Today at services the rabbi noted that Parashat Nitzavim, always read during the week before Rosh Hashanah, contains many instances of the word "teshuvah." This intrigued the ancient rabbis (of course), who interpreted it as proof that teshuvah came before absolutely everything:
"Before the world was created... God began to trace (the foundations of) the world but it would not stand. They told a parable: To what is the matter like? To a king who wishes to build a palace for himself. If he had not traced the earth its foundation, its exits and entrances, he does not begin to build. Likewise the Holy One was tracing (the plans of) the world but it did not remain standing until God created repentance."
--Pirkei deRabbi Eliezer, Chapter 3
And because teshuvah is elemental to our existence,
"Teshuvah is always present in our heart."
--Rabbi Abraham Yitzhak Kook
OK, so we know that change is possible--but that doesn't mean we know how to make it happen. We are overwhelmed by the enormity of the task, or trapped by circumstance. One solution, suggested the rabbi, is to remember that we are creative beings. Every small choice and new idea is an act of teshuvah--of changing our current situation into a new one. Instead of feeling crushed by expectations at this time of year, we can parse them into smaller pieces and keep in mind that we are not passive observers of our own lives--that the imperative to do, act, and change is built into us all.
These were very comforting words to hear this morning. Again, as every year, I feel woefully unprepared to face the truth of how I missed the mark. I fear I will pretend to look God in the eye while sweeping everything under the psychic rug, so to speak. I am annoyed: with a friend who let me down, with myself for hiding and procrastinating. I am afraid: for the world, for a friend's aunt who just had a stroke, for the 1% chance that I'll catch a cold between now and Tuesday. I am in good company: with everyone else facing the fact this Rosh Hashanah that they're human, and change is really hard.
I agree that we live by small steps, and they all count. I like the idea that our very nature is to move forward. I pray that the energy of a few hundred people in a room thinking and singing about how to do this will give us all the strength to take two steps when we thought only one was possible.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Saturday, September 20, 2008
727. Hidden
This week's parasha, Ki Tavo, begins as follows:
Vehayah ki-tavo el-ha'arets asher Adonay Eloheycha noten lecha nachalah...
When you come to the land that God your Lord is giving you as a heritage...
"Vehayah"--when--a straightforward word. But Hassidic commentators, noted the rabbi last night at services, gave it great emphasis as a "key to the future." Why? The rabbi didn't understand the interpretation until she noticed that "vehayah" is spelled vav, hey, yod, hey. A little rearranging and you get the name of God--yod, hey, vav, hey--hidden where we least expect it, a reminder that in this month of Elul our task is to search for God in places we have forgotten or overlooked. God is always present, but sometimes we need to reorder the letters that make up our own souls in order to figure this out.
As she spoke, I thought of the two yahrzeits that always take me by surprise on the second day of Rosh Hashanah. In 1999 I learned of the death of a cousin the year before. He had fought in Vietnam, come back a different person, and disappeared when I was 9 years old; my family hired a private investigator, who found him in San Francisco. But my cousin refused all contact, even after the deaths of his mother and, a few years later, his father, my mother's brother. By the time I grew up, all that remained of his memory was a tallit bag in the bottom of a drawer. (There's much more to this story, which I wrote a few years ago and published in a small anthology. Perhaps I'll post it here in a week and a half). Three years ago, I came home from services on the second day of Rosh Hashanah to a message on my answering machine that my cousin Bunny had died, a tiny, gutsy force of perpetual energy who trained dogs and loved animals with a fierce passion (and adopted my 18-year-old cat Irving when I was shell-shocked after the death of my mother, and introduced him to macho, calico Figaro, who convinced Irving to come out of the closet both literally and figuratively so the two could spend their golden years together in feline-cohabiting bliss). Although these two people were not part of my daily life, their deaths left big holes in the fabric of a family whose few remaining fringes I hold tight.
As the rabbi spoke, I also remembered the yahrzeits of my mother: Adar 14, Purim (in years that aren't leap years); and father, Thanksgiving (in 1990, but the association always remains). I used to be angry that so many holidays bore the shadow of death for me. Why couldn't my cousins and parents have left this earth on boring, normal days? But then I thought about those particular holidays--happy, festive, full of the promise of new beginnings and connections to community as we come together and sing Sheheheyanu, laugh at ourselves, wear new (or funny) clothing, plan for the future. As in "vehayah," God was hidden in those days to make sure I would think of people I loved when I laughed, and never be alone when I cried.
Vehayah ki-tavo el-ha'arets asher Adonay Eloheycha noten lecha nachalah...
When you come to the land that God your Lord is giving you as a heritage...
"Vehayah"--when--a straightforward word. But Hassidic commentators, noted the rabbi last night at services, gave it great emphasis as a "key to the future." Why? The rabbi didn't understand the interpretation until she noticed that "vehayah" is spelled vav, hey, yod, hey. A little rearranging and you get the name of God--yod, hey, vav, hey--hidden where we least expect it, a reminder that in this month of Elul our task is to search for God in places we have forgotten or overlooked. God is always present, but sometimes we need to reorder the letters that make up our own souls in order to figure this out.
