A little out of sequence, sorry, but I wanted to finish last year's story, continued from here:
Gallons of water and the threat of noxious potions did the trick, and I still had a voice when Yom Kippur arrived. The evil bug hadn't left me unscathed, however. In its wake remained a throat that felt like brittle parchment no matter how much liquid I poured down it. But I could sing just fine, and only coughed--violently and endlessly--on occasion.
The service went well, and the Louds even held their tongue. Then we got to Besefer Hayim, almost at the finish line, right before the changing of the guard (someone different would lead for Musaf). I began to sing and suddenly couldn't catch my breath, as if my vocal cords were feathers attempting to rub together fast enough to start a fire. I put down the mic, walked over to the edge of the bima, and faced left as far as possible without actually turning my back to the entire congregation, and pretty much coughed my lungs out for about a minute. The rabbi and everyone else kept singing, and I think only the people in the first row noticed anything was amiss. I recovered my composure just in time for Kaddish Shalem, grateful that the fit didn't happen during Hamelekh or another less participatory part of the service.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
946. High Holy Days 5771, part 1
It was magnificent. This has been the most relaxed holiday by far in the seven years I've been helping to lead. I had just one rehearsal on Tuesday--Rosh Hashanah began on Wednesday--basically a reunion with old friends. (Although the run-through was invaluable, since the same questions popped up this year as always: how many lines of intro before Psalm 150? will you play "A" or "B" to start off L'el orekh din? and a few others.) But my alter ego Ms. Paranoia (when will they send that email with the assignments? did I delete it by mistake? did they change their minds? what did I do wrong? and other nonsensical thoughts) disappeared the minute I opened my mouth.
I was at the Theater With the Zipper for Day 1, much less cave-like than I remembered. Even though years had passed since I'd last been inside, the big, concrete space was comfortable and familiar, and oddly intimate. The zipper itself advertised an upcoming movie, which seemed OK since it was, after all, a festive holiday. My only surprise was being asked to gabbai, not stressful since the Torah readers were among the congregation's most perfect and experienced. Maybe one day the rabbis will remember that I don't actually know High Holy Day trop. (Or maybe one day I'll learn it.)
Day 2 was at the synagogue, which felt like I won the lottery. (I did, sort of; hazzanim are assigned locations on an eminently fair rotating basis, and I guess it was my turn.) It was comforting and exhilarating to pray at home in the glow of walls alive with vines and jewels of deep red and gold, and the breath of hundreds of friends close by rather than a few feet below (the one drawback of being on a theater stage).
Life would be boring without a few challenges, however. Before we walked out front, the rabbi asked me to remind him where the service began.
"Page 58," I answered. Hareni mikabelet, as always: love your neighbor as yourself. Now, sometimes we don't start here; there's often improvising and extra niggunim on Shabbat. But we always follow the script on the Yamim Nora'im, because the instrumentalists have music in front of them and there's no way they can keep up if we skip around.
Since the rabbi did ask me to confirm page 58, and we had begun with page 58 for the past six years, I felt pretty confident that I could start singing on page 58. I took a deep breath. And then the rabbi reached over to my mahzor and turned the page.
"Here," he whispered, pointing to the Birkat Hashahar, the morning blessings. The musicians, who are all geniuses with ESP, saw what was going on and turned their pages as well, and began to play. My early-morning brain was still expecting to follow the script, however; I was very flustered. But I recovered and found my place after a second or two, since page 60 is my favorite melody of them all, and the rabbi would alternate verses with me. That would give me a few moments to compose myself.
Except he did not come in at verse 2, or even 4 or 6. I paused before each "Amen," not wanting to step on his toes or show inadvertent disrespect if, in fact, he chose to sing. But he was clearly deep in concentration and happy to let me do my thing. Almost at the end, I realized that I could have been having a lot more fun had I worried less about following rules and more about breathing and praying. Fortunately there were still a few verses left.
The blessing before the Shema took us on another brief adventure to the wilds of keys as yet unexplored. Then the rabbi prompted me to sing the hatima, the last line, in High Holy Day nusah as always. The good angel on my right shoulder hummed the correct note. The other little guy on the left disagreed: sing higher, it's more fun! I succumbed to temptation, and for a split second forget that it wasn't an a cappella service. And then I took note of the strange, new tonal world where I landed, and got very disoriented. (I also remembered that the cantor, who would be leading Musaf, was sitting a few feet away. I knew he knew exactly what was going on.) I stumbled on a few words but made it safely to the end when, gratefully, we all covered our eyes as the rabbi chanted. I asked God to have the keyboard player come in for the next hatima and, sure enough, my prayers were answered.
The rest of the service proceeded without a hitch. This rabbi, unlike the others, chooses to face the Ark for the entire repetition of the Amidah, not just the Kedusha section. There are few other more comforting sensations in life than the crush of a roomful of souls at your back, holding you up as you sing.
I was at the Theater With the Zipper for Day 1, much less cave-like than I remembered. Even though years had passed since I'd last been inside, the big, concrete space was comfortable and familiar, and oddly intimate. The zipper itself advertised an upcoming movie, which seemed OK since it was, after all, a festive holiday. My only surprise was being asked to gabbai, not stressful since the Torah readers were among the congregation's most perfect and experienced. Maybe one day the rabbis will remember that I don't actually know High Holy Day trop. (Or maybe one day I'll learn it.)
Day 2 was at the synagogue, which felt like I won the lottery. (I did, sort of; hazzanim are assigned locations on an eminently fair rotating basis, and I guess it was my turn.) It was comforting and exhilarating to pray at home in the glow of walls alive with vines and jewels of deep red and gold, and the breath of hundreds of friends close by rather than a few feet below (the one drawback of being on a theater stage).
Life would be boring without a few challenges, however. Before we walked out front, the rabbi asked me to remind him where the service began.
