Yom Kippur 2023

Reflections on grief, two poems, and “The Bear”

Yom Kippur #2

I forgot to get candles this year. Then, around 10 pm, I did the unthinkable. Well, not unthinkable so much as undoable. I ate a protein bar.

I’ve always fasted from sundown to sundown. I did it partly to convince myself that I could yield to a meaning that I didn’t construct myself. I did it because it was the one ritual I’d always done. I did it because it made me feel less like an improviser of my life, more like a real Jew. I did it as a way of showing those I love that were gone (and perhaps even more, showing myself) that I hadn’t forgotten them, despite appearances.

And If I couldn’t do such a small thing as fast for 24 hours, what kind of a person was I?

But this year, after falling briefly asleep and then waking up, I felt intolerably empty and hungry, and without a second thought I opened the second drawer of my bedside table and grabbed the vanilla shortbread protein bar. I’ll fast today, but it won’t be the same.

Last year was my first Yom Kippur since my older sister Mickey died. It was probably the first Yom Kippur in which I did more than go through the paces, the first Yom Kippur in which I needed more than ritual fasting and candles. I searched the internet for a service, and sunk myself into the music and prayer.

This year I won’t do any of that. I don’t want to sink into mourning. I want to keep going with my writing, my body-work, my preparations for a trip, next week-end, to a ceremony in which I’ll receive a great honor.

This whole past year— I realized this as soon as I woke up and remembered that protein bar—has been about restoring myself, and I don’t want to relinquish whatever success—sometimes sturdy, sometimes fragile—I’ve had at that. I want to eat life again, and I know Mickey would understand.

On Yom Kippur # 1, I welcomed the chance to crystalize my grief into a ritual, like those who cut their flesh in order to give their pain a location instead of a constant hovering. “Intense pain comes and goes,” I wrote, a year after Mickey’s death: “I catch a glimpse of Mickey’s elegant handwriting and am overcome with longing for her—but most days, I experience the loss of her as a transformation—sometimes intense but mostly subtle—of my entire world. I may not still be wandering from room to room, sobbing over the items she left here on her visits, but nothing in my experience, including my perception and feelings about my own body, will ever be the same. A meteor had fallen to earth and created a “before” and “after” that can never be changed. The difference isn’t always blazing in my consciousness, but it is always there. This room that I am typing in is different, the kitchen that we cooked in together is different, my own skin is different. And some warm comfort and reassurance that I never realized I had felt from having a “big sister” is gone. I know it will never return.”

Writing, since I was very young, was a part of my daily life—but even more than that, a place of becoming who I am, of immense pleasure in finding words for thought, and after I began to publish, of developing community with others. After my sister died, with the exception of a couple of poems and the finishing up of a promised manuscript, it became impossible to write anything new. I suffered from the absence of both the struggle and the pleasure of it and the relationships it kept alive for me. But I needed not to lose myself in my writing. It felt wrong, not that some inner moral judge declared it a betrayal of my sister’s importance in my life, but viscerally. My mind still swarmed with ideas. But my body would not sit down at the desk and put words to them. I wrote later, “I’ve come to realize my body, slowed down and reluctant to “move on,” was wiser than my always bubbling-with-stuff mind. It knew it was necessary for me to integrate the changed world—the “after” world—into the ideas and feelings that I give expression to when I write.”

Jill Bialosky, in a wonderful piece about living with the grief of her sister’s suicide at the age of 21, writes that she considers “grief a forever thing. It returns in different waves of intensity, but it never fully goes away.” Rather, it needs to be given whatever time it wants to “become integrated into my mind and body.”

Perhaps that’s why I ate that shortbread bar with such relish.

Two Poems for Mickey:

“If I could rewrite the story” was written shortly after her death; “The tiny jar beside my bed” some time later.

If I could rewrite the story

I’d feed you from a dropper like a tiny bird

You’d lick butter off my finger

Fig jam, mashed matzoh brie

Your aching mouth would be filled with honey

Peck and squawk as much as you like

Draw blood from my finger.

I challenge you to make me go away.

If I could rewrite the story

I’d be a fearless mama

Staring down the steel and propellors of modernity

I’d grow my own wings and fly to you

As you flew to me.

If I could rewrite the story

I’d be a fierce mama

Keeping away all invaders with their chattering knowledges

Clearing the space for you

To tell me what you need.

If I could rewrite the story

There would be no sudden fall from the nest

No dark, implacable predator lying in wait

Our nest of three would be intact, covered with purple blossoms

Hiding us inside.

If I could rewrite the story

I’d still be looking at your graceful fingers,

The beautiful arches of your eyebrows.

Your lush mouth

Ageless and unpoisoned.

---

A tiny jar of things.

A few aging double-A batteries.

A safety pin; a tiny hook and eye set.