As she spoke, I thought of the two yahrzeits that always take me by surprise on the second day of Rosh Hashanah. In 1999 I learned of the death of a cousin the year before. He had fought in Vietnam, come back a different person, and disappeared when I was 9 years old; my family hired a private investigator, who found him in San Francisco. But my cousin refused all contact, even after the deaths of his mother and, a few years later, his father, my mother's brother. By the time I grew up, all that remained of his memory was a tallit bag in the bottom of a drawer. (There's much more to this story, which I wrote a few years ago and published in a small anthology. Perhaps I'll post it here in a week and a half). Three years ago, I came home from services on the second day of Rosh Hashanah to a message on my answering machine that my cousin Bunny had died, a tiny, gutsy force of perpetual energy who trained dogs and loved animals with a fierce passion (and adopted my 18-year-old cat Irving when I was shell-shocked after the death of my mother, and introduced him to macho, calico Figaro, who convinced Irving to come out of the closet both literally and figuratively so the two could spend their golden years together in feline-cohabiting bliss). Although these two people were not part of my daily life, their deaths left big holes in the fabric of a family whose few remaining fringes I hold tight.
As the rabbi spoke, I also remembered the yahrzeits of my mother: Adar 14, Purim (in years that aren't leap years); and father, Thanksgiving (in 1990, but the association always remains). I used to be angry that so many holidays bore the shadow of death for me. Why couldn't my cousins and parents have left this earth on boring, normal days? But then I thought about those particular holidays--happy, festive, full of the promise of new beginnings and connections to community as we come together and sing Sheheheyanu, laugh at ourselves, wear new (or funny) clothing, plan for the future. As in "vehayah," God was hidden in those days to make sure I would think of people I loved when I laughed, and never be alone when I cried.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
726. Very soon
I can scarcely believe that Selihot is in two days. Every year I've had fewer and fewer rehearsals leading up to the High Holy Days, and so the discipline of preparation has been shifting back to my own responsibility. Back when I started this journey in 2004--or, rather, when I was pushed happily but uncomprehendingly onto the road--I spent many months thinking, dreaming, and breathing Shaharit. (Ne'ila and Minha followed soon after.) I had no choice but to get ready with all my body and spirit. Now the melodies are in my bones; all I've had to do for the past month is review, every couple of days, the parts where my voice balks at what it's supposed do. The range is still a little high, even though I'm now more accustomed to singing those notes. I've learned not to worry, because I know I'll be just fine after waking up at 6AM and warming up for two hours. (I'll be singing at the same number of services as last year, despite my unfounded doubts.) I have a rehearsal with one ensemble next Friday, and another the following Monday. And that's it.
But I don't think I've done enough of the other kind of preparation--the heshbon hanefesh part, accounting of my soul for the past year. I've taken stabs at it, made a few changes, fell backwards. It's slow going, as always. I'm remembering to be kind to myself, and hoping this compassion and patience will spill over into my dealings with the rest of the world. This week I revisited Beginning Anew, a collection of essays about the Yamim Nora'im from a feminist perspective. A friend lent it to me four years ago and I've been consumed with guilt every subsequent Yom Kippur, when I remember that I never read or returned it. This year will be different. Ever since I took part in a discussion group about Engendering Judaism, a book exploring the challenges of a gender-expansive view of Jewish prayer, the idea of a women's approach to Judaism has felt much less awkward. (And I've felt less awkward admitting that it once seemed so.) My religious community comes very close to being completely gender-neutral in all aspects of philosophy and ritual which, paradoxically, is not always the best approach. The rest of the world is not always so tolerant, and sometimes we need to celebrate the differences that were once mistaken for inequality. Just because they no longer are doesn't mean we should ignore them.
These are concepts I wouldn't usually explore; I hope struggling with them in this week before I stand on the bima will teach me something new about myself.
But I don't think I've done enough of the other kind of preparation--the heshbon hanefesh part, accounting of my soul for the past year. I've taken stabs at it, made a few changes, fell backwards. It's slow going, as always. I'm remembering to be kind to myself, and hoping this compassion and patience will spill over into my dealings with the rest of the world. This week I revisited Beginning Anew, a collection of essays about the Yamim Nora'im from a feminist perspective. A friend lent it to me four years ago and I've been consumed with guilt every subsequent Yom Kippur, when I remember that I never read or returned it. This year will be different. Ever since I took part in a discussion group about Engendering Judaism, a book exploring the challenges of a gender-expansive view of Jewish prayer, the idea of a women's approach to Judaism has felt much less awkward. (And I've felt less awkward admitting that it once seemed so.) My religious community comes very close to being completely gender-neutral in all aspects of philosophy and ritual which, paradoxically, is not always the best approach. The rest of the world is not always so tolerant, and sometimes we need to celebrate the differences that were once mistaken for inequality. Just because they no longer are doesn't mean we should ignore them.
These are concepts I wouldn't usually explore; I hope struggling with them in this week before I stand on the bima will teach me something new about myself.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
725. Existential GPS
As I've said too often, I love my iPhone. But it's not perfect: some apps crash, the calendar isn't as good as on my trusty old Treo, and it hasn't yet learned how to copy and paste. That's OK; I'm patient. It's young, brilliant, and lovely, not yet seasoned but full of potential. I can wait.
