I hated praying. As kids, we used to sit for hours at the synagogue, in school, and every morning reading words I didn’t care about and probably didn’t understand. I’d stare at the Hebrew pages and will myself to focus. Often, I got lost in my own thoughts and wished to be somewhere else. Reading about temples and sacrifices made 2,000 years ago did nothing to tickle my fancy.
If my teachers noticed I wasn’t concentrating, or my dad peeked behind the curtain and saw I wasn’t looking down, there was a good chance I’d have to start all over. Praying at home was worse. I had to read the words out loud, pronounce each syllable perfectly or risk repeating pages.
Maybe hate is a strong word. But I really really really didn’t like it. So much so that one of the first things I stopped doing when I stopped believing was I stopped praying. I let go of boredom, I thought.
I never missed it. Sometimes, I caught myself repeating phrases of prayers when walking down scary alleyways, and I chalked that up as habit. It couldn’t be faith driving the words I was muttering from memory. Oft-times this happened when I was alone. Maybe the intrusive prayers were a form of self-soothing. My brain would pick up on shadows and construct fears out of them. Could these moments have been a manifestation of no atheists in foxholes?
My mom came to visit me a few months ago. She flew in for the weekend, and on Saturday she sat and prayed for hours. It was beautiful. She sat on the couch and said a psalm for each kid, and then read a few extra for other spiritual reasons. I spent my day out and about and doing my thing, and I sort of watched her at the same time. She didn’t seem bored, she seemed peaceful. Most people say my mom is usually like me, with a million questions surrounded by a tumble of distractions. As I was watching her do nothing and read words I know she didn’t understand, just for a second I wished I could have what she found. Just for a second, I wished I could feel the peace she had.
I considered doing things my mom’s way for a moment. I planned to go out and find my own prayer book, try and spend a few hours reading letters that have no meaning. Maybe it’d be meaningful to get a little bored, I thought.
And then I snapped out of it. I said it’s not my thing. If I had a choice I’d read a book and watch a movie simultaneously while riding a train across the world because I’ve got to see everything. Too much to live, too little time left.
And obviously, of course, no time for prayer. No time to be bored.
Yet somehow despite this inner tirade against boredom, tonight I found myself in a synagogue again. My boyfriend says I stray towards religion when I’m lonely, and I disagree. I re-explore it when I’m craving something familiar. I live in a country that’s not mine and I’m surrounded by people I’ve only met in the past year. With religion being the central theme of my life until 18, a rodeo at the Synagogue had to happen at some point. Tonight was the night.
But, I had forgotten about the length of prayers. I had forgotten how bored I used to be there. I walked in and when the rabbi’s wife handed me a book, I moved my chair closer to the door. I needed an escape plan. I ain’t praying I thought.
I was already sitting, so I opened the book. Tonight wasn’t a traditional prayer - it’s a holiday, and to commemorate, the rabbi reads the story of it out loud. It takes 20 - 45 minutes (yes, I googled that before he began) and the only thing I’m supposed to do is read and follow along. And be bored.
So I did just that. His semi-monotone voice rang out, punctuated by a winter cough. I kept trying to read and kept getting steered away into something else to focus on. My phone is on “no vibrate” mode yet I could have sworn I heard it vibrate ten times. Persistently, I redirected my brain from my failing escape plan to focusing on nothing. I tried, I really tried, and then about 5 minutes before the end I realized being there was the only type of thing I don’t have in my life. I’m always looking at something, going somewhere, or talking to someone. My brain is constantly chattering away even as I sleep. What will happen in stillness, I thought.
The Rabbi finished and I glanced at my phone so quickly, you’d think I was an important CEO or something. I had survived boredom.
On my way home, I chuckled to myself. I didn’t exactly pray, but I did the thing I always hated. This time, unexpectedly, I discovered a little bit of calm. I found a touch of peace I saw my mom have praying in my home. My brain must’ve needed that - God knows the last time I truly focused on nothing. Some people meditate, some take cold showers, and tonight, I simply needed to pray.
This is beautiful and takes many us into your thoughts which are not so far probably what others don't verbalize.
Beautiful share, Y. I loved reading the intimate moment of you observing your mom praying and how you found that touch of peace for yourself too ❤️