You Don't Need a Synagogue (or Church, Mosque, or Temple) to Pray, But It Helps

There are a lot of one-sided conversations happening in the news and on social media. Everything seems one-sided nowadays. Most recently, a discussion has centred around houses of worship after churches and synagogues in the US and Canada have sued to be allowed to hold services in person. 

In Toronto, the only Conservative synagogue holding an in person minyan is Adath Israel. Sean attends almost daily. I attend a few times a week. All distancing regulations are observed. The sanctuary seats 1100, not including the bima. We are ten people spaced throughout the room. We provide a minyan base to be streamed to others. 

As a rabbi, I am thrilled that so many have found a home in live-streamed and meeting app minyanim. I regularly speak with with people for whom it is meaningful. One woman saying Kaddish joins her nephew at his shul in the US. Another enjoys attending minyan online because she couldn't fit it into her day of dropping kids at school and heading to work. With everyone home, she's able to simply log-in. Another man thought he'd never be a daily mainyan attendee while reciting Kaddish, but has found great comfort in joining everyday, where he sees his father and others on the same mourning journey.

As a Jew in the pews, online minyan depresses me. I'm okay, even ecstatic at helping others find their prayer space, but when I'm seeking my own, I can't get comfortable. I am distracted, frustrated, and lonely. Online minyan emphasizes my solitude in a way neither social distancing nor praying on my own can. After closing out Mom's house I returned home to quarantine and online minyan. Nothing made me feel more separate than reciting Kaddish alone in my room unable to see others except through the screen. Maybe it was the added layer of quarantine that finally broke online minyan for me, but I couldn't go back after that. It depressed me, making me feel numb. Kaddish, previously healing became a painful endeavour. After about a month I realized something had to change. I needed a minyan to help pull me out of that dark space.

When individuals post or write articles pitting religion on one side against caring about controlling covid on the other, they create a syllogism asserting that those who want fairness in the application of laws or feel a need to pray in the presence of others do not also care about preventing the spread of covid. 

Control of covid is not a simple matter. If it was, we would have done it already. But if one examines the affects wrought by closures in different areas, one thing is clear - it comes down to the responsible actions of individuals. To pray, with masks and social distancing, without singing, but in the same room, in synagogue, church, mosque, or temple when all protocols are observed dies not increase viral transference. Those who don't care are gathering anyway. I see it in the small minyanim exiting homes in groups without masks. I wonder if they even keep records of who attends for contact tracing. Ten people in a very large room is not the same as ten in a small space. Square footage matters. 

It's not only prayer. It's being able to see another person without a screen, even from six or more feet away. It's letting people know they won't lose their livelihood, their house, or their ability to put food on the table. It helps to create one rule that is clear for all. Use square footage. Figure out how to give people hope instead of just pulling it away.

Covid will be around for a long time to come. We cannot begin to know what the new strains will bring to us. The vaccine may let us see the end of the tunnel, but doesn't tell us how long the tunnel will be. In the meantime, we all need an outlet to make sure that, when we reach the tunnel's end, we're still okay.

I Am Linus - 'Cause Security's Something We Never Outgrow

 I just finished davening Shacharit. I am not a morning person. Shacharit takes a little more concentration and focus, but that's a good thing. Years (and years) ago, at my rabbinical school entry interview, one of the rabbis on the interview committee asked me how adding Shacharit had added to my day. I responded that I needed to be more awake and aware. If I wasn't, my tefillin strap would get tangled in my tzitzit, and I'd need ten to fifteen minutes to untangle them before I could proceed. It may not have been the most practical answer, but it was honest. It improved my davening and my morning. The committee laughed and, later that day, accepted me into rabbinical school.

I've come a long way from worrying about tangling my tefillin straps (although it still happens every once in a while as a cosmic reminder to attend my prayers). I now have multiple tallitot for different days and places. I wear my father's z"l white tallit for the High Holidays. I wear my JTS tallit when representing the community. At home and on the road I wear a smaller red tallit. It's smaller. It's light. It's simply easy.

I also have a large, loose-weave, blue tallit I made one summer at Camp Ramah. No matter what tallitot I get or make, I always come back to this one. It wasn't my first. It was my fourth. It wasn't even the first I chose for myself. But it's my favourite.

What's so special about this tallit? I can say that I loved the fabric from the first time I saw it. I can say it's because I made it by hand. I can say it's because the loose-weave keeps it from sliding. But the real reason is ephemeral. Though I love all my tallitot, this one feels right. It feels right the way a worn-in pair of jeans or a favourite sweatshirt feels right. 

That's in normal times. These are not normal times. We are amidst a pandemic. Now, when I wrap myself in that tallit, I feel the warm, solid weight of memory in its weave. I feel the comfort of every moment shared with family and friends in shul and at camp, in mornings before building with Habitat for Humanity, and at shiva minyanim. Its fibers are like the embrace of the community around me. This morning, I wrapped myself in my tallit, and as I felt it settle onto my shoulders, I heard in my mind a lyric from "Snoopy," by Steve Krause, "though his blanket may tatter he'll still hold it close 'cause security's something we never outgrow." Covid has made my mornings times to reflect. To look back to that interview question, how has it changed my davening? Tefillot are a quiet oasis of comfort and memory in a world I don't fully recognize.