The shackle of a teensy luggage lock.

A binders clip.

The detritus of my overstuffed, chaotic kitchen drawer, now among some precious things you sent.

“Please, no more! My house is already too cluttered!”

But you couldn’t stop. Every antique store, every yard sale, every closet of your own was too full of meaning to pass by. A horse picture for Cassie. A Jack Russell for me. The little landscape simply for its loveliness.

And then she would come and prune.

“I can’t wait to get my hands on that study of yours.”

I sat amazed at her genius and her energy, as her eyes surveyed my chaos, ruthless in their craving for beauty.

“What you can’t find a good place for, put in a pretty basket.”

“See how different it looks now with that screen there?”

When I was young and chubby and freckled, unfashionably red-haired and “too sensitive,” you stood me in front of a mirror with your slender hands on my shoulders. “Look how beautiful you are. Just hang on.”

Decades later, my younger sister and I tried to do the same for her.

It wasn’t necessary to lie. At 81, her mouth was full and luscious, her eyebrows bird’s-wings still in graceful flight. Beautiful. Everyone saw it but her. She couldn’t look in the mirror and prune away the years of betrayal and neglect.

She came to me, that last visit, to be with me through a time of terrors.

Bizarre symptoms—my specialty—did not frighten or disgust her.

She calmed and stroked and listened and drove me to the doctor and ate lox and eggs with me.

She took small empty boxes and turned them into drawer-dividers.

Put every item in place, uncowed by my endless and unnecessary junk, she labeled and tended and discarded until I could look at my study and breathe.

And she left a tiny jar.

A few aging double-A batteries.

A safety pin; a tiny hook and eye set.

The shackle of a teensy luggage lock.

A binders clip.

A tiny jar, filled with the mystery and preciousness of Mickey.

From my post on the Second Season of “The Bear”:

I loved the first season of The Bear, and my own pittie had to lick the tears off my face when it ended. But, as if in response to those critics who, while praising it lavishly, saw it only as a very smartly written show about the inner workings of a restaurant, the second season goes somewhere else. There are still the scenes of behind-the-scenes restaurant chaos, but the writers seem to have taken the advice of the book that Sydney’s father gives her and that she carries around for months: Leading With Your Heart. I had to ask my husband why Coach K (Krzyzewski), who wrote the book about his “Successful Strategies for Basketball, Business and Life,” would figure so prominently in the show. He tried not to make me feel like an idiot about sports greats. And because I’m a compulsive researcher, I actually read a few pages of the book, and about how he turned a losing team around by listening rather than bullying, getting to know every member of the team intimately, and keeping his composure when things seemed to be falling apart.

“Emotion doesn’t necessarily have to be shown with your fist pumping,” Coach K writes. There’s a “different kind of heart—a sturdy heart, an unwavering heart,” that’s for others to “grab ahold of” when a tornado is coming. But different people manifest that sturdiness in different ways, and “a true leader will give people the freedom to show the heart they possess” through the building of relationships: “Because if a team is a real family, its members will want to show you their hearts.” (pp. 31-32, Leading With Your Heart).

That’s the kind of team that gets created in season two. And, although when we leave Carmy in the last episode he hasn’t recognized it (he believes he’s failed because he lost focus, forgot to call the fridge guy, and got stuck in the walk-in during the most hectic time of “friends and family night”), he’s the one who has been most responsible for giving the others the freedom “to show the heart they possess.” It’s Carmy who sends Marcus (Lionel Boyce) to Copenhagen to study with Luca (Will Poulter) the same pastry chef who taught him, Carmy who sends Richie to “stage” for the elegant Ever restaurant, where he learns the pleasures of caring for others (and himself) through restraint and respect, and in a wonderful conversation with the owner (Chef Terry, a cameo played by Olivia Coleman ) realizes he can start over. It’s Carmy who sends Tina to culinary school (equipped with his own knife), where she shines. And ironically, it’s Carmy’s accidentally locking himself into the walk-in that forces Sydney—with Richie’s help—to take over, restoring the confidence that has been wavering all season and her own very sturdy heart. Carmy can’t see that—not yet. But—excuse the overworked cliche— he’s a work in progress.

If season one portrays the characters’ attempts to deny grief and loss (not just of people, but of confidence and hope) by shutting down, running away, keeping their bruises hidden to each other, season two is about each character’s opening up—to each other and to us. (And of course—not to strain the metaphor—they open up a new restaurant too.) There’s so much we don’t know during season one that we discover in season two, because we get to know all the main characters more intimately, and It’s all done with such tenderness! You can see it in the lovely, unhurried close-ups, which make every pore and scar seem beautiful (and these are mostly not symmetrical, conventionally beautiful faces.)

