Congregation Emanu-El of Westchester: Sermon Archives

YIZKOR
September 22, 2007

On these High Holy days I have shared thoughts occasioned by numbers that have occurred in my personal life over the past year. In a way they are a microcosm of my life or, at least moments important to me. The sermons focused on three important numbers, 35. 40. 50. Today, as we approach the closing of the gates on a year that has gone and open the gates of a New Year, I add one number, still, unknown ----. The years of my future. What number should I ascribe? How long will that future be? Will it be brief or stretched far into the distance? Who can predict? I can only determine the attitude I hope to bring to whatever lies ahead.

And as I consider the number still to be written my musings carry me to my beloved Provence where, after a brief hiatus, I returned this summer. My goal was to find a retreat in the country but a location also close to a village; near enough to wander through fields in the morning and become absorbed in the bustle of a town in the afternoon. Or vice versa. To my delight I discovered the Provencal refuge on the outskirts of the village of Moustier St. Marie. Leaving the gates of the hotel where I was staying, Bastide De Moustier, I turned left, crossing a gentle stream. Soon I was engulfed in a field of lavender, the purple hue broken by a single oak tree casting its shadow over a small section of the exquisite rows of lavender. Scattered along the narrow lane, where only an occasional Citroen or Renault broke the silence, fig trees, their branches weighed down by dark brown fruit, emitted a rich smell. The fragrance was ambrosial, figs, lavender waiting to be harvested and freshly mown hay. Nothing more was necessary to assure contentment.

Eventually the path passed a goat farm, selling fresh goat's cheese, chevre. After several hours the walk ended on the banks of a vast lake. Along the shoreline the mildly ambitious could rent a kayak and paddle into the Gorge du Verdon described as the third largest canyon in the world. The Grand Canyon of Europe. Beneath towering cliffs I swam in clear turquoise waters.

That was the first walk. The second excursion went in the opposite direction. After crossing the D952, the main highway in the area, a paved road ascended almost vertically into the town of Moustier. Above the Chapel of Notre Dame de Beauvoir, and strung between two peaks, at the edge of a ravine, a five pointed golden star was suspended from a 738 foot heavy iron chain. According to legend, a 13th century chevalier in the Crusade of St. Louis, vowed that if he returned safely from battle to his town of Moustier he would erect this star to watch over the town. Although refurbished over time, the star has been a symbol of Moustier.

In a matter of several minutes I found myself immersed in the bustle of the town, engulfed by tourists from every continent. Restaurants teetered precariously on the edge of a multi level waterfall with the statue of a mermaid by the side. Shops sold herbs, saucisson, and the aroma of herbal soaps seeped in and out of narrow passageways where patterned napkins, tablecloths, dresses blew in the gentle breeze. Moustier is known for its faience, it's painted ceramics, white dishes, vases, soup tureens brightly painted with the blues and yellows of Provence. Long into the night, when the glacier sells his last cone of ice cream, French Vanille, the town is still awake.

That was my summer: an exquisite hotel with fields of lavender flowing in one direction, the energy of a town radiating in the other. And I had only to choose which path I would take.

We do not always have the luxury of choice. Sometimes necessity chooses for us. Some who are here on this afternoon, waiting for Yizkor, could not choose. Sickness, death swept down like the mistral, the fierce winds of the south of France, and ravaged loved ones in their wake. Instead of joy, sadness descended and tarried.

We can not refashion the past. But what of the future, the number of years still granted to us? There we have options --- to decide how we will live, what attitude we will bring to the waning day, how we will go on.

At any time, no matter our age, diverse directions beckon. Just before us the raised sign post reads "Future." One arrow points towards the bustling town above the Gorge du Verdon, one through a landscape of ripe figs and redolent lavender. It remains to us to decide in which direction to proceed, to fix our sights on vistas that can provide fulfillment and contentment. And when, on occasion, our way turns turbulent then we persevere until, somewhere just around the bend the outlook clears, the sky brightens and, restored, we move forward --- beyond Yizkor into a rebirth of the spirit.

May this come to pass. Today, and for the days still to come.