Rabbi Chaya Gusfield

Rabbi Chaya Gusfield, Jewish Renewal, rabbi, spiritual director, chaplain

Reflections on Love


Filed Under: Healing, Prayer, Reflections on Love
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Letter to the Generations that Follow

The torn, faded photo books filled with nameless, unrecognizable people, frozen in time, sit in our drawers, move in boxes from house to house.  May you find them at the perfect hour.

We wonder where each bead came from, and where they might find you in years to come.  Adorning you in celebration.

Carefully crafted pieces of art whose paintbrush strokes with saturated or diluted colors, reach out to you in a whisper.  Hoping to stir.

We leave you a tin box with index cards of recipes.  Some handwritten with spills of food.  Smells that linger. Some cut from the local newspaper Cooking Corner.  Each recipe whose food blessed our seders*, our Shabbat gatherings, and our shiva minyanim*.  Eaten with delight, or during moments when we were barely able to swallow. There was ancestral comfort.

Will our poems be found after 200 years in order to save a life? Will they end up in ceremony or ritual?  Will that ritual bring the water needed for repair?

We can only hope. We can only hope.

May our lives be joined with yours, bringing a tender remembrance to all that is welcome, and may our fragrances dance throughout your life and be only for a blessing.

When you allow these connections to slowly fade, may they find new places to heal and surprise.

As you let go, may you find a gentle peace, meant just for you.

And let us say, Amen.

 

*seders: home Jewish ritual celebrating Passover

*shiva minyanim: gathering at the mourner’s home for seven days after the burial of a loved one.


Filed Under: Chaplain Reflections, Healing, Prayer, Reflections on Love, Spiritual Direction
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A Prayer for a Friend

She came to me in humility

In humility I respond

As I connect, or yearn to connect, with something greater than anything we know in this earthly plain.

Let the yearnings of my sister friend be felt, through a sense of easing.  Let the breath release, let the inner and outer match, and medicine flow through her body and spirit.

I pray that what she eats and where she walks and her moments of sleep bring her shalem-wholeness.

May the sky and the earth and the waters hold her.

She came to me in humility.

In humility I respond.

 

(I was honored to be asked to write a prayer for her when she was in need. Maybe it will help you, too.  When I have the opportunity to pray like this, it is also healing for me.)


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Remember

I remember mere fragments of my childhood.

Ice storms that quieted the day’s regular patterns.

Practicing the violin as I looked out at the ice and snow and saw cold everywhere.

In second grade we learned about clouds. We looked up every day.  Talking with God. Without language.

Lilacs, purple, abundant, outside my window.  The bunnies and the cherry trees.

In the summer heat of Illinois, the smell of the chlorine at the large, crowded, noisy, public swimming pool.

The taste of the wetness as I stayed under water looking at all the white legs kicking.  My first kiss.

I don’t remember when I learned there were legs of many shades or when I wondered why I only saw white legs there.

Maybe it was in India, 5 or 6 six years old. Attending a British Catholic school run by white nuns. I am the only white child. And Jew.

At 14, I wondered about Jesus and reading the New Testament. An act of independence, searching.

When did I feel shame for my body, being a woman? I don’t remember when I became a feminist. When I became angry.

Or the moment I understood that mental illness and patriarchy were interwoven.

I ran after my mother’s tennis balls.  Now she is attached to the couch.

(When did I start to slow down, have trouble getting up off the floor, or taking my first steps in the morning?)

When did I fall in love with you?

Sitting on the beach and watching you pray to mama ocean.

I remember my big dark hair, curls, depth, wild.  My hair is grey.  When did that happen?

 

 

 

 


Filed Under: Grief Writings, Healing, Kaddish Musings, Prayer, Reflections on Love
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A Prayer for Yarzheits (or any other ritual time of remembrance)

I remember and honor you with love and humility.

You taught me through words and deeds.

Forgive me, if I did not let that be known to you during your lifetime.

May my thoughts, words, and actions help your soul rise and soar.

I pray with all my heart that you continue to be deeply connected to all that has lived, is living, and will live.

Through this remembrance, may we all be aligned with God, God of our ancestors, and one another.

