A few weeks ago I was talking with Rabbi Jill Zimmerman about how psycho-busy this time in my life is. She stopped me and said, "you have to come to this mindfulness retreat I'm doing in a few weeks."
"No way," I responded. "I've got X on my plate and Y on my plate, I've got this thing and that thing and then I've got to think about W and Z. And oh, don't forget about A, B, and C!"
"Exactly." she said. "You need this. Now more than ever."
So, begrudgingly, I agreed to think about it. When I mentioned it to my mother, she jumped. "Let's do it together," she said.
And so, on Saturday morning I found myself at Leo Baeck Temple in yoga pants. I came with few expectations, an open mind, and declaration to myself, mom, and husband that I would take a day to root myself in myself. I promised I would learn a little bit about this mindfulness and spirituality movement. I brought a recently-acquired journal to take notes. I was as prepared as I could be.
And the day went something like this:
I hadn't planned on bringing a watch, so I already felt naked when I walked out the door. It wasn't until I was in the car about a block away from our apartment that the Bluetooth failed to connect and I realized I'd left my cell phone on my nightstand.
Some colorful language ran through my head. And then I said, No! This is good! This is good! I shouldn't have my cell phone anyway! I resisted the urge to turn around and grab my phone. And I gently scolded myself for being so dependent on that thing.
When I arrived, it became clear to me very quickly that the whole day would be out of my comfort zone. And that's okay! I thought cheerfully. It's just one day! One day of discomfort, Jaclyn! You can do it! You might learn something! Be open!
My mother and I sat down in the sanctuary and prepared to pray. It was Shabbat morning, after all. We donned our tallitot - both of which were made by yours truly on the occasion of each of our B'not Mitzvah - and sat together, prepared for a different kind of prayer experience.
It was slow and deliberate and gentle, focusing on breath and pause and reflection and awareness. It was very pretty - the beautiful voice of Cantor Linda Kates was our guide, as were the teachings of the extraordinary Rabbi Sheila Peltz Weinberg - but it was also very hard.
I am so accustomed to a style of worship that is very different: one where the sh'lichei tzibbur (prayer leaders) are engaged and engaging, where prayer and song are stimulating and powerful, and where gentleness often doesn't really show itself. So to sit and pray for two and a half hours at about half-speed, listening to the soothing voices of these women ... it was just so different. It was challenging. Not impossible, but definitely challenging.
Following prayer we had about forty-five minutes of yoga. My favorite part was looking around at a room filled with older Jews curled into balls with blankets wrapped around themselves. It looked like a giant slumber party. I wish I'd been able to take a picture! The yoga itself was fine; it wasn't the stretch-out-your-body kind of yoga with a name I can't pronounce; it was more of a thinking yoga class with lots of breathing and mentions of intention.
Lunch was held in silence, which was probably the hardest part of the day. A natural extrovert, having to turn inward and meditate on the food I was eating and its path to my mouth was a challenge. However - it was catered by Chipotle. And Chipotle, my friends, is one of my favorites. To be able to slow myself down and actually savor the flavor was a very different experience. I appreciated it. It was nice.
(I also learned that I am an abnormally loud chewer of tortilla chips)
By the time we left the retreat later that day, mom and I were both ready to re-engage with the world we know. We took from the retreat some really solid tools on mindfulness and being present. We had a different appreciation for Chipotle. (Or, at least I had it; mom doesn't do Mexican food, so it was good she brought her own lunch!)
The most important message I gleaned from this experience was the act of being mindful. Mindfulness takes a whole lot of different forms, but it's also quite simple. As Rabbi Peltz Weinberg stated, the idea of mindfulness falls into three categories: pleasant, unpleasant, and neutral. As she guided us through this teaching, she spoke of the difference between reaction and response, developing compassion for our thoughts, and recognizing the hindrances or blockages that keep us from doing or being our best. She also made a really brilliant link with parshat Yitro and the giving of the Ten Commandments, speaking to the dark cloud in which the divine resides.
All in all, I walked away from the retreat grateful that I was able to participate in it and take away a few tools. I'm proud I made it through the better part of the day without my cell phone. I'm thrilled that I never eat my lunch in silence because, honestly, I think eating is an opportunity for connection, not reflection.
All in all, being out of my comfort zone ain't exactly a bad place to be, especially now.
And you know what else? I'm glad I listened to Rav Jill. Even though I resisted at first, throwing every excuse of "busy-ness" at her, I ultimately realized that being mindful and present and aware is exactly what I need for myself going into this next phase of my life; this transition from rabbinical student to rabbi.
Looking forward to the next adventure!
Jaclyn
Monday, January 20, 2014
Monday, January 13, 2014
Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes
Good grief ... it's been a long time since my last blog post.
I don't even know where the last three weeks have gone. I mean, it was winter break, but it was far from a break for me. While there was definitely some quality time spent with quality people doing quality things (and, typically, eating quality food) it was most definitely a busy, productive, exhaustive time.
I've had so many blog-worthy thoughts over the past three weeks that never made it to the blog itself. Thoughts about the future, about the present, about hopes and dreams I have for myself and my family in this new secular year. I've thought a lot about the closing of one very large chapter in my life - time spent as a rabbinical student at HUC-JIR - and the soon-to-come beginning of the career I've worked towards since around the time of my Bat Mitzvah.
Maybe it's the season, or maybe my good friends and I are just really cosmically connected, but each of us seems to be in a state of transition in our lives. People I love are attaching or detaching from their partners, preparing to welcome their first child, transitioning from one profession to another, or pondering moving to another country. People are engaging with change in such deep and visceral ways. Through each lunch date, phone call or FaceTime chat it becomes more and more apparent just how much we are each poised at pivotal life moments right now.
