I am not a believer, and yesterday I had a sacred, holy vision. I felt the touch of grace.
I sat in synagogue while my lovely cousin Elana read her Bat Mitvah parshah in Hebrew . The second longest of the year, it took her a while -- she did it beautifully -- and I had time to consider how to write, finally, about Gedalya.
I had with me my moleskin and a book of obscure translations. My mother-in-law Lola affectionately calls these my security blankets, as I have them always, tucked under my thigh.
But I could not write in synagogue, so I went over my ideas again and again, and thus the vision unfolded. I realized how perfect it it was, how it gave me at last the way in to this extraordinary man, to finally write his post.
I watched Elana's parents, Mitch and Sharon, in profile: beaming, tearful faces as they watched her sing the Hebrew. I considered how Gedalya's daughter Ethel -- Mitch's mother -- would feel today, if she and Mitch's father hadn't died tragically young, from overwork. They set Mitch on his legal career and his sister Melanie into college and beyond. How proud they would be.
I meditated on Yom Hashoah coming the next day, and how it happens to be my youngest daughter' sweet 16 birthday as well.
And I saw it all, felt it all, in one radiant, sustained revelation: how to tell Gedalya's story. I transcended memorization. The very act of holding onto my idea gave it pulsing life, and it filled the bema and embraced everyone in shul, everyone on earth.
I had with me my moleskin and a book of obscure translations. My mother-in-law Lola affectionately calls these my security blankets, as I have them always, tucked under my thigh.
But I could not write in synagogue, so I went over my ideas again and again, and thus the vision unfolded. I realized how perfect it it was, how it gave me at last the way in to this extraordinary man, to finally write his post.
I watched Elana's parents, Mitch and Sharon, in profile: beaming, tearful faces as they watched her sing the Hebrew. I considered how Gedalya's daughter Ethel -- Mitch's mother -- would feel today, if she and Mitch's father hadn't died tragically young, from overwork. They set Mitch on his legal career and his sister Melanie into college and beyond. How proud they would be.
I meditated on Yom Hashoah coming the next day, and how it happens to be my youngest daughter' sweet 16 birthday as well.
And I saw it all, felt it all, in one radiant, sustained revelation: how to tell Gedalya's story. I transcended memorization. The very act of holding onto my idea gave it pulsing life, and it filled the bema and embraced everyone in shul, everyone on earth.
The vision, the fullness of it, must wait until the end.
Now the hero, rescuer, smuggler, soldier, veteran of 5 marriages and two live-in girlfriends, raconteur, and relentless worker gets his story told. Now Gedalya speaks.
--
We went to his apartment in Co-op city when he was in his late 80's, my wife Deborah and I, and at the last minute Lola came along. Back then she was still finding her voice, her bravery about facing all the details of her life during the war. She was a hidden child, and Gedalya -- George -- rescued her. We brought a tape recorder with us, to finally try to make sense of all the fragments and anecdotes. To find the sequence.
We sat in his tidy but run-down kitchen.
"He was alone. Walking? behind the next house, over the stone wall. I took my rifle," here he bends to tap my forehead with two tremulous fingers, "bam!"
You shot him?
"I killed him, that goddamn Nazi!"
See him: Five foot no inches, thin with a pot belly, veins pulsing under translucent parchment skin, hair in wisps over splotched scalp, eyes concentric bulls-eyes of cloudy pupil, then greyblue then indistinct brown then yellow sclera with pink threads.
But he fixes me with a firm look that says: give me a rifle. I'll kill another one, right now.
--
We went to his apartment in Co-op city when he was in his late 80's, my wife Deborah and I, and at the last minute Lola came along. Back then she was still finding her voice, her bravery about facing all the details of her life during the war. She was a hidden child, and Gedalya -- George -- rescued her. We brought a tape recorder with us, to finally try to make sense of all the fragments and anecdotes. To find the sequence.
We sat in his tidy but run-down kitchen.
