Rabbi Chaya Gusfield

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

Torah/Life Writings


Filed Under: Healing, Music/prayer, Prayer, Spiritual Direction, Torah/Life Writings
2 Comments

Returning for a Second Helping (Encountering the Berditchever for the second time)

The Berditchever Niggun above

 

There are two kinds of eaters.  Those that stop after one serving because they might think it is excessive, greedy, or rude.  And those that go for a second helping.  That’s me. I go for a second helping.  I usually plan for two servings.  I love the taste of the different flavors on the plate, the discernment of what smells good, how it feels in the mouth, how I feel nourished, and what I want more of.  I anticipate the journey of the return for a second helping. What will I take more of, what will I skip?  An eagerness has joined the moment of the return.  Experiencing the meal once again, in a new way contains a certain excitement and even depth.

I recently discovered that’s true for my rabbinate, too.  Sixteen years ago I was honored to have my parents, brother and sister in law, partner, daughter, and beloved rabbinic mentor, Rabbi Lavey Derby, fly to Colorado in the middle of winter to participate in my ordination. As witnesses, as qvellers, as support, and in Lavey’s case, as part of the ordination (smicha) ritual.

The journey wasn’t easy for them: there was the ear ache, the aging, the beginning stages of my mother’s dementia.  There was the cold and the snow. And there was my families’ curiosity.  All were proud Jews, but all this religious experience was a bit foreign for them. With each struggle, they all still came.  I knew my drash (short sermon) bringing Torah to the difficulties of my sister’s death during my youth, would bring heartache to my family. At the same time, I knew it was the right teaching for the moment, for me, for my community, and ultimately my family. The anticipation was palpable.  I felt clammy, nervous, jittery, excited.

Before the powerful ordination ceremony Lavey took me aside privately to share a few words.  With words of blessing he passed onto me the spiritual lineage of the chassidic rabbi, Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev, lovingly referred to as the Berditchever.  Lavey was his direct descendant. I was honored to receive this extraordinary blessing.  I had studied about him in rabbinical school.  I knew he lived in the 18th century and was one of the early Chassidic Masters. He was a student of the Maggid of Mezeritch and a friend of Rebbe Nahman of Bratzlav. I knew he had been run out of several towns by the mitnagdim, those who opposed the movement of the chassidim.  When he landed in the town of Berditchev in the Ukraine he was well received and served his people for over 25 years as their rabbi.  I knew he did not create a chassidic dynasty, although many of his direct descendants did serve as rabbis.  I knew he was thought of as very kind and compassionate, always giving the benefit of the doubt to his fellow Jew.  He was the Great Advocate and Defender for the Jewish people before God.

Although I had learned about Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev and I had studied his Torah on the parshah (Torah portion) and holy days written in his book Kedushat Levi, I did not connect with his legacy or allow it to influence my life. Receiving his legacy at smicha remained a dormant mystery to me for many years. I did not know how to integrate him into my spiritual life or rabbinate. Yet, the seeds had been planted.  I had tasted my first serving of Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev.

In the Fall of 2021, in the heart of the coronavirus pandemic and political turmoil of our country, I found myself spiritually bankrupt.  At our second zoom High Holy Days, I couldn’t feel anything.  No matter how great the davvenen (prayer) was, the sermons, or the Torah, I felt empty and unmoved. Even when I was leading.  (I felt like Diana Morales in the Chorus Line who when asked by her theater teacher, “”Okay, Morales, what did you feel?” She responded, “Nothing, I’m feeling nothing”.)

Through a chance encounter, I heard a colleague share that Reb Zalman, z”l, had asked us all to immerse in one chassidic master as part of our training.  I had forgotten that direction and realized I had yet to complete this task.  In the midst of my spiritual crisis, I made a decision.  I could languish in my spiritual bankruptcy, or I could go back to the Berditchever for a second helping and try to understand his role in my life and my rabbinate.

