I’m writing to share something I’m just beginning to learn on this Hanukkah. Each night after we light the hanukkiah, my son sits patiently watching until all the flames are extinguished. (This goes quickly; I bought cheap candles.) No one has told him he has to stay put—in fact, it’s a minor miracle that he doesn’t immediately run to his train set. But there he sits, sometimes with his Zayde, sometimes his father. I do want to sit with him. I want to be still and watch the wax drip into elaborate sculptures on my unprotected table. Instead, I scurry around, preparing for what’s next—bedtime, morning, school, work.
It’s a complicated Jewish custom for women not to work while the Hanukkah candles burn.
There is much discussion among the Rabbis about the reason for this tradition, from temptingly feminist (women bring about the miracle of Hanukkah) to the familiarly sexist (if women are working they might not be able to remember the miracle—perhaps because our brains are so simple). Of course, being commanded by male rabbis not to work while also being forced to run the household and prepare for the holiday might leave a sour taste in the mouth of any feminist.
But after this weekend’s horrific attacks at Brown University and against the Sydney Jewish Community at Bondi Beach, I realize my resistance to this custom isn’t based only on half-formed analysis. Here’s the deeper reason: I’m afraid to pause. What am I missing when I stay still or don’t check my phone? What will come into the silence?
Tonight, though, I’m going to try to hold still. Working at Lilith has taught me the gift of pausing. Of slowing down to take care of yourself. Of giving space for a story to unravel at its own pace. Tonight, I will take the moments while the candles glow to do nothing, to offer nothing beyond my presence. I will sit beside my son and hold onto the light for a little bit longer.
All of us at Lilith wish you light, this Hanukkah and always.
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