Yahrzeit

Sorry for the long hiatus, friends, and for those certain ones who have been emailing, concerned that I went down for the count again and was possibly hospitalized or seizuring or three-days-dead in my apartment, I really appreciate that you were looking for me. But it was a tumultuous week or two, and for a time, I couldn't even find the words to describe it.

It all started when I agreed to co-lead a Friday night Shabbat service on August 1. Yes, I know, many of you didn't realize this was happening, but I'll get to that in a moment. Normally, when I prep to lead a service, it takes a good month or so for me to get my thoughts in order, study the Torah portion with my co-leader, choose the music with some modicum of sensitivity to the larger Jewish calendar (i.e., if you're in a mourning period like we are now, don't pick the up-tempo stuff), and also, try to inject some semblance of creativity into the process - since summer is the time to play a little bit. Summer is great for this sort of thing - not only are you dealing with lay-leaders, but you have some latitude to be creative, try a new reading, or a poem, or a song that other people might not know, but might also come to appreciate.

Anyway...my co-leader was, shall we say, not exactly open to new ideas. And that's fine; I get it. She's a very smart, interesting, good person, but school has given her a strong sense that there are right and wrong ways of leading a service. And we've both been informed by habit: I'm used to the customs at my synagogue, and she's used to the customs she learned living in Israel and then being part of an intensive academic community where the students' ideas and innovations are always subject to judgement.

This combination of my free-spiritedness and her way-more-learnedness-than-me led to some pretty brutal conflict. Over a Shabbat service. Seriously. Not what I ever imagined myself fighting over. And let me tell you, the side effects were nasty.

All of this began because of the fact that we were due to co-lead an afternoon Shabbat service the same day in a local nursing home. She took offense at something I said, which was literally so innocuous that I still can't figure out what happened - but she perceived me as trying to "take over" and "push her out of the way" - at a nursing home??? What would that even mean? Why would anyone waste their time? It's not Emanu-El, people.

Luckily, the universe intervened and took me out of that scenario. But the damage was done for Friday night. Here's how it went down:

The week before the service, I suggested sending an evite for Fri night. Given that most of MY friends don't actually belong to our congregation, they had no other way of finding out about the service. This was dismissed as a cheesy marketing maneuver (sorry about my profession, but, whatever) - which was altogether tacky and inappropriate for a synagogue setting. Never mind that for every previous service I've done, I've sent one out. So, feeling stupid, I didn't send it. Which meant that I now didn't even feel comfortable sending an email to let my friends know it was coming up. I was hurt and embarrassed, so I invited no one.

Then I wanted to read a poem about peace in Israel that challenged the notion of G-d's role in the conflict between religions in the Holy Land. What I didn't expect was her reaction that was so completely offended that I would be called upon, in the middle of a workday, to defend my "faulty" theological viewpoint. On the phone. Before a meeting. Luckily, it was all summarily dismissed, since she decided that because I had never lived in Jerusalem, I didn't understand anything about G-d's presence there, and thus had no right to comment.

The next day, she called to say that she had been rethinking the evite: since, in her words, it must be very hard for me because unlike her, I do not have a Jewish family to support me. Her husband and parents and children would be there for her, she said, so she felt sorry for me and understood if I felt I needed to invite people, you know, since nobody from my family would be there. So, as if I wasn't feeling bad enough...now it was in my face that since I am a convert, I was someone to be pitied. The sages say that born Jews should never make a convert feel uncomfortable, should never remind people who choose Judaism that they are different - those sages knew something about good taste and tact. And so, in my congregation, I had never felt like a shamed convert, until that moment.

(Actually, my mom WAS planning to come, but after I told her about that last comment, she was so angry that I thought it would be better if she stayed home - she shouldn't get herself all worked up just because someone made a snotty comment about our family. My mom's reaction? "I'll show her the REAL meaning of a Jewish mother."

I'm all for revenge, but not in the sanctuary. Talk about inappropriate.)

Things went downhill pretty rapidly at that point. We met for a rehearsal two nights before the service, and after being told that A) my closing song was, again, inappropriate; B) the new piece of liturgical song I wanted to do didn't sound "ready" and C) that I needed to learn the difference between what was appropriate for a synagogue and what wasn't -- I just freaking lost it. It was a meltdown of epic proportions. We had to stop the rehearsal - I literally could not go on. I haven't cried so much in that sanctuary since my dad's first yahrzeit.

Sadly, I still couldn't find the words to defend myself.

