All posts tagged Szim Salom

On Preparations and Commitments

Between teaching and serving as Szim Salom’s cantor, I spend a lot of my life in preparations: not so much for lessons (unless there is a lot of grading to do, or unless we are reading a work of literature) as for school performances and Folyosó. The Shakespeare festival preparations have many components: planning the program with Kata at the library, making sure all the logistics are worked out, and (most of all) helping the tenth-graders prepare their scene within a short time (we meet once a week for forty-five minutes). Helping others prepare is much more difficult than preparing myself; I have decades of experience with practicing and know what needs to be done. With my students, I have to plan the details carefully so that we can make good use of the time.

As for Szim Salom, in addition to leading services, I prepare and deliver the Torah cantillation once a month; we have Saturday morning services twice a month, and on the second occasion, others do the Torah reading, without cantillation. I give thought to the services that I lead: any new or alternate melodies that I might introduce, any particular emphasis, any special occasion. Then there are the holidays: for instance, we will be joining with several other synagogues for Purim, and women, including me, will be reading or chanting the the Book of Esther, also known as the Megillah. (I will be chanting Chapters 7 and 8, as well as the last two verses of Chapter 6.) After that, Pesach (Passover) will be right around the corner.

Never mind the preparation that goes into writing, translating, and submitting work for publication: I learned long ago that the more carefully a manuscript is prepared, the more seriously it will be considered, not only because editors are sticklers about font size and such, but because careful preparation implies consideration. They like to know that you have reasons for sending it to them in particular, that you respect their standards, and that your work merits attention.

Although preparations give me mild anxiety (I worry about being underprepared, so I generally go overboard), and although I like to leave ample room for spontaneous and unprepared events, this life of preparations suits me well. I enjoy the immersion, the hours spent with the verses, work of literature, or other matter, and the challenge to come up with solutions. For instance, with the Shakespeare preparations, we ran into a glitch: none of the boys wanted to be Romeo. First I thought we might turn the ball scene into a marionette show, but first of all, that would make it silly, and second, it would take considerable time and money to obtain or make the marionettes, never mind learn how to use them properly. Then I thought of silhouettes. Aha! A silhouette scene is beautiful, and it spares the actors the embarrassment of having to be amorous in front of an audience. The picture to the left is just of our experiment with it; we will refine it later, with brighter light behind the sheet, etc. Before this particular part of the scene, the sheet will figure in one of the ballroom dances. For all of this to work, I have to plan exactly what each person will do. But this also ensures that everyone will have a role of some kind. We will also need back-ups in case someone is sick on the day of the performance. For each detail, there must be at least two people prepared to carry it out.

The difficulty of such preparations is that you don’t always feel up to them. Sometimes I think I have far too much on (and about to be heaped onto) my plate. I haven’t been going on long bike rides lately, partly because there’s so much to prepare for the next day or week. Leading services on Saturday mornings requires leaving my apartment at 7 a.m. to catch a train to Budapest. I continually feel behind with writing and translating. As for teaching, I find joy in it throughout the day but end up quite tired by evening. And what about basic matters, like taking care of my health, my apartment, and Dominó and Sziszi? What about spending time with people? That’s a relative rarity; my days are filled with people, but I don’t often get to converse with friends. I don’t feel lonely in general, but a certain kind of loneliness hits me at times when I misdirect my energy or attention and, as a result, not much comes back.

But you never know, entirely, the effects of your preparations. Two weeks ago, after a Szim Salom service, a woman stopped me as I was heading out the door. “I just want to say, what you are doing now, keep on doing it,” she said. “Keep on doing it even if you get no feedback (visszajelzés) from anyone. You have something that not many people have. I am not talking about musical talent, or a feeling of Jewishness. What comes across is that you are doing this with your full heart and soul.”

This was just what I needed to hear. The funny thing is, I don’t always feel as though I’m doing it with full heart and soul. The feelings don’t always tell the truth, nor do they matter quite as much as we think. That is, there’s a level beyond feelings. Not that feelings don’t matter. They are our guide, much of the time. But they can also mislead, or come in perplexing mixtures. Or else fail to match what others seem to think they should be. Serious commitments have ups and downs; there are times when you feel like doing them and times when you don’t.

There is something beyond feelings, something that keeps us going—or, in some cases, gets us to stop—regardless of whatever emotions happen to be coursing through us. Such emotions deserve attention, but they come and go. I get confused by those personality tests that ask, among other things, whether you make decisions based on reasoning or feelings. I would say both and neither. Some of my most important decisions have come from a kind of intuition (combined with reasoning and feelings). Sometimes I know in my bones that there is something I need to do, or not do.

People often say, “It’s amazing how much you are doing.” But it isn’t. Lots of people do lots of different things, many of them much more actively and prolifically than I. I don’t have to be amazing. I need room to concentrate on what it is I am doing, without worrying about how much or little it is. I also need a break now and then, or maybe more than now and then.

The painting at the top is by Róbert Berény, of his wife Eta Breuer playing the cello. But the curious thing (as Nicole Waldner explains in depth) is that after marrying Róbert, Eta never played cello again. Or rather, in 1939 he convinced her to play, and she agreed—but then played for only fifteen minutes, then threw her cello to the ground and swore she would never play again. Then the war hit, and they went into hiding.

Waldner has many thoughts about what that painting might mean, and why Eta never played again except for that brief burst. I don’t know why Eta didn’t play again, but I know why someone might not. When people ask me “Are you still playing the cello?” or comment, “You used to play so beautifully,” I don’t know how to explain how tangled those questions are. Playing is not just a pastime, and it isn’t just there to please others. You have to spend hours with it—hours that, with a cello, involve awkward posture no matter what you do. Most of the time is spent not sounding beautiful, because you have to work out the awkward spots. Moreover, there are so many sounds a cello can make, rough, sweet, percussive, lilting, dissonant, harmonious. Yes, I do play, but on my own terms, and not for hours a day. I dislike dilettantism and have been tempted to stop playing altogether. But the other day I returned to Art of Flying’s song “Though the Light Seem Small,” for which I played cello, and was deeply moved by it. What an honor to have contributed to this. It’s possible for an instrument to be something other than a hobby (at one end) or a profession (on the other). It’s a question not only of time, but of where you go even within a few minutes, a few seconds. I will end here with the song lyrics and a link to the song itself.

