Minyan

The first death in my family was my older sister, who died of schizophrenia at age 21. I was one week short of 14.  There was a funeral but no shiv’ah or other Jewish mourning rituals.  I always knew I had missed a sacred journey.  I grieved for a lost mourning process.  I became obsessed with Jewish mourning rituals, death and dying, learning about the afterlife.

For many years I studied, read and taught about grief and mourning especially the power of reciting the kaddish.  I held people’s hands as they said goodbye to loved ones.  I facilitated funerals and rituals of mourning.  I led grief groups and spoke about the importance of grief.  I revered our people’s mourning rituals.

The day before my mother died I counseled someone “mourning is a sacred journey that takes us from one place to another, but when we are in it, we can feel sunk”.  I remember those wise words as I sit mourning my mother. I remember those words when I feel sunk in the waves of grief.  It is my turn to be torn apart, to do the sacred walk of mourning.  It is my turn to tear my clothes, to shovel the earth on the coffin, to stay at home, to pray and pray and pray.  It is my turn to cover my mirrors and let my hair grow.  It is my turn to feel the mutedness of life, to feel as if I have no skin, to feel that everyone is talking way too loud or fast.  It is my turn to attend morning minyan and say kaddish again and again and again and again.  It is my turn to appreciate our people’s rhythm and rituals and institutions and the people who uphold them.

I always wondered if I would find myself at daily weekday minyanim to say kaddish when the time came.  I wondered if this practice would speak to me and whether I would want to do this practice for the mourning year.  Would I go every day? Once a week?  Where would I feel comfortable? Would I just make a special commitment to make sure I didn’t miss Friday night and Saturday morning services?

Every day I find myself waking up way too early and am grateful there is a minyan. Twice a week I go to a local Conservative shul.  There is always a minyan.  The shaliach tzibur (prayer leader) has ruach.  The Torah is chanted, people honor their family yarhzheits, we pray for the sick. People laugh and talk during prayers even though it is forbidden to do so.  I say kaddish at least twice, three times if I am not late, which I often am.  There is food, but I am rushing to work and can’t stay.   Attending helps me pause in my life and remember my mother just died.  It helps me remember the shift I am experiencing.  And I love the Hebrew and the liturgy. It is like a kiss to my broken spirit.  Even though I am shy and not yet connected to the community, I feel held.

Once a week I go to another Conservative shul.  It is difficult to make a minyan there.  We often have 7 or 8.  There is a tension as we listen for the footsteps of people coming up the stairs. Everyone who walks in the door has great significance. I understand the power of ten and I yearn for ten.  I am sad to not be able to say kaddish when there is no minyan, but I keep coming. The ritual of remembering and the daily rhythm of prayer helps me stay true to my process, to stay true to my mother.  Those who come are serious daveners.  There is a heaviness in the room, not much laughter.  Yet, I am welcomed.  I wish there was another way to honor my mother and my mourning process during services when we have no minyan.

Once a week I go to the local Jewish Renewal shul.  There is never a minyan, or not yet.  But there is commitment to prayer and to learn.  We share moments of reflection, chanting, we daven, and we learn together.  There is an excitement when we hear the footsteps of someone coming in.  Everyone who walks in the door has great significance.  We don’t say the Barchu, the Amidah outloud and the kaddishes.  But when it comes to the Mourners Kaddish those who are mourning are invited to say kaddish.  I call in a virtual minyan: those I know wanted to be there but couldn’t get there are mentioned out loud so we have ten.   I am grateful to be able to say kaddish in my community. I know the Shekhinah is with all of us.  And yes, I wish there were ten gathered together.

And then there is Friday and Sunday.  There is no daily minyan.  I mean, there is no local egalitarian minyan close enough to be able to get to work on time.  I am invited to attend the modern orthodox shuls, but I know I won’t be counted in the minyan.  My experience with the other minyanim has taught me the importance of each person.  Every one of us is important.  How can I go where that isn’t true?

On Fridays and Sundays I feel adrift.  I struggle to find other ways to stay in the rhythm of my sacred walk.  I read English interpretations of the kaddish, I look at photos of my mom, I write.  I say the kaddish that was written and meant to say alone.  I daven by myself.  But it’s not the same. I miss the messiness of community, the diversity of practice, the exchange of song and words, Torah and liturgy.  I miss the responses…the Amens and the y’hei shmey rabba mivorach l’olam ulalmey almayah.  I miss the difference and power of local minhagim where in one community we use the Torah to count towards the tenth and in another that would seem absurd.  I miss that in one place the shaliach tzibbur really sings halleluyah and in the other I feel the sacred mumble.  Both have power. I wonder if when my eleven months ends, whether I will still attend, helping to make the tenth for someone else who needs to say kaddish.  I hope so.  Every one of us is important.