Yom HaShoah

No wedding dress pictures on this day of remembrance, which corresponds this year to the 13th day of the counting of the Omer, Yesod of Gevurah in a kabbalistic world view.
A day that stops traffic in Israel. A day we are drawn to places that help us remember and might bring us to tears. We question G-d and humans. We question ourselves and wonder what we would have done. Would I have had the courage to run or hide or join the resistance? Would I have had the smarts to survive and save others? If the tables were reversed would I risk my life for others?

Yesod of Gevurah asks us to examine the way that we create discipline and structure in our lives in ways that strengthen our bonds with others. We are asked to re-frame disciplines of practice and structural forms are something so we create then together as friends or partners or communities. These need to be ways to draw people in, to build connection, and to commit to what we value.

So I wonder...can I commit to standing up against genocide? Can I stand up for and be a voice for the ones who have been silenced? Can I live a life that makes a mark in place of all of those who never had a chance? Can my remembrance, my Jewish discipline create pathways of connection that move us beyond remembrance?

Can I be one of the good souls that Anne Frank wanted to believe in...is that something I can commit to? 

Can I live a life as if I was a was one of the Lamed-Vav Tzadikim, the 36 righteous souls whose acts and deeds and presence justify the purpose of humankind in the eyes of G-d. Perhaps this is what I owe those who do not have the chance to live a good life; a pledge to live as if I am a  lamed-vavnik, even if I am sure that I am not. 

Or perhaps it is choosing to live a Jewish life, perhaps that is what I owe those who have gone. To live a life that they were murdered for, even if they did not practice or believe. Perhaps it is to defend religious practices that might seen out of sync, but help people find meaning and purpose and live a good life. 

Perhaps that is what all of us owe: living a life that matters so that we honor all who have come before us and parted the sea, battled for freedom, planted the fields, and given us a chance to live as we choose. 

A woman with wings...a story of leaving a narrow place

     I was born one magical evening at sunset. The sky was crimson and turquoise, and so were my wings. It was not unusual that I was born with wings, most babies were, but mine were especially beautify because they were kissed by the sunset. I grew up like most little girls, laughing an crying, playing and learning, growing and changing. When I was very young I loved to flex my wings like the other children, delighting in the sensuous power and exhilaration that came with dreaming about flight. My wings had the colors of a sunset reflected in the ocean, and grew stronger as I pushed them against the wind.
     Time passed however, as it always does, and I grew older. I was told that the time for play was ending and that I must learn to be a young lady. Proper young ladies do not fly, rather they hold their wings still, secured with ribbons and bows to show off their shape and color, but never their magnificence or power. Nor did proper grown-up women fly for their wings were atrophied and frozen in place.
     When I was young my family would smile at me when I spread my wings and pretended to fly, but now that my wings were stronger and flight was possible, they no longer smiled. It was fine to indulge me when I was little and could not fly, but once I came of age and might try, I had to be taught to behave properly.
     My grandmother took me aside often and told me that nice young ladies did not fly. She had never even considered trying, and look how nice and atrophied her wings were. Look how well she had managed and controlled her life. She told me I would embarrass the family if I did not stop spreading my wings. I must tie them back like a good girl and do what would make my family, and her friends, wanted. Their happiness was more important than my silly dream of flying. 
     My father took me aside and told me that flying was not safe for girls, only for boys. After all, in flying school the men were the teachers, and the boys the students. There was no one to teach me! That was proof that women...ladies...should not fly. 
     I looked up at the sky and pointed...sometimes...high and far away I could see a women flying. Rarely, but there she would be. "Who taught her?"  I would ask. My father would shake his head and tell my that good girls did not fly, and that I should ignore that one, self-taught woman. Being good and safe on the ground was more important than being free in the air.
    My friends told me that if I wanted boys to like me I would have to learn how to hold my wings still and quiet, so they would grow thinner and weaker. No boy would like a girl with strong wings who chose to fly!
     I listened when they talked...I really did. I tried to hold my wings still; I tied them with ribbons everyday at school, even though I was crying inside. I tried to forget the feeling of the wind caressing my wings, the feeling of strength and grace that came when my wings were spread, but I could not. Everyone would be angry and disappointed if I continued to spread my wings so that they could grow strong, but I could not resist. I wanted to fly more than I wanted my grandmother's approval. I wanted to fly more than I wanted my father's praise. I wanted to fly more than I wanted my schoolmate's friendship.
     Sometimes at night I would dream that I was flying amid the stars through clouds of silver mist and webs of moonlight. I tried to tell my mother about my dreams, and she would look sad for me. She hugged me and told me that flying was hard and scary, and that I should do the right thing and make everyone else happy.
     I watched as the popular girls held their wings in the proper way and lost the ability to use them. I did want to be the friend they wanted, but I could not let my wings grow still and useless. I wanted the boys to like me, but not at the expense of abandoning who I wanted to be.
     Finally one evening at sunset when the sky was crimson and turquoise, I walked into the surf and spread my wings. I turned into the wind and felt myself lifted from the waves into the sky. After years of watching hawks and eagles fly, I knew what to do, so I trusted my instincts and began to fly. 
     At first I just traversed the beach, riding the wind with joy in my heart. The world rushed by under me as I flew higher and faster. At last I left the beach behind and and allowed the wind to guide me, following the thermals and shifting breezes. 
     I looked back and say the narrowness of my town, something that I could not see from the ground. I had left a narrow place to the wideness of the skies and my dreams. I turned and flew toward the horizon.