Before Rosh HaShanah, mystics say, “the King is in the field,” no ticket needed to pray or talk. All the world is His “overflow service.” He’s looking for grace, in laundromats with garish light, in all-night diners where the waitress calls you “Honey.” His throne is the stoop of a single-room occupancy. He rides the interstate Greyhound like Elijah’s chariot. And He goes to the cemetery, for “field” (feld) in Yiddish is a euphemism for that “field of stone,” where gravestones sprout like grass. Before the holidays we’re told to visit the dead. They’re expecting us.
Excellent piece in The Boston Globe on what is wrong with all the "body" exhibits, those cadavars reduced to muscles, bones and blank stares, going around the country and advertised on the sides of buses.