Jay's Eulogy
I suppose that it's a truism that children find it difficult to be objective about their parents. I admit that numerous times I found myself wondering about my mother - she certainly seemed pleasant enough, but something seemed to be lacking. My friends, however, most definitely liked her, and since I was quite sure that I'd chosen good and intelligent friends, I figured that they must have good taste and judgment. Still, I found myself critical toward Mom - how was I to explain this woman who seemed to lack a personal focus, who seemed more than willing to forego any personal desires or needs she might have, and instead concentrate all of her ample capabilities and energies into her family. It was only considerably later, as a grown adult, that I began to see this somewhat embarrassing quality in a different light.
I began to understand my mother as an artist. Almost all artists have a medium of choice - some paint on canvas, some chisel in stone, some express themselves in words on the page, others in the gardens they tend. Mom's medium of choice was her family - a growing, changing, ever blossoming and developing creation at which she whittled away.
Whittled? Chiseled? Not exactly. These terms suggest finding an essence, uncovering a hidden, an as yet undiscovered beauty. Certainly there was something of this in Mom's art, but these terms also suggest a honing down, a removing of something in the process of creation, and this certainly wasn't what Mom did. It was more as though she was continually adding something to the canvas, or enlarging it, always writing a new chapter to a still unfinished book.
Yet here as well the metaphor was deceptive. Mom was perhaps more of a director, a symphony conductor, bringing out the right phrasing, orchestrating the best collaboration of sounds. And of course all this took place in her medium of choice - her family.
A favorite teacher of mine often told the story of the man who bought a lute at the market. When he brought it home he immediately started to play it, to experiment with its possibilities. But after a short period of time his wife noticed that instead of learning to play different songs on the lute, all he played was one note, over and over again. Ultimately, this became quite irritating, and she asked him "why do you only play that one note?". To this he replied: "Most people go through life looking for the one note that's right for them. What can I do if I've already found mine?"
Mom found her note. She was the forever identifiable lady with the braids - a hairstyle, if it can be called that, that didn't change throughout all the years I knew her ... and well before even that. Our family lived in the same house for over 45 years - and that too, in a world where change for its own sake seems to be seen as a virtue, was certainly some sort of statement. Mom remained faithful to a particular political world view - sometimes beyond what seemed to be fitting for changing times and circumstances. Quite clearly, she'd found her note, and, in a similar manner, the medium of family was the medium she'd chosen, the medium via which she could best express herself, via which she could bring her vision to fruition.
Mom knew how to encourage, sometimes even prod, without seeming to interfere or make demands. She offered - with a smile, with understanding, with perseverance, with love - and her offerings were accepted. She seemed to instinctively know that with the right nutrients, things will grow as they should, and she was able to furnish those nutrients. The results outlive her. In an era in which being dysfunctional often seems to be a goal, a success symbol, her oeuvre - the continuing story of her children and grandchildren - stands out in sharp contrast. In today's world, raising children with a healthy outlook on life is truly an achievement. Mom was somehow capable not only of doing this, but even of making it seem easy. She was truly an artist of life.
Monday July 18, 2005
Hebrew version
Debbie's Eulogy
Faye [Avrunin] Hurvitz