Last night I went to a Shiva home to daven Mincha and Ma'ariv. His mother died last week. The Shiva began last Wednesday and ended this morning. In between a major storm hit New York, Hurricane Sandy. By Sunday evening the weather was getting quite iffy. The winds were gusting at over 40 miles per hour. Trees were swaying. Branches were crashing down. I'd thought about going over to the Shiva home, which was only two blocks from my home, but when I looked outside, I decided to say my prayers at home. Had I still been saying kaddish I would have had a more difficult decision: whether to make sure I fulfilled my kaddish obligation or err on the side of my own personal safety. I probably would have decided (and my wife would have urged me) that my life was more important than my mother's soul.
After the service yesterday evening at the mourner's home, I asked him whether he had gotten a minyan (quorum of ten) for each prayer service. I was expecting a negative answer given the extraordinary weather. But he told me there was a minyan for every service. Such is the power of kaddish. Not even Hurricane Sandy dissuaded the faithful from making sure this man had a minyan to say kaddish during his Shiva.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Another Giants championship!
Two nights ago I had the thrill of watching my favorite baseball team, the San Francisco Giants, win the World Series. It was their second triumph in the last three years. Before their last Series victory in 2010, I never thought I'd live to see a Giants' World Series triumph. Their previous championship season was 1954, the year before I was born. They'd come close several times, most notably in the heartbreaking World Series debacle of 2002. I figured that my life and the Giants coming out on top would not overlap.
But in 2010, they defied the odds and won the World Series. What a thrill. After Brian Wilson struck out the last Texas Ranger, I celebrated with my son in our New York home as if we were part of the crowd back in San Francisco. The entire Bay Area was swept up in Giants Fever. Even my mother, never a sports fan, couldn't resist getting caught up in the excitement. And this was in October, seven months after she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. She wasn't even expected to be alive by the time October rolled around.
My mother saved for me the San Francisco Chronicle reports on the World Series. Ever thoughtful of others, she purchased gear for me, my brother and my son commemorating the victory. For me she bought a cap that reads "2010 Giants World Series Champions." Thinking about this now, it's amazing that while she was getting chemotherapy and not sure how much time she had left, she was able to think about small things that her loved ones would like.
For the last two days, I've been wearing the cap to celebrate the Giant's 2012 championship. But this cap isn't just any cat. It's like so many things I have that I owe to her thoughtfulness: the seat covers she sewed for me, the candlesticks she gave us, the dishes she helped me select, the bookshelves she helped pay for, the jewelry she gave my wife as birthday presents and, finally, the clothing she gave my wife in her last year of life because she knew she wouldn't wear them again.
The cap is one of many objects around my home that I wouldn't have but for my mother. Now that she is no longer alive, these objects take on a new meaning. A sanctification of sorts. A reminder of all she gave me, the tangible and the emotional, of the myriad small and profound connections that characterized our relationship.
Had she lived, she surely would have bought me a 2012 Giants victory cap. I'm wearing the 2010 championship cap this week to celebrate their victory and in her honor. As for purchasing this year's championship gear, I'm on my own.
But in 2010, they defied the odds and won the World Series. What a thrill. After Brian Wilson struck out the last Texas Ranger, I celebrated with my son in our New York home as if we were part of the crowd back in San Francisco. The entire Bay Area was swept up in Giants Fever. Even my mother, never a sports fan, couldn't resist getting caught up in the excitement. And this was in October, seven months after she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. She wasn't even expected to be alive by the time October rolled around.
My mother saved for me the San Francisco Chronicle reports on the World Series. Ever thoughtful of others, she purchased gear for me, my brother and my son commemorating the victory. For me she bought a cap that reads "2010 Giants World Series Champions." Thinking about this now, it's amazing that while she was getting chemotherapy and not sure how much time she had left, she was able to think about small things that her loved ones would like.
For the last two days, I've been wearing the cap to celebrate the Giant's 2012 championship. But this cap isn't just any cat. It's like so many things I have that I owe to her thoughtfulness: the seat covers she sewed for me, the candlesticks she gave us, the dishes she helped me select, the bookshelves she helped pay for, the jewelry she gave my wife as birthday presents and, finally, the clothing she gave my wife in her last year of life because she knew she wouldn't wear them again.
