Kaddish

Posted on January 28, 2014 by edcol52

Lukq449962Today I went to shul to say Kaddish for Jake on the one month anniversary of his death. The Mourner’s Kaddish is one of the most famous prayers in all of Judaism. What is unusual for a prayer said in mourning, is that there is no mention of death, grief, loss, or even the name of the person for whom it is being recited. It only speaks of G-d’s greatness. It begins, “Magnified and sanctified be G-d’s great name in the world which He created according to His will.” It is recited to give an elevation to the soul, the Neshama, of the one who has gone on. Here is an explanation of how deeds done in this physical plane can benefit those in the spiritual plane.

“Jewish tradition teaches that following death the soul ascends and is judged according to its deeds while alive in the physical realm. Everything accomplished by the soul, both positive and negative, is carefully considered. One of the greatest legacies one can leave behind is a family that has been inspired to serve G-d, even during times of distress.

When in the midst of this judgment the hallowed words of Kaddish ascend, uttered by those who grieve most intensely, this serves as a great merit for the soul. Obviously, a person who inspired those around him to such an awesome level of faith and commitment has fulfilled many great deeds and is prepared for the manifested light of the Creator experienced in Heaven.” – from Chabad.org

Okay all well and good. But what if you don’t possess this ‘awesome level of faith”, what if you are only going through the motions because that is just what we do at times like this? Is it still meritorious for the departed? What if your faith, such as it is, is being challenged, disrupted, tested, as never before? How can this tragedy be for the best? How can G-d need Jake more than we do?

I have questioned, on and off over the years, the existence of an “Omniscient God”, who knows everything, has pre-ordained the course of history, does everything with a purpose, and “always for the best”. Did this God know when Jake was born, that he would be wrenched away from us after such a short time. A Merciful God? Seriously? I can’t thing of a more merciless act. But all along, this nagging little voice in the back of my mind keeps saying, “Yeah, but what if …” So I say Kaddish. For Jake. And for me. At a time when I feel so totally helpless, it is something I can do. Like making tea for a cancer patient. It may be insignificant, but it gives me something to do. Whether it makes any difference doesn’t really matter. I guess I am just hedging my bets. It won’t do him any harm, and it might do him a universe of good.

Throughout all the prayers, tehilim, blessings, tzedakah, entreaties, we have offered these past years, we have only asked for one thing. That our son be protected. For whatever reason, or for no reason at all, that protection failed. Or never existed. Here’s where that test comes in. I don’t know where it will go for me. Right now, I am not too sure of anything. But I still say Kaddish every day. Will do so for the next 11 months.

Today, while saying it, tears welled up in my eyes, I could barely finish. I was wearing Jake’s tallit and his tefillin. I felt his spirit close to me, enwrapping me, and I grieved that all I will have from now on is his spirit, and the memories I cherish. Never again to hold my Jakey Jake in my arms. Never again to place my hands on his head and bless him with the Threefold Blessings of the Kohanim. Never again to kiss him as we did everytime we parted. I didn’t get to kiss him this last time. Now we are parted forever.

I learned the Kaddish when my father died 5 years ago. I never imagined I would be saying it for my son.

Yit’gadal v’yit’kadash, sh’mayh rabah.

Posted in Ceremony, Coping, Daily Ramblings, Honoring Jake, Jake Colman, Jake's Spirit, Memory, Observations, Tragedy | Tagged , , , , , | 11 Comments

Relativity

Posted on January 27, 2014 by edcol52

Tomorrow, it will be one month since that dreadful telephone call. The details of which are seared into my memory for all time. It is all so fresh, I can’t believe the time has passed. But time is always relative. As Einstein said,

einstein“Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute and it will seem like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour and it will seem like a minute. That’s Relativity”

Yep. Each day seems like a year while it is passing, (the hot stove) but when I add them up, it is only a moment ago that I was playing golf with him, (the pretty girl) watching the sun set over San Jacinto mountain. Sadly, this month hasn’t really brought any new insights. No ‘resolution’, no ‘healing’, just the daily ambushes of grief. Oh, there have been moments of what you might call ‘happiness’, laughs, experiences of beauty, moments of calm here and there, a remembrance of something Jake did or said that elicit a pleasant memory, but everything is wrapped in Saudade now. Those wonderful memories also spark that melancholy that lies within.

