ז״ל

I’ve been doing an exercise that is part of the Aleph Sage-ing® Program[i]. It’s designed to provide new meaning to the events of one’s life. As part of the exercise I‘ve listed significant moments in my life and people who have guided and influenced me. The most recent of such experiences was the reading of my father’s archive of sermons[ii]. Since the obvious influence in this case was my father himself, I listed his name, Rabbi Sidney Ballon, and according to Jewish custom followed his name with the Hebrew letters ז״ל (z"l). This is an abbreviation of the Hebrew expression zichro livracha (זיכרו לברכה) which may be translated "his memory for a blessing". 

Okay, that done, I realized I had neglected to add the same abbreviation after my brother’s name, Rabbi Jeffrey Ballon, listed right above my dad’s, Jeff’s death and Jeff’s name being the next most recent significant events and influences. It was simple to hit Ctrl+V and paste ז״ל again.

That prompted me to scan further up the list to make sure I had appropriately given honor to the memory of other influencers who no longer walk the earth. Fortunately, I was able to skip a few names of recent teachers who are still among us, but it didn’t take long before coming upon a dear, departed colleague from my most recent corporate job. Larry Hill and I didn’t work together long, and he had left the firm for a few years before his untimely passing, but he was such a beautiful soul that he made a deep impact. His support paved the way for the richest decade of my corporate life. Ctrl+V ז״ל.

I have already written and spoken about one of my greatest mentors, John Kahl[iii]. Ctrl+V ז״ל.

Then I came upon the great Post-Modernist architect, my first teacher in architecture school, Charles Moore[iv]. Ctrl+V ז״ל.

And then, a professor of education, Dr. Harold Wise, who not only gave me my first lessons on that subject, but believed in me, supported me, and loved me—despite the somewhat tarnished academic record I had when we met. His faith in me and his wisdom were invaluable contributions to my education. Ctrl+V ז״ל.

Then there was Paul Darden, classmate in art school, very much the big brother to me when I was not so close—physically and perhaps emotionally as well— to my biological big brother. Ctrl+V ז״ל.

Marietta Warner Siegel, my closest high school art teacher, gave me the first one-man art show at the West Hempstead High School, and so much more. Ctrl+V ז״ל.

There were other special teachers along the way such as Dr. Ralph Marcellino, my Latin teacher, and Philip Turner, my sixth grade teacher, both of whom who I know have died, as well as others who I can only surmise are gone. Ctrl+V ז״ל.

Topping the list, and undisputedly the first great influence in my life of course, is my mom. Ctrl+V ז״ל.

I hadn’t set out to create a list of the departed, just a list of influences. It became too readily apparent that so many of the great people in my life are gone, even as their place in my heart lives on. Over one third of the names I listed are of people I know to be deceased. About one third, fortunately, I know to be alive, and the remaining are people whose fate is unknown to me. The graphic impact of seeing the letters ז״ל pasted after so many names truly causes me to pause and reflect. How short is the journey. How great may be our influence on our fellow travelers regardless of how long we walk the path together. And how precious is our time with those who do not have those letters yet written after their names.

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[i] The ALEPH Sage-ing™ Project is a multidisciplinary and multi-generational project based on the book "From Age-ing to Sage-ing" by Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi, offering a new paradigm for the aging process as well as powerful contemplative tools.

[ii] See posting of selected sermons at the blog My Father’s Words: http://harav-shimon.blogspot.com/

[iii] See posting of my eulogy of John M. Kahl, Sr.: http://yesh-indeed.blogspot.com/2012/05/john-m-kahl-sr-remembered.html

[iv] Charles Willard Moore (October 31, 1925 – December 16, 1993) was an American architect, educator, writer, Fellow of the American Institute of Architects, and winner of the AIA Gold Medal in 1991.

My Way

I like to do things my way.

That may seem self-evident, but I have to examine it. Is it even true?  I don’t mean to be self-critical, but do I really even want to do things at all? Maybe I’d rather not do things. What things are we talking about, anyway? Maybe it’s just that I’d rather do other things!

Let’s back up. What’s this about? Twice in two weeks I’ve gotten important advice that is both liberating and demanding.