There's another lyric from the song, "and then there's Charlie Brown falling down again." No matter what, Charlie Brown continues to hope. "This time," he thinks, "this time I'll make the kick. I'll succeed." We're all Charlie Brown right now. We need that security. But just like one season passes into another, like one year turns to the next, this too will eventually come to an end. For now, "memory shines like the spring coming just around the bend." I hope Snoopy will save me a dance.

To check out more of Steve Krause's music click here or like his Facebook page. Steve is a friend from years ago. He is a gifted musician and a good human being. I highly recommend his music. I receive no benefits through this endorsement.

Lock-Down Chronicle - Trying to Get Back to Who I Want to Be

I'm trying to blog again. I like the me in my blog. I am serious. I am funny. I am focused. I am three dimensional. I am real. 

This was supposed to be inspirational. But as I said in the sentence above, I am real. I am not okay. It's Mental Illness Awareness Month, and it's important for others that we can admit when we're not okay. If you continue to read, know this is not a happy entry. 

But it will be okay, because I'm on my way back. 

We've been in COVID lock-down for almost 37 weeks. I could describe it, but Charles Dickens already did in A Tale of Two Cities.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us..."

I am not a Dickens fan, but I recognize his brilliance in turning a phrase and in building a story. He would have been the perfect person to write the story of COVID. 

COVID has brought out the best in us. It has shown us that we can support each other through the worst moments of these terrible times. Through it all, we have gained scientific wisdom, medical wisdom, but we have also seen the most reckless of behaviours with little regard for others. This is not a symptom of COVID, but of the world we have created, a world in which personal rights come before communal responsibility. 

It's after midnight, and a new lockdown is begun. There is a limit to how much we can slow a pandemic. Unfortunately, there is no limit to how much we can speed it up. My normal state is eternal optimist. It says so in my bio. And I will NOT let COVID break me, but I'm tired. I'm a bit numb. I don't even care that we shut down again. "We had everything before us, we had nothing before us." 

Two weeks ago I began physiotherapy for carpal tunnel. I'd like to blame it on COVID and the lockdown, but, reality is, it began the summer after my mother was diagnosed with cancer. I spent a few weeks in New Jersey with her, working from afar, and my slight problem blossomed into a full-grown problem. If only that was the end of it. I'd last seen my physiotherapist five years ago. She asked me how I was doing. How do I tell her what she missed?

Five years ago - my father was alive and healthy. Thursday is his third yahrtzeit. He cut his foot. It got infected. Gangrene set in. His toe was amputated, but the infection was in the bone. Antibiotics killed his kidneys. Dialysis kept him alive, and, eventually, killed him.

Just as Mom, and we, were getting our lives back on track, Mom was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. 

AND...

Just about a month before Mom's diagnosis, I discovered a lump on my uterus. It turned out to be nothing, sort of. Though I'd never had any hint of them before, I had three large, nay huge, fibroids. My uterus was about the size of a four-month pregnancy. Fourteen painful months later, with the size close to a five-month pregnancy, one week after my mother's cancer took a turn for the worst, I finally had a complete hysterectomy. Less than a month later, we were setting her up in hospice. She died before I finished my recovery. Two months later, just as we were locking down, our beloved, sweet cat, Gandalf the Grey died of acute kidney failure. 5780 was supposed to be a year of healing. I decided it. I kept the intention. Unfortunately, life had a different idea. So I looked to 5781, and 2020 happened. 

But 2020 won't last forever. I'm tired, and I'm numb, but I won't always feel this way. We don't know what the world will look like on the other side. When all this is over, we'll take the good, and we will heal.

We Are Resilient. We will Be Okay. We will Be Even Better.

As a rabbi and Jewish professional, I am involved in a lot of talk about how we keep our synagogues and community alive, and in the greater religious world, how can religious communities remain relevant when our houses of worship are closed, when we cannot even hold a hand, provide last rites and confessionals, and be fully present for lifecycle events from birth to death. I have taught classes, prayed, attended meetings, learned, and counselled couples about weddings and circumcision. I have cried with friends and family over Zoom at funerals and shivas. I have done my best. It is not enough, but it is what I, and my colleagues can do right now.

There's a wonderful story about a town without a watchmaker. Slowly, slowly, over many years, the town's clocks and watches shifted out of time, until not a one was correct. One day the news spread that a watchmaker was going to be passing through. Excited, the townspeople gathered in the city square to present watches and clocks to the watchmaker. One by one each person approached and reverently handed her/his watch or clock to the artisan. He pronounced its fate, good or not. All those who devotedly kept up the practice of winding watches and clocks regardless of whether they were keeping proper time would have their watches fixed. The watches and clocks of those who believed there was no point to winding while the watches weren't working properly had frozen gears and workings beyond help.

We're not keeping proper time. We're out of sync. Our rituals feel somehow off, shifted out of time. But we keep winding our watches. We keep moving and doing. We connect in any way we can. And when the time comes to open our doors, when the time comes to meet again, to pray in person, to connect without masks or walls, if we have devotedly wound our watches, no matter how off we were, our fate will be positive, and we will rebound and come out of this strong and resilient.

S'firat HaOmer Hesed Count Day 3 - A Good Cause

Today's S'firat HaOmer Hesed Challenge is tzedakah. 

There are many charities I love. How to pick just one?!

As a pre-teen, teen, and young adult I supported the North Shore Animal League, an animal rescue. Sean and I later adopted Aiko through them, and continued to support them when we lived in New York. 