Somewhere in those thoughts on change is the funny little fact that I will be turning thirty the same week as Placement, the kickoff for the job search. And I'm actually feeling surprisingly good about entering this new decade of my life. I don't feel nervous or intimidated or fearful of the big 3-0. I feel excited. I feel hopeful. I feel ... good.
My thesis is all about lifecycle rituals: the way we rabbis and cantors "do" them, the way communities engage with them, and the way we clergy innovate them to fit life's moments that fall outside the traditional categories we know. So it really does feel like every day I'm talking about transition, change, and moving from one identity to another. Every day I'm talking about what it means to honor the cycles of our lives in holy ways. I think it would be totally exhausting if it weren't so cathartic and necessary.
So, looking ahead to these next few weeks I know that there's much to come. I know there's plenty I can prepare for and a whole heap I won't anticipate. Luckily, I have my outlets for processing and coping with the uncertainty. I have a thesis that, while consuming, is completely apropos to what I'm going through right now. And, I have a fantastic birthday celebration to look forward to, as well.
Until next time,
Jaclyn
My thesis is all about lifecycle rituals: the way we rabbis and cantors "do" them, the way communities engage with them, and the way we clergy innovate them to fit life's moments that fall outside the traditional categories we know. So it really does feel like every day I'm talking about transition, change, and moving from one identity to another. Every day I'm talking about what it means to honor the cycles of our lives in holy ways. I think it would be totally exhausting if it weren't so cathartic and necessary.
So, looking ahead to these next few weeks I know that there's much to come. I know there's plenty I can prepare for and a whole heap I won't anticipate. Luckily, I have my outlets for processing and coping with the uncertainty. I have a thesis that, while consuming, is completely apropos to what I'm going through right now. And, I have a fantastic birthday celebration to look forward to, as well.
Until next time,
Jaclyn
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
Mourning Superman Sam
Yesterday an eight-year-old boy was laid to rest in Glencoe, Illinois. A boy I never met, never spoke to, and yet ... like countless others around the world I felt connected to this boy. I read about his battle with acute myeloid leukemia through blog posts by his parents, both rabbis in the Chicago area. I followed his mother on Twitter and Facebook. I listened and read as mutual friends in the Reform community posted and shared and retweeted Sam's trials and triumphs. My heart ached and swelled with every one. And yesterday, my heart was heavy with grief knowing that over 1,000 mourners had gathered together to say a final goodbye to this beautiful child, Superman Sam.
Am I allowed to grieve, though I did not know him? Am I allowed to feel the pain of such a horrific loss, even though I was not present at that funeral? Can I mourn from afar, through a computer screen, though I never met Sam, or his parents, or his beautiful young siblings, face-to-face?
I cannot begin to fathom what his parents, his siblings, his grandparents and cousins and friends and loved ones, his doctors, his community - those who actually knew him - must be feeling. I cannot comprehend their grief, their pain, or their anguish. Nor can I try to wrap my head around what their lives will be like in the days, weeks, months, and years to come.
But I can raise my voice in support of this family, and the countless others fighting for increased funding of pediatric cancer research.
The rabbis of the Reform Movement are many, but we are all connected to one another. And among the mourners physically present at Sam's funeral were dozens of rabbis and cantors from the Movement, several of whom left Biennial early to stand in solidarity and mourn in person with Sam's family.
Many of those incredible rabbis are currently involved in this fundraising effort: 36 Rabbis Shave for the Brave. The campaign, run through the organization St. Baldricks, has grown and spread and tweeted and Facebooked and blogged and exploded around the country and the world. Rabbis are shaving their heads at the CCAR Convention in Chicago this March in memory of Sam, and I encourage you whole-heartedly to support their effort to raise awareness and funds.
One of the most moving things I read about Sam shortly before his death was that he made sure his money was going to tzedakah; that his legacy would outlast his short eight years. Now, our extended community has an obligation to support his family and his community, Am Shalom in Glencoe, Illinois. (Where my amazing classmate Andrea Rae Markowicz serves as cantor) Please visit their page here to extend your support.
And finally, Jewish tradition teaches us to remember the life and the legacy of those who physically leave us. Judaism teaches us to tell the stories of those we mourn; to remember them not in their death but in the life they led.
Read Sam's story. Be inspired by who he was and what he did in this short time on earth. Connect with and follow the words of his parents, Rabbi Phyllis and Rabbi Michael Sommer, here. Read the countless articles and obituaries written on Sammy.
Ensure that his story lives on.
Each of us is only one person; one tiny speck, one grain of sand, within something so much greater than ourselves. Yet so many of those grains of sand were brought together throughout Sam's illness - through social media, through words and stories and acts of compassion. Through a brave rabbi (my dear friend Rabbi Rebecca Schorr, who you can find here) stepping forward and offering to help organize the fundraising efforts with St. Baldrick's. Through the rabbis of the Reform Movement wearing Superman pins on their lapels throughout Biennial in honor of Sam. Through the mentioning of Sam's passing at Shabbat services on Saturday morning, before 5,000 people.
Though we may only be one, we ones must connect. We ones must multiply. We ones must tell those we know and galvanize our circles to act, to remember, and to care.
Then and only then do we keep Sam's memory alive.
Superman Sam, I did not know you. But you inspired me. Your parents inspire me. And I will share your story, and I will care, and I will mourn - even from afar - to ensure your memory lives on.
Zichrono livracha, may his memory be for blessing.
-Jaclyn
Am I allowed to grieve, though I did not know him? Am I allowed to feel the pain of such a horrific loss, even though I was not present at that funeral? Can I mourn from afar, through a computer screen, though I never met Sam, or his parents, or his beautiful young siblings, face-to-face?
