Nostalgia – High Holy Days of Long Ago
One of my greatest joys is sitting with a member and hearing stories of long ago. As we venture forward into the new with the arrival of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, many of us also look backwards. We long to remember those loving family members and friends who joined with us in temple all those years ago. We think back on how it was, in order to now dream of how it can soon be.
In order to help spark our communal imagination, we have asked members of our community to share what they remember of High Holy Days past. Before you delve into their stories, take a moment to answer in the comment box below:
What is one of your favorite memories of the High Holy Days?
We hope you will take a chance not only to explore, but also to share and leave your own mark on our community’s offerings for these holy days. We share the following words and art with love and ask that you follow our guidelines when posting:
- B’shem Amro – In the name of the one who said it
We ask that you offer your own original works or that if you wish to share work of others that you give credit where credit is due. - Nidivut Lev – Generosity of heart
Be kind to yourself and others in this space. Our goal is to create connections and strengthen our community. So, please, open your heart. - Dina d’Malchuta Dina – The law of the land is the law
We ask that this space be one that is free of politics. We are here to discuss what we, as a Jewish community, can do to thrive and walk in God’s ways, not to debate November’s election.
The magic of the HH begins for me the moment I hear the first blast of the shofar. All of my history from childhood at our shul in Waltham to the present day at my temple in Canton.
I remember my mother walking two miles to shul on the HH. I remember sitting upstairs with my mother during services. I remember her fasting on Yom Kippur and fainting EVERY YEAR by breakfast. I remember my years in England where I had no place to observe or celebrate the High Holy Days.
Fast forward to my years at Temple Beth Am in Randolph when I was able to celebrate and observe the High Holy Days with my parents and my children… a magical time.
And then my years at Temple Beth David; first with my mom and children; then with my children and grandchildren
Hearing the shofar blow at the beginning of the High Holy Days brings all of the memories magically flooding back. This opens the door to my being able to enjoy, participate in celebrate all that the High Holy Days have to offer and the shofar closing that magical time allows me to begin the new year with renewed vigor and hope: remembering the past and seeing the future with all of its beautiful potential.
My memories of the High Holy Days come to me from a very long time ago.
I remember sitting in the old sanctuary feeling so proud and so connected. My friends and I had built the whole bimah.
I remember going through every iteration of the Reform liturgy; from the Union Prayer Book with its Germanic/Protestant overtones – little Hebrew and no literal translation – to the current machzor. Each new edition brought us further from the Original Reform movement; more Hebrew, more chanting and more singing.
We also went from no kippot and tallitot to almost everyone who wants to wear one May.
I still feel the warmth of sitting there with my Family.
Sermons… endless sermons. The fiery delivery of Dan Polish. The intellectual delivery of Marc Saperstein. Guest appearances of David Saperstein.
Torah services were brief. Nobody really knew trope in those days. Few aliyot and honors were given. There was much less pomp and circumstance.
The High Holy Days were special. Everyone got new clothes and got dressed up. We saw people that we only saw at this time of year. It was social. It was spiritual. It was exhausting. It was magical and it all ended when I blew shofar.
This is my third High Holy Days with TBD. For many people it’s their 20th, 30th, 40th High Holy Days with TBD. They grew up in the synagogue or have been members for decades, are used to purple chairs lined up in rows, followed by tan folding chairs lined up in rows, used to the white ark covering and Howard singing Kol Nidrei walking from the back of the social hall all the way up to the front of the bimah.
And now we have a very different High Holy Days before us. While I will not minimize the loss of not being physically with each other, I am at the same time hopeful about the distinct experience we can have. To explain why, I’d like to share some of my favorite High Holy Days memories.
I’ve observed them in many different synagogues and Jewish spaces on both coasts. My sophomore year of college I heard about an Erev Rosh Hashanah service held at Tilden Park near Berkeley, California. It was to be a Reconstructionist, queer-led affair, started several years back by two Berkeley lesbians. I wanted to go but not alone. I didn’t know anyone who would be there! I put out the call and three non-Jewish friends volunteered to go with me. We had a beautiful time joining small break-out discussions at picnic tables, talking about the nature of forgiveness, and singing a cute song about how we love to hear the shofar blast, sometimes slow and sometimes fast, as the sun set over the park. We each found quiet moments among the trees to reflect. I was so touched by all my friends stepping up to support me in observing Erev Rosh Hashanah, and so glad they found it meaningful too.
The June after college graduation, I went to Oakland pride and ran across a booth for Glitter Kehilla, a young adult, heavily queer program of Kehilla Community Synagogue. I took a pink flyer indicating that as someone in my 20’s I could attend for free, and decided to check it out. I entered the cavernous hall they rented each year alone, but I was not alone for long. There was a dedicated section for us young adults to sit together, and I was greeted and welcomed warmly by many people, some of whom would become friends and fellow members of the Glitter leadership committee, into which I was fairly quickly recruited. The next summer, I was one of the people at the pride booth letting young LGBTQ Jews know about a welcoming, accessible place to observe.
