"To be a teacher in the right sense is to be a learner.  I am not a teacher, only a fellow student."  (Soren Kierkegaard)

I learned today that Samuel Manashe, a marvelous Jewish New York poet who lived out most of his writing years in utter obscurity, passed away a few days ago in his mid eighties. I was moved by his extremely honed minimalist style, and I briefly flashed back several years to when the Israeli poet laureate Yehuda Amichai passed away. Unlike Manashe, so many people were devoted readers of Amichai's prose. His passing felt vaguely like losing a grandfather whose warm presence was always in the background - and now he was gone. These writers did not share the blood which courses through my veins, and yet - for people who enjoyed the poetry of these great artists, there is a felt absence. It's what "appreciation" pieces are about. Some lovely and moving words were penned in appreciation for the late [and potentially great] Amy Winehouse. These words were about helping us put her life and death in a context.

All of this pales when we consider mourning on a personal scale. Full Disclosure: As I am blessed with both of my parents, I cannot pretend to write from experience. Because of the tragic losses which occurred within our congregational family right around the time of my son's bar mitzvah, I find myself reflecting uponThe Lord giving and the Lord taking away, I find my awareness taken up a notch. When Jews mourn, whenanyone mourns - what do their gestures mean, what emotions are being expressed? The answers [I doubt there is one single answer] are not so simple. Our feelings about the person who has died are often complex, and - even with the passage of time - there may be painful unresolved issues with which we struggle. It occurs to me that when I or anyone asks how are you doing, that fine and okay can't really signify anything adequate, that the journey of grief may often be a matter of a decent day and a horrible day, a comforting moment and a moment of bottomless sorrow; certainly a realization that today's normal bears no resemblance to the time before. And while the truism” life goes on” makes some sense, those words miserably fail to capture life [haltingly] moving forward.

Even when we consider the Jewish mourning rituals themselves, things are complicated. I have learned that one size does not fit all. Psalm 49, traditionally recited at a shiva minyan, leaves some people distraught and unsettled. Personal disclosure: when leading services at a shiva minyan, all due respect to the ancient psalmist,  I can longer recite those words; they make me too crazy. The gatherings at the house often bring solace to the family. Not always. Some mourners are very private and feel besieged by hordes of well-meaning congregants and friends.

We are in the midst of seven haftarot of consolation. Ancient Israel, following the destruction of the Temple stands in need of comfort. We might also personalize these words as we think about what we need to heal. When we have the opportunity to comfort others, how will we express love and concern? All of rituals [Jewish, non-Jewish] are social constructs: people fashioned the customs. What's really important lies underneath - how do we come forward to help the mourner find their way into a new day?