I've been dreaming about Kaddish.
Last night was the third time that my dreams revolved around it, though I don't remember the first one. What is going on?!
A week or two ago, I dreamed that I was in my parent's house (perhaps it was the shiva?) and there was a minyan happening. No one called me down to tell me that they were reciting Kaddish. I remember being annoyed with my dad that it wasn't taken seriously.
Two nights ago, I dreamed that I was at a celebratory event at work and we stopped for afternoon services. I was prepared to recite Kaddish quietly when I heard another woman, quite religious, saying it out loud. I was pleased but also taken aback and surprised and I stumbled a bit with it.
I guess if this is making its way into my subconscious then this whole committment is really impacting my life.
Tuesday, February 13, 2018
Monday, February 5, 2018
The Hardest Part
My mother passed on a Friday morning, New York time.
I got the call twenty minutes before Shabbat, my time.
And then, time, it simply stood still.
The truth is, I can pretty much recall every single detail of that painful night and of the days that followed. For better or for worse, nothing is a blur to me.
On Saturday night, I recall telling someone that one of the hardest parts of this experience for me would be learning how to accept help and support from others. Aside from the loss itself, I found there was another hardest part for me and that was the acute sense of losing my privacy.
I am a very private person. I listen more than I share and I prefer it that way. That Shabbat morning, when I chose to attend synagogue, few people knew that I had spent the night tossing and turning, crying myself to sleep, crying in my sleep. After the speech that accompanied morning services, all that changed. I felt dozens of pairs of eyes on me, suddenly, all knowing. My loss, my mourning, was taken away from me, in a sense. It was no longer just mine, it was now very, very public. I suppose that's just how Judaism is built. And yet, it didn't make the process any easier.
It is ironic then, the choice to say Kaddish, because it is so public. Someone mentioned to me that every time she sees me standing there on Shabbat, she is reminded of the loss, of what I am going through. I feel it most acutely myself on Shabbatot, especially Friday nights. In those moments, I do my best to focus on connecting with Mommy through the words and block out everything else.
Maybe soon, my new normal will become others's as well.
I got the call twenty minutes before Shabbat, my time.
And then, time, it simply stood still.
The truth is, I can pretty much recall every single detail of that painful night and of the days that followed. For better or for worse, nothing is a blur to me.
On Saturday night, I recall telling someone that one of the hardest parts of this experience for me would be learning how to accept help and support from others. Aside from the loss itself, I found there was another hardest part for me and that was the acute sense of losing my privacy.
I am a very private person. I listen more than I share and I prefer it that way. That Shabbat morning, when I chose to attend synagogue, few people knew that I had spent the night tossing and turning, crying myself to sleep, crying in my sleep. After the speech that accompanied morning services, all that changed. I felt dozens of pairs of eyes on me, suddenly, all knowing. My loss, my mourning, was taken away from me, in a sense. It was no longer just mine, it was now very, very public. I suppose that's just how Judaism is built. And yet, it didn't make the process any easier.
It is ironic then, the choice to say Kaddish, because it is so public. Someone mentioned to me that every time she sees me standing there on Shabbat, she is reminded of the loss, of what I am going through. I feel it most acutely myself on Shabbatot, especially Friday nights. In those moments, I do my best to focus on connecting with Mommy through the words and block out everything else.
Maybe soon, my new normal will become others's as well.
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