Two decades ago, I decided to explore my Jewish roots. I’d never been a religion-oriented person, as to me, religion always felt more divisive than kindly inclusive, and from the very start of my life, unifying humanity was my intention and hope. Naturally, that was because I mostly felt pushed aside. After all, great endeavors and intentions usually begin with personal pain.
I focused instead on discovering Faith and exploring what being spiritual might truly mean to me. Meanwhile, my main life mentor, Dr. Brugh Joy, kept emphasizing how, as I delved into new ways to embrace the Feminine and how She encourages connection, investigating Judaism would be important in that it was both my lineage and a feminine connection vehicle in that the religion clearly emphasizes how the Feminine is passed down through the Maternal line, i.e. if only the father is Jewish the child is not considered Jewish, but if only the mother is Jewish the child is also seen to be Jewish.
Thus, I walked many roads during this actively embracing-the-Feminine probe, including music and reading. I even gave myself a Bat mitzvah, including a Rabbi, learning Hebrew, a ceremony with guests, and a party! And, in the process of my examinations, I began to write. What came forward was a brief thirteen-chapter short story about people and circumstances I’d never known. I had no wise religious Grandfather who instructed me in Faith. Nor were any of the other characters in my story in any way familiar to my actual upbringing. The tale seemed to flow through me from some unremembered life. And still, I felt instructed and moved by it. I offer it to you now.
Stories I never knew….
Chapter 1:
We stood silent in the tall, shadowed space. Spears of speckled light created vague moments of sight. My soft, tiny hand cuddled happily in Grandfather’s huge paw. I snuck my cheek against the rough, black coat that fell a million miles from his grand shoulders.
My favorite thing was to snuggle in his lap, tickling the wiry, long beard that laughed at any effort toward conformity. He always smelled like dust. And incense.
But there would be no snuggling today. Today was prayer day. As we stood together now we could hear the moaning prayers of the men. Grandfather would join them while I stayed cozy in a dark corner, like a sneaky child on the stairs overhearing her parent’s downstairs party.
Grandfather would explain to me about the importance of faith. About how, in order to go through the world as a right and righteous person, we must find our way back to the creator…back to God. I would always listen, trying to look as “faithful” as I could – whatever that was. But to tell you the truth, I’d already found God. And his name was Grandfather.
Many years later, when Grandfather had returned to the dust he’d always most resembled, I’d visit the dark synagogue over and over – trying to recapture my Grandfather’s deep truth. I’d listen to the new men and their old prayers. I’d bend my knees and bow my head with hope and possibility. But really, all I could remember was how stunningly, how profoundly, how eternally – I loved that man. Well, maybe that’s what real faith is anyway. Love of something beyond us that takes us into who we are…that offers to us the best, mirrored moments of ourselves. Maybe God means to weave into our lives through these moments, like a soft ribbon weaving through coarse hair. Then our job is just to notice He’s there. Not to do, or be, or find anything in particular…just to notice.
Still, I miss my Grandfather every day.
Chapter 2:
Right away, from the very beginning, Grandfather and I always discussed important matters. Like why the stars never fell out of the sky. Or where the moon went to sleep. Or how God celebrated the Sabbath. And the day my Grandmother died was no exception.
Everybody else was running around, covering the mirrors and getting the house ready for the coming days. It was Grandfather who should have had the least time for me – but there he was, as usual, with his thick mahogany gaze, ready to answer my insistent questions.
Grandmother Lollie had never really been my favorite. Always bustling around the steamy kitchen as if the head Rabbi himself were about to appear at every meal. No time for sweet hugs or lingering conversations. She was all business. I complained once to Grandfather, who immediately sat me down, explaining how feeding and caring for the family was serious business and how lucky I was to have a Grandmother who knew that.
