A Year of Kaddish

“You don’t need to explain,” one of the guys said to me the other night. He was making sure we had a minyan for the next morning. His statement came as I was about to explain why I wouldn’t be there the next morning, this morning.

It happened last night. I was outside shul, unlocking my bike after ma’ariv, and as he walked by, he stopped and asked a simple question: “Len, will you be here tomorrow morning?”

I paused to think for a moment. “No,” I said, and then began to stutter my reason why I would not be there, when he said, “You don’t need to explain.” The response stuck to my gut and then shot up to my head like some kind of ah-hah moment.

I’d heard a variation on those same words, once before, when I was juggling back and forth between Beth El and Beth David. I had been at Beth El Shabbat morning, but was on my way to Beth David for the end of Shabbat late one Saturday afternoon, when I met the gabbi who also was walking back to shul along Dover Road. “Were you at Beth El this morning?” he asked. I said I was and began to explain how I decided when to go where and why. “You don’t need to explain,” he said. Or maybe he said, “You don’t need to defend yourself.” I’m not sure, but the point was the same. I didn’t need to justify my whereabouts or my decisions or my thinking.

What I also heard between the lines was that we are all responsible adults and we treat each other as such. My personal spiritual story might be interesting, but it doesn’t need to be justified.

I’m taking this revelation – something I’ve always known but don’t always act as though I do — as one of the blessings I’ve received from nearly a year of daily prayer. Put another way, I’m taking this message as a concrete example of what it means to see God as greater and holier than before, an expansive view, which, in part, is what the Kaddish is all about.

I began to think about where else in my life I find a need to explain myself when it’s unnecessary. Ironically, in this last week of my 11 months of saying Kaddish, one of my loyal corporate clients, Aetna Inc., asked if I was available to cover a very early-morning shift, editing and updating its website for employees. For a moment, when I received the email-request, my default reaction was one of angst. I had envisioned this last week, attending shul every morning and evening, kicking it in to the finish line, as I once did when I ran the quarter-mile in high school. I had thought about going in very early or after services, but both were problematic. In the end, I said, yes to Aetna, except that I couldn’t come in next Monday until a couple hours later than my normal start, Monday being the last day I’m saying Kaddish and I wasn’t going to miss that. But, here’s the kicker: I didn’t explain why I needed to come in late on Monday. And guess what? They said that was fine. No questions asked.

I’m not saying there aren’t times when we need to explain ourselves. Of course, there are. But one of the lessons I’m coming away with over this past year is to stand more assuredly in my space. It’s how the Mussar masters define humility: occupy a rightful space, neither too much nor too little.

You know that song from the Broadway musical, “Rent,” that starts “Five Hundred Twenty-Five Thousand Six Hundred Minutes…”?

Well it came to me as I was driving away from shul this morning. By The Gregorian calendar, which is to say our everyday civil calendar, this Saturday will mark six months since my mom’s passing.

The line in that song — it’s called “Seasons of Love” — that speaks to me is the one at the end of the first section that goes “How do you measure a year in the life?”

So I divide that in half today and ask myself, how do you measure six months in a life? Or how do you measure six months after a death?

What I love about the song is that it measures that profound question in ordinary events. “In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee…”

And I believe there’s an assumption in those lyrics that each of those events contains more than just the passing of time. Rather, they suggest that it’s not the counting of our time that matters, but making our time count, as my rabbi often says when celebrating someone’s birthday. Which is to say that what matters is that we make ourselves aware that each moment has the potential to be so much more. That those cups of coffee, those daylights and sunsets can be infused with conscious living instead of just going through the motions. I try to live by that philosophy, I really do. But like all of us, I ain’t perfect.

If all this sounds like a buildup to new resolutions, maybe it is. Since returning from the West Coast, I’ve been re-reading two life-affirming books, one of which you might say is practical, the other of which you could say is spiritual. But in fact the two have much in common. The so-called practical one is “Getting Things Done,” by David Allen; the so-called spiritual one is “Everyday Holiness,” by Alan Morinis, a wonderful guide to building a Mussar practice.

One of my goals for today is to capture all the open loops in my life and then begin to process them, to decide what action I need to take to “get things done.” If that makes no sense, read “Getting Things Done.” I’ve got three magazine assignments to get to work on and more digging to do on a couple others. I’ve got a desk to clean and organize. As I look outside, I’m aware that the temperature here in New England this morning is below freezing, but what I see out my office window, is a blue sky and the sun shining on rooftops and bare trees.  Our two dog are quietly sleeping nearby, a beautiful sign of peacefulness. I can’t help but feel grateful right now. Cue the music :

“Five Hundred Twenty-Five Thousand
Six Hundred Minutes.
Five Hundred Twenty-Five Thousand
Moments So Dear
Five Hundred Twenty-Five Thousand
Six Hundred Minutes
How Do you Measure – Measure A Year ?

In Daylights – In Sunsets
In Midnights – In Cups Of Coffee
In Inches – In Miles
In Laughter – In Strife…”