Joanne Seiff

A time for diversity training

We’re in the month of Heshvan on the Jewish calendar. Some people call it Mar-Heshvan or Marcheshvan. (Since this is transliteration, it can be spelled either “ch” or “h.”) It’s called mar, or bitter, because, aside from Shabbat, there are no Jewish holidays during this month.

Of course, as Canadians, we had Thanksgiving in there. However, after a long stretch of Jewish holidays, many Jewish people, myself included, quite like the idea of a month off from them. Finally, I have time to start another big project. A relatively quiet Jewish month leaves more time to do “regular” work, learning and making changes.

As a kid, I was very active in my Reform congregation. I learned to lead services and read Torah and Haftarah, and did it without hesitation after becoming a bat mitzvah. Unfortunately, though, at that time, we didn’t chant in my parents’ congregation, so I never learned how to do it. I married into a family with slightly more traditional practice among some of its members and, therefore, have been attending services with chanting now for more than 20 years.

Yet, learning to chant is a tricky business as an adult. On one occasion, I asked a rabbi if I might learn and he said of course, the congregation ran a special group class for adult b’not mitzvah. (Mostly it was women who never were able to participate in a bat mitzvah service as a child.) I said no, I’d been there and done that – complete with leading the service, a reception with custom-made omelettes, and a special dress. I just wanted to learn to chant. He had no space in his imagination for someone who just wanted to learn this skill without the lifecycle event.

I also learned that there are different kinds of trope. Chanting comes along with symbols in the text of the Torah, Haftarah, Eicha and Megillat Esther. The symbols were introduced by the rabbis as a way to mark and understand the text better. It’s like punctuation. However, as an oral tradition, chanting melodies differ according to where one lives and one’s background. There are actually many different styles of chanting trope, including smaller regional differences, as well.

The trope I’ve begun learning is an Ashkenazi one, which is perhaps appropriate to my family background. (I haven’t done a DNA test, though, so I’m going by family lore.) However, parts of my family are Western European and others have been in the United States for a long time. It’s even possible that I’m learning the “wrong” trope for my background. I’ve found that several Sephardi and Mizrahi chanting styles sound clearer and make more sense to me, perhaps because I’ve learned Modern Hebrew and I lived in Israel as a teenager. It’s actually not as simple as “Learn trope!” “Chant Torah!” although it seems this way if you’ve only lived in one specific Jewish ethnic community with unified customs and traditions.

The more you know, the more complicated things seem. The best metaphor I’ve come up with springs from an odd social media interaction I had. Someone I know only online described her harvest supper menu as including “Jewish-style brisket.” I jokingly responded, “WHAT?! There’s only one kind? What about the many varieties I’ve had over the years? Could it be that I’ve never eaten the only ‘official’ Jewish brisket recipe?”

I said maybe this was an Eastern European/Ashkenazi recipe, or her family recipe. After all, brisket is a relatively cheap cut of meat, cooked low and slow, which is perfect to make on Shabbat, when some families do not adjust oven temperatures or turn the oven on or off.

The person insisted that this was indeed the Jewish-style brisket her family made, mostly, and that, if you Google it, this exact recipe pops up. (Hint, lots of things pop up online that don’t hold up under scrutiny.) Eventually, I suggested that perhaps this was best called a family recipe or a specific geographic recipe, and wished her bon appétit.

Geography matters in cooking meat – for instance, in a Southern barbeque recipe. That is, brisket in Texas doesn’t taste like brisket made in eastern Carolina. Nothing could be more different! The same is true for Jewish trope or chanting. They don’t sound the same because, although Jews originated, long ago, in what is now called Israel, we’re now a diverse people, from all over the world. Just as Jews don’t all look the same, we all don’t eat the same foods on holidays, or sing the same melodies for Lecha Dodi, Adon Olam or myriad other prayers.

So, I begin, with baby steps, to learn one chanting/trope tradition while acknowledging there are many others out there. Like the many brisket recipes and holiday traditions out there, knowing about diversity and traveling deepens our appreciation for what we know and enjoy, and for learning more.

In the meanwhile, I joked with a non-Jewish friend I know in “real life” that, if there is really only one Jewish-style brisket recipe, we might be in trouble. “Oh no!” she replied. “I have to figure out ‘the’ Christian brisket recipe! How have I missed it after all this time?!” We snorted together with laughter. Next, I might call a Muslim friend to ask if there just one Muslim meatball – after all, the kibbe and kofte I’ve shared over many years might not be the official kind?

The best learning for Heshvan? There might not be a single “official” version of anything. That, in itself, is a lesson in diversity that might be worth learning like trope … over and over.

Joanne Seiff has written regularly for CBC Manitoba and various Jewish publications. She is the author of three books, including From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. Check her out on Instagram @yrnspinner or at joanneseiff.blogspot.com.

Sometimes we need a break

It’s been about a month since Labour Day and the start of school. For many people with school-age children, this is the first time the kids are back in school, in person, in awhile. It’s also been a year where we’ve remarked about how “early” the Jewish holidays are, in relation to the secular calendar. So, while some vaccinated people are thrilled to be attending their first hockey game or concert in almost two years, reveling in joining the crowds, many others are meeting this moment with caution and exhaustion.

This balance of great enthusiasm at rejoining society and reticent caution is part of our identities. North Americans feel a great push to get out there, make money, join the in-crowd party and show off our productivity. Society often defines us by what we do and who we’re with.

The other side, the hesitancy, might be better understood by our Jewish ethnic and religious identities. That is, the people who want to follow the rules (ie. halachah, Jewish law). We also find our way with caution perhaps because we suffered from thousands of years of refugee status and/or trauma as we wandered.

As a person who bore lots of childcare responsibilities, as well as losing some of my work life, this last month has been somewhat stressful and puzzling. From the moment my Grade 5 children left the house, I’ve waited for the other shoe to drop. Will they get sent home sick? Will I land a new job or gig? If I do, how will I juggle it with what will happen next in our unpredictable pandemic world? In the short term, how can I cook ahead or prepare to meet the needs of the next Jewish holiday, day off school or Shabbat coming up?