The cap is one of many objects around my home that I wouldn't have but for my mother. Now that she is no longer alive, these objects take on a new meaning. A sanctification of sorts. A reminder of all she gave me, the tangible and the emotional, of the myriad small and profound connections that characterized our relationship.
Had she lived, she surely would have bought me a 2012 Giants victory cap. I'm wearing the 2010 championship cap this week to celebrate their victory and in her honor. As for purchasing this year's championship gear, I'm on my own.
Monday, October 29, 2012
Mourning without kaddish
I've completed the 11 months of reciting kaddish. I am no longer a "chiuv," that is, I no longer have an obligation to say kaddish and am not chosen to lead prayers. When the Gabbai announces before services, "is there anyone observing a Yahrzeit? . . . Shloshim? . . . A chiuv?", he no longer looks at me and I don't make eye contact with him.
On the other hand, I am still an "avel," that is, a person in the first year of mourning. I'm still obligated in the all laws of mourning: I'm not supposed to hear live music, attend joyful events, or wear new clothing. Thus, until the Yahrzeit, I live in an ambiguous state: mourning without kaddish.
There is more to mourning than saying kaddish, but because mourning is so identified with kaddish, it's easy to feel as if my year of mourning is already over. Kaddish is what reminds you of your parent's death. Kaddish is what announces to others that your parent died recently. Without kaddish, the sense of loss is not as intense.
The ostensible reason that kaddish ends before the year of mourning relates to the supposed effect of kaddish on the deceased's soul. (see http://mykaddishyear.blogspot.com/2012/05/efficacy-of-kaddish.html) You stop saying kaddish before the full 12 months because the soul is sufficiently elevated by 11 months. To continue would imply that your parent was not worthy to be elevated within 11 months. (see http://www.jewish-funeral-guide.com/tradition/kaddish-duration.htm)
Perhaps there is another less profound way of looking at the early end to kaddish. It's a way of easing you out of the state of mourning. Maybe it would be too abrupt to stop saying kaddish and stop being a mourner simultaneously. And so there is a month between the end of kaddish and the Yahrzeit to think about what mourning means without the benefit of kaddish.
I am using this time to plan how I will commemorate the Yahrzeit. I am thinking about how I will incorporate my mother's life into my life. I am thinking about how I will live out the rest of my life without her earthly presence. Her absence still astonishes me. It's easier to accept now than in the days and months just after she died. But it's still difficult. I'm sure it always will be.
On the other hand, I am still an "avel," that is, a person in the first year of mourning. I'm still obligated in the all laws of mourning: I'm not supposed to hear live music, attend joyful events, or wear new clothing. Thus, until the Yahrzeit, I live in an ambiguous state: mourning without kaddish.
There is more to mourning than saying kaddish, but because mourning is so identified with kaddish, it's easy to feel as if my year of mourning is already over. Kaddish is what reminds you of your parent's death. Kaddish is what announces to others that your parent died recently. Without kaddish, the sense of loss is not as intense.
The ostensible reason that kaddish ends before the year of mourning relates to the supposed effect of kaddish on the deceased's soul. (see http://mykaddishyear.blogspot.com/2012/05/efficacy-of-kaddish.html) You stop saying kaddish before the full 12 months because the soul is sufficiently elevated by 11 months. To continue would imply that your parent was not worthy to be elevated within 11 months. (see http://www.jewish-funeral-guide.com/tradition/kaddish-duration.htm)
Perhaps there is another less profound way of looking at the early end to kaddish. It's a way of easing you out of the state of mourning. Maybe it would be too abrupt to stop saying kaddish and stop being a mourner simultaneously. And so there is a month between the end of kaddish and the Yahrzeit to think about what mourning means without the benefit of kaddish.