It is, however, a bit confused. At certain times of day, from a few different locations in my apartment, it thinks I'm in Texas. Not just anywhere in Texas, but a very specific spot on Town-to-Market Road outside of Houston. It's offered up the name of the closest pharmacy to Town-to-Market Road, and told me there are no restaurants in a 5-mile radius. According to the satellite photo on the GPS Google Map, there's nothing much in that spot except a road, a field, and what look like storage buildings.
I wonder: is someone on Town-To-Market Road outside of Houston at this very moment checking a new iPhone after a long day of work hauling farm equipment, and wondering why it thinks she should go see a movie at Lincoln Plaza Cinemas or check out a hot new restaurant featuring photos of clowns on the wall?
Are we ever really where we think we are?
------
I am not the only one pondering the philosophical implications of the iPhone. Here's Rabbi Marc Wolf of JTS on Parashat Ekev:
Since I am a self-professed “techno-junkie,” it took considerable restraint to wait the year for the second-generation iPhone to be released. ...
------
On another matter: Matt Damon speaks for me. Bravo.
It is, however, a bit confused. At certain times of day, from a few different locations in my apartment, it thinks I'm in Texas. Not just anywhere in Texas, but a very specific spot on Town-to-Market Road outside of Houston. It's offered up the name of the closest pharmacy to Town-to-Market Road, and told me there are no restaurants in a 5-mile radius. According to the satellite photo on the GPS Google Map, there's nothing much in that spot except a road, a field, and what look like storage buildings.
I wonder: is someone on Town-To-Market Road outside of Houston at this very moment checking a new iPhone after a long day of work hauling farm equipment, and wondering why it thinks she should go see a movie at Lincoln Plaza Cinemas or check out a hot new restaurant featuring photos of clowns on the wall?
Are we ever really where we think we are?
------
I am not the only one pondering the philosophical implications of the iPhone. Here's Rabbi Marc Wolf of JTS on Parashat Ekev:
Since I am a self-professed “techno-junkie,” it took considerable restraint to wait the year for the second-generation iPhone to be released. ...
------
On another matter: Matt Damon speaks for me. Bravo.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
724. Belatedly
I meant to write on 9/11, as I have for the past few years. I'm learning that the death of buildings and memories is not really much different than the death of a loved one. Time seems to dull pain, and then it all comes back with the sound of a breath, a certain glint of sunlight.
I planned to go to morning minyan and say the Mourner's Kaddish. Instead I chose to lay in bed and think about good and bad parts of that day--there really was goodness amidst unimaginable agony, as I grew closer to friends and community and watched everyone try to help each other even as we thought the world was ending. I also remembered how my mother insisted we visit the Towers in person as soon as they were built; same for the Citicorp (now Citigroup ) Center. She wasn't otherwise an architecture buff, but delighted in these new and unusual additions to the skyline--her skyline. There was an urgency about seeing them, as if we had to claim them as soon as possible in order to retain our ownership of the city. Did we ever get to the oddly Chippendale-corniced AT&T (now Sony) Building? It opened during a year about which I recall very little, when my mother was in and out of the hospital and I was in a constant haze. I remember we spoke about it, and have an image of myself in the building lobby, very sad. I don't think we got there together.
But the Towers in my mind's eye still make me smile, as I see my mother standing in wonder on the roof deck.
----
I appreciated this quasi-Biblical account of the last seven years, a little forced but also profound:
In the Seventh Year
In Judaism, seven is a number of rest--for the earth and living beings each Shabbat, for crops in seven-year cycles, the number before covenant (brit milah, circumcision, on the eighth day of life). I pray that this year we can continue to heal, and begin a new cycle of promises of love rather than hatred. And that this anniversary can fall into a rhythm and melody that manages to comfort even while searing an eternal memory:
9/11 Chant
(HT to Kol Ra'ash Gadol for reminding me of this rewriting of Eikha [Lamentations] by Rabbi Irwin Kula.)
I planned to go to morning minyan and say the Mourner's Kaddish. Instead I chose to lay in bed and think about good and bad parts of that day--there really was goodness amidst unimaginable agony, as I grew closer to friends and community and watched everyone try to help each other even as we thought the world was ending. I also remembered how my mother insisted we visit the Towers in person as soon as they were built; same for the Citicorp (now Citigroup ) Center. She wasn't otherwise an architecture buff, but delighted in these new and unusual additions to the skyline--her skyline. There was an urgency about seeing them, as if we had to claim them as soon as possible in order to retain our ownership of the city. Did we ever get to the oddly Chippendale-corniced AT&T (now Sony) Building? It opened during a year about which I recall very little, when my mother was in and out of the hospital and I was in a constant haze. I remember we spoke about it, and have an image of myself in the building lobby, very sad. I don't think we got there together.
But the Towers in my mind's eye still make me smile, as I see my mother standing in wonder on the roof deck.
----
I appreciated this quasi-Biblical account of the last seven years, a little forced but also profound:
In the Seventh Year
In Judaism, seven is a number of rest--for the earth and living beings each Shabbat, for crops in seven-year cycles, the number before covenant (brit milah, circumcision, on the eighth day of life). I pray that this year we can continue to heal, and begin a new cycle of promises of love rather than hatred. And that this anniversary can fall into a rhythm and melody that manages to comfort even while searing an eternal memory:
9/11 Chant
(HT to Kol Ra'ash Gadol for reminding me of this rewriting of Eikha [Lamentations] by Rabbi Irwin Kula.)
