A special welcome to anyone who is new to The Grieving Room. We meet every Monday evening. Whether your loss is recent or many years ago, whether you have lost a person or a pet, or even if the person you are "mourning" is still alive ("pre-grief" can be a very lonely and confusing time) you can come to this diary and process your grieving in whatever way works for you. Share whatever you need to share. We can't solve each other's problems, but we can be a sounding board and a place of connection.
In the world to come, I shall not be asked, "Why were you not Moses?" I shall be asked, "Why were you not Zusya?"--- Rabbi Zusya
Last month, my friend and fellow blogger, Kris Froland, passed away. I did not write about it at the time because I was ensared in the maw of my old nemisis...an unexpected flare-up of PTSD (having nothing to do with Kris) complete with screaming nightmares, flashbacks and severe depression. But I thought about exmearden when I lit my Chanukah candles.
I first met Exme online. Like everyone else, I was enchanted by her soaring prose. Exme was a Chanukah candle. She burned with the joy of inspiration, discovering God in a glorious landscape, a pile of trash or a frayed thread. Exme saw beauty in cancer. And when I viewed cancer through Exme's miraculous eyes, I saw its poignant beauty, too.
"What's an exmearden?" I asked the first time we corresponded. I imagined it was a female Excalibur, some sort of locket covering Guinevere's broken heart.
"It's a name," she explained. "Exme. Exme Arden." Exme became my favorite name. If I had given birth to another daughter, I would have named her Exme.
And so now it was Chanukah. I'd left for Washington DC to attend a conference. I hadn't packed a menorah or any candles in my bag. I hadn't written a tribute to Exme. I mourned secretly.
I was surprised to find myself standing beside a Chasidic Rabbi as the opening session began. We both surveyed the packed room for our companions. He stood out with his beard, his black clothing and his tzitzit hanging discretely from under his shirt.
"Happy Chanukah," I greeted him.
He looked surprised. "Do you celebrate Chanukah?" he asked me.
I nodded. "Yes," I said. "Usually. But my kids are back home in New Mexico."
"Do you need candles?" he asked. "I can give you candles and a menorah."
I felt unspoken gloom begin to lift. "Yes," I answered gratefully. "I'd like that. My family and I are going to celebrate when we're all home together. But I'd like to light candles tonight."
After the plenary session ended, the Rabbi approached me. He handed me a box of candles and a disposable gold foil menorah. The appropriate blessings were written on the box. We discussed mutual acquaintances in the Chasidic world. "Do you know Rabbi Beryl Levertov?" he asked me.
"I do," I said. "And his wife Devorah Leah, and all their kids."
"Oy!" he exclaimed. "It's a small world." Then he got back to the subject at hand. "Remember to listen to the candles after you light them," he instructed me. "Listen to what they are saying."
The candles spoke with Exme's voice. "You are loved," they whispered. "You are loved even when you are far from home."
It was the seventh night. I marveled at the small community shining and melting into my menorah. Each flame was reflected in the foil, and again in the mirror, in my glasses and in the window. One flame became five. Eight became forty. The room was filled with burning, dripping, passionately melting light.
"You are loved," they sighed.
Each candle lived out its ephemeral life, an ordinary object, giving itself up for the sake of beauty. Each candle cried colorful, waxy tears. And when its life was extinguished, a small puff of smoke snaked upwards, dipersing itself into the breath of the living earth.
"Don't hold yourself apart from your community," they enticed. "You are a candle. Shine with others. Shine with joy."
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