"He was alone. Walking? behind the next house, over the stone wall. I took my rifle," here he bends to tap my forehead with two tremulous fingers, "bam!"
You shot him?
"I killed him, that goddamn Nazi!"
See him: Five foot no inches, thin with a pot belly, veins pulsing under translucent parchment skin, hair in wisps over splotched scalp, eyes concentric bulls-eyes of cloudy pupil, then greyblue then indistinct brown then yellow sclera with pink threads.
But he fixes me with a firm look that says: give me a rifle. I'll kill another one, right now.
With Edith, his last wife and sweet love of his life.At my wedding to Deborah, in Soho.
He carried a wicked switchblade for decades, in his 60's-style zippered Beatles boots. The family joke was: by the time he fumbled it into his fist he would be dead twice. At least twice.
After his funeral, at his apartment, my wife went straight for that knife and claimed it.
In the DP camps after the war he "adopted" Lola, Deb's mother (his niece), so technically he was a grand uncle. He was called Grandfather, "my uncle", papa, George, but most of all: Gedalya.
He was hilarious. He told such jokes. He sometimes then offered different punchlines in Polish, Russian, Hungarian, Yiddish. Once he turned to me, as everyone around the passover table was laughing and pounding the table, "in English it's...well...it's not so funny." Screams of more laughter. He times a lull, then says: "Something, I dunno, like: 'give a peasant shit, not a watch' " I was hysterical too, though I never did get the joke.
He drove until he was in his 90s. Once, trying to get onto the Palisades, in his rundown 70's gas-guzzling boat of a car, he actually got out of his car, (on-ramp traffic piling up behind us, horns constant) hitched his pants up to his armpits (belt AND suspenders) and peered at the traffic, looking for a gap. Us screaming at him: "get back in the car! waddyadoin?" then he toddles back in, gets the car in gear, inches forward, and curses. At the "gap" he saw, being, of course 3 minutes further up the Parkway by now.
Every Friday he would call to wish us "gut Shabbos". Never "hello", or "this is George". Once I picked up and he said "Graigh? Listen: Shabbat Shalom, and listen: don't step over a dollar. Okeh, that's all." Dial tone. Me saying: "George? that you?"
Another Friday afternoon I picked up and heard: "Graigh? Vatssizesuitchoo?" I said "George?" he said " Vat.size.suitchoo?" "Um, I guess a 44 long, but..." "Ok I got suit for you, and shoes. You'll come Sunday. Shabbat Shalom. And listen: buy low, sell high. Okeh." Dial tone.
We went on Sunday. Whenever one of his friends died up in the Bronx he would snag some things from the guy's closet. This, by the way, is how he got two of his six wives, too. Short-lived, their widowhood.
He shows me a suit that was popular for 15 minutes in the early 70's, and even then only among his Jewish-Polish ex-pat community of hotsy-totsy bachelor-hipster pals. Mud brown, with a disco/wild west yoke thing, and a sewn-in patent leather white belt on the suit jacket. Elastic waistline. Wide lapels. Visible high-contrast yellow thread stitching.
He made me try it on. The pant cuffs came to just below my knees. The waistband had room for 1.5 more Graighs. The jacket: I shot my arms out: "look!" The sleeves ended on my forearms. Peeved, he says: "Shu-ah, when you do THIS!" imitating me. "Just keep your arms down!"
We won't even discuss the shoes.
We won't even discuss the shoes.
__
His first wife and child died in the camps. He enlisted in the Polish army when Germany invaded, and wasn't there when the Einzatsgruppen liquidated his town.
Stalin was partners with Hitler until the invasion, and had ambitions for Poland. But the Polish Army was 19th century -- they met the Wehrmact tank blitz with cavalry -- so Stalin had no use for the Polish units. George's was pointlessly marched and cattle-car'ed to central Asia. George told us "Afghanistan". George would have none of it. He escaped. It took a year of walking and conniving but he made it back to Europe.
