743. One word

I am still working, and have to get up at the crack of dawn, so only have time to post one word. But it's the only word that counts:

Vote!

(Those readers in the U.S., that is. The rest of you, pray that we all vote for the right person. Who is, I believe--more strongly than I have believed anything in a very long time--Barack Obama.)

742. Peace

I spent about six hours today trying to write my d'var Torah--I am a really, really slow writer, especially when I'm not sure what I'm trying to say--and then another two hours at a Peace Feast, a dinner and dialogue at a local church between Christians, Jews, Muslim, Sikhs, and Buddhists. Listening to everyone talk about how they achieve inner peace, and how those same techniques might work to help their families and our countries coexist, I realized that the most important thing to say, ever, was "I will listen." No matter how intelligent or insightful the other words may be, they count for nothing if they lack the spirit of acceptance and tolerance.

Afterwards I came home and didn't start learning my Torah portion, six verses of Lekh Lekha assigned on Friday (I'm guessing the Bar or Bat Mitzvah bit off a little more than he or she could chew). I finally decided to be less obsessive and accept the fact that I really can learn six verses just a few days before Shabbat.

741. Silence

It's November 1, so I'm going to take another stab at NabloPoMo--30 posts in 30 days. My head and body have taken a long time to stop spinning from the holidays, but I know that writing a few lines every day keeps me healthier than any other method of post-Simhat Torah crashing.

Meanwhile, I'm trying to write a d'var Torah for my synagogue newsletter in honor of my tenth year as a member. I've set a goal of one of these per year, and this installment (due Monday, and I've also promised to send it around to my writing class tomorrow, oy) is proving more difficult than others. I chose Lekh Lekha because it was the Shabbat when I first understood why I was Jewish and on this journey at at all. Like Avram, I had no idea where I was going--but knew I would end up somewhere good. I was intrigued, as well, when I realized the parasha fell this year during election week, occasion of another leap of faith.

For years I was ambivalent about voting; I believed my silence spoke louder as a statement (mostly in disagreement and disgust). But as I got older, I understood that there were different kinds of silence, and I was not really expressing what I intended. Silence can become a joining together of community, a calm, quiet act of connection, where the absence of words creates a powerful oasis of reason away from the noise of life. (Passive resistance, for example.) But silence can also represent the abdication of power and rights, a solitary, selfish drawing away from community. Eventually I saw that my choice to not vote fell into the latter category, and I was squandering the precious gift of living in a democracy.

So when I thought about Avram in Lekh Lekha, I was as annoyed with him as I had been with myself. How could he just go off to who knows where at God's command without a single word of protest? Didn't God give us the unique power over to speak, give names, make choices? Did God really expect Avram, a smart, articulate, opinionated man who challenged his father's idol-worshipping ways, to disavow that power--and wasn't Avram smart enough to question such a senseless order? But this was a story of blind, unquestioning faith. During the years I viewed voting as a duty, a rule I had to obey, I felt chained and silenced by the obligation, and rebelled by doing the opposite. In both this story and the Akedah, I wondered why Abram didn't balk as well in response to God's order.

Turing this question over and over these past few weeks, I've come to believe that Avram's obedience was the other kind of silence, that of trust and partnership. Being chosen by God was a mutual decision and reciprocal relationship. He was drawn to obey for the same reason I decided to keep coming to services week after week after hearing my rabbis speak aboutLekh Lekha—translated literally: go, go to yourself—that Shabbat morning ten years ago. He knew that to do otherwise would be to squander the gift of a partner and teacher, and deny the possibility of unimagined kinds of growth.

We take the same leap when we vote, and express our gratitude at the gift of democracy. Out of the silence of obedience comes action, like Avram as he set forth on that new road. We learn how to make choices and find our own voices, just as I have been discovering my own these past years.

Hopefully these musings make sense, and I'll figure out, very soon, how to write them up as a d'var Torah.