So after that, I tried harder to see what he saw. I’d watch the chicken soup steam surround her face as she bent to taste and sat on a stool as she tried to teach me about the importance of wrapping the cabbage around the meat globs just right. But over and over, I’d find it hard to listen to her. I’d find myself drifting off…focusing instead on how the top of her body rested on the bottom like a shelf or wondering if the poochy side of her jaw would just keep getting longer and longer until it fell onto her neck. I don’t know why I couldn’t listen. She just always sounded to me like screechy music played on a rusty instrument, not like Grandfather.
Still, on this day of days, I could really see how much Grandfather loved his Lollie. I’d often noticed wet pools gathering in those dark eyes, especially when we talked about his family in the old country. But the tears always clung tightly – satisfied, it seemed, to wait to be called forward. Today, though, the small pools fell – traveling softly down Grandfather’s crinkled cheeks like drifting travelers.
“Why do people die, Grandfather?” I whispered. It wasn’t that I cared who heard me – it was only that being up next to his beloved cheek like that showed him how important he was to me.
“Because God loves us so that when our job here is done, He calls us back into his arms,” he answered, pushing back the errant curl that inched its way across my forehead.
“Well, I love you more than God does, so he must let you stay here!” I replied brazenly.
“I will never truly leave you, child. When my body has returned to God, you will remember me like a poem you always knew. I am in your blood and bones. Just as is my father and my father’s father and my mother and my mother’s mother, and so on. We can never forget where we have come from. We can only forget that we have known.”
“Is this a riddle, Grandfather?” I giggled. He smiled then and kissed me on the forehead.
“It is time to go, child. We must say goodbye to your Grandmother. She’s waiting.”
It is years since God, paying no attention to my great need, took Grandfather back into his arms. And to tell you the truth, I’m still a little mad at him – at God, that is. Still, I think Grandfather was right about the blood and bones business. Sometimes, even, I’ll smooth my right hand over the top of my left and I swear I can feel him there – flowing through my veins like life itself.
Chapter 3:
Grandfather’s father was a Canter in the old country. I always thought that the idea of an old country was strange. What happens to countries when they get old anyway? Do they wrinkle and get dry like most people? Do they forget where they live or lose hearing and sight? Do they get smaller? And by the way, why do people get smaller over the years? I once suggested to Grandfather that the earth is trying to pull us back to her – to get us to come home, like an anxious mother. Grandfather always laughed when I said these kinds of things. He’d wrap his big arms around me, hug me tight, and talk about the glad, easy way God spoke through me. I never knew what he meant, but it didn’t matter. Grandfather was love, and I was always thrilled if he found me more than silly.
Anyway – Grandfather adored talking about his singing father. As a small boy, he’d say, he would sit in the temple time after time, eyes closed, rocking to his own father’s sacred music. “Tears and gasps and blessings and celebrations of the heart,” Grandfather said. “When all else has been forgotten,” Grandfather would nearly whisper, “the world will still hear these precious songs. Yes. You too, child, can hear them. Now and always.” Then I’d snuggle my cheek right up next to him, ear to ear – and we’d rock gently back and forth together.
Once in a while, just for an instant, I’d think I, too, could hear the sacred music as we sat rocking in this way, like a faint, distant call. Hear it the way he heard it. Then I’d imagine that maybe the ancient strains were pouring like warm alphabet soup out of his head and into mine. But maybe that wasn’t really the music at all. Maybe it was just Grandfather’s love singing against my cheek.
Over the years since my Grandfather’s death, I’ve often sat in the Temple – hoping to catch a glimpse of Grandfather’s passion. I’ve listened to songs sweetly sung from great throats of intention. I’ve stood in praise and bowed in honor. I’ve witnessed others with their expressions of ecstasy – hearing the music the way I suppose Grandfather did. Memories are funny things. They tempt us to follow them into unlit places. They ask that we be bold and thorough, but all too often offer only shadows to lead the way. I still have hope, though. And, to tell you the truth, sometimes now, on the loneliest days and the darkest nights, I think perhaps I do hear it a little. The music of my Grandfather’s father. The music of my faith. A faith without precepts, boundaries, or hesitations. A faith that calls me to remember things I have never known I knew.