To pose as a German businessman, in Germany, and to become a smuggler. How did he do it? He trimmed his moustache into tight thin lines, adopted an imperious, arrogant persona. His pre-war work as an "entrepreneur" made smuggling easy.
In Germany he had a dog. He named it "Hitler". In stories over the years he described it as a ferocious German Shepherd, a "fierce hund" that he abused and kicked mercilessly. Once, in Lola's den, we were looking though a small, recently unearthed cache of pre-war and war pictures, from some musty valise in his closet. One showed a stern young George in a Berlin park, circa '42-43, with a charming, 'our-gang' black and white little mutt on a leash. We asked him: "hey, who's the dog?" George shrugs. "I don't remember."
Lola comes running in from the kitchen, her hands wet from dishes, point in triumph, and says: "That's! Hitler!" George: chagrinned. Later we learn he pampered the little thing. No abuse. He just enjoyed walking him in Berlin, knowing he had Hitler on a leash.
His first wife and child died in the camps. He enlisted in the Polish army when Germany invaded, and wasn't there when the Einzatsgruppen liquidated his town.
Stalin was partners with Hitler until the invasion, and had ambitions for Poland. But the Polish Army was 19th century -- they met the Wehrmact tank blitz with cavalry -- so Stalin had no use for the Polish units. George's was pointlessly marched and cattle-car'ed to central Asia. George told us "Afghanistan". George would have none of it. He escaped. It took a year of walking and conniving but he made it back to Europe.
To pose as a German businessman, in Germany, and to become a smuggler. How did he do it? He trimmed his moustache into tight thin lines, adopted an imperious, arrogant persona. His pre-war work as an "entrepreneur" made smuggling easy.
In Germany he had a dog. He named it "Hitler". In stories over the years he described it as a ferocious German Shepherd, a "fierce hund" that he abused and kicked mercilessly. Once, in Lola's den, we were looking though a small, recently unearthed cache of pre-war and war pictures, from some musty valise in his closet. One showed a stern young George in a Berlin park, circa '42-43, with a charming, 'our-gang' black and white little mutt on a leash. We asked him: "hey, who's the dog?" George shrugs. "I don't remember."
Lola comes running in from the kitchen, her hands wet from dishes, point in triumph, and says: "That's! Hitler!" George: chagrinned. Later we learn he pampered the little thing. No abuse. He just enjoyed walking him in Berlin, knowing he had Hitler on a leash.
Lola wrote a book about her own story.
She tours the country for the
Washington Holocaust museum,
giving talks, and taking with her
the dress she donated to the museum.
The dress she had on when she was
hidden at 7 years. She held onto it
for all 5 years of her war years.
At one point she lived in a hole
in the ground wih 3 others,
for 7 months. The dress is part
She tours the country for the
Washington Holocaust museum,
giving talks, and taking with her
the dress she donated to the museum.
The dress she had on when she was
hidden at 7 years. She held onto it
for all 5 years of her war years.
At one point she lived in a hole
in the ground wih 3 others,
for 7 months. The dress is part
When Lola was liberated by the Russians their unit's captain protected her. Kept her safe, fed her. What else were they going to do? Short, thin, 11-year old blonde, blue-eyed waif. When George was liberated he learned that Lola might have survived, because she was hidden. He immediately went through the Ukraine and Poland looking for family. Understand: a lot of Jews were massacred after the war, returning to eastern European towns, shtetls and farms, only to find their homes occupied. By peasants who killed them to retain ownership, or, worse yet, massacred them in groups just for being Jews. And this went on through 1946.
George established himself in a DP camp (and married again there, having two children with her in Europe) but left it again and again. Risked his life for a year, cadging rides, wheedling.
George established himself in a DP camp (and married again there, having two children with her in Europe) but left it again and again. Risked his life for a year, cadging rides, wheedling.
Try as we did to sort out sequential details with him that afternoon in Co-op City, it still boiled down to: hundreds of rumors, false starts, fortune, accidents.
But he was resolute, relentless.