Tomorrow will be difficult. Wednesday even more so, it marks the end of the “shloshim“, the 30 days of Jewish mourning. We will go to the cemetery to say Kaddish again, bid another farewell to our son, and do our best to get on with it. There may be a small gathering at the shul afterward, a chance for friends and family who miss him too to share a moment with us, maybe not. I don’t know if we are up to it. But others grieve too. For their loss of Jake. People who knew him well, people who only met him a couple of times, people who knew him from early childhood, people who knew him from birth, people who befriended him in later years, all people who loved him. Everyone feels the loss, their lives just a little bit lessened by his departure. And that may have been his greatest gift. The ability to connect with people. To make a friend in an instant. To be a loyal and caring friend no matter how long or how well he knew you. To become a little (or big) part of you, and to take a part of you into his heart. He was every man’s son. He was every mother’s son. He was welcome everywhere he went. I am sure he is welcome wherever he is now.

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These Days

Posted on January 26, 2014 by edcol52

At times, these days, I’m certain that I hear
Or think I hear your tread upon the floor
But when I glance from ‘neath my silent tear
‘Tis but a breath of air, and nothing more.
Do I now sense you there as morning sun
Breaks brightly in the top of leafy tree
Could you be in the birds on wing, my son?
Or by the shores of Autumn’s restless sea?
These mysteries too deep for me to know
There’s naught to do but live each day by day
From Summer’s calm to Winter winds that blow;
The wind that blew my darling boy away.
Dear Jake, I look for you both near and far
From here on earth, to heaven’s brightest star.

galaxy

Posted in Coping, Daily Ramblings, Grief, Honoring Jake, Memory, Poetry, Tragedy | Tagged , , , , , , | 5 Comments

The Art of Presence – New York Times Article

Posted on January 26, 2014 by edcol52

Here is a link to a great article about helping people who grieve. As I wrote earlier, just being there is often enough, but when it isn’t, here are some guidelines for action.

There is an interesting point made about builders and firefighters.

The Woodiwisses distinguish between firefighters and builders. Firefighters drop everything and arrive at the moment of crisis. Builders are there for years and years, walking alongside as the victims live out in the world. Very few people are capable of performing both roles.

We have people who have been each one, and both together, and for that we are deeply grateful. We continue to cherish our friends and families, no matter what.

Here’s the link:

http://www.nytimes.com/2014/01/21/opinion/brooks-the-art-of-presence.html?_r=2

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Shabbat #4

Posted on January 25, 2014 by edcol52

shabbat-candlesYesterday was mostly uneventful. Which, right now, is a good thing. We had our ‘California Breakfast’ of grapefruit and oranges from the tree, yogurt and bananas and strong black coffee, on the patio. Our friends, the birds, flitted about and cackled in the branches overhead under a high overcast sky, the colors of the garden muted in the flat grey light. The sun, not much more than a bright spot in the mottled clouds overhead. We went out in the afternoon for olive oil tasting at a local producer, and met a lovely woman who guided us through the various varieties and blends they make. We looked at the machinery that washes, crushes and separates the oil, and tasted several varieties from their orchard.

We took a picnic lunch up to Meditation Mount, a peaceful retreat we visited the day before. We ate our turkey sandwiches and salad on a large patio with a splendid view of the Topa Topa Mountains. We walked through the “International Garden of Peace”, down a path along a ridge with the grey-green chaparral sloping away on both sides. The garden is lovely with plantings, ponds, benches where one can sit and meditate, and ends at a little knoll overlooking the Ojai valley to the west. There is a bench in the shade of a tree, where we sat and watched the world under the grey blanket of clouds. The purple haze of distance softened the mountains and the orchards spread out below us. It was quiet, the only sounds were the wind in the leaves, the scratching of the Towhees in the underbrush and the sharp tsip, tsip of the warblers and hummingbirds. But even in these peaceful moments, there is always a sorrowful unspoken undertone.

