and grant you peace.

It doesn’t take long, only a minute or two. On Friday night, all fathers bless their children with the same blessings. These are the blessings I gave to Jake every time we parted company. I placed my hand on his head and recited the words. I prayed that God grant him peace. Especially peace. Every time. I am not able to say these words now without pangs of sorrow, my voice catching, my eyes filling with tears. I stood beneath my tallit yesterday and today, and somehow managed to finish without completely breaking down. Perhaps Jake was there with me, standing beside me, helping me get through. But I think, what good did it do? All the blessing and praying. Did God protect Jake? Was He gracious to him? Did He grant him peace? Maybe now he is at peace, delivered from whatever trials and turmoil that troubled him. It is not the peace I prayed for, not the peace I envisioned for him, but perhaps peace nonetheless.

journeyBy contrast, I am far from at peace. I still have my Mitzrayim of sorrow and longing that hems me in. Where is my Moses to lead me to freedom? Where is the miracle I need to split my Sea of Reeds? How much longer must I toil in the brickyard of this Pharaoh of unrelenting sadness? I still have so far to travel, the passage long and exhausting, but if this ancient story of slavery and redemption is any indication, there might just be the possibility of something worth striving for at journey’s end, however long it takes.

Posted in Ceremony, Daily Ramblings, Food, Friends and Family, Grief, Honoring Jake, Jake Colman, Jake's Spirit, Memory, Sadness | Tagged , , , , , | 4 Comments

What Suffering Does

Posted on April 12, 2014 by edcol52

Here is an article from the New York Times on Suffering.

What Suffering Does

It poses some interesting questions and makes some cogent observations. He is correct when he says that you crash through the floor of your personality, into deeper and deeper zones of the unknown. What we do with this varies according to the individual. There is potential for rediscovery here, but it takes an agonizing amount of work and persistence. There are degrees of suffering and the causes are myriad. There are some commonalities and many differences. All in all, a worthwhile read.

Posted in Grief, Other Media, Print Article, Sadness, Tragedy | Tagged , | 2 Comments

Fifteen

Posted on April 11, 2014 by edcol52

It has been a confused week since my last post. So many things to write about and yet so little change overall. I have been missing Jake hugely for the past several days; the intensity seems to be building. My thoughts have been random and disjointed so I have to warn you in advance, this post could be rambling and disjointed; so many events jostle in my brain for recognition and recapitulation.

This past weekend we celebrated our 27th wedding anniversary. I am not sure celebrated is the correct word, we are not much in a celebratory mood these days, but we did commemorate it. On Saturday night, the actual date of our wedding, we went to a very nice Italian restaurant in Santa Monica. We ate there last June to celebrate Terry’s birthday with my Mom and Jake. That was a celebration. Eating out is a favorite family activity that goes back generations. My Mom’s mother, my Nana, would have loved this place. The food is exquisite, the ambiance is casually elegant, the service is attentive but not overbearing, in sum, it is one of those places I wish I could eat at once a week. When we were there in June, I cracked a tooth on an olive pit hidden in a slice of olive bread. The restaurant responded admirably, and in addition to referring me to their insurance company for settlement, they also sent a generous gift certificate. Several months and a few dental appointments later, I have a shiny new bionic tooth. The final fitting of the crown was a week ago, last Thursday, and we thought it appropriate to use the occasion of our anniversary to take advantage of their gift. We brought a special bottle of wine, a present from a winemaker we visited in Italy on our trip through Italy back in 2006. Jake was with us on that trip. We went to join him, as he was attending a month-long cooking school in Bologna. We met up with him in Venice, and again in Bologna, and after he completed his program, took a three-week family road trip through Tuscany, Sorrento, Basilicata, and Puglia. What a trip; what wonderful memories. (The story of that journey is a book in itself, currently awaiting publication.)

