A Fine Rest
I went to a funeral yesterday. A sad event, somber in its way, but unusually celebratory, at least compared to some other funerals I’ve been to. There we were, a small-ish gathering standing under cloud cover, surrounded by rolling hills, tall evergreens, and a few trees beginning to change their colour, headstones dotting the landscape all around. Typically Jewish surnames etched into granite—Ross, Maier, Goldstein, etc.—memorials to some generations of immigrants and their families, each a story in its own right. We were there to pay respects to a great woman. Edith Orol, the widow of a cousin some steps removed. She died this week at 103.
Earlier this year, before heading off for a months-long trip to Thailand, I made a point of visiting with Edith, taking my mom along. The two lived (as did I, for years) in the same building, up in North York. My mom on the fourth floor, Edith up in and eleventh floor penhouse. Indeed, she’d lived in the penthouse for many, many years. As far back as I can remember, at least. I didn’t know then that it would be the last time I saw Edith, but I had a feeling, and I wanted to make sure I did see her. 103 is not young, and anything can happen. It did happen, of course. Such is life. The incredible thing about Edith, though, was that she was all good right up to the end. Basically blind, difficulty moving, the usual problems of aging, but otherwise healthy, relatively independent (only there, near the end, did she begin to maybe accept the idea of needing live-in help), and sharp as hell.
I think my bond with Edith stretched back to when I was a very small child, but my great memories came more in the later part of her life. It was so easy to go up to her place for a visit, cakes and Hungarian sweets all laid out, and get lost in conversation with her, sometimes for hours. Stories from her and her husband’s past always had my attention. Impossible, truly, not to be enraptured by the stories of people who surivived the Holocaust and myriad other difficulties in Europe. It wasn’t just the past, though, with Edith. She was constantly reading, endlessly excited about learning new things, challenging her own perspectives, adopting new technologies, and always very much engaged with politics and global affairs. She was fiercely liberal, and amazingly progressive and open-minded, right to her last days. Fitting, certainly, that the service was led by a woman Rabbi (who did a beautiful job), and had women participating in the usually male-led traditions of a Jewish funeral. As soon as the burial was over, the clouds departed and the sun shone bright.
This is my first newsletter since wrapping up TIFF last week. I needed a good break after all that, a long rest. Nevermind that I was actually quite busy with work. I also needed time. To see friends, to see family, to get to know my new baby niece, to rest up and readjust. I’d not planned on writing until tomorrow, for my regular Friday “reading, watching, listening” column, but being at the funeral, and catching up with distant but loving relations at the small shiva afterward, had me feeling like a page needed turning. It’s back to regular life.
It’s no secret that I’ve had an extremely rough couple of years, physically, but also emotionally. Putting down my beloved dog, being diagnosed with cancer, going through surgery, losing one of the most important relationships of my life, losing my job and filing suit over it, the general stresses and disappointments of life in my 30s. It’s not all some sob story, mind you. I watched my sister marry, and then go through pregnancy, and then give birth. I’m an uncle now, and that feels great. I got to take that trip to Thailand, to see gorgeous sights, to stay for a few days at a temple, meditating. I’ve had good times with friends, and with family. I had a wonderful time seeing Edith, who even at 103 had her eyes set squarely on the future, curious about everything, open to anything, always accepting, always generous. Stubborn to the end, but there could not have been the former without the latter. That’s living.
I don’t know about getting to 103, but maybe I can match her style. I do feel rested now.