987. #BlogElul 2015 8: Hear

I currently live with two wonderful young cats, who were preceded a few years ago by two magnificent very old cats. D. was a macho alpha except when confronted by thunder or loud noises, at which time he'd run away as fast as his enormous, jiggling belly would allow. He reminded me a little of Ernest Borgnine in "Marty." He was the strong, silent type, choosing to meow only when something was really, really annoying.

Right before he died, I waited in a little exam room at the vet's office after they took him away to insert the needle that would deliver the drugs to stop his pain and suffering. I prayed that they would keep him back there forever, because it would mean he was still alive.

Then I heard it--not quite a yowl, far from a cry, but loud enough to wake the neighbors. Had I not known it emanated from a sick, frail cat, I might have thought that a crabby old man had wondered in while yelling at the noisy neighbors. How dare you! the sound exclaimed.

The vet brought D., still complaining loudly, back into the exam room. He crawled into my arms, and looked me straight in the eye. I tried to tell him that I heard him loud and clear, and I was sorry, and it would be OK. And after a minute or two he seemed to understand that he was safe and home once again, and lay down with his head against my hand to wait patiently for whatever came next.

965. Rain

Not much blogging here lately, I know. But I've been writing, mainly for the wonderful class I'm taking once again where we study a little Torah and then listen to one another's words—I am awed and inspired by both. I wish there were more hours in the day to do that, and work, and sing, and draw (an old hobby newly resurrected—or will be, once I finish clearing some space out in a corner of my bedroom). Oh, and socialize and pray and look at art and relax. I need a 48-hour day.

Meanwhile, in the middle of today's 24-hour one I led a shiva minyan. I arrived to see the rabbi deep in conversation—must be a scheduling mistake, I thought, since they certainly didn't need me if he was present. "No problem," I said to the son of the deceased. "I'm glad to stay." "The more the merrier," he answered, not ironically. A torrent of laughter came from the dining room; you could almost see the love pouring from all these good spirits. But I didn't know a soul, and suddenly felt uncomfortable. I'm not great at being a stranger in the middle of a crowd, even a really nice one. Just as I began to strategize which back wall to melt into, the wife of the deceased came over.

"You can lead now," she said with a smile. And there was the rabbi, putting on his coat and thanking me; he just came by for a visit. (Maybe he was on his way to another minyan. This winter, once again, brought a depressing increase in deaths within the community.) I was relieved to have something to do, and to do this thing in particular. (And also that the rabbi would not actually listen to me lead. Silly! They hear me sing all the time. But not in someone's living room while pretending to be in charge, even though I sort of am. It's less stressful to wear that mantle in a room full of people I don't really know.)

Today was the last day of shiva and everyone prayed wearily, too familiar with the drill. I learned that the deceased was alive and eating dinner at this time just a little more than a week ago, and then died very suddenly. The family cried and smiled and laughed, lovely, gracious people who made sure to thank crowds of friends for their support, and didn't seem numb, but I knew they were. I walked out into the rain very glad to be alive, chilly, and wet in the middle of Broadway.

961. Storybook

So—back to the topic of this blog, sort of. Last week I led two shiva minyanim, both for a dear friend whose mother had passed away very suddenly. Despite the shock, this family was able to speak and let others into their grief—functional, unlike some others I've encountered who were completely frozen in pain. My friend shared wonderful stories of traditions that created memories and a foundation for everything that followed in her life; her words invited us all into that warm and loving place for a few minutes. It was a little gift of a kind of childhood for which I didn't yearn back then, but only later on when I figured out that other peoples' lives were different from mine: trips to new places, laughing crowds, patterns and rituals that continued with the expectation of never ending.

I would not change the way I grew up for the world. Yes, there was yelling and death and a small, often contentious little unit of us that never travelled further than the Bronx Zoo, but also a lot of love amidst the strife. It was rarely expressed in a storybook way, with big holiday dinners or group sing-alongs (although I'm working on an essay right now for my writing class about songs my father sang to me when I was really, really little, some of which have been re-appearing in popular culture and dredging up long-forgotten Russian melodies from the dustier parts of my brain). But I knew with certainty that my parents, aunts, and uncles, for the brief period I had them, had hearts bigger than the universe, and I was in the center of them all.

