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Emotionally a bit raw.....
Sep. 24th, 2015 09:43 pmYesterday was Yom Kippur, the day of atonement. It's the most holy of days on the Hebrew calendar, spent fasting, in contemplation and prayer.
I may not practice much, but there are some things that stick with you with regard to family of origin stuff and this is one for me.
I fast. I cannot not fast. It's not unlike my grandmother who after tasting a shrimp for the first time, looked around for the lightening bolt that was suppose to strike her dead. I don't feel right eating or drinking. I do bathe, brush my teeth and take both my meds and my vitamins, but other than what might make it down my throat while brushing my teeth, or the small amount of water to take my pills, I fast the full 24 hours. In the past few years I've made the concession of a caffeine tablet or two by midday. If I don't, the degree of caffeine withdrawal headache is too distracting for me to spend any reasonable time in introspection. Blinding pain is not conducive to prayer or reflection and that is not my concept for what the holiday is about.
How I observe the day changed 20 years ago. In 1995 I lost my father after a long drawn out illness, on the second day of Rosh Hashonnah or New Years, and 8 days prior to Yom Kippur. My first obligation to go to Yizkor came 8 days after losing Pop. The standard mourning period is cut short during the holiday period. No matter when it started, no matter how short it has been, no matter how much you still need to grieve, sitting shiva ends with Yom Kippur.
Kaddish, a prayer said to memorialize the dead, (but which speaks not of the death of the loved one, but rather of the glory of the Divine) may be said for anyone at any time, but you are obligated to say it in four situations - the loss of a parent, a spouse, a sibling, or G-d forbid, a child. Eight days after losing my father, I showed up for the Yizkor service at a local synagogue, raw and grieving and vulnerable, to fulfill that obligation, to honor my father in a way I knew would be important to him. My father only attended Yizkor for his father once, just the year before. My grandfather had only passed away 16 months prior. Pop had talked about the experience of praying in his father's tallit or prayer shawl, and how it felt like having his father's arms around him. Sadly, I experienced nothing of the sort. Per his request, Pop was buried in that tallit. Pop's tallit we still have. It was one of the two that made the 'roof' of the chupah at my nephew's wedding 3 years ago (along with that of his other grandfather). I believe it will serve the same function next year when another nephew plans to walk up the aisle.
My Yizkor experience was marred by a colleague who did not have the sense to simply leave me alone to pray and grieve. While I tried to chant Kaddish for my father just 8 days after losing him, this gentleman (and I use the term loosely) hissed into my ear, babbling on and on about minutia I had neither interest in nor even the ability to listen to. I could not get away from him fast enough, but there was no place for me to go.
Synagogues and Jewish congregations raise all of their money for the year at the High Holy Holidays, by selling tickets for seats. No ticket? You're not coming in. The save exception to that is the Yizkor segment of the service on Yom Kippur. The no ticket, no entry policy may sound cold to those unfamiliar with the concept, but for religious reasons you will NEVER see a collection plate in a synagogue. The Sabbath is a day of rest, of absolutely no work, and carrying money is considered work. It's simply one of the things you DON'T do. Passing a collection plate in a synagogue would get you nowhere! No one should have anything to leave in it. Not even an IOU, as you're not supposed to be writing either. In any event, if someone shows up for Yizkor only, it's clearly someone who's there to fulfill their obligation to say Kaddish for an immediate family member they've lost. While my colleague had no way of knowing whom I had lost and how recently, seeing me walk in at that moment should have been a tip off why I was there. Even my comment to him that I was saying Kaddish fell on deaf ears.
Ever since I spend this day of reflection in nature, as close to creation as I can be. I walk down to the river, which is a good mile hike down hill, and sit on the bank in solitude, listening for the voice of the Divine in the birdsong, and the flowing water, and the occasional splash of a river otter. As herons land on the shore across from me, and ducks glide past, I chant the Kaddish for my father, knowing that the fish in the water before me, and the birds who listen to my chanted song are my minyan, my prayer quorum. In that I find my solace; my grief is able to give way to thanks for all that has been given me and for the time I had with my father, for the forty years that should have been sixty, if not seventy.
