MY TEARS AND THE TREE

MY TEARS & THE TREE

by Joy Krauthammer

Giving up his regular Mincha prayer retreat time one afternoon to meet with me, Rabbi Shaya Isenberg took me into the forest. He told me that this forest was a metaphor for what lies ahead of me: the "Age-ing and Sage-ing" of my life experience coming alive. Reb Shaya showed me the serene peaceful grove of tall California Redwood trees, and I looked toward the canopy of branches where sky and light were barely visible. In awe, I promised to return later on my own: I did, each day in silence or song. These were not lengthy stays for meditation, but rather for mini-mikvehs / rituals of receiving purifying tree energy.

As I believe in the Divine healing energy of the trees, I would stop in Elysium Park, Los Angeles, on the way to visit my husband, Marcel Krauthammer, z'l as he lay for six months on artificial life-support, journeying toward his 'end-of-life' passage. I would walk barefoot in the grass, connecting with nature's life force and the Divine essence within myself, taking deep breaths to nourish me and to bring with me to Marcel: 100 plus years old tall palm tree energy. Now that Marcel's soul has been released from its earthly vessel, I invited Marcel's neshamah / soul to join me in the forest of Redwood trees.

On our retreat's Shabbat in the forest, Ruach Ha Aretz participants were called upon to choose and make a pilgrimage to one of the tall Redwood trees in the sacred grove, "To see and be seen before G*d". We had been asked by the Shabbat rabbi to bring our personal gift to the tree. I knew of course what my gift is--MY JOY. It is true, authentic, mine to share (inspiring and elevating, I am told) thus a good gift from me. My kinds and levels of joy are: sasoon, simcha, rena, gila, ditza, chedva, aliza, tzahala, sos, tosis, tochah / deep inner joy, celebration, rejoicing (in song), jubilation, pleasure, delight and more. (If I were an Eskimo, they would be my varieties of snow–transmissions of Divine wisdom.) I felt like one of Rebbe Nachman's "Seven Beggars" at the wedding in the forest, offering a gift to the bridal couple, "To be as I am."

After scanning the grove, I found my tree facing me, waiting for me, straight ahead. I went forward as I was being guided, and Panim el Panim / face to face, I met my tree. I found my space, an opening a little to the left of the others who already surrounded the tree. I touched and embraced the tree, though it appeared indifferent to me. I placed and pressed my full upright body upon my tree's broad trunk, trying to meld with and cleave to my tree. I tenderly placed my face on the tree trunk's delicate brown bark, smelling its glory. We exchanged energies. I was in Yirah / awe. I needed my neshamah to 'let G*d in'. Making contact, immediately I gently cried. If at the Kotel / the Wailing Wall, I would have done the same.

What surprised me was that as I encountered my tree, unexpectedly and instantaneously a flash of insight came to me: In addition to the expectation of giving my JOY, my pure gift to the tree was my TEARS. MY HOLY TEARS.

Tears come mamash / truly from deep inside of me, from a well of blessings (sustaining me, and measuring, like a barometer), from my heart, from sadness, suffering, mourning the absence of a loved one, grieving, pain, loss, memories mostly; These sublime tears are not from joy. These tears: beyond words, thoughts, insights, come from Emunah / faith, Emet / higher truth, from my Neshamah's / soul journey and purpose of destiny.

I knew the tradition that all of the Gates of Heaven are closed since the destruction of the Temple, except for one: the Gate of Tears. Like snow, gentle or hard droplets are mystical intermediaries between heaven and earth, spiritual channeled energy falling out of eyes;

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Transmissions of Divine wisdom. Being with strangers, I had tried to restrain myself from crying that week. Mainly, I had dry, silent, stopped up tears. I needed to enter an open gate, and to unlock the emotions, the well of tears.

Wet tears within me have dripped, dropped, trickled, descended, fallen, leaked, flowed, flooded, poured, burst, erupted, deluged, gushed, streamed, spewed, spurted, and broken out, been limitless, bottomless, and really messed my eye glasses, blurring my outer vision! Tears were dried fountains, monuments of salt from inner battles and external wars.

