Book Review: Chanukah and Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach

I've been on a bit of a Chanukah (c)hiatus this week while ironing out some new work that I'm really excited to be taking on and trying to have some time with the hubsters before the wee one shows up. The truth is that nothing I've planned has gone according to, which is just proof that planning is for the foolish!

The upside of a bit of downtime has been that I've been sleeping a lot and devouring books at a rate for which I'm quite proud.

For Chanukah my literature of choice has been The Soul of Chanukah: Teachings of Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach (published by Mosaica Press) as compiled by Rabbi Shlomo Katz. Now that's two big names in one small chunk of sentence, and I have to say that this is one of the nicest looking books I've gotten for review in a while.

There are countless reasons why this book rocks, chief among them (according to Mr. T) being that it's in English. In Israel it's easy to land a lot of Rav Carlebach's work, but in Hebrew, which is awkward because most (if not all) of his morsels of wisdom were shared with the world in English. On that note, when it comes to morsels of wisdom in the form of divrei Torah or conversations, you want a concise book that is inspirational, powerful, and thought-provoking. This book is a mere 114 pages split into -- you guessed it -- eight chapters for eight nights, meaning that it's the perfect sit-and-learn option for Chanukah (so buy it for next year, why don't you?).

Unfortunately, the book only hit my post box midway through Chanukah, so I haven't completely devoured it yet, but what I've read will have me reading it well into the post-chag. But I want to give you an idea of the brilliance and inspired ideas that make Rav Carlebach such a prolific and unique individual.

Now, I refer to Rav Carlebach as "hippie dippie," which drives Mr. T nuts, but with my background and philosophy on Judaism, I often find it hard to relate to the "deeper" side of Judaism found in Hasidic teachings. Yes, I sit down every Friday night and read from a collection of Hasidic stories and found some of my greatest inspiration and peace in Judaism through Chabad and other Hasidic teachings, but I still don't get into the sit-in-a-circle and sing style of Judaism. It's just not in my fabric.

Lucky for me, I married a lover of Hasidic philosophy and understanding, so we find a lot of the same "aha" moments really powerful, just in different ways.

So after reading through Chapter 1, Shining Eyes, I had to share some of the tidbits with the husband because it screamed "Mr. T." This first chapter was all about how we're meant to perceive the world uniquely on Chanukah, especially because it's one holiday where we don't go out to greet the king, but the king (that's HaShem) comes into our homes to greet us. How much more special and meaningful is it that the king comes to us?! We're all commanded to light the chanukiyah (menorah for Chanukah) -- every man, woman, and child -- and the king is meant to come to our homes to check out our gnarly lights. It's like Justin Bieber showing up to taste your famous homemade waffles, if you need a ridiculous, modern reference to something that can't even begin to compare with what it's like to experience the presence of HaShem.

Also: Did you also realize that Chanukah is the one chag that we celebrate that actually took place in Jerusalem? Passover/Pesach was in Egypt, Purim was in Persia, and so on. Now that's a powerful reason to kindle the lights and experience the miracle.

One thing Mr. T is always kvetching about is how so many Jews (and people in general) are constantly asking "Mah magiah li?" or "What's in it for me?" instead of asking what can I provide, what can I do, where can I go? Rav Carlebach talks about how on Chanukah we're meant to look around and just take it in because we can't use the lights of the chanukiyah for anything, we can only enjoy them.

I can look at something and say, "Can I use it or can I not use it? Is it good for me or not?" Just like the spies said. But the fixing of Chanukah is that I'm not trying to use it for anything. I'm just so glad it's there.  ... The Torah of Chanukah is that I'm learning Torha, and I'm just looking at what I'm learning. No calculations, no expectations; I'm just looking at the light and I'm so glad it's there." (21)

That's some powerful, beautiful Torah right there. Chanukah, for Rav Carlebach, is all about how we look at the world, the people around us, the beautiful things that we are and are not doing. It's all about refocusing ourselves and reconsidering things, "fixing" as he says Chanukah by our perception.

There are moments where I can definitely see Rav Carlebach with guitar in hand calling something "deep" or talking about the "deepness" of Chanukah, which does make me giggle a bit, but whether you're into his style of Judaism or not, the morsels of Torah and truth in his vision are incredibly powerful.

