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Jewish World Review January 30, 2008 / 23 Shevat 5768 Life's footprints By Andrea Simantov
http://www.JewishWorldReview.com |
The other day, my
community was struck by an incomprehensible tragedy. A local
family — hardworking, moral, and active in charity
organizations and a myriad of other good-works — was killed
in a head-on collision. Among the dead were both parents and
their eighteen-year-old daughter who was, among other
terrific things, a counselor for the local scouts troop to
which my daughter belongs. An eleven-year-old son survived
the crash and is, at the time of this writing, still in the
hospital. The family also leaves a nineteen-year-old daughter
who was at her army base when the accident occurred.
Ill-equipped as I may be in trying to reconcile my unwavering faith in G-d when pitted against an event too mind-blowing to sit with for more than a few moments at a time, I find myself looking back upon my life with more and more frequency as I wonder what it is that I'll be remembered for after being "called home" to my
Maker.
Several weeks ago I received an email from a woman with whom I'd attended high school. We had sat in the same homeroom for four years and barely remembered one another, most probably never
sharing even six words (if that much) as we passed one another in
the packed hallways of the three-thousand-student school. Idreanne
put together this reunion to discuss the "good old days" and
invited another classmate who, unbeknownst to me, also had been
living in Jerusalem for almost thirty years! No, I didn't remember
Michele either, but it was equally heartwarming to see that she
didn't have a clue about who I was during the post-Woodstock and
acne-flecked days of our angst-filled youth.
How strange it was to learn that these two beautiful and outstandingly accomplished women had also shared feelings of
isolation and ached to be popular and sought-after. They also
remembered high school as a miserable time in their lives, and we
all stared at one another before asking, respectively, "You felt
that way?" Each one of us was a mother and — due to widowhood and
divorce — had five marriages between us. As we reluctantly
separated a few hours later, it was clear that one's personal
history is often etched in the little moments with only occasional
opportunity to work-itself into a "life-tome." We are writing our
biographies one day, one meeting, and one relationship at a time.
Two days later I found myself entering a third-floor flat in the fervently-Orthodox section of Arzei HaBira where I was scheduled to meet with Penny, a woman I'd taught Torah to many years ago as part of an adult education program in a local Conservative
synagogue. She was in Israel by herself to celebrate the High Holidays
and had worked hard to arrange this reunion.
I had felt apprehensive that I might not recognize her but that
concern dissipated the moment she opened the door. Now
silver-haired, she was just as beautiful as I remembered her,
recalling her rapt expression as she sat in the back of the
classroom twenty years earlier. Penny kept me spellbound with the
tale of how she became Torah-observant while remaining married to
the same wonderful and not-religious husband! As with my
high-school classmates, we promised one another that we'd remain
in touch.
The evening unfolded into a cross between the pioneer television
shows, "This is Your Life" and "Queen for a Day" and, despite the
fact that I cried the entire time, it was indescribably wonderful.
Unrelated objects were dropped into a pile in the center of the
room, and everyone selected an item to use as a prop in order to
describe something about me: a memory, quality, or a wish for my
future.
Some of less elegant moments in my life were laid bare for the
merriment of others: the time I accidentally cooked and ate some
very expensive chickens that my neighbor had stored in my freezer
for safekeeping or trying on bathing suits in a Dead Sea resort,
screaming loud enough for security personnel to question me after
I saw myself in the full-length mirror.
Amid the Lucy/Ethel anecdotes of the evening, I was afforded ample
opportunity to say "thank you" and describe what it felt like to
have no other choice than to place my often-vulnerable life into
the trusting arms of these former strangers who had bravely taken
up the friendship gauntlet over the years. How during a
horrifyingly ugly chapter in my life, my shame/fear/sadness was
laid bare, and not a soul in that room ever brought it up for me
to relive in all its Technicolor grandeur. I thanked one couple
who had dared to warn me about a dangerous relationship that I had
embarked upon even though they knew that — at the time of their
interference — they were risking my unbridled wrath and near
certainty that I'd sever our friendship. At the party was a woman
who had, despite having only a nodding acquaintance with me, heard
of my plight and offered me money at the point of my greatest
destitution. Then there was the couple that had greeted my plane
on a Friday morning as I returned to Israel after sitting shiva
for my father in New York: they hadn't wanted me to sit in a taxi
for the sad, return ride to Jerusalem. Sitting next to me at the
oneg was an accomplished writer who — despite her fame and time
demands — steadfastly believes in my literary talent and has,
again and again, encouraged me to take chances.
These recollections were clearly interwoven with laughs, hugs, and
the unmistakable sounds of real love coming from real friends who
had hitched their life-wagons to mine as we traverse this
glorious, blessed-by-G-d journey. Only one woman in the room knew
just how deeply I'd suffered after someone I'd loved more than I'd
ever imagined possible, died. She and her husband had had me to
their home over and over because they understood that, because my
relationship had seemed so odd to outsiders, there was nowhere
else for me to go with my unbearable grief.
I've never been one to look back and sigh. Rather, I've always
enjoyed waking to the palette of a new day and beginning to paint
anew. Nevertheless, there seems to be something rewarding (and, no
doubt age-related) about assessing one's relationships and
wondering whether or not one has kindled enough friendship flames
to keep himself warm in the years to come. Looking into the faces
of my precious and hard-won friends over the past few weeks has
given me great joy. In fact, there isn't a face in that crowd that
I wouldn't want to see again and again in the years to come as we,
together, leave behind footprints that can only grow lighter with
each step as we dance our way toward tomorrow.
Enjoyed this article? Sign up for the daily JWR update. It's free. Just click here. JewishWorldReview.com contributor Andrea Simantov is a Jerusalem-based columnist and single mother of six. Comments by clicking here.
A pear for my father
© 2007, Andrea Simantov. This column first appeared in Orange County Jewish Life | ||||||||||||
As we reluctantly separated a few hours later, it was clear that one's personal history is often etched in the little moments with only occasional opportunity to work-itself into a "life-tome." We are writing our biographies one day, one meeting, and one relationship at a time.