Chapter 4:
I would never want to leave my mother, Esther, out of the conversation. It’s funny what you remember about people after they’re gone. Film clips, faded corners, stark phrases, and feelings that wave in, ever more faintly, like a weary tide.
There was no doubt that Mama was Grandfather’s daughter, but still, they always reminded me of peas and corn – both in the vegetable family, but each with entirely different shapes, textures, and colors.
My first image of Mama is how she looked while holding me in her arms. Of course, I may not really remember this at all. I said it before, and I’ll say it again – memories are such odd things – constructed of real pictures, passed-down stories, adulterated perceptions, and sugar-laced fantasies. Nonetheless, my memory is of Mama’s soft face (the chiseled-in lines came later) – surrounded by the same wiry, mottled hair that hung from Grandfather’s chin. I remember her then, smiling and pursing her lips at the same time – hazel eyes I could see myself in…and both of us laughing.
Mama often tried to cage that rebellious hair in wildly colorful babushkas. I always found those scarves curious. They seemed to represent the only colorful thing about my dear Mama, for in many ways, she was much like Grandmother Lollie – all business. Funny though, this all-business part didn’t truly surface until grandmother died. I suppose that’s how it is sometimes. Like a magic trick with scarves of many colors getting longer and longer and becoming, in the end, something you never expected it to be but might have predicted if you were paying close attention.
I adored my Mama. And I miss her now, too. Not the same way I miss Grandfather, but just as much. People seem to claim their rightful spot inside you – like a burial plot they’ve reserved. Some plots are grandly flower-covered, while others are starkly simple. I visit, now and then, where my Mama lives inside me. Sometimes I cry, and sometimes I laugh. And sometimes, I just watch the way I grew in her eyes.
But here’s the thing about Mama. About the Jewish side of her anyhow, and about how she was the same but different from Grandfather. You see, Mama took her Judaism very seriously. Grandfather did, too, but not like Mama with all the ungenerous rules. You’d think it would be the other way around – with him being so much older and coming from the old country and all. Anyway, between the Sabbath strictness, the Passover restrictions, and the kosher living (which made me embarrassed to have friends over), I started to feel more caged than inspired by my mother’s version of the teachings. Maybe that’s why I loved Grandfather’s way so much. He lit me up. Made me want to be a better girl. He taught me faith was a golden gift filled with centuries of hope and intention. In any event, I’ll tell you this – when the Temple calls to me now, it is never because of how Mama saw religion. It is always the way Grandfather felt it.
Chapter 5:
And then there’s Papa. I guess I mention him nearly last because, in a way, he’s the one I knew least. When I think of him now, I still grin over how his tight, curly hair fits his head like a fat cap. Anywhere your eyes landed on Dad, you’d find a grassy field of that thick hair. Hair peeking out of his sleeves, strolling down the backs of his legs, urging out of the front top of his fresh white tee shirts, and even threatening to creep up over his back collar. He liked to say he was Papa Bear – and I suppose he was in some ways. Protective, growling, a hibernator. I never found him cuddly, though.
I know Papa was a good man. “A fine fellow,” people often said. And I believed it. He was generous – often helping those who had less than us. “After all,” he’d say, shrugging his shoulders and eyebrows simultaneously, “I never came from much myself. A man should share his blessings, nu?”
In the long run, however, I suppose the thing that kept me away from my father was how sensible he was always being. Magic was not a word in his vocabulary. It was as if he’d long ago decided to keep his eyes straight ahead – no matter what. Even if the finest, brightly colored circus wagon in the world rode by. Even in the face of God’s most glorious sunset. Even if he had a daughter that was crying out for love.
Eyes ahead. No matter what. Papa was an accountant, and he accounted for everything. He knew what cost what. He even knew the cost of family time. And of joy.
Of course, the other barrier between me and my Papa was David. That’s my older brother. The name alone tells the story. In Hebrew, it means “the beloved.”
Believe me, I have nothing at all against my brother. He’s smart and hilariously funny; friends tell me he’s cute. I just don’t get why, in Jewish families, boys are considered so much better than girls. Maybe it’s not all Jewish families, but it was true in my family. Except, of course, with Grandfather.