I absolutely recommend this book, because the truth is this is one of those rare moments where I have nothing negative to say about it. Yes, mark your calendars, folks, because this is one book that will grace my shelves for years to come. It might even make for a Chanukah gift in the coming years.

Note: I received this book for review purposes, but my reviews remain honest, unbiased, and from the heart!

A Chasidishe Woman Waxes Frum on Fly-Aways

Just. Breathe.

It appears that 1:30 in the morning is the only time that I have to myself these days. I'm insanely busy with two part-time jobs (that really seem full-time), full-time school, full-time being a wife, and the list goes on and on. Even Shabbat doesn't last long enough. By the time I get my nap in, the day is gone, and I'm looking at my inbox and going into anxiety overdrive about how much I have to do.

Just. Breathe.

I had a great Shabbat this past weekend in Monsey for the bar mitzvah of In The Pink's beloved second-youngest son. Tuvia and I descended upon the home of good friends who feel more like family than friends these days (and this is, of course, a good thing). There was good food, good people, good accommodations, and, most of all, good simcha. There were a few anecdote worthy moments, including one that Hadassah reported on in which her youngest, who we call The Big Mo, walked up to my dear husband Tuvia and said, "Do you want me to sit on your lap so you can practice for when you have babies?" to which Tuvia said, "Um ... no?" The Big Mo responded, "Don't you remember last time?" in reference to the last time we were around for Shabbat when The Big Mo spent some quality time with Tuvia bouncin' cowboy-like on his lap. Adorable, right?

The other anecdote-worthy moment was in the vein of A Wedding and a Stylish Hasidic Woman (Er ... Me). I'm standing at kiddush with newfound in-real-life friends when a woman walks up to me asking me if I'm So-and-So. I respond that I'm not, after which she proceeds to tell me about how she's looking for a "Chasidish woman," and I looked the part. She said she'd heard that a sheitel with a headband (my style) is representative of chasidish women, so thus she saw me among the dozens of sheiteled women in the room and assumed I was the chasidish one in the crowd.

I really think that if you picked me up and put me down in Williamsburg that I would stick out like a sore thumb, but with all of this newfound information about the Satmar heritage of Tuvia's family, maybe we're coming full circle or something. Unfortunately for you all, the only picture I have of my chasidishe look from the bar mitzvah weekend are post-sheitel removal. Lame, I know.

What a family, eh?

I'd really wanted to make this post about hair covering and where I currently am at with it, as far as emotionally, but it's late, and I'm quite tired. Sunday night we went to a big dinner for AABJ&D, the big shul in West Orange that Tuvia's family helped found. I sported my sheitel in the class look then, too. I got a lot of compliments on the 'do, actually, but there was one thing that made me roll back -- "I was trying to describe you to her, but, well, without your hair ..." Or something to that effect. It's hard being easily spot-able without my traditional, spiked-up 'do. It isn't that I miss the hair or the cut or the style insomuch as I'd ever consider giving up hair covering (at this point), but sometimes I wonder if I'm still that recognizable person with only my signature glasses, which, by the way, are set to be changed this week to something more ... purple.

It used to be easy to be spotted in a crowd, the motions of spikey hair done with fingers to strangers being pointed in my direction. Spikes gone, hair grown long, I'm still figuring out what I like best. Tichels and sheitels and scrunchy knit hats. I keep saying there's a time and a place for each type of hair covering, and it's true. In Israel, I felt comfortable only in my tichel. When at weddings and party-like functions, I feel naked without my sheitel. In the winter, I rationalize a knit hat almost everyday because not only do I "fit in," but it's easy, casual, and stylish. In certain company, I would never sport a sheitel and in other company I wouldn't think of wearing a hat. Times and places, folks.

No matter what I do, I spend all day shoving my hair back in, tiny hairs that fly out and try to break free, darn them. All the pins and bobbles in the world can't seem to keep them away from sunlight and fresh air. They're jealous of my bangs, my homegrown bangs that no, are not clip-ins. My bangs that I can't seem to get right no matter how many times I cut them. But I look at the picture in my banner and think, Damn, I look good. I look stylishly frum. I'm the model frummie for the 21st century! Plaster me on the cover of Frum Yid Quarterly.

