A Day of Awe
Each day has its own significance. This one is differentiating itself from a remnant smudge of summer, gusting cool breath through the orchard while the trees sway and wave their branchy arms. The channel is gray blue, shadowed by a fog bank, and a container ship is passing through, an inexplicably ominous apparition. All is converging, pending and present.
If I look back, or look within, this is always the day my father died, on October 12, 1978, which is always the day I was flung free-falling into the universe, and the start of my heart’s permanent tenancy in the abode of brokenness. Through its windows shine compassion and a deeper understanding of love, but I did not see that yet. And there was so much sorrow still to come, and so much confusion.
But so much awe. On this day, I commemorate not only the loss and the fear, but the hope and the strength, not only the mistakes, but the lessons and the blessings, not only the mystery and perplexity, but the wonder. This is a day of awe.
It happens that we have just concluded the ten-day period of reflection and repentance in Judaism known as The Days of Awe. I was not raised in the Jewish religion, but my mother was Jewish, married to an Italian who was decidedly not. It was a choice that resulted in her parents essentially disowning her, but she never fully abandoned her faith, and its vestiges materialized in our lives now and then. I recall in particular that Yom Kippur was a serious and solemn day for her. She described it as a time of “atonement”, and she fasted, and I suppose she reflected on her wrongdoing, but I watched all this from a child’s bewildered perspective, for my mother and her religion were mysteries to me. (I don’t think I really saw my mother clearly until the last decade of her life, and even now, years after her death, I am just beginning to understand her, and respect her, and see her in myself.)
One year ago, I was in New York. I remember sitting at a table in a restaurant when a friend’s brother, who was Jewish in a secular way, acknowledged that it was Yom Kippur. “Why do we need a special holiday?” he said. “I feel fear, shame, and guilt every day of my life.” That made sense to me, but it also saddened me, partly because of the self-loathing and torment it revealed, but mostly because it did not seem to encompass any impetus for change.
My own survival seems to rest on the conviction that I can somehow make things better, or try to become a better person, as naive and unrealistic as that may be. I don’t think I will ever be absolved of my crimes (mostly crimes of omission, stupidity, and selfishness) but I do find solace in thinking I have learned from them and can strive to compensate in an indirect way, and perhaps there is a ripple effect of good in the small efforts I put forth. In any case, although I am prone to guilt and self-flagellation, I realize that there is nothing to be gained by it. In fact, I have come to believe that to deny ourselves whatever wonder and joy the world still offers, to perpetuate unhappiness by being unhappy, and to guarantee failure by feeling hopeless, are affronts to the spirits of those we have loved. None of this is new.
My dear Buddhist mentor-friend Dan observes that in our Judeo-Christian heritage we seem to think there’s some virtue to be gained by searching out our faults and flogging ourselves for them, which in fact is counter-productive. What we need to practice, he would say, is art, is beauty, is loving-kindness. I’m pretty sure he’s right.
The week has held the gamut of experiences. I foolishly (but with good intentions) tried to correct a family member who has been posting the lies and propaganda of a certain candidate for the presidency (and it is still hard to believe that this sickening, hateful criminal is the GOP choice) and his malignant MAGA gang. I gently and respectfully presented the facts, but I learned by my relative’s reaction that he is lost to the cult. It’s upsetting, and it rendered the urgency of our situation even more real and personal. I can only hope the decent and enlightened citizens of our battered republic will step up and vote in an unequivocal landslide.
But I also witnessed a pastel rendition of the Northern Lights in the sky at night, and I walked with friends in the mountains, where green growth is already emerging in the aftermath of fire. I sampled a session of Pilates, which was comically hard on my self-esteem, and I have concluded it is not the answer for me, but at least I gave it a try. On different days I glimpsed a bobcat, a deer, and a fox in the canyon, each at home in the world. I enjoyed tomatoes from a friend’s garden and oranges from our bountiful little tree, and I noticed the pomegranates reddening. An iridescent green hummingbird is hovering outside my window now, electric with life. I filled out my mail-in ballot with care and placed it in a secure ballot drop-box, a sacred and hard-won privilege. The stars at night have been numerous and bright, and I am remembering something my father wrote to me in a letter long ago: “It is possible to have both feet on the earth and still keep your head in the clouds.”
I read an interesting blog post by a writer named Jeff Greenwald titled “Days of Awe” in which he uses the Hebrew word “teshuva”. He defines it as return, or repair, and he describes this period as an opportunity to heal––in terms of ourselves, our relationships, and our world. He ambitiously lists his own failures and inadequacies of the past year (which he defines as actions that do not truly reflect who he wants to be) and then resolves to reach out, make peace, and try to repair what is broken.
It's a tall order, particularly in this dark time of war without end, fathomless cruelty, and so much at stake that we hold dear. I feel ill equipped to make repairs, but I can speak truth, vote wisely, share what gifts I have, and remember to be kind. Lately, even as my body ages, I sense that I am returning to my truest self. Maybe T.S. Eliot had it right: “We shall not cease from exploration/ and the end of all our exploring/ will be to arrive where we started/ and know the place for the first time.”
This day, and each day, is significant, an end and a beginning, filled with awe.