My friend's siblings span the spectrum of Jewish observance: far right, middle, and disdain for the whole business. And in their grief, differences became more powerful than all they shared: the outer two factions would not help those of in the middle (my friend and I) form a minyan. They found enough people on the nights I led, but not the others. This caused everyone a lot of pain, although not enough to cross boundaries of observance. Which would have been a betrayal of memory and tradition as well, I guess, so it really was a no-win situation. It also reminded me that even storybook lives have their torn pages.

942. Trifecta

Guilt and worry--the signature characteristics of of American Judaism. No, not really, but they often seem to be, especially during the month of Elul. They don't have to, suggested the rabbi yesterday at services. This week's Torah portion, Ki Tavo, included a long and somewhat gruesome list of curses, followed by a bunch of blessings. The rabbi related it to the blessing and curse of hindsight. We feel regretful when we look back at what we haven't accomplished, but failure is part of the human condition--and we're engineered to learn from our mistakes. But our educational system, and our entire American culture, pretty much, make us feel that we're out of luck when we don't immediately "get it," whatever "it" is. Perhaps--a radical idea--we can think of hindsight as a blessing instead, a helpful and welcome tool to identify what we have't yet achieved, and are still able to. (Or not; in that case, a way to reach closure, and move on.) In context of the current, introspective month of Elul, he suggested we turn things around and try to be grateful instead--OK, I've fallen short of the mark, but look how much it's taught me!--rather than reacting to our shortcomings with that popular trifecta of guilt/worry/anger.

It's a brilliant insight, and seemed much more possible to achieve as I sat in services listening to the rabbi's kind and logical words of wisdom. Today, not so easy. But as I get ready to attend the funeral, in a few hours, of a sweet, lovely man (I wrote about him a few years ago), and lead a shiva minyan for a different grieving family tonight--and another for yet another family on Tuesday*--I am reminded to be grateful for the health of my loved ones, for being able to live in freedom on this gorgeous, sunny, not too hot day, and for the possibility of growth and change, whenever I'm ready for it.


--------
*I must admit that I didn't jump at the chance to volunteer, as I'm a little afraid of being around so much sadness so many days in a row. But all that death taxes the resources of any community, even a large one like ours, and also causes rabbis to run around like crazy providing support to very many grieving people. I can't imagine anything more exhausting; I want to do my part to help my rabbis find a little space to breathe before they have to support the rest of us during the holiday marathon.

908. I'm back, and more minyans

Yes, it's been awhile. I think I exhausted myself in January, between all that blogging and writing for my class (to paraphrase Barbie, writing is hard!), but hope to resume at a saner pace.

There were an awful lot of deaths in my synagogue community these past few weeks, which always seems to happen during the cold winter months. Someone suggested that it's also because people nearing the ends of their lives try to hold on until the new year. I like to believe this is true, and that we can influence our fate, and God's will, in that way. In either case, it means I've been very busy as a volunteer shiva minyan leader. One night I led for a member of my havurah who lost her father after a long illness, an evening of funny, moving stories and the warmth of a room filled with people who knew and loved one another. We were friends, relaxed, and so I could breathe while immersed in the sadness.

Last week, a very different scenario. The apartment was packed, a father, mother, 40 or 50 other shell-shocked, smiling people: the young man, their son, brother, friend, had committed suicide. I knew neither the family nor circumstances and spent the day very nervous about walking into this house of shiva, afraid I'd say the wrong thing or respond inappropriately to a completely unimaginable kind of grief. In an attempt to quantify a wholly incomprehensible situation, I envisioned some kind of black pit of swirling despair. Then I thought about the wise and eloquent words of Gannett Girl following her son's death, as well as how my infinitely sensitive and compassionate rabbis might react, and realized that I needed to say very little, and just be as present as possible.

It was fine. They were people just like the rest of us, broken on the inside but still standing. The son and father wept during the prayers; the mother stood frozen. They shared stories about a caring, smart man with many friends; the mother asked if people could send photos and web pages they knew were out there, but never needed to find before. We sang "Esa Einai," Psalm 121 ("From where does my help come?") at the end; I watched the father close his eyes and sway gently, and was relieved that I correctly judged that music would be bearable.

Afterwards I came home and collapsed into an unconscious sleep, utterly exhausted. I'm in awe of how rabbis and others who provide this kind of support during impossible situations can do it on a regular basis without losing their minds.

