When I was in California a few weeks ago, I went with my father to the cemetery. (See my previous post at http://mykaddishyear.blogspot.com/2012/08/visit-to-cemetery.html) In addition to visiting my mother's grave (can you really "visit" a grave?), we went to begin the process of choosing a design for a gravestone. Right now my mother's body lies buried beneath a patch of grass. It is time that we ordered a stone to mark off that space. It would be especially appropriate for it to be "unveiled" in time for the Yahrzeit. (In Israel, these things seem to happen a lot quicker, and the stone is often unveiled for the Shloshim (30 days after burial).
The idea of choosing a gravestone is an issue I've been trying to avoid. Months ago my father sent me a brochure from the cemetery office that showed various styles. I added it to a pile of papers on my desk and tried to forget about it.
The process of choosing a gravestone seems absurd. Consider the following choices to be made: size (which basically breaks down to small, medium or large, priced accordingly), font style (e.g. Times, Helvetica), color of stone (over 20 available), direction stone is to be placed (horizontally or vertically), whether letters will be raised or engraved (the latter seems to be preferred these days), whether it will carry any symbols (Menorah and Magen David seem to be the most popular), where symbols will be placed (usually on top), how dates of will be recorded (exact dates of birth and death or just years), how name will be recorded (just English, just Hebrew, both, and if in Hebrew, whether to include her mother's name), and whether to include any description of the deceased and/or biblical verses). (Price is $175 for the first four hebrew letters and $22.50 for each additional letter. Doesn't seem like a good time to be price conscious.)
I've worked in publishing, and I just can't get past the idea that I am involved in a "formatting" job here. We will even get a copy of the stone "proofs" before the "publishing" job is finalized. The idea of memorializing the person who gave birth, nurtured, raised, loved and advised me by making choices of colors and fonts seems absurd.
But it's necessary. A gravestone, it seems to me, serves three purposes. The practical one is to mark the spot where she is buried so that we don't have to go around searching for her burial site every time we visit the cemetery. Another is to honor the deceased through text. For example, we have chosen the phrase from the Book of Proverbs, Chapter 31, verse 26, also known as Ayshet Chayal, "she opens her mouth with wisdom." This phrase surely captures one of my mother's essential traits.
Lastly, the setting of the stone serves to drive home the finality and reality of death. It's the last act in the process of acknowledging death. It turns the grave into a permanent space. As such, it's a painful act. That's probably the main reason I'm having trouble dealing with it. Saying kaddish is an abstract act. Choosing and setting a gravestone is painfully real.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Saturday, September 8, 2012
The cult of kaddish?
More and more people seem to be writing about their experiences saying kaddish. There are books by E.M. Bronner, Leon Wieseltier, and Ari Goldman, and I'm sure others. There are many articles on the Internet. Here's another one I just found from a woman's perspective: http://www.jwi.org/page.aspx?pid=2763. The blogosphere also seems to be filling up with kaddish blogs. (google kaddish and blog)
All these people write about how saying kaddish provided them with solace and meaning after the death of a parent. No question it's a meaningful experience. I have written about how the obligation to say kaddish provides an anchor that grounds the mourning process by providing a meaningful, repetitive and concrete activity focusing the mourner on his or her loss. (see http://mykaddishyear.blogspot.com/2012/05/routine.html and http://mykaddishyear.blogspot.com/2012/03/reflections-on-this-blog.html) I have also written about how people who usually do not attend shul on regular basis seem to make sure to do so on the Yarhzeit (anniversary) of a parent's death in order to say kaddish. (see http://mykaddishyear.blogspot.com/2012/01/power-of-kaddish.html)
It should be noted, however, that saying kaddish is not a mitzvah. It is not one of the 613 commandments that are traditionally listed as requirements of Orthodox life. It is not on the same level as biblical laws such as keeping kosher or observing the Sabbath. It is not on the level of laws that the Rabbis have interpreted as deriving from the Torah such as saying the Shma or not mixing meat and milk. It is not even on the level of purely rabbinic decrees such as lighting Chanuka candles.
It is, in essence, a custom, whose origin dates from the Middle Ages. From the earliest sources that mention the kaddish, it is clear "that mourner's kaddish developed as a custom of practice and is not an obligatory commandment" (Berkovits, A Daughter's Recitation of Kaddish, p. 8). It is one of those customs whose observance has become so widespread and entrenched that it has taken on the force of a religious obligation (for men at least, and increasingly so for women).
