In one of my essays of last month, I let slip the fact that I am taking celexa to “staunch the tears caused by my microscopic testosterone level” due to treatment for prostate cancer. That earned me a gratifying collection of sympathy messages, which I had pretty much expected. But one note was different.
I also am “dealing” with aggressive prostate cancer... What the loss of testosterone has taken from me, among other obvious things, is the ability to cry. I miss that, but I'm grateful to still be here.
Needless to say, it never crossed my mind that the same hormonal treatment that makes my tears overflow—has dried up the tears of another. Subsequent correspondence revealed that doctors are also at a loss to explain the writer’s condition.
I asked myself: What would be worse—being unable to cry or being unable to stop crying? And my conclusion was—I’d rather burst into tears at inopportune moments than not be able to cry at all.
And then a thought struck me. The inability to obtain the emotional release of tears is a metaphor for what we are all going through in the age of COVID. In the synagogue, congregations that love to sing find themselves stifled, lest they spread deadly droplets. Tzitzit and Torah scrolls remain unkissed as we huddle behind masks, and daily charity boxes are untouched for fear of the contamination of a common surface. In the street, we step forward to converse with a friend, only to recoil; we reach out a hand and freeze in mid-gesture. In our studies, the roar of the Beit Midrash and the give and take of the lecture hall are replaced by the muted Hollywood Squares grid of a Zoom platform. It is as if we had all been isolated in the soundproof booth of the Newlywed Game but no one ever called us back to see if we could predict what our loved ones would say. And then we arrive home to tables bereft of guests, forgetting to ask ourselves what our once-upon-a-time guests are doing for companionship.
We are spiritually congested, with the accustomed outlets for our most noble urges sealed.
Does it have to be that way?
If we cannot drop a coin a box, can’t we donate regularly online? The Communities of London organization has mounted a campaign to support several worthy causes through daily electronic contributions. Can we “kiss” our sacred objects by learning more about them, both intellectually and emotionally? Can we raise our random contact with friends to intentional, planned calls? Why not call an erstwhile Shabbat guest on Friday and later drop off some Shabbat food? Why not experiment with unmuting some Zoom time and recreating some of the cacophony of the Beit Midrash ... or sit, masked and spaced, on a lawn, to talk Torah. A recent picture of Rabbi Hershel Schachter, foremost Orthodox American Rabbinic decisor on matters of COVID, shows him in precisely such a pose.
My new pen pal has learned to cry without tears, to feel his emotions with dry eyes. In the days and weeks to come, I hope to follow his example. My mask may hide my face, but not my heart. The virus may be a match for my immune system, but not for my creativity. This year’s High Holidays will be different, but they need not be any less elevated.
As immunologists continue to search for a vaccine, I will be working on a spiritual decongestant.
And I can sure use your help.
I am leaving comments on for this essay, in the hopes that you will add your creativity to mine, and that together we can help build a community of caring, which can share ideas of how to channel our kindest and most charitable instincts into methods suited to our challenging time.
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