I cannot begin to fathom what his parents, his siblings, his grandparents and cousins and friends and loved ones, his doctors, his community - those who actually knew him - must be feeling. I cannot comprehend their grief, their pain, or their anguish. Nor can I try to wrap my head around what their lives will be like in the days, weeks, months, and years to come.
But I can raise my voice in support of this family, and the countless others fighting for increased funding of pediatric cancer research.
The rabbis of the Reform Movement are many, but we are all connected to one another. And among the mourners physically present at Sam's funeral were dozens of rabbis and cantors from the Movement, several of whom left Biennial early to stand in solidarity and mourn in person with Sam's family.
Many of those incredible rabbis are currently involved in this fundraising effort: 36 Rabbis Shave for the Brave. The campaign, run through the organization St. Baldricks, has grown and spread and tweeted and Facebooked and blogged and exploded around the country and the world. Rabbis are shaving their heads at the CCAR Convention in Chicago this March in memory of Sam, and I encourage you whole-heartedly to support their effort to raise awareness and funds.
One of the most moving things I read about Sam shortly before his death was that he made sure his money was going to tzedakah; that his legacy would outlast his short eight years. Now, our extended community has an obligation to support his family and his community, Am Shalom in Glencoe, Illinois. (Where my amazing classmate Andrea Rae Markowicz serves as cantor) Please visit their page here to extend your support.
And finally, Jewish tradition teaches us to remember the life and the legacy of those who physically leave us. Judaism teaches us to tell the stories of those we mourn; to remember them not in their death but in the life they led.
Read Sam's story. Be inspired by who he was and what he did in this short time on earth. Connect with and follow the words of his parents, Rabbi Phyllis and Rabbi Michael Sommer, here. Read the countless articles and obituaries written on Sammy.
Ensure that his story lives on.
Each of us is only one person; one tiny speck, one grain of sand, within something so much greater than ourselves. Yet so many of those grains of sand were brought together throughout Sam's illness - through social media, through words and stories and acts of compassion. Through a brave rabbi (my dear friend Rabbi Rebecca Schorr, who you can find here) stepping forward and offering to help organize the fundraising efforts with St. Baldrick's. Through the rabbis of the Reform Movement wearing Superman pins on their lapels throughout Biennial in honor of Sam. Through the mentioning of Sam's passing at Shabbat services on Saturday morning, before 5,000 people.
Though we may only be one, we ones must connect. We ones must multiply. We ones must tell those we know and galvanize our circles to act, to remember, and to care.
Then and only then do we keep Sam's memory alive.
Superman Sam, I did not know you. But you inspired me. Your parents inspire me. And I will share your story, and I will care, and I will mourn - even from afar - to ensure your memory lives on.
Zichrono livracha, may his memory be for blessing.
-Jaclyn
Monday, December 16, 2013
Unpacking Biennial
Wow.
That's not a word I use often enough. But I will use it to describe the past four days, which I spent in San Diego along with about 5,000 others at the Union for Reform Judaism's 2013 Biennial.
Every two years the URJ gathers together thousands of Reform Jews - lay leaders, synagogue employees, clergy, entertainers, NFTY-ites, and more - to connect and reconnect, pray, learn, network, and altogether grasp the movement of the Movement.
The first Biennial I attended was in 2001, just a few months after 9/11. I was the president of my temple youth group, I was seventeen years old, and up until that summer I had no concept of NFTY or a greater Reform Movement. Then my home synagogue, Stephen S. Wise Temple, rejoined the Union and I was asked to represent them at Biennial. The experience was unforgettable.
Twelve years ago, my mind exploded with the excitement and energy - the ruach - of the Movement and especially its youth. And this weekend in San Diego, I felt that same ruach as I participated in the most exciting, stimulating, thought-provoking, and innovative programming and prayer I have witnessed in a very long time.
Biennial is a bit of a blur. There are so many people and so many things happening simultaneously. You're constantly running into people you haven't seen in years. You want to catch up, but you also want to make it to a session, maybe two! The programming is overwhelming in the best way possible; it feels a little bit like Jewish Disneyland with all the stimulation and the taglines. Some people - and I tried VERY hard not to give myself a hard time about this - get serious FOMO: Fear Of Missing Out. Because, truly, there's just so much going on. And you want to do Every. Single. Thing.
Some of the programmatic highlights for me included:
-Learning best practices for young adult engagement from synagogues and communities that are doing it right
-Observing a case study in the URJ's Campaign for Youth Engagement taking place at Congregation Beth Israel in San Diego
-Participating in a workshop for Reform California, led by many of my friends and colleagues
-Discussing the synagogue of the future with Rabbi Sharon Brous and Rabbi David Stern
-Reconnecting and connecting with HUC alumni and students from all four campuses and hearing the outgoing president - Rabbi David Ellenson - bless incoming president Rabbi Aaron Panken on his journey
Then there were the services. Friday night was a stunningly beautiful service led by the clergy team of Temple Beth Elohim in Wellesley, Massachusetts - a synagogue whose innovative educational programs were often used as case studies during my Jewish Education Master's program. Saturday morning I participated in hands-down the most creative and exceptional Torah service of all time primarily led by Cantor Andrea Buchdahl of Central Synagogue and Amichai Lau-Lavie of Storahtelling and Lab/Shul.
What made the Torah service so amazing? It was creative, it was fun, it was engaging, and it had serious depth. The best way I can describe it: thirteen platforms were set up around the giant plenary hall. Each platform served as a bimah, and those who had been asked to stand there (representatives from various URJ organizations) had a Torah with them on their bimah. The 5,000 person plenary chanted the Torah blessings together, and then each platform had a reader who read for each separate aliyah within earshot of their section. It gave me chills. It was beautiful. And it was interspersed with stellar sTorah-telling, a particular highlight being Shira Kline acting as the biblical character Dinah.
It reinforced so very much all that is possible when we think outside the box.