740. Still here

In case anyone is wondering: I truly have not disappeared. I'm still exhausted and trying to catch up with work after a month of three-day weeks, and also sneezing and coughing my head off with a miserable cold. (Not complaining, because it did have the decency to wait until after the holidays.) I'm also trying to write a d'var Torah, and have just started a writing class. More about that when I come up for air. Which will be soon!

739. Once again

Last year at this time I created heaven and earth; now I'm about to destroy paradise. OK, I'm just the messenger--still, I can't help but note that Torah holds a mirror to the world. (Praying that this particular reflection omits the upcoming elections.) We're about to start the second year of the triennial cycle of readings, the middle of each parasha, so Bereshit will skip the fun parts and go right to the snake and apple (my reading next Shabbat). It's another really long section for me, over a column, and I'm also reading a column's worth this Shemini Atzeret. I seem to have passed some kind of learning speed bump; preparing this amount is nowhere nearly as arduous as it used to be. Since Bereshit doesn't list kosher birds or skin diseases, most of the words are familiar (except for some tongue-twisters like "I will greatly increase your anguish and your pregnancy,"El-ha'ishah amar harbah arbeh yitsbonech veheronech" [3:16]), and I can predict almost all the trop patterns. I still practice everything a million times, and don't trust my memory even when I know it backwards, but I continue to get a little bit calmer.

Before the universe springs into existence, however, we try to hold the gates open just an inch wider tomorrow morning at Hoshanah Rabbah. I look forward to beating those lulavim to a pulp and then downing some etrog schnapps as we survey the damage, an interesting tradition at my synagogue.

738. Rosh Hashanah 5769, part 2

(Continued from here.)

On the second morning of Rosh Hashanah I was at the church, in imposing company--the rabbi with the beautiful voice, who pretty much saved my life (or at least my sanity) the year I had laryngitis, and the cantor, who was leading Musaf. Even though they are the two nicest, kindest, and gentlest people on the planet, their presence made me a little nervous. (I guess I haven't entirely gotten over myself.) This was the first time since the Annus Horribilis (to paraphrase Queen Elizabeth) that I helped lead in this particular combination. I could see the cantor, who sat in the congregation while I sang, every time I looked up from the mahzor. (He was at the Very Big Fancy Theater the day before, as well, but safely beyond my field of vision.) Not that I expected to see any expression of horror on his face, but it was relief when I did not. All went well, although I was very tired from the day before, and imagined I overcompensated by singing HaMelekh with too much drama, which left me less energy for everything else, causing some prayers to fizzle out like used balloons instead of soaring as they should. But I think this is all in my head. I struggled to give all of myself, but also found and grabbed on tightly to the wave of energy in the room, the magic floating laser beam of strength coming from those with whom I prayed, and sounded just fine.

I see now why I couldn't write the account of these Yamin Nora'im in chronological order, as I have over the past few years. I could think about the beginning, and the feeling of coming home, only after examining the end, and how I knew I was in the right place as I sang. The line from Handel's Messiah (and Malachi 3) comes to mind: "For he is like a refiner's fire." Maybe God burned out the dross, all the noise of preparation and nerves that got in the way, and left me with fewer obstacles in the way of understanding this experience. I don't yet, but perhaps the door is open.

I didn't do enough work before these holy days. I felt spiritually underprepared, my list of where I missed the mark long and uncategorized. I was overwhelmed, and didn't know where to begin to pray. But Yom Kippur emptied me just the same--I do now feel new and cleansed--although frayed edges remain, as always. I've forgiven myself for not being ready. I'll do better next year, or maybe just fail in different places. A little atoning goes a long way, I think, and at least I know my song reached somewhere new.

The buildup to the Yamim Nora'im is great, and the aftermath abrupt--the week always seems like a fleeting shadow, as in the Unetane Tokef. I wish I could better understand the journey as it happens, see through that shade, but what's really important happens on the other side. Now that I struggle so much less to let the music speak words I cannot, I'm slowly learning that singing is the same--a means and not the end, a path but not the destination.

