Shanah Tovah!

Although we're living in galut (exile, or better yet, the U.S. and not Israel), there is something special about this place during the holidays. Not living in Los Angeles or Chicago or New York or another city with a giant Jewish community means that the chances of running into a Jew, you would think, are slim.

Being in Denver this time of year, as Rosh HaShanah is on our doorstep, greetings and connections have popped up in the most unusual of places.

I stopped into Target this morning to spend a gift card that my in-laws sent me early for my birthday (yipes, turning 31 on the 30th) and heard greetings of "Shanah Tovah!" coming from nowhere in particular (seriously, I looked, I didn't see any Jews, I just heard the voices ... am I nuts?). Walking to the car in the parking lot after my migraine-fueled adventure into yellow cardigan purchasing, I saw a very tall, tanned blonde piling out of a minivan full of men.

As she approached our car, she took one look at our Na Nach sticker, one look at me (tichel wearing) and shouted "Shanah Tovah!" A bit startled, I responded in kind.

A bit later, while Ash and I did our final run out for groceries (seriously, does holiday shopping ever end?) at Trader Joe's (where everything is now pumpkin spiced, including the pumpkin seeds), the girl at the next check counter popped over to help bag our groceries.

Hannah, with a hamsa and star of David around her neck, wished us a "Shanah Tovah!" and proceeded to explain how she was working during the holiday. She did, however, make sure to pick up apples, honey, and a pomegranate. Although it bummed me out that she has to work instead of enjoy the holiday in all its joy and splendor, I understand where she's coming from.

I've always waffled between being Jewish being easier/harder outside of Israel, where being Jewish is a breeze, it's a given, it's carefree. In the U.S. you have to really try hard to find the little Jewish sparks here and there, especially when you don't live in a community like Teaneck, New Jersey.

And when you do find those little connections, it's beautiful and reminds me that the Jewish people are here, there, and everywhere -- in their own way and their own style.

Shanah Tovah everyone!

An Unanticipated Start to Renewal

This week, we begin the High Holidays of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, holidays that are juxtaposed with a bittersweet sensation of happiness and reality. The book of life, the book of death. At this time every year, I beg for new beginnings, for insight, for clarity, and it's an appropriate time of year because it's also the season of my birthday, which happens to be Rosh Hashanah on the Hebrew calendar and September 30 on the Gregorian calendar. I'd really wanted to do something jazzy like Kate did for her birthday, where she listed tons of awesome facts -- known and unknown -- about her from the most minute to the deep and meaningful. Had I written that post a month ago when she posted her's, I probably would go ahead and post it anyway, but I can't put myself in a mindset of cataloging and celebrating these 28 years of life that I've been given. But I'm distracted.

Ever since I was a kid, I'd always wanted to be married by 27. I'm not sure why, but it was some kind of goal that I could work for and 27 seemed like enough time to sow my wild oats and then settle into a life of marriage, have kids and be someone's wife. So I hit that goal, with four months to spare.

What I never anticipated, however, was being divorced by 28. I also never anticipated moving back to Denver -- where I lived six years ago for a summer at The Denver Post -- alone.

This blog has watched me on a unique journey into and through Judaism as a convert, and now, I suppose, it will document what it means to be a single, converted, divorced Orthodox Jewish woman pushing 30 living in the Rocky Mountain state.

Why Denver? Well, I didn't have this blog back in 2005, but if I did, you would have heard me sing the praises of Colorado as the healthiest place on earth. The moment my wheels hit Colorado, I felt the need to eat healthy, to be healthy, to feel healthy. I went through a heartbreak there, but it didn't smack me in the face like it did elsewhere, because I was mentally and emotionally healthy. I was able to cope and move on. When I lived in Denver, I went running and walking, I ate fresh vegetables and maintained a mostly vegetarian diet, I explored the state, I got out. I did things. I was happy, I was healthy, I was positive about my future and confident in who I was. Everyone keeps telling me Denver's a horrible choice because there are no single frum folk there. To that, friends, I say, "I'm not interested in dating at the moment. Seriously?"

Why not Israel? Divorce is a big enough shock to my system right now. I need a change, so I'm starting small with a move to Denver where I can regroup, clear my head, and find some inner peace. The balagan of Israel is too much for the tender state of me right now, so stay patient. I haven't ruled it out. After all, the world is my oyster at this point.

What happened? As much as I know y'all want to ask this question, and as much as I want to answer it, this blog isn't the place for it. Evan (aka Tuvia) and I are divorcing amicably after spending most of our marriage trying to make things click into place. Not everyone works out in the way that you think or hope they will, and that's the crapshoot of life, folks. I was at an all-time emotional low when the decision was made, and since then -- a mere couple of weeks -- I've already started to feel like there's a silver lining in this. Gam zu l'tovah. (Even in this there is good.) Just know that Evan and I gave it all we had, and the marriage didn't work out.

What now? Well, I'm on the hunt for a Denver job. So if you know someone, let me know. I've applied for a few, and one responded that I'm overqualified, so I'm afraid that this is going to be a constant refrain that will frustrate the bejeezus out of me. As for school, it's on hold for now with the option to return in the spring, but I'm not sure what's going to happen there. I think in the past year, I outgrew what I thought the program could provide me. I want to continue learning, so maybe I'll hop off to Israel to seminary or something. Seriously, world = oyster. But right now, I really need to find work in Colorado -- so help a Jewess out!

I suppose I have a lot to think about, and you're all along for the ride. Why I chose to uncover after the divorce, what the Denver community is like, and, most importantly, what do I want out of life?

Thus, the High Holidays -- a time for renewal -- couldn't have come at a better time. Or maybe HaShem had this all in the books. After all, everything happened so quickly, the move, the divorce, everything. I felt almost forced to be in Denver by the High Holidays, and it has happened. My 10Q email arrived the day of my get and reminded me of what I foresaw in 5771, and it was foreboding in a way. What is HaShem trying to say to me? And what does it all mean?

Stay tuned, folks. It's going to be an interesting 5772.

When I Call, Will You Answer?

Every day (or almost) I log on to my blog, sit down and write something. I pour my soul out onto the pages of this blog, and for the past three-and-a-half years, and for every day of these past several years I've seen the words written there, below the title of my blog: Sh'ma HaShem, qoli eqra v'chaneni v'aneni. It's funny because I was thinking about it tonight, sitting here, trying to make myself go to sleep, and I realized I'd forgotten what the phrase meant or why I put it there. Let's deconstruct.

Sh'ma HaShem: Hear, G-d

Qoli eqra: My voice cries,

V'chaneni:  Be gracious to me,

V'aneni: Answer me.

Source? Psalms 27:7. We read from this Psalm every day during the month of Elul. I can't believe I'd gotten so lost in the constant of seeing it there that I forgot what it was, where it was from, how important the phrasing and words are.

Now, I went back in the annals of this blog and found a really fascinating post (am I tooting my own horn here?) that I'd written in late August 2006. I was four months out of a Reform conversion, and almost three years into studying Judaism seriously. Even then, at that point, I knew that I wasn't content with a religion of do-do-do without feel-feel-feel. I'm not saying that Reform Judaism was that, but what I was seeing and experiencing was that. I was never that kind of Jew.

