In the Jewish tradition there is an ancient custom to memorialize and honour the dead. Following this custom we place a monument, a headstone, covered with a cloth over the grave and then we lift the cloth off the headstone. The stone marks where the dead lie and where we come to remember, mourn and grieve, commune and nurture our bonds with the dead.
This is the unveiling.
It is meant to be part of the grieving and healing.
The gravestone evokes in us a complex sense of awe: awe at the permanence and irrevocability of death but coexisting with our living memory of the dead, awe in our glimpse into the mysteriousness of life and death.
The name on this stone brings everything down to who is it is that lies here, Muni Basman. He lies here, in a sense, forever, in the sense that as long we all breathe and think, he will be for us as a presence and an absence.
We look at the stone. We look around us. We look at who is here with us. We consider where we are. We consider why we are here now. And, so, we are directed inside of ourselves, into our hearts and minds. We remember Muni, each in our own way. We remember the smallest of details and the largest of his accomplishments and meanings for us. We remember all things in between of whatever dimension.
In the tradition there is to be a brief eulogy marking the most important and distinguishing things about the deceased.
I’ve thought about how briefly to do this. I’m not going to sing a Yiddish leidel. I’m not going to quote from Shakespeare or some other heavy hitter like Osip Mandlestam. No, rather, I’m going to read to you the lyrics of an American country song written by Mark D. Sanders and Tia Sillers and recorded by the great Lee Ann Womack. I’ll be the first to admit that this song is not exactly Muni’s style, it being a little bit country and a little bit corny. But it feels right to me.
And, maybe, you can imagine that their own version of this song might have been said or sung by Muni’s parents, our mother and father, Basha and Leibel, to their first born son, a baby born with one foot shorter than the other and turned out, which is to say, a club foot.
I Hope You Dance
I hope you never lose your sense of wonder
You get your fill to eat
But always keep that hunger
May you never take one single breath for granted
God forbid love ever leave you empty handed
I hope you still feel small
When you stand by the ocean
Whenever one door closes, I hope one more opens
Promise me you'll give faith a fighting chance
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance
I hope you dance
I hope you dance
I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance
Never settle for the path of least resistance
Living might mean taking chances
But they're worth taking
Lovin' might be a mistake
But it's worth making
Don't let some hell bent heart
Leave you bitter
When you come close to selling out
Reconsider
Give the heavens above
More than just a passing glance
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance
I hope you dance
(Time is a real and constant motion always)
I hope you dance
(Rolling us along)
I hope you dance
(Tell me who)
I hope you dance
(Wants to look back on their youth and wonder)
(Where those years have gone)
I hope you still feel small
When you stand by the ocean
Whenever one door closes, I hope one more opens
Promise me you'll give faith a fighting chance
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance
Dance
I hope you dance
I hope you dance
(Time is a real and constant motion always)
I hope you dance
(Rolling us along)
I hope you dance
(Tell me who)
(Wants to look back on their youth and wonder)
I hope you dance
(Where those years have gone)
(Tell me who)
I hope you dance
(Wants to look back on their youth and wonder)
(Where those years have gone)
I will say this about my brother Muni, born with one foot shorter than the other and turned out: he danced; he danced; he danced!
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