Tears are my transparency. Because from this journey of life and death I can share them with trustful souls who have compassion and chesed / loving kindness for me, and they can witness my tears. The tree--a sharing tree, I believe, has space for my tears and can appreciate them, and maybe even use them, transform them. What can be learned from my tears? Our sages say that, "Tears bathe the soul." My tears are mini-mikvehs. Like rain, tears cleanse me allowing my essence to shine more clearly. My tears are an opening for a release, a 'letting go' of physical expression of my feelings.

Tears are where I 'let G*d in'.

My tears are a gift from my broken and humbled heart, and soul which have been slowly healing; a place where G*d can enter through the 'gate of tears'. What blessings the tears are in their ability to be released, healing, and to unclog my heart! My tears come from memories, love, from sorrow, from brokenness, aloneness, alienation, vulnerability, insecurity, fear, and from facing my future. The past, present and future.

With my tears, my joy balances my soul. Why are tears a gift? The harder I cry out to G*d, the deeper is my joy. Affirming and releasing my essence, I feel more in harmony with HaShem, The Compassionate One. My courageously revealed essence, I realize, is an act of love. The soft gentle tears from my heart is affirmation of my being touched with reminders of life, of vitality. The tears and the joy are what my soul is and expresses.

My tears are a mirror to my soul.

My tears come from an abundance of trials--the challenges that I have been though. Tears are from being triumphant, and from having control removed from me, and from my understanding, acceptance, and need to surrender to G*d. Tears come from compassion and empathy for others. Blurring tears are from blessings, although hidden, to be later revealed. My weeping brings me to wholeness and unity with connection to Oneness, to The Source.

My tears, my holy tears as well as my joy, are my gift.

At the tree, I was given the gift to be present / Henayni, open to the spiritual opportunity in front of me, and to yield to the moment. My initial intention had been to make an offering of joy. Upon arrival at my tree, however, I was given a deeper gift.

I am more transparent to the transcendent flow of sweet Divinity and G*d consciousness within me, through me and around me during my mysterious passage through life.

Through my tears, I have gained clarity and illumination, which is what I had hoped to achieve with my mini visits into the forest. I received insight and truth toward my ‘Age-ing and Sage-ing’. I felt greater inner spiritual expansion and physical renewal. My tears and joy allow Light to enter so I can accept my combined truth of destiny.

In Intensive Care Unit (ICU) waiting rooms, where life' s sacred cycle of death was imminent or happening, I discovered that visible tears of women are equalizing-- the same from people of different ages, races, cultures, beliefs, and of warring nations sitting together in caring and compassion. Tears soften us and we embrace each other finding comfort and encouragement by sharing with others and The Divine One. In mixed bereavement groups, the tears became fewer with a vision of hope for healing with help from the Source of All BlesSings.

"Tears flow up. When you see someone's tears flowing down from their eyes, they are not going down... Gevalt, are they going up--to heaven. Gevalt, are they going up. When somebody is crying, G*d gives you the greatest, deepest privilege, to kiss away their tears."

- Reb Shlomo Carlebach, z"l 

May you be blessed that The Compassionate One has a clear healing path to your heart

through your brokenness, your tears, and your joy.

~ ~ ~

Joy Krauthammer, MBA, a spiritual Jewish woman (a purple loving "holy sister") “Serves G*d in Joy”, is a visual and performing artist (playing timbrels of Miriyahm HaNeviyah in sacred spaces), and is a sound healer, living in Northridge, CA.

"There is nothing more complete than a broken heart." - Rav Menachem Mendel of Kotzk

HONOR the SOUL of the DECEASED

Ways I Have Honored the Soul of the Deceased, 

Marcel, Menachem EliMelech

http://marcel-my-husband.blogspot.com/2011/02/honoring-deceased.html

by Joy Krauthammer

July 2012

Since Marcel, z"l, died, I have consciously continually honored his memory, his Neshama, in all traditional ways.

It is important to me to traditionally have a Jewish child NAMED after a deceased loved one.

Marcel's and my daughter Aviva Leba is named for my mother, Libby, z"l. With traditional wisdom of naming, I spoke to my rabbis and daughter and son-in-law of the importance of a baby's name and Neshama.

One week ago when I was visiting (during a major hurricane and, oy, a week-long blackout) Marcel's first grandchild, when baby Maya Sage was two weeks old, her parents accompanied her to her local synagogue, when Torah was being read. Aviva and baby had a traditional MiSheberach prayer said for them, while Brett had an Aliyah. Aviva benched gomel.

