טוב ללכת אל־בית־אבל מלכת אל־בית משתה באשר הוא סוף כל־האדם והחי יתן אל־לבו׃
It is better to go to a house of mourning than to a house of feasting, because that is the end of every man, and the living takes it to heart. Koheles (Ecclesiastes) 7:2
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Just to the north of my school rests one of the largest cemeteries in Israel. From any window on the rear or north face of the building you can’t help but see it (see photo). I’ve had the somewhat macabre opportunity to take part in several ceremonies at this cemetery which makes it an even more striking place for me, and not just simple scenery. That being the case, whenever I do catch a glimpse and see the rows of graves nestled neatly in the ground, shaded by trees, and resting without sound for who knows how much longer…I don’t see a serenity, and I don’t hear silence.
From their rows the legions of those who came before me call out to me from their restless rest–they struggle and strain to return; to walk, only to run again and never cease, to sing, dance, eat and drink, to love and be loved, and to forgive and be forgiven—debts paid and regrets unmade…and in the complete silence of this struggle their souls shout what their dry lungs cannot…they cry out to me in unison with the force of A THOUSAND TRUMPETS, but I hear it as a soft, singular whisper in my heart. The screaming whisper is always the same…it says to me in its penetrating softness, “live…just don’t be alive…LIVE!”
I see them lying there in the distance, knowing that is my fate someday, my days are literally numbered, and I always ask myself, am I really living or just merely alive?
