A Year of Kaddish

It’s come to counting the days, as we clean and get ready for Monday evening and the first night of Pesach, or Passover (a poor English translation, but the subject for another day).

There will be 12 of us at our Seder table and I’m looking forward to it, as I work at meaningful ways to underscore why this night is different from all others. How we can focus on what it means to leave the Mitzrayim of narrowed perspectives that enslave us in 2010.

Still, memories of this time last year punctuate my here and now. By this time last year, we had all heard the diagnosis of my mother’s health – pancreatic cancer – and that little could be done, except for some chemo treatments aimed at extending her remaining time in this world.

Julia and I decided to go West for what we assumed would be my mom’s last Seder. A houseful of relatives and friends gathered at my brother’s and sister-in-law’s home for a beautiful and poignant night. We laughed. We ate well. We read the Haggadah and told stories. My mom looked good that week, and indeed for a few more months after that. But as I go through this year of mourning, it’s that time frame one year ago that feels like the real start of the end for her.

It was then that we started talking to our kids on the phone, suggesting they ought to look at their calendars and figure out when they could visit Baba and Zaida. Because time was running out for her. Others from out of town also began planning visits: her dear cousin, Dorothy, from Toronto; and her nieces from Portland, Ore., and Richmond, Va.  My flights across the country became  monthly, and then even more frequent by mid-summer.

It’s said that we all feel the loss of our loved ones who’ve departed around the holidays. I know I do.

“Sounds like you’re having an affair!” We were sitting at Starbucks. I was telling a friend my dilemma when he interrupted to offer his take. We were not talking about another woman. We were talking about another shul.

As many of my friends know, I’ve long been fascinated with other shuls and independent minyanim. Even before I began saying kaddish. I was curious how others do it, and by that I mean, how they pray and create spiritual space on Shabbat or any hectic weekday.

Trying to balance home life, work life and my obligation to say kaddish daily offers its own set of challenges. My synagogue, Beth El Temple, holds weekday services at 7 a.m. and 7:30 p.m. It’s 2.2 miles away, according to Google Maps, and takes about five minutes by car. But what was I to do on a night, for example, when I had another evening engagement? Sometime last fall, I discovered, a way to meet both commitments. Beth David Synagogue.

At least to date, when the sun still sets earlier, especially during the autumn and winter months, I have been able to attend services much before 7:30 p.m., because Beth David provides a full mincha service just minutes before sunset. It’s followed immediately by the evening or ma’ariv service. The synagogue is three blocks from my home, where I also work. I can get there in a minute; in nice weather, I can ride my bike, walk or jog over there. In the middle of winter, when services were starting around 4:30 or so, it provided a nice break from my desk.

My friend laughed, shaking his head. “Classic stuff. You’re trying to justify why you’re cheating on Beth El. What about on the days when they need you for a minyan? Don’t you feel bad?”

“Believe me, “ I said, “I feel the guilt. Jewish guilt, ” I said. “But there’s more,” I said.

I like the services at Beth David. I like walking there and back home on Friday evenings, as Shabbat arrives. I like walking back there late Saturday afternoon for their seudah shleshit, a traditional third meal between mincha and ma’ariv, when a couple hauntingly lovely z’mirot or songs are sung, as Shabbat is about to depart and the new week is about to begin. I like the more complete repertoire of Psalms chanted in the mornings during Pesukei’ D’Zimrah.

On the other hand, I still go to Beth El. I go every Shabbat morning.  I go two or three other mornings a week, and an evening or two.

But then, I told my friend, something happened about a month ago that really changed the relationship.
He leaned in closer. Took a sip of his coffee, wondering what the juicy details could be.

They asked me if I wanted to daven. To lead part of the service. Since I’m an avel, a mourner. By then, I had been going to services at Beth David enough that I was able to confidently say yes. And from my experience leading at the Orthodox shul in Oakland last winter, I knew I could do it. I did it a few times during the afternoon and evening services and parts of the morning service as well.

“Jeeze,” my friend said. “You’re in deep.”

“I don’t know what to do,” I said. “It’s stressful. I feel like they both expect me to show up.”

He laughed again. “Who would have thunk? You’re quite the catch.”

My barber, who I can’t quit, try as I have for more than a year, called me last week: “Lenny,” he cried into his voice message, like a subdued Stanley Kowalski calling for Stella. “How the hell are you?”

It’s been five months since I tried to tell him I had made a decision: I was going elsewhere for my haircuts. It was between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, that time on the Jewish calendar of teshuvah, of committing to examining your life and making change, or literally, of returning – returning to what? To God? To what really matters? To a way of being that you have fallen short of becoming?

Admittedly, leaving your barber, albeit the guy who has cut my hair for 20-plus years, may look like small step toward change. But, I reasoned, you need to start somewhere. And if not now, when? I had actually thought of much more significant change I wanted to commit to. I had even brought a big-change goal to a one-day workshop called “How To Say No By Saying Yes to What Matters Most,” led by my friend, Guthrie Sayen, a life coach.

But when I told the group my big-change idea, Guthrie smiled and then said: “For the purposes of this workshop, can you think of something a little more manageable?” So I thought while the others announced what they wanted to say “No” to. When my turn came up, I said: “I’ve been trying to leave my barber for several years. But it’s hard. I’ve been seeing him for years.”

We worked on what Guthrie called the Positive “No” Model, which included staying connected to what nourishes and anchors one, standing up for one’s self and connecting to the world. Within a week of the workshop, we were supposed to actually speak our Positive No.

I walked into Ralph’s barbershop, actually a hair salon. I didn’t do a very good job of explaining that I didn’t like the way he cut my hair anymore. It had been a couple months since my mother had died, and I used that as an excuse to explain why I hadn’t been coming around regularly anymore.

My God, I thought. Has it come to this? Using my mother’s death to try to leave my barber? He looked at my hair, annoyed at whomever the barber was who had last cut my hair. “They just chopped it in the back,” he exclaimed. “It’s going to be months before it grows back.”

I shrugged and gave a look that said, “I know. What are you going to do?” I felt the discomfort of saying, “Look, Ralph. I’ve decided to get my haircuts elsewhere. It’s nothing personal.” And instead I took the easy way out: “Well, I’ll see you around.” And that was the last time I saw him.

Then last week, I heard his voice message. Maybe, I’ll give him a call, I thought. I looked in the mirror at the back of my head. Maybe he was right. Maybe it should be a little longer in the back.

This small episode in my life came to me as I thought about my commitment to blogging about a year of saying kaddish. Like Ralph, you, my loyal readers, my be wondering, how the hell am I? Or where have I been. Am I still saying kaddish? Yes. And what’s been going on over the last month? Well, Ill tell you. Lots to tell, in fact. Lots to catch up on.

More to follow. Stay tuned. I promise, I’ll be back.