Now, when it comes to the business of being Jewish, Papa was really interesting. Saturday morning, we’d all go to Temple for our family time. Dad would put on his yarmulke and sit looking quietly intent. But nearly every time, after a short while, we’d hear his slim breath, like a tired fog, escaping from his full lips. I asked him about sleeping in Temple once when he dropped me off at my Hebrew class (another tiresome foray into unfathomable territory – duty without heart). He answered in an oddly conspiratorial tone, “God understands how tired I am from all the hard work I do for this family, so while I nap, he whispers prayers in my head. Remember, no matter what, even when we sleep, God doesn’t.”
Papa died a few years ago. He died in his sleep. Heart attack, they called it. I wonder if, on that particular dry summer night, while Papa napped, God was awake…whispering prayers.
Chapter 6:
Several years ago, I dropped by the house for no particular reason to hug Mama. By then, our relationship had grown up, in a way, and I’d moved past trying to prove myself to her – or so I thought. As always, I went straight to the kitchen, where I knew I’d find Mama doing what her mother would have wanted her to be doing. Instead, I found her in her worn wood kitchen chair, weeping. I didn’t understand – Mama seldom cried. I’d watch her wave sad feelings away with her hand like she was swatting off a fly. “Who has time for such things!” she says with a furrowed, perplexed brow. “Let those with nothing better to do have all the crying business they can handle. They should live and be well!”
As Mama sat slumped there, I was struck by how much, over the years, she had come to resemble a cardboard box. One of those large, square boxes filled with little white Styrofoam bubbles. Now, though, the tiny bubbles had all been removed, and Mama had completely collapsed. I rushed to her side and, kneeling beside her, said, “What in the world is it, Mama? What has happened?” She looked at me pathetically and I realized how very long it had been since I could see myself in my mother’s hazel eyes. “It’s David!” she gasped. Immediately, I was afraid. “What about David? What’s happened,” I whispered as evenly as I could manage. “He’s dropped out of medical school. Do you understand?” She was practically spitting now. “DROPPED OUT!”
The trembling breath I’d held ever since she mentioned my brother’s name whooshed out of me. “Oh my God, Mama, you scared me half to death.”
“YOU SHOULD BE SCARED.” An intense panic surrounded her words like grasping fingers. “Your brother has lost his mind. We have to do something.”
I had long known that being a doctor was not my brother’s dream – it was my parents. I was proud to hear his act of bravery. Disappointing my parents was not an easy thing to do. Of course, I was more used to it than he was – so it made his action even grander.
“Mama,” I said quietly, ”Don’t you think the most important thing is that David’s happy? I know that’s what you truly want, yes?”
She looked at me like I was an alien creature she’d never seen before. “Happy? What’s happy? How does a man find happiness without security? Do you have any idea what your brother thinks he’s going to do? A writer. He says he’s a movie writer. He’s completely meshuga. Do you think any girl is going to want such a man? You think your father will ever have a namesake. This is it. It dies with us.” And she shook her head so hard I thought it would fall off. “Well, Mama,” I said evenly,” Perhaps I will be the one to carry the line forward.” “You!” she said incredulously. “You’re a girl. It’s not the same. Not the same.”
I realized we had stumbled into murky territory. I was beginning to trip over thorny bushes and stony protrusions. I reared back. “It will be alright, Mama. It will be alright.” You know what Grandfather always said. “Everything is as it should be.”
“Well, your grandfather didn’t know everything.” The words had hurried out of her mouth, and you could tell she was ashamed right away. She tried to cover her tracks. “I don’t know. Don’t know. I just wonder where I went wrong.”
I’d always found this to be a particularly annoying trait of my mothers. The way everything that happened – in the house and even in the world – revolved around her.
An earthquake could occur in Japan, and Mama wanted to batten down the hatches because “if it could happen to those people, it could happen to us!”
