Presence
For Rosh Hashanah, my 13-year-old son and I met my mother for lunch, to honor my father and Jewish ancestors.
As is my custom, I took photos of us and in one of them, I was struck by how mature my son looks. His growth symbolizes the deepening chasm between the infant my father knew and the person he is now.
At the end of November, it will be 13 years since my father died, and in December, my son will be 14. At times I am in disbelief that my son is now an adolescent applying to high school.
Since 2011, this has been a very challenging time of the year for me. No matter how many years elapse, my body remembers the final season of my father’s life — the same season in which we celebrate my son’s existence.
My son’s first breath took place 363 days before my father’s last breath.
Every Fall, as the leaves change color and the trees slowly shed, as the days become shorter and the air cooler, I am reminded of the sunrise and sunset of every life.
I am reminded of the end of my father’s life and the ever-changing nature of parenting — and letting go — of my son.
This year, with the high school application process, an election that concerns me deeply, and a world that feels apocalyptic, I find myself feeling even more overwhelmed.
At times, I feel that I don’t have the right to feel so stressed considering how fortunate I am and how much suffering is occurring throughout the world.
Given how I process life, however, I am keenly aware that we are all simultaneously holding pain as well as joy.
Perhaps the proximity of one of my greatest joys and my deepest pain — and my ability to recognize it — is what enables me to be empathic, compassionate and humble.
Perhaps it is what makes me fully present.
