Mourning Lights: The Big Picture

Nobody is special for having lost a parent. It is actually quite the opposite as it makes us, at some point, a part of just about everyone. We do all, however, encounter and respond to the experience differently, opting to attach to ancient customs, perceived societal norms, freshly improvised practices or just ignoring or suppressing the whole thing. I do not have any magic solution on how to deal with loss, just some thoughts on my journey following my mother’s death as I have been working to find my own fragile footing. I am undertaking this modest several-part writing project as the end of my 12 months of mourning is undeniably beginning to appear on the horizon and while the pain of loss still feels fresh and raw.

My mother passed away suddenly on September 27, 2024. Eight months later, the shock has not worn off, the reality has not yet set in, and the pain has certainly not abated. At the beginning, I had to make choices and experiment a bit as to how I planned to shape my life as a mourner, which has (for now) become the central part of my identity. It feels unnatural to me to expect people who have lost someone they cherish to jump back into life quickly as if nothing is different. We know that can’t be true; we are not the same people. Our table of life is wobbly, as it is missing a leg. It is not easy to fix it and to restore stability.

Once in mourning, I was hoping to find a path that would bring my mother honor, help me heal and not feel like I was punishing myself for no reason (which is an easy trap that one can fall into). Now, two thirds into my year of mourning, I am still figuring out the way, but I also have a fair number of observations largely around the numerous Jewish customs of mourning. I have had a wide range of poignant experiences, many of which have been painful, a greater number have been inspirational and, too many to count, have been connecting me with others generally in unexpected ways during this auspicious and precarious time.

There is nothing denominational about mourning and healing. It is not about checking a box or earning theoretical spiritual points, it is about how we take care of ourselves and the memory of our loved ones. There is no hierarchy of “I am this, so I only do that” or “we are this, so we don’t do that.”  I (and maybe all mourners) am fumbling around in the dark as I grapple with this new sensation. In discussing elements of Jewish mourning over recent months, people have been surprised to learn of the extent of the list of potential restrictions or have found them to be unnecessarily punishing (what I am seeking to avoid!!!).  The customary Jewish restrictions during the year of mourning include limits on attending celebrations or entertainment (parties, movies, theater, sporting events, etc.), receiving gifts, buying new clothing, listening to live music, among others. The list is not mandatory.  It is a prescription to help us heal and to honor. People do what works for them, and it often varies based on particular elements of the loss. If ever there were a place in Judaism where picking and choosing makes sense, it is the customs and laws of mourning.  In subsequent pieces, I will be writing about some of these guidelines and how they have impacted me through this period.

Like so many of us, I have chosen to live my life comfortably in the space of denial about the near-term risk of losing a member of my small, loving inner circle while always fearing the dark shadow of such a prospect. It is a crazy approach as we all know that loss will ultimately knock down the barricades and enter each of our lives, we just hope it experiences some detours and road closures before it finds us. Throughout my swiftly moving 58-year life, I have frequently heard a refrain along the lines of “say what you want about us, we as Jews have a brilliant mourning process.” The so-called brilliance in Jewish mourning is, like everything in Jewish life, akin to the proverbial tree of life, which is that it is available only to those who grasp it. That is annoying and frightening. Nobody wants to have to dig in and do hard work at a time of great need. I just want to be comforted and not have a project. We all know that we benefit the most when we put in the most. This Jewish approach is no exception as it seeks for the mourner to be cognizant that something big is amiss and it challenges us to make meaningful lifestyle choices to help us adapt to this new chapter.

My mother’s burial was on a Monday in New York (her funeral service was the day before in Massachusetts) and Rosh Hashanah started Wednesday evening, a three-day holiday as it was adjacent to Shabbat. I was not eager to exit an abbreviated shiva and then participate in an extended holiday with the entirety of world Jewry. We had one full day of shiva and two brief days as the holiday was approaching. The curtailed shiva meant bigger crowds, fewer chances for me to speak with visitors, less opportunity to connect with my stunned family, no chance to remember stories and share parts of my mother with the community at the time of the peak of their limited attention span. What little I saw of shiva I valued, and I cherished the communal embrace.

During the period of shiva and the shock, people are all over you in the best of ways (or at least with the best of intentions). It comes from caring and relating or perhaps out of projecting their own mortality or the fear of the loss of their own loved ones. After shiva, mourning becomes a much more solitary event. Friends check in episodically especially on “firsts” — Thanksgiving, Passover, Mother’s Day.  It is kind of them, but for me the firsts don’t have that much power. We miss her terribly every day and the grief, like music, primarily occurs between the notes and not just during the dramatic moments.

This piece and the other brief essays that follow will reflect on experiences and encounters I have had during this year in which mourning has been my focus. I have not been in a rush to re-enter the world. The Jewish mourning system, with its limitations on how we interact with life, is there to let us hold back and be who we need to be right now and transition gradually back into that other world as an altered version of our past selves.

The mourning timeline may seem like an eternity to some while to others it is the blink of an eye. Regardless of perspective, it is finite, and we are given no choice but to move on. We do ultimately need to re-enter and, importantly, make space for the new crop of people who unfortunately need the support of the community and the time to work through their grief in a society which has become either grief-averse or grief-avoidant.

Eight months into this personal and spiritual journey, I am grateful for the compassion, consideration and miracles that I have felt and for my opportunities to give to others who are in a similar place. Although mourning and grief are deeply personal, there is room for them to be shared, and Judaism provides a framework for ongoing community support as well as ample space to be alone and quiet. The regularity of the kaddish and the embracing of the broader traditions have all been enriching and comforting for me.

I am not a writer, a grief expert, or a master of Jewish law. Just a random person with no social media following who is struggling with a big loss and who is seeking and finding meaning in the healing. As the end of my official mourning is near, I am beginning a new phase of my recovery and this writing is a part of it. I hope that these pieces on my experience will resonate with others who are open to making some space for a shared conversation in the midst of profound loss while living in a society that broadly does not like to discuss loss. Here we go. Kadima, together.