A Year of Mourning - Approaching the Unveiling

It's been too long since I've written. Some of this comes simply from the craziness that is my life. August was filled with kids coming home, multiple jobs, and Sean being away. Amidst all of it were emails and phone calls back and forth with the monument people for the headstone and family about the unveiling. It's coming, October 21. And each time I think about it it's harder. After months of seeming okay, August was filled with pain and tears. As the year begins to wind down, it's as if it's time to face reality. Daddy's really gone.

Of course it's not constant. There was plenty of work to distract. All of Elul. Minyanim. Shabbatot. Rosh Hashanah. But often, out of the blue (it always comes that way) I'm suddenly choked up. I can't get through the words of Kaddish, or my voice cracks as I deliver a drash. I find myself thinking how proud my father would be, or wondering about his comments on my drashot. Never one to mince words, when he said something was good, I knew it really was.

There's so much more to say, but I lack words for now, and not work I have yet to do.

So I dedicate this year to my father, the ups and the downs. To each holiday to find the spirituality and the meaning, to connect with family, and to bring out the best. I love you Daddy. May this be a year of peace.

Head Space or My Life is a Musical

Every once in a while I fall into a weird head space. It's not a bad place. It's not depressing. Often it's quite enjoyable. Random thoughts fill my head, like, "Isn't is weird that weird doesn't follow the i before e rule?" I sing more. I snap my fingers to the music in my head while I'm walking. I may even dance. (Although more likely in my kitchen than in public. Trust me. Even though you can't see it, I'm dancing inside!) I never know what will spark such a state, nor how long it will last. In many ways it's not typically productive. I'm distractible and distracted, so regular work is difficult, but I'm also energetic and creative, even inspired.

Being in your own world is not unique in my family. (Can you say ADHD?!) When my oldest was young, I'd sit down in front of him, and say, "I need you to come back from wherever you are." Sometimes physical contact was necessary. One teacher, in kindergarten, actually thought he'd had a seizure because she couldn't seem to reach him until she touched his hand. Days of neurological tests later - nope. That's just the way we are. It breeds art and scholarship of all kinds. My father gardened. My mother is an artist. We are all musical and love working in theatre, either on stage or behind the scenes. We love history and science and mythology. We are geeks and nerds and fangirls (even the boys).

I'm in that space now. I can't focus on the things I think I'm supposed to be doing. I'm in another world. At home, I'm happily creating art light switch covers for my house. (It sounds silly, but something I've been meaning to do for a while now.) Each represents the occupant or the tasks of that room. Ours has our song and the places we've lived. My daughter's has Broadway, Mirvish Village, and London's West End. My younger son's - laboratory flasks and poison molecules. And my elder son - grammar and writing. There will be food themes for the kitchen, and the basement will be games. I'll keep going until the inspiration fades.

In the meantime I'm binge watching Supernatural, and setting up my new phone. I feel like meditating. It's nutty, but peaceful, and I'll take that any day.

A Year of Mourning - Obligation and Desire

A while back I wrote of saying, “I have to say Kaddish.” A congregant replied, “You want to say Kaddish.” While it is true that I want to sy Kaddish for my father, I also have to say Kaddish for my father. This is true regardless of the desire. Many a morning I have cursed the dawn. (that was true before I was saying Kaddish too. I am not a morning person.) I have cursed the morning that always seems to arrive too soon, too early. I need my morning sleep. It is even worse on those days when I have not gotten nearly enough sleep the night before.

Today was a day like that. I stayed up way too late writing a sermon. This is my own darn fault (pushed along by a ridiculous schedule). But there I was. As I wandered to my bed I toyed with the idea of sleeping in. If I did I could go into Shabbat somewhat rested instead of one the edge. With  Shabbat dinner and lunch plans, I know I won’t get the Shabbat nap I’d really like.

With that thought in my head, I lay down; tossed a few times to get comfortable, and settled into sleep. Again, morning came to soon; the alarm waking me from a deep, healing sleep. I needed it. I was tired physically, but also emotionally, writing a sermon to address the recent mass shooting on the Danforth. How do I convey the feeling of this aftermath had worried me, and wrung me out. When the radio blared, I reached over for the snooze button, debating hitting off, as I rolled over for five more minutes.

My body wouldn’t listen. My brain wanted my bed. My body turned, lowering my feet to the floor, rising up for the day. It was time to go to minyan, and say Kaddish.

Hiyuv (obligation) and mitzvah (commandment) are interesting motivators. In our modern world, all religion is voluntary. We choose, whether actively or passively. But for those who believe mitzvah is so much more than a good deed, once done, the choice is gone. My decision to recite Kaddish was a passive one. I am an observant Jew. I made the decision decades ago. I believe that mitzvah is a command, an obligation between God and humankind. I could no more not recite Kaddish that I could rob a liquor store.

