֖ ל ־ כֵַּע ל ־ לִ בִֶּא שִׁ ָ֥א
xeroxed, and acquired a permit from the city so that we may use a city park for the observance. Throughout this process, I struggled with the penetrating sorrow of the day. Where is the silver lining to the unspeakable suffering? Where is the promise of redemption in the tragedies? Where is some positive sentiment that everything will work out in the end? Is there no hope? The answer was a resounding“ no.”
In 2019 grief and I became deeply intertwined. My spouse died from suicide. The trauma of loss of partner, marriage and parent to my children could not be comforted within the safety net and familiarity of Jewish mourning rituals. In fact, I needed to create my own rituals and observances. It was … has been … a slow plodding process. Not codified by 7 days, then 30. But by endless days, twilights, years, first one, then another. Always another. In this process I have allowed myself to reject the pressures to get past, get through, get over. My grief has taught me to allow the mourning to be present. And so too does Tisha B’ Av teach us to allow mourning to be present, in community, in public spaces.
When hope is inserted into grief, when it is sought out, it hastens grief. It cuts it short and stifles it. At a time of mourning, whether in private or in community, it is okay to not seek hope. And in fact, even in the destruction of the Temple and the horrors and degradation and shame recounted and chanted from the scroll of Eichah on the ninth day of the month of Av every year, hope is not sought out.
But neither is it forgotten – it is right there in the middle of the middle chapter – Chapter 3 – of Eichah.
י ב י ֥ ן א וֹ חִ ֽ י ל ׃ But this do I call to mind, Therefore I have hope:
– Eichah 3:21
ז א ת֛ ֹ
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