Some Passover Reflections

As yesterday was the last day of passover, I thought I’d share some thoughts with you about how passover felt this year for me. I thought this post was going to be a dvar torah kind of thing but I have a feeling it will just be me ranting. I guess I can count this as Rabbi practice. 

Here’s why this was the weirdest Passover ever: for the first time in recorded history I didn’t want passover to end. I took that first bite of pizza last night and it didn’t taste like the best thing I’d eaten in my life as it usually does all other years. In fact, I woke up this morning wanting it to still be Passover. After all, we had enough matzah to last us at least another week. 

So why did I want passover to go on forever this year?  One word: normalcy

My Seder was beautiful, with family near and far gathered on zoom to interrupt each other and talk over one another just like real life. It was amazing to share a Seder with grandparents in Los Angeles and even a cousin in Hong Kong. My grandparents said it was the best seder we’ve ever had. And while the family did provide some good laughs, what felt so incredible to me about the Seder was the orderliness, the knowledge of what was coming next. One of the hardest things for me about this pandemic is the uncertainty. Will I be able to work my job this summer? Will I be able to study abroad next year? Will students be allowed back to campus in the Fall? When will I see my friends again? It will be awhile before I know the answers to these questions. But sitting at that Seder, knowing that we were on קרפס, knowing that יחץ came next, gave me a sense of comfort I have not felt in a long time. I didn’t know what would happen the next day, or the day after, or the day after, but I did know that after we ate the bitter herbs, it was time for the Hillel sandwich. I thought about all the years that I have done the exact same Seder order, on the exact same day (of the Hebrew calendar), and it gave me comfort to know that no matter what crazy thing is happening in the world, no matter what happens, we will always open the door for Elijah, we will always sing a terrible rendition of Dayeinu, and we will always say בשנה הבאה בירושלים 

I know that objectively Matzah does not taste good. And every other year  I have believed that. But let me tell you what my Matzah tasted like this year. It didn’t taste like slavery, or oppression, or wandering through the desert. My dad’s Matzoh Brei tasted like my grandparents’ kitchen the day after the seder. Matzah and peanut butter sandwiches tasted like waiting in line for the Indiana jones ride with my best friends every year when we went to Disneyland over spring break. Matzah farfel with milk and sugar tasted like midnight snacks after watching prince of Egypt for the hundredth time. I guess you could say, Matzah tasted like freedom. And I didn’t want to stop tasting it. It’s hard to remember a time when we could hug, dance, share food, walk into stores, or go to a friend’s house. But maybe, just maybe, you can find something that tastes like normal.