USY and Ramah are very dear to me. My brother was a Ramahnik, as were my children. Sean and I spent over 20 years as Ramah staff at Ramah Canada and Ramah Poconos, and the kids are continuing the tradition. If I had to choose one Jewish experience for my children it would be Jewish summer camp. USY provides a similar experience year-round. Again, my brother and I were USYers, and my children followed. 

I appreciate and support the USO for all the support they provide to military personnel and their families. It's so much more than Bob Hope and celebrities entertaining the troops. We have benefited, and we give back regularly.

I am, of course partial to Canadian Foundation for Masorti Judaism. We work with FJMC in Canada and with Masorti in Israel to bring Jews closer to Judaism. It is something I think is vital to the continuation of Judaism in the greater community. Masorti teaches how halakhic Judaism can be about what we can do instead of stringencies on what we cannot. It brings the best of Judaism and of modernity together. I couldn't work for its growth unless I believed it in my heart. With so many Masorti rabbis in Israel at home without pay, they can use your help. Support the kehillah fund, write Covid support in the comment section. Check out www.masorti-mercaz.ca

S'firat HaOmer & Hesed

My friend Yacov Fruchter created this beautiful idea for S'firat HaOmer. 

Having missed the first two days, I will post them here. And I will try to post daily (except Yom Tov and Shabbat)

Day One - Someone I am proud of - I am particularly proud of my husband, Sean Gorman, who has told his US Navy Reserve command he's available for whatever they need, and who has spent these days of Yom Tov as his command's duty chaplain. Though Yom Tov and Shabbat for us, between isolation and holiday stress, there have been many people who needed to speak with their chaplain. Depression, custody issues, fear and more are pressing upon people. Knowing there's someone safe to speak with is vital to wellbeing and mental and spiritual health.

Day Two - Something I am thankful for - Most of you know that 2020 has not been good for my family, a continuation of a difficult 2019. Strangely, though we're all getting a bit (or more) stir crazy, the time at home has provided me with the downtime I needed to continue to mourn my mother and more. I've had time to be sad. Time to stay in bed and wallow, which everyone needs sometimes. It was time I didn't plan on taking, time forced upon me by Covid-19, but time I clearly needed, and for that I am thankful. I am appreciating the craziness of us being 5 people at home, even with the volume. I am thankful for the love and friendship I see among my children (who stay up to all hours talking with each other). They have grown up not only siblings, but friends. For all that I am observing while sheltering in place, I am thankful. 

https://www.beth-tzedec.org/…/m…/2174/sfirat-hesed-chart.pdf

Finishing Brachot Without Fanfare or Judging Myself

So it took me an extra month, but I finally did it. I finished Masechet Brachot. I should have realized I was finishing. I know the final sugya (paragraph). Yet, when it was upon me, sitting in bed at about 2:00 am, rather than stopping, and finishing with a siyyum, I moved on, and, suddenly, I was done.

After so much work, so much frustration when I couldn't learn, whether because I was mourning or because my mind wouldn't function, there it was, without fanfare or celebration. And then it was Yom Tov. And Shabbat. And my mind was still spinning, spinning with sheltering in place. And though I thought of starting Shabbat, I did not. And I am slowly but surely falling ever father behind.

I will not give up. Though the hour is late, I will begin Shabbat tonight. I am 37 pages behind, over a month. Perhaps someday I will catch up, but not likely in this masechet. I've studied Shabbat before. Pieces will go fast, but others will go slow.

Though the world may move on without me, I will proceed as I can. I will not judge myself by any others, but only by what I am able to do for me, for me alone.

Learning & Grief

I’m learning daf yomi, a 2-sided page of Talmud a day. I say that knowing I’m done no learning today. I may not learn tomorrow. It’s no easy task. It takes focus and discipline, and I have neither just now.

Learning is a joyous task in Judaism, and is forbidden during shiva, the 5 day immediate mourning period following a funeral. In the days between the death and the funeral, one is exempt from learning, as your focus is directed elsewhere. So it was, just two weeks after embarking on this seven and a half year journey, that I found myself unable to learn, then forbidden from learning. Since, I have tried to get back in the groove, but to no avail. Maybe if I’d been doing it longer it would be easier. But I believe it’s likely part of my own grief cycle.

I want to learn. I want to get organized. I want to be able to focus. At the same time, I don’t want to learn. I want to spend my days binge-watching sappy movies and television. I want to lie in bed, maybe read, and sleep or wallow. I want to just have time alone with no obligations.

My reality lies in the middle. Obligations don’t disappear during mourning. The regular minyan cycle, during which I’d quickly pray and then learn a little, are missing during the current pandemic. Gandalf, our sweet, loving lap cat, died suddenly. He was my source of peace and calm in the crazy now, and he’s gone. Sleep is disrupted.

Grief alone can do that. But of course, so much is disrupted right now. I love having my children all home, but the volume is raised high. It’s not yelling, just boisterous. It’s active discussion. I want to celebrate it. But I see the circles under my daughter’s eyes. I see my younger son retreating inside himself to process losing a beloved pet not even two months after his grandmother. We’re all a little broken.

And the learning, the learning is so hard. What was a joy is a chore. Where the intellectual history I gleaned from the pages of Talmud fascinated, now I am frustrated. As I discover new ideas, I want to call my mother, or better my father, who discovered Talmud later in life. I know they’ll be interested. But there is no one to answer the phone.

So I don’t learn. I procrastinate. I waste time. The days pass, and I fall father behind. Ten pages, twenty, thirty.

And still I say I’m doing daf yomi. Well, I have seven and a half years to catch up.