A morsel of that post:

I read an article in Tikkun about a guy who was at a bookstore in Tennessee when he ran into a college-age kid who was browsing the small Judaica section in a Border's books. He observed that the kid would pick up a book, flip through it and put it back as if he wasn't really looking. The guy walked over to the collegian and they got to talking about what this kid was looking for -- G-d. The collegian said that G-d was missing from so many books. That G-d is almost devoid of meaning in modern Judaism -- in nearly all followings therein. It got me thinking. The one thing I always detested about "religion" was that it lacked rhyme or reason. Things were done because "that's just what we do." You go to church on Sunday because that's what a good Christian does. You daven three times a day, because that's what a good Jew does. You go to confession, becuase, well, that's what a good Catholic does. The WHY gets lost in translation. That's also what drew me so much to Judaism ... the idea of rabbis across centuries arguing things down to the accidental ink blot on a specific Talmudic trachtate. It is, enlightening and brilliant the amount of discussion and argument that goes into Jewish thought. But it feels like we're missing something. G-d?

When rabbinic and Talmudic Judaism was born, G-d almost disappeared from the Jewish map. It makes you wonder of Adonai is sitting idly by, waiting for Jews everywhere to realize that when they left for Summer Vacation, they left good ole' Adonai sitting on the front porch stoop. Many, many years later, there Adonai sits. Waiting. And what are we doing? Well, I'm not sure.

I know what I'm doing. I'm making a concerted effort to "rekindle the flame" as a popular phrase within the Jewish literary circles quips. I carry G-d with me more than I ever did when I was wrestling with organized religion or my fear of life after death. It's almost an unconcious hum in my head, always keeping me at ease. It's the moments when I'm ill at ease that I seem to cry out, truly and deeply, for strength, reciting the words in the Siddur (page 75) that my rabbi and I discussed so often (cannot rebuild a bridge, but can mend a broken heart). I don't want to be a Jew-by-habit, I'm a Jew-by-Choice, who chooses to create a holy bubble where G-d is more than just four letters in the holy books.

-------

So each morning when I rise, I'll rebuild the figure near the bimah and the shofar, the sound it makes calling us to repentence, to focus on heshbon ha'nefesh -- taking stock of oneself, the soul, reflecting and asking for Divine forgiveness. I'll recite the Psalm, calling Adonai to hear my cries, and I will think of Moshe, ascending the mount for the third time on this day in 2448. I will find my kavannah, and I will keep my beloved close, as my beloved keeps me close.

I think I knew where I was going back then. I knew what I needed, and that hasn't changed. Finding that place, that "holy bubble" that I mention is a constant pursuit of mine. Especially this time of year, when I think about calling out to G-d, asking G-d to hear my voice, to really, truly hear me. To be gracious to me.

And most importantly? To answer.

Rosh Hashanah, I Wish You Were.

Every year, no matter how hard I try, the holidays -- be it Pesach or Rosh Hashanah or something else -- sneak up on me. I start reading and preparing, analyzing the meanings behind fasts and actions and how we daven, far in advance of the holidays. But then, out of nowhere, it is upon us and I'm lost. Lost in the music, the prayers, the people, the noise, the chaos. And this Rosh Hashanah, it wasn't enough that the days were full of all of these things, no, what was added to it was an incident that will probably be one of those "Hey, remember that year where Chavi didn't come to shul and when she did she looked like she'd been knocked out in a boxing match?" kind of memories.

I was staying in a new environment, and despite my best efforts -- bringing my own pillow cases, my own allergen-free pillow, my own pillows and body wash -- somehow I managed to develop a violent allergic reaction to something still unknown to me. It started Saturday morning when I woke up, progressed throughout the day, and culminated around 2 a.m. Sunday morning with a swollen-shut right eye and a left eye on the way there. In the morning, I didn't make it to shul because I'd been up all night wiping my eye and making sure my face didn't swell too much and that -- most importantly -- my throat didn't swell shut. Two people, two amazing friends, even made their way to the apartment to wake me up and check on me (they didn't know the situation). When I finally made it to shul, moments before shofar, I was surrounded by friends dishing medical advice (real doctors!) and handing me antihistamines. The swelling in my eye was down drastically when the service ended a few hours later, and by the evening my eyes were looking better and my skin was bumpy like the peel of an orange and red as can be. Did I mention how itchy it was?

Even today, my face is bumpy, red and blotchy, and I just have to hope that the Prednisone prescribed to me on Monday will really kick it up and make this go away. For someone like me -- with an always-clear complexion -- it's frustrating, disheartening, and depressing. I hate to be vain, but it's more than that. I was embarrassed to be at shul, and later, in class. It's hard to focus when your eyeballs are itchy and your skin is peeling and flaking. It's disgusting and distracting.

I tried so hard to focus on Rosh Hashanah services this weekend. Our chazzan, flown in from Israel for the High Holidays has a voice of honesty, passion, depth. I found myself, despite the state of my face, focusing on his arms as they swung about in song, his shukeling, his devotion to the words, to their meaning. He managed to find a space in his own world to bring his soul toward G-d, and despite all of those people in the sanctuary chattering and reading novels and paying no attention, he was real, he was true. His words were something special. I found that, when my face was itchy and looking horrible, it was easier for me to focus on the chazzan and his words -- more easy, that is, then when I'm normal, healthy, and focusing on the babblers around me.

[As an aside, the dinner I went to Friday night was at the home of some Israeli friends of mine (note: more like family!), and the chazzan was there as well. The chazzan, whose English isn't too stellar, allowed for our hosts and myself to speak a bit of Hebrew, and for Tuvia to nod along joyfully. It was so interesting to be in a household where we bounced back and forth between Hebrew and English, and it was absolutely something special for me because it gave me practice listening, comprehending, and even speaking a bit.]

I did, however, have an interesting conversation with friends about the state of affairs at shul over the High Holidays, and I have to agree with them -- to a point. They were talking about how for some of these people, these twice-a-year Jews, it's a huge step for them to make it to the shul for Rosh Hashanah to hear the shofar (which, in truth, is the major mitzvah of RH anyway). Although they drive me nuts, grate my cheese, and make it all-around more difficult to listen to the chazzan than a swollen melonhead, they're there, and that's something. That they chose to come to an Orthodox shul, where the only sound you'll hear is the purest voice of the chazzan, is also something. There was no production, no lights and choirs and extravagant displays of High Holiday excess. No, it was simple. It was chaos. It was organized, beautiful, chaos. They didn't extend the walls to pack in hundreds of people -- it was men and women smashed into the sanctuary listening to a chazzan with pipes of gold, pipes with a direct connection to the divine. And overall? It was beautiful. It was how I've always pictured the service. Simple, chaotic, perfect.

Interestingly, a friend suggested the following advice: If there are days of the year to skip shul, it's the High Holidays. It gave me a chuckle, but I understand. The pure volume of people there elevated the chattering behind the chazzan's davening. But I keep telling myself -- they were THERE.

I feel as though I was cheated a bit, however. Because of the state of my face. People kept checking up on me, asking if I was okay, making sure I could handle to be in the sanctuary during davening. So? I focused my energies on the shofar, and I was reminded of probably the one thing I miss most about my old Reform shul: the girl who blew the shofar -- she, she had pipes. That long note? She could blast it for minutes. Her skills were incomparable. Unimaginable.

