Kaddish dilemma

Last Shabbat in Berkeley I faced a dilemma.  The Mincha afternoon service was switched from the late afternoon to 1:30 p.m., an hour and a half after davening ended, following a luncheon in honor of a recent marriage.  The laws of mourning, as explained to me by my rabbi, do not permit me to attend s'machot (celebratory gatherings) or attend live music concerts.  So I faced the choice between either attending the luncheon so that I could stay for Mincha to recite Kaddish, leaving the synagogue and taking a walk to return for Mincha, in which case I would get back to my father's house at about 3:00 p.m. (his home is about an hour walk from the synagogue), or just leaving and praying Mincha on my own so I could spend more time with my father but not be able to recite Kaddish.  I choose the last alternative.   I feel guilty.  I have not done everything in my power to make sure I do not miss an opportunity to say Kaddish.  I know people who did not miss a single Kaddish during their entire year of mourning.  There are people who make sure to find a minyan near the airport or make sure when they book their flights that it doesn't conflict with the opportunity to pray in public.  I have given priority to being with my father when it conflicted with saying Kaddish for my mother.  These choices are not easily made.  My life is not a seamless whole.  I am trying.  And, I am praying.

Mourner's Hallel

Hallel is a series of psalms recited on Holidays.  It was just recited for the two days of Rosh Chodesh for the new month of Adar.  Hallel is often accompanied by moving melodies.  A good chazzan makes Hallel an uplifting, even exalting experience.  But for mourners, Hallel presents a challenge.  My Shiva (the week of mourning after burial) coincided with Rosh Chodesh (the new month of Kislev), an occasion on which Hallel (the “half Hallel” to be exact) is recited.  Unlike the other days of Shiva, I did not lead prayers on that day.  Not only that, when the time to recite Hallel came, the Rabbi indicated I was to leave the room so that I would not be present for the joyous recitation.  Someone came to inform me when it was “safe” to come out.  My exclusion felt right: not only could I not share the joy of Hallel, my mourning would have been mocked by Hallel. (Another example of how wise Jewish law is when it comes to death and mourning.)  Even now, three months into my mourning period, reciting Hallel feels a bit incongruous.  My spirit is bound up with saying Kaddish, not with expressions of joy.  That day will undoubtedly come, for as the Psalm says “Hear me, God, and be gracious to me.  You have turned my mourning into dancing, you have loosened my sackcloth and supported me with joy.”  (Psalm 30: 11-12)  It hasn’t yet.

9, then 10, redux

Once again Friday evening in Berkeley at a service in someone's home. For mincha we had 9, thus no Kaddish. Then we begin Kabbalat Shabbat services using the beautiful melodies composed by Shlomo Carlebach. People are singing and slowly swaying and all I can think about is "no minyan." Others are feeling uplifted, myself oppressed.  For me, now, Kaddish comes before prayer. I must be able to declare my pain and loss publicly before I can think about communal prayer. Finally during L'cha Dodi the same person who came in last time entered. (See 1/29/12 post.)  A minyan. The anxiety I felt made me appreciate that in New York I don't have to worry whether there will be a minyan. For people in small towns saying Kaddish, the experience must be excruciating.

Joy in shul, but not in my heart

Today there was a Bar Mitzvah in shul.  It was Rosh Chodesh Adar (the new Hebrew month).  Adar is considered a joyous month.  The saying goes that when Adar enters, joy increases.  The Bar Mitzvah boy had his first Aliyah (being called to the Torah).  There was joyous celebration, dancing and throwing candy.  This added about a half hour to the prayer service, which in all lasted almost two hours.  I wasn't in to it.  When I go to shul these days, all I want to do is pray and say kaddish.  I don't feel I can participate in other people's joy.  I don't want to be captive to other people's needs.  (But I feel I have no choice but to stay to the end of services when the kaddishes are recited.)  If I'm being selfish, so be it.

Visiting my father, missing my mother

I'm out again in Berkeley, California visiting my father.  I stay in the house where my parents lived together for 32 years.  I feel my mother's presence in this space.  Her notes, her office, the kitchen she designed.  She would always be awake when I got up, making the coffee, preparing food, getting ready for the day.  Now I'm the first one up, leaving early for shul, returning while my father still sleeps, making the coffee, readying the breakfast.  The more I feel her presence, the more I feel her absence.