And then, Saturday night I had the most incredible opportunity to introduce the plenary program: an event honoring 100 years of the Women of Reform Judaism and celebrating 75 years of NFTY. The program was a celebration of amazing female musicians, role models, educators, and social activists. It honored Anat Hoffman, the fearless director of IRAC, and it blessed the generations of old and new in sweeping musical tributes. It was just so good.
If you didn't catch it live, please do yourself a favor. Watch the replay, celebrate and dance and sing with the women, and enjoy it:
Part 1: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VpEH9-pFUZc
Part 2: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8MIjJ03r1IE
The Biennial experience got me so energized, so pumped, about all that lies ahead for us soon-to-be rabbis. It made me see so clearly how the Movement is growing and shifting, how its leader Rabbi Rick Jacobs is a visionary who practices what he preaches, how committed and passionate so many of its constituents are, and most of all, the evolution to which the Reform Movement is committed and in which it is invested so deeply. That includes opening our arms to change, embracing that which we do not know, engaging with all those who are "othered" to us, and being exemplars of "audacious hospitality."
To the next chapter, for a new day is dawning ...
Until then, time for sleep!
L'shalom,
Jaclyn
That's not a word I use often enough. But I will use it to describe the past four days, which I spent in San Diego along with about 5,000 others at the Union for Reform Judaism's 2013 Biennial.
Every two years the URJ gathers together thousands of Reform Jews - lay leaders, synagogue employees, clergy, entertainers, NFTY-ites, and more - to connect and reconnect, pray, learn, network, and altogether grasp the movement of the Movement.
The first Biennial I attended was in 2001, just a few months after 9/11. I was the president of my temple youth group, I was seventeen years old, and up until that summer I had no concept of NFTY or a greater Reform Movement. Then my home synagogue, Stephen S. Wise Temple, rejoined the Union and I was asked to represent them at Biennial. The experience was unforgettable.
Twelve years ago, my mind exploded with the excitement and energy - the ruach - of the Movement and especially its youth. And this weekend in San Diego, I felt that same ruach as I participated in the most exciting, stimulating, thought-provoking, and innovative programming and prayer I have witnessed in a very long time.
Biennial is a bit of a blur. There are so many people and so many things happening simultaneously. You're constantly running into people you haven't seen in years. You want to catch up, but you also want to make it to a session, maybe two! The programming is overwhelming in the best way possible; it feels a little bit like Jewish Disneyland with all the stimulation and the taglines. Some people - and I tried VERY hard not to give myself a hard time about this - get serious FOMO: Fear Of Missing Out. Because, truly, there's just so much going on. And you want to do Every. Single. Thing.
Some of the programmatic highlights for me included:
-Learning best practices for young adult engagement from synagogues and communities that are doing it right
-Observing a case study in the URJ's Campaign for Youth Engagement taking place at Congregation Beth Israel in San Diego
-Participating in a workshop for Reform California, led by many of my friends and colleagues
-Discussing the synagogue of the future with Rabbi Sharon Brous and Rabbi David Stern
-Reconnecting and connecting with HUC alumni and students from all four campuses and hearing the outgoing president - Rabbi David Ellenson - bless incoming president Rabbi Aaron Panken on his journey
Then there were the services. Friday night was a stunningly beautiful service led by the clergy team of Temple Beth Elohim in Wellesley, Massachusetts - a synagogue whose innovative educational programs were often used as case studies during my Jewish Education Master's program. Saturday morning I participated in hands-down the most creative and exceptional Torah service of all time primarily led by Cantor Andrea Buchdahl of Central Synagogue and Amichai Lau-Lavie of Storahtelling and Lab/Shul.
What made the Torah service so amazing? It was creative, it was fun, it was engaging, and it had serious depth. The best way I can describe it: thirteen platforms were set up around the giant plenary hall. Each platform served as a bimah, and those who had been asked to stand there (representatives from various URJ organizations) had a Torah with them on their bimah. The 5,000 person plenary chanted the Torah blessings together, and then each platform had a reader who read for each separate aliyah within earshot of their section. It gave me chills. It was beautiful. And it was interspersed with stellar sTorah-telling, a particular highlight being Shira Kline acting as the biblical character Dinah.
It reinforced so very much all that is possible when we think outside the box.
And then, Saturday night I had the most incredible opportunity to introduce the plenary program: an event honoring 100 years of the Women of Reform Judaism and celebrating 75 years of NFTY. The program was a celebration of amazing female musicians, role models, educators, and social activists. It honored Anat Hoffman, the fearless director of IRAC, and it blessed the generations of old and new in sweeping musical tributes. It was just so good.
If you didn't catch it live, please do yourself a favor. Watch the replay, celebrate and dance and sing with the women, and enjoy it:
Part 1: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VpEH9-pFUZc
Part 2: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8MIjJ03r1IE
The Biennial experience got me so energized, so pumped, about all that lies ahead for us soon-to-be rabbis. It made me see so clearly how the Movement is growing and shifting, how its leader Rabbi Rick Jacobs is a visionary who practices what he preaches, how committed and passionate so many of its constituents are, and most of all, the evolution to which the Reform Movement is committed and in which it is invested so deeply. That includes opening our arms to change, embracing that which we do not know, engaging with all those who are "othered" to us, and being exemplars of "audacious hospitality."
To the next chapter, for a new day is dawning ...
Until then, time for sleep!
L'shalom,
Jaclyn
Saturday, November 30, 2013
The First Funeral
This past Sunday I had the kavod, the honor, of conducting the funeral of one of my mother-in-law's best friends, Helen.
