Confession Time: The Toughest Part About Being in the U.S.

I have a confession to make: It's hard being back in the U.S. Really hard. Yes, I miss my friends and my adopted family back in Neve Daniel and Jerusalem, and I miss the convenience of observing Judaism with ease and a level of comfort I can't find anywhere else. But this isn't what I'm talking about. 

I'm talking about the temptation. 

I didn't grow up Jewish. We all know this. In fact, I didn't start strictly observing things like modesty and keeping kosher until well into my 20s. That's a lot of my life spent with the conveniences of America: McDonalds, Chick-Fil-A, and other terrible, bad-for-you convenience restaurants and fast-food stops. I mean, I could probably count the number of home-cooked meals I made in college on my two hands. No feet needed here, folks. College was Subway, Wendy's, Taco John's, Taco Bell, D'Leon's ... (no wonder my pregnancy food was Mexican). 

Do you know how hard it is to drive down the street, starving, and not stop into a Mickey D's for some delicious, greasy French fries? 

Having worked at McDonalds for two years in high school, I know that they are pretty strict about their standards of what they cook and where. The fry stations are used strictly for fries. No chicken nuggets or patties or anything. Just. Fries. 

Knowing this, of course, is hard for me. Yes, there are a million problems with picking up French fries from a completely non-kosher establishment, even if there was a giant box around the fry station that other, non-kosher food never entered, but knowing, just knowing that those are dedicated fryers ... AGH! It kills me. 

The temptation, of course, is constantly pushed down by the fact that I'm a kosher-keeping Jew, of course. Being gluten free also helps push the temptation down because, well, let's be honest, there isn't much eating out I can do here or in Israel where I can eat carefree. 

But it's tough. Yes, this is a first-world problem situation, but it's just plain difficult. You have to constantly have snacks with you and plan meals out like a drill sergeant because if you get caught starving and it's dinnertime, Denver gives you few options for a quick bite to eat. 

There's the ever-amazing Brooklyn Pizza, but how much pizza can you eat in one week? There's a delicious ice cream joint High Point Creamery, but too much ice cream makes for tummy woes and despite an Italian-themed favorite, it isn't a meal. We don't go to the local deli because, well, too many stories about food poisoning and the place just doesn't respect itself enough for me to respect it.  And then there's the fact that all of these restaurants are clustered in a specific part of town absolutely nowhere near where I work. 

Oh what I wouldn't give for a nearby restaurant to go out to lunch with my coworkers. To feel like a normal member of a "working lunch" society. 

The amount of times we've been out running errands and stopped someplace to buy a package of lettuce, some tomatoes, and packaged smoked salmon to hodgepodge a bite to eat would blow your mind. We can't pop into an Aroma or local gas station where the food is just plain kosher like in Israel or even in places like Teaneck or NYC. 

Am I kvetching too much? Perhaps. I'm just feeling the pressure. The pressure of being a full-time working mother who lives someplace that is chock full of Jews but doesn't have the dining and cultural infrastructure to meet the demands.

No worries folks. No slippery slope over here (been there, done that). 

I suppose this is part of teshuvah (repentance). I'm being placed in situations and scenarios where it would be easy for me to eat out here or there just getting the "vegan" or "vegetarian" option like I did once upon a time when I was less than strict in my observance of kashrut. 

I just keep telling myself: The tummy grumbles and moments of hunger are worth the healthy choices at home. We'll be back in Israel soon. HaShem is working this out with me. One day at a time. 

The Colorado Life

Sitting in a lounge chair watching Maury.

This is the American side of the Asher Yitzhak. :)

There are two things I can say outright now about being back in Colorado. One positive, one negative. Whether one outweighs the other is yet to be seen.

Awesome thing: Customer service here is amazing. I call and things are handled immediately. I need to return something, and it's not at all a problem. Used a couple of nappies in the wrong size? Take 'em back to Target and return them. Money back? No problem. Gift card form? Not an issue. Mr. T was absolutely baffled by the interaction.

Bummer thing: Shabbat is tough because our walk to the synagogue is along one of the busy drags in town, with cars flying by day and night. It doesn't feel like Shabbat. It's not quiet and relaxing and peaceful; it's loud and noisy and stressed.

There's more, of course. I like being able to walk into a store and get exactly what I need and not pay five million shekels for it. Being able to buy a shirt for $5 and knowing that it isn't going to fall apart is a blessing. Being able to buy the right things I need for Ash is brilliant. Finding inexpensive, delicious gluten-free food is wonderful.

Going places and everyone not being Jewish?

It's interesting. It's a weird adjustment. Even in Israel where not everyone is Jewish, you don't really feel like you're living in a non-Jewish country. Here, I get excited when I see another women in a head covering or sheitel (wig) in Target or King Soopers or at the Starbucks. But having people look at my name and say CHA-viva (like in cheese) is interesting and amusing. It's nice in a way. I get to share a little piece of information: "It's Hebrew," I say.

There's a delicate balance when it comes to living outside of the "Jewish state" of Israel. I find it both easy and hard. It's easy in the sense that it's more obvious here that I'm Jewish. I have to try harder. I have to think about things. I can't just buy things without thinking about it. Keeping kosher becomes more conscious than passive. And you get the opportunity to explain Judaism and its quirks to others when people ask you, curiously, what life is like in Israel.

On the other hand, it's hard because you can't just go anywhere and eat, you can't assume someone knows what you mean when you use certain words. Someone sneezes, you have to consider whether saying "l'vrioot" (lee-vree-oot) makes sense or a "bless you" will suffice. You can't go to all of your friends' homes for dinner, either, making building relationships something of a challenge sometimes.

But there we are. More reflections forthcoming, of course. This life is interesting, as it always has been. I'm just glad you're all coming along for the ride.

What is a Jewish Birthday?

All of the goodness in this blog post comes from the amazing book that is Bnei Avraham Ahuvecha: Gerim in Chassidic Thought by the illustrious and wonderful Dov ben Avraham.

I was born on September 30, 1983 || 23 Tishrei 5744.
I was born Reform-Jewishly on April 28, 2006 || 30 Nissan 5766.
I became a halachic Jew on January 1, 2010 || 15 Tevet 5770.

So, what do I celebrate?

I get excited every year when we're nearing Simchat Torah because that's my birthday! The actual day that I was born day. The day that I crawled out of the womb of a non-Jew into a big world that was just waiting for me to realize my neshama. I like to think of it as HaShem knowing that I'd someday give in to the Jewishness and thus forced me out into the world on the day that we dance around and celebrate the completion of the cycle of Torah. It's celebrating coming full circle. Thus every year I really feel like my birthday and Simchat Torah really offer a unique experience.

But the truth is this: Even though my my actual date of birth remains the same (halachically speaking), I should be celebrating my spiritual birth as a Jew. Even though when a person completes geirus (conversion) it is a rebirth, the ger emerges as a gadol (a fully halachic adult).

In Tosafot Rosh HaShanah 27a, Rabbeinu Tam writes that G-d's ...

"desire for the world began in the month that would eventually become Tishrei, while the physical creation of the world happened in the month of Nissan. The physical creation of the world, however, is not emphasized or celebrated. Instead, we commemorate God's desire for a world which would benefit from His goodness. The date of a ger's physical creation, his biological birth date, is not the tachlis (the purpose) of his being. Rather, his purpose, what God ultimately desires of him, is found in his spiritual birth via becoming a Jew." ("Some Halachic Aspects of Geirus" by Rabbi Avraham Chaim Bloomenstiel in Bnei Avraham Ahuvecha)

Thus it's most appropriate for the convert to celebrate the spiritual creation rather than the physical creation.

That being said, there's nothing outright wrong with celebrating your Gregorian/physical date of birth. In fact, after so many years of doing so, it seems strange to switching to just my spiritual birthday. Celebrating both, on the other hand, seems right up my alley.

I do think it's interesting to consider, however, that a born Jew -- whether they're religious or not -- technically has their "spiritual awakening" at birth, no matter how spiritual. It's automatic.

Then again, I suppose that there is not date and time that a born Jew becomes a ba'al teshuva, right? Or can you pinpoint the moment you returned to religious observance (if you're a BT)? And if you're a convert, what birthday do you celebrate?

