I miss my mom today. Something about the song I was just listening to, Sarah Maclachlan’s World on Fire reminded me of times gone by, and there I was. It wasn’t the same sort of missing that I’ve felt in the past, though; it wasn’t that desperate ache that I’d gotten use to, and it certainly wasn’t that uncontrollable sense of panic I felt at the beginning of avelut. Instead, this felt just like, well, sadness. It’s passing already, but it came to visit nonetheless.

Something I read a few weeks back opened up a new awareness for me when it came to memories of things past. I’ve long been a sucker for nostalgia, even though I know it’s a false feeling: it’s a way to reconnect with a past that isn’t exactly what you remember in the nostalgic moment. As I said, I’ve been a sucker for nostalgia, basking in those pseudo-memories, although basking isn’t the right term, really. Instead, those sweet almost-memories have caused me heartache, a sense of longing for a time that’s gone, for a moment that was fleeting.

The sense of loss, however, completely inverts the way things are. When I experience that heartache during nostalgia, I’m ignoring the context within which the memory takes place—contexts that are not as pleasant sometimes as the memory I’m remembering. For instance, the song “All These Things That I’ve Done” by the Killers, often reminds me of these beautiful carefree days I spent staying home with my kids; what I forget, though, is that the time period coincided with the hardest times in my marriage (problems resolved and over, B”H). The biggest problem, though, with these flights of nostalgia is that I invert what is really lost and what really remains.

A.J. Heschel writes in The Sabbath, “What is retained in the soul is the moment of insight rather than the place where the act came to pass,” and this is the heart of the inversion. My nostalgia prefers place over insight, so the “when” of what took place blurs the emotional and spiritual moment that took place. For me during so much of avelut, nostalgia corrupts my memories of my mother, corrupts in the sense that it places my her in a setting that is irretrievable, and that makes the memory mournful.

The truth of the matter is that the emotional connection I had with my mom remains always retrievable. While her space, her position in the world is gone, it’s folly, indulgent to think that her physical presence, her location, was somehow more important than what she communicated to me emotionally and spiritually.

Anything I recall via nostalgia should not come with a sense of lost. I have not lost anything; I am who I am, what I am because those moments remain an integral part of me. I can miss my mom since she’s not here any longer, certainly, but her touch lives in me, and that should be a cause of joy, not tears.

An earworm af Yiddish

I've been listening to this all day:



You can see a side-by-side translation and transliteration here.

As a Jew, I'm proudly Reform. I might lean more or less traditional here and there, depending on the issue, and depending on what makes sense to me. So why have I had this song about Moshiach in my head all day?

I'm not going to go too far into that today, but it does draw me to a conversation I've had recently with a fellow Blogger on the nature of belief; she attends minyamim religiou--er, regularly, but at the same time counts herself an agnostic. Her explanation is certainly interesting and worth reading, and I think Shnirele Perele ended up in my head because of my thoughts on the matter.

Every year at Pesach, we close the service by saying, "Next year in Jerusalem!" I don't think that most people, at the end of the Seder, really mean it; it has become the traditional closing for the meal, and certainly it hearkens to the hope that next year, HaShem willing, all Jews who want to celebrate Pesach in Jerusalem can do so; even more, it reflects the belief that Moshiach vet komen hayntiks yar--Moshiach will come this very year, so next year the exiles will be gathered in. I like the image of abiding hope that we maintain from year to year: this year, HaShem willing, will be a better year. This year will be the one where all works out. Hope, of course, doesn't require a religious perspective; the Seder can be just as enjoyable as a time when people get together.

While I understand the position taken by many cultural or ethnic Jews, to me I cannot be a Jew without being religious. Being a Jew without HaShem makes no sense to me; our traditions are so steeped in religious observance that the two should not be, really, cannot be separated. That's not to say that religious observance cannot change; in fact, changes in religious observance are part of what has allowed us as Jews to continue over the generations. But it doesn't make sense to me to teach my children to be Jews only to perpetuate the cultural aspects of our identity. It's critical to me that the religious aspect of that identity be integral to the definition.

As the saying goes, though, two Jews, three opinions. I'm glad the conversation can go on.

/wince

I was attracted to an article at the Beeb this morning about a group of rabbis who have taken to the air over Israeli to try to stop the spread of H1N1, and the whole article made me wince. As the article points out, these are rabbis who are steeped in Kabbalah, a rather intricate and complicated type of mystical study. Kabbalah is thoroughly misunderstood, even in Judaism, and I worry about how this clip will come across to folks who don't know much about either mainstream Judaism or about this form of study.

And then, as though I were not cringing enough, I read this line: "...Kabbalah, a form of Jewish mysticism which counts the singer Madonna among its devotees." Oy, vey. Kabbalah as practiced within Judaism is not the same as Kabbalah (c), a non-Jewish venture created by Philip Berg; to put the rabbis on that plane in the same boat with Madonna takes this article from merely cringe-worthy into a real double-head-clutcher.