Chapter 7:
Last night, I had a dream in which my Grandfather appeared carrying the heavy Torah scrolls – its edges curled by centuries of story and faith. In the dream, the scrolls looked extraordinarily illuminated, and I was filled with desire, but as I reached toward them, I noticed my hands were the hands of a baby. Far too small to grasp and hold the heavy proclamations. I then awakened.
Chapter 8:
For as long as I could remember – from when I could speak until the day he died – Grandfather and I played a game called Hide & Seek. Not where you find a place to secure yourself away – but a game of questions, or better said, a wandering through wondering. It always worked the same. I’d pull up a stool to where he sat, surrounded by dusty texts and curling pipe tobacco. “What is Sin, Grandfather?” Grandfather would smooth his wiry beard between his thumb and middle finger and cock his head as if preparing an exquisite answer. “Ah, Sin.” He’d nod, then shake back and forth, then nod again. “What is Sin, little one?” he’d ask as if the question were his in the first place.
“I think it must be when you do really bad things that need punishing,” I replied.
“Perhaps,” Grandfather said sweetly. “Or perhaps it is a state of mind. A place of darkness that prepares us to see a more beautiful sunrise.”
I never very well understood these statements. To me, Grandfather was always speaking in riddles. Still, I’d let the words float over me like colored bubbles blown from one of those special wands. I’d feel them softly break against my cheeks, leaving the barest trace before seeming to disappear altogether. As I pondered last night’s dream, I asked, “How can I grow large enough to hold the Torah Scrolls? To open to their wisdom?” In my mind’s eye, I could see Grandfather’s answer, clear as fresh-washed windows. “How can you grow…up?”
The question brought immediate tears to my eyes. Right away I recognized the truth the question implied. I wondered if this heretofore unclaimed reluctance was responsible for my being in my twenties and still single – a fact that sincerely troubled my family. I thought back to that day in the kitchen when poor mother’s world had suddenly stopped in the face of my brother’s decision. I thought now of the disdainful eyes through which I had viewed her. What if my attitude towards my family kept my hands so small and my heart so unavailable?
Darkness descended, and great purple tears of salty need splashed down my cheeks. “Perhaps tomorrow,” I smiled through the tears, “there will be a beautiful sunrise.”
Chapter 9:
I’ve always loved the best prayers delivered in Hebrew. Grandfather said the Hebrew alphabet is magical and has powers beyond ordinary speech. It felt like that. The words and letters would tickle inside me like fragile notes played on a harp by a carefully dressed, dreamy-eyed girl. Blessings are the most delicious of all, like sprinkling sugar worldwide. Everything tastes better after a blessing.
When I was very small I used to make up my prayer blessings, and then Grandfather would translate them into Hebrew. May the joys of the Heavens bless the sorrows of the Heart. Hasidei ha’shamayim yibrachim hevel halev.
The first time I told Grandfather this one, he smiled. Much later, he told me, “Remember, dear one, sorrows are as important to the heart as joys. For when the heart weeps it understands the weeping of others. And with enough weeping, the heart becomes great, kind, and good.”
One Friday afternoon, David and I were playing on the backyard swings. I felt particularly exuberant that day and soon began to swing with increasing gusto. David was nearby, absently tossing his blue rubber ball into the air. Suddenly, out of nowhere, there he was – his head right in front of my up-swinging feet. Too late to break or veer. Down he went with a scream and a thud.
Grandfather and Mama both came running out. By then, I’d jumped off the menacing swing and was bent over him, crying and screaming. Grandfather pulled me away, and Mama lifted David’s little body into her arms, smoothing his dirt-covered brow. He looked up at her and smiled. “I’m fine, Mama. I’m fine.” He shook her away. Much too big a boy now to be held by his mother. “What happened?” she said with a tone dripping in motherly accusation. “Nothing,” David replied casually. “It was an accident. I wasn’t looking and got in the way.” Never in all my life before did I love my brother as much.
Mama looked momentarily suspicious, but it was Friday, and there was Seder to prepare, so Mom accepted David’s explanation and returned to the kitchen.
