I recently watched a new opera called El Último Sueño de Frida y Diego at the Lyric Opera of Chicago, which tells the story of Frida Kahlo returning from the underworld on the Day of the Dead to help escort her husband, Diego Rivera, into the afterlife. It was emotionally rich, visually vibrant, filled with marigold hues and soaring, beautiful singing.
In the sumptuous first floor lobby, they had an art installation which invited visitors to participate in a kind of communal ofrenda, writing notes describing how they would spend twenty four hours with a loved one who had died. People had written notes about one more special meal with their dad, or asking questions they never got a chance to. For me, I would want to spend one more Passover seder with my Grandma Mary Ann. She died six months after my bat mitzvah when she was only 67. Passover was her favorite holiday, and my first and best Jewish memories were the seders that she helped bring together. Her influence on my Judaism—and on the person I've become—is immeasurable. I often think about how much it means to her sister, my great-aunt Judy, that I now lead the Seder for our family. It feels like carrying something forward, like tending a flame that was first lit by my grandma.
When I worked in Santa Fe, one of my religious school teachers used to teach about the parallels between Sukkot and the Day of the Dead—how both are autumnal festivals rooted in harvest, memory, and the presence of those who came before us. In Judaism, we traditionally welcome the ushpizin, seven symbolic guests. But many people interpret that more expansively: as an invitation to all the spirits and memories we carry.
For me, though, the time when the boundary between realms feels thinnest is Passover rather than Sukkot. Passover exists in a space where memory and reality blur. The Haggadah teaches: in every generation, each person must see themselves as if they personally left Egypt. We don't just tell the story; we relive it and pass it on.
At the Seder table, time folds in on itself. The past and present coexist. The voices of those who came before us echo in the words we recite, the songs we sing, and the rituals we repeat. It creates a chain of memory that binds us together, across generations.
That, to me, is the true power of Passover: its depth of memory, its insistence that stories are not just told but lived, and that in living them, we keep each other close, even when we are no longer physically here.
This Passover, I hope you find a way to see yourself as if you personally left Egypt by reliving a memory that matters to you. I hope you get to spend time with loved ones, whether in person or in memory.
We are shaped by the memories we inherit and the ones we create. Holding onto the past while making space for the present—that is what keeps us connected, and what allows us to carry each other forward.
Shabbat Shalom & Chag Sameach