He finally got a solid lead from a good friend and former neighbor. But he had come down with cholera and dysentery, and was bed-ridden in a Polish soldier's hospital. So he gave the man all his money, and said: go get her.
Picture this: Lola's luck had run out. The Russian officer who protected her was now stabilized in a town, his unit demobilized, and selected refugees were being put on a truck, to be sent ostensibly to far eastern Russia, perhaps Siberia. George's friend arrives in town as this boarding has started, asks around: yes? a girl? Lola.
But he was resolute, relentless.
He finally got a solid lead from a good friend and former neighbor. But he had come down with cholera and dysentery, and was bed-ridden in a Polish soldier's hospital. So he gave the man all his money, and said: go get her.
Picture this: Lola's luck had run out. The Russian officer who protected her was now stabilized in a town, his unit demobilized, and selected refugees were being put on a truck, to be sent ostensibly to far eastern Russia, perhaps Siberia. George's friend arrives in town as this boarding has started, asks around: yes? a girl? Lola.
He finds her.
George and his rescued niece returned to the DP camp. The war ends. He declines any paperwork that doesn't include Lola, so they wait, and in 1947 they all get to come to America: George, his new wife, his two little ones, and Lola, who was raised as their big sister. One of those little ones was Ethel, Mitch's mother and the wild, hilarious, hard-working and big-hearted woman who would have been Elana's grandmother.
Mitch broke down a bit talking about Gedalya and his parents, up on the bema Saturday morning. But he comes from brave and resilient stock, and in his fine family tradition transformed it into hilarity. Everyone, wiping their eyes, laughing, remembering.
__
So at last we return to shul yesterday. My radiant vision.
I have struggled with and at long last succeed at being compassionate. I have learned to shift my inner attention, away from petty family squabbles, political differences, old slights, and wounds. All the usual things we feel when we see our extended family? still they come to me, muted.
George and his rescued niece returned to the DP camp. The war ends. He declines any paperwork that doesn't include Lola, so they wait, and in 1947 they all get to come to America: George, his new wife, his two little ones, and Lola, who was raised as their big sister. One of those little ones was Ethel, Mitch's mother and the wild, hilarious, hard-working and big-hearted woman who would have been Elana's grandmother.
Mitch broke down a bit talking about Gedalya and his parents, up on the bema Saturday morning. But he comes from brave and resilient stock, and in his fine family tradition transformed it into hilarity. Everyone, wiping their eyes, laughing, remembering.
__
So at last we return to shul yesterday. My radiant vision.
I have struggled with and at long last succeed at being compassionate. I have learned to shift my inner attention, away from petty family squabbles, political differences, old slights, and wounds. All the usual things we feel when we see our extended family? still they come to me, muted.
It was easier than usual yesterday, watching Elana read Torah, feeling again the joy I felt when two of my daughters did the same, some years ago. Loving these people, leaving in my quiver what the Dali Lama calls the "arrows" of distraction and anger and self-regard. Feeling suffused wih acceptance and the primary colors of love for my family. As we are, as we really are.
And as Gedalya was mentioned, his warrior spirit, I felt gratitude for Lola across the aisle, my wife and children next to me, all of them here because of his grit and dedication and selflessness. Then Yom Hashoah services were announced, and my heart was an immense whirlpool for all the millions of Jews who suffered and died, whose Gedalyas were lost. Who were not rescued.
And as Gedalya was mentioned, his warrior spirit, I felt gratitude for Lola across the aisle, my wife and children next to me, all of them here because of his grit and dedication and selflessness. Then Yom Hashoah services were announced, and my heart was an immense whirlpool for all the millions of Jews who suffered and died, whose Gedalyas were lost. Who were not rescued.
And I saw this:
I saw all the arrows fall, failing.
I saw all the bullets and shells lose their spin and sputter to earth.
I felt all of us, everywhere, shouldering our weapons, locking the safeties.
I saw all the arrows fall, failing.
I saw all the bullets and shells lose their spin and sputter to earth.
