Easter and Passover in the same weekend. Mighty themes to contemplate: leaving bondage, resurrecting. New life. Freedom—mine and that of others without which mine is not complete. Then this morning, on Easter Sunday itself, I found a dead mouse floating in the toilet of my downstairs bathroom.
Most of the time, Rabbi Mitnick’s absorption was contagious enough to lead me back into the prayers from my brief distraction. I would dwell on one word in a prayer, its root coming into focus, or feel in my belly the longing in a psalm, tears filling my eyes.
The children want to run away in fear, but Yisroel urges them to remain and to continue singing the niggun, the wordless melody he has taught them. Leaving the younger children in the hands of the older boys, Yisroel goes deeper into the forest alone.
The 13th century mystic poet Hafiz defined prayer as knowing the fire by feeling the flame and the water by bathing in the lake. He said you’ll never know a thing if you imagine how it feels, you need to feel it directly…
My mother’s story is one of the most valuable gifts she has given me—in which she describes the most valuable gift her mother gave her, at a time when unfathomable despair—not invincible hope—might have been expected.
