Kol Nidre
In my childhood, when the High Holy Days came around, we all dressed up in our smarts and dutifully attended Temple Israel. My oldest brother was a rabbi's helper. He was also a high achiever who could debate amazingly and rile up a crowd. And he had girlfriends! By contrast, I had paralyzing stage fright that leaked over into my awkwardness with girls. I could bloom helplessly at the first hint of attention. So we were destined for different paths. But when I was 13 my brother-awe reached a whole new level. That year, the Kol Nidre service was particularly special. We had taken our last meal before the fast, and as we shuffled in with the rest of the congregation, the choir's organ played the opening chords. A holy hush settled the packed hall. And then a plaintive, beautiful voice that I knew so well from guitar lessons with my brother, filled the space. It sounded like a mix of Donovan and Pete Seeger. The choir, hidden behind a curtain on the second floor, backed him up perfectly. The congregation was ushered into the holiest day of the year by that sweet confident voice. My brother's. Five decades later and I am still kvelling.
Kol Nidre, the melody, is hauntingly beautiful. The lyrics are as ancient and inaccessible to me as many of the other Hebrew or Aramaic prayers so until recently, I thought nothing of it. But on closer read, it is not at all a prayer. It is a legal text, an indemnity clause. It states that your vows and commitments made to self or God no longer bind you, and that you are welcome to join the congregation on this solemn day of prayer. Now, imagine singing a dry legal tract with the most emotive plainsong ever, embellished by great tenors who erupt into the final high C surrounded by an entranced community. If you feel like a quick cry, listen to this version by Cantor Angela Buchdahl. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c8lUE6y9euY
A few months ago my friends Lisa and Zann began to organize our Kol Nidre service in Indianola. We needed 3 volunteers... to sing the rounds of Kol Nidre. Would I like to? Well, I can whistle the tune and it was 3 months away, and I aim to please, so I agreed. How bad can it be? (That, my friends, is a rhetorical question.) And then I remembered my awesome brother. He has the voice. I don't. All too late.
So, I started listening and singing along to the fabulous versions by Perry Como, Johnny Mathis, Neil Diamond and whoever. It became clear to me that whistling the tune works, but putting voice to it does not. I cannot reach the notes that my whistling can and I cannot hold them either. I was destined to slaughter this gem in the Jewish liturgy for anyone listening. Most of all for myself. But I love it and dream of belting it out with legendary pathos, tears staining every prayer book. Take a listen to Max Bruch's cello version with Jacqualine Du Pre https://youtu.be/zjeIkz7QIGI Don't you want to lay down and weep with your whole body in a stew of grief and joy?
Yom Kippur finally arrived this Wednesday. I was relieved to be well hidden behind a mask and among loving friends. The first part in Aramaic went pretty well I thought. But when the Hebrew sentence about this being annulment of our vows for the coming year, I forgot the tune. Just lost it. Just like that. Months of listening and whistling. And the melody blanked. So I reverted to cantoral embellishing. And wailed my way through to the bitter end.
You would think that this sad ending would have me masking up permanently. But I came away with a lightness and gratitude for the opportunity to stretch myself into song and connect over the months with the most heart rending prayer, that reminds us not to take ourselves too seriously, that our vows and promises are not to be worshiped and should never separate us from one another.
