Paris in Me

I had all sorts of quippy observations to write about this week, but after the terrifying occurrence in Paris, everything else fades into the background.

A larger group than usual assembled at Temple Emanuel Friday night for our Shabbat Unplugged service. Perhaps people needed to connect and plug back in with one another after hearing about the horrifying attacks. Our clergy addressed the fear, the anger and vulnerability and that goes along when we sit helpless miles away, both too far and too close to Paris.

I was singing with my husband in the center of the sanctuary as he led this service, this beautiful brainchild of his. Our cantor was elsewhere for the evening so I sat in for her. I found my husband before he was a rabbi as we sang together in the hallways of a little youth hostel in Jerusalem, so joining voices with him anywhere is always a special event for me and this service was no different.

We arrived at the mi shebeirach prayer, the prayer that asks for people to focus on those who are ill or need any kind of healing. We sing it in the melody of Debbie Friedman, which is the custom in many Reform Synagogues. My rabbi husband needed my hands to collect the names from the congregation as his were busy at the guitar. I was not prepared for this, as it is usually the job of the clergy, but I stood up and tried to breathe into the eyes of as many people as I could. I asked the part of my mind that felt unworthy of this action to take a step back. I know enough about energy to know that we are all blessed with the ability to be one another’s vehicle for healing. Neither diplomas nor anything external makes a person qualified to hear another person’s pain.

I saw some people smile back at me, and I wondered if it was in encouragement. I wondered if some felt silly, or if that was my projection. I noticed too that I was gently gripping my skirt with my left hand. Try as I might, I could not unleash my hand. I guessed that must come with the territory of getting more comfortable in this situation. I know through all my training as an actress and yogi that tension shows up in our body language.

People said names I knew and names I did not, and then one woman referenced those unknown names injured in Paris from the atrocious attacks. And in that moment, I expanded. I lost my feeling of contraction, and owned my strength as guide. I think the shared experience that grief is reminded me of our equality in this experience of humanity. We are not who we are from an outstretched arm, but simply by our innately given gift to be present and compassionate with one another.

In a hope filled peace,

Michelle

our practice schedule remains in tact this week:

MONDAY                8:30 AM -9:45 AM  (FLOW PLUS MEDITATION)

WEDNESDAY         6:30 PM-7:30 PM

All classes at Temple Emanuel of Beverly Hills, 300 N. Clark Drive