Reflecting Back on Christmas Eve on New Year's Eve

So already, happy New Year's Eve Sunday. I've been reflecting a lot on change since Christmas Eve, which was last Sunday.

How much has to change before someone feeling surprised and betrayed by that change proclaims angrily or despondently, "Everything has changed"? I contend that though lots can change--including the person lamenting that everything has changed--seldom does everything change. That said, enough can change to make the world feel different and disorienting, even indifferent and disorienting--until what's changed becomes the normal and expected. For better or for worse.

I had been thinking about this on Christmas Eve day while I was taking a mid-afternoon stroll around my neighborhood. The afternoon was balmy and gray, and I suddenly realized that there had been many balmy Christmas Eve days in recent memory, a number of them gray, and that at some point along the way, I had ceased to consider them aberrations. 

 

In fact, I'd gone so far as to forget to hope for white Christmases. This even though in early December, a vigorous band of ocean-effect snow had transformed nearby Hingham and Norwell into ideal settings for every kind of holiday cheer, activity, and nostalgia.

Perhaps my failure to hope was a reflection of some of the sadder emotional adjustments I've had to make in recent years. My good friend Donald, who died in 2021, loved everything related to Christmas--holiday music, holiday movies, holiday weather, holiday foods, holiday decorations. We spent an immense amount of phone time detailing what we were cooking, listening to, and watching. I so miss those days and calls. Still, I don't think forgetting to hope for something beautiful, pleasurable, and evocative of happy times is ever a good thing, even if what's hoped for is a long shot.

As I mused on how I'd slipped into accepting the new normal of damp, temperate late December weather and Donald's absence, I recalled several other things I've adjusted to in the last few years: the knowledge that the voice I hear when I pick up my landline phone will never again belong to my father; the understanding that old, good friendships can go through phases when they feel less good and require lots of good faith effort to feel good again; the realization that the person with whom I most often need to spend more time when I'm plagued with feelings of indifference and disorientation is me--though I wouldn't act on that realization nearly so much were Scott not there to encourage me.

I was thinking about all of this while he and I were driving through the Cambridge neighborhood where I had lived for thirteen years in an apartment building next to the Graham and Parks Alternative School (which had been Peabody School when I lived there; schools change, too). We were heading to dinner in that same neighborhood at the home of a really good old friend--she and I have been confidants for more than forty years--at whose house I'd been a Christmas Eve guest at least twenty-five times.

This year, because my friend has had some health issues, her daughter was serving as both cook and hostess. It seemed the natural order of things that Christmas Eve dinner was changing in some ways and remaining the same in others: it had done so many times over the years.

At the earliest Christmas Eve dinners I attended, the only guest in addition to me was the Jewish friend of my friend's oldest daughter who, like me, understandably, didn't have family Christmas Eve plans. In the ensuing years, the group expanded, gradually at first to include a few others, and then in leaps and bounds with the addition of the recently widowed, the recently divorced, the children of both, and several others who didn't have their usual Christmas Eve places to go. Somehow, my friend always managed to make room at the inn and to keep the loaves and fishes multiplying when some invited guest appeared at the door with "someone else." 

Always, a group of teenage girls sequestered themselves in a bedroom, preferring one another's company to that of the old people in the living room. Eventually they became adults with homes of their own, and that, combined with other natural forces, caused the group to contract in size. What remained constant while my friend was the chief cook and baker, whether those assembled numbered ten or thirty, was the flaming plum pudding at dessert time. 

After saying thank you and good night at the conclusion of what had been a happy, festive, delicious, different Christmas Eve, Scott and I headed out into the night. And I thought about my old apartment building, which we'd driven by earlier. 

Most the apartments were dark, but on the top floor, yellow light shone in the windows of the apartment of a former friend of mine--if, in fact, she still even lives there. In the old days, before I moved to Quincy, she often expressed her resentment of the fact that I annually headed off to my other friend's Christmas Eve celebration while she stayed home alone. Eventually, she expressed too many similar resentments, most related to the fact that I had gotten married and then moved to a place that better suited both Scott and me. I couldn't continue a friendship that routinely punished me for the happy changes in my life. And I never looked back, though I still sometimes look up at those fourth-floor windows.

 

Sometimes, though, I wonder if she's changed over time, since people do. Maybe whoever now lives in the apartment with the brightly lit windows was hosting a festive Christmas Eve dinner for friends. And who knows? Maybe she was the person hosting that dinner. 

