Happy Tu Beshvat!
There is a scene in this season’s evocative tv series, Madmen, when the Drapers, a family of four in 1963, go out for a picnic to a beautiful location. After a wonderful lunch they return to their car. As they drive off, the camera pans up to them from where they had eaten their meal. Scattered everywhere is the detritus of their lunch: paper plates, napkins, paper cups, etc.
My generation is the last one that could litter like that. There’s no doubt: we have really made a mess of things. The science is overwhelming. We face a true crisis in regards to the future of this planet.
Or perhaps I should qualify that. George Carlin z``l, one of the darkest, most cynical comics who has ever lived, scoffed at environmentalists that talked about harming this planet. He basically said humanity is a little blip in time for the earth. It was here before humans and it will be here after humans totally destroy themselves. Hmmm… comforting.
As he said, The planet has been through a lot worse than us. Been through all kinds of things worse than us. Been through earthquakes, volcanoes, plate tectonics, continental drift, solar flares, sun spots, magnetic storms, the magnetic reversal of the poles...hundreds of thousands of years of bombardment by comets and asteroids and meteors, worldwide floods, tidal waves, worldwide fires, erosion, cosmic rays, recurring ice ages...And we think some plastic bags, and some aluminum cans are going to make a difference? The planet...the planet...the planet isn't going anywhere. WE ARE!
Of course he’s right. The bags and the plastic and the aluminum cans and all the rest of our junk won’t destroy the planet. But what we are destroying, right now, is the human eco-system. The rivers will flow, but they will poison the fish that live in them. The deforested regions of the world will slowly crack through the poured concrete and grow once more, but in the meantime, the erosion will have caused precious soil to blow far from there.
Scientists estimate there are 10 to 30 million plant and animal species on the planet, most of them unidentified. Each year as many as 50,000 species disappear. University of Minnesota ecology professor David Tilman, known around the world for his research showing the effects of human activity on the environment says that most die off because of human activity. "We take natural habitats, convert them to agriculture, to suburbia, to roads, to monoculture forestry. We fish the oceans so heavily we literally have these trolling nets that scrape the bottom of the ocean clean," he says.
Maybe, a la Carlin, this startling statistic is irrelevant. After all, we have museums filled with extinct creatures and vegetation. Life evolves, species evolve, that’s the way it goes.
This is not just a matter for the environmentally conscious: what we’re going to do about it is everyone’s business. It surely is a Jewish issue. After all, God entrusts this planet to us in Genesis. We are the stewards of this earth and as such we’re not doing a great job. But we have to keep trying to do something which is better than doing nothing at all. Beth Avodah has a Green Committee not because it’s politically correct. We have an active Green Committee because it’s morally correct. Because this planet is precious. Because life is precious. Because how we care for the earth and its creatures reflects how we treat each other, and vice versa.
Tu Beshvat is such a little holiday about trees and such. But it reminds us that God needs us to make this earth a place of promise not poison. We can do more. Even a healthy cynic knows that clean water and air are sacred.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Israel in Haiti
I've been following the sad and desperately harrowing story from Haiti. There’s so much pain and sorrow amongst the Haitian people. So many dead or missing as aftershocks keep rumbling through. The injuries are horrible and devastating. It’s just deep misery.
There’s another part to the anguish of Haiti. For me it’s how close to the edge of chaos that nation seems to be. The conditions in which people had to live in before the earthquake were appalling enough. Now the veneer of civility seems just millimeters thin. What a profound mess.
Into all of this despair ride the rescue workers from all over the world. And as you surely know by now, the most quickly deployed and complete rescue unit that arrived in Haiti is from Israel. Conscripts, officers, career soldiers and reservists fought for the privilege of joining the rescue delegation, and over the past week, the radio frequently broadcast emotional interviews with doctors and members of the team in Port-au -Prince. Even the foreign media outlets were full of admiring reports about the swift, effective action by a small, distant country, which managed to set up Haiti's most sophisticated field hospital. As of Wednesday evening, the team had rescued several people trapped in the ruins, including two brothers, and the hospital had treated hundreds of casualties, performed about 140 life-saving operations and assisted in seven births.