Hair. I longed for the day that I would cover my hair and not have to worry about putting it away and styling it and blow-drying it. Yet, I stress about it morning, noon, and night. Is it falling out? Do I look good? Do people know I'm Jewish because of my head-gear?

Over the weekend, while I was at Starbucks (I'm holding by the OU, folks), a very frum woman made her way to me -- of all people in the store, including the employees -- to ask where a certain street was. I was wearing a tichel, and clearly she knew I was a yid. It made me smile inside. She felt more comfortable asking me than anyone else. It was a hair-covered connection.

Just. Breathe.

It's late, and I should sleep. This chasidishe woman who battles with fly-away hairs needs her beauty rest. Time to recoup and refresh and figure out what the weather's going to be like and whether the day will call for a knit hat or something more, something less. And since I'm a month behind in laundry, well, our options for clothing to pair with covered hair are limited. Am I kvetching? Probably, maybe. I don't do much of that here on the blog, so pardon the tone if this post is a little ... morose. It's not meant to be, but it's one of those stream-of-consciousness posts in the wee hours of the morning and thus you get what you get. But seriously ...

May these be the worst of my problems. 

Going Mad Before the Deaf

I've been busy watching a nine-hour, nine-part series called Heritage: Civilization and the Jews for my Jewish Communities course. It hasn't been easy, but between the overly dramatic music and the Fiddler on the Roof-style breakouts on shtetl life and Yiddish theater it's been interesting. I was particularly taken with an opening line that, to scholars, Mesopotamia is identified "as the starting point not of creation, but civilization." The narrator, Abba Eban, says, "You cannot recount the story of civilization without coming face to face with what the Jews have" said, written, and performed. A truer statement nary has been uttered.

But it was a mention of the Ba'al Shem Tov ("master of the good name" aka the Besht), the father of Hasidism, and a store he often told in response to those who were opposed to the unique styles of Hasidic life and worship. The story goes something like this:

A deaf man passed by a hall where a wedding reception was being celebrated. When he looked through the window, he saw people engaged in exultant and tumultuous dancing. But because he could not hear the music, he assumed they were mad.

Another version of the story goes like this:

Once, a musician came to town -- a musician of great but unknown talent. He stood on a street corner and began to play.

Those who stopped to listen could not tear themselves away, and soon a large crowd stood enthralled by the glorious music whose equal they had never heard. Before long they were moving to its rhythm, and the entire street was transformed into a dancing mass of humanity.

A deaf man walking by wondered: Has the world gone mad? Why are the townspeople jumping up and down, waving their arms and turning in circles in middle of the street?

Sometimes, this is how I feel. The dancing, exultant Jewess fervent in my Judaism and spinning in my own circles while others pass by deaf, or blind, assuming I'm mad. The appeal of Hasidism, I understand. The idea that anyone, even the simplest of mind, can study Torah and grow toward G-d. And as such, I truly appreciate this simple story. My neshama, or soul, is the people in this story, and the world around me the deaf man (at least, sometimes). The oft-asked question is, "Why on earth would you want to be Jewish, let alone Orthodox?" Sometimes it is difficult to express, to explain, the inner-workings and dancings of my soul. Even with fancy eye surgery, you might not see it. I'm not sure if the Besht meant what I mean when I discuss this story, but I think for converts, the story speaks volumes.

On a side note: It is truly interesting that at its advent, Hasidism was viewed as a threat to traditional Judaism, to Judaism in any and all ways. And yet, today Hasidism is alive, well, and powerful. Then again, there is always an internal threat, the perpetual driving force of Jew vs. Jew.

Change -- Y-Love and DeScribe style.

DeScribe and Y-Love = AMAZING. This is such a stellar piece of musical awesomeness. Spread the word ... I really can't get over how talented Y-Love is. If you haven't taken up the man, then please, now is the time. The beat is good, the video is outstanding, the editing is great, and I am really loving the vibe.