When the bright unspoken light of Winter takes the world
Gathering each solitary day,
All the pages written you won’t need them anymore
Winter comes & Winds us all away
& Winds us all away!

& Though the Light seem small!
Drop by drop drowns us all!

All around a Sacred sound rains sweetness on the World
In the pines & in our minds we lay.
All inventions written you won’t need them anymore,
Winter comes & Winds us all away!
& Winds us all away!

& Though the Light seem small!
Drop by drop drowns us all!

Take the night out of your Eyes & give it to the World,
Take the hinges off the Swollen day!
All the Sacred written you don’t need it anymore.
Winter comes & Winds us all away!
& Winds us all away!
& Winds us all away!

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by Diana Senechal on February 26, 2023  •  Permalink
Posted in Language, Literature, Music, Songs
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Posted by Diana Senechal on February 26, 2023

https://dianasenechal.wordpress.com/2023/02/26/on-preparations-and-commitments/

A Listening Dream Come True and Beyond

Back in February 2021, when Platon Karataev announced their fundraising campaign for the third album, they included an “album listening party with the band” as one of the perks. Those who selected this perk (in return for a modest donation) would be invited to listen to their third album about a month before its release. There were other perks too, but this was the one I wanted most, besides the album itself, which I was going to purchase anyway. Still, I was terrified of the idea, and it took me a few more months to bring myself to select it. Why? I think that when you listen to music, you show something of yourself. At a show or concert, no one really sees you; you’re facing forward, and the musicians themselves only rarely see the audience (they might close their eyes, look down, face each other, or gaze outward without seeing specific faces). Even in a big crowd, you can feel private and enclosed. But when you’re in a room with others, listening to music together, the barriers come down. Never mind that I would be in a room with the very creators of the music.

I used to listen to music with others, usually just one other person; we would put on an album and listen from it from start to finish without talking. I miss that so much. This album listening event brought all of that back but took it somewhere else. The album is disarming and dazzling. We all listened silently. There was no chatter while it was playing (except for a conversation upstairs, which seeped through amusingly here and there). The atmosphere was warm and friendly in the silence, in Gergő Balla’s introductory and closing words, and the conversations before and afterward. Afterwards I couldn’t say anything, but I wasn’t alone; my friends Zsuzsanna and Mesi were also speechless, and we gave each other hugs. And even though I didn’t say a word to the band except for hello and goodbye, I know that we had this listening together. I lingered for a little while and then headed back to Szolnok wrapped in joy. But joy isn’t even the right word, since so much was mixed in with it, things that words don’t land on.

The weekend was full of listening. I had come in to Budapest on Friday afternoon, since I was going to lead the online Szim Salom services on Friday night and Saturday morning, and would not have been able to make it to the listening party afterward unless I were already in Budapest. So I stepped out of the Keleti train station and saw colors rolling in the sky and people rushing every which way.

I stayed at a lovely apartment hotel near Batthyány tér. If I were to live in Budapest, that neighborhood would be one of my choices. In the spacious, dreamy room, I easily set up shop for the Zoom services (with laptop, external microphone, siddurs, tallit, candles, and all). On Friday evening, the service was combined with a Hanukkah party, which two others joyously led. So I got to listen as well as sing.

On Saturday morning, we had a number of guests: a few students from a Protestant (Református) university program who were interested in learning about a Jewish service, and a dear friend in Berlin, along with a friend of hers who was visiting her. Both she and her friend are deaf but can read lips and sense music.

Neither of them knows Hebrew or Hungarian. But as I led the service, I saw them intently, intensely listening; I saw one of them nod along to melodies she recognized, and the other responding with her eyes. It seemed to me that they were listening in ways unknown to the hearing crowd, or maybe known but rarely touched upon. I don’t mean to trivialize the difficulties of being deaf. It is difficult in more ways than I can know. But it does not mean the end of listening; for some it might take listening to another level.

As I saw them listening, I had a new sense of what I was doing and what we were there for. There was something being communicated, not through language alone but through something else too. This came back later in a different form at the album listening event.

In Hungarian, “hallgatás” means both “silence” and “listening to something” (in addition to a few other things, such as taking a course and keeping a secret). The word suggests a relation between silence and listening. Yes, even to listen to yourself, you have to be silent in a certain way. There is a place where listening and silence are one and the same, not even dependent on each other, but identical: a meeting point where the two meanings dissolve into one. I think this is the case in Pilinszky’s “Amiként kezdtem“:

Amiként kezdtem, végig az maradtam.
Ahogyan kezdtem, mindvégig azt csinálom.
Mint a fegyenc, ki visszatérve
falujába, továbbra is csak hallgat,
szótlanul űl pohár bora előtt.

Here is my translation (in which I take a few liberties on purpose):

As I began, I have remained to the end.
The way I began, I keep all the way.
Like the convict who, returning
to his village, keeps silent, listening.
Wordless he sits before a glass of wine.

After the album listening, I came back to the hotel, picked up my packed bags, and headed off to the train. The sun had set. Some twenty-seven hours had gone by since I set out from Szolnok. And what happened in those twenty-seven hours will unfold over the rest of my life.

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by Diana Senechal on December 5, 2021  •  Permalink
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Posted by Diana Senechal on December 5, 2021

https://dianasenechal.wordpress.com/2021/12/05/a-listening-dream-come-true/

A Beautiful and Historic Ceremony

This last Shabbat, I had the honor of co-leading a Szim Salom service in which Dr. Gábor Iványi, the head of the Hungarian Evangelical Fellowship (a church of the Methodist confession), assumed a Hebrew name. As usual, I led all the sung parts of the service; Dr. Iványi and I shared the Torah reading, and he gave a dróse (sermon). Rabbi Kelemen led the spoken parts, officiated the name-giving ceremony, gave blessings, and set a joyous, soulful tone for the event.

As you can see from the photo, the room was full—and would have been much fuller if it hadn’t been for Covid restrictions. Others followed the service over Zoom. The congregation included regular Szim Salom members, members of the MET, members of Neolog synagogues, and others (including Catholics and Lutherans). This was remarkable, given that only two synagogues in all of Hungary (we and our sister congregation, Bét Orim) would have been able to do this at all. Because Dr. Iványi’s father was Jewish but not his mother, neither the Orthodox nor the Neolog communities would have recognized him as Jewish; he would have needed to convert. But members—including leaders—of the Neolog community were there.

