Passover Magic

Ever since it happened, I've been working things around in my head in an attempt to get the words on paper, or in this case, virtual paper. You know when something happens that is indescribable and yet you want so badly to share it, but the words just won't come?

That's what happened to me on Saturday and yet, here I am, bumbling along to share what I can of the experience.

All day Friday, I had been in the kitchen preparing a Passover-ish meal for my husband and his family. It was Passover-"ish" because Passover wasn't until Tuesday and my husband is quite particular about these celebrations; he doesn't like to celebrate things not on their regular date. So, we would not have the readings, the wine, the plate. But we would have good food (because that's how I roll).

I have been a non-attendee at most recent family celebrations of the religious kind, first of all, because I am not Jewish (duh) and second of all, because these gatherings started feeling like a contest to win snaps. It was intimated a few years ago that someone in the family may have felt a little less about me because I was less learned in the ways of the Jew. Upset and hurt by that at first, it did take me a while to get over it and put the anxiety back where it belonged. And there it rests.

So, Friday was a new venture for me. Besides hosting the family at our house (a rare occurrence), I was also preparing all the food. What was interesting is that I never thought about impressing someone except for my husband. Seriously. I know, it's me we're talking about here. Bring attention to myself? Who? Me? Never? Ha!!!

Anyway, I worked with that in my heart and it is amazing how well the day went; from shopping for the ingredients (only could not find chicken schmaltz), to prep work, to the actual preparation of the dishes. I was a machine, efficient and cleaning as I went.

The main new dish was homemade gefilte fish; now, anyone who knows anything about the gefilte fish that comes in jars might understand how I did not want the gelatinous mess served at my table. Yes, I am a gefilte fish snob. I would love to know how the process came about that this would be the desired fish product to be served on Passover tables. From delicious homemade fish spam (that's what I call it) to balls of ground fish sealed in fish gel. Urp!

Fast forward into the evening and the fish loaf comes out of the oven and my husband is jumping up and down waiting for a taste. He takes a forkful and smiles beatifically. I told him then that all the work was worth it for that result. And I meant it.

Saturday dawns and after my son's birthday party at a sports facility, people trickle back to my house for the Pre-Passover Partakings. My father-in-law came first with my mother-in-law (who retired for a nap because she wasn't feeling well). He sat in the living room while I potschke'd around the kitchen.

When I had five minutes, I made a business (house concert) phone call that I had been putting off for no good reason. I sat outside on the deck while I talked to BB, who is coming to do a show in October of this year. Now, BB has been around a while; he's a big burly man in his 70s, a vibrant energy force. I remember being absolutely spellbound during one of the stories he told at a concert last year--time and space were gone, all of us in that room were just "being" together. He had us in the palms of his hands. It was unforgettable.

After the particulars and details of October's show were hammered out, he asked if he could bend my ear for another five minutes. Of course, I said yes, as I love his voice and his lyrical way of speaking. He could read a cereal box and have you mesmerized.

He began relating a story in prose style, his voice lifting and swaying and moving like the spring trees in my back yard as they were jostled about by the breeze. I won't relate the story here in the hopes that you will be in the audience in October to hear it in person. It was a heartfelt and thoughtful story, full of memories, sadness, and love for music and those who performed it. It was a story of carrying on in the face of adversity, using the tools you've picked up or were given along the way. It was a story of acceptance and letting the magic happen.

At the end of the story, he paused, maybe waiting for my reaction, or maybe settling back down into his reality.

I burst into tears.

Oh, but what happy tears they were, even though I had a hard time choking it out, I told him that he had given me a most wonderful gift of that story, as I sat on my deck looking at the blooming dogwoods and new spring buds of leaves and flowers and the deeper, darker woods beyond. For some reason, his words lifted me up to where I needed to be to get through the day. I was taken out of my simple being for that time and shown that there is a different way and I was going to do my best to live it, even if for just one day.

As I sit here relating this, I realize that the moment cannot be captured in a way that truly makes sense and conveys the depth of gratitude I feel. And I wonder if it was even his words at all that made the magic happen; I rather think it was his act of sharing something so personal and full and real and heartbreaking and spiritual. Maybe that was the best gift of all and why the tears flowed; for all of this, I am grateful.