Twenty some years
ago, after my mother was moved into a nursing home, my siblings were left with the
overwhelming task of figuring out what to do with her belongings. There were a
lot of them: seven rooms and a garage packed with over half a century of
memories. I am certain that much of what they assumed to be worthless junk was,
in reality, precious belongings with great sentimental value, but sadly enough,
without being privy to the accompanying stories, almost all of her things ended
up in the garbage. I have no doubt that at least some of it was, in reality,
precious family heirlooms.
That’s one of the reasons why, when I cleaned for Pesach
this year, I spent a lot of time sorting through my belongings and gave many of
them to my children. Among the treasures were several embroidered pictures that
I had made years ago, during those long, sunny afternoons at the park, when my
friends and I would sit together, watching our children (who are now beginning
to marry off their own children!) as they climbed the jungle-gym and slid down
the slides (those were the days, my friends…).
Every year on Erev Pesach, when I carefully remove the
pictures from their cloth bag, I am transported to a different period of my
life, when, between taking care of the babies and running my home, I never
dreamed of finding the quiet that I need to be able to write. Yet, each afternoon
there was an oasis of time when I would join a group of young mothers to
discuss everything from recipes to the meaning of life while watching my
children, and embroider fanciful pictures (I have always been a multi-tasker!).
This year, however, instead of returning my works of art to
their cloth bag and promising myself that as soon as Pesach is over, I’ll have
them professionally framed, I decided to leave everything and do just
that. The results are stunning.
Some twenty-three years ago, when my first child got
engaged, I decided that I would try to give each of my newlywed couples a very
special wedding present: a large needlepoint embroidered by yours truly. Well,
um, rabos machshavos b’lev ish; some got, and some didn’t. Now, I was
delighted to (finally) be able to give the other children what I hoped would
eventually become family heirlooms, a piece of myself, something to remember me
by, as well as assure that, at least b’derech hateva, these labors of
love will not erroneously end up in the dumpster. I can just imagine that half
a century from now, one of my great-grandchildren will point to my handiwork
and tell her offspring about how the elta, elta bubby, the great tzedekes
Devorah (hmmm….) would spend her afternoons at the park, fervently reciting
Tehillim (while gabbing away with her friends) as she davened for
her children’s hatzlachah and, never being one to let her hands sit
idle, embroidered family heirlooms.
This Erev Pesach, I also spent quite a bit of time looking through
all our old photographs — boxes and boxes of them, over forty years worth —
and gave away over half of them to my children. (Disclaimer: poring over old
photos does not magically get rid of the chametz. Rather, it’s using Pesach
as an excuse to have fun.) Grinning toddlers in diapers, their faces and hair
(ugh!) smeared with toothpaste; freckled girls in freshly pressed uniforms,
their hair pulled tightly back into ponytails, showing off their brand new
school bags; large hats balanced on the heads of new bar mitzvah bachurim;
slightly dazed newly-engaged couples drinking a l’chaim, family wedding
pictures. Not only did I enjoy a delightful trip down memory lane, I now have
an entire empty shelf in my closet (hmmm… I better place a few strategic
knickknacks there, before the tides of clutter rise to cover that shelf).
Reb Nachman of Breslov, zt”l, teaches that a person
should strive to leave his daas in this world through doing something
that will inspire future generations to come closer to Hashem. I have no doubt
that my desire to leave a footprint on the world, to make sure that the
children understand the stories behind the treasures, is part of a deeper need that
all of us have to leave a piece of ourselves to those who come after us, to ensure
that they will learn from our challenges and struggles as well as from the
choices that we’ve made, and that by doing so, we have accomplished something
of real, eternal value.
Oh, and speaking of leaving something for the next
generation, while cleaning for Pesach this year, I stumbled across a needlepoint
that I started over a decade ago and decided to finish it. Another yerushah
for the grandchildren, and besides, it’s great therapy for stiff fingers.
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