Is it possible that kaddish has taken on a unwarranted significance in proportion to its religious status? Is it the only proper way to mourn for a parent's loss? Are there other or perhaps better ways of doing so? Even more, is it possible that kaddish has developed into a fetish of sorts that has become so devalued that the obligation actually gets in the way of true mourning? By saying kaddish, the mourner can say to himself or herself, "I have mourned." But really? Doesn't mourning go deeper than just uttering the same words day after day? Isn't there an internal process involved that goes beyond speech? Isn't there a private and deeply personal aspect to mourning that cannot be captured in the public recitation of kaddish?
In A Daughter's Recitation of Kaddish, there is a footnote (page 57, note 186) from a responsa by Rabbi Yosef Eliyanu Henkin, one of the leading Poseks (religious decisors) of 20th century America. Rabbi Henkin offers a scathing critique of what I call the cult of kaddish. He writes that kaddish has little meaning if is not connected to "teshuva, tephila v'ma'asim tovim (repentance, prayer and good deeds)." Kaddish is secondary to doing good deeds, study and charity, and it more worthwhile to spend one's time in these activities than saying kaddish over and over. One kaddish a day suffices to fulfill one's obligation, he writes, even on a Yahrzeit. Not only that, he continues, the repetition of many kaddishes is a distraction when said without the proper understanding or intention.
I do find the obsession over saying kaddish somewhat strange and off-putting, but, as one actively engaged in that obsession, what what can I say? Like most rituals, kaddish can be done by rote. And like most rituals, rote is often the norm. My goal is to use the kaddish to strive for those few occasions when the ritual points the way toward some goal, the end of which I know not, but whose path provides me with meaning and spiritual uplift.
Thursday, September 6, 2012
Into the home stretch
With the start of the new school year, I've returned to the regular morning 6:45/6:55 minyan. No more 8:00 minyan. (see http://mykaddishyear.blogspot.com/2012/07/summertime-and-davening-is-easy.html) The Gabbai at the regular minyan hadn't seen me in a while. So he approached me. His question: "how much longer do you have?" He meant how much longer do I have to say kaddish. The answer is: about six weeks. My last day of saying kaddish is October 10.
I'm coming into the home stretch of this year of mourning. I beginning to think about what it will be like when I'm finished saying kaddish. The answer is: I really have no idea. It's just that at the beginning of my mourning period, it seemed as if I would always be in mourning mode. Now the reality that the mourning period is time limited is sinking in.
Frankly, I'm looking forward to its end. I've committed, as Jewish custom dictates, to saying kaddish three times a day every day for the first 11 months. I've walked to shul and recited kaddish countless times. (I've calculated that each day I recited various kaddishes eight times, or 56 times a week, so, 240 times in a 30 day month, times 11 equals 2,640; see http://mykaddishyear.blogspot.com/2012/02/quality-or-quantity.html. In that post, I calculated 2,656 kaddishes and I'm not about to check my math to figure out any discrepancy.)
I'm getting tired of the routine and the restrictions. I want it to end. I want my regular life back. I want to have my evenings unencumbered by shul obligations. I want to go to concerts. I'm getting ready to incorporate my mother's death into my life rather than having my life tied to mourning for her. I think that's the point of the kaddish year. It's such an overwhelming obligation that it eventually you say to yourself and to God: I have done my duty to myself and my mother, I have mourned for her day after day, now let me have my life back again.
(For another perspective on coming toward the end of the mourning period, see http://www.thejewishweek.com/blogs/adam_dickters_continuum/home_stretch)
I'm coming into the home stretch of this year of mourning. I beginning to think about what it will be like when I'm finished saying kaddish. The answer is: I really have no idea. It's just that at the beginning of my mourning period, it seemed as if I would always be in mourning mode. Now the reality that the mourning period is time limited is sinking in.
Frankly, I'm looking forward to its end. I've committed, as Jewish custom dictates, to saying kaddish three times a day every day for the first 11 months. I've walked to shul and recited kaddish countless times. (I've calculated that each day I recited various kaddishes eight times, or 56 times a week, so, 240 times in a 30 day month, times 11 equals 2,640; see http://mykaddishyear.blogspot.com/2012/02/quality-or-quantity.html. In that post, I calculated 2,656 kaddishes and I'm not about to check my math to figure out any discrepancy.)
