You too were swept to the illuminated sea, like all of us. But you were the first to find lucid enough attentiveness in me, to deliver by me the words that were still left in you. Until then I was familiar with the inner spotlight that would focus and crystallize, in my mind, the pearl hidden in every person, and when I spoke to anyone I tried to attune to that pearl core within them. At times it would be buried under dark mass and surrounded by fortified walls, and the effort of hiding it has become a part of one’s nature. In such a case, when I spoke to the pearl, I would be stormed upon with that person’s fury. But I knew well: every pearl core needs a touch of light. All people come to this world to glow, and no one’s glow is identical to the glow of another. My palette of light became more spectacular the more my spotlight met pearl cores, the more I dared to focus it and followed its light.

But I haven’t met your pearl core – your glow – in this world. I came to the Shiva, after you’ve left your body. The apartment where your small family sat was tiny and crowded with visitors. I have met your mother long after you’ve left her home for a life of your own. I knew, she told me, that this life was not easy on you, that being in it often caused you great suffering. I knew that you had asked her more than once to help you stop the pain, and that she had torn within her a tear each time she pulled you back to life against your wishes. I have already turned to go home when I passed by a table where albums of you photographs were set, and one enlarged photograph of your face, framed in bright purple, was leaned on the wall. Your eyes magnetized me. I stepped back to test the magnet’s movement and in a wink I found myself at the table again, looking into your eyes. After long moments of focusing my eyes in yours, I decided to go home. I turned to hug your mother, who sat on the other side of the Livingroom. I bent to hug her and felt a glare torching my back. Still bent towards her, I turned my eyes. The room was full of people but a window was formed, the size of your picture, and your eyes darted a glare at me. I left your mother’s home and got into the car. A few minutes later, calm prevailed and you glowed within it. You started talking with me, you asked me to tell your mother that she helped you more than she can imagine, that you are at peace now. And then you asked me to tell her you want her to have your black bracelet for keeps. I wrote down your words and passed them to your mother. I didn’t know what it was about, as that was the first time that someone’s words to another crystallized within me while awake. Your mother didn’t know what that bracelet was either, but a week later I received a picture she sent: a bracelet of black Tourmalines laid in her palm. She found the bracelet in your boyhood room while looking for another missing piece of jewelry.

All that happened a long time ago. Since then I have comforted lots of people, sometimes total strangers. I’d go to a Shiva, and I’d sit and let the massages go through me. I sat at the Shiva house as once the weepers used to come to lament. Their duty was enormously important, they set the fossilized body of pain in motion and in their weeping allowed it to glow. Those who have seen the glow of the pain of separation will forever carry the sight in their hearts. There were homes where I felt the absence of weepers and in others there were a person or two open hearted enough to let the pain of separation find a way out, and unknowingly allow the movement in other mourners. In time I had made it a habit: when I came to a Shiva house, I’d find a chair and set an empty chair next to me, to which I’d invite a weeper’s soul. If the mourners needed her, she would appear, her presence bright like the world’s soul, like hearts beating all as one. The soul of the departed would hover over the mourners, sometimes trying to connect. The weeper delivered her lamentation, and it sent threads as tear magnets to the mourners’ hearts. . At times I’d notice the threads sent and the eyes moisten, or a tear would suddenly roll down a dry cheek. One time as we sat in a Shiva house in a southern village, a moment before she faded, the weeper turned to me: “I saw him by your side when you drove here. He’ll drive with you on the way back as well”. I was somewhat surprised by her words. Not by her knowledge about the presence of the man I had loved and left, or about his presence often visiting me even though we were no longer in contact; but by the fact that she related it to me. When I got into the car and started to drive home, I felt the warmth of his hand on mine, and I knew that the tear that rolls down my cheek finds its way at the same time over his stubble.

The attentiveness services that I’ve facilitated were never a burden nor a relief. They were a part of my nature and they’ve flown to and from me as I wear my shoes, arrange flowers, paint, or read a poem. I never left a Shiva house and let my lips utter the sentence “may you never know sorrow”. Sorrow, I knew, has a part in this world, I saw no option of banishing it, and from all the massages that went through me, I realized that only when one is swept into the illuminated sea, in their departure from the body and this world, they also depart from sorrow.

One thing kept on glowing within me, and its glow illuminated the worlds – the glow of longing. In the light of this glow I live in my changing body and my changing life stories. Lifetimes in which I burried this glow were the toughest and the most bitter. In every lifetime I had to find the glow of longing. I haven’t always let myself glow, but those bitter times were the bed on which I could put to rest the rage aimed at me, when I attuned a spotlight to the pearl core of a wounded, petrified person. As I sit myself on an isolated hill, among people, or in a Shiva house, when I focous that spotlight or cristallize my attentiveness, there’s no way to know what I’ll find. But it seems that on the seeding bed of longing, eveything in this world can blossom and glow.

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