Congregation Emanu-El of Westchester: Sermon Archives

Saturday, September 25, 2004 - Yizkor

In my home I have an antique pine desk. Old wood, the gnarls still in place, tiny staccato holes lining the cracks, perhaps the result of an insect feasting on the wood many years ago. The desk is where I write. It is a place of comfort, of security. And in the middle of the desk I have placed a small wooden box with a painted picture of cows against a backdrop of the Swiss Alps in fading shades of white and blue and green. Under the picture are the words "Suisse-Berner-Oberland." But what rests within the box is not from Switzerland. It is from France. From Provence. In the box are hundreds, thousands of small specks of lavender - some turned gray by time, some silver, some rich with the shades of lavender. In recent months I have often opened the box and the smell of Provence escapes.

I open the box because this summer I did not visit Provence. I enjoyed a wonderful summer but I did not visit Provence. And I miss Provence. When I open the box and smell the rich scent of the lavender, Provence returns and, in certain ways, it seems as if I never left --- or, at least, as if I was there in the months just past.

My dried lavender was harvested on my initial trip to Provence 12 years ago. The year I became a lavender farmer --- or imagined myself to be a lavender farmer. And I think back. To a distant August and to the countryside near Sault in rural Provence. A steady progression of tractors chugs along rows of lavender, their blades cutting swiftly, binding the flowers and, at the end of the row, leaving the shoots in neatly bound piles and the field as desolate as if a plague of locusts had descended, devoured and moved on to a fresh crop.

But when I think of Sault and lavender I remember a farmer, Larre, a lone figure bending over rows of still uncut lavender, a mantle of color on the bleak earth. Larre's arm moved like the pendulum of an old grandfather's clock, and a scythe swung methodically, shearing the plants one by one. Over one shoulder the farmer draped a coarse ragged sheet, tied loosely around his neck, falling beneath his arms and forming a pouch that swayed at his side as he trod the row. Without breaking stride the scythe progressed effortlessly from side to side, swish, swish, Larre's hand gathering a clump of lavender and stuffing the flowers into the makeshift bag.

Larre, parchment skin aged more by weather than by time, might be the last of the lavender farmers in rustic Provence to still cut by hand.

One summer, hoping to blend into the French landscape, I volunteered to harvest lavender. The complexities of becoming a lavender picker began when the sheet I awkwardly converted into a bag over my shoulder lacked an opening --- at either end. Then, bent over the lavender, imitating an early stage of homo sapien, I speculated on whether I would be capable of once again standing erect. Grasping a handful of lavender I swung the blade, waiting for the thrill of that gliding motion, the swish, swish of the slicing scythe, but the scythe lodged in the plant and only by tugging could I dislodge any of the flowers (and several roots)/

Fortunately Larre appeared, a sprig of lavender between his teeth, and muttered about my inability to respect the art of harvesting lavender. Then Larre granted me a few quick tips on the proper way to harvest lavender. "Hold the handle of the scythe. Like this. Where the wood curves. Take a clump of lavender and work around the plant. That's it. No. You cut too high. No, no no! You cut too low. You're jerking the scythe. A steady rhythm."

Eventually I gained some proficiency and when I reached the end of my first row I stood up, adjusted the half filled pouch and surveyed my handiwork. With a tinge of sadness I scanned the barren rows of lavender. What had I done? Only an hour before the rich purple fields had stretched out to the horizon. Now the rows of lavender, stirpped of color, lay forlorn.

As Larre approached again, I asked:

"Would you mind if I take a bunch of lavender? A remembrance of my day as a lavender farmer?"

Nodding he disappeared into a nearby field and returned with a cluster of cut lavender. Handing me the bouquet he placed his deeply veined hand on mine and raised his head, a twinkle in his eye. "A present. For you. To remember. Before leaving Provence I stripped the dried blossoms from their thin stalks. Safely home I poured the lavender into the wooden box on my desk. With the passage of time the fragrance diminished but whenever I reach into the box and rub the specks of lavender between my fingers the rich aroma of Provence returns and I travel to distant purple fields and rows of lavender. For released with the aroma of lavender are memories --- and memories never die.

At this moment of Yizkor we remember. Some of you bear recent wounds and some still suffer under losses many years past. For some it is a single death, of one we love, a dream, a future --- and for others the loss is an ongoing continuum of pain accrued over many years. Where are they, the people, the places, the times once held dear? Where are they?

They live. Yes, they still live where the past always has lived and always will live, in the hidden realm of memory; there for us to touch when we remove the cover of time from the box containing remnants of the years that were. T.S. Eliot, in the poem Little Giddings wrote: "And to make an end is a beginning. The end is where we start from." How do we start when we encounter the inevitable endings that life thrusts upon us? By bringing the past into the present. Through the power of memory. It is not wise to live in the past but when you wish you can revisit the past. That is the meaning of Yizkor. Yes, beyond loss lies finding. This is the moment of remembrance. Seek within yourself. Discover the rich fragrance of what once was. Remember. Remember.