Yom Kippur as Manifest in an Approaching Dorsal Fin (2 page)

actions because I must protect my job, that

is my Kol Nidre. When I do not, can not,

must not act in accordance with my true self:

10

Yom Kippur as Manifest . . .

my Kol Nidre. When I do something I must

instead of write and create. Kol Nidre.

Evanne points out that is exactly what the

abbot at the Thai Buddhist temple told me,

that I was doing what I needed to and need

only recognize that and the needs of fitting

into our community and of survival and

taken into account in the realm of Karma.

Yet even those vows I take seriously. I

uttered them. And so the Kol Nidre also pro-

tects us from ourselves; we make this prayer

because we take vows so seriously that we

consider ourselves bound even if we make

them under duress or in times of stress when

we are not thinking straight.

The Rabbi, Fred Natkin, walks up to the

bima (stage) and we look around. No fashion

show here. Women in pants, men in dunga-

rees, vests. Hats instead of kipas. I have done

this as well as it is more comfortable, does not fall off, shades my eyes when reading. Many

women have Tallit and that is a sure sign of

a rather liberal welcoming congregation.

The service starts and it is with great par-

ticipation of the congregation, coming up to

the bima, sitting down again after hugs and

11

Adam Byrn Tritt

kisses. Always each moment, each prayer

ends with hugs and kisses among all those on

the bima. Evanne asks me if this is important.

Among many liberal congregations, this is

common, important, this contact and affec-

tion. I say it is a fitting way to end a prayer to love each other and who are we to argue, and

I lean over and kiss Evanne on the cheek.

The congregation prays, meditates,

responds; the rabbi sings, chants.

The time has come for the sermon. The

rabbi speaks of science fiction. Reads a letter

written by him to the neighboring Moslem

congregation offering aid and friendship after

a shooting into the mosque this week. He is

offering for the descendants of the two sons

of Abraham, the children of Isaac and the

children of Ishmael, to make peace and fight

together for justice. The Jewish high holy days

and Ramadan started the same day. We have

the same goals. The president of the congre-

gation writes his thanks, appreciation, and

friendship in a letter to the newspaper, thank-

ing the rabbi and congregation. He reminds

us we must make the world the heaven we

wish it to be. It is our job and what we are

12

Yom Kippur as Manifest . . .

chosen to do. That we do not pray for peace,

but pray to
be
peace. That Judaism is a religion of verbs. The prayers re-commence.

The Kol Nidre is sung. There are two tunes

for this prayer. I was taught by a rabbi there

is magic in the tunes themselves, in the music,

so, if one does not know the words, hum, dai

de dai, la la la, and that is good and will do

the trick. But I want to sing and this is the

other tune, the one Lee knows. It is the Sep-

hardic tune, I believe, the one from the Mid-

dle East and not the Ashkenazic tune of East-

ern Europe and Eurasia. I do my best. Craig

knows the words but does not sing, unfamil-

iar with the tune even more than I. Evanne,

somehow, reads more loudly than others,

seems to fit, sounds clear, and I am frequently

amazed by this.

More prayers, meditations, the Amidah

and call for compassion. I feel this prayer as

I did the Kol Nidre and look for my wife, see

the empty space. I think of my own Yom Kip-

pur prayer. And when I have trouble follow-

ing along, I recite it to myself:

13

Adam Byrn Tritt

We open our mouths to proclaim how

beautiful the world is, how sweet life

is and how dear to us you are, Lady,

Mother of All Living.

We stand here today to remind

ourselves that we are all part of this

web of creation. We are all linked, so

that what any of us do affects all of

us, and that we are all responsible for

the Earth, and each other. We have

chosen to be here today as a symbol

of our commitment, our awareness

of this connection.

Even so, we forget our promises and

our duties.

We gossip, we mock, we jeer.

We quarrel, we are unkind, we lie.

We neglect, we abuse, we betray.

We are cruel, we hate, we destroy.

We are careless, we are violent, we

steal.

We are jealous, we oppress, we are

xenophobic.

We are racist, we are sexist, we are

homophobic.

We waste, we pollute, we are selfish.

14

Yom Kippur as Manifest . . .

We disregard the sufferings of others,

we allow others to suffer for our

ignorance and our pride.

We hurt each other willingly and

unwillingly.

We betray each other with violence

and with stealth.

And most of all, we resist the impulse

to do what we know is good, and we

do not resist the impulse to do what

we know is bad.

All this we acknowledge to be true,

and we do not blame the mirror if

the reflection displeases.

Lady, help us to forgive each other for

all we have done and help us to do

better in the coming year. Bring us

into harmony with the Earth and all

Her ways.

So mote it be!

In this prayer, we admit we are not perfect

and proclaim we will make good on our mis-

takes even if we are not aware we have made

them. We all make such mistakes. Such is the

friction, the
dukkuh
as the Tibetans call it, of 15

Adam Byrn Tritt

life. And we must have the compassion for

others to apologize, to make amends, person

to person. If we do not, we cannot go into the

new year. If they do not accept, the guilt is on their heads if, and only truly if, we have honestly done our best to make amends.

We must also have compassion for our-

selves and the ways we have transgressed

against ourselves. Such is the message of the

Amidah and Kol Nidre; we can start over and

do better. Such is the message from Amida,

Amitabha.