Names.Vocabulary to Know

• Rabbeinu Tam was a leading 12th-century halachic authority. 
• Tosafists were medieval rabbis from France and Germany who are among those known in Talmudic scholarship as rishonim that created critical and explanatory questions, notes, interpretations, rulings, and sources on the Talmud.

Links to Visit

• Find your Hebrew birthday and make your own certificate here: http://www.chabad.org/calendar/birthday_cdo/aid/6228/jewish/When.htm

Big Differences: Ba'alei Teshuva and Converts

I recently received the following email from a blog reader.

...More than once people have drawn the comparison between being a convert and being a BT. I find myself having a hard time explaining the difference to people who cannot relate. My question to you is what is your thoughts on this and if you can help me figure out something smart to say about what makes converts different than BTs.

So for starters, BT stands for ba'alei teshuvah, also known as someone who is born Jewish and either isn't religious and then becomes religious, or is religious, strays, and returns to the religion. 

This is a conversation I have more frequently than I'd like, and it's also one that very rarely has a clean resolve. BTs often feel like they've gone through what a convert has, while converts are often left feeling like BTs and even FFB (frum-from-birth) Jews just "don't get it." In fact, I find it personally frustrating when BTs say that they're also "Jews by Choice." A Jew by birth didn't choose the birthright, it was inherited. A convert chooses to answer the call of the small, still neshamah within. 

So my conversation ender is usually something along the lines of this: 

A born Jew can eat pork one day and have an aliyah the next day. They'll always be Jewish, no matter how far they stray from the path. A convert who has a halachic conversion is held to a "higher standard" that requires a strict adherence to the path. If he or she strays, the entire conversion becomes one big question mark. 

This is something I had cause to deal with earlier this year, as you all know. And I'm sure there are still people who would think twice about having me at their Shabbos table, let alone setting me up with a sibling or cousin. 

I want to emphasize that I'm not saying that BTs or converts are better, holier, or have a more difficult experience than the other. I'm saying they're different. The experiences are different. The outcomes are different. And the struggles are different. 

Whereas a BT might have to deal with a long-secular family thinking they've gone nuts or joined the "dark side," a convert might have an incredibly supportive non-Jewish family that doesn't get it but is willing to support them. On the other hand, a BT might mess up and eat meat and milk together and people will chock it up to the learning curve while a convert might be told that they clearly had a poor education and aren't committed to the law. It's different. Apples and oranges, folks. 

So what do you think? Is there a magic bullet that separates the BT from the convert? A conversation stopper that says there are differences? 

To Talk in Shul

I was digging through some old posts for something and came across an old post that was very near and dear to my heart. Thus, I started writing this blog post.

Several years back, I attended shul at probably the most talkative congregation on the face of the planet. The entire experience was a mess for me -- someone who cherishes the silent moments while davening or listening to Torah reading or being in solitude with someone saying kaddish. I love what I like to call the "organized chaos" of an Orthodox service -- when there are places for loud or communal davening, the voices intermingled whooshing upward are beautiful to me. But the rest of the time? Silence is golden.

The Zohar identifies a person who speaks about worldly matters in synagogue as a kofer b'ikar -- a heretic (Parashas Terumah 131a), and the Roke'ach adds that one who speaks during prayer is guilty of masig g'vul or stealing the sanctity of the synagogue (Hilchos Teshuvah, Siman 26). One text goes so far as to say that he who speaks in shul is chillul Hashem -- desecrating the name of HaShem.

And then there is the Mishnah Berurah citing the testimony of the Eliyahu Rabbah who writes in the name of the Kol Bo saying, "Woe to those people who speak during the prayers. For we have seen several synagogues destroyed as a result of this sin."

So what's to do? According to a halachic ruling by the Kaf HaChaim, a person who habitually talks during prayer should stay home and pray alone, rather than bring others around him down to his depths of disrespect, making him a chotei u'machti es harabim -- a sinner who casuses others to sin and forfeits his portion in the World to Come (olam ha'ba).

I understand that so many people come to shul to be social, but there's a reason most synagogues have a social hall. There's a sanctuary, there's a social hall. I guess I don't understand why for some these two spaces have to be the same. Is it really so difficult? And with more and more studies coming out showing that multi-tasking is a myth, you can't really say that someone wants to be present for the Torah reading but also be social -- you're not taking in the parshah if you're talking, and you're sinning by talking during the reading anyway.

What do you think?

Note: These texts come from a two-part bit in "Praying with Fire" -- one of my favorite mini-books. 

What Does Modern Orthodoxy Mean?

What. A. Shabbat.

I don't know what it was about this Shabbat, but it felt good. I felt uplifted and in-step with myself. Despite the noise of the random visitors there for simchas of people I've never met or seen at shul, despite the wind and a bit of rain, this Shabbat was a bright spot on my Shabbatot here in Denver. I got invited out for lunch (mad props to Mr. and Mrs. L who also are of the vegetarian variety) and got to listen to the illustrious and hilarious Rabbi Dani Rapp talk.

If you've never experienced Rabbi Rapp, he's in the NY area and you need to find some time to go and listen to him. He provides humor with depth, and during his time here in Colorado for the YU Summer of Learning, I've found myself waking up more and more.

Tonight, for example, at seudat shlishit (third meal), he was discussing Modern Orthodoxy (subtitled "The Final Frontier"). He used three classic biblical narratives to give depth and understanding to what exactly it means to be Modern and Orthodox, the Tower of Babel and Yosef and his brothers among them. (I know, I should remember the third, but it's escaping me.)

Regarding the Tower of Babel, I heard a take on the narrative that -- despite my vast education on the topic both religiously and academically -- I hadn't considered. Rabbi Rapp cited Nehama Leibowitz when saying that we sometimes need to learn Torah like Rashi did -- without Rashi. (*giggle snarfle giggle*) The common narrative that we know isn't what's really in the text. That being said, Rabbi Rapp told a story of a people who built a tower as high as the sky in order to watch over the community -- to make sure no one left. This people gathered in a valley, speaking one language, and realized that they had a good thing going: homogeneity. They decided it was a good way of life, so they built the tower to keep people in, to keep them in line. HaShem said, whoa, folks, this isn't how the world was meant to work! Spread to the corners of the earth, inhabit my creation! Thus, bavel -- confusion, multiple languages, and a people spread out. A people living among other people.

Now the story of Yosef and his brothers also had a quirk that I hadn't noticed before. It goes something like this: Yosef had a dream. He wanted to go out, to be as he was but to show the world, to spread HaShem and their way of life around. To be a light unto the nations. His brothers, on the other hand, thought things were good, that Yosef was nuts, that the internal culture they had was solid. So they sold Yosef, bid him good luck in living in the "outside world" and maintaining who he was. And guess what? Yosef proved them so wrong. When the brothers come to Yosef, their shame is from knowing that his philosophy was right -- not that they'd sold him. Yosef knew something his brothers didn't: We're meant to be out in the world, living with other nations and growing in Yiddishkeit.

So what does this all mean? How did Rabbi Rapp amazingly tie it back into what Modern Orthodoxy means for us today? These narratives are two examples where HaShem was proving to the Israelites/Jewish people that we're meant to be a people among the nations. A light unto the nations, if you will. To that point, "Modern" in Modern Orthodoxy doesn't mean less or leniency or even that a Modern Orthodox Jew is living in the modern, outside world. No, it means MORE. Why? Because, like Yosef, when you are put in a position where the world is not homogenous, you must try harder and be more committed to living a Torah-observant life. It takes more strength to live among the nations and not to become one of them, but rather to hold your head high and serve as an example -- a light -- unto the nations of the world of what determination and commitment look like.

Wow. Right?

In the process of the day, Rabbi Rapp was able to make passing mentions of the ASIFA, Whole Foods, 14'ers, the Xbox, and so very much more. That's a talent -- engaging Torah with pop culture woven in. Some rabbis try really hard to make it happen. Rabbi Rapp did it, and it's left a lasting impact on me. After his shiur this evening I told him that he's very "Tweetable," so it's hard to listen to him on Shabbat. That's the sign of a good rabbi, folks.

If you're jonesing for a bit of learning, check out YU Torah and search for Rabbi Rapp there to hear some of his shiurim from his summer here in Denver -- many of which are on conversion, believe it or not. (Oh, did I mention he's an RCA Beth Din member?)