"Page 58," I answered. Hareni mikabelet, as always: love your neighbor as yourself. Now, sometimes we don't start here; there's often improvising and extra niggunim on Shabbat. But we always follow the script on the Yamim Nora'im, because the instrumentalists have music in front of them and there's no way they can keep up if we skip around.
Since the rabbi did ask me to confirm page 58, and we had begun with page 58 for the past six years, I felt pretty confident that I could start singing on page 58. I took a deep breath. And then the rabbi reached over to my mahzor and turned the page.
"Here," he whispered, pointing to the Birkat Hashahar, the morning blessings. The musicians, who are all geniuses with ESP, saw what was going on and turned their pages as well, and began to play. My early-morning brain was still expecting to follow the script, however; I was very flustered. But I recovered and found my place after a second or two, since page 60 is my favorite melody of them all, and the rabbi would alternate verses with me. That would give me a few moments to compose myself.
Except he did not come in at verse 2, or even 4 or 6. I paused before each "Amen," not wanting to step on his toes or show inadvertent disrespect if, in fact, he chose to sing. But he was clearly deep in concentration and happy to let me do my thing. Almost at the end, I realized that I could have been having a lot more fun had I worried less about following rules and more about breathing and praying. Fortunately there were still a few verses left.
The blessing before the Shema took us on another brief adventure to the wilds of keys as yet unexplored. Then the rabbi prompted me to sing the hatima, the last line, in High Holy Day nusah as always. The good angel on my right shoulder hummed the correct note. The other little guy on the left disagreed: sing higher, it's more fun! I succumbed to temptation, and for a split second forget that it wasn't an a cappella service. And then I took note of the strange, new tonal world where I landed, and got very disoriented. (I also remembered that the cantor, who would be leading Musaf, was sitting a few feet away. I knew he knew exactly what was going on.) I stumbled on a few words but made it safely to the end when, gratefully, we all covered our eyes as the rabbi chanted. I asked God to have the keyboard player come in for the next hatima and, sure enough, my prayers were answered.
The rest of the service proceeded without a hitch. This rabbi, unlike the others, chooses to face the Ark for the entire repetition of the Amidah, not just the Kedusha section. There are few other more comforting sensations in life than the crush of a roomful of souls at your back, holding you up as you sing.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
945. Nine years
I generally wear sunglasses when it's very bright out, but only during the summer. September light doesn't bother my eyes as much--and I like being reminded that short days are still full of sun.
But I grabbed my sunglasses this morning, just in case. And as soon as I got outside and saw the perfect blue sky, not a single cloud, just a slight breeze and maybe you need a light sweater in the shade, I put on the glasses. They changed the sky to a warmer color, closer to July, as if the summer were just beginning, and allowed me to enjoy the walk to services and put off thinking about the pain of this day for a few more minutes.
Last year and the year before weren't so bad. Time seemed to be healing; we were sad, but also learning and growing. Moving on? I don't know--does that ever really happen after a death, or is it more a case of getting used to the tear in one's soul and figuring out how to move around it so the acid only splashes on the edges?
But today, this month, this year, is different. I've never before felt such fear and hatred in the air. Maybe our collective recovery was too fast, and we've relapsed back to those days right afterwards when we stayed awake to keep vigil until the next evil thing fell out of the sky. Or the pace of life has become so quick and unforgiving that the comfort of past flaws seems safer than any kind of change.
At services last night, the rabbi recalled a conversion with a bar mitzvah right after the attacks. What do you want most? he asked the boy. I want it to be September 10 again, he answered. So here it was 9/10 once more, right on the cusp of a new year full of hope and promise, and I thought back to that day before. I was lucky; my life didn't change dramatically in those 24 hours. I was as unemployed before 9/11 as after. (If anything, the sudden, grim economic situation gave me the push I needed to work for myself, which would otherwise have been way too scary.) I lost no loved ones, and had friends and a community to rely on. I am still basically the same person, just older and tireder and a little less trusting.
So I wonder, as we plunge into 5771, what it does take to change? If I--we--can so quickly resume our old lives after the murder of neighbors and threat of war in our own backyards, and then even forget that we were once the persecuted strangers ourselves, is there any hope that we'll ever learn peace? I think so. I want to believe there is. At an interfaith memorial service this morning, where my tears stained the same pews as on that evening nine years ago, the minister of the church whose space we share offered an apology. For years, he said, he listened as his friend the imam (who couldn't join us today because he had to stay at an "undisclosed location") apologized for things he didn't do, sins committed by others who shared his religion in name only. Now, said the minister, it was his turn to do the same, because real Christians do not hate. Then my rabbis led us in song and the Mourner's Kaddish, and I remembered that real Jews don't hate, either. Or real, ethical human beings, whatever they might think about God. This "new normal," the return to comfortable, familiar fear, is not normal at all, and it gave me hope to be in a sanctuary filled with others who knew this as well. I hope and pray that someone can figure out how to slap this entire country in our collective face and make us all understand.
But I grabbed my sunglasses this morning, just in case. And as soon as I got outside and saw the perfect blue sky, not a single cloud, just a slight breeze and maybe you need a light sweater in the shade, I put on the glasses. They changed the sky to a warmer color, closer to July, as if the summer were just beginning, and allowed me to enjoy the walk to services and put off thinking about the pain of this day for a few more minutes.
Last year and the year before weren't so bad. Time seemed to be healing; we were sad, but also learning and growing. Moving on? I don't know--does that ever really happen after a death, or is it more a case of getting used to the tear in one's soul and figuring out how to move around it so the acid only splashes on the edges?
But today, this month, this year, is different. I've never before felt such fear and hatred in the air. Maybe our collective recovery was too fast, and we've relapsed back to those days right afterwards when we stayed awake to keep vigil until the next evil thing fell out of the sky. Or the pace of life has become so quick and unforgiving that the comfort of past flaws seems safer than any kind of change.
