Anne Silver

After her last couple of lives, the Higher Powers decided to cut her some slack. That last stint as an orphaned teenage soldier in Mao’s 8th Route Army was no picnic, especially the three thousand mile march on starvation rations and the last bit trying to cross a swollen river in winter. And the time before that, as the love child of an Antwerp diamond heiress and a Walloon dragoon, to be tossed into the River Oise by the family maid when only a few hours old, Moses without a basket. What was it about her spirit and water? This time she was born as far from the Detroit River as the rapidly expanding road system would allow, and with a family to call her own. Who knew that with all these advantages, this trip would still be difficult and fraught with its own kind of dangers? The Higher Powers knew, of course, but almost no one else. Not her parents, in the first flush of post-war prosperity. And certainly not Anne, who like all returnees had all the bad stuff from previous lives erased from her memory. But there was still enough bad stuff to fill several books, which she did, because that was her gift, to take cancer and pickle relish and wheelchairs and mermaids and turn them into poetry. It’s not much, the angels observed, but it’s all they’ve got (they being the sublunary hordes, looking for some relief from their struggles, a relief which goes deeper than TV) Some poets sing like angels, but this one gobbled up experience as if it were the last twist of her mortal coil. Who else ate so well in their poems? She burned like chaparral in a firestorm, the creosote of her imagination flaring at every ambient spark and ember. Some say she has already returned, hungry for more, a cappuccino cheeked cherub, a prosciutto putto in the well-heeled suburbs of Rome. But I think she’s graduated to the next level, and is looking out for those of us too word-struck to take much care of ourselves. They say it takes three confirmed miracles to make a saint. Every time I read one of her poems, I experience another miracle, of language, common as dirt, flowering into fruit which satisfies the deepest hunger.

October 23, 2005 FARE THEE WELL, Anne Silver.

On Thursday, after Anne's soul slipped from her body - this thought kept appearing all day: Anne, your housewarming will be the day of your funeral.

I couldn't get it out of my head. What is that? Your take on the absurdity of life, an example of a joke that doesn't quite make sense in a world that makes even less sense?

And the next day it came to me. This is the strongest testament to the way Anne Silver lived her life. A way that's simply unfathomable to most of us. Unbelievably positive. Her drive, her passion, her belief in the limitless potential in life. Bringing her dreams to bloom and flower with clarity and purpose.

This past summer, the diesel fumes from Venice Blvd had become completely unacceptable to her. With amazing swiftness she found a place at the Marina, steps to the sand, where the air was clean. She and Joel made their offer and the deal went through. They moved in and in less than a month, it looked like they had been happily nestled there for years. Truly unbelievable.

I met Anne in weekly Torah Study a few years ago and when I saw her sit up and widen her eyes in response to a remark made- I thought who is this fascinating creature and knew I had to get to know her. During my first visit to her home, I stood in her garden, surrounded by the smiling clay people she had made, peeking at me through the shrubs and strings of colored beads hanging from the branches of a fichus, as she passionately described the virtues of her fig tree.

Anne saw the miracles and marvels of life everywhere. She was a brilliant multi-faceted gem of a woman-a razor-sharp mind and wit, a directness that left NO room for uncertainty as to where she stood, the wonder of a child, and an enchanting sense of whimsy and fun.

The Torah commands: choose life so that you may live. Perhaps it's not about the quantity but the quality of how we live and Anne was all quality. She had an exquisite sensitivity for life and all her senses were finely developed. We, those who knew her and loved her, as well as those who read her poetry, received the bounty that poured forth from her. And her awesome soul glistened like a brilliant star behind it all.

Her vision yielded magnificent poetry, stunning photography, and the ability to detect the subtleties of handwriting analysis that was her livelihood.

Her finely tuned sense of hearing enabled her to fully delight in her wildly eclectic taste in music.

Her senses of touch and feel produced her whimsical clay people, her ceramic fish and informed the passionate way she danced to flamenco. Her sense of taste was clear in the way she ate with gusto- whether it was a beautiful peach freshly picked off a tree in her community garden or a hefty steak almost her size.

