USCJ Review - Spring 2007
Forever Changed
I am not a virgin any more. Two summers ago I participated in my first taharah, washing, dressing, and laying out the dead according to Jewish tradition. And what happens when you loose that other virginity happens with this one too. I was transformed.
The day started like any other. It was sunny and bright and I was about to get in the shower to get ready for work when the call came. As soon as I heard Rabbi Regina Sandler-Phillips’ voice, I knew why the phone had rung. Even before she spoke, I was aware of an odd mixture of excited anticipation and dread. The women’s taharah team from a synagogue in Manhattan would be performing a taharah in a few hours. The team’s leaders had provided the initial training for my chevra kadisha at the Park Slope Jewish Center. Now, they were inviting one or two members of our group to participate along with them.
A chevra kadisha – literally a “holy society” – performs the mitzvah, the commandment, of preparing a body for burial. The Park Slope Jewish Center’s chevra kadisha is the first full-service non- Orthodox one in Brooklyn.
Earlier care-giving experiences, study, and training had prepared me for this moment. I had taken part in the Third North American Chevra Kadisha Conference at Columbia University, even though at the time I felt like somewhat of an imposter, never having participated personally in an actual taharah. I was more than ready to put theory into action, and yet I also was nervous. Was I really ready for this encounter with death? After all, it was only in the last year that I had dealt with enough of my “death issues” to be able to visit my father’s grave for the first time. Had I resolved all my old issues as completely as I thought I had? Would I fall apart when actually confronted with my first meitah – with the body of a dead woman? And there was also guilt. How could I feel excitement about this? But standing on the brink of taking a major step forward into new uncharted life territory is exciting, and this was definitely new and uncharted, at least for me.
I quickly called my office to cancel my appointments and went upstairs to shower. I was mindful of this being more than an ordinary shower, just as I was aware of the difference the morning I showered for my wedding. I was cleansing myself physically and spiritually to be ready to perform this taharah with the right kavanah, or intention. As I planned what to wear, I recalled the usual advice is to wear comfortable clothing, because I would be there to work, not just to observe. Yet this did not feel right. I decided I needed to find an outfit that would be comfortable and allow for unrestricted movement but also would express the respect this moment deserved. Respect for the meitah and respect for myself for taking this step. A long black skirt, a new black top, and comfortable black sandals seemed appropriate. It felt right to wear something new for this new experience.
We are supposed to approach this work with reverence and humility, yet I couldn’t help feeling proud of myself. I wanted to tell every other Jewish person (Jews are easy to spot in my heavily Orthodox neighborhood!) waiting with me at the bus stop that I was on my way to perform my first taharah. I whispered a “Shechecheyanu” instead, saying a blessing for this new thing I was about to do.
At the funeral home in Manhattan I was greeted by Rabbi Regina, who introduced me to the team’s rosh, or head, and the other members of the taharah team. They were extremely supportive and welcoming of me, especially when they learned this was my first time. We briefly discussed how the taharah would be conducted and proceeded to the taharah area. I was told that I could leave and wait upstairs if the experience proved overwhelming for me. I knew I would not be judged if I did. We started putting on protective clothing and washing our hands in preparation for performing the taharah, and as we did I felt the same feelings of excitement and dread and some small measure of panic rising inside me.
We wheeled the meitah from the refrigeration area to the taharah room. The bag containing her body was unzipped. I felt the dread rise to my throat. I glanced up and saw Rabbi Regina looking at me as if to say “Are you okay? Do you need to leave?” Throughout the morning, as our eyes met, she silently asked me the same questions. Her compassion and support sustained me and I realized that I did not need or want to leave.
The moment I first glanced at “my” meitah, I was flooded by a rush of insights. Questions I had grappled with for years suddenly seemed to have clear answers. I saw that real death does not look like TV or movie death. Confronted by the cold, hard, unresponsive, colorless finality of death, I felt that I truly comprehended the awesome power of God for the first time because I was understanding the stark difference between life and death for the first time. I was able to grasp fully, for the first time, that only God has the power to create a living soul, and only God has the right to say when that life would end.
I suddenly realized that the thoughts of death that can creep into your mind at times of deep despair bear little resemblance to the reality of death. The cosmeticized version of death we are so familiar with makes it easy to confuse death with a “time out” when coping no longer seems possible. In that piercing instant, I discovered new life-affirming boundaries. I appreciated, more deeply than ever before, the exquisite preciousness of life, with all its joys and challenges, triumphs and pain. I understood, with a clarity I had never known before, that death belongs to God. These boundaries filled me with peace, acceptance, and security.
My inclusion in the taharah was gentle and slow. First I joined in the recitation of the introductory prayers. We began to cleanse the meitah, and I was asked to clean her fingernails. I was struck by the coldness and rigidity of her body. As we continued our ministrations, it seemed that her body became warmer and more pliant. Was it my imagination, or even in death was she responding to the warmth and the love with which she was being prepared for her final resting place?
As the taharah proceeded, I was struck by the deep beauty of this process. In a quieter, less frenetic way, this woman was being cleaned, dressed, and readied to enter the next world with the same lovingkindness that a newborn baby receives upon entering this one. As they worked, the team members sang niggunim, meditative melodies. Through them,in this sacred space I heard the angels singing our meitah the ultimate lullabies. How could she not be comforted?
The taharah was concluded, and we gently laid the woman in her simple wood coffin. We completed the liturgy and asked our meitah to forgive any disrespectful transgressions we may have committed inadvertently. We removed our gloves, washed our hands, discarded our hospital gowns and prepared to re-enter the world. Since then, I have participated in two more taharot. I find that as the tahara itself washes away the smells and staleness of a body ravaged by age and disease, I start to see the 20-year-old who laughed and dreamed, loved and was desired.
Walking out of the funeral home shortly after noon on that summer day, I was stunned to find that the sun was still shining, as it had been when I arrived. Time and space had vanished in the taharah room, and it was startling to realize that outside it was a normal day, and life was moving along. But I was not ready to move “mi kodesh lechol,” from the holy back to the mundane. The taharah had been a literally awesome experience in that I was filled with awe – awe of God, at the power of death, and with a profound appreciation of the beauty of life. I felt uplifted and changed. I knew I would never be the same person again.
How am I different? Like a girl who has become a woman; internally transformed and enriched, with a glow that may or may not have been showing. Have I gotten over my fear of death? Not entirely. But I have learned that I can face my fears and grow in spite of them. I have been blessed to have had a direct experience of God’s presence once before in my life, when my mother was near death, but never before had I understood God’s power quite so clearly. I feel clearer now about God’s place in the world, and about my own. This has made me feel stronger, centered, and connected to my community, especially to those who partnered with me in shmirah, the traditional vigil over the dead, and in tahara,and to Jews everywhere who have performed this holy work. I feel connected to a strong and beautiful heritage that has stretched back generations and generations and will reach forward to comfort and prepare me with love when my time comes.
Ilene Rubenstein, LMSW, has been a college counselor and adviser for 25 years. She is a member of the Park Slope Jewish Center’s gmach and its chevra kadisha.