Back home, we made preparations for Shabbat. It is something we do wherever we are. We have lit candles and made the blessings in condos in Hawaii, in a cave in Italy, in a casita in Mexico, in a cabin in the woods, and in hotel rooms all over the country. It is something that brought our family together, and made wherever in the world we were, home. Last night, it was all going fairly well, somber, but peaceful. Terry lit the candles; I covered the two small rolls we bought in the local bakery. I poured out the wine, so far so good. But as soon as I picked up the cup to begin the Kiddush, it struck.

Jake loved Friday night dinners as did we. One of his friends told us that Jake told him he loved being Jewish, loved Shabbat, the Holidays, going to shul. While he was growing up, Shabbat was a chance for us to gather as a family, to review our day, our week. Time to wind down. Last night, as tears dripped into the wine, I couldn’t bring myself to sing. I don’t much feel like singing these days. I managed to croak out the blessings in a hoarse whisper, what should be the joy of Shabbat shattered forever.

It has been four weeks. Four joyless Shabbats. What used to be a day we looked forward to, the end of the workweek, a chance to rest and recharge, I now dread. It will be a constant reminder of what happened. I realized that from now onwards, for the rest of my life, every Shabbat will always be tinged with bitter memory. For. The. Rest. Of. My. Life. How’s that for a life sentence with no possibility of parole?

I know we are supposed to take it “one day at a time”, but I am already looking toward other holidays we shared with our son. Right now, the prospect is just too painful to contemplate. How on earth will I be able to celebrate Passover, one of his, and our, favorites? “And thou shall tell it to your son” goes the commandment. I no longer have a son to tell the story to. I expect that in time we will be able to face these holidays we loved so much without our beloved son to share them with us. We had so many wonderful times we did share. I can only hope that one day, those memories will be able to sustain us as we move forward. For now, I mark the time week-by-week, Shabbat-by-Shabbat. Next week 5, then 10 then 50 then 1,000. But it will never be the same.

Shabbat Shalom.

Posted in Ceremony, Coping, Daily Ramblings, Friends and Family, Grief, Jake's Spirit, Memory, Observations, Tragedy | Tagged , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Duck Billed Platitudes

Posted on January 24, 2014 by edcol52

There is a reason that during the traditional shiva, the 7 days of mourning following the funeral of a loved one, visitors to the shiva house are not supposed to speak to the mourners. There is absolutely nothing anyone can say to someone who has lost a child that will provide one iota of solace or consolation. All words ring hollow in the face of such overwhelming tragedy. Even after the passage of time, weeks, months or years, those words ring just as hollow. We are closing in on 4 weeks since we learned of our darling Jake’s passing. Dear friends and family members try to console us with such words a “It is time for healing”, “Little by little it will get better”, “God works in mysterious ways, we can’t always know the reason”, and other such platitudes. They are trying to put a Band-aid on a severed limb. They grope for the words to help, but unknowingly, because there is no road map for them through this morass either, there are no words. No deeds. “Can I do anything” people ask all the time. There is only one thing we now want in the entire universe and no one, not even God, can do that for us now.

I don’t mean to offend anyone or hurt anyone here. That is the furthest from my intention. I am just giving you one man’s perspective on this. Everyone grieves differently, that I know. Our friends and family are grieving too, that I know as well. People want to do something in a situation where absolutely nothing can be done. Want to say something where there are no words to say. We are all so helpless.

Let’s do a little experiment here. Suppose, someone told you that from now on, for every day for the rest of your life, you would be sad. But not just bummed because they didn’t have your size in the new shoes you wanted. Gut wrenchingly, heart breakingly grief stricken. That even years from now, when you are experiencing whatever joy and happiness you have been able to wring from your life, something, a thought, a word, a song, a slice of pizza, something would instantly transport you to that place of bewilderment, ineffable loss and sorrow. Would there be anything, anything, that anyone could say to make it better? Trust me, there isn’t.

