Teshuva

Erev Rosh Hashanah

2011-09-28T13:58:00.000-07:00

Rosh Hashanah is one of my favorite Holidays.

Just recently, I celebrated my second Jewish birthday. I had my beit din around this time, two years ago, specifically so that I could celebrate the High Holidays as a Jew. But that is not what makes Rosh Hashanah special for me.

RH is actually the first time that I experienced Jewish life outside of college and Passover Seders. It was the first time I attended a Friday night service, spoken mostly in Hebrew. And I attended it with my then-Fiancé.

The memory is tinged with sadness, too, because it was in fact that weekend that our relationship officially ended. It was so sad to me, in part, because I never even got to celebrate with his family!

The Jury is still out on what, exactly, my motivations were for ending the relationship. Was it that I really just did not like him? Entirely possible. Was he good for me, but I was too afraid of love? That is possible, too. Maybe, in some funny G-d joke kind of way, both are true. And maybe, even though it was an ending and a loss that I experienced at the time, in effect, it was really a beginning.

And truly, it was.

It has now been five years since then, and, looking back, I have come so far, and in some ways, I have not changed at all.

Now, I am Jewish. I have my own Jewish life. I have Jewish friends. I can bake challah, and I have even made my own Shabbat candles. Now I know more prayers and tunes than I ever thought possible.

But one thing hasn't changed. On the positive side, after a period of not believing that I could ever date or love anyone else, I have opened myself to exploring relationships with many different people. Some long and some short. And from each person, I have gleaned something, whether it was pleasant or not. But what hasn't changed is that, for all of my openness and exploration, I still feel closed to love. I don't let love in. When it gets too close I push it away, or I run and hide. Sometimes I do both. Sometimes I hide, even when I stay.

This is a painful process, and a painful way to be. And my awareness of it simply makes me sad. I don't know what the solution is. It is undoubtedly something way too easy, like, "Just relax." But you know how hard that is when you have years of unconscious beliefs and behaviors guiding your every move, with or without your permission.

So, my Rosh Hashanah prayer is this:

May my heart become open this year to the Love that is around me, that wants to be with me, that yearns to give to me. May my eyes become open to seeing it, and my hands become open to receiving. And my mind refrain from rejecting it.

May my soul and spirit relax in the presence of this love, knowing that it will nurture me and nourish me and sustain me through all and any hardships I may bear.

May a wealth of abundance flow in and through me from every angle.

And may the blast of the shofar shock my spirit into resetting itself to my original "default setting" in which my channels to giving and receiving love were not blocked, but open, flowing and fluid, giving and receiving perfectly all the time.

May it be so.

Punishment of Death

2010-06-07T19:59:00.001-07:00

I just had a very bizarre thought. I actually thought that there was a way in which the death penalty could be a good thing. But wait, hear me out. I don't actually support capital punishment. I don't support the death penalty. But I was thinking about biblical stonings and punishments of death, and it occurred to me to think about them in a new way.

Here was my thought process: I was thinking about my date over the weekend, and how the guy I went out with seemed convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was unlikable, unlovable, and I think, also, a complete waste of time. (Either that, or he just wasted my time by taking me out so that he could spend the whole evening talking about this.) And I thought about my response to him by email, which consisted of me saying that his efforts had failed, and I had found him likable nonetheless. And then it occurred to me that I like just about everybody. Or if not everybody (because it's not true that I actually like everybody), then I believe that there is at least one likable thing about every person.

Usually, these likable elements come out in moments of human/physical banality. Such as, the person has to use the bathroom, or they get sick, or they have to eat, or even the fact that they have a favorite food. I took the thought to the extreme and wondered if that could apply even to the most egregious criminal. We see these people as "evil" or "animals" and often they behave without a shred of normal human emotion. But they are still Humans. They still have to eat. They still probably have tastes and preferences. And yet, at a certain point, maybe even They don't consider themselves human.

So I thought: what is the one most humanly humbling experience of all: death.

And then it became clear to me.

I have trouble with all the stonings and killings in the Bible of people who create even minor transgressions. I don't like extreme punishment. The stories are meant to inspire fear and a sense that the commandment is so important that it should be carried out, or else death will ensue. I don't like guilt-tripping and I don't like being threatened, even if the carrying-out of the threat is not forthcoming in our everyday lives, such as stoning a person to death for gathering firewood on Shabbat, which occurred in last week's Parsha). What became clear was the purpose of death in certain situations. And it occurred to me that it was maybe not always a punishment.

Let's say, for example, that all sins or crimes are equal. It doesn't matter what you do, but if you go out of line, then that action makes you "inhuman." The teachings of the Mitzvoth and the Torah are meant to keep us Human. They are not intended to keep us in a limited area of being, but to keep us closer to our Humanity, our vulnerability, our frailty, and our beauty. When we move away from those mitzvoth, from those teachings and ideas, we become separated from ourselves, others, and humanity.

If a person is on Death Row, s/he has done something so terrible that we don't even see that person as "deserving" of the same treatment that we would give another human being. But if you think about the moment of death, the moment of execution, for a moment. In that moment, on the table, or wherever they are - they may be in a room, separated from everyone - but at that time, and immediately after, they become Human again. Death is the great leveler. It brings us all down. We do not survive because we are "good." We all die, in the end. There is an Italian saying, I believe: "Kings and pawns go in the same box." In that way, we are all equal. While we are living, we are not equal. Some people behave better than others. Some people are nicer than others. Some are more respected or respectable than others. But at the moment of death, we are all equal.

Therefore, giving death to a person who has committed a sin that harms all of humanity, we are giving that person back their humanity. Evil cannot die, but humans can. Therefore it makes them Human again. Albeit in a terribly inhumane way. There is no way that I can envision purposely killing a living individual in a way that is truly helpful or gives glory to G-d, but, conceptually, I can see how it works, and it makes at least biblical capital punishment a bit softer for me, that it comes not as a punishment, but as a gift. A strange gift, which, in the case of some individuals, may even be a welcome one.

Night Out

2010-06-06T09:10:00.000-07:00

I went on this odd kind of date last night. I think I should date more Jewish men, but for some reason, ever since I converted, I either haven't had the interest or the opportunity to do so. Or I've had both, but it somehow hasn't worked out that way. Although, as I told one friend recently, I do believe that in all the people that I date, I see something "Jewish" in them, even if they have no idea that it's there. This was the case with the guy I went out with last night. Although, in the end, it was pretty awkward, and I don't know that anything will come out of it.

When it started, he and I were having a really nice dinner conversation, or so it seemed. I mean, no major sparks were flying or anything, but there was definitely stuff to talk about. Then, on the way to the theater, we talked a little bit about religion, but not too much. I had told him over dinner about my conversion, and I knew already that his family was Catholic, but that he didn't have any observance of his own. He didn't say he was "spiritual" or anything, he just joked about going to Hell.

When we got to the theater, we were early, so we had a drink. Then I probably did either the best or worst thing I could have done: I asked his age. That was only because, after talking to him, I realized he was probably older than I thought he was. But once I thought about it, I guessed his age right: about 15 years older than me. But he seemed pretty miffed about the fact that I guessed right. And then I was slightly miffed about the fact that he guessed me wrong - putting me at least 5 years younger than I actually am. I suppose I could have taken it as a compliment, but then that would have been inauthentic of me.

Overall, I suppose if people generally perceive him to be much younger, and me to be only a little younger, that would make our perceived ages actually pretty close. (It was kind of funny how the guy at the bar later in the evening referred to us as "kids." but then, he was pretty much older than both of us.) On the other hand, if you think about our actual ages, if he was that much older than I am and he thought I was much younger, that means he thought he was going out with someone about 20 years his junior. And he may have seemed kind of disappointed that I wasn't. It's hard to tell. But maybe that's why, when he wrote to me afterward, he wanted to thank me, but said he didn't think we should "date" anymore.

There I was, thinking I was "too young" for him. Whereas, it's possible I was in fact not young enough! Now that's a bit scary. If everything else had been equal, I think the age would not have been an issue. At least it wasn't an issue for me. Or rather, I was thinking that I had to work through that "problem." Like I'd have to accept the fact that he's so much older and doesn't want house/wife/kids, etc., and whatnot. But in fact, it was him. HE very well might have the problem.

And the other red flag: I joked, in the bar, after the show, about being 12 years old, and the way he said "perfect" was a little too convincing. He seemed to actually have a momentary fantasy that reminded me just a little too much of the way pedophile perps typically look in an episode of Law & Order: SVU. So maybe I was on a date with a closet pedophile. Not to perpetuate a stereotype, but he was raised Catholic, and has since left the church. So who knows? Maybe he was molested as an altar boy, and he either has or has not told anybody about it.

And even if that's not it, obviously something is nagging at him, and is preventing him from even allowing for the possibility that maybe we could even have a short relationship. It's like he opened and shut the door with little or no input from my side of the garden. And maybe that's the worst part of it for me. So perhaps I should just run for the hills. Maybe I should take his polite offer of being "platonic" and just leave it at that.

I will say I did get my hopes up, just a little bit. It's natural. It's been a couple of months since I've been dating anyone, and to me, I look forward to possibilities. I like cuddling and canoodling and all of that. I wanted to touch him, but I felt like he was nervous. Or maybe he just didn't want to touch me. Which didn't feel good. It also doesn't feel good to be chucked aside because you are "too old" when in fact you are 15 years younger than the guy you are on a date with. Of course he didn't say it was the age, but I have a strong feeling that that's at least part of it. Which is why, I guess, my only regret might be that I DIDN'T leave the theater half-way through, as he kept alluding to my having that particular option. He seemed to expect it the entire time. He even checked to see if my bag was still there when I did get up at one point to use the ladies' room. Of course, I wanted to stay. I was having a good time, and I was looking forward to continuing our conversation. But in hindsight, maybe I should have left, because I can see two things:

1) He was really wasting my time, and

2) He might have respected me more for leaving.

Either way, I guess it's no big loss on my part. I got a nice night out at the theatre and a few drinks. And I hate to make a judgment about anybody, because it is more in my nature to give people the benefit of the doubt, but that is usually also my downfall. I think someone is so great, because I see that part of them that is hidden, even from themselves, and I say, "this person is valuable and worthy." I can love them. And I do. Regardless. But while I'm doing that, I miss all kinds of surface details. I miss the fact that they are way too interested themselves, or in younger girls, which shows signs of all kinds of bad activity, even if he isn't, like he said, "an axe-murderer." (Like he would tell me if he was).

And I overlook (even if I see them) things like the fact that he kept talking himself down, and wouldn't even look at me during dinner. A bit suspicious. So I get the feeling that he has defined himself as "a loser," and he's not open to any other type of interpretation. Maybe a younger girl than me would be more malleable, or corrigible, or would laugh at more of his jokes. Maybe she would look up to him and not be so complicated and burdensome. Maybe she wouldn't have FEELINGS, or be real in anyway. The age would distance her enough that he wouldn't even feel like they were in the same planet, or universe, and he'd never really have to have an actual relationship with her. Maybe that's his ideal woman: a doll he can dress up and pose. Unfortunately, that's not me. But I also think he's conflicted, because, even as he wants that, kind of, he also, like many men, wants to be dominated by a powerful woman. But either way, I think it comes down to self esteem.

If I were to, for example, challenge his notion that he is a complete and utter failure at life and undeserving of any kind of attention or affection, it would throw him off too far. Maybe he is too old, or maybe just thinks he is too old to change any of that type of thinking. I mean, I tend to go for older guys, because they have a more nuanced, balanced, and calm approach to life. But on the other hand, if it means that they can't change anything about the way they think, and if they will reject me on account of the fact that I MIGHT challenge the way they think, then they prove themselves right, and whether they actually are or are not a loser, is immaterial. What is ultimately proven is that they do "lose" what they had thought they wanted in the first place. But by that point, they've given themselves enough reason to believe they didn't want it anyway. The old "sour grapes" philosophy. I hate being pegged as a "sour grape." But on the other hand, I suppose that doesn't make me any less sweet.

Shavuah tov

2010-02-20T14:20:00.001-08:00

You shall accept gifts for Me from every person whose heart so moves him.
- Exodus 25:2

Overlay it with pure gold - overlay it inside and out...
- Exodus 25:11

I have been reading lately about the concepts of giving and receiving love. Which is to say that, in a healthy, communicative relationship, one does not only give love, but needs to be able to receive it as well. And often, when we think that the barrier between another person and ourselves is that the other person "doesn't love us," in fact it often is the case that it is we ourselves - because of our own hurts, fears and rejection due to former wounding - that are actively, unconsciously, blocking that love from being received by us. And so we don't "feel" loved, even though we are loved.

The only way to solve this problem is to actively, consciously, focus on receiving gifts. And I think that is an important lesson that is given in our Torah portion this week. Moses is instructed to accept gifts for God "from every person whose heart so moves him." So, for example, not from the people who Moses thinks are better or more able to give gifts than other people. Not from the people who Moses thinks are serious, or authentically giving a gift. But from all of the people who are "so moved" to give a gift. And it is not the gift itself, although instructions are given as to what kind of gifts the people are meant to give in order to build the tabernacle and the ark, but the important thing is that the person has a desire to give the gift. And the second important thing is that the gift is received.

In this parsha, Moses receives the gifts from all the givers, and he receives them on behalf of God, but also on behalf of all of us. In this parsha, I think we can understand, on an intrinsic level, that we are like Moses, and like Moses, we have permission to receive the gifts that all people - and God - wants to give us. Whether or not we think that person is sincere, and whether or not we actually believe ourselves to be worthy.

We already know that Moses does not think he is worthy. He refused to even speak God's words to Pharoah, because he was self-conscious of a speech impediment. So we know that Moses is not perfect. And even though for the most part, he does what God asks him to do, even he has limitations, and they are physical and emotional limitations that are part of his body. They are part of who he is, and part of his relationship with God. But even so, he has permission from God to "accept all the gifts" of the people for the tabernacle.

And so we, too, have permission to "accept all the gifts" that those in our lives wish to give us, for the sake of God. We can accept them "for God," if we don't believe we can accept them for ourselves, and it is with those gifts, that we build the tabernacle and the ark to carry the tablets of the covenant.