Unique Grief

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.

W.H. Auden

I love this poem. I love the cadence. It touches me deep in my soul each time I read it. I find special meaning in the first words, “Stop all the clocks,” For that is what happens. Time stops with each death. Your life with that person or animal ends, and a new one, where the deceased doesn’t exist begins. Yet all around you, life went on, and you’re just a few moments behind them now.

If anyone had asked, I would have said I was much closer with my father.  We had more interests in common. Dad was larger than life. He was ever-present. Even after his death, we felt his presence.

But then I was prepared. Though my mother had cancer, pancreatic cancer, though we knew we were, at best, buying time, I was unprepared. Not mentally. She was in hospice care. It was only a matter of time. But emotionally. I can’t believe she’s gone. I need more time to process.

Losing a beloved pet isn’t helping. I am drowning. I am exhausted. I am sad. Not depressed, just teary and sad. I’m crying again. I can’t sleep. I want time to wallow, time to turn inward, and just be. I want time for my world to end so I can begin to rebuild.

Every grief is different. Each one crawls under your skin at a different spot. It’s all grief, but the itch is different. The beed is different. It’s not a judgement of love or importance. It’s who you, the mourner, are in the moment. And so some linger. They burrow deep inside, and must be slowly drawn out of your heart. Others, just as significant, scratch only the surface, like a great charge of static electricity, shockingly painful, then gone.

It’s okay to admit you’re still healing. Evert grief takes its own time, has its own pace. Just hold on.

Gam Zeh Yaavor - This Too Shall Pass

There's been a lot of wonderful, inspiring writing on social media in these last days. But I know not all of us are doing so great. I know because I'm one of them. It's been quite the lousy 2020. But, as I once heard from a wise friend in a different context, "just because you're having a bad year doesn't mean everything is bad."

So I share with y'all my final weekly d'var for Pride of Israel. Left out of the d'var, Sean will be leaving Pride of Israel this summer, which has been an issue ongoing through my mother's cancer, shiva, and sheloshim. Last spring, just after my mother’s cancer diagnosis, we asked the synagogue for a 1 year extension of the current contract with no assumption beyond, so we would be free from dealing with this issue during her treatment. Though the extension was approved quickly, the board waited to tell us for 3 months. Well into Mom’s treatment, they instead presented us with a new one-year contract, after which there’d be no extension, no severance, among other things. We were shocked, and said no, Instead of a simple extension, we spent the rest of my mother’s life negotiating. Just as Mom’s sheloshim ended, it became official. 

To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven. (Kohelet 3:1)

There is an idea that God never gives us more than we can handle. It’s not Jewish. In fact, it comes from Corinthians in the Christian bible. It’s not something I appreciate or accept. It implies that we can handle anything on our own. That is patently untrue. We often have more than we can handle. We need not be heroes. Asking for or accepting help does not mean we won’t suffer. But knowing there are people around to provide support can make a difference in how we emerge from our suffering.

I’ve written before of my gam zeh ya’avor ring. The story goes that an abcient king sent out his most trusted servant to find an object that would make you happy when sad and sad when happy. The servent searched for many years, and had given up. At the last minute, he happens into a poor market, where a metalsmith asks him his troubles. When the servent explains, the man scratches a phrase into a ring, and hands it to the servent. It said, “gam zeh ya’avor.”

Gam zeh ya’avor means this too shall pass. All things end, both the sad and the joyful. We know they will pass... sometimes as painful as a kidney stone. 2019 was not a good year for us. Most of it was spent dealing with my mother’s cancer. Our celebration of Gavriel’s CHAT graduation was marred by Jesse’s idiopathic anemia requiring a week in the hospital. No one was there to celebrate him. He spent the evening alone. 2020 is not shaping up much better. Mom died January 19. March 11, we found out one of our cats had late stage kidney disease. Gandalf died peacefully on March 16, while Rav Sean and Jesse were en route home from UKings in Halifax due to Corvid-19. 

Of course there are good things. Jesse graduates this year. Keren will finish CHAT. She’s been accepted into two great drama programs. I’m sure we’ll hear from others soon. But their celebrations will be muted at best. 

Last year we spent only seven Shabbatot together as a family. Corvid-19 will guarantee us at least five together in the coming weeks. Though the noise level is up with all three kids home, it’s a blessing to have them together. 

This is my final drash for Shabbat Matters. I will not be leading Torah and Tangents. I am too emotionally damaged, and have not the emotional, mental, nor physical strength to continue. I know that I am not the only broken person right now, and I am grateful for my network of friends and colleagues to whom I can turn when things are difficult. Though our synagogue is closed, Rav Sean is still available for your needs. Though our lives are constrained, we can support each other through calls and social media. We may be broken now, but with help and support, and proper precautions, this too shall pass.

The Promise of Israel for All Jews - Join MERCAZ Canada to be Counted in the Parliament for the Jewish People

I will fulfill the promise that I gave to David your father…  (I Kings 6:12)

To have an independent Jewish state has been our dream from Abraham until today. Hatikvah proclaims, “our hope - the two-thousand-year-old hope - will not be lost.” 

Today we are blessed with a state, with all the problems of a modern state. David Ben Gurion, Israel’s founding father, famously said, “when Israel has prostitutes and thieves we’ll be a state like no other.” Israel today is a modern state, but so much more. Ben Gurion also headed the Jewish Agency for Israel and World Zionist Organization. He understood Israel’s  importance for all Jews, “the feeling… that they are partners in the enterprise of Israel's resurgence in the ancient homeland of the Jewish people.” Israel’s founders built connections to the Diaspora through Israel’s National Institutions, giving us an important voice via the Zionist Congress. Nearly $1billion is allocated, policies enacted, and appointments made that influence Israel’s society. 

