Speak Your Truth


אדוני said, "Let there be...."
And there was...
Even אדוני grew tired of speaking and rested.

Keep speaking your truth
Your words create worlds
Nourished with understanding.

Speak when you are able
Be silent when you must.
Rest when you are weary.

Souls are fragile.
Words are not.
They are not lost.
They travel in the wind
Take root in distant lands
And blossom there.

©Martha Hurwitz, 12/27/17
Inspired by I've Told You so Much Already

Signs and Portents


Shortly after my mother died, I was taking a walk in the early evening around the fields in back of my home.  I am fortunate to live in a beautiful location, with expansive Eastern views and uninterrupted skies.  On this particular night it was clear, the moon was in its first quarter and the light it shed did not obscure the Milky Way, spread like a ribbon across the sky.

I was sad and grieving–of course I was.  Despite the fact that my mother had lived 92 years and was, in the end, at peace with dying.  She suffered no pain or final illness.  There was nothing to put on her death certificate other than “old age.”  She had chosen several weeks before to stop eating.  It was her time.  She was ready.  We got to say our goodbyes and hold her hand.  That was surely her greatest gift to us–her quiet ability to know when it was time.  She had often said she did not want to give up driving, but when her reflexes and sight began to dwindle, she put the keys down and did not drive again.  She had said many times she hoped she would not have to go into a nursing home.  After several months of increasing illness and inability to live alone, it became inevitable.  There was never a word of recrimination, a hint of disappointment with her children who had made that decision for her.  She looked around, saw others who were worse off than she, graced them with her smile and kind words.  She was grateful for any visit, phone call, a drive in the countryside.

The weeks since her death had been consumed with the practical things that are necessary, the phone calls, the service at home, the decisions about her possessions.  I had written a eulogy, planned a memorial service with my brothers, tried to provide comfort to my family.  But I did not know how to exist in this world now empty of her physical presence.

Walking in that calm nighttime, digging into the depths of my shaky spiritual core, I admitted that even though I knew in some vague way she would always be with me, I surely could use some kind of sign.  Just at that moment, a shooting star flew across the sky. I have looked up into this night sky for 30 years and have seen numerous shooting stars. But on many nights I would stand outside in the dark, neck muscles aching in their support of my tilted head, hoping to be looking in the right direction at the right time, without any luck. On this particular night, I was not looking for them at all.

So was that a sign?  Or a coincidence?  Or just the random operation of the unfathomable universe?  The part of me that is rational and scientific says it was just the random operation of the universe and a coincidence that I was facing in the right direction at the right time.  But the part of me that has roots in the ancient ties to the natural world says something different.  It says that there are signs that we cannot read and places beyond our ability to imagine.  That there are many things so far beyond our comprehension that we can only gasp in wonder and acknowledge them with joy.


©Martha Hurwitz, 9/27/17
Inspired by Daily Prompt:  coincidence

Lunching Through Life

I should probably drink a second mug of coffee prior to checking on the daily word prompt.  This morning I was convinced the subject was “lunch.” My morning read includes some of the responses from other bloggers, partly to get my brain cells firing, but also because I’ve discovered some interesting new blogs that way.

LurchImagine my surprise when confronted with this image:

Lately, I’ve been a bit uneasy when wanting to write more personal thoughts that might seem frivolous or insignificant.  It feels unseemly given the state of the world to write anything that isn’t serious and insightful regarding current events, or at the very least inspirational and encouraging.  I’m reminded of my mental and emotional conflict while in the initial grieving period after the deaths of my parents. I would find myself chuckling over a good joke or the antics of my children, or would realize I was mindlessly watching some sitcom and laughing at the inane and worn-out humor. But then my inner Emily Post would scold:  “Your mother died just two weeks ago, and you’re laughing?  Have some respect!!” I believe, however, that one powerful way to counter grief or the overwhelming negativity that characterizes so much of our current public discourse is to rejoice in our humor, our creativity, our shared human foibles and quirks and to give them full expression. So, I’m sticking with “lunch.”

brunch-154850_640When I retired a few years back, some friends told me “Now you can be one of the ‘ladies who lunch’.” Familiar with the song, I briefly thought they were predicting retirement would change me from a hard-working, sober woman into a booze-soaked slacker sliding off her bar stool at high noon.

person-1081159_640Surely they were joking, and what I have become is a better version of myself. I have learned to identify more clearly and speak more gently my own truths. I have been visited by dreams that were waiting patiently while I worked and married, raised children and grew older.