There’s also a strong Puritan work ethic in my head, even though that’s not my specific religious or ethnic background. It’s something like: “People who work hard are close to the Almighty. People who are close to the Almighty gain money, stature and professional accomplishments. Therefore, people who don’t gain money, stature or accomplishments are neither close to the Almighty, nor working hard.”

Of course, many of us hear that if we didn’t score the best job or earn the most, it’s our own fault.

On Tashlich, we thought about throwing away our metaphorical sins and aimed to do better in the new year. I reflected on how often negative and anxious thoughts race through my mind, and how I could try to reduce that. It’s perhaps a first step to making space for more positivity and calm. It seemed like a good place to start.

Yet, a month later, I catch myself thinking, “Hey, you’ve had a month! Where’s your newest freelance gig? What’s the new work opportunity you’ve landed?” Of course, if the last month was spent on school readiness and putting challah and holiday meals on the table, this could just be anxious, negative self-talk. There’s only so much a working parent can do.

When we consider big concepts like our finances or how the law works, we’re maybe not applying it to what’s going on personally. For instance, the recent federal campaign promise of $10 a day childcare seemed like a dream come true for many – but, in reality, it’s exactly like a dream that is out of reach the moment we wake up. For most people with children who need childcare, this plan, if it comes to fruition, won’t be realized before our families age out of needing that care.

All this was swirling in my head when I read my page of Talmud before bed. I’m currently learning Beitzah in my Daf Yomi (page of Talmud a day). Yes, this is a tractate entitled “Egg.” It’s all about what can and cannot be done on Jewish festivals (Pesach, Sukkot and Shavuot) as compared to a regular working day or on Shabbat. Its first issue is, “May we eat an egg laid on a festival day? Why or why not?”

Let’s be honest, as a person who isn’t strict about these rules, studying Beitzah is sometimes an intellectual exercise. It allows me to reflect on what these concerns mean in a broader context. It’s more about how we make meaning out of holidays, the passage of time, and our struggles.

Enter page 21 of Beitzah, where Rav Avya the Elder asks Rav Huna a complicated question. “If a Jewish person owns an animal with a non-Jew, what’s the halachah with regard to slaughtering it on a festival?” This is an issue because one can designate an animal to be killed to celebrate and eat on a holiday. The trouble is how to administer it with a non-Jewish partner, how to decide what rules to follow.

Rav Huna responds, but Rav Avya asks him for clarification. Rav Huna says, no kidding, “Look, a raven flies in the sky.” HUH? Say what?

Later talmudic commentators try to explain his response. Was Rav Huna trying to change the subject? Was he offering a critique or dismissing this question?

Rav Huna’s son is taken aback, according Rabbi Elliot Goldberg, who wrote an introduction to this page online at My Jewish Learning. Rav Huna’s son pushes for an explanation. Rav Huna answers, “What should I have done for him? Today I am in a state best described by the verse: ‘Let me lean against the stout trunks, let me couch among the apple trees.’ (Song of Songs 2:5) And he asked me about something that requires reasoning.”

Rav Huna basically says, “Hey, I’m worn out and just need to hang out in the shade today, leave me alone!” Even the best talmudic minds, who normally love to wrestle with complicated questions, need downtime, to recuperate. We can learn from Rav Huna that, sometimes, we should give ourselves a break – even when it seems unproductive or rude.

The Gemara goes on to answer the question, it doesn’t leave us hanging. Yet, Rav Huna offers a reminder for those of us who beat ourselves up over being uber productive. It’s OK to cut ourselves some slack. Yes, we must balance our lives, abiding by laws, making a living, but also? We need to take a break at times.

It turns out that sitting outside in nature isn’t new-age, woo-woo self-care after all. We don’t have to be “on” all the time. If Rav Huna did it, approximately 1,750 years ago, we can, too. We can allow ourselves that moment to sit under a tree and recuperate. Here’s to wishing you time in the orchard when you need it!

Sukkot a time for happiness

As a kid, Sukkot wasn’t a holiday we observed at home. Our congregation was where I decorated and visited a sukkah, but it wasn’t a big festival for us. The temple did feel like an extension of my house since my mom worked full time there – but it wasn’t my house.

By contrast, as a married adult, we’ve really embraced Sukkot at home. We’ve built a sukkah in the backyard of each home we’ve lived in. We’ve more than 20 years now of experience in inviting guests for big sukkah dinner parties and having quiet family meals together, too. We enjoy buying a lulav and etrog so we can “shake it in the sukkah!” on our own.

It’s brought us lots of pleasure, which is apt because Sukkot is the only festival that is labeled “z’man simchateinu” or “our time of happiness.” It’s literally our time to party. In Tractate Sukkah, it describes the special “in the place of the drawing of water” celebrations at the Temple on Sukkot as the party to end all parties. In Tractate Sukkah 51a, it says this twice, in both the Mishnah and Gemara, “One who did not see the celebration … never saw celebration in his days.” The Gemara goes further to explain: “One who did not see Jerusalem in its glory, never saw a beautiful city. One who did not see the Temple in its constructed state, never saw a magnificent structure.”

Like any spare, ancient text, we can read this several ways. My first tendency is to recall overhearing university acquaintances laughing. When they saw me, as they laughed, they explained that their fraternity bash was “the party to end all parties” and “they were so blasted” and “it’s a shame you weren’t there!” Then I’d feel some shame. I hadn’t been invited, feeling left out and uncomfortable. Then, as an introvert, I’d privately admit relief! I didn’t have to deal with the noise, drunks, drugs and cigarettes, either.

Yet this is not at all the negative, emotional reading that I think the rabbis intended. The talmudic sages were describing a truly joyous, amazing, mind-blowingly big celebration. It’s hard during the pandemic to wrap my brain around this huge way of celebrating. The Temple in Jerusalem and its way of observing the festivities are also long past, but there are still big sukkahs out there in the world, full of party-goers, no matter the year.

Many of us struggle at times to find the joy in our lives – the world news, natural disaster and ongoing pandemic waves can leave us reeling and wondering when things will get better. When we can gather, many people are flooded with joy at a crowded wedding or a big festive event. However, modern-day Sukkot can bring us joy even without the enormous shindig or party to end all parties at the Temple in Jerusalem.