In August of 2016 I moved to Boston and a couple months later needed somewhere to be for High Holy Days. I didn’t know anyone, so I did some Googling and found Dorshei Tzedek. I went alone, and though folks greeted me warmly, I mostly kept to myself. I was in my first year of grieving a close friend who had died suddenly and unexpectedly, and it felt easier to stay wrapped up in my tallis and my own little world. At Yizkor two vases, one empty and one filled with pebbles, were brought out. Each person who wished to was to take a pebble or pebbles representing their loved ones who had passed and place them in the empty vase. I saw the strangers I had been praying next to make their way to the vases, pick up one or two or in many cases several pebbles, and place them in the other vase. I gathered up my courage and joined the line of mourners and rememberers, dedicating a smooth gray pebble to my David.
I treasure all these experiences, made possible because I tried somewhere and something new. Sometimes it was uncomfortable, made me miss the warm familiarity of a hometown temple, but somehow each year I still got what I needed. These High Holy Days will be different. But they will be what we need.
Yom Tov – The words conjure up images, thoughts and deep-rooted emotions of these very special days, especially with Toby’s mother. She was the hub of our wheel and everything revolved around her. She validated for all of us how wonderful it was to be Jewish and more importantly how you were to behave. However, as much as Toby’s dad loved her, occasionally if the Red Sox were on tv he would sneak out of shul, come home, station me on the porch to watch for her, and enjoy the game. When I saw her coming home I ran in the house to warn him and we shut the tv. My mom, of course, discovered the tv was warm and knew he had “escaped” but she never, ever said a word.
On the other hand the hub of Stan’s family was his zayde. He was the gabbai (warden) of an Orthodox temple and his family sat next to the bimah in the center of the sanctuary. The women were required to sit upstairs in the balcony. One Rosh Hashanah day Stan’s mom and her sisters left the balcony and, while the men were davening, marched down the aisle, kissed Zayde on the cheek and marched out while the other men watched in horror.
One of the customs of Yom Tov was that nobody drove their car. Stan’s dad on the other hand didn’t want to walk two miles to the temple so, making sure his family was never seen, he drove anyway and parked several blocks away and didn’t get out of the car until they were sure they hadn’t been discovered.
These memories hold a very special place in our hearts. Our parents succeeded in having us love Judaism and all of its traditions and obligations.
had been asked to be an usher for the first Rosh Hashanah, celebrated in the New Sanctuary, here at Temple Beth David. My children were young and were sitting with their father. Before this I was only a spectator.
The service was magical, with Torah and grandeur, and all the music was just overwhelming. I did my job as an usher, and stood watch over the door to the sanctuary.
Opening and closing the door, when appropriate and handling the prayer books.
I was very into the music, and heard a commotion coming from the back of the room. Then this woman who was dressed in shabby clothing, carrying many bags, began to walk around and stop and talk louder and louder. She started taking off her kerchief, then one coat and another, dropping bags as she continued to walk towards me. I was stunned; I did not know what to do.
Then, when she came closer, she was yelling about where she was going to sleep that night, and how she could find food to eat.
I was in a state of shock. I wanted to tell her it would be ok, that I would help, and I wanted to help, but she was interrupting our services. Just when I started to go to her, she took off her wig, and I finally realized it was Rabbi Elyse Goldstein.
She was in fact doing her High Holiday speech to make us all aware of the homeless crisis. As she ascended to her place on the bimah, she continued to speak, I found myself on the floor, as my bracelet had broken and the pearls were all over the floor.
I was so stunned, I began to cry. Not for my bracelet, but for her speech. It was so moving and yes, difficult to hear.
From that moment on, every year has been so inspiring, each Rabbi has had their own way of empowering us all to do the right thing and to repair the world, one issue at a time.
The grandeur, the music, the Torah readings, and the impassioned speeches, all leading up to the awe I seek in what I need to learn in order to repair my world.
Bubbe-Love
Holding my granddaughters’ hands
Crunching through the leaves in the temple parking lot
I am five again
Walking with Bubbe to shul on Rosh Hashanah
Crunching through the leaves on the side of the road
Making memories (though I don’t know it yet).
Sitting close to Bubbe in the sanctuary
I watch her finger, with her special-occasion ring,
Follow the words in the prayer book
As the chazan sings,
Making memories (though I don’t know it yet).
And so-many years later I invite my young granddaughters
To stand between me and the Torah
To watch my silver-filigree yad point to the words
As I chant from the Torah,
Making memories (though they don’t know it yet).
Leaving the synagogue
Crunching through the leaves
Bubbe is walking with me
And with her great-grandchildren.
Blessed are You, dear God, who created memories
And Bubbe-love.