Baruch Dayan Emet, Take 2

Sitting with one of my co-workers here, listening to him speak emotionally yesterday of love and sudden loss, I couldn't help but think of my father, and the way our family endured (and still endures) his sudden death. My friend here was commenting on how the shiva for this close family friend had felt less healing than most others he had attended. He attributed it largely to the family's lack of deep spirituality/religiosity. I wanted to say, but refrained, that I know something about what it's like when there is no time to say goodbye; that the shock of the sudden loss throws the "normal" mourning processes and timing completely out of whack. The family can barely be expected to find shiva healing when they are still just trying to accept the reality of the loss... But I didn't say anything; I suppose because it didn't seem the time to share my own terrible story of loss.

A part of me has wondered whether some part of my interest in this intensive farming experience might be an effort to connect with my dad in a spiritual way. He loved loved loved to garden; next to the White Sox, my mother, my brother, and I, (not necessarily in that order) to my mind, there was nothing he loved more than his garden. I wish I had spent more time with him there; I have no doubt that had I paid more attention to the process he went through of dressing the soil, planting, weeding, and harvesting, I wouldn't have been so clueless when I first came here. For my dad, no weather was too hot or too rainy to be out in his garden-- a garden that seem to grow larger and larger each year. It might have been so that he would have less lawn to mow, but I don't think so. He was just so happy when he was out there, and even happier when the fabulous dinner he or my mom would make would contain fresh lettuce or tomatoes or herbs which were the fruits of his labors.

Working here at Kayam, I feel like I've had an intense immersion in that love he tended for many years-- not enough years, sadly. I don't know that I really believe in spirits, or loved ones speaking to me from beyond the grave. But I do know that, from time to time, especially when my hands have grown black from working the tomato plants, I feel his presence with me, as if he's got his hand on my shoulder. I wish I could hear his voice once more; I wish he would tell me what I was doing wrong with the plants, or tell me how proud he was of me.  I'm crying now as I long for his presence in my life; I feel like railing again at the universe, at his unknown assailant, at God. And yet, the rich soil into which I immersed my hands this morning as we planted first melons, and then zucchini, and then squash, has served as a kind of a mikveh for me. I have felt, at certain moments, as if the richness of this soil,and the possibility it holds, is infused with the life force of all who have come before-- plant and animal. As I lifted my eyes to the broiling sun this morning, hands in the rich loam, I felt the warmth of my father's spirit somehow.

Baruch Dayan Emet. I miss him everyday. And I'm so glad to have drawn ever nearer to him during this time.