I went back to the moment when R. Lavey Derby conferred the spiritual lineage of the Berditchever on me.  I started asking questions.  What did this mean?  What is my responsibility now?  I was driven to understand why I had received this blessing 16 years ago. To understand the concept of spiritual lineage I made lists of my ancestors, my mentors, my teachers, my spiritual influencers, my family. Through this early part of my immersion with this inquiry, I found some healing and reconnection with parts of my own family.  I also started to value, honor, and learn more about the indigenous ancestors of the land we live on.  And, the people of Torah felt closer than ever: Miriam, Rachel, Hagar, Devorah, Aharon, Moshe and so many more.  My house started to feel crowded with the number of ancestors who influenced my life.  I started to feel more alive and less alone.  By connecting with so many ancestors, I felt as if I was a Time Traveler and it expanded my life.

I didn’t have any quick answers to my inquiry about the role of the Berditchever in my spiritual life, but I committed to learning his Torah again and keep the inquiry fresh. I studied weekly with a partner (thank you Sue!) everything I could about the Berditchever.  His life, his death, the tales/legends about him and of course the Torah he wrote in Kedushat Levi.  I was surprised at how much I had learned before, evidenced by the notes in the margins of my books, and the files I found in my computer.  Yet, I barely remembered anything from that time.

Once I started this second helping with a new focus, it was his life story that initially impacted me, especially his hardships and resiliency.  Because he had been opposed so many times, he had a had a mental breakdown that lasted a year.  He also may not have had domestic bliss. The only story I could find about his wife, Perel, was that she sued him for lack of financial support.  And yet he recovered and became the Berditchever.

I began to get excited when I learned about his love for Sukkot, our holiday that comes four days after Yom Kippur and lasts a week.  Some say Sukkot was the original High Holy Day that Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur were preparing us for. Rosh Hashanah with announcing it with the Shofar blowing, and Yom Kippur with our rituals of atonement.  During Sukkot we are invited to live in fragile huts (called a Sukkah), to invite in our ancestors and friends, and to shake the lulav and etrog.  The lulav is a date palm joined by myrtle, willow and an etrog. We shake it to the East, South, West, North, up, down, and then bring the lulav and etrog to the heart.

The Berditchever would always move into the Sukkah as soon as he could and it was said he bought the first most beautiful etrog he could fine. There is even a story that one time when he was run out of town, he left with only his etrog and lulav in hand!

If you look at the famous Yiddish prayer/song he wrote, a dudele, it speaks directly to God who is found everywhere, in every direction.  I never heard anything about the song being connected to the lulav and etrog, but given his love of Sukkot, it feels like he wrote this prayer while shaking the lulav and etrog.  The prayer mentions finding God in all the directions plus heaven and earth.  This connection inspired me to plan to put a photo of him up in my Sukkah next year as one of my ancestors and to learn a dudele in Yiddish.  Shaking the lulav and etrog has always felt as an invitation to feel the unification of life all around, and to feel God/Shechinah everywhere we turn.  It will now include my connection with Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev.

A Dudele (written in Yiddish and sung magnificently by many)

Translation by Rabbi Zalman Schachter Shalomi

Master of the Universe,

I’ll sing You

a You song:

You, You, You, You.

Where will I find You?

Where will I not find You?

Where can I find You?

Where can I not find You?

You, You, You, You.

Wherever I go – You!

And wherever I stand – You!

Just You, only You,

Again You, nothing but You!

You, You, You, You.

When something’s good – You.

When God forbid it’s bad – ay, You.

Oy, You, You, You, You,

You, You, You.

East – You.

West – You.

South – You.

North – You.

You, You, You, You.

In heaven – You.

On earth – You.

Above – You.

Below – You.

You, You, You, You.

Where I turn,

Where I go –

You, You!