Was I deeply proud of the Israeli rescue team? You bet I was. There have been several disasters over the years when Israel wanted to send rescue teams to help but could not because the country in question was Moslem. Finally we could use our expertise and save lives. It’s the Jewish thing to do.
Ironically the Israeli doctors who were interviewed by Israeli journalists don’t seem to understand their work as the “Jewish thing to do.” As Anshel Pfeffer says in Haaretz, “I have spoken to quite a number of Israeli doctors working now in, or planning to leave soon for Haiti. Without a shred of cynicism, (and some of them can certainly be cynical), they all spoke quite simply of their duty as doctors to serve in the place where they are most needed right now. One of them, for lack of an accurate Hebrew word, even used the English term "a calling."” I could give them a phrase: they’re doing tikkun olam.
Of course, no one expects that the Israeli rescue team will change any minds in the international media about Israel’s heart and soul. Even while CNN does a couple of stories about the superlative work of Israel’s rescue team, it doesn’t inoculate Israel against bad publicity. So be it; that’s not why we’re in Haiti.
Brad Burston wrote this week, “Israelis, and Jews in the wider world, should not be forced to recite a catechism over how terrible, how flawed, how often mistaken they already know Israel to be, just in order to earn the right to feel and express their admiration, their gratitude, and yes, their pride.”
There’s another part to the anguish of Haiti. For me it’s how close to the edge of chaos that nation seems to be. The conditions in which people had to live in before the earthquake were appalling enough. Now the veneer of civility seems just millimeters thin. What a profound mess.
Into all of this despair ride the rescue workers from all over the world. And as you surely know by now, the most quickly deployed and complete rescue unit that arrived in Haiti is from Israel. Conscripts, officers, career soldiers and reservists fought for the privilege of joining the rescue delegation, and over the past week, the radio frequently broadcast emotional interviews with doctors and members of the team in Port-au -Prince. Even the foreign media outlets were full of admiring reports about the swift, effective action by a small, distant country, which managed to set up Haiti's most sophisticated field hospital. As of Wednesday evening, the team had rescued several people trapped in the ruins, including two brothers, and the hospital had treated hundreds of casualties, performed about 140 life-saving operations and assisted in seven births.
Was I deeply proud of the Israeli rescue team? You bet I was. There have been several disasters over the years when Israel wanted to send rescue teams to help but could not because the country in question was Moslem. Finally we could use our expertise and save lives. It’s the Jewish thing to do.
Ironically the Israeli doctors who were interviewed by Israeli journalists don’t seem to understand their work as the “Jewish thing to do.” As Anshel Pfeffer says in Haaretz, “I have spoken to quite a number of Israeli doctors working now in, or planning to leave soon for Haiti. Without a shred of cynicism, (and some of them can certainly be cynical), they all spoke quite simply of their duty as doctors to serve in the place where they are most needed right now. One of them, for lack of an accurate Hebrew word, even used the English term "a calling."” I could give them a phrase: they’re doing tikkun olam.
Of course, no one expects that the Israeli rescue team will change any minds in the international media about Israel’s heart and soul. Even while CNN does a couple of stories about the superlative work of Israel’s rescue team, it doesn’t inoculate Israel against bad publicity. So be it; that’s not why we’re in Haiti.
Brad Burston wrote this week, “Israelis, and Jews in the wider world, should not be forced to recite a catechism over how terrible, how flawed, how often mistaken they already know Israel to be, just in order to earn the right to feel and express their admiration, their gratitude, and yes, their pride.”
Friday, January 15, 2010
Prayer for Haiti
A Prayer for the People of Haiti
Dear God,
We look at the pictures of Haiti in the aftermath of a terrible earthquake, and our hearts break. The terror of the landscape: hillsides collapsed, streets cracked like glass, houses flattened, and buildings no more than rubble, this fills us with dread. The magnitude of the loss: dead bodies everywhere, orphans sobbing in the dirt, mothers and fathers weeping over their lost children, families torn asunder, this grieves us.
Some folks look at the catastrophe in Haiti and say that You caused this destruction, because, as one person has said, its people "made a pact with the devil." But we know that You are not a God that deals in punishment and reward in this life. Bad things happen to good people and there’s nothing You or anybody else can do about that. It’s the position and place of tectonic plates, grinding poverty, corruption and greed, not You cursing Haitians – or anybody else.