Parshat Naso: The Origins of Hair Covering

That's me with a tichel, circa this time last year in Jerusalem.

Hello faithful blog readers! I've been meaning to do a video blog for a while, but I just haven't had the time to sit down and do it. Any topics you'd like me to speak frankly on?

Anyhow, I wanted to post really quick about this week's parshah or Torah portion (Naso), because it is within this that we find the beginnings of the laws of hair covering. I've written extensively on it, because I think that it's important that we understand the halachot or laws of hair covering, but also the societal and cultural norms that have painted our colorful history of hair covering. Thus, I give you two blog posts:

• Cover Your Hair: Why? -- This gives the halachot and rabbinic background on the topic.

• Covering Your Hair: Leprous Plague? -- This looks at the cultural context of hair covering and how/when sheitels or wigs came into practice and the various opinions on the tichel (scarf) versus the sheitel, as well as different modern rabbinic takes on hair covering.

Enjoy!

Oh Passover! Oh Passover! How Soon You are Approaching!

Oh ... Passover! Pesach! The feast of unleavened bread! The week of pained colon! So on, and so forth. 'Tis the season, folks, are you fully prepared?

I'll just say that I'm not. Period. I bought some stuff to exist as Passover-specific, and I'm planning on taking a bucket-load of things to be kashered tomorrow -- pots, pans, and other bigger items that I can't kasher on my stovetop. But beyond that? I haven't started cleaning and the amount of kosher l'pesach products I've purchased is relegated to some jam, some of the Yehuda Gluten-Free Matzos (which don't fulfill the mitzvah for the seder), and a few other things. I'm trying to buy as little as humanly possible for Passover, largely because over the past three years the volume of things that I had in my dating and married life sort of horrifies me now. When I was married, we had two homes and each of those homes had three sets of everything for everything. We had Meat, Dairy, Parve and Passover Meat, Dairy Parve. Among two homes, that amounted to twelve sets of things. Of course, the Parve weren't full sets, but otherwise, we had it. It was just too much. So I'm going minimalist this year.

Thus, tomorrow, it being the kashering day, also is going to be the "start the cleaning" day. I've got a kosher l'pesach Smoothie Maker for all of my liquid-diet needs, and I'm planning on doing a lot of salads and eggs.

And on that note, I'm also going Sephardic. That means I plan on digging through piles of rice to get all the bad things out, so that come Friday night, I have clean, kosher-for-Passover rice. I probably won't delve too much into beans, but I do plan on having quinoa around. Flax Seed also is a friend of mine, so you can expect that will be in the diet plan, too. Also? I was elated to find out there are certain brands of Rice and Almond milk that are good for Passover (for Sephardim) WITHOUT certification. Color me stoked! (Find the Sephardic kosher-for-Passover products list here.)

Luckily, I have a pantry that I can simply close off, and I plan on taping off all of my cabinets, too. This is going to be live-on-the-counter Passover.
x
The reality, lucky for me, is that there really isn't any chametz in my home to begin with. The only thing that is chametz are the gluten-free oats that I have. Otherwise, this is a 24/7/365-chametz-free zone. Does that mean any less cleaning? Nope. Oats are chametz, and thus hardcore cleaning is a must.

I'm also one of those people who always ascribed to the idea that on Passover, a house should be completely clean of chametz. You have plenty of warning, you know when Passover is, so eat all of your bread and cereal beforehand. I've never bought into this whole "sell your chametz" thing. It just seems like a cheap copout. But this year? Well, the gluten-free oats that I have are from Trader Joe's, and I have an entire unopened bag of them. There are no Trader Joe's near here, and the other gluten-free oats I can purchase are hella expensive. So I'm being that person this year: I'm keeping my oats, locking them away, and feeling like a hypocrite.

In addition, I'm planning to do a hardcore car-cleaning scrub down this week. We all eat in our cars, we can't lie about it. Whether it's a snack or a coffee or a nosh, we do it. I have, without a doubt, eaten some delicious oat-based granola bars in my car, and that's chametz, so I'm going to vacuum the heck out of my car. Plus, it's a good time for Spring Cleaning, so why not?

But I have a week to do all of this. I really need to do a bit of meal-planning so that I have everything I need once Friday attacks. I have plans for both of the seders, yet no plans for the last days of Passover. In between, I plan on my staples of Matzo + Cream Cheese + Jam for snacking and lots of smoothies and raw foods for meals. Still, it's going to be a rough week as a Gluten-Free Vegetarian. I might have to cave and rock out some fish this week.

If you're in a last-minute rush and need some help with finding a seder, figuring out the rules and regulations, or are looking for some gnarly recipes, here are some helpful resources!

• Passover.org | Yes, it's run by Chabad. They own the domain. I think this is impressive! Their website has everything from the blessings to a bounty of recipes that will leave you giggling with joy. I highly recommend the Lemon Ice Cream. Also, they have a calendar to keep you on track with what you're supposed to do when. Print it out, and abide!
• Vegetarian Times Super Seder | If you're like me, you're looking for filling, protein-packed vegetarian meals. These recipes sound delish!
• Oranges + Seder Plates | If you're curious what the history is, read my post on it. 
• Unconverted at the Seder Table? | Yeah, it came up once. It's an interesting thing to consider. Then again, we're supposed to have strangers at our table!
• JoyofKosher.com | It is what it is. A seder-plate full of recipes!
• The Orthodox Union | They have everything you could need up -- a sefirat ha'omer chart, a guide to foods, and more. Check out their digital magazine here. 

Have any questions you think I can answer? Just let me know!

Ask Chaviva Anything!: Conversion, Divorce, and Observance

It's been quite some time since I did an installment of Ask Chaviva Anything! so I thought I would take a bit of time and hammer one out. These questions all came from the same person back in November, so I hope they're still reading and will be pleased that I'm FINALLY answering their questions! If you have questions for me, feel free to ask away.

Some of these will be heavy. Are you ready?

I'm curious to hear your self-observations on your religious practice (1) Before you were married,  (2) while engaged, (3) while married, and (4) while divorced. Did you find yourself more strict in certain areas at different phases, less strict?

This is a most excellent question. How to answer? I can say without flinching that my religious practice before I was married was much more "full" if that makes sense. My observance was about me, and me alone. When I got engaged, I was able to begin looking at other observances that I was to be taking on come marriage time. While married, I began to feel a little lost. Living in Teaneck, NJ, my religious practice became more rote because it was easy to be Jewish. You didn't have to think about practice or observance; everyone just did the same things, ate at the same places, went to the same synagogue. I think that while I was married I regressed a lot in the sincerity of my observance. Now that I'm divorced, I'm in a place of reexamining my religious practice. As a result, you might say I'm "less strict" than I was while married or even engaged, but I think that is probably a natural progression for many when divorce comes. Either that, or you throw yourself into strict observance to fill the void. But right now, I'm in a comfortable place.

Could you walk us through the thought process you had when choosing to leave the NY/NJ area as a new single with hopes of remarrying?

Well, for starters, I didn't have hopes of remarrying, and to be honest I still don't. Leaving NY/NJ was a simple choice. I needed to be someplace where I could clear my head and start fresh on a life that was all my own. This wasn't the first time I've done this. I picked up and moved to Chicago once on a whim, and did sort of the same thing when I quit Chicago and headed for Connecticut. I'm a move-on, start-over kind of person. It's just how I function.

That first month after the religious divorce -- the get -- I was in a head-spinning place of "Meet someone super religious right now and get married to them right now." Luckily, I got out of that headspace. My ex-husband went that route, whereas I went a different route. I reevaluated my family background, my religious headspace, my wants and needs, and at the current juncture, I have no desire to get married or have kids. There are a lot of reasons for this that I haven't discussed on the blog (shocking, I know), but it's a decision with which I've definitely made peace.

What systems of support do you wish existed for the potential convert, convert engaged with a beis din, and the convert post facto (a Jew)?

The essential system of support should simply be whatever community the convert -- at any stage -- lives in. There shouldn't be a need for some kind of special community or foundation to support the convert, but that's an unfortunate reality and it is why there are organizations devoted to assisting converts in Israel. So I run my Conversion Conversation Group on Facebook for individuals at all stages of the process, and I've found that just having a safe space away from the eyes of rabbis and the prying community has helped so many feel comfortable.