I was also deeply impressed with how the Berditchever approached his death and wanted so much to have one more Sukkot before he died. During the end of Yom Kippur, at the time of the Ne’ilah prayers, he saw the Angel of Death standing before him. He was told he was going to die.  He was so sad to miss another opportunity to fulfill the mitzvot (sacred obligations) of the Sukkah and the Etrog, so he pleaded for more time.  He said his last viddui prayer (either for Yom Kippur or for his end of life, or both) and the Angel of Death disappeared.  He realized then that the disappearance of the Angel of Death meant he was granted the extra time he had pleaded for in order to have his last Sukkot. On Simchat Torah, which comes at the end of Sukkot, he danced and sang with abandon, and was called to the Torah as Hatan Torah, the Bridegroom of the Torah. He died the next day.  His connection with Sukkot once again touched my heart.

I loved his passion in prayer, and with his very personal relationship with God.  Not only was he seen praying from one end of a room to the other with fervor, but he was a man who would freely argue with God!   I was slowly opening and connecting to him, but still not connecting with his written Torah.  It didn’t seem to match who he was.

I woke up one morning and realized there must be a Berditchever niggun (melody).  Many chassidic rebbes had passed down a niggun.  I hadn’t heard it in all my years in the Jewish Renewal world, and I hadn’t read about it, but I eventually found it. A sweet and deep melody without words attributed to him.  Learning this niggun was the portal I needed in order to open my heart to his Torah.

The Torah we had been studying from Kedushat Levi started to touch me deeply. His teaching on parshat Shemot clinched it.  Commenting on the sentence where the Israelites cried out to God for help because of the oppression of the Egyptian taskmasters,  (Exodus 3:7-9), the Berditchever teaches that God not only helps us deal with what we are crying out about, but understands that in moments of oppression, we can only cry out for ourselves because of our suffering. Yet, God hears our cries as a cry for more than help from our taskmasters, but also as a yearning/longing to feel close to God.  God is the ultimate spiritual director/chaplain/deep listener here, listening for what is the immediate pain we feel, but also for what is underneath our pain.  Our longing.

I couldn’t stop singing the niggun and I often cried as I sang it through many times.  I knew I was on the right path.  Chanting the niggun was an invitation to listen to what gifts were being offered directly from him. When I sang, I would ask him what he was saying to me.  I finally made a soul connection with him and his Torah. He was saying many things:  “yes, come close”, “from sadness arises joy”, “keep seeking and traveling”, “you are not alone with your grief”.

There had always been niggunim I loved, sang, and had brought me and others to deep places.  However, I approached his melody not just as a melody, but as a connection to him.  By singing it, I listened to the question,  “What gift was he offering?”  It also opened a hunger to learn more niggunim from chassidic masters in order to hear their Torah woven within them.

In the process of returning to the Berditchever for a second helping, I found his niggun, a new study partner, and a doorway to once again feel the spiritual life I had that had been buried. I don’t have more words to explain how.  I just keep listening as his Torah speaks my name.

Is there something in your life worth returning to or taking a second helping?

I bless you to hear it when it speaks your name.

 

 

The Berditicher niggun:


Filed Under: Grief Writings, Healing, Prayer, Torah/Life Writings
1 Comment

Each Day We Choose the Dip

Everything we know leads back to the river of loss and the lessons woven within her gentle ripples and harsh currents.

Each day we choose the dip.

Some days the dip is forever tears.

Other days the tears become a mikveh, we step gently into the waters of the womb of God, offer a blessing, and emerge with a New Name.

Another day comes. We begin again.


Filed Under: Chaplain Reflections, Grief Writings, Healing, Kaddish Musings, Prayer, Reflections on Love, Torah/Life Writings, Writings on Suicide
2 Comments

Celebrating Rabbinic Ordination

This is the drash (sermon) I gave at my rabbinic ordination in January, 2006.  It is still relevant today. As I celebrate my 16th year as a rabbi, I share this with you.  The Torah portions mentioned were read in synagogues during the prior two weeks during 2021/5782.

In this week’s Torah portion, Vayechi, Jacob blesses his son Joseph, by giving Joseph’s sons Maneshe and Ephraim a blessing.  He says “y’varech et hana’arim v’yikare b’hem shmi v’shem avotai avraham v’yitzchak .” (Genesis 48:16)  “Bless the young ones, may MY name be called through them and in the name of my forefathers Abraham and Isaac”

Simply stated, “May the memories of the ancestors be upon them as a blessing.”