I felt all of us, everywhere, shouldering our weapons, locking the safeties.
I felt no less the grim, black immensity of Shoah. Of Cambodia, Rwanda, the Congo, of Darfur; all we must learn and remember. But over these terrible pits we have carved for ourselves, and the black char and bones we have lined it with, I saw us rising up.
All the hot missiles of our hate and bitterness tumble, spent, reedy and pointless. I saw the love look on the faces all around me, and was as one with all who came before, all who will come after, but especially all of us now, right now, our flaws and striving and plain faces, all the absurd monkeys sitting politely around me, in pews, under the glass-filtered, human-improved light of the distant and unfeeling sun.
See this, understand this: when Gedalya died, I cried only a little, when emptying my upside down shovel, putting my share of earth on his plain wooden box below. Afterwards we all went to a deli, then later to his apartment. Sadness, some tears, but lots of laughs.
All the hot missiles of our hate and bitterness tumble, spent, reedy and pointless. I saw the love look on the faces all around me, and was as one with all who came before, all who will come after, but especially all of us now, right now, our flaws and striving and plain faces, all the absurd monkeys sitting politely around me, in pews, under the glass-filtered, human-improved light of the distant and unfeeling sun.
See this, understand this: when Gedalya died, I cried only a little, when emptying my upside down shovel, putting my share of earth on his plain wooden box below. Afterwards we all went to a deli, then later to his apartment. Sadness, some tears, but lots of laughs.
That tough man survived everything. War, loss, wives, heart attacks. Lived well into his 90s, and when he died it was quick. And he still had his own apartment in the Bronx. We should all be so lucky, to end like George.
But why have I never truly cried about his death?
Yesterday I shed at last the best tear, the right tear, for George. A tear of hope, for his simple death, and his refreshing love, and his sly humor. And I saw all arrows lose their way, like the simple sticks they are, and fall, unseen, among the glory and radiance of my family and friends and strangers. And in honor of Yom Hashoah I saw them drop harmless everywhere, for everyone.
Today I am sober. It is a day of mourning. But it is my youngest's 16th birthday, Lola's granddaughter, Gedalya's great-grand-niece, who would not exist if not for him.
But why have I never truly cried about his death?
Yesterday I shed at last the best tear, the right tear, for George. A tear of hope, for his simple death, and his refreshing love, and his sly humor. And I saw all arrows lose their way, like the simple sticks they are, and fall, unseen, among the glory and radiance of my family and friends and strangers. And in honor of Yom Hashoah I saw them drop harmless everywhere, for everyone.
Today I am sober. It is a day of mourning. But it is my youngest's 16th birthday, Lola's granddaughter, Gedalya's great-grand-niece, who would not exist if not for him.
Thank you, George, for my kindelech.
Because one man saved one girl, I feel the hope of the world. On this day, even: a small light in the darkness. Because of Gedalya and all like him we have flame enough to know what light is, and what we might one day be.
Because one man saved one girl, I feel the hope of the world. On this day, even: a small light in the darkness. Because of Gedalya and all like him we have flame enough to know what light is, and what we might one day be.
Gedalya with my two youngest, back when.
Mitch's parents, Ethel and Shalom.
My two youngest yesterday, with Elana, the Bat Mitzvah girl
My three daughters with little Hannah, their cousin, yesterday
TIP:
Enter the amount, and click "Tip" to submit!
Seer
daisyjane
The Good Daughter
Chicken Mãâàn
the traveler
Ashley F. Miller
Salon.com
Comments
And if we can succeed, this is the future:
"Because one man saved one girl, I feel the hope of the world. On this, the day of small light in the darkness. Because of Gedalya and all like him we have flame enough to know what light is, and what we might one day be."
"I saw all the arrows fall, failing."
I think there's a book here
"And into this, all the hot missiles of our hate and bitterness tumble, spent, reedy and pointless. I saw the love look on the faces all around me, and was as one with all before, all who will come after, but especially now, right now, with the flaws and striving and plain faces of the absurd monkeys sitting politely around me, in pews, under the glass-filtered, human-improved light of the faraway and unfeeling sun."
