I recently listened to an episode of the California Report that shared news about a Jewish bakery that closed in the Los Angeles Fairfax district after more than 77 years. I was so surprised to find myself sobbing. Over the closing of a bakery? Yes, I loved their baked goods, especially the “racetrack” which was a chocolate babka on steroids. When my friends would go to LA I would beg them to go there and bring me back enough to last a year. (Ok, only once or twice did I beg. And no, not enough for a year. Maybe for a month.)
The story had audio snippets of people sharing how important the bakery was to them; One woman shared how she would go there with her mother as she aged and they always got the same thing. Another reported how his somewhat distant father who worked there for many years, would bring back hot rye bread early in the morning after his shift. They would eat it together over a cup of coffee as one of their only ways to connect. There were many more stories of people connecting to one another at the bakery. Even writing this I feel myself crying about how the simplest of things, like sharing something from a special bakery with someone, can touch us very deep within our hearts and memories.
But I still wonder, what am I crying about? It can’t be about missing the racetrack (although I would love to find another like it!) Were the stories and memories a portal into my feelings about my parents’ yarzheit this week? Am I missing my mother or father knowing there are no more times to create new moments of connection? Am I worried about when my partner will no longer have any treatment options for her terminal, yet longtime, cancer? Am I grieving about this horrible war causing so much suffering?
I don’t know. Sometimes we just have to cry. I always teach grief attended to is lifegiving.*
So, please join me in letting the tears flow, for whatever is on your heart needing expression at this moment. I imagine there is plenty. The tears having been waiting to flow. Yes, again.
*Thank you Rabbi Shifra Tobacman for that expression.
If you prefer not to receive my blog posts, please click here. You will still receive my very occasional newsletters letting you know when I will be teaching or opening up a group.
Things are changing every day in this historic moment. Lots of feelings, thoughts, actions. I have noticed one thing has stayed pretty similar throughout since October 7. In my American Jewish and ally world I have an avoidance of talking about what I believe or am thinking about until I know exactly where the other person stands. There is a caution, a hesitancy. Others I know are experiencing this, too. Because of this hesitancy and diversity of experiences, this results in many of us not really sharing with anyone what we are going through, and thus feeling quite alone. I have many in my circle who I have not shared with, or been asked to share with, or asked the other to share what they are feeling or hoping for. Many specific words are avoided. There is fear as to what might follow. A disagreement so big we can’t stay in relationship with one another.
The events since Simchat Torah reminded me of the crisis in Texas, when Rabbi Charlie and a few of his congregants were held hostage in their synagogue in January, 2022. I was of course thrilled that the hostages were not killed, but horrified to hear in the press “no one was killed.” The truth was no hostages were killed, but the man who kept them hostage was killed after Rabbi Charlie and his congregants escaped. I felt it was honest for us to acknowledge the loss of his life.
My friends remind me to hope, even if peace doesn’t come in my lifetime. Truthfully, I don’t know how to muster the hope, but I will lean on those of you who do.
I had never been to this synagogue. My friend was the new rabbi and I wanted to attend. It was supposed to be over 95 degrees and I didn’t know if they had AC. I hadn’t slept much the night before due to my mind which wouldn’t turn off. What if I fell asleep during the lengthy Torah service? Surely, I didn’t have the right clothes for shul (synagogue), and I wasn’t sure I could sit for 2.5 hours. Who knew if anyone would be masked or if I would be the only one sticking out like a sore thumb, telegraphing “don’t get too close to me.”
She was celebrating in a room filled with hope, pride, Shabbes, and connection. Flowers, hearts, and song dancing with the smells of delicious food, Torah, laughter, and tears. There was truth shared over bagels, about pain, dreams, visions, how to cope with disappointment, regret. And joys spilled forth over lox and capers. Whispers of family. The salad was delish. The sun was hot, very hot. She had forgotten her hat and sunglasses. Someone shared the frosting of her cupcake. Another shared her memories of Italian gelato as if she were sharing a deep secret no one else could ever have known.