We also see in Shmot, next week’s parashah, God says to Moses, “Ze shmi l’olam, v’zeh zichri l’dor dor.”(Exodus 3:15)   “This shall be My name forever.  This is my memorial from generation to generation.”

Once again, the name is used for a blessing.

In our tradition, we say of loved ones who have died, “Zichronam livracha” “May their memory be a blessing.”

Sometimes we say, “alav or aleha shalom”…May peace be upon him or her.

This is one of our most precious meditation practices.  When we mention the dead and stop to say zichrono livracha, or aleha shalom, we have the opportunity to continue our conversations with them, to receive blessing, and to offer them blessing, through the process of remembering them.

One day, I received an unexpected call from someone I didn’t know from New York who was trying to reach someone else at Kehilla Community Synagogue and stumbled upon my name and number in the process.  She told me that she knew my family from when I was a child.  My whole family.  And then she said, “I knew your sister Julie, zichrona livracha.” She said that they were the same age.  It made me stop.  The fact that she said her name and then followed it by zichrona livracha took my breath away.  I don’t believe I had ever heard anyone say Julie’s name with that blessing before.  I asked myself, what was the blessing that I was suppose to receive by remembering her in this moment?  I thought about it for many days.  What is the blessing?  My sister died a tragic death and for most of my life remembering her did not always feel like a blessing.  It was a difficult memory.  It brought great pain and suffering to our family.

I suspect that there may be people in your families who have died for whom remembering them wouldn’t always feel like a blessing.  And yet, our tradition asks us to remember them as a blessing EVERY TIME we mention their name.  Is this a mean trick–a way to ignore reality?  I believe it offers us an opportunity.  An opportunity for healing.

Reb Marcia invites us to see a bracha (a blessing) as the process of humbling ourselves by bending the knees (birkayim), reaching into the pool (breycha) and  experiencing the fountain of blessings as ENDLESS POSSIBILITIES.

Zichrona livracha –“may her memory be for endless possibilities”.  Whether you are the survivor of someone who experienced a tragic death, whether you have only difficult feelings about the person who died, or whether all you can remember are sweet moments, by saying zichrono livracha, we open the door to endless possibilities.  To anger, radical amazement, deep grief, a softening of the belly, the warmth of our heart, deep humility.  The key is that there are endless possibilities…The door is open to those who have died, and to our own healing process.

“Zecher tzaddik livrecha l’chayei haolam haba” “Remember this good person for a blessing for life in the world to come.”  By saying this expression when we remember someone who has departed, we send blessings to them-endless possibilities-in the world they inhabit.

We come together today in sacred community, a day filled with many brachot, many blessings.  A day that offers us endless possibilities from the deep pool of blessing.

Please join me in dipping into that pool by bringing into your heart and mind someone in your life who has died, to remember them for a blessing of endless possibilities.

The door is open to continue your conversation with them.  We may think we know what this conversation should be, but just for today, just for today, allow the conversation to arise on its own-in the quiet and sacredness of this community.

Zecher tzaddik livracha   —  May their memories bless our lives….

.

 

 

 


Filed Under: Chaplain Reflections, Healing, Torah/Life Writings
4 Comments

The Dream  (Feb. 14, 2021)

 

Twenty-four years ago I had a dream that Rabbi Zari Weiss, my beloved rabbi at the time, offered me several kippot to try on.  I didn’t remember much more about the dream, but when I woke up I was happy.  I knew my life was over as I knew it and my head would be covered from then on.  Not just when I ate, or studied, or prayed, but every day.  On the BART.  As a chaplain where I visited patients and families in the hospitals from all religions and no religions.  Sometimes there is a knowing, just a knowing, and that’s it.  There is no why, or a dissertation on the halachah (Jewish law) of women wearing kippot, or what it symbolizes.  There is no waiting until I earned the privilege by being a ‘good enough Jew’.  There is only a complete knowing.  Listening to this knowing is the heart of my spiritual life. And when it happens it takes my breath away. I cannot turn away even when I know it will change, complicate, and question my life.