902. Cold January

I walked through Times Square and onto a side street lined with old walkups, trendy Asian restaurants, and some street people with overstuffed shopping bags who looked like costumed extras. A white brick apartment building with a nondescript lobby stood at the end of the block, its lack of character in stark contrast to the garishly lit theaters just a few minutes away. Upstairs the small apartment was packed with loud, laughing people; at first I thought I had the wrong address, and this couldn't possibly be a house of shiva. There were knickknacks from world travels lining the shelves of a big breakfront, and photos of exotic locales on the walls. Even before I met the person who lived here, I could tell that she knew how to have a good life. On the corner of the dining room table sat a photo in a silver frame of a woman with grey, upswept 50s-style hair wearing a smile that at once looked satisfied, patrician, and very kind.

I didn't know the woman who lived here—the knickknack collector and daughter of the smile in the photo—but she recognized me, and we sat down to talk for few minutes before I began the minyan. I lead services occasionally but certainly do not have, or ever pretend to have, the skills of someone in a pastoral role. But although mourners at a minyan know I am not even one ten-thousandth of a rabbi, the fact that I am about to stand in front seems to make me very approachable. I take this inadvertent responsibility seriously; when, right before we begin the service, I ask the son or daughter how she's doing, and the answer comes in waves with silent tears as everyone else is shmoozing and waiting to start, I listen with all my soul for as long as needed. This evening the daughter told me, in the space of just a few minutes, how her mother was "one of the last heroes," a rescued child of the Holocaust who survived even as hundreds of others in the transport did not. How, her family's wealth decimated, her appearance and actions resonated with elegance and refinement even as they struggled in poverty. And how her mother demanded the highest standards from those around her, but always with love and a warm smile. There were no other siblings; the daughter explained that her friends filled this role, and that she wouldn't have survived the ordeal of her mother's illness but for their support. I suddenly thought of myself, and all the losses I experienced at a young age, and realized how fortunate I was to have so many relationships as deep and enduring as the ones this woman described.

There's always time during a shiva minyan to share stories of the deceased, but those friends chose to talk about the daughter instead—how lucky her mother had been to have such a child. Their pride filled the room like sunlight on this freezing January night, helping melt sorrow for a few minutes. The daughter thanked me profusely when it was over, and apologized for being in a hurry—she had to start packing for after shiva ended, when she planned to travel out west and to Europe to heal and continue to live the life of quirky knickknacks and vivid photos that her mother taught her to live.

834. Marathon

Elul, to date, has been a marathon. Since last I wrote, I chanted Torah on Monday and again on Shabbat (featuring a whole new set of mistakes not revealed on Mon., but it went well just the same). The mother of a good friend passed away on Tues., and so I stood out in the 95 degree heat for many hours on Thurs. at the funeral. (Not complaining. Life and death do not pay attention to the availability of shade.) This morning, led minyan for the first time ever since everyone on the long list of usual leaders, plus a large number of rabbis, were all on vacation. Singing in front of a thousand people while standing next to a rabbi is a lot easier than leading the entire service for seventeen all by myself, complete with those short ending and beginning parts, which is why I never did it before. (And I'm still unable to read anything quickly in Hebrew without practicing for a bit, even after all these years, but have learned how to fake as needed.) The cantor, as always, judged my abilities better than I could. After a few moments of initial panic at the request, I realized he wouldn't have asked me if I were comfortable leading unless he knew I would be--and, after a couple of hours of cramming and singing along with his ethereal voice on a CD, I was. And I had fun, too.

Came home, collapsed on the sofa, did some work, and then led Minha at the shiva minyan for my friend's mother, Now I have a Sinai-sized mountain of work to finish over the next two days, but will sleep for a couple of hours first--and no doubt dream of many different kinds of nusah, just as I did last night.

816. Sitting shmira, part 2

(Continued from here.)

We were far underground, and it was very quiet. No sounds of the city or traffic could reach this place. But after a few moments I was jarred alert by a deep, mechanical rumbling: as my mother used to say, the refrigerator was running. (To where?) I was glad for the noise, which distracted me and made me work harder to concentrate. Noise, then quiet, then noise again, just like the rest of life. I read the psalms a few lines at a time, stopping often to think about what they meant, and then repeated each one aloud in Hebrew.

