I haven't missed an opportunity to say kaddish for over three months. I've been in a synagogue every day, for every prayer service, Shacharit (morning), Mincha (afternoon) and Ma'ariv (evening) since I missed shul due to a delayed flight on the morning of February 26. Since then, I've recited the four kaddishes during the morning service, the Rabbi's Kaddish (Kaddish D'rabanan) after the rabbi delivers his d'var halacha (words of Jewish law) following Shacharit, the Mourner's Kaddish that concludes Mincha, the Rabbi's Kaddish after the rabbi speaks between Mincha and Ma'ariv, and the Mourner's Kaddish that concludes Ma'ariv. It's a routine, but it's not easy. At a minimum, I have to keep track of time and not oversleep.
Yesterday I did oversleep. My alarm went off at 5:55, but I turned it off and went back to sleep. When I awoke it was already 6:30. Shul began at 6:55. To get to shul in time to make the first kaddish, I needed to be there by 6:58. Fortunately, I'm in the habit of preparing everything I need for the day (lunch, backpack, usually even showering) the night before. I'd even shaved the night before to get rid of the three days of stubble accumulated during Shabbat and the two days of Shavuot that had ended the previous evening. Still, I had to make my coffee (priorities are priorities), dress, brush my teeth, grab my tallis bag, all of which I did, getting to shul with a few minutes to spare before services began.
A few weeks back I had a dream. I was trying to say kaddish, but I was having difficulty. I felt dizzy and had to hold on to a ledge to keep from tumbling. I was short of breath, gasping for air. I didn't think I'd be able to complete the kaddish. That was the dream.
No one told me that mourning would be easy. Maybe it shouldn't be easy? But maybe I'm needlessly punishing myself? Maybe the Jewish way of mourning, if followed to the letter, is completely obsessive? I'd prefer not to answer these questions.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
God always provides mourners
I haven't been davening from the Amud (being the prayer leader) much in recent days. The reason is that there are two new mourners attending the morning minyan (prayer service). As they were in their shloshim period (first 30 days after burial), they had priority over me to daven. Now that their shloshim period has ended, I expect to be, in the peculiar language of mourners, "back in business" (i.e., back leading prayers), at least on a part-time basis.
When I first began attending shul to say kaddish for my mother, I often acted as the shaliach tzibur (prayer leader) at all three services (morning, afternoon and evening). I was getting pretty tired of it, but a friend told me not to worry, new mourners would inevitably supplant me. And so they have.
There is a Yiddish expression, quoted in Ari Goldman's book Living a Year of Kaddish: "God always provides mourners" (page 98). This book, in addition to Leon Wieseltier's Kaddish, are mainstays on the "recommended reading list" for mourners. (Goldman's book, which I just finished, is too light and "feel-goody" for my taste.) The saying expresses a bitter truth. God takes away our loved ones. In our grief, we are driven into shul to say kaddish. There we join the larger community of mourners. The community is "thankful" to have these mourners, as they form the foundation of the community of daveners. And, for the existence of this community, we have God to "thank."
When I first began attending shul to say kaddish for my mother, I often acted as the shaliach tzibur (prayer leader) at all three services (morning, afternoon and evening). I was getting pretty tired of it, but a friend told me not to worry, new mourners would inevitably supplant me. And so they have.
There is a Yiddish expression, quoted in Ari Goldman's book Living a Year of Kaddish: "God always provides mourners" (page 98). This book, in addition to Leon Wieseltier's Kaddish, are mainstays on the "recommended reading list" for mourners. (Goldman's book, which I just finished, is too light and "feel-goody" for my taste.) The saying expresses a bitter truth. God takes away our loved ones. In our grief, we are driven into shul to say kaddish. There we join the larger community of mourners. The community is "thankful" to have these mourners, as they form the foundation of the community of daveners. And, for the existence of this community, we have God to "thank."
Second Yizkor
Today, the second day of Shavuot, was my second Yizkor. Yizkor is the memorial service for the departed, recited four times a year: on the holidays of Passover, Shavuot and Shmini Atzeret and on Yom Kippur. This time I decided to say Yizkor at the more informal and smaller 7:00 a.m. minyan I usually attend on Sabbath. (See Posts "Where to say Yizkor" http://mykaddishyear.blogspot.com/2012/04/where-to-say-yizkor.html and "First Yizkor" http://mykaddishyear.blogspot.com/2012/04/yizkor.html for my thoughts and reflections on my first Yizkor.)
