December, 2024 Megillah
RABBI'S NOTES
I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know….
I was thinking of filling my whole column this month with these words. It would be poetic. And mostly true. But not entirely. We are facing a future with many unknowns and some dire possibilities. But, like you, I’ve lived some part of a lifetime, and I know a few things. As do you. In times of confoundment—is that even a word?—I hear Mickey saying, as he used to when I was running in circles, “THINK.” So I am stopping to think about what I do know that might be of use in the unfolding of whatever comes next in our community, country, and planet. I invite you to do the same. Here’s my list, as of this morning:
I know that the material world can be difficult, painful and taxing. I know that policies enacted in centers of government can have deeply destructive real-world consequences far from where the papers are signed. I know not to underestimate or wish away how truly harmful some impending changes may be.
I know that I don’t know what will really happen in this realm—only what has been promised and threatened—so there is some balance to be struck between planning prudently and not spinning out into doom scenarios. I know that, in my own case, it really helps me to notice when I am prognosticating, or when other people (like newspaper columnists!) are. I know that I personally do better by avoiding lots of future-casting and by trying to be precise about what I actually do know.
I know that I have some privileges and capabilities that some other people don’t have. I also know that other people have privileges and capabilities that I don’t have. I know some other things about my own strengths and weaknesses that I don’t need to list here. I do want to note to myself that I can sometimes act with courage, and that seems like a good thing to remember these days.
I know that it is great to think about Desmond Tutu and Vaclav Havel and Judi Bari and whomever else I admire and lift up. At the same time, I know that I am not any of those people so their examples are both inspiring and dispiriting. I also know that behind each of these brilliant leaders was a whole crew of hardworking folks who did less colorful but crucial tasks to enable these heroes. That shleppy work also matters. So, when I can’t figure out anything brilliant and consequential to do, I can default to doing chores for people who have more vision than I do.
I know that listening matters. I know that I like being listened to attentively and supportively. I like good questions. And I think it helps when I extend that kind of attentive ear to others. It helps any of us to get centered when we’re spinning, to think clearly, to hear our own hearts and minds. That seems like it’s often a useful thing to do.
I know that there are things I enjoy, like cooking and art and singing. I also like to laugh and goof off. And, while none of these is an answer in itself, I can look for places that they might be helpful to deploy. That will bring me, and maybe others, some measure of fun—not the most important thing in the world, but not nothing.
I know that I have a beautiful family and beloved friends, a deep, loving and wise community, and inspiring colleagues. These are my treasures in their own right, and anything I do to sustain these relationships is well worth doing. They also provide a circle of support for my own thinking and feeling and learning and acting. As I hope I do for theirs.
I know that being Jewish sustains me in a number of different ways. There’s that ancestral strand, the sense of many generations before me, all that experience, all those stories and successes and mistakes, wisdom gained along with wounds. There are texts and stories and sources that fill my heart and enliven my consciousness. There is Jewish practice—Shabbat, holidays, mitzvot between one person and another, honoring of seasons and moons and points on the lifecycle, personal prayer and learning—all of which form my soul, like the clay in the potter’s hand that we sing of on Yom Kippur. Jewishness as I experience it gives me a sense of being grounded in something much bigger than the moment.
I do increasingly know, deeply know, knowingly know that the material plane on which we live our day-to-day lives is intensely important and part of a much bigger matrix. So there are glimpses all the time of the Beyondboth, of Echad (One, Wholeness, All). I know that some quality of being flows through me and through all of us, descending below our feet into the groundwater and lifting up above our heads to the sky and beyond. There is a connection between what is us and what is Everything. I know that love is both a verb and a presence, that love is available, that love Is. I know that we—all life, all that is—are held.
I sat down here at my computer to write “I don’t know” a thousand times. And then I decided to try making this list of what I DO know. I didn’t know if I could fill a page. It turns out I do know a few things. And so do you. I hope that you might make a list of what you know, or sit down with someone who adores you and let them tell you. Among us all we know a lot.
PAIGE NOTES
On the new moon of the first day of December, we also begin the first day of the Hebrew month of Kislev. This means we now find ourselves in the time of increasing darkness toward the Winter Solstice, amidst the increasing light of Hanukkah! In Vice President Kamala Harris’ concession speech, she said, “There is an adage: Only when it is dark enough can you see the stars. I know many people feel like we are entering a dark time. For the benefit of us all, I hope that is not the case. But, America, if it is: let us fill the sky with the light of a billion brilliant stars.” This is the exact sentiment of Hanukkah, as well as our community’s kavana (sacred intention) of this time.
So, how can we be a source of light? The twentieth-century Tibetan Buddhist master, Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche, taught that, in life, "The bad news is you’re falling through the air, nothing to hang onto, no parachute. The good news is that there's no ground.” That might be how it feels to be a shooting star. That might be how it feels to be a human being in this constantly changing, unpredictable, divine life.
I cherish the story in the Talmud about Adam and Eve’s first Winter Solstice (Avodah Zarah 8a). They had no one to explain this natural phenomenon. For weeks, they noticed the sun setting earlier and earlier each day and feared that would keep continuing until life became perpetual darkness. Thus, they began to light fires every night to pray for more light. Suddenly, the sun began setting later and later! They rejoiced that their prayers had worked, that more light was returning to their days and lives.
To celebrate and express gratitude, they lit flames for the next eight nights, thereby creating the “Festival of Light” of Hanukkah. We are so blessed to have the experience of having lived on this earth in past winters; it gives us complete trust that we are not going to disappear into perpetual darkness, that the days will indeed get longer.
I have a friend currently going through a divorce. To help himself process it, he recently went to Oregon to spend four full days in a cave, in complete darkness. He knew it would only be for four days; he knew he would return to the light. Curious about the organization facilitating this therapeutic program, I looked up their website. (Interesting that to research something, we colloquially use the phrase “look up,” like looking up at the bright stars!). Rather than featuring photos of people in the caves, they present countless videos of the moment that each person emerges from the darkness. Their first reactions? Laughing, crying, immediately covering their eyes. They had found safety, peace, unity in the dark. They had become the light they needed to survive the dark.
We create life in the darkness of the womb. Seeds germinate in the darkness of the soil. Forests sprout mushrooms in the darkness of the night. Even photographs, which require light to be captured, only materialize in the darkness of a photographer’s dark room. May this dark season, lightened by the Hanukkah flames and the trust that we will emerge from the dark, help us find and be, as Kamala said, “the light of a billion brilliant stars.”