First, let me be clear: Sunday wasn't about me. Sunday was about being a kli kodesh - a holy vessel - and facilitating the memorial of one incredible woman. Helen was one-of-a-kind; a mother and wife and sister and friend who died suddenly and far too young. It was a surreal, sad, and difficult day, but it was one that gave me food for thought about the career I've chosen to pursue. Below are my thoughts on the process itself.
This was the first funeral I'd ever done. It wasn't a dress rehearsal or a practiced memorial service, which we've done throughout school. This was in real time, with a real grieving family; one I know well. It was serious and nerve-wracking and upsetting and really, really hard. I was the authority, the ringleader, and the decider. To their credit, HUC has done a great job of preparing me for leading a memorial service. But to be in the moment, standing face-to-face with mourners, requires a set of skills few classes can teach you.
The funeral began the Friday before, when I went over to the house to speak with the family. When a rabbi or cantor performs any life cycle event, they typically do what's called an "intake." No matter how close a family may feel to a rabbi, the intake sheds light on stories never told and on memories not yet shared. For weddings, funerals, B'nai Mitzvahs, and baby namings, the intake presents a much clearer window onto where the family is "at" leading up to the rite of passage.
The intake was extraordinary. We all cried, we laughed, and I learned much more about Helen than I had ever known. Her husband and daughter shared stories that blew me away, and I shared those very stories from the lectern on Sunday morning. I was able to gain clarity on how Helen came to be Helen, and on the deep sense loss in which her loved ones were immersed.
The funeral itself took place on a beautiful sunny day in Simi Valley. A large crowd turned out, many of them still shocked by the news. As "the rabbi," my job was to be present: to listen and comfort and serve as a receptacle for people's grief. Even though I knew Helen, I wasn't a mourner on Sunday; I was the facilitator. Knowing and owning that was essential, as was carving out space for myself to say goodbye to her in my own way.
As it has been at funerals I've attended in the past, the hardest part was the burial. Saying goodbye and speaking platitudes in a service is one thing; lowering your loved one into the ground and placing earth upon their casket is just something entirely different. Watching her bereaved husband shovel earth into the grave on Sunday, listening to him bid farewell to his beloved wife, was beyond heartbreaking. And immediately after that, one by one, the community did their part to shovel earth into her grave. We all said our goodbyes to her, sang a round of "Me and Bobby McGee" (Helen was a big Janis Joplin fan) and eventually left the cemetery to return to our lives.
I spent the rest of the day immersed in thoughts about ritual. As many of you know, my senior thesis is on the topic of ritual: how Jews connect to Judaism through it, how we as Jewish professionals innovate it, and most importantly - how to measure whether or not a ritual has "succeeded." And much of what my chevruta and I have done is discuss what makes a ritual "work" or "not work."
Though we've concluded it's particularly challenging to evaluate oneself, I think that this funeral - as a life cycle event - really did "work." I felt like it honored Helen, it gave her loved ones the space to grieve and to mourn and laugh and cry, but it was clearly a funeral. Jews do death really, really well. We have such an intricate, well-structured system for grief and mourning. And through the sacred texts of the psalms, the hesped (eulogy) the chanting of El Maleh Rachamim, and the minhagim (customs) at graveside, I feel like we as a community sent her off right.
It was the best possible sendoff we as a community could have ever given Helen. It was a really strong learning experience for me (one, I must admit, I wish I hadn't had under these circumstances) and, I hope, as meaningful an experience as it could have been for her family and friends.
First, let me be clear: Sunday wasn't about me. Sunday was about being a kli kodesh - a holy vessel - and facilitating the memorial of one incredible woman. Helen was one-of-a-kind; a mother and wife and sister and friend who died suddenly and far too young. It was a surreal, sad, and difficult day, but it was one that gave me food for thought about the career I've chosen to pursue. Below are my thoughts on the process itself.
This was the first funeral I'd ever done. It wasn't a dress rehearsal or a practiced memorial service, which we've done throughout school. This was in real time, with a real grieving family; one I know well. It was serious and nerve-wracking and upsetting and really, really hard. I was the authority, the ringleader, and the decider. To their credit, HUC has done a great job of preparing me for leading a memorial service. But to be in the moment, standing face-to-face with mourners, requires a set of skills few classes can teach you.
The funeral began the Friday before, when I went over to the house to speak with the family. When a rabbi or cantor performs any life cycle event, they typically do what's called an "intake." No matter how close a family may feel to a rabbi, the intake sheds light on stories never told and on memories not yet shared. For weddings, funerals, B'nai Mitzvahs, and baby namings, the intake presents a much clearer window onto where the family is "at" leading up to the rite of passage.
The intake was extraordinary. We all cried, we laughed, and I learned much more about Helen than I had ever known. Her husband and daughter shared stories that blew me away, and I shared those very stories from the lectern on Sunday morning. I was able to gain clarity on how Helen came to be Helen, and on the deep sense loss in which her loved ones were immersed.
The funeral itself took place on a beautiful sunny day in Simi Valley. A large crowd turned out, many of them still shocked by the news. As "the rabbi," my job was to be present: to listen and comfort and serve as a receptacle for people's grief. Even though I knew Helen, I wasn't a mourner on Sunday; I was the facilitator. Knowing and owning that was essential, as was carving out space for myself to say goodbye to her in my own way.
As it has been at funerals I've attended in the past, the hardest part was the burial. Saying goodbye and speaking platitudes in a service is one thing; lowering your loved one into the ground and placing earth upon their casket is just something entirely different. Watching her bereaved husband shovel earth into the grave on Sunday, listening to him bid farewell to his beloved wife, was beyond heartbreaking. And immediately after that, one by one, the community did their part to shovel earth into her grave. We all said our goodbyes to her, sang a round of "Me and Bobby McGee" (Helen was a big Janis Joplin fan) and eventually left the cemetery to return to our lives.