Every country with a Jewish population is assigned delegates to a national Zionist Federation. Canadian Zionist Federation has 20 delegates, divided among member organizations via election. To be included in the election, individuals must be members of one of these seven. 

The WZO, JAFI, and Keren Kayemet LeYisrael aren’t sexy or exciting. They don’t inspire the highs and lows we often see in politics, but they are vital to Israel’s function and to our relationship with Israel. 

Ben Gurion said, “The State of Israel will prove itself not by material wealth, not by military might or technical achievement, but by its moral character and human values.” If you are a Zionist, if you agree with Ben Gurion, if you believe Jews should support Israel, it is your responsibility to join MERCAZ-Canada. It is your responsibility to stand up and be counted among the Diaspora community saying, “we care what Israel is. We care what Israel becomes.”

Joining MERCAZ is the best and most direct way to send a message to leaders in Israel that pluralism, democracy, and equality are critical to creating a strong and vibrant Israel. Help strengthen Israel as a Jewish, Zionist, and democratic state; shape it  as a unique moral and spiritual society rooted in the vision of the prophets — democratic and pluralistic, recognizing and empowering all Jews and guaranteeing the civil, political, and religious rights of all its citizens. Deadline is March 8, 2020. Anyone who will be at least 18 years old by June 30, 2020 can join now and be counted.

FOR CANADA. IF YOU'RE IN THE US GO TO MERCAZUSA.ORG/VOTEMERCAZ. YOU HAVE UNTIL MARCH 11.

Unmoored Going Into the Future

Shloshim is over. There's one more week in the MERCAZ membership drive. For the last year it seems I've been saying, "if I can only make it through..." whatever the next big thing was. Month after month after month. Exhausting, but each thing came with an end date only a month or so away.

Now, as the last of those big things is coming to an end, I can't see the end. Whatever was serving as my storm anchor, the thing that kept me in place and kept me going through it all, it seems to have disappeared. I am unmoored. My foundation is gone. I, the one who keeps everyone's life organized, am missing things. Papers are everywhere. Books are piled up. Sewing, art supplies, planting, so much isn't done. What I really want to do is take a day, a week, a month, and just be me, alone. Read a book. Learn a little. Watch old movies.

And that's normal. It's normal to feel sad. We don't move on from loss. We eventually assimilate it. We develop a new normal. Importantly, there's no timeline for this. There's no quick fix. It's different every time. It can last through shloshim. It can last for months beyond. It can last through the year of Kaddish, and even further. You may lack energy. You may feel sad every day. You may feel great, and then suddenly all the feelings return. You're not going crazy. You're simply mourning.

I am mourning. I cry frequently. Some days are good. Some are simply there, neutral. Some are hard. And some are all of these - good, indifferent, bad, sad, happy, crazy, lost. Name the feeling; I'm likely going through it. It's all normal.

I'm not going crazy. I am still sad. I am still grieving. I am unorganized and out of control. I am tired, not physically, but without energy. I am depleted - mentally, emotionally, and intellectually.

It'll get easier. Just give me a year.

The End of Two Eras

This morning was the end of Mom's sheloshim. Thirty days from the funeral gone. Thirteen days since Mom died. Time moved exponentially fast. It wasn't this fast when Daddy died.

We marked the day with a sponsored breakfast. There's not really a significance to the sheloshim for a parent. It ends mourning for other relatives, but mourning continues just the same for a parent. And yet, the day seems significant. I made it. Thirty days down. One month. Only 11 more to go. How many more time will I reach for the phone? How many more times will I think I should tell Mom? How many mores?

Today was also my final trip to the mikveh. Most people don't know which mikveh night is their last mikveh night. After all, menopause isn't official until a full year after your last period. But tonight was about three months following my hysterectomy. Menopause is here. It's interesting. Today was the day the doctor cleared me to go to mikveh.

So as the sun set on my mother's sheloshim, the next stage of my life began. It began as I emerged from the warm mikveh water. I wondered what I was feeling, unable to put it into words. Maybe - melancholy. Maybe - numb. I feel I am on the precipice of something new, but I'm too tired to move, too tired to step forward. What I really want is a week of sleeping late, reading, and binge-watching movies and TV. But that will have to wait. Maybe next year.

Shloshim & Trying to Catch Up

Mom's shloshim is approaching. With it I am trying to find my equilibrium with her gone. It’s not coming. Twenty-seven days in, and I simply cannot get into the routine of minyan twice a day. I go to sleep reminding myself that I have minyan in the morning when it should now be a simple fait accompli. Sean asks me where I plan on going to Mincha, and I think, “Oh my God, I haven’t thought about it yet.” I’d rather stay in bed or binge-watch television. I’d rather anything but the reality of Mom’s being gone.

As I pray, reaching the point in the Amidah where I add a prayer for the ill, my first instinct is still to add my mother’s name. Each time, I pause,  stopping myself, before going on to my brother’s name, still recovering from back surgery, catching my breath as I add my mother’s name as part of his.

It’s not just me. Yesterday I was ordering something on amazon, and deciding where to send it. As I was doing it, I asked Gavi for the rolodex. (Yes, we still have one. It’s quick and convenient.) As he handed it to me, he said, “Are you going to call Grandma?” I kissed him and cried.

