A Grave Situation

The first of my multitude of cousin’s has died suddenly of a heart attack. He was in his mid thirties, leaving behind a loving wife and two adopted Down Syndrome infants.

Baruch Da’ayan Emet

Pondering the inevitability of death and its often, sudden manifestation reminded me of something a young lady mentioned to me once. Tina and I were driving through her neighborhood for the first time and she pointed out to me many of its historic sites. One site in particular elicited more of a discussion than I would’ve imagined. That site was a very old graveyard. Apparently, there was a tour which she had availed herself of some time ago. She took notice of how many graves were of young women in their late teens and early twenties as well as many babies, infants and young children. Clearly, childbearing was a dangerous business back then. Even today it is fraught with risks but in the past without our technology, death and childbirth were joined at the hip.

I remarked how devastating the loss of a child would be for the mother. To my surprise, Tina proceeded to ‘enlighten’ me that death due to disease and complications of pregnancy was a common occurrence and thus it was accepted. She put it in terms that seemed to express that women of old had come to accept this as a natural consequence of life and as such had shielded themselves in preparation. Mentally, they resisted forming strong bonds with their infants in anticipation of disaster.

I was flabbergasted at Tina’s remarks. She has quite a few children of her own and I asked her how she felt the first instant she saw her first child. I recalled my own experience where I felt so incredibly linked and bonded with my daughter the moment I saw her. Did she not experience the same? She claimed she did but then maintained that in the past women had to shore themselves up to protect themselves against the pain of a very plausible loss. I prodded further stating emphatically that I believed that sentiment was contrary to human nature especially from a mother. I could entertain the thought that people prepared themselves for the harshness of reality and even accepted the inevitable but I could not and still cannot fathom such a level of detachment. From what I recall, all the pregnant (and post-partum) women I ever met were much more emotional about things rather than less. Tina refused to acquiesce and I obstinately maintained my disbelief.

And there the conversation ended dead in its tracks.

In Golf We Trust?

As I trudged through The Brother’s Karamazov, I began to contemplate God. God is infinite and so it seems are the words in this novel. Yet it made me pause for some self-reflection.

People are swept along with the trends of the time. Things that are fashionable achieve not only legitimacy but achieve a foothold in the mind. They become sought after; they become the focus of a person’s desires. In fact, the individual is so influenced by these cultural trends that such a person convinces himself that this is truly what he wants and what would make him happy. Take for example golf. As a child, I had no interest in putting such a ball around and neither did any of my friends. But sure enough when country-club-awareness manifested suddenly everybody loved golf. The doctors and lawyers loved it so much they couldn’t get enough. I suppose after a while anything can grow on you but my point is that these people in all likelihood convinced themselves that they liked golf and so they ultimately did. I am not the type that specifically rejects the popular culture whether to make a bold statement of individuality or to play the rebel. If I like what is trendy I follow and if not I don’t let societal trends hold sway over me.

I bring this up as a self-check with respects to my choice of literature. I have read some very intriguing ideas from Richard Elliot Friedman where he incorporated concepts from Dostoyevsky and Nietzsche. Those ideas led me to read The Brother’s Karamazov. I have already mentioned how insufferably long the book is yet I began convincing myself that I must like it because those I respect like it and because the literati consider it a masterpiece. There are certainly grand ideas I do appreciate but it’s too damn long. If you can’t get your point across in 5 minutes, you have lost your audience (or at least me).

So why did these authors write soooo much? 100 years ago before TV or the Internet, people must have had way too much time on their hand. To eliminate the rampant ennui, Dostoyevsky and Dickens and whole cadre of others generated works of fiction grossly disproportional to what was necessary to expound plot and idea. Perhaps, people read the books over weeks at a time, chapter after chapter acting in much the same manner as we watch the long-running mini-series we now so look forward to. This drawn out process allowed for reflection on ideas and discussion with peers. Oh, how the reader must have eagerly anticipated another super-sized novel with their yet to be super-sized fries.

Then again, maybe the authors were paid by the word or perhaps possessed verbal diarrhea. And now, we are all made to suffer the results.

Kabbalah After Forty

When I was somewhat younger, I took affront to the stipulation that Kabbalah should only be studied after the age of forty. I should be able to grasp these grand and deep concepts as surely as I had grasped philosophy or physics in university. Truth be told, this was more an exhibition of arrogance than a real desire to learn Kabbalah.

Now, although, I am not yet forty but rapidly approaching, I have found occasion to reconsider the dictate regarding age requirements for study of Kabbalah. At first glance it is easy to equate age-appropriateness to learning. I see this on every assignment that my children receive; I make a mental note whether it is really within the realm of their capabilities as such. But consider the fine minds that roam the halls of Columbia University or some other great college. Surely those inclined to seek a greater depth of knowledge possess the skills necessary to acquire it. Yet, I have come to believe this is not entirely so; for age and life experience are not only the greatest teachers but they provide the template with which to evaluate the validity of all acquired knowledge.

The impetus for these thoughts stem from reading The Brother’s Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Had I been forced to read this during college, I would have suffocated on the length of the book and many of the amazing insights into life, relationships and the human mind would have been entirely lost on me. Or perhaps, they would be entirely abstract and make less of an impression upon me. Having weathered many a storm in my personal life and profession, I found many of Dostoyevsky’s ideas more than just words on a page or belonging to some abstract piece of fiction but rather an echo of many of my own feelings never before articulated. Here and there, a stray sentence would catch my attention and my eyes widen and my head slowly nods in enlightened recognition.

Then again my approach to reading has changed as well. I look for insight beyond the simple text or plot. Centuries ago scientists used to think the eyes sent out ‘feelers’ or rays to analyze the world around. But we have since come to learn NOT that the eyes tell the brain what to see but the brain tells the eyes what to look for (and that’s why we are fooled by optical illusions). Perhaps we see what we want to see.

So perhaps the impetuosity of youth stems from a lack of perspective attained only through life’s lessons. Through the myopic lens of inexperience, the deeper lessons of Kabbalah or any greater work of literature and the powerful messages expressed in allegory or in fable would become distorted, missed entirely, taken literally, or just plain misinterpreted. It was that very fear that the sages cautioned against early study of Kabbalah.