But all was not hopeless. Friends, alerted to the situation, helped with the music. Family rallied and offered support. And other friends called and listened and offered advice and consolation and pure love. It helped a lot. Because the other thing I didn't mention is that this was all happening at a splendid, perfect time. The night of the rehearsal - the night I was crying so much - was actually the anniversary - the yahrzeit - of my being date-raped, 21 years ago. So - essentially - it wasn't a good time to be made to feel even more vulnerable than I was feeling. And it certainly wasn't a time to go kicking at the tires of my identity (Judaism, family, future spiritual leadership) to see if there were any soft spots.

The clincher came on Thursday night. She called to say she had been really upset about the meltdown, and she thought she understood why I was crying. She said she knew how hard it must be for me to be single, to be viewed by the congregation as being somehow incomplete, defective, unlike everyone else. And how resentful I must be of everyone who has a Jewish family and a husband and a real life.

At this point: whatever. How much more can you cry before it becomes laughable? And how can you prove to someone who thinks like that that you are actually pretty much OK with the life choices you've made?

End result: the service went pretty well. We managed to pull it off, tried to resolve our differences, and realized that when all was said and done, our communications styles just weren't compatible. (To say the absolute least.) I still don't exactly know what happened; I'm still shaky and sad and a little freaked out that someone in my community had such a hard time with me, to the point that she had to challenge me, not only on my theology and ideas, but on my family, identity, and future as well.

For now, it feels like I need a break from temple; I need my Friday nights, my Shabbats, for myself - not for her, not for them, not for the community that I love - but now the community that I have to wonder about - if it perceives me the way she does. She now wants to get together to "process" what went wrong, but I'm not ready yet. I have a feeling I will end up feeling just as stupid and damaged and vulnerable as I did for all the years when I blamed myself for what happened 21 years ago. It's not a good feeling, and it's sadly familiar to me.

Even when I take a step back, and I realize that all this was, ultimately, was a single Friday night, a night when a ton of people were out of town, and that no one who was present will remember it, I'm not consoled. Perhaps it is because it all is part of that Friday night all those years ago, when someone's parents were out of town, and that no one else who was there, at that party, even remembers it - even though that is where the whole story of the end of my world began. It's still there, after all this time -- and this week, it was like someone pushed the buttons on the time machine and sent me back.

When the Twin Towers came down, I remember asking myself that day, I wonder if there will ever come a time when I will realize that this was only about two buildings that were destroyed. In the scheme of larger things, like the Holocaust, this is barely a single heartbeat. But for some people the world ended that day, and I understand why. Something about this service - this yahrzeit - feels like it ended a world for me as well. Or at the very least, it was like another little world that I never want to go back to, ever again.

And that brings into question the whole decision about going to rabbinical school. Because it makes me wonder if this is what it is going to be like - getting smacked down, told off, and made to feel like my Judaism is inauthentic.

But that, fortunately, is another post for another day.

Sick, Sicker, Dying, Dead

Damn it all to hell, I'm sick again. Or perhaps should I say, I'm still sick. I knew it was coming on yesterday, when I spent most of the day sweating my way through the Flatiron district. I had a client meeting that went really well, but I just couldn't find any energy to enjoy it. It was just hot, and sticky and uncomfortable, and my nose is stuffy so I can't breathe, and my chest hurts from coughing, and I'm dizzy from being congested, and generally miserable.

So I stayed home from work today and slept til 11AM. I thought about going in, but there wasn't anything I couldn't handle on email, so I worked from home.

Unfortunately, I had made a commitment to help out some friends at their Shabbat service tonight - and unable to find a sub, I went, sat in the back row, and was alternately chilled and sweating and coughing and sniffling, mostly unable to follow along and not really aware of my surroundings. Thankfully, it was a short service, so I got the song sung and got the hell out of Dodge. I'm sure I sounded like a wino attempting the Springsteen catalog after a tough night, but it's over, and now I can sleep.

Since I'm not sure I am going to do any posting this weekend - seriously! I need to rest! - I leave you with this troubling exchange over the subject of POTATO SALAD between a food blogger and the "publicity manager" for America's Test Kitchen, which was, up until I read this blog post, one of my favorite cooking shows. Being in the PR biz, I can't comprehend even participating in an email exchange like this, telling people that they can't post a recipe with their own modifications because theirs is Just So Perfect. I don't think you can legally copyright a list of ingredients, either. My agent, the master of all food-related/recipe knowledge, would know. I will ask her next time we chat.

Besides, is there any such thing as a "perfect" recipe? Generations of cooks in my own family, all of whom have modified our classic Sunday gravy over the years (my own addition is grated carrot, sauteed in butter to caramelize the sugars) would beg to differ.

Shabbat shalom, mes chers amis.