I'm getting tired of the routine and the restrictions. I want it to end. I want my regular life back. I want to have my evenings unencumbered by shul obligations. I want to go to concerts. I'm getting ready to incorporate my mother's death into my life rather than having my life tied to mourning for her. I think that's the point of the kaddish year. It's such an overwhelming obligation that it eventually you say to yourself and to God: I have done my duty to myself and my mother, I have mourned for her day after day, now let me have my life back again.
(For another perspective on coming toward the end of the mourning period, see http://www.thejewishweek.com/blogs/adam_dickters_continuum/home_stretch)
Monday, September 3, 2012
Experiencing my mother's death
I've been reluctant to write about my experience of my mother's death. But I had a conversation about the topic in shul with a recent mourner. The last time he saw his mother was a few months before she died. The next time he saw her her body was in a coffin. Not that he wanted to see her body, but the transition between his last vision of her and the box was unsettling and unreal.
My experience was different. My mother was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in early March of 2010. She lived in California and I in New York. I flew out seven times to see her before she died and, in testament to her amazing strength and willpower, she traveled to New York for Thanksgiving in 2010 despite the effects of the cancer and chemotherapy treatments.
In October 2011, her condition had deteriorated to the point that she decided to discontinue medical treatment and went into home hospice care. I flew out to California shortly thereafter, figuring it would be the last time I'd ever see her. She was still able to converse and I brought out my tape recorder and recorded an hour long conversation. She was weak and frail, mostly in bed, but still sharp of mind. I dreaded the moment of parting. I knew I would cry and I did, but she comforted me and said she thought we would see each other once more. I wasn't so sure, and I thought maybe she was just trying to ease the pain of separation.
A month later I flew out again on a Thursday night. The night before, my father called me. She had told him to call me to tell me to "pack for a week." I knew what this meant. I brought out the suit I would wear to her funeral and clothing for the shiva. (Sure enough, I returned to New York to complete shiva exactly a week after I left.)
I figured she would be asleep and would see her Friday morning, but she instructed my father to call me to find out what time I'd arrive from the cab from the airport. She waited up and we hugged. I could see she was barely eating. The next morning the hospice nurse told us she had about 48 hours of life left. We had some communication on Friday morning. I read to her and spoke words from my heart. She was taking massive doses of morphine to ease the pain. Her body had become skin and bones. It was a frightening sight to see this vivacious woman reduced to this state. Saturday morning she said her last words to me. As I drew near to her, she said "I am ready to say goodbye."
By that evening she had lost consciousness. My father, brother and I recited the vidui (confession of sins) from a prayer book. No trace of her beauty was left. Her appearance had become so grotesque that I could no longer look at her. I felt guilty and ashamed, but I just could not be with my own mother in her last hours. She was already gone, just not dead. A friend volunteered to keep her company and hold her hand. We were in the adjacent room when my mother took her last breath, mixed with a vomit of disgusting black bile that poured out of her mouth. I freaked out and cried for her but she didn't respond. She was dead. I began making the phone calls to notify family and sent out the death notice email I'd prepared a few weeks in advance.
Why am I writing this? Because often when I think of her and say kaddish, I think of these last moments. And they are not pleasant moments. Yet they are indelibly stamped on my soul. My mother's body wasting away. Her lifeless body. It's not the way I want to remember her. But I can't help it.
She died at home. Her family was with her. That's the way she wanted it to be. She did not want her death to be sanitized in some hospital with tubes running in and monitors blinking and beeping. In this way, she gave me a last "gift," allowing me to share in her death.
My experience was different. My mother was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in early March of 2010. She lived in California and I in New York. I flew out seven times to see her before she died and, in testament to her amazing strength and willpower, she traveled to New York for Thanksgiving in 2010 despite the effects of the cancer and chemotherapy treatments.
In October 2011, her condition had deteriorated to the point that she decided to discontinue medical treatment and went into home hospice care. I flew out to California shortly thereafter, figuring it would be the last time I'd ever see her. She was still able to converse and I brought out my tape recorder and recorded an hour long conversation. She was weak and frail, mostly in bed, but still sharp of mind. I dreaded the moment of parting. I knew I would cry and I did, but she comforted me and said she thought we would see each other once more. I wasn't so sure, and I thought maybe she was just trying to ease the pain of separation.
A month later I flew out again on a Thursday night. The night before, my father called me. She had told him to call me to tell me to "pack for a week." I knew what this meant. I brought out the suit I would wear to her funeral and clothing for the shiva. (Sure enough, I returned to New York to complete shiva exactly a week after I left.)
