Hanukkah night One

I thought it was nice that the hosts of the party wanted everyone to have their own menorah. They even brought a supply of extras to give those who didn't have one. It's a cheap tin thing, but it holds eight candles - nine, counting the one you use to light them.

Again, it's about synergy. One menorah probably would have done it. But the effect of lighting so many more candles means the light combines to create even more light, not in an additive way, more of a multiplication. Two candles isn't one plus one so much as two times two. Which is twice as bright as two on their own.

Kind of like human relationships.

And I had another gift. After I arrived and washed my hands, I came into the kitchen and announced to the host that it was my first Hanukkah, and that I was converting. "Mazal tov!" she cried. She thew her arms around me, and sang the "Mazal tov" song while dancing with me in circles around the kitchen. It was a magical moment.

That is how I see Judiasm. Magical moments that enhance the light of your soul without regard for who you are on the outside. It honors the truth of your just being there. Which is worth dancing about.

Some people believe you have to be born Jewish in order to be Jewish. Other people say a Jewish soul is a Jewish soul, whether you were born into the tradition or not, and can only be revealed by exposure. I don't know if it is presumptuous to say I might have one or not. All I know is I feel like I'm coming home.

Hanukkah by surprise

Hanukkah started over a week ago, on December 12, when I went for a home-grown Shabbat dinner for those seeking their way in Jewish spirituality. Those in attendance included a former Ultra-Orthodox woman who now felt nervous about wearing pants and her not-so-Christian Christian boyfriend, some old, thoughtful men, a woman with a strong accent, another old woman who had lost a lot of relatives in the Holocaust in Germany, but who's own family had "assimilated" themselves and consequently she was raised in a highly anti-Semitic atmosphere, and to this day cannot go to synagogue because she can't stand to be around 'a lot of Jewish people,' and future converts, like myself.

Just after I walked in the front door and met the hosting rabbi, a young girl, about six, trotted up to me, in a woven hoodie, and said, "Would you like a dreidel?" She held out a bright orange plastic dreidel, and I said yes, thank you. I told her, this is the best dreidel I've ever had! Which was true. It is the only dreidel I've ever had. Not counting one that we played with at my grandmother's house when I was small, and we learned about spinning dreidel and Hanukkah gelt as sort of a cultural curiosity, in comparison to our Christmas traditions, which were clearly more advanced.

This dreidel was real.

"You're welcome!" the girl chirped, and scampered off to the kitchen to offer more dreidels to other guests.

That was Lucy. She was a special girl and a real light to the evening. She lit up the room, and seemed like she knew what she was doing. I knew her mother. I had taken a class with her, and she is the one who had told me about the organization, and that's how I ended up at the Shabbos dinner. And I knew that her mother was converting. What I didn't know was that both she and her husband were converting together. They both looked like they could have been Jewish, if they had said, "we're Jewish," and you didn't know any differently. (I am only now becoming familiar with what Jewish "looks" like - though my caveat here is that there really is no way that "Jewish" people "look." For every one person that fits the stereotype, there are five or seven who do not. And the "stereotype" is not even a fixed definition. So you really can't know.) But they were choosing it together. I thought that was just beautiful. And I think their inspiration was their child. It almost seems as if she came along and infused their lives with a love and need of God that they hadn't known was there before. And she took on the job of a child with zeal and unadulterated enthusiasm. She was there to take the cover off the challah, to offer words of wisdom, to greet people, read their souls, and give them gifts.

Throughout the dinner, Lucy would go off to the other room, and periodically return with a "Happy Chanukah" card, colored in marker, for each of the guests. To me, she gave a puzzle. "Do you like puzzles?" She asked. I do, I replied. She disappeared and returned with a "Happy Chanukah" puzzle, colored primarily in purple marker. "You can put it in a special place and work on it every day," she told me. Thank you, I said.

I did put the puzzle in a special place. But I wouldn't dream of taking it apart. It's the work of a special girl, and also a very special gift.

I like the thought of Hanukkah. To me, before it arrived, I had the sense it was a minor holiday. It's not as important as Rosh Hashanah or Pesach, and it's a more recent addition to the Jewish calendar, sometimes derided by Jews as a lame way of competing with other major religions who also have a light-related holiday around the darkest time of the year. But why shouldn't they have one? It makes rational sense.

At the beginning of the Shabbos dinner, the rabbi asked us all to say one thing that made us feel a sense of light and warmth. I thought it seemed a little condescending, a little childish, and the answers were predictable. The answers were of course the things that we do in the dark and cold to make us feel light and warmth - gathering with family and friends, lighting candles, and eating warm, spicy foods. My answer was that we can be thankful for the dark and the cold for making us appreciate these things all the more.

But later on, I could see the wisdom of focusing on the light instead of the dark. Even if the light is very small and the dark is very big, and the cold more pervasive than the warm, it is still a good practice to focus on the good within the bad. It makes you feel better. If you lament the cold and dark that is everywhere, that is where you will be - alone, and outside longing to be in. It is better to be drawn in by the light. Let yourself fall into that tractor beam, and then your worries and your self-delusions will be a little less harsh. You will all leave your baggage outside, to be consumed by the wind, or eroded by the elements, and your tiny, shining inner self will join with the light of others to create not one tiny flame, but a great ball of warmth that will effectively thwart the effects of loneliness and create a cohesive whole. It's about synergy. Inclusivity. Focusing on the positive. It's about strength.

Paradox

I am wrestling with a paradox right now. I always seem to be wrestling with one paradox or another - and not even just recently. It seems everywhere I turn, I want to define or understand something, but what it is I want to define defies definition. Whatever it is turns out to be both one thing and something else at exactly the same time and at the same time, both of those things that it is are still it. Does that make sense? Probably not. Because it makes no sense. And yet, at the same time, It makes all the sense in the world. See what I mean?

And I wonder, is this a little bit of what it feels like to "wrestle with G-d"? If the people Israel are so called because that, reportedly, is what they do, or what Jabob did, then is this what it's like? Wrestling with an unknown being, who is both an Angel of G-d, and G-d at the same time? Is wrestling with G-d in fact wrestling with the immense and unending paradox of existence, which also both ends and doesn't end, begins and doesn't begin? And we come up with a draw, don't we? We wrestle with G-d, but we don't really get anywhere. That's because there pretty much isn't anywhere to get. We're already here. And we are going to be here. And once we're done wrestling, everything will likely be much more boring in fact, and we'll probably remember having a lot more fun being in the game than out of it.

So this wrestling business is tough. I can't say I like it. It's actually quite frustrating, and I do feel like I'm getting nowhere, because all of my answers lead back to the question. And that's always the way, isn't it? But at the end of the day, I think I am going to feel that if I haven't at least grappled with these notions, then I haven't even really done my job.

Holy Baptism

I just had a striking realization this morning. I was writing the date down, and I realized that it was 28 years ago to this day that I was baptized in the Episcopal Church.

This is a pretty big deal for a Christian family. It's almost as important as your birthday, but you don't really celebrate it, and nobody bakes you a cake. It's kind of like a second birth, in the Christian mind, really. It's where you get to be born in front of everybody, but it's clean, it's sterile. The baby wears a long, white frock, and there's no blood, only water. No screaming, only prayers and promises, with your parents and Godparents standing around, and the whole church watches on.

The Christian church seems to think it owns baptism. But it sometimes forgets that its baptism, as far as I can figure, comes from the same source as the Jewish Mikveh. And Jesus wasn't the only one who went around Baptizing people in the waters of the Jordan. In fact, Jesus himself was Baptized, and it's one of the major stories in the Christian Bible, when he gets baptized by John, and the voice comes from the clouds, and all that. So why do they think that baptism is all theirs, and it's so darn special?

Besides, I think Christians really get cheated on the baptism front. What you get, as a Christian, is somebody splashing a token amount of water on your forehead as a baby (some churches do more), when you are completely helpless, and have no long-term memory or decision-making capacity - and then they stamp the sign of a torture instrument on your forehead with some oil and call you a Christian. Who got to decide that was going to happen to you? Certainly not yourself, that's for sure. And since Christianity is a converts-only religion, it's kind of a nasty trick to say you "converted" when you were a baby. They give you the "opportunity" to "confirm" your "belief" when you are older, but by that point, your head is so filled with lies, you don't know what is true anymore.

Jews get it a lot better, I think. And of course, I haven't done it yet, but I at least have an idea of what goes on. You get a whole pool to yourself. There is no white garment. No aura of sterility to your existence. No, you go in NAKED. You go in with all of yourself, and only yourself. You get cleansed without any additional baggage. So that when you come out, you can truly feel that something is different, because there was nothing between you and the waters of the Mikveh. I find just the idea of it to be extremely profound. In fact, if I had looked at the calendar this way a while ago, I might have even scheduled my Mikveh and my Beit Din to take place on this day. I am about ready to do it. I feel like there is basically nothing that can change my mind at this point. Not the doubts of others, not the derision of my family, not the questions from any Jewish person about why in God's name would I want to choose to become a part of a persecuted people? Hey, well, that's just normal, as far as I am concerned. It's a moot point. The list of reasons for me doing it are long, the list of detractors is both short and filled with flawed logic. So therefore, my choice is clear.

And baptism is purported to wash aways one's sins and make you a new person. This is exactly what my rabbi tells me the waters of the Mikveh are for, such that once I go through them, I will no longer be who I was before, whether I like it or not. There is no going back. It's a tough choice to make, with a lot of pressure, and a lot of reasons to back out. Those are the same reasons, in my opinion, to keep going. So I look forward to going into the Mikveh. I see it as the baptism I choose, and the one I have always desired.