For me, being outside, at any time of year, helps me find that inner calm, contentment and grounding. I’ve also recently observed moments when I start feeling anxious or sucked into negativity. At those times, I’m consciously trying to step away from the news and the social media feed. I’m giving myself time every day to read a book, cook, study Talmud, knit, and watch my kids and dog play. I need to make space for finding that joy.

This summer, we’ve had a lot of wasps outside in Winnipeg, along with heat, drought and wildfire smoke. It was so bad that our difficult-to-assemble patio table never made it out onto the deck. We used the matching chairs, but gave up on eating outside. I recently tested the waters with my husband, asking if he felt it would be worth it to assemble everything for Sukkot anyway. After all, three out of four family members have gotten wasp stings in the yard so far. It hasn’t been auspicious.

He responded positively, as only a biology professor who studies insects might, noting that wasps weren’t active at night, that cooler temperatures and winds helped, and that we should set things up as usual. He was right. By planning to build a sukkah despite everything, we could optimize our chances at “our time of rejoicing.” Studying Tractate Sukkah this summer made me anticipate the holiday so much that I couldn’t wait for this joyful holiday this time around.

Towards the end of August, the weather started to turn. Our lawns have finally gotten enough rain to turn green again and, as the temperatures drop, the wasps are less active. Winnipeg isn’t a place where many people consider sleeping in the sukkah, or even insist on eating every meal there. It’s often just too cold, but that also kills wasps! Once or twice since we moved here, it’s even snowed during Sukkot.

In Tractate Sukkah 26a, the talmudic rabbi Rava suggests leniency in terms of dwelling in the sukkah. Sick people are exempt from this commandment, but Rava suggests that, if you’re suffering, you too are exempt. His examples include biting flies or a foul-smelling sukkah floor but, when comparing the weather in Israel or Babylonia to Winnipeg, Rava would likely suffer here. Our freezing fall temperatures are sufficiently uncomfortable that many seek only a brief moment in the sukkah rather than a camp out.

I’m still drawn to crisp, clear fall evenings outside in the dark, however. We’ll be wearing our coats and smelling the leaves turning. It’s not the right year to invite lots of guests for parties. We’ve got kids too young to be vaccinated yet. We’re being very cautious.

Still, Sukkot gifts us with excuses to stay up late and enjoy the outdoors each autumn just a little bit longer. The chance to celebrate, this time of our happiness, is upon us. Give yourself that chance to let go of the negativity, worries and anxieties. Have a completely legitimate, Jewishly commanded break outdoors. It’s that time of year to get out into nature and party! Sukkot is here. Enjoy.

Relationship with the earth

At the dinner table, I asked my family what I should write. One of my kids, age 10, immediately said, “Climate change. People think the problem’s all hot air, but the problem’s really hot water.” There was a smirk at his joke, but his twin nodded in agreement.

Hurricane Ida’s just made landfall and is churning its way up through swaths of the United States as I write this. Haiti is in shambles from its most recent earthquake, only compounded by the storm that followed. In Manitoba, we’ve lived through a hot, smoky summer, surrounded by wildfires and besieged by drought. When it finally rained, there was so much of it that some places flooded.

The weather has, at times, felt apocalyptic. While I’m not superstitious, the recent uptick in truly awful weather and world events made me think back to Yom Kippur, 20 years ago.

In 2001, my husband and I sat in Yom Kippur services in Durham, N.C., where we lived at the time. Just a little over two weeks after Sept. 11, the terrorist acts in New York, Pennsylvania and at the Pentagon were on most people’s minds in that congregation.

Like many, I have images burned in my brain from that time, as both my family near D.C. and my husband’s in New York City, were alive, thank goodness, but personally affected. At synagogue, when we reached the prayer Unetaneh Tokef, the room fell silent, electrified. This ancient prayer, perhaps written by Yannai in the sixth century, is familiar to most who’ve attended services on the High Holidays or listened to Leonard Cohen:

“On Rosh Hashanah will be inscribed and on Yom Kippur will be sealed – how many will pass from the earth and how many will be created; who will live and who will die; who will die after a long life and who before his time; who by water and who by fire, who by sword and who by beast, who by famine and who by thirst, who by upheaval and who by plague, who by strangling and who by stoning. Who will rest and who will wander, who will live in harmony and who will be harried, who will enjoy tranquility and who will suffer, who will be impoverished and who will be enriched, who will be degraded and who will be exalted. But Repentance, Prayer and Charity mitigate the severity of the Decree.”

In Temple Beth El in Durham, there was loud sobbing and then, the most elemental keening and grief that I’ve ever heard. Twenty years later, I can’t forget my brother-in-law running down Broadway as the second tower fell behind him, covered in its dust as he escaped Manhattan on the Staten Island ferry, or my father-in-law, who walked five miles through Manhattan in the middle of the street, only to stand in Central Park, afraid to go indoors. My father and brother, away from D.C. on business trips, waited days, unable to get home. My sister-in-law, stuck in D.C. overnight, was finally able to leave the city and walked home to her apartment in Virginia, only to suffer through continual sonic booms, as fighter pilots raced overhead, shaking her high-rise building.

I will never hear this prayer, which is primarily part of the Ashkenazi liturgy, without being shaken by that keening sound.

However, just as I remember it, it’s also helpful to keep reading. It says that, by doing repentance, prayer and charity, we can change the severity of the outcome. We’re taught clearly that repentance is not simply feeling badly about past behaviour, it’s about making amends. We must apologize to those we’ve wronged and try to fix our mistakes. Our prayers are not simply rote, but must come from our hearts, with the right kind of kavannah, or intention.

Finally, it mentions we must do tzedakah, which some translate as charity, but really also means righteousness. It is the obligation to do the upstanding, just thing, and to act with integrity.

Although I can’t help but think of this prayer in context of those who died, both on Sept. 11 and those who, each year, aren’t written in the Book of Life for the next year, it’s not just about that. This prayer says we must act now to make change and to stop bad things from happening to us.

Even for those who don’t believe in its literal power, the message is clear. If we want to be able to live with ourselves later, we’re taught that we must repair our relationships promptly, practise introspection through prayer, and make a big effort to step up and do the right thing.