At services last night, the rabbi recalled a conversion with a bar mitzvah right after the attacks. What do you want most? he asked the boy. I want it to be September 10 again, he answered. So here it was 9/10 once more, right on the cusp of a new year full of hope and promise, and I thought back to that day before. I was lucky; my life didn't change dramatically in those 24 hours. I was as unemployed before 9/11 as after. (If anything, the sudden, grim economic situation gave me the push I needed to work for myself, which would otherwise have been way too scary.) I lost no loved ones, and had friends and a community to rely on. I am still basically the same person, just older and tireder and a little less trusting.
So I wonder, as we plunge into 5771, what it does take to change? If I--we--can so quickly resume our old lives after the murder of neighbors and threat of war in our own backyards, and then even forget that we were once the persecuted strangers ourselves, is there any hope that we'll ever learn peace? I think so. I want to believe there is. At an interfaith memorial service this morning, where my tears stained the same pews as on that evening nine years ago, the minister of the church whose space we share offered an apology. For years, he said, he listened as his friend the imam (who couldn't join us today because he had to stay at an "undisclosed location") apologized for things he didn't do, sins committed by others who shared his religion in name only. Now, said the minister, it was his turn to do the same, because real Christians do not hate. Then my rabbis led us in song and the Mourner's Kaddish, and I remembered that real Jews don't hate, either. Or real, ethical human beings, whatever they might think about God. This "new normal," the return to comfortable, familiar fear, is not normal at all, and it gave me hope to be in a sanctuary filled with others who knew this as well. I hope and pray that someone can figure out how to slap this entire country in our collective face and make us all understand.
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
944. A new song
From the Reform movement's daily email "Taste of Torah" this past Labor Day:
"During these High Holy Days, we are surrounded by the teachings of Torah and the prayers of our services, and one hopes that we are open to hearing them as well as the voice within. Listening is an art; we all hear the same words of Torah but may hear them in very different ways. The way we hear or give ear or understand our encounters with God can never be fully described to anyone else, even as we strive to transform the mundane into the spiritual and achieve a sense of the sacred through the way we live our lives on earth."
--Rabbi Elliot L. Stevens is the rabbi at Temple Beth Or in Montgomery, Alabama.
Wishing everyone this Yamim Nora'im the gift of hearing something new, and the ability to use our own voices to bring those sounds to life. Shanah Tovah!
"During these High Holy Days, we are surrounded by the teachings of Torah and the prayers of our services, and one hopes that we are open to hearing them as well as the voice within. Listening is an art; we all hear the same words of Torah but may hear them in very different ways. The way we hear or give ear or understand our encounters with God can never be fully described to anyone else, even as we strive to transform the mundane into the spiritual and achieve a sense of the sacred through the way we live our lives on earth."
--Rabbi Elliot L. Stevens is the rabbi at Temple Beth Or in Montgomery, Alabama.
Wishing everyone this Yamim Nora'im the gift of hearing something new, and the ability to use our own voices to bring those sounds to life. Shanah Tovah!
943. Awe immersion preparation
(Trying to catch up on some pre-holiday posts before the holiday appears in a very short time.)
Selihot on Saturday night, the final stretch of awe immersion preparation. We studied and sang two piyutim, liturgical poems: Ahot Ketana, traditional for that day, to a Moroccan melody, and Leka Eli Teshukati, often sung prior to Kol Nidre, with a tune from the Jews of Greece. Gorgeous, flowing music set to texts about how desperately, almost agonizingly we yearn to connect to God. But the tunes are infused with joy, no pain at all.
I didn't grow up with music from that part of the world; it's not my tradition at all. If music were like food, then it wouldn't be entirely kosher for me to embrace these sounds. You can't decide to become Sephardic at Passover just to be able to eat kitniyot, for example. Born Ashkenaz, you're kind of honor-bound to stick to those customs. Thank goodness it doesn't work like that with music, because I am not the biggest fan of the sounds of my most closely relsted forebears. On Saturday night I watched the end of an excellent documentary about a well-known cantor whose passion in life is to spread the joy of hazzanut--excuse me, chazzanus--the traditional plaintive, operatic and melodramatic style of cantorial singing popular in Eastern Europe for a few centuries, and then in the US as Jews flooded these shores. It's still the sound most people associate with cantorial music, althoug few cantors sound like that anymore.
I am grateful to this musician and his colleagues for helping insure that this link to our past doesn't become a dying art. But I'm also very glad that fewer hazzanim, at least in liberal Jewish circles, sound like that. I don't like it at all. In fact, I hate it. There, I've said it, and pray that the combined force of my ancestors rolling over in their graves won't knock me over. As soon as I heard the first florid, kvetching glissando escspe this cantor's mouth, I was transported to the time in my life when Judaism was a spectator sport dominated by mumbling old men. (I like it even less when sung by a woman; there were a few examples of this in the film, as well.) I know others have fonder memories of this style of music, but to me it just sounds like people trying to be larger than life--which should be the domain of God alone. The cantor at my synagogue has the most glorious voice on earth, and probably heaven as well, but also a way of singing that is smaller than life--humble, full of awe, able to make quiet sounds that leave room for the rest of us to hear the still small voice. His hazzanut isn't about him, but us, one of the best gifts I've ever received.
Selihot on Saturday night, the final stretch of awe immersion preparation. We studied and sang two piyutim, liturgical poems: Ahot Ketana, traditional for that day, to a Moroccan melody, and Leka Eli Teshukati, often sung prior to Kol Nidre, with a tune from the Jews of Greece. Gorgeous, flowing music set to texts about how desperately, almost agonizingly we yearn to connect to God. But the tunes are infused with joy, no pain at all.
