Better Late Than Never
Kislev is a month of darkness. As with many traditions at this time of year, cultures created ways of engaging with each other and their natural surroundings to fight against this darkness. Candles. Storytelling. We fight not only to find light, but to be light, either in our message or quite literally through lit flames. Of all the holidays in a Jewish year, Hanukkah is undoubtedly, and has always been, the most mine. Though my time with her was limited, my mother made this so. We practiced enough together that I could continue it alone, and that says something. Both that I could and that I wanted to without her.
Pogrebin’s chapter about Hanukkah also reaches deeply into childhood. She, too, cites how ingrained the traditions are for her, only to come back around to questions about authenticity. Does the ‘always’ doing make it real? Make it true? Make it enough? During her ‘Jewish year’, she is told that the stories are and aren’t what we always heard. Hanukkah is the only holiday not commanded in the Bible. So her sources ask, does it exist because we wonder about Jewish versus not Jewish enough? History versus story? The value of doing something late versus missing it all together?
A few weeks ago, I saved an article about Sheryl Sandberg’s message to Jewish leaders gathered at the General Assembly in DC. In a simple act of raising their hands, she noted, “When we think we’ve done all we can, we realize we can do more–and we do. And we have!” But, the most impactful aspect of that speech for me is that she described her Jewish identity as being more central than she imagined. My identity. My goals. Perhaps, I want to be anywhere but here for Hanukkah, but when it’s Hanukkah, how could I be anywhere else but wondering, if even in a small circle of belonging, is it enough?
For around ten years my mother’s Hanukiah has been lit in Israel without me. Of the total eight nights, I am usually invited into one night with my family, via video screen. I watch jelly and wax drip and drop from fingers I have no hope of touching. I am tired of lighting candles without my family. I am fatigued by the sameness that covers me in blanket like darkness. Still, something must be happening with that blanket. Perhaps, it's growing thin in spaces from constant use. Or, woven bits are pulling apart. Other people are seeing through it. In spite of my identity and traditions not often being voiced, my feelings for something larger to mark the holiday must have been. This year, three distinct garlands adorn my walls, Hanukkah themed decorations gifted to me, and a necklace I bought months ago, with the words inscribed ‘woman of valor (or) value’ adorns me.
Pogrebin reflects, “. . . tradition can be easy or shaky–easy if you start early, shaky if you never began.” (111). The Hanukiah my brother left in the place of our mother’s is much more difficult to light as each candle is added. Yet, I do it. Alone. Awkwardly at times. I raise my hand higher. With the lightest adjustments of my fingertips, I find steadiness. The flames grow bright and warm on my face. This particular holiday, Hanukkah, aside, this year I pause to acknowledge that I am already closer to who I wanted to be than I have been in years past. If Noa Tishby can still learn something about dreidels, my Hanukkah blessing should not be sung so softly even I can barely hear it. The holiday of my youth isn't merely mimicry of more established, important celebrations nor of who I might not think I am, yet.
When I return home from work after sunset, I will hold my hand a little higher and sing a little louder. I will forgive myself with the knowledge, “Hanukkah exists because it’s always better late than never”.
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