 

Happy New Year! May 2024 bring only the best changes for you personally and for the whole world, since it's bound to bring changes.

Luminous Darkness: Scott Ketcham's Recent Works

So already, first of all, let's just say--and say it loud--that Scott Ketcham's open studios are this weekend--yes, coming right up, on Saturday, November 18 and Sunday, November 19, both days from 12:00 to 5:00 at the Sandpaper Factory, 83 E. Water Street, Rockland, MA.

 

Let's also just say that I'm not sure what the painting above is or represents, but I am sure it's beautiful. Its explosiveness may or may not be menacing, but for certain it makes the painting undeniably alive.

Let's just say that usually the first or second weekend of November I publish a blog post that goes into some detail about Scott's latest work, especially as it reflects some emergent, unifying, compelling theme, method, palette, or subject matter that I manage to write "into a ball/ To roll . . . toward some overwhelming question." (I often quote from T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" in these blogs.)  This year, despite my resolve, time got away from me and no such lengthy, substantial blog post materialized.

 

Let's just say that the fact that this post pales in comparison to some of yesteryear's longer, more reflective blog posts does not mean that Scott's work pales in comparison to what he's shown in the past. Frankly, it's vibrant and very interesting.

 

Let's just say that Scott's tendency, as a person and a painter, has always been to embrace rather than to ignore or minimize darkness. He experiences it as rich, deep, fertile, and giving. Consequently, for him, it is almost always luminous. 

Let's just say that some of the luminous darkness Scott has been trying to render is literal. Scott does a fair amount of plein air painting when we visit our cabin in easternmost New York state, and one of his favorite subjects and spots is the shaded stream that runs through the woods close to our cabin. For a long time, he was dissatisfied with his efforts to convey the quality of light he experiences in the often shadowy, nearly hidden places he chooses along the stream. Only recently has Scott been beginning to feel that he's getting the light right.

 

Let's just say that when the subject of his paintings is a discernible human figure, luminosity can both emanate from it and surround it. In the drawing-like painting to the right--it's done in etching ink applied with a brush--the serene African-American woman exudes composure and certainty. Her temples and forearms glow in light from no particular source, given that she appears in no particular context or space. She holds tight to, even kisses, something wiry, delicate, perhaps formerly coiled, and most definitely mysterious. What is it? Might it bruise or tear her hands? Ultimately, persuaded by her inner light and the outer light around her, we trust her choice to love what she loves.

Let's just say when the subject is a human figure in a muscular relationship to a context or background, sometimes a space and sometimes a place, the figure often seems to be either emerging from or submerging in, even hurtling into, a darkness of undisclosed nature and origin. Often present in these paintings is intense blackness that devours light and then glows with it. But from whence comes this almost unworldly shimmering light, this luminosity?

 

Let's just say that, in part because the colors in some of these paintings also appear prominently in the images captured by the Hubbell telescope, I always  experience these paintings as expressions of the eternal and endless scheme of things and our certain place in it. Both light and luminosity come from a place where the scientific and the spiritual have never been separate. Thus, these paintings capture and radiate the numinous luminous, which holds, blesses, and births.

 

Let's just say that Scott's latest work is provocative, evocative, and downright beautiful. Come down to his studio this weekend to experience the luminous, or at least to see the his paintings, his drawings, and the light. 

 

Sharing Light in the Dark Times

So already, welcome back to ordinary time in extraordinary times--and even, perhaps, to time running out. The Jewish month of Tishrei, with its multiple major holidays, is over; the month of Cheshvan, with its absence of holidays, has begun; and the world and the country are teetering on multiple perilous edges*--as perilous as I've seen in my lifetime. In this context, our job as Jews--and as people generally, I believe--is to keep living our lives, mindful if possible of our most authentic purposes and motivations. As my 60 Days: A Spiritual Guide to the High Holidays book explains by quoting The Rebbe Sholom Dovber, 

After the Tishrei holiday season begins the period of Ve'Yaakov holoch le'darko, meaning 'And Jacob went on his way.' Every Jew goes on his way back to his work in fulfilling his unique mission in life. But now, he comes 'armed' with deep inspiration and energy that he has received from celebrating all the holidays in this month.

