PJ’s, shabbat, and musak in a time of COVID-19

COVID-19 changes everything, but Shabbat and Muzak endure

Recently, just before we were all told to shelter in place to reduce the spread of COVID-19, but after people and were already taking significant precautions, my synagogue held Shabbat morning services via livestream. A small number of folks were spread wide apart in the sanctuary, while a few dozen of us participated online.

I hope you enjoy this poetic telling of how the story unfolded for me and my wife that morning in our dining room.

Just so you know, it involves pajamas, music, and muzak, and requires a decent sense of humor if you’re going to take it seriously.

Pajamas on shabbat: story from a time of coronavirus

 I.
 It’s Saturday morning at home
  
 not so unusual for 
 a renegade rabbi
 who prefers many weeks
 to study Torah in bed 
 in my pajamas
 rather than go to synagogue
  
 while you, an early riser, 
 perform your weekly ritual 
 of gym and Pilates,
 with a multi-talented teacher
 who often  entices us 
 to attend plays she graces
 with skillful performances
 when she's not teaching Pilates.
  
 But Saturday being, 
 as it is, Shabbat,
 and seeing as how 
 I love Shabbat,
 a day for rest, 
 and rejuvenation,
 in body and spirit, 
 for all the generations
  
 for the All of Everything, 
 from when God, or people, 
 or some Great Force of Knowing
 first announced the possibility
  
 from that time forward,
 forever, every week, 
 it's Shabbat
  
 and since I often find my best
 rest, and rejuvenation,
 in the quiet spaces between
 the words of Torah, between
 sleep and full wakefulness,
 between lying still, and
 full-on activity, between 
 the solitary, 
 and the social
  
 and much as I love 
 my communities,
 and while Shabbat 
 is largely considered
 to be a communal event
  
 when this time 
 of week arrives
 on Saturday morning
 I usually just want to be
 in those in between spaces,
 sitting in bed, 
 in my pajamas,
 reading Torah
  
 and then, maybe later,
 cracking eggs, and 
 sauteing veggies with you, 
 for an omelet we share
 after our respective
 re-generative 
 morning activity. 

 II.
 But today is different,
 as so many things are
 right now.
  
 Your teacher is away
 to do a play we were hoping
 to see next week,
 and the Pilates studio
 will be closing soon anyways
 due to coronavirus.
  
 I’m in my pajamas, yes,
 but we're together, 
 in the dining room, 
 having already eaten
  
 and we’re joined 
 with our community
 in safe social distance
 via livestream.
  
 A couple of dozen people
 are at the synagogue,
 spread out, six feet apart,
 with three leaders
 at the front of the room
  
 the rest of us 
 spread out in nearby
 cities, and neighborhoods,
 in the confines of our homes
  
 while one person reports
 logging in from Indiana.
  
 Halleluyah, we sing,
 Hallelu-Yah, praise to the Source
 and Breath of Life
  
 praise
 for this loving community,
 this sacred gathering
  
 the singing is joyful,
 I get up to dance for a while,
 tallis swirling with its design
 of flying doves, that I imagine
 soaring, and diving, 
 and enfolding us
 in their expansive wings, 
 like the Shekhina, 
 the Divine Presence
  
 and then,
 in the spacious quiet 
 after the singing,
 I settle back peacefully, 
 into my chair.

 III.
 We’ve been planning a trip,
 you and I, a weekend respite,
 inspired by wanting to see
 your Pilates instructor’s play,
 an hour’s flight away,
 in a city near places
 of amazing natural beauty
  
 but now we need to cancel,
 because, well, we all know...
  
 Yesterday, I called the booking site,
 and got a busy signal for hours.
  
 You called this morning, and
 are already on hold for forty minutes
 when services start.
  
 Repetitive Musak wafts 
 from the phone across the room, 
 along with the occasional
 automated message.
  