The Flood

I was all set to write an entry about the Noah story and politics. How this Parsha comes at a time when our very country is being cleansed of one system and being replaced by another, and even the economy, it seems, is doing its own version of purging or cleansing, somehow.

Now my story feels slightly more personal. Without going into details, I can mainly say that this rain pouring out my window seems strangely appropriate.

And why do my bad breakups always happen on a Saturday?? I thought I would hold off - so as not to break the Sabbath. But to no avail. The Sabbath has chosen this day to be broken anyway. A day that was intended to be for joyful reunion and togetherness is instead a day of mournful reflection and loss.

But maybe what I thought were general intentions were just my intentions, or the intentions I imagined on somebody else's behalf. What about the world? Why should my intentions have any significance?

And I can't help but think how my actions contributed to it. I know it's not great to sit around and think, oh, it's all my fault. I am not doing that. I am actually sitting here smiling. Because I know I am not wholly responsible. But I do take the weight of responsibility for the actions I know I have done that caused, or served to bring about this loss.

From what began as a simple offer, simply received, we have a chain reaction and a series of events that slowly, but surely, brought about some kind of destruction which was worse than I had imagined.

But maybe this was God's way of aligning the forces so that I did not go and make a rash and faulty decision I would later regret. Still, I believe there was some flaw in my actions, and I do believe a little bit in karma, or at least that sort of response that means what you do doesn't go off into nowhere. It is received by the world and reflected back to you directly.

It is sad, what happened, but in a way, it's a relief. This had been coming for a long time. All the insults and the tension that I/we had been experiencing lately have melted away into one great wash of no-longer-thereness. We needed something to get us to stop arguing. It seems, apparently, that this is the way. He let me go, but I already had my hands off the reins. And there is nothing I can do about it now, and there is nothing I want to do about it. It just is, and I want to let it be that way, to soak into the ground, and saturate the atmosphere, with warm, comforting drops of blessed love and release.

Bitter Cheshvan

Once again, my life spontaneously resembles or reflects the Jewish calendar. The Joyous and spiritually renewing slew of Jewish Holidays is followed by a bitter beginning to a mysterious episode in my life. A precious and valuable friendship has taken a turn for the worse, and I feel like a parent about to watch a child make a horrible decision. I feel at a loss, because it seems no matter what I say, I make no difference, or I make the situation worse.

I feel the only real cause of the situation is the strength of the relationship, and the deep caring and sense of connection that is there. But right now those things are producing strain and distress, not the pleasure and fulfillment they should produce. It is particularly exacerbated by sudden geographic proximity, which is not the norm, which allows for some real possibility of reconcilition, but only if the other party is willing to meet me face to face, which I am in doubt as to his predisposition toward accepting right now.

It's a really painful situation, I think for both of us, but it seems almost insurmountable. I know that means that it probabaly is surmountable - that it is in fact a thing which we can both overcome - but all the same, it feels like grinding sand in my stomach right now, and keeping me up at nights. I want to help, but the one thing I don't want to do is make it worse.

Reading about Cain and Abel in Torah study this week, I was struck by how involved God was with Cain's decision. He doesn't just let Cain go and make his mistake, he instructs him, and tells him what will happen if he doesn't just act cool and accept his lot. But no, he goes ahead and does it anyway! He loses his cool, and therefore he loses all the good things that could have come out of his life. I feel in one way like I am in a position to tell my friend not to go and do something stupid, not to make a decision that both of us will regret. On the other hand, I have a personal stake in the decision, so I am slightly biased in my hopes for what he wants to do. Maybe what I should do is let that go.

Because I also don't want to be like Cain. If Cain gets himself into trouble by wanting some sort of recognition for what he's done, then he can't advocate too much for his own desired. But wait. That's my friend again. Why is he doing this? I know he has his reasons, but they are not good ones. It's just that he really believes them.

And actually, that's where I think my pain is coming from. God says, if you do right, then that is its own reward. But if you do not do right (presumably, either do not make a sacrifice, or else, get upset when your sacrifice is not recognized, and then do something destructive), then sin couches at your door, etc.

So we should all be careful of looking for recognition of our good deeds. It not only sets us wrong with God, but it sets us wrong with the people that we really love and really want to connect with. It makes us adversarial without us even realizing it.

The really surprising thing about this passage is that God is essentially helpless. He has one weakness, and that is Human free will, which he, of course, gave us. So, in essence, he created his own monster. That is his Kryptonite, and it breaks his heart every day.

The good news is, we can always overcome this. Our freedom of choice means we can choose a different course, if only we are open to the suggestion of it, which comes, slyly and subtlely, but it means the difference between life and living Hell. For all of us included.

Pure Joy

My Arms hurt from carrying a Torah Scroll. My first one! It was so exciting. I think, based on what I saw at the Conservative Synagogue I went to for Simchat Torah, that I am considering personally renaming Simchat Torah to "International Day of Silliness." One leader/reader brought up a bunch of hats with him and changed hats every few paragraphs throughout his reading. When they opened the Ark, they had all the children gathered up at the front, and when it was opened, it turned out the whole thing was filled with, in addition to Torah scrolls, balloons and ballooon animals, which they handed out to the kids.

It was a great and beautiful day. We pushed all the chairs back and danced like fools who love their Torah. I even got a chance to carry one. And I danced with a lovely 3-year-old girl named Jessie, as we all went outside in the sunshine for our final Hakafah. Someone even told me what a Hakafah is - a circuit. Which is basically what you do. You dance in a circle. What a great physical manifestation of eternity. Someone asked me to dress the Torah after, but I couldn't do it, owing to the fact that I haven't become officially Jewish yet. But I said I'd be happy to do it once I do have my Beit Din.

Meanwhile, that does not seem to have prevented me in any way from enjoying the Simchat Torah. And I'm happy about that.

Building a Sukkah

I have to admit that Sukkot is one holiday I was not entirely prepared for. I don't know what a Sukkah is - well, basically, I do, but I can't say I understand entirely the concept - and, quite frankly, or, more to the point, it scares me. Which is why I think it is something that I should do, or at least help someone else to do. And yet, I totally failed in causing this to come about.

It was not for lack of opportunity. It was weeks ago that someone first mentioned the idea of helping build a Sukkah, and it came up repeatedly since then, but I found that, on each occasion, I found some excuse not to go. Finally, I spoke to a friend on Friday, and we made some sort of arrangement for me to accompany her to help with a sukkah-building, but bad communication ensued, and I did not get the information I needed to get there.

All I had when I woke up on Sunday (today) October 12th was the knowledge that right then, on that day, thousands of Jews were building Sukkahs on a beautiful day in the East Bay, and a strong desire to join them, but no actual, definitive plans to do so.

So what did I do? I waited for my friend to call me, and she never did. That's because she had left her phone at home, and assumed that I had gotten her email, which I hadn't, because I was waiting for her to call me. So there it goes.

I had to be content with building something, metaphorically, in my own mind. But what I really wanted to be doing was building something with my hands. I wanted to be involved in a group activity that involved several people working together to build a physical structure that eventually would come to mean something. It made me yearn slightly for my college days, working in the theatre, where I enjoyed nothing more than walking around a pile of planks with a power drill, putting pieces of wood together to make a stage set. Or using power saws or a chainsaw to carve pieces of woo into the exact right shape so that someone could come along and say, "I know what that is." It's process and product. It's something you can't do on a computer, and you can't do it alone. It's a communal activity, and the result is something you can't see, but it is evident all the same, and everyone knows its there.

A friend at work made a comment recently that he fasted this past Yom Kippur, which he hadn't done in a while, and even though he hadn't felt strongly about it at the outset, he found that it had some definite effects on his mind, in how it made him think about his actions, his eating, and how it made him aware of controlling his desires for a certain purpose. I had the same feeling. And I think a similar result occurs with building a Sukkah, as with all physical actions we take up in Judaism.

And some of those actions may seem random. I mean, after all, why build a temporary structure in your back yard and live in it for several days? I mean, the Torah can tell us why, and tradition can give us all kinds of reasons, but really, why? The answer is, nobody really knows. All we really know, is that we do it because we are told to do it. But the way I see it, it's kind of like a parent telling a child to do something. Maybe the child doesn't really know why he or she is being told to clean his room. All he knows is that if he doesn't, he won't get his allowance, or some other such bonus. So he does it. And he finds out, later in life, that the real reward was not his allowance in that moment, but rather a sense of duty, of fulfilling obligations, of having discipline, and also having a clean room, or a clean house. And all of these things benefit not just him, but everyone around him. Or her.

It's the same with a Sukkah, I believe. The result is, immediately, a concrete structure. But that in itself is not the only reward. The reward is also the community you build along with it. It's the symbolism of the "four species," and the satisfaction that comes with building something with your own hands, no matter how simple, or how temporary. Because all of our lives our temporary. We build them with our hands, live in them for a while, and after that, our souls go back to a more permanent place, to the eternity from which they came. These bodies are our Sukkahs, this planet a beautiful desert, teeming with life and danger, for which we should be fantastically grateful for the privilege to inhabit for even the shortest period of time. For we are the luckiest we could ever be. Right now. In this moment. No matter how bad things around us may seem. And we must always remember, too, that we do not build our lives alone. It takes many hands, and the help and guidance of others, even as we help them. We must remember to let other people in sometimes, and not shut them out and try to live in our Sukkahs alone. Because when we do that, then we truly become less than we could be, and we don't live up to the commandments to live, to enjoy life, and to be a part of the human community.

So if anyone wants to help me build a Sukkah, this year, or any year, feel free. And thank you to all my friends and neighbors who have been there to help me build this Sukkah of my life, which I am grateful to have for this tiny little time that I am here.

