It's Alright To Cry

This is Dahlia's favorite song right now.
We listen to it on her Free To Be You And Me CD on the way to and from school every day.
This morning she asked me to play it three times, saying that it felt good when she felt sad about Tikva.
She's right, it does feel good. I've been having my own cry listening to it each time, silently in the front seat.
I love that my daughter is growing up knowing that it really is alright to cry.
Rosey Grier is right - crying can make you feel better.
(Rosey, by the way, was a football player who used to play for the Rams.)

Sometime in the early fall, maybe in September or October, I was at my neighborhood cafe where I spend many of my Fridays writing.
Across the crowded cafe, I saw a woman who looked familiar.
I had worked with her at the Holocaust Oral History Project in 1995, before I had left my dad's house (where I had returned after my post-college travels) and moved to San Francisco.
She had founded the organization in the eighties, and was its driving force.
When I was 24 and finding my way post-college, she engaged me deeply in important work, which was empowering.
I hadn't seen her in at least a dozen years, but had kept her email in my address book all these years.
I'd wondered about her here and there, thought to ask a common friend how she was.
That day in the cafe, I thought about going over and saying hi, but I didn't.
Mostly because I didn't have it in me, so soon after Tikva's death, to make small talk with an old acquaintance.
More so, I didn't feel like answering the question, "How have you been?"
I didn't feel like having to decide whether I would tell her about Tikva or not.
So I didn't say anything, but I did look at her for a while from across the cafe.
I noticed that she was looking really good, vibrant, youthful.
I have no idea if she noticed me, but I don't think she did.

This morning at work, very indirectly, very unexpectedly and quite by accident, I learned that Lani Silver had died in January at age 60.
In September, she'd been diagnosed with brain cancer.
She died peacefully, surrounded by her family.
Her funeral was a celebration of her life, attended by so many who deeply respected her work for justice and humanity.
I sat at my computer, stunned, tears in my eyes - the tears that are so close to the surface these days.
I read a few obituaries, beautiful testaments to a life well lived, if cut short.
I wondered if I should have gone over to Lani in that cafe in the fall, and what our conversation would have been like.
I wondered if she had actually seen me, and for her own reasons similar to my own, had chosen not to say anything either.
I wondered if she would have shared with me about her cancer had I shared with her about Tikva, or vice versa.
It all just made me think about not waiting for another time, a better time, to do things, say things, try things, take chances.
60 years old, here today, gone tomorrow.

I wish I had gone over and said hi to her.

We had our big gala fundraiser for my work on Saturday,
And you know what? It felt good to be a part of it.
I watched the videos honoring this year's volunteers who were recognized
And I felt good about people, about what they give, about what the organization that I get to work with does to help people.
I watched the video honoring the agency's director of 30 years, and felt proud to be a part of the organization she has helped to build.
I felt happy to be in a room full of mostly Jews, and happy to be Jewish myself.
I felt quite verklempt (Yiddish for choked up).
I felt deep faith in community - all community, all of us a part of it - knowing how many people had come forward to help others during such challenging financial times.

And when I told my director today about how I'd known Lani, and that I felt shaken by the news of her passing, she said,
Aren't you glad to know we were there to give her the care she needed during the end of her life?
She's right, it does feel good to know Lani was so held, and so honored.
Even though it doesn't stop the tears from flowing, it does feel good - feel right - to know that for every person in need, there is hopefully someone to care.

I went into my address book tonight and deleted Lani's card.
Sad, the idea that someone can disappear like that...
No more need for an address, an email, a phone number.

Rest in peace, Lani.
Thank you for touching my life so many years ago.
I join the many people who miss you.