Seeking Where?
Greenlighter
- Joined
- Feb 11, 2013
- Messages
- 45
From Where Wolf?'s Eulogy 21 February 2013, Posted by Seeking Where?
We are gathered here today for one reason alone: we have no choice. We must accept the bitter task of burying Reuben, beloved son and brother, cherished friend and lover. We mourn him in these terms, yet to define him by the roles he played in our various shattered lives says too little. Reuben was a precious soul, an incomparable gift. Bright to the point of incandescence; his eyes flashed fire. He saw more – thought more – read more – understood more – felt more than others. This brought him both great insight and much, much too much, pain.
People would often describe Reuben as ‘intense,’ and he knew that he was not always easy to be around. “I am an uncomfortable friend,” he once remarked. Perhaps that is why he tended to keep to himself as much as he did. He struggled to make and keep close relationships, though he desperately wanted them. He was often drawn to the wounded, the damaged: suffering soul to suffering soul. The alienated, the isolated and the lonely were his people. In recent years, he spent much of his limited personal energy trying to support others over the internet, some on the edge of suicide, seeking to convince them that life was beautiful and worth the struggle. He did this although he found it hard to believe himself, particularly when he was plagued with migraine. For one who could seem so fierce, his gentleness could be astonishing and his compassion, deep and sustaining.
Partly due to his relative isolation, Reuben was deeply loyal to his family, though not blindly. He could be a harsh critic, though hard words were often conveyed with acerbic wit. He could be very funny, though there was often something painful in the humour. This was not always the case, however: all of us will be able to remember what Aileen called that wonderful spontaneous rip of a laugh. It had a generosity of spirit about it, even when the humour was reflexive.
What people might not know about Reuben is that he was a deeply spiritual man. Nothing would irritate him more than for the idea of God to be reduced to mere metaphor. “The God of Jacob is real,” he said, speaking the truth he felt in the depths of his being. Yet the classic understanding of Judaism, with its binary thinking and categorising mentality, was deeply unsatisfying to him. Holy/profane. Kosher/treif. Pure / defiled. Jewish / non-Jewish. He knew that human experience isn’t so easily named or tamed. Reuben’s philosophy was that of a radical monist after the Chasidic masters, influenced by an interest in Shabbatai Tzvi. He believed, as they did, that everything comes from ONE source and that God cannot be reduced to what is ‘good, beautiful and true.’ Everything that exists has the potential for holiness; we can redeem the sparks of God in all things. Reuben saw nothing as inherently pure. Everything in its true nature is mixed, like the sky at twilight and at dawn. He knew better than most that if there is not this mixing of light and dark, then what you are looking at is an illusion. Paradox was the hallmark of Divinity for him. In his own person, he felt that he embodied both light and shadow, b’tzelem Elohim¸ in the true image of God.
By his own diagnosis, Reuben believed that he suffered from dysthymia, a chronic depressive disease that too often coloured his view of life, leading him to bouts of paralysis and self-doubt. This was hard for others to accept, as his skill as a wordsmith and his talent for narrative fiction were manifest not only in the novels he wrote, but even in his texts and email correspondence. He believed that the condition was also at the root of his repeated experience of addiction, though he did not use that as an excuse. He felt ashamed of the state the drugs had reduced him to, and that led him to lash out at times. That he hurt those whom he loved grieved him deeply, and sadly made him withdraw. Although that caused us pain, we know that he was seeking lovingly to protect us.
We who remain wish we could have protected him. Reuben cared so much, but felt so helpless. He found it impossible to be content with making small differences, feeling that the mess the world was in demanded bigger gestures and an urgency he could not summon from inside himself. That he wrote so little in recent months is a great sorrow, for he once told me that his words were his soul. Thankfully, some precious fragments remain, and we will share some of them. As we hear his voice, let us remember him and give thanks for the many ways in which he touched our lives. May his memory ever be for a blessing.
We are gathered here today for one reason alone: we have no choice. We must accept the bitter task of burying Reuben, beloved son and brother, cherished friend and lover. We mourn him in these terms, yet to define him by the roles he played in our various shattered lives says too little. Reuben was a precious soul, an incomparable gift. Bright to the point of incandescence; his eyes flashed fire. He saw more – thought more – read more – understood more – felt more than others. This brought him both great insight and much, much too much, pain.
People would often describe Reuben as ‘intense,’ and he knew that he was not always easy to be around. “I am an uncomfortable friend,” he once remarked. Perhaps that is why he tended to keep to himself as much as he did. He struggled to make and keep close relationships, though he desperately wanted them. He was often drawn to the wounded, the damaged: suffering soul to suffering soul. The alienated, the isolated and the lonely were his people. In recent years, he spent much of his limited personal energy trying to support others over the internet, some on the edge of suicide, seeking to convince them that life was beautiful and worth the struggle. He did this although he found it hard to believe himself, particularly when he was plagued with migraine. For one who could seem so fierce, his gentleness could be astonishing and his compassion, deep and sustaining.
Partly due to his relative isolation, Reuben was deeply loyal to his family, though not blindly. He could be a harsh critic, though hard words were often conveyed with acerbic wit. He could be very funny, though there was often something painful in the humour. This was not always the case, however: all of us will be able to remember what Aileen called that wonderful spontaneous rip of a laugh. It had a generosity of spirit about it, even when the humour was reflexive.
What people might not know about Reuben is that he was a deeply spiritual man. Nothing would irritate him more than for the idea of God to be reduced to mere metaphor. “The God of Jacob is real,” he said, speaking the truth he felt in the depths of his being. Yet the classic understanding of Judaism, with its binary thinking and categorising mentality, was deeply unsatisfying to him. Holy/profane. Kosher/treif. Pure / defiled. Jewish / non-Jewish. He knew that human experience isn’t so easily named or tamed. Reuben’s philosophy was that of a radical monist after the Chasidic masters, influenced by an interest in Shabbatai Tzvi. He believed, as they did, that everything comes from ONE source and that God cannot be reduced to what is ‘good, beautiful and true.’ Everything that exists has the potential for holiness; we can redeem the sparks of God in all things. Reuben saw nothing as inherently pure. Everything in its true nature is mixed, like the sky at twilight and at dawn. He knew better than most that if there is not this mixing of light and dark, then what you are looking at is an illusion. Paradox was the hallmark of Divinity for him. In his own person, he felt that he embodied both light and shadow, b’tzelem Elohim¸ in the true image of God.
By his own diagnosis, Reuben believed that he suffered from dysthymia, a chronic depressive disease that too often coloured his view of life, leading him to bouts of paralysis and self-doubt. This was hard for others to accept, as his skill as a wordsmith and his talent for narrative fiction were manifest not only in the novels he wrote, but even in his texts and email correspondence. He believed that the condition was also at the root of his repeated experience of addiction, though he did not use that as an excuse. He felt ashamed of the state the drugs had reduced him to, and that led him to lash out at times. That he hurt those whom he loved grieved him deeply, and sadly made him withdraw. Although that caused us pain, we know that he was seeking lovingly to protect us.
We who remain wish we could have protected him. Reuben cared so much, but felt so helpless. He found it impossible to be content with making small differences, feeling that the mess the world was in demanded bigger gestures and an urgency he could not summon from inside himself. That he wrote so little in recent months is a great sorrow, for he once told me that his words were his soul. Thankfully, some precious fragments remain, and we will share some of them. As we hear his voice, let us remember him and give thanks for the many ways in which he touched our lives. May his memory ever be for a blessing.
Only just seen this. 