And we are cognizant we have made mis-

takes we are unaware of individually. For

these, we say a prayer and ask forgiveness not

of God, but of each other and offer our for-

giveness as well.

More meditations, kisses, hugs. Then the

Mourner’s Kaddish, and I quietly remind

those with me this is what they gave those the

names of the departed for. I think of those I

have lost and feel keenly the empty space next

to me, where my wife should be, and move

slightly over more, closer to Evanne, leaving

more room for my absent wife as though I

was looking to be able to see her as I sang, but 16

Yom Kippur as Manifest . . .

could not find her. I am missing her and

think, sadly, at some point this space will be

open, open and empty and not fillable. Thus

says this prayer.

And with this, service ends. Craig mentions

how so many of these prayers have been

taken, nearly without change, for Christian

services. Beth feels the continuity with the

Methodist services with which she is famil-

iar. We exit, putting our books back as we do,

and head back to the house.

Lee greets us outside, still not feeling well

but wanting to be social to a degree. I am

grateful, and tell my friends so, that I was able to go to temple with those I love even when

my own dear was at home. I was able to share

this evening with them, this prayer, this holy

day. I am grateful to them and happy.

They had said it was an honor to be asked.

That night they repeated their gratitude and

surprise. It is I who am grateful. It is I who

am honored. It is I who am, again, surprised,

amazed, and smiling. I hold them both and

say thank you, then smile as they drive away.

•

17

Adam Byrn Tritt

Today I stay home for Yom Kippur. I do not

go to temple, however. I plan to write, run,

walk, meditate, remain quiet.

I get ready to go to the beach. On days like

this I am reminded of some of the perks to

living in Florida. It is October and I am going

for a run on the beach. My ancestors would

already be cold, wearing thick coats and hav-

ing long collected the winter wood. I will be

running by the waves wearing as little as I can

get away with. I say to Lee, listening, that it

is too hot to wear dungaree shorts, the only

kind I have. I have two swimsuits, both old,

hardly worn but seeming worn, nonetheless,

elastics given up their ability to stretch,

become brittle.

I have not purchased any in years and told

myself I would not until my weight was down

to where I wanted it. I might have to go back

and revisit that idea. They were too small for

years and I would not go to the beach. Now

they are too big and are unfit, do not fit, I put on the one with the best elastic. My wife

shakes her head. No? Why not? Does it have

a lining? No. She tells me I have lost weight

and that will lead to needing a lining if I am

18

Yom Kippur as Manifest . . .

planning on going running. She does not want

me to be uncomfortable or, worse, injure

myself, telling me the fat I used to have kept

some things in place and, without that weight,

I’ll want that lining as I go jangling up and

down. I put on the other suit and it falls off.

It has a cord, I pull it tight. It still hangs a bit and I’ll need a new suit soon.

I go off to Melbourne Beach and leave

everything, including my sandals, in the car.

Keys, wallet, glasses. I put about fifty cents in the meter and get one hour and fifteen minutes for my coins. I did not take sunscreen so

I leave my shirt on, planning to take it off if

I get too hot.

It is bright, clear, brilliant and the beach is

quiet and nearly empty. I head to the shore-

line and walk, briskly, south.

I practice an exercise as I go called the Walk

for Atonement. At-one-ment, removing sep-

aration. Becoming one with what is around

me, with the world and all that is in it. With

time and space. If we felt at one with all

things, who would we, who could we, hurt?

What is our place in this world? What is

our place, in context to all that is? I walk.

19

Adam Byrn Tritt

With my steps, I contemplate spans of time.

A day. What does a day feel like? What does

it feel like to exist a day? A year. How does a

year feel? Ten years. Can I feel ten years?

How plastic I am. How much one can change

in ten years.

I do this every year. From then to one hun-

dred. This year, I add fifty years. Fifty years.

I am approaching that and can feel it. It is not far beyond my span now and I can understand that in a personal context. One hun-

dred years. What does that feel like? I have

and had relatives nearly that old. One thou-

sand years. I can understand this historically

but what does it feel like? I am uncertain. My

place in it is, or can be, nearly a tenth. But

how much a part do I actually play? My grasp

on it is tenuous. Ten thousand years. Again,

historically, I have an idea. Personally, it is too vast, too long. I have no context. What is my

place in that span of time? Nearly none. One

hundred thousand? None. None at all. A

million?

As I reach a million, I see something I have

never seen but which is astonishingly famil-

iar in the water a scant twenty feet from me:

20

Yom Kippur as Manifest . . .

a triangular dorsal fin, a triangular tail fin,

both moving gracefully in the water so close

if I wanted to, if I were fool enough, I could

walk out to it and barely have my calves half-

covered by ocean. This is amazingly close for

a shark.

I stand and watch. This is an interruption in

the flow of the meditation. Or is it? A shark

comes so close as I contemplate a million years

and this seems like a message. It feels like a

hello from distance of time and I can see, now,

what that million years looks like. I cannot go

to it so it, instead, has come to me. Today.

I am aware of a person next to me, fewer

than a few feet away. “Is that what I think it

is?”

What else could he be asking? It is safe, I

imagine, to answer in the affirmative. “Yes.”

“I was going to go swimming.”

“Still going to?”

“I just moved here. This is my first time at

the beach. Are they out there all the time?”

“Are you asking me if there are always

sharks out there, or if death is always fewer

than twenty feet away and swimming around