Souvenirs

The French verb se souvenir means "to remember."  From this comes the noun souvenir, used in both French and English.  The English use of the word souvenir describes an object, which is essentially a physical representation or manifestation of a memory, and often taken from a faraway, exotic, or unique location.

It is interesting that these souvenirs -- rememberances, if you will -- should always be so concrete.  But what about when we have no tangible object to represent an experience?  To this the 21st century masses shout "Take a picture!" or "Video!  Audio!" but even these are not always options.

It is in these moments where no palpable souvenir can be found that we must return to the true meaning of the word and simply remember.

I spent last Shabbat with some acquaintances of my Mom in Rehovot.  The family is Dati, referring to a the general population of religious (Orthodox) Jews in Israel.  However, as I found and as was explained to me, the labels are less significant here, as the people themselves are more chromatic, representing a more inclusive spectrum than I have personally observed in the United States.  But I digress.

I was delighted to find the siddurim (prayer books) at the synagogue with which I am most familiar.  Same publisher, same translation, everything.  Other than the new melodies and the d'var torah (sermon) which was completely in Hebrew, I was entirely comfortable and "at home."

While listening to the d'var torah, it became increasingly axiomatic that the person speaking was not Israeli.  The accent had none of the guttural depth of a native Israeli, and I turned to my hostess to ask where he was from.  "The United States," she replied matter-of-fact.  "Most of the people here are Americans or others who have spent a lot of time abroad."  She explained that generally-speaking, synagogues in Israel are less of a community than elsewhere around the world.  You go, you pray, you leave.  Why form a community with the people in your synagogue when all the people around you are part of the Jewish community?  But Americans, well, some of us like that once-a-week community, like being part of something special to make a true distinction between Shabbat and the rest of the week.  So this synagogue grew with that in mind, built and cultivated by a predominately Ashkenazi (Eastern European) English-speaking congregation.

As with most Jewish services I've attended, song played a primary role throughout it all.  My Jewish friends and family will understand what I'm talking about, but I'm not entirely sure if everyone else will.  You see, in Judaism we do not sing from Psalters or other notation.  We are not told when we will sing what.  With a few exceptions, what we are singing are not songs but melodies put to the requisite text.  Everyone in a given community knows the melodies, knows the variations, may even know alternate melodies.  And though many are found throughout the world, many more are unique to each community and region.  And of course, each community's interpretation of the melody is as individual as the people themselves.

It's always comfortable to go to a new synagogue and hear the same melodies with which you're already familiar, but it's even more exciting and impressive to go somewhere and be introduced to something entirely different.  It's as if each new melody brings new meaning to the words we are proclaiming, creating a sense of ruach and kedushah that otherwise gets lost amid the monotony and regularity of the service.

It is impossible to describe exactly how I felt upon singing with this congregation, but it is a feeling not entirely foreign to me.  The opening notes are like Pavlov's bell to my musical mouth.  I feel a sense of awe coupled with excitement as I try to train my ears and voice to the rise and fall of this new current.  As I am swept along the melody with the rest of the community, I begin to listen for the splashes of harmony and counter-melody - the old man's inspired cry here, the woman's dolce soprano voice floating gently above the others there - and I try to mimic them or add my own to the growing stream.  Soon, I am singing confidently with them, enjoying the music we are creating but knowing full-well I may not be able to recreate this precise moment.

I wish I could have a camera inside the synagogue to show you the joy, the sincerity, the pomp, the variety.  I wish I could record the sounds and spirit of these moments, but alas, I am forbidden.  Yet while I might momentarily bemoan the circumstance, I remember just as quickly that I must enjoy it that much more.  In order to create my souvenir, I must live in the moment as fully, as completely as possible, to ensure the memory remains not only in my mind, but in my eyes, my ears, my body, my soul.

There was another such moment, albeit more subtle, before dinner on Friday night.  It is customary among religious Jews for parents to bless their children before the Shabbat meal.  There is a particular blessing one says, though I imagine most parents add their own words, private prayers and supplications.  So Friday night, I again witnessed this prayer for the children.  The children that evening were not so young - ages 19 to 23 - and yet this custom was carried out as it had for their entire lives.  I watched as my host's 19-year-old son stood in front of his father.  Tenderly, his father placed his hands on either side of the boy's head, touched forehead to forehead with eyes closed and uttered words that only they and G-d could hear.  After the prayer had been said, the father kissed his son's head.  I watched their profiles in this ritual and again thought how beautiful it would be to photograph.  But I caught myself mid-thought and instead focused intently on what I saw to impress the image on my mind.  And I'll tell you:  This image is better than anything my camera could have taken, because the image I keep to myself contains not just color, hue, line, and texture, but memory, emotion, spirit, and the essence of love and life.  It is the greatest souvenir I could have taken.