After the dream there was also the knowing it might be “distracting” to some, or “awkward” or even “offend” someone for me to wear a kippa in public, or in synagogues where women don’t normally wear one.  There was the knowing it also would open hearts and conversations.  And even for some, I knew it would feel like they had been wrapped in a blanket when I approached.  None of this stopped me or encouraged me, because I had been invited by a source beyond my understanding to cover my head, to connect to our people and our traditions in this way. Ever since I began this practice, I have felt the Shechinah with me. And even now, when I can’t feel her, I feel the yearning for her and know she is close by waiting for me.

This practice keeps me from yelling at people on the street, or going into a bank on Shabbat.  I don’t take off my kippa, I just don’t go into the bank, and I try not to yell.  Wearing a kippa reminds me to pray, it helps me hear the voices of the ancestors, and it offers joy.  It is comforting.  It makes me proud to be part of our people, even when things may feel “awkward”.

There was a moment in a patient’s room when I was rejected as a spiritual care provider because I was visibly Jewish. They didn’t want my spiritual care because I was not a “believer”. I was disappointed because I knew that if they gave me a chance, I had the neshama (soul) to accompany them with grace and love. Yet I also related to them wanting someone to walk with them who they didn’t have to explain their spiritual life to. I respected that a great deal.  As I was about to leave, they asked me for my scarf.  That’s what they wanted.  My beautiful purple scarf.   In a complicated response of, “See, I’m a good Jew and you are missing out” mixed with compassion and generosity, I took the scarf from my neck and gave it to them. I left the room and cried. For my desire to prove that Jews are good and worthy. For my sadness that they couldn’t feel comforted by me. For segregation among humans that creates boundaries.  For being attached.  Yet, my kippah did not come off.  The “knowing” that this is my practice includes the knowing of facing all that comes with it.  The ways I will connect with others more because of it, and the ways it will be uncomfortable at times.  And the ways it will keep me from acting like a fool.

This knowing has always guided my life as I deepened into Jewish practice.  I remember the days when I studied and studied the laws of Kashrut (Kosher) and still fought the practice, even through rabbinical school.  Then one day I just knew it was what I needed to do.  There was no why or how, just a knowing.  Just as now, I know that if I stop covering my head or start to eat treyf, or milk and meat together, I will no longer be anchored to my tradition.  I will know that my tether is way too long and is about to break.  Maybe it will already have been broken.

These experiences of knowing have helped me expand my concepts of God.  Sometimes God is what shows up in a dream, or in a surprise, or the knowing that is beyond the rational.  I give thanks for having the ability to listen and to act.

What practices do you just “know” you have to do?  How have they guided your life?

(To comment or see comments, click on the title of this post.)

 


Filed Under: Healing, Music/prayer, Prayer, Torah/Life Writings
Leave a Comment

New Class starting in December: Jewish Liturgy (prayer) As Medicine, Unpacking prayer through study, writing, and sharing in a small group

Starts in December, every other week

Five two hour sessions with R. Chaya Gusfield on Zoom

Pick which time slot works for you.  Each time slot will be limited to 6 people.

Join either the Monday OR Tuesday group.

Monday evenings at 6:30 p.m.  PST

Or

Tuesday mornings at 9:30 a.m. PST

$180 for five sessions paid by Venmo or check

If interested, contact Chaya at cgusfield@gmail.com or 925-212-7943.

See: chayasgarden.wordpress.com for more information on Rabbi Chaya Gusfield as spiritual director, teacher, and writer

Once registered I will ask you for your 2 favorite prayers or prayers you would like to unpack more deeply, and the class will be designed with some of those in mind if possible.

