Sometimes I think I've started repeating myself in these posts. After all, how much literary fodder could there possibly be in one measly near-death experience? I survived, right? Big deal. Who cares anymore? I go through my days like everyone else, perhaps a little more short of breath, but otherwise reasonably functional. How do I hold onto that sense of wonder that I felt when I first left Silver Lake seven months ago? As a relatively recent retiree, my life is obviously different than it was before that fateful day in May of 2009 when I was laid off. But everyday life can get monotonous and mundane if one isn't careful. That's why I've resolved to do things to make life more meaningful. To wit: I've volunteered to visit a holocaust survivor regularly. There's an organization called Connect2 which matches volunteers to survivors. They're not sure yet whether I'm getting Hymie or Oscar (the survivor, not the bird), but does it really matter? Ever read Viktor Frankl's "Man's Search for Meaning"? If not, read it. Today. Dr. Frankl was a psychiatrist who spent time in Theresienstadt, Auschwitz, Dachau and Bergen-Belsen and somehow survived. His experiences in the camps were the foundation for a whole new concept in psychiatry: the driving force behind the survival of any human being is his search for meaning to his life. Simple, yet utterly profound. So I'm trying to give my life as much meaning as I can muster, definitely more meaning than selling (or should I say not selling) semi-precious stones. Speaking of meaning: every so often something comes along that I used to take for granted which has now become so very much more significant. We had our annual Chanukah party on Sunday night. There we all were, the usual suspects, most of whom were in attendance last year as well. All the little rugrats had grown into larger rugrats and, of course, there were the new arrivals as well. There was Moshe Yaakov, the newest Lieberman, happily clinging to Feige and meeting all his Zweig-side cousins for the first time (which pale in comparison to his Deutsch-side cousins!). And then there was Meira. This kid has become the mystery child of the family. Living on the Lower East Side as she does, it's rare that she makes an appearance in the Borough of Kings. And there she was in the flesh, taking it all in with those saucer-sized black eyes of hers. Meeting Meira, if you recall, was one of my raisons d'etre while wallowing in my nearly bottomless depression of the ICU, the other being attending Menachem's Bar Mitzvah.
And there I was with granddaughter firmly in hand. Suddenly my breathing was fine, my walking was strong and easy, my hands were steady and sure, my hearing clear. Well, not really, but who cared? For one brief and shining moment Meira and I were one. As George Gershwin said,
"who could ask for anything more?"
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| One of the reasons I'm still alive. |
And there I was with granddaughter firmly in hand. Suddenly my breathing was fine, my walking was strong and easy, my hands were steady and sure, my hearing clear. Well, not really, but who cared? For one brief and shining moment Meira and I were one. As George Gershwin said,
"who could ask for anything more?"
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