Dear God, here in our homes, we know that feeling guilty about our comfort and good fortune and is natural. But help us move from that unhelpful place of remorse to the active, energetic place of seeking to bring healing to others. We can’t fly to Port au Prince, but we can direct contributions to Haiti. We can’t set a bone, but we can donate to various medical and emergency charities already working in the disaster zone.
On the one hand, there’s nothing we can do on our own. On the other hand, we truly can take action. We truly can make a difference.
And so on this Shabbat, give us the energy and the insight to do Your will. Help us to find ways to make a difference. Help us to appreciate what we have. Help us appreciate what we can do.
And to the people of Haiti, we send our deepest condolences. We urge them to be strong, to hold on, that help is coming, a little more every day. We pray that anarchy will not fill their despairing hearts. We pray that there is hope and healing awaiting them, awaiting all of us.
Ken y’hi ratzon: May this be Your will.
Amen.
Shabbat Shalom
rebhayim
Dear God,
We look at the pictures of Haiti in the aftermath of a terrible earthquake, and our hearts break. The terror of the landscape: hillsides collapsed, streets cracked like glass, houses flattened, and buildings no more than rubble, this fills us with dread. The magnitude of the loss: dead bodies everywhere, orphans sobbing in the dirt, mothers and fathers weeping over their lost children, families torn asunder, this grieves us.
Some folks look at the catastrophe in Haiti and say that You caused this destruction, because, as one person has said, its people "made a pact with the devil." But we know that You are not a God that deals in punishment and reward in this life. Bad things happen to good people and there’s nothing You or anybody else can do about that. It’s the position and place of tectonic plates, grinding poverty, corruption and greed, not You cursing Haitians – or anybody else.
Dear God, here in our homes, we know that feeling guilty about our comfort and good fortune and is natural. But help us move from that unhelpful place of remorse to the active, energetic place of seeking to bring healing to others. We can’t fly to Port au Prince, but we can direct contributions to Haiti. We can’t set a bone, but we can donate to various medical and emergency charities already working in the disaster zone.
On the one hand, there’s nothing we can do on our own. On the other hand, we truly can take action. We truly can make a difference.
And so on this Shabbat, give us the energy and the insight to do Your will. Help us to find ways to make a difference. Help us to appreciate what we have. Help us appreciate what we can do.
And to the people of Haiti, we send our deepest condolences. We urge them to be strong, to hold on, that help is coming, a little more every day. We pray that anarchy will not fill their despairing hearts. We pray that there is hope and healing awaiting them, awaiting all of us.
Ken y’hi ratzon: May this be Your will.
Amen.
Shabbat Shalom
rebhayim
Friday, January 08, 2010
Jewish Women and Their Struggle to Worship in Israel
We teach our children not to take things for granted, and to be thankful for that which they receive. Gratitude is a disappearing virtue, and our culture is at risk because of that. Forgetting to give thanks makes us self-centered and unappreciative like the builders of the Tower of Babel who didn’t wince when a worker fell from high atop the scaffolding but who moaned whenever a brick was dropped or broken.
We take for granted all kinds of things: that the United States is a democratic nation, that we are guaranteed religious freedom and equality, and that we have freedom of speech. And when such things become an intrinsic part of everyday life, when they are fundamental truths for us, it feels like a blessing. It’s a blessing that we don’t have to make a big deal about such things every day. I’m not suggesting that we ignore how precious these freedoms are or the sacrifice that has always been necessary to attain and maintain them: it’s just nice to acknowledge that we are lucky to have so much.
Here’s another thing that we can blessedly take for granted: Women have been increasingly involved in Reform Jewish leadership and scholarship over the past 25 years, to the point that our daughters take for granted that they can become rabbis, Jewish scholars, temple presidents, and so forth. Or as one little girl said to her Mom while visiting here for a bat mitzvah from another temple, “I didn’t know that boys could be rabbis, too.”
