Finding New Ways to Make Rosh Hashana Meaningful
And making my 95-year-old father-in-law center stage
Preparing for Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, is a big job. Imagine cooking for 20, and the mix is divided between carnivores, pescatarians, and vegetarians. That will be me very soon.
There are the emotional aspects to the holiday. I think about my parents and how they marked the holiday for their six kids in the most meaningful of ways which their kids now try to replicate.
One year, right before Rosh Hashanah, we blew out the wall playing touch football. My parents were not happy but their only admonition?
“No more football inside the house.”
That was it. Three days later, after Rosh Hashanah, the wall was repaired.
With the big tasks ahead, at 67, I manage my body differently. I can’t stand in the kitchen for 8 hours and not feel the effects, so I try and be smarter, but I’m not as smart as my sister, who gave me this advice:
“Cook less and take a break from writing. Make your life simpler.”
Much of her advice makes sense. Simpler recipes and fewer of them are smart. I practice “simple” elsewhere in my life, so why not here? When I go to the gym, I choose fewer exercises and do them well. When I dress, I wear jeans and one of my many L.L. Bean teeshirts — all the same but in different colors.
So what of my sister’s words did I not accept? Taking a break from writing.
I had a Winnie the Pooh “think, think, think” moment to figure out why didn’t I want to suspend writing for one week.
It’s not about the money. For me, the payout can be nice but is not life-altering.
It is not about hearing from fellow readers and writers. I appreciate them, but I don’t build my life around them.
Suddenly came the “ah-ha” moment. There were two reasons I wouldn’t suspend my writing.
Reason one: It’s how I make sense of my world.
I don’t have a therapist. I do have an excellent husband, but he has only so much energy for conversation. The best way for me to decipher the many peculiar aspects of our world is to write about them.
Writing also provides an outlet where I can place my angst, maybe find some humor, and hopefully not weigh readers down.
In short, the laptop is my therapist.
Hmm… now that’s a discovery.
Reason two: I am planting seeds for my next generation.
I have a lot to say—often more than my kids want to hear. But there is a next generation in process, and I want them to hear me. I want them to know my fictional characters because I think these characters can be a guidepost.
Alfred, Hannah, and Joey — my teen characters — understand why it’s important to hear unspoken words. They know people can feel things strongly and not express them. They also understand why humor can boost the mood and change the vibe. They believe that the generosity of spirit is more important than the generosity of things.
Someday, when I’m not here, it is my hope that my kids will honor me by sharing my words with their children and within their community. Maybe someone will say, “Wow! I know what she means.”
Maybe a parent’s job will just have been made easier.
On this Rosh Hashanah, I’ve gone one step further.
Words have been on my mind, leading me to interview my father-in-law, who is 95 and has lived a very full life. He was ten and living in Stuttgart when Kristallnacht occurred. He recalls walking to school and seeing broken glass everywhere. In 1939, his family caught one of the last ships and immigrated to the United States.
Bernie is also a wonderful bassoon player with a deep appreciation of classical music. He knows beauty and lives it. I have been working to capture his voice so that when they are tired of reading me, they can read what Bernie has to say. His story embodies hope, resilience, and survival, which feels perfect for Rosh Hashanah.
My ask for my family
This year, I will ask my thirty-something children to think of Bernie and one of his many stories when they hear the shofar. Specifically, I want them to visualize their Saba (Hebrew for grandfather) on the long last note when the shofar is blown.
Four different shofar sounds are blown on Rosh Hashanah, each with its own significance. The first note is called “tekiah” and is a simple, clean blast that has been interpreted as a call for attention.
After tekiah, a very different note called “shevarim” is sounded of three medium-length blasts. The sound is more plaintive and has been considered a moment to look inward.
After the wistful sound of shevarim, the next blast we hear is “truah,” which is full of energy. Nine staccato notes are blown in quick succession. It is the hardest sound to achieve but is crisp and distinct when done correctly.
The interpretation of truah varies. For some, it represents brokenness and uncertainty and is a natural outflow from shevarim. We have taken stock, felt humility, and are considering what is next. For others, it might be more of a straight shot toward inspiration, beckoning us to take on our world and battle for something better.
The final sound in the sequence is “Tekiah Gedolah,” which in Hebrew means “large tekiah.” It is a long, single, powerful sound that can last as long as a minute when done with enough wind.
When my children hear the Tekiah Gedolah, I want them to think of Bernie. His life is an affirmation, reminding us, “We can do this.” He is the human incarnation of hope and grit in a world that was not kind to his family.
We are in a tough season, and amidst all the noise and challenges of the times, I want my kids to find the note that will restore their faith in the future.
Wishing my friends a meaningful and sweet new year.
Shanah Tovah U’metukah, as we say in Hebrew.
May it be a blessed one.