I am using this time to plan how I will commemorate the Yahrzeit. I am thinking about how I will incorporate my mother's life into my life. I am thinking about how I will live out the rest of my life without her earthly presence. Her absence still astonishes me. It's easier to accept now than in the days and months just after she died. But it's still difficult. I'm sure it always will be.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Birth and kaddish: a woman's story
One of the "benefits" of saying kaddish is getting to know people you wouldn't have otherwise met. There's a bond that exists among kaddish sayers. You might not have much in common with them, but there is one thing you do have in common, and that one thing is what defines your life at present. When you say kaddish, you notice who else around the room is saying it. When you look at or speak to that person, there is an unspoken understanding of shared pain and sorrow.
When you are a man and there are women saying kaddish, the connection is not quite so automatic. First of all, in an Orthodox shul such as where I pray, the women are on the other side of the Mechitza (divider between the men's and women's section), so you are not sharing the same physical space. Depending on the layout of the shul, unless you are standing near the women's section, you may not even be aware of the presence of female mourners. In addition, only the men are being called up to lead prayers and part of the connection between (male) mourners is being in the rotation for leading prayers.
I have gotten to know some of the women saying kaddish, and I am moved to write about one in particular. She stood out because she was obviously pregnant. I thought to myself: how strange to be both a mourner and an expectant mother. How strange to be simultaneously inhabiting the worlds of death and life. To be pulled between the lost connection to your parent and toward the creation of a child. I suppose that if my wife had given birth to a child during my year of mourning, I may have experienced similar emotions. But there is something qualitatively different about having one's body literally fill up with life and feeling the emptiness of loss that a man could never experience in the same way.
A few months ago she gave birth to a boy. She named him Binyamin after her father for whom she was saying kaddish. In her D'var Torah (which she was kind enough to share with me) delivered at her son's Brit Milah (circumcision), she spoke about her newborn's name. Binyamin was also the name of the child born to the biblical Rachel who died in childbirth. Rachel named him "Ben Oni", usually translated as "son of my pain" or "son of my affliction." Her husband Jacob then changed the boy's name to Benyamin, which literally means "son of my right," the word "right" connoting strength. However, the word "oni" can also mean strength. Rachel calls him the "Son of my Strength" and Jacob affirms the name, removing the latent ambiguity of "oni" by calling him Binyamin.
These words affirmed both the sorrow of mourning her father and the hope represented by her newborn as well as the real yet never to be actualized connection between grandfather and child.
The recitation of kaddish itself, with its message of the future sanctification of God's name and realization of peace, presents a similar ambiguity between pain and hope. As I move toward the first Yahrzeit of my mother and beyond, I pray that her legacy will continue to live on in her children, grandchildren and beyond.
When you are a man and there are women saying kaddish, the connection is not quite so automatic. First of all, in an Orthodox shul such as where I pray, the women are on the other side of the Mechitza (divider between the men's and women's section), so you are not sharing the same physical space. Depending on the layout of the shul, unless you are standing near the women's section, you may not even be aware of the presence of female mourners. In addition, only the men are being called up to lead prayers and part of the connection between (male) mourners is being in the rotation for leading prayers.
I have gotten to know some of the women saying kaddish, and I am moved to write about one in particular. She stood out because she was obviously pregnant. I thought to myself: how strange to be both a mourner and an expectant mother. How strange to be simultaneously inhabiting the worlds of death and life. To be pulled between the lost connection to your parent and toward the creation of a child. I suppose that if my wife had given birth to a child during my year of mourning, I may have experienced similar emotions. But there is something qualitatively different about having one's body literally fill up with life and feeling the emptiness of loss that a man could never experience in the same way.
A few months ago she gave birth to a boy. She named him Binyamin after her father for whom she was saying kaddish. In her D'var Torah (which she was kind enough to share with me) delivered at her son's Brit Milah (circumcision), she spoke about her newborn's name. Binyamin was also the name of the child born to the biblical Rachel who died in childbirth. Rachel named him "Ben Oni", usually translated as "son of my pain" or "son of my affliction." Her husband Jacob then changed the boy's name to Benyamin, which literally means "son of my right," the word "right" connoting strength. However, the word "oni" can also mean strength. Rachel calls him the "Son of my Strength" and Jacob affirms the name, removing the latent ambiguity of "oni" by calling him Binyamin.
These words affirmed both the sorrow of mourning her father and the hope represented by her newborn as well as the real yet never to be actualized connection between grandfather and child.
