In the past, I’ve shared that Yom Kippur is a biggie in the Jewish religion.
ELBEE And I’ve shared that I don’t think “biggie” is the appropriate term for the holiest day of the year.
It’s a day of atonement, reflection and remembrance. Traditionally observant people fast and spend most of the day in temple. Over the years, I have failed miserably at the traditional part. I guess I’m kind of a Yom Kippur rebel.
ELBEE Oy! So much for atonement.
The signs were there when I was a kid growing up in Syracuse. My closest friend, who shall remain nameless, and I went to Sabbath school, Judaism’s answer to Sunday school. On more than one occasion we tried to ditch services and were led back to the rabbi’s study by Eddie Rifkin one of his student spies.
ELBEE She remembers his name but not what she had for lunch yesterday?
In my defense, I’ve tried services at different temples, and even on Zoom, but nothing makes me feel as spiritual as being in the mountains. And isn’t that what religion is about…connecting with something larger than ourselves?
This year I headed up a trail with Henry by my side. He is the most at ease in the mountains since Charley, my very first therapy dog, so there was comfort in having him with me. One woman we met said, “He’s got such good energy.” That was music to my ears since I’m hoping one day to bring him into the hospital.
We came to the Nike site, a park on Dirt Mulholland that was actually a lookout post during the Cold War. There is a tower with beautiful panoramic views.
As I sat up there with Henry, gazing at the ocean in the distance, memories washed over me. I could feel the spirits of my parents, my brother Stan and my wonderful friend Eileen, all precious to me and all gone too soon. I thought of so many others who are physically gone but who are still a part of my life. As always, there was incredible sadness but also a sense of healing and love.
On another morning I had a random encounter that 
also speaks to the power of the universe. I was walking into Tarzana Hospital with Gus when a woman called out, “That’s the cutest dog I’ve ever seen.” She was absolutely delighted when I told her he was a therapy dog. She had worked in hospice care and truly understood the benefits of animal therapy.
She shared that she had been drawn to hospice care because her brother had died of colon cancer at 45. Totally taken aback, I quietly said, “My brother died of colon cancer at 47.” We just stared into each others’ eyes. The universe had brought two strangers together for a special moment of connection in this disconnected world.