His church is devoted to helping those in need. When we didn’t have a place to hold our services, they shared their space on Iskola utca in Buda with us. We would arrive on a Saturday morning just when they were finishing with a Bible study, so we would mingle in the intercrossing. We held services there for about nine months. Here’s a picture of me and the rabbi outside the building, back in March 2018. But that’s only a tiny fraction of their generosity.

As for Dr. Iványi’s decision to assume a Hebrew name (without discarding the name he has had all his life), this came out of years of research and introspection. When his father died in November 2009, a close friend in Israel asked permission to say kaddish for him, “because he was a Jewish soul, after all.” That gesture moved him profoundly; over time, he grew more resolute in his wish to acknowledge his Jewish heritage and identity, without denying or discarding his work as a Christian pastor.

I am proud that we were in a position to give him a ceremony. For at least three reasons, I feel that this was the right thing to do.

First, this will open up conversations and thoughts. Over the past few centuries, during those periods when Jews were allowed to settle in Hungary, many assimilated eagerly and considered themselves fully Hungarian. But Hungarian anti-Semitism—during the Shoah and at other times—took particularly cruel forms, so today many Hungarian Jews, and Hungarians with some Jewish ancestry, have buried their history, whether by choice or by default. Gábor Iványi’s gesture will give others courage to look at who they are and where they come from.

Second, I see it as an act of integrity. Identity is a complex matter; it cannot be reduced to one or two words. A person can be many things, many entities at once; our ceremony affirmed this. This was not an adult bar mitzvah; Dr. Iványi is not making a commitment to Jewish observance. Instead, he is recognizing who he is, who his family is, in full complexity. I sympathize, because while I am Jewish according to Jewish law and my own not-so-strict observance, I too am a mixture of things and know that many others are too. Instead of pushing ourselves to be just this or that, instead of letting others tell us who we are, we can live out the combinations.

Third, he and his congregation have been kind to us, so I am glad that we could do something for him and them too, something with this level of meaning and importance.

But why stop at three? There is more. This service and ceremony brought people together from different religions, different branches of a religion; and while there might have been some discomfort at moments, still we came together, and the joy overrode everything. There is more to this than I can see right now. It will unfold at its own pace.

Photo credit: Szim Salom Hitközség / Aradi Nóra.

I made a few edits to this piece after posting it.

P.S. See Péter Árvai’s wonderful article about the ceremony.

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by Diana Senechal on November 9, 2021  •  Permalink
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Posted by Diana Senechal on November 9, 2021

https://dianasenechal.wordpress.com/2021/11/09/a-beautiful-and-historic-ceremony/

Upcoming Events

This is the busiest fall I can remember in years, and there have been quite a few busy ones. Teaching is in full swing, with all kinds of interesting things: Hamlet, utopia projects (my students read a few chapters of Thomas More’s Utopia and are now creating utopias of their own), The Glass Menagerie, songs, grammar, lively discussions, test practice, the usual textbook stuff, and more.

Outside of school, just as much is going on: translations, writing, events. Speaking of events, I have two to announce.

On October 15, I will be one of the panelists in an ALSCW Zoom event titled “General Education and the Idea of a Common Culture,” which will feature an array of speakers, as well as poetry readings by Edward Hirsch and Yusef Komunyakaa. It should be terrific. The full event description and Zoom information can be found here. The event is free and open to the public.

On October 26, I will be the fourth featured guest in The MacMillan Institute’s online Poetry series (open to the public for an entrance fee of $10.00; please register in advance). The previous guests were Fred Turner, Sarah Cortez, and Dana Gioia. I will be reciting and talking about poetry and translation (both my own and others’). One of the poems I plan to recite is Pilinszky’s “Egyenes labirintus” (“Straight labyrinth”), both in the original and in the wonderful translation of Géza Simon. To anyone in Hungary: you are welcome to attend, but please know that it starts at 1 a.m. on October 27 here! Fortunately we will be on spring break, so I can sleep in afterwards.

Speaking of Pilinszky, I should have some news, fairly soon, about an ALSCW Zoom event I intend to host in the spring, dedicated to Pilinszky and his influence. Details are still being worked out, so I will say more when there is more to say.

Also, if all goes well, we (my school and the Verseghy Ferenc Public Library in Szolnok) will hold a Shakespeare festival on April 22! We had hoped to do this last year, but Covid got in the way. This day-long festival will feature lectures, workshops, and student performances (in Hungarian and English) of Shakespeare scenes, sonnets, and songs.

Before that, this fall and winter, there will be two new issues of Folyosó. Submissions are now open for the autumn issue; the international contest focuses on the topic of contradictions in life. I look forward to seeing what pieces come in (I have already read a few) and what shape this issue takes!

At Szim Salom, I am leading four services this month. One took place on Friday; the other three will be this Friday, this Saturday, and Saturday the 23rd. In my case, leading the services means singing all the musical parts, all the melodic liturgy, leyning Torah, and leading the congregation through the parts of the service. When I co-lead with the rabbi (on Saturdays), she leads the spoken parts and usually gives a dróse (a D’var Torah, or sermon). This month, the Saturday services will take place in person, at Bálint Ház in Budapest.

There’s a lot more going on, but I think that’s enough. As for other people’s events, this afternoon I am going to Budapest to hear Csenger Kertai (whose poems I am translating) and several other poets: Krisztián Peer, Katalin Szlukovényi, Dávid Börzsei, and Bálint Borsi. Like the event at the A38 Hajó, but differently, this event will combine poetry with music and visual art.

Also, there’s a concert I’d like to hear on Thursday—a double CD release party for Noémi Barkóczi and Mayberian Sanskülotts—but for various reasons I don’t think I can go. I will listen to their music at home, and if it turns out that I can go, I will.

Other things, other concerts are happening this month, but this is enough for now.

The photo is of the Aranytoll (Golden Pen), a pen and stationery shop here in Szolnok. (At least I think that’s what it is; I haven’t been inside yet.)

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by Diana Senechal on October 3, 2021  •  Permalink
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Posted by Diana Senechal on October 3, 2021

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Reputation

This Saturday, in addition to leading the Szim Salom service along with our rabbi, I will chant Torah, as I do at all our Saturday morning services. Over time, preparation has become much quicker and easier than it used to be. I remember, back in New York, spending hours an evening over the verses, learning the sounds and meanings, bringing them into myself, and pondering them. That was, for me, the most important aspect of Jewish life: immersing myself in the ancient language, texts, and melodies, learning the system of cantillation, learning liturgy. The more recent ease means less time spent on the verses each evening, which means more time for other things (and I’m glad of that), but less time hearing the texts from the inside. And time makes a difference.