Monday, September 15, 2008
723. A cliff, part 2
(Continued from here.)
I ditched work for the afternoon (way too easy to do when you're self-employed), sang it over and over and over again for the rest of the day, and then again at dawn the next morning. I sang it too many times. I knew I knew it, but didn't believe myself. I worked myself into a state of near-panic and barely made it to services because of, shall we say, physical issues. I was at once confident, angry at my irrationality, and sure that catastrophe would strike once I reached the bima. And equally sure I'd do a perfect job. Stage fright is no fun. I was so confused that I didn't know what I was thinking.
I did well. And when I sang, to my surprise, I understood once again that the breath within me was shared. My nerves fell away and I felt stronger than ever, certain that if I missed the mark, if I needed to be propped up or slapped into sensibility while chanting, or at any other time in life, I would always find an open door leading me back home. About to lose my balance at the edge of a cliff, I was in the world's safest place. I wanted to run away, yet never leave.
I don't understand why the act of memorizing a few pages of Hebrew can tie me into such metaphysical knots. For days afterwards I was completely spent, exhausted on all levels. Last Shabbat I chanted part of Parashat Shoftim, harder to learn than Va'ethanan, and barely broke a sweat. Maybe I needed to drive myself to the edges of intestinal fortitude in order to understand how much more pleasant it is to remain calm--or maybe, sometimes, I need to be a little nuts in order to understand what and why I am singing. Either way, I will keep hiking up that cliff.
I ditched work for the afternoon (way too easy to do when you're self-employed), sang it over and over and over again for the rest of the day, and then again at dawn the next morning. I sang it too many times. I knew I knew it, but didn't believe myself. I worked myself into a state of near-panic and barely made it to services because of, shall we say, physical issues. I was at once confident, angry at my irrationality, and sure that catastrophe would strike once I reached the bima. And equally sure I'd do a perfect job. Stage fright is no fun. I was so confused that I didn't know what I was thinking.
I did well. And when I sang, to my surprise, I understood once again that the breath within me was shared. My nerves fell away and I felt stronger than ever, certain that if I missed the mark, if I needed to be propped up or slapped into sensibility while chanting, or at any other time in life, I would always find an open door leading me back home. About to lose my balance at the edge of a cliff, I was in the world's safest place. I wanted to run away, yet never leave.
I don't understand why the act of memorizing a few pages of Hebrew can tie me into such metaphysical knots. For days afterwards I was completely spent, exhausted on all levels. Last Shabbat I chanted part of Parashat Shoftim, harder to learn than Va'ethanan, and barely broke a sweat. Maybe I needed to drive myself to the edges of intestinal fortitude in order to understand how much more pleasant it is to remain calm--or maybe, sometimes, I need to be a little nuts in order to understand what and why I am singing. Either way, I will keep hiking up that cliff.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
722. A cliff, part 1
How do I work this thing?... Oh, right, just type. So here I am again, trying to steer myself to the proper course as we approach the end of Elul. I've missed writing, but have had little space for it in my brain. I've also been indulging my outer life more than my inner: finally snagged an iPhone and am playing with it constantly, bought a new couch, got rid of of the old one (a very New York story, post to come). Along with introspection, silly stuff is also necessary to maintain balance in life. But I am definitely still here.
At services two weeks ago, the rabbi reminded us that the letters in the name of this month, Elul, are also the first letters of "Ani dodi v'dodi li:" "I am my beloved, and my beloved is mine." He suggested we remember that we are our own beloveds--that in heshbon hanefesh, the inventory of our year, we pay attention to what we love in ourselves, and how we can nurture and grow these traits. And take note of the parts we don't love, so we can leave them behind.
Last month I confronted both poles, which I must admit is another reason (aside from crushing loads of deadline-oriented work) that I haven't written. I haven't wanted to put in the time to digest, articulate, and understand. I had signed up for a whopping bit of chanting, a column and a third. Most of this I read three years ago, so wasn't worried. I was kind of excited about doing it again, in fact, this time calmly and with more confidence.
On Friday afternoon I got an email from the cantor: Would you like to read the haftarah, as well? It was a cool one: "Nahamu, nahamu," the first haftarah of consolation before the High Holy Days. I was about to say yes, but was drowned out by a little voice from the logical side of my brain: it's a bit too much to cram. (The musical part comes quickly, but I still stumble over Hebrew.) I thanked him, and said I didn't think I'd have enough time. OK, he replied, I guess I'll keep trying to ask around. I could almost hear the big sigh between the lines of his email: Someone backed out at the last minute and I can't find anyone else. You've never learned anything this fast before, but I know you can do it. Pretty please.
I knew that chanting this particular haftarah would help heal me from the searing images of Tisha be-Av. I wanted to do it. I read it through a few times, decided to trust in the cantor's trust, which never let me down before, and said yes.
(Continued here.)