If only being "armed" with deep inspiration and energy could suffice at this time. Or should I really be saying, "I hope and pray that being "armed" with deep inspiration and energy will suffice at this time"? You can see that I'm caught between doubt and hope. But I'd like to hope. 

 

For that reason, despite these dark days, I am going to talk about several things that lifted me up--and one that brought me complete joy--during the week before the situation in Israel and Gaza exploded so frighteningly, lethally, deplorably, disturbingly, and sadly on the October 7--actually, on Simchat Torah, the last of the Jewish High Holidays, and traditionally one typified by revelry. On this holiday, Jews--sometimes, I'll say "Jews," sometimes I'll say "we" because I'm a Jew--"complete the cycle of reading the Torah (the last verse of the Book of Deuteronomy) and we begin anew (with the Book of Genesis)" (142).**

Even though I'm not someone who usually dances*** in the streets on Simchat Torah,**** there's nothing I like better than endings that are beginnings, especially when they can be counted on as annual experiences; cycles give me hope.

Simchat Torah comes right after Sukkot, a multi-day holiday during which Jews symbolize both their vulnerability as mortals living in a material world that they cannot control, and their lack of fear of that vulnerability because of their connections to and dependence upon God and one another. 

As the events of the last two weeks attest, these connections do not shield Jews from terrible occurrences, and the grief, anger, and vacillations between hope and despair that accompany them; what these connections do ensure is that they do not walk alone***** as they suffer and live on in the short and long terms.

I use the word "they" in the preceding paragraph to emphasize my recognition that my personal grief and fear are more abstract than those being experienced by many others: I don't know personally any Israelis, Palestinians, and Americans who have died, been captured, been forced from their homes, lost loved ones, are longing for news of missing loved ones, are wondering whether and how they'll survive physically and psychologically during the weeks and months ahead. 

 

What better proof of this do I have than that I am sitting in the warm, bright safety of my dining room watching the latest news about Israel and Gaza as I'm writing this? That said, things can change fast.*(6)

That's exactly why I'm seizing this moment to talk about several things that made me smile--and one thing that made me jump for joy. Interestingly the first few are connected to Orchard Cove, the senior living community in Canton where my mother resides on the Skilled Nursing Floor.

I've always felt deeply appreciative of the way my mother is looked after, cared for, and engaged by the Orchard Cove staff. But recently, I've been noticing how much several of the residents on the floor who do not have cognitive or memory issues extend themselves toward the residents who do; for example, one of them is always telling my mother, "You're adorable," while another frequently says to her, "I love you." It won't surprise you to know how warm and welcoming they are to me as "her daughter."

 

I was especially reminded of all this personalized kindness during the music therapy session in which my mother and some of her fellow Orchard Cove residents with cognitive and memory issues participated on the Monday before Simchat Torah. The music therapist, who comes every other week, is a member of the New England Irish Harp Orchestra, and she comes bearing not only her harp and a guitar, but an array of lightweight percussion instruments that can be banged, stroked, tapped, rattled, and shaken. One resident excitedly brings his own drum to the sessions. 

 

Linda*(7) not only knows the names of all the residents, but sings songs multiple times so all members of the group are musically honored--"My Thelma Lies Over the Ocean" and "Marilyn, Marilyn, give me your answer, do" are examples of her inclusive efforts. There are games to play and conversations to have. By the end of the session, every resident feels essential and helpful to the ensemble, seen and heard, and very musical.

 

The next thing that made me smile were my visits to the Orchard Cove sukkah. Both times, aside from enjoying the lovely fall weather, I thought about the meaning of the sukkah's temporariness and its mandated, very porous ceiling that as easily admitted windswept rain as sunlight and starlight. I definitely had in mind a few paragraphs from Sarah Hurwitz's Here All Along*(8)--which are even more relevant now, given the events of the last couple of weeks.

     Sukkot seems to be telling us that being written in the Book of Life is an all-inclusive kind of deal. It is not "The Book of the Pleasant Things in Life" or "The Book of the Easy Things in Life." It is "The Book of Life"--all of it. If you try to keep out the rain, you'll be unable to see any of the stars.  If you refuse to bear the heat, you'll never feel the sun on your skin. Either you get the whole package--pleasure and pain, joy and sorrow--or you get a numb, closed-off, sleepwalking existence that might seem safe and manageable, but isn't much of a life. That kind of existence offers only the illusion of control, . . ..