Time passed very slowly at first. I looked at my watch—only five minutes had gone by, then ten. But after awhile the minutes ran into each other, and I lost track.

The man with the beard and siddur came in, and took the chair perpendicular to mine. He began to speak (this is allowed, I wondered?—OK, I guess it's fine). He was the shomer of the funeral home, the staff member who sat with the deceased until interment, and also performed tahara on men. He had been there all night long, and would remain after I left.

He looked me up and down and then straight in the eye, and smiled and shook his head. "I've never seen anything like this," he said "Every hour, someone else is here. Who was she? Was she very important? Does everyone in your shul have to do this? How many members do you have?"

I was surprised by his questions—everyone doesn't do this? Or maybe he was shocked because we're not an Orthodox congregation? Either way, I was very proud of us. I told him a little about her life, and our community—that we were not required sit shmira, but our rabbis taught that it was our responsibility. And we all loved her, so were honored to help. He nodded again, and plucked another volume of Talmud from the shelf. We sat in silence for another twenty minutes, and then my hour was up. I said goodbye, and thanked him; he smiled. I went through a small door and climbed up a few narrow, winding flights, and suddenly found myself on the sidewalk, blinking in bright sunlight. I felt sad and calm, as if I had just been close to a different, softer kind of life, not death.

(Please also read the Velveteen Rabbi's beautiful musings about sitting shmira here.)

815. Sitting shmira, part 1

Last week a beloved member of my synagogue died. She was the epitome of quiet, graceful strength, a woman for whom every day was filled with hope and promise—in her 60s, she had just finished another degree and embarked on a new career. I have always felt powerless in the face of death and this time, even more so. God does what God does, death happens; questioning won't change a thing. But this loss seemed as wrong as that of a young person, or war. Why can't God fix it? So when offered the chance to sit shmira and keep vigil in the hours before the funeral so her body and soul would never be alone during that time, I volunteered. I wanted to take some kind of action, anything, to try and right the balance of the universe.

I had never done this before. I was always too chicken, but am less frightened by the prospect of coming near a dead body than I used to be. A few weeks ago I attended a fascinating study session about the texts recited during tahara, the ritual cleansing and purification of the body prior to burial, and thought... perhaps one day. Not yet, though. Sitting shmira felt less daunting, and a bridge to the other possibility. I chose the hour right before Shabbat morning services so that I could walk to the funeral home in early morning quiet and then leave knowing I could think about my experience during prayer, and in the company of friends.

The front door of the funeral home was was open, the lobby deserted. I made my way downstairs and looked for "the room with the caskets" through which I was supposed to walk. The large, dark space was empty, though, except for a few sofas that had seen better days. Seated on one was a man with a beard and siddur. He looked up, smiled, and pointed to a brightly-lit corridor, where I saw a member of my synagogue. I nodded in thanks and made my way across to the other side.

There was nothing more than a low-ceilinged space ringed with doors, some to elevators, some worn around the handles and adorned with complicated locks, and one that looked like a bank vault upon which hung a big biohazard sign. Below that was taped a sheet of loose-leaf paper containing three names, one familiar and with an asterisk. Below that, a sign in careful, heavy print: "All remains must have head block!!!" I didn't want to think about what that meant. But I also knew the space couldn't be holy without that sign, an important, if prosaic, admonition for everyone to show respect in all possible ways.

A short row of dingy, plastic folding chairs lined the wall across from the door, just a foot or two away. The man from my synagogue, a good friend of the woman's, looked tired but calm—not upset. I was a few minutes early so sat down next to him, not sure what to do. I took out my book of Tehllim, Psalms. I rubbed my eyes, not yet awake.

"Are you OK?" he asked. Maybe he thought I was crying. I smiled. "Just fine." And with that I opened to the first page, glad I had this copy and didn't need one of the books without an English translation that spilled off a crowded shelf to my right.

The man from my synagogue left after a few minutes and I moved into his chair, across from the vault door. I looked at the woman's name, imagining her asleep inside as her family traveled, in pain, right at that minute. I didn't understand how what was about to happen could comfort them, but hoped it would. I silently asked the woman to forgive me for anything I might do that was wrong, and began to read.

(Continued here.)