I walked to shul alone in the early morning. My thoughts were on the upcoming Yizkor. I hadn't thought too much about it in the previous days. But as my steps brought me closer to shul, I felt in a different sort of mood than usual. I knew that, unlike most services, there would be space for me to be at one with my mourning. If I felt like crying, I could. (Not that crying is not allowed on other occasions, but it seldom happens.) Mourners may not be crying as they go to shul on days when Yizkor is recited, but they know that they carry tears waiting to be shed.
The prayers today were festive, too festive for my mood. The prayer leader sang the full Hallel with soulful, uplifting melodies. I'd rather he hadn't. They didn't lift my spirits or console me. It verged on mockery of my feelings. It's true that Judaism has periods of abrupt transitions from sorrow to joy (think Yom HaZikaron to Yom Ha'atzmaut), but I never was that flexible emotionally. A passage I read today from Wieseltier's book Kaddish (page 414--only 100 more pages to go!) expressed my thoughts (as he often does): "to be consoled is to repent, that is, to change one's mind, to have one's attention diverted to another sorrow, to admit another object, another motive, another desire, into one's consciousness. For sorrow wants nothing but sorrow. (my emphasis.) It is the perfect example of single-mindedness." Today I just needed to focused on my sorrow.
Unlike the first Yizkor, when I stood next to my father, I didn't cry as much today. At the first Yizkor, the tears flowed, the wound felt raw, but it closed up quickly. Today I wished the Yizkor service was longer. The prayer for one's parent is only six lines. I repeated it, feeling unfinished after the first reading. I didn't want to move on. But I had to. I said the prayers for Holocaust victims and fallen Israeli soldiers. I wished to, but didn't feel, my mother's presence. The feeling that once I had a mother who fed me, advised me (whether or not solicited), scolded me, misunderstood me but always loved me, stayed with me until the final kaddish of the service. Then, following services, as food was served and schmoozing (informal conversing) began, that feeling too dissipated.
The next Yizkor is just over four months away. I still have my prayers and my kaddishes and my thoughts about my prayers and my kaddishes.
I walked to shul alone in the early morning. My thoughts were on the upcoming Yizkor. I hadn't thought too much about it in the previous days. But as my steps brought me closer to shul, I felt in a different sort of mood than usual. I knew that, unlike most services, there would be space for me to be at one with my mourning. If I felt like crying, I could. (Not that crying is not allowed on other occasions, but it seldom happens.) Mourners may not be crying as they go to shul on days when Yizkor is recited, but they know that they carry tears waiting to be shed.
The prayers today were festive, too festive for my mood. The prayer leader sang the full Hallel with soulful, uplifting melodies. I'd rather he hadn't. They didn't lift my spirits or console me. It verged on mockery of my feelings. It's true that Judaism has periods of abrupt transitions from sorrow to joy (think Yom HaZikaron to Yom Ha'atzmaut), but I never was that flexible emotionally. A passage I read today from Wieseltier's book Kaddish (page 414--only 100 more pages to go!) expressed my thoughts (as he often does): "to be consoled is to repent, that is, to change one's mind, to have one's attention diverted to another sorrow, to admit another object, another motive, another desire, into one's consciousness. For sorrow wants nothing but sorrow. (my emphasis.) It is the perfect example of single-mindedness." Today I just needed to focused on my sorrow.
Unlike the first Yizkor, when I stood next to my father, I didn't cry as much today. At the first Yizkor, the tears flowed, the wound felt raw, but it closed up quickly. Today I wished the Yizkor service was longer. The prayer for one's parent is only six lines. I repeated it, feeling unfinished after the first reading. I didn't want to move on. But I had to. I said the prayers for Holocaust victims and fallen Israeli soldiers. I wished to, but didn't feel, my mother's presence. The feeling that once I had a mother who fed me, advised me (whether or not solicited), scolded me, misunderstood me but always loved me, stayed with me until the final kaddish of the service. Then, following services, as food was served and schmoozing (informal conversing) began, that feeling too dissipated.
The next Yizkor is just over four months away. I still have my prayers and my kaddishes and my thoughts about my prayers and my kaddishes.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
The efficacy of kaddish
The topic of the Rabbi's D'var Torah (brief words of Torah) between Mincha and Ma'ariv has been kivud av v'aym (honoring one's parents). The last few evenings, the Rabbi focused on honoring a deceased parent. It turns out the commandment to honor your parents extends even after their death. One way of honoring them is by saying kaddish.