     Echoing a theme that runs throughout Judaism, Sukkot urges us: Do this awake. And don't anxiously brace against the uncertainty of an awakened life, or grudgingly endure it. Rejoice in it. . . .. (201)

As I wrote in my journal after my second visit to the sukkah, I had the "feeling I was in a God-space, or somehow surrounded [--distinctly not alone in world--], basically feeling I was where I was supposed to be with a kind of right-mindedness."

 

As for what blew my socks off and left me both weeping and jumping for joy, it was learning that Manuel Munoz, whose most recent short story collection has earned much critical acclaim, had just been named a MacArthur Fellow.*(9) As I said on my Facebook page, "Today's absolutely excellent news: Manuel Munoz has just been named a MacArthur Fellow--yes, he's just been awarded a MacArthur Genius Grant. And yes, sometimes, the right things happen to the people who so completely deserve them." 

 

In my book, Manuel is tikkun olam personified, tikkun olam meaning repairing the world, a Jewish obligation. His medium is writing and his skill is off the charts, but I believe his writing would not have the power to transform readers were it not a reflection of Manuel's deepest truly generous self and his authentic compassion for people generally, and especially for people making their ways without fanfare and often without much help through circumstances ranging from mundane to difficult. But don't worry: if you spent time with Manuel, you wouldn't for a minute wonder if you were in the presence of a saint: he wears his true self lightly, and he laughs a lot.

Manuel's work elevates his readers and his characters, especially those whose stories are often known to few or none. Manuel's writing is so spare, so vivid, so observant and concentrated on the details that reveal his characters' inner lives that it happens to us while we're reading it. Gently we're pulled into his characters' inner and outer worlds, our own observations and emotions naturally conducting us to new sensitivities, understandings, and awarenesses. If you've yet to read The Consequences, you'll see what I mean when you do.

 

At a time when so many can't smile and can only weep or worry, I think that those of us who can smile should in order to affirm life and hope on behalf of those who presently cannot.

Last week, one of my favorite poets, Louise Glück, died. As her editor Jonathan Galassi said in her CNN obituary, "Louise Glück’s poetry gives voice to our untrusting but unstillable need for knowledge and connection in an often unreliable world."*(10)

 

Though some experience Glück’s poetry as negative and depressing, I have always been reassured by its hard-edged pursuit of truth, its steely focus on "knowledge and connection." So I was pleased to come upon these words from her in the same obituary: “Yes, the world is falling apart,” . . .. “But here we all are, we’re still alive. And a sense of possibility emerges from that fact, from anything — just that stubborn human need to hope.” Dark and discouraging as some of her verse could seem or be, she was ever hoping.

 

As I am now. So I end this blog on a light, silly note. Hallowe'en is coming, and each day, more and more houses in my neighborhood sport decorations ranging from cute-adorable to downright terrifying. The horrifying mailbox in the adjacent photo startled me into grossed-out silence before it cracked me up. If your heart isn't completely shattered, may Hallowe'en give you at least a temporary respite from the very important cares of our day. If you see something that makes you laugh and smile, enjoy that you can.

* "Chronometer (Triptych) Panel #1"--Painting by Scott Ketcham. 2010-2011,  60X40", Oil, Acrylic, Sand, Stocking, Spray Paint on Wood. https://www.scottketcham.com/post/96355432372/68a-chronometer-triptych-panel-1-2010-2011

** Jacobson, S. (2008). 60 days: A spiritual guide to the high holidays. New York: Kiyum Press.

***As Simon Jacobson explains in 60 Days: A Spiritual Guide to the High Holidays, Simchat Torah is such a joyous holiday that "we," confident in "our inherent connection with G-d and Torah," literally dance: "We therefore dance with absolute passion and no limits. Our legs carry us as our arms are wrapped around a Torah scroll."***

*** Screen shot of this page of the Arizona Jewish Post: https://azjewishpost.com/2018/if-dancing-on-simchat-torah-makes-you-feel-uneasy-think-of-it-as-a-test/ 

***** Screen shot of photo with this caption on website of The Boston Globe: Mourners sat at the funeral of Staff Sergeant Yuval Ben Yaakov, an Israeli soldier killed when Palestinian militants entered Israel, in the cemetery in Kfar Menachem, Israel, on Monday. AVISHAG SHAAR-YASHUV/NYT

*(6)"No Danger" by Paul Carley: Currently on view at the Fourth Floor Artists Association's current "The Dark Side of Art" Exhibition. https://www.facebook.com/4thFloorArtists/  

*(7) Music Therapist Linda LaSalle can be found on LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/linda-lasalle-musictherapy/

*(8) Hurwitz, S. (2019). Here all along: Finding meaning, spirituality, and a deeper connection to life--in Judaism (after finally choosing to look there). Spiegel & Grau.