But it's the sound of the shofar that brought everyone to quietude. The rabbi wouldn't let the shofar be blown until the entire crowd was silent. Children came running in from every direction. Women silenced their chattering. Men turned toward the bimah. The rabbi read the sound, the man blew the shofar. And it was beautiful. The sound that I hear in my dreams, that powerful sound above all quietness that connects us all on these days of Awe. Silence and beauty. Silence and loudness. It's that sound of creation, bringing order through noise to the quiet.

So here I am, in the days of Awe, contemplating whether my face will clear up and stop itching in time for me to enjoy Shabbat and Yom Kippur. To really focus on the reason for the season (if I can say that, that is). We have friends, the illustrious @SusQHB and @RavTex coming up for the weekend, and I'm so stoked. I love sharing my community with others, because it's the most amazing community out there. I think this weekend was the most perfect example of the gift I've been given -- people cared enough to check on me, people ran to their respective houses to bring me medicine, people offered up their homes to me to rest in the afternoon, their beds to rest my swollen head, food to comfort me, and jokes and calm things to make me less worried. These people, this community of mine, is a family unlike any other that I've known. Eizeh mishpacha!?


Thus, 5770 came in with an interesting bang. They say that how you spend the days of Rosh Hashanah will define your year -- if you nap on RH, you'll have a sleepy year and the like. I have to hope, with all my heart, that this won't be a year of pain and suffering. I have to hope that rather, it will be a year of friendship, community, family, and connections. A realizing of my dream to be an Orthodox Jew in all halakic senses of the word. So may I be sealed, for all my efforts and passion, in the book of life. And may you all -- my extended family through blogging, Twittering, and many other avenues -- be sealed in the book of life for a healthy, happy, productive, and peaceful 5770!

Shanah Tovah + Ouch = No fun.

All I have to say is, stay tuned for a tale of horror, woe, hives, eyes swollen shut, and a lack of sleep.

Yes, I got really f'ing sick this weekend during Rosh Hashanah. Sick enough that half the congregations doctors were diagnosing me during Shacharit today.

No pictures. Let's just say I looked like this guy:

Except minus the blood. And that I am a woman. And I don't box. But other than that? Yeah.

Let's just hope this isn't an indication of the coming year ...

Another Reason to LOVE Barack Obama!

Shanah Tovah in 5770!

Last year, around this time, I wrote about how different my situation was from year's past. Last year, at Rosh Hashanah, I was starting anew. It seems that almost every year, for the past four years, I've been doing something different.

In 2005, I was living in Lincoln, Nebraska, finishing up my bachelor's in journalism at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. I was attending a Reform shul, and I was preparing for my then-imminent conversion. I was seeing someone long-distance, sleeping a lot, and coasting through my senior year. My Judaism was unspeakably important to me, but it was a very different Judaism.

In 2006, I was living in Washington D.C., working at The Washington Post as a copy editor on the Metro desk. I'd been hired on there after an amazing summer internship. I was dating a Jewish guy, lamenting my inability to have Fridays off, and feeling a little lost without a community or a sense of who I was. I was studying the weekly parshot at a bustling coffee shop, and I was expressing my Judaism through my blog and through d'varei Torah.

In 2007, I was living in Chicago, Illinois, working at the University of Chicago in the department of economics for a tyrannical professor. I was working 24 hours a day, seven days a week. I was dating my on-again, off-again boyfriend, eating decadently, and gearing up for what I thought would be an outstanding High Holiday season at a Reform shul in Chicago. I was still studying the weekly parshah, blogging, going to shul every Friday, and trying to figure out -- still -- where I fit in Judaism, and subsequently, who I was Jewishly.

In 2008, I was living in Storrs, Connecticut, starting my master's degree in Judaic studies at the University of Connecticut. I had just met a guy on JDate, was loving my classes, and at that point had realized that the only path for me was Orthodoxy and an Orthodox conversion. But those plans were on hold as I was living on campus, carless, and had yet to track down an Orthodox synagogue.

And now? In 2009? I'm in my second year of my master's program, still dating the same guy, still working on my Judaism (an endless and exciting process), and anticipating an Orthodox conversion in 5770. I'm unsure where I'll be at this point next year -- in a PhD program? Or maybe not? Living in West Hartford? Or maybe not?

Will I be Jewish? Always. Will I be learning? You betcha. Will I be in flux in my observance, assessing and reassessing how I live my live? Of course. It's the way I live my life. It's the Jewish way!

It's interesting to see how my Rosh Hashanah yearly posts have changed over the years, going all the way back to my days on Livejournal. I've definitely run the spectrum of Judaism, starting as a Reform Jew in Lincoln, Nebraska, and arriving as an Orthodox Jew in Connecticut. There's nowhere to go but up, up, and away in 5770!

So with that, a small reflection, I want to wish you all a Sweet and Happy New Year. Shanah Tovah, and may you have life, health, and happiness in the new year. May your families grow, your hearts be full, and your minds be at ease.

(Rosh Hashanah Day 1, Lunch Menu: Baked Macaroni and Cheese, Tzimmis, Mashed Sweet Potatoes, Honey-Spice Cake, Couscous, Salad, Chumus, and Challah. OH YEAH! Oh, and our new fruit? Kiwi!)

Benji Lovitt is THE MAN.

I thought about tacking this on to my last post (since it has a few videos in it) but opted to give it its own space right here. Benji Lovitt of What War Zone? and The Big Felafel traversed the streets of Tel Aviv to ask people about their Rosh Hashanah plans and to wish everyone a Shana Tova. Take a gander, it's amusing and sweet (badaching!).

What's the Shofar? A Ram's What!?

Mad props to MyJewishLearning.com for putting together this cute little video about what a shofar is (it's a ram's horn, folks, get your mind out of the gutter). I must also give a hand to the fella from The Sway Machinery for talking so intensely about the shofar. His voice is sort of, well, intense I guess is the only way to describe it. I've never heard of his band before, but now I'm intrigued. Enjoy!





Alternatively, if you want to see The Sway Machinery's cover of "Billie Jean" in Krakow, give it a gander here:

5769: Yom Kippur Reflections

In my life lately, it appears that everything is interestingly coincidental. It leaves me wondering about bigger things at work. What was it this time? The rabbi's sermon at Yom Kippur morning services echoed my recent post on the statements of the Ger Rabbi. When he started speaking it, I grinned hugely, nudged Evan and felt completely proud. I need to email the rabbi to thank him for inviting us to services, not to mention for being so like-minded on one of the biggest sermons of the year.

This year, for some reason, Yom Kippur resonated more deeply, more thoroughly than all of my short years in the tribe. The fast went more smoothly (up until the point where I attempted to nap and didn't so much and woke up grumpy as all get out) than in all past years combined for some reason -- was it the weather? Being in shul more? Where I was mentally and emotionally? For some reason, the moment I stepped into shul for Kol Nidre after the pre-fast stuff-your-face fest at Hillel, I was prepared. I hadn't felt prepared before, but it just hit me the moment the service started that I was in sync with the day. The melodies and words came to me with ease, which is something I always worry about with those once-a-year celebrations in the Jewish calendar. I am a Shabbos maven because I get a dose nearly every week. But the holidays are a point of frustration for me much of the time. But this year, it was if the rabbi's words were zipping through my mind before they came out of his mouth. It probably sounds incredibly zen-like, but that's not what I'm getting at.

