Eileh Toldos Eliezer, Eliezer

And just like Noach we are told,

It was not just his life

But what he left behind that remained alive

Even greater than in his lifetime.

These Zaddikim have that power

We are told?

Not that this diminishes the pain

For her, for Beila

I saw her first by his bedside

At Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center

(Now some 30 years later

Now questioning all I had learned here

The dogmas and beliefs of such exalted ivory towers.)

I came to the bedside

Saw the MRI?s and sighed.

Having seen too much already

Too many of such injuries

Too much grief and suffering already

One more Zaddik.

But there she was, Tehillim in hand

Ready for battle, she refused

To accept

Anything given, any expert advice that did not point the

way back to what was,

A radical refusal

She was going to take her own path

Despite conventional wisdom

She was going to bring back her husband, by

Conventional and other means

No stone left unturned.

Of course she paid the price

She would have to relinquish everything

For this goal this mission

Family relationships, sleep, career

She had it all worked out.

I quoted a Zohar to him

Lying motionless,

And his eyes opened.

A miracle.

He was "locked-in", not comatose.

A neurological nightmare for those imprisoned in the body.

This challenge was not going to be left unanswered.

We went to work bit by bit, but

As you know,

Neurology is a different planet

What is slow in this world is lightning speed in planet

recovery

All is measured by tiny improvements over months

Extreme patience is required, as well as commitment and

diligence

Any slight oversight

Results in pneumonia and set-backs affecting

consciousness and the brain.

But we commit to each other and get to work.

A glorious year of ups and downs setbacks and

improvements

The glory of his children surrounding him in the Catskills

and his students.

And she never faulted

Never gave up hope

Never ceased her critical inquiry

She the unsung heroine of this story

Can only be comforted in the knowledge

That no stone was left unturned

And that he is more alive now that before

That his children and students, disciples and those

influenced by him

Are in his consciousness and better served by his present

place

By his representation above

A true advocate for our broken lives.

She must feel this now

My heart knows she wanted it otherwise

Of course

She wanted only the ultimate

Her man

Back

In her arms

In her living room

However, whatever, whenever

That connection,

My heart cries for her

Despite all we are told

All we believe

All we profess.

She the unsung heroine of the story

Left no stone unturned.

Sir Aaron's Last Hours

No longer did I chuckle at Robert's 'knighting' of my

patient, Aron Schreiber - "Sir Aron" he would say...

for his native, innocent colonial respect revealed the

deeper truth of Aaron's true aristocracy.

Never before had I a patient like this, combining an

incredulous body-will-to-survive,

coming back each time from the brink of death... with a

soul already tired of this world,

longing to re-unite with his beloved.

I arrive at noon to find him ashen faced and dyspnoeic.

He recognizes me, and then shakes his head...

I know - we've rehearsed this many a time - he a victim of

zealous caregivers

and a loving family, I a victim of my training - a warrior

against the malach hamavet (yet now

torn by my wish to honor his desire, his autonomy, his will

to leave, to be free of the

prison of his ailing and frail body).

Each time I see him suffering my resolve to help him be

free of his anguish is met with

the weight of tradition and ethics on my shoulders. Never

were the two so evenly

matched.

He is gasping for air but not from an inner desire to breath,

rather as if driven by some

mechanical power to inhale against a reluctant and

increasingly resistant chest. I go

through the motions... ordering blood work, gases, suction

equipment arrives, oxygen

tank, I.V. antibiotics for the aspiration pneumonia.

Esther cries" "Aaron...breathe!", "Aaron…drink!", "Aaron, do

you love me?" He answers "Yes,

I love you".

Two years ago, following the stroke, he had told me of his

fatigue, tired of life itself,

ready to leave this world...only to be brought back as we

medicated him, infused him,

intubated him, bagged him, fed him, catheterized him

incessantly. Then last year,

hospitalized, I see him again, and he shakes his head, and

again now. He knows I read

him correctly. He is holding me accountable to him. This

time, I cannot bring myself to

call the ambulance. A voice within says

"dal" as if this week's sedra that has God naming Himself

"Shaddai" was no accident,

and now these voices within are at peace with the

decision. No longer torn, I would

make him comfortable with oxygen and fluids and a mini

bedside ICU and be with him

for as long as it would take. No anger, no pain, merely

provide a space for his suffering

within my own, to give him the permission he was seeking

all along to leave. No more

cries to "eat" "drink" "breath" or even "live" and "love", just

give him the ability to choose.