737. Rosh Hashanah 5769, part 1

Back to Rosh Hashanah: This year it felt like the seder where (somewhat to your surprise) all the relatives get along perfectly, no one drops a dish, and the room is full of love and great food. Whatever happened last year during Minha managed to stick--I could hit those high notes without a struggle, and breath and phrasing came easily. I'm sure the revelation was in my head and not my lungs: I finally got over myself, at least for now. The experience seemed not nearly as complex as I've made it to be these past four years.

I began to warm up at 6:30AM assuming, as is usually the case, that I would sound like a frog at such as early hour. But perhaps I really sang in my sleep, rather than just dreaming I did--after a half hour I was able to make sounds fit for public consumption. On the first morning I was at the Very Big, Fancy Theater, a three-mile walk. Last year it seemed like an endless trek; now I was able enjoy a leisurely stroll, and watch with sympathetic and gleeful detachment as the city woke up and stressed out. Once again I arrived way too early, but the place was already bustling; the musicians had a sound check at 8AM. So I sat in the Green Room for awhile, feeling useless but calm as everyone ran around, and then moved to the dressing room and watched on a stage monitor as the rabbi and cantor, with gymnastic flair, re-rolled a Torah scroll. (Which seemed Just Wrong, even to my highly gadgeted self; sifrei Torah should be witnessed in person.)

And then we walked onto the stage to begin Shaharit, and as the sound technician in the back turned dials and knobs I could hear a version of my voice change slowly until it matched loud and clear to what was in my head. I felt like I was exactly where I should be. My job this time around seemed to be about digging deeper into words and sounds I knew so well in order to transmit new discoveries as I found them. I have no idea if I did, but I knew my voice was full of conviction and questions.

(To be continued.)

736. Sukkot 5769

Hag Sameach! Every year I get a little closer to understanding Sukkot, truly feeling it in my bones. Maybe the holiday would be more meaningful if I lived where I could spend a week sleeping in the elements and raw air, or eating food from the new harvest... but today I looked up at the schach on the roof of my synagogue's sukkah (which is in the alleyway behind a church) and, instead of stars, saw the newly-washed clothing of guests at the homeless shelter hanging from a line. Although a city may not be the right setting for this holiday, that was a perfect symbol of a fragile, temporary home, and a reminder to be happy right where I am. And I was, singing Hallel, lingering over lunch with friends, enjoying the rare luxury of an away message on my email that I was closed for business. The breast-beating of Yom Kippur was particularly painful this year (one friend told me she put off praying for herself and instead plead for the entire country); Sukkot, in contrast, was a big joyful breath.

The rabbi offered a teaching at services yesterday morning: The numerical value of the letters in the word "lulav" is the same as in "chai" (life). So, suggests the Sfat Emet, the life for which we pray on Yom Kippur is now ours to shake up just like a lulav. I hope this coming year will shake me in a good way, not to loosen the foundation but a tilt just big enough to let me see from a different perspective.

735. Right before Yom Kippur, 5769

Yom Kippur rehearsal

I emerged blinking in the bright sunlight from the dark Sanctuary last Sunday afternoon after my rehearsal and wandered smack into a street fair. ("Yom Kippur rehearsal?" wondered a friend. "Do you practice fasting, as well?" No, but judging by the amount of Chinese food I had for dinner that evening, one might think so.) High Holy Day week is also street fair season on the Upper West Side, always delightful and sometimes bordering on mystical. Once again I wove in and out of knots of people eating arepas and chimichangas; inspecting discount Chinese rugs and Indian handbags and African earrings; stopping to hear a Cuban mariachi band or try on a sweater; and I wanted to hug them all, a ridiculous wave of love for every single person, dog and roasted-corncob-dripping-with-butter-on-a-stick in my city. Maybe it was because I knew I wasn't the only sinner on Broadway, as we all joined in gluttony and coveting just as the Vidui advises we should not.

