Rabbi Chaya Gusfield

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

Chaya’s Garden


Filed Under: Healing, Prayer, Writing/art prompts and art
1 Comment

Notes from a Rabbi Posing as an Artist: Working with Color

When there is a surprise of a combination of colors speaking from the soul, it is like finding the right niggun, melody, for the occasion. A melody having traveled through many generations, it guides us towards release, calm, or tears. Sometimes a yearning.  The colors come together often reminding me of the eulogy that came forth and spoke the truth, helping others grieve, remember, let go, and/or hold on.  The color creation stirs me, like the unexpected words flowing through me as I taught a class. There was an awakening of awareness, the Neon Yellow broke through all that was planned.

Color and flow are the Creator Herself. The Still Small Voice guides me to pick up Coffee instead of Cranberry, or Pool Blue instead of Turquoise, or Sunbright Yellow instead of Forest Green. And then add a touch of Gold, and to never forget the shades of Violet and Purple.  Except when Sunset Red or Flamingo is calling to join.

Other times I am disappointed. I didn’t listen to the voice telling me to stop, and I turned something stupendous into a mush of clashing colors.  I had to try one more color, one more technique, a little bit more alcohol, and now it’s ruined.  Sometimes when accompanying someone on the path to Home, I can’t stop talking. The opportunity for inspiration is missed.  Or there is the time when a meal is so delicious, I want more, and get sick from eating too much.

Less is more, but more is tempting.

I made five abstracts. One touches the soul, one is interesting, and three are dull and chaotic.  I am cranky.  Somehow, I forgot how much all the playing, listening, making mistakes, and trying again kept me alive. All of it.

And then there is the discovery of composition.  Something I “ruined” is transformed by changing its shape from a rectangle to a heart. A simple cropping, enlarging, or adding one color in the corner turns a collection of colors on the page to a story that draws you in.  Once again, when I think I have ruined the moment, there is an opportunity for recovery. I come back to the Sacred through a different door. As it is when I choose to sing a different prayer or melody, take a breath, and return.  I say I’m sorry, and bring myself to begin anew.

Each time I enter the world of creating, I encounter prayer, longing, and the Still Small Voice invites me to listen. Even more deeply.

And let us say Amen….


Filed Under: Cancer Reflections, Chaplain Reflections, Grief Writings, Healing
8 Comments

I Forgot to Breathe

 

I saw a gorgeous man at the café. He might have been 23.  I forgot I was 66 years old.

I also forgot I was a lesbian.

Oh, and that I was married.

I forgot when I run, my back can hurt for days, and sometimes my hips give in.  In my heart, I am skipping and running with the wind, the sky, the song.

I forgot how much my heart was holding, even before I went to work in the hospital every day.  I never forgot my beloved was being treated for a terminal illness.   I forgot to cry about the toll it took on my spirit, until I wasn’t holding the hands and comforting patients anymore.

I forgot I will need my beautiful baby as I age, to feed and dress me.

I forgot how much I crave the quiet and endless time without interruptions.

I forgot how much I miss you when I am alone.

I forgot to breathe. It might lead to crying, and then lead to wailing, which could lead to despair.

I forgot I can handle despair.

I forgot to listen to the trees and the plants.  I forgot their language.

I forgot a longer life means I might start to forget; turning off the stove, the names of people we know, and I can’t remember what else.

I forgot my password to my password file.

I forgot I have grey hair and my skin hangs.  I feel like I am 20. Ok, maybe 35.

I forgot I never really had that boyfriend I always knew I would marry.

I forgot the name of my hamster and turtle I loved as a child.

I forgot how to live without parents.

I forgot to breathe.

 


Filed Under: Healing, Prayer
3 Comments

Fire Poem

It is chilly, the air smells delicious,

Sitting on the hard, wooden chair in front of the cold, wood stove.

The smell of yesterdays’ fire is a remembrance of the poem it was.

Weaving strips of newspaper, some are crumpled into balls,

I add kindling, designing a piece of art no one else will see.

Large pieces of soft fur come next. Then hard almond.

As I kindle this fire, I pray for an easy one, nothing dramatic, not smokey, just warmth.

I pray for the light and a gentle crackle.

 

My soot hands are the remembrance of today’s poem.

The fire begins to speak the language I learned when I was living on the land.  19 years old.

 

Crackles, and splats, the whoosh of the wind in the chimney. Sparks that sing.

I feel more than the heat.

 

 

 

Can you taste the remembrance of my ancestors’ poems as they wrote, sitting near the fire

As they prayed for their children?

 

Little did they know I would join them on this chilly day,

With my fire poem, praying for their healing and freedom.


Filed Under: Chaplain Reflections, Grief Writings, Healing, Prayer, Reflections on Love, Spiritual Direction
3 Comments

We Can Dance

We can’t always be brave, but we can get out of bed in the morning, even when the demons of the night have held us captive in clammy moments of terror. When sleep is a foreign concept.

We can find reasons to live when our mind screams otherwise.  Yes, this is brave.

We can sit with another as they face the end of their life with regrets, grieve their unrealized dreams, and cherish their memories.

Without words, we can gently hold the hand of the young mother about to lose her child. Our hands touching, being the strength allowing her to be present for one more moment.  Yes, this is brave.

We can’t always be brave.

We can go to the street where a fire has devastated homes, and bless the survivors with words spilling out from the throat, from the heart, from the precious sanctuary of this moment.  Only this moment. Yes, this is brave.

