Yarzheit, mourning and remembrance
Yarzheit.com explains that the word "yarzheit" is the Yiddish name given to the anniversary of a person's death, usually as calculated on the Jewish calendar. The site says, "Literally it is a composite from the two German words 'yahr' meaning 'year' and 'zeit' meaning 'time'." Yarzheit is usually observed for one day. In the Jewish tradition, a day begins at sunset. Tonight begins the observance of dochyel (David Honigsberg)'s first yarzheit. Traditionally, yarzheit is observed mainly by immediate family. For my own observance, given my own history, I have long since expanded that tradition to include those to whom I have been particularly close or who meant a great deal to me. It's an extremely small circle including, of course, my parents, my Aunt Shirley and Uncle Larry who were second parents to me, and now David.
I have an Israeli yarzheit lamp that was my mother's which I lit tonight. I have been saying kaddishthe Jewish prayer for the dead traditionally recited at this timesince I was 11 years old, when my father died. Nevertheless, I always take out my prayer book when I say the prayer because despite knowing it by heart, I want to have it in front of me to be sure I don't make any mistakes when I recite it. Even just opening the book for this purpose provokes tears; I cannot recite the prayer (or apparently even think about it) without experiencing this reaction. I wonder sometimes if it has become a sort of Pavlovian response to the prospect of reciting kaddish; I've been doing it for so long.
The prayers around the yarzheit remind us that we should take joy in and accept the blessing of the memory of those who are gone. I have long since gotten used to the absence of my parents, of my aunt and uncle, but there are momentsjust here and therewhen I feel it acutely. Over the last year, I've had those moments with regard to David. I had one just this past Friday night, learning about the creation of a modern-day illuminated Bible, seeing detailed reproductions of the work, and noting to myself that I had to call or write David and ask him if he knew about it, had seen it. Sharing things spiritual had been such a big part of our friendship that such an association was inevitable, but it hit me hard in the moment. It was only one instance of a phenomenon that has happened time and again over the last year. I'm pretty sure I'm not alone in experiencing this sort of thing.
This weekend was the unveiling of David's headstone. Tonight, kradical posted a picture of it. Seeing it, and reciting the kaddish for David earlier this evening, I was struck by a wave of grief fresher than anything I've felt since the earliest days after his death. It's that time of year, the yarzheit, and such an intense reaction was inevitable. What I want is to find a way to the joy and the blessing of his memory without the grief so much. I know it will come; I know it will take time. But I want it to come soon, because I'd much rather smile in remembrance than weep and rejoice in the gifts we shared rather than, well, any other thing at all.
I have an Israeli yarzheit lamp that was my mother's which I lit tonight. I have been saying kaddishthe Jewish prayer for the dead traditionally recited at this timesince I was 11 years old, when my father died. Nevertheless, I always take out my prayer book when I say the prayer because despite knowing it by heart, I want to have it in front of me to be sure I don't make any mistakes when I recite it. Even just opening the book for this purpose provokes tears; I cannot recite the prayer (or apparently even think about it) without experiencing this reaction. I wonder sometimes if it has become a sort of Pavlovian response to the prospect of reciting kaddish; I've been doing it for so long.
The prayers around the yarzheit remind us that we should take joy in and accept the blessing of the memory of those who are gone. I have long since gotten used to the absence of my parents, of my aunt and uncle, but there are momentsjust here and therewhen I feel it acutely. Over the last year, I've had those moments with regard to David. I had one just this past Friday night, learning about the creation of a modern-day illuminated Bible, seeing detailed reproductions of the work, and noting to myself that I had to call or write David and ask him if he knew about it, had seen it. Sharing things spiritual had been such a big part of our friendship that such an association was inevitable, but it hit me hard in the moment. It was only one instance of a phenomenon that has happened time and again over the last year. I'm pretty sure I'm not alone in experiencing this sort of thing.
This weekend was the unveiling of David's headstone. Tonight, kradical posted a picture of it. Seeing it, and reciting the kaddish for David earlier this evening, I was struck by a wave of grief fresher than anything I've felt since the earliest days after his death. It's that time of year, the yarzheit, and such an intense reaction was inevitable. What I want is to find a way to the joy and the blessing of his memory without the grief so much. I know it will come; I know it will take time. But I want it to come soon, because I'd much rather smile in remembrance than weep and rejoice in the gifts we shared rather than, well, any other thing at all.