804. Lampstand

I led another shiva minyan last week. I've noticed a pattern over the past few years: more people die during the winter. Maybe it's because of cold weather, not often kind to the elderly or ill; or that shorter, greyer days take a toll on those already weary of life. Whatever the reason, I've been called to help these past two months more often than usual. I worried at first that it would be hard to lead so soon after experiencing my own loss, but that's not the case. I do feel softer, in a way, more of a sponge for sorrow in the room, but at the same time have a better sense of the nuances of pain. I am more careful with my words. I am also, perhaps, less likely to stick around and shmooze afterwards; my threshold for sadness is lower, which I think will change over time. I'm also grateful that I don't do this on a regular basis, and can't imagine how rabbis (or doctors) hold all our emotions while dealing with the ones in their own lives. I guess the best of them learn to master this skill, as difficult as Talmud.

The minyan last week was as beautiful as all the others. The deceased was loved by a big family, and let go of life only after being assured her job was complete--that her children would put aside longtime arguments and fully embrace each other once again. We prayed while surrounded by photos of a woman with an infectious smile who didn't seem to age even as everyone else looked older and more wrinkled. I spoke about the lampstand in Parashat Vayakhel/Pikudei and how its arms, like members of our community, branched out from a strong backbone. I wished those in mourning the strength of that backbone and comfort of the embracing, golden arms that the rest of us tried to provide.

803. Golden Calf

Yesterday morning at services the rabbi raised an interesting question: why is the Golden Calf debacle in the Torah? It makes us look like a whiny, disobedient, untrustworthy nation, not at all flattering. The Torah includes many stories of our mistakes, of course, so we can learn from them--but an awful lot of space is devoted to this one. It could have been shorter, gentler.

But to suppress part of this ugliness would have lessened the likelihood of tikkun, repair, suggested the rabbi. We need to confront the most honest versions of our narratives in order to truly understand and integrate them into our lives. We spend far too much time and energy hiding the parts of our stories we don't like, for example: 'Shooting and crying,' from the Israeli newspaper Haaretz, an account by soldiers of IDF abuse of civillians. Some commanders were kind and ethical; those stories were readily shared in the media. Others, much less flattering, were not. Much of what happened during the Gaza war was, like life in general, neither completely good nor completely evil.

To become good, we first need to acknowledge that we have the capacity to be the opposite. As the rabbi spoke, I thought not of Israel but of the narrative of my own family and the parts I learned, as a child, never to share. No explicit reasons were given; we just didn't talk about such things. But when I finally did, in recent months, both to friends privately and at the shiva minyan, I felt whole again--able to fully embrace my story and family, even though most of them are now gone. They are still part of me, and always will be.

802. Air

Back to our regularly scheduled blog about spiritual stuff:

As I mentioned last Monday, I led a shiva minyan immediately prior to chanting part of Megillat Esther. I had been worried about timing--the minyan was just a few blocks away, but began only an hour before I had to be at services, which were 15 minutes away. And I needed about 15 minutes to put on my costume. (Leading a minyan while wearing a green wig would not be appropriate.) This left 1/2 hour for tefillah, not much time, especially since it's the custom at my synagogue to spend a few minutes at each minyan sharing stories about the deceased

"It's almost the end of the week, and they've had a minyan each night," said the woman from the Hevra Kadisha. "I'm sure they won't have much to say." She promised to alert the family beforehand about my schedule.

But I didn't want anyone to feel rushed. A shiva minyan doesn't happen in a normal human timescale; when it's your shiva minyan, it seems to take forever while also happening instantaneously. And I wasn't chanting until chapter 4, so would be in good shape even if a half hour late. We began five minutes early, the mourners, incredibly gracious, trying to stay on schedule for my behalf. Then we reached the speaking part, and there was indeed much to say. A woman had lost her husband; a daughter, her stepfather. How could a whole life fit in just seven days of memories? I had the sense that this family was only beginning to learn how to speak of these things, and that every night of shiva brought more pent-up words and tears. The week was almost over; they knew the drill by now. There was none of the awkwardness I had noticed on those other occasions when I led the first service following a funeral. The family spoke for many minutes and then, like a balloon speeding untethered around a room until the air was gone, all words were spent and we sat in silence.

I said goodbye and ran back home, put on my wig, and entered a world just as surreal and topsy-turvy as that of someone who had just lost the love of her life.