This blessing of freedom that Jewish women have to daven where and how they want is sadly not taken for granted in Israel, because such a freedom does not exist for them. Earlier this week, Anat Hoffman, director of the Israel Religious Action Center (the public and legal advocacy arm of the Reform Movement in Israel), said that police interrogated her for more than an hour on January 5 about her activities during Women of the Wall’s last monthly service in December. Women of the Wall, or in its more familiar abbreviation, WOW, is a group of mostly religiously observant women who believe that women should be allowed to pray as a group at the Western Wall, read from the Torah and wear a tallit. Currently, Israeli law does not permit women to perform these acts at the Wall, and those who do so anyway are subject to a fine and up to six months in jail. Once a month on Rosh Hodesh, WOW members come together to form a minyan and pray at the Wall. They complete their service in front of the Wall and then move to a nearby archaeological area in order to read from the Torah and there conclude the service.
In the Forward, it says that “Women of the Wall claim to have accommodated themselves to the ruling; instead of donning the black-and-white tallit, traditional for men, they each wear a smaller, multi-colored shawl like a scarf around the neck and under a coat, so as not to offend the strict sensibilities of other men and women at the Wall.”
Hoffman told the Forward that she did nothing differently that day than she had for the 21 years of her group’s existence. But this interrogation followed a recent service at which a Jewish woman was arrested for wearing a tallit. For the record, there is nothing religiously heretical about a woman wearing a tallit. The Ultra-Orthodox say that they oppose women wearing talleisim because a tallit is man’s clothing (cross dressing is forbidden – except on Purim). The Ultra-Orthodox really hate it because it indicates an egalitarian attitude about God and prayer, and for them, it’s all about the patriarchal system.
Anat Hoffman, who was to be our guest in November but had to cancel because of serious throat problems, said about the arrest: "He took me into the next room, dipped my hand in ink, and took my fingerprints. Not a happy day," said Hoffman. "When he asked me if I have anything to add, I said: 'I am sorry for you, for me, and for Israel, where this issue is investigated.'"
The divide between religious and secular in Israel keeps widening, and situations like this one keep making it worse. It reminds me to make mention of this struggle, because while Reform Jewish women have rights here in the US, when they travel to Israel, they – our daughters, wives, sisters and mothers – do not. We can’t afford to take this one for granted.
Shabbat Shalom
rebhayim
We take for granted all kinds of things: that the United States is a democratic nation, that we are guaranteed religious freedom and equality, and that we have freedom of speech. And when such things become an intrinsic part of everyday life, when they are fundamental truths for us, it feels like a blessing. It’s a blessing that we don’t have to make a big deal about such things every day. I’m not suggesting that we ignore how precious these freedoms are or the sacrifice that has always been necessary to attain and maintain them: it’s just nice to acknowledge that we are lucky to have so much.
Here’s another thing that we can blessedly take for granted: Women have been increasingly involved in Reform Jewish leadership and scholarship over the past 25 years, to the point that our daughters take for granted that they can become rabbis, Jewish scholars, temple presidents, and so forth. Or as one little girl said to her Mom while visiting here for a bat mitzvah from another temple, “I didn’t know that boys could be rabbis, too.”
This blessing of freedom that Jewish women have to daven where and how they want is sadly not taken for granted in Israel, because such a freedom does not exist for them. Earlier this week, Anat Hoffman, director of the Israel Religious Action Center (the public and legal advocacy arm of the Reform Movement in Israel), said that police interrogated her for more than an hour on January 5 about her activities during Women of the Wall’s last monthly service in December. Women of the Wall, or in its more familiar abbreviation, WOW, is a group of mostly religiously observant women who believe that women should be allowed to pray as a group at the Western Wall, read from the Torah and wear a tallit. Currently, Israeli law does not permit women to perform these acts at the Wall, and those who do so anyway are subject to a fine and up to six months in jail. Once a month on Rosh Hodesh, WOW members come together to form a minyan and pray at the Wall. They complete their service in front of the Wall and then move to a nearby archaeological area in order to read from the Torah and there conclude the service.
In the Forward, it says that “Women of the Wall claim to have accommodated themselves to the ruling; instead of donning the black-and-white tallit, traditional for men, they each wear a smaller, multi-colored shawl like a scarf around the neck and under a coat, so as not to offend the strict sensibilities of other men and women at the Wall.”