Shabbaton Reflections, Part II

It's been nearly a week since I sat down to write my reflections on the first day of the Shabbaton that took place Nov. 7-9. To read the first installment, just click here . And then? Continue on!

I woke up Saturday morning primed to give the Shabbaton the old one-two go! I slept in late, mostly because the folks who lived upstairs (my host lived in a basement apartment) were up at 6 or 7 in the morning and children were running back and forth, feet stomping, throughout the morning. Services and a few programs were running in the morning, but I just couldn't bring myself to crawl out of bed (partially from the sleep deprivation and partially because of my experience the night before at services). I got up, got dressed in a long black skirt and I layered two shirts atop it. And then? I put on a scarf. I'm serious, folks. You haven't seen me in the morning. My hair, while cute when done up right, is an absolute mess pre-shower and doing up. It's like a wild forest of twists and crazy angles and nothing can keep it down. Plus, with the humid weather from the rain, my hair wasn't the only thing looking like hell. I, too, looked like hell. I was feeling sticky and gross, and I knew it was going to be a long day sans shower (I prescribe to the "a shower is okay on Shabbat" philosophy). As I was finishing up dressing, my host awoke and came out to talk to me, not to mention gave me some yogurt and goodies before I went on my way.

I left the apartment and schlepped through the rain (not that it mattered, since my hair was scarfed a la a frummie housewife) to the building where all of the programming was happening. I, like the night before, blended in with the crowd of Jews rushing to and fro from services to lunch to meetings with friends and family. My black skirt whipped back and forth in the rain, and I felt apart of the community, for sure.

I arrived at the building in time for lunch around the noon hour, located some of my fellow UConn Jews and the doors opened and we grabbed a table right inside the door. I sort of forgot that I was wearing my scarf and it wasn't really like I'd felt any different than the evening before, but then someone mentioned to me the scarf and I went into my spiel about how my hair looks hideous in the morning. Someone commented that I looked super frum, and as usual, I smiled. The meal came and was, to be honest, pretty darn delicious. There was gefilte fish, various salads, cholent, challah, salad, cookies, cake, you name it. But it wasn't the meal that was the most memorable part.

Throughout the meal, rabbis got up to tell jokes and parables -- a really funny one about a rabbi and lawyer on a long flight (remind me to tell you about it later!). There was dancing around the main lectern in the center of the ballroom, and men flew through the crowd legs flying and voices wailing. It was a really, really unique and beautiful site. The women, eager to partake, tried to get something going (that is, two of the gals at my table and myself), and eventually we had a circle going and our voices flew. But just about as soon as we'd started the men broke up and we got the social nod to quit and sit. Also throughout the meal, I had the pleasure of chasing the rabbi's youngest boy around the ballroom. He is, really, seriously, the cutest little boy I've ever encountered. At one point, while chasing him as he looked for the rabbi, I grabbed him right as he was jetting off into unknown territory. As I picked him up, the girl with me said "You look so religious, so maternal right now." It was a moment of pride, I'll admit, but the little one quickly squirmed out of my arms and ran on and I, like a good Jewish mother, followed him along until about 10 minutes later we finally got back to the table. I have radar for the little one -- he'd get up and run for the door, I'd let the rebbetzin know he was off again. I have the instinct, what can I say?

After lunch, there were a series of "seminars" on various topics -- Jewish dating, belief, prayer, etc. -- by rabbis and rebbetzins of the Chabad persuasion. I decided to settle into a talk by a rabbi on the topic of belief in Judaism. I was one of the first in the classroom, followed by a girl from Syracuse. We exchanged pleasantries and where we were from and then she asked, "So are you the rebbetzin at UConn?" The scarf! Always with the scarf. I replied no, and made a sort of sudden realization that in the Chabad community, sheitels are the standard it seems, not scarves or other head coverings. The room started to fill up and by the time the talk started, there was standing room only and people were sitting on the floor. The rabbi, who is known for his work on the Gunick Edition of the chumash, kept the conversation incredibly lively by discussing whether Judaism is a rational or irrational religion. Whether our belief is of the rational variety or is irrational, and boy did that stir some discussion. Many people in the crowd began talking about taking a "leap of faith" in believing, and how it's an essential part of Judaism. It was interesting because the men were the only one talking, and the women were sitting quietly. A few of the women next to me commented, saying "the women have nothing to say!"