Friday. My favorite night of the week. I didn’t know how it was in other families, but Friday was the best in my house. Mama would make a special meal every week, and a different family member would light the menorah candles. Then we’d say one of those delicious blessings (sometimes they’d even let me say one of mine), and afterward, Grandfather would deliver what we called a Torah Tale. Through these stories, I came to understand and love the journey of my people. To feel the ancestral procession marching inside me.
I think often now of those special Friday nights – when my family gathered in a sacred way. Mama used to say it was important to remember that all over the world, Jewish families were also honoring the Sabbath, lighting the menorah candles, and remembering. She said no matter what, we must appreciate that family is eternal. And that it is everywhere.
Chapter 10:
Over and over in my life, I find myself wanting to lay my head down upon my pillow of memories. Even the heartbreaks and sludge-covered ones feel sweet and comforting to me. As if they give me definition. Remind me that I am not, nor have I ever been, truly alone. We speak of that often, do we not – this loneliness. So many feel that now. It creeps among and between us like a plague, directing our choices. The road before us becomes tar black with our preoccupation.
I remember now the family vacation we took when I was seventeen. Everyone came except Grandma Lollie, who’d already passed, although, I swear, I could often feel her there, in this Poland of hers. More buoyant than in life…and more joyful too. Many years earlier, I’d found a photo of her as a young girl. It was a small, scalloped-edged picture taken at some distance, but you could hear her laughter even through the cracked, faded black-and-white images. Rainbows of glee across time. She wears a soft, cotton skirt flowing out from generous hips. She holds the skirt in glad hands and appears to balance on one foot. A dancer, no doubt. This is the girl who followed us into the ancient Temple.
I suppose for some, that temple must have seemed cold. Simplicity strikes many that way, I think. But when I sat upon the stark wooden benches, rubbing my back against the cracks and lines, I could feel the long fingers of yesterday tickling through me. And images came up, too. Of black-scarved women bent with tears of loss – bored, squirming children anxious to return to play, and an important Rabbi reminding listeners of God’s intention.
Grandfather, Father, and David sat together. Generations of men. Descending stairs. I could see only their backs but could feel the strong ribbon between them…tying them together like a string of precious pearls. And Mama sat with me. In the middle of the silence, she took my hand. I looked over at her, but she never looked back, so I simply closed my eyes and let myself feel the moment’s importance.
We sat there in that Temple for…an eon, I believe. So long, I could hear the old Cantors thrilling out the music that always made me shiver and cry. Tomorrow, I was told we would go to visit Auschwitz. I didn’t want to go. I knew I would hear the screams and feel the desperate fear. But my family said we must always remember and that honoring the memory was important. Looking back, I know they were right; losing any part of these memories would be like losing a finger or a foot. We could get by, probably, but there would always be this knowing of something missing. Some phantom twitches of what was once there. And we would be less complete than we could be. But I was content that evening – the night of the Temple visit. For that night I heard the song of my ancestors, and it was good.
Chapter 11:
Perched on that worn wooden bench in the middle of the Polish Temple, watching my family somehow reminded me of an earlier time. I must have been only around six or seven the day I first came in contact with my Grandfather’s great, hidden pain. It seemed bigger than him. As if it belonged to many. Even after that day, I never really thought about it much, but if I had, I surely would have realized how thoroughly the agony struggled through him. Looking closely, you could see it like a midnight blue twinkle in his eye.
That first young day, though, I was caught entirely by surprise. Cuddling my tiny hand in his broad palm, Grandfather led me into a barely lit Temple. I squinted as we entered this new place, wondering what my beloved adventurer had in mind this time.