One task I've been avoiding is the note writing to everyone who sent condolences, food, and donations. Though I looked at emails, appreciating every note of comfort, I didn’t delete or answer once shiva began. Though appreciated, it was also overwhelming. I’m doing this now. Dozens of emails and Facebook messages. Donations and cards.  I found one particularly special one. For years, my father learned at a yeshiva. He became very close with the Rosh Yeshiva, Rabbi Avraham Gaon. When Daddy died the yeshiva dedicated a day of learning to him. Upon hearing Mom had passed away, he wrote, "In a way I knew. Believe it or not, a plant that Bruce gave me about 15 years ago just died on Sunday (the day Mom died). I could not bring myself to ask."

A wonderful member of my framily (friend+family) told me about her father waiting in the next world for her mother. I imagine my father, wandering in the afterlife, not quite knowing what to do with himself, as he once did upon extending a visit to us in Hawaii two weeks longer than Mom, his equilibrium off without her. Whatever comes next, are they settling back into their old routine?

And so, leaving the house for minyan, amidst thoughts of “I don’t want to leave the house,” I thought one month almost done, 11 more to go.

Memories of Shiva Past Follow Me

Looking through my documents I found two blog entries from my father’s shiva/shloshim. Opening it, I thought it was something I wrote in the airport this time around. But no, it’s from Daddy’s.

Mom was so concerned in this entry. She was just getting into her own groove when the cancer struck. Months of chemo, then improvements and a light at the tunnel’s end when it struck again. Unlike my father’s death, occurring after years of wondering if we were saying goodbye for the last time. Between her family history and medical science, Mom was supposed to live to be 120. Daddy had planned for that.

There are memories here I thought I forgot - my aunt calling Daddy a fink for dying, the disjointed nature of the week. This time things were different. Shiva was in three locations instead of two. Perhaps the strange feelings come from not travelling home after shiva, but during. Perhaps this is simply me losing my mother or becoming an orphan.Perhaps this is just me this time around.

My kriah scarf sits on the dresser. I threw the last one out. It continued to tear throughout shiva, hopelessly destroyed by the end. This time I feel a strange compunction to repair it, leaving the seam as a permanent scar in an otherwise lovely scarf. I’ve placed it in the den with other items to be mended.

It’s hard to get started, not just on mending clothes, but on everything. Everything takes more effort than it should. It’s not just the mourning. It’s the mourning compiled with work beyond what my hours allow, helping my children through their mourning, and, finally, an unknown cloud at my husband’s job. This cloud has become completely entwined with my mother’s illness and death, but it lingers while Mom is gone, at least another month. So I go through motions, waiting, wondering, but not really caring. Only wanting this segment to to finished.




Here are the entries:

Shiva isn’t so much one smooth period rather a series of disjointed moments rising and falling with emotion. Memories are shared and laughed over. Family drama bubbles under the surface as we attempt to be strong for our mother. Though we know she’ll be fine in the long run, her anxiety flows when no one else is around (as if we or our aunts and uncles would allow our mom to become a bag lady wandering the streets). In moments of clarity she will admit she has investments to live on. Our father made sure of that. But then the ball drops again, and we’re back in the abyss.

Each morning I attend minyan, feeling both part of the community and separate from it. I arrive before they begin, counting the men. In a minyan that just gets there and doesn’t count women, I find myself wondering if I will be left as the tenth, unable to say Kaddish, making plans for next steps. As the shatz (the prayer leader) begins reciting the ancient blessings of Birchot Hashachar, I find I cannot recite amen to the blessing thanking God for not making me a woman. I wonder if anyone has thought about the idea of reciting that blessing aloud where women are present, and what they would do if I pointed it out. Ironically, as on the same day these thoughts cross my mind an article pops up in my Facebook feed about a famous and trusted scribe, Abraham Farissol, who changed this formula. (http://blog.nli.org.il/en/first_feminist_siddur/?utm_source=activetrail&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=+Newsletter+English+23.11.2017i#.WiP6vWk0f6o.facebook) 

The disjointed nature of my days shows in my Facebook feed, from leaving Toronto, through the funeral, and into shiva. As extended family returns home, I am unable to truly sit. My brother and I split the responsibilities - deciding on and putting out meals, washing dishes. Big Brothers/Big Sisters calls. They will be coming to the neighbourhood on Monday. We have to clean out Daddy’s closet NOW! And so this is how I spend a morning. Bills are being gone through. Drawers searched for information to put Mom at ease that she’ll be able to handle this. Rick Moranis’ “Seven Days of Shiva” (https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=9rei0ExKQJM) plays in my head. We are honestly disappointed the kugel wasn’t potato, and we do have another shiva to attend when we finish Daddy’s. At times I am both grateful an disappointed more people aren’t here. Too many friends are too far away. 