At the Torah, Baby was given the Hebrew name of Maya Nechama, named for her grandfather, Menachem, z'l. Amayn.

Maya Sage is also named for her other 3 grandparents, whose names begin with "S".

Maya peacefully slept the entire time, not requesting her regular milk meal.

Baby Maya Sage will also soon have a Simchat Bat, a large joyous celebration with friends and family.

This naming act with Marcel's name, is the final remaining act that could be done in honor of Marcel. 

He must be smiling in Shmayim.

~ ~ ~

I ensured that Marcel had a proper Jewish burial, with Tahara, Shomer, and Tachrichin by Chevra Kadisha, and I designed and ordered a kosher casket.

I paid for a pleasant cemetery plot in a Jewish cemetery.

I arranged for rabbis and honorary pall bearers that Marcel would like, as we had discussed years before.

I arranged for a funeral time so that disabled brother could come in time.

I arranged for the Mourner's Kaddish and a Minyan in full accordance with Jewish law and tradition.

I arranged for males in different cities to regularly say Kaddish.

For Marcel's levaya / funeral, I wrote a loving invite letter to all.

I arranged funeral procession through a fire-lit memorial garden so that Marcel's Neshama could find comfort.

I had traditional mourning rites with Kriah / a torn garment and ribbon.

I sat Shiva and covered mirrors. (I walked around the block.)

For viewing by mourners and guests, I arranged tables of Marcel's memorabilia and photos of him.

I arranged for shiva meals for guests, and for us to be hosted at friends' home.

I arranged for obituaries for Marcel. I had Marcel honored in the press.

I answered all condolence correspondence and shared with his friends, family and colleagues.

I give Tzadakah in Marcel's name.

I donated a bronze memorial plaque in Marcel's name at Chabad.

I had a candle lit in a synagogue (Chabad) every day for the first year, in honor of his departed soul.
The candle is lit at Chabad on every yahrzeit and every yiskor. I go 5 times yearly to say Kaddish.

Marcel's name was also recited in synagogues across the globe, Maryland, Boston, New York, Scottsdale, and Israel at Hadassah Hospital.

I purchased Marcel's Bar Mitzvah Parsha to be written in a new Torah at Shomrei Torah Synaogue.

Additional Parshas were also written by his mother, and by Aviva at her shul.

I planted purple iris flower-filled gardens in Marcel's name at LA's Barlow Respiratory Hospital.

For Marcel, I very carefully and conscientiously designed, and purchased a beautiful Matzeivah / gravestone, and also a pillowblock/a head stone.

Marcel had requested only a standing granite stone, per family history; I had to settle for a flat stone, trying to appease his Neshama. I make sure the grounds are kept up, in perpetual memory.

I arranged for and led a loving Hakamat Matzeivah unveiling full ceremony, with friends and family present.

My Mitzvot increased in his name, and I inspired my daughter to do the same.

I studied Torah in the name of Marcel.

Books were donated in the memory of Marcel.

Each year In synagogue during Pesach, Shavuot, Shemini Atzeret, and Yom Kippur, I have recited Yizkor/memorial prayer.

Every year on his Yahrzeit, I say prayers in shul, and at Marcel's grave, recite Psalms.

I regularly visit the gravesite. I invited his friends to visit.

I place a pebble on the gravestone to mark my presence.

I prepare pebbles for others to leave their mark.

I call our daughter from the gravesite and on speaker have her say hello. (My daughter visits.)

I plant by the gravestone.

I clean the gravestone of debris.

I paid for the gravesite to be cared for, without weeds or overgrown.

Marcel's gravesite has a bench to sit on. Colorful trees to enjoy and many flowers. Hawks soar overhead the hills.

I created a filled website in Marcel's memory.

I have scanned photos of Marcel for family, friends and website.

I created a large memory book for Marcel.

For Marcel's first few Yahrzeits, in his memory, I organized and played at musical events.

In Marcel's name, I created and donated Hope art for a Holocaust quilt.
In Marcel's name, I created Memorial Flame cards to comfort the bereaved in their own losses.

A new baby, Maya Sage Nechama Sivan, has been named in Marcel's memory. Amayn.

I made a generous contribution to that naming synagogue for Marcel's Neshama and baby name.

In Marcel's name, z"l, I stood up for him and fought for Tzedek / justice until met.