If you could pick one time period of Jewish history in which you could witness (i.e., live through it) what historical period/events would it be?

Without a doubt the Middle Ages. It was such a tumultuous and inspiring time to be a Jew, I think. I would have loved to meet Ovadiah ha'Ger, Maimonides, and the like. There was so much movement between Europe and North Africa, and I think that experiencing Egypt during this time would be quite beautiful. On the same note, I would have loved to float around Europe at this time!

What mitzvos do you feel most connected to? The least?

Without a doubt, I feel deeply connected to prayer -- simple things like the Shema and Modah Ani. They keep me on a cycle of waking and sleeping, living and dying. I also feel deeply committed to kashrut, the true roots of kashrut and what it means to understand food and consumption. On that note, I'm also connected very much to tzniut, in all of its forms, but especially in speech. As for those I'm least connected to, that's a good question. I suppose taharat ha'mishpacha (family purity), largely because the span of my marriage that I observed it, it was a dismal experience. Mikvah in that realm, too, held little comfort for me. That being said, when I observed mikvah for conversion, it was an incredibly powerful experience.

Also: I think that living in -- or at least regularly experiencing -- Israel is a huge mitzvah. That's probably the one I feel most connected to overall!

How connected to your "old life" do you feel?  Meaning how has your mentality changed since becoming more observant/converting in terms of world view, politics, priorities?

The truth is, I don't think that I've changed much, outside of feeling more worldly and interested in how the world functions and how it understands religion, peoplehood, race, ethnicity, and identity. Converting to Judaism and becoming more observant has taught me that our (the Jews) greatest enemy is ourselves. I find it constantly troubling how Jews are willing to join forces to fight outsiders but insist on continuing to judge and break down one another. (A great example: Reform Jews recently spoke out in support of Beren Academy when they were told that their basketball game couldn't be rescheduled. How is that relationship the rest of the year?)

I think, if anything, that I've simply come to be who I always was: curious and searching, believing with a sound mind and full heart that there is one G-d and that our actions in this life are what matter the most. Those are values and a mentality that I have held since I was a child, and those are the things that led my neshama to really thrust itself into the spotlight and led me to realize my Jewish self.

Observance, Ethics, and Being a Good Jew

I want very much to thank Stella for passing this along to me. I'm surprised I missed this back when it printed in 2010, but, well, life was in a funny place at the time.

The article -- Joining the Covenant -- was posted on Jewish Ideas Daily more than two years ago, and it was written by Rabbi Irving Greenberg (aka Rabbi Yitz Greenberg), a modern-Orthodox Jew, and details his thoughts about synthesizing "traditional requirements of the law with a principled openness to converts who will not become fully Orthodox."

The article is beautifully written, and I want to highlight a few thing that he says that gives me peace in my perpetual state of flux as an underconstructionist Jew.

Furthermore: I believe with perfect faith that God loves and honors good, serious Jews-whether or not they keep all the mitzvot. I believe that the merit of the mitzvot they do keep, including in the form of good deeds and self-sacrifice, outweighs all the punishments that can be incurred by non-observance, and that God will treat them accordingly.

Also:

As a concluding note I add this: when it comes to defining a good Jew, stressing the "particularist" ritual mitzvot over against the "universalist" mitzvot of ethical behavior is itself a gross distortion.

I think Rabbi Greenberg has hit the nail on the head. So often, we forget what it means to be a Jew. We also forget that our actions are our own in the end and only HaShem has a right to say, think, or act on our individual neshamot. 

It's an old article, but it's worth a read and a consideration, if not more -- action.

The Magical Minhag Tour

At the beginning of November, I posted about my curiosity when it comes to divorce and minhagim (customs) -- do you keep 'em? What if you're a convert, do you go back to being able to choose? Does it matter if you have kids? Does the length of the marriage matter?

Basically, I'm trying to figure out what constitutes minhag retention in the "frum" (religious) Jewish community.

In case you were wondering perhaps why traditions are so important. Check it, Proverbs 1:8.

I spoke with a rabbi recently about this question I had, and after some quick conversation, he said that he doesn't understand why I wouldn't be able to go back to choosing my own minhagim. So I'm researching and exploring Sephardic traditions, because for some reason, a lot of them seem to make a whole lot more sense to me. That and they're absolutely fascinating. (One Sephardic tradition has it that when you say havdalah, you are to look into the wine, and if you see your face, you laugh aloud after the bracha!)

But you're probably asking yourself: Wait, why would you choose your customs? Who chooses their own customs? Isn't the point of a custom that it's something that's passed down?

Well, when you grow up in a nominally Jewish family (you know, the kind of family where you know you're Jewish but have no clue what a lulav is) and become a ba'al teshuvah or when you choose to be Jewish and convert, you don't have customs. You don't claim any traditions, and when you do, they're typically the kind of things where you know what Chanukah is and you light the menorah. There are minimal traditional differences in lighting a menorah (right to left? gain candles or lose candles?)

So, in these situations, you're blessed with the opportunity to choose your customs, your minhagim.

Well, what if you're a convert, you practice nominal Ashkenazi traditions throughout your pre-conversion existence, then the moment you convert you get engaged, and then married to someone who also has nominal traditions that no one really practices, and then you get divorced from that person. What happens?

Let's say you grow up without any Jewish customs, you become religious in your early 20s, you meet a nice Satmar fellow and get married. You take on the stringent Satmar customs, and then, just a few years into your marriage, you get divorced. Are you bound to holding to those Satmar traditions until you meet someone new? And then what if that person isn't Satmar?

What if you're married, observing Lubavitch customs, and you get married and have three children. Then, you get divorced when your kids are all under the age of 5-years-old, and marry a Spanish Portuguese Jew. Do you adopt the customs of you new husband? Because your children are under the age of b'nei mitzvah and their father plays no role in their life, do your kids take on your new husband's traditions? Or do you raise them in the Lubavitch tradition of their father?

Is your HEAD exploding now!?

Over Shabbat we were considering all of the variations and complications that come with minhagim and the wide, expansive set of traditions that can vary from community to community and even family to family within that community. The glory of minhagim is that they are not law. As Rabbi Marc Angel says in "Exploring Sephardic Customs and Traditions,"

One needs to always remember that the purpose of observing minhagim is to bring us closer to God, closer to our tradition, and closer to each other. 

Furthermore, Rabbi Angel cites Rabbi Eliezer Papo who says that "God knows what is in a person's heart" and that minhagim are not meant to be oneupmanship. If the observance of a minhag results in presumptuousness, it's a very uncool thing.

So my question to you, readers is: Have you been married and divorced? How did you choose your customs, or did you just stick with what you  knew? Did you even think about it or consult a rabbi or was it just something that you didn't think about? If you did get to choose your customs as a ba'al teshuvah or convert, how did you go about doing so? 

Limmud Colorado: Dueling Rabbis!

Rabbi Rose, Rabbi Soloway, Rabbi Tirzah Firestone, Rabbi Goldfeder

Well folks, I'm at my first Limmud conference, sitting in my first session (I was helping out this morning with a video blogging session for teens), which many are calling the "Dueling Rabbis." Officially, however, the session is called "Bound, Together." Here's the description:

For the third time at Limmud Colorado, Boulder's Orthodox, Conservative, and Reform rabbis will agree to disagree from a place of deep friendship and respect, as they reflect on the complex question of religious obligation. Rabbi Marc Rose will facilitate a conversation between Rabbi Josh Soloway and Rabbi Gavriel Goldfeder as we explore together the ties that bind us to our ancient wisdom tradition.

So here I am, live blogging some thoughts! Ready? Let's go!

The rabbis were hanging out at Avery Tap House together, and a guy at the bar, looking for a joke about rabbis walking into a bar and lo-and-behold, what showed up was the articles by the three rabbis. 

There has been a lively discussion based on an article that Rabbi Goldfeder (Orthodox) wrote, followed by a response from Rabbi Soloway (Conservative), followed by Rabbi Rose (Reform). The comments online were nasty, so the context for the session herein lies. There is a series of three questions that will be asked and hopefully answered.