The Backward Omer

One of the more profound things that I have done this year was to count the Omer leading up to Shavuot. And while I was immersed in that process, and memorizing the prayers, and focusing on what I was going to do differently each day, I didn’t have much time to contemplate the logic of the sequence. If anything, I thought it was backwards. Why did we Start with Chesed, and Finish with Malchut? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?

My Rabbi told me that, in fact, some Jews do count the Omer backward (Malchut to Chesed) from the time of Tisha B’Av to Rosh Hashanah. I thought that sounded like it made more sense. But, thinking about it, I can see the wisdom in the design of the Chesed-Malchut delineation.

Many of us speak of working “toward” Chesed. As if Chesed were a goal. As if Love were an endpoint, a locus to be reached. But this, we should all know, is not the case. Because if you think of it like that, like some sort of rainbow with a pot of gold, you will be chasing it forever and never find it. The happiness of love is realizing that you’ve already got it. There is no rainbow to hold. Seeing it is what makes it exist.

And so you can't move toward Chesed, because it will always get away from you. But you should start with Chesed. In whatever you are doing, it is the thing, the tool, the energy you take with you that guides you and supports you along the way.

And what is the goal? What is the endpoint? The ending is a state of Majesty. A state of Grace. A state of imperceptible wisdom that comes from the union of two halves.

Which brings me to my logic. The day that comes before Machut, Dignity, is Yesod, Bonding. Unity. It is not the dignity that comes first.

And before Bonding, there is Humility, Hod. In order to submit to Bonding - with ourselves, with others, with God - we must first be humble. We must remove our Selves and Our Stories, and seek to listen instead of speak. We must seek to care and understand, not just be understood and cared for.

And what comes before Hod? It is Victory. It is Eternity. It is strength of conduct. Strength of will. Strength to persevere, even in the face of opposition,and to succeed, despite intimations to the contrary. It means not giving in to those volatile forces that tell us we are not big enough, not good enough, not worthy. It means transcending those merciless ideals, and instead having compassion on ourselves, in order to succeed.

Which is why Tiferet comes immediately before. Because in order to find that victorious state, we need to be capable of being compassionate, both of ourselves and others. To look through to others’ needs, and the needs of ourselves, and fulfilling them, not for self-gratification, but for the gratification of the world. It needs its mouth fed and it’s hands filled. And every empty hand and empty mouth is an opportunity for compassionate action in the interests of justice. Like water filling in the cracks.

But having compassion means we also must have restraint. We can’t be compassionate to every extent, or we will overextend ourselves. We need to protect our boundaries, ourselves, or we are only doing a disservice. Even the one we seek to help will be without the blessing they deserve. No one wants to take more than someone can reasonably give. Your loss is the world’s loss, too.

And that restraint, that Gevurah that we practice on our Chesed, on our overflowing, boundless sense of love, is what gives it shape. It gives it motion, form, and definition. It guides it to a specific place, so that, when we are compassionate, and loving, it is with focus, will, and determination, not merely with a neverending feeling of generosity. If there were no boundaries to love, it would mean nothing. If there was no discrimination, no choosing of where it should be, it would be nowhere, because it would be everywhere. It would be too common to be precious. There is a reason not everyone can spin their straw into gold, or why King Midas starved. When gold is ubiquitous, it is not a blessing, but a curse. But not to have it, means you have nothing to start with and nowhere to go. With the seed of Chesed, you can flower in Malchut.

And, once you reach that place, it turns out not to be an end at all, but leads back to the beginning, and opens the door again to a boundless and strong sense of Chesed.

And so, the sequence is not backward at all. It is the wisest way to practice. Because if you start with Chesed, you will finish where you want to be, and in the end find out that where you wanted to be was always where you were, you just needed to see it, and to be on that Journey. And Life itself is the prize you carry.

Mazal Tov

I thought Judaism would be a good choice for my life. I didn't know it would be a good career move.

And in this case, it was the most organic kind, the best kind. The kind where you are just talking to somebody, and it turns out they have a position open. So you interview for that position, but it's not the right position. But oh, it turns out they have another one open that you are, by the grace of God, well suited for, for whatever reason. And so it goes.

And in the process, you feel not a sense of trepidation, but a sense that it is all somehow working out in your favor. As it always does. Because it should. Because that is the way the world works. Unless you are fighting against it.

And the other thing you feel is that you are supported. When you tell the people you are converting, and they say that is a wonderful thing. They don't turn you down because you're not "real." They see you for what you really are. A person who has free will and can make a choice. And if choosing to be Jewish is a great thing, whether you are Jewish or not to begin with, well, then it's a great thing. Who am I to argue? It makes me happy.

What would he really do?

Christians ask this question all the time - What Would Jesus Do? But I don't think it means what people think it means. Or rather, they say it/ask it, meaning one thing, but they're taking the person out of context. They want to say he would turn the other cheek or wash someone's feet, or something like that. What they really mean is, what would I do if I were Jesus?

Because if they really thought about who Jesus was, they'd have to start with the first order of business, which is that he was a Jewish person. That being the case, any answer to that question would need to be a Jewish answer. As in, he would be doing the Jewish thing of that time, whatever that was, plus that he was being himself. He was both for the community, and for promoting himself and his own beliefs. He was, perhaps, the first Marketing professional of the Common Era, and he had a cohort of followers to further his interests, or so it would seem, if they weren't furthering their own. It was all politics, really.

But basically, Jesus was a Jewish guy, talking to Jewish people. So what would he have done? Rested on the Sabbath, studied Torah, and celebrated Passover. All of these things that Jesus did do.

It's just been brought to my attention that Jesus in fact wore Tzitzit. Amy Jill Levine points out in "the Misunderstood Jew," that this is alluded to in the Gospels. But since Christians hardly know what tzitzit are, nevermind what they are for or why they would be significant, nobody really cares. The "fringe of his garment" I always took to mean just basically the edge of it. And nobody is going to explain this to you, because, to them, it's not important. Any allusion to actually following Jewish practice would be taken as some kind of aberrant blasphemy. So it's silenced and suppressed.

AJL is correct, the Jewishness of Jesus is a scandal, as far as the Church is concerned. Because if Christians knew how Jewish Jesus was, and how Jewish were his teachings, they wouldn't be Christian.

Holidays

As I prepare myself mentally for the High Holy Days in just a few weeks, I am also already dreading a certain other High holiday: Christmas. It dawned on me when I opened to perused the office supply catalogue for the holiday season. Looking at "Season's Greetings," and various other Christmas-related themes, whether religious or not, brought up in me a strange kind of dread, low, in the pit of my stomach. I found myself not entranced, but mildly disturbed by the image of a small girl holding a red and gold wrapped package to her ear.

It's not that I hate Christmas. Well, okay, it is. Perhaps that makes me a Scrooge. But it's not that I don't want to give, it's that I don't want to get. I don't want to get lots of meaningless gifts from friends and family feeling like they have to make me feel better.

That, and the fact that it's meaningless in general. At least for me. This even began last year, before I started this whole conversion process. But the symbols of Christmas really mean nothing to me anymore. What does a star mean, if it's not the thing over Bethlehem? And what's so much more meaningful about that star than another? I'd rather just appreciate each star for what it is. They're all pretty great. And it's good to have a tree in the house. I like that. I might keep up that tradition. But apart from that, I am feeling really disenchanted and not particularly looking forward to the Christmas "Season." But I guess I'll have to get used to it.

Like getting used to seeing Christian radio bulletin boards. Just because I'm not Christian anymore doesn't mean they are going to go away.

On Being Good

I don’t want to be good, I want to be Good. Good is where you only do things to please people. You run around, trying to make everybody happy until they give you a pat on the head and say, ‘oh, you’re so good, little girl.’ But there’s no real satisfaction in that. To truly be Good means you have to be a little bit not good. It means you work hard, but not too hard. You extend yourself, but don’t overextend. You give. But you keep a little for yourself. You can’t be Good by being good all the time. You need to hold back a little. The light needs a little darkness to keep it in check.

Blowing the Shofar

Last night, in a class on Rosh Hashanah and the month of Elul, Estelle Frankel brought us two shofars. One was hers and one was God's. She handed one to each of two students present. I had never heard a shofar before - except as the opening sound in Godspell. But here it was a totally different experience. I imagine it would be very powerful to hear one of these sounded over the desert. It would remind you of your soul being echoed from a distance. But what it sounded like to me was the call of a loon. It had those long wails, the breaking from a low note to a high one. The punctuated trills. And the two shofars sometimes were in unison, sounding a harmony, or creating a tonic or third wave of sound in between them.

As with the shofars, often two loons will be calling to each other over the water in the darkness. That's when we would hear them. In summer, up at Uncle Bud's Cabin on the lake in Maine, at night, with the yellow porch light attracting the moths and mosquitoes. We would sit on the porch, reading, talking, or playing games of cards. And my mother would hear the loon, and she would sit back and retreat into herself. It was like the loon was calling her home. Because, in a way, it was.

There is something comforting about hearing a sense of longing outside yourself. Because that's what a loon makes. That's what a shofar does. It makes the sound of a soul yearning to come home, or, as Inigo Montoya said in The Princess Bride when they hear Wesley's soul-wrenching cry, the "Sound of Ultimate Suffering," and that's how they know it is the Man in Black.

But the shofar, making that sound, brings us home. Because it creates that longing outside us, it gives us permission to feel it inside, where we typically ignore it. And then, once it is felt, it can be released. And we realize that in fact, our soul is not out wandering in the desert somewhere, nor does it want to be. It's right here in our chest. And all we have to do is remember its longing to come home, and give it that space to live here with us, instead of letting our egos push it aside.