I’m the only one still wearing my kriah ribbon (actually a scarf). Russell wears his shirt when we pray. Otherwise it hangs on the ear of the paper mache llama. (Yes. Really.) I will be the only one saying Kaddish for a year, three times daily. But I already know I will miss Maariv Saturday night and Shacharit Sunday morning. There’s no shul to walk to for Saturday. The one nearby says Maariv at 12:30. My flight Sunday prevents me from attending that morning. Barely into the second week and already missing. Some nights here our timing is a bit off. Maybe someone will shine a flashlight outside the window so I can convince myself that it’s lighter. I love standing next to my Aunt reciting Kaddish with her. When we stand so close I feel we are supporting each other.  Today, in the middle of Maariv, she called Daddy a fink for dying. It was such an Elkin moment. We were looking out the back door almost expecting to see Daddy kneeling by his garden. His shadow lingers there. “That was a really finky thing to do. How could you do this to me. Bruce - you fink!” I agree. (Fink was the name Daddy called us when he was telling us to do something ridiculous that we’d never agree to. “Go out and get me a Boston cream pie, but not like they make today - like from my childhood with real, fresh whipped cream.” “No” ‘You’re a finky kid.” It always made me laugh, but tonight I wanted to cry.

Got up from shiva this morning. Took a short walk just down the driveway since we needed to take Russell to the airport. It seemed strange to take the covers off the mirror and discard my kriah scarf. Now there’s too much to do before I go home. Cleaned some of the garage. Daddy was a gardener, and there were dozens and dozens of plastic pots and styrofoam cups. I piled most into the recycling. Swept. Then took Daddy’s clothes out to the garage for donation. Thursday morning. Mom is moving things around. No more trucks or rocks in the living room. I’m happy to see she’s exerting her own personality. There was a leak in the kitchen to be fixed. And then my first minyan beyond shiva. It was both odd and comforting, a feeling I expect to encounter many more times before this is over. Last night I realized that there will be no more mornings to lie in bed, no cold weekends to hide under the covers. A large part of my own psychological health is about to be sacrificed to tradition, and I don’t know how I feel about that. 

Next entry

It’s quiet now, although some visitors still trickle in. It’s better than having everyone disappear at once. There’s still plenty of food. I busy myself by packing some up and freezing it in single servings. The baked goods also go into the freezer. It’s quiet, too quiet. Mom and I support each other. In some ways we’re also simply moving past each other. My days revolve around minyan and what I can do to help Mom. I’m not sure of the focus of her days. At times we sit and talk, about Dad or Mom’s plans for the next week or month or year. Shabbat is... I lack words. Perhaps it’s best just to say Shabbat is. Mom is napping when I going to minyan Friday night. I leave dinner in the oven. We eat quietly. It’s calm and nice. Mom’s not feeling well in the morning. She says she wants to go with me, and I’m sure she believes it. But minyan was never her thing, and I believe she doesn’t really want to be there. There I’m accepted as part of the minyan now. Everyone looks for me to arrive. I think they will miss me when I leave. 

Shabbat morning brings flurries. By the time I walk home from shul it’s coming down hard. There little wind, and the temperature isn’t too cold. It’s like walking in a wonderland. I sing some zemirot as I walk, enjoying the time outside. 

Going home Sunday morning seems odd. I tear up waiting at security. On some level it wasn’t real until now. But now I’m going home and I’ll never see my father again. So I sit quietly crying outside the gate while waiting for my flight. 

On the plane. I’m among the first to board. I locate the exits and recite tefillat haderekh, my own regular routine. I’m okay until the plane begins to taxi. Then the grief hits me. I wonder what my seat mate is thinking, this young woman silently sobbing, tears flowing from y eyes and down my cheeks. I’m strangely aware that the collar of my sweater is now damp. It’s as if the grief heightens senses. I wish part of shiva could have been at home, surrounded by my own support system. Instead I needed to support My mother and aunt. On the one hand, I could not imagine sitting without them. I needed the family time, the shared memories and laughter. On the other hand, I also needed my community, my minyan(im). It’s too real now. I can’t be home soon enough to hold my children and curl up in my own bed. Keren asked for comfort food for dinner. There isn’t enough in the world to fill the hole in me. Maybe that’s why shiva is so filled with food.

Coming in for a landing. It’s only 12:35. It feels as if this day has lasted forever. Soon we will be on the ground, and the rest of shloshim, the routine of the next year will set in. I cannot wait to embrace it.

Mourning & “How Are You Doing?”

How are you doing? I’m asked this question multiple times a day. I answer in the moment. “Today I’m okay,” or “Not bad right now.” I’m okay in those moments. I’m at work or minyan. I’m busy, and focused.

Then there are the other days. Days without errands to run, chores to do.

Although that’s not just it. Today I’m not okay. Today is the hard day.

I have lots to do. Preparing for Shabbat begins Thursday night. Soup is done. Challah is begun. Today it is baked. I made a trifle. A trifle is a layered dish, simple in the making, but involved in the task. There’s a thin sponge cake followed by a layer of fruit and one of custard. I was supposed to make this for an annual get together. I missed it sitting shiva. With the ingredients in the house, I thought it would make a nice Shabbat dessert. I tweaked it, replacing a custard layer with cannoli filling.

Cake, raspberries, cannoli filling, blueberries softly cooked with brown sugar, vanilla custard, confectioner’s sugar, and crushed hazelnuts. There’s whipped cream for the top, maybe more nuts.

So why is today a bad day? It isn’t the day. It’s the tears. There’s noting of today that brings them. Mom was not a great cook. She never would have made a trifle, or cannolis, or custard. Fresh fruit might be used, but never in a dish beyond fruit salad. But the tears are here. Over and over through the morning. I stand crying at the stove. I cry while zesting a lemon, while mixing egg yolks for the custard. They come unbidden, after days without.