I didn't grow up with music from that part of the world; it's not my tradition at all. If music were like food, then it wouldn't be entirely kosher for me to embrace these sounds. You can't decide to become Sephardic at Passover just to be able to eat kitniyot, for example. Born Ashkenaz, you're kind of honor-bound to stick to those customs. Thank goodness it doesn't work like that with music, because I am not the biggest fan of the sounds of my most closely relsted forebears. On Saturday night I watched the end of an excellent documentary about a well-known cantor whose passion in life is to spread the joy of hazzanut--excuse me, chazzanus--the traditional plaintive, operatic and melodramatic style of cantorial singing popular in Eastern Europe for a few centuries, and then in the US as Jews flooded these shores. It's still the sound most people associate with cantorial music, althoug few cantors sound like that anymore.
I am grateful to this musician and his colleagues for helping insure that this link to our past doesn't become a dying art. But I'm also very glad that fewer hazzanim, at least in liberal Jewish circles, sound like that. I don't like it at all. In fact, I hate it. There, I've said it, and pray that the combined force of my ancestors rolling over in their graves won't knock me over. As soon as I heard the first florid, kvetching glissando escspe this cantor's mouth, I was transported to the time in my life when Judaism was a spectator sport dominated by mumbling old men. (I like it even less when sung by a woman; there were a few examples of this in the film, as well.) I know others have fonder memories of this style of music, but to me it just sounds like people trying to be larger than life--which should be the domain of God alone. The cantor at my synagogue has the most glorious voice on earth, and probably heaven as well, but also a way of singing that is smaller than life--humble, full of awe, able to make quiet sounds that leave room for the rest of us to hear the still small voice. His hazzanut isn't about him, but us, one of the best gifts I've ever received.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
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.
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*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.
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.
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*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.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
941. Jewels of Elul blog tour: “The Art of Beginning... Again”
We hope you’ll share the program now with your friends and followers to spread the word about Jewels of Elul. If you’d like to, you can also folllow Jewels on Twitter or join the Facebook group.
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Two weeks ago at services, the rabbi spoke about Parashat Shoftim:
Deuteronomy 20:5 Then the officials shall address the troops, as follows: "Is there anyone who has built a new house but has not dedicated it? Let him go back to his home, lest he die in battle and another dedicate it. 6 Is there anyone who has planted a vineyard but has never harvested it? Let him go back to his home, lest he die in battle and another harvest it. ..."
This section is particularly appropriate for this time of year, she observed, because it's about our goal for Elul: finishing so that we're ready to begin. Yes, we have the freedom to start anything at any time–but can we truly renew, release bonds, until those loose threads are tied?
Well, it would be lovely if life had the good graces to work according to the Jewish calendar, with resolution achieved like clockwork. But what if I can't make peace with those I've wronged by the end of Elul, or Yom Kippur, or even by Hoshana Rabbah, the day when those gates really, finally, close? Am I out of luck until next year? I don't know—but I don't think so. I love that in Judaism there's always another chance. Year after year we find new light in the darkness on Hanukkah, learn how to be free on Pesah, grow up as ethical beings on Shavuot; starting over doesn't happen just once, even though Elul gets all the press. Remembering that every day is an opportunity to reboot takes some of the pressure off for me at this time of year. But not all of it.
I've been thinking about this a lot lately because Elul for me, this year, is mostly about my role in the process of someone else's re-beginning. As readers of this blog know (all 5 or 6 of you, thank you immensely), a few months ago, incredibly, after 11 years in the National Marrow Donor Program registry I matched with a stranger to be a bone marrow donor. It was scheduled for July, but she had a setback and it was postponed indefinitely. My speechless awe tumbled quickly into anger—how dare God have the chuztpah to offer hope, and then yank it away? In truth, I had no idea of the extent of her illness, or how much hope there ever really was. All I knew was that I might be cheated out of the gift of being able to help.
And after grumbling for a few days, I realized I was more upset about losing my opportunity to do a cool, once-in-lifetime mitzvah than about the recipient's grave situation. I hated this encounter with my own selfishness and impatience, which I tried to explain as a reaction to God's random screwing around with the timetable. I felt completely powerless; it drove me crazy. This was Elul, the time to fix. I wanted to DO something. My Elul for the past 6 years had been about action—rehearse, sing, feel like a wrung-out sponge, and then like a new person. The Elul of waiting around was my old life, been there, done that years ago in Row Z of a moribund synagogue in Queens.
But then I thought about the waiting of my recipient. How could she possibly bear it? Did she try to reimagine time, creating new holidays, new beginnings and endings, in place of the real ones she might never again experience? Unable to take action and grab onto life, to complete any task at all, was she able to glimpse the future through love, laughter, the light of the sun coming through the trees?
I hope so, because this unknown woman (I named her Bracha—all I know about her is that she needs blessings, and everyone deserves the dignity of a name), this Bracha, by the simple fact of her existence and surprise of our connection, has taught me not to stress out over Elul. My beginning for this year happened in March, when I first learned I was a match. Maybe something was resolved in order to create that beginning, or not. It doesn't matter; what counts is that it changed me. I started exercising, to make sure I was in good shape for the donation. I plunged back into the world of dating after a long hiatus; I figured those odds must be better than the ones I just beat of matching to a stranger. Bracha reminded me that life must be grabbed onto, over and over again, to renew even when messy, loose threads of unfinished business stand in the way.
And life may end up fitting neatly into the calendar this year, after all. I recently learned that Bracha is now stable, and the donation has been rescheduled for the end of Sept. For the day of Hoshanna Rabbah, in fact—when the gates symbolically close, and we really, finally, do begin again.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
940. Random things falling off the wall
Elul sure did come in with a bang last week. But I haven't yet been successful with my plans to do the daily exercises in 60 Days, as I did last year. I'm trying, but have been temporarily defeated by an inability to concentrate (for good reasons). I haven't given up, since I know that Elul will not wait; I need to catch up. I got a reminder of this last night, in fact, just in case I happened to forget.