I felt a connection. I felt heard. I was atoning, speaking to G-d, seeing my name in the book of life.

So the low-down: Kol Nidre was at Hillel. Then morning services were at the conservative shul in West Hartford. I finished off afternoon/evening services back at Hillel.

Services in West Hartford were absolutely magnificent. Up until when the organ and choir busted out during the Torah service. Up until then, an elderly cantor (not the usual fellow) was moving the service along in a beautiful stream of prayer. I could have listened to him all day. The rabbi greeted us on our way in (and can I just say I LOVE this rabbi?), and the shul slowly filled up throughout the morning. If there's one thing I've learned though, it's to show up early for the prime seating in a big shul like that. I already mentioned the rabbi's sermon, so I won't go there, but we left right before Yizkor. I'm never sure whether to stick around for Yizkor, but my experience tells me that unless I've lost a parent or child, that it's more for mourners than people like me. I did realize, though, shortly after leaving that my grandfather did die this year and that maybe, just maybe, I should have stuck around. It probably would have made the rest of the day easier on my sleep issue, too. Services back at Hillel went fairly quickly (a mere two hours!), and I spent a bit of time up at the ark speaking quietly with G-d right before it was closed and Yom Kippur tied up. The shofar was blown and my heart sang, my lips curled into a smile, and I suddenly lost my light-headed/head-achy feeling.

The words of the prayerbook seemed to do more for me this year. I read the words and they did more than flip around in my mind for a few minutes. They echoed and swirled about throughout the day and continue to resonate in my heard and mind. The melodies enchant me and the entire idea of placing prayer above all else -- above all earthly and physical needs -- through fasting brings me to a beautiful place.

Essentially, I feel like I'm starting the new year with weights off my shoulders, my soul feeling light and as bright as the sun in the day and the moon at night. I know that my blog posts of late have been confused and frustrated, and I still am in that state of mind -- it's part of the Underconstructionist philosophy, you know. But I feel like G-d will be with me no matter how I walk the path, as long as I am walking forward and not backward.

And now? We prepare for Sukkot ! There will be THREE or FOUR sukkahs on campus, so I'm pretty stoked. Mostly because there will be one out here in the graduate quad for my using pleasure. The interesting thing? I've never observed Sukkot in any way shape or form before. I've always wanted to construct a sukkah, and when I was living in DC and saw sukkahs in people's front yards I was so jealous.

Until then, I wish upon you all the connectedness I feel with my Judaism and that you all continue on a forward-moving path.

Revisiting the Ultimate Goal.

Okay, I take it back. Maybe I did figure it out. Roughly a year ago, around Rosh Hashanah/Yom Kippur I wrote a very simple post, "The Ultimate Goal ." What was it?

"I have set G-d before me at all times." (Psalms 16:8)

Now, the thing about this is that it's a consistent goal. A perpetual necessity for me. For those keeping score at home, the rest of Psalm 16:8 reads: "... surely He is at my right hand, I shall never be shaken."

So then on another note, just last night I had a dream about Hasidic rabbis teaching me (Hasidim being a recurring theme in my dreams over the past several months), though when I awoke I couldn't remember what I had been taught. After sharing this dream on Twitter, a friend kindly replied to me simply with a reference to Psalm: 16:7. What does this verse say?

I bless the Lord who has guided me; my conscience admonishes me at night.

Now, I've been homing in on a lot of coincidences lately. My friend's Rosh Hashanah miracle story truly touched me in a way I cannot describe, and just now, well, let me explain. The note from my friend about Psalms 16:7 this morning I found particularly interesting, but hadn't thought much about it other than that it was a fascinating approach to my recurring dreams. But then, while thinking about Yom Kippur and pulling up old blog posts, and happening upon this one with Psalm 16:8 from almost precisely a year ago (one day off), I was struck.

So perhaps Psalm 16 is my song.

Protect me, O G-d, for I seek refuge in You.
I say to the Lord,
"You are my Lord, my benefactor;
there is none above You."
As to the holy and mighty ones that are in the land,
my whole desire concerning them is that
those who espouse another [god]
may h ave many sorrows!
I will have no part of their bloody libations;
their names will not pass my lips.
The Lord is my allotted share and portion;
You control my fate.
Delightful country has fallen to my lot;
lovely indeed my estate.
I bless the Lord who has guided me;
my conscience (literally kidney) admonishes me at night.
I am ever mindful of the Lord's presence;
He is at my right hand; I shall never be shaken.
So my heart rejoices,
my whole being exults,
and my body rests secure.
For You will not abandon me to Sheol,
or let Your faithful one see the Pit.
You will teach me the path of life.
In Your presence is perfect joy;
delights are ever in Your right hand.

For those wondering, the kidney is supposedly the seat of the conscience. But really, this Psalm is how my heart beckons -- G-d will not abandon me, He will teach me the path of life. And it is with this that 5769 will be a year of rejoicing, security, delight, and joy.

I bid all an easy fast, and may we all be inscribed in the book of life. Gemar chatimah tovah, and good yontiff!

Will My Unbalance be Heard?

The Jewish Treats blog shared an important little snippet today that I wish I had been paying more attention to over the past few days: "During the time between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, G-d pays special attention to our prayers. Go ahead, talk to G-d; He wants to hear you!"

I then began thinking about the idea of making resolutions, like we do on the Gregorian New Year (that is, January 1 and shortly just before). It doesn't seem to me like a very High Holy Days thing to do, making resolutions. Maybe I'm missing something, but it has never really been about making resolutions. Is the Jewish New Year meant for resolution-making? Maybe I'm wrong to do it, but when I do do it, I make resolutions to start on January 1. It's never really a conscious decision, it just works that way. But this year, it is more of a deliberate decision. And I feel pretty horrible about it.

You see, I'd like to say that I'm starting 5769 out right. Keeping Shabbos completely and going kosher and doing all these things I've been trying to tack on for so long now. But it isn't happening. Yes, I went to services on Friday, but then we went out to dinner and then to New York to see a show. And this week? Driving down to the Poconos, though we are going to shul. And this isn't how I want to carry myself, but I can't seem to figure things out. I seem stuck. I want it all. I want everything! I have a boyfriend, and being Shomer Shabbos would relegate our relationship to Sundays, and he works many Sundays. School, Shabbos, Boyfriend, feh.

I just have to wonder how G-d will review my prayers these few days before Yom Kippur. Will He hear me? Will I be inscribed in the book of life? Is it even worth it? When even I know that I'm not living rightly?

I feel like the delicate balance I am trying to maintain is eating away at my conscious. If I weren't in school or weren't in Storrs or weren't doing this or doing that it'd work out. But conditionals always seem perfect in our minds.

It never fails to amuse me that my zodiac sign is Libra, the scales of justice, and the moment I feel perfectly in balance is when the scales seem to tip, creating unbalance, unsettling the mind and tilting my comfort.

Stained-glass window from Lower Merion Synagogue in Pennsylvania. 

The Round-Up!

So, prepare yourself for a hodge-podge post. Start your engines!

