Begin at the Beginning

The three children, two five year old boys and a three year old girl, stood before the menorah in rapt silence, watching as I lit the shamash and then the candles for the fifth night of chanukah. They listened, motionless, as I chanted three bruchas, the two that were called for plus the shechechianu which is traditionally only offered on the first night. I wanted to chant the additional prayer because the fifth night was when all members of the California family were gathered for the candle lighting for the first time since last chanukah. There were twelve of us. It has become our tradition.

After the ritual comes the mayhem. The children had new clay that had a bouncing ball property so they threw it against the door of our small house and squealed with delight. Madelyn flounced around in her party dress. They ate some applesauce but none of the unfamiliar latkes. It was a loud and oily affair which ended for them with the appearance of three mesh bags filled with chocolate gelt. No Maccabees, no miracles, just high energy and the icing on the cake of their holiday season. I am the only Jewish person in the party of twelve.

Photo by Robert Zunikoff on Unsplash

I don’t do that well with the commotion. It was frowned upon when I was three years old so I never learned how to make that much noise. I sit in the corner of the couch and let the light diminish. Watching the candles go out is my favorite part of chanukah. Odd, no? I’m more moved by the end of the light than its beginning. My granddaughter’s husband is sitting nearby. He’s a retiring kind of guy who I’ve known for six or seven years but haven’t really connected with. I told him how I like to notice each candle flicker and burn down, giving off one last burst of flame and the final curlicue of smoke. We shared an oasis of quiet. I have no idea what that meant for him, but for me it was a contemplative antidote to the wired intensity.

I was not an introvert when I was younger so I’m having to learn how its done. It seems to involve a high level of self-awareness that I didn’t experience when I was more other-directed. I observe my universe shrinking the way it does for some people as they age. This can be experienced as a loss but for me it’s a clarification. I was always enmeshed in other people’s stories, wanting to influence them, wanting to fix them. But now I understand that my priority is to attend to my own inner life, much as I attend to my physical health. I have to make sure that I get my daily dose of meditation, of silence, of reading and writing. If I don’t get these medicines, if I feel that I’ve eaten too much noise or drunk too much from the well of other people’s worries, my organism gets thrown out of whack. It is not always easy to maintain this regimen, but in the end when I walk through the world on my own feet and see what there is to see with my own eyes, there is a whiff of serenity and the satisfaction of a greater knowing. All knowing begins with knowing oneself and from there seeing what else is out there. Buber said we begin with the self, but we don’t end with the self. I’m a beginner like 2025.

As a beginner, I backslide, I take wrong turns and get lost. There is a certain amount of self-recrimination involved. But it is also true that as a beginner, I have untold treasures to look forward to, Chinese boxes of magic unfolding. I am by definition unable to imagine what those treasures are. I can only glimpse the light peering out from the dark corners of my experience and I know that in time it will reveal more of itself to me. When I feel the pain of life, I have learned that old wounds can linger but they needn’t fester. I say to myself when the commotion of the anger rises, when the jealousy jumps up and smacks me in the face…Those are old wounds on their way to healing. Watch the candles go out on the seventh night and begin again by lighting them on the eighth. Say the shechechianu, even if its not traditional. Mark all occasions from the bottom of your heart and forgive yourself your trespasses.

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