The Jewish Dance

On my lunch break, I walked out to get a smoothie. As I walked away from the smoothie shop in the mall, a girl at the cosmetics stand was handing out samples of hand cream. She placed a packet in my hand, and looked intently at my chest, where the Star of David hung below my collar bones. After a little squint, her eyes brightened. You’re Jewish! She smiled. And she did a little dance. So this is what it’s like. When Christians recognize each other, it's like suddenly everybody is miserable under their joy. When people see that you’re Jewish, they don’t just commiserate with you, they get happy. They want to dance. They want to help you. They want to do things for you. This makes me happy. This makes me want to be Jewish even more. This makes me want to do a little dance.

Jewish Dream

I had my first Jewish Dream last night. I don't even know that I've ever dreamt about being in church, that I can remember. But I definitely dreamt about going to Jewish services last night. Or this morning, just before I woke up. In fact, coming out of the dream, I wasn't tired, but I wanted to go back to sleep, because somebody I knew was about to make an announcement, and I wanted to hear what he had to say.

But that wasn't the interesting part of the dream. The interesting part was where I was sitting in the folding chairs, between two old friends from college, who were Jewish, or at least I believe so, or they were in my dream. And there was kind of a rug area in front of us where some people were sitting to watch the goings-on. It was a fairly big space. It was like a cross between Chochmat and a Conservative synagogue. It had that comfy, homey, low-key, rugged floor aspect of Chochmat, but the "stage" area at the front was bigger, and all the chairs were facing forward. So I guess it was a little bit like church.

In fact, that was part of the dream. I am wondering if there is a Freudian term for a dream in which you express your personal opinion? I mean, there's wish fulfillment, sex, fears. But what about ideas, beliefs, opinions? Can that happen in a dream? Because I think it happened in mine.

And here's where technology enters the picture. I seem to have had a multimedia dream, where at the bottom of the "screen" (my field of vision), there were various things - items, applications, doodads - you could rollover and do things with. I am not sure how the "rolling over" was happening. It was kind of like mentally "rolling over" more than anything else. Just bringing my attention to that thing. And I don't remember what most of those items were, but I kept my attention for a long time on this one image that popped up. It was a picture of the Pope, wearing white, and kind of a Monty-Python-esque animation, where his jaw would move and he would nosh on the edge of a big, round, sacramental wafer. A wafer such as most Christian and Catholic children who grow up in a church with such things fear for dear life, because of their exceedingly dull and crispy flavor. Me, for my part, I always liked them, for some reason. When my mom had to do work in the sacristy, I would always steal the broken ones. And she would let me. It was probably like some kind of big sacrilege. I bet we're both going to Hell. But it was fun. It was more fun than church. I looked forward to that more than snack time at recess.

But anyway, back to my dream. So we had the Pope down there, noshing on his big wafer. And when you rolled over him, he became - a Rabbi! His image would be replaced by a similar picture of a Rabbi, with a big grey beard and side curls, and HE would be munching on a big piece of Matzah, the exact same size and shape of the wafer! It was so exciting, that I "rolled over" it several times in my mind, just to really make sure I was seeing what I was seeing. Because I thought, this is perfect. There is something to this, because of course (and I didn't automatically think this at the time, but I knew it already), the "Last Supper" was a Passover Seder, and that's where they get the wafer idea from. And when Jesus was doing the whole "body and the blood" business, what he was really doing was making a Kiddush over wine and bread, and he said, "Whenever you do this..." But when he said that, what he meant by "do this" was, really, say a Kiddush. Because he was talking to Jews. But Christians don't say a Kiddush. Well, I guess they do, sort of, in a way, but it's certainly not a Jewish Kiddush, such as el Jésus would have made. And they sort of do it in "remembrance" of him, but it's really more like, I would say, in some sort of bizarre obsession with him, based on my experience.

But the point of the dream is this: Pope, Priest, Rabbi. Same basic idea. Different external stuff. Different external ideas. But it comes from the same place. And the bread and the wine is still bread and wine.

What was always my favorite part of a church service? Communion. That's where people come together to share this common food. I don't care if it's the body of Jesus or anybody. I care if it's people experiencing communion together and becoming one instead of a disparate group of individuals. That's what's meaningful to me. And that's what I find so much more in Judaism, even though it is certainly present in Christianity. And I just think Christianity could embrace Judaism a lot more than it does. That's why I'm doing it. But I don't need the Christianity in order to do that. But I do feel it's given me a little bit of pre-Jewish knowledge, even though I don't yet know Hebrew.

There is a whole movement to kind of bring Jewish and Christian leaders together and find common interests between the two faiths, which, really, as far as I am concerned, is pretty much the same faith. It's just that Christianity has this extra Thing attached to it, which conflicts with my own personal reading of the Torah, but I also have to come back to my other personal (Jewish) view, which is, if it works for them, great. Who am I to talk them out of it? We can all exist peacefully. Because what I see is more in common than that which differentiates.

Conversation

Some companies have normal water cooler conversations. We, apparently, talk about circumcision.

So I thought, how fantastic. This is not one, but two conversations about circumcision that I have experienced in less than a week. There was the one last Saturday with the guy who works in AIDS research, but that was in a Jewish context. Here, this was totally random.

And through that conversation (I am not really sure how this happened), but the subject of Jesus came up. The guy sitting next to me, who was not a young guy, piped, "But Jesus wouldn't have been circumcised, because he wasn't Jewish." That's when I corrected him. He was aghast. Jesus was Jewish? No. Really? He looked at me like he had just discovered that doors open through walls. But the other ladies backed me up. "Yeah, like you know where it says 'King of the Jews'?" Really? He said, putting his hand on his head. He still looked incredulous. Obviously this was a first time for him.

There are some things that I think everybody knows, because it's been beaten into my head so many times that I can hardly stand to hear it anymore. But I am always amazed. What I take for granted as common knowledge sometimes maybe just isn't. But it makes sense. Why would Catholicism or Christianity want its members to know that Jesus was Jewish? As far as they are concerned, he was the first "Christian," though educated Christian people know better. Christianity cuts everything off at that point, and says, ok, that was then, this is now. We're Christian, and that's all that matters.

And I think Christians are afraid. Of course they are afraid. Because Christianity knows, if it ever let people know what other religions were really like, nobody would stick around. And plenty of people don't. Being a Christian doesn't make anybody a bad person, necessarily. But my props to those who can cut through all the mess, and get down to the reality of life. That's why I'm here. But that's why I am becoming Jewish.

"Our worst fear is not that we are inadequate, our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, 'who am I to be so brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?' Actually, who are we not to be? You are a child of God: Your playing small doesn't serve the world. There is nothing enlightening about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We were born to make manifest the glory of God within us. It is not just in some of us, it is in everyone and as we let our own light shine we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."

~Marianne Williamson

Bagels and Lox

Why do I have this massive urge to eat lox...?

Shabbat Shalom

Now I get Shabbat Shalom.

I've gotten it all my life, I just didn't know what it was. And I only got it once a year: on Christmas.

And when I'm talking about Christmas, I am not talking about the Birth of Christ. Because, really, how important is that to a six-year-old? They might parrot the rhetoric from Sunday School, which I know because I taught Sunday School, but that's not what they really care about. I mean, seriously. What does a little kid care about? Presents. Chocolate. Candy. Little toys in their stocking. Big pancakes for breakfast. It's all about the massive pile of presents under the tree.

And what is the point of those presents? Let's think about it. Some guy with a beard comes around and gives you lots of stuff that isn't just random - it's stuff that you want. And sometimes you know you want it, sometimes you don't. And it doesn't matter if Santa is real to you, or if you believe it's just your parents. In either case, it's someone giving you lots and lots of presents, for no other reason besides the fact that you are alive. You did nothing to deserve those presents. Even if you did something "bad," you're not getting coal in your stocking. Nobody is being punished. (At least in a healthy family). It's all about the reward.

So I am pretty sure, as Christians predictably lament every year, that Christmas actually has nothing whatsoever to do with Christ, other than that it happens to be a convenient time of the year to celebrate it. St. Nicholas isn't Jesus, after all, even if he was Christian. He was just a guy.

Christmas is all about the gifts. And what does this have to do with Shabbat? Well, that's what Shabbat is all about. Jewish people aren't lucky because they get eight days of Hanukkah. They're lucky because they get Shabbat every week. Well, okay, they're just lucky. But Shabbat is like a huge gift from God, every single week. Every day on a Saturday, you can wake up, and know that God pretty much loves you, and heaps thousands of inordinately wonderful gifts upon you every singe day of your life, for no particular reason other than the fact that you are alive. And it doesn't matter, actually, if you ever done anything "bad" in your life, because He doesn't really care. He wants you to try to be good, and to do good. But mostly He just wants to give you lots of presents and make you happy so he can see that little smile on your face. Because that's His reward. That's all you have to do to make God happy. Smile and be happy with the gifts you are given, because you know now that you are unconditionally loved.

"Their Religion"

So I think maybe I should try not to hang out with Christians. It's not that I don't like them, and I don't plan to actively avoid anybody just on that basis. But I am feeling less and less like we have anything in common. And the problem with hanging out with Christian people is that they like to know you believe in Jesus Christ and that means you have common ground and you can have a conversation, and without that, conversation just gets awkward.

For example, last evening. I went to a friend's house for a poker party. It was a friend from the choir I used to sing at in San Francisco. That is, before I spoke to the choirmaster and eventually sent him an email saying I didn't think it was a good idea, since I was working on becoming Jewish.

I like them all as people. But it was still awkward going to the party. For one thing, one guy, in the car on the way there, kept pointing out all the church buildings as we passed them, and commented on them in one way or another. And I discovered that, for myself, I didn't really care. I didn't care what kind of church it was, or how long it had been there, or whether so-and-so had gone inside it or not. It just meant nothing to me. It was a building: a building I had no desire or obligation to go into. It was a good feeling. But rather than say anything, I just let the guy talk.

