Callie Souther’s Blog

Despite the fact that I live in Hollywood, I am, incredibly behind in my movie-going -  I only just saw the new Batman film, “The Dark Knight”. I love the new generation of Batman movies. They are dark, and disturbing. It is this sinister twist on a childhood favorite that makes the new Batman so much more intruiging, more morbidly-fascinating. In the Dark Knight, The Joker represents the worst of humanity, an evil that literally cannot be contained. And Gotham, once again, finds itself in need of their hero more than ever. I particularly loved this latest installment of the Batman movies because the hero comes to realize that he cannot save the world, but that he must help the world save itself.

This week’s parsha marks a pivotal point in our people’s national identity. The Israelites went down to Egypt, where they multiplied and were prosperous. Things took a turn for the worse as time wore on, and a new power arose who “knew not Joseph”. This Pharoah, afraid of the Hebrew’s growing numbers, forces them into slavery and enacts a decree to slay their newborn sons. Born into extreme circumstances with little chance of survival, Moses comes into the world and is spared by the virtuous midwives, Shifra and Puah. It is the act of these brave midwives that saved the Israelites.  In the face of grave danger these women understood that to take the lives of the Hebrew babies was wrong.

How often do we see injustices and sit by idly? At times it feels as though our world has gotten too big, too full of strife for the individual to truly affect change. It is a beautiful coincidence that we read this story of individual action in the face of injustice on MLK weekend. There are many lines of beautiful connection running between our ancient past, our recent past, and our hope for future this week. The beauty of America’s first African American president being ordained just days after Revrend King’s 80th birthday is poignant to the point of surreal. The fact that this Torah portion falls on this weekend is even more profound. Our parsha tells not only the story of these noble women who acted against the dominant power in the name of what they felt to be right and just, but it tells the story of Moses’ journey back to his people.

It took an encounter with a burning bush to spur Moses to action. And even with such divine intervention and endorsement, Moses was still unsure, still afraid.  Courage and fear are not opposite ends of the spectrum, they live within each other and are, indeed, necessary for the other to exist. I would wager that Shifra and Puah were terrified of what might befall them if they stood in opposition to Pharoah’s decree. Moses was clearly shaken and famously hesitant and humble. King stood up for freedom and inspired millions to do the same. We don’t need a Batman. Even though our times are dangerous, frightening and uncertain, all that we need are individuals – single people who make small steps towards bettering the world. We know that small actions can compound to create a greater impact. All we need do is look out the window at this beautiful Missoula landscape to understand the impact of time. These rivers wore through to their present meandering beauty over time. We can’t all be the monolithic leader that King was, but we will all be faced with the challenges of conscience like Shifra and Puah, and we will all be charged with seemingly insurmountable tasks in life, like Moses. It is our responsibility to not turn a blind eye to the works that we can do, and the impact that we can have.

January 25th, 2009 | Category: Welcome | Leave a comment

It was a Friday afternoon in the summer. I had just finished a meeting and was about to head home early to prepare for Shabbat (the Jewish day of rest). The synagogue in Seattle where I worked as a youth director was a gloriously sprawling old building, encompassing an entire city block in Seattle’s oldest neighborhood. My office, located in the school, was somewhat isolated from the rest of the synagogue’s administration, and provided me with a luxurious amount of autonomy and quiet. At 4:05 my telephone rang. The usually warm and jovial voice of my friend and co-worker was at once stern and terrified, “get up here,” she said, “there’s been a shooting.” Adrenaline pumped through my veins as I all but ran through the empty school building. The vast auditorium that had always been a safe and warm space was suddenly transformed into an empty, cold, and frightening expanse. As the custodians began the task of putting the building into lock-down, we received more information: a man had entered the Jewish Federation of Greater Seattle, and opened fire. Just days prior, Israel had invaded Lebanon after three soldiers were abducted within Israel’s borders.

