Touché

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kind of like human relationships.

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

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

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

Hanukkah by surprise

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

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

This dreidel was real.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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