But me? I always have something to say.

I raised my hand, and said that I wasn't sure if I had an opinion on whether Judaism was rational or irrational, but that the idea that Judaism takes a "leap of faith" is a misconception. I explained that Kierkegaard, when writing about Christianity, said that to be a Christian requires a "leap of faith." In response, Abraham Joshua Heschel wrote that Judaism, alternatively, requires a "leap of action." If you think about it (this needs a full blog post to be honest), it's pretty accurate. I also mentioned that what we think of as "faith" is really meant to be "faithfulness." I blogged about this at length a while ago. But it frustrates me that people confuse faith with belief. The rabbi thanked me for my comments, someone commented that I was nuts, and the seminar went on. Afterward, I wandered the hallways trying to figure out which seminar to go to next, but none struck me. Luckily, I ran into the rabbi from the talk, who I ended up having a lengthy conversation with -- about what I'm studying and working on, the Golden Calf issue (about which he sent me some really comprehensive and stellar stuff from the Gutnick edition), and other things. It was truly -- after the Shabbat dinner -- my favorite part of the Shabbaton. I'm an academic geek, and there's truly nothing like a discussion with a rabbi about anything at all.

But after the seminar? My Shabbat hit a huge, huge brick wall.

I can't explain it, but talking to the rabbi and attending that seminar was a high. After that, and after the second seminar time expired, it was time to prepare for Havdalah and the big group photo. As soon as that all ended, the evening broke out into individual dinners, a gigantic party with a band, and fabrengen's into the wee hours of the night. But as I crowded into the ballroom with hundreds of other students, and as we plastered ourselves against the side wall, I grew anxious and uncomfortable. Every five seconds, as the crowd grew louder and the people grew more tense while we waited for everything to get set up for havdalah and the group photo ... I wanted to leave. I kept wanting to walk out. I could see the rabbi and the rebbetzin across the room and knew I should stay. I looked around the room at the comaradarie, the students chanting school songs and there I was, in a crowd of strangers. Havdalah candles were lit, prayers were said, a few songs were sung, and then the flashbulbs burned and we were done. Like a stampede, people piled out of the ballroom to run home to shower, eat, prepare for the night's festivities as only college students might.

But me? I ran home, called someone, showered, got dressed, and sat down for a few hours with my host to explain why that person I'd called was coming to pick me up and take me away from Crown Heights. As I explained feeling quite alone, too old for the crowd, overwhelmed by the rebbe-as-moshiach-posters everywhere, the sheer volume and size of the group of people, and everything ... she understood why I was leaving. She -- as well as many others since then -- suggested I go back to Crown Heights when I have the chance to really experience a Shabbat without hundreds of other kids, and the suggestion is valid and I intend to take it into account. But by leaving early, I was sacrificing the events on Sunday, which included the trip to the rebbe's ohel and experiencing the entire site with my peers -- something I want to do, but perhaps alone or with merely one or two others, not in a gigantic crowd of hundreds. And just like that, Saturday night, I hopped into the car of a friend with some rugelach from my host in hand, and drove off into the night away from the Shabbaton and away from Crown Heights.

Listen, what it comes down to -- and I must say this briefly, else I'll have a 20 part series on the event -- is that it was overwhelming for someone so conditioned to inward thinking (a result of living a year in Washington DC and becoming as antisocial as a hermit), everyone was doing their own thing and I was left to consider how completely out of the loop I really was, and I felt a lack of connection religiously to anything in Crown Heights. I went in with very high hopes, and the absolute magnitude of the entire event and the population of students there, paired with the lack of cohesion between the students from my school, threw me to the ground and left me feeling lonely. I did, though, realize my limits. I can't say much more than that, but I'll leave it there for now and perhaps develop something for a future post.

