‘Tis the season of culminations, celebrations, and changes. It marks a passage for me as I begin semi-retirement and open the way for other pursuits. Walking the mourner’s path has led me to this place of uncertainty and possibility, though it doesn’t yet feel real.
More imminent are culminations linked to the Jewish
holiday of Shavuot, with symbolism that may have meaning for others in a state
of flux. The holiday commemorates the Jews receiving the Torah at Mt. Sinai
after years wandering in the desert. It is connected to Passover by the
agricultural practice of 49 days of Counting the Omer in preparation for the wheat harvest, which has been reinterpreted as a
spiritual practice of moving from slavery to freedom. Rabbis Zimmerman and Enger suggest an intention for each stage of the seven-week journey: Waking Up;
Setting Out; Entering the Wilderness; Being in the Unknown; Finding Our Way;
Becoming the Vision; and Arriving. These evocative themes map onto the journey of suicide loss as we
try to rebuild our lives and recover our balance.
I’m more familiar with the early stages of the
journey; I hesitate to say I've arrived. I haven't reached any closure,
peace, or enlightenment, nor is that clearly the goal. I'm still overcome with
intense, though shorter, bouts of grief and guilt. But I may be reaping the first
surprising fruit of the harvest on this journey: I have recovered my breath, and it is
deeper and fuller than I remember. Many mornings, I come awake bathed in long,
sustaining breath. Instead of being constricted by mourning, the breath flows
free and expands. With this fuller breath comes a fuller sense of gratitude
that I worried I'd never recover. I’m grateful that I knew and loved my lost
child. I’m grateful for the love and support that got me through the worst of
the pain so far. I’m grateful to be alive and healthy.
Next week brings another chance for arrival as I take
part in an adult bar/bat mitzvah celebration. It’s the culmination of two years
of study and the choice to deepen my Jewish practice and membership in community.
When I hold and chant from the Torah, I will be symbolically—like my ancestors in the desert—“taking [my] place at the mountain with all of the Jewish people, . . . coming home, being whole.” With
the momentousness of the occasion, with all those who are and are not present,
there will be tears. The difference is that these tears will be bittersweet and
shared. On Mothers Day I could focus on the affirmation I would
never receive from my lost child—or affirm my love for him and my living son.
At my bat mitzvah, I can choose to focus on who is not there to give me their
blessing and on the mountains that Noah can no longer climb—or I can be amazed by the blessing of all those who have helped carry me
on this journey and who are rooting for me to have something to celebrate.
The two years of preparation for this day coincide
with the two years that we have been living with the loss of our son. For
much of the first year, I couldn’t concentrate on learning and couldn’t help
seeing everything through the lens of loss. I stuck with the class because I
had wanted to do it for a long time and dimly thought it might give me a
stake in the future, beyond loss. That it has. I thank God and lots of people for allowing me to
reach this season.
To those who are suffering: may you let in a little
light to be present to the joy and power of culminations. And may you honor
wherever you are in your journey.
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