Or maybe it was because the rehearsal ran late, so I had no choice but wait for the cantor himself to rehearse Kol Nidre while I tried to look nonchalant. The rest of the Upper West Side was running around scrounging for bargains, thinking they were the lucky ones--but only I got to listen to the closest sound to the voice of God, over and over again. (I got to hear him on Rosh Hashanah, as well, which usually doesn't happen with all the hazzanim moving from service location to location--and he heard me, too, a bit nerve-wracking. Both mornings felt a little like a master class with the entire Jewish people observing from the the upper rows. But I seem to have passed, for now.)

A few days later I came back home from the Kol Nidre service still drowning in sounds of boundless strength embraced by compassion, and got right into bed because I had to be awake at 6:30 the next morning--but the year's worth of transgressions wouldn't stop bouncing around in my brain. The best way I could think to relax was with a little puzzle game on my iPhone, which I knew wasn't exactly kosher. It felt OK, though--more like meditation, repetitive, numbing and ultimately healing if it managed to keep me calm. Not that I have any idea what God wants, but I figured my good night's sleep was on His list, and so He wouldn't mind if I pushed all the little pieces together in rows while trying to refrain from conscious thought.

I'd been playing this game rather addictively for a few weeks. My highest score was 300,000 points, a number attained after lengthy rumination about strategy and tilting technique. But I decided to ignore all that, since I wanted to keep the day holy in spirit if not letter. My game would become one big digital "om": tilt, click, ping, tilt, click, ping as my brain emptied, readying itself for better things to come.

The little bomb exploded; the game was over. I looked at my score: 976,852, three times higher than my former greatest achievement. Cool. Maybe God really was OK with this particular sin and (were I a believer in that sort of communication) was trying to tell me that the year would start out just fine.

----

The rest of Rosh Hashanah to follow after Sukkot. (So soon? But I was just wallowing in endless guilt--now I get to be happy and celebrate the harvest? Amazing.) Wish everyone a sweet and bountiful holiday.

734. Yom Kippur afternoon 5769

This year my running account of the (amazing, intense, transformative) yamim nora'im will go backwards, because the last parts won't stop replaying in my mind's eye.

-------

Yom Kippur afternoon

The day has changed abruptly from partly cloudy to sunny, warm as a July afternoon, and I try to stay in the the shade as I trek, exhausted, back up Broadway so I can lie down before Minha. My friend C., who didn't lead services and so has an ounce or two more energy, runs ahead. She keeps turning back to find me, like my cats in the morning as I'm en route to the kitchen--you can do it! You have to, we need you.

My apartment is cool and quiet, and I lay in bed for a few minutes thinking of how I will soon be just a few inches away from the Torot when I turn to the Ark and proclaim that Aaron carried them in battle. Imagining I'm singing to the scrolls always feels a little idolatrous; singing at them, rude. Maybe a better metaphor is with them, joining their silent words with my louder ones so the letters can jump into my notes. I force myself awake after a few minutes and rehearse the beginning phrases, splash some water on my face (technically not allowed, but I have to--maybe next year my flesh and sweat glands will be as strong as my spirit), and then C. and I walk a slow, blissfully downhill mile back to services.

I'm at the synagogue itself for the end of the Yom Kippur, the first time ever. I've always been at the church or various theaters at the critical tekiyah gadol moment, never less than glorious and with an abundance of friends and community. But the synagogue is smaller and crowded, and filled with more of my laughter and tears. I hear those echoes from the minute I walk in and try to sneak into the Secret Rabbi Room without bumping into people I know, but they see me anyway and give me big smiles. I'm home. On the other side of the door the rabbi sinks into the couch, as if gathering together his remaining bits of strength like the corners of a tallit in anticipation of a last burst to come. The musicians, who have scarcely stopped making music for a minute since sunrise, enter one by one with instruments, oud, guitar, cello, strapped to their backs and arms like outsized tefillin, radiant and looking like they haven't yet expended a calorie. I am exhausted but not depleted, and not at all hungry. (This is the easiest fast I've ever had, despite the logistical error of a salty turkey sandwich the evening before.) I feel empty as a tall glass drained in one gulp, having hours ago run out of words to beg and promise, but I think God understands my songs just the same. I am no less terrified of the answers than in past years, but it's OK--I'm standing in the right place to ask the questions. This is the first Yom Kippur that I've really believed it's no mistake I'm at the bima, and I hear that certainty in my voice. At every Amidah I pray to face the rest of life with the same kind of sound.