At services two weeks ago, the rabbi reminded us that the letters in the name of this month, Elul, are also the first letters of "Ani dodi v'dodi li:" "I am my beloved, and my beloved is mine." He suggested we remember that we are our own beloveds--that in heshbon hanefesh, the inventory of our year, we pay attention to what we love in ourselves, and how we can nurture and grow these traits. And take note of the parts we don't love, so we can leave them behind.
Last month I confronted both poles, which I must admit is another reason (aside from crushing loads of deadline-oriented work) that I haven't written. I haven't wanted to put in the time to digest, articulate, and understand. I had signed up for a whopping bit of chanting, a column and a third. Most of this I read three years ago, so wasn't worried. I was kind of excited about doing it again, in fact, this time calmly and with more confidence.
On Friday afternoon I got an email from the cantor: Would you like to read the haftarah, as well? It was a cool one: "Nahamu, nahamu," the first haftarah of consolation before the High Holy Days. I was about to say yes, but was drowned out by a little voice from the logical side of my brain: it's a bit too much to cram. (The musical part comes quickly, but I still stumble over Hebrew.) I thanked him, and said I didn't think I'd have enough time. OK, he replied, I guess I'll keep trying to ask around. I could almost hear the big sigh between the lines of his email: Someone backed out at the last minute and I can't find anyone else. You've never learned anything this fast before, but I know you can do it. Pretty please.
I knew that chanting this particular haftarah would help heal me from the searing images of Tisha be-Av. I wanted to do it. I read it through a few times, decided to trust in the cantor's trust, which never let me down before, and said yes.
(Continued here.)
Thursday, August 28, 2008
721. Proud
It's been awhile, I know. I'm still here!--still chanting, being overwhelmed, collecting experiences, wondering, muddling enjoyably through. And drowning in work. I feel like I've been in a cave for the past few weeks, emerging thirstily on Shabbat but otherwise gasping for air. Not that I don't like my job, but it's been a bit much. My brain is full. I will return to some semblance of normalcy in the very near future, if only because the words on my fingertips are about to explode; I need to write them down soon, or else.
Meanwhile, I had to come here to mark this night, and note that I'm proud of my country for the first time in at least eight years. I don't know if he's right about everything--he's still a politician, after all--but Barack Obama is our best hope for a future. As he spoke about watching the astronauts with his grandfather when they returned from space, I remembered staring at a grainy, black-and-white TV with my mother as Neil Armstrong set foot on the moon. She made sure I understood the importance of witnessing a moment when the world changed. She would have so enjoyed tonight's speech.
More to come very soon.
Meanwhile, I had to come here to mark this night, and note that I'm proud of my country for the first time in at least eight years. I don't know if he's right about everything--he's still a politician, after all--but Barack Obama is our best hope for a future. As he spoke about watching the astronauts with his grandfather when they returned from space, I remembered staring at a grainy, black-and-white TV with my mother as Neil Armstrong set foot on the moon. She made sure I understood the importance of witnessing a moment when the world changed. She would have so enjoyed tonight's speech.
More to come very soon.
Friday, August 15, 2008
720. Another weird dream
Here's another addition to the not very scintillating Internet archive of the chanting-related wanderings of my subconscious. Last night I dreamt I could view my life in the form of a big calendar stretched across the floor, with boxes extending miles and miles into the distance. As I walked above the days, I noticed that important tasks were represented by faces of people I knew and, in some cases, really cute baby animals. (Yes, I've been visiting cuteoverload.com a little too frequently. I also spent an hour last night wrestling with iCal.) My Torah reading last week was represented by a little bowl of goldfish. My upcoming reading tomorrow was an adorable, fluffy mouse.
I crouched down to pet the mouse. But--he was dead! oy. And as soon as I tried to pick him up, he turned into someone else's face. (I am not going to say whose. Some things are too personal even for a blog.)
I do not appreciate dreams that are reminiscent of films by Buñuel, especially since I thought I was over my anxiety about chanting Torah. I really do not consciously feel nervous about my reading tomorrow--I did most of it twice last week, and could probably sing it in my sleep if necessary. I am starting to wonder about the holidays, though, since I haven't yet heard anything about my role. I suspect it will be less this year than in the past, because we have a new intern. Life goes on--others need to have their chance.
Then again, I have no idea, and my subconscious is very good at jumping to conclusions.
I crouched down to pet the mouse. But--he was dead! oy. And as soon as I tried to pick him up, he turned into someone else's face. (I am not going to say whose. Some things are too personal even for a blog.)
I do not appreciate dreams that are reminiscent of films by Buñuel, especially since I thought I was over my anxiety about chanting Torah. I really do not consciously feel nervous about my reading tomorrow--I did most of it twice last week, and could probably sing it in my sleep if necessary. I am starting to wonder about the holidays, though, since I haven't yet heard anything about my role. I suspect it will be less this year than in the past, because we have a new intern. Life goes on--others need to have their chance.
Then again, I have no idea, and my subconscious is very good at jumping to conclusions.
Monday, August 11, 2008
719. Carnival
Welcome to everyone visiting via Simply Jews and Haveil Havalim #177*, the Jewish Blog Carnival. Once in a blue moon I submit a post, and am honored to have been included. And please check out all the other great links in this issue.
Meanwhile, Torah chanting made a rare appearance in last week's New York Times "Metropolitan Diary"!
