LOVE RUNS DOWN

Love Runs Down

In Judaism we say, “L’dor v’dor, Hebrew for “generation to generation”.  There is a special part of the Bar/Bat Mitzvah service where the immediate family goes up on the Bima (stage) and stands shoulder to shoulder facing the congregation, with the oldest family member furthest from the pulpit and each subsequent family member in line until they reach the Bar/Bat Mitzvah child. 

The congregation rises as the ark doors open and the rabbi brings out the Torah which is handed to the oldest member of the family--often a grandparent, sometimes a great grandparent, and then each person passes the Torah until it reaches the bar/bat mitzvah child. L’dor v’dor, from generation to generation. It is a very powerful moment during the service watching the generations hand the responsibilities of Judaism down to the youngest in the family. 

At my father’s funeral in 2004, Rabbi Zoe spoke of Poppy’s love for his five grandchildren. She said “love runs downhill” as part of her beautiful eulogy of woven words, yes love runs down from my father to me to my children.  A beautiful reminder of love and how it flows to us. L’dor v’dor. Love runs down. Her words a blessing and a comfort to hear. 

“Love runs downhill, through the generations.
Our love, 
The intricate love we have for our parents 
Runs downhill,
And pools
Becoming deeper and more pure
In our love for our children

And our love for our children
Runs downhill,
Pools,
Deeper than oceans, more pure than light 
In our love for our grandchildren…”

I was at my beautiful nieces house this weekend. Meeting her daughter, my GREAT Niece! And as I held this little 8-week-old baby girl, I could feel the love running down. Love from my great-grandparents, my grandparents, from my parents. That running love all the way down me and into her. And I know she felt it because she didn’t cry. Even though we just met, she relaxed into my arms. 

And when her eight-week-old little self, focused in on my face, she grinned a toothless fairy-girl grin, her smile spreading all over her face, up into the crinkles of her newborn baby eyes, and she squirmed in delight as she grinned about the silly thing I had just said to her. 

And love gushed down from me to this newly born bald beauty, with those sparkles in her eyes and that full body smile.  

And I felt like my heart of love might overflow and turn their living room into a river and their couch into a little boat and my beautiful Grandniece and I would take a ride outside in the sunshine, floating through the gentle waves of all the love flowing down from her ancestors through me. 

It’s not unusual for my gratitude to take the form of a love flood. So much emotion coming up from my heart, with nowhere to go but to pour out of my eyes. Salty tears of love and gratitude. Usually I’m thinking, “thank you”. Thank You Universe for this single most perfect moment in time. 

When I look at my beautiful pregnant daughter, and I imagine meeting my grandson for the first time, I realize he will need a magic baby blanket that becomes a raft so I don’t drown him with my river of gratitude. With my love flowing down. And then I think maybe just a baby life preserver would do. And then I think no, he will surely need a small boat with all the gratitude that will be pouring out of me. I will no doubt create an ocean of love.  All those ancestors seeing him through my eyes for the first time.  Yes, an ocean of love.  

I have so much to tell him about; where the sea of tears comes from; about my parents and my grandparents and especially stories about his mother, my daughter. So much love flowing down. The bubbling water telling stories from my past, telling secrets of love and survival. 

Maybe that is really all Noah’s ark was about; God’s tears of gratitude at giving life a second chance; creating so much water he knew only a boat would save Noah and the animals.

Rabbi Zoe was right. Love runs down. Love runs down to become a river of love. Within a sea of gratitude. All that love flowing to us from our ancestors, feel it.  
L’dor V’dor. 

©Flori Hendron