Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Since we bid thee farewell
Eight years ago,
many tears that morning did shed.
into cavernous depths we lowered thee,
united to souls art thou wed.
I want you to know
I have lived as well
As best I could I did try.
Nary a morn, noon or night did pass,
couldn’t ever help I but cry.
I felt so bad all those years
When your days of youth deprived
while sickness stole so much our strength
from wells that might well have thrived.
Much like you, what did we do
When alone there left to lie
Living our lives lest we stray
from faith otherwise worn and tried.
It is hard to explain
these feelings I have
without you, my life to live
Day by day, I can’t but think
My life for yours I wouldst give.
Alan D. Busch
February 27, 2008
Please visit http://www.snapshotsinmemoryofben.com/ to purchase a copy of Snapshots In Memory of Ben.
To peruse other writings of Alan, visit http://authorsden.com/alandbusch1
Monday, February 25, 2008
The second printing of Snapshots In Memory of Ben is forthcoming. This new postscript will be published in the second printing. Please read it with care. Leave a comment ...
Postscript to Snapshots In Memory of Ben
"Weeping for Love Lost"
She said I had not grieved for Ben. Now what I think she may have meant but did not know is that my grief hasn't come to an end, and, to the extent that is true, I cannot get on with the rest of my life. Now there is a problem or two with that point of view.
Let me state unequivocally that, unlike mourning, there is no end to a parent’s grief. It is interminable and, as such, becomes as much a part of a bereaved parent's everyday life as heading off to work or tidying up the house. The presence of grief becomes a constant in the equation of a bereaved parent's life although its manifestation is variably individualized. Each bereaved parent memorializes that presence differently.
My mourning for our loss of Ben was bound by the framework of Jewish law and custom. After its prescribed period ended, I moved onto grief where I remain. Grieving for a lost child is nothing like thumbing through old photos that you put away when you have had enough. An interminable process, grieving becomes a presence, a part of oneself, a companion.
I chose to write a book, something, I felt, I needed to do. Now unless you don't already know, this business of book writing is a protracted process and, as a matter of fact, consists mostly of rewriting. Historian William Appleman Williams defined it as the art of applying the
seat of one's pants to the seat of one's chair and remaining there until you have something on paper. Searching for that precise word, that ever so elusive turn of phrase requires a great deal of time and patience.
The stakes were and remain high. I felt my happiness and future, my life itself, were at
risk. There were times when I drove myself hard to finish a chapter, tweak a sentence,
articulate an amorphous thought. And I know now that regrettably all too often I was
driving myself too hard. It is almost as if I had made a pact with the maloch ha maves, the angel of death, to return my son if I could but finish his story. Sounds oxymoronic, I know, but it’s true. Everything, I felt, depended on it.
We each choose a "derech”, a road, a way, a path, but we simultaneously accept the
inherent consequences that invariably accompany each of our choices. One can
reasonably expect there will be detours, rough pavement and traffic snarls, but of all the lessons I have learned along the way the most important is that one mustn't forsake the living to memorialize the dead.
Unfortunately, I learned this too late and at great expense. There is, in fact, a time and
place for everything.
My most difficult challenge has been to strike a healthy balance between living my life
and memorializing that of my son. It is not, I suppose, unlike the delicacy required to
walk safely on ice. Always risky at best and potentially dangerous, one needs to
exercise appropriate caution.
We all know what will happen when we slip and lose our balance. That's right ... and I
can assure you the process of getting up, though painful, is not only possible but absolutely necessary.
These words I dedicate to my son Benjamin, Z’L, in the eighth year of his absence.
May he rest in peace and his memory be a blessing.
Alan D. Busch
Revised, February 29, 2008
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Dear Readers and (Viewers)
Please click on the above video. Yes that is me. I spoke a bit too quickly ... I know, but I hope it is clear enough to understand. You know I found out ... even making a short video is more difficult than it looks. Well, at least it was for me. Please order a copy of Snapshots In Memory of Ben by clicking on www.snapshotsinmemoryofben.com. I can guarentee that you will find it to be a very compelling read. I say that-not boastfully-but from the great love I have for my son, I devoted my very best effort to tell his story well.
Paypal is set up to make the purchase. If you decide to go with Paypal it will take to "Skyline Productions." That is my publisher's account who will notify me upon the sale of a book or, if you like, contact me at AlanDBusch@aol.com and I will send you a payment request from my Paypal account.
Many thanks for your support.
Alan D. Busch
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Saturday, February 09, 2008
In days long since, from ages ago
ingather to His Makom flock
among whom dost Thou dwell
Ha Shem likvod Yisborach
L’ Adon Ha Kol l’sha-be-ach
To Him we devotedly send,
Prayerful shards, writ kvitelach
To whom our knees do bend.
Open thy hearts kedoshim
to His avodah, tahor and pure,
gather at His feet molochim
beware lest thy doubts doth stir
Whence this devotion unfailing?
ere stones stand thou demure
open thine lips heaven upward
thy portion in shamayim secure.
Hear please our supplications,
of which uttered none profane …
wherefore our faith sustaineth
memories of pious refrain.
Alan D. Busch
Copyright @ 2008
Friday, February 08, 2008
Saturday, February 02, 2008
Why wrenched from hearth and home,
o'er hills and fields whence they came?
Dreaming dreams didst thou freely roam,
awakening to morning cold and lame.
Wearily trod up heaven's slope
gray figures stooped, transparently thin,
recalling life from days before …
while awaiting storms of Heavenly din.
Unlike Goliath in battle fell,
a travail, cold and dark, did numb
that David who had fought so well
would soon that night succumb.
Prayerful hopes shoes be found
for souls bereft and torn,
a moment to rest, a breath to breathe
for spirits dulled and worn.
Should not there have been one
for whom faith steadfast but rare,
that his would be ennobled by Thee
to seek his just and fair?
Who glimpsed the light but touched him not.
whose spark had begun to wane
next day ere long gathered clouds again
for fewer who remain.
Bowed under lash by day,
by night a storm did rage.
Why had He not shown His way
a war He could have waged?
Aside bodies on planks they lie
precious heat what little remain.
Dreaded welcome soon might bring
next to whom they had just lain.
Still in death's kingdom shone
a light, a way, the day
when dawn’s rising would fewer eyes see
whose faith did them sustain.
The world we choose points us down
paths long sought by peace,
in the gardens of which we plant the seeds
lest memories tragically cease.