06 Nov Mercy, Mercy Me
The duck food was passed out amongst the handful of us that showed up for the Tashlich service after Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. The ritual states Jews should go to a body of water and purge their sins from the previous year symbolically using stale bread, breadcrumbs, rose petals, fish food or other organic material that can easily be digested by the earth (if we don’t want to hold onto our sins, I doubt Mother Nature does as well). Our temple is down the street from a local park with a duck pond, so for the last several years congregants have showed up walking past after school tennis lessons, toddlers at play, and fur family members visiting their friends at the dog park.
As I took the long stroll up the grassy knoll towards the pond, a wave of suffering came over me. This isn’t new but after having a challenging time the night before, I thought there might be reprieve or rest for the tired and weak, which is how I felt lugging up an emotional incline that had no end in sight.
Forgiveness at Ford Park.
“This too shall pass. There are lessons to be learned. My healing is not done. I have faith. Be still and know I am God.”
The mantras swirled and danced in my head, side-stepping one another, in a perpetual spiritual spiral of hope and validation. I stopped. They stopped. I was alone. Damon and the kids had circus, a religion in itself, and decided to attend practices as opposed to the ceremony. I don’t force faith on my family so I accepted their decision and attended the High Holy Day services that sought me. As Damon commonly jokes, “My Muslim wife knows more about Judaism than I do!”
I slowed down but managed to arrive as the rabbi and cantor started the services. A couple of my dearest friends were in attendance, one standing directly to my left while the other passed out the duck food. Even amongst a flock of friends, I felt immensely alone. The kind of icy loneliness that stabs to the marrow leaving you chilly even under the blaze of the desert Sun. Pain that cradles your heart promising to never let go and willingly invites fear to take hold, anxiety to strengthen and suffering to become the norm.
Breathe. You’re okay. Tears. You’re okay.
I think this is a panic attack. It is an attack – of what, I do not know.
Could I be attacking myself? Could my mind be creating realities that reside in suffering and pain, an unwillingness to heal deeper, or to broaden my heart space towards greater love and compassion?
“Please walk around and be with your thoughts as we scatter the duck food,” rabbi and cantor instructed.
Lord Jesus, I’ve been with my thoughts and they aren’t helping!
Ducks can be quite aggressive so I decided to walk away from the main group and wander towards a quieter part of the pond. I held the food, capsule like in shape and granular in texture, in my left hand, while taking small amounts with my right and throwing them into the pond, mucky and deep green. I’m not quite sure if there were particular sins I was casting off or the heaviness of something that I no longer wanted to carry; I didn’t have the strength to lug anymore.
“An ethereal presence abided amongst the sorrow.”
Surprisingly, with each toss, a lightness came within me. An ethereal presence abided amongst the sorrow. It gently relocated the pain, suffering and anxiety outside of my body. It created space for me to breathe. It lifted me and nurtured my broken heart. It warmed me with a sense of belonging that was deep within me, like an intricate roadmap of my arteries leading me deeper and deeper into a well of unconditional love. It was pure and magical! It was, what I refer to, as God. You might call it Universe, Jesus, Allah, Buddha, Divine or Om. They are all names for Love.
I thought I was done with the Tashlich service when I noticed my left hand tightly clenching onto a few grains of duck food. By now my face was bathed in tears, my emotions run dry, and my body exhausted from a 24 hour healing marathon. But the Universe wasn’t done with me.
Unconsciously, the last few grains of duck food were cemented in my palm, not wanting to be thrown or discarded for they were my reason to hold onto the slightest morsel of resentment. A life including childhood trauma, sexual abuse and assaults, being disowned by my family for choosing to love someone outside of their understanding was enough motivation to remain a victim of my circumstances.
The landmine of excuses to be small and miniscule in loving others was tremendous. It was safe. One misstep and a reason presented itself to be angry all over again: flip off the world and its inhabitants and claim “I am done with you!” My love is mine – all mine. I won’t share. It hurts. Hadn’t I earned the right to be angry once in a while, to expect things to go my way and when they didn’t, to soothe my scars with a healthy dose of self-righteousness? After all, nobody would fault me.
Oh, c’mon! Give me this! Give me an excuse to not love everyone, especially if they’ve hurt me. Allow me to use my pain to remain slightly bitter – just a tad. What will I get from letting go of all my hurt? What else is there? I know how to live in my suffering, but I don’t know the vastness of healing deeply, to love unconditionally, to step into relationships and connections bravely. That’s scary! What can You offer me?
I was practically shouting at God, albeit within.
Above the slightest breeze, through the pines, amongst the quacking ducks, and my chattering mind came a Whisper…
Freedom.
“But freedom from suffering and compassion for myself was worth the unknown I’m in now.”
The last three granules were flung into the pond revealing crescent shape nail marks in the palm of my hand from my own reluctance to let go. But freedom from suffering and compassion for myself was worth the unknown I’m in now.
The grassy knoll wasn’t a challenge heading back towards the parking lot. My strides grew stronger and stronger as I walked on.
Breathe. I’m okay.
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