So this week, when I found myself pondering Saturday’s reading (from Numbers 14), it reminded me a bit of the old days. Moses has sent spies out to the land of Canaan, to see what the land was like. They have come back with a grim report; the people there are giants, and they (the spies) were like grasshoppers in their own sight and that of the Caananites. Then the children of Israel begin to wail: would that we had died in Egypt! Or here, in the desert! Two of the spies, Joshua and Caleb, speak out and say that the land is in fact good; in response, the people call for their stoning.

God then loses all patience and asks Moses: “How long will these people despise me?” He declares that he will smite and kill them all, and make of Moses a greater nation.

Moses’s response is (at one level) one of the most peculiar passages I have read in the Torah. He essentially reminds God: If the Egyptians knew that you killed the very people that you brought up from Egypt, they would tell other people that You, who have been in the midst of Your people, going before them “in a pillar of cloud by day, and in a pillar of fire by night,” have killed them because you could not able to fulfill your promise to them. The Hebrew syntax of these verses is complex, as are the various referents, but the gist seems to be, “What will happen, God, to your reputation?”

There is so much to say and think about Moses’s argument (which ultimately persuades God not to kill all the people, just the older generation)—thousands of commentaries have been written about it—but the question that bothered me was, why would God care what the Egyptians and others say?

The most direct answer is that God would not be able to replace the children of Israel easily, if he damaged his own reputation in this way. Everyone would have heard about his failure and would be reluctant to accept him. So this is Moses’s way of reminding God, “Do not take us for granted, even with all our faults.”

But at a deeper level this suggests that the relationship between humans and God has to be reciprocal. Reputation here is not just gossip and babbling; it can lead to—or stand in the way of—encounter. A God who fulfills his promises and stays faithful to his people will already mean something to the outside world. Even if they believe in other gods, they will keep, in the back of their mind, this image of presence, glory, and mercy. (Verse 18 repeats most of the “thirteen attributes” associated with God.)

In our own lives, reputation has a form analogous to what is suggested here. It isn’t good to get caught up in worrying about what others think of you, but if you keep your promises, fulfill your projects, and treat others kindly, your reputation (in the best sense of the word) will open up the world for you. This kind of reputation is an early rumbling of relationship. So in other words, sometimes it does matter what other people say, when this is a reflection of what you actually have done.

This makes sense in our immediate world. It’s somewhat baffling that this would also be the case with God, but it’s an important bafflement. We get to wrestle with the idea that God is somewhat vulnerable and has something to lose, and that the words of humans matter not only in our sphere, but beyond. Maybe liturgy itself is a way of carrying reputation. The verb שמע (to hear, listen), along with the related שֵׁמַע (hearing, report), which in turn is suggestive of שֵׁם (name), has an essential role in these verses, and in liturgy too: hearing, and hearing the name, and listening closely, all have to do with building a relationship with God.

I say all of this, by the way, as someone who does not always believe in God. Sometimes I clearly do; sometimes I am not so sure. It is great to be able to stay with these texts and to chant them in Hebrew, no matter how my own thoughts and feelings fluctuate. That is what I have been learning, as I serve as Szim Salom’s lay cantor (now for three and a half years, going strong). I don’t always feel religious, or observant, or sure of what I am doing. But I love the role and Szim Salom itself, and have found so much good in staying with the responsibilities and finally owning them. For a long time I was shy about calling myself a cantor, since the word has such grand associations for me. But cantors come in great variety, and this is good. I give what I can, and I learn as I go along. I am always seeking to do better.

Here is a picture of the rabbi and me outside the Methodist church in Buda where we used to hold services back in 2017 and early 2018. (Before we moved to Bálint Ház, we had no place, so the very kind minister, Gábor Iványi, and his congregation offered us the space on Shabbatot.) It is no wonder that he has a reputation as a holy man.

The image of the Hebrew text and translation, from Numbers 14, is courtesy of Mechon Mamre.

Painting: Michelangelo, The Creation of Adam.

As usual, I made a few edits and additions to this piece after posting it.

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by Diana Senechal on June 4, 2021  •  Permalink
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Posted by Diana Senechal on June 4, 2021

https://dianasenechal.wordpress.com/2021/06/04/reputation/

Song of the Sea

Next Shabbat, during the Torah reading, I will chant the Shirat HaYam, the Song of the Sea, pictured to the left. It brings back happy memories of cantillation class at JTS; this was one of the special things we were required to learn, in addition to the six trope systems. Preparing the Torah cantillation is one of my favorite parts of my role at Szim Salom; it keeps me on my toes, since I always have to prepare, even if I am familiar with the verses. I prepare in general as well–it’s always good to go over the liturgy, since something will through in a new way–but the Torah portion assures the preparation.

The Song of the Sea is often chanted responsively, but this time, over Zoom, that would be too cacophonous. I will just have to encourage people to sing along, while muted, at the appropriate parts.

It has now been nearly eight years since I began attending synagogue in general, and over three years since I assumed Szim Salom’s cantorial role. I hesitate to call myself the synagogue’s cantor, even though that’s my role; cantors are on a completely different level in my mind. When I think of the word “cantor,” I imagine not only the legendary cantors, but the ones known mainly to their own synagogues, who have brought the language and liturgy into people’s lives, year after year, generation after generation, with wisdom and feeling that can be conveyed only through the doing. But it’s also a responsibility, and it has been mine now for three years. I love the responsibility; sometimes I feel flat-out exhausted when the weekend arrives, but then when it comes time to lead the service, the language, rhythms, melodies, and togetherness take over.

It is exciting to see Szim Salom, after almost thirty years of existence, becoming accepted in Hungary’s larger Jewish worship community. For many years, the General Assembly of Hungary’s Federation of Jewish Communities (Mazsihisz) did not recognize Szim Salom or our sister congregation, Bét Orim, because as progressive (European Reform) congregations, we diverged too far from what they considered halakhic. To date, our rabbi is the only female rabbi in Hungary, as far as I know. But through the extensive, big-hearted efforts of individuals including Péter Árvai from our community and members of Neolog communities, we not only gained official recognition (In February 2020, the Mazhihisz officially welcomed Szim Salom and Bét Orim as associate members), but received gestures of extraordinary goodwill. Gábor Fináli, the rabbi of the beautiful Ohél Ávráhám on Hunyadi tér, has decided to invite us and Bét Orim to hold services there about once a month (once it is possible to hold services in person again). Over the years, we have had no real place of worship; in my three years here, we met in three different locations. So this gesture meets an urgent need and opens up possibilities of friendship and learning.