That is not to say that I haven’t missed minyan. There have been times when there was no minyan. There has been illness. But it’s always a given that my first thought is when and where I will say Kaddish. I want to say Kaddish. But more importantly, I have to say Kaddish.

A Year of Mourning - A Grandchild's Memory

A letter came from Keren this week. This is not a surprise. She's away for the summer, and is usually a pretty good correspondent. She wrote 10 the 10th of Av, the day we observed Tisha B'Av, the national day of mourning for the Jewish people. It's a day associated with multiple tragedies in our history. For Keren, and now me, one more.

Tisha B'Av is a difficult day. It fall in mid-summer, a time when waking hours are long and hot. The liturgy is longer, but does not fill the day like on Yom Kippur. Focus is harder. The day drags on. Keren wrote, "Last night, at Eicha, I realized that exactly two years ago was the last time I wrote a letter to Papa, right after you told us his kidneys failed. I don't think his death has hit me this hard since the shiva." we didn't know then, but that was the beginning of the end, an end that would take almost a year and a half. Perhaps it could be marked earlier, with an infection that led to the antibiotics, which led to the kidney failure. We could even look much earlier, all the way to his genetics. But, in truth, he was never the same, physically or emotionally, once he began dialysis.

It's led to a difficult week. I wonder what my father thought upon receiving Keren's letter. Daddy suffered from depression. It masked, to him, how truly loved he was. And so, this week, thinking of the human interactions and failings that led to the destruction of the Temple (at least in legend), I am also thinking of the interactions and failing that led up to my father's death.

The 10th of Av is exactly eight months following my father's death. 17 months after we told the kids. Four months to my father's first yahrtzeit. Over and over it just keeps knocking my on my ass. Constricting my heart. Bringing tears to my eyes. Clogging my throat. Filling my mind. Leading my own personal lamentation.

A Year of Mourning - Memory and Mourning

I’m more than half-way through my year. There are moments when I wonder what it will be like to have choices in my day. Of course all observance is a choice, but once made the path is clear. There are moments when I dream of sleeping in, of taking a break. And in all these moments I think of memories, memories of Daddy that come unbidden to mind. They float in from the ether, invading my mind, and invading my day.

Talking on the phone with Jesse, or writing to Gavi or Keren I think about conversations with Daddy. I end every conversation, every letter or email with “I love you.” I cannot remember ever hearing those words from my father. It didn’t matter. We knew he loved us. He showed us through so many of his actions, even through his words, though never literally. Years ago I realized Daddy never said, “I love you,” and I made sure to say it to him.  Every phone conversation, multiple times each visit, I made sure to tell him. I don’t know why he couldn’t say the words, but I wanted him to hear them. And I started saying them more and more to my children, my husband, my friends. I never felt hurt that Daddy couldn’t say the words; I was sad for him. He dealt with depression and frustration, and no matter how many time I told him that I loved him, I’m not sure he believed it. Perhaps he didn’t think he was able to be truly loved.

As I bought a subscription to Mirvish, looking forward to a year of performances, I think about my introduction to theatre and the arts. Daddy preferred opera or symphony. Movies were not his thing, but he’d put up with hours of good, bad, or mediocre tv to spend time with Russell and me. Mom would walk in and ask, “Why are you watching this garbage?!” But it was never him. It was our choice. Daddy insisted there be only one tv in the house. “If we’re not going to talk to each other, at least we’ll be in the same room, and you’ll have to talk once or twice an hour” as we discussed/argued over what to watch next. And so Daddy invades my television choices.

Today I finished Ilana Kurshan’s “If All the Seas Were Ink,” her memoir that follows her study of daf yomi, the seven year cycle of studying the entire Talmud. Daddy loved learning of all kinds. Discovering Talmud was a gift to him, a gift that was eventually taken away with his focus. I find the idea of daf yomi intriguing, and I wonder if I have the discipline to accomplish it. I’d like to study in Daddy’s honour. But even more so, I’d like to study with him, to live close by and spend a couple of hours a day working through the pages of Talmud. We’d never be able to do it. Daf yomi takes a focus we simply didn’t have, but also a willingness to learn on the surface level. It is impossible to delve into the page in any depth every day while still living life. We never learned that way. We’d pick a topic apart, examining it from all side; Daddy playing devil’s advocate, pushing, pushing us to deeper understanding and ability to explain ourselves.

I wonder what it will be tomorrow. Will I think of skating? Of vacations? Or something completely different?

Half-way through Daddy’s more in my life today than ever.