The second thing we are told is that, when building the ark, we are to "overlay it with pure gold" both inside and out.

Certainly this was meant literally, but when I read this, I read it as a metaphor for the body. Because the body is a wondrous, marvelous tabernacle. As I study the parts of human anatomy in preparation to work with people and their bodies as a bodywork practitioner, I am constantly amazed and astounded at the beauty and complexity of the architecture of the human form. And it is this architecture that we carry around with us and move with and in every moment of our lives, to the point where we almost always take it for granted. We often mistreat our bodies, we feel embarrassed by them. Sometimes we ignore them completely. But they are part of us, they are us, and they are not "us" at the same time.

But when I say that I see this image as a metaphor for the body, I mean that, like the ark, we are constructed of precious materials "both inside and out." And I mean that, in a body, the muscles are what allow a person or an animal to move. Gold is beautiful to look at, and because of that, it is like the muscle of an economy. It allows people to move, eat, and enjoy life.

When you think of a body, you think of the muscles you can see, on the outside. Perhaps you flex your arm and witness a bulging bicep. Or perhaps you are aware that the muscles of your neck and back are sore from holding your head up, or from stress. Maybe you've gone running and your calf muscles feel sore. These muscles are precious material, and they are overlaid on the acacia wood of our bone structure.

But there are muscles inside you that you cannot see, and they are just as important. Inside your neck, under the round bone of your skull you have suboccipital muscles that hold your head up and allow it to move and rotate. Inside your leg, you have the iliopsoas muscles, which begin in the inner thigh, at the hip joint, and connect all the way up inside the torso, on the inner spine, just under the diaphram, which is the source of our breath. The movement of the diaphram creates the tzimtzum into which air rushes to fill the space that is created in our lungs, and the muscle returns to push air out again.

And then there are my two favorite hidden muscles: The subscapular muscles, between your shoulder blade and your rib cage. And the iliacus, which connects to the iliopsoas, and is a swath of muscle tissue lining the inside of the pelvic girdle, those two great wings that support and carry in them the weight of all that is precious - all of those inner organs that are both delicate and strong, and which function continually to keep us alive for as long as we are here.

Those wings, to me, are reminiscent of the Cherubim (Keruvim) that are to be placed at either end of the lid of the ark.

The keruvim shall have their wings spread out above, shielding the cover with their wings. They shall confront each other, the faces of the keruvim being turned toward the cover... There I will meet with you. And I will impart to you - from above the cover, from between the two cherubim that are on top of the ark of the pact - all that I will command you...
- Exodus 25:19-22

And so it is from the space between, where we confront each other, where we face each other, that God speaks. And it is also from within.

Because the body is a vessel not only for our internal organs, but for our spirit, and for what we know as "living Torah." We all carry within ourselves the "living pact" that we don't just do with God - it is something that we are.

And sometimes it is from that space, from between the wings, that God speaks. Because your body is a vessel of your pact with God. It is your pact with God. It is a gift and a vessel for God. And it is often through our bodies, from that place, between even the two halves of ourselves that face each other, that God speaks to us.

Shabbat shalom

The Scent of a Rose

2010-01-24T22:43:00.001-08:00

I love the fact that Judaism has a prayer for everything. A prayer for waking up, a prayer for going to sleep. A prayer for meals and a prayer for drink. A prayer, even for a snack. There are prayers for things, and prayers for feelings, for intangible things like events. And it's wonderful, because those are the times when your soul seems to want to say something, and you just wish you could put the words to it. Judaism has those words. But the odd or paradoxical thing about it is that the moment you go to say them - or at least for me - when I say the prayers, or do some ritual thing like eating an item off a seder plate, I am whelmed, perhaps under-whelmed at not the sacredness of the moment or a mystical feeling (which I might get, say, walking silently in a grove of trees) but rather at an almost banal, profane aspect of the moment. Suddenly, instead of focusing on what's inside, I am focused outside, on word, speech action. Maybe I'm not "doing it right." But I don't know that there is a "right" in Judaism. There is certainly "the way things are done." But ultimately, the way you do it, if you do something consciously, is right. This is the way it is for me. This is my experience. And I don't think it means the moment isn't sacred. Maybe it means that it is.

I just got back from my first Rosh Chodesh women's seder. I was invited by a friend that I met in San Francisco, but it was held in the East Bay, not too far from where I live. So I went, and there were about ten of us. I was thinking about prayer, because I was thinking about sacred space, and the space was sacred. At a few points during the seder, I wondered, what would an outside person, maybe a neighbor standing just outside the window, think, if they heard our mumbling in unison, with candles in front of us. It all seemed like, maybe from the outside, it was some mystical, cultish thing. But from the inside, it was just normal. We were just people, sitting around, with candles, saying things and sharing thoughts, stories, experiences.

The theme of the meeting was Tu B'Shevat, the New Year of the Trees, since that holiday is coming up next weekend. On the table were mandarin oranges, dates, strawberries, cinnamon sticks and a bowl of red rose petals. There were four sections, and at each section we would take in the scent of one of the items. The dates we ate afterward.

The rose petals were beautiful, bright, and velvety, but they had very little scent. Not at all like the rose that seemed to bloom just for me on the day that I left my little house in France. I clipped that rose and took it with me, but then I wished that I had left it. It looked so beautiful on the tree where it was. And of course it didn't bloom "for me." But it seemed to. It seemed to salute me. And when I saw it there, I buried my nose in it's petals and smelled the sweetest scent of rose I've ever smelt.

In the last section of our seder, we read a guided mediation, where we were supposed to be walking somewhere (wherever we went in our imagination), and were distracted by a scent. Then we would turn to see what the thing was giving off the scent, and were told that this was the scent of our soul. We were supposed to interact with it in various ways, and then finally leave the place and continue on our way. We were to first just take it in. Then find out what kind of "nourishment" it needed, and then ask it for a gift.

I was doing the reading, so it was hard to concentrate until I put the paper down and closed my eyes. In a hurry, I jumped right in and found myself on a dirt path in a forest of low trees, maybe pines. they were fairly dark. I was on a larger, gravel path, but a smaller dirt path opened up to my right. And even though I was supposed to be drawn by the scent, I saw first before I smelled that there was a bright red rose on the periphery of my vision. Before I turned, I thought, maybe this is a mistake, it's supposed to be something else. Maybe I'm just thinking of this because we just smelled rose petals. But even so, I decided that if that was the case, this was still what was coming to mind, so I was going to go with it. And the rose was very bright and deep, the color, and its petals still fairly tight, just starting to bloom.

It wasn't very far off the path, and it was growing in a clearing. What did it need? It needed what all plants need. It needed water. So I gave it some water. And it seemed to thank me. Then I realized that behind it was a stone well. The rose was growing right at the edge of it, with two long stems. One had the larger, opening rose, and the other, a little bit below, was a bud, red, but not open yet.

The well was the one that we used to play on in the church yard. I will never forget it. It was low, with a wide lip of stone, and cherubs carved on the outside. It was no longer functioning, and there was only a metal grate covering a gravel bottom on the inside, where we would go in and sit. But once it must have been a working well, because there was a rusted iron pulley above it on a wrought iron arch. My friend T. painted it once in one of his paintings.

In my vision, it was a working well, though. Even though I didn't look in, I knew that it was filled with water. I gave the rose, which was there to represent my "soul" some water, and it gave me the well in return. I didn't even have to ask. It just gave. It knew that was what I needed.

And so, I spent a few moments with the rose, and decided that I didn't want to leave. But after I thought that, I turned and left and walked back out to the main path.

A burning bush in the Wilderness

2010-01-10T20:58:00.000-08:00

This past Shabbat's parsha was Sh'mot, the first book of Exodus. In services this week, we had a guest preacher give the drash. And he really was a preacher, from the Church across the street. He had something very powerful to say about how African Americans can relate readily to the story of the Exodus, because the memory of slavery is still a fresh one in many of their minds.

He had a lot of other interesting things to say, too. One comment had to do with the burning bush. He drew attention to that, and to the wilderness as a place in which to meet God - where God meets us, in fact, and speaks to us. And He uses signs to grab our attention. In this case, it was a bush, consumed by fire, but not being burned.

Here is the text from my copy of the JPS Tanakh:

An Angel of the LORD appeared to him in a blazing fire out of a bush. He gazed, and there was a bush all aflame, yet the bush was not consumed. Moses said, "I must turn aside to look at this marvelous sight; why doesn't the bush burn up?" When HaShem saw that he had turned aside to look, God called to him out of the bush: "Moses! Moses!" He answered, "Here I am."

And once I read the text more closely, I got a lot more out of it. For one thing, at the beginning of the section, it doesn't say that God is there - it says "An Angel of the LORD appeared." But we know that "Angel" means messenger. So in this case, the "messenger" is the blazing fire. This is like God's handwriting on the world. Or God sending a text message by way of his wireless, languageless device - the Universe. Or maybe, this wasn't the text just yet, but rather the beep, buzz or ring tone that lets you know you have one.

The thing is, with cell phones, pagers, emails or anything, you have the option to answer or not. You can ignore it. Save it for later. Maybe you're just too busy right now. You don't want to be bothered. But Moses says, Hey, what's this?

I love Torah - you have this ancient text, supposedly about people who have little in common with us, in terms of their daily lives, and yet, they're just people. This is basically how any of us would respond. Like rubberneckers on a highway. Whoa, what happened here? Only here is Moses, out in the wilderness, with no one to corroborate what he is seeing. He is the only one who can describe this vision, and who knows what he was really looking at? Was it a bush? Was it really on fire? Was it something else? Or does it even matter? Because, whatever it was, it got the message across.

So first, you have the bush. And presumably, this bush was not right in front of Moses, because he said, "I must turn aside to look at this marvelous sight." So Moses shifted his gaze. He saw something out of the corner of his eye, and he went out of his way to look. He didn't know that God was calling to him. In that moment, he was simply aware of his surroundings, and willing to give something a second look that didn't seem to jive with his usual understanding of the world, i.e. that when bushes are filled with fire, they normally burn up.

And then it says, "When God saw that Moses had turned aside, he called to him out of the bush." And that may seem like a throwaway line. It's what you expect. Moses sees the burning bush, and the next thing you know, God is calling to him out of it. Simple right? But that line is loaded. It says God saw. So what that line is really giving us is a glimpse into the Mind of God. And it also gives us a little kernel of doubt. God sees everything, right? So if Moses had NOT turned to look at the bush, He would have seen that, too. So God was sitting on pins and needles for a while there.

Here is this guy, Moses, out in the wilderness with a flock of sheep, and God wants to call to him and make him the liberator of the Jewish people enslaved in Egypt. So God has to figure out a way of getting Moses' attention, and when he does this, by way of the burning bush (you could make an argument for a better way, but maybe that's all God had at the time) He can't even be sure if Moses is going to look at it, never mind respond. God sends the text, and the beep goes off, but what if Moses doesn't hear it? So there is God, watching to see what Moses does. When he sees that Moses has turned to look at the burning bush, then He speaks to him out of it. Not before he gets Moses' attention. He doesn't speak to get his attention. He only does it after the attention is given.

He says, "Moses! Moses!" And he answers, "Here I am!"

Not, What do you want? Not, Who are you? Just, Here I am.

And I'm thinking, what does this say to me? What does this mean in my life, right now? The pastor, who gave the drash, made a good point that when we get a call from God, or from our neighbors, we should pay attention, and think about what it means to answer, and what it means to Act. I really appreciated him saying that, because action is important to me. It's one of the things I love about Judaism - that it's not a religion of passively sitting by and imbibing philosophy, knowledge or belief, but one, ultimately, of action, and preferably action that benefits an entire community, and/or one's own life and of those close to us.

But I also wondered, and thought about later, what are the burning bushes in my life? What are those things, items, phenomena, dancing in the periphery of my vision that I should be turning my gaze toward and saying, Hey, what's this? I'm going to check this out. What are those things that aren't happening the way they are supposed to that are demanding a closer look? And if I don't look, maybe I am going to miss an important message. If Moses hadn't looked at that burning bush, the entire story of Exodus wouldn't have happened. Or at least Moses wouldn't have been a part of it. Maybe Moses wasn't the first one. Maybe God had tried to reach dozens of other men, or even women, and all of them had been too caught up in their own lives to pay attention to the message God was sending.

So if we don't pay attention to the messages in our own lives - to those burning bushes, those outliers of experience that make us say, Hey, hang on a minute, that's not quite right - we're missing a big piece of the action. We're missing the opportunity to not only have a conversation with God, but to liberate ourselves and possibly many others from the negative forces that are enslaving them.

Shavuah tov.

Drash on Joseph

2010-01-03T19:24:00.000-08:00

There was a Bat Mitzvah at services this week, and this girl had one challenging parsha to write a drash on.

Va-Yehi - And He Lived.

Jacob lived. For better or for worse, 147 years. (I still want to know why they lived so long in those days, when we think so much of our medical advances now - but that's a discussion for another day.) Jacob, who, with the help of his mother, conned his way into getting his father's blessing while Esau was out doing just exactly what was expected of him. And for this, he was forced to flee his homeland and live in exile, even if he did become extremely wealthy because of it.

Now Jacob and his family live in Egypt, and he is dying. So he summons Joseph, his favorite son, to him, to instruct him not to bury him in Egypt, but in the tomb of his own ancestors. Then Joseph comes back to Jacob again, when he is very ill, bringing his two sons with him. Then he does a strange thing. Jacob blesses Joseph's sons. But not only does he place his right hand on the head of the younger, and his left on the head of the elder, he has to cross his arms to do it. So, despite his old age and weak sight, this is clearly a deliberate act. And it seems to recall his own life. Never mind Joseph's. Whereas it is expected that the elder sibling will always be favored, he instead favors the younger. It is like a tribute to his own experience, and the birthright he garnered, despite his less-favored position in his family.

