Until recently, I believed the phoenix to be a mythological
creature from a decadent and defunct culture. I was therefore
surprised when a Rov teaching a class in my house to a group
of kids told them of such a bird described in Gemora
Sanhedrin. This bird, called ohf hachol, was
blessed by Noach with eternal life for being such a good
jailbird in the ark. The Midrash relates that this bird lives
a thousand years, after which it throws itself in a fire and
is reborn.
The Jewish people are a counterpart of this unique bird; they,
too, are continually reborn from the ashes of destruction that
the nations of the world have heaped upon us over the ages. It
is also a metaphor of our rebirth every year after we have
cleansed ourselves of our sins on Yom Kippur.
Last year on Rosh Hashona, I was soul searching when I got
this niggling feeling that there might be a few people to whom
I owed an apology. Right after havdola, I consulted a
Rov who confirmed my fears that regardless of what might have
transpired to arouse my own negative feeling and its
subsequent reaction, if I had hurt, shamed or insulted
someone, it was incumbent upon me to ask forgiveness. Sigh.
Like most people, I have no problem goodheartedly exchanging
apologies with close friends for the slight slights we may
have inadvertently been guilty of. I have no problem excusing
myself for accidently stepping on someone's toes both
figuratively and literally. It's when I feel I've been wronged
by someone and then must apologize to the other person that
this suddenly becomes a formidable task. Usually in the tug of
war between pride and prejudice, pride wins.
Another year has rolled by, and seeing as our individual and
collective fates begin to hang in the balance already in Elul,
to waver in the Ten Days of Awe, and as the gates slowly and
ominously swing shut as the sun sets on Yom Kippur, you can't
help but wonder: is it worth it? If someone were to come up to
you and say, "You have a choice: you either say you're sorry
to your co-worker or face financial setbacks in the next year;
beg forgiveness from your spouse or endure illness; apologize
to a friend or suffer emotional anguish," the choice would be
clear. You wouldn't hesitate to apologize. Well, although we
don't presume to do Hashem's accounting and our spiritual
motivations are meant to be a little loftier, we could be
setting ourselves up for a fall by not climbing down from the
heights of our fragile egos. No matter how bitter a pill it is
to swallow, apologizing might be just what the doctor ordered
to stave off the side effects of the plague of enmity.
So, last year, in the intervening days between Rosh Hashona
and Yom Kippur, I made two phone calls and sent an e-mail
asking the recipients to excuse my (specific) behavior. It was
not easy, believe me. It hurt, in the worst places, but I felt
a real atonement, like I had done the spiritual work which I
had merely been paying lip service to up till then. It also
helped that the two people I called also apologized and that I
received a forgiving and apologetic e-mail back.
With this small but painful step, I had risen up from the fire
of anger burning within me, to start a New Year, just like the
phoenix. My New Year's resolution was that bli nedder,
I would try at all costs to avoid being in this situation
again when the time rolls around again, so as not to have to
apologize more than just socially. That has meant extra
servings of self control and humble pie. But it has been worth
it.
The phoenix only has to do this every thousand years. NEXT
Rosh Hashona is a bit over a year away. And if I, a year
wiser, but human, after all, have still offended anyone during
the course of the year, I humbly beg forgiveness, and will
continue to try harder.
Kesiva vachasima tova!