As the events of that afternoon came to light, it was clear that they were in direct response Israel’s actions. What was one man’s frustration with a political power turned into an anti-Semitic act of terror, leaving one woman dead, and three wounded. The events of that day, July 28th, 2006, will stay indelibly etched in my mind. As what was to be known as the Second Lebanon war raged on in the summer of 2006, my comfortable existence as a Jew in the liberal Pacific Northwest was shattered.

Watching the news coverage of the current military situation in Gaza is at once saddening and foreboding. Nothing is ever simple in the Middle East. No skirmish between Israel and the Palestinians is ever easy to understand, let alone explain. The moment that Israel acts with any force, every Jew instantly becomes an ambassador of the Jewish state, and in the worst-cases, a stand-in for reprisal. There have been two attacks on synagogues in Chicago since Israel entered Gaza, reminding us that anti-Israel sentiment can quickly turn into anti-Semitism and acts of hate.

This weekend we remember the life of Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr. a man whose life and death were dedicated to the work of peace. Reverend King spoke of our equality in being created in the image of God. If it is for God that we strive, then we must acknowledge that spark of the divine in each other. We must seek out our answers and collectively refuse to accept violence in God’s name as a means to any end. The Israeli-Palestinian situation is fraught with complications and nuances, marred by decades of bloodshed. Understanding these nuances is of the ultimate importance if we are to avoid another world war in our lifetime. Peace and understanding begins with the individual. It is up to each of us to educate ourselves, to work towards understanding each other, and to strive for an end to violence and hatred, especially in the name of God.

*This article first appeared in the Missoulian Religion Section on January 17, 2009.

January 25th, 2009 | Category: Welcome | Leave a comment

What is it about this time of year that inspires such a feeling of whimsy, magic and miracle? Perhaps it is the quiet stillness of deep winter and the liminality of the season; the sense that while all of nature is quietly asleep under a blanket of snow, we humans become still as well, and can tune into the anticipation that stillness can bring. It is quite a coincidence then, that at this time of year, the Jewish people also celebrate wonder and remember a miracle that happened long ago: the holiday of Hannukah.

Despite the popular comparison, Hannukah is not the Jewish equivalent to Christmas in terms of its importance in our holiday cycle or theology. In fact, it is one of the more minor holidays, elevated to such renown, particularly in North America, due to its seasonal proximity to Christmas. Whereas Christmas and Easter are arguably the two most important holidays in the Christian tradition, Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur (followed in close second by Passover) would be nearest equivalent in terms of theological, historical, and cultural importance. Hannukah though, is no chopped liver.

Unlike most of Judaism’s major holidays, Hannukah is nowhere mentioned in the canonized Hebrew Scriptures (the Torah, Writings and Prophets). The story of Hannukah comes to us from an external source, known as the Book of the Maccabees. It is a historical chronicle of the Jews’ triumph over the Syrian Greek empire in Jerusalem in the year 164 B.C.E. after the practice of Judaism had been outlawed. The Hannukah story is one of a people’s religious persecution under a foreign rule, and unlikely victory over these rulers in the end. The Book of Maccabees and the celebration of Hannukah were originally nationalistic in tenor.

Later on in the Jewish literary tradition, the Rabbis of the Mishnah (a commentary on the Torah and a guide for Jewish practice, compiled circa 200 C.E.) added the element of divine miracle into the story: When the Temple was rededicated upon the Maccabean victory, there was only one cruse of oil to light the menorah (a ritual candelabra). Although the oil was only enough to last one day, it miraculously lasted an entire eight days, until a new supply could be found. Thus prompting the saying, “a great miracle happened there,” that is partially inscribed on every dreidle (spinning top) and the tradition of eating deliciously greasy foods like latkes (potato pancakes) and sufganyiot (jelly-filled doughnuts). We also light a special eight-branched menorah called a hannukiah, lighting one candle for every night of the holiday. It is this tradition that gives Hannukah its place as the “Festival of Lights.”