Right away, Grandfather took us to an inner room. It was small and held no furniture at all. I wanted to ask where we were and why we’d come, but Grandfather’s soft silence told me to wait, so I made no sound. I kept my breath as still as possible, ensuring no loud escaping air gushes were allowed to disturb the moment. Then Grandfather did the oddest thing. Letting go of me, he moved towards a further wall. At that moment he looked dazed – seeming to forget about me altogether, as if I were a tissue he’d been holding and mindlessly dropped. Then I saw Grandfather’s hands moving gingerly along the wall, like a blind man tenderly reading Brail. I strained into the dim light to see what he was doing. Now I could tell there were writings on that wall. Little sections of Hebrew letters marched together in neat rows. And soon Grandfather was pressing his strong face against the letters. His chest heaved heavily, and his eyes pushed shut. Copious tears splashed down his darkened cheeks and landed on his wild beard. He stayed like that for what seemed like an eternity.
I waited silently in the shadowed space. Finally, Grandfather emerged from wherever he had traveled. He came and knelt in front of me. His face still shined salty wet. “You must always remember, child.” “What, Grandfather? What must I remember?” I whispered. We always discussed this remembering business, which sometimes got on my nerves. But not now. Now, I just really wanted to know what he meant. He then took me over to the wall and told me to close my eyes as he had done and place my small child fingers upon the carved letters. Getting up close like that, I realized the letters were carved not directly upon the wall but on squares of tin or copper or something like that, which were then attached to the wall. So, there were several separate plates affixed there. “What are they, Grandfather?” I murmured carefully. “Prayers,” he breathed, still staring at the wall and not at me. “What kind of prayers?” I braved. But only silence answered my question.
I never did have any idea what was going on or what the letters said or meant. But as I touched the mysterious wall I did feel the smallest tingle bump through my fingers and travel up my hand and arm. A little like the way I later felt with my back against the cracks and lines of the Polish wooden Temple bench, watching the men of my family sitting together in the string of pearls row. Maybe that’s why I was reminded of that earlier time as I sat there that day. And maybe there’s some connection. A connection between personal memories and ancestral remembrances.
Which brings me full circle back to that loneliness business. Yesterday, I met a young Jewish girl who had my eyes exactly so that looking into them was like seeing into a hazel-tinted mirror. Throughout my life, this has occurred often. Sometimes, it’s because I see myself in some part, like yesterday, but more often, it’s just a feeling I get. A strange thrill of knowing. As if most certainly we’ve met before.
When I was a young girl and something like that would happen, I’d tell my Grandfather. Inevitably, he would say, “Being Jewish is like being a tree with roots that travel far into the earth. Some roots feel thin and seem barely to take in the rich earth’s resources, while others appear hardier and through those, you can nearly see the thick minerals flow. But thin or hardy, all are connected to the wondrous tree that reaches deep into the earth and then yearns surely towards the great sky. So, whenever you encounter another Jew, you can feel a kinship beyond understanding. A knowing of the way real dirt feels sliding against your traveling feet and how the heart lifts when the Canter sings. You can feel the call of your history. Pray for these understandings, and the understandings will occur.”
Maybe those were the prayers upon the wall. I don’t know. But still, if today I close my eyes and pretend to be feeling the dark-lit letters again, the same small tingle moves through me. And every time I remember my family. And sometimes I remember more.
Chapter 12:
Sixteen years to the day my Grandma Lollie died, I awoke from an irretrievable dream, crying. Shivering against the tender, worn, thin blue blanket, I blinked off the mixture of sleep and tears. When we first began talking, I told you how Grandma Lollie had never been my favorite. Because I was the girl who always needed lots of hugs, and my Grandmother was simply too focused to stop for such things.
Still, there had been moments…and as I lay there on that blurry spring morning, grandmother’s image appeared as a vision, floating before me like a gardenia in a shallow bowl of water. She was kneeling upon soft earth. A small spade was in her hand, and brightly colored flowers in tiny pots surrounded her. With lips tight against her teeth, brow furrowed like a farmer’s field, piano legs peeking out from her waist-less dull-colored shmata, she dug in the fine dirt, making room for the new bright life.
