"What a week." We say this when you can't decide which emotion or event to describe first because each one warrants priority. I am sitting at my desk writing my first communal message of the school year, and the phrase I keep typing and erasing, only to retype and again erase, is… "What a week."
This week held the hopeful possibility of the imminent return of Israeli hostages that we have prayed and protested for over the past eleven months; the heartbreaking murder of relatives, of friends, of strangers who we have come to consider as close kin; the inspiring words of grieving parents, who somehow lead the rest of us through darkness; the amazing celebrations of end of summer events, Labor Day weddings and b'nai mitzvah; the mixed emotions of separating from our children for the best of reasons- the first day of preschool, the first day of college; the joy of a community reuniting, children embracing friends they have not seen since June; the relief of finally getting back to routine.
Since October 7th, I have read Yehuda Amichai's haunting poem, Adam Bechayav (A Person in Their Life), many times. Responding to the Book of Kohelet's assertion that there is a time for everything, Amichai poetically argues that humans have to laugh and cry at the same time.
אדם בחייו אין לו זמן שיהיה לו זמן לכל
ואין לו עת שתהיה לו עת לכל חפץ
קהלת לא צדק כשאמר כך
A person in their life doesn't have time to have a time for everything.
They do not have enough seasons to have a season for every purpose.
Kohelet did not get it right when it said that.
Over the past year, I have read and reread this poem while trudging through the full gamut of lived experiences under a cloud of heaviness, often forcing myself to celebrate the joyful events that continue amongst the overwhelming pain. What a year.
This week, Amichai's words spoke to me in a different way.
Our students returned to school this week and are lighting up this building (and my soul) with joy and optimism. This is happening even as we confront the reality that six children of our nation will never return. These realities seem to coexist. As Amichai explains, life does not allow us to give each emotion our undivided attention.
I have been watching with delight and optimism as our children run back into the literal and figurative embrace of our beautiful community. The return of our students has brought me and many of my colleagues the sort of hopeful joy that is not diminished by sadness. At the same time, the joy does not overshadow the sadness. These two seemingly overwhelming states simply coexist.
This period of suffering will eventually end, as all historical events do. But the world will continue just as it always has (in this way, Kohelet was right), with joy and sorrow in the same seasons. Everyone should have the blessing of fully experiencing joy, even during those weeks and years that bring gut-wrenching sadness.
This week (and what a week it has been), I pray for the fulfillment of the words of our prophets:
"I know it will take a long time, but please may G-d bless us that one day, one fine day, Dada, Leebie, Orly and I will hear laughter, and we will turn around and see… that it's us."
- Rachel Goldberg Polin's eulogy for her son Hersh, this Monday
עוֹד֮ יִשָּׁמַ֣ע בַּמָּקוֹם־הַזֶּה֒ אֲשֶׁר֙ אַתֶּ֣ם אֹֽמְרִ֔ים חָרֵ֣ב ה֔וּא מֵאֵ֥ין אָדָ֖ם וּמֵאֵ֣ין בְּהֵמָ֑ה בְּעָרֵ֤י יְהוּדָה֙ וּבְחֻצ֣וֹת יְרוּשָׁלַ֔͏ִם הַֽנְשַׁמּ֗וֹת מֵאֵ֥ין אָדָ֛ם וּמֵאֵ֥ין יוֹשֵׁ֖ב וּמֵאֵ֥ין בְּהֵמָֽה׃ק֣וֹל שָׂשׂ֞וֹן וְק֣וֹל שִׂמְחָ֗ה
"Again there shall be heard in this place, which you say is ruined, without humans or animals—in the towns of Judah and the streets of Jerusalem that are desolate, without humans, without inhabitants, without animals—the sound of mirth and gladness."
- The Book of Jeremiah, Chapter 33
Comments