Those who’ve lived through floods, wildfires, earthquakes and hurricanes this summer would argue that bad things are happening. The rest of us, living through the pandemic, would be hard-pressed to disagree. Yet, Jewish tradition teaches us that we aren’t passive observers. We aren’t meant to simply submit and accept this.

More than one rabbi has told the joke about the man on top of his roof in the middle of a flood. He ignores the orders to leave, turns down a neighbour’s offer of a ride, says no to the rescue boat and refuses to be saved by helicopter.

The floodwaters rise higher. He drowns. Then he gets to speak with G-d. He says, “Lord, I believed in you. Why didn’t you save me?” And G-d responds, “Well, I sent you an evacuation order, a carpool, a boat and a helicopter! What else do you want?”

While we battle a pandemic, forest fires, rising temperatures in ocean waters and on land, it’s helpful to remember that our tradition teaches us that “G-d helps those who help themselves.”

This is a strange year, where some of us, used to sitting in synagogue, will instead be streaming services at home again, or perhaps spending time praying outdoors. It could also be the year where we decide that, upon reflection, it’s important to repair our relationship with the earth and to start doing the right thing personally. Climate change is upon us. It’s going to take everyone’s efforts to make a difference.

Wishing you an easy fast. May you be written for good in the Book of Life.

Choose kindness in 5782

A friend of mine is an essential grocery store worker. Her colleagues are a mix of international newcomers, along with a sampling of Canadian-born workers. This Canadian friend’s favourite colleagues are often the immigrants from elsewhere, who are trying hard to be kind and helpful to one another. The most difficult ones, often those born in Canada, she describes as the “mean girls.” It’s the kind of exclusionary, popular crowd many of us faced in middle or high school … not a fun work environment.

I tried to be comforting about the upcoming shift with the mean girls, but I have faced some of this myself. I’d pushed it to the back of my mind but now I wondered, was I also battling the sad adolescent feelings of being excluded or harassed by the in-crowd?

Like most of us during the pandemic, I’ve felt moments of isolation and loneliness and, as a parent, being overwhelmed. One warm morning, while walking the dog and twins (because, while I may feel lonely, as a mom these days, I’m rarely alone!), we saw that a neighbour had left out items to be picked up by a charity. On the walkway was a Singer treadle sewing machine. I just about swooned – as did my kids. They saw a summer sewing rehab project. We returned home and went out on the familiar route with our red wagon so the kids could play. We rang the doorbell to ask about the sewing machine, but got no answer. We wondered if the neighbours were home, so we walked around to the back lane. We faced only a big garage.

Next to this house was another friendly, older neighbour’s home with an apple tree. We often pick up the fallen apples, and pick the tree, making apple chips and sauce. We give the neighbour homemade applesauce and donate the rest to the foodbank. We paused, examining the tree (few apples this year due to frost and drought) and discussing it.

Suddenly, an expensive car came out of the garage behind us. We asked about the sewing machine. The woman told us disdainfully that she was already late for an appointment. She told me it would cost me $200 cash (but she was giving it away to charity?) when I offered the $60 in my pocket. She drove off in a pique. I felt shame – but my kids, while disappointed, raced up the sidewalk with the wagon. We played instead, while I hatched a plan.

In the meantime, I saw a social media announcement. Invitations had been sent to a new private Jewish women’s professional networking group to which I’d applied. “Hurray!” The announcement touted, “You were all accepted, check your email!” Except, when I checked – and re-checked – my email, I hadn’t gotten any acceptance email. Maybe there was a snafu? Nope. I wasn’t invited. Another thing where I wasn’t actually eligible for the cool club.

What’s the Jewish lesson in all this?

On one hand, we’re all part of a big family, starting with Avraham Avinu, or Abraham, our father, as my kids learn in school. We’re meant to look out for one another, supporting, networking and treating one another with love.

On the other hand, there’s this situation I just read in Tractate Sukkah, on page 38a, where the rabbis question what it means if a Jewish man cannot read and a Canaanite slave, a woman, or a minor was reciting Hallel (prayers of thanksgiving done on festivals) on his behalf. The man must repeat every word to make it valid. Then the Mishnah says, “And may a curse come to him” (for being so ignorant) and the Gemara clarifies, explaining that a son can recite for his father, a slave can recite for his master and a woman may recite a blessing on behalf of her husband, but “the sages said: ‘May a curse come to a man who, due to his ignorance, requires his wife and children to recite a blessing on his behalf.’”

Here we are again! There’s a message of belonging and obligation, as well as an opportunity to shame, curse or embarrass someone who might have less knowledge or power. Is this the Jewish way to behave?

I returned again to this because, well, I’m still wandering the neighbourhood with my kids. It’s still lonely, but, today, we had a triumph.

I remembered which charity picked up the Singer sewing machine. Winnipeg isn’t such a big place. I sent them an email, describing where and when it was picked up. Lo and behold, they tracked down the neighbour’s discarded sewing machine, which they tested. It worked perfectly. We went to the downtown nonprofit’s shop. It took me several tries to find the person I’d been emailing, but, when I did, she rolled out the truly fine antique sewing machine in its wooden cabinet. She showed it off to me.

I happily paid $150 to support the charity’s work to claim it. The loading dock workers joked to my husband. They found these all the time! If I wanted more, they’d love to help!

This journey took the sewing machine back home, just a block away from where it used to live. But I can’t rewind time to fix that uncomfortable interaction with the neighbour. I can’t erase the mean girl experiences in my friend’s work life or magically get accepted into the “very best” Jewish networking circles. However, I can turn these experiences upside down.

The sewing machine incident offered an opportunity to use my research skills and donate to a good cause. My friend found solace, during her cashier shift, in the other employees, who acknowledged what was happening and cheered her on. She got a chance to hug a cancer-survivor friend during the shift. Last but not least, another butcher colleague alerted her that some steak was going on sale so she could afford to buy it to feed her teenagers.

It’s true that our rabbinic tradition acknowledges curses as commonplace and shaming as acceptable. Yet, when we make amends this year and pray for a good 5782, we can try to turn that message on its head. We’re all children of Abraham. Let’s, as my friend suggested, “lay on the love,” kindness and inclusivity, even when there are prime insider opportunities to ostracize others.