This bima is smaller than at the church or theater, and we stand shoulder to shoulder in front of the Ark as it opens. The curtain is stuck--we hold our breath--and then I hear the cue and begin to sing. It's like a slap in the face--wake up, the morning never really ended--time is short, but it's ours to use. Hear me, I plead, feeling the warmth of a thousand people in my family who fill every inch of the Sanctuary, each crevice of golden and dark red ornaments on the wall, and every space in my heart. I want to use myself up so there's nothing left at the end except the breath of those sounds. I am ecstatic and also terrified of what's to come, all I can't know. I keep feeling my heart race, but it slows down when I start to sing. Whatever God has in store will be fine as long as I can remember the echoes in this room.

733. My cousin, part 2

(Continued from here.)

One hot August afternoon, I checked my answering machine.

“Hello?” said an unfamiliar, twangy voice. “This is the Family Research Bureau in Utah, regarding your cousin, Jerome. Please call back at your earliest convenience.” He left a phone number. Then a dial tone.

I stared at the phone. Shaking, I dialed. Jerry, it seemed, had died a year ago in San Francisco and the small amount of his veteran’s benefits, which had ended up at a company that specialized in tracking down relatives of lonely people who were outlived by their bank balances, had found their way to me.

I looked out the window at the crowds going to lunch and was sad, which startled me. Jerry had long ago faded to a wisp of a thought in my awareness, the tallit bag hidden and buried beneath winter sweaters. Most of my family, these days, existed only as images with bent corners in photo albums and there, or among the anonymous people walking down the street, I had always imagined Jerry would remain.

****

It was a month later, the second day of Rosh Hashanah. For most of my adult life I had been Jewish in name only, not caring much for a God that left me with hundreds of dollars a year in burial plot maintenance bills. But at the urging of a friend who thought it would be a good way to meet guys, I’d recently joined a synagogue, one rich in music, joy and community. At first I was wary; I had forgotten how to be part of something larger. Gradually I came to love it, and trust in its permanence, and watched my life grow less tentative and more intertwined with others as a result. As I walked to holiday services that morning, I thought of my first connections, my family and the stories from so long ago, and remembered the questions I still had about Jerry. What day did he die? I wondered. I had never asked.

But a few days later, before I could call Utah for the answer, I received an envelope of legal documents. Jerry had been homeless, I read. According to a court report, “He has not likely bathed in years. The social worker stated: ‘He is bright (although very irrational) and has social graces….’ We have not included details about the condition in which his body was found, as it is very graphic.” My tears stained the photocopies as I recognized the kind, lost boy from the back of my mind. He died in his room the previous September, on the second day of Rosh Hashanah—the same day, exactly one year later, that I would wonder when to say Yizkor for Jerry and remember his life in prayer along with the rest of our family.

It took me one more year, until the second day of the next Rosh Hashanah, to take Jerry’s tallit from the small velvet bag and wrap it around myself for the first time, and so join with my community in yet another way. It was an unfamiliar sensation, a nice one, and reminded me how he would gingerly hug me goodbye, the embrace of a feather blown about however the world decreed. The Jewish tradition is to be buried in one’s tallit but now, instead, I would rest his memory on my shoulders every time I wore it. And the others, my aunts and uncles, my mother and father, like the fringes bundled together and tied tightly at its corners, would never be far away.

