I know it’s a week early, but it’s almost time for Hanukkah. Hanukkah is a really wonderful, beautiful holiday, but in recent years, Hanukkah has become harder for me. My dad, Lou Feigelson, died on the third night of Hanukkah six years ago. He was 82 years old. He was blessed to live a long and good life. He was born in New York but grew up in Detroit, the child of immigrants from eastern Europe. He loved camping and sports. He was the scoutmaster of the Boy Scout troop my brothers and I all joined, and he inculcated in us a love of Michigan football and Detroit sports teams.
But as much as anything else, my dad was a deeply proud and committed Jew. When we went to Boy Scout summer camp, he created a whole separate cooking setup with kosher utensils—we called it the kosher patrol—not just because he wanted to make sure we had kosher food, but because he wanted other people to know that we ate kosher food, that we were proud Jews. When the public schools we attended would occasionally schedule events on Jewish holidays, he’d let them know that it was a conflict—and ask them to reschedule so we could be included. He made sure we knew our way around the synagogue prayer service and could lead it. And while it aggravated him a little bit, he was overwhelmingly proud and supportive as my brothers and I all became more religiously observant as teenagers and young adults. In a world in which so many Jews grew up not knowing a ton about their traditions, my Dad gave us the extraordinary gift of knowing who we were and where we came from.
So it’s actually kind of beautiful that Hanukkah is when he died, and thus the time when we remember him. Because while Hanukkah is about many things, I think what it’s most about is exactly this: joyfully and proudly claiming and proclaiming who we are. We are Jews. We have this incredible gift in our heritage—and this incredible opportunity and responsibility to share it. I can’t think of a better way to honor my dad.
In a couple weeks we’ll start a new miniseries on mindful responses to antisemitism. (Yes, we’ll go there.) But I think Hanukkah can help us pregame that a bit—especially this year, when I know a lot of us are struggling with what can feel like a tidal wave of Jew hatred from so many directions. Hanukkah is a chance to reground and reset, to tap into the powerful spiritual light of Jewish life.
The main event of Hanukkah, of course, is lighting the Hanukkah lights. So the practice I want to offer you is one to do as you’re lighting your candles this year.
Before you light the menorah, take a few moments to settle into your body. You can do this sitting or standing–whatever works for you. Take a few good deep breaths, and become aware of your breathing.
Take a moment to scan your body. Be aware of anyplace you might be holding some tension–in your legs, your arms, your eyes, your jaw. Bring some softness to these places if they need them.
As you prepare to light the flames, see if you can bring to mind a source of light within you. A warm feeling. The image of a biological or spiritual ancestor. See if you can sense a connection to a chain that extends back one generation after another, each ancestor holding a flame—and perhaps forward in time, to people who will carry that same flame because of you.
You are here, right now, lighting this light in the darkness—this same light that those ancestors lit for thousands of years. This same light that will be lit by the people for whom you are an ancestor, years and centuries into the future. What an incredible array. What a source of strength.
Now prepare to light the candles and recite the blessings.
As you say the first blessing, perhaps bring your focus to the privilege of this ritual. What a gift we have, that we’re part of this tradition, that we’re able to light these Hanukkah lights. What an opportunity to feel connected to our past and future while being present in the present.
[Play first blessing]
Before you recite the second blessing, pause for a moment and bring to mind a miracle—it could be something small but significant that happened today, as enormously compact as just waking up and breathing again today; or it could be something larger for which you’re grateful. Let yourself experience the sensation of gratitude for that miracle, then recite the second blessing and light the candles.
[Play second blessing]
On the first night of Hanukkah, we add a third blessing, the shehechiyanu. Bring to mind, perhaps, the awareness that we have traveled another orbit around the sun—that you and your ancestors have done this practice before at this time, and that, miraculously, you are here now to do it again. If you’ve lost someone in the past year, or like me, around this time years ago, feel welcome to bring them with you into your heart and mind. They can be part of your consciousness. You are a custodian of their flame, and you’re lighting the candles for them.
[Play third blessing]
And now, if you can, take a moment to look at these flames, to delight in their light, to feel their warmth. Let that light fill you up inside. Let yourself feel a sense of connection with all those ancestors and all those descendants. Let yourself feel present, here, now, full of light and warmth—joyful and grateful for this amazing tradition, for the blessing to be a Jew.
Blessings for the journey, know that I’m on it with you. And blessings for a happy and renewing Hanukkah.