I know it is early, only 4 endless weeks. But I know that there is a space in my heart that will never be filled again. Like a lost limb, I can still feel it, even though it isn’t there. I remember so many wonderful memories, the good times we had, Jake and Terry and me. Those will never fade. But now, it is all we have. And the irony is, the memories of those great times will always evoke that sadness and longing for the good times with Jake that will never be again.

I know our emotions are very raw right now, and will be for some time. How long, I cannot say. It ain’t pretty from this side, and I expect from your side either. I just ask you to bear with us as we wander through this maze of conflicting emotions, as we try to figure out how to live our lives going forward. This will be the greatest challenge we will ever  face. We deeply appreciate all the love and support we get from our dear friends and family, we couldn’t do this without you. I am just saying we don’t always need words. Just knowing you are there for us is enough.

ojaiset

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The Teacup

Posted on January 22, 2014 by edcol52

We drove north on Pacific Coast Highway from LA to Ojai yesterday. Passing through the familiar stretch above the Ventura county line. The mottled cloud cover turned the ocean a flat leaden gray, and drained all the color out of the landscape. The hills dry and sere, clumps of brown and grey grasses dotted the rocky slopes. The only color was the deep green of the toyon bushes, but even they looked drained and tired. Blackened, twisted skeletons of Manzanita testified to recent fires, ashes and chunks of charcoal spread across the ground gave everything a surreal quality. This is what Mordor must look like. The stark bleakness of the vista matched the bleakness of my thoughts. We are spending a few days at the house of a friend, trying to eke out a bit of solace amidst the maelstrom of recent weeks. But we take our sorrow with us. There is no escape. Last night, at dinner, tears flowed suddenly as we talked about how best to honor Jake’s memory. A scholarship? Fruit trees in Israel? A reading program somewhere? Books? Perhaps all of them. His interests were so diverse and passionate.

This morning as I write, we sit outside in the warm winter sun. Huge old oaks tower overhead, a citrus orchard lies just beyond the weathered chain-link fence, blue sky overhead streaked with wispy high cirrus clouds. Rufous-sided Towhees scratch in the litter beneath the grapefruit tree, Acorn Woodpeckers hammer at the tall palms by the edge of the property. Little flycatchers, titmouse, wrens, and white-crowned sparrows go about their business unconcerned for the greater cares of the world. A hummingbird flits by, iridescent crimson at its throat and crown. Is that you Jake?

We now try to take whatever minute pleasures wherever and whenever we can. We are able to smile for a moment here and there. We can even laugh from time to time, but underneath it all is that bewilderment. Is this all real? Is this really happening? And of course, to our immense sorrow, it is. I have read some writings recently of people who have also lost children. Last night from a woman who lost her son 10 years ago. I got a glimpse of what is in store for us. She used a similar analogy to one I have written about.

It’s like smashing a priceless china teacup to smithereens on a stone floor. (She used a crystal vase.) Thousands of minuscule fragments lie scattered across the floor, some dust, some jagged shards with bits of colored glaze barely recognizable. Try to put it back together. An impossible task. Some of the pieces are missing, how do you glue dust back together? And even if you can get it reassembled into a semblance of a teacup, it will never hold tea again. There are holes where you couldn’t find the missing piece and the tea leaks out. The glue fails, and the cup falls apart again and again. But for whatever reason, you persist in putting it back together as best you can. This simplest of acts becomes a Herculean task. We must learn to drink whatever we can from this damaged cup. It will never be full, never be the same.

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A Peculiar Paradox

Posted on January 21, 2014 by edcol52

Somehow, I have not yet been able to reconcile the fact that our son is truly gone with the fact that he seems so close at times. I look at the belongings we brought back from Palm Springs, three huge duffle bags full of clothes, boxes of papers, computer hardware, books, his chef’s tools, just the stuff that surrounded him in his apartment, and know in one part of my brain, that he is not coming back to claim them. Yet, I look at one of the photos that our dear friend Yakov took of Jake last year in which he looks out of the frame at me, clear-eyed, content, and he seems so present. I truly cannot believe what has happened. I know that is one of the stages of grief; denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Denial, that hasn’t happened, it can’t happen to me.  But these phases don’t progress in a straight line. More like a convoluted  figure eight, with all 5 of them looping back on one another periodically. Sometimes all are present simultaneously. Yes, I accept what has happened, but I don’t accept it. It is all so unreal. Bargaining? I have nothing to bargain with, my treasure has been stolen.