And this, in some ways, is the tradition we inherit. I know it from another source. Because I grew up with the teachings of Jesus, one of perhaps, the most famous Jews of all time, who said, "and the last shall be first, and the first shall be last." In a similar vein, he also said, "And the stone that was rejected shall become the chief cornerstone." This is another way of saying, Don't trust what you've been given. Don't trust what looks obvious. What seems to be the stronger, more obvious choice, will not necessarily be so. What you at first reject may become the most important element of your life. And sometimes, being rejected, that is often the first step in the process of becoming something or someone truly instrumental.

But that isn't what I had planned to write about today. I wanted to write about forgiveness. Radical forgiveness. Which, to my mind, at least in this case, is not forgiveness at all, but rather, an extremely whole and sensible point of view.

Because, while the story starts with Jacob, it becomes a story about Joseph. Joseph was certainly the favored of Jacob's twelve sons. So favored, in fact, that they hated him, tore up his clothes and threw him in a pit to die. Joseph was saved, was taken to Egypt, where he became wealthy and saved the land from famine by way of his dreams. And after this, he saves his own family from the famine as well - the same family that tried to kill him.

Now, I may think I have it bad sometimes, but at least my siblings didn't try to kill me, in a literal sense. Or even figuratively. My parents didn't try to kill me. They did other things that upset me, but not that. It gives you a little perspective when you realize someone else's life is worse than yours.

After Jacob dies and Joseph buries him in the cave in the field of Machpelah, where Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, Rebekah and Leah are buried, the brother's get together and say, "What if Joseph still bears a grudge against us and pays us back for the wrong we did him?" Fair enough. They should be concerned. After all, it seems they have a guilty collective conscience. They admit themselves that they wronged their own brother, and now, of course, they have been brought to shame because in end he saved all their hides.

I was told, during the service, that the bat mitzvah girl is the daughter of a child psychologist. And this was somewhat evident in the fact that she spoke about the way we inherit our parents' bad behavior sometimes, and this is all over the Torah - especially in Genesis. But I read a lot of psychology, too, and part of me is saying that, while I don't know why Jacob favored Joseph, and probably none of us will know why, there's a good chance that his doing so actually became a self-fulfilling prophecy. If you tell one child they are a good child, and one child they are a bad one, eventually they will both figure out a way to live out the designations you have made on them. (I knew a woman once who had two sons, and every time she would talk to one of them, she would tell him, "you're the good son." She did this with both sons.) In a way, we can even do this kind of self-fulfilling prophecy on ourselves. Or, as Henry Ford (and doubtless others have) said, "Whether you think you can, or you think you can't, you are right."

So Jacob planted in Joseph the seeds of greatness, and in his other sons, the seeds of resentment. The next plan of the other 11 sons was motivated by guilt and fear. Rather than confront Joseph and say, Hey, you know, look, we were crap back there when we threw you in the pit. It really sucked and we're sorry. So we hope you can forgive us. Instead they make up some phony message from their dead father, which obviously can't be corroborated, saying that he (Jacob) had instructed Joseph to forgive his brothers.

Joseph is in tears, so we can only assume that he believes them. Or perhaps he takes this as their own confession of guilt, and sees through their hastily-constructed lie, even though he doesn't say it. Then they fling themselves down and offer to be his slaves. But Joseph refuses. And I love what he says:

Have no fear! Am I a substitute for God?
Besides, though you intended me harm,
God intended it for good,
So as to bring about the present result -
the survival of many people.

From there it is a short paragraph to his death at the age of 110 years. But in this statement alone is an enormously valuable legacy.

I mentioned that I read a lot of psychology. I read a lot about cycles of abuse and bad behavior and bad thinking, and about how these things become perpetuated, both within ourselves, and with other people, by constantly responding to the abuse, the fear, and the pain. The message is always the same: the only way to break the cycle is not to respond to the abuse. Don't acknowledge the fear. Don't let the pain drive your actions. As soon as you've done that, you've lost the battle. But it's one of the hardest things to do when you think those are your only options. When everyone you have ever known has abused you or treated you badly, it is really easy to want to do the same thing. And yet Joseph refuses. He refuses to be caught up in that cycle.

But it is not through his own power, or his own perspective that he is able to achieve this enormous sense of - probably unjustified - forgiveness. Because he not only forgives his brothers. He, in essence, thanks them. He says, If you hadn't done that to me then, I wouldn't be where I am now. Talk about heaping coals. But heaping coals was when he saved their lives. Now he is on a whole new level.

Now he is on the level of God - seeing the Big Picture. He doesn't respond to his own feelings of pain, of hurt, of betrayal and abandonment. He has accepted his past, and he is grateful for it. Because even though he knows he can never really "know" the Mind of God, he can see how circumstances have led him to where he is, and get past what would be simply a knee-jerk reaction and instead see how a negative experience became a positive one for him. He doesn't say to his brother's a lame, "It's okay, guys, let's move on," either. He acknowledges a higher power, a greater plan. He humbles them again, indirectly pointing out that even their most vicious intents were no match for the Mind of God. And maybe he believed in himself, maybe he didn't. Maybe he just lived his life with his eyes open, and wasn't willing to "take an eye for an eye." Because he, like Ghandhi, realized that that would make the whole world blind. But in the end, by being able to step back, to step out of his own experience and look at it with the cool eye of reason, he was able to stop the cycle, giving his brothers nothing to feel guilty for, nothing to be angry about, and putting responsibility exactly where it belonged - in God's hands.

Hanukkah Miracles

2009-12-19T12:46:00.000-08:00

I am not supposed to write today, because it is the Sabbath, nor should I be using the computer. But it's the last day of Hanukkah, and before I get too busy doing other things, I want to share my experience of my own, personal Hanukkah miracle, or miracles, really.

This season was full of them. In fact, I could feel the miraculous energy swirling around me sometimes.

Miracle 1: My mother sent me a Hanukkah card. This is my mother, who had nothing to say when I told her and my father I was Jewish, except, "But...what about Christmas?" I told her she could have all the Christmas she wanted. I had every Sabbath, and I had Pesach and Shavuot, and Rosh Hashanah, and all the rest. So we said nothing else about my religion, and I thought she would avoid the topic altogether. Then, a few days before Hanukkah, a card arrived in the mail, which I was almost certain would be a "Holiday" card, or even a Christmas-themed card of some kind, with a cheesy saying she'd made up. It wasn't overly Hanukkah-y. It sported a watercolor of a dove on the front, with "Shalom" in Hebrew letters (a word I recognized, thanks to my Beginning Hebrew class). Inside was a message about hoping my season was filled with Miracles, and she wrote that she wished me a Happy Hanukkah underneath. So that was miracle one, that she sent it.

Miracle 2 was that the card was on time. My mom has never sent a card to me on time, I don't think, in her life. And she was never on time to pick me up from school or to drop me off at band/choir/theater practice my entire childhood. The message to me was: my life wasn't important to her. But she responded to something different this time. This time I chose what was important to me, and I didn't need her approval. I didn't even need her support. But for the first time, she was able to show for me, on time, for something that was important to me, even though it, literally, goes against her religion. Halleluia to that.

Then there was the miracle of the Latke party. Weeks ago, I volunteered to host a Monday - fourth night - Hanukkah party at my house, in which I would make my first-ever latkes for all the guests. This was through a new Minyan in the area, and many would be invited, though I knew it wouldn't be a huge crowd, it being Monday night, and my house being far from most people, in the remote town where I live.

My friend Jen had volunteered to make sufganiyot that night, and I was afraid (though I didn't say it) that if she decided to do that at a different place, then most people would go there, since she is more well-known in the community than I am. But that worked out when she decided to just cook them at my house, so that we could do a joint party.

Then, as the date approached, I had more worries. For one thing, it rained the week before Hanukkah, and where I live, rain means the ants all move indoors. That's exactly what happened, and my house was becoming steadily overrun by tiny ants marching through the bathroom, living room, and kitchen. I put out ant traps that did nothing to make them go away, and the more I tried to clean them up and destroy their ant trails, the more they seemed to invade. I nearly called the party off just because of that, because even the day before, they were everywhere, including in my kitchen drawers, where I kept tin foil and bags and tupperware containers. But I held off. I didn't pick up the phone. Instead, I went to the hardware store, and I got a liquid ant killer that I'd been eying before, and decided to try. The ants started to eat it, and I hoped that would do the trick. Then another friend came by with a different kind of ant trap, and so I put those down, too, for extra protection. Thankfully, when I woke up Monday morning, all but a few ants were gone. It was a miracle! I was ready to rejoice.

But I had another problem. Lack of work meant that cash was tight. I had bought a few supplies for the party ahead of time, but that morning I found myself without enough cash to buy potatoes. It was a sad state of affairs. But I still had to believe that the party needed to go on. I had committed to it. People were counting on me. But not only that, I was counting on me. I had a need to make this happen - to make potato latkes, and open my home to people of the Jewish community, as had been done for me the previous year. Thankfully, my friend stepped in to help again. He saw my need, and even though he'd been having some trouble of his own, he helped me out. We went to the grocery store and bought a few supplies on a very tight budget. But it all worked out well. I was even able to make a small deposit to my bank account, which prevented (just barely) an overdraft on my account that I was worried about.

So that was Miracle number 3, and 4.

But wait, there's more. When I went to make the latkes, I discovered that, of all the things I had remembered to buy, frying oil wasn't one of them. Plain oil isn't something I normally keep in my kitchen. I generally only use olive oil. So I looked, and all I had was about a half a cup of Extra Virgin Olive Oil. My friend Jen offered for me to use the leftover oil from the sufganiyot, which had only a small amount of sediment in it, but still smelled a bit like doughnuts. I decided I would try olive oil. Two nights before, I had enjoyed latkes that someone had cooked in olive oil, and I thought it could work, or perhaps a mixture of the two. It looked like I had enough, and when I checked the label, I saw that it was certified kosher.

So I cooked the latkes in olive oil, and they came out delicious. They were crispy on the edges, and not too brown, with just a hint of garlic, and few other spices for flavoring. Everyone loved them, including Roger, who had invited me to be on the planning committee for the Minyan in the first place. He waxed poetic about them, holding his hand up in the air with his fingers touching his thumb, and shook it in just that way that means what he ate was just so perfect, he couldn't even put his finger on it. He said, "See? You even made me talk like this!" And he did it again. It was all worth it.

And I found out later from a rabbi that, despite the doubt some people had expressed about the viability of cooking latkes in olive oil, it was probably the most authentic way to cook them, since olive oil is precisely the kind of oil the Maccabees had needed and had found and used in the Temple after they defeated the Assyrian Greeks.

And in a way, the way I found it was very similar. I found that I did not have what I thought I needed. The oil that my friend had brought was already "defiled" by having been used for the doughnuts, and so what I had left was a small amount of pure, unadulterated, kosher olive oil, which didn't look like enough to cook the huge batch of potato pancakes I had prepared. And yet, once I started cooking, I realized that I in fact did have enough, that it lasted as long as I needed it to, with even a little left over. And my pancakes were delicious, as perfect as I could have wanted them, and kosher.

It was all an amazing success, and even more so because I had not thought it possible that it could happen.

But Hashem does make the impossible possible. Where we see blockages and hurdles, G-d lifts us over and carries us through, if only we keep walking. Because that's what I did. I could have turned aside. I could have called the party off. But I had a vision for it that it was going to happen, and I didn't want to let that vision go. In the end, it became exactly as I had imagined it. But only because Hashem blessed me, over and over again, and made possibilities appear where I had only seen challenges.

And so I realized later that, just as it had said on the card my mother sent me, my Hanukkah was indeed filled with miracles.

Parshat Vayishlach

2009-12-06T16:23:00.000-08:00

We had a difficult reading this week. I was somewhat gratified that the woman who gave the drash chose to speak about the Rape of Dinah - sometimes called the "Ravishing" of Dinah - but I have to confess that I differ with her on some points.

She started by linking what happened in the story with the tragic incident of a recent gang rape in Richmond, which took place in front of onlookers who did nothing at all to stop it.

But I believe it is too easy to look at the story of Dinah and say, "Look, she was raped. That is bad." And conclude that the Bible, the writers of the Bible, and Judaism itself condones rape. It's too easy to say that this is a story the glorifies the desecration of women, and just "goes to show" that we live in a patriarchal society that sees women as objects to be traded, or meat to be sold. To me, that is all too simplistic, because that is not at all what I heard when the Torah was read this week.

The text says that Dinah, "Went out to visit the daughters of the land" (Gen. 34:1) So maybe she had some friends. She wanted to go shopping. We don't know. But the text makes it clear that she wasn't leaving the house to consort with men. However, we are told that Shechem, who was the son of the country's chief ruler, Hamor, saw Dinah, and suddenly he "had to have her." He had to so much that he "took her and lay with her by force" (Gen. 34:2). We don't know how she responded. We don't know if she screamed, bit, kicked, or acquiesced. If he held her by the throat, does that mean she submitted willingly? But in the end it doesn't matter. The text is clear, she was taken by force. Therefore, she was not taken of her own will, it was not consensual, and moreover, Shechem is not a Jew. If she had wanted to go with him, her brothers still might have been upset, since they were not permitted to marry outside the clan.

I searched through my "Concise Book of Mitzvoth" for the particular mitzvah that prohibits the taking of a woman by force. I didn't find it. But I remember reading that there are specific guidelines regarding what does and does not constitute rape in the Jewish tradition. For example, if a woman is taken by force in a city street, and she screams, but no one hears her, she is raped, and the man is punished. If she is taken in a field, where no one can hear her, if she says she was raped, she was raped, since there is no one else who could have heard her, even if she screamed. If, however, she is raped in a city street, and she says nothing or makes no noise, and she could have screamed, then she is held at least partly accountable, because she could have called for help but didn't. So there are very clear prohibitions against taking a woman by force.

But there are other prohibitions that suggest that rape is something that is looked down upon. Among the prohibitions I am thinking of, there is "Not to take anything in robbery from one's fellow-man by main force," "Not to wrongfully retain anything belonging to one's fellow-man," and "Not to covet (desire) anything belonging to one's fellow-man." In this case, "to covet" means not only "to desire" but also to take some action toward obtaining the desired thing.