----
Dear Diary:
In a sweltering August more than 25 years ago, on a long subway ride with no seat available, I stood holding onto a rail. With my free hand I held up my Hebrew Torah text.
In the early ’80s it was still somewhat novel for women to chant from the Torah. My husband, then a young rabbi, had recruited me to chant all the Torah readings for the High Holy Day pulpit he had signed on for in Texas. And, indeed, preparing all that chanting was a Texas-size task!
As I mumbled along, singsonging the ancient words, I glanced up and saw an Orthodox Jewish man doing precisely the same thing. Our nanosecond of bonding was followed by the fellow’s look of extreme confusion, as he quickly refocused his eyes on his text.
The poor guy. I often wonder: Did he tell anyone of this moment of worlds colliding?
Betsy Teutsch
----
I could have written this paragraph, too. Then again, I often will not take out my Xeroxed Torah portion to study on the subway if I see an obviously fervently Orthodox man standing nearby. I'm trying to be respectful; I don't want to make the ride uncomfortable for him. On the other hand--I'm proud of chanting, and completely free to read anything I want in a public place. I'm harming no one by looking at a piece of paper. I have no reason to feel bad. But I do, and generally err on the side of this particular manifestation of shalom bayit, i.e. shalom subway.
* From Kohelet: "Vanity of vanities."
Meanwhile, Torah chanting made a rare appearance in last week's New York Times "Metropolitan Diary"!
----
Dear Diary:
In a sweltering August more than 25 years ago, on a long subway ride with no seat available, I stood holding onto a rail. With my free hand I held up my Hebrew Torah text.
In the early ’80s it was still somewhat novel for women to chant from the Torah. My husband, then a young rabbi, had recruited me to chant all the Torah readings for the High Holy Day pulpit he had signed on for in Texas. And, indeed, preparing all that chanting was a Texas-size task!
As I mumbled along, singsonging the ancient words, I glanced up and saw an Orthodox Jewish man doing precisely the same thing. Our nanosecond of bonding was followed by the fellow’s look of extreme confusion, as he quickly refocused his eyes on his text.
The poor guy. I often wonder: Did he tell anyone of this moment of worlds colliding?
Betsy Teutsch
----
I could have written this paragraph, too. Then again, I often will not take out my Xeroxed Torah portion to study on the subway if I see an obviously fervently Orthodox man standing nearby. I'm trying to be respectful; I don't want to make the ride uncomfortable for him. On the other hand--I'm proud of chanting, and completely free to read anything I want in a public place. I'm harming no one by looking at a piece of paper. I have no reason to feel bad. But I do, and generally err on the side of this particular manifestation of shalom bayit, i.e. shalom subway.
* From Kohelet: "Vanity of vanities."
Sunday, August 10, 2008
718. Cycle
I still don't like this holiday. Last night I dreamt I was taking a big, important Jewish quiz and was failing miserably, as an examiner sat on the other side of the table and threw out words and concepts I couldn't identify. Then I awoke and remembered it was Tisha be-Av, symbolic culmination of all our collective guilt about failure, transgression, weakness, and lack of faith. This holiday is beginning to feel more a marker of the passage of time for me than even Rosh Hashana and the new year. I'm always reminded that another summer is almost gone and another cycle of heshbon hanefesh, accounting of the soul, is about to begin. And I never feel ready. I want more slow, hot, lazy days to fuel myself for the work ahead, and wish I had put the ones that just passed to better use.
Services last night seemed more somber than usual; perhaps it was just me, again confused about chanting such horrible words to a pretty tune, not nervous, glad to be doing this, as always, but also dreading it. In some ways Eikha is the most difficult trop for me to sing. I never seem to start on the right note, always too low or too high (as last night), and have trouble navigating the wide tonal range while also trying to breathe properly as I sit cross-legged on the floor, hunched over sheets of text and fumbling with a flashlight. It always turns out fine, albeit a little ragged, and I think my struggle is appropriate for the day. And there was a moment last night, as we all joined in the last words of the fifth chapter--
Hashivenu Adonai eilecha...
Turn Thou us unto Thee, O Lord, and we shall be turned; renew our days as of old.
that I heard our voices building on each other like bricks in a fortress wall, and felt strong and protected. I thought of last summer, when I knew this day marked the beginning of the end of my sister-in-law's journey--and then remembered my dear niece, who weathered a year of mourning and emerged on the other side with a great new job, and an even better loving relationship. And my brother, who has also again found comfort and companionship. As if to get the point across, one particular line of Shaharit caught my eye this morning:
"Tears may linger for a night, but joy comes with the dawn." (Psalm 30:6)
After services we studied a text about our partnership with God. Do we ask for God's help this day without justifying our worthiness? Is God, as our partner, expected to give us that help even if we don't hold up our end of the bargain? I don't know the answer, but take comfort in the fact that the cycle of tears and laughter will always continue despite our mistakes, and God's as well.