May we only celebrate simchot together...

Last Thursday was Tisha B'Av, the day on which, due to the motion of the Hebrew calendar against the western calendar (or vice versa, of course), so many tragedies befell the Jewish people. I was one of the readers out of the scroll of Lamentations on Wednesday night, and I was quite surprised at how moved I was by the rebuke offered therein, and that emotion took me through the fast I endured and through the next day.

I think it's critical to point out that Tisha B'Av is not about beating ourselves up over how terrible we are or have been; I think it's key that the three Haftarot of Reproof that precede Tisha B'Av are followed by seven Haftarot of Consolation. That we are consoled for twice as long as we are reproved demonstrates Judaism's attitude toward redemption: no matter who you are or what you've done, there's always hope. There's always the chance to make amends and to make a change in your life; by making a change in your life, you can change the lives of others. That's powerful, powerful stuff, and all it requires is a willingness on the part of the individual.

Even better, you don't have to be particularly religious--or even religious at all--in order to believe that yes, you can make a difference in your own life. I hope it doesn't seem too trite, but just a little acknowledgement that life is pretty damned cool can be enough to drive my days into better places, enough to help me to see the beauty and splendor around me; I remember that every moment I have another chance to add to the world.

As if to cement that thought in my mind, Friday morning came, and along with it, a baby-naming. Friends had a newborn girl to add to the covenant, and as she slept quietly in Eliyahu's chair in front of the bima, wrapped in her mom's tallit, I couldn't help but be moved by the sight. Through the good and the bad, the people keep on growing, buy may we only celebrate Simchot together.

Veyiz mir!

Oh, man.

So, I started swimming again, and it led me to this crazy discovery. It turns out that under your skin, there are these things called "muscles," and when you use them a lot, they get "sore." I have also discovered that the air-water interface is less than optimum for an efficient transfer of oxygen, so you have to do this crazy timing thing where you don't get to breathe when you want. I guess that's what you get, though, when you take so much time off from exercising.

And but so I've been at it for a couple of weeks. I figured I'd get in the pool this morning, and what with a weekend off, I'd be all set to go. Oh, no. No, no, no. Instead, I could barely make my long distances at all. I just had no air and no shoulder strength, and I really can't figure it out. Sure, I played a little Wii this weekend, but it doesn't seem like that alone should have done it. Maybe I just have more building to do. Maybe I should get some more sleep.

I'll hit the water again Wednesday, and we'll see how this goes.

It's my party, and I'll daven if I want to?

I was reading this post on over-the-top parties over at On the Fringe, and I have to admit: I share Shira's point of view that parties and celebrations have gone just over the top. The concept, mentioned in the comments section of the post above, of Faux Mitzvah is an extreme case in point, but just in general I've gotten so tired of every little tiny milestone being celebrated as though it were the arrival of Mashiach.

For example, the Girl was involved in a dance recital for her performing arts school. Fantastic. Great. It was a wonderful time, and there were, I admit, some pretty talented dancers in attendance; based on the flowers, however, you'd have imagined that no one less than Misha Baryshnikov himself had come out of retirement to grace the center with a one-off celebration. Isn't it enough that the dancers had the phenomenal opportunity to dance a whole show at a top-tier venue? Why must every ballerina be feted as a diva?

In my own shul, the b'nai mitzvah celebrations have not gone crazy, B"H, but I know that the parties that follow certainly touch some lofty heights. Personally, I was fond of the bar mitzvah that occured several weeks ago: we had no more than our usual Shabbat minyan, there was no catered lunch, no handed-out programs, no long-winded speeches. It was instead exactly what I think a bar mitzvah should be: a young man is called to the Torah to lead services and to teach.

That's the long and the short of it. One becomes a bar or bat mitzvah, whether there's a party or not. The term itself is very simple, meaning "obligated to the commandment," and one becomes such at the age of 13. If you're Jewish, from that time on, you ARE a bar or bat mitzvah; mom and dad don't have to lay out wedding-type prices to make anything happen--heck, you don't even have to read from Torah. It just simply is a transition that occurs.

A bisele shiur

I have a problem. I really enjoy studying Talmud.

Ok, ok, so it's not like I'm suffering under some devastating addiction that could threaten to ruin my life. At the same time, I never really want to leave off my Talmud study,and I find that my ability to focus on my work begins to diminish significantly. Don't get me wrong--I thoroughly enjoy my work, and I find it mostly quite fulfilling, but right now, I've got the words of Rambam's Mishneh Torah and tractates from Sanhedrin bouncing around my skull.

A study partner and time to study...that would be the life. Oh, to be a scholar again! =D