When I was in high school I felt that documenting my life
was one of the most important things I could do. I took pictures wherever I
went and bought plain photo albums, filling about 4 of them with pictures from
my teenage years. I decorated the covers with magazine clippings, making
montages with all-things grunge, like Doc Martens, quotes from Pearl Jam and
Nirvana, and phrases like “inspire”, “friendship is forever”, “no to conformity”
and the like. The puff paint has worn away on the covers, but there’s still
enough residue to make out the part that says: ”My Life (fill in the year)”.
My dream back then was to open up the albums at some point
in the future, and look back wistfully at a time when we were happy, inspired,
principled; when we saw the world as if every avenue was open to us. I imagined
going through the pages with my children, sharing stories of my adolescence.
Yet those photo albums have been on the same shelves for
years; unopened, not shared. There’s even a thin layer of dust on some of them.
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| My Life: 1996. Grunge photos are on the back! |
I may have fantasized about all possibilities that the
future held for us, but I never imagined that what would bring me to open up
the albums would be the death of one of those friends.
Reva passed away suddenly about a month ago, a young woman
of about 37, daughter, sister, wife, mother of a beautiful toddler. Her death
has shaken me…awoken me from my metaphorical slumber.
We had not kept in touch for years, but I thought of her
often. Not surprisingly, she wasn’t a Facebook user (she always did like her
privacy), so I didn’t receive many updates about her life. Yet her death
brought together a once close-knit group from high school who are now scattered
across the world. For a small group that once shared a one-room synagogue and
one small hallway that comprised our high school (yes, our school and shul were that small.), the distance that now
separates us is tremendous.
Last week, we relied on an online memorial ceremony to gather
together, sharing memories of Reva. How ironic to use an online social networking tool to remember a friend who valued her privacy offline. Friends recounted a vibrant young woman who
was dedicated, principled, loved to question and share ideas. She didn’t
see the value in small-talk; she thrived on making real friendships based on
deep, authentic conversations.
This online memorial was actually the second one I
participated in this summer. In early August, we commemorated the first
yartzeit of Ayala Pamela, another friend of mine and young mother who passed
away at the age of 40 from breast cancer five weeks after her diagnosis. Her
illness spurred groups around the globe to pray on her behalf, yet within five
weeks, she left this world for a loftier one. (For those curious, we used Google Hangouts and Skype.)
These were two simple, deeply soulful women who had strong,
authentic friendships. Both of the memorial ceremonies included friends who
logged in from their living rooms from around the world. How ironic to use
social media - meant to connect people together- for mourning the loss of the
deceased, especially for one who chose not to even have any Facebook presence. Yet
these online ceremonies were powerful, cathartic, inspiring.
A few weeks ago, an
Israeli friend once saw my collection of photo albums and commented that I was
‘too sentimental”. I keep too much stuff from the past, she said.
If only she knew the extent of it, I thought.
I made those albums for posterity; so I’d always be able to
remind myself of my youth and the inspiring people who gave me the foundations that
built who I am as a person. For me,
there is no such thing as being too sentimental; there is documenting your
roots so you can always know from where you came. The memories of Reva and Ayala will go on
specifically because there are sentimental friends out there who wish to
document their lives and remember their legacies.
Losing these two friends has reminded me that life is short. It’s crucial to concentrate on what is
fundamentally important. It is easy to get caught up with everyday life and its
challenges, its frustrations and annoyances. We sometimes forget about the
people who have led the way to our successes and accomplishments. More
frequently, we take for granted how quickly it can all be taken from us.
How apropos for Elul.
Admittedly, I am wistful this time of year, for that time
when we would see our closest friends every day, in person and not over a
computer screen.
I am wistful for the time when we had our mentors accessible
to us, guiding us, teaching us, inspiring us.
I am wistful for when life was
simple.
I am wistful for a time when the framework and rules were
clear; when we questioned as much as we wanted, aspiring for clarity and truth.
Little did we know that adulthood would bring so many unanswered questions, mainly
where the justice is in taking away two wonderful women who created families of
their own, who left a host of loyal friends who gather together across the
globe to share memories of how much they meant to them.
My lesson from mourning these two friends is not to wait until
another friend passes on to contact them. Pick up the phone, go visit. Spend Shabbat together,
and yes bring your spouses and children. They should get to know each other simply because you are all meaningful to each other. If you choose to meet for coffee during the week, you will
survive leaving work early, taking a slightly longer lunch break and don’t
worry, your spouse will figure out how to make dinner for the kids. While you
can, go spend time with the people who inspire you to be exactly who you truly
are or aspire to be.…
Sadly, the deaths of two young women, Reva and Ayala Pamela, were the catalysts for such
a reflection. I hope to use our time here in this world to stay connected with and impacted by people whom I cherish.