One of my youthful dreams was that I would someday be a female Hemingway (I’m pretty sure there is a bar stool somewhere in that scenario). I would live exuberantly as an ex-pat in Cuba or Greece (or some other not-Yankee American, exotic place), crafting powerfully written and wildly successful books that would take the world by storm.

Clearly that didn’t happen.  I made choices that took me down different roads.  But still, I have finally begun to write.  I don’t think any published author, dead or alive, is in much danger of serious competition from me.  But this is my version of ladies who lunch, and I am satisfied.



©Martha Hurwitz, 8/21/17

Inspired by Daily Word Prompt: lurch






Forgetting to Remember


It had been quite a while since I had posted anything.  A few ideas had been percolating, but they did not seem at all compelling.  Day after day the word prompts failed to elicit even a bit of interest.  Then on Saturday  I sat down and wrote a trite little piece about the use of words in media.  Not serious, not compelling, pretty unimportant in the scheme of things. It was late in the evening (late for me, anyway).  I originally thought to wait until the next day to read it over and decide if it should be published, but I succumbed to the fear that it had been so long since I had posted anything and if I didn’t hurry up and do something everyone who had ever been kind enough to read my posts would just forget me and never look at my blog again.

So I hit the “Publish” button.  And then went to bed.  When I checked in the next morning, it struck me like a slap in the face.  I published this on September 11??  Yes, according to the WordPress clock, I guess I did.  It seemed horrible to me, that I would post what now seems like a large pile of drivel on the anniversary of such a horrific event.  A hot flash of shame rolled through me.  What was I thinking?  Or, obviously, NOT thinking.

I did not know anyone who died or was injured on 9/11, nor anyone who bravely and willingly walked into that howling void to aid their fellow human beings.  I do not know anyone who 15 years later suffers PTSD, memory loss or physical pain from their experiences on that day.  I was lucky.  My brother and his children had flown from Boston, passengers on one of the last planes to land in DC that day.  A change in timing, a different choice of airport, being slightly early or slightly late, and this day might have become an anniversary of personal horror as it is for so many, rather than a public remembrance that I can choose to observe or carelessly forget.

Grief and loss are part of life.  None of us will escape their sting.  I do not know if it is worse when it comes as a result of the deliberate acts of other human beings, rather than in the natural order of life. I suspect so. And I doubt that neither my remembering or forgetting lightens or deepens the pain that so many bear on this and countless other anniversaries of terror and loss.

I do believe if there is any shred of light that comes out of that dark place, it is this:   the strength of the human spirit, the amazing ability to ignore personal peril to come to the aid of others, and that small and fragile seed of life that can take root in the stump of a dead tree, these are not destroyed by any terrorist or criminal act.

I hope in the end it is this that we remember.



Grief and Memory in Sacred Ritual

It is no secret that difficult memories can be stumbling blocks preventing us from living full and positive lives and holding us back from becoming our best authentic selves. This became clear to me when I was asked by the Rabbi of my synagogue to share memories of someone I loved during the Yizkor service on Yom Kippur.  I wanted to be able to share glowing, positive memories, but something quite different happened.

My experience during that service was recently posted as “Sacred Memory” on The Jewish Writing Project, and I hope people will be interested in reading it there.  The underlying question that plagued me was how to integrate painful memories into the religious and spiritual rituals that we have surrounding death and memory.  I found that being able to honestly portray my father and my conflicting memories within a spiritual framework was powerful and healing and enabled me to finally begin the process of mourning.

old-photo-1246910_640Grief is a difficult emotion under even the best of circumstances.  Humans have created ritualized ways to process grief and remember the dead for thousands of years. My own experience has been in the Jewish and Christian traditions and I do not know much about other cultural or religious approaches. While I would not suggest a tradition of eulogy or memorial that emphasizes misdeeds, sins or bad qualities, I have often felt that the liturgy fails people when their memories are not positive or good.

There are many talented and skillful therapists who can facilitate the processing of grief and its complications from a mental health perspective. But the spiritual component also needs to be reckoned with.  It seems challenging to create liturgy that satisfies both the need to acknowledge the pain of memory at the same time creating a sacred space for it and honoring those memories that are positive as well. Perhaps such liturgy already exists but I am simply not aware of it.

My hope is that others will be willing to share their experiences and thoughts, and perhaps identify some sources of ritual that help address this aspect of the grieving process.