Evan and I are going back to the Conservative shul we went to a few weeks ago in West Hartford. We're hoping that we can talk the rabbi into sneaking us in to Yom Kippur services on Thursday. So cross your magen Davids and hope for the best. It's a nice shul, and I'm guessing more people will be there this Shabbat since it's between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Alternatively, it could have a reverse affect and no one will be there. Either way, I'm stoked for more real-shul time.

I happ'd upon an article over on the Orthodox Union site about Yom Kippur/Kol Nidre, and I thought it was worth sharing: "You DO Have a Prayer. "

Then there is the debate talk. I don't even want to get very far into the Palin-Biden debate, but let's just say that the only reason Palin did "well" is because the bar for her was set so low it would have been impossible for her to have tripped over it. That being said, I'm pretty offended at her constant use of the quip "Never Again" to refer to the Wall Street fiasco -- can someone please let her know that that phrase is relegated to events of, oh, you know, Holocausts? To take such a significant set of words and throw it on a financial crisis that isn't really that big of a deal relative to past financial crises is offensive. And thanks to my friend Heather, this link has provided me with the Sarah Palin debate flow chart!

If you can't wait for Haveil Havalim on Sunday, Ilana-Davita did a good job of rounding up some posts from the week for your viewing pleasure. Just click here .

For those of you out there of the Jewish Mother persuasion, there's a new Blog Carnival on the block. You can head over to the In the Pink blog to check out how to register.

To close up the random round-up, everyone should head over to Mottel's blog for his Rosh Hashanah in Peru. Yes, despite our absolute differences in opinion about the election and politics, Mottel still takes some amazing photographs and has a lot of fascinating things to share about his worldly travels. And he's an all-around great person :)

Oh, and one more thing: I'm so stoked about the paper I'm going to write for my bible class about the Golden Calf incident. Nachmanides is my homeboy for this one, and unfortunately I disagree with Rashi and most other scholars regarding the purpose of the Golden Calf. I'm being crazy radical! Stay tuned for more!

And with that, I bid you all a Shabbat Shalom!

May You, and I, May We Be Inscribed.

Rosh Hashanah reflections? I have few. I'll have to say I was very distracted by the fact that I was born 25 years ago on Rosh Hashanah (making my Hebrew birthday Simchat Torah). I was destined to really let that Jewish soul loose, is what this means.

So for Erev Rosh Hashanah I went to the Chabad dinner since it was so close. It turns out the rabbi is keeping tabs on me, as someone mentioned to him I guess that I'd been in New York. I told him I'd been in Washington Heights, which, I guess, to those from other NY neighborhoods is where the "fancy Jews" are. The food was good, the conversation, too, and I walked away with a bowl full of gefilte fish, which was a stellar parting gift considering I got beat up by the rabbi's middle child (I could really go off on the lack of discipline here, but these are the Days of Awe and I'm really pushing for the book of life). Tuesday, I went to services at Hillel, heard a teenage undergraduate blow the shofar with might while the rabbi's child-size son toyed with the other shofar while oozing with cuteness. A lot of stuff in the service was skipped because there were a couple "break out" sessions of meet your neighbors and to discuss Hannah's song. And after everything? There was no lunch served. But there was Tashlich, and it was my first service as such. It was a little unnerving watching the birds pick up all the things which I had cast off, but I suppose they were carrying it up and above instead of it sinking down below. That night I was a horrible person and ended up going to see a (free) movie screening (of "Religulous") with Evan and then he took me to dinner for my birthday. I also have to mention that he gave me an amazing bouquet of White Roses for the big Two-Five, a gift I haven't gotten from anyone, ever, period. What a prince, no? And today? I was sick. I blame too much gefilte fish and kugel (which I had consumed essentially every day since Friday). So now, Rosh Hashanah is over and we prepare for Yom Kippur. I also realized not so long ago that tomorrow is a fast day (Fast of Gedalia ), but it's a minor fast from dawn until dusk and I'm not so keen on whether this is a hard-core across-the-board type of fast or one of those "you can, you don't have to, but you should, but no hard feelings." Feel free to let me know!

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So I sat down tonight with Martin Buber's "The Way of Man: According to the Teaching of Hasidim " because it's 41 pages long and took me about five seconds to plow through. There was a lot of interesting -- and relevant -- stuff in the text which I really want to share with you, my ever-so-lucky readers! In a chapter discussing the tenet of "Not to Be Preoccupied With Oneself," Buber discusses the significance of "turning" or what we know of as teshuvah, which is incredibly appropriate for this period of the Jewish calendar. He tells of a rabbi who married his son to the daughter of Rabbi Eliezer. After the wedding, the rabbi approaches Rabbi Eliezer and tells him that he feels close to him now, that he can tell him what is eating at his heart, he says "My hair and beard have grown white, and I have not yet atoned!" Rabbi Eliezer's response is "Oh my friend, you are thinking only of yourself. How about forgetting yourself and thinking of the world?" Buber, in his wisdom, says that essentially what Rabbi Eliezer is saying is "Do not keep worrying about what you have done wrong, but apply the soul power you are now wasting on self-reproach, to such active relationship to the world as you are destined for. You should not be occupied with yourself but with the world." Buber goes on to iterate a sermon by the Rabbi of Ger on the Day of Atonement, and I think it sums up something pretty worthwhile for considering at this season:

He who has done ill and talks about it and thinks about it all the time does not cast the base thing he did out of his thoughts, and whatever one thinks, therein one is, one's soul is wholly and utterly in what one thinks, and so he dwells in baseness. He will certainly not be able to turn, for his spirit will grow coarse and his heart stubborn, and in addition to this he may be overcome by gloom. What would you? Rake the muck this way, rake the muck that way -- it will always be muck. Have I sinned, or have I not sinned -- what does Heaven get out of it? In the time I am brooding over it I could be stringing pearls for the delight of Heaven. That is why it is written: "Depart from evil and do good" -- turn wholly away from evil, do not dwell upon it, and do good. You have done wrong? Then counteract it by doing right.

Indeed, we're conditioned to dwell. We see the bad in things or in ourselves and it becomes the spotlight's focus. But by dwelling on such things, we're not working in the right way. It must be counteracted, not given validation. That, folks, is your food for thought as we approach Yom Kippur.

Tomorrow I'll put up a piece also from this book by Buber which I think can provide us all a little bit of air when it comes to the many paths to G-d -- anyone who tells you there is one way is truly mistaken. So stay tuned and Shana Tova!

High Holidays ... already!?

On the way in to work this morning, while compulsively checking my BlackBerry, I got an e-mail, subject line: "High-Holiday Synagogue Companion - Early Bird Sale" from the Jewish Learning Group. My reaction was shock: What!? High Holidays!? It's only July! It was then that I realized that the High Holidays really are only a few months away ... yikes!

When I worked retail and in the fast food business, I was always aware of upcoming holidays. Even when I was in school you're always conscious of how far away or soon the upcoming festivities are, because you're counting down with everyone else in class or on the job. Jewish holidays? Not so much. There isn't a gigantic section cleared out in the local Wal-Mart or Target full of Chanukah or Purim merchandise, nor is there a special on white garments at the GAP (well, maybe white button-downs -- summertime chic). Usually, I'm lucky to see an endcap featuring menorahs or cookie cutters in the shape of whatever Jewish holiday is present. But in the retail market, they start planning for Halloween in August and start planning for Thanksgiving in September and Christmas? Well, I've already seen signs hailing "XX shopping days till Christmas!" Isn't it a lot early for planning this far ahead? Then, of course, after Christmas the Valentine's stuff goes up and the cycle starts over and we're looking at Easter baskets in February. It's a cycle, and there's always some holiday coming up and things to buy and reminders on endcaps reminding us to prepare since these things inevitably creep up on us.

