One of the most well-known Hebrew songs, Kol Ha’Olam Kulo has these simple lyrics: The whole worldis a very narrow bridgea very narrow bridgea very narrow bridge
The whole worldis a very narrow bridge –A very narrow bridge.
And the main thing to recall –is not to be afraid –not to be afraid at all.
And the main thing to recall –is not to be afraid at all.
My grandmother died on September 22, 2009 between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. A few days after her death, when I was 18, I wrote this poem in memory of her, which I just found again today:
A Tribute to My GrandmotherI first met my grandmother When I was very youngShe held me in her armsBefore I had turned oneMy family ventured to TorontoAnd she and grandpa came to CalgaryThose times were special thenAlways remembered they will beWhen I was only fourMy grandma called me nearI didn’t like her nickname for meShe used to call me ‘dear’So we agreed upon ‘Mandy’This name for only her to call meHer precocious little granddaughter And I would call her ‘Bubbie’I remember the trips to Toys ‘R’ UsWith my brother to choose toysWe could pick almost anythingAs long as it would bring us joyMy grandma loved educationAnd she always called me cleverShe knew my commitment to my educationWould surely last foreverIn her final yearsBubbie grew old and frailBut my grandpa visited herEvery day without failI learned unconditional loveThrough the witness that they gaveTo a love that knows no boundsAnd to a love that is very braveSometimes it was hard to see my grandmaLost and confused in her mindThen I’d remember thoughHow much her heart was refinedMy grandma’s life was a giftFrom the God who I do praiseThe Lord is compassionate and lovingIn all His mighty ways
A Tribute to My Grandmother
I first met my grandmother When I was very youngShe held me in her armsBefore I had turned one
My family ventured to TorontoAnd she and grandpa came to CalgaryThose times were special thenAlways remembered they will beWhen I was only fourMy grandma called me nearI didn’t like her nickname for meShe used to call me ‘dear’
So we agreed upon ‘Mandy’This name for only her to call meHer precocious little granddaughter And I would call her ‘Bubbie’
I remember the trips to Toys ‘R’ UsWith my brother to choose toysWe could pick almost anythingAs long as it would bring us joy
My grandma loved educationAnd she always called me cleverShe knew my commitment to my educationWould surely last forever
In her final yearsBubbie grew old and frailBut my grandpa visited herEvery day without fail
I learned unconditional loveThrough the witness that they gaveTo a love that knows no boundsAnd to a love that is very brave
Sometimes it was hard to see my grandmaLost and confused in her mindThen I’d remember thoughHow much her heart was refined
My grandma’s life was a giftFrom the God who I do praiseThe Lord is compassionate and lovingIn all His mighty ways
Ever since I was a child, writing has been my favourite creative outlet. Whenever someone would die or whenever I would grapple with the mystery of suffering and death, I would scribble words of poetry and reflection to contend and find meaning.
In addition to being a helpful outlet at the time, I find it interesting to look back on what I wrote in the past and to discover how sealing those memories through creative acts magnifies the memories I hold.
On my iPhone, I have 33,250 photos.
Yesterday, when reading Janusz Korczak’s Ghetto Diary, I came across a section in which Korczak is conversing with a well-known painter who says to him:
“Everyone should know how to sketch in pencil what he wants to retain in memory. Not to be able to do that is to be illiterate.”
I read this sentence over and over again, and thought about it. I have 33,250 photos on my phone and only one of them is, in fact, an image of something I sketched in pencil.