Working on My D'var Torah

I'm sitting here in my pajamas at the kitchen table, drinking coffee from a mug a beloved client gave me that says ENJOY. To my left, Chupie is nuzzled into her bed, having a morning snooze. Mani's getting ready for class. I can hear the blender downstairs; our neighbor is making her morning smoothie.

For the bat mitzvah, one of the things we each have to do (there are 18 of us) is write a דבר תורה or d'var Torah.

"D'var" literally means a thing or a word. A d'var Torah is a word, some thoughts, about the week's Torah reading. It might explore the story itself, the symbolism, the language, the relevance to our lives today, or something deeply personal. There is no right way to write a d'var. But my sense is that it should offer the community some new thing to consider or chew on, or a new way of seeing and understanding the text.

In this case, we've also been given permission to write about our journey towards this experience of becoming b'nei mitzvah as adults. I've been working on my draft, and it's a little of all of these, but most of all, it's a personal exploration of things I've been writing about in other contexts for years -- the relationship between self and other. Between obligation and desire. Between fear and love.

I just sent the Google doc with the rabbi, not without a degree of trepidation. I become shy in these matters, which may surprise you but it's true.

Anyway, I thought I'd come and share a paragraph from my messy first draft. One thing that strikes me is the echo of my experience in synagogue and my experience in the writing groups I lead.

Worshipping together, something happens. I have experienced it enough times to know it is real, not just a fluke available to some and not others. Over the course of weeks, months, and years, more and more faces become familiar. Names become easy on my tongue. A smile across the sanctuary. The knowing that we each bring so much with us to prayer; joy, grief, anxiety, confusion, overwhelm, boredom, anger, compassion. We are all here, pausing the busy-ness, to connect with something both greater and more intimate. Yirah (fear/awe). Ahava (love). I am holding space for the one who is grieving, even if we don’t exchange a word. You are supporting me through a hard decision, though you may never know a thing about it. By showing up, we give and receive support in the most spacious way.

p.s. want to read the whole draft? Join me over on Patreon.