I do not mean to imply that women are or should be legally regarded as "objects" to be "obtained" by men, although you could say that might have been the going mentality of the time. But I think I mean more that, through making these prohibitions on objects or things that one might desire, which are not rightfully yours, the same would apply to a woman, if a man happened to desire her. And actually, if he did desire her and "take" her - by force or through action - it is wrong precisely because by doing this he DOES make an object of her.

Some other mitzvoth that I believe apply here are the the prohibition "To do nothing whatever from which there can result hillul Hashem, a desecration of the Divine name," and "To destroy no holy thing and to erase no name whatever among the holy names [of God]," mitzvot 155 and 157, respectively. These have to do specifically with the names of God. But a mystical reading of this idea could say that in a way, we are all letters of Torah, and all letters are part of Torah, which contains the Name of God. Each person contains a spark of the Divine Light, and so the Name of God in some ways, is written by our very being. The description of this second mitzvah, 157, quotes the scripture from which it comes, "You shall not do so to Hashem your God," (D'varim 12:4). Therefore if you are not going to do it to Hashem, by extension you are not - or should not - do "it", that is, destroy, your fellow human being. "It is forbidden to break and to destroy any object of holiness."

And that is exactly what rape does. It destroys a person. It breaks holiness. It erases part of a person's name, their sanctity, their identity. It dims their light. It robs them of joy, of life, of themselves. The Jewish people of old knew this as well as we know it today.

And that's where the woman who gave the drash was right when she said that nothing has changed. But not only has it not changed that rape still can and does occur, which is tragic and lamentable. It has also not changed that people hate it now as much as we did then. This is evidenced by the reaction of Dinah's brothers, Simeon and Levi.

Simeon and Levi were "out in the field" when all this took place. Because Shechem didn't merely "take" Dinah and let her go. He brought her back to his house, and went with Hamor to Jacob to negotiate over how he could get Dinah to be his wife, because he claimed to "love" her.

This is clearly a case where we have a mixed message. Shechem "loves Dinah" and so he "spoke to the maiden tenderly" (Gen. 34:3). But he also took her by force, which means, it is not possible that he loved her in the true sense. This would be an example of love in the distorted, arrogant sense that means you believe you have the right to anything you desire. It means you think if you love a person, that person "belongs" to you. It means you don't bother to seek the other person's permission. You railroad them with your feelings, leaving them numb and invalidated. It is abusive love, at it's worst. And the Torah makes no excuse for it.

No one supports Shechem's action, except his own father, so we can assume the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. And they are punished in a way a lot of us would probably like to see someone punished who degrades so severely a member of our family. Dinah's brothers take action to save her honor that most of us would not only be afraid to do, for fear of legal consequences, but we just plain wouldn't have the guts to carry out.

So Jacob waits for Simeon and Levi to come back from the field, while Hamor is there, trying to negotiate a way to get his son access to Dinah as a wife, even though he has already pretty much "had" her. The brothers come in, and we're sure they are pretty angry, but they exercise a huge amount of restraint. Rather than tackling the men right there, risking their own lives, they pretend to collude with them. And by doing that, they get more than just petty revenge. They "speak with guile" "because he (Shechem) had defiled their sister Dinah" (Gen. 34:13). They put up a challenge. If Hamor gets Shechem and all the men of the city to circumcise themselves, then Jacob will let the men marry his daughters. Meanwhile, if they don't do it, the Israelites will pack up their beautiful maidens and leave. So Shechem and Hamor, thinking they are about to get a really good deal, go off and self-mutilate their genitals.

When they have done this, Simeon and Levi wait three days, and "on the third day, when they (the men of the town) were in pain" (Gen. 34:25) (because they had just circumcised themselves), Simeon and Levi stroll in, armed to the teeth, but under no suspicion because it was believed that they were on Hamor and Shechem's side. They then surprised the men of the town and slaughtered as many of them as they could, plundered everything, and took back Dinah.

Of course, they couldn't stay there anymore, after that.

But they did defend their sister's honor.

Compare their action to supposed "honor killings" in some Muslim communities. Not all Muslims do this, of course, but for those who do, the belief is that when a woman is raped it is somehow "her fault." You know, like she looked too beautiful, or she walked just so - she was "asking for it." And this doesn't happen only in Muslim communities. Many men is Western, developed nations try to blame women for their own sexual assault. But in some extreme Muslim communities, it is acceptable, indeed, sometimes expected, that to save a woman's "honor," a husband, brother or father will hunt down the rape victim and kill her.

That happens now. Today. And it's abhorrent. To my mind, this practice is orders of magnitude worse than what occurs in Parshat Vayishlach with Dinah, and we should be much more worried about that than about whether or not this story is "difficult" to read. Of course it's difficult. Because life is difficult. And the Torah doesn't sugar-coat it for us.

Dinah was raped. There is no question about that. But nobody blames Dinah. Nobody persecutes her, and nobody punishes her. Quite the opposite. Her brothers are inflamed with anger because her body was desecrated, but not at her. At the men who took her. And not only do they seek out to harm the men who hurt her, they first use their bargaining power to cause the men of Shechem to essentially violate themselves to be in pain for three days before the brothers arrive to liberate their sister.

Every woman should be so lucky to have brothers ready to defend her honor with such passion.

An Odd Dream

2009-08-28T04:04:00.000-07:00

It is two nights after my conversion. I had an odd dream. Here is the gist of it:

I was on my way to try to get to a boat dock to meet someone or to get somewhere. It was late at night, and the boats were not running, so I had to take a train, and then make my way through the woods on my bike. I believe I was with my family at the time, but I was going to take the train alone. When I got there, the station agent knew me. I asked to use the bathroom, and not only did he show me where it was, he checked the stall before I went in to make sure it was empty. It was a bathroom in a train station, though, so it wasn't very clean. In fact, there was a hat sitting behind the toilet, which made me think that someone was watching me. But it only fell over onto the floor when I went over there.

There were many other people waiting in the train station, and everyone was tired and bored from having to wait so long. I checked the schedule, and there were some trains and some buses, all leaving at different times during the night. I was going to take the 12:24. Like many people in the station, I had a large suitcase. But I also had a small bag. I talked to the station agent, and then decided not to take my suitcase, because it was too large and stuffed with extra clothes I didn't need. There was an old, homeless-looking man sitting on a bench behind me with a dirty suitcase behind me. "I'll watch your stuff," he said. And I gladly offered it to him. Well, not gladly, but readily, because I wouldn't be taking it with me.

I watched as he unzipped the big, black suitcase, and began rummaging through my socks and other clean things. But as I walked away to go lie down in a different room, I had the sense that I knew that he intended to take something, and that's partly why I had given it to him, but I also knew that he wouldn't. Because he was looking for dirty things, and my suitcase was only full of clean socks and clothes with bright pretty colors. In short, it was way too clean for him, not to mention girly. Not really his style. So I was safe. But I was still uncomfortable that my personal laundry was in the hands of a strange old man I'd never met before.

In the other room, I looked in my small bag to see what I had. I was relieved to see that I'd brought my bike headlight with me, so that I'd be able to see in the dark, because there was no real path from the train to the dock. So I probably wouldn't be riding my bike but walking, and I would use the bike's headlight as a flashlight. Soon the train was boarding and everyone was lining up. The station agent was also the person who was going to drive the train. They were very short-staffed. But I was ready to go. I was ready to leave my things behind, and hope that I could make it in the wilderness, where I knew this train was going to leave me.

~

You may be wondering: what does this have to do with Judaism? So here's my interpretation: The old man was like the rabbi/rabbis whom I spoke with in my beit din. They sought to air my dirty laundry, but what they found in fact, was perfectly clean. Too, clean, perhaps, and they kept looking, hoping to find what they were looking for, and not finding it. The fact was, though, that that clean laundry was all that I was intending to leave behind. Judaism is the train, and it leaves during the night, driven by a familiar conductor - the same guy I bought my ticket from. I'm traveling alone, leaving my family behind, and about to enter a wilderness. It's also dark outside. But I'm prepared. And after my journey, I am going to be at a place where a boat, and someone I know will take me away to where I want to be. I have no way of knowing if this will happen, but I am trusting that it will, if only I take the time and do the work to get there. What I have in my bag is a light, and it's a bright light that will show me the way. I am not afraid. Because I've brought what I need, almost without thinking. I put the light in my bag as an afterthought. And I'm leaving my old laundry behind, because it is heavy and cumbersome, even if it's perfectly clean and wearable.

Mikveh Lady

2009-08-27T06:59:00.000-07:00

I'M JEWISH!!!!!!!

It's done. I did it. the whole thing.

My Beit Din went on for an HOUR. Only afterward did the mikveh lady tell me that that was about twice as long as the longer ones usually take. I think they told me the whole thing would take and hour. Oh well! I don't know why I kept talking. I guess they found me interesting!

And they said very good things. And there was singing and dancing. And more later. Right now I am tired and I have a headache.

I left my nice new water bottle in the bathroom at the museum...ooh, la. Time for more sleep!

Last Day

2009-08-25T22:11:00.000-07:00

My beit din and mikveh are scheduled for tomorrow. After all this time, now there is only one night left until I come before the rabbis, and then before G-d, immersed in the waters of the mikveh.

The Mikveh Lady called me today. We talked about what would happen tomorrow at the mikveh. She explained it's a very small place, with a lobby, an office, and the mikveh itself, which also refers to the room where the mikveh is. There is a bathroom where I can prepare myself.

She explained to me how I need to remove everything, and make sure not to wear makeup or hair products, or if I do, to wash them off before going into the mikveh. And before I enter the water, she will check my shoulders and chest to make sure no hairs from my head are there, because not even a hair can come between myself and G-d.

She recommended that I take a bath. I did not tell her, but I took a bath Sunday night. I had a stressful day and needed to relax. So I put some bubbles in, put on some nice choral music, and set myself in for a good soak. As I did, I began to think of the mikveh, and what it would mean to be immersed in those waters. How would I be cleansed? How would I be made new? Would I be or feel the same or different after I emerged? These are questions I won't know the answers to until tomorrow.

Tonight, I took a long shower. I cleaned, I shaved. I realized that I was more concerned with how my body would look than I normally would be if I thought I were going to be intimate with someone. Because when you are intimate, people often don't concentrate on the details, even if we think they might. And also the light is often low. Here, tomorrow, I will be standing before a woman in a completely sane and wakeful state, under some kind of light that would most likely reveal everything my body had to offer. She would see every hair. She would be looking for them. Though body hair, she said, was okay. Still, I wanted as little as possible. I wanted to feel fresh and new. Not naked as a baby. Just as unencumbered as possible.

And I found that I became more aware of what was on my body. After the shower, I put on lotion and realized that I could not do that tomorrow. Most days when I am getting ready, I am thinking about what I can put on. Tomorrow, I will be thinking about what I can't put on. I took off the nail polish that was chipping off my toenails. I thought about perfume and decided that not even a scent that was not my own would be coming with me. Though I've decided I will wear deodorant and wash it off beforehand. There's vanity, and then there's public presence.

In all, I feel ready. I feel relaxed. It's a little bit late. I feel all of my big thinking and philosophizing and studying funneling down into one moment. But when it happens tomorrow, I'll be ready.

The Period of Nidah

2009-08-17T22:02:00.000-07:00

I just had the most interesting conversation with my Rabbi this morning. So now a small group of men is aware of the exact status of my menstrual cycle. I feel both exposed and empowered.

On the one hand, I have to share with a group of mature men (my beit din), most of whom I barely know - and actually, knowing them makes it slightly worse - the most personal of details. On the other hand, it means that, rather than me being on their schedule, they have to be on mine.

This is something I love about Halacha (Jewish Law). It may seem biased, at first, in favor of the men, but in actual fact, this is not the case.

To say that a woman cannot go to a mikveh during her period is probably, mainly, a matter of public health. It would not do to have bleeding women in public water. Nobody would like that. But, truth be told, I think it's more respectful to the women. If that were to happen to a woman, it would be embarrassing for her - or at least it would be for me. And it makes sense to cleanse and purify after the period of Nidah.

I like that this article points out that when a woman is "tameh" from the blood of menstruation it does not mean that she is physically dirty or somehow stained in some way, personally. It means that she reaches a certain status with regard to ritual distinction, and both the separation that she takes from her husband, as well as the purification and return to her husband are both sacred. Well, the article didn't say that, but I interpreted that from what I know.

We often think we know and believe that the Jews of ancient time and possibly today, somehow believe(d) a woman to be less than human during the state of nidah, as evidenced by their ritual "impurity." But really it is all part of a sacred cycle. A sacred breathing ritual, where you let one breath out in order to take the next one in. This is the rhythm of life, the heartbeat of our human race. It is special and sacred and divine. In my opinion, a woman cannot enter a mikveh when she is menstruating, because she is simply too holy during that period. Likewise, they also point out, and I have found in my own life, that this is a wonderful time in which to deepen your relationship with someone. In that time, you find out if the person really cares for you and wants to spend their time for you, or if they are just interested in "getting in your pants."

I also know that each period changes me slightly. The emotions that I experience as my period approaches bring new notions and insights about my life. They make me do and say things I might not do the other three weeks of the month, but I'm always grateful for the new perspective. And afterward, I relax. I go back to who I am and what I know, with the relief of seeing that one first spot of blood.

For me, if it happens that the rabbis are available when my period ends and I can enter the mikveh, then this will be a very special and sacred ceremony. Not only will it be the first time that I enter a mikveh, but I will do it in concert with my body and the cycles that it makes. In a way, I think, how wonderful and strange that it chose this time. But in that way, it also seems pre-built. It was already built into the architecture of my life, before the date even arrived. This date, in fact, has been circling around me, and now it proposes to land just exactly where it should be.

When I first read the date my Rabbi proposed, I thought, or rather felt it my gut, that it would not work. I thought, "I need another week to prepare." That was my body talking, even though I thought it was me (i.e. my consciousness. Maybe no difference?). At the time, even though I knew where I was in my cycle, the connection never occurred to me until this morning, when my Rabbi asked. And I knew what he was going to say before he even said it.