Services last night seemed more somber than usual; perhaps it was just me, again confused about chanting such horrible words to a pretty tune, not nervous, glad to be doing this, as always, but also dreading it. In some ways Eikha is the most difficult trop for me to sing. I never seem to start on the right note, always too low or too high (as last night), and have trouble navigating the wide tonal range while also trying to breathe properly as I sit cross-legged on the floor, hunched over sheets of text and fumbling with a flashlight. It always turns out fine, albeit a little ragged, and I think my struggle is appropriate for the day. And there was a moment last night, as we all joined in the last words of the fifth chapter--
Hashivenu Adonai eilecha...
Turn Thou us unto Thee, O Lord, and we shall be turned; renew our days as of old.
that I heard our voices building on each other like bricks in a fortress wall, and felt strong and protected. I thought of last summer, when I knew this day marked the beginning of the end of my sister-in-law's journey--and then remembered my dear niece, who weathered a year of mourning and emerged on the other side with a great new job, and an even better loving relationship. And my brother, who has also again found comfort and companionship. As if to get the point across, one particular line of Shaharit caught my eye this morning:
"Tears may linger for a night, but joy comes with the dawn." (Psalm 30:6)
After services we studied a text about our partnership with God. Do we ask for God's help this day without justifying our worthiness? Is God, as our partner, expected to give us that help even if we don't hold up our end of the bargain? I don't know the answer, but take comfort in the fact that the cycle of tears and laughter will always continue despite our mistakes, and God's as well.
Saturday, August 09, 2008
717. Ayekah
At Shabbat services the rabbi noted that "Eikha," alas, woe is me, can also be read, with different vowels, as "Ayekah"--where are you? We accept God's rebuke, but God will only hear that question if we shift our emphasis a bit.
Here's a great post about this holiday and the most recent reason we as Jews must ask for God's patience and forgiveness:
What Tisha B’Av Can Teach Us About AgriProcessors
And two others that try to explain the difficult verse I'm about to chant and still don't undertand:
To Prey or to Pray? The Lessons of Famine on Tisha B’Av
Why Will You Cry?
Wishing us all a day of hearing God, being honest with ourselves, looking out for each others' welfare, and striving to learn from our mistakes.
Here's a great post about this holiday and the most recent reason we as Jews must ask for God's patience and forgiveness:
What Tisha B’Av Can Teach Us About AgriProcessors
And two others that try to explain the difficult verse I'm about to chant and still don't undertand:
To Prey or to Pray? The Lessons of Famine on Tisha B’Av
Why Will You Cry?
Wishing us all a day of hearing God, being honest with ourselves, looking out for each others' welfare, and striving to learn from our mistakes.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
716. Brahms
A few weeks ago I got a sudden urge to listen to a Brahms motet I had sung about a thousand times before, first in my college chorus and then in a chamber choir. I've given a great deal of thought to the question of what one piece of music I'd bring to a desert island, and this is it. (Sorry, Bach, Carlebach, and The Beatles. I still love you.) In just about six minutes, Schaffe in mir (here's a nice performance by a college choir from the Philippines) conveys just about every single human emotion: contentment, anticipation, discovery, despair, doubt, excitement, ecstasy. I also love Brahms because Brahms loved me--well, not personally, but he clearly luxuriated in female voices, particularly altos. He knew how to write melodies for us, substantial, womanly lines rather than our all-too-frequent "sing an A for as long as you can to support those beautiful sopranos, and then switch to C on the last chord, you lucky people." That is, when we're not holding up entire middle with complex harmonies no one hears because the basses are too loud. I never tire of singing Brahms, even with all the fast and crunchy German. (A language I took up in my senior year of college mainly because I wanted to do greater justice to this composer.)
But I couldn't find Schaffe in mir on any of my CDs or MP3s. I did, however, rediscover a recording of Liebeslieder Waltzes, my second-favorite Brahms piece, which is like a long, lusty, loudly whispered conversation between two lovers as they race hand in hand down cobble-stoned streets, knocking over all the other bustling townspeople in the process. (Here are two of them--the whole cycle is about a half hour long.) I miss being in a chorus where we can breathe together after laughing about nightingales, but listening was almost as satisfying. And hearing Liebeslieder Waltzes made me want to practice chanting, which also challenges me to string together words I only half understand with as much spirit and joy as a choir singing about rum and love. The language, culture, and delivery are very different, but we both dance--the peasant racing urgently from tavern to tavern looking for his lover, and me in place, with decorum, the yad grasping the words on the scroll and pushing my eyes from one to the next faster than my mouth can articulate.
But I couldn't find Schaffe in mir on any of my CDs or MP3s. I did, however, rediscover a recording of Liebeslieder Waltzes, my second-favorite Brahms piece, which is like a long, lusty, loudly whispered conversation between two lovers as they race hand in hand down cobble-stoned streets, knocking over all the other bustling townspeople in the process. (Here are two of them--the whole cycle is about a half hour long.) I miss being in a chorus where we can breathe together after laughing about nightingales, but listening was almost as satisfying. And hearing Liebeslieder Waltzes made me want to practice chanting, which also challenges me to string together words I only half understand with as much spirit and joy as a choir singing about rum and love. The language, culture, and delivery are very different, but we both dance--the peasant racing urgently from tavern to tavern looking for his lover, and me in place, with decorum, the yad grasping the words on the scroll and pushing my eyes from one to the next faster than my mouth can articulate.