And her perception didn't end with her senses. Anne was intuitive and saw life and everything in it with a clarity and depth that was staggering. She was a highly spiritual being who knew the visible was only a fraction of what exists in the universe. She was a student of many spiritual paths and ultimately decided there was no place like home- her Judaism and the study of Torah was an immense source of nourishment and comfort to her.

She had love in her heart for every soul who is present here today and for so many others not present. She loved her family with all her being. She loved her spiritual home- Ahavat Torah- her congregation and was deeply grateful for Cantor Gary's gift of music and especially, the love and kindness of Rabbi Miriam.

And Joel - sometimes it's more about quality than quantity-I know the deep love Anne had for you, she cherished you and you made her very happy. YOU were the love of her life.

Anne was prolific in her life and in her creativity. We are told to honor those loved ones who have gone on by emulating their best qualities - I'm not sure I can emulate all of them but I think we can all strive to imbue our lives with more passion. Be prolific in the love that pours out of us for each other and for life.

Dear Anne - Your light and your example will guide and inspire us for the rest of our time here. I am extraordinarily blessed to have the privilege of loving you and being loved by you. Anne, I wish your soul well now and forever.

Later today-let us join together in Anne and Joel's home as a human bridge to guide her soul to her next home, a place far grander than you or I can envision.

Shalom U'Vracha.
Judy

<Top>

Punctuation
for Anne Silver

You are an exclamation point.

The shortest distance
to the bottom line,

a compact sentence
with a knockout punch.

at thought's end,
best said in staccato.

I am an asterisk.

One comma too many
for a simple declarative

sentence. That which never
goes without saying, spills

into margins, a toddler
too big to be swaddled.

Brevity is not the soul
of my soul. *

* never has been

by Nina Corwin

<top>

REMEMBERING ANNE

Auntie Mame said that "Life's a banquet but most poor suckers starve themselves to death." Our friend Anne savored her banquet with joy, love and thoroughness.

I met Anne at the Pot Shop, a pottery studio, 32 years ago. She was 24 and already Apixillated@ as fellow potter Cecil said. She worked as a messenger in her white blouse, black pants and black tie with 1-2-3 on it. We both loved noodling through traffic and decided our connection had been as Mexican taxi drivers in our past lives.

Anne was admirable in her labors, her learning and her love which permeated every aspect of her life. She watched her pennies always supporting herself as she was schooled, apprenticed, mentored or certificated. She was a potter making 100 candlesticks a day or 20 fishes, a wicker furniture maker harvesting willow from the lake, a masseuse, an accupressurist, an actress, an ESL teacher, a psychologist, a handwriting expert, author of handwriting book, a love-lorn columnist, a fraud expert for the courts and a poet. She also studied Tarot, numerology, astrology, enneagrams (What's your number?) , shamanism, Buddhism and Judaism.

Anne had degrees in Chinese poetry, psychology and poetry. She loved to travel mostly in her imagination but we had a great trip to Viet Nam and Cambodia. She loved style and clothes-kept herself buff to the last with her stairmaster and trainer. In Hanoi there was a silk shop across from the museum. The street was a roiling stream of mini-bikes, tracks, buses and cars. We were told to just cross slowly and consistently with our eyes closed ...so we did. Anne bought some silk purses and scarves. Then we crossed again, blind and arm in arm. When we returned she sent songs to our tour guide and school supplies to students who'd approached her.

These days we played Scrabble and ate together. Anne always encouraged me. Last time we talked I told her about my ancient dog Pancho's food being stolen by a squirrel. "That's a poem about getting old-go write it."

She supported the tree people dedicating trees along Venice Blvd. to LA poets. She and Alice Pero sponsored Moonday, a poetry venue, in Pacific Palisades for well-known and aspiring poets. She facilitated poetry workshops for breast cancer patients and created a gift basket with her poetry book, projects and non-toxic products.

But mostly Anne loved to laugh. We attended silent film festivals, British comedy nights and she always had a joke. I knew her many loves. She'd ask ."What's wrong with Tom, Dick, Harry or Schlomo?" But with Joel she'd just say, "Isn't he cute?"

I'm so happy they found each other. With her labor, love and generosity, she deserved all the good things. I think of her as an Empress Penguin- stunning, loving and determined. I'll miss her a lot.

Sue Nelson
fsnelson@earthlink.net