The sun begins to set over the glorious bay, clouds reflect

its orange glow and Aaron's

eyes become glazed as he too looks towards the window,

the blue sky, as red and

purple hues begin to tamper with the confidence of the

day.

I want so much for this...to honor his decision,

I want so much for his dignity to remain, to the end,

I play a chazanut tape he liked, to usher in the Shabbat,

and tell him of the sanctity of

the coming hour.

Esther calls a minyan of ten honorable men to bring in, to

welcome the Sabbath Queen,

the Bride, his bride - I knew in my heart he was a romantic

- that love and music and

good fellowship were his life's blood, that his humor and

love of others could never be

quenched, that even at this moment, this hour, there

should be poetry in his passing.

The sky begins to turn purple, then blood red, then deep

dark blue, that sun, yellow,

large ball of fire, dips slowly towards "shkiya" into its

mikveh of purity.

Esther lights her candles and I ask her to light another set,

I Know not why - as if his

neshama, that light of beauty should remain long after...a

premonition.

We begin to recite Minchah and the sun slowly dips below

the horizon...I am gripped

with fear, a dread, for my own death? no...I grieve for my

own life...for his life, for the

utter tragedy of life, for the sunset, for the impending

inevitable darkness.

We begin Kaballat Shabbat and sing louder and louder

around Aron...

"Aaron...you must rejoice, the Sabbath Queen has arrived

to escort you...she loves you..."

We sing Lechah Dodi the way he liked, Young Israel style,

"Come my beloved...to meet your bride, we shall receive

the Sabbath..."

at that moment in time...yazesa nishmato...

with these words

among a fellowship of honorable men

surrounding him

escorting him to the threshold

where She...his Malka...was waiting...

Finally out of anguish and pain.

No longer yearning for all he had lost

and all that we can never have

at peace with his beloved

at last.

I ask the Kohanim to gently leave

we place him in the den

and close the door.

We sing louder still

between the tears

what utter pain,

what wound that cannot heal...he was

Only a patient - I've had many,

but what a prince, what dignity.

only a man - I've known man

but what an aristocrat, what a life!

only a yid...

but what a neshama - so beloved by all,

yazesa nishmato...be - lecha dodi

It is dark outside,

the lights of the bay skyline flicker as if to remind us of

what might have been, a taste of

the true light now hidden.

Despite the last hour

our meticulous preparation

having honored his wishes

having escorted him in dignity

and song

to the threshold,

we are in shock.

It cannot be,

a sentential human soul has left us.

The lifeless corpse remainsone

less neshama...one whole universe is gone.

Patriarch of the family, who lived and loved and joked and

sanghow

can we get over you?

we cannot.

Your subtle humor and song live on in our broken

wounded hearts.

All who knew you, family friends, colleagues, doctors,

nurses, and...caring gentle

devoted Robert...were loved by you and loved you-

Farewell, prince of men.

The Cruel Ukrainian Sky

Uman 2004

Chilled tonight

No street lights in this poverty-stricken village

So the heavens light up instead

A myriad stars interrupted rudely by

An arrogant Milky Way streaking across its belly

Like a paintbrush dripping with white color.

It has to be this way, dark below, the lack, of power

sanitation

Food clean water, warmth, here in the belly of the Ukraine

Well known for inflicting suffering on its peasants and in

turn they on its Jews

A few incandescent lights flicker insufficiently

The mirror image of the myriad lights of Las Vegas whose

night is day.

Dark below and deathly silent above.

It occurs to me that it is only because of the absence

below that

Those heavens do light up

I cannot see this in say Chicago or London

They burn too light

But here

In the dark village night

The sky radiates its own specter of myriads of white dots

And it is precisely the absence of sun

Only in its total lack of presence

Do these millions and billions of stars reveal themselves?

Only against a total blackness below and above

Only in the absence of any light

Can one appreciate what is really out there?

As if in my life too

Only in the paradoxical absence of light, of that which we

are used to depending on

Here in this village totally incapable of housing or even

feeding thousands of pilgrims

Here as I suffer hunger, jet-lag, insomnia, fatigue and

sanitary facility

Here alone, can I see reality as it is

Its silence

Its loneliness

Its magnitude

Its seeming eternity

Only in the degradation and filth

Only in my own broken life

Here in the Ukraine

It becomes apparent.