795. Money

Sneak peak just for readers of this blog: if you could be at my synagogue tonight, which most of you can't, you might hear a woman chanting chapters 4, 5 and 6 of Megillat Esther while wearing a short green wig and the tiara and shirt pictured at left. Yes, I am dressing up as the economic recovery package. Since this is a holiday of masks and antitheses, being and doing what one usually is not, adorning myself in money seems to be the perfect opposite of the rest of my life. Purim is also about making fun of what's scary; the state of the economy fits that criteria. In keeping with the times, this costume is also green in all senses of the word. When I'm done, I will carefully un-pin the bills and recycle them by re-depositing them into my bank account. (Except for the part that will go to matanot l'evyonim, of course.)

And an hour before I drape myself in money, I will lead a shiva minyan. The timing is a tight--I had a nightmare last night about not getting to services in time to read--but I agreed to do it because I know the rabbis will be much busier getting into very complicated costumes (such as the 7-foot-tall chicken of a few years ago), and also because it's a chance for me to say Mourner's Kaddish away from the usual cacophony and merriment of the evening. Purim is my mother's yahrtzeit, and I'm sure she will be somewhere at that moment enjoying my green hair, proud that I am helping others get to the point where they can laugh again one day, as well. The contrast between these two events, the shiva minyan and the bizarre and happy Purim service, seems to express the meaning of this holiday much better than just showing up and getting drunk. (Which I never do. May be a few years from now when I know the Megillah reading much, much better.)

Hag Purim Sameah! (And please don't drink too much.)

793. Healing

From last week's writing class, another 10-minute essay exercise. Topic: healing yourself while healing another:

---
As a member of the Hevra Kadisha, all I had to do was show up at a shiva minyan when needed. It terrified me; I hated it. I was afraid to breathe in those rooms of pain. And I was also afraid that any word, offered even in the nicest and most neutral way, would take me back to the four uncles and four aunts and two cousins and two parents who left their lives over a remarkably short number of years, and would force me to remember strained conversations and the impression that all families and friends of mourners wanted to do was eat. My first act upon walking into a shiva home was to identify the location of the cold cuts, in case I needed a quick escape.

But after attending a few minyans, I began to sense that middle place my rabbi explained we were entering, a strange zone between life and death where memories melt and flame until only the best are refined and remain to shine. I learned to sit on the edge of the sofa waiting for the story of this one's true love, that one's passion and humor in life. I learned that my presence as a listener made it possible for the teller of the story to extend the life of the person who died, and change pain in some small way from acute to slow and steady, and livable. And when I found myself on the other side of the room as the storyteller, I felt the energy and embrace of the listeners keep me breathing, as well.

787. Three minyans (part 2)

(Continued from here.)

Tonight I'm attending a shiva minyan for a longtime member of the community. I'm glad to be able to give back in this way as as show of gratitude for all who came to my house. And this seems as good a time as any to write more about those other three minyanim:

The minyan last summer was the first I led that happened on the evening of the funeral itself. (I'm not usually assigned those, or leading a minyan for the death of a young person; a rabbi generally handles the more charged situations. But everyone else was away or dealing with other emergencies.) I walked into the family's apartment and felt an immediate chill. Even after a few seconds I could tell that people didn't want to be there--not just the awkward pain of making small talk after tragedy, but a pervasive sense that all present hated everyone else in the room. I think non-verbal communication is transmitted more loudly when emotions are raw; I am not the most fluent reader of body language, but the message was clear. People stood around in small, conspiratorial clumps with arms crossed tightly over their chests, glancing furtively out of the corners of their eyes.

I found the son whose mother had died two days earlier at the age of 98. Usually the family at a minyan is glad to see me, even those who have no clue who I am or are unhappy one of the rabbis didn't come--they're still grateful that someone, anyone, showed up to help. But this man was still in shock. It's funny to think of the death of someone that old as "sudden," but she hadn't been sick--and was apparently known for clinging fiercely to life with little regard for others who stood in the way. He looked at me with confusion, and motioned for his daughter to come over.

I introduced myself once again. They didn't answer. I looked at the crowd. "It must feel good to have some much family here at a time like this," I offered.