Monday, August 04, 2008
715. Summer Torah
It's taken a few years, but I'm beginning to recognize the different personalities of all our Torot (my synagogue owns seven in regular use, and a few others suitable only for Simhat Torah dancing). I recently learned that we have a "summer Torah," the snowbird sefer of the bunch, spiritually in Florida for the rest of the year but eager to serve from July through Labor Day. It (she) could be mistaken for our newest Torah, both sharing cherry wood Atzei Hayyim, crisp, white parchment, and stately calligraphy. But the yad tracks in this scroll, like a network of laugh lines visible only when you look deeply into someone's eyes and are suddenly aware that they've been around the block a few times, but with great humor, are faint and numerous, like a spider web or safety net outlining the tops of letters. They were all over Parashat Mattot, proof that other nervous people had pressed down a little too hard for about a hundred years in order to stay focused and perhaps distract themselves from the scrutiny of the cantor sitting a few feet away.
I'm getting to know this Torah in fleeting moments separated by a week or two, like the story I heard many times about stolen kisses behind the synagogue between my aunt and uncle, right before he was about to stand at the bimah for his Bar Mitzvah and she was just 12 years old. They were together for about 70 years after that. That's how I sometimes feel in front of this big, friendly, summer Torah, knowing that a lifelong relationship is ahead of us.
I'm getting to know this Torah in fleeting moments separated by a week or two, like the story I heard many times about stolen kisses behind the synagogue between my aunt and uncle, right before he was about to stand at the bimah for his Bar Mitzvah and she was just 12 years old. They were together for about 70 years after that. That's how I sometimes feel in front of this big, friendly, summer Torah, knowing that a lifelong relationship is ahead of us.
Sunday, August 03, 2008
714. Subway
8/2/08
(I write this from just outside of Boston, where I'm sitting on a dear friend's porch enjoying the fact that I forgot to bring my phone charger and the wireless connection is intermittent. It was a long, long week and this is a short vacation, but a really wonderful one so far.)
Last Saturday morning I awoke in a panic, heart pounding, hands sweaty and cold. I don't remember all the details of the nightmare, but it involved standing at the bimah and chanting Torah--specifically, the Torah portion I was about to read in a few hours, which had been echoing in my brain all night long like wisps of white hair drifting off a dandelion. I went to sleep confident that I knew it well, numbers and all. Many, many numbers, repeated with different vowels. We were tight, the numbers and I.
But my subconscious disagreed, so I decided to heed its advice. For an hour I sang the aliyah over and over again from various tikkunim and in many configurations (sitting, standing, words on the page too small, words big and accusing, page half-folded and illegible, etc., just in case it started to rain in the middle of the Sanctuary while I was singing and the ink smudged). Then I remembered that I had to shower and get to services. I was running late by the time I left my house, so decided to take the subway.
The gasoline shortage has kept many New Yorkers in town for the summer, and I think most of those people decided to take my train last Saturday morning at 9:25. As I stood in a sandwich between a large, sweaty man and skinny woman with a pointy pocketbook, I reminded myself that it was also crowded at Sinai, what with 600,000 people (not to mention all those past and future souls) huddling together. So this could be construed as a fitting position for a holy day.
The subway went one station and then stopped, out of service. OK, I'm not all that dense, I get it now, God doesn't like my non-Shabbat-approved activity.
I took a cab instead. By this time I had forgotten my nerves, which perhaps was the Divine plan all along. I read flawlessly, taking to heart a reminder offered before I walked up to the bimah: you're among friends.
(I write this from just outside of Boston, where I'm sitting on a dear friend's porch enjoying the fact that I forgot to bring my phone charger and the wireless connection is intermittent. It was a long, long week and this is a short vacation, but a really wonderful one so far.)
Last Saturday morning I awoke in a panic, heart pounding, hands sweaty and cold. I don't remember all the details of the nightmare, but it involved standing at the bimah and chanting Torah--specifically, the Torah portion I was about to read in a few hours, which had been echoing in my brain all night long like wisps of white hair drifting off a dandelion. I went to sleep confident that I knew it well, numbers and all. Many, many numbers, repeated with different vowels. We were tight, the numbers and I.
But my subconscious disagreed, so I decided to heed its advice. For an hour I sang the aliyah over and over again from various tikkunim and in many configurations (sitting, standing, words on the page too small, words big and accusing, page half-folded and illegible, etc., just in case it started to rain in the middle of the Sanctuary while I was singing and the ink smudged). Then I remembered that I had to shower and get to services. I was running late by the time I left my house, so decided to take the subway.
The gasoline shortage has kept many New Yorkers in town for the summer, and I think most of those people decided to take my train last Saturday morning at 9:25. As I stood in a sandwich between a large, sweaty man and skinny woman with a pointy pocketbook, I reminded myself that it was also crowded at Sinai, what with 600,000 people (not to mention all those past and future souls) huddling together. So this could be construed as a fitting position for a holy day.
The subway went one station and then stopped, out of service. OK, I'm not all that dense, I get it now, God doesn't like my non-Shabbat-approved activity.
I took a cab instead. By this time I had forgotten my nerves, which perhaps was the Divine plan all along. I read flawlessly, taking to heart a reminder offered before I walked up to the bimah: you're among friends.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)