As Mark Twain so eloquently put it, “The intellect is stunned by the shock of it and but gropingly gathers the meaning of the words. The power to realize their full import is mercifully wanting. The mind has a dumb sense of vast loss – that is all. It will take mind and memory months, and possibly years, to gather together the details and thus learn and know the whole extent of the loss.”

UniversesmallYes, a dumb sense of vast loss. We might as well try to understand the size of the universe, it is that vast. We discover new implications daily, stretching out into the future. A future that is immeasurably changed forever. What that future looks like, I have no idea. Things that once were so important, now seem so trivial. I can see this: there will be more sorrow to come as we move through the years, marking the dates and times where Jake’s absence will be felt all the more keenly. Holidays, birthdays, the celebrations and activities that bound our family together. We miss him so terribly right now, we will miss him even more as time goes on. Of that I am also sure.

Posted in Coping, Daily Ramblings, Friends and Family, Grief, Healing, Jake's Spirit, Memory, Tragedy | Tagged , , , , , , | 6 Comments

Marking Time

Posted on January 21, 2014 by edcol52

January 18

I mark time very differently now. There is the ‘Before’ and the ‘From Now On’. Very different lives. My expectations have been dashed, it is difficult to let them go. Thankfully, we have a marvelously strong, caring and loving group of people surrounding us who would willingly take our pain upon themselves if they could. And in fact help hold it at bay here and there. We are still in shock, still in denial, but the grim reality is beginning to creep in slowly. I look at the objects, people, trees, buildings, the world around me, and it ‘looks’ the same. But everything is very different. No zest, no real joy in things I used to take such pleasure in. This may change too, but every happiness is now wrapped in sadness and longing. Or maybe now has that kernel of sadness at its core. I am not sure of anything except that I want him back.

January 19

Kind of a neutral day. Which, I guess, is progress. No huge waves as of yet, just a few ripples. Some friends came by for a visit this afternoon. Coffee, ice cream and cookies. Now I’m making a little dinner, Moroccan Carrot soup, left over Mustard chicken, and garlic potatoes. Meeting a very long time friend a bit later for a drink and a chat. Striving for normality in an extremely abnormal situation. For a short while we’ll talk about good old times, pretending everything is okay, when in fact, everything is decidedly not okay. But I guess that’s the way you do it. Fake it till you make it.

I learned what those tidal waves are called, “Grief Spasms”. That’s exactly what it feels like. Every muscle contracts simultaneously. Like a convulsion. They do pass, but remain standing in the wings, waiting for their cue to come on stage. The cues are so random. A thought, a word, a glance. I never know what will spark it. So we tread lightly through our memories, wanting to cherish every moment, but wary of the black grief monster waiting to pounce. In fact, here comes one now …

Originally posted on Facebook January 19, 2014

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At the Seaside

Posted on January 21, 2014 by edcol52

January 17

I am sitting by the shore of an infinite ocean. The sun shines down on the golden sand where children splash in the shallow, gentle waves, parents watching their antics. Young men play with frisbees, pretty girls sun themselves on brightly colored blankets. Suddenly, without warning, I am engulfed by a terrifying tsunami. Frigid waters suck me under and pull me out to sea. It is dark, I am tossed and turned upside down, I don’t know which way is up. Holding my breath till I think I’ll burst, I fight my way toward the surface and the faint light above. I break through gasping for air, swimming against the inexorable current as I struggle to reach the beach. Just as suddenly, the wave crests and flings me back onto the sand. I lie there breathless, dripping wet and shivering. But the sun is still shining, people are still playing, laughing, loving. This tidal wave of sorrow was just for me. This is not a dream. I experience it every day. But somehow, each time, I make it back to shore.

image-2

Another day, another Shabbat, another week.

Originally posted January 17, 2014

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