I find it strange that the Rabbis felt the need to create a separate tradition to invoke God’s presence in what is already a miraculous story. The story of Hannukah is a tale of a people’s determination to bring about change and end their persecution. It is the story of the miraculous nature of the human spirit and will. We read in the story of Jacob’s dream of angles ascending and descending the heavenly ladder in , “Surely God was in this place and I did not know.” (Genesis 28:16). God is in the original Hannukah story; this story of struggle and redemption. We all feel the strain of a volatile economy, some of us more than others. And yet we all enter into this season with hope, and with a belief in miracles. The Hannukah story, in its original form, teaches us that it is ourselves who can, and must make our own miracles. This season of possibility holds just that: the belief that we, on earth, can bring about great and wondrous changes. A great miracle can happen anywhere, and we can make it so.

*Article published in the Missoulian, December 2008.

January 12th, 2009 | Category: Welcome | Leave a comment

Kol Nidre
5769
Har Shalom

I have run out of arrows. I have aimed and missed one time too many, and now, I’m out of shots. My quiver is empty, my bow retired. My aim was off. I was distracted. I missed my target again and again. My intentions were good, but my aim was not. I sought the wrong things; read the wrong signs. I missed the mark.

“Al chet she chatanu l’fanecha.” The word “Chet” is translated in our prayerbook as “a wrong” but is often translated as “sin”. The Jewish tradition has many different words for sin, because there are different kinds of transgressions. Chet is an archery term. It literally means, “to miss the mark”. The word “sin,” it seems to me, implies intention. It is a meaningful transgression of a norm, or an ethical imperative. A Chet can come from a good place: when we have one intended goal, but we miss the mark – in the process, causing pain. Chet, also, can occur when we are so focused on a desired outcome that we wind up missing the point entirely.

We all miss the mark. In promises that we make to others, in promises that we make to ourselves and are unable to keep. Our intentions can be good, but still, we can miss things. We work extra hours to provide a better life for our families, at the cost of spending real time with them. We get so wrapped up in the task at hand, only to completely miss the hidden cry of a spouse or partner. We fail to see the scared child behind the quickly maturing façades of our adolescent children. The hurt we cause in missing these things can be just as palpable and damaging as if we had intended to harm. Chet is perhaps the most human way of sinning, and the most tragic.

We missed the mark by being controlling. We missed the mark by stifling the voice of a loved one. We missed the mark by turning a blind eye to a human in need. We missed the mark by avoiding the truth. We missed the mark by ignoring pain. We missed the mark by failing to see what is in right in front of us.

A story. There was once an elderly man who became ill. His pain came not from his body, but his soul. “He groaned from his heart”. The doctors were sent for, but no medicine that they produced could cure the old man’s pain. The man’s son purchased a milking goat to nourish his father, as his sorrow had killed his appetite and he was rapidly deteriorating. So the son went out and purchased a goat with what small money he could gather. The old man’s family was poor and to own a goat was a luxury that the father had never before afforded. But the son insisted.

The goat’s milk was just the cure for the father’s illness. It was sweet like honey and flowed easily and readily. Each day that the father drank, his heart was lighter and his condition improved. The goat with the miraculous milk became the father’s most prized possession and companion. Whenever the old man saw the goat, he would pat her head fondly, and she would wiggle her ears delightedly in response.

One night, the goat disappeared. The father’s illness returned and his despair was worse than before; for now, not only did his heart groan under the weight of his illness, but the family was completely bereft – they had spent all they had on the goat. A day passed, and the family was all but in mourning for their lost treasure.

At dawn the next day, the son heard a noise in the yard. He ran out to find the goat, grazing under a tree in front of the house as though she had never left. The family’s relief was immense. And not only was the goat back, but her milk was sweeter than before. The father was relieved, but the son’s curiosity was piqued.

Days passed and the goat remained in the yard. She continued to produce her sweet milk, and the father’s condition continued to improve. A week passed, and the family awoke to find the goat missing. The father fell into despair again, but the son had a feeling that the goat would return. Lo and behold, the next day at dawn, the goat returned.

