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.
Monday, December 22, 2008
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.
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.
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