Surrender to the Mystery
Surrender to the mystery!
Dad at 99
Soldering on
Prussian Precision routine
Looks the same as when he was 70
Mum’s succumbing
Her leukemic white cells unable to
Mount a defense
Against that last pneumonia
Simply unable…
And our turning 70
Whatever happened to those decades?
They seem to have accordioned
Folding into each other in a blur
This single truth,
Slowly advancing towards us
Like a dark cloud on the horizon
Initially of little consequence
(Too many others things to contend with)
Now approaching silently and menacingly,
Too large to ignore any longer,
In the fantasy of youthful immortality,
The greying sky,
Casting a pall over everything.
For every person since time immemorial
Must surrender to the inevitable,
The ending of things,
Putting one’s mental house in order
Requires a staging of the soul
To be receptive to “passing on”
To that very fact,
To be able to face it as a reality not merely a concept.
Time is the enemy…
Every day passing,
Every wasted minute now pointing its accusing finger
The seasons and the festivals are counted differently
How many more seder nights?
And each grandchild’s rite of passage
A marker along this path
The days have a precious quality
Sunrise feels like a light in a cathedral, during in through the stained glass windows
Sunset feels like the soul going into hibernation.
Rain especially,
Has a delicious quality,
And the cold winters become increasingly unbearable.
The body announces its slippery decline
In subtle ways,
The shoulders creak when arising during the night to void,
Taste buds are demanding the familiar,
Reluctant and uninterested in trying new recipes and exotic dishes.
By 4pm the body fatigues,
unable to see the last batch of patients with vigour.
By 8pm no new discussions or decisions can be made.
Rashi script on the Daf becomes a marker year after year
As to the retinal decline,
And hearing above ambient noise becomes more and more irritating.
We won’t discuss the libido in good company
But you can imagine.
And what of all of this learning?
Accumulation of data,
Facts and figures,
Thesis and papers,
My books standing like soldiers in the library
In an army of memory surrounding me with comfort,
Each reflecting my struggles and interests over 50 years.
Textual mastery and interpretation,
Theological reflections and discourse,
Historical analysis and the continual seeking of trends,
The sum total of what is understood and what has been forgotten
None of this brings us closer to understanding the mystery.
We seem to have come round full circle
Seeing yet again the mystery behind this whole human endeavor.
The myths we create to inspire and calm the very horror of the ending
The world to come,
Paradise,
For those fortunate to have lived a good life
The recycling of souls
Looking down from heaven
Angelic beings
Seem now, purely wish-fulfillment
As the ending looms, a different perspective arises
Slowly now perceptibly,
Who taught us how to prepare for death?
Beyond the confession? The Zadok Hadin
Halacha is almost matter of fact and detailed about what to do
But how to feel? Not a word.
And what of those Hassidic Masters?
What did they learn from lying in the open grave?
Beyond the panic and terror?
Or those Carpathian Hesychastic monks in their caves for years on end?
Surely those with near-death experiences make claims from the beyond?
I fear the wisdom preached cannot remove the terror,
And certainly does not listen the mystery.
Surrender to the Mystery
Maybe this is the reason for poetry and music
The Greeks (tragedies) understood that
The last bastion against the tyranny of time
The eternal world rotating on the axis Mundi forever
The horror of man versus the gods
The impossibility of man winning.
Maybe the mystery itself has what to teach?
Something divine about it?
Something in common perhaps?
Both unknowable and ineffable
Both unpredictable and uncanny
Both appearing at times unjust and petulant
And the mystery of birth, being and death becomes
The singular event we face without satisfactory explanation
Rational understanding,
Maybe this is the point
The unacceptable fact is the teacher
The very knowing we know nothing
The surrender and acceptance is the goal.
For every passing, time, time, time,