The son came to his father and proposed a plan. He would tie one end of a cord around the goat’s tail, and the other around his own wrist. That way, when the goat stirred and left, as he was sure she would, he would be able to follow her. The father agreed to the plan and gave his son his blessing.

When the time came, the goat set off. The tug of the cord around the son’s wrist woke him, and he followed close behind her. She led him over hills and rough terrain until finally she came to a cave. They walked on through the darkness for one hour, two hours, maybe even a day or two. Finally, they came out on the other side of the cave. The goat wagged her tail and bleated. The son, exhausted by the walk, stumbled after her into the bright sunlight and was greeted by lofty mountains, hills full of sweet smelling fruit trees, lush and green and cool. The goat climbed the low hanging branches of a carob tree, and ate the fruit, fat and dripping with honey.

The son was in awe of all that he saw. Confused and delighted by where the goat had led him. In the distance he saw men, dressed in white, walking along the hills towards him. As they approached he called out to them, “What is the name of this wondrous place?” They responded warmly, “You are near Tzfat, in the Land of Israel!”

Overjoyed at having followed this miraculous goat into none other than the Holy Land, the son vowed that he would return to this place, bringing with him his father and mother. He laid down to rest under the shade of a fig tree and fell asleep. He awoke with a start, when he realized that the sun was setting, and that the Shabbat bride was on her way. Loathe to leave this beautiful lush land, he grabbed a piece of paper and wrote a note to his father.

“From the ends of the earth I lift up my voice in song to tell you that I have come in peace to the Land of Israel. Here I sit, close by Tzfat, the holy city… Do not inquire how I arrived here but hold on to this cord which is tied to the goat’s tail and follow the footsteps of the goat; then your journey will be secure, and you will enter the Land of Israel.”

He placed the note in the fold of the goat’s ear, confident that when his father saw her, he would greet her with a pat on the head, and she would wiggle her ears –delivering the note.

When the goat returned the next day without the son, the father was beside himself. He assumed the worst, rent his clothes, and went into mourning for his lost son. So distraught was he at the goat’s solitary return that he never patted her on the head, and she never wiggled her ears. The father cursed the goat for leading his son into harm’s way, and sent her to the slaughter so that he would not have to face the constant reminder of his son’s untimely end.

The butcher came and slaughtered the goat. As they were skinning her, the note fell out of her ear. The old man picked up the note, and upon reading his son’s handwriting, and his message, let out a cry of despair when he realized what he had done.

If only the father had patted the goat on the head. If only the son had tied the note around the goat’s neck. If only the father had not been so blinded by grief and despair. If only…

How much have we missed in our lives this year? How many people’s cries have failed to hear? How many notes have we missed? How many clues have we failed to pick up? How much have we missed by overlooking the small details in front of us? And how many more times can we afford to miss?

It is true that on Yom Kippur, in atoning for all of our chets, we are forgiven, and our slate is wiped clean by God. But what about those with whom we have missed the mark? Will they be certain to give us another chance? Making t’shuvah, asking for and granting forgiveness can wipe clean the slate of our past only to a certain degree. We can forgive, but it is rare that we forget. As we enter into this new year, I pray that we all learn to aim better, to miss less, and to use our arrows wisely – for while Yom Kippur atones for the sins between man and God, it is here on earth that we must forgive each other and learn from our mistakes. We must miss less, because our supply of arrows, like life, is finite.

(The above story is an adaptation of S.Y. Agnon’s “The Fable of the Goat.”)

October 24th, 2008 | Tags: callie souther, Rabbinical Student, Yom Kippur | Category: Torah | Leave a comment

Erev Rosh Hashana
5769
Har Shalom, Missoula, MT

When I look into the mirror, I don’t always recognize the face looking back at me. Sure, the eyes look familiar, the nose, the arch of the eyebrows: they all remind me of someone – but who, I am not sure. Am I merely a composite of my parents features? My mother’s face with my father’s coloring? What lies behind the laugh lines around my eyes and the frown lines at the corners of my mouth?

