A(nother) Shabbat

In her book, "My Jewish Year," Pegrebin adds Shabbat as a chapter inside the trajectory of the other holidays of the year. Is this insertion a status more or less noteworthy for Shabbat, the holiday she labels, “the most important holiday of all”?

Shabbat is Friday, every Friday. As children, we never observed Shabbat, despite so many yearly chances. For my brother’s children, Shabbat is an ‘always’. The opposite habit. Pegrebin notes the difficulty in fighting social customs or expectations to keep Shabbat, but the span between my never and always is more than that. Old habits. New expectations. At least these ‘battles’ are visible. More difficult are the ones no one sees, much less questions.

The initial immensity of this possible task begins with all the ways to not quite not measure up. The complete Sabbath commandments avoid 39 kinds of work, or habits, of a sort. By today’s standards, many of this ‘work’ (e.g. gardening, baking) is now recreational. So what is one to do, or not do, every week of the year?

Pegrebin sits down with her ‘Shabbat therapist’, writer and scholar Judith Shulevitz. She confirms, “Nobody can get there. It’s an unachievable utopia. It’s this dream of community, oneness, wholeness, rising outside of yourself into this perfect world. In some weird way, Shabbat is about coming to terms with imperfection.” (137) It’s an impossible task to keep Shabbat. Maybe that is why we get so many chances, because we need a constant reminder.

I consider a recent Shabbat, the one that took place during my brother’s visit to my father’s house. Before that Saturday, he hadn’t been back in two years, and the Shabbat before had been five years ago. Similar to building and maintaining observance of Shabbat, time together is a space we fight to create and consistently underestimate. Like Shabbat, I set the bar high, and do not easily come to terms with the resulting imperfection.

During the visit five years ago, I tried to make it interesting. I found activities. I invited people over to visit. It had felt marginally successful. This visit, I planned nothing. Instead, we completed my brother's checklist which felt more like a metaphorical six days of work full of actions that justified his time spent with us. On the last day of his visit, there was nothing left to do but pause. The visit had emptied us of all other plans and brought us to a/the/our state of menuchah.

On this day of no work, I had one ask, sorting through a closet. I made this request multiple times. Rabbi Lauren Berkun reminds, “In Judaism there’s a certain amount of a leap of action.” She finishes, “It’s often the reverse of how liberal, Western Jews operate when they essentially say, ‘first convince me this is meaningful, and then I’ll do it.” (139) So I carried all the items downstairs and laid them on the floor at his feet.

Throughout the sorting, my brother reminded me that he did not want to participate. I said nothing, but I watched him. Carefully, he explored the piles. So did my father. With curiosity they opened the boxes. My brother filled a garbage bag and his suitcase.

Shulevitz elevates this idea of ‘doing’. She offers, “I don’t think the feeling comes first. I think the doing comes first.” (138)

Academically, I already knew this to be true. The act of fabrication, making something true by believing it’s true: this concept fascinated me in graduate school. In professional spaces, I often contested the idea that we had nothing to talk about. I believed we needed to do something together for us to understand what there might be to talk about.

On Monday, I knew people would ask, “How was your visit with your brother?”.

Imperfect. We didn't do anything. I would respond, “We cleaned a closet.”

Pegrebin summarizes, “Do it. . .”

“What?” I ask. “What did we do?”

“. . .and you will feel it.” (138)

Childhood art, English journals, Hebrew notebooks, trophies, photographs, letters. He left on Sunday, and I spent my time finding redefined space more appropriate for the items. The donation box sat in a corner of the room. His mementos fit neatly in a plastic tub pushed under my bed. My father looked for a trunk to save the awards and trophies. Ironically, I held disposable candle holders and a half used box of Shabbat candles in my hands. The donation box. The garbage. I would need another day. Another Shabbat? I set the items on the shelf next to my Hanukkiah. Unlike the Hanukkah candles, these were not for a holiday once a year, but maybe for more than once a year, I could make space for another Shabbat.