Make a donation, network with newcomers or outsiders, and choose to treat others as beloved family.

Wishing you blessings and not curses! Wishing you a happy, healthy and meaningful new year, from my house to yours.

When the least is not enough

As we face the fourth wave and the COVID Delta variant, many Canadians are less concerned. If one is vaccinated, risks are much lower. Outside, I see many close-knit groups of people strolling on the streets to restaurants and bars. This correlates with Manitoba’s recent choice to abandon capacity and indoor mask requirements. For those with kids under age 12, it’s a scary scene right before school starts. The Delta variant is looking for vectors, and unvaccinated kids may be one of them.

It’s hard to stop thinking about this as a parent. In anxious moments, I hear the Jaws movie’s theme music as we drive past the elementary school. It’s still summer, but Rosh Hashanah, a new year and a time of reckoning are around the corner.

Much of the pandemic rhetoric now involves a refrain of “getting back to normal.” However, for many of us, we’re not sure normal’s going to ever be the same. Many people have died. Normal isn’t the same after the death of a loved one. Normal also isn’t the same for those who were very ill or are suffering from long COVID. For many parents, including me, this prolonged time at home with my kids has resulted in more teaching and childcare and a lot less time to work. Things may change, but “normal” is something elusive. If our kids are too young to be vaccinated, I’m not sure we’re there yet.

Yet, Elul, the Hebrew month where we contemplate our actions in time for the New Year, is upon us. Even if you don’t ever get to a morning minyan, someone’s blowing a shofar every day now, around the world, except for Shabbat. It’s time to wake up our souls.

This metaphor about “normal” has a lot in common with teshuvah, when we seek forgiveness for what we’ve done wrong to others this year. We apologize and seek forgiveness, but any relationship where one party harms another may remain forever changed. It’s one thing to look at the Torah portion of Re’eh (Deuteronomy 11:26-16:17) and read that Moses set before the Israelites the choice, from G-d, between blessing and curse, and simplistically say, “It’s easy! Choose to be a blessing.” Many sermons sound like this, but, when things go off track, it’s not always simple. Obviously, trying to fix it is the right thing to do, even though the effort may not make a relationship all better.

I’ve been studying the talmudic tractate of Sukkah and, on page 31a, there’s a good example of this kind of unsatisfactory resolution. On this page, an old woman comes before Rav Nahman, the exilarch (leader of the Babylonian Jewish community) and the sages and screams, saying they are sitting in a stolen sukkah. Remarkably, no one disagrees with her! She’s upset because the sukkah was constructed with wood that was stolen from her. Even though she’s right, Rav Nahman is condescending. He pays no attention to her.

Rav Nahman says, “This woman is a screamer and she has rights only to the monetary value of the wood. However, the sukkah itself was already acquired by the exilarch.” His legal ruling is that, when a sukkah is built of stolen wood, the wood’s original owner only deserves compensation for its value.

In Rabbi Elliot Goldberg’s introduction to this Talmud page online on My Jewish Learning, he is uncomfortable with this decision. In other talmudic discussions, a stolen lulav is invalid, or G-d denounces theft, even for the sake of heaven. Even if this stolen sukkah fulfils the commandments on Sukkot, Rabbi Goldberg writes that mistreating an elderly woman who has just been robbed is wrong. Rav Nahman lacks respect for her, demeaning her by calling her “a screamer” and failing to speak to her directly.

What is going to fix this relationship or make things “normal” again? If someone pays this woman for the wood, it doesn’t make appropriate amends for her experience, even if that were all she were entitled to legally.

When studying this, I saw an odd metaphor for some of what’s going on around us. We may be transitioning to a new time in which we all have to cope with COVID as endemic. Our new “normal” may include breakthrough illnesses in those who are vaccinated. It may include feeling unsafe or condescended to or unfairly dealt with, as we navigate changing public health orders that don’t keep some of us safe. This may feel risky or, for some people, like an amazing freedom, as they legally disregard the risks.

However, the chances of being ill or having long COVID remain. Like the old woman who is robbed, we may be eligible for compensation after the fact, but the original trauma remains. If someone steals your wood, it isn’t OK. You may get COVID, even if you’re vaccinated. It might not be OK. Worse yet, you could experience the loss of a child or another vulnerable family member who couldn’t be vaccinated. There’s no compensation for that. Losing even one person is too many.

I may be a risk-averse scaredy-cat, but I’ve been thinking about that talmudic elderly woman in Sukkah 31a. If she hadn’t been robbed in the first place, she wouldn’t have had to confront important rabbis and been treated poorly. The new normal for her didn’t get her wood or her dignity back. So, too, if we can be careful, perhaps we can avoid getting sick during a pandemic – but people don’t choose to be robbed or to be exposed to a virus. If we’re careful, bad things can still happen.

What does this mean for Rosh Hashanah this year? When we seek forgiveness and resolution with others, perhaps it’s not enough to simply try and fix only what we’re legally obligated to fix. If we want a “new normal” in a relationship or in society, we will have to build trust, mend fences and patch up things so that our mistakes can be mended. Our new societal normal should result in an even stronger darned fabric than what existed before the pandemic hole was torn out. We can’t expect everything to come out OK if we behave as Rav Nahman did.

I don’t know how the fourth wave will go, or if vaccination will protect our kids. We could think about one another, behave kindly and with compassion in the meanwhile. Masking up, keeping our distance, washing our hands, and doing extra for one another are important. We owe it to one another, and to that older woman that Rav Nahman shamed. Maybe, when it comes to some Jewish laws or health care, the bare minimum required by the law is just not good enough.

Recalibrating our life route

In the summer, we read through Torah portions that sound like very weird vacation routes. As a Shabbat regular joked during our livestreamed service, it sounded like the old-fashioned CAA TripTiks.

In the days before GPS or MapQuest, you went to your local automobile association’s shop. A travel agent would hand you tour books for wherever you were traveling and create a personal set of maps, with highlighted routes, for your journey. With lots of tips for where to stop, eat and how to use your sightseeing time along the way, it was pretty useful. I used those tour books in years past, but my family eschewed the TripTiks; my parents insisted we could read maps on our own.