It isn't, by any means, an event I'll forget, and I might even give the Shabbaton another try next year. Or, I might just schlep down to New York on my own or with someone special, visit the Ohel, explore Crown Heights, and maybe show up again for a Shabbat. Or, just maybe, I'll stick to Washington Heights, where I felt beyond comfortable and felt at home in the services. I felt in WH like the women wanted to be there, that it was more than a social hour. (As an aside: Maybe I'll make my tour de force empowering Orthodox women to own their religion. It's more than a social hour, damnit. Women aren't bound to the same mitzvot as men, necessarily, but it doesn't mean we shouldn't strive for that connection that we gain by davening and being a part of a society of prayer.)

But there you are. A mere two parts, because after more than a week, it's almost a lost cause trying to put together coherent thoughts about such an emotionally stressful weekend. If you got this far? Congratulations and thank you for the time!

Shabbaton Reflections, Part I of ??

I have nearly 100 blog entries from friends to catch up on between Friday morning and today, not to mention that I just spent the past few hours catching up on responding to the dozens and dozens of emails that I received since Friday. I have somehow become a very, very busy e-person. But the point of this post is to get down a general outline of the Shabbaton in Crown Heights from this weekend before it all escapes me. This will be a two parter, though I'm not sure how I'll divide it up just yet. The short of the story is that I left Crown Heights to trek back to Connecticut on Saturday night after Shabbos was over. There are a variety of reasons that will probably come out between the lines of text, but I'll summarize likely in Part II or III, which will come later. Not sure how many parts this will be, so bear with me. Let us begin.

Five students packed into a car on Friday around 12:30 p.m. to schlep to Crown Heights (CH) for this year's annual Shabbaton. For two of us, it was our first Shabbaton, and for the other three, it was like old hat. We hit the highway and one of our passengers read the traveler's prayer off his palm device, setting us up for a safe trip. It sprinkled on and off, and we all anticipated at least a bit of rain, but the trip was fairly smooth and we made it into CH with about an hour and a half to spare before Shabbos started. We skipped check-in ("not enough time!") and everyone piled out of the car and the two girls headed one way and the two guys another and I, in my infinite confusion, said "Guys, I have no idea where I'm going, anyone?" Luckily, after some gentle prodding for SOME semblance of order, I was pointed in a general direction of my host's home and after some wandering I arrived, feeling gross from the muggy weather and ready to get the Shabbaton on the road. There was only one problem.

No one told me anything. I didn't know where to go. I didn't know when to go where. I didn't know where davening was or dinner was or where the opening program was. With Shabbos fast approaching, I was frustrated because I didn't seem to have any way of getting any information. Since we hadn't registered, I didn't know the itinerary and for those of you that know me well, I'm the kind of person who needs to know what's going on well in advance. I was frustrated from square one before the weekend even arrived because I didn't know who was going, how we were getting there, or what the itinerary was. Maybe I'm a little OCD in the organizing department, but that's just how I am. So the rabbi magically showed up (baruch hashem!) with linens and a schedule for me, as well as a map so I could get around. Talk about a blessing. The sirens went off, warning us of the impending beginning to Shabbat (nearly 4:30! oy so early!), and I finished the munchies I was noshing (thank you host!) and I eventually made my way to the main building where everything was to be held, and I started to feel more prepared for everything.

The crowd was, in a word, intense. It was huge. From our school there were maybe about seven people. There were hundreds of undergraduates (and maybe some graduates, but I had no way of telling) in a ballroom and the noise level was extreme. To express how loud it was both at the beginning and later at the farbrengen, when I arrived back home around 1 a.m. that night, my ears were RINGING, as if I'd been at a rock concert. The icebreakers didn't last long because of the noise level and I spent a lot of time wandering around looking for others in the group. Eventually everyone sat down (with their schools) and there was an opening session followed by a schlep to evening services at 770 (Lubavitch Headquarters). The opening session seemed to last forever because the noise level -- a constant frustration for the speakers and leaders of the event -- just wouldn't calm itself. Maybe I'm old and lame and spend too much time shaking my fists at those darn kids to get off my lawn, but the entire weekend it seemed like there was an intense lack of respect for the rabbis who were trying to speak.