As I have often thought before, it’s essential to have different levels and forms of observance within Judaism, as within any religion. This opens up the possibilities, not only for individuals, but for long-term traditions. It also allows for resilience. People change over time in their relation to religion, worship, sacred texts, and so on. When the traditions grow too rigid or forbidding, any personal change can lead to a break. But when they do not, or at least when many varieties exist, a person can “hang in there,” so to speak. I find it important and exciting to hang in there. In the beginning of my Jewish life, I was intense with enthusiasm and commitment–not so much to the laws of observance as to the learning of texts and melodies. Hours and hours went into study and listening, evening after evening. Later, things slowed down a bit, but the commitment did not go away. I have started to find my own way, which is not anyone else’s, but which is not isolated either.

The returns remind me how much there is to come. Chanting the Song of the Sea and feeling the joy of it all over again—the image and sound of the sea parting, the phrases that bring up so many memories—I know that not only does the text endure, not only do I in some way, despite aging and mortality, but person and text come together, again and again, around the world, as time roars and crashes around us.

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by Diana Senechal on January 24, 2021  •  Permalink
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Posted by Diana Senechal on January 24, 2021

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“And he said….” (pause)

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Jewish life in Budapest is evolving in exciting ways. The two Reform congregations, Szim Salom and Bét Orim, are working out a schedule of joint services, which officially began this Shabbat. It isn’t clear exactly what shape this will take in the future, but it’s off to a good start. Because of this change, at least for now I will no longer lead services on Friday evenings; instead, I will focus on Saturday mornings (on alternate Shabbatot). That means I don’t stay overnight in Budapest on Friday night; instead, I take the train in on Saturday morning. It worked well; I like this new arrangement because it gives me just a little more time to practice my leyning, and because I can sleep at home. Also, it reminds me of the BJ (B’nai Jeshurun) days in some ways; in New York City I was a Saturday morning regular, but I only occasionally went to services on Friday evenings. It was important to me to have some quiet time at home. For me, Saturday was when it all came together: the beautiful liturgy, the Torah reading, the Haftarah, and everything else. Yesterday was like that. In addition, Szim Salom has a shiur, a Torah study, after the Shacharit service on Saturday; I always stay for that and enjoy being part of it.

As I discussed in a recent post, the Mazsihisz’s (Federation of Jewish Communities) has deliberated over the possibility of recognizing the Reform communities. So far, the Mazsihisz has voted against this, but the discussions are ongoing.

But I came here to bring up something interesting from the Torah reading and leyning. Israel (Jacob) is on his deathbed, and he tells Jacob that he wishes to be buried not in Egypt, but where his forefathers are buried. And Joseph answers that he will do as his father has said. This is in the second half of Genesis 47:30: וַיֹּאמַר, אָנֹכִי אֶעֱשֶׂה כִדְבָרֶךָ. “And he said: ‘I will do as thou hast said.'”

The word “vayomar” (“and he said”) is in pausal form (the regular form is “vayomer”). The cantillation phrase is a zakef gadol, which typically accompanies a word that constitutes a phrase on its own. It is a medium-level disjunctive; there is a slight pause after it.

Just a few verses later, in Genesis 48:2, there’s another zakef gadol, but this time with “vayomer” instead of “vayomar.” וַיַּגֵּד לְיַעֲקֹב–וַיֹּאמֶר, הִנֵּה בִּנְךָ יוֹסֵף בָּא אֵלֶיךָ; וַיִּתְחַזֵּק, יִשְׂרָאֵל, וַיֵּשֶׁב, עַל-הַמִּטָּה. “And one told Jacob, and said: ‘Behold, thy son Joseph cometh unto thee.’ And Israel strengthened himself, and sat upon the bed.” Why is “vayomer” in the non-pausal form here, when it seems to have an equivalent place grammatically to the previous one?

Then, a few verses later, in Genesis 48:9, there’s a zakef gadol again, this time with “vayomar” again! וַיֹּאמֶר יוֹסֵף, אֶל-אָבִיו, בָּנַי הֵם, אֲשֶׁר-נָתַן-לִי אֱלֹהִים בָּזֶה; וַיֹּאמַר, קָחֶם-נָא אֵלַי וַאֲבָרְכֵם. “And Joseph said unto his father: ‘They are my sons, whom God hath given me here.’ And he said: ‘Bring them, I pray thee, unto me, and I will bless them.'”

What is the difference between the two instances of “vayomar” and the one instance of “vayomer,” given that they have the same cantillation phrase and therefore (more or less) the same grammatical and syntactic function? I looked all over for answers but found nothing specific. I see two possibilities here. First, both instances of “vayomar” indicate a response to another person: Joseph responding to Jacob, and Jacob responding to Joseph. The word is separated from what precedes it as well as what follows it. In both cases, the cantillation phrase that precedes it is an etnachta, which separates the two halves of the verse.  “Vayomer,” in contrast, continues the idea of “vayaged,” “told.” It isn’t separated as strongly from what precedes it (melodically, a zakef katon).

Another (related) possibility is that both instances of “vayomar” are moments of great emotion: Joseph promising to bury Jacob with his forefathers, and Joseph asking to see his grandsons. The instance of “vayomer” is not as emotionally charged. This is connected with the previous points in that the emotion is a response to what was said before. I can imagine a pause both before and after “vayomar”–slightly longer than the pause before and after “vayomer.” Pauses in cantillation can be extremely subtle; only the most advanced readers know just how long to pause.

The difference in sound between “vayomar” and “vayomer” is not just that of one vowel; in “vayomar,” the last syllable is stressed, whereas in “vayomer,” it’s the second syllable. I don’t know how often “vayomar” occurs in Torah with a zakef gadol, but there’s something arresting about it. For these verses, you can hear the first “vayomar” here, the “vayomer” here, and the second “vayomar” here. (These recordings are by Hazzan Robert Menes, former cantor of Beth Shalom in Kansas City.)