I was sitting at my desk, cranking on all my deadlines, when suddenly—the sky fell. Or so it seemed... a big, heavy piece of it whooshed past my right ear, knocked off my glasses, and landed at my feet. I was frozen for a few seconds, unable make sense of what happened. All I could think to do was get down on my hands and knees and reach around to find my glasses, since the world was now a big blur. I finally tracked them down on the other side of the room, completely bent out of shape.
Only then, crawling across the floor, did I begin to understand what happened. Over my desk, near the ceiling and about 7 feet up, is a big, ugly Con Ed meter camouflaged by an even bigger, heavier wooden box about 3 feet long by 1 foot deep. It's been wedged into the space between the door frame and the ceiling for a few decades, I'm guessing. The meter reader guys lift it up and then shove it back in place without fanfare each month in order to calculate the bill.
Last night, for the first time in its long and uneventful life, the box decided to fall off the wall and right on top of me. My glasses, thankfully, suffered the full force of velocity--had I been wearing my contact lenses instead, the broken and twisted parts might have been my teeth, skull, or eye.
I'm still shaken up, but fine physically—just a little bump on my right temple and scratch above my eye. (I'll know this afternoon if I need to say Kaddish for the glasses.) To say I feel lucky is the world's greatest understatement. But I also think that assault by a falling piece of wall is no different than any other trial, whether it be contracting an illness or losing a love. Or even much different than the good, random things—matching with a stranger to become a bone marrow donor, for example. There are no miracles or punishments; it's all life, one big soup of events that happen, or not. We can control only some of them but, to some degree, can control our reaction to all of them, and that's where I think Elul comes in. Once a year we join with our community to contemplate the spilled soup, and try to clean up the mess. And then we can start all over again with a clean table.
I was sitting at my desk, cranking on all my deadlines, when suddenly—the sky fell. Or so it seemed... a big, heavy piece of it whooshed past my right ear, knocked off my glasses, and landed at my feet. I was frozen for a few seconds, unable make sense of what happened. All I could think to do was get down on my hands and knees and reach around to find my glasses, since the world was now a big blur. I finally tracked them down on the other side of the room, completely bent out of shape.
Only then, crawling across the floor, did I begin to understand what happened. Over my desk, near the ceiling and about 7 feet up, is a big, ugly Con Ed meter camouflaged by an even bigger, heavier wooden box about 3 feet long by 1 foot deep. It's been wedged into the space between the door frame and the ceiling for a few decades, I'm guessing. The meter reader guys lift it up and then shove it back in place without fanfare each month in order to calculate the bill.
Last night, for the first time in its long and uneventful life, the box decided to fall off the wall and right on top of me. My glasses, thankfully, suffered the full force of velocity--had I been wearing my contact lenses instead, the broken and twisted parts might have been my teeth, skull, or eye.
I'm still shaken up, but fine physically—just a little bump on my right temple and scratch above my eye. (I'll know this afternoon if I need to say Kaddish for the glasses.) To say I feel lucky is the world's greatest understatement. But I also think that assault by a falling piece of wall is no different than any other trial, whether it be contracting an illness or losing a love. Or even much different than the good, random things—matching with a stranger to become a bone marrow donor, for example. There are no miracles or punishments; it's all life, one big soup of events that happen, or not. We can control only some of them but, to some degree, can control our reaction to all of them, and that's where I think Elul comes in. Once a year we join with our community to contemplate the spilled soup, and try to clean up the mess. And then we can start all over again with a clean table.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
939. Madness, definition of
Thought for the day, courtesy the fortune cookie I just got at Empire Szechuan:
"The universe without music would be madness."
Amen!
"The universe without music would be madness."
Amen!
Thursday, August 12, 2010
938. Agenda
Interrupting the current ongoing story for another ongoing story. A few days ago, exactly one month since I heard from the bone marrow donation people, I emailed for an update. I steeled myself for bad news; if the recipient was sick in July, what were the odds that she'd be strong enough to withstand the procedure just one month later? I prepared to mourn the end of this glimpse into how small the universe really is, and the life of a woman whose name I don't know, but who has become a profound influence. (What would that mourning feel like? I know the pain of losing parents, and even of the death of part of my past--a hole of grief one blindly, painfully escapes over time, if lucky. How much does it hurt to lose something you never really had in the first place?)
The shock of our connection reawakened me to the great luck of my life, and reminded me to discard complacency, a recent trap, and live instead with equal measures of patience and urgency. Thanks to Bracha bat Sarah, I began to pursue some long-dormant goals. I'm eating better, exercising, honoring the good fortune of a healthy body, and feeling more happily alive as a result. And I don't want that to end--I don't want to stop feeling hopeful, as being blindsided by bad news can do. So over the past few weeks I've tried to protect myself, practicing for pain by imagining the worst and then ignoring it entirely. The real answer made me giddy:
"Well, you must have some kind of intuition going on, because I just received an email that the patient may be ready to proceed."
It was the day before Rosh Hodesh Elul--what better moment to begin a journey of change and renewal? Yes, I'm still willing to donate, I answered when they asked (as they must before every stage; I can back out at any time, no questions asked. But if I turn back too late in the process, the patient will die.) Yes, any day is good -- well, actually not. I'm kind of busy during the weeks of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, and don't want to run the risk of getting exhausted the week before, either.
They got back to me today with new dates at the end of September, right before Simhat Torah. I had a feeling all along that it would happen over Shavuot. You couldn't script it more perfectly--harvesting the stuff of life during the holiday of the harvest.
I still need more blood tests to confirm that I haven't caught anything nasty over the past two months. Various administrators must exchange paperwork. It's still not a sure thing; I don't believe that man plans and God laughs (well, maybe God does laugh at times--but at our excellent jokes, not at us), but God certainly has agendas about which we have no clue. So I'm prepared for anything. And if it really does happen--I will not only celebrate new Torah the next day, but also the renewal of life. And not just Bracha bat Sarah's, I hope and pray, but mine as well--the miracle of this connection will change me forever.