At any rate, services were definitely interesting. Now, I feel like I'm sounding really negative, and I don't mean to. There were a lot of really intensely amazing things about the weekend (the two big ones being the Shabbat dinner by the rebbetzin's family and the session on belief that I attended Saturday), but being a newbie to the world of CH and Chabad, it felt like I was a spectator, and being someone who is intensely committed to her Judaism and davening and the experience of being a Jew, it was frustrating sometimes. At services, the men went into a lower entrance and the women into an upper entrance. Now, being someone who adores the mechitzah, this didn't bug me in the slightest. But then you get into what feels like a "viewing room" where the women overlook the men's prayer hall -- there are tables in the back where the Yeshiva bochurim were chatting and davening and up front where the Shabbaton folks and others were davening. Upstairs, the women overlook the gigantic room through tinted windows with a small area at the bottom which you can see clearly through. So we get there and I'm ready to daven. Shabbat for me is so much about prayer, right? But after a while, I realized that there was no way we could know where the men were in their prayers because there was so much noise. I looked around and women were chatting, watching the men, no one was praying. Not a single one. I was so confused. Isn't this what we go to shul for? To daven in a community? After a while, I threw up my hands and started davening the service on my own around the same time one of the other girls from my group did the same. Then, the service was over and we took off for Shabbat dinner.

I finally fell back into my comfort zone. The dinner was by the rebbetzin's sister and brother-in-law, and it was to be all of the UConn kids as well as a few from Oregon who had come in, not to mention the family of the rebbetzin -- including her father and the great bubbe of the family! The Shabbat dinner was, in a word, magnificent. It was full of song and stories and discussion and the most delicious food. We did introductions, we laughed, we listened to the rebbetzin's father tell stories that were accompanied by songs to the tunes of "Yesterday" by the Beatles and "Come on Baby Light My Fire" by the Doors. We talked of parables and Torah and what it means to find your path and to follow it. The kids ran around playing and laughing and one even fell asleep on the wood floor in the corner. There was one moment, that I just can't bring myself to write about here, where I was sort of shocked and dismayed with the children, but what can you do? They're children, I guess. It reminds me, though, that we are living in funny times. The songs we sang were songs I was unfamiliar with -- "Ain't Gonna Work on Saturday," which I now love, and others. But it felt like a family. I felt like I was a part of a big Jewish family who was cohesive and comfortable. I was also excited because it was the first time I'd ever been in a house that had two separate ovens and counters and the works! I think my awe and excitement had some people giving me funny looks, but I'm the Liberal Jewish product of a Conservative Christian upbringing, so what can you expect? On our way out that night, one of the little boys was singing a song about cholent and I thought, This, this is what Shabbat is -- it's family and food and songs and stories and prayer and bentchers marking weddings and bar mitzvahs of years long past.

We left and walked back to the building with the ballroom for the farbrengen. It was late, and I -- being old and lame as I am -- was exhausted. But I forged forth, trying to soak in every morsel of the Shabbat that I could. We got there and the various events that were supposed to be going on seemed to be muddled by noise and people moving from room to room and volume levels I can't describe. I wandered around for a while, trying to find part of the UConn group, but without much luck for a great deal of time. We walked over together, and people went their separate ways. Everyone seemed to know someone, and I tried to chat with strangers. I found myself most comfortable in a room watching men dance around and sing, women beating their fists on the table to tunes they all knew but I was unfamiliar with. Eventually I grew tired and found a few people and one of the fellows walked me home in the drizzling rain. I got home that night to my host's house where everyone was asleep feeling tired, my ears ringing, my clothes soaked, trying to figure out what the evening had meant outside of my amazing time at the Shabbat dinner. Walking through the streets in my long skirt walking 90 miles a minute, I felt as if I fit in so well to the aesthetic of the community, but something was off.

