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Category: tzaddik stories

Stories of the tzaddik, as I remember him. Or stories about others, that serve as a reminder of just how tzaddik the tzaddik really was. As opposed to memories of Seymour Fromer, Director of the Magnes Museum, or his earlier incarnation as Seymour Fromer, Director of Jewish Education for Alameda and Contra Costa Counties. Or before that as —. You get the idea. These are my tales about my father — at home or abroad — under conditions in which he wasn’t a director of anything at all.

this is going to end badly, she said

Posted on 10 April 201110 April 2011 by mira

Malkah woke up, and she was healed of her despair. Her body felt light, like it could just float up into the ether — except for the fact that she already resided there to begin with. Her spirit was lighter too for a change. It was an indescribable feeling. She had even slept. Slept like…

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the paintbrush

Posted on 10 January 201127 March 2011 by mira

“What you really want is closure,” he said. I had called him knowing I was in peril. I asked him what he thought I should feel. He’s pretty good at feeling stuff. But I’m not so sure he’s right. I’m not sure closure is attainable in cases like this. Just as I’m not sure there could…

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the concealed one, blessed be he

Posted on 6 December 201023 March 2011 by mira

When Malkah (an incarnation of the Shekhinah herself — and why not?) was a little girl, the tzaddik used to tell her ‘Bobo Stories’ (of all things) at bedtime to calm her to sleep. And this was long before his journeys with Rav Gavriel rescuing artifacts in India. As the tzaddik told it, the Prince…

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epitaph for a tzaddik

Posted on 24 November 201023 March 2011 by mira

New Orleans. With the voudon priest. Again. He gives me a reading. And one of the things he says is: “Don’t go to the cemetery. He’s not there. Go to the place where he still resides. The place where he still lives.” And all I can think of is well, where is that? Where is…

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the tzaddik sells his daughter

Posted on 14 November 201013 April 2011 by mira

Jerusalem, 1961 The tzaddik, as we know, was a great collector of Judaica: manuscripts, ceremonial artifacts, and ancient pieces of junk. For him, every single fragment was precious and worthy of preserving. Each broken piece of something had matching pieces yet to be discovered. Every object had a story that had to be uncovered. If…

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we dying dogs

Posted on 10 November 201023 March 2011 by mira

Sometimes we just slow down and stop. And that’s it. We’re done. That’s what happened today at Funston, heading back from the cliffside trail. This woman’s dogs were going just nuts as she tried to protect one between her legs who was just plain done. It was like she was paralyzed there, not paying attention…

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yahrtzeit for the tzaddik

Posted on 24 October 201023 March 2011 by mira

Do I still get to cry? The first year ends, and I’ve been living the dying over and over. Actually, it all started two years ago with her. And I just couldn’t get over it, and then, wham — the tzaddik is ill, the tzaddik is terminal, the tzaddik is gone. I think it’s time…

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the tzaddik and the vavlings

Posted on 15 July 201023 March 2011 by mira

A tzaddik walks into a bar, and … I really want to start that way, only the Tzaddik didn’t pick up the vav in a bar. The tzaddik has only been in a bar once in his life and that was when he was stranded (with a vavling, actually) in the middle of nowhere and…

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the rebbe and the wise little children

Posted on 25 June 201023 March 2011 by mira

A friend and colleague posted this quote from Arthur Green on his blog and so, of course, I’ve struggled with it. Which is better than saying, yet again, that it pissed me off: “We would understand the entire course of evolution from the simplest life forms millions of years ago, to the great complexity of…

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how the sages die

Posted on 20 June 201023 March 2011 by mira

Within an hour of his demise, my father looked exactly like a very very dead body. He was already cold. His mouth was open in the midst of his last unfinished sentence. One hour was the time it took me to get there as fast as I could wake up and get across the bridge….

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Posts

  • kaddish for anke akevit (2015-20)
  • a kaddish for too many suicide victims—but it gets better!
  • a kaddish for sigrid syltetøy vang, b. 2006, d. 27 February 2018
  • guest kaddish: velvet marquesa flicka storm, 11 august 2005–9 april 2015
  • the stones I cannot place
  • oh amy, how could you — a kaddish for amy smith
  • guest kaddish: Gudrun Fossum Vang (16 June 1905–3 April 1972)
  • occasional kaddish: for Josephine Selvig Anderson (11 April 1915– 22 January 2012)
  • and death is so much closer than it was—a kaddish for rebecca fromer
  • easy come easy go: a kaddish for adrienne cooper
  • nyt remembrances—a kaddish for departed strangers
  • guest kaddish from David Mohr—for Kimba
  • killing you loudly—a kaddish
  • anything, anything but a mystical experience
  • daily kaddish: our project’s yahrtzeit

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email mira and erin: kaddish@beitmalkhut.org

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© 2010–22 by Mira Z. Amiras and Erin Vang (beitmalkhut.org). All rights reserved worldwide.

thank you—תודה רבה

Permission to use Lev Kogan's "Kaddish," © 1982 by Israel Brass Woodwind Publications
In-kind support: Global Pragmatica LLC®

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