How often do we really look at ourselves? Not a perfunctory glance in the rear-view mirror, but a true visual dissection. The hollows in the cheekbones where there were none before, or the roundness of a once slim face.  Time leaves its marks on us and we ignore them, look past them, try to hide them. Who among us is really and truly where we thought we would be now? We could have no possible way of knowing who we would encounter along the way, the challenges that we would face, or the choices we would be forced to make. How grateful are we all for the unexpected loves and friendships in our lives? And how transformative were the painful times? The death of a loved one, the loss of a friendship. And most mysteriously of all, how could we have known who we, ourselves, would become?

Life shapes us, but we also shape life. We are faced with choices on a daily basis, thousands of them; some big and some small. At times we feel as though our agency has been taken away from us, or that we have been forced into impossible situations. These times are real and they do exist in our lives. It is how we choose to shape and direct those choices into outcomes that make them uniquely our own. The opening reading in our prayer book says, “What was but moments ago the substance of our lives has now become its memory, and what we did must now be woven into who we are.” The past is in the past, but the memory still exists; in our minds and in our hearts. Grief can be woven into hope, and pain can be redeemed as love.

There is a midrash that we humans, rather than the angels, were given free will. It is what separates us from all other life on earth. With that free will comes uncertainty: an unknowability to life. But we are creatures of drive, in the constant quest for progress. While some have the ability to accept the unknown into their lives, I would wager that the majority of us need to feel in control, and make choices, or avoid making choices, accordingly.

These ten days are our opportunity to look at who we are, who we have become, and who we wish to be. To ask, “How in the world did I get here?” whether you like where you are or not. No one is free from this line of questioning. If we aren’t reflecting and renewing, we are avoiding and stagnating.

“On Rosh Hashanah it is written, and on Yom Kippur it is sealed.” It is terrifying to think of our destinies as being written and sealed. Where is our free will if every year on Rosh Hashanah, God sits in judgment with a roll call of names in a binary “naughty/nice” system? Who shall live and who shall die. Who will be comforted and who will be made uneasy. We each fall into one of these categories, but we each have the power to choose how we react.

My friend David, after years of questioning, decided to become a Rabbi. He and his wife, Gal, picked up their lives and moved with their 4 year old daughter from San Francisco, to Jerusalem so that David could pursue his dream. Just after Rosh Hashanah last year, the couple discovered that they were going to have another child. She would be born in June. The couple were planning to stay in Israel through the summer so that their baby girl could be a sabra, a native-born Israeli. In early January they learned that there was a problem. Their baby had a diaphragmatic hernia, causing her abdominal organs to develop in her chest cavity. She would need immediate and long-term care once she was born in order for her to have a fighting chance of survival. In an instant, David and Gal’s world was turned upside down, and they were faced with an entirely different reality. In one moment and with three words, “there’s a problem” their options changed. They left Israel in February, returning home to prepare for the worst, while praying for the best. On June 10th, Tikvah Ahava was born. On August 7th she died. After eight weeks of fighting, her frail little body simply could not take any more.

The loss that David and Gal incurred could have been crippling. Their marriage could have fallen apart. Their faith could have been lost. They could have turned their grief into blind rage. Instead, they write, and they pray, and they love, and they turn towards others when they need it, and ask for space when that is what they need. They are the most amazing people I know, and while I am only an outsider looking into their world, I am filled with love for them, and am inspired by them. They have looked into the face of utter loss and sadness and said, “no”. They are not destiny’s victims. In the honesty that they share, and the integrity with which they live, they are victors. Their sorrow is not lessened, but they bear it with love, grace, and compassion – for each other and for themselves.

David and Gal did not deserve this. According to the system of reward and punishment, this couple was due for inscription in the book of life! Not the book of death!  David is dedicating his life to the service of the Jewish people. Gal plans to become a nurse, dedicating her life to the service of others. Why should this couple, who has given so much to the world, have so much taken away from them?