We had, what would be under different circumstances, a spectacular meal. Shaved artichoke and grilled romaine salads, sweet corn ravioli and fresh spaghetti nero with seafood for the primi, and for our secondi, a beautiful New York steak and a grilled veal chop. Definitely a Jake approved meal. Midway through the meat course we both looked over at the chair in which Jake would have been sitting, if he had been with us, and had such an overwhelming sense of his presence, we started to cry. Silent tears dripped down our faces as servers, patrons, and the sounds of other diner’s conversations swirled around us. Such a gigantic piece of the celebration, and all future celebrations, now missing forever.

Terry and I were together for seven years before we married. Wanting to have children was a big part of that decision. When Jake was born, it was if he had always been with us, as if we had always been together, throughout past lives. He was truly an old soul; you could see it in his face and his demeanor. Now that soul has gone on, to wherever souls go, awaiting yet another reunion. I always said Jake was the best thing I ever did. How will anything else I might accomplish even come close?

On Monday, we went to a nearby resort for the night. Terry’s cousin generously gave us a gift certificate, and we took full advantage. At the desk, the nice young woman upgraded our room to a fabulous oceanfront bungalow suite complete with living room with fireplace, kitchen, Terry’s own bathroom, (a dream come true) and an unobstructed view of the Pacific and Catalina Island from the terrace (with its own fireplace). The management delivered a bottle of chilled champagne with a nice note congratulating us on our Anniversary. We spent a tranquil two days lounging poolside, strolling the grounds, enjoying happy hour overlooking the ocean, saw the biggest pod of dolphins I have ever seen swimming past the point, easily 200 animals that left a dark streak of ruffled water for hundreds of yards behind them, and on the last day, in the late afternoon, a mother grey whale and her calf, not 50 yards offshore. Nice, right? Well, as always, what should have been an unbridled celebration wrapped itself around a core of sadness and longing. As always.

Jake had never been to this place with us, but the accommodations evoked a family trip we took to Hawaii years ago. We stayed at the Turtle Bay resort on the north shore of Oahu, in an oceanside cabana room. It was a wonderful trip, a wonderful time. Swimming in the ocean, playing golf, lounging on the lanai, enjoying each other’s company without a care in the world. Those times are long gone; replaced by a time filled with cares, and a family that will never be whole. Everything we do is infused with these memories. Even in the midst of what should be a joyous moment, the sadness crashes the party and my eyes overflow; my heart aches for the times that will never be.

We are getting ready for Passover, which starts Monday night. Passover is the commemoration of the Exodus from Egypt, the liberation and creation of the Jewish nation. It is a time for celebration and reflection. Each of us has our own “Egypt” our limitations and restrictions. This is a time of year to break those bonds and free ourselves, a time to move beyond our narrow boundaries and find our own freedom. Sadly, I am still a prisoner of my grief. Bound by memory and sadness. It is more difficult for me to find release from this sorrow than for Moses to split the Red Sea. We are not having a Seder this year; it is too difficult to sit at a joyous table bearing this burden of anguish. I don’t want to be a party pooper. Jake is such a huge part of this holiday. One of the commandments is “… Thou shall relate it to your son …”. We are enjoined to pass this story on to our children, to explain the meaning of Passover with all its symbols, rituals, and deeper meaning of personal growth and transformation. To educate the next generation who will then pass it on to their children and on into the future. For thousands of years, fathers have related the story to their families. To whom will I tell it now?

Tonight is Shabbat, the 15th without Jake. Terry will light candles, we will bless the wine and bread. We will call his name, half expecting him to appear at the door, but knowing he never will again fills me with a sadness that will not cease, and questions that will not ever be answered.

Posted in Ceremony, Daily Ramblings, Food, Golf, Grief, Honoring Jake, Jake Colman, Memory, Sadness | 7 Comments

One of Those Days

Posted on April 2, 2014 by edcol52

I haven’t had any really happy days since December 28. I have had somewhat pleasant days, neutral days, numb days, indifferent days, and sad days. For some reason, today is one of the sad ones. I can’t quite place my finger on why, exactly, I should be particularly melancholy today. It isn’t an anniversary of anything, not a Friday night, or a Saturday. Not the 28th of the month. As time slides by, and the layers of my shock and disbelief wear away, I expose kernels of sorrow previously shielded by the routine of everyday life. The realization starts to sink in that he is truly gone and gone. I will never get him back.