732. My cousin, part 1

No, I'm not sitting here blogging on Rosh Hashana, but set two posts to appear automatically today and tomorrow. Tomorrow is the yahrzeit of my cousin Jerry, and here's a short essay I wrote about him a few years ago. It seemed a fitting day to share his memory, may it be a blessing, with the wider universe.

-----

Jerry

On Sundays we’d pile into the’67 Chevy and head to one of my uncles’ interchangeable apartments—musty furniture, plastic slipcovers, tassled lamps. I was the only niece, and all my aunts and uncles were much older. Everyone complained about sciatica and arthritis, and I had no one to talk to except my cousin Jerry, who was sweet but said little. When I was 9, he had just come back from a year of fighting in Vietnam. He’d sit on the other side of the room in a heavy chair and smile shyly; sometimes we’d play gin rummy. I imagined that his silence accompanied wise thoughts, as he absorbed without complaint all the shrill laughter and babka-filled kisses that swirled around us. There were always whispers, rumblings: Jerry was Not Right. “It’s the war,” said my mother. “Who the hell knows what went on over there?”

One Sunday we were late. My father paced in front of our apartment door as I was getting zipped and swathed into layers of clothing, as if Brooklyn were the North Pole. The phone rang. My mother ran over and picked up the receiver, and after a moment I saw her body seem to get smaller, her eyes wider.

“What do you mean?” she yelled into the receiver. “How could someone just disappear?” She leaned into the doorway, and I thought she might fall.

“Are we going or not?” my father demanded. “Jerry’s missing,” she answered, in almost a whisper.

****

My mother and Jerry’s father tried to find him, keeping a few private investigators gainfully employed. They determined he was in San Francisco; beyond that, no clue. Thirty years passed, and I paid the price of having old relatives: my aunts and uncles died, and then my parents. Jerry’s few belongings, including a small, blue velvet bag emblazoned with a frayed, gold Star of David, ended up in a corner of my bottom drawer. Inside were the accoutrements of male Jewish adulthood: a prayer book and a tallit, a prayer shawl, “Pure Silk” embroidered white on white. Except for the picture in my mind of soft eyes and dark hair where everyone else’s was gray, nothing else remained of my cousin.

(Continued here.)

731. Song

I walked in a few minutes late to Shabbat morning services this past week. I flipped through the siddur to find the page, and my eyes landed on these lines:

A Song for Shabbat
It is good to acclaim the Lord,
to sing Your praise, exalted God.

to proclaim Your love each morning,
to tell of Your faithfulness each night,

to the music of the lute and the melody of the harp.
--Psalm 92

and I realized I didn't need any other words. All I had to say was there: Thank you. Please hear me. Accept my music. Later on, during the Shema, I sat in silence and tried to imagine myself with eyes closed in the company of a few hundred people at any other public space in New York City. Only in a Sanctuary full of open hearts would I do such a daring thing, and trust that my song and sighs would keep me safe while I listened for whatever God wanted me to hear.

I pray this Rosh Hashanah that only good sounds come our way, and that each of us can add to the joyful noise. (A great place to start: this wonderful music of the Jews of Uganda; scroll to the bottom of the page to hear some samples from the album.)

Shanah Tovah!

730. Arc

I got back a few hours ago from my second of two High Holy Day rehearsals.

It felt very different than before. The music is in my breath and bones; I always knew it well, but the little crevices are now filled. Singing Shaharit this afternoon was like a deep friendship where you finish the other person's sentences and roll your eyes at their flaws, but always stick around with love and laughter. I was almost there last year, but we were still too polite. Now, the fifth time around, I can relax and wait for the other--the congregation, musicians, the very sound in the room--to give an expected answer, rather than be surprised by the response.