Considering the long list of places that the Israelites went during their 40 years in the wilderness, it could be compared to a family summer vacation gone wrong. Rather than the fastest, most direct route between two points, the Israelites wandered. In fact, it was their behaviour and relationship with G-d that had gone wrong. This exile and wandering was very much about the journey. In Numbers 32:13, it says: “The Lord was incensed at Israel and for 40 years He made them wander in the wilderness, until the whole generation that had provoked the Lord’s displeasure was gone.”

We often talk in platitudes, like “life’s a journey, not a destination,” but let’s be honest. Most of us want to get places in life – accomplish things and do things properly. We might enjoy hiking or meandering down country roads, but most of us don’t want to see our whole lives as a lot of meaningless wandering.

This issue hit home for me in my recent studying of Tractate Yoma, which is all about how Yom Kippur works. Towards the end of the tractate, on page 86A, the rabbis discuss repentance and the notion of “hillul Hashem” or “desecrating the name of G-d.” Their explanations don’t seem direct at first. Rav suggests it’s like when a public figure, such as him, goes to the butcher, takes meat and doesn’t pay immediately, thus setting a bad example. Rav Yohanan suggests that, if one walks a distance without Torah or tefillin, it indicates a lack of appropriate respect for the Divine.

The tractate continues with when someone’s friends are embarrassed by his reputation, and other examples. Then, finally, a really difficult one: “But one who reads Torah and learns Mishnah and serves Torah scholars, but his business practices are not done faithfully and he does not speak pleasantly with other people, what do people say about him? Woe to so-and-so who studied Torah, woe to his father who taught him Torah, woe to his teacher who taught him Torah. So-and-so who studied Torah, see how destructive are his deeds and how ugly are his ways.” (Tractate Yoma 86a)

There it is, the person who disgraces G-d’s name and struggles when seeking repentance on Yom Kippur. This is because, despite a clear road map of how to behave, he got very lost on his way.

All of the examples touch on how we behave in community, and how it reflects on us and affects others. Shaming oneself or harming others disgraces G-d’s name because, well, we’re all made in G-d’s image. We should know better.

Many of us are still taking summer adventures, but it was helpful for me to read about finding one’s way more existentially, and to consider Yom Kippur. It had remarkable relevance to something else that happened.

Recently, we were involved in what would have been a big real estate purchase for our household. My kids and husband were very excited. We made tons of plans and, like the careful tourists we are, we had the routes on our “roadmaps” highlighted. We knew which steps we had to get through, and how to proceed. This was to be our summer adventure.

However, the experience proved far more challenging than usual – and no map would have helped. In the end, we learned that the seller’s finances were so tangled and she owed so much money that the sale couldn’t go through. Like the story in Tractate Yoma, it felt embarrassing and upsetting. It’s hard to see a person fall off the path that most of us expect to take.

We don’t think of closing an open construction permit or paying property tax bills as being central to our life journeys. Yet, just like the poor behaviour that caused G-d to get angry at the Israelites, sometimes our missteps cause a lot of misery down the line, and to other people.

Being an upstanding person, who promptly pays bills and deals with the chores of adulthood, doesn’t just reflect on one’s own character. As the rabbis pointed out, behaving properly avoids embarrassing others or setting a bad example. It reminds us to talk about “Torah,” or generally upright things. We should apply what we learn – to behave kindly and ethically towards others all the time.

When someone doesn’t do this, it’s not just an issue of seeking individual repentance and everything is fixed. The ramifications go beyond an individual’s bad behaviour. It turns out that not paying taxes or taking care of household maintenance affects many others nearby in a community.

When this failed real estate deal happened, it wasn’t our fault. It felt, I explained to my parents, like we’d put our car in a parking lot with an invisible sinkhole. When the sinkhole opened up, all the cars, including ours, fell in. When we got to the (imagined) parking lot, all was lost, but there was nothing we could have done. We couldn’t have known that this experience would derail us from our journey.

I can’t lie. Being thrown off the highlighted route was disconcerting. I kept thinking about how the car’s GPS voice says “recalculating” when we’re driving and get lost. It’s taken me nearly a week to process the failed home purchase. Now, we must create a new metaphorical summer destination, with fun activities for our kids.

We can’t always control our path. Maybe that’s why those platitudes mention “the journey” instead. While we focus on our destination, the lake or camping or a staycation, it’s so important to think about how we behave and live along the way. Our actions can affect everybody.

I took a long walk with my dog on Shabbat, and spoke with three separate neighbours. They all needed the company and the conversation. Was this one of my new stops, on an entirely different path?

The Israelites wandered 40 years to get to the Promised Land. Sometimes, the things we do along the way are the most important part after all.

The Talmud’s advice, support

We have relatives who live in Surfside, Fla., where a high-rise collapsed. Many people are still missing or have died. Although the area around Miami is urban, the town of Surfside is small and close-knit, with fewer than 6,000 residents and a fairly large Jewish population. When we contacted my husband’s first cousin and his family, he told us how their beloved community centre, where they swim and gather every day for afterschool activities and camp, was the reunification centre. He described his job sorting out the kosher and non-kosher food donations for everyone. What stood out most was his comment, “This is all very personal for us.”

There’s little we can do from Canada other than pray and offer moral and financial support. This crisis, where our cousin’s friends, and their children’s friends, are among the injured, lost and missing, is on our minds.

I continue to study my Daf Yomi (a page of Talmud a day) but, I’ll admit, there are times where I study the text and then say, “Well, I’ve done that,” but nothing in particular speaks to me. It’s sometimes a chore. It’s the equivalent of when, in pre-pandemic days, I might organize everything to get the whole family to synagogue for services. By the time I’d gotten everyone fed, dressed up, out the door and through the service without major misbehaviour, I’d count it a big success – even though the prayer part was largely “dialing it in” for me. That is, I hardly had a chance to feel engaged in the prayer, singing or learning. (I’d guess many parents know what I’m talking about here!)