Laughter at Sinai

At my workplace, summer is a time for relaxation. This is not to say that we're not busy; considering how lousy the economy is, business here is surprisingly booming. My company (or I should say the company for which I have oversight) is doing especially well. Westchester is just beginning to catch on to the importance of brand management and website marketing, and as a result, I suddenly have more work than I can handle. Nonetheless, as a team we are encouraged to make the most of the "slow" months because the fall and winter tend to be insane. And they are. For about three weeks in October, we are slammed with events and conferences every day. And that's in addition to the regular workload.

But today was a good day, the perfect day to get away for a couple of hours. I had lunch with a dear friend who is a terrific Jewish leader in her own right - an inspiration on so many levels - and it's great to catch up with her and hear all about what it's like to lead a congregation in real life. From what I can gather, considering the many, many friends that I am so fortunate to have in my life, who have transitioned from secular life into seminary and then into congregational life, it's a lot closer to Moses' struggle to lead B'nai Yisrael through the wilderness than they would have imagined.

Catching up today really helped to put things in perspective. There are some days that I see or speak with old friends, or reconnect on Facebook, and sometimes when people ask how I've been, I wonder how much I can really tell them. The last thing I want to do is sound like a downer, but it's harder than you might expect to focus on the good (novel, school, landing on my feet in a sane job) when the bad has so much more power over me, still. More times than I can count, I have watched as horrified eyes look back at me as I describe my life over the last three years. More than once I've been asked how it is that I'm even able to talk about it.

Last night, as I was driving up to Connecticut to spend the night at my sister's, my best friend called and out of nowhere, I confessed that I had spent a good part of the day in tears. In fact, even as I was driving up I684, I was still crying. I knew what it was about. I've been thinking a lot about my dad, thinking a lot about the sheer ridiculous injustice of being sick, and knowing that I am still sick because a certain person took it upon herself to do what she could to ruin my health. What makes me even angrier is that two years after the fact, I am still dealing with the consequences. I felt like I was crying out of sheer frustration that I had made the mistake of allowing it to happen in the first place, because at some level, I feel like I must have chosen this. And if I did, then how stupid am I?

My friend understood and made the point that I was probably crying now because I couldn't cry then. Because I was too busy fighting for my sanity to actually take the time to be sad about what I was trying to survive.

I think everyone gets something like this in their life, something or someone who is just simply so unbelievably sad and sick and destructive that it takes a long time to heal from the damage, and an even longer time to let go of the anger. But eventually you have to let go or you are in danger of becoming obsessed to the point of losing yourself because you might actually succumb to the power of the thing you hate. Eventually, you have to move on.

Today I heard some really good advice about how to interpret the unexpected symbols and signs that get sent to you, sometimes at the most inconvenient moments. It reminded me of the first festival service I attended after losing my dad, which was Shavuot, commemorating the giving of the Torah at Sinai. I remember showing up for services that evening, knowing that it would also be the first Yizkor service that I would officially be a mourner.

Needless to say, I was dreading it. I'd seen enough friends - not to mention leaders and congregants that I liked and respected -- fall so completely to pieces during Yizkor that I knew I was in trouble. And at that time, the grief was so real and raw that I was positive I would pretty much lose it. Which wasn't a good thing: I was sitting up front in the sanctuary, with the choir, and the last thing I wanted to do was make a spectacle of myself.

That night, the service dragged on - all I could do was wait for the moment. I remember the tension in my body, literally feeling as if I was trying to hold myself together. I was so full of darkness, trying so hard to prepare for the emotional storm to come. And finally it did. The memorial service began with these sad, graceful meditations all about loss, the mournful melodies started up, and finally, the cantor sang the memorial prayer - El Maleh Rachamim - with such emotion that I felt my eyes start to hurt from the effort of holding back my tears.

We paused for a moment of silent reflection. I bit my lip, felt a trembling in my throat, was about to reach for a Kleenex, when suddenly, someone totally cut one. Not a hugely loud one, but as they say: out of the silence, a still, small voice.

The next thing I knew was that there I was, half a second ago trying not to cry, and now I was desperately trying not to laugh. And all I could think about was yeah, dairy's a tradition for this festival...but now I'd never be able to get through another Shavuot without being reminded of how someone cut the cheese.

So what did I learn today? In sharing that story, I realized that maybe it's been a bad time, and maybe I do have things to cry about. On the other hand, telling myself to be sad, and that I have many things to be miserable about, etc. may not be the answer either. Seriously. Because you never know when - or how - the message that changes your perspective will reach you.

On some days, wisdom emerges from the voices of the people who love you. At Sinai, it was a voice that spoke in thunder and the blare of the shofar that delivered wisdom to a people in need of direction. And even as I am still learning from the moment, on that Shavuot, it was a different trumpet blast, entirely.