These fine distinctions–who notices them? Some people spot them right away; when I was in New York City last summer and read Torah at B’nai Jeshurun, Sharon Anstey, a fellow congregant and Torah reader (and an extraordinarily dedicated BJ member) noticed the special trop (cantillation melody), the karne parah, which occurs only once in the Torah. She even mentioned it in a beautiful piece she wrote.

But people at other levels of knowledge pick up on the trop as well. I remember when I first heard a shalshelet and had no idea what it was. After the service, I ran up to Shoshi, then the cantorial intern, and asked, “What was that I heard?” She told me, and added that the young woman who had read that Torah portion loved the shalshelet so much that she had a pendant in its shape (it looks like a zigzag, a lightning bolt). Later I wrote to a cantor about this experience, and he sent me an article about the shalshelet.

And even without that kind of awareness, even without knowledge of Hebrew or cantillation, we pick up on the phrasings and cadences that we hear. It is possible to be moved by a text without even understanding the words–not because the reader chanted it with emotion, though that might also be true, but because the very rhythms and cadences of the words convey something. Over time, meanings start to come through, then more, then more.

 

The photo shows a kiosk with a video advertisement for an upcoming one-woman operatic production of Anne Frank naplója (Anne Frank’s Diary), to be performed at the Budapesti Operettszínház in February.

 

 

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by Diana Senechal on January 12, 2020  •  Permalink
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Posted by Diana Senechal on January 12, 2020

https://dianasenechal.wordpress.com/2020/01/12/and-he-said-pause/

Learning from Others Within Judaism (Why the Mazsihisz Should Recognize the Reform Communities)

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On December 15, 2019, the General Assembly of Hungary’s Federation of Jewish Communities (Mazsihisz) voted not to recognize Budapest’s two Reform communities, Szim Salom (where I serve in a cantorial role) and Bét Orim. The Mazsihisz is Neolog in orientation. While the Neolog movement differs little from the Orthodox in official stance and liturgy, the personal practices of its congregants range from secular to traditionally observant. I am disappointed by the decision (along with many others, some of whom have written about it) but hope that it is not final and that the discussion will continue. The reasons for coming together–and respecting each other, even with differences–are much more compelling than the reasons for staying apart.

The consequences of the decision are not only financial, but those are important as well. In not recognizing the Reform communities, the Mazsihisz denies any obligation to share its funds with them, including Holocaust restitution funds. Beyond that, the decision is humiliating. It is a way of saying: we are legitimate, and you are not. Still beyond that, the decision shuts off an opportunity to work together, learn from each other, and strengthen each other.

Granted, the question of recognition is much more complex than I am acknowledging here; it plagues just about any religious group. In the U.S., the Conservative and Reform movements have grown closer over time; some fear that the Conservative approach–its endeavor to be at once halakhic (roughly translated: observant of Jewish law) and responsive to modern reality–will disappear. The fear is understandable: any formal religion is founded on some combination of law, text, tradition, belief, and principle. Give up too much of it, and you give up not only your reason for existence, but your core of wisdom. On the other hand, if you refuse to let your wisdom evolve, you end up hurting people inside and outside your community. So I can sympathize with those in the Mazsihisz assembly who felt caught in a dilemma. I have less sympathy for those who refuse to consider the question.

At the December 15 meeting (which I did not attend), one Mazsihisz member stated infamously that “a rabbi should not be a woman, because everyone will just be looking at her butt.” (“Egy rabbi ne legyen nő, mert mindenki csak a fenekét fogja nézni. “) Others worried that recognizing Reform communities violates the principles of the sixteenth-century Code of Jewish Law, the Shulchan Aruch, which the Mazsihisz names explicitly in its statutes. If the statutes were to be amended to recognize the Reform communities, the reference to the Shulchan Aruch would have to be deleted. However, as some participants pointed out, few people read the Shulchan Aruch or know what is in it–and those Orthodox communities that do follow the Shulchan Aruch don’t recognize the Mazsihisz. (The Neolog movement initially represented a break from Orthodoxy; its original aim was to offer a more modern and assimilated form of Jewish worship and life. Today, from what I understand, this difference from Orthodoxy is reflected more in the actual practice of the members than in Neolog doctrine.)

In the U.S., I am Conservative in my Jewish orientation; I like the mixture of tradition and modernization and find no limit to my role within it. It was in the U.S.–at my synagogue B’nai Jeshurun (BJ), in lessons with the hazzan of Chizuk Amuno, and at the Jewish Theological Seminary–that I learned not only the basics and intricacies of cantillation (in all six systems–Torah, Haftarah, High Holy Day, Eichah, Ester, and Festival), but the underlying principles and structures. BJ is independent but mostly Conservative in its liturgy and practice; Chizuk Amuno is a Conservative synagogue in Baltimore; and JTS is one of the academic and spiritual centers of Conservative Judaism

Here in Hungary, I joined Szim Salom, a Reform synagogue, because I like what it does and because I could continue to leyn there. I did not expect to be invited into a cantorial role; when I was, in December 2017, I accepted joyfully and have continued in the role for over two years now. I admire the rabbi, Katalin Kelemen (Hungary’s first–and, so far, only–female rabbi), for her extraordinary persistence, intellect, courage, and joy. I have been warmly welcomed and appreciated by the members.

I used to think of Reform Judaism (the U.S. version, that is) as too watered down, not well versed in Hebrew or liturgy, not as solemn as I would like, not serious in its practice. This may have been true to some extent, but the situation is changing. Reform synagogues are placing much more emphasis now on Hebrew, liturgy, and knowledge of halakhah than they did in the past. As for Conservatives, they are in no way monolithic. Some members go out to restaurants after Shabbat service; others follow Orthodox practices from hour to hour. The rabbis uphold a standard while quietly recognizing a wide range. In addition, the Conservative movement as a whole has opened itself to women, LGBTQ, and people of different racial and cultural backgrounds.

I am grateful for the range. It means that I have people to learn from on all sides–people who put care into every detail of their practice, people who crack jokes, and people who do both at once. I often remember a B’nai Jeshurun member who knows the Hebrew liturgy inside out–who was “davening in the womb,” as his wife puts it–and mumbles a hilarious running commentary in English and Yiddish (and sometimes French) over the course of the service. He and his wife inspired me from the beginning. The Shabbat services at B’nai Jeshurun are filled with people of all ages who come for the joy of it–who, regardless of their level of observance, join together in prayer, singing, and dance. (Many people get up and dance to “Lecha Dodi” on Friday evenings; for a sense of what BJ services are like, see these videos.) Within this range, I do not have to stay still or get stuck, nor do I have to define my version of Judaism exactly. In addition, I learn not to look down on others whose practice differs from mine. They may understand something that I do not.