Is there hope of seeing it in its truth?

In the absence.

Next morning the sun shines brightly

A few clouds whisp by

The blue azure sky reveals nothing of what transpired

Nothing but an open expanse of seeming emptiness

All might be in order

This maybe all there is

The golden globe traversing its daily course

We bowing to its times for our prayer rituals

Timing everything by its rise and setting

Who would have guessed the secret up there?

In this cruel place

Other secrets emerge

The whole quarter is a burial ground

Thousands martyred here by Gonta

Then the Zaddik desires to remind us too

Demanding we never forget him or the souls he came to

rescue here

Secrets in 1941 more Jews drowned under the suffocating

ice

Mostly local complicity

The Nazis needed few men here

Secrets buried and drowned

Occasionally body parts emerge splintered

After a torrential rain

On the side of the mountain.

Cruelty etched into the very landscape

In the high Slavic cheekbones of the paratroopers

Doing light duty

Protecting us from them or them from us we wonder?

Snickering at the Hassidic kids prancing around them

In another time it would be different

If the Jews were not bringing dollars like today.

Europe drips with Jewish blood and secrets like these

If not for the Zaddik this too would escape the gaze.

Their rage is tightly contained under their uniforms but

their expressions

Betray everything. Nothing has changed,

Why should we dignify this place of hell, massacre,

torture, the way we do each year?

For the Zaddik demands we hold this very paradox

To come specifically here to dance

In the middle of this horror

Under the cruel sky above

Mirroring the apparent calm and absence

Like the sun during the day

But if you come out like he demands at night

To meditate

His secret to us will be revealed

The other side of midnight

Reveals the opposite

The heavens split open only here

Silent

Majestic

Beyond the petty hatred below

Eternal

To dance and rectify the souls

And ourselves

Here in this cruel landscape specifically and nowhere else.

The paradoxical Zaddik makes those kinds of demands of

us.

The Ides of March

To Hershy

To those of us humbled?

No longer an intellectual quest,

No longer an academician's point of interest, the quiet

library of discourse,

To those of us humbled

By the power of this -other side?

By its sheer uncanniness, its cunning,

Its control over our lives

Be it illness, dis-ability, pain or addiction

We, who have been humbled,

Have a different -knowing?

We know instinctively, in the body

Some innate sensor, like a cat when danger is at hand

Though the body wreaks its havoc

The battlefield of lain corpses

In this body, the wasteland of past desire.

Stumbling, faultily, we hobble home from the lost war, in

the broken trenches

Whose only recompense is this wise knowing

The knowledge of the flesh

An ironic reminder of a primordial gnosis

In-the-flesh, whereupon waking

Those ancient parents felt only shame

Soon to be clothed in rags-of-guilt

Even God was called in as a tailor

For only God could hide this shame, yet

Even God could not, would not remove this shame.

We do not need Mel Gibson to tell us of Passion

We too have our flesh whipped and torn

We too run the gauntlet of Prussian then Russian soldiers

The snake beating us into submission

We too have had illness inscribed into our flesh

As carriers for our past, our families our ethnic groups

Even our nation.

Too much violence out there

Too many centuries of torture now inscribed in the chosen

ones

In pain, in illness, a new cross, a new nailing, new

stigmata.

To those of us humbled, nailed to the cross of illusion and

desire

Waiting for God to remove our shame

No longer satisfied with mere covering

Refusing the tailor albeit divine

We say?

Surrender!

Resist this game

Be taken prisoner

Prisoner -of-war

You warriors-of-the-flesh

You’ve won already

Because of your burning flesh

You have "the knowledge" you know the secret, you have

the gnosis

Inscribed in you

Without even thinking

In your stigmata the secret is revealed

No longer an ideos

In the head

No longer a mind-game

You radiate it in your broken flesh

Your pain and your anguish

You, we are the prophets of today.

Sienna Racine Retreat

The Middle Ages showed a renewed interest in labyrinths

and a design more complex than the classical seven circuit

labyrinth became popular.

This was an eleven-circuit design divided into four

quadrants. It was often found in Gothic Cathedrals but

over time many of these eleven-circuit designs were

destroyed or intentionally removed.

The most famous of these remaining labyrinths is at

Chartres Cathedral near Paris, France.