Dates for Monday evenings: Dec. 7 Dec. 21, Jan. 4, Jan. 18, Feb. 1

Dates for Tuesday mornings: Dec. 1, Dec. 15, Dec. 29, January 5, (skipping Jan. 12 and 19th), Jan. 26


Filed Under: Healing, Prayer, Spiritual Direction, Torah/Life Writings
1 Comment

Yearning: Rosh Hashanah 5781 teaching

Shana Tova: The word for longing or yearning in Hebrew is GAGU’IM.  I love that word.  It sounds like what it means.  Gagu’im. It is an important concept for us to explore this historic year. I believe many of us have been in a constant state of gagu’im/yearning.  If we can tap into the experience of Gagu’im more consciously, Reb Zalman said our prayers during this time of RH and the High Holy Days, and at anytime, could be more meaningful. I understand his invitation to mean that praying from a place of gagu’im could be healing to us, and others, in ways that might surprise us, and carry us through this challenging time.

We are also grieving.  So much loss in our collective world experience and in our individual lives.  I don’t need to elaborate all the losses. We know.  Many of us are crying out in grief, “How can there be a God that allows such suffering? “Where is God when the entire world is upside down with the virus pandemic and the pandemic of racist violence which continues to be so prevalent and on a dangerous rise?”  Many might respond, “God is in the hands of the health care workers, or the people who deliver our much needed food, or with those who protest in the streets against white supremacy during this Great Racial Reckoning”.  And they would be right.  Just as my answer to the question of where was God in the SHOAH has often been, ”in the hands of the righteous gentiles”, or “God was crying/suffering alongside those who suffered.”  The idea that God was crying with us comes from the tradition that when our center of worship, the second temple, was destroyed 2000 years ago, the rabbis asked, “How could God have allowed the destruction of our people’s center of worship?” Although they struggled with answering this question, they found ways to continue to feel connected to God as a  comforting presence to help us through that very profound moment in history. A moment which could have destroyed Judaism.  Instead Judaism survived, albeit in very new and different ways.  The rabbis taught that the Shekhinah, the presence of God, literally lived in the ancient temple.  When the destruction happened, she went into exile with the Jewish people, with us. As we feel the suffering of injustice, the Shechinah feels the suffering of injustice.    As we cry, she cries with us.  At a time when we were grieving the destruction of our entire way of life, we were taught that the Shechinah was with us. Even exiled with us.

The rabbis continue to see the presence of the Shechinah in our lives as the center of much of Jewish practice.  This personal presence motivates us to study, to pray in community, but it also helps us understand that we are not separate from the suffering we witness. Right now we are witnessing a lot of suffering and have serious concern for future suffering. Unemployment, illness and deaths from the virus and from increased poverty.  We are witnessing the murder of black people and the frightening response to the protests by the state.    By understanding that we are not separate from the suffering we witness, the hope is that we will act to affect good in the world.  It motivates us into action.  It keeps us from ignoring the hungry, the homeless, the oppressed.  

So, if we know that the Shechinah is with us during these pandemics, why do so many of us we feel so bereft, alone, and hopeless? A story which might help us answer this.  It might surprise you.

About 5 weeks into the pandemic, I couldn’t feel the presence of God, the Shechinah, or any hope at all.  I was overwhelmed with the profound individual and collective grief.  Even as I prayed with very sick people in the hospital and prayed with their grieving families, I felt deep inside that God had been kidnapped and I felt alone.  I yearned to find God.  But I had no idea how to begin.  I was frozen.  Prior to this time I had a very expansive experience of God.  From Adonai, to Ruach Ha’olam, to Shekhinah.  I knew that God was the Source of All and experienced in as many ways as there are words.  However, at this low point, I only experienced the God who had been kidnapped as Adonai, Eloheinu Melech Haolam, God, Our God, King of the World.  The whole world. And I wanted to find Him. Maybe I was going back to my childhood where that was my primal only way of experiencing God. My chevruta, my study partner who has known me for many years, was quite surprised that I was talking about God as being kidnapped.  He was shocked that I couldn’t feel God in the ways people were coming together helping each other out, or in how the earth was healing from slowing down.  In contrast, the image I had was that God was in a very remote cave somewhere and there was no map to find Him.  Yes, I felt alone and abandoned.  I felt the world had been abandoned.  Yes, I was grieving, yet the yearning, the yearning was also there wondering where God was.