At this point, in my daily practice, I am closer to Reform than to anything else. This is largely because I do not do well with excessive structure or group activity; I need some unstructured time and space, as well as solitude, in my life. Also, I need the freedom to find the level and form of practice that is right for me, and to be open or quiet about it. Yet I treasure Conservative liturgy, form, and quest. I miss parts of the Conservative services that I have known (at BJ and JTS in New York, and at Congregation Shearith Israel in Dallas), such as Psalm 136, El Adon (listen to this recording), the seven Torah aliyot, the chanted Haftarah, the Musaf Amidah (with its gorgeous Kedushah), and more. In Hungary, though, while I would gladly visit a Neolog service, I see no place for myself except in the Reform, since I wish to participate fully–leyning, singing, leading, studying, learning. It is a lovely place; I find the members kind, thoughtful, and serious about Jewish life and Torah.

I hope the Mazsihisz will come to embrace the range of Jewish practice in Hungary and beyond. Doing so will strengthen, not weaken, their own communities, which themselves have wide ranges. Yes, there are difficult questions of practice and law–but from its beginnings, Judaism has thrived on questioning. I know little of the long and complex history behind the vote–I have read some articles and listened to some people but realize there’s much more to learn. Yet I speak from some knowledge and experience, as well as openness. The Reform and Neolog communities could learn from each other in unforeseeable ways. I would love to be part of this learning.

With rising antisemitic violence around the world, it becomes all the more important to affirm, to ourselves and others, that Judaism abounds with contrasts, contradictions, and concordances, and that it can hold them all. Jews are not just one thing or another; Jews are not things. To the extent that we recognize each other, we fight off degradation and hatred. To the extent that we continue to learn, we fight off excessive self-certainty. It is not easy to do any of this, but it’s more than worth the difficulty. Shabbat Shalom.

Update: In February 2020, the Mazhihisz officially welcomed Szim Salom and Bét Orim as associate members!

The photo at the top of this post shows our 2017 Hanukkah celebration–just after I had begun in my cantorial role at Szim Salom.

I made a few edits to this piece after posting it. In addition, I added to the title for the sake of clarity.

by Diana Senechal on January 3, 2020  •  Permalink
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Posted by Diana Senechal on January 3, 2020

https://dianasenechal.wordpress.com/2020/01/03/learning-from-others-within-judaism/

1LIFE in Esztergom

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Does life get a whole lot better than this: listening to a terrific band in one of the most beautiful cities in the world? If it does, I hope to be there for it; but if not, I have already lived well.

Established late in the tenth century, Esztergom was Hungary’s capital until the Mongol seige of 1241. It towers above and alongside the Danube; you quickly encounter its steep hill and cliffs (I was generally able to bike uphill; I just had to watch for cars). When I arrived, it was just early afternoon, so I had time to see the Basilica (up high) and bike along the Danube below.

The Basilica, planned in 1822 and completed in 1869, stands on the foundation of a much older church, built in the eleventh century, that suffered burning, sacking, and ultimate ruin, with renovations in between. Esztergom itself, for all its splendor, has been through war after war, trouble after trouble. Later, when I commented on its beauty to the staff at the Atrium, the bed-and-breakfast place where I stayed, they replied, “Szép lesz.” (It will be beautiful.)

The synagogue, which I did not get to see (I mistook another building for it) is supposedly Hungary’s oldest—I have yet to verify this—but with the deportation and killing of almost the entire Jewish community in World War II, it stopped being a place for services. Today it functions as a cultural center.

 

After coming down from the hill, I walked through the Comedium Corso festival grounds to get my bearings. I heard an organ grinder, saw children riding Shetland ponies, and found the large stage where the bands were to play. I checked in at the Atrium before biking back down for the concert.

 

1LIFE ascended the stage through billows of fog and began to play up a storm. Within seconds or minutes, the audience (ranging in age from about 3 to 60, with a large teenage contingent) was tapping, dancing, singing, cheering along. Some of these songs, such as “Nincsen kérdés,” are heartbreaking and exhilarating at once; the hard-edged sound combines with the raw and thoughtful lyrics. Their sound reminds me a little of Nirvana and a little more of Son Volt (especially the Wide Swing Tremolo album) but their mixture of music and lyrics is unlike any other I have heard.

Several little kids were dancing through almost the whole show—and really dancing to the beat, not just randomly jumping around; teens were singing along to every word; and I was thrilled to be there. I realized, in a new way, that 1LIFE had “it”: the combination of music, lyrics, zest, stage presence, and knowhow that makes you enjoy every moment and want still more. They have more to discover and try out—this is always true for good artists—and they are clearly doing this. They show it through their appreciation of others’ music, their range of textures and tones, and their willingness to go for it, play shows, work with each new situation. They are professional in the best sense of the word: not staid-professional, but live-out-the-art professional.

They played most of the songs from their album, including “Kapcsolj ki!” and other favorites; one still-unrecorded song whose name I didn’t catch (I think it has “bölcsesség,” “wisdom,” in it) and which begins with “Na na na”—I love it so far and can’t wait to hear it again—and another song, “Londoni idő,” that is not on the album either but can be found on video. Midway through “Álmok a parton,” in the chorus, Marcell Bajnai changed “A Tisza-parton éjsaka….” to “A Duna-parton éjsaka” (in accordance with Esztergom’s location on the Danube). I don’t know if this was planned, but it felt spontaneous and perfect. There were memorable moments between the songs, too: quick stage banter, an eloquent impromptu song introduction by Marcell Jankó, the bassist—and then the one sad moment: they announced that they would play their next-to-last song, “Maradok ember,” but a festival staff person apparently told them that they were out of time and could only play one more song. So they skipped “Maradok ember” and played a gorgeous, exuberant “Táncolunk a végtelenben,” which turned responsive toward the end—that is, we sang back when we were supposed to, with full voice. And then cheered and cheered. And hoped for an encore. It did not come, but the concert didn’t go away quickly either. The pictures I took of the show (below) are limited in quality, but Kitti Berényi (kittiphoto) took some great ones.