So this is where the power comes in. Because my body holds the power of Halacha. Halacha does not determine my body. My body determines the Halacha. It decides the schedule of events, and the Rabbis have no choice but to comply. Just as I have no choice but to follow the cycles it creates. It is entirely even. Both sides are fair. This is justice, because no one is excluded from the power of the body, no matter how much we think we might be able to break it and control it. In the end, all we can do is relax, and take things as they come.

Another very good article about nidah or niddah, can be found here.

Destruction and rebuilding

2009-07-29T19:59:00.000-07:00

As we come up onto Tisha B'Av, I wanted to reflect on what I did last year for this holiday, and how it means something similar and different to me this year.

Last year, I spent the holiday evening at the home of Rabbi Michael Lerner of TIKKUN fame in Berkeley, CA, where he holds meetings for his Jewish Renewal synagogue, Beyt Tikkun. We read Lamentations by candlelight, after the evening had started. Earlier, we davened and then joined together for a meal before the fast. It was a solemn night, but a joyful one as well. I felt a great sense of community and spirituality, which was no doubt helped by being so high up in the hills of Berkeley.

This year, I am sitting at home. I am not going to services, because I would be home too late if I did. If that's lame, I don't care right now. My number one priority right now is taking care of myself. I am no less observing the meaning of the holiday, and this year, at least for the time I am spending alone, I am going to fast. I have plans to be with a friend, and I will eat either very little or not at all. A full-on fast might not be healthy for me, either, but I am going to meet it as much as I can.

I want to feel the hunger. An occasional fast is good sometimes. There was a good article that a friend shared on the practical nature of fasting, and it's true, fasting does something to you. It changes you, even when you aren't looking for it. It changes you in ways you don't expect. But shaking up your usual rhythm, you are forced out of your usual ways of thinking. Maybe this is perfectly what I need right now.

Lately, I have been feeling "stuck." I have been feeling like my life is in one particular place, and I'm not getting anywhere by trying to push it or shove it, heaving this way and that, but it's not going anywhere. It's like a big rock stuck in the sand, and it doesn't want to budge. So maybe for this holiday I will stop pushing. I will stop forcing my angles on all the things I want to "change," and instead let change happen of it's own accord.

I will open my mind and let the change come in. When you stop, sometimes, and stop thinking, that's when the good ideas come in.

Like cats.

Last year, Tisha B'Av was about remembering a part of my life that was broken, a part of my life that was destroyed; a relationship that failed to flourish. This year, in some ways, is the same. I have that relationship, still mourned, still broken, still lost. Even if having it in my life would be obsolete, inappropriate or just plain useless, I still mourn it's passing. Its remembrance still brings me pain that I just want to alleviate, and don't quite feel I can. And now, I have other relationships, built and lost. Each one a temple, where I sacrificed to G-d a little piece of myself, and now those sacrifices, too, are gone, never to be returned.

But even with those losses, what this Holiday really is about, to me, is hope. Hope for the future. Hope for rebuilding those corrupted relationships, or if not those ones, then to build new, stronger, better ones. With people I might not even know yet. Or friends who are just around the corner, who perhaps I've met, but are just ready and waiting in the wings to take my life to a new level of bliss and personal satisfaction that I've never known before, and which would belie my grief, but would make it, oh, so worth it.

Pure Bliss

2009-06-30T21:25:00.000-07:00

The day has come. Well, not THE day. But the day I found a Rabbi with whom to work on my Day has come. Hooray! At the moment, I am not going to tell you who it is.

Suffice it to say, I am Very, Very Happy. And also a little bit nervous. It's finally beginning to hit me; no, wait - it's about to hit me, but hasn't quite yet, that this is irreversible. Irrevocable. That is one of the first things that the Rebbetzin at Boston University Hillel told me: once you do it, you can't take it back.

I thought, sure, that's great. I don't want to take it back! And I still don't. But the implications are huge. I am about to BECOME something that I wasn't before. Of course, that's not entirely true. I am about to become myself. I am about to become who I already was. But in terms of the world, and how I relate, I am about to become OTHER. Other than what I was. I am no longer going to be a goy (or whatever the feminine version of that is). I'm not going to be white, exactly, though I will be. I will be in a minority. I will be in a small group of people whose influence is greater than their numbers. I will be able to identify with a community, with a people.

At first, this seems strange and bizarre to me, as a concept. But I've already been feeling a part of it. When I learned that Bernie Madoff had scammed Elie Wiesel's organization, I felt personally up in arms, because Mr. Wiesel is one of my favorite people on this earth, and he, least of all, deserves to be scammed. When I read a story recently about a young girl with a bizarre medical condition, my feeling for the family was one of neutral interest and compassion until I looked at the last picture, which showed the little girl at her bar mitzvah. Then I realized what their name meant: they were Jewish. And suddenly I felt a warmth toward them that I hadn't felt before, just by that simple piece of information.

So I am about to join this community, this tribe. I will become one of the "Chosen People." I suppose the only thing that will make me different from most is that I will have chosen myself. But maybe that's what every Jewish person does. Maybe that doesn't make me different at all. Maybe the Jewish people are chosen simply because they choose themselves. Every day, whenever the option presents itself, they say, "I choose me. I choose life." L'Chaim.

Shavuot on the Mountain

2009-06-03T17:40:00.000-07:00

I guess it is time for my monthly post. These posts are getting less and less frequent. Not for lack of interest, or lack of subject matter. Maybe for a lack of time? A lack of inspiration? A wondering - will this process ever end?? Will I ever really convert? Or is this some fantasy that I've made up, which I will never actually achieve? Let's not go there.

Let us go instead to the experience of the most recent Holiday, Shavuot. As you may or may not recall, this was my first official holiday as a decided-to-convert person last year. That is, it was after attending Pesach Seder that I decided conversion was really what I wanted, and contacted a Rabbi to work with.

My Shavuot activities that time included making a cheesecake, picking the "first fruits" off a tree in my back yard, attending an all-night learning event at the local JCC, and studying the Book of Ruth.

It was in reading the Book of Ruth at that class, that it occurred to me that in all my years of Bible-reading, I had never once read the Book of Ruth. And yet, how strange, since my Christian Godmother's name is Ruth, and I had always wondered what the name meant, or what it stood for.

Now I know.

Ruth is the first named convert in the Bible (after Abraham). And not only is she a woman, but she is the direct ancestor of King David - his grandmother, in fact. That, combined with the fact that her life had some parallels to my own, made it a particularly revealing story to read.

This year, I had a different kind of revelation. I attended a one-night camping trip to Mount Tamalpais, where teachings would be given all night, with the added benefit of being in the "wilderness" - just as the Israelites were in the wilderness when they received the Torah, and on a mountain, no less.

I taught a small class on Ruth at this event, and had the opportunity to share my story with many others in conversation. It was nice, but it still made me wonder - when am I going to convert? When will this process be finished so that I can start my life as I really want it to be - as a Jew? When will I, officially, at least in some fashion, become a part of the community?

Because that is all I really want. To be recognized as someone who is truly committed to this religion. Emotionally, spiritually, physically, intellectually. I felt ready to convert last year. And yet, I still wait. When will it be? How long?

Perhaps I am overly anxious. It's not that I feel I am going to give up. It is just that I want to carry out the rest of my life as a Jew, and I want that to start now, or at least as soon as possible.

Because I am like Ruth. You can tell me, go back, little girl. Go back to your home, your Christianity. and I will tell you, no, thank you. That religion may be fine, but it holds nothing for me. Being Jewish is all I want.

Touché

2009-05-11T08:10:00.000-07:00

I spent the day out in the park yesterday, with a friend for her birthday. It was also mother's day, and a few other birthdays. Just about half the city was in the park it seemed. And it was odd. I realized, as I wandered around, searching for my friends amidst the huge patchwork of families and groups of friends on blankets, that everyone seemed to be sitting on the side of this gently sloping area, all facing the same way, as if there were some sort of performance going on below. But there was not. There was only the street. And most people were looking upward, toward the sun. That, I guess, was the day's big performance.

After a good while, I managed to find my friends. We shared a Meyer lemon torte, baked by the birthday girl herself, fresh strawberries, cherries, and all sorts of baked treats. At one point, a dog came over and decided to be my friend. I am really more of a cat person, and this was a big dog. He looked scary, with a thin black scar across his muzzle, and the choke chain his owner had on him. But he seemed friendly. He came over, I put my hand on him, and he sat down immediately, and put his paws on my leg. Everyone was amazed, including his owner, and myself. He didn't seem to want to leave my side. The woman who owned him said that he had been abused as a puppy. That's why he had the scar on his face. His owners at the time had put a wire muzzle on him. He looked like a dog that could do some damage, but for the most part, he didn't want to. He had a wise aspect to him. Wise and worldly. He knew what cruelty meant, and he wasn't interested in being a part of it.

I didn't mind sitting next to the dog. It felt nice that he wanted to be with me.

Earlier, however, a guy I know had joined the party and sat down next to me. This man is also converting, and has been for several. Perhaps he is having a hard time making a decision. And I haven't asked, it's possible he'd have to go through circumcision if he isn't already. At one point I thought to ask him, but at present, I think I would rather not know. That is not what bothers me about him. What bothers me is the way he touches me.

At first, it was exciting to meet him. It was at a Hanukkah party, night one. We bonded over conversion and the fact that we both lived in the East Bay. However, I for some reason did not feel comfortable giving him my number. I saw him at a subsequent event, where, when he greeted me, he touched my arm lightly, just above the elbow. I was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, and so his finger just brushed against my skin. It was a touch that almost could have been an accident, but wasn't. It was meant to get my attention, but in an ever so subtle way. I didn't like it.

The thing about it is that this man is gay, at least as far as I can tell. Perhaps he is bisexual. I don't care. Those are touches that I crave, but something that I want from a source that I designate, from someone that I love. No one is allowed to touch me like that without my permission. I let that first touch slide, only because I figured he might have a crush on me, but my intent was not to respond, and hopefully he would stop.

We saw each other again, though, at a Purim party, and again, he touched my arm in a way that I detested. And when he did, I couldn't get away fast enough. Perhaps he didn't get the idea. Perhaps he doesn't know what his touches mean.

Then, at my friend's birthday picnic, he sat down in a big open spot on the blue blanket next to me. I smiled and said hello. He then proceeded to brush his finger lightly on my thigh, to get my attention, quite unnecessarily, as he then told me he had met someone I know over the weekend. I let it go, but then, for emphasis, as he was talking to me, he touched his finger to my bare calf. This was unacceptable, and so I looked him directly in the eye, and I said, "Would you mind not touching my leg, please?" I didn't smile. I just held his gaze as he decided if I was serious or not, and then he said, "Uh, sure."

We sat in awkward silence then for several minutes. I hadn't wanted to shut him down completely, but what was I going to say? I'm sorry? I wasn't sorry. I wasn't sorry for feeling violated by all his little touches, which maybe he justified to himself as being "nothing," but let me tell you, they were something.

All touch is sacred.

I learned this from a Chasidic Rabbi who showed up at yet another of the Hanukkah parties that I went to last year. He came, driving a big white pickup truck with a massive menorah in the back of it. When he introduced himself, I offered my hand, which he declined to shake. He said that he couldn't, and someone else explained to me that did not shake hands with women. I might have thought this was misogynistic, except that it wasn't. And that's when he said, "All touch is sacred." The point was not that he didn't want to shake my hand because there was something wrong with me, but that if he touched me it would mean to much. He respected that power, and respected me enough not to touch me in the face of it. And it was because touch was so sacred, that he was reserving all his touch of women for his wife. Men he could touch, but women were off-limits to him. And to me, this was a great relief.

I thought of all the times I have been forced to shake a man's hand for purely social reasons, and then regretted it afterward, wanting to wash off the feeling, but being unable to. And it is especially bad when the man looks you in the eye and gives you that leering glance he may not even know he has. He may shift his finger in your palm, or linger for one second longer when you would rather let go. All these things are things that become a part of your body's memory, whether you want them there or no.

And in a way it is like stealing. You steal a touch from someone because you want it, but that person does not necessarily want your touch, when you take it without permission. Like this man, who is my friend, but whom I come to trust less and less as he touches me without my allowance. As if he has some right to my body that he did not request, and which I did not grant to him. If I knew him better and said okay, then okay. But I did not. Perhaps he misinterpreted me, but that is his misinterpretation. Perhaps I have left the door left open now.

I would be happy with a tradition that says not only should men only touch their wives and not other women, but that I, as a woman, am not obligated to touch any other man that I do not wish to touch. The moment that choice is taken away, all pleasure goes out of the exchange.

It is possible that I have a strange relationship to touch. Sometimes I think I am more sensitive than others. But there are good touches and there are bad ones. Not all touch is bad, and not all touch is good. When I am uncomfortable, I have to say something. And at least I was clear on my stance yesterday. I made sure to talk to him afterward, but he did seem slightly hurt. Oh well. Better than me feeling more uncomfortable by sitting there not saying anything.

In Relationship

2009-05-03T19:35:00.001-07:00

All good things come to an end. And, I like to think, some of the bad things never began in the first place.

Let's take my last "relationship" - if you could even call it that, since that's being mighty generous, in my opinion. And even though I don't normally use this space as a place to put my musings on my personal life, I feel this is the best place for me to do it now, since all relationships are in a way a relationship with G-d. That, and the fact that my relationship with Judaism is for me the primary relationship in my life right now.

I was upfront with BG about this in the beginning. I told him on multiple occasions that I was converting to Judaism, starting on the first date. And I made sure he was okay with this, really trying to gauge his reaction to the idea in general. I also told him I didn't want to "date anybody" right then - partly because of the conversion, and also because I suspected I might one day be interested in dating a Jewish man. And even conversion cannot give him a Jewish childhood any more that it can for me. And that's something I am interested in, discriminatory as that may be. On the other hand, true love takes all tricks, and in the face of that, I'm sure I'd have to reconsider what I "want." These ideas are merely guidelines. Probably essential to this trope is that I did not love him, then or now.

I dated him - why? Because he was there. Because he seemed to care for me and wanted to support me. And he seemed to understand where I was coming from. I also seemed to understand him, and so we had a connection, but it was a superficial connection at best. It was a connection of external references, whereas deep in my core, I felt very much alone, and very unacknowledged, no matter how much he said that he cared about me.

