Scoffs, Circles, & the Fragility of Life (Elul)

What a summer it’s been, having my daughter home.

It was both lovely and intense. Right from the beginning, I noticed how much she had matured. It made our time together even sweeter and more special. We soaked it up, all of us.

The whole time, I was deeply aware of the privilege, knowing our extended time together was a gift that would most likely never be repeated in similar fashion. I guess she was too. Towards the end, she became more affectionate and clingy.

Her returning to Jerusalem at this crazy time was a practice in letting go—yet again. The world is crazy enough, and when you have an adult child choosing to go to one of the more dangerous places on Earth, it’s the same practice, but on steroids.

I keep thinking how life itself is a series of gifts, large and small, and as we get older, so many losses along the way. I can look back and understand why my grandmother cried each time we left her presence—something my parents scoffed at.

Well, our daughter is gone now, across the world.

Last Wednesday I went to the airport to drop her off. She was traveling with a good friend who grew up in Chabad (or Habad). Together, they would be on vacation over the next weeks, taking day trips here and there outside Jerusalem.

But there were also plans for a large group camping trip the very first Shabbat. Accompanying that was extra anxiety (for her and us) because of warnings not to travel to the Middle East, and the possible heightening war with Iran. Instead of canceling the camping trip, the organizers changed the venue to what was deemed a safer place—but not by any of us from our vantage point.

Just saying goodbye after the summer was hard enough. Over the weeks, as I prepared for that moment, fear sometimes invaded my thoughts. I kept reassuring myself: “everything will be fine.”

The friend’s father drove us all to the airport. On the way we made a stop at the Lubavitcher rebbe’s grave: a destination and an otherworldly experience, where people gather from far and wide to sit and write letters to the dead rebbe (whom some believe is the messiah), asking for blessing and for him to “intervene” on their behalf.

It’s a whole setup: benches, tables, pens and paper, coffee, hot chocolate, apples, cookies, bagels (good ones, too). Cemetery workers come in for refreshments as needed along with the visitors, an interesting cross of cultures, a coming together of concentric circles.

Also, according to my daughter, the cookies are “a thing.” Since my husband couldn’t come (very disappointed), I was instructed to bring a little packet home to him (which he actually refused because he’s trying to be healthy—never saw that one coming!).

We sat down to write. The whole time, my daughter and her friend chitchatted, laughed, and giggled, making a ruckus as if they were teenagers, calling themselves a “menace” every time they go there. They were excited. It was sweet to witness (at least for me). And if it weren’t for my daughter’s interests and explorations, I would most likely never be in these circles. Like life itself, it felt like a privilege to peek into these other worlds.

I also got to unload all my worries, wishes, and dreams on paper. Then, as is the custom, I read them out loud, ripped them up, and threw them onto the grave with all the other worries, hopes and dreams of those around me.

I shouldn’t have been, but I was surprised to find that I felt freer, lighter, after doing it. I found myself more ready to say goodbye.

At the airport, she asked me to bless her. Until that moment, I was able to hold it together, be light. With my hands on her head, I slowly broke down. I did what I didn’t want to do; I cried.

Then I left, waving goodbye from a distance as I went down the escalator, tears running down my face.

After she was gone, first there was some relief; things “back to normal.” Then there was waiting for her safe arrival, which wasn’t so hard. But then there was the angst of that crazy camping Shabbat, with no contact and no way of knowing if she was okay.

But then the mourning began: the empty house, the end of the summer, her loss to a place far across the world.

As my husband and I made it through those days of her travel and the looming camping trip in the desert, not pushing down the real possibility that we might never see her again (because that’s always possible), the other thought that came to me was, if the worst were to happen, still, Dayenu—it would have been enough (I know, wrong holiday).

I thought, every moment of my life has been an incredible gift. How much more privileged have I been than most people on this Earth who have experienced unbelievable loss, poverty, violence, and more, from a young age? What makes me special that I ask to be spared from all that?‍ ‍

I scoffed a bit at my sorrow: how very spoiled of me.

Meanwhile, over the summer, I’ve been preparing to lead Rosh Hashanah services for the first time (alone—a really big undertaking—and in my house!).

As I study, learn to sing the special prayers for the Days of Awe, I’ve been confronted in a deep way with the language of the liturgy. It is meant to stop us in our tracks, to cause us to reevaluate how we have been living, to face our deepest, darkest selves, and remember that all of “this” can disappear in an instant.

The imagery is thus: we are founded in dust, we end in dust, we lay down our soul to bring home bread, we are like a broken shard, grass dried up, like a faded flower, a fleeting shadow, a passing cloud, a breath of wind, whirling dust, like a dream that slips away.

Yes, all that.

Along with the joys in my life, there has been plenty of pain, struggle, loss: grief.

And maybe the grief never goes away, as Tara Brach says; “Grief is natural. It is both the price and the privilege of love. Our sorrow reflects how deeply we belong to one another and to this living world.”

I would add that, as a result, no matter how we may try to live with equilibrium, perhaps the fear never goes away, either. We can bury it, deny it, pretend it’s not there. We can be strong.

But there are consequences, not only to the body, but to the soul; it isolates and alienates. It prevents healing.

The alternative is to be vulnerable—together, as our liturgy and our practice of communal confession, begs of us: admit we are afraid, admit we are in pain, allow it all to surface. We can grieve together, forgive together, love together—be grateful together alongside the pain—and repair the broken shards of our souls and hearts.

We have just entered the Hebrew month of Elul, the month preceding the Jewish new year, Rosh Hashanah.

From our liturgy, we have the image of God as king—an image that blocks accessibility to our ancient words for many. Nonetheless, It is said that during Elul, the “king” leaves his palace and walks out into the fields, accessible to the ordinary “peasant.” It is a sacred time, a holy time—a time of spiritual work, though ordinary work also continues.

My story, and this story of my daughter, is not over; I am incredibly grateful that we got through that Shabbat, and that she is safe.

This is what I take with me as we enter Elul. I do not deny my grief, I do not scoff at my fear, retroactively saying how ridiculous I am. I do not even say, if only I had more faith.

Instead, I can be kinder to myself, and simultaneously seek to access and increase my gratitude for all that I’ve had in my life.

And maybe tearing up and casting forth all the dreams and hopes, fears and sorrows drawn from deep inside me is just what is called for: like everything else in life, we don’t need to hold on to any of it so fiercely. It all passes like a dream, like a cloud, all fragile and full of yearning. It comes and goes in beautiful circles as we pass through life.

It’s true; we can keep praying and waiting for a messiah, a redeemer, a savior. (We can even try electing one.)

But our liturgy tells us not to put our faith in princes (apparently yes in kings—which is different, because it is The One, or the Oneness that unites us all).

If we put our faith in other humans to save us, we will keep looking for something or someone outside ourselves to fix things for us. We will continue laying the blame on others—whether it’s individuals who have hurt us or other nations.

And so, our tradition teaches us to look within, especially as we make our way towards a new year and a new cycle, so we can learn to live differently, as individuals and a collective.

Take some time to look within, acknowledge what’s there, examine it—even or especially that which may be absolutely terrifying to look at—and try accepting and embracing your humanness in all its fullness. Let the tears flow.

Perhaps even take some time to place your dreams, hopes, fears, grief, and sorrow—but also perhaps all the gratitude for the gifts you’ve had in your life, on a piece of paper, find a place you consider sacred, read these words out loud, tear them up, and cast them to the wind, hopefully opening a path to healing, and to lifting up our collective soul.

The reality is that we only have this moment; it is all like a dream that slips away.