My concentration also seems to have deepened, for better or worse, and a few times this afternoon I had little sense of where I was, or even why. (I walked out of the Sanctuary thinking I had to get ready for Shabbat, and then remembered it was Sunday. Maybe I'm just tired, or starting to lose my mind.) But at the same time I was also more in control, completely aware of the flow and energy required and able to modulate it as needed.

At least I think I can do these things--once it happens for real, all bets are off. I didn't expect this feeling of reaching a new, unexplored level, and can only imagine the twists and turns ahead. It reminds me of being on a swing, my favorite activity as a kid, when I would hold on with all my strength and go as high as possible, always in control yet never so. I'd tilt my head back at the very top of the arc and see the world upside-down--still the same old sky, but also new and different.

Today also tilted in a better direction since this morning's post: my friend and I made up; my other friend's aunt will be OK; I stopped procrastinating and sat down to write; no cold at the moment, knock wood; and I'm set for Tuesday dinner, thanks to a roving farmer's market that practically slapped me in the face at my doorstep. Worried about food? said God. Relax, I'll bring it here. I now have an amazing apple pie from a Southern-style bakery in Harlem, and perfect kosher pickles from the Lower East Side, so that my friends and I can welcome in a wonderfully sweet (and sour) new year.

729. Danger!

And now for something completely different, since a good night's sleep puts the holiday in a new, cheerier light. Before I begin the day's 47 million tasks, including two day's worth of work, a rehearsal, recording a student's Torah portion, learning one of my own, laundry, and shopping and cooking, I offer the following:

Caloric overload is not the only physical danger of this holiday. During services this past Shabbat, I thought of a few others:

8. Tallit-fringe strangling. With great humility, I must take credit for saving someone's life last week (or, at least, the integrity of the fabric of her blouse) after she kissed the end of the traveling Torah scroll with the edge of her tallit as it made its way around the Sanctuary--and her fringes got caught on the breastplate. The procession kept moving as my pew-mate scrambled to avoid being dragged down the aisle with the entire bar mitzvah family. I quickly reached over to achieve detanglement. "I guess I was trying to become attached to the Torah," she observed afterwards.

7. Accidental extinguishing of the ner tamid, the perpetual light. It happened a few years ago on Yom Kippur, and we seem to have escaped any immediate, dire repercussions--but in the bigger picture, who really knows.

6. Hagbah (the lifting of the Torah scroll during services) catastrophe. Traditionally, or maybe it's custom or heresay, I'm not sure, all present are supposed to fast for 40 days if a scroll is dropped. This is even worse if the dropping happens on Yom Kippur, when we're already very hungry. A few years ago, during the High Holy Days I Would Like to Blot Out Because I Had Laryngitis, the cantor--who also had laryngitis--was standing on the side with his baby daughter sound asleep on his shoulder just as the the Torah lifter began to sway precariously. The cantor literally leaped up to the bimah and caught both man and scroll in one balletic fell swoop, the baby never blinking an eye. An awe-inspiring moment that aged me about ten years.

5. Tripping on the bimah on the way up to an aliyah. Not funny. On the first day of Rosh Hashanah a few years ago, an elderly man fell and lost consciousness as he tried to climb the two small steps. (Now there are big strips of white tape outlining those steps.)

4. Death during prayer. Much worse than tripping, also not funny. This happened at a synagogue I attended ages ago, causing its moribund status to ascend to the next level.

3. "Please rise vertigo" from all that standing and sitting. Who needs the gym?

2. My synagogue has a balcony. The balcony has a railing. People in the first row of the balcony rest their prayer books on the railing. People in the first row also occasionally stretch, get up to put their coats on, etc. In tenth grade I think I learned the mathematical formula for determining the velocity of a falling object. By the time the book reaches the ground, or someone's head, it will probably have the force of a large locomotive. Please save the life of a ground-floor congregant this year and stash your mahzor on the seat. Thank you.

and finally:

1. Laryngitis. Let's not go there again. But it will forever remain, for me, as the deadliest of High Holy Day hazards.

Wishing everyone a panic-free day of holiday preparations.