Meanwhile, here on the prairies, it is ridiculously hot now. I’m cruising through Tractate Yoma 83a close to midnight, when the temperature is just cool enough in my non-air-conditioned house to concentrate, and I read this: “… with regard to one upon whom a rockslide fell, and there is uncertainty whether he is there under the debris or whether he is not there; and there is uncertainty whether he is still alive or whether he is dead; and there is uncertainty whether the person under the debris is a gentile or whether he is a Jew, one clears the pile from atop him. One may perform any action necessary to rescue him from beneath the debris. If they found him alive after beginning to clear the debris, they continue to clear the pile until they can extricate him. And if they found him dead, they should leave him, since one may not desecrate Shabbat to preserve the dignity of the dead.” (Yoma 83a)

I gasped. Of course, the rabbis knew the trauma of a rockslide or a building collapse. What they described made me feel even prouder, knowing that the Israeli rescue team was in Surfside. Those Israelis got off the airplane, set up camp at the site and went to work. The search only stopped on Shabbat afternoon so they could start to set up demolition, a week after the collapse, as the building is unstable, and Hurricane Elsa is coming.

In a very raw situation, I could see ancient texts working through some of the awful issues Surfside rescuers have faced.

Oddly, this section of Talmud covered a lot that seemed personal. There is a whole part on how to help a pregnant person with her cravings, even on Yom Kippur. The notion of eating being absolutely necessary to nurture a life (hers and the fetus) was clear to the rabbis and, even on Yom Kippur, one must help a sick or pregnant person to eat if it’s necessary for health. As someone who has been pregnant with twins, I found this powerful and insightful.

Just before this part, in Yoma 82a, there’s a discussion about helping kids learn to fast for Yom Kippur. The rabbis’ advice was clear – help younger kids, a few years before, to wait a bit before meals, or to practise missing a single meal, in preparation for getting ready to fast at age 12 or 13.

I grew up in an actively Jewish Reform family, but I never knew of a family member studying Talmud. I was struck by how this common-sense Jewish teaching was passed down so exactly. When I read it in the text, I was literally seeing how my parents taught me about fasting on Yom Kippur. I first introduced “skipping snack” on Yom Kippur to my twins, as a stepping stone on the way to trying to miss a meal later on. We were following the Babylonian Talmud’s playbook here, even if we hadn’t read it ourselves.

Also part of this discussion is the concept of bulmos, which sounds a little connected to modern food disorders. In Tractate Yoma, bulmos means a person is desperate for food and must eat. As in, they might go blind if they don’t manage to raise their blood sugar. What is this ailment? Maybe a serious drop in blood sugar, or someone who has diabetes, or someone suffering from starvation. In these cases, the person must eat. All normal conventions about paying for food or kashrut are cast aside to help a person regain their health.

In times of stress, like heatwaves, rockslides or building collapses and illness, or even happier (but still stressful) moments like pregnancy or childrearing, we sometimes feel all alone. We struggle with things that are deeply personal. I was surprised at the timing of studying these pages of Talmud. Perhaps it was just a coincidence, because Daf Yomi operates on a seven-and-a-half year cycle. Even so, it was also deeply reassuring to feel less alone while thinking about big issues like health, how we are raising our kids, and the huge loss of life in Surfside.

There’s no sugar-coating it: we must, as adults, face difficult things. However, studying these wise Jewish leaders’ opinions and experiences with those same issues offers some companionship, even across a divide of 2,000 years.

Joanne Seiff has written regularly for CBC Manitoba and various Jewish publications. She is the author of three books, including From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. Check her out on Instagram @yrnspinner or at joanneseiff.blogspot.com.

Form forces Jews to be white

A friend of mine was recently angry and anxious about a university human resources form. The form reflected how people self-identified. In other words, how diverse was this Canadian university’s workforce?

The form’s questions asked about race. On that form, it said that Jewish people should mark on their forms “white.”

The person who told me about this wrote on the form that this was racist and wrong. In fact, Jews come in every single colour and are from all over the world. Jews aren’t defined by only the (Ashkenazim) European “white” category. If we’re identified as an ethnicity, that doesn’t define our race.

Also, Judaism isn’t solely a religion. We’re still considered Jewish even if one converts to another religion, or isn’t practising or is a descendant of a Jewish person. In Canada, First Nations, Inuit and Métis are Indigenous. Historically, Jews are also considered indigenous – to Israel.

Non-Jews have racialized us as “other” for thousands of years. This othering isn’t a new thing. It’s a core component of antisemitism. In Hitler’s Germany, categorizing Jews as a different race and subhuman made it easier for genocide to take place.

This historic narrative around antisemitism parallels that of many other oppressed people. Yet, the antisemitic misinformation campaign is powerful. Even though there are only about 14 million Jews in the world, antisemites consider us to have an outsized influence and power that somehow overpowers and dominates others. As an example: even as hate crimes against Jews have increased, they are poorly covered by mainstream news. Yet, we are also allegedly controlling the media at the same time. Huh?

These tropes aren’t logical or rational. Prejudice, discrimination and hate are often fueled by emotion. Leaders then use these strong feelings to gain power, control and wealth and to scapegoat minorities like Jews.

What are ways to counter this in a 21st-century context? There are social media activists who speak out daily, raising awareness and fighting against this misinformation. Many Jewish families open their home and Shabbat tables up to enable non-Jews, one at a time, to learn about who we are. Others write books and conduct interviews on radio and TV. Yet not all of us are public figures, or want to be.

Even as “regular” people, we can be proud owners of our Jewish identities. We can continue to learn, think and reflect on who we are, what we believe and our place in the world. We can stand together, recognizing that, as Jews, we are all responsible for one another – kol Yisrael arevim zeh le zeh. We can attempt, through pride and knowledge, to control our own narrative.

I, too, was frustrated by that human resources form. Now, I’m puzzled whenever I see a form that asks me what my identity is. Since a bit after the Second World War, light-skinned Jews in North America have been encouraged to tick off the “white” box on these “self-identity” forms. The horrors of the Holocaust were put aside by governments and non-Jews, in an effort to help European, “white” Jews integrate into society, but simply checking “white” erases us. It erases Jewish ethnicity and it erases Jews of colour. Jews from the Middle East, India, Asia, Africa and South America – Jews from anywhere we’ve lived where skin colour might not have been deemed Caucasian, white or European.