And let us say, Amen*

 

*There is no traditional prayer when lighting a yarzheit or yizkor candle. The simple prayer above was inspired by the study of the teachings of Rabbi Eliezer Papo regarding honoring our parents. I hope you can use it.  Below is a closer interpretation of that prayer.  We were especially struck by the fact that he included father-in-law, mother-in-law, etc., not often found in a prayer of remembrance like this.  Our interpretation includes all who are close.  Our dear ones.

Prayer for Yarzheit or other time of Memorial (unveiling, yizkor)

Written collaboratively by Rabbi Shalom Bochner, Rabbi Eli Cohen, Rabbi Chaya Gusfield

Inspired by the teachings found in Pele Yoetz.  Pele Yoetz is a book of Jewish Musar literature (Ethics) first published in Constantinople in 1824 by Rabbi Eliezer Papo.

Our God, God of our ancestors, may I be aligned with You. May all the good deeds that I do, whether in thought, words, or action, be received by You with compassion and with favor. May all I do be for the merit, rest, and elevation of the life force, spirit, and soul of  XXXX  (insert name of father, mother, father-in-law, mother-in-law or any of those close who have gone before.).  May it be Your will that XXX ‘s soul (any dear one’s soul) be deeply connected to all that has lived, is living, and will live, eternally bound in the bonds of all life.


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This is a Shehechianu Moment

Welcome to my website!  Now Chaya’s Garden is part of the website.  A new beginning, a time of creativity and gratitude. It’s raining.  Let the rain heal and nourish the earth and all that inhabit her.  Thank you Ellen Tobe for all your brilliance, design, patience, and skill in making this happen.  I have learned so much from you.


Filed Under: Cancer Reflections, Grief Writings, Healing, Reflections on Love
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Standing

We always say I will be the one who will be standing when she dies.

There are so many assumptions in that statement:

  1. She will die.
  2. She will die before I do.
  3. I will be able to stand.

We think we know the path, the plan

Yet there have already been so many silences when we expected sound

So many sunny days during a torrential storm.

Then, of course, great pandemics,

Bringing a box of uncertainties.

How many pandemics does it take to remember we don’t know anything about standing?


Filed Under: Chaplain Reflections, Grief Writings, Healing, Prayer, Reflections on Love
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If My Skin Was Translucent

If my skin was translucent you could see my blood.

You could see my impatience rising when people use acronyms that point out who is on the inside and who isn’t in the know.

If my skin was translucent you could see the thoughts in the brain going back and forth-some of worry about that damn frig-what is making that noise? Will we one day awaken to spoiled food? Or what is that smell?  What is it?

You could see the roadmap of my pain with hills, valleys, dirt paths and cement foundations.  You could see the blockages to my joy.

You could see all the people I have crossed paths with, many who I miss terribly, hidden behind the heart.

You would see movies of drama, love and betrayal, anger transformed after too many exhausting years.  You could see the characters I played in each scene.

You could see all the food I’ve eaten and all the walks my legs have taken me on. Many in the cemetery. Visiting myself and others.  All the dogs I passed on the street wondering how they feel being owned.

You would see my spirit rising, my lungs expanding when I see a family of turkeys or quail or deer or a lone bobcat or a royal heron waiting to catch its dinner.

You would see every bone trying to do its work, each day a new challenge and a new solution, sometimes obscured.

You would see my ancestors in my liver or is it kidneys?  Ancestors that speak through me about when to water the tomatoes and when to plant the kale seeds.  They speak, but my ears are just learning how to listen.  And my mouth. Just learning to speak.

If my skin was translucent you would see all the songs I have sung. To sick people, their families, to grieving folks, and to ones in celebration.  You would see my daughter as she formed in my body.  It took her nine months to move out of the body into my arms and now she lives down the street from me, teaching me and others about important matters I am just learning now at 64. She is still in my arms.

If my skin was translucent you would see the yearning, the longing to come closer, even closer, and the prayers listening to touch the sacred.

Stop!  What is the sacred? How do we touch it?

If my skin was translucent you might get a glimpse.