*(9) Photograph of Manuel posted on his Facebook page on October 4, 2023. 

*(10) Andrew, S. (2023, October 13). Poet and Nobel laureate Louise Glück dies at 80. CNN. https://www.cnn.com/style/louise-gluck-dies-poet-nobel-prize-cec/index.html

Deliverance: A Poem That's Mostly True

The first blessing

Of the new Jewish year:

Free parking,

With validation,

In a Cambridge Street garage.

 

Among the Mondrian* thatch—

Some spaces behind others,

Others perpendicular to those

Next to signs admonishing

“Do not block other cars"--

 

One spot,

Strangely short and narrow,

Tight against a cinder block wall 

Just beyond a yellow post

Marking a tight turn.

 

My parking skills

Would be sore tested.

But dared I pass it up?

My friend was already waiting

At the synagogue door . . .

 

So in smallest increments,

I tucked my Honda Civic in close—

And didn’t know how close

Until I exited my car

And looked at it from behind:

 

Between my car and the wall,

A space no wider than

An index finger,

A slender marker,

A slice of bread.

 

And wasn’t this just my way—

To maneuver myself

With pride and care 

Into a place that would

Prove too narrow?

 

Silent panic.

How would I get out

Without leaving

My car’s red paint

On the gray wall?

 

And then I slowed my breathing,

Calmed myself so I might hear

The soft, wise voice

Of inner counsel:

“Move your car now,

 

Or you’ll worry all service long

About how you’ll move it later.

And if someone blows a horn

While you’re doing it,

Don’t jump or tense.”

 

And so I moved it, slowly

Rocking forward and back,

Forward and back,

My ear fearing the muffled crunch

Of metal on concrete,

 

Which did not come.

And I was out of my bind

Without a scrape,

Amazed, grateful,

And certain I’d had help,

 

Which I kept having:

As I rounded a corner,

A Dodge ram pulled out

Of a space near the exit

That I backed into with ease. 

 

* Screen shot of a photo of Piet Mondrian's “Composition 8,” 1914, on this web site: Guggenheim Museum educational staff. (n.d.) Piet Mondrian. Guggenheim Museums and Foundation. https://www.guggenheim.org/teaching-materials/the-great-upheaval-modern-art-from-the-guggenheim-collection/piet-mondrian?gallery=upheaval_L4a

Fielding Questions As a New Year Begins . . .

So already, when is a field a mountaintop?

1. When it offers a "peak" experience.
2. When, since you were a child, you've been unable to hear the song "The Sound of Music" without envisioning Julie Andrews* singing it exuberantly while running across a rolling meadow high in the Austrian Alps.

I bring this up because recently, I've been thinking again about the field in front of my husband Scott's and my cabin just over the New York border from Massachusetts. As some of you know, I've written about the field in past years as I've prepared for the Jewish High Holidays, often in conjunction with Simon Jacobson's 60 Days: A Spiritual Guide to the High Holidays.** In particular, I've written about the difficulties I've had stepping into the field, and especially with walking up to God--the King in the Field--and asking Him for what I want or need:

"When the king is in the field . . . every person has the opportunity, without petitioning for an audience, to go over to him, say hello and ask for whatever he or she needs. The king is smiling,  . . ., and he is predisposed to grant all requests. . . . It is a profound message of hope that we don't have to wait for Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur to find G-d. We can go out to meet Him now" (26).

For reasons I don't fully understand, this particular "invitation" to connect with God has always filled me with feelings of both yearning and failure. Though on rare occasions I have spoken directly and personally to God on my own behalf, my inclination is not to do so.

But here's the irony: I love the field and  generally feel that God is there as a presence, though not as a King. I associate the field with a state of integrated heart and mind that I seldom achieve in other places. Its natural beauty, seasonal cycles, and inherent spirit, combined with the quality of the time Scott and I spend together there, often makes the time I spend there a peak experience for me, so much so that when it's time to go home, I often find myself musing on the idea expressed on the back cover of Jacobson's book: "It's one thing to find happiness and life affirmation  when we escape to a mountain; it's quite another to be able to experience it when we are immersed in cruel, material life." Much as I may want to sustain the field feelings when I'm back home, I know too well from experience that I won't be able to for very long.