I think I knew all along that it was not a good match, and yet, it seemed, the world at large was supporting our relationship. A good friend of mine, as well as other people, told me what a good guy he was. He had a decent job. He wanted a girlfriend. And that's not always the case. It was almost too easy.

But as things went along, I became more and more uncomfortable. It was fairly disconcerting, to say the least, that it was only after we solidified our relationship that he decided to tell me that he'd had an inclination to convert to Judaism all this time. This was two months and many conversations since our first date, when I let him know that my conversion was very important to me. My only assumption could be that when I had told him I suspected I might want to date a Jewish guy, so suddenly he wanted to be that Jewish guy. Maybe that is when I lost all respect for him. But I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, even though it was clear that he hadn't really given the matter much thought - at least not in the sense that would lead me to believe that he really knew what he was getting into.

Fast-forward a few months. He moves in. He moves out. We fight. I get the sense he is operating on some level other than mine. I get the feeling his ears are open, but he isn't really listening to me. I am unsatisfied, both physically and emotionally, and I just about can't take it any more.

I was willing to try and "make it work," but he insisted on moving out. So I let him, and I decided that the best thing would be for us to break up. But we still saw each other. Almost as much as when we were dating. For about a month, we dating without being an actual couple.

And then it dawned on me that this whole time, he had been seeing a friend of mine, without my knowledge, and that both this friend and him and kept information from me, either by outright lying, or simply by omission, and that whenever I found out, he would make some excuse or try to justify it in some way. I said, uh-uh. No way, that's not happening. There are a lot of things I can take, but dishonesty isn't one of them.

So he got the boot for real this time, and so did my friend. I saw her briefly for coffee one day, and then said, "See you later." I wasn't mean. I merely suggested they should date each other. I think that I probably have done them a wonderful service. After this, they will realize, on their own separate steam, that they were made for each other all along, and I was the catalyst that helped make it happen.

At the same time, I feel deceived, used, and abused by people who supposedly called themselves my friends. But they weren't friends. They weren't looking out for me. They were barely looking out for themselves. I did myself a favor by getting out of there. And not a moment too soon. Maybe too late. But not too late to learn something.

Aleph and Nothing

2009-05-03T17:56:00.000-07:00

I began a class on the Hebrew Aleph-bet this past week. I need to learn Biblical Hebrew, to help me understand what I am reading during services, and I found this class that focuses entirely on the Aleph-bet, going through each letter individually, and allowing the class to connect with each one on a deeper level. This seems to make sense to me, given that, in Hebrew, the letters seem to have a kind of life. They are alive, like people. They have characteristics, traits, and habits, and in reading or writing Hebrew, it seems you get to know them, like friends that form a constant conversation that surrounds you and becomes the fabric of your life.

It is not insignificant that "In the beginning, was the Word..."

And I was not the only one taking the class who had little or no background in Hebrew. Many born Jews were there, either preparing to take Hebrew for the first time, or else wanting to revisit it, since the last time they had studied it was when they were nine.

Naturally, for the first class, we looked at the Aleph. It seems fitting that the Aleph-bet begins with this character. It is the letter that represents G-d, and it also has the numerical value of one. This being the case, it follows that when Jews pray the Shema - "Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Echad" - they are literally saying that G-d is One. And while Echad may have more of a unifying sense rather than just the number, there is no denying that one is one, Echad is tranlated as "one," and if Aleph is one, then G-d must also Aleph. If A = B and B = C then A = C.

So G-d is represented by Aleph. But not only in the numerical sense. It is represented in the inexplicable nature of the letter itself. Here is what I wrote during the class:

How can a letter with so much presence, so much shape, that it dances across the page, arms reaching, with that bold, diagonal stroke across the center - how can such a letter have no sound? Surely it deserves a sound. And really, what's the point of creating a letter that has no sound? Why waste the ink? But it's not wasted. Just look at it. It does make a sound. It makes the sound of your soul. It makes the sound of existence.

And what is amazing to me is that they did not just create a letter with no sound, which could be like, for example, in Greek, a small mark to represent an aspiration or lack thereof preceding an initial vowel. The Yud is small, but it makes a sound. And while Aleph's nearest equivalent is our "A," Aleph literally stands for no sound at all, and it only gains sound by means of other marks and letters around it. In practice, it is a big, complicated symbol, meant to depict exactly no qualities, no vibrations, nothing. It represents nothing, and yet it is something, it is a letter.

I think it says a lot about the Jewish people that they, or whoever was creating the Aleph-bet, took the time to create a letter that represented nothing. It is exactly, as our instructor said, the "paradox of existence." And that is what we find in G-d - a paradox of existence.

G-d exists. G-d doesn't exist. Both statements are true. G-d exists, but G-d is no thing. G-d is only something when you put your mind on It and focus on It. In Quantum physics, when you look at the tiniest particles of life, they become so tiny that we cannot really look at them. We have to look at behaviors. And there are some particles and particle behaviors that exist only when we are looking at them. By the mere act of bringing our attention to them, we see something that did not exist otherwise. Like the letter Aleph. Silence is there. But until we acknowledge it it is not there, because there is nothing, in fact, to signal it. But this nothing is all around us. It is pure presence.

That is why I say the letter is like a dance. Because in a dance, you manifest your physical presence, you become manifest, you become something that attracts more attention, and yet you say nothing. Words detract from the dance. Only the dance itself is important.

And we know how important dancing is to Chasidic Judaism. Countless tales of Rebbes involve people - the Rebbe or someone else - dancing, or singing a niggun, and through the wordless expression of joy, find something more great and transforming than all the words in the world.

And this idea is embedded in all Jewish writing in Biblical Hebrew. In the beginning was the word, and in the beginning of the Aleph-bet is nothing. The word begins with nothing. All creation begins with nothing. And yet, somehow, we are here.

Mitzvoth and Humility

2009-04-27T18:58:00.000-07:00

This morning, I went to an interview with an employment agency that I've never been to before. But they were recommended to me by a former employer, and I know several people that have worked through them and liked them.

During the initial part of the interview, they had me fill out all their customary paperwork. The receptionist showed me each form and explained what they were, including one that had a "spelling test" at the top. It looked very silly, and she smiled sheepishly as if to say, I know it's dumb, but we just do this.

So I dutifully filled out all of the information on employers and past job experience. I put my signature on the line for my federal tax forms, etc. Then I came to the spelling test. Now, initially, I was excited. I thought, I'm a writer, I'm going to ace this thing! Then, I just felt insulted. Here I am, supposedly a capable adult, and I am being made to circle the correct spelling out of two possibilities for words like "Acceptable."

More insulting to me was that the list included primarily common spelling mistakes, of the kind I have tried to avoid since high school, and earlier. But the truth is, I was afraid of spelling tests as a child. I can remember failing at them miserably in first and second grade, and feeling miserable and stupid because of it. I went on to take Latin in middle school, and Greek in college, and a few other languages in between. I focused on my writing and made a point of learning the rules of spelling so that I would never be tripped up again.

Now I am one of those annoying people who read books and get distracted by spelling mistakes. I read my emails about ten times over to make sure there isn't one misspelled word, even when writing to my friends. And I can't stand when people spell words like "definately" instead of "definitely." And yet, I wondered, with the mimeographed sheet there in front of me, is this a joke? Or does "Misspelled" really only have one "s"? Suddenly I was doubting my knowledge. And of course I would never misspell any of these words in an actual piece of writing. I thought, maybe I should say something.

So I got up and informed the woman at the desk that I was in fact a trained journalist and wrote for a living and had also previously been a writing tutor. I was prepared to get out my report cards for Latin in middle school and show her every spelling test I'd ever taken, if I could have found them. Never mind that I still make a practice of doing what one high school teacher suggested, which is to write down words I am not familiar with that I come across and look them up later. She smiled at me and nodded in a friendly way. She didn't care.

I sat down and looked at the next section, where I had to correct four sentences using appropriate punctuation marks. I wasn't sure if this was easy or difficult, and I began to doubt my instincts. Then I felt embarrassed thinking about what I had just said - how my mistakes would seem worse now, since I had set the bar so high. I can only hope I got them right.

There were some sections with more word questions, and did some arithmetic on the back. Some of it was easy, but some, though easy enough, were not problems I could do in my head. Yes, I was allowed use my calculator. "Just do it," essentially, was the idea.

So I finished the "test" and handed the receptionist my papers.

The rest of the interview went smoothly. But throughout the day, I kept thinking about that test. What was the point? Were they actually concerned that their potential temporary employees could not do basic spelling and arithmetic? Or did the answer lie somewhere else? Then it came to me. It was like that "test" teachers sometimes gave students in class that asked a bunch of silly questions and then, at the end, instructed you to put your pencil down and not to take the test at all. It was a hoax.

This test was not a hoax. But it wasn't about the answers to the questions. It was about whether or how I took the test. It was about whether I followed directions, even if the activity was stupid, or annoying, or possibly seemingly obvious, and maybe even a little bit humiliating. They were trying to see what kind of employee I would be - the kind who does the job willingly, or the kind who and asks questions.

I guess I gave them the answer to that one. But it seems to me much like the mitzvoth. And in much the same way, we are asked, in Judaism, to do many things that may seem stupid, or trivial, or beneath us. Like putting tin foil on our counters at Passover. But there is always a point. And we are supposed to swallow our pride and do these things anyway. Because it's not about whether we like what we do. It's about the fact that we are doing it. It is about showing that we are dedicated because we are not so worried about our personal appearance, or our abilities, or loveliness, or super-star qualities. We are just like everybody else. All human. All on the same level. Some of us are not exempted from life's requirements just because we happen to have studied, or been well-bred, or had a certain kind of experience or education. We can be as brilliant at Einstein, but when it comes to being human, we still have to cross our i's and dot our t's when it comes to dealing with life and our interactions with other people, no matter how demeaning it may seem to us.

And so I was humbled by my experience today. In fact, I realized even as I was speaking to the woman at the desk that my words meant nothing. My experience meant nothing. And afterwards, I just felt arrogant and obnoxious. It was such a small thing, and yet in my mind, it seems that stupid little test was probably one of the most important things that they had me do during that whole interview. How I responded gave them the real flavor of who I am, for better or for worse, more than I could ever say or put on paper.

And perhaps this is the kind of thing that is meant by saying that "the stone that was rejected shall be the chief cornerstone." Not that one thing that is rejected will turn out to be the most important thing ever. But that many of the things that we deem to be trivial or unimportant will turn out to be carrying a significant weight in our lives, and supporting us without our realizing it. And if we dismiss those things, well, then we might lose our balance and have to start building all over again. Building from scratch, with little things. Hoping that some small stone can be placed again right exactly where it is needed.

Kosher Kitty

2009-04-07T14:11:00.000-07:00

This past weekend, I went to a shiur on how to prepare for passover. It was at a woman, Becky's, lovely apartment in the Mission, and there were all of two of us present. But to tell you the truth, I was okay with the small turnout, being as I know little about how to prepare for Passover. I know about the going around house with a candle and a feather part, and getting rid of chametz, but only generally. I knew there was much more to know, and since the title of the gathering was "everything-you-wanted-to-know-about-preparing-for-Passover-but-didn't-think-to-ask," I figured I was in the right place.

Perched on comfy sofas with lots of pillows, Becky told us how to pour boiling water over the counters, then cover them with aluminum foil. And to get an extra set of plates - but not too expensive. No need to go overboard.

She asked me about my roommates. I don't have any roommates, I said. Just my cat. "And your cat?" She's kosher, I blithely stated. Of course, it's not really true. She's really a bit overweight. But she's fit for me. As far as I am concerned, she is kosher. It never occurred to me my cat might need to eat kosher as well!

Of course, her food is full of wheat and ash, and most certainly all kinds of unkosher meat products. Who makes kosher cat food? I wondered. And then I reminded myself that I needed to go out and get her more cat food.

Becky told me not to worry about it. Since this is one of my first years, I shouldn't drive myself crazy. Just worry about the human food for now.

But what about the Israelites? Didn't they have to leave out the chametz for their animals as well? For the people and for the beasts? On fast days, weren't the animals meant to fast also? We say now that our animals, our pets, are like part of the family. But I think for the Israelites, their animals were truly part of the clan. Even sacrifice, while seemingly cruel, was I think a kind of reverence for the fact that the animals were so much appreciated.

So the next day I did indeed to go get more cat food for my dear kitty. And as I did - I didn't think about it ahead of time - I wore my JCHS T-shirt with the Hebrew below the letters. As the girl rang up the three cans and the bag of dry food, I said, "I don't need a bag." I had a special bag attached to my bike. She smiled at me, and I couldn't tell, but I think she had a look at my shirt. Then I found myself wondering if she was Jewish, and if she was aware that the cat food I had just bought was full of leavening, and this just two days before Pesach.

Walking out of the store, I felt suddenly self-conscious and even a little bit wrong. Here I was, sporting some kind of Jewishness, and yet doing something that, while obscure, could actually be deemed un-Jewish. I was about to feed my cat chametz instead of matzoh for Passover.

Why couldn't I just give her matzoh soaked in chicken broth for eight days? Maybe I should. Maybe I should do that. Then I'd have a really kosher kitty.

Purim

2009-03-13T11:01:00.000-07:00

Well, I have been out of the picture for a while, I guess. Things happened, I guess and somehow or other, I was not posting! So, sorry for the disappearance. But I have been practicing Judaism. Basically living my life, I guess. I have a few stories for the week.

1. My boyfriend and I went to a Shabbat dinner at a friends' house.

2. Purim Party in the Mission

3. I met up with an ex-boyfriend from college, who is Lutheran and is now in Theological seminary, and had the joy of telling him I am converting. It went well.

Right now, I am going to write about number 2 on the list - Purim!

This was my first Purim, and the bar is high. Arriving, I wasn't quite sure if everyone would be wearing costumes during the reading or not, so I hedged my bets and had a costume that wasn't too crazy, but was at least funny enough to be different from my usual self. I was relieved, when we got to the place to see a man in bunny ears in line ahead of me. It seemed to say I had made the right choice.

we waited as the room filled up. And filled, and continued to fill. Some men got on stage and started to say blessings, but nothing could be heard above the din, except the occasional "brichu."