I spent the rest of the day immersed in thoughts about ritual. As many of you know, my senior thesis is on the topic of ritual: how Jews connect to Judaism through it, how we as Jewish professionals innovate it, and most importantly - how to measure whether or not a ritual has "succeeded." And much of what my chevruta and I have done is discuss what makes a ritual "work" or "not work."
Though we've concluded it's particularly challenging to evaluate oneself, I think that this funeral - as a life cycle event - really did "work." I felt like it honored Helen, it gave her loved ones the space to grieve and to mourn and laugh and cry, but it was clearly a funeral. Jews do death really, really well. We have such an intricate, well-structured system for grief and mourning. And through the sacred texts of the psalms, the hesped (eulogy) the chanting of El Maleh Rachamim, and the minhagim (customs) at graveside, I feel like we as a community sent her off right.
It was the best possible sendoff we as a community could have ever given Helen. It was a really strong learning experience for me (one, I must admit, I wish I hadn't had under these circumstances) and, I hope, as meaningful an experience as it could have been for her family and friends.
Monday, November 11, 2013
Men and Women and a Movement
Last night my husband and I had the privilege of going to the home of Michael Zeldin, Senior National Director of HUC-JIR's Schools of Education. We went for a delicious dinner and stimulating conversation. The topic: "Where Have All the Men Gone? Power and Gender in Reform Judaism."
L'shalom,
Jaclyn
You know. The light stuff.
Our conversation was with Stuart Leviton, the President of Men of Reform Judaism (MRJ) and Rabbi David Wolfman, a strategic planning consultant for the MRJ. Stuart is a lay leader and past president of Congregation Kol Ami here in Los Angeles. His aim last night was to inform us about the organization's vision, engage us in a conversation about gender, involvement, and affiliation across North America, and hear our personal narratives with regard to the politics of gender in our work.
The first part of our discussion centered on affiliation writ large. The following questions were put on the table: Why affiliate? Why be a part of a movement; part of a community? It had all of us students - particularly those of us about to graduate - scratching our heads.
What did they mean, why affiliate? It felt like a wake-up call; a splash of cold water to the face. To ask a group of soon-to-be rabbis and educators a question like that was intentionally provocative. It's sort of like saying to a doctor, "Why see a medical practitioner? I have Web MD." Yet, we knew to listen, respect, and reflect on what they had to say because there was value and truth to all of it.
Our speakers offered the non-surprising but still-alarming-for-various-reasons fact that men are leaving the Reform Movement in droves. Individuals and families and communities and congregations across North America are freaking out. Across the country lay leaders and professional Jews are asking themselves, (as the title of the discussion itself stated) where have all the men gone? Everyone, it seems, is deeply worried. Even as I write this it sounds like the trailer for an upcoming Hollywood blockbuster.
So, in light of this massive flight of Y-chromosomes from synagogue life, people like Stuart and Rabbi Wolfman are currently engaged in conversations about what all this means: for the Union for Reform Judaism (URJ), for the day-to-day activities of its functioning North American synagogues, and especially for its youth. (For the record, the URJ's president, Rabbi Rick Jacobs, has made youth engagement a top priority during his tenure)
Stuart and Rabbi Wolfman asserted that in myriad conversations across North America, men feel displaced, unwanted; they feel as though their needs aren't being met. Men feel they have no outlet and that women have taken center stage in the synagogue. Men want a safe space, they want role models, and they want to feel like they have a place in contemporary American Jewish life.
Okay. Let's take a deep breath.
First, I very much appreciated what Stuart and Rabbi Wolfman offered us. It was valuable, stimulating, and provided each of us with essential information as we go forth in our careers as Jewish professionals. There was a lot I wrestled with last night, but it was still hugely important that I listen and take it all in. As a future leader of the Jewish community, talking about the alienation of any part of the population is huge.
What was most challenging about last night was not that they were speaking about the male/female dynamics of contemporary synagogue life. Additionally, what they shared was no surprise; it's a well-known and well-documented fact that since the 1990s a vast majority of HUC-JIR's graduates have been female, resulting in fewer and fewer men being drawn to professional Jewish life. That's had a traceable ripple effect on all areas of the Movement.
No, what was most difficult to swallow was the fact that everything being presented last night appeared from my perspective to be so specific, only focusing on one narrow part of a shift in contemporary American Jewish life. The conversation felt really one-sided: men feel this and it's not good. Men feel left out and we need to not make them feel that way. Men need a place to express their emotions and the synagogues you'll work for aren't cutting it. The end.
In my mind, this should have been a joint conversation with, say, the Women of Reform Judaism. It could have been a more meta discussion incorporating the recent Pew study, or a discussion about Jews' increasing involvement in less established models of Jewish life: for example, the hugely popular IKAR here in LA.
The one-sidedness of the conversation, in a way, alienated me. It left me out as a potential partner in shaping future gender boundaries of Jewish affiliation. It made me feel even more feminine, more womanly, more "other." I believe that approach casts men and women even further apart.
In my mind, this should have been a joint conversation with, say, the Women of Reform Judaism. It could have been a more meta discussion incorporating the recent Pew study, or a discussion about Jews' increasing involvement in less established models of Jewish life: for example, the hugely popular IKAR here in LA.
The one-sidedness of the conversation, in a way, alienated me. It left me out as a potential partner in shaping future gender boundaries of Jewish affiliation. It made me feel even more feminine, more womanly, more "other." I believe that approach casts men and women even further apart.
Our world doesn't only exist in solely "male" and "female" terms anymore; gender is a spectrum. And there appeared to be no spectrum present last night; only very stark differences that fell into categories of black and white. It lacked nuance or recognition of the amazing work so many of my colleagues are doing for all Jews: not just men, not just women, but the entire Movement.