We can’t always be brave, but we can sigh deeply as we slowly breathe our way into forgiveness, even when bitterness and anger feel more comfortable.

We can love with the music of the wind on our faces, and create a new life when climate change is burning, wars exploding, and the future uncertain. Yes, this is brave.

We can’t always be brave, but we can speak the truth about injustice when doing so is bigger than our own safety.

We can continue to breathe, go to the grocery store, eat a meal, and get dressed when our hearts are broken and shattered.  Shattered and broken.  Yes, this is brave.

We can’t always be brave, but we can cry out for a witness, for accompaniment on the journey of despair. We can take the hand offered. And hold on.

We can sway, moan, groan, wail.  We can sing.  Yes, this is brave. All of it.

We can’t always be brave, but we can dance.


Filed Under: Healing, Reflections on Love, Torah/Life Writings
Leave a Comment

Crowded Rooms*

There is no reason to feel lonely. The room is crowded with those that have shaped, guided, and offered me gifts, whether they were invited to or not. Born into a Jewish family I was literally shaped with the thighs of my people.  Ashkenazi Jewish thighs.  Yiddish, secular, Reform Hebrew School, and stockings the morning of Christmas.  I swam in the culture of an assimilated, middle class, 1950’s Jewish American pride.

From our gay elders I was gifted Lesbian/Gay/Bisexual pride which expanded into varied gender nonconforming expressions.  Living on lesbian land as a young adult, I floated in the Eel River, learning from and connecting with Mother Earth and her creatures.

I was ordained as a rabbi by Rabbi Zalman Schachter Shalomi, z”l,  and his students. I was brought into their chassidic spiritual lineages of the Baal Shem Tov, the Lubavitcher rebbe, Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev and the women mystics we uncovered.

As a hospital chaplain, I was held with love under the loving tutelage of beloved Buddhist/Baptist, AME church, Unitarian Universalist, and Presbyterian supervisors.  I became a hospital rabbi for Muslims, Christians, Sikhs, the atheist and the spiritual but not religious. I prayed with Jews who had never prayed in their own words before.

The Mercy Center Catholic nuns taught me how to listen with devotion and how to pray outloud, getting quiet in order to let the voice of God emerge, serving as a Spiritual Companion to those seeking to find the Sacred in their lives.

With my partner, I know joy and play, struggle and return, and dream for more days together. Always  finding the unexpected.

With my beloved study partners I pray the text and inhale it into my soul.

Through my writing teachers I unleash the creative unconscious through words. Listening to the still small voice.

From my parents I learned how to think, how to question, how to use my gifts to help others, how to receive the pain of others without dying, and how to care for the elderly.

From my sister who died too soon, I experienced tragedy and made meaning from it.  I accompany others who have experienced something similar in their families.

From my daughter there is the eternal dance of closeness and space, and the unspoken connection that has no name.

From Torah, I inherited many ancestors deep within our collective dreams, conflicts, and celebrations.  I do not turn away from the difficult reflections of our lives found within our wisdom tradition.

From niggunim, I listen into and feel my heart, and sigh.

The room is full and more keep squeezing in.

Welcoming each guide, I accept their gifts.  There is no room for loneliness.

*who is in your crowded rooms?


Filed Under: Healing, Reflections on Love
4 Comments

Happy Birthday to my Daughter, Feb. 2, 2022

There are words and sentences and paragraphs and stories to describe you.

There are phrases and poems to illuminate the love I have for you.

But I can’t find them.

They rebel against these familiar methods of communication.

They can’t sing their truest notes or phrases or rhythms or harmonies.

No dance understands the fullness of life within you or moves with

the syncopation that touched your hearts’ beat, arriving when you were born.

The letters which make up words don’t seem to find each other,

in any language, to paint the piece of art that knows you.

And yet, in the trying, there is the gentleness one could

call the love of a mother for her daughter.

Always filled with surprise, like the exhalation of breath, but no.

There is more.


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

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

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 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 family 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 is 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 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 had not connected with his legacy or allowed it to influence my life. Receiving his legacy at smicha remained a dormant mystery to me for many years.. 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 all of his students 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.  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.

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 keeping 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 his book 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 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 started again, recovered and became the Berditchever.

I began to get excited when I learned about his almost ecstatic 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, plus heaven and earth.  I never heard anything about the song being connected to the lulav and etrog, but given his love of Sukkot, it feels as if he wrote this prayer while shaking the lulav and etrog.  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, English version, translation by Rabbi Zalman Schachter Shalomi, z”l

sung by Hazzan Abbe Lyons, http://abbelyons.com

Listen to Hazzan Richard Kaplan, z”l, singing the Yiddish

I was also deeply impressed with how the Berditchever approached his death. 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 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 found his 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.  The niggun 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 Berditchever niggun:


Filed Under: Chaplain Reflections, Healing
1 Comment

Our Many Names

The encounter invites a new name.

A silent name whispered during a sacred moment never to be announced.

Some will no longer know your name.

You will forget your own name, only to call to your soul for another.

And another.

The one who cries.

The one who never cries.

The dancer, the healer, the mourner.

There is also the shy one leaning into the quiet spaces of the day.

The mother emerges and soothes the heartbreak, feeds and washes her beloveds. Carefully.

We go by many names, the private ones and the ones we announce proudly to all.

 

When no-one remembers your names, you will join the Nameless. Becoming one with them all.