Most significantly—but also most problematically for the character—Carmy opens up too, to the possibility of personal happiness with a girlfriend. (Molly Gordon as Claire) And then, because he’s still Carmy, he torments himself over saying some bitter, self-hating words about how no amount of personal happiness is worth the misery he’s feeling, and is sure he may have ruined it all. It’s not clear whether or not he has (I tend to think he hasn’t, because Claire is such a perfect girlfriend.) But what is clear is that like his mother (Richie even calls him Donna as he berates him through the door of the walk-in) he’s addicted to self-flagellation, even as he’s created such glorious opportunities (and beautiful food) for those who love him, he can’t enjoy it. There’s still some unforgiving God waving a finger. And—oh, did I identify with this!—when he’s happy he’s always looking for that other shoe to drop. When it does, it just proves to him how fucked up he is.

Sydney realized that the best part of the day was when she made that luscious omelette ( boursin, chives, sour cream and onion potato chips, and lots of butter) for Sugar. Richie learned that the joy of making an exquisite dish comes from showing people you care enough to put the time and effort in in to peel a mushroom. Can Carmy exorcise the demons in him to allow himself to experience that joy? We don’t know; it’s kind of a cliffhanger ending, even though he’s being freed from the walk-in fridge.

Maybe what he needs to learn is what we—the viewers—find out in an hour-long episode about the most horrendous family dinner you’ll ever see or are likely to see (even though I’m sure there will be twinges of non-fictional recognition, particularly if you’re Jewish or Italian.) I’m not going to go into all the details that reveal why Carmen, Natalie and Michael find it so difficult to be happy with themselves, except to say that perhaps the worst burden a child can grow up with is being constantly reminded of your inability to save those you love and depend on the most. They all try, but their mother’s needs are a mass of contradictions and a bottomless tunnel that twists and turns out of reach nomatter what they do. Leave her alone and she feels unappreciated; ask if she’s okay and she goes into a fury (“What am I, a child?” “Are you asking anyone else if they’re ok?”) It’s an episode that’s painful to watch. But in a moment of escape from the screaming and recriminations, Mikey and Carmy are alone together (in search of saltines for Rich’s wife, who’s pregnant and nauseous) and one wishes that somehow Carmy had been able to take into himself what is clearly his brother’s love—to take that love into his heart and keep it there.

MIKEY: Saltines? You're kinda acting like
a saltine, you know that?
Why? Why?
What's going on with you?
I know there's something.
Just tell me. Come on, Carm,
I'm right here.
What's going on?
I gotta drag it outta you?

CARM:-I just...
I just, I thought,I thought when I was back,
I could work with you, alright?
At the spot.
We could talk about the shop, 'cause I've been
learning a lot of shit,
and, I don't know, I feel like I got some ideas.

MIKE: Yeah, but... (stammers)
The place is no good, Carmy.
It's-it's a fucking nightmare.
-Like, trust me, I'm doing you a favor.
And I'd love to hear your ideas.
I would. I-I-I wanna hear
about you, I do.

CARM: Also I don't need
you talking to Claire
and acting all nice if you
don't actually give a fuck.
You know?

MIKEY: Wh-what?
What are you talking about
I-I don't give a fuck?
Why would you say that to me?
Carmy, I give like a... I give like a huge fuck.

CARM-Yeah?

MIKEY-Yeah. fuck, yeah. I mean, I give... I-I...
I give like the biggest fuck. Alright?

CARMY; Okay.
I um, I got you... I got, uh, it's stupid.
I got you...Actually, I got you something.
-Can I give it to you?

MIKEY-What, you got me a present?

CARMY: Yeah, yeah, yeah.
I got you a present.
Just one second.

MIKEY: Alright.
Wait, before I, uh... why don't you give me, like,
like, three things about Copenhagen, man?
Anything.

CARM: It's the most beautiful place
I've ever seen.

MIKEY: Yeah.

CARM: Uh... I slept on a boat.
And, uh... I fed an invisible cat.

MIKEY: Hmm. Well, Carm...that's a home run. Out of the park.
Alright, go ahead.
Go ahead, go ahead.
What is this?
Oh, Carmy, that's a...

CARM: It's like, it's like
a little bit rough,
but I don't know, it's something--

MIKEY No, man, that's... It's beautiful. That's...
That's perfect.

CARM: Yeah, Mike, we could, um... We could do this, you know.

MIKE: Yeah.

-CARMY: Yeah.

MIKEY: Yeah, let it rip.

CARM: Yeah, let it rip.

MIKEY: Yeah, Carm.

It’s a sketch of the restaurant Carmy hopes he and Michael will run together. Later, we see it framed, hanging on the wall of The Beef.

Donna calls out and Carmy leaves the pantry with the saltines. What he doesn’t see is Mikey, alone, leaning against the wall of the pantry, crying.

(For the whole post on “The Bear”, see below)