At the end of our liturgical list of gruesome sentences for the year to come, we have a caveat. These things will happen, BUT, “tshuva (the act of returning in repentance), prayer and charitable acts avert the severity of the decree.” “No,” our liturgy tells us, “these acts will not give you a get-out-of-jail-free card, but they will help you weather life’s storms.” Never before have I encountered evidence of this the way that I have in David and Gal. The ways in which they choose to react to their tragedy and loss are hopeful, not destructive. They mourn the loss of their baby girl, while honoring her short life. In this way they choose life in a time of death; hope in a time of darkness.

This list of who shall die and how, is not a literal death sentence. It is an understanding of the fact that suffering exists and pain is present in all of our lives, no matter who we are or how we behave. Our task is to build strong foundations, so that when trouble comes, the walls of our lives do not crumble.  We have a choice, and we always will have a choice. Even when life has us backed into a corner, we have a choice; in how to react, how to move forward, and how to grow.

We must pick up the phone and call the friend, the sibling, the parent, the child that we have been avoiding. Face the challenges in our relationships, the imperfections in ourselves. Recognize the weaknesses and turn them into strengths. Don’t sweep another hurt under the rug.

We can all be better, we can all do better, and we all know it. It may be difficult to see exactly how we can go about making change, but we know that we can. We have choice. We have free will. We have the ability to tear down the unstable houses that we have built, and build up new ones, year after year. Even if our house seems stable, and there are but a few visible cracks in the walls, we can do better. Rosh Hashana gives us the ability to start over; to build from the ground up. To not only hope to do better, but to really, actually, DO BETTER. Today, we close one chapter, and begin another. “On Rosh Hashanah it is written, on Yom Kippur it is sealed.”

Reflection and renewal are hard tasks. It is difficult to even know where to start. In our action-oriented lives, we want concrete steps. We need to know how to get from point A to point B, and we want to know when we will get there. It is impossible to know what lies ahead. It is impossible to find answers to our questions – and at times, it’s difficult to even know what questions to ask.

The poet Rainer Maria Rilke wrote, “I beg of you… to have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart. Try to love the questions themselves… Do not now look for the answers. They cannot now be given to you because you could not live them… You need to live the question. Perhaps you will gradually, without even noticing it, find yourself experiencing the answer…”

This year, let’s be better prepared. Just as a runner’s muscles must be flexible to avoid injury, so must our souls be supple and prepared for life’s blows. Life happens. We cannot know what 5769 will bring, but we can live in such a way as to be better prepared when the hard times come. We can stop avoiding the changes that we need to make in our lives. We can get up, shake off the dust of the past year, and start over anew.  If we want to make it through this year of uncertainties, we must prepare ourselves for both the best and the worst. No one has all the answers, but we all have the ability to live in the questions, instead of avoiding them. We can all choose to live our lives with the intention, integrity and openness that life deserves.

May this year bring us closer to recognizing the face in the mirror once again.

October 1st, 2008 | Tags: Elul, Forgiveness, Rabbinical Student, Rosh Hashana, T'shuvah | Category: Torah | Leave a comment

I did my best, it wasn’t much
I couldn’t feel, so I tried to touch
I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah

Leonard Cohen, “Hallelujah”

September 23rd, 2008 | Tags: callie souther, Elul, Leonard Cohen, Rabbinical Student, Rosh Hashana | Category: Ruminations | Leave a comment

How to be open when everything seems closed.

How to be forgiving when full of anger.

How to do turn towards someone in t’shuva when they are not willing to turn themselves.

How to see the safety nets and direct your fall into them.

How to grieve.

How to ask for forgiveness.

How to identify the pain caused, and the pain endured.

How to name the pain.

How to regain control.

How to aim better.

How to miss less.

How to love yourself.

How to love others.

How to let others love the imperfect, messy, beautiful person inside.

How to know that God is present in it all.