But am I confusing peak experience with some other kind of important positive experience? The bliss that I feel on my best trips to the field is not momentary; it extends over a period of days and leaves me deeply at ease rather than breathless with wonder. Can an experience be considered "peak" if it doesn't take one's breath away? And do such distinctions even matter? Isn't it enough to know there are multiple kinds of really positive experiences?

A funny thing happened to me on my way way to Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur this year: as I was yet again working my way through 60 Days, I encountered some statements about the field that I'd completely overlooked in previous years:

Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur are holidays. Elul [the Jewish month during which Jews prepare themselves for these holidays that happen early in the month of Tishrei] is amid workdays. We are in the field, we are still living our normal lives. Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur have a very powerful energy, because on those days we petition the King in his inner sanctum. But in Elul, we petition the King on our turf (26).***

The field as my turf? In how many blog posts had I positioned myself on the edge of or at top of the field that I had characterized as sacred and set apart from the places where I transacted the daily business of living among other people in the world?

 

Why had I overlooked this idea of the field, I wondered. My only explanation was that for decades. so much of my daily life has largely transpired on city streets and subway trains, in traffic jams and crowded squares, and in buildings and courtyards--places not at all reminiscent of fields. So in my life, the Berlin field and others not only represent, but actually are departures from "my turf."

But wait. Why was I obsessing over this? And about the criteria for peak experiences? "What a waste of time," I said suddenly said out loud --and then turned off my computer in disgust. 

 

But as I did, I remembered one of the questions I'd posed to myself as I'd begun my Elul reflections: "How can I break the habit of letting my mind get in the way of my heart?" Clearly, I hadn't made very much progress in this focus area.

The next morning, I awoke with no insights, and got busy with my day. I planned to visit my dad's grave at Sharon Memorial Park--it's Jewish tradition to visit the graves of loved ones before the High Holidays--before heading over to see my mother on the Skilled Nursing Floor at Orchard Cove. I shoved Sarah Hurwitz's Here All Along: Finding Meaning, Spirituality, and a Deeper Connection to Life--in Judaism (After Finally Choosing to Look There) *(4) into my bag just before leaving: I always a bring a book with me in case my mother takes an extended nap while I'm with her.

 

As usual, I got lost in Sharon Memorial Park. And I just had to laugh when I realized that now I lost in both the maze of the cemetery and the metaphor maze of my mind's making.

 

Finally, I found my dad's grave, where I spent some time imagining his voice and seeing his smile. And then I thought about how he is feeling increasingly gone to me: after all, my new grand-nephew--my dad's second great-grandson--could only have been given my dad's name--Benjamin David--if my dad were dead. And at the same time, I recognized that through this naming, my dad is somehow living on in the person of this beautiful little baby boy who will never know his voice and smile.

I would have liked to stay in the cemetery just a little bit longer, but the clock was ticking, and I didn't want to be late to Orchard Cove: for sure my dad would have wanted me to spend more time with my mother than at his grave. He always put her ahead of himself; he always put life ahead of death.

 

My mother was very cheerful when I arrived at her place, but she did sleep for about a third of my visit. So I had the opportunity to read most of the "Freeing God from 'His' Human-Shaped Cage in the Sky" chapter in Hurwitz's book.

 

It turned out to be just what I needed--a book that had questions that mattered and some answers to them. So thrilled was I to come upon them that I actually thanked my mother, my father, Sarah Hurwitz, and God (variously conceived, imagined, and explained in Hurwitz's chapter) for having combined forces to give me the opportunity to read it.

Early in the chapter, Hurwitz explains that "a God-shaped wall" had stood between her and God because she knew only one way to think about God: as "a Father/King in the sky who performs miracles, rewards us if we're good, punishes us if we're bad, and really enjoys our repetitive prayers to Him" (53). That wall began to crumble only after she went on a multi-day Jewish meditation retreat, and, in its aftermath, continued studying Judaism, but with a new understanding of where she had been going wrong before*****:

That retreat was when I first realized that I had been approaching the question of God backward. I had been starting with theology rather than experience. And even worse, I had been focusing on one particularly difficult theology--a theology that serves as a wall to the Divine for many modern Jews. (60)

It turned out that, like me, Hurwitz was generally prone to follow her mind before following her heart. As I reflected on the shift she knew she had to make, I realized again that the field is somewhere I actually did experience the Divine--until I tried to shoehorn that Divinity into the form of the King, to whom I should be speaking directly and am not.

