I was first introduced to the Indigo Girls in high school. I had been raised on a steady diet of Motown, the Beatles, and ‘70s rock (with some Peter, Paul, and Mary thrown in on the side) and their music was entirely new to me. I enjoyed listening to it with the friend who first played me some of their songs, but it didn’t really stick. 

Fast forward to my first year in college. My second semester roommate, who remains my closest friend nearly 30 years later, was really into the Indigo Girls. Like, really into them – so much so that we listened to Rites of Passage on repeat. It didn’t take long for their music to become imprinted in my brain and I was hooked. 

Since then, the Indigo Girls’ music has been the soundtrack to so many parts of my life. During those early, terrifying days of Covid, they did a weekly performance on Facebook on Instagram every Thursday evening at 7 PM. Tuning in with my kids gave us something to look forward to every week and they came to appreciate the music as well. I’ve seen them perform I-don’t-know-how-many times and will always jump at the opportunity to see them again. (They’re playing at the Lyric on June 9…)

Back in April, not too long after Pesaḥ, I got a text message from the aforementioned college roommate and closest friend that contained a video from the “Girls” themselves – Emily Saliers and Amy Ray. I watched it. And then I watched it again. 

Emily was sitting on a sofa, with Amy next to her. Both were holding guitars – it seemed like a perfectly natural moment for both of them. As Emily began speaking, I took notice of Amy, looking on with love and concern. And then I really began listening to what Emily was saying. 

During the course of this video, Emily revealed that she has two incurable, progressive movement disorders: cervical dystonia and essential tremor. These conditions affect, significantly, her head, neck, and throat, impacting her singing – the tone of her voice, her vocal strength, and her ability to maintain a straight tone, which is a hallmark of Indigo Girls harmonies. 

As someone who sees the Indigo Girls regularly, I had noticed over the last couple of years that she seemed to be struggling vocally. Emily admitted that has been going on for a while, and she and Amy wanted to reach out to their fans to let them know what was going on, particularly as they were about to go on tour this year. 

Watching the video, I felt a deep sense of grief and loss for the music that has shaped my own life in so many ways. I also felt their grief reaching out from the screen in front of me. Both Emily and Amy got choked up at different points in the video and they both responded to each other in small, non-verbal ways, offering comfort the way a dear friend might after losing a loved one. 

Their grief, palpable though it was, was not the primary emotion that came through in the video. Emily refused to slide into self-pity. She spoke plainly about what she was experiencing and how it had affected both her and the group. Through her sadness, she still found room for humor, gratitude for the community of fans that continues to love their music, and determination to keep making music and to adapt to her new reality. 

What I saw in watching that video was not someone overcoming her grief. I was watching someone begin to carry it with her and continue to live. 

We see a similar move in the book of Ruth, which we just chanted a bit ago, particularly in the journey of Naomi. 

At the beginning of the book, Naomi is immersed in grief. In quick succession, she loses her husband and her two sons and is prepared to say goodbye to her daughters-in-law. In losing her family, she loses her stability. Women in the ancient world were entirely dependent on their male relatives to ensure their survival. 

All of this loss devastates her. She experiences herself as emptied out, useless, with nothing left to provide and no home to go to. Naomi isn’t merely sad; she is no longer herself. When she and Ruth return to Bethlehem, she says: “Do not call me Naomi; call me Mara.” (Ruth 1:20)

Her original name, which means “pleasantness,” no longer fits how she sees herself. Her chosen name, meaning “bitterness,” captures her new state of mind, her new identity. 

The twists and turns of the book of Ruth, during which Naomi regains a homeland, finds a stable community that cares for her, and becomes the matriarch for a new family, do not erase Naomi’s grief. The text doesn’t tell us that she regains her eponymous pleasant demeanor. Nor is she miraculously restored to a positive outlook. 

Like Emily, though, she keeps moving forward. In spite of her ongoing mourning for what was, she continues to build what will be. We see this explicitly in the text, as Naomi actively encourages Ruth to go to Boaz and claim him as someone who can redeem her through marriage. 

We also see Naomi’s forward movement in how the Midrash portrays her. Midrash Ruth Rabbah 2:22 notices how Ruth, as she is about to utter her famous words of devotion to Naomi, says “Do not entreat me to leave you, to return from following you,” and sees that as a hint that Ruth was following Naomi in more ways than one. 

The midrash continues, explaining that Naomi hears Ruth’s desire to come into the Jewish community. It says: “When Naomi heard this, she began arranging the laws of converts for her,” relating each of Ruth’s famous lines to rules about converting that Naomi then taught her. 

Naomi’s grief never disappears, but she also continues to embrace the opportunities that life is giving her.

Emily and Naomi share another aspect of incorporating their grief into their rich and productive lives. That is the gift of accompaniment. 

Emily didn’t make that video by herself. Amy was sitting on the sofa with her, next to her, offering her love and ongoing partnership.

Naomi didn’t retreat from Ruth or from the world when she returned to Bethlehem. She couldn’t, because Ruth stayed. Those famous words, “אֶל אֲשֶׁר תֵּלְכִי אֵלֵךְ” \ Where you go I will go (Ruth 1:16) speak to Ruth’s attentiveness to Naomi’s needs and her willingness to bring herself lovingly into Naomi’s world. 

There is a short series of stories in the Talmud, Masekhet Berakhot (5b), in the section that details how one should respond to suffering that we experience. These stories involve sages who fall seriously ill and are suffering both physically and emotionally. And they seem to just not be able to get well. The cure comes in the form of other sages, their friends, reaching out and taking their hand. At this moment of connection, the ailing sages are returned to health. It’s not magic – it’s the miracle of being seen, of being accompanied by someone who gets it, who gets you.

We’re going to turn to our Yizkor prayers shortly, engaging with our own personal experiences of grief together in community, accompanied by and accompanying each other. Our tradition honors our losses and asks us to remember them. And yet – Judaism doesn’t demand that we overcome grief; it doesn’t demand that the losses we experience leave no scars. 

When we encounter loss, our identities, like Emily’s, like Naomi’s, are altered. We become different from who we once were. We grieve the loss of our loved ones. And we also grieve the changes to ourselves, mourning for who we once were. 

Emily and Naomi remind us that grief doesn’t end; it gets woven into who we are as we move forward. And Yizkor teaches us that the way we learn to carry our grief and still move forward is with each other.