Another discussion point was concern over the fact that boys do not have male role models to look up to, and that's resulting in this widespread flight from organized Jewish life. So, maybe it's a generational thing, but when I was growing up I had many role models. I looked up to teachers, rabbis, parents, older friends, camp counselors; you name it. And truth be told, I had role models who were male and role models who were female. I didn't discriminate. I was an equal-opportunity role model seeker.
Now, today, I have mentors who are male and mentors who are female; some are gay, some straight. They're single, married, partnered, divorced, bald-headed and brunette, some with glasses and some without. They're as diverse as you can get, and not just in physical ways. Why do I gravitate towards them? Because my parents - and those role models - taught me to value what's in a person's soul. Not their gender, not their looks, but who they are.
I wonder how this particular conversation on affiliation and involvement might shift if we stopped spending so much time on gender and started looking into the souls of those who lead our synagogues and institutions: male, female, and those in transition. I wonder what would happen if we adjusted this particular conversation to focus on a vision we have for the entire mishpucha (family), which includes within it the widest variety of individuals and family systems imaginable.
As we discussed on Sunday night, what keeps people returning and investing and deepening their relationships to Jewish institutions are depth and quality. Depth and quality lead men and women to connect in ways that matter to them, and those ways are diverse for every single human being. It's not only our job as Jewish professionals to present a deep, rich, and high-quality Judaism accessible through multiple channels; it's our sacred task.
As we discussed on Sunday night, what keeps people returning and investing and deepening their relationships to Jewish institutions are depth and quality. Depth and quality lead men and women to connect in ways that matter to them, and those ways are diverse for every single human being. It's not only our job as Jewish professionals to present a deep, rich, and high-quality Judaism accessible through multiple channels; it's our sacred task.
Gender isn't one sided, and it's not even as simple as what I've presented here. Indeed, it's much more complex. As our guests said to us last night, these conversations are intense and provocative but we should embrace and not fight them, for they help us grow. We will likely never live in a world that is free from gender. It is a part of what we do and who we are. But what we do with these conversations - how we see gender, how it colors our experiences, and where it holds us back from our own self growth - is so tremendously significant. It's our future. And all of us are invested in that.
L'shalom,
Jaclyn
Friday, November 8, 2013
Strangers in the Nail Salon
Yesterday morning was about an eight (out of ten) on the intensity scale, so naturally I found my way to a manicurist's chair before work in the afternoon.
Everyone has their own sanctuary. Luckily I have several, and one is the nail salon. The ones I go to are serene, clean, and quiet. And I'll be honest - freshly painted nails help me think clearly.
Around midway through my manicure I heard a woman walk into the salon. My back was to the entrance, but she was loud and noticeable. I mean, I noticed her. You couldn't not notice her.
She was going on and on about being a physician and not being comfortable in that space. "Give me the hospital! Give me an operating room! Give me my stethoscope!..." she kept repeating. It was weird. I was confused. I couldn't turn around to see the source of the voice, but I could see the other women in the salon looking at each other with those eyes. You know, the "who is this lady, is she for real?!" eyes. The partial eye roll, partial sideways glance. I know the look well.
This went on for a few minutes until, out of nowhere, she snapped at someone: I can wear my wedding rings on my right hand, okay! I can wear them how I want because my husband is divorcing me and I can do what I want! I can do what I want, okay? Don't tell me what to do!"
Instantly, I felt nauseous. I couldn't see this woman's face, I had no idea who she was yelling at, but .. I got it. Things clicked.
I maneuvered my body to get a look at her and when I did, I felt even more nauseated. She was stunningly beautiful, poised, put-together, and looked ... I don't know ... regal? Maybe in my head I thought she'd look terrible. I figured she'd have mascara running down her face or something. But, no. Not a hair out of place. Not a drop of mascara beneath her soft almond eyes.
I listened to her go on and on throughout the rest of my mani. She trashed her husband, insisted that she made a huge mistake marrying him, didn't want to hear one single word about the fact that she was still wearing her rings because they were on her right hand, okay!? and then stated she was "super nervous" about walking a red carpet that night. It was such a bizarre confluence of predicaments.
I listened to this woman, this stranger. I watched the other women in the salon - ostensibly strangers to each other - giving one another looks, then nodding in her direction. Even the manicurists were gesturing to her and making faces, speaking in Vietnamese, perhaps trying to make sense of her. She seemed completely oblivious to it all.
My heart ached for this woman. I wanted to go up to her, ask if she needed a shoulder or a listening ear, see if I could help her in some way. Of course I didn't, because that would have been totally weird and invasive. Just as the nail salon is my sacred space, it was hers, too. Maybe she would have responded well, or maybe she would have smacked me across the face. Who knew?
I left the salon wondering, what was my obligation to this woman? Why did I feel compelled to talk to, protect, or help her? Why was I so invested in her well-being? Couldn't I have just ignored her, rolled my eyes along with the rest of the posse, or gone about my day just as oblivious to her as she appeared to be towards everyone else? The answer is no, obviously, because here I am blogging about it.
Kabbalistic Judaism teaches that we have a mythical, mystical group of people known as lamed-vavniks. The tradition goes as follows: there are 36 (in Hebrew, the number is lamed-vav) truly good souls roaming the earth. These tzadikim, or righteous individuals, are strangers. Not only to us, but to one another and to themselves. We don't know who they are or when they will appear to us; they too don't even know who they are! But they are here, and their role is to reveal the purpose of humanity through words and actions. Their purpose is to help make the world a better place.
