Light, Shadow, and Invisibility

Young Sir and I have been having an ongoing conversation about light and dark; specifically sunlight and shadows. This started a couple of weeks ago while we were taking a walk around my block and we noticed our shadows preceding us. I explained about the direction of the light, and then we played with our fingers, spreading them apart, then pushing them together, and noticing how we can see the light between our fingers and then, when we squish 'em together, there is only dark. The conversation picked up again at last Friday's nanny-day. 

We were in the backyard when suddenly he said, "Look, Savta! Shadows!" 

I looked down to study our shadows. Then I pointed to our feet. "Our shadows are still attached to our feet!" We picked up one foot and saw light fill the space, then put it down to see if our shadow was still attached. Young Sir was very relieved to know his shadow was still stuck to him. I just smiled as I thought of Wendy Darling stitching Peter Pan's shadow back onto his feet.

The conversation progressed to cover that which we can see and that which we cannot see. Keep in mind, Young Sir is only 3, so the science isn't all that helpful here. He was, however, glomming on to the word invisible. I think he liked the concept of not being seen. I'm not quite sure how he was processing visible v. invisible, but clearly he knew what invisible meant. 

On Shabbat, I was giving this conversation a fair amount of  thought. The word had come up a number of times this past week, and I was grappling with some of the implications of invisibility. Women of a certain age are routinely invisible, as are widows. You can poo-poo that all you want, but it's the truth and we who are one, the other, or both know how true it is. We certainly are not the only invisible people around here; we are but two clumps. Invisibility is a real issue for all sorts of very real people. And for a variety of reasons, not all of which are earth shatteringly monumental. Some are quite small and seemingly insignificant to those outside the group in question. For those in the group, it is neither small nor insignificant.

But that got me to thinking about what else happened this past week. Allow me to color outside the lines for a moment.

Just about 12 years ago, Ziggy died. Mourner's kaddish had to be said, and even though the strictest obligation for a spouse is 30 days, I decided I would recite the mourner's kaddish for 11 months. Since both my parents were alive, I'd never said kaddish formally before. I came to appreciate the importance of morning minyan. 10 people have to be there (we are an egalitarian minyan counting men and women) and every once in a while, we struggle to get 10. So when my 11 months were over, I kept coming, paying it forward as it were. Work shift issues cut into the number of days a week I could be there, but I worked out a schedule that guaranteed at least one day a week I would go to minyan before work. Another shift change, and I was back to 6 days a week. It was an obligation I accepted not just for the sake of community, but for my own need to center myself in the mornings. 

Some of us are bullish about  being at minyan...even after the start of the pandemic when we had to figure out how we could make this work on Zoom. By looking at the tally sheet to my immediate right, I can tell you today is the 347th day we have had Zoom minyan (there's no morning minyan on Shabbat and holy days that require other arrangements.)

See, I am the keeper of the names, a tradition started on a yellow pad many years ago by Bud Sweet (z"l) and continued to this day...because I brought the sacred yellow pad home that last day in the chapel. I've actually been the keeper for most of the years I've been coming to minyan. The number on the far left with a V- is the actual number of people praying that day in the minyan. We have one who comes in from Canada, a couple from Florida, one from Alabama, one from New York, a bunch from Wisconsin, and some who just show up on Zoom because they know there will be a minyan and they can say mourner's kaddish. During regular times, we listed who had an aliyah to the Torah and who davened each of the 3 sections of the service. These days, there is no formal Torah reading, so we list who read the section. In the 347 days we have been davening together every morning, we have fallen shy of 10 only twice...which is about the same for a year of in-person gathering. Our average daily attendance on Zoom is 26. 

Because we do this every day with no hype, no fanfare, no expectations of anything, we pretty much fly under the radar. We're kinda like the pillars that hold up the sanctuary....after a while, you don't notice them either because they are always there. And that's exactly how it should be. We don't do this for us, we do this for the community. It's a group effort. 

My dad was a minyan kinda guy. For him, it started when a close friend lost her father. Dad started going to minyan to make sure they had 10 men (it was not an egalitarian shul.) And it became a habit. He even had a page to announce. When the folks were making the move to Florida, they gave Dad a plaque to take with him...and they named his pew in the chapel for him. He told me he cried the day they gave him the plaque. He told me going to minyan was one of the most important things he ever did in his life because this is what you do for your community. 

In my home shul that is now gone...having merged with another synagogue...daily minyan was a community responsibility. You got a notice when it was your week to make sure they had a minyan. Minyan duty was an expectation, something that came with your membership, kinda like jury duty. It was an integral part of that community, a shared responsibility. Minyan was important. And most people respected that obligation.

As Governor Walz lifts many of the restrictions on gatherings, a committee was formed to explore how our synagogue would reopen. There are so many moving parts, so many aspects to consider for a community that has traditionally served congregational lunch on Shabbat week in and week out. There are so many classes and meetings to consider, so many Twin Cities-wide community events to evaluate that the committee is, understandably, overloaded. And I get that. 

What I didn't get this week, however, was why our little piece of everyday ritual isn't important enough for us to be asked for representation on that committee. We are the ones who are in the building every day... even when it's officially closed on Mondays. We are on site Sunday thru Friday, rain or shine, snow or sub-zero temps. Reopening impacts us more directly than any single group in the shul. And we have discussed this amongst ourselves, trying to figure out how to answer the inevitable question. 

Turns out, the question may not be addressed to us after all. Seems the chairperson did not have the  "bandwidth" to reach out to us.

Yeah, in the greater scheme of things, we are small potatoes. We are just the ones who are there when you need us, when it's your day to say mourner's kaddish. You just expect we will be there to make a minyan.  And we will. We will be there for you because that's what we do. 

If you must know, morning minyan was the light in my shadow 12 years ago. It got me through that horrible, horrible first year without Ziggy. It got me through the death of my father-in-law, and then my parents. Minyan gave me the bandwidth to learn to breathe again after each tragedy. I suspect it does the same for many others. 

When in the course of mourning one feels bereft, untethered, and alone, minyan is there to hold you up, make sure you're breathing, and most importantly, let you know that you are seen. That you are not standing in a shadow.  That you are not invisible.

The Wifely Person's Tip o'the Week

Covid restrictions may be lifting right now, but general stupidity is not.

Use common sense: wear a mask in crowds 

and be aware:

not everyone who says they are vaccinated actually are.