Yehuda Leib and Mark play together, guitars, on the

Labyrinth here Sunday December 1st anno domini 2003

A strange spectacle: two Russian exiles, singing Hassidic

music on a Dominican mat in a convent!

This was to be my substitute pilgrimage to Jerusalem this

sunny Sunday in Wisconsin.

The labyrinth at Chartres was built around 1200 and is

laid into the floor in a style sometimes referred to as a

pavement maze. The original center piece has been

removed and other areas of the labyrinth have been

restored.

This labyrinth was meant to be walked but is reported to

be infrequently used today. In the past it could be walked

as a pilgrimage and/or for repentance. As a pilgrimage it

was a questing, searching journey with the hope of

becoming closer to God. When used for repentance the

pilgrims would walk on their knees. Sometimes this

eleven-circuit labyrinth would serve as a substitute for an

actual pilgrimage to Jerusalem and as a result came to be

called the "Chemin de Jerusalem" or Road of Jerusalem.

In walking the Chartres style labyrinth the walker

meanders through each of the four quadrants several

times before reaching the goal. An expectancy is created

as to when the center will be reached. At the center is a

rosette design which has a rich symbolic value including

that of enlightenment. The four arms of the cross are

readily visible and provide significant Christian

But the music moves me to stand and dance

I am dancing with the Lord

Like David

A rapture

Fills my heart

My legs are at one with the tempo

Now high notes and I tiptoe

Now low ones and I thump like a Cossack.

I am dancing with You Lord

I open my arms wide to embrace you

Then raise them

In praise

Of Your world

The green grass outside

The wind on the bluff

The lake and the whiffs of cloud

Paralleled like the paths of the labyrinth

The water laps up slowly and rhythmically

The patterns of nature

Below as above

Gone are the worries

The surgicenter

The powerlessness

Now all is warm sun through the cloud

The sun as begun to set slowly

So mincha faces another direction. Away

As if after High Noon no longer do we pray in her direction

For she is dying too

And our worship must face East

To life

And Jerusalem

And the future

The lake the bluff the green the blue sky

The setting sun

My life

My words

My embededdness in the world

Away from home

Here-Right now- I am

Alive.

This labyrinth is the very key

For each obstacle standing on the path from the periphery

to the center

Looks as if it forces one away from the center

Forcing one to take a right angel or even 180 degrees...

Yes if one perseveres and sees this as part of the very

nature of this path

Then eventually, but only eventually

One will arrive at the center.

Ye, you may ask why the bother...

Why such a tortuous path...

But then at the center it forces you once again to turn

There is no stopping

And once again you twist and turn at every obstacle

Only to find yourself at the periphery once again

Where you began.

Yet looking back you slowly realize that the purpose was

never to merely reach the center

Never to have gotten there as soon as possible

In the shortest distance possible

No

Far from it

The real goal was to have covered the entire map of the

circle

To have trodden the entire field of the circle

Leaving nothing out

As if everything on the circle was equally important

As if you had to have visited every inch of this area.

My dancing was circular

Like a dervish

And my field was my life

And the goals I thought I had in place initially some 30

years ago

I met with only gates and fences and high wired obstacles.

Each step along the way I met resistance

And only now so much later

Do I realize?

In this dance

The obstacles were my truest friends and spirit guides

That in the very obstacles and traumas

The rejections and the failures

I was forced to make about face turns some 90 degrees

and some 180 degrees

So that by now I have covered most of the field

The light and darker side of my soul

And that this was my greatest gift.

Do Not Become a Professional Patient

My dear patient

Do not become a professional patient.

Do not become dependent on doctors.

Do not turn into a doctor hopper.

Let me not be just another doctor along the way

To some mythical cure you are seeking

Another physician along a string of opinions.

Not for my sake

I will continue to heal, as I best know

Whether you come back or not

(God willing)

But for your sake.

Let not your expectations be your source of frustration.

Open yourself to the possibility that this time

Both you and I will work together

To hold your suffering and healing.

This time let your expectation slowly dissolve

Open yourself to new possibilities

And resist the temptation to become dependent yet again

On me or anyone else but your own

Inner healer.

Allow us to validate your pain and suffering

And strengthen your inner power for healing

Your own ability to stop the hopping

Office to office

And finally rest here

With us

As we help you take charge of your health

Once and for all.

Thanks.