• In what ways does the Jewish tradition obligate you to do stuff? And what is the stuff you feel obligated to do?

Rabbi Rose: Grew up in the Reform movement, and I need to start with saying that there's dissonance between my own practice and my own beliefs and those of the Reform movement. ... But I want to amplify what Marc said ... I am not representing the Reform movement. I grew up in an era, as many of us did, in which autonomy, personal autonomy, was a very deep and significant aspect of Jewish life. I grew up with a deep sense that I had an obligation to the Jewish people, but in the broadest sense. ... My entire religious journey as an adult has been trying to understand what is this very deep sense of obligation and compulsion that I now feel to observe mitzvot. ... 

When it comes to the question to whom or to what am I obligated ...  I am not a person who believes in Torah m'Sinai in the most literal sense. I believe that Torah was constructed by human beings over time. Once you affirm your belief in that, you have to ask yourself, Why am I obligated more to the mitzvahs in the Torah than to say in the Odyssey?

I have a belief that my life has a purpose. My religious journey is understanding what that purpose is. ... I have this deep sense of obligation not only to Jewish history and to the Jewish people, but to some deep point within me -- and what that point is we'll talk about later -- that needs to know what it is and to come to a point of self understanding. Because I believe that w/o a deep hunger to know what my life is about and to know why I am here, there is no way for my life to move in a direction. 

Rabbi Goldfeder: We're all here because, I believe, we're all interesting in learning and hearing perspectives that we wouldn't normally hear. I'm going to guess that my experience and perspective is different than most of the people in this room ... You can use me as a way to understand and filter what you're hearing in the news today. ... I don't think of myself as a standard Orthodox rabbi. 

(Grew up Reform, spent his Junior year of college abroad, telling story about Tzfat and worrying about losing his personality in the mix of becoming religious.)

At that point, I was no longer at the center of my universe. It became true to me that I was no longer the arbiter of what I was going to do in many situations. ... I don't wake up and say, Am I going to daven today? I don't envy those people. 

Rabbi Soloway: I think what I struggle with is the relationship as to what Torah is and what the rabbis think it should be. I feel like the Talmud is a very powerfully rich volume of work that inspires me spiritually and definitely gives me more of an understanding of what my obligation is, but I don't feel that the rabbis of the Talmud are direct descendants of Moses on Sinai. ... I don't believe in Torah m'Sinai. ... I think we are still working out what the details of that covenantal relationship are. 

I feel that part of my obligation is to have serious concern for the environment ... Keeping Shabbat and keeping lights on for 25 hours becomes increasingly problematic for me. What is my obligation in that? I think more than anything else when it comes to the concept of being a mensch, it is about awareness. 

• What about the obligation on other people in our lives? How do we engage in relationships with other Jews who do not feel obligated in the same way that we feel obligated? 

Rabbi G: I wrote an article for the Boulder Jewish News that left to a conflagration of sorts and what was interesting to me was that many people took it very personally. "You're judging me," is what I got. 

If a woman comes to me and says, "I want to be a rabbi," I say, Amazing. You want to be more involved? More connected to your Yiddishkeit? That's amazing. That's so wonderful. I don't judge anyone. ... I feel a genuine sense that this is amazing. A sense of pride and joy. 

Because when I speak of obligation, I am not referring to observance. I'm referring to growth and literacy. I believe that every one of us is obligated to be growing and becoming more literate. So when a person says I'm done, I'm finished, I know everything that I need to know, that offends me more than if a person says, I've decided to give up pork and I'm only eating lobster now. ...

If you haven't gotten literate about it, then it's like your opinion to me seems so diminished in my own eyes. We're not having a conversation about what's there, but about something you thought about 20 years ago and then forgot about. We're so informed about things in our life ... why not our Yiddishkeit? ...

I think what's preventing people from practicing literacy is rabbis like me. ... If you write a polemic in the Boulder Jewish News laying out points without access it doesn't work. I see myself, more than anyone else, being one of the -- in terms of Torah -- ten most literate Jews in Boulder. ...

Rabbi R: For me, Torah has an existential claim on me. What I mean by that is that I don't start with the assumption that okay, here's halachah and that's binding ... and therefore I'd be crazy not to follow the path. It's not that, it's more existential. I have this very deep need to understand who I am and what I am. 

How do you embody a life where your consciousness is not at the center of the picture, where your life is not what the world is spinning around? ... I can't get to the point of saying to someone, You have to keep kosher! But I do feel like it's my obligation to guide people down the path. Halacha is an expression of walking down a path.

Rabbi G: So, if a Jew walked up to you and said, I'm going to join an Ashram next week ...

Rabbi R: I would do everything in my power to say, Why join an Ashram? I would do everything in my power to keep them on a Jewish path. ... I'm going to do everything to say that there is a truth here, that you were born into [Judaism].

Rabbi S: I have had, like many people in this room, profound other spiritual traditions. Sometimes there's an attempt to make them Jewish, when I'm really happy to just have different experiences. ... Part of my obligation is to be in relationship with people of other spiritual paths and practices. ... Part of my obligation is to listen to people and hear their stories. ...

Heschel talks about radical amazement ... and he also talks about religious behaviorism. When we no longer feel amazed by our tradition, we have the capacity to close our hearts and stop listening to each other. 

Rabbi G: What is more idolatrist: halachah as idol or vehement ignorance of halachah?

Rabbi R: Must there be a choice? Both are things to be avoided. 

Rabbi G: I think that ego as arbiter is a bigger idol, although there is potential damages in each of them. 

And now? Q&A. I'll cut it off here ... interesting stuff, yes? Thoughts? 

Was I Born for Boulder?

Oh Colorado! You with your sloping valleys and winding mountain roads, your heavy snowfall and sunny days melting it all away. Your coffee shops and head shops, your dispensaries and book stores. How I love you, let me count the ways!

There's something about Colorado that has made me feel better, happier, healthier, wiser. It's like breathing has become easier and my skin doesn't feel so tight around my bones. Even in the thinnest of mountain air, while watching deer rest under pine tree branches, I feel like I'm not breathing borrowed air, stale air, boxed-up and packaged-in air.

At times, I'm almost more cognizant of my Jewish self than I was before. With that said, there's still this void, and I feel it most during Shabbos. When I first came to Colorado I took up with the rest of the crowd in my community and ended up at DAT Minyan, and I visited BMH-BJ a few times as well. At first it was comfortable, and then it wasn't. I can't explain it, but the longer I'm here the longer I long for the Orthodox community I knew back in Chicago or West Hartford. There's something about those communities and their mixed multitudes (the good kind) that made Judaism seem so much more varied, diverse, exploratory, confusing, beautiful, bright, growing.

So, at the invitation of Rabbi Goldfeder and his wife up in Boulder (if you recall, I wrote about his book recently, and if you haven't purchased it and you're married, then I insist that you procure it post-haste), I spent this past Shabbos with their family and the community. I had been invited up before but some work drama and family drama and life drama kept me from visiting, so I was elated to make the trip this time around.

I arrived within minutes of candle lighting thanks to a turn-around on the way, but I got there, zipped to my humble abode and got ready for Shabbos. I stuck around with the kids (three, beautiful, awesome, intelligent, hilarious, loving kids, by the way) and the rabbi's wife Ketriellah for the evening and got to know the family a bit, and then a big group arrived and the Shabbos table was full for the evening. The variety and diversity of people -- Israelis, former Israelis, locals and their families -- made for an interesting conversation and a great meal that was, by the way, GLUTEN FREE! Yes, everything (save the challah the rabbi made) was deliciously gluten-free. I was instantly sold on moving in. I wonder if they'll have me?

Saturday morning I woke up incredibly late and schlepped off to shul, which is sort of in half of a home that has been converted, and the sanctuary is just downright cozy. The moment I stepped out of the rabbi's house, I was greeted by a gray sky and snowy mountains in the not-so-distant distance. Can you imagine waking up every day and seeing the mountains right there?

At the shul, the mechitzah hangs curtain-style from the ceiling with beautiful silver ringlet chains, there are brightly colored carpets and artwork, comfy chairs, seforim everywhere, and even a nifty little container with all of the spices and incense used at the Temple. Very, very great atmosphere. And when I walked in, the group was waiting for a few more men for minyan for the Torah reading, so there was sort of a group-study going on, which actually, honestly, I thought was pretty amazing. Walking through the Torah and hearing feedback and comments from the group of men and women is sort of how I picture a group of Jews spending their Saturday morning.