I may not practice much, but there are some things that stick with you with regard to family of origin stuff and this is one for me.
I fast. I cannot not fast. It's not unlike my grandmother who after tasting a shrimp for the first time, looked around for the lightening bolt that was suppose to strike her dead. I don't feel right eating or drinking. I do bathe, brush my teeth and take both my meds and my vitamins, but other than what might make it down my throat while brushing my teeth, or the small amount of water to take my pills, I fast the full 24 hours. In the past few years I've made the concession of a caffeine tablet or two by midday. If I don't, the degree of caffeine withdrawal headache is too distracting for me to spend any reasonable time in introspection. Blinding pain is not conducive to prayer or reflection and that is not my concept for what the holiday is about.
How I observe the day changed 20 years ago. In 1995 I lost my father after a long drawn out illness, on the second day of Rosh Hashonnah or New Years, and 8 days prior to Yom Kippur. My first obligation to go to Yizkor came 8 days after losing Pop. The standard mourning period is cut short during the holiday period. No matter when it started, no matter how short it has been, no matter how much you still need to grieve, sitting shiva ends with Yom Kippur.
Kaddish, a prayer said to memorialize the dead, (but which speaks not of the death of the loved one, but rather of the glory of the Divine) may be said for anyone at any time, but you are obligated to say it in four situations - the loss of a parent, a spouse, a sibling, or G-d forbid, a child. Eight days after losing my father, I showed up for the Yizkor service at a local synagogue, raw and grieving and vulnerable, to fulfill that obligation, to honor my father in a way I knew would be important to him. My father only attended Yizkor for his father once, just the year before. My grandfather had only passed away 16 months prior. Pop had talked about the experience of praying in his father's tallit or prayer shawl, and how it felt like having his father's arms around him. Sadly, I experienced nothing of the sort. Per his request, Pop was buried in that tallit. Pop's tallit we still have. It was one of the two that made the 'roof' of the chupah at my nephew's wedding 3 years ago (along with that of his other grandfather). I believe it will serve the same function next year when another nephew plans to walk up the aisle.
My Yizkor experience was marred by a colleague who did not have the sense to simply leave me alone to pray and grieve. While I tried to chant Kaddish for my father just 8 days after losing him, this gentleman (and I use the term loosely) hissed into my ear, babbling on and on about minutia I had neither interest in nor even the ability to listen to. I could not get away from him fast enough, but there was no place for me to go.
Synagogues and Jewish congregations raise all of their money for the year at the High Holy Holidays, by selling tickets for seats. No ticket? You're not coming in. The save exception to that is the Yizkor segment of the service on Yom Kippur. The no ticket, no entry policy may sound cold to those unfamiliar with the concept, but for religious reasons you will NEVER see a collection plate in a synagogue. The Sabbath is a day of rest, of absolutely no work, and carrying money is considered work. It's simply one of the things you DON'T do. Passing a collection plate in a synagogue would get you nowhere! No one should have anything to leave in it. Not even an IOU, as you're not supposed to be writing either. In any event, if someone shows up for Yizkor only, it's clearly someone who's there to fulfill their obligation to say Kaddish for an immediate family member they've lost. While my colleague had no way of knowing whom I had lost and how recently, seeing me walk in at that moment should have been a tip off why I was there. Even my comment to him that I was saying Kaddish fell on deaf ears.
Ever since I spend this day of reflection in nature, as close to creation as I can be. I walk down to the river, which is a good mile hike down hill, and sit on the bank in solitude, listening for the voice of the Divine in the birdsong, and the flowing water, and the occasional splash of a river otter. As herons land on the shore across from me, and ducks glide past, I chant the Kaddish for my father, knowing that the fish in the water before me, and the birds who listen to my chanted song are my minyan, my prayer quorum. In that I find my solace; my grief is able to give way to thanks for all that has been given me and for the time I had with my father, for the forty years that should have been sixty, if not seventy.