September 16th, 2008 | Tags: callie souther, Elul, Forgiveness, Love, Rabbinical Student, Repentance, T'shuvah | Category: Ruminations | Leave a comment

There is a quote by the poet Rainer Maria Rilke that, ever since I first encountered it four years ago, seems to have become the mantra to which I aspire:

“You are so young; you stand before beginnings. I would like to beg of you, dear friend, as well as I can, to have patience with everything that remains unresolved in your heart. Try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books written in  foreign language. Do not now look for the answers. They cannot now be given to you because you could not live them. It is a question of experiencing everything. At present you need to live the question. Perhaps you will gradually, without even noticing it, find yourself experiencing the answer, some distant day.” - Rainer Maria Rilke, from Letters to a Young Poet.

This idea of living in the questions, not searching after answers, is truly a challenging one for me. I am a do-er, a fixer, an imperfect perfectionist. I’m constantly rushing to tie up loose ends, and inevitably, failing to see the big picture. Seeing the forest for the trees, the small sail of a sailboat blocking the gradeur of a full moon… these are things that seem so simple, and yet are so so difficult. Why is it so hard to trust in the questions? To live in the questions? What does it mean to live in the questions? Why do answers seem farthest away when we seek them?

The best things that have come along in my life have done so when I wasn’t looking, when I wasn’t expecting them; conversely, the worst things have come along when I’ve been desparately trying to impede their arrival.

So what is the secret, then? What is the key to this living in the question instead of seeking the answer? When I think of how lustily I clung to this quote four years ago, pushing it ahead of me like a shield from life, I think of how naive I must have been. I feel sorry for that young, naive version of myself. But then, I take another step back, from the now-me, and feel even sorrier for her; sorry that she can’t see the beauty of the younger-her trusting in life and, in a way, in herself. Four years ago I was at a loss for where to take my life, in terms of my career. I was at my “quarter life crisis” having just quit a job in the Jewish community and thinking that I would never go back. A few weeks ago I was talking with a dear friend, who is herself a few years younger than I, and pontificating on “how great it is” to finally make up your mind about a career path - or an educational plan. I felt so superior to four-years-ago-me.  I would not have wanted to be back in her shoes, because ever since I was accepted to rabbinical school, that turmoil about “what will I do with my life” has subsided considerably. I have a plan, a goal, a path.

But then, I laugh, and begin to understand that these crossroads never disappear - they are waiting for us every few feet, every few hours and days. Sometimes we come to a crossroads and think “how did I get here? I’m completely in the wrong place? I don’t understand the language of these roadsigns.” We feel lost, and begin to backtrack: where did I take a wrong turn? how did I get here? I may feel secure in my career goals, but it is as though I have climbed over one wall only to see a valley of walls to climb awaiting below.

Whether we are on the right path, or the wrong path-working our way back to good, how oh how do we fight the urge to look for answers? How do I find the stillness, the quietness, and the calm to say “this is where I am” ? Is Elul about finding answers, or about asking the hard questions and letting them soak in?

Perhaps it is no coincidence that this Rilke quote comes to my mind particularly at this season. I have been living my Elul this year. I need not remember that Rosh Hashanah is near, because it pervades my every thought. This will be my first year leading High Holy Day services, and in many ways, I am terrified. So, in this respect, I need no reminder of the countdown to the Yamim HaNoraim (the Days of Awe). I live the reminder. Each day that the sun sets earlier is a reminder. Living in a new place, missing people whom I love, questioning everything about my decisions this year… all of these frightening feelings of uncertainty make my Elul very palpable this year.

So how then, do I remember to live the questions when all I seek are answers?

September 7th, 2008 | Tags: callie souther, Decisions, Elul, Rabbinical Student, Rilke, Rosh Hashana | Category: Ruminations | Leave a comment

Love is the desire for the perpetual posession of the good. - Plato

September 4th, 2008 | Tags: Elul, Love, Plato, Selichot | Category: Ruminations | Leave a comment