Bringing What We Have When We Don't Have Words

I haven't written a Ta Shma message in a couple of weeks, and I've felt the absence. I love writing these messages — reflecting on our beautiful school and community at the end of each week, and hearing back from so many of you. But words have not been my preferred mode of connection lately. And for me, that is saying something.

Generally, I love words. Verbal communication is my comfort zone. But increasingly — starting with Covid, intensifying since October 7, and sharply in recent weeks as both of our countries entered war, as synagogues were violently targeted, as our mayor’s residence was attacked — my words have felt clunky and inadequate. I am struggling to communicate concern and care in ways that feel meaningful. I am struggling to engage in reflective discourse, express joy verbally, and facilitate conversations with our students and staff. I am even struggling to receive other people's words as a source of insight or comfort. Words are not working for me right now, which is particularly hard because I feel desperately in need of connection — and I am pretty sure everyone around me does too, for all the same reasons that words are failing us.

So what is the alternative? The past few weeks have reminded me of something I know in my kishkes. When words fail, being present may have to be sufficient.

Present for friends and family who are suffering — in my case, calling dear friends and family across Israel on my morning commute and between their retreats to shelters and safe rooms.  

Present in times of communal loss. We had two shivas this past week. I got more from being there — more grounding, more anchoring — than I gave. The most connected I felt all week was when I heard from our students, teachers, and parents about class visits to those shivas. The way our children were menachem avel — comforting with their presence, encircling a mourner in proximate, enveloping community when they are most distant from someone they love.

Present in our Purim celebration. Listening to students read megillah. Watching our eighth graders paint the faces of our preschoolers. Colleagues jumping together on bouncy castles. Filling mishloach manot with parent volunteers.

Present in our preschool classrooms during Pesach preparation — stepping into roles in a reenactment of the Exodus, weaving baskets for baby Moshe, singing Dayenu together, and remembering that every moment, in its simple existence, is enough.

Even a Zoom call with a class this week felt powerful — simply seeing parents gathered on one screen, brought together by shared values and shared responsibilities.

This Shabbat is our second Shabbat Beit Rabban of the year, when our families are matched to share Shabbat meals in homes across the city. These meals are beautiful and chaotic, full of children of all ages. They deepen existing bonds and spark new ones. Sometimes parents fall asleep together on couches.

I suspect these meals will not center around sustained, meaningful conversation — even though there is so much happening in our immediate and broader circles. Even though there will almost certainly be people at every table with loved ones in Israel. Even though this week's Torah portion practically screams for attention, telling us the story of how every Israelite, with the wisdom of their heart, stepped up to contribute what they had toward building the Mishkan together in the desert. There is so much to discuss! But these meals will be full of small children, including babies and toddlers, who do not permit their grown-ups to sustain coherent conversations. And I am so glad. Because what Shabbat Beit Rabban will give us this week is not words — it is simply presence.

As I think about the weeks ahead — and who knows how long beyond — I cannot offer a clear much by way of articulate ideas or predictions. I don't have wise words about how to think about what is happening, let alone what to do. I'm not even sure yet how to facilitate conversations with our students about the war. I'm not sure we always should.

But I am sure that we need to show up and bring whatever we have, as did our ancestors in the desert. Even when we don’t have words, the wisdom of our hearts can show up as a hug, a shared meal, or a walk alongside someone.