Hoffman told the Forward that she did nothing differently that day than she had for the 21 years of her group’s existence. But this interrogation followed a recent service at which a Jewish woman was arrested for wearing a tallit. For the record, there is nothing religiously heretical about a woman wearing a tallit. The Ultra-Orthodox say that they oppose women wearing talleisim because a tallit is man’s clothing (cross dressing is forbidden – except on Purim). The Ultra-Orthodox really hate it because it indicates an egalitarian attitude about God and prayer, and for them, it’s all about the patriarchal system.
Anat Hoffman, who was to be our guest in November but had to cancel because of serious throat problems, said about the arrest: "He took me into the next room, dipped my hand in ink, and took my fingerprints. Not a happy day," said Hoffman. "When he asked me if I have anything to add, I said: 'I am sorry for you, for me, and for Israel, where this issue is investigated.'"
The divide between religious and secular in Israel keeps widening, and situations like this one keep making it worse. It reminds me to make mention of this struggle, because while Reform Jewish women have rights here in the US, when they travel to Israel, they – our daughters, wives, sisters and mothers – do not. We can’t afford to take this one for granted.
Shabbat Shalom
rebhayim
Monday, January 04, 2010
So How was Israel?
check out tbainisrael.wordpress.com
the short answer is, "It was inspiring, memorable, and lots of fun."
the short answer is, "It was inspiring, memorable, and lots of fun."
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Israel! COunting Down
I've been to Israel a lot – over a dozen visits by my count. Specifically, this is my third time leading a Beth Avodah Israel tour. You might think after all those visits that I’d be, well, if not jaded, at least matter of fact about this upcoming tour. After all, there are a certain number of sites in Israel, and I’ve been to them! I’ve put a prayer in the Wall, floated in the Dead Sea, haggled in the Old City, eaten hummus at Abu Shukri’s, hiked up Masada, and so on.
The truth is, I am utterly psyched! I can’t wait to go back. Let me give you the top ten reasons a la David Letterman, that I’m raring to go
#10. The Weather. It may be rainy in Jerusalem. It might get windy in Tel Aviv. It may be chilly up North. But it won’t be cold like home!
#9. The Music. I am a big fan of new Israeli jazz, world music, and street music. Going to one of the big cd stores and asking what’s new always gets me great new avenues for listening.
#8. Breakfast. Breakfast is my favorite meal. Well along with lunch and dinner… And there’s nothing short of a cruise ship to compare to Israeli hotel breakfasts. Vast stretches of cheeses and yogurts and olives and herring and Israeli salad and all sorts of baked items not to mention eggs to order, etc. (no bacon…).
#7. Changes. As David Bowie reminds us all, “Turn and face the strange.” Israel is a young nation and still morphing in front of our eyes. From visit to visit one can connect certain dots while other dots fall off the page. Strange indeed. In an ancient landscape nothing seems to stay still.
#6. Speaking Hebrew. I love speaking Hebrew. Simple as that.
#5. Looking for the new Thing. There’s always new stuff opening in Israel, and I want to see it. Museums, restaurants, culture centers. It’s fresh and very hip.
#4. The Full Array of Jewish Faces. It is thrilling to be standing in any one spot in any part of Israel and to just look at the crowds. African faces, Scandinavian faces, European faces, Asian faces, Hispanic faces, Indian faces: all Yiddische punim: Jewish faces. It blows my mind every time.
#3. Yad Vashem. It’s a pilgrimage that feels necessary. It’s a rite of passage required when visiting Israel. It’s not that the Holocaust Museum in Washington DC isn’t important, essential, even. But Yad Vashem feels less a museum and more holy ground. Because it’s in Israel? Maybe.
#2. Being the Shepherd. As I accompany members of Beth Avodah visiting Israel for the first time, I see how the experience touches their hearts. I watch it change their sense of being Jewish – I can see it in their eyes: their amazement, their delight, their awe. What a privilege for me to be the shepherd.
#1. The top reason I am thrilled to be going back to Israel? I love Israel. I love the people, the feel, the language, the rhythm, the edge, the sense of home. And I will feel that way every time I go; of this I have no question.
