Shiva is a gift.

When my brother and I sat shiva for my father in the backyard of my parents Ramat Aviv duplex we chain-smoked cigarettes (and weed) from 9 in the morning till about 4.  When hot days of early June '88 turned to warm nights and a breath of cooler air made it's way from the sea, out came the frozen shots of cheap vodka my brother had laced with spicy green peppers, giving them an extra punch. 

 

A river of humanity flowed endlessly through my parent's home and engulfed us and held us and guided us.  Picture a small child taming a balloon, keeping it in the air; keeping it from hitting the sharp objects on the ground.  There was no minyan, at least not one that I can remember, but that hardly mattered to us - then.  We were the other kind of conservative Jews, and while we did perform a modicum of ritual, they were no doubt aimed at us - the children.  My father the scientist was far too rational a man to believe very deeply in any form of religion.  In his eyes science was the only religion worthy of observation.  My father once told me that he doubted anything for which there was no confirmed evidence.  That included G*d and aliens.

It was during shiva that one of our oldest family friends, Amos - seated between my brother and I as we passed a joint over his lap - made the observation that it would take us a decade to fill the void left by my father.  That was a pearl of wisdom that took on a life of itself.  Not implying that either of us were able to fill his gigantic footprints, rather we would need ten years of life lived to it's fullest to finally stop feeling the emptiness created in his void.

After shiva ended I went back to "work".  For three months I layed on the tiled floor of my studio staring at the paint peel off of my ceiling.  With my fingertips resting on my chest I felt my Dad’s fingertips in mine, the flaps of his cheeks in mine, his soul in mine...

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