That’s mourning. Days go up. Days slide down. It feels like an eternity, and it feels like yesterday. Day by day, week by week, month by month. Life slowly becomes the new normal, and, while I know there will be a general upward trajectory, days like today won’t end. A moment will occur. I’ll hear a sound, smell a scent, something will spark a memory. No matter the time passed, I will be back here.

Today is the hard day.

Did I Mention I Started Daf Yomi?

January 5th began a new Daf Yomi cycle. Daf Yomi is the practice of studying a double-sided page of Talmud every day. It’s a fascinating and difficult discipline, taking 7.5 years to complete. Talmud is usually studied in great depth, with commentary and discussion. It references itself and other texts, and this quick study does not allow for time to really dissect a text that you can learn for days and still be on the first paragraph.

For many years I thought I’d never be able to do such a thing. But with the advent of new technology, now I can carry my daf with me in PDF form. My ipad always knows where I am.

And so I came to this piece, “One whose deceased relative is laid before him is exempt from reciting Shema” (B. Talmud Berakhot 17b). This is as far as I got. And then I stopped to live this text with my mother’s death. For three days, I didn’t pray, focused instead on the mitzvah of caring for my mother in death. How strange it was to recite Mincha after the funeral, stopping in the Amidah, my breath catching as I remembered to no longer recite my mother’s mane for healing.

Now, ten days later, I’ll start again ten pages behind. We don’t study text in aninut or shiva. Two daf a day, and I hope to catch up. Meanwhile, so much to do, so little time, but with a renewed focus and dedication. 

Kaddish - Starting Again

Weeks or months, they said. But here we are again. Somehow I’m not prepared to begin this cycle again. I was more mentally prepared when my father died. Mom had pancreatic cancer. What was I expecting? But clearly I was expecting, because I’m not prepared to begin again.

With any death there are moments that are overwhelming. The first morning Amidah after the funeral when I no longer added Mom’s name to the list of the sick in my personal prayers. Walking into my shul for Shacharit the morning after retuning home. I stopped in the parking lot and simply cried. I’m just not ready to do this again. There will be so many more moments. I have Hamilton tickets. This week is my daughter’s senior play. Two children celebrate graduations this year. There’s a wedding in the spring. What else will I sit out waiting for my new normal to assert itself, the new normal in which I can’t call Mom to tell her about my day, my work, or the antics the kids got up to.

I cry at Kaddish. Every. Time. It’s just a few days, but it shows no signs of abating. I was stoic for Daddy. But why? Why don’t we cry? Why don’t we show our pain, our sorrow to our communities? Shiva and Kaddish are for the mourner, but they are also for the community to rally, to be its best self, to show support, for those are the moments that really matter.

So I travel with tissues, but each day I use one less. And soon, I know, ready or now, this cycle will be my new normal.

Waiting For the Call - a Move to Hospice

Note: I intended to write a very different entry, which may yet get written. Sometimes writing writes itself. This is one of those times.
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Following Kaddish for my father, I took a break. I always thought I'd get back to my blog, but, somehow, I didn't. Until today.

This post has been a while in the making. Not only is this a form of sharing, but that sharing is a way to process what's going on. Whether trauma or joy, sometimes the emotions and/or thoughts bubble up, and need an outlet.

So here we are.

Life is not perfect, but sometimes it can be charmed. And so it has been for us. Definitely not perfect, but very lucky. Two New Yorkers meeting in LA, barely dating, but fast becoming close friends, we began dating only months before becoming engaged. Friends (at least one, Dan) thought we were crazy. But we knew. Twenty-six plus years and going strong. We have wonderful children (not without issues, but we can talk ADD, anxiety, and depression later). We've worked and lived in amazing places - California, New York, Hawaii, North Carolina, and Ontario. We have friends whom we count as family.

And so we are blessed. I hold this knowledge close for perspective as I push on through this year.

In April my mother was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Not two years after my father's death, she was just getting her life in order, finding her way, and feeling comfortable. Then - Cancer, pancreatic.

Chemo. Radiation. More chemo. Then a break. Building up strength. September brought us news she was driving again. She was going to her clubs and programs. She felt good. The tumour shrunk significantly. We knew there would be more, but breathed a sigh of relief, that deep breath you don't even realize you're holding.

November. The pain was back. My brother was having back surgery. I was scheduled for a full hysterectomy. My mother's first thoughts, "Please God, don't let me die. My children can't sit shiva right now." (Yes, really. Those were her first thoughts.) In just a few weeks it all went sideways. First Russell's surgery. Thank God, successful. Then fluid in her lungs. Drained twice. Two weeks of rehab to gain back strength. My surgery. Also, successful (still recuperating). Less than two weeks after my surgery I drove to NJ with the kids to ensure they could see her. She was weak, but gaining.

We arrived home late December 26. December 30, more fluid was drained. December 31, Mom couldn't get out of bed. Overnight, the fluid returned. And that was it. No more procedures. She was done. Somewhere as that decision was being made, I returned to NJ. After six days in the hospital, Mom returned home to hospice care.

And we're not there. Mom has other family. She has wonderful aides, who must be among the lamed-vavnikim. She has hospice workers who check on her. But we're not there. Her children and grandchildren are too far to be present. Each with our own recovery, we've been gone from our jobs too long. And so we push on. We push through.

But we know, it's not enough. We're going through the motions. Funny, my mind said the the last sentence, but my fingers typed, "through emotions." That's what it is. motions and emotions. Perspective and dreck. Thanking God for blessings, but wondering when the other shoe could drop.

So I hold my children. I laugh with my friends. I work hard. And I wait for the call.