Finally, after what seemed like a longer time than I was expecting, the reading began. Our first reader was a woman I knew, but barely recognized, as she was dressed, very convincingly in a Wonder Woman outfit. Bare flesh exposed, breasts lofted high by a red and gold bustier, tight short-shorts, and wristbands, she had the whole thing going on. And in this costume, she swayed back and forth, confidently and lyrically singing out the Hebrew as if it were any other Sabbath morning service. She was brilliant. Gorrilla men, kings, and bunnies filled the room. Princess Leia, dancing girls, and many nondescript costumes held people listening, rapt, to the story of Queen Esther, Haman, and Mordecai.

We dutifully cheered at each mention of Haman's name, but I have to say, I felt a bit wrong about that. Sure he was almost certainly not a nice guy. But what did I have against him personally? And furthermore, what good does it do to boo and hiss, when he got what was coming to him - impaled on a stake, no less?

I am confused about this whole issue of Jews and "others" as a kind of "us against them" theme. I realize it is popular and recurring. But the Judaism that I have found, which I like, sees people as more of all one race. And the Jews are part of that race. Plus, as a convert, I see all people as potential Jews - of only they knew. But I'm not out to proselytize.

When I told my ex-boyfriend that I had gone to a Purim party, he said, is it one of those parties where the Jews celebrate by going around and bashing on other Jews? I was offended, on two counts. One, as I said to him, Do you really think people in San Francisco would be like that, and if they were, do you think I would hang out with them? (What I didn't tell him, but which is true, and made me laugh, is that my friends are the most mild-mannered, bookish people you will ever meet.) But I was offended in a way even to know that other Jews do that. Sure, it happens in the story. Instead of all the Jews in being killed, they go out and kill thousands of the descendants of Amalek. I fail to see how that is such a great victory. I should think that just celebrating the sparing of their lives would have been enough. But I guess in that day, with a more militaristic, survivalist mindset, maybe they had to do that in order to establish their social power. Nasty and mean. And also outdated. Obviously, we don't think that way anymore. Plus, it says in the reading that the prescribed observation for the holiday is feasting and merriment - not repeating the conquering of other tribes.

And that's the way I learned it - that to celebrate Purim includes a commandment to get drunk so that you can't even tell the difference between Haman and Mordecai. You stop knowing who is good and bad, and simply enjoy yourself and enjoy your life.

So the idea that Jews now, today, in Jerusalem, Brooklyn, or anywhere, would "celebrate" Purim by reenacting an out-moded tribal violence seems both incongruous and offensive. And not valid, in terms of my belief. If we are to love each other, we must recognize we are all full of mistakes and transgressions. As the Talmud says, "Even the transgressors in Israel are as full of good deeds as a pomegranate is of seeds" [Eruvin 19a].

Orthodox

2009-02-27T15:15:00.000-08:00

Last week I visited a Modern Orthodox synagogue. It was my first American Orthodox experience (my first one ever was in France). And it was probably my first Modern Orthodox time, to my knowledge. And I found out I liked it. I really liked it. In fact, it is kind of shaking up my pre-conceived ideas about how I found myself finding Judaism how much I liked it.

I've always known that I liked Orthodox ideas. I just was never sure how much I would like it in practice. I am a little scared of those cult-like communities I hear about where Ultra-Orthodox Jews live all together and hardly go out of their community. But this was not that.

I even like the Mechitzah. Who would have thought I would like a mechitzah? I found it comforting, in a way. It was like, I didn't have to worry about sitting next to guys I didn't want to sit next to. The only awkward thing was that it meant only women were going to come up and greet me. But a very nice man did come out to see me when I came in the front door, and told me where to go. I was grateful for that.

And I liked the room. I really liked the room. It was odd, because it didn't look very big or special from the outside, but on the inside, it was very big, and it felt very special. Perhaps because it was somewhat of a secret. You didn't know what was inside from looking at it from the outside. The pews were nice. The lighting was nice. The Mechitzah was low - not a full mechitzah - and it, too, was nice. Visually appealing. There, but not too distracting. And of course the Aron was nice. Understated, but clearly attractive in a respectful sort of way.

The most unusual thing about the room was that it was a very large space, with a high, peaked ceiling - it occurs to me now that perhaps I like it because it reminds me somewhat of my parents church from home, only with more rugs. And, like my parents church, it is a dark room, with lots of wood, but that somehow lets in a lot of light. I figured out the secret. They had several rows of small, widely spaced, yellow-glass windows set into the sweeping, high sides of the ceiling/roof. And on the patio side, the women's side, light came in through large glass doors, each of which sported a very large and clearly visible exit sign with an arrow pointing toward the door. I was reminded of the Mitzvah of removing all hazards from your home. This seemed very much in line.

I asked the man who greeted me whether I needed to keep my head covered (even though I'm not married). He said I did not, but that it was perfectly appropriate. I kept my hat on.

The only part of the Mechitzah I did not love was that when the brought the Torah around before and after it was read, they only carried it through the men's section. And as they did that, the women would line up along the wall to reach over and touch the torah scrolls with their hands or siddurs. It felt low, to me. It felt base. I felt I was being asked to do something undignified. Of course I love the Torah. But if you want me to kiss the scrolls, you are going to have to bring it to me. Even if it means handing it over to a woman. I am told this is done in some synagogues, and I think it is a perfectly acceptable compromise. Otherwise, don't ask me to participate in this ritual. I did it this time, but never again. That will be my protest.

Other than that, I had no problems with the separation of men and women. Children, of course, ambled up and down the aisles of both sides, boys and girls. It got to the point where the rabbi had to stand up and ask parents to go and gather their children ("now"), because there were "roaming gangs of short people." Not that they wanted children silent or out of sight and mind. Just that they were getting a little unruly.

And strangely, it did not bother me that only men read from the Torah, and spoke from the dais. A little boy even sat up front in one of the big chairs beside the Aron. And the rabbis seemed young to me - they were not much older than I was. And only the men wore prayer shawls. But this was somewhat relieving. I respected the fact that they wore prayer shawls and read from the Torah. I appreciated it more because I realize it is a big task to read the Torah, and a large show of humility and devotion to display your faith by wearing a prayer shawl. None of the women wore them, unlike the Conservative synagogue I have been attending. But even though I like wearing a shawl at that synagogue, I appreciated the fact that I was not expected to here. It made me feel that I don't have to measure up to guys on their level. They have their own expectations of who and how they are going to be in Shul, and I have mine. The expectations of me as a woman are different. Not better or worse, just different.

And men don't separate women away because they don't want them to be near them. Quite possibly the opposite. My sense is that they don't want to have a conflict between devotion to God and devotion to their female partner in the same moment. It is upholding one by upholding the other - not diluting each by trying to do too much at once. I respect that. I even appreciate it. And it makes me respect the men more for being who they are, and for not feeling like they have to spend every minute of every day chasing after the feminine in their lives. It is good for them to take time out and focus on something else.

but that didn't stop them from turning around and scanning over the women's section of the room (which was decidedly less full than the men's), blithely, as if we couldn't see them looking at us. And we pretended we didn't. Or at least I did.

And maybe what you have just read will confirm your beliefs that Orthodox Judaism is way off, out of date, and irrelevant to modern society. That may be right. But maybe that's why I like it. It holds onto itself despite what outside ideas and pressures might seem to say. It doesn't necessarily think it's better or more right, just that it's better and more right that it continues to do what it has been doing for a long time. And this Shul, by comparison to many, would probably be considered "loose." But again, I have to say it was scary to me how much I liked it. Scary in an exciting way. Scary in a new way. A way that makes me wonder if Orthodox Judiasm isn't something I want to look into more. Perhaps it isn't something I should be afraid of. Perhaps it is something I have been looking for all along. I don't know. But I guess we'll see.

Menses

2009-01-15T13:20:00.000-08:00

I think, at first blush, it might appear that the Orthodox convention of not touching a woman during her menses because she is "impure" is a nasty, mysogynistic, patriarchal trope. But that's only looking at it from the man's side.

What about the women? Who asks the woman, do you want to be touched during your period? My feeling is, it may even be a highly reverential convention. In fact, I kind of like the idea. Because if you ask me, I would rather NOT be touched while I'm menstruating.

It is hard to explain some of the things that occur to a woman during her period. Quite possibly, there is no explanation, so it is futile trying. It is more a question of accepting a series of facts - something men find difficult, because they like the idea of having control over their immediate surroundings. The fact that they cannot (and nor can the women) control their periods then probably appears quite frightening for them. And disturbing, given the essential nature of the event.

But an essential fact, at least for me, is that I become quite sensitive at that time. Beforehand, it takes the form of emotional volatility, and after it begins, it becomes a physical sensitivity, wherein I do not want to be touched, because to be touched by anyone amounts to sensory overload, and what I need is sensory deprivation. It's like there is so much going on inside me, that I can't quite understand, and so it is unhelpful for people to try and make it better by putting their hands on me, because that would actually make it worse.

In general, I don't want to be asocial, but those first few days of menstruation almost always cause me to get the sense that I'd like to just crawl into a cave for a few days and not go anywhere.

So in that sense, I think the Biblical injunction for a man not to touch a woman during her period makes sense. MAYBE THE WOMEN DON'T WANT TO BE TOUCHED. But it's hard to get the men to "hands-off" with their hands-on propensities. Therefore psychological reasoning has to be employed. There is almost no way, I am sure, to get a man to not want to touch his wife, and so by calling the whole episode "ritually impure" could quite possibly be the only way.

In our language, the ideas of "impure" and "unclean" have immoral connotations. But I wonder if this is really the case with the original intention of the commandment? Does calling something "unclean" or "impure" necessarily mean that it is evil, or just that it is something that should not be approached or messed with? I vote we should turn the idea around. Because English has obviously corrupted the idea of what this whole process is supposed to mean, I suggest we should call the menses "holy." They should be set apart. But they should be untouchable. Even a woman herself cannot mess with her menses, and so why should she be forced to interact with a man during that time, who understands even less about what is going on with her than she does?

I suggest we elevate the status of menstruating women to almost or nearly a kind of "holy of holies," since it is not only an incomprehensible force of nature, it is also the force of nature that allows human life to continue. It is the sign and the wellspring of human procreation. It is a reminder of the trauma that brings us into life, as well as the end we will eventually meet. It is eternity and death, entwined together, in one bright, crimson flow.

Who could touch that? Who could say, I will have my way over you, in that time? That time is sacred, as it should be. The woman should have every right to wall herself away, and say, hands off me. That is the time when men DON'T get to say what happens. It is when a woman's body says, "This is my time, you will obey the order of my universe." There is no arguing with such a command. Argue at thy peril, I should say.

And if you choose to do otherwise, that's your choice. If there is one thing we have, it is free will. But on my time, and in my life, I have to say, if I could enforce this commandment in my life, I would be grateful for a few days off, and a little bit of time for myself. Everyone needs that once in a while. Just how lucky are we that we have it built in for us?

1-15-09
Taylor M.

Hanukkah night One

2008-12-22T09:02:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-22T08:30:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-12T18:36:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-02T10:13:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-01T15:13:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-28T16:27:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-23T10:53:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-12T16:53:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-27T08:50:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-18T23:31:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-09-12T09:32:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-11T10:15:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-10T22:15:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-08T06:18:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-03T15:43:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-30T07:15:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-28T23:31:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-08-26T14:39:00.001-07:00

"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

2008-08-24T14:07:00.000-07:00

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

Shabbat Shalom

2008-08-23T07:01:00.000-07:00

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"

2008-08-17T17:18:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-16T16:05:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-14T20:18:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-09T15:11:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-04T21:43:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-01T08:23:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-19T04:52:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-10T05:05:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-05T07:22:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-01T06:27:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-26T09:30:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-22T13:53:00.000-07:00

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.

Darkness and Light

2008-06-20T11:00:00.000-07:00

It is not that there will be no more darkness, no more suffering, that those things shall cease to exist. It will be such an essence-light that darkness itself will become light —-even the darkness and suffering of the past.
(from a letter by the Rebbe)

rendered by Tzvi Freeman on Chabad.org

Chutzpa

2008-06-20T09:20:00.000-07:00

What is the opposite of chutzpah?

If chutzpah is this thing where you know you are right, damn the rest, what's the word for the thing where you know you are right but you go along with other stupid things people say anyway? Is there a word for it? Maybe there isn't. Maybe it doesn't deserve a word, because it's really a stupid way to be anyway. And it's annoying. I can't tell you how many times I give people the benefit of the doubt, only to discover that my thinking was correct all along. But why are people so incorrigible? Why do they hold on to their things with such ferocity even when there is another obvious point of view out there waiting for them? I think sometimes there is a point at which you kind of have to trust your gut, even if you don't know why, just to get to where you need to be.

Discipline

2008-06-19T08:28:00.001-07:00

I have decided that discipline is not so much about what you don't do as it is about what you do do.

Getting Acquainted

2008-06-18T15:38:00.000-07:00

There is that old thing about getting to know people. Can you ever really know anyone? It's a frustrating thing, if knowing someone absolutely, in every aspect is something you try to do. But that's because people are constantly changing. It's like everything. Things sort of "are," but being is in a state of flux. That essence of change is the being and being is the essence of change. Do you follow me? Or have I lost you already. Anyway, my point is, people are hard to get to know. But if you are going to get to know somebody, it's good to do it in small batches, and actually concentrate on getting to know how the person changes, not necessarily how they are at any given moment. Because that moment will soon be gone and you'll have to do the process all over again. But if you figure out the function of a person, you have a much better view, and then you're not worried about the particulars. I think this applies to a lot of life. I don't know yet how this connects, but I was thinking it and it seemed momentous, so here it is.

Mother's Milk

2008-06-15T22:02:00.000-07:00

We were talking about the laws of Kashrut in an intro to Judaism class today. Actually, most of the people present were already Jews, either by choice or otherwise. I was the youngest person in the room, second only to the instructor. But anyway. I guess the parts about who and what to eat or not to eat are pretty straightforward. What interests me is the separation of milk and meat. There has traditionally of course been a lot of discussion about this, and a whole spectrum of ways that people choose to practice it. But for me, I go back to the original text, and ask to myself, what does this really say?