 “We’re experiencing longer 
 than usual delays.
 Please stay on the line, 
 and we’ll answer your call 
 as soon as possible.
 We value your patronage.”
  
 Under normal circumstances, 
 I wouldn’t deal with this 
 on Shabbat, would go 
 into a separate room
 to avoid the electronic 
 dissonance, would leave you 
 to deal with it. 
  
 But I find it comforting, 
 and fun, to be in services 
 with you, something we rarely 
 do together Shabbat mornings,
 and here, no less,
 at the dining room table, 
 something that’s never 
 happened before
  
 and I don’t want this 
 task to linger,
 and be charged a fee. 
 I want this taken care of, 
 so I stay in this 
 in-between spot, between
  
 hearing the Musak,
 and drowning it out 
 with song and prayer,
 between laughing with you 
 about it,
 and being annoyed, 
 between hearing 
 the interruption
 of its repetitive drone, 
 and worrying
 that we’ll miss it 
 when a live person
 finally comes on the line
  
 and our hearing
 isn't as good
 as it was, aging being
 what it is, 
 and we are in this
 together, so  
 I feel obliged,
 and find my usual strategies 
 of meeting Shabbat 
 with limited technology 
 are all the more strained
 in this already strange 
 and complicated moment. 
  
 I find myself 
 in two worlds,
 the precious sacred 
 world of Shabbat, 
 and the other-ly sacred 
 remainder of Life,
 
 which ironically, 
 includes cancelling
 a time for us 
 to slow down, 
 and be together,
 to explore a city 
 we don’t know well,
 to visit rushing rivers, 
 and waterfalls, 
 all intended for rest 
 and rejuvenation.
  
 But right now we’re here, 
 in our dining room,
 me in PJ’s and tallis, 
 you in a tee,  
 with corduroy over-shirt, 
 computer, and prayer book, 
 and hearts open 
 to this multi-faceted 
 connection, while we face 
 
 the undeniable force,
 the constantly shifting rapids 
 of a fast-spreading pandemic
  
 we all, 
 individuals,
 and communities, 
 here, and there, 
 and all the places in between.

 IV.
 We reach 
 the part of the service
 recalling the story
 of our ancient ancestors
 miraculously crossing 
 the Reed Sea,
 and we’re reminded 
 to think of “them”
 as “us”, traversing
 the muddy sea-floor,
 roaring waves 
 parting for us.
 hundreds of thousands 
 of us, mucking our way 
 from the narrowness
 of bondage, to the 
 frightful-ness, 
 and awesomeness,
 of unknown freedom, 
 and we sing
  
 "Mi chamocha, ba-elim YHVH,"
 What could be like You,
 like this, 
 Miraculous Wonder-Maker, 
 so hard to see 
 when we’re trudging
 through the thick of it all.
  
 "Baruch ata YaH, 
 go-el Yisrael."
 Blessed are You, 
 Reminder of Hopefulness,
 carrying our restless 
 and wrestling spirits
 to the other side of the sea.
  
 And then, 
 just as we finish 
 that prayer, and before 
 the silent Amidah prayers 
 that follow, we hear, 
 clear, unmistakable, 
 a new voice in the room.
  
 “This is Kristin at 
 Capital One Travel.
 How can I help you today?”

 V.
 You go to deal 
 with the call,
 I go to the window,
 face the blossoming 
 crabapple tree, 
 and recite the prayers
  
 for the ancestors,
 for salvation, 
 for holiness, 
 for Shabbat, 
 for gratitude
  
 and you may not know it
 but I am grateful
 you’re dealing with that call
 so I can continue to pray
 
 so in case
 I haven’t said it yet
 thank you, thank you

 thank you. 

 VI.
 These prayers end,
 as they always do, 
 with the oseh shalom,
 a prayer for peace.
  
 Oh, right, 
 peace 

 we still need that.
  
 May it be so.
 Amen.

 ©2020 Shifrah Tobacman