I'll end this portion of my Shabbaton reflection by saying a few things about me. I don't do well with crowds. Loud environments make me anxious. I was unlucky enough to inherit much of my mother's anxiety issues when it comes to these things. The feeling of claustrophobia and anxiousness when put in close quarters with people screaming and hollering and bumping into you. I swear I've never been touched so much in my life as I was this weekend (which, I'll admit is strange considering the Chabad environment, but you have to remember that it was a LOT of undergradate kids). I guess what I'm trying to say is that the Shabbaton was probably intensely wonderful for a lot of people. But for me? I'm 25 years old. I have something going on in the Jewish couple thing, which means that sessions on Jewish dating and scoping out the meat market are two things that didn't register for me. Maybe I'm crotchety, but meeting dozens of random people who I'll likely never see again who I can't likely relate to on a delicate level because of our different outlooks and perspectives wasn't appealing. I'm a graduate student, and I have a certain way I look at life. When I was an undergraduate, I had a completely different perspective. The two crowds? Might be able to mingle loosely, but it's hard in such gigantic settings. This is probably why, to some degree, I felt left out by the people I'd come with who -- on a weekly Shabbat level -- I relate to and feel friendly with. And I'm sure that played a role in my reaction to the weekend, too.

At any rate, more to come tomorrow about sleeping in, covering my hair and what kind of reaction it got ("Are you the rebbetzin at UConn?"), the lunch and the funny jokesters, the rabbi with the amazing stories and thoughts, the seminar on belief that helped me to make an important connection with an important rabbi, the end of Shabbat, seeing the rebbe's picture everywhere and the signs of the impending arrival of moshiach, and how I ended up leaving the Shabbaton an entire day early to head back to Connecticut  -- missing my trip to the rebbe's ohel. 

A Bit of the Old, A Bit of the New!

During lunch yesterday I was graced by the presence of the New York Times at my table, so I picked it up and browsed (something I haven't done since I worked at a newspaper), and was lucky enough to happen upon a pretty exciting and possibly groundbreakingly awesome news story: "Find of Ancient City Could Alter Notions of Biblical David." The find?

"Overlooking the verdant Valley of Elah, where the Bible says David toppled Goliath, archeologists are unearthing a 3,000-year-old fortified city ..."

The site is five acres, and only a tiny portion of the area has been unearthed, meaning that there's still boatloads of research and digging to do. So far, there are some olive pits that have been found that have been carbon dated to between 1050 and 970 BCE -- a very controversial period in history during the supposed reign of David. Likewise, the writing on pottery appears in "so-called proto-Canaanite script and appears to be a letter or document in Hebrew." But we can't get too excited, I suppose. There's still a lot of the area that needs to be uncovered, and I'm tempted to book a ticket to go hop on that dig. The fascinating things about these digs is that they're used to sort of "validate" the "historical" evidence that we see in the Hebrew Bible. Can you imagine the potential for history-making finds in this dig?

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On a completely and entirely unrelated note, I just wanted to mention that my favorite new artist -- Shoshannah Brombacher -- has a show opening at The Tea Lounge of her work, and it will run through the month of November. Her work has appeared on A Simple Jew 's blog, Chabad.org, and so many other places on the web. She has a flavor of Chagall, with a very ethereal, dreamy quality to her paintings ranging from music to the great Chassidic masters to modern Jewish celebrations. Can you guess what this painting is alluding to? I'll give you a hint: It's a classic parable involving Hillel and Shammai!

It is with that that I wish all a Shabbat Shalom -- may you have rest, peace, and good times with Torah, friends, family and G-d!

Light Up the Path Already, Will You?

Every night, I say the shema before going to bed.

And every night, I silently pray that my path, my strength to go in one direction over another, will be granted to me in my dreams by the hand or voice of G-d.

I have had recurring dreams of Hasidism, men in black hats and coats with white shirts speaking to me and teaching me, recently Hasidic people I know have appeared -- wisping by me while I stand, perplexed.

And then last night I awoke in horror in the middle of the night, checking my right leg, on the lower part, the entire space below my knee, wrapping around my leg, for the tattoo. The tattoo that appeared in my dream was huge, in an obscure shape of blacks and reds and it was hideous, but I got it anyway in the dream, not even thinking about it. And so when I woke up, I checked my leg, because the dream had been so vivid, and I was frustrated, but relieved nothing was there. And I went back to sleep, hoping for something.

People keep telling me that in our dreams we're spoken to. And I blogged about my claimed Psalm 16 before.

So every night, I silently pray that these things revealed to me in obscurity in my slumber will somehow be clear. I want to know what they mean, and every morning I wake up without feeling clarity I grow more and more weary.