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<title>Zk | Kaddish</title>
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<h1>Zk | Kaddish</h1>
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<p>What Right Have I has a fucking meltdown.</p>
<p>She was doing something — perhaps this sort of rabbinical debate type thing (From Whence is a rabbi) — with a fork who disappears and is already dealing with a lot of overstim and the like. Her overflowing is specifically either religious ecstasy or anguish.</p>
<p>((Some debate over halakhah on the System))</p>
<p>There is a rhythm to this. There is a rhythm to the movement of debate, to the back-and-forth nature of arguing about the way that life flows, ought to slow. It is and ever has been a wrestling with God. With each other, yes, for there is the back-and-forth, but it is ultimately a show, a performance that takes the form of a debate in order to wrestle with God, with Adonai, Elohim, El-Shaddai?.</p>
<p>That is what we are, is it not? The people of Israel? Not just that ancient state, but the people of Israel who was Jacob? Jacob, who wrestles with God?</p>
<p>And yet it was too close to that — to actual wrestling — for What Right Have I. It was too contentious, too intense. She had been, as she ever had been, brought along to provide the view of one who had read and reread and reread again all that she could, who had large chunks of the Tanakh memorized, who had buried herself in commentaries and commentaries on commentaries. She had memorized thousands of stories from the Talmud just as she had whole books from the Tanakh.</p>
<p>And yet it was too much.</p>
<p>She had long ago requested that these discussions take place in one of the smaller rooms of the synagogue, that they take place among soft cushions and softer wall-hangings, take place around a circular table with no corners to fiddle with, take place with enough space that she could pace.</p>
<p>She needed that. It was not a want.</p>
<p>She needed to be seen, to be perceived as an entire being who was an integral part of their ceaseless debates, and yet as someone who did not need <em>accommodation.</em> She was an entire person, not most of a person for which they must find a way to fill in the rest. These were not accommodations that they needed to make for her to take part, they were a part of her participation that this might be some fuller experience, some work that still would have been complete if it had taken part in a noisy, brutalist hall or out in some park.</p>
<p>Could she take part in those places? Yes. Probably. Could she have provided a completed task that would stand up to the test of time? Probably. Ish.</p>
<p>But could she provide insight that would shine with the sages if they would only do this in a place where she could pace among soft things, where she could fidget and tic, where her little squeaks and yelps and twitches would be at least glossed over and at best taken as a sign — a rainbow! A raven! A plague! — that the topic had veered or become mired in stress rather than remained within the soothing track that we had laid out for ourselves.</p>
<p>From Whence Do I Call Out, my down-tree instance, was tightly in control of herself. She was more tightly in control than anyone else I had ever met, never mind just among the Odists. </p>
<p>I am sure that the True Name of yore had probably been yet more in control, and yet I had never met her. I had been no one. I <em>was still</em> no one. I was that part of From Whence that needed out of the cage of control. I was the part of her that loathed the social interaction inherent in being a rabbi. I was the part of her that rankled when confronted with this desire to mask and thus appear a confident spiritual leader.</p>
<p>I was the part of her set free.</p>
<p>I was the part of her who could give up that life of leadership and sink down into the comfort of texts.</p>
<p>I was the part of her that splashed about in that collection of neuroses that had been bundled up in Michelle Hadje.</p>
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