This Tuesday will be Eddie’s yahrzeit, the anniversary of his death (according to the Hebrew calendar). Eddie took his last breath early in the morning of Rosh Hashana, the Jewish new year. According to Jewish tradition, a person who dies before worship begins on Rosh Hashana is considered “tzadik,” a title given to the righteous. Some would say that his fate was sealed the year before, but that G-d waited the entire year—until the very last moment—for Eddie to die, because of his goodness.
A yahrzeit is a time for reflection and remembrance. We light a memorial candle that burns for 24 hours. In Hebrew the candle is called Ner Neshama, which means "a candle for the soul." Pictured above is the electric candle that belonged to Eddie's parents and which we've used in our family for decades. During these past few days leading up to Eddie’s yahrzeit, I’ve been considering the things I’ve learned since he died and thought I’d share some of them here:
I’ve learned that grief is not something I can get over. It’s something I must learn to carry with me. I’ve learned that I can’t return to the person I was before Eddie died, because that person doesn’t exist anymore.
I’ve learned that sorrow doesn’t end.
I’ve learned to let joy make an appearance every now and then and to not feel guilty about it. I’m learning to become someone new, someone who can carry both sorrow and joy, darkness and light in my head and in my heart.
I’ve learned that there are lots of things I have to figure out and do on my own, but that there are certain people I can always count on to help. I’ve learned I’m stronger and more resourceful than I thought I was.
I’ve learned that being alone doesn’t necessarily mean being lonely.
I’ve learned to let myself feel a hundred different emotions a day and to honor each one of them. I've learned that waves of grief can turn me inside out and upside down without any advanced warning. I've learned it's possible to miss someone so much that it's hard to keep moving forward.
I’ve learned that breaking down at the bank or the farmer’s market or our favorite restaurant is alright and that everyone understands. I’ve learned that if I need a good cry all I have to do is listen to a certain song.
I’ve learned that being creative can be lifesaving. That throwing my anger, fear, sadness and frustration onto a piece of canvas can actually make me feel better. I'm constantly learning to trust that process.
I’ve learned that what Eddie and I had was extraordinary.
I’ve learned to let Eddie into every room, to sit with him in the darkness, to let him comfort me when I’m troubled, to let him laugh with me, to let him continue to love me.
I've received countless poems about love and loss from thoughtful friends and family this year. One of my favorites is from Kim Stafford (he wrote the poetry for my book “I Hope You Find What You’re Looking For):
Gone, Not Gone
By Kim Stafford
Some may say he’s gone, but the heart
knows otherwise – the heart knows
he’s on his way, he’s about to call, he’s
coming close, a step in the next room,
a stirring just beyond the door.
For the heart knows his way with words
is here, brightening the room, his stories
about to be told again, his eager love still
spilling over us, like last light in treetops
making this life golden, even at dusk.
As we mind the facts, honoring change,
the heart goes on believing this true mystery:
he’s in this room with us, he’s in us, for us.
how else can we explain this love
the heart will always feel for him?