The shock of our connection reawakened me to the great luck of my life, and reminded me to discard complacency, a recent trap, and live instead with equal measures of patience and urgency. Thanks to Bracha bat Sarah, I began to pursue some long-dormant goals. I'm eating better, exercising, honoring the good fortune of a healthy body, and feeling more happily alive as a result. And I don't want that to end--I don't want to stop feeling hopeful, as being blindsided by bad news can do. So over the past few weeks I've tried to protect myself, practicing for pain by imagining the worst and then ignoring it entirely. The real answer made me giddy:
"Well, you must have some kind of intuition going on, because I just received an email that the patient may be ready to proceed."
It was the day before Rosh Hodesh Elul--what better moment to begin a journey of change and renewal? Yes, I'm still willing to donate, I answered when they asked (as they must before every stage; I can back out at any time, no questions asked. But if I turn back too late in the process, the patient will die.) Yes, any day is good -- well, actually not. I'm kind of busy during the weeks of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, and don't want to run the risk of getting exhausted the week before, either.
They got back to me today with new dates at the end of September, right before Simhat Torah. I had a feeling all along that it would happen over Shavuot. You couldn't script it more perfectly--harvesting the stuff of life during the holiday of the harvest.
I still need more blood tests to confirm that I haven't caught anything nasty over the past two months. Various administrators must exchange paperwork. It's still not a sure thing; I don't believe that man plans and God laughs (well, maybe God does laugh at times--but at our excellent jokes, not at us), but God certainly has agendas about which we have no clue. So I'm prepared for anything. And if it really does happen--I will not only celebrate new Torah the next day, but also the renewal of life. And not just Bracha bat Sarah's, I hope and pray, but mine as well--the miracle of this connection will change me forever.
Monday, August 09, 2010
937. High Holy Days 5770, part 8
(Continued from here.)
The gargling worked, but not entirely. My throat went from feeling like a paving stone on the road to Hell to a mere white-hot coal dancing in the mouth of an active volcano. I continued to search online for sore throat remedies and found this, mirrored on approximately 4,760,000 different sites:
Garlic Honey
Basically: Crush lots of garlic. Add honey. Microwave. Eat. A miracle ensues; health is restored, or so claim thousands of people. Who knew?
So I whipped up a big, steaming bowl. Actually, it wasn't so steaming; I couldn't bring myself to heat it. It was pungent enough at room temperature to bring a large gorilla to tears, and I couldn't help but recall the time my old boyfriend's roommate decided to cook an Italian feast and put so much garlic in the lasagna that I almost passed out. (He rescued me just as I was about to drown in the soup.) Heavy spices and I do not always see eye to eye. I chose to refrigerate the concoction instead.
The bowl of honey and garlic sat marinating for the next three days. I figured it would be more effective after it matured for awhile and, besides, I was afraid to eat it. Very afraid. More and more powerfully aromatic clouds wafted out of the refrigerator each passing morning when I opened the door to get the orange juice until one day I began to consider hiring a SWAT team to kidnap the bowl and dump it at a nuclear testing site. By day four I abandoned any thoughts of actually spooning down the stuff, since its aroma suggested that it might make good rat poison.
By day five, one day before Yom Kippur, I realized my sore throat was gone. I think the garlic and honey was successful after all, even though I never ate it--its very presence intimidated my germs into submission.
(To be continued.)
The gargling worked, but not entirely. My throat went from feeling like a paving stone on the road to Hell to a mere white-hot coal dancing in the mouth of an active volcano. I continued to search online for sore throat remedies and found this, mirrored on approximately 4,760,000 different sites:
Garlic Honey
Basically: Crush lots of garlic. Add honey. Microwave. Eat. A miracle ensues; health is restored, or so claim thousands of people. Who knew?
So I whipped up a big, steaming bowl. Actually, it wasn't so steaming; I couldn't bring myself to heat it. It was pungent enough at room temperature to bring a large gorilla to tears, and I couldn't help but recall the time my old boyfriend's roommate decided to cook an Italian feast and put so much garlic in the lasagna that I almost passed out. (He rescued me just as I was about to drown in the soup.) Heavy spices and I do not always see eye to eye. I chose to refrigerate the concoction instead.
The bowl of honey and garlic sat marinating for the next three days. I figured it would be more effective after it matured for awhile and, besides, I was afraid to eat it. Very afraid. More and more powerfully aromatic clouds wafted out of the refrigerator each passing morning when I opened the door to get the orange juice until one day I began to consider hiring a SWAT team to kidnap the bowl and dump it at a nuclear testing site. By day four I abandoned any thoughts of actually spooning down the stuff, since its aroma suggested that it might make good rat poison.
By day five, one day before Yom Kippur, I realized my sore throat was gone. I think the garlic and honey was successful after all, even though I never ate it--its very presence intimidated my germs into submission.
(To be continued.)
Sunday, August 08, 2010
936. High Holy Days 5770, part 7
It's almost Elul, yikes. This means I will soon have to stop working 12 hours a day and begin to think about more important things. Meanwhile, just four weeks left to finish the story of High Holy Days 2009. Where was I? Oh yes, Mr. And Mrs. Loud and Louder. So Rosh Hashanah ended, and I returned to real life. Things were great for a day. But the day after that, not so good: I woke up with a sore throat. Not just your run-of-the-mill pain--I never do things halfway--but the kind that makes you want to rip your tonsils out of your head and pour a gallon of ice down the remaining cavity. I usually ply non-life-threatening illnesses with echinacea or Advil and hope for the best, but this was an urgent situation--I didn't have time to wait for nature to take its course. I refused to accept a replay of 2005.