For Marcel and his mother, I speak weekly to her for Shabbat.
I encourage that baby Maya visit Marcel's mother.

With love and traditional loyalty,

a new Bubbie,

and widow (Yes, 6 1/2 years later, I've now used the "w" word)

Joy

~ ~ ~

WAITING

WAITING

- Joy Krauthammer

4/7/2013

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Oh! Ann recognized me from an hour or so earlier when I organized the spontaneous take over of the Men's Room because the Ladies Room line in between conference sessions was way too long, and I did not want to wait!  Years earlier in my MBA program, I had learned a lesson: "Where there is a need, fill it!" The few men cleared out and the Men's Room was ours! We filled it! Another guy did come in and used a stall but we needy women mostly ignored him. No waiting! (See photos)

Immediately prior to the Art Therapy workshop and at the end of the Poetry Therapy session at the UCLA all-day conference, "ON THE EDGE OF CHAOS: FINDING flow & resilience THROUGH Creativity & the Arts",  I think we had also just experienced 'performance art' in the Men's Room.

During the Poetry Therapy session I shared the few words that my husband, z"l/obm would speak about in his own life filled with metastatic brain cancer. 

"I don't want to live; all I want to do is die. Take a gun and shoot me." Bam!

Marcel would say this to me, to friends, and even to strangers upon introduction when he was asked, "How are you?"

The workshop had been given by Dr. Robert Carroll, a poet and psychiatrist who focuses in his field on brain cancer patients, giving them the ability to express their thoughts and feelings through poetry. I wish that for a moment when I chose this workshop to attend, that I had recalled (having heard him speak before) Dr. Carroll's focused specialty, and realized how I could again react. Hearing him refer to a UCLA Neuro-Oncology symposium on brain cancer held in this same building, put an immediate unpleasant feeling, a straightening jolt in my body, alerting me to the traumatic past.  The PTSD was unwelcome. As if only yesterday, quickly my mind went back to 1988, 25 years earlier. Only a few buildings away in the hospital, Marcel, from two post-brain surgeries, had been comatose for three months on life-support, and filled with medical tubes.

Dr. Carroll recited his own personal medical poem "What Waiting Is".  Bedside, I had waited daily for three months in the UCLA hospital for Marcel to regain consciousness. All the other patients with head-bandages, got up and left after their five days post-surgery. Not us. While Dr. Carroll stood and recited his poem, I sat forward and catching his eyes, I looked straight at him intently listening, not looking at the poem on paper. I related all too well to "waiting" through all the difficult medical experiences and two-dozen surgeries. When the poet MD was through reciting, I wanted to respond with my own writing and insights on the blank paper in front of me, but there was no time for our group to write.

I had shared out loud that I felt it was a great gift to teach Poetry Therapy, and offer people a cathartic opportunity to express themselves. (In the early 1970's I had known Dr. Jack Leedy, founder of Poetry Therapy, because we worked in the same Brooklyn hospital.) My husband for the 18 years of his cancer (no adjectives suffice) didn't write about it emotionally, but only to keep a hand-written factual medical journal in a little book; Lots of details. Only once Marcel complained to me, when pain was so bad, and that he otherwise would never tell me about the pain so as not to upset me. Instead of writing about the pain, or living life with cancer and treatments, Marcel loved humor and wrote jokes.

What I had wanted to share in session after hearing the poem about "waiting", is that when in the ICU waiting room, it does not matter what culture, race, or religion one is; Black, White, Asian, European, Jewish, Arab, what wars are fought between peoples-- we are all present for our loved ones, waiting in cold rooms for hours, overnight, days, weeks, months, with others waiting in fear, horror, stress, concern and love, in the unknown, maybe with tears, maybe with visitors keeping us warm. We embrace the stranger. We feel for the stranger. We empathize with the stranger.  We hear each others' stories. We hear their foreign languages. See their foreign outer garments.  We are all in the same small waiting room and we wait. Maybe we have ethnic snacks to share. Maybe we recognize others (even our own internist because their grandma is sick/dying) and we learn of their loved ones. Maybe we even keep up those bonds formed in the ICU when our loved ones die and are buried, and we even see the others' loved ones'  gravestones and artifacts left in love. We remember our humanity, and it didn't matter how different we are on the outside, but that our hearts and souls have been touched by love and compassion, maybe tribal commonalities, and maybe even by fun colorful socks.

~ ~ ~