Blindly, I See Him Looking At Me
In honor of my grandfather's first yartzeit (anniversary of passing).
He sits there amused, watching the goings-on of a narrow-minded world. The nitpickiness of neophytes disguised (or undisguised), leaves him grinning from tear to tear – Why don’t they just open their eyes? he wonders.
It is comedic, sadly comedic I’m sure, as he watches the bespectacled lemmings: we run around like blind mice, and, when he tells us so, we say, “Not true, we are not blind mice at all – we are merely blind”.
Blind indeed.
We sit here mourning: the tears potent from a year’s maturation, the emptiness as unfulfilled as eyes filled. And he writes:
Why do they mourn for me when I rejoice for them?
Why do they cry up to me when I smile down at them?
Why are they empty of me when I’m full of them?
Anyway you put it, he is not here. No matter how brilliant the mind’s response, the heart’s question is never answered. And he is hysterical – Vus bulbest du? What the hell are you talking about? You think it’s about answers and questions? You are young, just be.
He is surprised – There you sit, crying over my no-show; you think I’ve disappeared, so you’ve despaired. O, you foolish child, why not look past the decay of skeleton and into the eternity of spirit; why not scrape away the surface of the body so you can touch the essence of the soul?
Yes, I know, a blind man cannot see his blindness; an ignorant man knows not of his ignorance; a sleeping man does not feel he sleeps.
But, alas, I, I who is neither blind, nor ignorant, nor asleep, can pry-open your eyes, teach-away your ignorance, shake-off your sleep.
Just let me, please. I know you do not understand – if you did, it wouldn’t be worth it – but, still, just believe in me, trust in me, have faith in me, for here I sit, in a place eternal, believing in you, trusting in you, having faith in you.
I’m sad, but I do not mourn: I'm sad because my eyes are closed; I do not mourn because I know his are open.
I mourn, but I am not sad: I mourn because I cannot see him; I am not sad because I know he sees me.
He sits there amused, watching the goings-on of a narrow-minded world. The nitpickiness of neophytes disguised (or undisguised), leaves him grinning from tear to tear – Why don’t they just open their eyes? he wonders.
It is comedic, sadly comedic I’m sure, as he watches the bespectacled lemmings: we run around like blind mice, and, when he tells us so, we say, “Not true, we are not blind mice at all – we are merely blind”.
Blind indeed.
We sit here mourning: the tears potent from a year’s maturation, the emptiness as unfulfilled as eyes filled. And he writes:
Why do they mourn for me when I rejoice for them?
Why do they cry up to me when I smile down at them?
Why are they empty of me when I’m full of them?
Anyway you put it, he is not here. No matter how brilliant the mind’s response, the heart’s question is never answered. And he is hysterical – Vus bulbest du? What the hell are you talking about? You think it’s about answers and questions? You are young, just be.
He is surprised – There you sit, crying over my no-show; you think I’ve disappeared, so you’ve despaired. O, you foolish child, why not look past the decay of skeleton and into the eternity of spirit; why not scrape away the surface of the body so you can touch the essence of the soul?
Yes, I know, a blind man cannot see his blindness; an ignorant man knows not of his ignorance; a sleeping man does not feel he sleeps.
But, alas, I, I who is neither blind, nor ignorant, nor asleep, can pry-open your eyes, teach-away your ignorance, shake-off your sleep.
Just let me, please. I know you do not understand – if you did, it wouldn’t be worth it – but, still, just believe in me, trust in me, have faith in me, for here I sit, in a place eternal, believing in you, trusting in you, having faith in you.
I’m sad, but I do not mourn: I'm sad because my eyes are closed; I do not mourn because I know his are open.
I mourn, but I am not sad: I mourn because I cannot see him; I am not sad because I know he sees me.
Ah, yetz't du redst - now you're talking.
a piece i posted a year ago on this blog, right after my grandfather's transition to places better http://jakeyology.blogspot.com/2005/06/impressions-of-grandson.html
posted by jakeyology at 2:47 AM
4 Comments:
O, you foolish child, why not look *passed the decay of skeleton and into the eternity of spirit.....
*past
Nice article. I did not know your Zeyde, and somehow thought I was reading about the Rebbe and our current Matzev. V'yesh l'haarich...
I guess I should have read the fine print.
thnx.
yes, it is a metaphor (in part) for how differently the soul would look at things - all things.
Hey man
told you in Auz ill be you biggest fan ..
been reading your stuff ever since
this was prob your best one yet.. so felt i had to comment
keep it up, i have my whole fam hooked on your blog now..
father and mother to ..
better keep in clean....
di sha'aleh iz, zi du bulbest mit'n fedder, uder der fedder bulbet mit eich...
Great writing or great ideas, which one is it?
Perhaps the true genious is one who masters both...
At times the lame oisiyos capture reality in its most real form; unifying what otherwise seems so splintered and apart.
Sometimes, however, the domem reveals nothing; leaving the mystery out to dry, and failing at even alerting the world of this great tragedy.
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