Yahrzeit Reimagined
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I read a story about someone nailing a rotary phone to a tree deep in the woods—a place where visitors could pick up the receiver and speak with their loved ones who had passed away. It's a haunting and beautiful concept. How many times have you reached for your phone wanting to call your mom, your dad, someone irreplaceable, to share a moment or tell them something important? And then that split second hits when you remember you can't. That you never will again.
Now her candle sticks, sits along side the set my folks gave us as a wedding gift. When the shabbat candles glow, a tradition that feels both timeless and deeply present, I think about the homemade deep golden hued chicken soup we had most Friday dinners.
I'm designing my version of the tree's rotary phone to rest on that special piece of furniture. A short candle holder for a yahrzeit candle, a flame that remembers. And beside it, a lidded vessel. Not just decoration, but purpose. A place where my family and I can write the words we wish we could speak—not to dwell on what's gone, but to share what's here now. A quick note, folded in half and slipped inside. The beautiful sunset I watched today. The unexpected hug from a friend. An invitation wishing she could come see my latest pieces of work. A moment of connection I want to hold onto. I can tuck that note inside, seal it, and know it's there. A conversation held in silence. A way to transform the ache of missing someone into something that honors both memory and the present moment we're living.
A phone in the woods or a candle with a vessel on a cherished cabinet—maybe they're not so different. Both are places where we pause. Where we speak what matters. Where we honor the space between here and gone.
Work in progress . . .