In a conversation with rabbi, teacher, mentor, friend—Nadya Gross, who runs the Jewish Renewal Sage-ing program with her husband, Rabbi Victor Gross—I asked about getting an advanced copy of the facilitator’s manual so I could get a head start on preparing for the Sage-ing programs I plan to deliver beginning in the Fall. It turns out there is no facilitator’s manual. Nadya told me it was up to me to shape the course to reflect who I am and who my students are. In other words, I can do it my way. In a subsequent conversation with Ron Kravitz, a vendor of shruti[i] boxes, I was asking for clarification on the proper way to chant along with the instrument. He discerned from my question that I felt beholden to a particular set of dos and don’ts that I had received. Like Nadya, Ron proceeded to explain that there was no single approach and that all I had to was breathe and make my own sound. In other words, I can do it my way.

Anyone who knows me knows that that is how I like to operate. But that’s only a half-truth. People who really know me know that I am also very concerned with rules. When working with others I like for us all to operate by the same rules—more or less. I often declare that I don’t care if we have rules or not, but that IF we have them we should abide by them (and if we choose not to abide by them, then let us not pretend to have them). Then there are the times when I simply decide—consciously or not—that the rules simply do not apply to me. There’s that too.

When I described the two conversations above to a retired friend she immediately remarked that that was the whole point of being retired! You get to do it your way now. When I later reiterated these conversations to Debbie she said practically the same thing. So why is it that this is coming to me like new news? How is it that I paradoxically seem to need permission to do it my way? That’s when I started to wonder if I like to do things at all. Maybe I’ve been using artificial constraints as a wedge between me and the actions I purport to want to do.

On the other hand, as I’ve been receiving this license to be me—twice in two weeks—I feel something exciting opening up inside. While there is still some hesitancy—some of the old boo-birds at work—there is also a liberating sense that I am on the verge of great discovery. To paraphrase an old Alan Watts title, I feel as if I am about to truly break the taboo against knowing who I am.

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[i] A shruti box is a small accordion-like wooden instrument used to provide a drone in Indian classical music and in my case Jewish spiritual chanting.

It’s Possible!

A woman is at the funeral of her husband, her young son at her side. The preacher extols the virtues of the deceased at length until the boy tugs at his mother’s sleeve and says, “Ma, we better look in the casket and see if that’s Pa he’s talkin’ about.” For some reason our family always got a kick out of that joke when we were young, as if, if anyone really knew one of us they wouldn’t be nearly as impressed. 

Yesterday I attended the funeral of George Heller, a very beloved fellow congregant, an extraordinary person, a holocaust survivor (who refused to be defined by that term since his focus was far more on the beauty of his unfolding life rather than remorse over a difficult past). His was a life of voracious learning, taking on robust challenges, and loving with a full heart. Unlike the joke above, listening to friends, family and clergy extol his virtues did not cast doubt on who was in the casket. Not surprisingly, it did cause me to ponder what might be said when it becomes my turn to be eulogized. I suspect many of us have similar feelings when we hear another person’s life so exuberantly celebrated. “What will they say about me? What have I done to merit praise?”

Something else also came up for me. I’ve been thinking about this for a while, originally with reference to the death of my brother two years ago.   From his diagnosis of brain cancer to his death two and a half years later, he was clearly a man on a mission of love. He freely gave it and preached it. It was beautiful to observe and receive. What I wonder is, does it take such a diagnosis to give a person license to open one’s heart in such an unfettered and loving way? Despite the fact that we all have the same ultimate diagnosis, my suspicion is that a person on such a mission would just seem a bit daft. Who goes around cherishing each moment and each person unashamedly? Then, I heard George Heller’s family describe him. Maybe George was the exception to the rule. Or perhaps having survived Hitler’s Death March, George was compelled to thirstily drink in and savor every drop of life, and to share that gusto with others.     

Regardless of how George found the capacity to love life and people in this way (and certainly surviving the Holocaust alone does not account for it given how many other “survivors” never shed the weight of their personal history) it is a quality I greatly admire and wish to emulate. I’d like to start every day by pulling on my happiest pair of socks with the full excitement and anticipation that today is a big day, and I’m getting dressed up for the great party that lies ahead! Listening to George’s stories makes me think of the popular aphorism, “Dance as though no one is watching you. Love as though you have never been hurt before. Sing as though no one can hear you. Live as though heaven is on earth.” It seems like a very tall order, but when facing a big challenge—such as scaling the climbing wall at the YMCA as he did until he was 87 years old—George would emphatically declare, “It’s possible!”