It hit me when I was in that nail salon that this poor woman stuck in her own personal hell might actually be a lamed-vavnik. It was a bizarre thought to have. Truly. I can't remember the last time I thought about the lamed-vavnik tradition. I have no idea what religion this woman was, whether or not she cared about anything other than her jewelry or her soon-to-be ex-husband. All I had was that small picture onto her. And yet ... I was still thinking about it throughout the day. (And, coincidentally, my mentor SCR brought up lamed-vavniks in our meeting today)
It dawned on me that whether or not this woman was actually a righteous tzadik just having a really, really bad day or not, she was still human. And human beings sometimes get themselves into nasty situations, willingly or unwillingly. Sometimes they act out. Sometimes they don't. Occasionally they'll be open about why they're in such a dark place. Most of the time, they won't be.
What I had for this woman was empathy. I cared. I wanted to help. I wanted to give her a hug. Now, I don't think I'm some sort of tzadik myself for feeling, owning, and sharing that. Rather, the exchange got me to think about the hidden agendas and unknown identities of all those we encounter in our day-to-day lives. Perhaps the strangers we meet - those kind and gentle souls and those difficult, loud, hard-to-ignore ones, too - are in fact lamed-vavniks whose purpose is to usher in an age of peace, kindness, and goodness for all humanity. We'll never know.
But, in the meantime, we can certainly extend our own warmth, compassion, and kindness to them. For we never know what the impact of goodness can be.
Shabbat shalom to you and yours.
With love,
Jaclyn
Everyone has their own sanctuary. Luckily I have several, and one is the nail salon. The ones I go to are serene, clean, and quiet. And I'll be honest - freshly painted nails help me think clearly.
Around midway through my manicure I heard a woman walk into the salon. My back was to the entrance, but she was loud and noticeable. I mean, I noticed her. You couldn't not notice her.
She was going on and on about being a physician and not being comfortable in that space. "Give me the hospital! Give me an operating room! Give me my stethoscope!..." she kept repeating. It was weird. I was confused. I couldn't turn around to see the source of the voice, but I could see the other women in the salon looking at each other with those eyes. You know, the "who is this lady, is she for real?!" eyes. The partial eye roll, partial sideways glance. I know the look well.
This went on for a few minutes until, out of nowhere, she snapped at someone: I can wear my wedding rings on my right hand, okay! I can wear them how I want because my husband is divorcing me and I can do what I want! I can do what I want, okay? Don't tell me what to do!"
Instantly, I felt nauseous. I couldn't see this woman's face, I had no idea who she was yelling at, but .. I got it. Things clicked.
I maneuvered my body to get a look at her and when I did, I felt even more nauseated. She was stunningly beautiful, poised, put-together, and looked ... I don't know ... regal? Maybe in my head I thought she'd look terrible. I figured she'd have mascara running down her face or something. But, no. Not a hair out of place. Not a drop of mascara beneath her soft almond eyes.
I listened to her go on and on throughout the rest of my mani. She trashed her husband, insisted that she made a huge mistake marrying him, didn't want to hear one single word about the fact that she was still wearing her rings because they were on her right hand, okay!? and then stated she was "super nervous" about walking a red carpet that night. It was such a bizarre confluence of predicaments.
I listened to this woman, this stranger. I watched the other women in the salon - ostensibly strangers to each other - giving one another looks, then nodding in her direction. Even the manicurists were gesturing to her and making faces, speaking in Vietnamese, perhaps trying to make sense of her. She seemed completely oblivious to it all.
My heart ached for this woman. I wanted to go up to her, ask if she needed a shoulder or a listening ear, see if I could help her in some way. Of course I didn't, because that would have been totally weird and invasive. Just as the nail salon is my sacred space, it was hers, too. Maybe she would have responded well, or maybe she would have smacked me across the face. Who knew?
I left the salon wondering, what was my obligation to this woman? Why did I feel compelled to talk to, protect, or help her? Why was I so invested in her well-being? Couldn't I have just ignored her, rolled my eyes along with the rest of the posse, or gone about my day just as oblivious to her as she appeared to be towards everyone else? The answer is no, obviously, because here I am blogging about it.
Kabbalistic Judaism teaches that we have a mythical, mystical group of people known as lamed-vavniks. The tradition goes as follows: there are 36 (in Hebrew, the number is lamed-vav) truly good souls roaming the earth. These tzadikim, or righteous individuals, are strangers. Not only to us, but to one another and to themselves. We don't know who they are or when they will appear to us; they too don't even know who they are! But they are here, and their role is to reveal the purpose of humanity through words and actions. Their purpose is to help make the world a better place.
It hit me when I was in that nail salon that this poor woman stuck in her own personal hell might actually be a lamed-vavnik. It was a bizarre thought to have. Truly. I can't remember the last time I thought about the lamed-vavnik tradition. I have no idea what religion this woman was, whether or not she cared about anything other than her jewelry or her soon-to-be ex-husband. All I had was that small picture onto her. And yet ... I was still thinking about it throughout the day. (And, coincidentally, my mentor SCR brought up lamed-vavniks in our meeting today)
It dawned on me that whether or not this woman was actually a righteous tzadik just having a really, really bad day or not, she was still human. And human beings sometimes get themselves into nasty situations, willingly or unwillingly. Sometimes they act out. Sometimes they don't. Occasionally they'll be open about why they're in such a dark place. Most of the time, they won't be.
What I had for this woman was empathy. I cared. I wanted to help. I wanted to give her a hug. Now, I don't think I'm some sort of tzadik myself for feeling, owning, and sharing that. Rather, the exchange got me to think about the hidden agendas and unknown identities of all those we encounter in our day-to-day lives. Perhaps the strangers we meet - those kind and gentle souls and those difficult, loud, hard-to-ignore ones, too - are in fact lamed-vavniks whose purpose is to usher in an age of peace, kindness, and goodness for all humanity. We'll never know.
But, in the meantime, we can certainly extend our own warmth, compassion, and kindness to them. For we never know what the impact of goodness can be.
Shabbat shalom to you and yours.
With love,
Jaclyn
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)