When we got to the party, we had a good time, and there was really no mention of religion. The host asked if I would consider joining the choir again, and I said probably not, or at least not right away. But I have a feeling the issue, unstated, was the big pink elephant in the room, because I asked the guys in the car on the way back what the choirmaster had said about me and the fact that I wasn't going to be singing this fall.

"Oh, he said you weren't singing because you were going to be Jewish."

And that's when the discussion started. The guy (the same one who had been pointing out all the churches) began talking about how he had many friends who were Jewish, and how he loved "Their religion." He also said that they, for some reason he couldn't understand, always wanted him around whenever somebody died. But I pointed out, of course, that Judaism is and was, of course, the basis for Christianity, all subsequent additions and changes aside. But I didn't really talk about the vast and innumerable differences. He was eager to tell me how much he loves the Old Testament.

"But aren't they going to ask you to renounce Jesus?" He asked me. And he told me a story about how one of his female friends was going to get married to a Jewish guy, and she was supposed to convert, but when she got to the end of the process and they asked her to renounce Jesus, she just couldn't do it. And he said he'd be all about being Jewish, except for the whole giving up Jesus thing. I didn't have the heart to tell him I'd never accepted Jesus as my Lord and Savior in the first place.

That is because I don't believe it's true, and all my efforts to be Christian have ultimately failed, in my view, based on the simple fact that, in my heart of hearts, I don't and cannot get myself to believe that Jesus is God. I mean, I'm sorry, I just don't. So therefore, being Jewish is just honest to me. It doesn't mean that I'm changing anything, aside from outward appearances, but it does mean I can outwardly say, this is who I am and what I believe, and my outward expression agrees with my inward belief, and not the opposite, which is what has been the case for about as long as I can remember.

So that's why I believe "conversion" is an inept and inaccurate term for what I am actually doing, at least in terms of my own life, if no one else's. Because, as I had to explain to my friends in the car, converting to Judaism isn't the same as or even the opposite of converting to Christianity. Converting to Christianity is easy. You say you'll accept Christ and worship him for the rest of your life, and you're good. If you want to convert to Judaism, it's a whole different story. You can't just renounce Christ and then suddenly you're Jewish. It doesn't work that way. But it's hard to explain to someone who doesn't know. Which is a lot of people. Both Christian and Jewish. Even a friend of mine who is half Jewish didn't know. So I told her. I didn't know myself, until I started looking. But I'm glad I did. I am glad I am doing this. I am enjoying every minute, every challenge, and I don't ever want to take it back.

Shabbat Shalom

I went to the most wonderful Shabbat services to day. And I am going to write about them now, because it is Shabbat, and I am going to honor the experience as immediately as I can, even though, technically, I guess you are not supposed to do writing on Shabbat, but in my view, this is all part of my way of keeping it holy.

My friend Raphael and I had been to this temple once before, for the Friday evening Kabbalat service. And it was nothing like the celebratory Kabbalat I was used to going to at Chochmat, which was basically all I knew about Friday night services, except for the Rosh Hashanah service I'd been to one with my ex-fiancé. If anything, it was a bit like church, especially with the stained glass windows they had on either side of the chapel. And up until this morning, I had never been to a Saturday morning service. In fact, up until this year, I had no idea there were such things. I only knew about Friday night Shabbat. But anyway, so we met this morning at this Conservative temple in town. Or in the city, rather. It's a little bit out of the way.

I slept in, quite egregiously, which I almost never do. But I got ready in record time, I called him, and he was fine. I managed to get there fully an hour and 20 minutes after the time I had expected to arrive, but I also wasn't the only one coming in late, and I was just in time for the beginning of the reading of the Torah.

It also happened to be a Bar Mitzvah. I really couldn't have planned it better. Because I had never actually seen a real Bar Mitzvah. And that is, of course, exactly what I want to do some time, even though I'll be a little bit older than the usual Middle School candidate. But I don't care. It's something I am looking forward to, after I go through this process of converting (or whatever it is - I'm not really changing into anything different than I already am. But anyway.) So we were blessed to be able to witness the event. And I was so touched to hear the way the parents spoke to their son with such reverence and gratitude. With such recognition for his real talents and abilities. Honoring him for who he was and is, and thanking him for being a presence in their lives. And I swear I will never forget the glowing look of pride on his face. It was not a puffed up sense of self. But a real and honest sense of self-worth that only comes through true recognition, love, and support.

It's something I never had in my life. But something I hope to be able to give some day to my own children. But that's another story.

I also was surprised to look down at the bottom of the program and see "candy." Candy? I looked at my friend. "We throw it at the Bar Mitzvah boy at the end." He smiled. I thought, this is great. During the reading, the Rabbi acknowledged a couple who was about to be married under the Chuppah tomorrow. I looked at them. They seemed young. Probably in their very early twenties. I felt glad. I felt comforted. Not everybody breaks things off before reaching the end. Some people really do strive to hold on and make things work, instead of giving up. That's worth celebrating. It's an end and it's a beginning. I'll drink to that.

After the service, there was an extra big spread for the Kiddush, because of the Bar Mitzvah. I was hungry. I went straight for the lox. I've never been much of a lox fan, but, as I told my friend at the table, maybe there is something about reading and studying Torah that induces a strange appetite for raw smoked salmon and cream cheese on a bagel. I must say it's delightful with capers. Or maybe I was just hungry. But either way, it hit the spot. It hit my J-spot. And I was happy. Can't say anything bad about the triple-layer chocolate thing, either.

So that was my first Saturday morning Torah service. I have to say I loved it. I truly and thoroughly enjoyed it. And even though I didn't know what was going on half the time, I felt so totally comfortable, I didn't even mind. I just followed along, like I always did in Church. But the difference here was that at least I could believe what I was saying. And I drank up the Hebrew, and the atmosphere; the smiles, the dancing, the celebration. The true Joy of Life and recognition of other. The father who clasped his prayer shawl over his daughter for one special moment. The babies climbing up the stairs and toddling up the aisles. The gentleman who went over and kissed the old woman on the forehead, greeting her and clasping her hand. It is these moments of personality and human interaction that make it real and human and ultimately Jewish to me. It's like reading the Human Torah. There are no words. There is no way to describe. There is only a way to do and to be. It's how you are. It's people. But it's so forgotten on the outside, sometimes. But that being and becoming of what we are is what is passed down from generation to generation, just as those scrolls are handed from Grandfather to Father to Son. From Mothers to Daughters and their daughters.

I am proud to be entering into this space. I am honored to be able to join such a community that honors each and every one if its members with honesty, grit, and humor. It makes me feel lucky. But it's not only for me. And I know I am not doing it alone.

The Locksmith

I like how good things come out of bad things. Is that too Pollyanna of me? Is that too Silver Lining? But I think it's true. It happens all the time. It's doesn't make the bad less bad. But I do think the bad makes the good more good.

For example, I had to call a locksmith in because I was having trouble with my landlady, and I needed to lock my door. So I got her to give me a padlock for my bedroom door in the house. She gave me a cheap lock, which I meant to replace. But the door jamb is an odd size, and I couldn't get my big Master lock to go in, so I just used hers. But on Tuesday, I walked out to the store to get my copy of Jewish Literacy by Joseph Telushkin, and when I returned, my lock wasn't working. Try as I might, the key wouldn't open it. So I got out the screwdriver, took off the metal plate, and called the locksmith.

I called the first number I saw, which is not always a good idea. I had doubts about the company, based on the incompetency of the receptionist, and the fact that she sounded like she wasn't working for a locksmith company, but rather a telephone call center in Ohio. But I went with it anyway. I didn't even ask for the rates because I planned to have them bill my landlady.

When the guy showed up, he was driving a bright yellow car, the size of something you might see in Europe. He got out and immediately started opening doors, walking around. I wasn't sure what he was doing. He got out a blue plastic toolbox. A large tangle of extension cord. He managed to keep the cardboard boxes from falling out of the back seat. He walked around the other side, leaving the car keys in the passenger side door, and asked me if I could hand them to him. I looked at the Enterprise key chain and thought this all seemed a little strange. "Look, I'm not sure about this," I told him. "What? You don't trust me? What's the matter?"

"I'm just not comfortable. I don't think this is a good idea."

My landlady was watering her garden.

"Well, I have to at least charge you for the visit."

I thought about it. I didn't have to pay them. They couldn't make me. But I'd have to call a whole other locksmith. I'd have to wait for hours maybe. They might not come today. "Fine." I said. "Come inside, I'll show you my door." But first he had to put the grinder away. All you need is a big pair of clippers, I told him. Trust me.

Upstairs, we inspected the lock. I apologized for the mess in the room. I hadn't cleaned it in days. I had clothes, books, my water bottle on the floor. Normally, I can't stand a mess.

He says he'll have to charge me $90 for the visit, and $20 to cut the lock. I tell him that's ridiculous, I can't pay. They'll have to charge my landlady. They can send her the bill. They don't send bills, he tells me. This is very unusual. Maybe this is a West Coast thing. Or maybe it's sketchy, as I presumed. What kind of company doesn't send bills? He says I need to pay up front.

So we are arguing over this. He says he'd like to help me, because I'm Jewish and he's Jewish. I touch the Star of David around my neck. He has dark hair, dark eyes. A strange accent. I am aware of my Mezuzah. And my Tanakh there by my bed. My "Living a Jewish life." All in plain view. I guess I am Jewish. Or at least I have the trappings of Jewishness. I have the Things of Jewish around me, and I'm saying who I am, or who I feel like, without even realizing it.

And here he is, a random guy who does house calls for a locksmith company, who comes to my house and wants to help me because I am Jewish and I have a crazy landlady, but he doesn't want to lose his job. So I agree to pay him. He cuts the lock for free, and I hand him the $90. I give him the lock as well. And I thank him.