So I guess I should thank the Jewish Learning Group for this little "early bird" notice. I haven't really thought about where I'll be or what my plans will be, but since I'll be off at graduate school, I have to hope that Chabad or the Hillel will have things planned. Trekking to West Hartford from Storrs would be a pain in the tuches, so I'm planning on a convenient fully observed Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur this year (compared to the past several years which have been disappointing repeatadly for reasons of shul incompatibility and work schedules). But at least I'm thinking about it in advance, eh?

Another upshot to this email is that I discovered an interesting book: Going Kosher in 30 Days. I might have to pick this little gem up (though, in reality it won't necessarily apply for a few years since, well, dorm living means Kosher dining hall if I do indeed go the route of kashrut). From the website:

The book is organized into a 30-day education for beginners, but will hold the interest of anyone interested in Judaism. From Kabbalistic insights into the spiritual basis of the kosher laws to practical advice for people in varying circumstances (families, singles, college students, etc.), Rabbi [Zalman] Goldstein has addressed just about all the concerns and questions that may come up along the way.

Keeping kosher, he explains, is not just about separating meat and dairy or avoiding non-kosher foods. It's about tuning in to the potential of the Jewish soul, about having the power "to enable all creation to soar higher than any individual component of the material order can do individually."

After a brief historical overview that places kosher observance in the context of the experience of previous generation, when keeping kosher was truly a challenge, Going Kosher in 30 Days addresses some common misconceptions that people have -- like the idea that kosher has to do with cleanliness or that it means a rabbi blesses the food. It includes an explanation of what kosher agencies do and a glossary of Hebrew and Yiddish terms relating to the kosher laws.

There are a bounty of other stellar books on the site; I suggest you give it a go (their Companion series looks interesting).

Note: For those curious, from what I can tell, the group and the rabbi are of the Chabad persuasion. I mention this only because I know that when it comes to Judaic books, many look for those that are related to their particularly branch/movement, so this could be useful for those who find the texts interesting and/or want to know more about who is behind the texts!

Religious and Secular -- These, they are Myths in Torah.

I just posted this over at Jewsbychoice.org, but wanted to post it here as well. I think it has some morsels of wisdom for anyone -- Jew, Christian, Muslim, Spaghetti-monster adherent, etc. Just remember, everything we do has the potential to be holy, and to you, whoever you are, holy can mean more than what it means to the religious. Holy can relate to good works, in that, everything we do has the potential to heal, change, better, and revolutionize the world we live in and the people we touch.

It was two years ago, nearly to the day, that I became Chaviva bat Avraham v'Sarah. I say became, but it's true that I didn't really become anything other than the person I was meant to be and had always been, the person hidden and seeking, finally come home to Torah and her people Israel. So on the occasion of the blessed anniversary, I thought I'd share this little morsel of a recent experience, interwoven with this past week's parshah, K'doshim. It's a d'var Torah, I suppose, and I think it has some good and worthy wisdom for the convert and the ba'al teshuvah. Kul tov, friends!

Setting the Scene: I'm walking down Touhy Avenue in the heart of West Rogers Park in Chicago, Illinois, on the first day of Pesach around 4 in the afternoon. I've just left a park where I was with a friend and her children and husband, and I am walking down the street to the far edge of the neighborhood to catch a bus to go to a seder in a far-away suburb with not-that-observant friends, but still I am within the eruv and in Orthodox territory catching a bus on a holiday. I'm wearing a skirt that hits just below the knees, a jacket, and am carrying my bag. I'm completely cognizant of my surroundings -- in fact, I'm almost overly aware when I'm in this neighborhood because I want to seamlessly blend in. Not for others, but for me, and this might be lost to some who know me. But most of the time, it isn't really about them, it's about me. (I want to feel like I'm a part of this observant community, because it's a chance to experience who I might someday be. I envy their community, the closeness of shops and shuls, the living and breathing organism of a self-sustained and thriving Jewish peoplehood. It's a microcosm of what it must once have felt like to be surrounded by people you know and trust and who see the world through nearly the same prescription glasses as you.) I'm passing stores, closed with signs that announce they'll reopen after the two festival days of Pesach -- I don't see this anywhere I typically travel in Chicago. You see, the first two days of Pesach are like the Sabbath, they are without many of the mundane things we absorb the rest of the week and the commerce of the community is still. At least, I imagine it as such.

The incident: I'm crossing a street, and glance over to the North where there is a sports bar. A man is sitting on a bench on the east side of the storefront, and standing behind him and staring in through the bar's windows at a gigantic television displaying baseball is a teenage boy -- kippah, tzitzit, black pants, white shirt, an observant Jew. I smiled in amusement, and at that moment he turned and looked at me. We locked eyes for a few minutes, and then I crossed the street, looking back every now and again, and there he was, still there, peering desperately into the window. It would have been perfect for a picture -- I would have captioned it "Pesach Paradox" -- but it was, well, Pesach. I smiled and laughed quietly to myself.

The point: After my "How do I carry things when I go to Orthodox shul for the first time?" crisis last week, I've been thinking more about the issues of "how observant are you" and "what makes a Jew observant" and "I'll out-frum you!" and "why do you do x and y but not z?." I have realized that, despite what some may think or say or preach, no one is perfect. Not even the most pious Jew is truly the most pious Jew. There is no perfection in Judaism, and this is why we're here: to perfect the world, to better the world, to try as hard as we can to reach the perfection in which G-d created the world. And of this, this is what we must remind ourselves constantly, every day, with each moment we breathe -- we seek perfection, we do not embody it.

I was reading the parshah for this past week, Kedoshim, and it's one of the prolific parashot of Torah. G-d speaks to Moses saying, "You shall be holy, since I the Lord your G-d am holy." And reflecting on my week and the incident with the boy in the window, I think this is brilliantly connected. Rabbi Louis Finkelstein has said that Judaism is a way of life that seeks to transform every human action into a means of communing with G-d, and Martin Buber wrote that Judaism does not divide life into the sacred and profane, but into the holy and not-yet-holy. Thus, how can we even criticize our actions to the most minute points if each action is either holy or not-yet-holy; there's a spark in there somewhere that shows we are trying to connect, even if we may not recognize it as so. Etz Chayim's commentary states that "Everything we do has the potential of being holy," (p. 693) and "We can be as holy as we allow ourselves to be."

I feel better about where I'm going, and with the constant reminder that I'm not into labels and denominationalism, I am allowing myself to be as holy as I can in my current incarnation. And despite the guilt that arises when I'm on the bus on a Saturday afternoon, watching kippah-toting Jews and skirt-donning women walk their strollers to shul in the eruv nearby, or the twinge of regret I feel when I eat out, I know that the person I am is moving along a path where things that once were not yet holy are now holy and other things are finding their way into the holy. On Shabbat, I now disconnect from the electronic world as much as I can, I avoid writing to the best of my ability, and I go to shul, and this is how I edge into holiness.

