resurrection sunday

...so, it's Easter and just down the boulevard at the Hollywood Bowl
they are singing to raise the dead..

our shiva is continuing
last night a beautiful mournful clarinet
and friends and family and food
and dying Easter eggs in the fountain and
ricotta cheese cake and starting to cull the wilting flowers
from the many many bouquets
and some departures--
my brother who stood as a tower next me as I started to list like Pisa
having to say the first kaddish
and the Berkeley boys into men who are the true spirit of T
more than any others and the once merely depressed P
now morphed into a man of joy and science and spirit,
investigating the soul and what gives us those spirits
that make us who we are

and changing the sheets on which T last slept
finally
with my women who knew just how to bless our marriage bed
with sage and soft voices and the release of spirit
the light of comfort

and finally, a walk on the beach
with family all together
and laughter in the living room
and our little house full of us all together
so much comfort, so much joy, so much fuel for the transition
too beautiful
too grateful
and Monday the Klezmer band plays
and Tuesday we finish up and take a walk around the block and block
and so we begin a anew
thank you everyone for mourning with us
my god we are so fortunate

i go now to offer some pies to the kids at Covenant House on Easter Sunday
and then swim and return to pray
join us if you can
s

and below are words from friend Bob.
you need to read them--


In Honor of Tony Shultz
by Bob Tzudiker
We think of Tony as the personification of gentleness. But you would not feel that way if you were a wedge of cheese. Especially a soft cheese. Brie lived in fear of Tony.

I would always marvel at Tony’s approach to a cutting board. His whole being became purposeful, he would flow toward that cheese, not with greed or gluttony, but with the same sense of purpose as a river flowing towards its own mouth. That’s how Tony would flow toward that poor cheese.

Once he arrived at the cutting board, Tony would pick up the knife, but he used it as a shovel – gracefully, delicately, he’d carve off a spade full of that cheese. He had no respect for crackers; he’d inundate them, disappear them under a small mountain of cheese. And all of it would be gone in a second, at once both genteel and voracious.

Tony was serious about all his pleasures. Very serious. For all his many talents, pleasure was his true art. He made it profound, a form of worship.

One of the hard things about being alive is when you realize that something will never be again. It’s such a peculiar feeling, and we all share it now - that sweet sting of appreciation of what will never be again. I will never again see Tony eat cheese. But that doesn’t mean he can’t still be my guru of appreciation. To Tony, a fine meal was brushed with immortality.