Saying Kaddish in the taxi for the coolest man I’ll ever know

My uncle Robert Wolin died last week – literally the coolest man I’ll ever know… a 70s rocker, who was both funny AF and spectacularly kind. Humble. Moral. Wise. He brought folks together from all sorts of worlds without even really trying — from world famous musicians to the fish guy at the Hollywood Outdoor Market. (For real: He taught Slash from Guns N Roses how to play guitar. He made the best gefilte fish in the world.)

He knew everything there was to know about the Beatles, and growing the most transcendently hot pepper in the world.

He could mix a mean martini.

At the end of the Shiva – the Jewish week of mourning, my aunt pulled together a zoom for some family and friends — low key, but a chance for us to hold space for one another across space and time (zones.)

I felt too far away — across the world, separate and alone. So, I signed on to connect.

It was morning in LA – yet another morning without my uncle in it, but the sun rose as it does, which seemed a bit indecent TBH… another day taking us further from his last moments with us.

But still, even though we weren’t ready, the Shiva was over. And it was time to get up and walk around the block.

Time moves on whether we like it or not. A bit unfair, it felt. But the universe isn’t always fair.

Now, my aunt and uncle are Jewish but didn’t live their lives according to Halacha – Jewish law.

I think the last time they went to a synagogue was my Bat Mitzvah. Still, they held the best Seder in the whole entire world… great wine, great song – the best company – taking the order to lean and celebrate very very seriously.

They are also deeply spiritual –

Shabbos candles with their cats  every Friday night to honor the whole-ness and holiness of the week.

Hanukkah candles to light the darkest days of winter.

Each Passover Seder would begin with the call of the Tibetan singing bowl, shaping the sacred space and time and setting a place for the divine.

Elijah’s cup was never washed – because he might show up a few days later.

I almost thought to suggest the singing bowl for the Zoom.

Instead, as the (self) appointed expert on all things Judaism (Gd help us all) I offered to recite the Mourners Kaddish.

The thing is, it was late afternoon in Jerusalem and I wasn’t home. I was in a taxi stuck in traffic.

The driver was a religious Jewish fellow — black yarmulke, a tidy white beard. A Moshiach NOW sticker on his dashboard.

I put the call on mute “I am sorry to ask, but my uncle died — would it bother you if I say Kaddish because his wife doesn’t know how?”

The driver shrugged. He looked a little uncomfortable. I wonder what he thought – me with my arms covered in tattoos, my American Hebrew, my rock n roll family far away, the shiva on Zoom. The Tibetan singing bowl theoretically at the ready. We are all Jews, but from such different planets.

He rubbed his eyes.

Traffic slogged forward.

I unmuted the call, my aunt’s face and mine, both on the same screen. 9 of us on the Zoom. Just 1 short of a minyan – a quorum, and traditionally, this prayer is recited only when there is a minyan, a quorum of 10 Jews, present.

Between that and the fact I know this whole thing is so intimate, and also not following the generally accepted protocol, I felt awkward in the taxi, a little self-conscious, but I took a breath.

“Ok, I’ll begin,” I said.

“Yitgadal v’yitkadash sh’me raba…”

Glorified and sanctified be God’s great name.

The sun shone behind me through the rear window, and the light from Jerusalem appeared on my aunt’s face through her screen

I could hear my uncle and aunt singing one of their favorite songs together — the first duet they ever sang when they met in high school:

Here Comes The Sun.

My eyes swam with tears, my throat closed and I could barely shape my mouth around the words. The last time I said kaddish was a million lifetimes ago in LA, for my mom — and I felt again as I did that day, half my family’s little girl, and half grown woman, responsible for my family.

“… v’yamlich malchutei b’chayeichon uvyomeichon
uvchayei d’chol beit yisrael, ba’agala
uvizman kariv, v’im’ru: “amen.””

May He establish His kingdom in your lifetime and during your days, and within the life of the entire House of Israel, speedily and soon; and we say, Amen.

Everyone on the Zoom said amen.

And so then quietly from the front seat, so quiet I thought I imagined it, the taxi driver with his yarmulke and beard whispered “amen,” too. The tenth voice.

We had our  minyan – our quorum of ten.

A sob rose in my throat, a tsunami of grief, of pain, and also gratitude for this moment together.

I somehow made it through the whole prayer. Waves from a primordial ocean pouring down my face – a memory of that ancient sea that once flowed over earth, the one that the desert lay beneath once … the waters that once touched everything … from the shores of LA to the slopes of Jerusalem. A world of salt and silt and a universe of life, a billion stars riding the waves toward the shore, the promise of life moving and shifting and the sun rising and the moon glowing, glorified and sanctified, life. And the force that connects us… the setting sun shone gold through the screen onto my aunt’s face. Her morning sun shone on mine.

Where each sun ends and each sun begins, I cannot tell. The circle flowed into a spiral and into a bridge around the world, and we all said amen, and so did the taxi driver, each of us from our different planets, in sunlight together, one abundant universe.

Here comes the sun.
Here comes the sun.
And I say it’s  alright

By the end, we were all weeping. Including the taxi driver  —  a total stranger — who was now like family.

I miss my uncle. It’s not alright. I want him here on earth with us – none of this makes sense – he should still he here, making music, making us all laugh, making a great martini –

I also know that his ability to bring people together is a force field of love and light, a bridge across the cosmos – in sunshine, in starlight – forever and ever. And it may not ever feel alright again – but the sun will keep on doing its thing each day – rising, falling, rising again … and we will look for moments to let it shine on our faces.