And as a result, over the past two years, everything I do is coupled with a consciousness that I had never experienced before. Being a Jew means being 110 percent aware of everything -- the food you eat, the places you go, the people you see, the company with which you surround yourself, the person you want to become. Not because it's a competition, but because it's a process, though sometimes I think we lose ourselves and forget what this consciousness is really saying and doing for us.

This is what is often called Jewish guilt. It's that knowledge that everything has the potential to be holy, but knowing that we can only be as holy as we allow ourselves to be. The secular Jew, the religious Jew, the lost Jew -- we all experience it. It's an inescapable glue that binds me to you, Diaspora to Israel, past to present.

So, it is with all of this in mind, mentally in tow, that I shall be holy -- as everything I do has the potential to be holy -- for the Lord our G-d, my G-d, is holy.

The final Parshah.

"And there was no other prophet who arose in Israel like Moses, whom the Lord knew face to face ..." (Deut. 34:10)

This found its way into Maimonides Thirteen principles, chiefly within the following:

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.

Key in the initial citation to note is "in Israel," which makes one wonder if this is a foretelling that perhaps such prophets will arise in other nations, among other people. A midrash touches on this in the following:

Never again did there arise in Israel a prophet like Moses, in Israel there did not arise, but among the nations there arose, so that the nations should not have the excuse to say that if only we had a prophet like Moses we would have worshipped the Holy One. And which prophet did they have like Moses? Balaam the son of Beor” (Numbers Rabba 14:19).

Is it suggesting that other prophets of the caliber (in the eyes of worshippers) arose out of envy for Moses? Did envy or visions of grandeur birth the great prophets (visionaries) that birthed Christianity or Islam or Mormonism?

Or, perhaps, the key idea here is that what Moses (via G-d) gave to Israel was greater and unlike anything that would ever arise. Torah! As the greatest revelation from a prophet such as Moses, it never again will be repeated or regiven or redacted. It is THE ultimate final say.

Either way, this brief sentence at the very end of our Torah, before we begin again, inspired Maimonides in his Thirteen Principles (of course, which I'll discuss at some other time when I have more time to explicate on the many points, which I might not exactly agree or understand or GET), which says something. It is not enough to say that Moses was a prophet -- no, he was THE prophet.

This take on the situation seems pretty spot-on:

In the Yigdal prayer in the morning service, we read, "No one from Israel arose like Moses. . ." Could there have been another Moses? Theoretically, yes. But did anyone reach his lofty heights? Only Moses earned the right to ascend Mt. Sinai and accept the Torah directly from Hashem. Moses was just a normal human being who overcame his evil inclination and reached his vast potential. He was a man of physical defects who was slow in speech and spoke with a lisp. Nobody can say that it was his great oratorical skills that mesmerized an entire nation into following him. Moses was a far cry from one who could preach matters in his own words or give expression to divine truths. He was a scribe who could sit before Hashem on Mt. Sinai and take perfect dictation. Moses was the secretary who mirrored the ideals of his divine boss. Interestingly, Moses' Hebrew name Moshe, spelled mem, shin, hay, mirrors that of Hashem, spelled hay, shin, mem. Moshe spelled backwards reads Hashem.

Even the dissection of Moshe and Hashem is pretty compelling (if you're into etymology and a little superstitious like me).

Of this week's entire portion, this is the bit that moved me most. What a man, what an amazing man and what a gift -- or burden. And at the mouth of G-d, Moses passed. A thoughtful kiss goodbye.

Disappointment.

Shana tovah, friends and passersby. I just downed some apples and honey (oh how sweet!) and am settling in for a quiet night before services in the morning (because of that whole 2-day Rosh HaShanah thing we got goin' on).

I have some explaining to do. Or rather, some dredging. Read on, read on.

Last night after work, Ian and I went to this stellar place called Jury's that specializes in delicious burgers (and it was burger special night!). We then got some ice cream and enjoyed the evening before heading to synagogue for 7:30 services. It was a beautiful, pleasant evening and I was feeling excited (especially after Saturday's S'lichot services) for the holidays. I was so eager.

But then we got there and had to unload some things outside (no bags, PERIOD). There was SERIOUS security. We always had security in Lincoln, but it was usually one guy in front, one guy in back. Even in D.C. last year there wasn't as much security as there was outside of the temple last night. The security people who had us unload weren't -- by any means at all -- friendly. They were stiff, and I understand that security on High Holidays is meant to be serious ... but really. It was unwelcoming and sort of disheartening. We went in and it was a seating free-for-all. I was expecting there to be seating delegation, especially considering how pricey tickets were. But there were only a few dozen reserved seats. There were people running around all over the place with walkie-talkies like it was a huge production.

The ark/bima were pushed far back to make room for hundreds more seats. These seats were folding chairs and we chose to sit in the back in the actual sanctuary, which made the ark/bima seem miles away. The space filled up and there were hundreds of faces I'd never seen before, which was sort of irritating/frustrating.

Services began and it was shocking. The organ and professional choir, not to mention the high-tech sound system (complete with a soundboard and several soundmen), made me feel like I was in CHURCH. Yes, Church. It hearkened to the Christmas services I went to when I was in high school and early on in college. It screamed of the Protestant influence that gripped Reform Judaism way back when and still lingers. What made it more unfortunate was the rabbi talking about how my synagogue has come so far from it's original Reform roots and has become more "traditional." What this means in the Reform movement is that there's more Hebrew in the liturgy -- nothing more, nothing less. And that is irritating. It was even more uncomfortable than last year when the services I went to where held in a local church ... with JESUS all over the walls and crosses plastered everywhere (seriously bad idea, I don't care how inter-faith people are and how little Christianity bothers me).

The service was about what I expected in length, but the entire thing felt like an arena church service and it hurt the very depths of my Jewish soul. People looked disinterested -- even more so than normal. People in their D&G and stilettos and pin-stripe suits and seriously important looking demeanor looked pained to be there.

Last night was the most non-intimate synagogue experience I've ever had. Period. It didn't feel like Rosh Hashanah. I tried so hard to focus. I tried so hard to make it personal and my own. I've been reading and researching and thinking the holiday over. I want it to MEAN something. And then this. This?

The entire thing just made me miss Lincoln. I was so spoiled there. I had a small, close community where even on the High Holidays when the entire sanctuary was filled, people were always engaged (or at least they looked like it). It was intimate, it didn't feel huge. Can I not find that kind of engagement anywhere else but a small town with like, a few hundred Jews? Do I need to go the suburbs?

The temple president got up toward the end and talked about the history of the synagogue. How it began with barely a minyan 140 years ago in what is now downtown Chicago. And now? More than 1,000 families. Families that come and are anonymous and are just there and don't care and show up here and there and make the people like me -- the people who want synagogue to be about more than just belonging to something and doling out cash and shipping the kids off to Hebrew school because it's just what you do -- feel completely faceless.

I'll go to services tomorrow morning, because I need to hear the shofar. Because I hope ... HOPE ... that maybe there will be fewer people, that it will feel more intimate, that it will be what I need and what I remember and what I want.

One of the reasons I was turned off so greatly from Christianity was the mass production of it. The arena feel. The gigantic churches with coffee shops and telecasting and gigantic sound systems and the impersonal nature of church. It felt faceless. And then Judaism, the Judaism I so desire, was a group of people with common passions and excitement about community and tikkun olam and learning what it means to live a holy life. Not the mass production aspect. That was never there.