I figured she would be asleep and would see her Friday morning, but she instructed my father to call me to find out what time I'd arrive from the cab from the airport. She waited up and we hugged. I could see she was barely eating. The next morning the hospice nurse told us she had about 48 hours of life left. We had some communication on Friday morning. I read to her and spoke words from my heart. She was taking massive doses of morphine to ease the pain. Her body had become skin and bones. It was a frightening sight to see this vivacious woman reduced to this state. Saturday morning she said her last words to me. As I drew near to her, she said "I am ready to say goodbye."
By that evening she had lost consciousness. My father, brother and I recited the vidui (confession of sins) from a prayer book. No trace of her beauty was left. Her appearance had become so grotesque that I could no longer look at her. I felt guilty and ashamed, but I just could not be with my own mother in her last hours. She was already gone, just not dead. A friend volunteered to keep her company and hold her hand. We were in the adjacent room when my mother took her last breath, mixed with a vomit of disgusting black bile that poured out of her mouth. I freaked out and cried for her but she didn't respond. She was dead. I began making the phone calls to notify family and sent out the death notice email I'd prepared a few weeks in advance.
Why am I writing this? Because often when I think of her and say kaddish, I think of these last moments. And they are not pleasant moments. Yet they are indelibly stamped on my soul. My mother's body wasting away. Her lifeless body. It's not the way I want to remember her. But I can't help it.
She died at home. Her family was with her. That's the way she wanted it to be. She did not want her death to be sanitized in some hospital with tubes running in and monitors blinking and beeping. In this way, she gave me a last "gift," allowing me to share in her death.
Sunday, September 2, 2012
Asserting my "rights"
I came to shul yesterday morning ready to lead prayers. I had convinced my children to attend morning services, something that hasn't been easy to do given their teenage sleep schedules. I wanted them to share in my experience of mourning through prayer and to witness me as a prayer leader. This is especially the case for my daughter, who has been rather disaffected from synagogue life and therefore hasn't seen me saying kaddish for her grandmother very often.
When I got to shul, I noticed a sign indicating there was a bris milah (circumcision). I learned that one of the family members of the event wanted to daven. I saw him speaking to the Gabbai. I approached him and indicated that I wanted to daven this morning as my children were present. Then I said the magic word: "chiyuv." He responded, "oh, then by all means, go ahead." As the only mourner present, I had the "right" to lead services. Not wanting to shut him out entirely, I allowed him to lead the services up until "Yishtabach," (i.e., the preliminary service), after which I took over.
I prayed with more intensity and purpose than usual. For the first time in a while, I felt my mother's presence during my prayers. I felt her pride in me, in my assertiveness in demanding to lead prayers and in modeling for my children.
As I was completing prayers, the mohel (the person who performs the circumcision) began setting up his equipment on the bima. I moved over to the right with my prayer book as he placed the knife and bandages to my left. I recognized him from other brises and introduced myself to him. Here I was, standing at the Amud (prayer stand) and leading prayers because my mother died. Here he was, standing at the Amud because a couple had brought life into the world. Contemplating the moment, with my children, my sense of my mother, and the newborn boy soon to be ushered into the covenant, I felt tears as I recited the last Mourner's Kaddish.
When I got to shul, I noticed a sign indicating there was a bris milah (circumcision). I learned that one of the family members of the event wanted to daven. I saw him speaking to the Gabbai. I approached him and indicated that I wanted to daven this morning as my children were present. Then I said the magic word: "chiyuv." He responded, "oh, then by all means, go ahead." As the only mourner present, I had the "right" to lead services. Not wanting to shut him out entirely, I allowed him to lead the services up until "Yishtabach," (i.e., the preliminary service), after which I took over.
I prayed with more intensity and purpose than usual. For the first time in a while, I felt my mother's presence during my prayers. I felt her pride in me, in my assertiveness in demanding to lead prayers and in modeling for my children.
As I was completing prayers, the mohel (the person who performs the circumcision) began setting up his equipment on the bima. I moved over to the right with my prayer book as he placed the knife and bandages to my left. I recognized him from other brises and introduced myself to him. Here I was, standing at the Amud (prayer stand) and leading prayers because my mother died. Here he was, standing at the Amud because a couple had brought life into the world. Contemplating the moment, with my children, my sense of my mother, and the newborn boy soon to be ushered into the covenant, I felt tears as I recited the last Mourner's Kaddish.
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