Thinking. Talking. Asking. Exploring. All orbiting the weekly parshah.

We davened Mussaf, and then the room was cleared and everyone helped set up for kiddush, which, by the way, was pretty much all gluten-free friendly! (Did I mention I was in heaven?) We walked home to a warm meal, some reading time (and I got a neck massage from one of the Goldfeder daughters -- she's a pro at the ripe age of six, seriously), and then preparation for the third meal.

And in the midst of it all, it began snowing.

The third meal was filled with the sound of Hebrew (many Israelis were there) and children running amok in the basement. We talked about what it means to be a chosen people, among other things, and I felt like my Shabbos was complete. The sky darkened and all of the kids and guests gathered for havdallah, and then the rabbi busted out his guitar for some Shavua Tov-ing song-style.

I know I only spent about 25 hours in Boulder within the small Jewish community there, but I feel like the aura of the community, the people, the place ... there's something about it. I know so many people who would fit in so perfectly with Rabbi Goldfeder and the intelligent curiosity and belief that is ever-present there. It's something I haven't felt in a long time. And those of you who have searched near and far for a place where you fit Jewishly understand what that means, what that feeling feels like.

So I had an amazing time. I felt, for the first time in a long time, like my Shabbos meant something, like there was a tangible spark in my soul that I could walk away with and start the new week with.

Perhaps the funniest thing about it all is that the community I was in was an Aish community -- and those of you who have read me a long time know about my history with Aish. But there's something about this Aish rabbi and community that has something bigger to offer than is being expressed and understood in the greater Colorado community. (Check out the Boulder Aish Kodesh site here.)

If only I lived in Boulder, eh?

Also: If you want to see the beautiful hamsa that marks the gate for the shul, just Google Map and Street View 1805 Balsam Avenue, Boulder, Colorado!


EDIT/NOTE: So it turns out that Boulder Aish Kodesh is not tied to the large organization Aish HaTorah! Well that explains a lot. 

The Big Reveal

Note: If you want to respond to the content of this post, please post in the comments. Any emails sent to me privately on this topic will be posted in the comments section, with or without the author's permission. I'm trying to keep people's comments/feelings on this public so I don't drown in negativity and criticism that surely will arise, as this is a tenuous and potentially life-altering post. 


Well, my banner gives a hint: I'm rebranding -- both the blog and myself. A lot of people (looking at you @Mottel) believe that people aren't brands, but other people (looking @jeffpulver here) believe that people are and can become brands. Whether I intended it or not, I am my brand and my brand is me. I'm Chaviva, the Kvetching Editor, and this blog is the face of that brand. Do I include every minute detail of my life here? No, gosh no. If I did, y'all would be overloaded and I'd end up looking like some narcissistic lunatic. That being said, I've always prided myself on honesty, forthrightness, and truth.

I was speaking with my therapist today, after several weeks of throwing things around in my head whether this post was going to happen. With that note up top there and with what I'm going to say, this post will serve as therapy for me, and I hope it will take the weight that I'm "hiding" something off my shoulders. I'm a firm believer that if you don't inform on your brand, someone else will, and that's how gossip and lashon hara begins.

I am a Jew. I don't fit in a box, and although I tried very hard after my Orthodox conversion to throw myself into the tidy box of Orthodoxy -- Get Married, Move to a Big Orthodox Community, Have Only Orthodox Friends, Dress the Part, Wear the Headcovering, Go to the Mikvah, Live and Breathe the Box of Orthodoxy -- it didn't work. My marriage failed, my life shook, and I uprooted myself to Denver where I now feel more like myself than I have in a good three years.

Slam Poetry. Music. Film. Writing. Smiling. Laughing. Feeling at peace in my own skin -- except, of course, when others send me emails or texts or chats telling me how I'm letting down the people who look to me the most as a beacon of conversion to Orthodox Judaism. I'm made to feel guilty for feeling happy.

And why am I happy? Why am I really happy? Because unexpectedly, in early November, while sitting at the local Starbucks (a shonda!) doing work, a fellow walked up to me and asked to sit down. While he stepped away, I fled. I was just divorced, I was pretty sure he wasn't Jewish, and I think he was hitting on me. Then, time and again I went into that Starbucks and we struck up a friendship. That friendship over movies and ridiculous YouTube videos and existentialism and family/emotional drama and our love of rodents and books and music and everything else led to now: I'm dating this fellow. His name is Taylor, and Taylor is not Jewish. Taylor's what he likes to call an agnostic-atheist, meaning that he respects everything that I believe but that he doesn't buy into any of it. Has it resulted in any contention? Not really, no. He leaves me to my Shabbat observance, recognizes my kosher-keeping, and the fact that we're both vegetarian (okay, so I eat meat when I go to @melschol's house) makes cooking for each other at my place a breeze. Right now, he's perfection for me. He makes me laugh, he makes me smile, he makes me feel okay being me.

Yes, I've taken to eating out at the two popular local vegetarian/vegan restaurants -- City O City and Watercourse. I can get my weird vegan kosher Daiya cheese, plenty of vegetables, and a bounty of gluten-free options in a city where the only kosher "restaurant" holds a monopoly on the kosher business and serves subpar food (want to open a kosher restaurant? sorry! it can't be anywhere near the one that exists -- va'ad rules). But guess who thinks it'd be cool to open a kosher vegetarian restaurant? Taylor. Go figure, eh?

What else should I put out there?

I've reconsidered having children, I've reconsidered marriage. The children thing has a lot to do with family things that are too private for me to detail here, and the marriage thing has a lot to do with, well, being married and it going so horribly.

Yes, I know what you're all thinking/saying: Chavi, you just went through a tumultuous time, this is to be expected, don't count anything out! Or perhaps, Chavi! Just go to Israel and study in seminary and figure out your Jewish self there! Oh I know, some of you are even thinking Chavi, you're rebounding! It'll all get better once you meet a nice Jewish boy.

And perhaps all of those point are valid, but I've heard them from every angle. Rationalize things all you want, but this is who I am right now and this is how I'm happy right now. The truth is, I don't think I ever fit into the clean Orthodox box I thought I did. I wanted to, I tried so hard, but the Orthodox I fell in love with and the Orthodoxy I practiced were two different things. It doesn't make my past posts any less valid or significant, and I hope people still read and learn from them. I'm a Jew. An underconstructionist, rebranding Jew.

I'm still kosher, I'm still shomer shabbos. I still believe firmly in everything that makes Judaism work and functional. Torah m'Sinai. The important thing is that I'm not letting myself stop. Some of you may think I'm regressing, pouring into the plight of intermarriage and diluting the Jewish pool. And you'll think what you will, and I'm okay with that. I've come to peace with it.

This is my derech. My derech to which HaShem is privy. In the end, yes -- I'm a public figure, people associate and look up to me, I impact lives -- but at the same time I'm a person who is just as confused and searching as everyone else. The difference is that I've forced myself into the public eye and have to continue to stay true to myself and my readers.

As always, this is just the beginning. I'm going to let my haters be my motivators this time.

I Believe, With Perfect Faith. Do You?

Without explanation or interpretation, these 13 Principles of Faith, enumerated by Maimonides, are my credo. I am a Jew, this is my credo, and labels are the fire that will destroy us.

That flame inside you, that burns bright, is your neshama. Use that fire for good, for tikkun olam, for love and community, not hatred, judgment, lashon hara, or to put yourself above others.

