A Mourning Person: Pressing the Pause Button

I will take any excuse to get out of the summer heat. Last summer, there was an extremely hot night on which I had no plans. I ended up going to the movies by myself which is something I enjoy but rarely do. I am up for the escapism of a relatively mindless high-octane summer blockbuster accompanied by too much popcorn and a great soundtrack. On this night, my best option was “Twisters”, a sequel to “Twister” from nearly 30 years ago. The air-conditioning, snacks and the sensational country mixtape which accompanied the intense formulaic movie were pure pleasure. I subsequently bought the soundtrack for a friend who was having a rough week while I inadvertently bought the score instead of the actual country soundtrack. I did not imagine that I would have any personal milestones connected to this light summer fare. But we never know when game-changing moments will happen or who will be by our side at these times. So, I will forever remember the forgettable “Twisters” as the last movie I would see, and the last music that I would download before entering a year of active mourning for my mother. A year, for me, marked by taking a pause from many of life’s more social and lively activities like movies and music while simultaneously hitting the play button for a different set of important, less hectic, more inward-facing interpersonal experiences.

Traditional Jewish mourning customs (12 months for a parent, one month for a spouse, sibling or child) call for abstaining from certain behaviors that are signs of joy and festivity. Examples are hearing live (or recorded) music, attending theater, going to celebrations, seeing movies (unless they are super sad), participating in social gatherings, buying or wearing new clothing and receiving gifts. The pause is temporary and has helped set the tempo of the more mellow soundtrack for my year that is devoid of Bruce, U2, Rachel Price, The Avetts, Guster and a few other beloved companions. Stepping back has been kind of delightful and has provided an easy excuse to interact with the world in a manner that is more consistent with my feelings. I have had no FOMO and perhaps even negative FOMO, if there is even such a thing as the Joy Of Missing Out.

Death and loss force us to face bigger questions regarding mortality, what we are doing with our lives and what is important. My mourning process has certainly not resolved these matters, but it has provided some helpful perspective. The removal of the overtly fun provides the space to sit with one’s thoughts and feelings. Stepping away from some of the trappings of joy reminds us that these are just special effects with no real meaning. How little we need stuff or exciting events becomes clear when you lose something truly precious and irreplaceable like a person you love and who loves you.

When coping with loss and experiencing an evolving outlook, one of the first things to go is any form of vanity or sweating the small stuff. Who can be caught up in one’s appearance and keeping up with others when in mourning which is the time of ultimate humility and acceptance of our temporary nature? Vanity and humility are uneasy companions. Upon the death of a loved one, we tear our beautiful garments (I lost two shirts in this process), we cover mirrors, and we don’t shave, cut our hair or nails for 30 days. It is primal stuff as we get back to the basic form of ourselves.

Part of this lowering of the profile process is the common Jewish practice of not wearing new clothing during one’s year of mourning. Getting dressed has become a strategic operation. I think about the week ahead for when I will need to be somewhat presentable and budget accordingly. I am aware that the collars and cuffs on my dress shirts are frayed, my golf shirts have sweat stains, and I am wearing some pants with small splotches of undetermined origin. My mother passed away on the Friday before Rosh Hashana, which was to begin on Wednesday evening. I had purchased a new suit for the holiday. She died around 1:30pm. The suit was dropped off at 3pm and is still in the bag. I don’t remember what it looks like, and I doubt that it fits. I am not interested now in hearing compliments on clothing or about anything external. These mindful mourning efforts help sustain and maybe perfect the “who cares” attitude toward little things and material matters.

In mourning, the power of human connection becomes particularly acute. I have always been a hugger (to what I like to believe is only the fake chagrin of my friends) and I am from a family of huggers. Since my mother’s death, every time I get or give a hug, I whisper a little prayer and say, “thank you God that this person is still here.” Mourning enhances our sensitivity and appreciation of the living. This has been a year of quality time with people whom I love as well as new relationships with others who are also experiencing loss. It is such a blessing to still have remarkable people in our lives and who are still here (thank you so much God.)

If I were playing a drinking game this year, it would certainly be called “Your Mother Would Want You To…” and I would have to imbibe every time I heard that expression. Playing this game would make this sobering year much less sober. I hear the exhortation whenever someone discovers that I am skipping a fun (highly subjective term) gathering as the speaker is worried that I am acting in a way that would upset my mother. More often than not the event being discussed is something that this person wants me to attend and about which my mother would not have an opinion. Upon her departure, my mother lost any vote that she may have had about how we mourn. Going to parties and cranking music, to me, feels uncomfortable and incongruous with my healing. Displaying joy in public is not the version of myself that I want to present this year. It seems disrespectful to her memory regardless of what she may have wanted (drink!).

But it has not been a year of punishment and self-flagellation. It has been a year of balance and discovery. A year of being present for loved ones who are also hurting, acknowledging pain, finding modified ways to participate in friends’ celebrations, honoring my mother, and experiencing joy differently. The joy is not in chasing Springsteen tickets with the fervor of the adrenaline junkies in the “Twister” franchise. It has come quietly and at unexpected moments such as when I had affogato for the first time on a cold and rainy fall day in Massachusetts shortly after my mother’s passing. A few months earlier, Lake Street Dive released an album which includes a song called “25” about a couple who dated in their twenties but did not make it for the long term. They wistfully recall lazy afternoons drinking affogato during their never to be repeated summer love. On this raw day, I gladly took the opportunity to have affogato even though I don’t drink coffee. I wanted to spend time with the people in the song as I reflected on precious moments in my life that were spent with people who are forever gone. It was a nice indulgence to have a new experience while also honoring the past.

The shirt I generally wear in the marathon has stitched upon it the beautiful phrase “Get Busy Living” from “The Shawshank Redemption.” My mother loved that sentiment even if she did not always live it to its full potential, which is hard. As I would lumber toward The Brooklyn Academy of Music, she would jump up and down with ecstasy offering bananas and Gatorade celebrating as if I were winning the race. I was very busy living. Although I refrained this year in so many ways, I have carried the Shawshank lesson and have continued to be quite busy living even if it does not resemble the busy-ness of my past.

While I am reluctant to let go of the mourning, this hyper-social creature knows that he will be losing his excuses to lay low. I have enjoyed the quiet moments, the new experiences, the hugs, the connecting with people new and old, unexpectedly hearing songs in public places and often quickly hitting Shazam to save it for next year, encountering passages in books which resonate differently, hearing about my mother, sharing about my mother, realizing the goodness ahead, deepening my faith, helping others as they navigate loss and, of course, embracing the affogato in all of its many manifestations. I may have missed out on the blockbuster summer movie season; there will be great stuff next year with banging soundtracks. The golf shirts will be upgraded soon enough. I have purchased tickets to some shows for the fall, and I will begin to travel without fear of missing the mourners’ prayer.

Robert Louis Stevenson once wrote, “young or old, we are all on our last cruise.” That sentiment becomes all the more clear at a time of loss. The recovery of mourners is gradual and never fully complete. There is a natural transition from the pause to the play. I am beginning to get ready or at least getting ready to think about beginning to get ready. I am sure that I will want to see the next “Twister” installment as I now feel a strange bond to this franchise and I will certainly download the soundtrack. Mourners ultimately get back in the game as there is no real choice other than to Get Busy Living. Just at their pace.