From Shiva A Beginning

Moshe received Torah on Sinai and passed it to Joshua.
Joshua passed it to the Elders, the Elders to the Prophets, and they to the Men of the Great Assembly. And they said, "Don't judge in haste, raise many disciples, and build a fence around Torah." (Avot 1:1)


As I sit in the week of shiva following my mother's death last Monday, I have had many recommendations, and many thoughts, about how to keep time during the process of mourning. Shiva is obvious, mostly - seven days mostly at home, letting community surround me and my family. And I must say the community, composed of people I know who knew my mother, and of people I know who didn't know my mother, and people I hardly know who did or didn't know my mother, has been incredible. I feel comforted. I feel met and honored in my place of mourning.

The custom of saying Kaddish daily is likely to be difficult, given the lack of daily minyan and the inevitable busy life I will be returning to. Someone suggested study, particularly some piece of Torah or Mishnah or other traditional text, as a daily practice. This would surely honor my mother's zest for learning.

Today, though, it came to me. My mother was a writer - and writing is for me a core part of life and living, a passion my mother passed on to me. Recently I read in one of her journals her words praising a piece I had written. Writing is a way to honor my mother's memory - and writing daily with this purpose is also the best way to avoid one of the pitfalls of grief that I could easily fall into - a sort of writer's block.

So I begin a practice today, on the 5th day of sitting shiva for my mother, in which I will write for eighteen minutes -- memories of life with her, reflections on her life and things she taught me, and, when I get stuck, finding a text to learn and reflect on in her memory. This in addition to journaling daily and any other writing I might do.

Today, I begin in reflection on Avot 1:1 (above):

My mother gave me Torah -- she and the people she surrounded herself with.
   She gave me Torah by choosing Judaism for herself and for me.
   She gave me Torah by choosing to send me to the Seattle Hebrew Academy
          for my early education.
   She gave me Torah by joining and becoming an active member of Temple Beth Am, 
         and by joining the choir and being in the synagogue for Shabbat and 
         other events throughout the week.

My mother gave me Torah by pursuing her graduate education, 
         especially because it was in the field of Jewish Studies, 
         but also because it was the pursuit of ongoing, ever growing knowledge.
   She gave me Torah by celebrating Jewish life at home, weekly and through the year, 
         and at personal moments along the way.

My mother gave me Torah by pursuing justice, through giving to diverse organizations,
         and by being an open and gentle and generous person to whomever she encountered.
   She gave me Torah by living her life with verve and with dignity, from difficult beginnings
         as a war orphan to the very end through adversity and illness.
  
My mother gave me Torah by loving me, from the moment she gave life to me, teaching me
         to walk through fears and to face life head on.
   She gave me Torah by holding on tight to life, and by giving to her family in the moment
         she finally let go of her place in this physical world.

Mom. Ma. Ima! I have called you many names. You gave me life. You gave me Torah.
   Your memory will always be a blessing, sweet on my tongue as I share with friends
         with family, and especially with my son.


I invite my readers to write your own reflections. Think of someone who has taught you Torah - who has taught you about life. Maybe this person is deceased, like my mother, but maybe they are still alive (too often we reflect only after someone has gone). How did this person teach you? What did they teach you? What have you received?

Reflections on My Love for Israel

My Grandma Jean, z"l, at Kibbutz 

Gadot with a calf suckling her fingers.  

Also in the picture: my parents, brother, 

and our host Victor, a cousin of sorts.

In 1993, I traveled to Israel for the first time - a young adult - with my brother, parents, and grandmother. It was a wonderful trip, with some of the typical tourist experiences (though I have yet, in many trips since, to make it to the Negev or the Dead Sea), and a handful of the typical "visiting family" experiences. Our most relaxing days were in Haifa and at Kibbutz Gadot in the northern Galilee - precisely because those were moments visiting people rather than places.

A particular event stands out as part of how I, personally, connect with Israel - with the land, with the history, with the state (aside from coming home and declaring my final undergraduate major, in archaeology).

My favorite part of Israel, instantly from the moment we landed that December and to this day, is the sense of history and culture all around. There is energy, flow, emitting from the old walled city of Jerusalem to the tools of war rusting by the roadside; from the great abandoned ruins of Caesaria to the living ancient city of Akko; from Jewish religious sites to the mosques and minarets to the Baha'i gardens of Haifa; from the bustle of the old-style shuk to the more modern Diezengoff of Tel Aviv with its shopping and night clubs.

During our stay at Gadot, we went on a day trip to see local notable places. Just a short distance from the kibbutz, on a hill overlooking the northern Jordan valley and across to the Golan, we stopped for the view. On the hill was a building in ruins, and behind it was a clearly marked mine field. Like all other places with ruins, I felt a strong pull to the building, little more than an outlining foundation with a few wall sections rising angularly. I wanted to spend some time in what shadow it had left to offer.

"It's a recent building," said our host, "nothing interesting." Recent, as in from 1967, when Israel captured the land and occupied the Golan for security purposes. At that time, the hill we were standing on - and the kibbutz behind it - were besieged by weapon fire from the Golan.

We moved on. We saw the view, we noted the trickling Jordan below, recognized the archaeological site alongside it, and moved on.

But the next day, when everyone else climbed into the van to see yet more, I walked back over to that hill, despite a fierce wind. I sat in the shadow of that ruined building. I sat, and I thought, and I let the energy of the past sweep over me.

More than twenty years and multiple trips back to Israel, including significant time spent at Kibbutz Gadot, and that building - its broken walls, its energy, perhaps its hidden and almost forbidden nature - remains a profound symbol of my connection to Israel.

I love the connection to places where things have happened - or where things are said to have happened. The archaeology along that water above Lake Kineret shows preCanaanite cultures - and our history rises up from there. Jewish access to these historical sites should by no means be exclusive - but everyone should have access to this history, to the experiences, to the feelings evoked by historical places and objects that have cultural and ritual significance.

This post, this story, emerged for me when I sat down to reflect on a recent post by Keith Dvorchik, in which he calls on us to Take Back the Words "Zionism" and "Zionist". I wondered, what makes me a Zionist? This is my answer, based on the dictionary definition offered in that post - "Political support for the creation and development of a Jewish homeland in Israel." 

I am a Zionist because I believe that Jews have a strong connection to the land - that a connection to land is a deep Jewish value (note the maintaining of rituals connected to the agricultural cycle of Israel even by people who electively remain in diaspora). I am a Zionist because full access to the land and its history should be available to the Jewish people - as well as to others who have similar connection (Utopianism is perhaps a higher value of mine, if less realizable). I am a Zionist because I love the land of Israel. So even, or especially, when I dissent with certain political moves or election results, I am a Zionist. After all, an election cannot be fair without the ability for people to have voted against the winner, and without the ability to continue to disagree and offer suggestions for change. I am a Zionist because I have a personal connection to the Land of Israel, and I desire the continued development and improvement of the State of Israel.




Note: I don't have a picture of that particular building - at least not accessible digitally at the moment (I took 18 rolls of 36-shot 35mm, some in B&W, that trip, but have only digitized one roll so far). Please enjoy the gratuitous picture of my grandmother, may her memory be a blessing, at Kibbutz Gadot.