Hurwitz further comforted me--and  included me--when she said, "While there are few things Jews agree on, there seems to be consensus that we cannot fully understand or adequately describe God" (62). After the retreat, she studied various Jewish conceptions of God; in fact, her book describes--yes, it seems somewhat contradictory that she would set out to describe them--at least nine different conceptions. There were more choices than I knew.

In retrospect, Hurwitz learned another important  lesson from doing her research, a companion lesson to the first that she learned: that "theology could be a gateway to even greater experience, expanding my sense of where and how the Divine could be" (63). Personally, I was glad that Hurwitz didn't talk about any fields--she'd said the Father/King was in the sky, not in the field--since I was tired of trying to apply metaphors to "spiritual realities" and, in the process, further distancing myself from the reality of the Divine.

 

For Scott, the field is the field—a place, not a symbol or metaphor, even though he experiences it and natural places generally as imbued with "spirit," a word he doesn't worry about capitalizing or not. If it offers an invitation to him, it’s an invitation to explore, to observe, to inquire, and sometimes to paint and draw. Earlier this month when I asked him why he'd extended the path around the field a few years back, he explained that his one purpose was to lessen the threat of Lyme Disease to both of us: where there are deer, there are deer ticks, and on a recent morning, we had seven deer in the field.

 

From Scott's perspective, the field and the path around it are one, despite the path's shorter grass, courtesy of his new weed-wacker. During his childhood summers, he simply walked through the fields on his grandparents' property in West Stockbridge, seeking to avoid only the shorter thorn bushes that occasionally cropped up among the tall, hissing grasses as he made his way through them. He still misses those days of parting waist- and chest-high grasses with his arms. 

 

For me, the field and the path around it are both places and symbols. The path represents my personal journey around and in relationship to the field, the more traditional symbol of the potential for connecting with God during the month of Elul.

Sometimes I envy Scott his less complicated but no less profound relationship with the field and the path: there are certainly times I would rather just be at the field and not think about it what it stands for and requires. And on the other hand, sometimes I like  thinking about the field as being more than a field. 

 

Since reading Sarah Hurwitz, I feel newly empowered to choose between, or even to alternate between,"just a field" and "more than just a field." As Scott said this morning, "Metaphors aren't truth." They're merely products of imaginations intended to guide us or enlighten us. If certain ones don't work for us, or cease to work for us over time, we should push them to the side and find ones that do.

Tonight begins the new Jewish year. Shanah Tovah U'metukah! May 5784 be a sweet, beautiful new year for us all, one in which we find the tools and truths we need, or they find us.

* from the Amazon web site:  https://www.amazon.com/Sound-Music-40th-Anniversary/dp/B0006OR0VC/ref=asc_df_B0006OR0VC/?tag=hyprod-20&linkCode=df0&hvadid=385619273957&hvpos=&hvnetw=g&hvrand=10310214093701885398&hvpone=&hvptwo=&hvqmt=&hvdev=c&hvdvcmdl=&hvlocint=&hvlocphy=9002014&hvtargid=pla-403761234434&psc=1&tag=&ref=&adgrpid=82333347721&hvpone=&hvptwo=&hvadid=385619273957&hvpos=&hvnetw=g&hvrand=10310214093701885398&hvqmt=&hvdev=c&hvdvcmdl=&hvlocint=&hvlocphy=9002014&hvtargid=pla-403761234434

** Jacobson, S. (2008). 60 days: A spiritual guide to the high holidays. New York: Kiyum Press. 

*** Pieter the Elder Bruegel The Corn Harvest (August) Oil Painting Reproduction https://www.pieter-bruegel-the-elder.org/The-Corn-Harvest-August.html

**** Hurwitz, S. (2019). Here all along: Finding meaning, spirituality, and a deeper connection to life--in Judaism (after finally choosing to look there). Spiegel & Grau. 

*(5) X image for @HereAllAlong: https://twitter.com/HereAllAlong/photo