Yesterday was Yom Kippur. I - along with approximately 13 million other Jews across the planet - came together as community and made my peace with my actions of the past year.
It is an oft times confusing process for me. Every year a different set of missed marks traverse through my consciousness as I sit in the prayer hall. My temper, my impatience, my lusts, my sharp tongue, my pride. One by one I examine my short comings and try to make sense of them all, in the context of desire to be freer of them in the year ahead.
I try and throw myself into the music, into the universality of the message, and into the prayers themselves. Sometimes I find myself stuck in one place/phase or another.
This year was no different.
The music was overwhelming. I felt like I was at the Ahmandson or the Bowl. The cantorial soloist, while extremely talented doesn't connect with my sensibilities at all. The presence of multiple musical instruments at all services, and the backing group of 4 professional singers (vs. the usual choir of congregants) just made me feel further alienated from my goal of the day - quiet, focused, intentional contemplation in a Jewish context.
I'm not a fan of operatics, dramatics or performance.
There was one highlight however, and it came late in the day. My Rabbi is a spectacular woman. She knows the needs of the people well, and has made healing a focus of the Yom Kippur afternoon services for a number of years. The Ritual Committee - of which I am a member - has been trained to give one-on-one blessings and prayers for healing with the Kahal during this service.
In the past I have been a blesser, but this year I felt the need to opt out of this role. I've become tapped out over the years of caring for sick kids and their families, and have nothing more to give to others, needing to keep my reserves for my own family (and myself). The change of jobs this year was the first step in refueling and revitalizing myself to that task.
So this year I worked traffic control during the healing service. For the first time I was able to actively observe what was going on, vs. actively participate. It was completely amazing.
The room changed and became more intimate. The energy focused on the scene before us; six men and women standing facing the Kahal, then individuals line up in the aisle. They are then directed to one of the blessers, who pray with them one-on-one for healing. As they finish they hug one another, the blessee returns to their seat, and they are replaced by the next in line.
But I was able to see the faces of my fellow committee members this time. I could see the radiance that shone from them to the people they prayed with. I could see the genuine human concern and love that they passed one to the other. I saw the tears stream down their faces, I saw a weight lifted from the blessee's, and saw peace envelope them.
I realized that this is the opportunity I was presented with this year - to observe healing instead of being part of giving it. I saw all too clearly that this is the task of the past year, and the goal for the next. To allow others to do the work that I feel unable to do with the same intensity as I have for the majority of my adult life. I have a role to play, but I don't have to push myself to the front line. I don't need to be a foot soldier.
And that is my further goal for the years ahead. Doing my part, but not feeling trapped into doing "it all". While I am not permitted to isolate myself from the task, I am also - I believe - not required to be so completely involved in the task that I loose my ability to do anything else.
It rained over Yom Kippur too. The typical LA rain - moderately heavy for long enough to make everything clean, sparkling, and bright for about three days. The air still smells fresh and the light is clear and the trees are dusted off. Rain really is my favorite visitor, albeit brief.