Ask the average person, and they'd probably say that the benefit of saying kaddish is its therapeutic effect on the mourner. Kaddish focuses the mourner on his or her loss, affirms one's commitment to God and links the mourner to the larger community as well as one's fellow mourners.
However, the Rabbi did not mention any of this. Rather, he explored the traditional view of kaddish: its ability to aid the soul of the deceased. Kaddish accomplishes this either by rescuing the soul from the fires of Gehenom (hell) or by elevating the soul to the higher levels of Gan Eden (heaven). Kaddish is recited on the Sabbath because even though the soul's sufferings in Gehenom cease on the day of rest, kaddish remains effective in elevating the soul. The benefit of kaddish to the soul also explains why it is recited more than once a day (the mandatory minimum), for each recitation helps to elevate the soul toward its intended destination. It is also the reason that a parent's wish the child not recite kaddish should be disregarded, for if the parent truly knew the efficacy of kaddish in saving the deceased's soul, he or she would never have made such a request. (For more information, see Leon Wieseltier's Book, Kaddish, which explores the sources that gave rise to these ideas.)
The Rabbi specifically mentioned he could not answer any questions about these ideas, for they derive from mystical beliefs that cannot be rationally explained. (The request for "no questions please" made me chuckle.) Such ideas do not hold much meaning for me. It's difficult to believe that my words are affecting my mother's soul or that, given all she did for others--her clients, friends, husband, children, grandchildren, the state of Israel--and the peace she achieved in her last days with her impending death and with her relationship with God, that she needs my words to find eternal rest. Perhaps, as with other matters of faith, I will in time come to understand these ideas more fully. As with many other Jewish practices, it is action rather than belief that takes precedence. I will continue reciting my eight kaddishes a day, even if they aren't doing anything for my mother's soul. If they are, so much the better.
Ask the average person, and they'd probably say that the benefit of saying kaddish is its therapeutic effect on the mourner. Kaddish focuses the mourner on his or her loss, affirms one's commitment to God and links the mourner to the larger community as well as one's fellow mourners.
However, the Rabbi did not mention any of this. Rather, he explored the traditional view of kaddish: its ability to aid the soul of the deceased. Kaddish accomplishes this either by rescuing the soul from the fires of Gehenom (hell) or by elevating the soul to the higher levels of Gan Eden (heaven). Kaddish is recited on the Sabbath because even though the soul's sufferings in Gehenom cease on the day of rest, kaddish remains effective in elevating the soul. The benefit of kaddish to the soul also explains why it is recited more than once a day (the mandatory minimum), for each recitation helps to elevate the soul toward its intended destination. It is also the reason that a parent's wish the child not recite kaddish should be disregarded, for if the parent truly knew the efficacy of kaddish in saving the deceased's soul, he or she would never have made such a request. (For more information, see Leon Wieseltier's Book, Kaddish, which explores the sources that gave rise to these ideas.)
The Rabbi specifically mentioned he could not answer any questions about these ideas, for they derive from mystical beliefs that cannot be rationally explained. (The request for "no questions please" made me chuckle.) Such ideas do not hold much meaning for me. It's difficult to believe that my words are affecting my mother's soul or that, given all she did for others--her clients, friends, husband, children, grandchildren, the state of Israel--and the peace she achieved in her last days with her impending death and with her relationship with God, that she needs my words to find eternal rest. Perhaps, as with other matters of faith, I will in time come to understand these ideas more fully. As with many other Jewish practices, it is action rather than belief that takes precedence. I will continue reciting my eight kaddishes a day, even if they aren't doing anything for my mother's soul. If they are, so much the better.
Monday, May 21, 2012
I miss my mother
For 56 years, my mother was natural and consistent part of my life. After I moved to New York some 16 years ago, we spoke a few times a week on the phone. There was no such thing as a short or pro forma conversation with her. Fortunately, the availability of unlimited minute plans came into existence about the time of my move. I, as well as her many friends, sought her advice on matters mundane and profound. In this way, and in so many others, I miss her.
She appeared in a dream a few nights ago. I saw her in the distance. I wasn't expecting to see her. I was so excited to see her. I ran full speed toward her. That was the end of the dream.
Each day the reality of her absence sinks in further. And yet I still long for her presence.
She appeared in a dream a few nights ago. I saw her in the distance. I wasn't expecting to see her. I was so excited to see her. I ran full speed toward her. That was the end of the dream.
Each day the reality of her absence sinks in further. And yet I still long for her presence.
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