This North American erasure is so deep that Jews of colour often describe the discrimination they face when attending synagogue – there are many instances in which a member of the Ashkenazi “white” majority questions if they are full-fledged congregants. They’re asked if they are converts, or guests. Imagine the alienation Jewish people with darker skin face when asked, “Are you really Jewish?” or “Where are you really from?” every time they walk into a service.

Israel’s Jewish population is much more diverse in terms of skin tone than what one finds in the United States or Canada but, historically, it’s been hard for Mizrahi Jews to gain leadership roles in Israel, too. So many Israeli Ashkenazi Jews have bought into this whiteness identity, too.

In the United States, when Jews “became” white, they no longer were excluded from country clubs, university quotas, etc. There was an advantage to accepting this new categorization, even as it still created terrible, completely unethical inequities among people, including Jews, based on skin colour.

As a result of this “becoming white” transition, some oppressed minorities and the political left now may see Jewish people as part of an oppressive white majority. In this view, white Jews have no legitimate complaints about how we are treated, because, suddenly, we’re just part of the privileged majority. So, in addition to hate from the political right, there’s also abuse from the left if Jewish people speak out about antisemitism.

Navigating this landscape is difficult. We all have bias. No one is completely free of it. We’re raised with it and must each work to do better. Yet, in a time when Canadians are watching hate crimes rise against Jewish and Muslim communities, it’s our obligation to do more. Confronting Canada’s residential school history, the deaths of Indigenous children, and Canada’s treatment of Indigenous people overall forces us to think further about what it means to uphold certain “historic” narratives – narratives that don’t reflect what really happened.

Manitoba now wants to collect data about race, ethnicity and indigeneity on its COVID vaccine consent forms. This would allow the province to learn more about vaccination rates and virus rates in various populations.

I’ve printed out the paperwork for my second jab and I’m looking forward to celebrating this chance to be fully vaccinated. Even so, I’m wondering what box to tick off. Choosing “Other” reinforces that antisemitic tradition of negative identity politics. I’d like to avoid that. I’m proud to be Jewish – but it’s not one of the options on the form.

Balancing our wants and needs

It’s warm out! My kids and I are longing to be outside all the time – but we can’t. Not only is there still remote school, work and other obligations, but our neighbourhood is loud with construction noise. It’s hard to play in the yard when a table saw is screaming through stonework next door. It’s also a constant social-distancing game. Our corner lot is busy. People walk on the sidewalks on two sides, and construction workers on a third.

Some might respond with, “Well, move to the country, why don’t you?!” When we bought our house, it wasn’t so crowded, nor near to so much construction. We’ve made a life here. Moving requires a lot of upheaval. We want to keep our kids in the same school, too.

Like most things, we all must balance our desires and wants (for quiet, for more space, etc.) with our needs (relative safety, proximity to the basics like healthcare, school, work, groceries and a Jewish community). This balancing act is deeply personal. It’s not obvious from the outside what will work best to resolve this, and it’s not always clear “from the inside” either.

In my Talmud study recently in Tractate Yoma, I’ve been learning about how the high priest was to do the rituals of atonement on Yom Kippur on behalf of the Jewish people. It’s a series of very precise, concrete rituals. While deep meaning is assigned to some of these steps, the rabbis mostly want to parse what should be done to make the ritual work effective, as compared to making it invalid. They indicate that, if the high priest does it wrong, a year’s worth of sin remains for the entire Jewish people.

This kind of detailed ritual and accounting sounds like an enormous burden. The Temple high priest must have been under a lot of pressure! After all, when you consider the fate of Nadav and Avihu in Leviticus 10:1, who present “strange fire” as an offering to G-d and die. Or, if you consider Korach, who rises up against Moses – he and his buddies Dathan and Abiram and their families are destroyed when they rebel. In Numbers 16, the ground bursts open and swallows them up. Doing things wrong or inappropriately has consequences.

Some see that our tradition offers us a lot of fearmongering. There are those who worry that if they do things wrong – Jewishly, professionally, or other life choices – they will be literally “struck down.” Others don’t take any of it seriously and, as a result, their inability to abide by norms – public health orders, religious rules, societal ones, professional ones, etc. – results in a lot of problems for the rest of society.

What does this mean? If we turn it around and look for the gifts around us, instead of the potential hazards, perhaps things clear up and seem better. At least, searching for the gifts helps me cope.

We caught that upside recently – the gift, at 11:30 a.m. on a weekday, when, for whatever reason, the saws next door were quiet. The weather was sunny and cool. My twins stopped fighting. I looked up from the porch to find them in the yard, playing an ad hoc game of badminton, while keeping the dog occupied with her ball instead of fetching (and dismantling) the shuttlecock.

As warmer weather and, hopefully, healthier times are ahead, we have so many positive opportunities. It’s a rare moment where we can actually make personal, religious, social or political changes that might have seemed impossible before. Don’t get me wrong. There are definitely many pandemic moments when I’ve been caught in the detailed burdens or negativity – anxiety and fearmongering – struggling to see the good.

However, watching my kids laugh and chatter as they swung around their rackets, I was reminded of how lucky most of us actually are. Having a home, food and educational access, never mind green space, are great luxuries right now. Further, having a path forward, due to the COVID vaccines, also is a gift. Nobody has done everything right and, in the days of the Temple in Jerusalem, the high priest’s rituals served to help everyone process those mistakes, while we have different paths towards course correction and self-improvement today.

It’s important to recognize the flipside, which is that we haven’t done everything wrong, either. The warm and sunny days ahead can give us a bit of a break. It’s a window into whatever post-pandemic future lies ahead. Just as the warm weather provides us a bit of respite, so, too, do Jewish texts, which help us process our mistakes and concerns, balancing them with the joys, too.

Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah,” based on Psalm 150, reminds us that the Temple was not just a place for sin offerings. Psalm 150 is filled with music, instruments and happy expression, often in relief after making those Temple offerings. According to the Talmud, huge groups sang Hallel as part of their Passover lamb sacrifice. Their observance made the Temple Mount ring with communal song.

Sometimes, finishing the difficult rituals and processing our experiences and the anxiety can put the noise and the stress behind us. The exercise can offer us a chance to bask in the sunshine and the music. Let’s all hope for that gift of laughter, music and thanks, as we celebrate Canada’s short summer season and lean towards the light.