1. I believe with perfect faith that G-d is the Creator and Ruler of all things. He alone has made, does make, and will make all things.
2. I believe with perfect faith that G-d is One. There is no unity that is in any way like His. He alone is our G-d He was, He is, and He will be.
3. I believe with perfect faith that G-d does not have a body. physical concepts do not apply to Him. There is nothing whatsoever that resembles Him at all.
4. I believe with perfect faith that G-d is first and last.
5. I believe with perfect faith that it is only proper to pray to G-d. One may not pray to anyone or anything else.
6. I believe with perfect faith that all the words of the prophets are true.
7. I believe with perfect faith that the prophecy of Moses is absolutely true. He was the chief of all prophets, both before and after Him.
8. I believe with perfect faith that the entire Torah that we now have is that which was given to Moses.
9. I believe with perfect faith that this Torah will not be changed, and that there will never be another given by G-d.
10. I believe with perfect faith that G-d knows all of man's deeds and thoughts. It is thus written (Psalm 33:15), "He has molded every heart together, He understands what each one does."
11. I believe with perfect faith that G-d rewards those who keep His commandments, and punishes those who transgress Him.
12. I believe with perfect faith in the coming of the Messiah. How long it takes, I will await His coming every day.
13. I believe with perfect faith that the dead will be brought back to life when G-d wills it to happen.

Happy Chanukah to those who believe in me, believe with perfect faith in HaShem, and to those who have no clue what to believe. Without judgment, without exception, we all have our own path and no one can tell you that your path is wrong -- only HaShem can guide you. 

Chanukah: 2003-Now

A Novel Idea Bookstore, Lincoln, NE || 2011

Back in 2003, at the urging of a friend, I went to A Novel Idea Bookstore -- my third favorite used bookstore of all time after Myopic in Chicago and the Antiquarium in Brownsville, NE -- and down the rickety stairs to this section pictured above: Judaica. It was there that I first bought Choosing a Jewish Life by Anita Diamant, and it was in front of this shelf of used books that my neshama arose from a weary sleep. The fire continues to burn bright, its shades of orange and red and yellow and amber waxing and waning each day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Eight years ago, the first night of Chanukah fell on December 20; it was a Saturday. At that time, I wrote a lot about my dislike for Christmas and how it made me feel, and I kvelled about probably the first "Jewish" gift ever given to me, by my friend Melanie. It was a musical dreidel. I was a sophomore in college in Lincoln, Nebraska, and I knew I would be Jewish.

Seven years ago, the first night of Chanukah fell on December 7. By that point, I was a Jewish knowledge and observance machine. On December 6, I hopped on a city bus and schlepped over to a Walgreens near the Reform synagogue in order to buy my first menorah. It was a huge, important, ridiculous event for me. The next day, on the first day of Chanukah, I wrote:

Happy Hanukkah everyone! I bought my menorah, lit my candles, said my blessings, and then made some cookies that are shaped like driedels, megandavids, Judah Maccabee, shields, etc. Then I iced them, sprinkled them with blue and yellow sprinkles and brought them down to work. They were literally gone in about 5 minutes. Everyone crowded around them ... it was an amusing sight. Interestingly enough, though, I recieved an e-mail from DAN, the PRES of HILLEL, at 5:45 (though I didn't get it till tihs evening) that they will be lighting a menorah in the J.D. Edwards Kaufman building (where just about every Jew on campus lives ... the "super honors program") each night of Hanukkah. ... Although I don't have the blessing memorized ... mrr. They know I'm a Jew-in-training anyhow. Heh. Did I mention that my Jews in the Modern World prof (Alan Steinweis) played the VIDLIT Yiddish lesson in class today. Oh man ... it was hilarious. I think I enjoyed it more than the rest of the class. Then again, I have a passion for the Yiddish. 

On December 9, 2004, I wrote:

Tonight, after lighting candles with Dan, Cliff and Sari in Kauffman hall ... I definately felt a part of something there with them. Lonely Jews in Nebraska, ha. But Dan sang the blessing beautifully ... Sari lit the candles, and Cliff and I stared on. It was good times.

Shortly thereafter I started working on a paper on why I want to be Jewish for the then-rabbi of the synagogue who subsequently left. I waited another nine months for another rabbi to work with me, and by then I'd mastered so much. I converted Reform in April 2006 and in December 2006 I was in Washington D.C. for Chanukah; I made this video and wrote a lot of blog posts. 

Back in 2007, Chanukah was incredibly awesome, and then Christmas came and it was bad. A little old man accosted me while I was busy at work at the Spertus Museum's open house for Jews on Christmas. If you want to read it, I think it can give you some insight into what it's like to be a non-Orthodox convert.
And then? From 2008 up until last year, I was in Israel for Chanukah. It was a unique, mind-boggling experience where I felt so much like myself. No Christmas tunes, no expectations, just lots of latkes and sufganiyot and chanukiot everywhere. Walking up and down alleyways, menorahs dotted doorways and boxes outside of homes, parks and squares, restaurants even stopped what they were doing to light. In Israel, Chanukah feels right. In America? It feels strange. 
Perhaps it's because for the first time in so many years I'm back where I began, in Lincoln, Nebraska. Estranged from my mother, without a chanukiah, no latkes, no sufganiyot, nowhere to go. So for the sake of memory, I think, I might go over to that same Walgreens where I purchased my first chanukiah and buy another. Maybe when I get home I'll make Chanukah cookies or try out this Gluten-Free Sufganiyot recipe, but at least I'll be there with my chanukiah and my Jewish troll doll and all of my Judaica and my sunrise over the desert in Israel. 
It all began while I was living in Lincoln -- my Jewish journey, that is -- but it never stopped here, and I think that I've worn away all the memory that's here. 

Gam Zu L'Tovah: I No Longer Am Consistent

I thought about making a podcast. I thought about writing a cryptic slam poem. I thought about just saying that this blog has taken too much out of me and I've passed up on many a chance to focus on me, to be and live for me. But this blog has been my baby, my internal dialogue, my therapy. You guys are the flies on the wall of my mental canvas. You get to see the inner workings of a stranger. The world gets to see the inner workings of a stranger. So what would be stranger than me simply disappearing from the blog, citing stress, questioning everything I know about myself, family drama that cannot even be described, and new people in my life?

The weirdest thing about being divorced is feeling like I was never married. Is that normal? Is it normal to look back and think, where did the past three years go? Who was I? Was that even me? Don't misunderstand: I got married because everything seemed to fall into place. I sought the physical and emotional comforts that marriage and relationships provide. But looking back and reflecting on it all, I did myself a great disservice denying my own feelings about the whole thing. To put it more simply: I have no clue who that woman was over the past three years.

There are clear moments: Graduate school, my Orthodox conversion, Israel. But all of the things that should matter, that should stick with me are as if a fog. Like watching a tragic movie with a tragic woman who wants nothing more than to be that image of the Orthodox woman living the Orthodox life with her Orthodox husband in an Orthodox world. And I got that. I dressed the part, I spoke the part, I ate the part, I lived the part. I was that person that people strive to be, and for those who read this blog and look for guidance on conversion to Orthodoxy, I was that example to follow.

And all of the important stuff was honest. It's the superficial stuff that I'm starting to wonder whether it was real. I believe everything -- I believe and have a firm conviction in all that Orthodox Judaism provides and demands, but I've hit this point where, because I'm unraveling who I was for three years, I don't know that I am capable of following through as that person. Not right now.

Man. I sound like I'm being cryptic. Like what I should say, what I want to say is so obvious. But, you see, I've placed myself under the microscope of so many people, at least 55,000 a month. And as you start to question yourself and where you're going, it's like the sun is shining so bright you're on the verge of combustion. In the Jewish community, for me at least, the fear of retribution, exclusion, denial are beyond words. The fear that, if I decide that eating out at a vegetarian restaurant is something in which I want to dabble that I will be rejected wholly by those around me. That if I decide that I'm interested in someone who isn't Jewish that my readers and friends will look at me with judgment and horror.

Oh how the mighty might fall.

In one of the segments of Ask Chaviva Anything! someone asked whether I put too much emphasis on being a convert, and I said that it's impossible, because being a ger is the very fabric of who I am. It defines my social life, my diet, my clothing, my approach to everything in life. A Jew can go "off the derech," and we scoff and laugh and pray that they come back into the fold, no matter how nominally affiliated he or she is. But no matter how not Jewish he or she chooses to date, he or she will always be Jewish. An ancestor's ketubah or picture of a grandparent's grave, and matters are solidified. A convert? Well, I have a folder that holds both my Reform and my Orthodox conversion certificates. Pieces of paper signed by modern rabbis in a modern rabbinical court in an environment installed with processes and circumstance. But those papers can disappear, they can be questioned, they can be enough to cast away someone indefinitely.