So if you’ve never gone, start saving up for the 2011 trip – we are so there. But before I get ahead of myself: we’re leaving on Tuesday the 22nd and will return on December 31st. To find out what’s happening, go to TBAinisrael.wordpress.com . I’ll be blogging, hopefully every day.
Happy last night of Hanukkah, and stay warm.
Shabbat Shalom
I’ll miss you!
rebhayim
The truth is, I am utterly psyched! I can’t wait to go back. Let me give you the top ten reasons a la David Letterman, that I’m raring to go
#10. The Weather. It may be rainy in Jerusalem. It might get windy in Tel Aviv. It may be chilly up North. But it won’t be cold like home!
#9. The Music. I am a big fan of new Israeli jazz, world music, and street music. Going to one of the big cd stores and asking what’s new always gets me great new avenues for listening.
#8. Breakfast. Breakfast is my favorite meal. Well along with lunch and dinner… And there’s nothing short of a cruise ship to compare to Israeli hotel breakfasts. Vast stretches of cheeses and yogurts and olives and herring and Israeli salad and all sorts of baked items not to mention eggs to order, etc. (no bacon…).
#7. Changes. As David Bowie reminds us all, “Turn and face the strange.” Israel is a young nation and still morphing in front of our eyes. From visit to visit one can connect certain dots while other dots fall off the page. Strange indeed. In an ancient landscape nothing seems to stay still.
#6. Speaking Hebrew. I love speaking Hebrew. Simple as that.
#5. Looking for the new Thing. There’s always new stuff opening in Israel, and I want to see it. Museums, restaurants, culture centers. It’s fresh and very hip.
#4. The Full Array of Jewish Faces. It is thrilling to be standing in any one spot in any part of Israel and to just look at the crowds. African faces, Scandinavian faces, European faces, Asian faces, Hispanic faces, Indian faces: all Yiddische punim: Jewish faces. It blows my mind every time.
#3. Yad Vashem. It’s a pilgrimage that feels necessary. It’s a rite of passage required when visiting Israel. It’s not that the Holocaust Museum in Washington DC isn’t important, essential, even. But Yad Vashem feels less a museum and more holy ground. Because it’s in Israel? Maybe.
#2. Being the Shepherd. As I accompany members of Beth Avodah visiting Israel for the first time, I see how the experience touches their hearts. I watch it change their sense of being Jewish – I can see it in their eyes: their amazement, their delight, their awe. What a privilege for me to be the shepherd.
#1. The top reason I am thrilled to be going back to Israel? I love Israel. I love the people, the feel, the language, the rhythm, the edge, the sense of home. And I will feel that way every time I go; of this I have no question.
So if you’ve never gone, start saving up for the 2011 trip – we are so there. But before I get ahead of myself: we’re leaving on Tuesday the 22nd and will return on December 31st. To find out what’s happening, go to TBAinisrael.wordpress.com . I’ll be blogging, hopefully every day.
Happy last night of Hanukkah, and stay warm.
Shabbat Shalom
I’ll miss you!
rebhayim
Friday, November 13, 2009
How a keriyah ribbon tears
It’s Jewish tradition to wear a keriyah ribbon if one is an immediate relative of the deceased: a spouse, sibling, parent, or child. It’s torn by the rabbi just before the funeral begins and worn every day for a week with the exception of Shabbat, when it is removed. The torn ribbon represents so many things: it is a sign of loss worn by the mourner so that the community will respond to that person appropriately. It is also symbolic: the torn ribbon is emblematic of a broken, torn heart.
The ribbon is not a holy object. It has no unique sacred standing. Yet because it symbolizes so much that is so deep about life and death and honoring the dead, this little black ribbon contains a kind of power and meaning.
So here’s the conundrum. I took off the ribbon at the prescribed period: the end of my seventh day of mourning, the end of shivah. What do I do with the keriyah ribbon now? Do I throw it away? Put it in a scrapbook?