And as soon as the words escaped my mouth, I realized it was the wrong thing to say. I should have followed my instincts about body language. Both daughter and father pursed their lips and folded their arms even tighter. Then, after a frozen moment or two, the daughter smiled, probably realizing that I was being made very, very uncomfortable. I could feel the ice begin to melt ever so slightly. They led me into the living room.

I announced who I was, and asked everyone to pick up a prayer book and join in. I noticed a small crowd flattened along the back wall of the adjoining dining room, as if attempting to merge with the wall itself and escape into the next apartment. I asked the father if he wanted to begin with Minha rather than just Ma'ariv (an option in case the family was more traditional). He looked at me like a deer in headlights, and called over his brother.

"What should we do?"

The brother raised his eyebrows and peered over his glasses. "Minha, of course." I waited for him to add that I was an idiot to think otherwise, but he kept his mouth shut.

We began the service. I called out the wrong page, and made a little joke of it. They laughed, and the ice melted some more. I realized I had to appear confident and in control, some sort of anchor within the of miasma of fear and sadness I could feel swirling around us. I thought about compassion when I sang, wanting my voice to help heal these people's pain.

We reached the part of the the service where everyone is invited to share a story about the deceased. I saw the cluster at the back of the dining room roll their eyes, and the room was suddenly quieter than my cousin J. at last week's bris ("I'm going to hold my breath--what if I cry and startle the mohel??"). My mind raced as the seconds ticked--do I say something? ("Well, why don't we just finish the service and you can talk later...") Then someone to my left spoke:

"She was a very interesting woman."

And the stories began, not the usual deluge of happy memories I've witnessed at other minyanim, but a slow, steady trickle of polite, carefully chosen words. I had a sense that the deceased was responsible for some of the people in this room not speaking to others in this room. She didn't seem to be very nice, but they already missed her a great deal. With each memory, I heard that they couldn't imagine a world without her presence, challenging as it had been.

The service ended, and I darted out as quickly as possible so everyone could finally cry.

786. Foreign place

Yesterday I chanted for the first time in quite awhile, three aliyot and the haftarah for Shabbat Shekalim (in honor of which I wore dangly coin earrings, homage to the gabbai who coordinates his ties with the weekly parasha). It was the first Shabbat since the end of shloshim, so I didn't stand for Mourner's Kaddish. This felt strange, clandestine, as if I had escaped before my allotted time. But also a big relief; reality had resumed. Having an aliyah (traditional for the person who chants haftarah) was a like seal on that state, the honor acknowledgment that I was now ready to give of myself once again rather than only being able to take. I felt very strong when I sang, and tried to put as much power as possible out into the universe to make up for the emptiness that followed me around for many days. I felt cleansed afterwards, energized. Like the line I chanted, I remembered what it was like to be alone:

You shall not oppress a stranger, for you know the feelings of the stranger, having yourselves been strangers in the land of Egypt.
—Exodus 23:9

The daily world is a foreign place to inhabitants of the country of grief. We are isolated during communal prayer, baffled by simple things like joy. But we learn from the experience of being a stranger, and when the period of mourning is over can understand the importance of ritual in a whole new way in order to give support to other new, unwilling citizens.

780. To my baby cousin on the occasion of his bris

Welcome, Yosef Yitzchak

Heavy air
phones unanswered
one last click of a lock in a door.
But on this side, the smell of cupcakes with sprinkles
as a little girl in a princess costume
twirls in front of a superhero's cape
blue and white, draped over her father's shoulders
curling like a waterfall into a pool
when he sits on the sofa
and tries not to faint
as my new cousin floats on a pillow in his lap
and then screams louder than all the Jewish people.
A drop of sweet wine on the lips,
a small sigh, a nap
the air is light
and I open the door once again.


----
It is quite amazing that this bris coincided with the last day of shloshim for my brother, the traditional 30 days of mourning. I had erroneously calculated that shloshim ended on Tuesday, but received a call from a member of the Hevra Kadisha of my synagogue on Monday night asking how I was doing, and if they could be of any help now that this time had passed. How incredible to belong to a community that keeps track of such things better than I do.