It's just frustrating. It's frustrating because this is how I rang in the New Year. This is how I begin my year -- feeling frustrated and bitter at the way the place I chose as my religious home handles itself. The regular Shabbat services are great. They're small, they're sweet and intimate. Why can't it always be like that? Why does it have to be a production with organs and professional choirs and sound systems that blast?

Hear the Shofar, Hear your Heart.

I've never before been to a Selichot (or S'lichot) service. I now understand the importance of such a service, not to mention how peaceful and beautiful it was.

First let me explain what the Selichot service is. As some of you might or might not know, the Jewish High Holy Days (Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur) are fast approaching. The Selichot service is basically a service to prepare us for the holiday season and introduces the themes, prayers, and music of the holidays. It's traditional to have the service late at night after havadalah, typically at midnight. A lot of places have adopted doing it earlier in the evening so more people can attend (ours started with a study at 8:30 p.m., desserts at 9:30 and service at 10 p.m. -- it lasted until about 11:30 P.M.).

The synagogue I go to is quite large. The main sanctuary is set up so that the bimah and ark can be pushed back into a gymnasium-style room that is decked in stained glass (and where we sometimes have services), to add hundreds of more seats for individuals. Now, it's hard to describe what this is like. You definitely have to be there. The ark and bimah are a HUGE piece of construction, and I'm not exactly sure how they do this, but it's absolutely fantastic. The service last night, though, was set off to the side and was set up with chairs off to the sides of the lectern, with the choir behind the lectern, creating a square shape. It was incredibly intimate, and it was dim in the little make-shift sanctuary. The choir comprised only 10 or 12 individuals, but the music was loud and powerful. Our cantor, Aviva Katzman, has one of the most beautiful cantoral voices I've ever heard.

The service was moving. I can't exactly describe the emotions, but I only wish I had attended such services before, as it truly is just enough to prepare one for the service-heavy holy days. The silent meditations interspersed with the reciting the sins and transgressions. I feel prepared enough for the holidays, but I think there's a lot I need to think about. I need to really reflect on the past year and how it has changed me and who I have become.

One of my favorite bits from the service was a quote from Louis Finkelstein: "When I pray, I speak to G-d; and when I study, G-d speaks to me." The gleanings read before and after the changing of the Torah covers from their colorful decor to their High Holy Days white. The night ended with the blowing of the shofar by a man who did the act for his 59th year -- talk about a tradition. I forgot how comforting and beautiful the sound was ... though I do miss the gal who used to do it at my temple back home in Lincoln (it was a teen girl who had some serious pipes on her).

I'm excited and ready for the new year. It means new beginnings, rebirth, and chances to really make something of myself this year in all avenues possible. I want to do more for the community, I want to pursue my goals, and I want to strive to make every day holy. I have resolutions that are worthy of the new Jewish year of 5768. I want to extend my Torah study to include the haftarah portions, as I didn't do that last year. I want to spend more time with the texts and look into Talmud. I want to take those Hebrew classes and being pursuing school. I want to be engulfed and flooded over by learning. And at the same time, I want to review the past year and learn from my transgressions and work toward holiness.

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Prior to services, I went to Borders and picked up Chaim Potok's "My name is Asher Levy" and to my luck, "Celebrating the Jewish Holidays" that focuses on the fall holidays! Alas, the latter book was going along swimmingly until I hit a duplicated word about 10 pages in ... and if you know anything about me and my anal retentive editor tendencies, you know that I had to stop reading the book. I'll pick it back up in due time, but things like that are a complete turn off to me and it's probably some kind of OCD tendency that I should have looked at!

Time versus Space.

I've barely gotten into Abraham Joshua Heschel's "The Sabbath." I started reading it on the morning ride, but I've hit one of those every now and again slumps where I just can't focus on the ride. It's either too hot or too rainy for me to dwell on anything but the damp (from drops above or pure humidity) unpleasantness that exists before me. It's more the kind of book where you curl up on the patio furniture out in the country or in a quiet suburban neighborhood where you can reflect on nature's beauty and the essence of "time." I live in a concrete jungle, and although our back patio is quite pleasant to look at, the neighbors are always -- always -- outside either playing with their car alarm or splashing in the cheap blowup pool or even just lingering, ready to hand off some lemon paste (the neighbor lady said she saw it on Food Network).

But as I find myself considering the approaching High Holy Days, and as I skim articles, the prevalent theme is TIME. This ethereal idea versus space. It's an old adage, really. It shows up in that whole "what's more important -- happiness or things" argument. It's the constant battle we face every day ... do you donate those lottery earnings to fight AIDS so that people can be happy, or do you go buy yourself a new Lexus, house, jet ski, island, what have you? We ask ourselves at this time of year how to make time holy. It isn't about space -- it's about time. That thing we can't define, nor can we exactly understand.

On Chabad.org, Laibl Wolf writes:

These formative days of Tishrei are called Rosh HaShanah -- "the head of the year." And you and I spend the remainder of the year accepting the new bounty of this "new-time" and work at becoming a worthy co-creator of the yet unfinished symphony of creation.

May the flow of "new time" bring all of us the wisdom and insight to carry out the processes of spiritual construction, the Mitzvot, and bring about the realization of a new song of spiritual beauty that the world will sing when our eyes are truly opened.

More importantly, it's dire that one takes the moments of time and relate those to the moments of space -- not vice a versa. It isn't things that make moments important, it's the moments themselves. Wolf also says: "All events take place in the 'vessel of time.' They may seem simply a string of meaningless unrelated occurrences. ... Living consciously and deeply means taking the moments of time and connecting them to your deepest awareness. Then not only are the events elevated, but the time of 'here and now' becomes sacred as well."

The thing is, this is all well and good, but putting it into practice. Finding that divide, that way of focusing on time and not space is so difficult. Not because we're such a materialistic society -- people have always focused on space and not time. Space is what we can see, we can touch it, we can breathe it and taste it. We are inherently wary and almost unconcerned with that which we cannot physically embrace. This is why religion, faith, spirituality are so fascinating. The idea that time can be more meaningful than space!

For Heschel, in a time when assimilation was rampant among Jews, it seems he was hoping to express that Judaism was more than just ritual and acts of space, but that Judaism is concerned more with time -- holy times. Many religions and beliefs systems have PLACEs associated with their dieties/G-d ... Mecca, the locations of virgin sightings, the Vatican, etc. But Judaism is ruled by a calendar of events, moments in time that have come to define who we are and why we do what we do. There are not locations or places that we go to in order to soak in the space of something, but rather, we gather around a seder table or at a shul wherever we are for minyan. (Heschel saw a huge backlash about this thought, though, because many thought he was advocating an anti-Israel stance.)

Anyhow, I'm rambling at this point. My intent is to explore the idea of making time holy. I'm hoping to actually sit down with "The Sabbath" to get a good read and not a half-assed in-transit read, because darn't, Heschel deserves my focus! As the High Holidays approach though, the idea of time becomes ever more present ... we ask whether we shall be written into the book of life or death. We begin anew in hopes that we can use the newly given time of the new year to continue the work of creation. It's a beautiful vision.