Now, I don't know Hebrew well enough to read the original in that way, but I can at least look at the translation. What is it? Don't boil a kid in its mother's milk. Okay. Easy enough. I guess if you are going to cook a young goat, find something else to boil it in besides its mother's milk. Shouldn't be too hard. I don't even eat goat. But, from out of that, we get a whole, complete separation of all that is meat from all that is milk. And I can see the point of it. We want to be really sure that we're following the law. We don't even want to allow for the smallest transgression, if we can avoid it, even if it were done without our knowledge, because we don't want to risk divine severance of existence.

The thing that is always true about ancient text is that we can only infer the intention of the text from the clues that are given. It seems to me a lot of people have read this and gotten really worried about putting cheese on a plate with or even in the same room as beef. But what is milk and what is meat? Milk is something that nourishes. Meat is something that you eat. But the passage does not say "don't mix milk and meat." It doesn't say anything about meat. It says, "don't boil a kid in it's mother's milk." What's the operative word? Boil. There is an action. Who is doing the boiling? You are. And what is the end result of the boiling? It's killing or cooking that poor baby goat who is about to become your dinner.

Okay, but don't get too sad. We still have to eat. It's just that talking about a "kid," and "it's mother's milk" has led people to deal almost exclusively in two categories: milk and meat. But the text does not say "meat." It says "kid." It's talking about a baby goat. It's not a chunk of flesh. It's an animal. And it has a mother. What does a mother do? It wants to feed its child. And so when I hear that phrase, I see it as a larger metaphor. I divide what it's giving me into two different categories. I see "that which is nourishing" and "that which is killed." The killing of a goat is sad, but necessary for our survival. We have to do it, so let's do it in the right way. Let's be nice to the goat, and let's be nice to it's mother. What's the purpose of milk? It feeds. It brings us into life. Boiling or cooking is the act of taking life away, and never the twain shall meet, saith the Lord.

Milk gives us nourishment when we are young and struggling and vulnerable. It is the essence of a mother's care which cannot be expressed in words. And in fact, "express" is the same term used medically to refer to lactation. It is, literally and figuratively, a mother's expression of her love for her child. Even if she never said a word to that child. And if we, as conscientious people, are to take that milk from the mother, which was intended to give her child life, turn around and use it to kill her baby, well, that would be just mean. No wonder we would be given divine severance of existence.

So what that commandment is saying, to me, is, "don't use that which is intended to give life (or nourishment) as an agent of death." And to me that goes way beyond how many dishes I have or whether I put cheese on my hamburger. It means, use everything for its intended purpose. Don't mix things up. You'll get confused. You'll forget what is life and what is death. You won't know what makes you happy and what makes you sad. You will forget the value of life, and that's when you'll be cut off.

And, to take it even one step further, there is a human element. Because we are like the goats. Our mothers also give us milk. When we take a kid and boil it in its mother's milk, it is as if we might as well be boiling our own children in the milk of our breasts. Who could do that? What kind of mother would you be? Not me, you say. I would never do that to my child. But would you? In what other ways do you nourish your child? What other ways do you help them grow and thrive? In what other ways do you express love for your child? Or it could be anyone you love. A husband, a friend, a neighbor. I think what this phrase is saying, on a deeper level, is also, don't use your means of love as a tool for hurt. Don't abuse your love's expression and make it cause pain. Don't kill other people - especially your children who depend on you, but we all depend on each other in one way or another - with your potential for goodness and nourishment. Because it's the same milk one way or the other. It can feed the kid or it can kill it. It all depends on the delivery, and that choice is up to us. That is where the burden of commandment falls upon our shoulders. Know what you are doing and how it is going to affect people. Know when you are feeding and when you are killing, and keep the two far away from each other.

And that's why we need to separate our milk and meat. Not because it is meaningful in and of itself, but because by doing so it reminds us that the part of our lives that nourishes relationships should not be mixed with the part that kills and destroys and takes life away, even as that act is also what feeds us.

The Space Between

2008-06-15T18:32:00.000-07:00

I am looking at a plum. I like looking at things. I think that’s why I became an artist. For me, there is this pure pleasure sometimes in just sitting and staring at an object, a scene, a person, a patch of light on the wall. I’m like a cat. Or I can be. Because most of the time, when we are looking at things, we are not really looking. We are seeing it, but we are preoccupied with our thoughts and our internal vision. Our construct of time is telling us what we have done, or what we are going to be doing in the future. Our thoughts might attach layers of meaning to the thing, whether or not that meaning needs to be there. But we hardly ever take the time to engage ourselves purely within the act of seeing.

And as I look at this tiny plum, I realize I never saw before how, even though it is more red on one side, fading to a light green on the other, there are these green-gold speckles all over the skin that are the same throughout. Have all plums always been like this? The seem like marks of the sun, carriers of its energy. They even have little dark borders that set them off from the rest of the skin. But they are not any bumpier than the skin. They are part of it. Smooth, unbroken. Only in that rift from top to bottom do those speckles merge into streaks of color. The line is smooth, but there are streaks. Green, green, and one shot of red. It is the fruit’s center line. It is its scar. It is its badge of authenticity and existence. It means it’s real.

As hold, it, I am captivated by the place where the plum’s red skin rests against my thumb. I see the deep flesh-colored shadow, and the reflection of my thumb on its surface. I see how the light defines the lines on my fingertip. I close one eye. Then the other. Getting the different perspectives. I close both eyes, and open them again, comparing the vision. With each eye, I can see that there are three dimensions, but those dimensions don’t assert themselves until both eyes are open. I think about hologram images and how the superimposition of two slightly different points of view gives us our sense of existing in space. How brilliant to have that every day, without even thinking about it. And by concentrating with both eyes open, I can see that it is in fact the slight discrepancy between each eye that makes the thing look more real. It is not where the visions match but where they don't that gives it depth. It makes the plum's roundness and colors pop. It gives my thumb a sense of life. It’s exciting. I think, an artist who can capture that would be a brilliant artist indeed.

That is what art is after, is it not? But what is it that really needs to be captured? It’s not the image itself. That would be flat. Rather it would be the space between, the missing thing, the discrepancy - that is what would give it life. That disjointed, flexible image created by the space between our eyes. The subtle jarring of two images coming together but not quite matching. And the space between it and you. It and everything else. The negative creates the positive.

This is true in so many ways.

And at the Tikkun Leyl Shavuot that I went to at the beginning of June, there was a teaching on the mystery of the giving of the Torah. And the teacher spoke of three Rabbis who all gave their opinion on how and why and what it was about Moses’ encounter with G-d that gave his face that special radiance as he came down from the mountain. One of the Rabbis said that Moses held the tablets with his two hands and it took up one third of the space to hold the tablets. And G-d held the tablets with His Two Hands, and it took up a third of the space. And the shining that flowed through Moses, the Rabbi said, came from the space between them, that extra third space.

It sounds bizarre, but why couldn't it be true? It seems to me, it is true about the plum. because it is like the space between our eyes. The space between one person and another, one thing and something else. It is the thing we don't see that makes the seen possible. The negative gives us life, breadth and depth, and separation yields connectedness.

Surgery

2008-06-14T09:31:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine, who wants to move to my city, emailed me recently, to say she might not be able to as soon as she would like to, because she had to have some surgery. Last year, she did something to her wrist, where it was in a cast, or a splint for a long time. She couldn't write or drive. She had to take time off work. About 8 months later, someone recommended she see a hand specialist. They took an MRI and found out she had a congenital defect with her bone structure. One of her arm bones in the forearm was longer than the other. And so the surgery was done to correct this, to avoid further problems in the future, and she is waiting to see if she has the same problem in her other arm.

The point of all this is to say, isn't that how life is, sometimes? It obviously caused her a lot of pain to have this injury, and surgery is scary. They had to break her bone to shorten it and secure it with a metal plate. But if it had not been for the injury, no one would have looked into her arm with the MRI and found the underlying problem. This is just what life does to us. Sometimes, you can get along just fine with a basic defect. And it doesn't seem that there is anything wrong because you've constructed ways to work around it. It's just how you know to be. But when you suddenly encounter a situation where your structure doesn't hold up, it brings that defect out and shows it to the light. Or you have an injury, mental, physical, emotional, that causes someone - a doctor, a friend, or even yourself - to look closely and see what's been wrong all the time but was hidden from view. And as painful as the experience is, what it really becomes is an opportunity to fix and heal that structure. To put the metal plate in place, and strengthen who you are so that you avoid greater injury in the future.

Passover

2008-06-14T09:09:00.000-07:00

This year, I celebrated Passover with some friends in Berkeley. Present: friend I met at a reform synagogue. How we became instant friends, I am not sure. How quickly it dissolved afterward, equally a mystery. But some things just are not meant to be, or are meant to be just what they are. There was the Jewish-Buddhist massage therapist with a sideline practice of dealing Blackjack. Who knew? The hosts: woman of Jewish descent, not highly practiced, and her former-Catholic boyfriend/partner, very enthusiastic about practicing Judaism. And me: self-conscious quasi-Jewish curious convert and interloper.

In the car on the way over, it was me, the Ju-Bu MT, and my reform friend, driving. After we got off the highway, I decided to say it. I hadn't told him yet before that I wasn't really Jewish. I was afraid that if I went into this High Holiday without telling him the truth, that I would be misrepresenting myself and essentially lying. It gave me great conflict to be, on the one hand, in this place, which was where I wanted to be, celebrating these Jewish things, and on the other hand, an active singing member of a choir at a huge cathedral. Some sort of diametrically opposed situation. A double life, so to speak.

So I told him. "Thank you for coming out to me," he said. You're welcome, I guess. It seemed odd. Suddenly I wished I hadn't told him. What did it matter? I was there. I was 100%. What did it matter what my background was? What other part of my existence was significant? And I had the sense, too (which I have had before), that even mentioning it was somehow a missionary thing. Why would I mention it at all, if I didn't want to get people on board with me? Because (as I discovered recently), it even says in scripture, "you shall not mention other gods." And it comes down to a sense to giving attention. You can't mention it, you can't even talk about it, even to say how awful it is, because even by doing so, you give attention, and that draws away from the main thing, the presence, the beauty you are supposed to attend to, and the people you are with. And I think I realized that this is what it did. It poisoned the situation in some small way. I felt like I wanted to be honest. But in truth, as it turns out, it would have been more honest not to say a thing. Because the truth was making itself known already, without my blabbering tongue. And it was making itself known to me. I needed to be present to hear it, not to be making my own assumptions and stating my case and this and that.

Especially since it occurred to me later that in fact what I said to him did not amount to a "coming out" at all. To me, when a person "comes out," as gay, lesbian, transgender, political, whatever, it means that they are coming out with the truth of who they are. What I "came out" to him with was a lie. A lie about who I am. If I was to come out at all, it would be to say, look, I've lived this one particular way all my life, but that's not me, that doesn't represent me or who I am or what I believe. Don't judge me on that. Because at this time in my life, it's the Judaism in me that's coming out. It's been stuck inside me all this time, trying to get free, and I've just been repressing it, for fear of rejection, fear of disapproval, perhaps, fear of my own belief. But the truth is, I don't fear the rejection of my family. I don't rely on their approval. It means nothing to me. If they love me, they will continue, because they know who I am, and I haven't changed. I am just becoming more of me, and I can stand up for this, because it is me, and if anything, my experience has given me ample evidence to back up my case. I fear no opposition. This is solid for me.

It is also possibly the most adult and well-considered choice I have ever made. And it makes me happy.

Converting

2008-06-14T08:56:00.000-07:00

It's a weird thing to talk about converting. How do I start? What does it mean?

Well, to me, it almost seems that I am not converting. For one thing, I never believed anything else. I just happened to have been born in a different situation. In college I thought of converting to Judaism, but it seemed to me I couldn't really do that, because I had never been born Jewish, so I would never have that experience of being raised in a Jewish home with Jewish traditions and beliefs. And yet, when I look back at my experience, it almost seems that my life was in some ways preparing me for this nonetheless. Life is what you take out of it. And the things that strike me and resonate with me are things that fit the Jewish spectrum.

And in fact, the fact that there is a kind of Jewish spectrum - of belief, of modes of being, of choices and variety - is another thing that resonates with me. To me, Judaism is just another way of saying "life." They are synonymous. And any other construction of it is just another way of looking at the same story. And even though there are many stories in Judaism, they are all basically the same. Because they are life. They are images of life, of living, of people in all their dirty, grotesque, misbehaving, transgressing, and ultimately loving and glorious existence.

To identify with Judaism is, for me, to glorify my experience. Not in a bad way, or an egotistical way, to say I'm so special, or more special than anyone else. But just that I am special, like anyone else. It's a bit Mr. Rogers, I guess. But it's humility. It's a humbling experience. Because as big as my experience is to me, it is a drop in the sea compared to all that is. But it is my drop. And I can be proud of it and sanctified with it. And when I offer it up to give it to the sea, it adds to the greatness, it mingles with it, and I can share in the experience. Only when I hold onto it and keep it for myself does it become small.

That is why I want to share my experience. That is why I want the world to know what I've done, what I'm doing, and why. Not to glorify myself. And not to be an exhibitionist. But to add to and validate the experience of others.

Baalat Teshuva

2008-06-14T08:47:00.000-07:00

From Wikipedia:

The Talmud expresses high regard of Baalei teshuva, by stating that "the position where Baalei teshuva attain; even Tzadikim gemurim (those who were always righteous) cannot attain".

Darkness Limited

2008-06-12T20:58:00.000-07:00

Everything has its limits, even darkness.

As the Zohar says,

"When the world was made, a limit was set
how long it will function in confusion."

May 1, 1980

2008-06-11T07:16:00.000-07:00

My birthday. I've always thought that even if I could pick a day to be born on, out of any day of the calendar, in any year, I would still pick this day. It seems special to me. And I was a breech baby. I don't know if there is something special to that, but I guess I always go through life with a sense of being somehow slightly different. Not in a bad way. Just in a way that makes me not afraid.