First Fruits of Shavuot

This is the first time in four years that I have missed a Shavuot celebration. Maybe even five years. I'm losing count. All I know is that, from the time that I decided to "become" Jewish (which is to say that I recognized that I already was Jewish and that I needed to "make it official") and inadvertently stumbled across the counting of the Omer, I've had a special relationship with Shavuot.

Is it because my birthday is in the Spring time? Is it because Spring inherently brings with it a sense of new beginnings and possibilities? It is because I pulled a bunch of all-nighters in college? Or do I really just love fruit and cheesecake? (The last one is definitely true, although I wouldn't say it is the most salient reason of the above....though it is a bonus.)

Those are all true, but I don't think they are the real reasons. What I love so much about Shavuot is the way in which is brings all Jews together. And I mean ALL Jews. All Jewish people. Ever. There is a story that we tell, each year, that all Jewish people who have ever lived, or will ever live, were at Mount Sinai to receive the Torah when it was handed down from God to Moses, and witnessed by the people. We were all there. And the first time I heard that, it felt so good, because even though I was a new, not-quite-almost Jewish person, I felt Jewish in my soul. And so to have the sense that I, too, was included in that event gave validation to my experience of who I was (and am).

Shavuot, to me, is about inclusiveness. Every year in Berkeley, an all-night study event (Tikkun Leyl Shavuot) is held by a number of local Jewish organizations, featuring great teachers from near and far. It brings together the entire Jewish community, with teachers and those in attendance representing all streams and "flavors" of Judaism. It is free, and no one is excluded, because it is recognized, in this moment of Mattan Torah (receiving the gift of Torah) that we are all Jews, all receiving the same Torah, and all equally worthy of it.

I love the feeling of inclusiveness because I want to BELONG. We all do. But I tend to spend most of my life feeling like an outsider. As a young child, I always felt like I didn't quite know what the "cool kids" were doing. My family was different, in that we didn't have a lot of money, like most of my playmates did. When I was eight years old, we moved to Maine, and I became an outsider again, making my way in an entirely new social milieu. After six years there, when I still wasn't "cool," but at least had found a tight-knit group of equally "uncool" friends, we moved back to our original home-town, and I became an outsider once again, but with a new twist, because I had been there before. So at some point, I just accepted it. I accepted that I would never be one of the "cool kids." I would never be "popular." I would never be wearing what everyone else was wearing, and my family wasn't going to take vacations in Fiji every winter. I owned it. And that was the point at which other people started to tell me that I was "cool." But I've never quite believed it. No matter what, even if people do see me in that way, I always feel like I am out on the fringe, not really inside the social structure I am observing. And that's okay.

And yet, there in the bright fluorescent light of the study room when I attended my first Shavuot, and I heard the story of how we were all - every Jewish soul, whether born Jewish or not - there at Mount Sinai for the revelation of the Torah, I suddenly felt included. Maybe for the first time in my life. And maybe only for a minute. But it was there. I was part of something larger, and it felt good.

This year, I did not attend the celebration. I had a quasi-plan, and a good intention to be there. I know that I love the study and the learning, and the sense of camaraderie that takes place when so many Jewish people get together, and many of them choose to stay up all night. But this year, I had a different goal and a different intention that overrode my desire to be there, and it's what I consider to be one of the biggest learning journeys of my life right now, and that is the goal of taking care of myself. Of recognizing my limits for what my body and my mind can handle, and pushing them only when I feel strong enough to do so. Which also means knowing when to stop, and when not to push myself too far. I'm learning. And sometimes that means not doing things that I actually want to do. Like this year's Shavuot.

So, even though I missed the joy of being with community, I had a different joy, of knowing that I made a choice that made sense for me. And also, while I was riding the train home, lulled by the hum and sway of the cars, I had my own private Mattan Torah. I pictured myself, with all Jews, standing at Mount Sinai, receiving the Torah. It felt real. And it felt unconditional. Even though I wasn't "there" studying, I was there There - with all Jews - receiving Torah. Yes, there is the teaching that we study all night so that we can stay up and not miss it when the Torah is handed down at daybreak. And yes, I went home and slept that night (though I did stay up a bit and read). But I realize that these are conventions. They do not remove from us the gift of Torah. I received it in my own way. And many Jews do not live in a community where there is such an opportunity to celebrate Shavuot in this way. Many Jews grow up not even knowing about Shavuot, because it can be obscured by other major celebrations, like Passover and Rosh Hashanah.

But to me, it is a sacred, special holiday, very close to my heart, because it is about some of the highest values that I hold, both as a Jewish person, and as a human: Inclusiveness and Community.

And sometimes - maybe often - being an effective member of community means taking time out to care for yourself when it is needed.

Chag Shavuot Sameach

[Photo credit: Chabadjapan.org]