All That Leaves Us Behind

I recognize I'm the light and fluffy Culturista at Jewcy.Com and no Faitherhacker, but a few times a year I like to dig a little deeper. One of these occasions is Purim. And while the purpose of my personal exploration is not directly related to the Purim story or its significance in biblical history, I'm also not innocent to the irony of my situation.

In 1994, at the closing ceremony of Lillehammer Olympics, my mother passed away at the age of 49, just shy of her 50th birthday. I probably cannot recall any actual Olympic event that happened during the course of those two weeks, just that at the beginning of the Olympics, my mother was carried in an ambulance to the hospital and its closing on February 27, she was gone.

This day also happened to be Purim so the funeral arrangements were all the more convoluted in that, as we all know, Purim is one of the few Jewish holidays where we are commanded to be joyous and celebrate. This translated to no one being able to give a speech at my mother's funeral. Imagine that the only thing that could bring you any sense of consolation would be stripped away in the name of "happiness."

I told myself that things happen for a reason and that maybe my mother wouldn't have wanted a big fuss made of her. But, as anyone who has ever dealt with the loss of a loved one and sat shiva knows, as much as you're there to deal with the person you're losing and the emphasis is on them, these rituals are intended to help those of us left behind even more. In short, I wanted my mother to feel remembered and to do justice to her memory.

Of course, this is what lighting the Yahrzeit candle is about. It's the candle's flame that's supposed to remind me that her soul is still flickering, still reaching upward. This is also the reason that every year when I light the candle, I pay close attention to the flame. As was the case last night, most years I don't sleep because I insist on sleeping in the same room as the candle and as the flame is pronounced, it keeps me awake. I am very aware that I am not alone in these times, but also frightened by all that's uncertain.

Should I feel good that her presence is still as pervasive as ever? Or simply "in the dark" that I don't know what any of this even means. And while the cynical part of me reiterates something akin to what my father told me about heaven after she died ("It's something we tell ourselves to make ourselves feel better."), I need to believe that wherever she is, she's looking out for all of us and imparting her wisdom in some subtle way and not just the cliche that her spirit lives on through her children.

Witnessing the intensity of the flame last night was also why I went for a symbolic run this morning. I seldom go these days, but prior to growing boobs, I was an ardent runner in my teens. My mother, who had unfortunately witnessed plenty of atrocities in her day growing up in Eastern Europe, used to follow me for my daily runs in her car for fear someone would steal me. I resented this, naturally.

But this morning as I was running and trying desperately to keep my damn ear buds from falling out of my ears, I slowed down a bit and gradually started walking. I still felt very much alone, but when I returned home to my candle, I noticed the flame had reached the point of calm, as a waves does after it crashes, and as I had done earlier when I surrendered my stride to the earbuds.

"There's nothing wrong with change," I keep telling myself. The small things don't matter. Adversity makes us stronger. Of course, this would all be easier to digest if the big things we lose didn't have to hurt so damn much all of the time and if the very people who made adversity palatable were still around to support us.