The honey-laden apple wedge refuses ingestion.
It clings to my sticky fingers in protest, the off-white edge gleaming in the light of my synagogue’s community room. I use a napkin to pry it off, finally navigating it into my mouth. Gooey sweetness explodes; a brief taste of wildflowers and fruit indulged on a warm Rosh Hashanah evening.
We have turned a page in the Book of Life, our arrival heralded by joy as well as the reminiscence of before. How do we make that spiritual and emotional leap? Where is the boundary between what was and what will come? How do we reconcile pain with yearning for a sweet future?
We did not observe the High Holy Days when I was growing up. Ours was a secular, Ashkenazi household. Gefilte fish, raisin-filled kugel, Yiddish words sprinkled in conversation and glowing Hanukkah tapers signified Jewishness. One of my childhood photos is of me on my zayde’s lap during holiday candle lighting. As he held me close, I reached out to the Hanukkiah, mimicking his hand outstretched toward the candles. I still recall the safety I felt from the warmth of the lights and the security of my body snuggled against him. I also remember before candles and after candles. Children often take in the emotional depth of a moment. It soaks into their being like a sponge. I was a sensitive and introspective child with speech and language issues. Even though I could not explain it, I knew the gravity of the shift I shared with my grandfather and other family members around me.
As an adult experiencing Rosh Hashanah for the first time, everything seemed magnified – the apples crisper, the honey a glutinous well of delight, the prayers resonating with my heartbeat and the other congregants as parts of my soul. I sensed the power of time stopped and then resumed; I felt that the energy of joy and connection was greater than the synagogue could hold. With that delight, I also knew sorrow, for those who could not be there in body, for that which could not be undone. I thought about generations of Jewish ancestors who assimilated into the Diaspora, living, working and playing alongside their peers. Yet the shadow of bias always lingered below the surface – the potential for “otherness,” which was most explicitly felt among the Jewish communities who survived the restrictions of the ghettos and worse. Those who began a journey of new hope and managed to get to the United States – sometimes called the “Goldene Medina” – were perhaps amazed and grateful during their initial High Holidays in this land of milk and honey.
The covenant and the power of our Yamim Noraim or Days of Awe is that we can contemplate what it means to look back into what was, to see how far we’ve come. We can hold gratitude for those who were able to make the trek to this new land and honor their strength and trepidation in a world that was unfamiliar to them. We can acknowledge the mistakes and tragedy of this same new world, built on a foundation which does not and never has, offered equity. We peer forward into a universe of possibility, which exists because aspiration survives, even in times of deep shadow. The spiritual bridge that connects the past and the future is that flicker of life, a communal chutzpah to find a way ahead even in the presence of horror or despair. It’s the energy of ruach that drives tendrils of hope.
The death of my spouse taught me this – that we can reach deep down inside ourselves in a way that we never thought possible. I find the path of hope even through the deep pain of loss.
We the people Israel have a shadow memory of pain-born hope, and it brings us through the boundary of the days before and the days after. With hope, we rise.
* * *
Milwaukee born and raised, Sxdni Small grew up on the city’s Northwest side, in a Jewish household where books and community organizing were household staples. They attended Milwaukee Public Schools and then college in Stevens Point. Sxdni is a member of Emanu-el of Waukesha.
Loading ...