778. Shloshim

Tuesday will be the end of shloshim for my brother, the traditional thirty days of mourning. I am sad in short bursts now, mostly during services when I think of, see, or read about family, any kind of family. I remember how small mine is, and remind myself of the wonderful connections that remain--most stronger than what existed between my brother and I. But I still mourn the fact that another part of myself and my story, and my parents' stories, is gone. I dwell on this pain for a few moments, and move on. The interval between pain and good, deep breaths increases daily. I've gone back to the gym; music no longer makes me want to hide. Later today I'm going to the bris of a new cousin. Someone leaves the world, someone else enters.

But thirty days still seems like an arbitrary number. Maybe that's the point--there is no logical time frame in which to jump full force back into life. One must be pushed, like a fledgling from a next, because remaining in pain is too easy. This past Shabbat I attended a beautiful Minha/Havdalah service at my synagogue, which helped make Shabbat a truly immersive experience. There is nothing better than services in the morning followed by an afternoon of lunch, nap, studying my next Torah portion, and then reuniting with my community to bid farewell to a perfectly relaxing day. When it came time to recite the Mourner's Kaddish, however, I was the only one who stood. Again, as at the shiva minyan, my voice spoke alone except for a few communal lines reminding me I had company, and always will. But I thought of that first weekend when I davened alone in silence, the peace of being apart from any eyes except God's, and wished for solitude. Even though I knew I would fully rejoin the camp in three days, standing by myself still felt like an open wound.

776. Fountain

For the last three weeks I haven't been able to concentrate. I thought I was, felt the same as always, but words kept on flying into one side of my head and out the other. On the Friday of Shabbat Bo, the rabbi gave a brilliant d'var Torah. I listened and was transformed, and sat down the following day to write about it. And couldn't remember a single word, still can't. At least I knew that for a few minutes I was somewhere far from sadness, although it wasn't yet time for me to remain in that place.

Now I'm closer, and feel a little guilty about it. How convenient that the shloshim is ending at almost the same time as my grief, or at least the first, most immediate part of it. Grieving according to a schedule seems to have happened despite my best attempts to wait for feelings to adjust themselves as needed. I'm reading Torah and haftarah in a few weeks, an assignment offered gently, in case I wasn't ready. But I said yes the second I got the email, my new hunger for sound as great as the desire I had, while learning my previous portion a few weeks ago, to keep silent. I got up early on Shabbat Shirah to practice before services, and sang again for an hour this morning. I feel like I've stumbled upon a fountain in the desert and don't want to stop drinking--am afraid to stop, in case the arid land suddenly reappears.

This past Friday evening the rabbi spoke about song as a vehicle for prayer to rise up and reach the place we need. He also noted Aviva Zornberg's thoughts on the Song of the Sea, which began while the Israelites were still within those walls of water--not after they reached the other side, but even as they wondered if God would really come though and they would survive. Singing, we learn, is not only for times of joy, but also to accompany longing, pain, fear. But I think there are times when prayer is supposed to reach its destination on the force of word and heart alone. I thought about saying Mourner's Kaddish that evening at the shiva minyan, surprised to hear the sound of my own voice as I recited instead of sang. I don't think my rabbis and friends had ever listened to me speak a prayer without music. To myself, without melody as a cloak, I sounded empty, tentative. That bare echo alone, music I could make only with a raw soul, didn't need any any additional fuel to find its destination.

775. Closed

Written for a 10-minute writing exercise in my writing class this evening:

----
I tried to learn the lines, singing them over and over again as usual. They were familiar, the sames ones I chanted three years ago: Parashat Shemot, a plague, a hardened heart, repeat, repeat. It should have been easy, but it wasn't. My own heart and voice were hard this time, too, closed, dark.

The next morning, I got an email from the cantor--how far have you learned, he asked? The bat mitvah tutor wants to read. Do you mind? I made a joke of it--well, if you insist--but was secretly relieved. I knew the words, but felt as if they were coming from the other side of a big, deep cliff whenever I sang.

I sent the email, and went out to a diner for breakfast. I sat down, and my cell phone rang. Hello? Silence. Hello? Are you sitting? asked my niece. Sure, I said, I'm about to bite into my omelet. I'm sorry, she answered. I'm sorry. He's gone, my father is gone.

I put down my fork, and looked at the sugar swirling in my coffee cup. I understood that I had been given a message earlier that week, some preparation. I wasn't supposed to be singing, only listening, to unexpected sounds I didn't understand. Maybe, after practicing them at some future time, not now, I might be able to chant and explain the story once more.