I was in a state of gagu’im.  I was longing to feel something greater than myself.  In addition to acknowledging and experiencing our grief, tapping into our yearning can be a key to our resilience.  And maybe more. 

I call this yearning ITSELF God or HaMAKOM, the place. The place where all exists. It is the force that moves, awakens, transforms, accompanies.  It is the force that heals and motivates me to be a healing force when I can. Yearning is its own answer to the question of where is God in this suffering? When I remember that my yearning is the key to feeling the Shechinah here with us, I can take the next step.  I take the next step to finding the maps to find God, to take them out and study them and then go on the path to find that cave.  Melech Ha’Olam will become more than just the King, but the Source of All, HaMakom, the place.

My prayer for us today is that when life feels hopeless, we can remember that beneath hopeless, is the yearning for hopefulness.  Let me repeat that.  Beneath hopelessness is a yearning for hopefulness. When we find that yearning, it will be our guide. With each step we take, we will be able to remember and actually feel that the yearning itself is The Source of All, that many call the Shechinah.  And she is sitting right here, right now, crying with us, celebrating with us, and walking us through this time.

And let us say, AMEN 

Take a moment and reflect: What are you yearning for?  Where is your yearning living in your body? 


Filed Under: Grief Writings, Healing, Prayer, Torah/Life Writings
10 Comments

The Haircut

I had never been so thin as an adult.  I was experimenting with being on a “cleanse” and ate only non-processed food, did not eat past 7 p.m. and drank more water.  I wouldn’t even eat ketchup or anything made with any kind of flour, only whole grains.  Rice cakes were a big stretch and I only ate them when traveling.  At first I told myself that my experiment was to see if this would help me sleep better, or clear up the inflammatory pain I was living with, as promised. However, this form of eating soon became addictive.  I just couldn’t eat anything processed. Even if I wanted to. After several months, friends said, “this is enough”.  But I couldn’t stop.

In retrospect I now see I was committed to this restrictive eating because I was grieving.  My mother hadn’t died yet, but the mother I knew was gone.  She had a form of dementia that played havoc on her life, but also in our lives.  Her personality was stubborn, hostile, and combative.  For many years she wouldn’t accept any help and our dad was also suffering because of her.  Mom periodically threatened him with divorce, locked him out of their apartment, and then would hold him hostage inside after he was able to get back in. Mom would call me every day begging me to visit as if I hadn’t been there in months.  It had only been 6 hours since a visit or a call.  There were meetings with the staff at their assisted living facility threatening, ever so nicely, that if we couldn’t get my mother out of bed for basic hygiene, she couldn’t live there anymore.  There was the yelling when I brought my mom something she had asked me for but she had forgotten, and didn’t believe me.  There were the moments mom insisted she could walk, and then would fall to the floor because she had forgotten she couldn’t walk. Doing this cleanse was the only thing I felt I could control. 

When mom died, someone brought chocolate to the shiva. And it was all over.  I was free.  I no longer needed to control my life.  I could grieve openly.  There was a burial, a shiva, a year of kaddish.  I began to eat again.

My eating during the pandemic feels ever so similar to those days on the cleanse.  The chaos and the timelessness of this grieving feels like how I felt when mom was alive, but was no longer the mother I had known.   The only thing I can control now is what I put in my mouth or my daily walks and exercise classes.  Trust me, we are not hungry.  Food is available, but because we are trying to stay out of stores, getting food safely has become an urban hunting adventure, but not impossible.  Even though the pantry and freezer are full, there is a sense of hoarding, at the same time a sense of scarcity.  I don’t use the entire onion or jar of tomato sauce.  I ration the avocado and don’t waste a potato.  I divide up a meal and freeze half of it for another day and conserve each piece of fresh fruit, freezing some for the time we might not be able to get any.