...and this:
"But over this terrible pit we have carved for ourselves and the black char and bones we have lined it with, i saw us rising up."
And I too, rose up...
Thanks sincerely for Gedalya's story.
__
Owl: what a sublime vision and feeling it was. And is. Thank you.
Sally: I heartily agree. Thank you.
anna: he was a delight to be with. Thank you.
lunchlady: Thank you.
trilogy: Thank you.
Roy: No way I could include a fraction of what made him so extraordinary. Our family has always known that Gadalya's, Lola's and her husband Walter's stories would make gripping, astonishing films. Wlater lived under a barn for almost two years with his two brothers Thank you.
susan: Thank you.
Joan: L'chaim to you too! Thank you.
Yek: o, beautiful. I am glad his story lifted you, too. Thank you.
Just: Thank you.
__
My family returns in moments from part 7 of daughter Eliana's sweet 16 today so I will respond later, or tomorrow, if any more comments come in. Thank you all.
You do such honor with all the hard work you put into sharing so vividly.
Rated only once (regrettably). Would that it were more.
and when i stop, i will forward this to members of my own family, jews and gentiles, who will understand exactly what this means, each of them.
oh, the arrows falling, failing. what an immense, powerful vision, greg. what hope.
No comment I make could explain how much I like this piece/tribute.
"Hitler on a leash"...wow.
Lola's story: double wow.
I would comment more because I loved a lot...
but I'm tired of cutting and pasting spaces. (blasted spacebar...)
And then - somehow most profoundly - you end where it all led - with the almost comic relief of normal, happy American teenagers in those stupid poses! (What's up with that? Why do they ALL do it? My nieces, too. Makes me crazy.)
Rated, but once isn't nearly enough!
How strange that celebrities stare back at us from magazine covers & we aspire to be famous & rich & successful, while true success, true beauty, is in the smile of that man in the photo with the two little girls -- a life well-lived, and to leave this world having made it a better place.
I loved reading this. It's a great story, written with grace & heart. I cannot imagine a better tribute to a good, good man.
"But he fixes me with a firm look that says: give me a rifle. I'll kill another one, right now."
Read it. Lost my breath for a second.
And I can't even say anything about the end it is so beautiful.
Those are marvelous photos, Greg, and you have lovely girls. Equally important is they have a lovely dad.
Thanks for sharing Gedalya with us. May there always be blessings on your home.
תן זה להיות מקום שבו פועלת השלום, היכן חודר שלווה, מקום שבו האהבה גדל. סיפוק ואושר הוא ברכה, הצלחה.
"Let this be a place where peace abides, Where tranquility pervades, A place where love grows. Contentment and happiness is a blessing, a success."
I will post photos of the young Gedalya within a week. I am arranging to scan them.
__
xenon: thank you.
Charlie: what an exceptional comment. You honor me. thank you.
Kim: He continues to inspire me. thank you.
femme: my friend. and if only they would fall, useless. thank you.
dirndl: He was such a hard worker too. His career in the US was making "uppers" for high-end leather shoes, for designers and big department store, boutiques. He made handbags too. He knew leather and fabric like some of us know out multiplication tables. thank you.
sophie: it's up to us now, the next generations. We have to record and document. Lola this week will be talking top two school classes. She does that often now. thank you.
Amanda! I love when a fellow skeptic appreciates my exaltation feelings. All religious feelings are a subpart of the human experience, yes? why should we deny ourselves the glorious experience of compassion and grace just because we don't believe in sky pixies? the sacred is much bigger than any deity. thank you.
bellweather: privilege is something I wish on everyone. we were right in the 60s: trust all joy. thank you.
geezerchick: and if there is no god there is still us, at our best, showing tender mercies and moving past hate. thank you.
sock: i am in awe of him still. He used to get up early at Lola's, and so did I, and we sat. He counted out pills into daily distribution boxes, snapping each lid firmly, while he told me stories. Once he said to me: "didchoo know? yeshua was a Jew? that Christian Jesus? he was a nice Jewish boy. Ach. They made too big a deal about him. But he was: he was a nice Jewish boy." thank you.
greenheron: man do I agree with that. The taste for lurid glamor is nothing new. But it is so tiresome. And it sucks. thank you.