Thinking of Grandmother in the garden invariably makes me cock my head like an attentively listening pup. There was something so incongruous about it, in a way – and, simultaneously, something so right. The flowers, she said, were for the eyes. The vegetables, for the stomach. “When you eat right from the earth,” she’d proclaim nearly every time her hands were washed with dirt, “you grow strong like the earth itself. So, find the place where the flowers grow good and where the vegetables get ripe and strong. By this, you will understand the road ahead and the road behind. I am here many years, and if nothing else, these things I know. Life is about this. Nothing more, nothing less. L’chaim.” Often, she’d say this final word as if pronouncing a sacred prayer, rolling it around in her mouth like she was savoring the juicy aftertaste of some exquisite fruit. Then, she’d briefly look at me the way someone does who sees you not at all – her eyes misted with memory. “What are you thinking about, grandma?” I would occasionally venture. But she’d only shake her head and press her bottom lip more tightly against her teeth until it was obvious that the memory glimpsed had fled.
There’s something about Jews and their sense of sacred soil – a deep trust that, for everything, God has a particular resting place in mind, if only we can claim it. We, too, who have been chosen to spread His name and tell His story, must find a place to grow ripe and strong. That morning of the shivering tears, I knew I must go to celebrate my Grandmother’s kind of faith. I arose and dressed carefully as if for the ceremony. Then, taking hold of the old spade, I went softly into the garden.
Chapter 13:
It’s astonishing how many ways there are to worship God. Mama’s uncle Saul is a Hasidic Jew. When we were really little, at family gatherings, David and I would hunker down together in the beige entryway, or hunch under the yellow carpeted stairs, or collapse beside the big, muted velveteen family room chair and giggle endlessly about dear dusty Uncle Saul. His long “Jewish sideburns” – twisted payes crawling down his cheeks like dark, chocolate brown French crullers – his slab of black hat, huge drooping black coat, and mindless unkempt beard made him fabulous fodder for our childish ridicule. Even his long-lashed, soft, dark caramel eyes – eyes that seemed always to be peering out from behind a secret room – did nothing to protect him from our jabs. “How ‘bout lil Willy…’cause that’s what those things give me…the Willys!” David spurted in answer to my question about what name we should give to Uncle Saul’s sideburns. We’d nearly burst with hysteria.
By the way, we weren’t the only ones. All over the house, in hushed corners, you could hear other family members wagging their heads and wrinkling their noses against the odd figure. Later, after I got old enough to begin considering things, I recalled the cruelty that had passed for humor amongst my family members. In retrospect, it saddened me to think of it. Especially when I remembered the things Uncle Saul told me about what his ecstatic faith meant to him.
After all, maybe Uncle Saul had the right idea. “Prayer is a WAY of celebrating God,” he insisted, shaking an enthusiastic index finger towards heaven while at the same time punching particular words in a way that added an odd, lilting cadence to his speech. “Annndd…faith IS revealed through reverence for the little things.”
Mostly, Uncle Saul seemed to be about joy. Despite his dark appearance. In the face of all the surrounding rejection. There was joy in the middle of a sentence – sometimes, he’d unpredictably burst into laughter, as if he’d just heard a joke no one else knew – and there was joy in the midst of performing God’s commands. Simcha shel mitzvah. Joy. An idea often shoved under the carpet with the dust bunnies, when our usual complaining begins.
“Serrvve the community THROUGH personal religious growth,” Uncle Saul taught. d, “Remember,” he’d often say, looking suddenly dreamy, as if his new lover had just entered the room, “the most important Talmudic statement IS that God desires…” and then he’d pause, eventually arriving at the final words in a loud whisper, like a reverent wanderer who’d finally found the Temple gate, “…THE heart! God deee-siresss the heart above ALL else.” Maybe it was this intensity that scared the others. Maybe that’s really why they made fun of him.
It’s been a long time since I thought about Uncle Saul. I’m not quite sure why he’s on my mind right now. Perhaps it’s because I’m having one of those restless, unsure days – one of those times when God seems very difficult to remember – let alone to celebrate. I’m always a little lost at times like this. On the other hand, Uncle Saul never seemed to lose his spiritual way. Perhaps he did, but I never saw it.
In many ways, I think it was worth it – that ridicule Uncle Saul faced. After all, what could be better than finding a sure way to love God joyfully?