He says his name is Roy. I don't know what his real name is, but he's from Israel. That explains his accent. He doesn't know that I'm not really Jewish, but it doesn't matter. I am Jewish to him, and that's as Jewish as I need to be.

He said he wanted to keep my number. I said no, thank you, although he seemed very sweet. I just don't think that's why he was there for me. But Hashem sends people to each other for all kinds of reasons. It's not always romance or matchmaking. He sent me a crazy landlady, who sent me a padlock, who sent me to call the locksmith, who sent this Jew from Israel, who wanted to help me. He cared about me. Because I was Jewish. And what does that mean? It means we're part of a community. The Land of Israel came to my door. It recognized me. And that means something.

To him, what does it mean? It means he leaves the Land of Israel, but he finds a Jewish giyoret with a Mezuzah and a Star of David on her neck, who needs her padlock broken, to protect her from an intrusive landlady, who threatened him on the way out. But I protected him. I stood up for him. Because I wasn't going to let anything happen to him, either. We are family. We are everywhere. We are all the Land of Israel.

Tisha B'Av

For me, maybe just this year, I am finding the holidays to be personally meaningful. Like Shavuot. It was the perfect first Holiday for me as a quasi-almost-maybe-studying-for-wannabe Jew. First I count the Omer, then come to find out that the central reading for the Holiday is the Book of Ruth, which turns out to be about a woman who chooses Judaism because, like me, the rest of her life that she had known before had pretty much tanked. And, as it would happen, my first Christian Godmother (in her good memory) was named Ruth.

Now we have Tisha B'Av. And, like Shavuot, I can draw a parallel from the destruction of the Jewish Temple to my own life. If what I knew before - a starry-eyed, ambitious, young woman, engaged to a Jewish man and all seemed hunky dory - was no longer there, what was I who was I? Who am I now, and who am I going to be after all of this. And is it the case, too, that somehow, through all of this, I am preserved, even though I may feel that all my honor, dignity, and sense of self have been stripped away? What if, all the while, I am myself nonetheless?

But now I have no barriers. Now I have no illusions. Now I have no house of cards. So what I have is real. And I feel it.

I think it is the same with the destruction of the Temple, and all the other things. Of course we mourn that our old ways of life are gone. They were nice. We liked it. It was comforting. Now we have to go out and do our own thing. We have to reinvent ourselves. Find a new way of identifying. Find a new way to feel at home, when in fact we feel that we have no home. We are wanderers. We go everywhere, but nowhere do we really belong, except in communion, except in cohesion, except in knowing that all of Life is One, and all of us share in the pain. The pain that makes us real. The pain that makes us honest. The pain that makes us try harder, to be ourselves, to move forward.

Little Things

Someone told me something once. He was moving out. That's because he and his girlfriend had been living in the same small room, paying rent for just one person, and when he had moved in, he had said it was just him and she was going to be living somewhere else. With her parents, they said. So after a while, the third (or fourth) roommate and I asked if she would kindly help pay for the utilities. We would split it four ways. She declined in the form of a long email detailing why she should not be required to pay $40 for utilities because it was unfair, due to the fact that she was just out of High School, was only working part-time, and her mother made her pay rent to store things at her house. She tried to leave without paying. I confronted her, and she screamed at me, calling me names. But her mom was there, and she handed me $40 for the utilities.

The point is, the guy told me, when he was moving out, that he didn't feel good about living with me anyway. I asked why. He said because of "a lot of little things."

And that's the way it always is, isn't it? Things don't break off because of one big thing, usually. Sometimes they do. It makes for a more dramatic plot. But usually it's the little things that add up, and create the whole situation. And those little things can be good or bad. That determines the nature of the outcome.

And it occurs to me that that is what the Mitzvoth are. They are little things (and sometimes big things) that we can do or not do, which eventually add up to a life well lived, if we take them to heart. Doing them is not just a commandment, but a choice that we make, and a commitment, to live life always in the best possible way.

Travel Money

Before I embarked on my month-long European voyage, my Rabbi gave me a dollar for travel money. It was to protect me, he explained. Since I had a mission to take this dollar overseas and give it to somebody who needed it, nothing could hurt me on my way. We mused about the exchange rate. “You can add to it, if you want,” he said.

So I tucked the bill away. And I made sure I knew where it was at all times. I thought of it over on the plane. I wondered who would need it.

And finally, I got to France. I thought I would see someone right away that I could give the dollar, or a Euro to. But then I started wondering, what exactly constitutes a “need”? People who are poor obviously need money. But so does everyone else. What if the person in front of me doesn’t have enough change for the bus? Or is short one Euro for their groceries? I could be the person to say, here is a Euro for you, all the way from the States, though I wouldn’t tell them that, and I just happen to be here to give it to you. They would never know why. But not if I carelessly let it drop into a hat, to mingle with the change of so much other, just usual, everyday tzedaka.

Besides, my Rabbi had said, I needed to bring back a story. I wanted a good story. But I didn’t want to hold onto the Euro for too long.

Perhaps three days into the trip, I found him. Rounding a corner, there was a dark-haired, friendly-faced beggar on the steps of a church. S’il vous plait, Madame, s’il vous plait? I was ready. I looked in my change wallet. A two-Euro coin. And two 50-cent pieces. I looked at him. S’il vous plait? He had a dog. I liked him. Perhaps he was a painter. He was fairly young. Not even gray. I wanted to give him the 2 Euros. But I considered the exchange rate and my measly budget. I could add to it, he had said. But at my expense? Should I add that much? I took the two 50-cent pieces and dropped them into his hat. “Merci,” He said. And I walked away.

But I felt guilty. I felt cheap. That 2-Euro piece now seemed heavy in my wallet. I should have given it to him. I thought. I was holding back. I was afraid. I wasn’t living passionately. I considered the cost too much and not the ultimate return, which would be another whole Euro for him, and a great deal more satisfaction in a mission well accomplished for me.

And so I decided he would not be the only one. I was not going to throw Euros around randomly everywhere, but I would place a Euro here, a Euro there, as I felt was needed. I could fill a lot of needs. Not just one.

And so I did. But the Euro came back to me. One day, in an Internet café, I sat down to find a one-Euro piece just sitting there, on the counter. I looked around. There was no one. The man at the bar was watching sports. Who knows why it was left there, but there it was. And maybe it was stealing, but I decided it was travel money, to give to someone else. After all, I was going to Germany in a week.

So the Euro came with me, in the bottom of my bag, so that I wouldn’t spend it accidentally. And I kept it with me all through my visit with my German family. We saw the emigration museum, and they served me lots of pork, which I tried not to eat. At the end, I left the Euro at their house. But even though I was running low on travel money myself, it was OK, because my German grandparents quietly handed me a bag of candy and an envelope filled with money. I was stunned. Such a generous gift. I didn’t know how to thank them. But I went on my way.

I flew back to Paris for a few days, and then I was to meet the program I traveled with and bring the kids back to the States. Possibly I needed more than a Euro for protection. But I felt safe enough. The night before I left, I went to the cyber café down the street to check some final things. But the Internet was down. The guy didn’t know how to fix it. He apologized, said there was nothing he could do. I was going to have paid a euro for 30 minutes. On my way out, there was a Euro on the counter. But I hadn’t paid yet. “Bonne nuit,” I said. He pushed the Euro toward me. “Merci,” I said, and took it.

Back in the states, I managed to get the kids home. Then I got myself on a bus up to Boston, where I was staying with a friend. I arrived at 10:00 at night. It was raining. I was tired. I decided to take a taxi. When we got to the place, and I went to pay the fare, I looked in my wallet. I had $6, or a $20 bill. The fare was $5.85. I looked in my change purse. I wanted to give a tip. “I only have European coins,” I said. “You’re the boss,” he told me, and stood waiting. I thought about it. I didn’t want to break the 20. I knew what to do. I handed him the 5 and the 1. But then I said, “Here, have a Euro. Take it.” The one-Euro coin flashed in the streetlight. He smiled, evidently pleased. “Thank you,” he beamed. You’re welcome.

I wished him a good night, and he drove down the street.

I was home.

Germany

So now I have come to Germany to spend a week with my Germany relatives here. My Grandfather's cousin lives in Elmshorn with his family, and just about every time I come to Europe, I go to stay with them. And they very often go to America themselves, so we see each other frequently.

And every time I come, they get out their family tree, and loads of old pictures and paraphernalia. They know a lot about family history.

But this time is different. This time, Germany is a challenge.

First, on my second day, my German Aunt, who I am staying with, takes me on a trip to see a new emigration museum that they have in Hamburg at BallinStadt. It was the place where hundreds of thousands of emigrants from all over Germany and Eastern Europe came through before going to America, because it was the location of the HAPAG-Lloyd line, when they were still in the business of shipping people overseas instead of just cargo.

And one of the first things I saw was, under a plexiglass plate in the entryway floor, they had a 3D model and drawn-out plan of the old BallinStadt. It showed the museum buildings, now extant, amidst a plan of forty or so other buildings, containing everything from the bathhouses and disinfection places to churches and synagogues. I noticed how distinctly they separated Jews from Christians in the eating quarters, and living quarters as well. And I wondered if that was for the benefit of the Jews or the Christians. It seemed probably the latter, but that I thought it could have had a side benefit of making Kosher eating more possible.

There were stories of Jewish emigrants throughout the exhibit, and they showed numerous newspaper clippings about the kinds of problems Jews faced in that day, before, during, and after the War. But clearly this was not a Jewish-focused museum. Not that it took a particular side. It just did not seem to be all that concerned with the Jewish plight. It was more of a curiosity than anything else. But of course, we all know it was much more. And it was what was left unsaid that of course was murmuring underneath. But they can't say those things. They are German.