We stopped in Palm Springs yesterday afternoon on our way home from Phoenix. We visited with a couple of people that knew Jake, had spent the past several months with him. We talked a bit about those months, how he was, what he was doing right and maybe not so right. How good a soul he was, how kind and caring. How he could make someone laugh, even when she wasn’t necessarily disposed to. How he was progressing, how sad that he was gone, wouldn’t be able to make anyone laugh again. One of his friends said he just popped into her head from time to time to visit. They said they thought of him and us often; that they missed him too. Maybe being in the place he last lived, looking at the mountains that loomed over the golf courses we played on, eating at one of his favorite restaurants, reliving some of those “last times, first times”, activated a time delay sorrow bomb that went off when I woke up this morning.

Perhaps spending the week with my cousin and her family lit the fuse. She babysat for Jake when he was young; both she and her mom loved him. They called him Jakey-Jake. I got to spend time with her son, a fine young man attending ASU, her daughter, still in high school, and her mom, my Mother’s cousin, who has known her (and me, and Jake) from birth. We hung out, went shopping together, laughed and joked. Things I used to do with my son. We had a genuinely good time. Family meals, sharing recipes, teaching E. how to bone a turkey breast. But as always, those good times are tempered by the underlying, unspoken sadness. We didn’t talk about our Jake too much over the weekend, there was no need; his presence is everywhere.

Maybe it was being with Jake’s cousin Jake at Shabbat dinner. I managed to get through the blessings intact this week, another small victory, but I am not sure it is permanent progress. One step up, two steps back sometimes. We took Jake out to lunch a couple of days later and had a very lovely time. We ate pretty good pizza and talked about getting together when Jake is next in Los Angeles. He is another fine young man it is my privilege to spend time with. As much as I truly enjoy being with these “surrogate sons” I have inherited, as much as we enjoy each other’s company, are forging closer bonds each time we meet, I still pine for my own son.

It could have been three innocent words in an email I got a couple of days ago from a long time friend I contacted; she hadn’t heard the news. Those words, “How’s your boy”, brought the familiar heat to my eyes. I had to let her know. I got an email back with her remembrance of Jake at my Dad’s funeral three years ago. “Jake was so nice to me at Joel’s funeral, a true gentleman.” Yes, truly a gentle man. That’s my boy.

Possibly, it was coming home to the daily routine, the realization that this is now my life; always wishing for, always longing for Jake’s return. A return that will never happen. Missing him so fiercely every day is exhausting. I am so tired of this, but I don’t see any respite ahead. I wish I could just stop, but that terrible hollow feeling inside will never go away. It only increases with time. I have a palpable sense of waiting now, more so than usual. Waiting for what, I don’t know. Waiting for some kind of change, some relief from this emptiness I feel. Something to infuse new meaning and relevance. Waiting for a miracle. Waiting for Godot. I know that change must come from within, but right now, I am having a hard time effecting that change. My resources are at an all-time low. I am still grappling with the infinite implications of Jake’s passing, repercussions that will resonate far into the future, and in fact for the rest of my life.

As I left shul this morning, our rabbi wished me “only good things”. Maybe that was the last straw, the final nudge that sent me into the spiral of sadness that was my day today. I had the very best, and now it is gone. What “good thing” can replace Jake? The truth is that it was all of it. My outlook hangs in such a delicate balance; it doesn’t take very much to tip it over into the depth of despondency. Any one of those things could have tripped the switch, but combined, I didn’t stand a chance. I’ll chalk up today as “just one of those days”, and see if tomorrow will bring something different.

© 2014 Ed Colman

Posted in Coping, Daily Ramblings, Friends and Family, Grief, Jake Colman, Memory, Sadness | Tagged , , , | 15 Comments