MEMORABILIA

I have a friend from seminary days who, every time we talk, asks, “Have you finished unpacking your boxes yet?” He refers to the fact that, after I moved into my house in the spring of 2001, there was one bedroom that was filled with all the stuff I didn’t know what to do with — not to mention several boxes in my home office that I knew “I would get around to one of these days.” When I did some remodeling in those two rooms this past summer, the boxes and the piles simply moved to other rooms…waiting until I would get to them…one of these days.

During the winter break, I finally got around to it. After days of throwing things away, sorting, throwing things away, reorganizing the things I would keep, and…yes…throwing more things away, I finally finished unpacking all the boxes. After moving mostly the same stuff from home to home six times in seven years, it feels great to be done. But the process itself was also great — and difficult
and emotional and wondrous.

One of the reasons it took so long to complete is that almost every object I came across had a story. Everything from gifts people had given me to old receipts saved with ancient tax returns released a flood of memories. There we old concert programs and rehearsal notes. There were letters of acceptance and letters of rejection. There were transcripts and class notes and research papers. There were notes of thanks or encouragement. There were recordings I had made and copies of recordings made by dear friends. And there were photographs — lots of photographs.
Some of the memories brought a smile to my face. Others were painful. To be honest, there were things that should have triggered memories but I could no longer remember a name or an event. But all brought a richness to my life that often gets lost in the face of new and exciting opportunities, or overlooked in the busy, daily routine.

I found a videotape entitled “Farewell Concert and Roast.” The week before I left Seattle for Jerusalem in 1994, I conducted a performance of my favorite choral work, Gabriel Fauré’s Requiem, with professional soloists, present and previous church choirs, and professional orchestral musicians I’d worked with over my 16 years living in the Northwest. At the “roast,” people who I’d worked with since first arriving in town spoke of our journey together. What I realized at that moment is that, in all that time, I’d always been so focused on the next project that I’d never once looked back to see if any of my efforts had been successful. I listened to friends and colleagues speak and thought to myself, “Wow — it really did work!” While I was gratified by the accomplishments,
I also began to realize how easy it is to forget the gifts of the past in the pursuit of the future.

I found pictures from the very first vacation I took alone — an amazing week seeing fall foliage in Maine just after High Holy Days. There were ribbons from my very first masters swim meet: the beginning of a significant chapter in my life. There was a copy of a research paper from a special friend I’m no longer in touch with. There were receipts from the NYU Book Store that reminded me of the struggles and growth of from the years at HUC in New York. There were old ID badges: my New York Hospital badge covered with animal stickers from my pediatrics patients; my Hebrew University ID that got me into the natatorium in Jerusalem. There was a thank you note from a friend in Germany for some children’s book I’d sent her kids. There were cassette tapes from Israel: a concert I sang in with an early music group in the Bell Caves (I do remember the birds flying over our heads); the sounds of Jews from all over the world on the eve of Tisha B’av at the Western Wall. There was an old paper calendar with events and birthdays and rehearsal notes and to-do lists.

And there were pictures: publicity shots I don’t remember sitting for; the wedding picture of a friend whose name I no longer remember but whose ceremony I sang at; excursions with friends around the Pacific Northwest; a black-and-white photo of me and my mother after one of my Seattle Pro Musica concerts.

Some of the memories are vivid. Some are reduced to faded impressions or dulled emotions. But each one made me stop, filling me with a depth and richness of life I all-too-often forget. I am reminded that today is not just another day for moving forward, but today is a celebration that depends upon all that has come before. Today is a whole universe unto itself — a universe filled with remarkable treasures of warmth and light.  

L’shalom,
Andrew Bernard
Cantor