Loss of control and living with uncertainty is probably the number one issue for most of us at this time. We are all mourning so many losses and we don’t know when this will end. Loss or change of jobs, loss of housing, not being able to see our elders, loss of touch and seeing full faces, loss of medical and dental care, loss of our chiropractors and acupuncturists, loss of comfort being in the physical presence of others, loss of future, loss of regular ways we exercise, play, eat, shop, and loss of regular modes of dating.  Nothing is the same. Nothing. We can’t even celebrate a new baby or a wedding together without worry. Worshipping has gone online.  We don’t know what our new normal will be or for how long.  We have no familiar viddui, no moment of death, no burial, no shiva, no in-person tahara or shmira, and no kaddish for what we have lost.  The grief enters our pores and continues day after day. 

During the pandemic, illness and mourning don’t look like anything we have known. Those who have lost loved ones to COVID -19 are mourning the suddenness or mystery of their death. The loneliness and separation of their dying, not being able to be in the hospital by their side as they would during normal times.  There is a fear of others in the family getting sick or dying.  The loss of a funeral, or a funeral as we know it.  The loss of in-person shivas.  Those who lost loved ones during this time not to COVID-19 are also grieving their death in unusual ways.  They also may not have been able to travel to be close to their loved one to comfort them, be with them bedside at a hospital, attend their funeral or shiva as we have known it to be. Imagine not being able to attend the funeral of your parent or spouse.  Or only attend the funeral of your child with the maximum of nine selected others. If you are “lucky”.

Jewish tradition is so smart about mourning.  We get time periods dedicated to different parts of our year of mourning.  And then, we have 5 times a year to honor and remember those who have died.  (Four holy days and the anniversary of the death of our loved ones.)  We even have a day to commemorate collective losses of our people starting with the destruction of the Temple, Tisha B’Av. What do we have to ritualize this moment? This moment will last an uncertain time. Our usual times of mourning aren’t adequate to mark the losses we feel now.  We are barely treading water in a rising sea of mourning without any container or rituals to help us mark the time.

But what I really want to talk about is haircuts. In some Jewish communities men don’t shave or cut their hair after an important death for 30 days.  When my parents died (two years apart to the day), it felt right to let my hair grow until I stopped saying Kaddish at 11 months. It wasn’t required of me.  I just wanted to make sure I didn’t slip back into “life as usual”.  Each of their deaths had a very strong impact on me and I needed to feel their loss in my body. I had a lot to process.  So I let my hair grow.  It felt right.

For some, being without a decent haircut has become an important reminder of being out of control. I imagine it says, not only is your job, your housing, your movement, your family life, your school affected, but even your identity, how you appear to others. The county has not opened hair salons for many months now and some of us are getting raggedy (and for those who color their hair, they are showing their grey).  To gain control, some have resorted to home haircuts and some are even going to other counties where hair salons are open, although not necessarily a safe or wise practice.

I’m a vain woman.  When I sensed my dad was going to die within 24 hours, I snuck away and got a haircut, knowing I wouldn’t be getting one anytime soon.  A week before the official Shelter in Place, I knew it was coming, and got my last haircut.  It might have been the last thing I did with anyone outside my family.

I’m hungry for familiar Jewish rituals to honor the grief of the great losses we are all experiencing during this pandemic. Just like I was moved to not cut my hair during the first year of mourning my parents, it has become clear to me to not cut my short, curly, grey hair until we can all be physically together again in our synagogues, at our tables, at the restaurants. Until we can hug, and touch without fear of each other’s breath.  Until we can dance at each other’s weddings and gather together to mourn a death.

Although I have nice thick hair, I look unkempt when it grows out without help from my beloved hair stylist Pamela.  But this time isn’t about me and my hair. This is a time of communal mourning and communal strength. Accepting the fullness of my hair, as shaggy as it will become until we can be together again, will remind me that our lives have changed.  There will be no denial.  My vanity will just have to take second chair. 

My hope is that having this intentional physical daily reminder connecting me to the collective experience of the pandemic will also allow me to have a sense of control, in a healthy way, while dealing with the uncertainties and losses.

My heart’s prayer is for a time when we are dancing together, without masks, without fear.  And I will have short hair.