I sound dramatic, I know. But this is a glimpse into my head, my life, my world right now. People tell me that HaShem never gives us something that we can not handle, and others say gam zu l'tovah (this, too, is for good). And that makes me wonder why I currently find myself in the circumstances that I do. The more difficult thing, however, is that I feel good. I feel right. I feel happy. For the first time in a long time, I feel like me.

People are fluid. Our experiences are fluid. From one moment to the next, we cannot expect consistency from either ourselves or others. We're impacted by our environments, our emotions, our genetics, resulting in an ever-changing sense of self that should never stand still. Drastic changes, we assume, must be attributed to some life-altering event or emotion. However, in truth, it seems to make sense that we would be constantly in flux, changing, inconsistent. After all, that's why Judaism has so many installed proscriptions of how to live -- consistency. Everyone works better on a schedule. Or do we? I guess what I'm saying is that we expect too much from ourselves, from others, in the way of consistency. We expect people to have patterns, and when the pattern is thrown, we assume the worst.

Don't assume the worst, please.

Also: As an aside, if you didn't see Mitch Albom's "Have a Little Faith" on TV the other night, then you need to find it and you need to watch it. It had me in tears at the end, and I don't cry easily. The only movie I ever cried during was "My Best Friend's Wedding." But in the movie, the rabbi (played by Martin Landau) poses the following (and I'm paraphrasing) Why didn't G-d create one perfect tree? Why did he create multiple trees, spruces, pines, oaks? It's the same with man and our beliefs. There are many ways to G-d, not just one. (And this, folks, is my comfort.)

Choosing: Ashkenazic vs. Sephardic

I've been meaning to post this question for quite some time (okay, since the divorce), but after talking it over very briefly with a few friends, here I am finally posting it.

Before I got married, I had the option -- as a convert -- to choose my minhagim or customs. That means that technically, because I didn't grow up with any, I had the option of choosing the lifestyle of the Sephardim. Beans and rice on Passover! And a lot of other really awesome, fascinating, unique customs that would have made me more normal in Israel than here in the U.S.

(Sephardim, oddly enough, are more strict on many things, including bishul akum, which forbids a Jew to eat food prepared by a non-Jew, something I observed when in the conversion process that I had no problem with -- this is where that "Jew turns on the flame" bit comes in handy for a non-Jew at a grocery store bakery or the like).

Then I got married, to someone with nominally Ashkenazic traditions and a strong Ashkenazic genealogy. Although he grew up not always following the no-leavening bit on Passover, he loosely identified with the Eastern European ways, considering his family came from Romania and areas around there. So we took on those customs, despite my pleas and knowing that we technically could choose our customs. We adopted our rabbi's Yekki tradition of washing our hands before both kiddush (blessing over wine) and motzi (blessing over bread), which, by the way, has a very legit and sense-making reason if you're interested.

But now, since I'm divorced, does that take me back to square one? Do I get to choose my customs? Or am I bound to the 16-month commitment to Ashkenazic traditions? I mean, I look like I'm straight-up Eastern European (note: my family hails from England and France and Switzerland), but ... until I get married (please HaShem) again, can I just have a little bit of Sephardic fun?!

VERSUS

I don't like the eggs, but ... 

For those of you interested in the halachos that are out there, they're incredibly confusing, and opinions are incredibly varied, but there's a great response and plenty of contradictory sources cited over at Fifth Avenue Synagogue. According to Rav Schachter, community comes before family, but how often do any of us live in a community anymore where there is a single established minhag? 

Can't wait to hear your thoughts!

There's More Than Lemons, Chavi

As I'm sure you can all tell, there's a lot of tension in my life these days. Divorce, moving, readjusting my entire idea of what it means to be me. It's weird how this life change, more so than any other I've experienced (and I've moved a lot and changed communities a lot) has really shaken me to the core, making me reconsider what I want, where I'm going, and what makes sense to me in life.

Don't worry, I'm still a committed Orthodox Jew. I'm just trying to figure out what that means.

After the divorce, a lot of people commented with gam zu l'tovah -- this too, is for good. I find myself saying it a lot, although I don't find myself saying it to others much. I think that the phrase can really confuse the emotions. Bad things happen to good people, life changes, and the world keeps spinning, but staying positive is the hardest part.

I'm infamous for focusing on the negative. My friends have told me that, my exes commented on it, and even my therapist says that I need to figure out a way to get out of it. I can't take compliments, and when the world hands me lemons, all I see is lemons; at least, all I focus on is the lemons. I might make lemonade, but I'll still be looking at those darn lemon peels.

Since September, I've gotten a speeding ticket, rear-ended a car, had my phone stolen, become quite broke, left my car windows open so my passenger seat was full of snow, and ... well, there's more. But again, I need to refocus.

When I went out to my car this morning and opened the driver's side door only to notice that I left the window cracked (this is Denver, it was warm yesterday, snowy today), I felt relieved that the wind blew the snow in the opposite direction. Then I looked at my passenger seat: snow everywhere. Yes, I'd left the passenger window open, too, and I wasn't so lucky. I stood there, in the snow, smiled, shook my head, facepalmed, and laughed at myself.

Gam zu l'tovah. 

It's taken everything -- all the lemons -- over the past several months to bring me to a point where I can laugh at my misfortune.

My place in life has always been as a caretaker. I take care of people, I help them, I guide them, I counsel them. This is both my greatest attribute, I think, and my greatest flaw. Why? Because I forget that I'm here, that I'm also on a journey and that my problems, my concerns, my feelings are just as valid as those who I am here to protect, guide, and speak out for.

I have a lot going on, and I want to than you all for your patience, your kindness, your outreach, your love. I'm trying to get over the lemons, but it's going to take a while. But as long as I can figure out how to laugh at myself, I think I'm going to be okay.

My Jewish Observance, Colors, and the Weird!

Last month, I started an Ask Chaviva Anything! series. I had two installations, and it's time for a third! (Check out those posts here.) Are you ready for more Q&A? If you have a question to ask, just click here!

What's your favorite color?

This is a good question. For the longest time (read: forever) it was red. At some point, it transitioned to green, and about six months ago, I realized that I owned a lot of purple. When I moved, I got purple sheets, and a purple lampshade. I have a purple purse and purple shoes. So, I guess right now, it would be purple.

Do you ever question your level of observance? Do you ever reconsider it or think about being less traditionally observant? Do any aspects of progressive, egalitarian Judaism appeal to you?

Honestly? No. As I discussed when I was moving to Denver, the thoughts crossed my mind, but they weren't real thoughts. They were what-ifs, and I wasn't committed to those considerations. Once you go kosher, I can't imagine what it's like to not be kosher. The guilt? The regret? And, of course, the disappointment. Nothing is ever as good as you remember it. When it comes to being Shomer Shabbat, I couldn't fathom life without it. Even if I -- heaven forbid -- went off the derech, Shabbat would be something I always would hold on to. I honestly have no idea how I got by without a day to shut down, refresh, and recuperate.

As for progressive, egalitarian Judaism, I have to say that it's never something that's appealed to me. I guess I've discovered a way to be a woman and Orthodox without the two contradicting each other, let alone resulting in a feeling that I'm not as equal, respected, or responsible as my male counterparts. I had my days of aliyot when I was Reform, and it always felt awkward. I never understood the appeal of the kippah or tefillin, but I fully support those who, as women, feel like those observances are something that is importnat to them. I have found my own way to feel valuable, important, and necessary in the Jewish world, without those aspects of egalitarianism. Also: I love the mechitzah too much to give it up!

What's the weirdest thing you've ever been asked on your blog?

Good question. I haven't been asked so many "weird" things as I have received extraordinary emails from extraordinary people with amazing stories and queries. If only I could share them all with you guys! So instead of "weird" questions, I'm going to give you some of the weird search queries that land people on my blog!

• cholent (that's No. 10 for all-time searches that led to my blog ... weird)
• chinese zodiac
• gefilte fish
• famous beards
• indian vests (um, huh?)
• chasidish halloween (tis the season!)
• hitler painting jesus (without any kind of reference, that sounds really, really funny)
• what is a jew called who can't prove their bloodline? 
• political kippah
• pirate scarf (ha ha ... the Captain Jack Sparrow!)

Okay, that's enough for now. Stay tuned for more Q&A with Ask Chaviva Anything!