And the other problem with Germany is pork. It seems pork is everywhere, in almost every dish that involves meat. Even if they make a beef dish, it's like they throw in some pork, just for flavor, or taste, or something. And so I find myself eating vegetarian mostly, but sometimes I end up eating something with pork in it, only so that I don't have to refuse hospitality. It's difficult when my German grandmother has made the food herself and served it to me, and it's what they are eating for lunch, and she doesn't even speak much English. I smile and say "Danke Shoen."

I am not to the point yet where I feel I need to eat all kosher all the time, or I will make myself feel guilty because I ate something. But I am kind of trying it out, seeing how it feels, and being here makes me very aware of the presence of pork and also that fact that I don't feel much like I want to eat it. It seems strange. For a country with so many cows, why do they eat only pigs? But I do try to avoid it. When my German uncle offered to go buy me a pork steak, I said, no, thank you, I prefer beef. Instead of Italian cured ham on my bread in the morning, I choose only cheese. I will be glad to get back to Paris, and back to the States, where I won't have to be faced with pork in my soup on a regular basis.

B"H

The Lovely American

Last Friday, I was invited to a party in Aix-en-Provence, where I am staying until Sunday. The host of the party thought it would interest me to be introduced to the only other American there. I had heard the woman talking to some other people before, and was quite aware of her nationality. You're from America, too? She exclaimed excitedly. Where are you from? I gave her the story in a nutshell. Not even. Really just the basic details. I didn't much feel like getting into it. It wasn't that I didn't care. It's just that when I travel, I don't usually go out of my way to seek out other Americans. It doesn't really excite me.

She told me she was from LA. How long have you lived France? Oh, half my life, she told me, and rolled her eyes, as if it were at once the most special and also the most boring thing in the world. What did she do? Oh, I'm an artist, she said, again in that blasée, self-important tone of voice. (This I knew from before, in fact, due to her loud American accent). She's the kind of artist that makes my skin crawl, because she has that self-righteous attitude about it. Knowing people like her kind of made me want to stop doing art when I was in college. And usually it's coming from the people who are over-priveleged, and never really appreciate the difficulty of making a living as an artist. She can grow up in some suburb or other - Hollywood, in her case. And she can just paint or do whatever she wants, and it doesn't matter how bad or good the art is. She can move to France, and then she can complain about it and go to lame parties where she can feel special. No, I should really give her the benefit of the doubt. She had probably had some problem in her life that she was dealing with and that's why she wanted friends so badly. Seems to me that's always the way. But I still didn't really like talking to her.

But when she said she's been to Israel, I became interested. I thought maybe we had some common ground. Oh, are you Jewish? How did you know? she asked. Well, aside from the dark hair, etc., she had mentioned Israel, in that kind of honorific way that Jewish people often do. She respected it (unlike France), which I took to mean it was important to her. I just put two and two together. she asked if I was Jewish, too.

I considered whether or not to tell her I was converting. I still don't really like the term. I prefer "Jewish by choice." But I didn't getting around to discussing it with her. I told her I was "in the process." That didn't sound quite right to me either, but I went with it. "I feel so bad for people who convert," She said, "For their boyfriends or husbands, or whoever." I couldn't believe she was saying this to me. "I mean, I'm Jewish," She said. "It's in my Blood." That's when I stopped talking to her. It is very rare for me that I will actually leave a conversation, but in this case, evasion seemed my best tactice. What she had said was so patently offensive, I could not even dignify a response. I suppose I could have said something like, "I'm not converting," or said I was Jewish by practice, but I don't think any of those things would have mattered to her. What I said was, "Never mind," and turned away to do what I had come to that side of the room to do: sign the bag of some guy who was about to embark on a three-year world tour. "I'm sorry I offended you," She said. I didn't say anything again to her for the rest of the night. I smiled at her once and that was it.

Because she did offend me. For years of my life I've told myself that I couldn't "convert" because I'm not "Jewish" - because it's not "in my blood," and I wasn't raised that way. And I was miserable. But now I have learned that I can choose Judaism. It is something you do, and it's available to me, and to anyone who truly wants it, and not just something you are born into. Doing is what makes it part of who you are. To me, it's like people who are born Jewish have a free ticket to synagogue or Bar Mitzvah or whatever you want. You never have to work for it. And those people can complain about their heritage and whine about persecution, never appreciating what they have. I wondered if she had even read the book of Ruth.

I feel the way I think a legal immigrant feels about illegal migrant workers. I have to work to get my visa, pay lots of money, study, pay, and study some more. Finally, I will take a test and get my green card. I will do everything to the nth degree, but I will always be somewhat of an outsider. Those people - the illegal aliens - just walk in and take everything for free. I'm not saying that all Jewish people are like illegal immigrants, because they're not, but when they don't appreciate what they have, then they are, and it's disrespectful to me.

When you are born Jewish, it's like you are given a free pass. A magic gift. You can come and go as you please. Choose to practice or not. You will always "be" Jewish. How great, and what a blessing to be born Jewish. But maybe - and this is what I think the book of Ruth might really be about, at least in part - you need someone to choose it from the outside to make you realize that you have a special thing. I know I did that for at least one person I've met. Yes, you are Jewish and you have something desirable. You can be proud of it. But you can also be welcoming. I don't think a haughty attitude will do very much to impress people. I just realized that that woman did not speak the truth for me. And the best I could do was let her think about her words. I know the truth for myself already. I've done my research, and I've made my choice. And even though I will always be slightly jealous, I think, of people who have had the opportunity to be raised Jewish, and live in that kind of house hold, I will be even more thankful that I've been given the freedom and the ability to choose it for myself. And that's something I could never do if I was born Jewish.

French Sabbath

Last night I had my first French synagogue experience and my first Orthodox synagogue experience all at the same time. C'était trés interesante.

First, I should mention that I spent several hours - or at least one hour - earlier in the day traipsing around an approxiately one-block area, looking for the synagogue, who's address was either 5 rue de Jérusalem or 3 rue de Jérusalem. With no luck. I kept trying different streets that looked like they would take me to the right place. Every time, I would either find myself obviously too far away, or else completely blocked from where I wanted to go. Finally, when I was able to check a more detailed map, I found it seemed to be in the one tiny alley I had not gone down at all. But I was generally in the right place.

So I went back that evening, and luckily was able to walk there from the place that I was staying. I went down the tiny alley, which was indeed marked (in a very hard-to-see place) Rue de Jérusalem. It was very short, and as far as I could see, there was no synagogue. There wasn't even an apartment entrance or a store or anything. There were some beat-looking cars parked, some dumpsters, and a depressing-looking building with lots of garage doors. This was not the "good" part of town." I thought, is this one of those groups that meets in someone's basement? How did they get marked on the map? Where is the synagogue?

So I went down to the end of the alley, which had a one-way street coming from the main road, up and to the left. It wasn't there. Then I turned to the right. There, clearly not physically on the "Rue de Jérusalem" at all, but down a brick-paved pedestrial walkway, was a likely synagogue-looking building, which was fairly non-descript, but nice, and even more indicated by the old man wearing a yarmule and standing outside the door. I was right on time, and I could hear the chanting already inside.

The old man smiled at me as I approached. He seemed perplexed that I would ascend the stairs. Est-ce-que je peut entrer? Vous êtes Juive? Oui. Then he got really excited and looked very happy. He asked where I was from and told him I was an American. He enlisted the help of a man and his bar mitzvah-age son, who were just arriving, to tell me where I was to go in the synagogue - the "Premiere étage." This is an Orthodox synagogue, he told me in French. Men are on the first floor, and women are on the second floor - the balcony. Okay, well, I wasn't going to let that turn me away. They were warm and welcoming. There was no sense of being left out. Except there really weren't a lot of women there. There wasn't a whole lot of anybody, but it was definitely mostly male, all chanting in Hebrew on the first floor.

There were two great electrical candelabras up front, and in the center of the floor, was an enclosed space with two chairs, and an immense Torah book in red, covered with plastic. A young-ish man in a black suit and black yarmulke approached the enclosure and began to lead the chanting. I thought he might give a drasha in french, but he did not. And as he chanted, he would periodically look at us up in the balcony. I wasn't quite sure what I was supposed to be doing, so I just tried to stand up and sit down at the appropriate times. There was a printed page in French, but other than that, everything was in Hebrew. So I decided to practice my letter-reading a bit. The young boy who came in with his father was there on the floor. Or perhaps he had already had his bar mitzvah. He looked relatively old.

It's odd. There is a certain kind of maturity that I see in younger Jewish males [I say "males" because I'm referring to that entire age group of all people, at a point where neither "man" nor "boy" would really be descriptive.] Maybe it is true for females as well, but I feel that teenage boys, generally, are pretty immature. Let's just take that for granted, with a few exceptions - at least in America. The girls tend to be mature a little bit earlier. Again, a generality. But when I reached the airport in New York City, there was a young Jewish male sleeping sitting on a bench near our luggage claim. He could not have been more than 16. Probably 14. He had on a yarmulke and a nice suit. His bags were there next to him. There was no one with him. And he just slept. Looking at his face, he seemed to exude a knowledgable peace. He trusted himself and the world enough to sleep in this place, and indeed he seemed to have the trust of many others behind him. His whole life seemed to make sense for him. He was not worried about the future. He was not worried about the past. His age seemed irrelevant. He had the sense of being fully a man, even though he was very young. And it's something I have seen before - a certain sense of the world - but which was very pronounced in this young man I saw.

