I never knew Helen Greebel, but I might as well have. Her influence on her family is definitely felt in the warm hugs and inclusive expression. Even those not of blood origin carry her legacy. I have come to expect (and love) the tight hugs from Judy that border on asphyxiation of the hug-ee (I'm pretty sure if she were taller they would). But, I was moved by the emotional intensity of her father's hugs. He gave me the kind of hug that a father saves for his own children - the kind of hug that isn't just an empty physical greeting, but that actually expresses love, gratitude, sought-after relief. We have met before, but his hug made me feel like I am a part of his family. I could also feel his sorrow and was moved by his sharing that with me, looking to me for comfort.
I was equally awed by the graveside. This being my first Jewish funeral, I was immediately struck by the 'raw-ness' of the burial. The Christian funeral is so blanched, sanitized, disjointed from the cycle of life. Astroturf and a lift cover the actual hole that the coffin will eventually be lowered into. Rows of chairs and sometimes a tent cover the site. Flowers upon flowers nearly obliterate the view of the usually ornate coffin. We are so cut off from how our loved ones are laid to rest. At the grave of Helen Greebel, however, the truth of death is very much front and center.
The only astroturf in sight was covering the mound of dirt beside the empty hole, lined by roots from surrounding foliage. Pomp and circumstance were both absent as the very simple wooden coffin was transferred from the hearse to the grave. There was no lift, no 'one last look'. The cemetery employees, as respectfully as they could given the heavy-lifting involved, simply brought the coffin from the hearse to the grave and lowered it into the hole.
I stood back, out of respect for the family, but not so far away that a hug or a soothing word couldn't be given in a moment of raw anguish. From this vantage point, I could watch and learn how Judy's family functions, and the thing that caught me most was, again, the hugs. Judy's brother overcame his usual shyness to give the eulogy for his grandmother. A man so consumed by sorrow, stood bravely as he both spoke about his grandmother and explained the process of the burial to those who might not know (I wonder if I was the only one - if so, I am even more grateful). David fought back tears to describe a vibrant, energetic woman who will be dearly missed by all who knew her - why settle for one kiss when you can have seven or eight, and in the process reached a breaking point in his tears. Jacob, Judy's eldest, quickly rushed to his side to offer Uncle David a hug of support.
I watched Martin take as many hugs as he could from the other grandchildren as they, too young to really understand the purpose of our gathering, milled among the forest of legs. I believe that we often look to the innocent splendor of our children to find solace in our moments of lonesome adulthood. Martin needed and found great comfort in his grandchildren. Having personal experience with Martin's hugs, I knew how loved each boy felt.
Judy pressed her face into Tim's chest/stomach as the most difficult process of Jewish burial began - shoveling in the earth that would eventually cover the coffin. Tim is every bit a Marine - usually not a warm, fuzzy kinda guy. Even he was moved by her need for comfort and surrounded her body with his big arms. She covered her ears and hid in his embrace as the first scoops of dirt hit the box.
Jacob continued to mill through the forest, attaching himself to whatever adult arms would receive him - all received him.
Cousins and aunts and uncles embraced each other as the ancient words representing thousands years of Jewish heritage were repeated.
As is usual with most humans, I connected what I was experiencing to my own story. I did not know my Great Uncle Wilf very well, but still was the benefactor of many of his personality traits. Unfortunately, I didn't learn this until I sat in a Halifax, Nova Scotia church, listening to the pastors who knew him well recount HIS life and influence. I could not escape how much like him I am. This was the thought of comfort that came to mind when I explained to Judy that while I never knew Helen personally, I DID know her because I could see her influence in Judy's life.
I drove away from the cemetery sad for the pain Judy's family was feeling, but finally grateful to be living on Long Island, to make it possible to be available for them. And that's when the reality of my last day of 'freedom' began to seep in.
I've been wished good tidings in the last couple of weeks, as I embark on the beginnings of what could be my next grand career move. It has frequently been said that these are my last days of freedom, life without a job occupying the bulk of my time. That statement is met with more than one reaction. Fear. Excitement. Sadness. Anticipation.
I've been hoodwinked more than once since my move to Long Island. I thought something positive was happening and then it went all wonky. I'm afraid to trust that this time it's different, that even without the money there right now, it will be a huge move for my future. I worry that the money I was told will come when the work opportunity opens up will disappear. I will also be making significantly less money in the one job, relying on a second to cover some of the distance from my last salary. I worry that I will run out of energy to do both until things even out. I worry that my calculations for what I need to survive will be proven wrong before the shift in responsibility and money occurs.
Music notes have flowed through my veins since I was in vitro. I was playing the piano with my grandmother before I was 4 years old, the violin at 8, but I was not raised on popular music. We listened to classical, folk or church music. One day, my brother had had enough of the oldies and bought himself a 'boom box' and started introducing 'rock and roll' to our record player. I had never heard its likeness before - it was like ear candy. I could not get enough of it. By the time I was 11, I was completely addicted to what that boombox could belt out. I had jerry-rigged my clock radio with a speaker so that I could listen to the music LOUDLY. And I was in love with every DJ on the radio. I listened with such focus. Tomorrow I embark on a life in the making since my pre-teens - the radio industry. If I can carry a conversation with Tori Amos without losing my cool (at least on the outside), I think I can handle it at the new job.
The truth is, I didn't get to enjoy my time off the way I had hoped to. How can rational unemployed adult watch their savings dwindle with a job market in complete shambles and being forced to contemplate the very real possibility of abandoning the field they FINALLY call their own for the sake of survival really 'enjoy their freedom'? I've been fortunate to do some fun things, to sleep in, get acclimated to being back on Long Island, but when the money is disappearing and the interviews aren't coming, every day is shrouded with a touch of concern. And yet, here I am in the final hours of my unemployment, realizing that the relaxing days are over and the hard work is about to begin. An opportunity to really enjoy my freedom is over.
My spirit has always been restless. I have provided for myself in one way or another for 37 years. Sitting still, watching the world go by has never been on the list of things to do. I need the stress of decision making, tight deadlines, creativity and adventure to live. I look to my tomorrow and the days to come with a sense of cautious hope. And I look forward to how this next chapter unfolds.