"Well, it could get better or worse in the next few days," opined the doctor unhelpfully after peering down my throat for a good long ten seconds. This was slightly better news than what a different doctor had told me a few years earlier, but still not so good. "Rest, drink plenty of fluids, and if you can't speak the day before you have to sing, call me. I have a few opera singers as patients. Steroid injection," she added.
I did not want a large needle anywhere near my vocal cords, so decided to find a miracle cure on my own. After scouring Google, I learned that established medical professionals and quacks alike seemed to have great faith in the remedy of gargling with warm salt water every hour on the hour. Even though it made me gag, I set my alarm clock and did so. I drank gallons of liquids and forced myself to sleep 10 hours a night over three days, during which I neither left the house nor spoke on the phone. I was determined to coddle this cold to death--kill it with kindness rather than a predictable OTC poison.
(To be continued.)
"Well, it could get better or worse in the next few days," opined the doctor unhelpfully after peering down my throat for a good long ten seconds. This was slightly better news than what a different doctor had told me a few years earlier, but still not so good. "Rest, drink plenty of fluids, and if you can't speak the day before you have to sing, call me. I have a few opera singers as patients. Steroid injection," she added.
I did not want a large needle anywhere near my vocal cords, so decided to find a miracle cure on my own. After scouring Google, I learned that established medical professionals and quacks alike seemed to have great faith in the remedy of gargling with warm salt water every hour on the hour. Even though it made me gag, I set my alarm clock and did so. I drank gallons of liquids and forced myself to sleep 10 hours a night over three days, during which I neither left the house nor spoke on the phone. I was determined to coddle this cold to death--kill it with kindness rather than a predictable OTC poison.
(To be continued.)
Monday, July 26, 2010
935. Flustered
So Tisha be-Av went well, in additon to the aforementioned study. My chanting was a bit... flustered. Chapter 4 of Eikha began on the usual awkwardly high note, which I must pull accurately out of the air to insure that I don't end up somewhere deep down below where I can't reach (taking into account my tendency to go flat when chanting while sitting cross-legged on the floor). I *just* made it. My long morning Torah reading was uneventful, except for a moment during the second aliyah when I lost the trope (that I knew like the back of my hand--it happens). The rabbi, generally the best gabbai in the history of all gabbais, sang the correction clearly. But he uses a different trope than I do. Usually I can translate, but had never heard that melody before; I chose to stumble on a fairly uncommon section of the tune. He sang it again, quietly and calmly. At that point I decided to just leap off the cliff and move on to the next phrase, hoping my memory would return--which it did.
At the end of the aliyah the rabbi turned to me and whispered, "Sorry--I forgot that your trope was different!" Hello, now you know how I've felt for the past eight years. (It's not all that different, but there are two major schools of trope at my synagogue, stemming from the two people who've taught it over the years. He is one; I learned from the other.)
My third flustered incident was at Minha later that evening. I knew there were three aliyot; as the haftarah reader, the last one would be given to me. The gabbai, none other than F., came over to confirm: "Shishi [sixth aliyah]?" he whispered. Hmm, I thought, that doesn't sound right, but he had already darted away. Well, nothing is ever set in stone at my congregation; we often flout tradition, and things tend to change all the time. So at the third aliyah I just continued to sit and enjoy the scenery. Suddenly I was aware of a big silence, and everyone looking at me. Everyone. Stares really can have the force of steel beams. I noticed that both F. and the rabbi were gesturing not quite imperceptibly for me to come to the bimah. Oh, I realized... he said "shLishi" [third aliyah]. Duh. I ran up as fast as I could and apologized, because this is something one just does not do; services tend to run like clockwork. No one said a word, but I was sure they must have thought I was biggest space cadet ever. I didn't even have fasting-induced lightheadedness to use as an excuse.
(Afterwards I realized that I must not be the first person in the history of Torah chanting to mis-hear those two words. But I'm probably the first to blog about it, so there's no recorded history to assuage my feelings of guilt. Which I no longer have, thanks to a good night's sleep.)
Just a few more weeks until Elul and the start of the next marathon. Meanwhile, sitting here figuring out how to type on my brand-new and truly guilt-inducing iPad, which I sort of need for work but not really, just couldn't fight temptation any longer, listening to Pharoah's Daughter and getting in the mood for all the music to come.
At the end of the aliyah the rabbi turned to me and whispered, "Sorry--I forgot that your trope was different!" Hello, now you know how I've felt for the past eight years. (It's not all that different, but there are two major schools of trope at my synagogue, stemming from the two people who've taught it over the years. He is one; I learned from the other.)
My third flustered incident was at Minha later that evening. I knew there were three aliyot; as the haftarah reader, the last one would be given to me. The gabbai, none other than F., came over to confirm: "Shishi [sixth aliyah]?" he whispered. Hmm, I thought, that doesn't sound right, but he had already darted away. Well, nothing is ever set in stone at my congregation; we often flout tradition, and things tend to change all the time. So at the third aliyah I just continued to sit and enjoy the scenery. Suddenly I was aware of a big silence, and everyone looking at me. Everyone. Stares really can have the force of steel beams. I noticed that both F. and the rabbi were gesturing not quite imperceptibly for me to come to the bimah. Oh, I realized... he said "shLishi" [third aliyah]. Duh. I ran up as fast as I could and apologized, because this is something one just does not do; services tend to run like clockwork. No one said a word, but I was sure they must have thought I was biggest space cadet ever. I didn't even have fasting-induced lightheadedness to use as an excuse.
(Afterwards I realized that I must not be the first person in the history of Torah chanting to mis-hear those two words. But I'm probably the first to blog about it, so there's no recorded history to assuage my feelings of guilt. Which I no longer have, thanks to a good night's sleep.)
