There is no time during the year that I feel so positively Jewish as the twenty-five hours starting the eve of Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. That evening, we go to the synagogue for the service called Kol Nidre, (need-ray) named after the song, a declaration actually, sung at the onset of the service. Kol Nidre means "all our vows". There are as many versions of Kol Nidre as there are synagogues in the world, yet every single one of them has a familiarity to anyone who has grown up in the synagogue, any synagogue. In my synagogue in Victoria, usually the rabbi sings Kol Nidre. Here in Winnipeg, the female hazzan (cantor) and a large choir, sing it together. But the melody and the words are always the same, a haunting, soulful, familiar, deep down in your gut kind of melody; those words of Kol Nidre begin the twenty-five plus hours of Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the Jewish year.
Yom Kippur is a time of introspection, of asking forgiveness for any transgressions we have made over the year, to others, to God, to ourselves. We fast, from before sundown the eve of Kol Nidre, to after sunset the next day, when the shofar blows and we all leave the synagogue to go somewhere to break the fast. During those twenty-five hours, we ask forgiveness of God and others for all the ways we may have screwed up in the past year.
If truth be told, the religious prayers and some of the rituals don't really mean that much to me. But of all the Jewish holidays, Yom Kippur is one of the most important days for me. It is the time every year that I have put aside to think seriously about my life. I recall how I may have hurt others, knowingly or unknowingly, and if I can, I ask them to forgive me. I try to figure out what my life will be like during the coming year. I think about ways I can be a better person. I use the time as one of deep reflection, of atonement, of forgiving myself, of hope for a better year. This is when I get serious about myself, with no illusions, strip myself bare, admit to my shortcomings and attempt to figure out how to overcome them. During Yom Kippur, we also take time to remember the dead; not only our loved ones, but the six million lost in the holocaust and other wars. It is a sad, somber, serious day, yet one, I feel, that is full of hope - hope for the future of being the best kind of person I can be.
I sat in the synagogue in Winnipeg during Kol Nidre, this synagogue where I had my bat mitzvah when I was thirteen, where I got married when I was eighteen, where I grew up and spent most week-ends as a child and teenager, and I reconnected with my past. I closed my eyes and I could feel my mother sitting quitely beside me, my father to her left, wrapped in his tallit (prayer shawl), machzor (prayer book) in his hands. I could hear my Uncle Saul and Uncle Jim chanting the prayers, could see my Auntie Jen and Auntie Clara sitting with their families, smiling serenely, watching my grandmother sitting in her corner of the pew, surrounded by all her children and grandchildren and eventually great-grandchildren. All my relatives were there tonight, the very same ones whose graves I had visited in the morning. All of them are part of my life forever, and I need just close my eyes in my old synagogue to bring them back.
Many living relatives were there too, of course. The patriarch of our family, Uncle Abe, sat behind us with his son and daughter-in-law. Many cousins were there - we filled two whole rows. This synagogue is very different from the one I belong to in Victoria. The Winnipeg synagogue seats almost 1500 people, 1,490 to be exact, which is much larger than my Victoria shul (synagogue) of several hundred. The Winnipeg synagogue has Cantor Tracy and a choir; in Victoria, the congregation does most of the singing, certainly not as beautiful as Cantor Tracy but very heartfelt indeed. Both places have their own unique flavour and I enjoy being in each one of them.
The morning after Kol Nidre found the whole family in shul, probably a little earlier than many normally would have been there, because Uncle Abe had been given the honour of reading the Torah portion for the morning. He had two rows of a personal family cheering section and he did an amazing job, singing out the Hebrew in a loud clear voice. Everyone in the synagogue listened intently to him. I was so proud that he is my uncle. Of course, I am always proud of him anyway.
Hours passed, people left. I wanted to stay for all of it. I like to think. I hold the prayer book in my hands, and I always know where we are in the book. I am still able to follow along with the Hebrew. But I think. I think of those I may have hurt in the past year. I plan how I am going to rectify certain wrongs I've done to friends, what I will say to them. I think about who is important in my life, and what I need to do to keep them there. It is a powerful day for me, one I cherish.
At the end of the evening services at the synagogue, we all gathered at my cousins Sharron's and Joel's home to break the fast. And what a break fast it was, for me in particular. I had not eaten wheat, desserts, bread, and so forth for three years until this week. Winnipeg is full of so many food memories for me. I had a most wonderful time. It felt good to fast, and it felt equally good to taste bobka and cinnamon rolls, gefilte fish, eggplant, egg spread on challah bread, lockshen kugel, honey cake and on and on. All my Jewish food memories came flooding back and it was marvelous. And so far, for those following this, the HCG seems to be holding. I have eaten gently, that is, not totally pigged out, but have partaken of all the above plus more this week, and so far, have not gained any weight and my clothes still fit just fine. I had been a little worried to try this - I don't think I actually believed that one could in fact eat normally without gaining weight, but now I experience that to be true. I think as long as one eats in moderation, then life after HCG can be pretty terrific. Stay tuned. I won't lie about it, and will let you all know what happens during these six weeks on the road. I think Winnipeg is the only city associated with so many food memories, and I had many Jewish goodies flooding to the forefront of my mind and subsequently my tastebuds as they entered my body, nourishing me in a particular way that only true Jewish food can do. Life is good.
No comments:
Post a Comment