I distinctly remember that, in my grandmother’s house, we would drink from old yahrzeit candle holders, thick glass jars perfect for cookies and milk. The idea that we drank from Yahrzeit glasses seems so sweet and meaningful. Solemnly remembering the dead with a candle continued into the realm of feeding and nurturing others. What a Jewish thing to do…
Right now the keriyah ribbon that I put on at my mom’s funeral is in my car cup holder. I look at it every time I get in the car, and I think, “What am I supposed to do with you?” And I suppose because I’m talking to a keriyah button I am reluctant to just get rid of it. This black ribbon clearly means something still, even at the bottom of a slightly dusty coffee stained cup holder.
So I think I’ll let it stay in the car for the time being. I have a feeling that my questions to the ribbon will change. Because frankly the issue here has nothing to do with my keriyah ribbon. It’s all about my mother. And the question (s) is (are), “What am I supposed to do with you, Mom? What zone of my brain contains you? How do I define myself as an adult orphan? What am I supposed to do with myself?”
Such questions give me existential angst. But there you have it: the task of the mourner is to put things back together again that have been blown apart by loss. I’m still picking up the pieces, one of which is a used keriyah ribbon.
The ribbon is not a holy object. It has no unique sacred standing. Yet because it symbolizes so much that is so deep about life and death and honoring the dead, this little black ribbon contains a kind of power and meaning.
So here’s the conundrum. I took off the ribbon at the prescribed period: the end of my seventh day of mourning, the end of shivah. What do I do with the keriyah ribbon now? Do I throw it away? Put it in a scrapbook?
I distinctly remember that, in my grandmother’s house, we would drink from old yahrzeit candle holders, thick glass jars perfect for cookies and milk. The idea that we drank from Yahrzeit glasses seems so sweet and meaningful. Solemnly remembering the dead with a candle continued into the realm of feeding and nurturing others. What a Jewish thing to do…
Right now the keriyah ribbon that I put on at my mom’s funeral is in my car cup holder. I look at it every time I get in the car, and I think, “What am I supposed to do with you?” And I suppose because I’m talking to a keriyah button I am reluctant to just get rid of it. This black ribbon clearly means something still, even at the bottom of a slightly dusty coffee stained cup holder.
So I think I’ll let it stay in the car for the time being. I have a feeling that my questions to the ribbon will change. Because frankly the issue here has nothing to do with my keriyah ribbon. It’s all about my mother. And the question (s) is (are), “What am I supposed to do with you, Mom? What zone of my brain contains you? How do I define myself as an adult orphan? What am I supposed to do with myself?”
Such questions give me existential angst. But there you have it: the task of the mourner is to put things back together again that have been blown apart by loss. I’m still picking up the pieces, one of which is a used keriyah ribbon.
Saturday, November 07, 2009
After My Mom's Death
What an odyssey it is to mourn the loss of my mother. There are so many dramatic moments, milestones of a sort, along the route. From her sudden stroke on a Friday to her death, days later on a Monday morning. From the funeral in Middletown and then back to Newton for minyanim and sitting shivah. From the day before her death when as her health care proxy I gave permission to her doctors to refrain from heroic measures to the morning of her death as I drove back to Middletown, again.
My head spins, filled with so many feelings and thoughts, as I walk along this arduous road of grief. I say “walk” very deliberately, because there is no running here. The gravitational pull of mourning is profound. The first few days of shivah felt like life in slow motion, when just to get up and walk down the steps to another room in which to sit took a kind of strength and effort that left me exhausted, spent, emptied out. Even now, days after shivah, I am still just a bit wobbly, prone to pondering the past and the future.
I think about how with the death of my mother, “home” is no longer in Middletown, where I was raised. The house of my childhood is soon to be sold to someone else. With that transfer of property money is earned to pay for my stepfather’s assisted living. But of course something is lost, too. My house in Newton becomes something much more significant. It is truly my one and only home. When I drive to Middletown to visit my son and who knows hopefully another child in college there, I’ll have to stay at a hotel. A hotel! In Middletown!!
I think about how lovely it was to have the funeral for my mother in the synagogue of my youth. Adath Israel was where I learned Hebrew, where I became a Bar Mitzvah, where I went to services. We sat in the social hall, the same social hall from which we said goodbye to my father and my brother. I looked at the faces of those who attended. So many older faces, men and women who I knew as I grew up in this small Jewish community. The mah jong players, the bridge players, the poker players, the shul goers, the circle of friends – so many familiar faces, and so much comfort looking at them and remembering.