Robin: We save who we can. We tell the good stories. later we die. thank you, friend.
nerd: yeah, they do that. I suspect some of those red and black krater bowls from classsical greece? the inspiration? just some kids fooling around: "look, ma! I'm hercules!"
Matt: you honor me with this passionate response.
(And you have found me out: it is my perverse hatred of knitted footwear that drives my writing; once we are all barefoot I can return to crocheting, my true art! ;) )
thank you.
Gary: love you light piece just now. i feel hypnotized, considering daily light in a room. thank you.
Seer: Some men lived too well, too right and righteous, and long enough, to rend our clothes over. He gives me hope, still. thank you.
Sheila: and I see you posted on Yom as well, will read yours later today. Yours is a sweet and complete response. thank you.
Stim: YES! they did and do. they are fiercely, effectively, wholly themselves. thank you.
Penrose: he would laugh and talk with anyone. He knew who he was. thank you.
Suzie: I see signs of hope, even in the clutter of Academy Tools and gaudy Cribs and panty shots in limos from cokehead teenyboppers. We also have a man educating and transforming Harlem, and a President who thinks, and schools that strive. thank you.
Kathy: thank you. (and btw, rock on, you and your dude, man!)
jane: we will keep on walkin, keep on talkin, marchin to the freedom land. thank you.
Kasey: you astonish and honor me with your comment. But read Steve Blevins and 1_irritated and aim and o so many. I reach for the heart, I am florid at times. I also admire and practice the subdued, restrained craft exemplified by so many here. thank you.
Fay: beautiful, yes, mehinks so! thank you.
Bill: shema yisrael, Bill, the world is one, if we do justice and love each other.
And I love your quote! thank you.
R
R
An extract from Rashani's There Is A Brokenness:
"...There is a hollow space
too vast for words
through which we pass with each loss,
out of whose darkness
we are sanctioned into being..."
with love - maria
This is a reread. I attended one Bar Mitzvah.
The police siren screams`Greg Correll! Yes!
What a Yea noble, honoring, a Elder Geezer!
How do You keep up with `Hannah, Elana'-s!
Gedalya!
Wow!
This should not be skipped. You give therapy!
This is Hanna Montana in no-stuff Freud doll!
Greg C. with whiskers
You remind me of Atlanta `Brave hope`heigh!
Heigh-ho!
You walk with shirttail out. You discuss `tight!
huh. hoes!
garden hoe!
You wrestle!
No drop hair!
Soup whiskers!
Yes. Buffy says!
See via Ya eyes!
Rated Highly
Donna: yep, wonderful! thank you
Buffy: love those flower photographs you posted!!! thank you
Maria! and I noticed you re-posted on FB. you are so sweet. thank goodness we "pass through loss", too. thank you, dear one
Art: kudos to all Elder Geezers!
and my soup whiskers annoy my teen daughters so I say huzzah t soup whiskers, too!
thank you
little: and he was brought to heel by brave men, too. thank you
sheep: thank you
In the wide-open field where I Love to play, I don't really think about the word, "believer," because we are all who we are, made of Love, and we are all the same (no matter how we actually behave as we live our lives)! And believing isn't so much the question...
In one man who saves one girl, the whole world is saved! And you, my friend, joined that Knowing -- in your actual Transcendence!
You are Love and Light, and that Truth shines radiantly from you and through you! Thank you for this Beautiful story from your Spirit!
(Oh, and if my terms are too much from that field, then just read my message of Love and Gratitude and Appreciation for you without them!!)