It is the first night of Passover, and I am alone. Not getting invited to a seder is perfectly understandable. Firstly, I'm not really anyone's family. And, secondly, who wants to invite someone like me? "She'll come for a short while, sit there silently, and then find a pretext to leave early." That's me, and that's what they say--on a good day. It's awkward for everyone. "She's always so serious, and so depressed." That's me.
If this all sounds a lot like self-pity, well, there is that, yes. "Poor-me-ism" is a definite part of my condition. I could/should have held a seder of my own, found someone else who had nowhere to go. There's always enough time to do something, even if if wouldn't have been a great feast with the fluffiest matzah balls and a main course to go down in history. "Sadness is the greatest sin," said Rabbi Nachman of Bratslav. I have both resented and loved him for that statement ever since I first read it.
I used to be very serious about seders, ask too much of both myself and everyone else. I refused to accept that for most people it really is just about the food, and about having a good time with friends and family. For me it was not about singing and joy, but about the journey of our souls from the narrow place of Mitzrayim to transcendent freedom, about ridding the heart of all its chometz, its bloat, about sharing deep confessions and deeper hopes and aspirations. Deep, but not so joyous.
One year, after a vigorously, albeit slightly chaotic rendition of Chad Gadya, one young adult expressed dismay that a child should be sold for two zuzim (!) Hm. Are you getting the idea that I'm an intellectual snob? Well, yes, there is that. Even though I have come to realize that I'm actually not as much of an intellectual as I liked to believe, but the snobbish bit seems to be hanging on. And so I secretly roll my eyes when university-educated young people don't know that a "kid" is not only a kid.
It may have something to do with English not being my native language, and with being a convert. Both make for, or exacerbate, a pre-existing fanatical streak in people.
Prompted by a friend, at my seder I planned to explore the leitmotif of "the stranger" that runs through the haggadah. If having been strangers in the land of Egypt is the prerequisite for being able to relate to other strangers, must we somehow always remain outsiders, never quite at home, quite integrated, or else lose the ability to understand those who are "other"? If we were to fit in utterly, get too comfortable in our skin and our life ...?
So, you see, it was going to be quite a serious affair with me and the dog that evening, and who can blame the dog for bowing out. But first there was a practical matter to take care of, as even a solo seder where food is incidental needs some basic accoutrements. So off I went in my pickup to the edge of the big city. Supermarkets out here in the country don't carry matzah. Back with my treasure, I prepared thin vegetable soup and charoset. I lit candles, and picked a haggadah from my collection: The Carlebach Haggadah.
Now, Reb Shlomo was a holy man. But he would have understood--maybe even encouraged--my taking a slightly strange approach to the solo seder. Instead of reading the actual text, I read his commentary. Every word of it. And forgot completely about my theme and the seder of the seder. I had some matzah, piled on the horseradish, and set my tastebuds dancing with heaping spoonfuls of charoset. I am a lousy cook, but my charoset is the sweetest thing in this world.
Reb Shlomo told me stories about rebbes who are long gone, about people who say "gevalt!" a lot, about poor people and rich people, about family, about the sin of sadness, the need for us to sing a new song, and about the One who never leaves us alone, unless we choose to walk away. I heard his music in every word, felt his love of stories and of people--the ones who know, the ones who don't, and event he ones who like to think they know.
Thank you, Rebbe.
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