USCJ Review - Fall 2004
Transforming Sorrow Into Song
According to Abraham Joshua Heschel, there are three ways to mourn. The first is to cry. The second is to grow silent. The third is to transform sorrow into song. For all of us who have mourned, I imagine that at least the first two of these expressions of sorrow have been present. For myself, though, it was the third that was to become the most powerful and comforting.
In March 2002, my 20-month-old daughter, Liat Chanina, was diagnosed with a very rare and aggressive brain tumor. Three weeks later, on April 8, she died. The pain and grief was so great, so overwhelming, that at first I avoided it. I hid behind my rabbinate and protected myself by caring, not for myself, but for my congregants.
Many people told me that as time went on, the pain would dull – that I would find healing and closure. Before I go any further, I would like to dispel a terrible falsehood. Words like “healing” and “closure” are dangerous when we are mourning a loved one. That we should anticipate a time when our hearts will not ache, when our souls will not feel a bit empty, is to deny the reality of loss.
In the Jewish tradition, when we offer words of condolence to mourners, we traditionally say “HaMakom yinaheim etkhem,May ‘the Space’ console you.” Usually, this is understood as a plea for God, Who fills all space, to bring comfort to those who mourn. But I have come to understand this phrase differently. When we must face a “space,”an “emptiness” in our lives, we pray not for God or anyone else to fill it – and shield us from it – but instead, that that very space, HaMakom, should itself become a source of comfort.
Whether we are silent, whether we cry out, or whether we sing, none of these expressions of grief help us find healing or closure. They do help us find a way to incorporate this loss into our lives and go on living. And so, as I journeyed, in large part hiding from myself, there was this grief growing inside of me, searching for an opportunity for expression; yearning to find its “makom,” its space.
Toward the end of sitting shivah for my daughter, I found myself on my front stoop after midnight. It was finally quiet. Those fulfilling the mitzvah (commandment) of nihum aveilim (comforting the mourner) had long gone home; my older daughter, Dalia, was asleep; and only the rare car passing by broke the quiet stillness of the outside air. I had brought my guitar outside with me, not knowing what I was going to do with it. And then I began to sing. The music and the words just poured out of me: first, a song about my daughter; then a song about where God is in loss, and then another and another. Eventually, enough came out to put together into a recording, which I entitled “HaMakom.” This music turned out to be, for me, the truest expression of my grief that I could share. It was my makom – my space and my comfort.
In thinking about my experience with loss and the comfort I have found in music, I couldn’t help but think of King David, who upon hearing of the loss of King Saul and his son, Jonathan, sang a song for them:
Your glory, O Israel,
Lies slain on your heights;
How have the mighty fallen!Daughters of Israel,
Weep over Saul,
Who clothed you in crimson and finery,
Who decked your robes with jewels of gold.How have the mighty fallen
In the thick of battle –
Jonathan, slain on your heights!
I grieve for you,
My brother Jonathan,
You were most dear to me.
Your love was wonderful to me;
More than the love of women.
How have the mighty fallen,
The weapons of war (Saul and Jonathan) perished!(II Samuel 1:19, 24-27)
What powerful poetry, and how beautiful it must have sounded in the ears of all those whom he taught. I can only imagine that for King David, a master composer and musician, music was a natural way to express his loss, his frustration, and his sadness. Later in the TaNaKH, we read of Jeremiah composing laments for Josiah, which all the singers, male and female, would recite in their laments for Josiah (II Chronicles 35:25).
There are numerous sources that teach us that we should avoid music during shivah and sheloshim. And there are an equal number of reasons why this makes sense. Jewish tradition is rooted in honesty; not only in speech and action, but also in emotion. We are, and should be, in a different place emotionally when we are in mourning. To surround ourselves with joyous music and festivities is to deny where we are. It is to put on a mask concealing our true emotional identity. To the contrary, Judaism says, be where you need to be and don’t put on a happy face for the sake of others.
This all makes perfect sense. And I have found it hard even two years after my daughter’s death to return to semahot and social events. But, like King David, I have been blessed to find a voice for my sorrow and a place for my grief. The “makom” I create for myself with music is safe and loving. It is a place to which I can go to cry, to be angry, to search for answers and to miss Liat. And it is a place from which I can emerge with renewed strength and courage for the road ahead, and in which I can find a new niggun to hum along the way.
The author is the spiritual leader of Temple Beth Abraham, Canton, MA.