The young man at the synagogue did not seem quite so old in his bearing. But he, too, like all Jewish men I know, had that certain spark of dignity. It manifests differently in women, but it's there, too. One woman on the balcony had her hair covered. I realized that I probably should as well. But the two other young girls didn't. I guess perhaps it is okay, if you are not married. In fact, I am pretty sure the poster outside the door said something to that effect.

What I thought was most intriguing was hearing Hebrew in a French accent. I wonder what it sounds like to someone who really knows Hebrew. And the man recited long passages entirely from memory. I am sure he has been doing it his whole life. It is probably, like for me, going to church and automatically knowing all the prayers, only what he knew was so much more vast.

The service was short. It was over in less than an hour. So I walked around a little bit, sat and thought for a while in the pedestrian area nearby, and then called my friend so that I could join him for his party in another part of town, in Aix.

But even though I experienced services entirely in two languages I don't really even know, I nevertheless felt fulfilled. I felt I could at least imagine what was supposed to take place, and I took comfort in hearing the words, and seeing the devotion of the other men and women in the place. It was uplifting, even though the direct meaning of the words was unavailable to me. And that made me think more about the power of words: that these words can have power and meaning, even if I don't know what those meanings are.

Les Juifs France

So I was waiting at the airport in New York City with 40 kids that I was to see safely across the Atlantic Ocean. We were at JFK. And there were of course a fair amount of yarmulkes visible, it being New York, it's only to be expected. And there was this group of hasidic-looking young men who seemed to be waiting for my flight. They seemed like a very congenial group. Maybe five or six of them. I found myself watching with interest, hoping they would be on my flight, in fact.

Funny how things work out. The airline had somehow placed my seat about 20 rows back from the rest of the kids. So I arranged to move, from row 44 to row 26, where I was sitting next to a dark-skinned boy, one of the group. At that point, I still thought he was a New Yorker. And he was sleeping, so there was not much conversation. At one point, he even rested his head on my shoulder. I'm not sure if he ever became aware. But I didn't move him.

Anyway, it turns out he was not from New York at all. He was from Paris, and he and his friends had just finished a semester of special (I assumed he meant probably Jewish-oriented) business school in New York. So they were all French. And at one point, several of them came over to talk to my seat mate. So there I was, surrounded by yarmulkes and tassels, all talking French. I smiled to myself, but didn't say a thing. It was like G-d was guarding and guiding my journey, and they had no idea. They were just there. I was in awe.

Choosing the Garden

I have been fascinated and enthralled by fruit trees lately. Just walking around my neighborhood, I can see peach trees, lemon trees, fig trees. I see palm trees, fruits, and succulents I have never even seen before. Last weekend, I had the joy and pleasure of visiting an actual vineyard in the country, which was a small vineyard, owned by someone I know, and they blessed us with an invitation to spend time on their beautiful property.

Seeing fruit from a tree reminds me that stores are sometimes unnecessary. If I am hungry, I could walk down to the local market and spend some money. Or I could walk out into my back yard and pick a huge bowl of plums from the heavy branches of our fruiting tree. That's real food. I don't lose any money, and I don't have to worry about whether it is locally grown. It's about as local as it gets. Next I probably want chickens. But the point is, our food and sustenance doesn't actually come from a store, it comes from the earth. And providing for ourselves isn't just about money, it's about how we can avail ourselves of the opportunities at hand.

So my friend from New Zealand and I sat in the back yard last night, drinking tea and occasionally eating plums from the tree. She and I met singing in the choir at church. She is getting ready to leave for England with her husband. I am trying to decide if I will go back to the choir or not. And I shared with her my decision to become Jewish. She is Christian, of course, but she is Christian much in the same way that I was, which is in a broad-minded, non-evangelical sense. She was happy for me.

I find it actually very easy to talk about my choice, even among Christians. I anticipate some opposition from my parents, and I am sure that my grandfather will try to evangelize me, but at this point I really don't care. And how do I know what their reaction will be? I could get all worked up about it, and the next thing I know, I will sit down with them, I'll say, hey, guys, guess what, I'm Jewish. And they'll say, ok. Want to go to the beach?

But that doesn't mean I can't back myself up with plenty of solid arguments for my position beforehand. Which of course is not hard, because I have ultimate faith in what I am doing. I believe it's the right thing for me, and, well, I believe in one G-d, so that's about it really. I am following my belief.

I am also following my gut and intuition, and I feel like I can back that up with reasoning.

I was telling my friend last night that it comes down to choice. If I have the freedom to choose one or another religion, I want to choose the one that makes me happiest and makes me feel like I am living a full life in concert with my beliefs. Freedom of choice is really a big thing in Judaism, if not in other beliefs. (Freedom from choice as well, and that's another story.) But, for a religious argument, if you want to say G-d created the world, then you have to believe that He created the whole world, not just Jews or Christians or Muslims or anybody else. All of it. Even the people with no belief. And part of our being created is our freedom. We have the ability to choose what we want or where to go. This is the essence of the story of the Garden of Eden, which I think is often misconstrued or used for emotional manipulation and guilt tactics, talking about "original sin" that we somehow have to perpetually make up for. But what it is really about, to me, is freedom of choice. G-d gave us all these things, including the freedom and the ability to choose what is not right for us - that shiny thing that promises redemption and release but is ultimately a sham. But we can choose that thing. We can listen to the snake. We have that capacity. It's available to us. We will be punished, and we will be unhappy, of course. But G-d made us that way. It's all part of His plan. Possibly, if not probably, to show us the right way. How do I know I am not choosing the apple now? Is this me trying to taste forbidden fruit? And I say, no, because I've done that already. It was a sham. And now I feel like I am choosing the Garden.

The Omer

I have to say it was a great experience counting the Omer this year. I learned a lot. And I also felt that in a way it's what I've always wanted to get out of therapy and never had. Because it was like homework. Literal, physical, actual emotional homework. I mean, talk therapy is great, but I always get a little bit frustrated after talking for an hour, and then hearing almost nothing back, or just a regurgitation of everything I just said. And then, okay, I'll see you next time. Write a check for $120. But, you see, what I always wanted from my therapists was homework. They never gave it to me, and I never felt like I got anywhere. But this year, I decide to start doing Judaism, and I got what I always wanted - for free!

All I had to do was go home, pray every night, think about the meaning of the specific sefirah I was supposed to concentrate on, and then either do the activity that was suggested, or come up with my own. And I made an effort to do it every time. In fact, sometimes, if the day was coming to an end, I would start to panic a little if I felt I hadn't yet fulfilled my obligation for the day. One day this happened, as I was walking home from choir rehearsal of all places (yes, I still sing in a church choir - at least for the moment). It was a Wednesday, which meant it was the day of Tiferet, and I think it was Tiferet of Yesod, bonding.

I was walking down to Powell Street station, and as I passed the Walgreens window, I thought to myself, I'd really like to give a homeless person a bottle of water. I don't want to give them money, I want to give them something meaningful and sustaining. Something that person actually needs. The thought passed and I kept walking. Less than a block later, as I approached the station, I noticed a young-ish black woman in a wheelchair outside a pizza store. She didn't have a cup or anything, she was just asking for help. There were a lot of people on the street, but she looked right at me, wearing my bright orange coat. Can you help me, ma'am? Please? She looked right into my eyes. It was like she knew what I had just been thinking. And her voice was insistent, desperate, hungry. Buy me a slice of pizza, ma'am? I was a little freaked out. I gave her an apologetic look, kept my hands in my pockets and kept walking. I didn't see how I could possibly buy her a slice of pizza. But then it was also like G-d had heard my thoughts, and here was this person, not just begging for change, but asking for a specific thing, and asking it of me, and it was up to me to say, ok, I'll do it, or no. She didn't know who I was. She didn't know what I was thinking. But there was something about her. Something different. Unabashed. Not trying to get anything. Just hungry. Her voice stayed with me. Echoing in my brain. It was high-pitched. Almost childlike. And I had walked away from her. I could have done it without saying anything. Just given her the pizza and walked away. But oh, no, I was in a hurry. And there I was, in the subway station, waiting for my train. And I waited 10, 15 minutes. No train. Every other line passed by except the one I was waiting for, and crowd was gathering of all the other people waiting for the train. 20 minutes. 25. It was again uncanny. I thought - and I know this isn't really true - but it felt like, I'm responsible. G-d doesn't want me to leave this place until I've done what I set out to do. So I became determined. I left the station and went out to go and find the woman. But when I got there, the pizza place was closed she was gone. What could I do? I walked back up the street and figured I would just give something to the first person I came to. Luckily, in San Francisco, the odds of coming across just such a person are high.

At the next light, there was a frail black woman crumpled at the foot of the light post across the street. I looked in my wallet. All I had was a $5 bill. I took it out, folded it up in my hand and walked with purpose. I gave it to her. Thank you, she mumbled. She looked at what it was. She looked at me, her eyes filled with amazement. Thank you, her toothless mouth said to me again, sincerely. I gave a small smile and a nod and walked away. Just turned around and went back to the station. I waited only a few minutes for the train and I was home. As I approached my door, I felt better. I felt clear. I had done my job. Now I could move on to the next sefirah. But I had done something for the woman. Who knows what she did with those $5, but maybe it will give her a different feeling. Maybe it will be a story she can treasure, having gotten just once, maybe something more than little scraps and pennies. But something that can maybe give her dignity. I have to wonder, what was it like? Was I an orange-coated angel for her?

The next day, when I took some of my paintings to a small store, I sold them, for a total of $50. And even though I know there is no real correlation, it seemed to suggest that when you give, wholeheartedly and purely, with no thought of the cost to you, you open your heart and are more able to receive. In this case, ten-fold, but always more than you give.

And even though I might have done something for her, perhaps in the end, she - and also the young black woman in the wheelchair - was the real angel to me.