Skip to main content

pesach

Happy Pesach to everyone!   We celebrated in grand form last night at the Katz family home.
Ron and Joanne chose a unique humanistic haggadah for the evening and it was truly beautiful. I have often struggled with the overt "God saved His people" tone of many sedars, but this one was broader and more encompassing.  Rather than feeling marginalized as a non-jew, I felt deeply welcome in the most loving way. For the first time, the sedar plate included an orange to symbolize the marginalized peoples of the world and those marginalized within Judaism, along with the more traditional symbolical reminders: an egg-new life, maror-bitterness of pain past and present, choroset-the sweetness of life, salt water- tears and shank bone-the offering. The orange was a wonderful inclusion.
Bodhi was in charge of saying the blessing of the wine...or fruit of the vine as the case may be (aka grape juice).
Joanne outdid herself with a gorgeous feast lovingly prepared over several days.  Here is the homemade maror (freshly grated horseradish and beet juice). When it is added to the matzoh and charoset it creates the Hillel sandwich!  My FAVORITE food during the sedar.
Instead of the typical chopped eggs to symbolize birth and the fragility of life, Joanne made decadent deviled eggs served on a bed of pea sprouts.
 Of course there was gifilte fish...
 and matzoh ball soup....
and a delicious salmon dish with baby artichokes, Meyer lemons, onions and fresh fennel.  Served with a potato and kale mash and freshly steamed asparagus.
For dessert Ron made decaf espresso and hot cocoa.  Served up with these delicacies.
Another beautiful evening with the Katz family and friends.  I am so grateful that Bodhi gets to experience the depth of his culture through the love of his family.  As the goya in the group I continue to learn alongside my son.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

FORGET ABOUT ‘HEALING’

Some days,  you just have to forget  about ‘healing’. You have to stop trying to feel better, trying to overcome your emotional wounds, or trying to be anywhere other than where you are. You have to embrace the day as it is. And you have to give yourself the most sacred permission of all: To shatter.  To break.  To be an ugly mess. To lean into a place of utter humility and powerlessness in yourself. To cry out to the heavens, “I can’t do this!” To admit utter defeat  in the loss of the life  you had imagined. To crumble to the ground, lonely and hopeless and profoundly ruined. To want to die, even. And there, in the darkest places, in the blackness of the underworld, you may begin to rediscover... life.  And learn to love the beginnings. A sacred reboot: A single breath.  The way the sun warms your face. The sound of a tiny bird singing in the tree over there. The raw simplicity of a single moment of human existence. Hell has been transmuted, thr...

a story recently shared by a friend

 Once upon a time, there was an island where all the feelings lived: Happiness, Sadness, Knowledge, and all of the others, including Love. One day it was announced to the feelings that island would sink, so all constructed boats and left. Except for Love. Love was the only one who stayed. Love wanted to hold out until the last possible moment. When the island had almost sunk, Love decided to ask for help. Richness was passing by Love in a grand boat. Love said, "Richness, can you take me with you?" Richness answered, "No, I can't. There is a lot of gold and silver in my boat. There is no place here for you." Love decided to ask Vanity who was also passing by in a beautiful vessel. "Vanity, please help me!" "I can't help you, Love. You are all wet and might damage my boat," Vanity answered. Sadness was close by so Love asked, "Sadness, let me go with you." "Oh . . . Love, I am so sad that I need to be by myself...

He is no longer here

Another day has begun.  I have lit my candles and incense.  Sat in silence. Worked up a sweat at the gym.  Eaten breakfast.  Straightened house.  Answered mail and dropped my man off at the airport. It is eight in the morning and the world stirs with wakefulness.  The sun climbs in the sky.  The birds sing.  The squirrels chip and chur in tree branches.  A dog barks.  And I look with dull eyes at the long day ahead, contemplating a single phrase, "My father is dead." What strange words. My father is dead. The man has been leaving for as long as I can remember and yet his death robs the wind from my lungs.  My chest throbs and throat tightens.  He isn't coming back. My mom and dad had slipped out of one another's lives before I'd barely begun mine.  Two weekends a month my brothers and I stood on a saggy porch, bags packed, eager for our hero to arrive in his old blue Ford to pick us up.  We vibrated with hope...