And of course the younger faces I saw, mostly folks who drove to Middletown from Beth Avodah to honor my Mom and to bless me and my family with their presence. Those younger faces, my TBA family, helped me to keep my balance the day of the funeral. Even with the end of a huge chapter in my life, the beginning of orphanhood, the end of a home, I looked at my TBA family and knew I would be returning to something vital and alive.
Acknowledging death – and life – can be awful: awfully sad in its casket and endings and loss. Awfully beautiful in its gathering of deep appreciation and love. Awfully simple in its conclusion. Awfully complex in its aftermath.
When people ask me how I am, I say I’m getting stronger every day. I say I am lucky to be loved by family with a fierce and loyal love that holds me up so that I know I will not fall. I say I am the luckiest rabbi – the luckiest man! – to be loved and supported by a deeply empathic, caring congregation. Every letter, email, nod, wave, thumb’s up, shivah meal touched my soul, boosted my morale. You hugged me so many times, and with each hug revived me just a little bit more, with a kind of Jewish Heimlich maneuver. I will never ever forget the love and kindness showered on me and mine by you.
I am in motion, transforming, evolving. I’m still sad, of course, but grateful, so very grateful. My children were the pallbearers at the conclusion of the funeral and actually carried the casket to the hearse. I looked at them carrying my mother to her final resting place and I counted my blessings: 5 X infinity.
My head spins, filled with so many feelings and thoughts, as I walk along this arduous road of grief. I say “walk” very deliberately, because there is no running here. The gravitational pull of mourning is profound. The first few days of shivah felt like life in slow motion, when just to get up and walk down the steps to another room in which to sit took a kind of strength and effort that left me exhausted, spent, emptied out. Even now, days after shivah, I am still just a bit wobbly, prone to pondering the past and the future.
I think about how with the death of my mother, “home” is no longer in Middletown, where I was raised. The house of my childhood is soon to be sold to someone else. With that transfer of property money is earned to pay for my stepfather’s assisted living. But of course something is lost, too. My house in Newton becomes something much more significant. It is truly my one and only home. When I drive to Middletown to visit my son and who knows hopefully another child in college there, I’ll have to stay at a hotel. A hotel! In Middletown!!
I think about how lovely it was to have the funeral for my mother in the synagogue of my youth. Adath Israel was where I learned Hebrew, where I became a Bar Mitzvah, where I went to services. We sat in the social hall, the same social hall from which we said goodbye to my father and my brother. I looked at the faces of those who attended. So many older faces, men and women who I knew as I grew up in this small Jewish community. The mah jong players, the bridge players, the poker players, the shul goers, the circle of friends – so many familiar faces, and so much comfort looking at them and remembering.
And of course the younger faces I saw, mostly folks who drove to Middletown from Beth Avodah to honor my Mom and to bless me and my family with their presence. Those younger faces, my TBA family, helped me to keep my balance the day of the funeral. Even with the end of a huge chapter in my life, the beginning of orphanhood, the end of a home, I looked at my TBA family and knew I would be returning to something vital and alive.
Acknowledging death – and life – can be awful: awfully sad in its casket and endings and loss. Awfully beautiful in its gathering of deep appreciation and love. Awfully simple in its conclusion. Awfully complex in its aftermath.
When people ask me how I am, I say I’m getting stronger every day. I say I am lucky to be loved by family with a fierce and loyal love that holds me up so that I know I will not fall. I say I am the luckiest rabbi – the luckiest man! – to be loved and supported by a deeply empathic, caring congregation. Every letter, email, nod, wave, thumb’s up, shivah meal touched my soul, boosted my morale. You hugged me so many times, and with each hug revived me just a little bit more, with a kind of Jewish Heimlich maneuver. I will never ever forget the love and kindness showered on me and mine by you.
I am in motion, transforming, evolving. I’m still sad, of course, but grateful, so very grateful. My children were the pallbearers at the conclusion of the funeral and actually carried the casket to the hearse. I looked at them carrying my mother to her final resting place and I counted my blessings: 5 X infinity.
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