Pesach is coming

The holiday of Pesach (Passover) is coming.  It's less than three weeks away.  For more than 20 years, my family has been traveling to my parents' home in California to celebrate this holiday.  No other holiday in the Jewish calendar is so home and family centered as is Passover.  For years, my mother of blessed memory prepared the Seder and all the meals: scrumptious chicken soup with knaidelach (matzto balls) that floated effortlessly in the soup, two kinds of charoset, home made sorbet, and much much more.  Even suffering from cancer, she was able to put together the basics last year, augmented with catered meals.  I never felt more taken care of than when I was in my parents' home during Pesach. 

All this in the past.  Now my father plans to travel to my family for the holiday.  Now it's my turn to take care of him.  At the beginning of the Seder, we will recite the "Shehechianyu" blessing, thanking God for sustaining us and allowing us to see this day.  Never will a blessing be recited with more mixed emotions than that one.

Disassociated prayer

The experience of davening from the Amud (leading the prayers) as a mourner has felt somewhat incongruous. I haven't been feeling very spiritual. While I sometime achieve deep concentration while reciting Kaddish, I can't say the same for my prayers. Why, I can't say for sure. I don't think it's that I'm angry at God, though I'm upset that my mother was taken from this world before age 79.  She had so much more to live for, and I often imagine what she would have been like in her 80s: still full of life, still working, still cooking, still dispensing her wisdom to everyone, whether they wanted to hear it or not.

Today while leading prayers, I felt that my mouth was moving, the words were pouring out, but my body was elsewhere. Complete disassociation of body and soul.  Could anyone tell?  Probably not. Would anyone care? Unlikely.

Changing times and seasons

One of the interesting things about going to shul every morning is that I get to experience daily the change of the natural cycle of night and day.  When I first began my walks to shul in late November, it was completely dark.  That continued until about five weeks ago when the first light of day appeared.  As winter waned, the light intensified, until last week the sun shown directly at me as I stepped out onto the sidewalk.  Then we moved the clocks forward last weekend, so that it is again semi-light.  The mild New York winter has triggered the trees to bud already, though the first leaves have yet to appear.  The last few days, the birds seem to be chirping more loudly.  I even heard them today in shul (or did I never notice them before)?

With the clocks changed, I now have a couple of hours between the end of work and the evening prayers. I used to have to rush out of work to get to shul in time.  Gradually, as the days got longer, I was able to do brief errands before shul.  (Mincha (the afternoon prayer service) is scheduled for about 10 minutes before sunset.)  By the time we moved the clocks, I could do a full shopping. 

Going to shul daily means more than going into a synogogue building.  It means calibrating one's existence to the cycle of life.  Through the acknowledgement of death, it is an commitment to life.

Kaddish, with and without tears

Sometimes, actually most times, when I recite Kaddish, it's just words.  There are internal and external factors at work.  One is how I'm feeling.  Sometimes my emotions are near the surface, other times they are buried within.  At this point, I can't really explain what accounts for the variation, though, on reflection, I believe that morning Kaddishes carry more feeling than the afternoon and evening ones.  The external factors are whether others are saying Kaddish, and, if so, the pace at which it is being recited.

The most powerful Kaddishes of the week are at the Shabbat morning service I attend, along with a small group of about 25 others. I am the only one reciting Kaddish.  When I recite Kaddish with this minyan, I usually feel tears welling up, though they have yet to spill out.  My words are spoken with  trembling.  I wonder if I will become so overwhelmed that completing the Kaddish will be difficult, the way it often was when I recited Kaddish at the Shiva.  Perhaps the emotions that accompany these Shabbat morning Kaddishes come from the facts that all eyes are upon me,  I'm in a more relaxed state, I can say Kaddish at whatever pace I feel like, and I feel so comfortable with those with whom I'm praying.

At services last Friday night, I was the only one saying Kaddish other than the Rabbi in a group of over 100, with my son by my side, an overwhelming experience.  I don't think it has much to do with the actual text of the Kaddish.  Rather, it is public confession and communal acknowledgement of my loss that triggers the tears that fill my eyes.

To daven or not to daven

Yesterday I was amused in shul as davening, which usually begins exactly at 6:55, was delayed slightly while the rabbi worked out the question of who should lead the prayers.  After a string of Yahrzeits, I seem to be back "at work" as the Shaliach Tzibbur (prayer leader) at morning prayers.  However, yesterday was Shushan Purim, the second day of Purim.  While not celebrated as a holiday other than in Jerusalem, it does carry an element of simcha (joy) and, as such, the Tachanun prayer is not recited.  I figured I would be chosen as prayer leader by analogy to Tu B'shvat, another day when Tachanun is omitted but I nevertheless led the prayers.  I've also led prayers on the occasion of Brit Milah (circumcisions), when there is also no Tachanun.  Even the Rabbi was unsure whether Shushan Purim carried enough of an element of joy to disqualify me from acting as prayer leader.  After some consultation, it was decided that I would not lead prayers. The ruling was that since L'minatzayoch (Psalm 20) is also omitted, my chiyuv (obligation) to daven was not present.  I enjoyed that the community cares about these small details.  Everything matters.  Nothing is left to chance.  That's the way my mother lived.