The recitation of kaddish itself, with its message of the future sanctification of God's name and realization of peace, presents a similar ambiguity between pain and hope. As I move toward the first Yahrzeit of my mother and beyond, I pray that her legacy will continue to live on in her children, grandchildren and beyond.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Cleaning the covers
In the shul where I usually daven on weekdays, there are covers. One covers the Bimah, which is where the Torah is placed when read on Monday and Thursday mornings. The other covers the Amud, or prayer stand. On this stand is placed the prayer book the prayer leader uses while leading prayers. It is in front of this stand where I've spent hours and hours leading prayers. It's become a spot I was quite familiar with, that place from which I said the prayers, both silently and out loud for the community. Often I held on to the stand, at times feeling so overwhelmed that I felt I was holding on to it for dear life.
The covers, which match, are beautiful. They are a reddish purple shade with flower-like designs on them. But they were filthy. So many hands had been on them. I could tell they hadn't been cleaned in a while.
In the beginning of his book Kaddish, Leon Wieseltier comments on covers:
For my own sensibility (I guess she taught me well) and to honor her, I have tried in small ways to make certain aesthetic improvements to the shul. I moved the ark slightly so that it was more centered and gave space between the Ark and the Amud (prayer stand). I purchased bookends for books the rabbis use so they wouldn't pile up.
During the high holidays, the covers on the Amud and the Bimah were replaced with white covers. The replacement during this period of the regular covers with white ones is traditional and reflects our yearning to be spiritually pure, cleansed of our sins, and to begin the new year with a fresh start. I suggested to the Rabbi and shul's Executive Director that this time be used to have the covers brought in to the dry cleaners.
Two days ago I entered the shul to find the white covers gone and the regular ones there, sparkling clean. Their presence radiated, standing out among the books and white walls. I gasped and said to myself, "Ma, look how much nicer this place is" and I felt her smile, "yes." It made my day. I was saying my prayers in a place she would have felt comfortable.
The covers, which match, are beautiful. They are a reddish purple shade with flower-like designs on them. But they were filthy. So many hands had been on them. I could tell they hadn't been cleaned in a while.
In the beginning of his book Kaddish, Leon Wieseltier comments on covers:
"A red velvet cloth is thrown over the rostrum at the front of the shul, directly before the ark in which the Torah scrolls are placed. Here stands the presenter, that is, the leader of the service, that is, the mourner; and as I place my hands on this cloth, which is the color of wine, I see the traces of the hands that preceded mine. There are stains in the velvet. In places it is threadbare. This is an exquisite erosion. It is not neglect that thins these instruments. Quite the contrary. The more threadbare, the better. The thinner, the thicker" (Kaddish, p. 5).Wieseltier may have been moved by stains, but for months I have been hoping to get the covers cleaned. In a previous post, I complained about the condition of the shul. (see http://mykaddishyear.blogspot.com/2012/05/complaint.html) My mother believed in noticing everything, in paying attention to the details of our inner and outer lives. I never heard her say this, but her actions demonstrated that we are responsible for creating the physical spaces we inhabit. We are called upon to create beauty and order in this world. This was not just an obsession with cleanliness, but a philosophy that our outer world, whether they be our clothes, homes, possessions, or the way we carry ourselves, reflect our humanity.
For my own sensibility (I guess she taught me well) and to honor her, I have tried in small ways to make certain aesthetic improvements to the shul. I moved the ark slightly so that it was more centered and gave space between the Ark and the Amud (prayer stand). I purchased bookends for books the rabbis use so they wouldn't pile up.
During the high holidays, the covers on the Amud and the Bimah were replaced with white covers. The replacement during this period of the regular covers with white ones is traditional and reflects our yearning to be spiritually pure, cleansed of our sins, and to begin the new year with a fresh start. I suggested to the Rabbi and shul's Executive Director that this time be used to have the covers brought in to the dry cleaners.
Two days ago I entered the shul to find the white covers gone and the regular ones there, sparkling clean. Their presence radiated, standing out among the books and white walls. I gasped and said to myself, "Ma, look how much nicer this place is" and I felt her smile, "yes." It made my day. I was saying my prayers in a place she would have felt comfortable.
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