Just a few more weeks until Elul and the start of the next marathon. Meanwhile, sitting here figuring out how to type on my brand-new and truly guilt-inducing iPad, which I sort of need for work but not really, just couldn't fight temptation any longer, listening to Pharoah's Daughter and getting in the mood for all the music to come.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
934. Does God pray?
Tisha be-Av Minha ended, and we were all on our way out the door--and then the rabbi said, "Anyone want to stick around for awhile and study?" Still two hours before the fast ended--better to spend it in the synagogue than at home, hungry and tempted. I wasn't among the fasters this year, but decided to stay just the same.
Turns out I was very familiar with the text he chose, a line in the haftarah I had just chanted. (For the eighth Tisha be-Av minha in a row! It's the first one I ever learned. Time flies.) It's from the end of the usual fast day afternoon haftarah (Isaiah 55:6-56:8):
56:7: Then will I bring them to My holy mountain and I will make them joyful in the house where men pray to me, their burnt offerings and their sacrifices will be favorably accepted upon My altar for My house shall be acclaimed as a house of prayer for all people.
Vahavi'otim el-har kodeshi vesimachtim beveyt tfilati oloteyhem vezivcheyhem leratson al-mizbechi ki veyti beyt-tfilah yikare lechol-ha'amim.
The words he focused on were "beveit tfilati," here translated as "the house where men pray to me"--but "tfilati," "my prayer," could also be read as "the praying that is mine"--the praying I do. Could this be, wondered commentators--does God pray? What would God pray about? Why? The rabbi read a passage from the Talmud about God apparently learning how to pray from a simple shopkeeper. Did we think it was possible, he asked?
Big silence in the room at first. On the one hand, we strive to envision God as less literal and more spiritual than the bearded old guy in the sky. But we also want to be able to pray to a God who's like a parent or friend, to whom we can cry and expect a response. How to reconcile the two?
For me (I said when I finally got the nerve to raise my hand) the answer is self-evident. If we can pray, then God must be able to, as well--for how could we do something that God can't? If God chooses to pray (that, I have no idea), then I think God prays that we humans will choose to pray. I believe God yearns for the partnership just as we do. I don't really know what that means--I don't know what "God" means--but I believe it just the same, and feel it in my heart and bones.
Turns out I was very familiar with the text he chose, a line in the haftarah I had just chanted. (For the eighth Tisha be-Av minha in a row! It's the first one I ever learned. Time flies.) It's from the end of the usual fast day afternoon haftarah (Isaiah 55:6-56:8):
56:7: Then will I bring them to My holy mountain and I will make them joyful in the house where men pray to me, their burnt offerings and their sacrifices will be favorably accepted upon My altar for My house shall be acclaimed as a house of prayer for all people.
Vahavi'otim el-har kodeshi vesimachtim beveyt tfilati oloteyhem vezivcheyhem leratson al-mizbechi ki veyti beyt-tfilah yikare lechol-ha'amim.
The words he focused on were "beveit tfilati," here translated as "the house where men pray to me"--but "tfilati," "my prayer," could also be read as "the praying that is mine"--the praying I do. Could this be, wondered commentators--does God pray? What would God pray about? Why? The rabbi read a passage from the Talmud about God apparently learning how to pray from a simple shopkeeper. Did we think it was possible, he asked?
Big silence in the room at first. On the one hand, we strive to envision God as less literal and more spiritual than the bearded old guy in the sky. But we also want to be able to pray to a God who's like a parent or friend, to whom we can cry and expect a response. How to reconcile the two?
For me (I said when I finally got the nerve to raise my hand) the answer is self-evident. If we can pray, then God must be able to, as well--for how could we do something that God can't? If God chooses to pray (that, I have no idea), then I think God prays that we humans will choose to pray. I believe God yearns for the partnership just as we do. I don't really know what that means--I don't know what "God" means--but I believe it just the same, and feel it in my heart and bones.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
933. iDaven
I liked this sensible answer:
"Can I Pray With an iPhone?"
I agree that an actual, physical siddur "has a certain sanctity to it that a virtual siddur cannot attain," but perhaps this is because we're a lot more accustomed to the technology of the book, with 500+ years of history and associations behind it. I wonder if praying from Gutenberg's invention didn't shock a few parchment scroll fans back in the day, as well.
Also agreed that the point of prayer is to escape form the tyranny of e-life. But prayer in a synagogue is communal and, paper siddur or not, will not exclude that loud, off-key guy who thinks his "Amen" must be heard in the shul down the block. "Ask the Rabbi" offers this solution to the electronic version of barriers to concentration:
"The ring tone issue is easily solved by switching to vibrate. Notifications can be turned off in Settings. But you're still going to have those incoming calls and text messages popping up over your siddur. To avoid these, the only trick I know is to switch to Airplane Mode. It seems to me that this is a must for proper praying. Look, if you can do it on the runways of Planet Earth, you can do it on the runway to heaven as well."
"Can I Pray With an iPhone?"
I agree that an actual, physical siddur "has a certain sanctity to it that a virtual siddur cannot attain," but perhaps this is because we're a lot more accustomed to the technology of the book, with 500+ years of history and associations behind it. I wonder if praying from Gutenberg's invention didn't shock a few parchment scroll fans back in the day, as well.
Also agreed that the point of prayer is to escape form the tyranny of e-life. But prayer in a synagogue is communal and, paper siddur or not, will not exclude that loud, off-key guy who thinks his "Amen" must be heard in the shul down the block. "Ask the Rabbi" offers this solution to the electronic version of barriers to concentration:
"The ring tone issue is easily solved by switching to vibrate. Notifications can be turned off in Settings. But you're still going to have those incoming calls and text messages popping up over your siddur. To avoid these, the only trick I know is to switch to Airplane Mode. It seems to me that this is a must for proper praying. Look, if you can do it on the runways of Planet Earth, you can do it on the runway to heaven as well."
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