After the concert, I biked along the Danube again, walked over the bridge to Slovakia and back, got some beef stew from one of the festival food stands, ran into the band and congratulated them, and then walked and biked through sloping alleys, up and down steps, until the sun went down. I got a good night’s sleep; early in the morning, I set out for Budapest (by train), where Rabbi Katalin Kelemen and I led Szim Salom’s Shavuot service. I had been preparing for this daily (it involved, among other things, leyning the Ten Commandments and chanting the first chapter of Ruth), but I didn’t realize that Esztergom would be part of the preparation too. I arrived so rested and happy, and met with such cheer and warmth from the others (regulars and visitors) that it went the way a Shavuot festival should. From festival to festival, the bridge was not long.

Some may think it’s eccentric of a 55-year-old to travel to Esztergom to hear a band led by one of her former students. Well, it is eccentric, but it’s part of my nature, and I don’t regret a second of it. Good music reaches people of all ages. This does not mean that I would go to all their shows. For instance, if they were playing at a young people’s nightclub or party, I wouldn’t want to step into their space. But a festival is meant to bring people together; age is less important there than other things.

There’s another aspect of this too. In his essay “Self-Reliance,” Ralph Waldo Emerson writes of the individual: “The power which resides in him is new in nature, and none but he knows what that is which he can do, nor does he know until he has tried. Not for nothing one face, one character, one fact, makes much impression on him, and another none. This sculpture in the memory is not without preestablished harmony. The eye was placed where one ray should fall, that it might testify of that particular ray.“ That is, it is given to each of us in life to appreciate particular things, to see them in a particular way. No one else can do this for us. It’s each person’s choice whether to live this out or not, but for me it’s the difference between full life and a sort of whimpering hesitation. Live modestly; be thoughtful of others; remember life’s stages, necessities and losses; but live out that life that is only yours, because that’s what it’s there for, briefly.

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(I added links to this piece and edited it here and there after posting it.)

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by Diana Senechal on June 10, 2019  •  Permalink
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Posted by Diana Senechal on June 10, 2019

https://dianasenechal.wordpress.com/2019/06/10/1life-in-esztergom/

These Swift, Full Days

IMG_6518When I came back to Hungary, I knew sour cherries would be out of season, or at least hard to find—and so they are, sadly—but plums and grapes spill over. Yesterday I saw a blue-fruited plum tree by the side of a bike path on the outskirts of Szolnok. There were signs saying “do not eat,” but of course I ate. It was the best roadside plum I have ever tasted. (I have never tasted a roadside plum before.)

The plums remind me that there’s little left of summer. For me this means not the end of vacation but rather the approach of deadlines and events. I am preparing for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur; I will be leading the musical parts of these services at Szim Salom, my synagogue in Budapest. Beyond that, I am preparing for my book release and turning my thoughts toward the school year. The main vacation-like thing here is the flexibility of days; for the next week, I can plan each day as I wish. We teachers return to school on August 24; from then onward, I will have a fixed schedule (probably on the looser side until the students return, then full and busy every day). I look forward to this year with its four aspects: teaching, writing, religious life, and personal life (which will include biking and learning Hungarian). It looks overfull, but I would not give up any of it. It isn’t frantic, just abundant and demanding in the best of ways.

So it is great to get on the bike and go in any direction the whim suggests. I only have to step outside to see the heather along the Zagyva river; to come to unexpected places, I need only ride along the river, but there are many other options and directions.

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The other day I followed a dirt road, along the Zagyva, that I had taken twice before but had found too muddy both times. This time, it was completely dry, so I could go on and on. The photo of the horses and the video of the water are both from that ride. (I also saw cows, storks, and a deer.)

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But given the swiftness of days, some planning is in order too. So I intend to take the train to Baja (with bicycle) on Sunday, bike southward along the Danube, possibly into Croatia, and return to Szolnok on Monday. I loved Baja on my first visit (eleven months ago) and was able to reserve a room just now at the same beautiful bed-and-breakfast place where I stayed before.

The day itself is going by too fast, so I will end here.

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by Diana Senechal on August 16, 2018  •  Permalink
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Posted by Diana Senechal on August 16, 2018

https://dianasenechal.wordpress.com/2018/08/16/these-swift-full-days/

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  • “Setting Poetry to Music,” 2022 ALSCW Conference, Yale University

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  • ABOUT THE AUTHOR

     

    Diana Senechal is the author of Republic of Noise: The Loss of Solitude in Schools and Culture and the 2011 winner of the Hiett Prize in the Humanities, awarded by the Dallas Institute of Humanities and Culture. Her second book, Mind over Memes: Passive Listening, Toxic Talk, and Other Modern Language Follies, was published by Rowman & Littlefield in October 2018. In April 2022, Deep Vellum published her translation of Gyula Jenei's 2018 poetry collection Mindig Más.

    Since November 2017, she has been teaching English, American civilization, and British civilization at the Varga Katalin Gimnázium in Szolnok, Hungary. From 2011 to 2016, she helped shape and teach the philosophy program at Columbia Secondary School for Math, Science & Engineering in New York City. In 2014, she and her students founded the philosophy journal CONTRARIWISE, which now has international participation and readership. In 2020, at the Varga Katalin Gimnázium, she and her students released the first issue of the online literary journal Folyosó.

  • INTERVIEWS AND TALKS

    On April 26, 2016, Diana Senechal delivered her talk "Take Away the Takeaway (Including This One)" at TEDx Upper West Side.
     

    Here is a video from the Dallas Institute's 2015 Education Forum.  Also see the video "Hiett Prize Winners Discuss the Future of the Humanities." 

    On April 19–21, 2014, Diana Senechal took part in a discussion of solitude on BBC World Service's programme The Forum.  

    On February 22, 2013, Diana Senechal was interviewed by Leah Wescott, editor-in-chief of The Cronk of Higher Education. Here is the podcast.

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    All blog contents are copyright © Diana Senechal. Anything on this blog may be quoted with proper attribution. Comments are welcome.

    On this blog, Take Away the Takeaway, I discuss literature, music, education, and other things. Some of the pieces are satirical and assigned (for clarity) to the satire category.

    When I revise a piece substantially after posting it, I note this at the end. Minor corrections (e.g., of punctuation and spelling) may go unannounced.

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