A Rosh Hashanah video.

Please ignore the unfortunate missing "for" between "time challah" in the slide ... it's late, and I'm too lazy to go back through and resave the movie and reupload it to YouTube. Enjoy the klezmer!

As the sequoias.

The first time I went to a Conservative synagogue, I was told by a friend that when the mourner's kaddish is recited, to stay seated unless I actually am in mourning for a lost loved one. I sat there as a few of the 20 or so people there stood up on old, worn ankles, tired hips mustering the strength to stand tall in the sanctuary while reciting the prayer that does not once mention death. I mouthed the words to myself, because it was what I knew -- when reciting kaddish, the congregation stood together with those mourning, each holding each other up. This is an across-the-board kind of thing, though it varies from shul to shul. I can confidently say that most Conservative/Orthodox shuls are the kind of places where only the mourners will stand.

But last night at Erev Rosh Hashanah services, the rabbi gave probably the most poignant explanation for why all congregants should stand during the kaddish. He told the congregation about an article he had read about the seqouias -- the tall trees that grow thin and high. The roots of these trees are pretty much at surface level, that is, they do not grow very far below the immediate surface. So how do these trees stand so very tall when threatened to be blown over by the smallest breeze? The roots are intertwined across entire forest areas. The roots lace together, creating a strong, solid structure, a base of root upon root that allows each tree to hold his neighbor up, and in turn, to hold up the entire collection of sequoias. Without one, they all would falter.

How appropriate is this? How beautiful an analogy for why a congregation should stand, arms intertwined and souls laced together tightly in a sanctuary space with those mourning and those not mourning, simply to support one another in a time of extreme sadness? Like the sequoias, Jews, too, should interlace themselves, standing tall and help one another brave the wind that blows soft, then hard, across our cheeks.

The strangeness of surroundings.

Services were swell tonight. Quiet and light (except the sermon, of course, which was heavy on the Israel conflict -- "Israel is only popular in death and defeat"). The strangest thing? The services (because there are a bajillion people who attend) were at a Methodist church. The weirdest thing was sitting through the superJewish services with a copy of the "Holy Bible" with a giant cross on it sitting right in front of me in the pew. Then there were the plaques on the walls around the sanctuary proclaiming the glory of certain people who served Jesus Christ as good Christians. Oh, and the kicker? The Ulysses S. Grant plaque. I wanted to place a big blanket over it like the crosses that were covered up around the sanctuary.

I know I shouldn't be picky. Services are services no matter where they're held. There were kippot and oodles of Jewish bubbes, but ... I miss my shul in Lincoln. I miss the comfort of knowing everyone. This temple is too huge to know anyone. I walked around the oneg grabbing honey cake and apples and stood alone near the exit, hoping someone would say "hello! who are you!?" but everyone seemed to know everyone else. So I stood, and I left.

I guess I just need a shul buddy.

Shabbat Shalom v'Shana Tova!

The new year cometh.

Tomorrow at sundown begins Rosh HaShanah, one of four Jewish new years, also THE Jewish New Year by practical terms. The year and reading of the Torah ends and begins. We feat this weekend and then, on Oct 1-2, we consider the trespasses of the past year; how we turned our backs in the field to a G-d so presently standing before us with openness.

I want to share a bit from my "A little joy a little oy" desk calendar. Every now and again it has something fruitful and funny. I always put my calendar a day ahead so I don't get behind or confused when editing for tomorrow's paper. In reality, I work a day ahead. But I was poking far ahead to see what the calendar had to offer, because I won't be here this weekend because of the holiday. For Sept. 23, the calendar quotes Rabbi Neil Comess-Daniels in his 2000 Rosh HaShanah sermon.

"... it's time to put your hand in the hand of someone you love ... and recognize that we only have a very short opportunity to be the humans upon the sand and not the pebbles. ... It's time to recognize that the real value of our lives is ... experiencing the ... seemingly insignificant things. It's time to recognize that things don't need to be the slickest ... to be great ... and appreciated. It's time to repent but not wallow in repentance. ... It's time to take a stand for ... what we believe. ... It's time to realize that we are as small and as very large as the pebble upon the sand, no matter how we count the years. Amen."

I think it's incredibly well written and speaks to the essence of the High Holy Days. I look back on the month of Elul at this point and think about a rebirth and renewal I wasn't expecting. I've met someone who makes me feel alive and happy -- someone who speaks to my heart without wanting to change me (Ani L'Dodi V'Dodi Li). As the new year approaches, I'm thinking about how life has handed me something precious, something to be truly thankful for as the new year approaches. Yom Kippur will give me a chance to consider the past year and some of the horrible, insane things that went on and that made me turn my eyes downward and away, into the dirt at my feet instead of the figure in the field. It's funny how long and changing a year is and yet how we can catalogue its events like a shopping list. I intend to mark things off of the list and leave it in the dirt near my feet as I walk away from 5766 and into 5767.

In this week's parshah, Moses sings to Am Yisrael, saying "Remember the days of old / Consider the years of many generations / Ask your father, and he will recount it to you / Your elders, and they will tell you" how G-d "found them in a desert land." Moses tells them how G-d made them a people, chose them as His own and gave them a bountiful land. So I remember and give thanks for my people, past and present, not to mention the future of the Jewish nation.

Also something to consider: Ramadan begins on the second day of Rosh HaShanah. Two religions and nations in strife must share a day that happens to be holy in both spheres. I only hope that, with this in mind, perhaps the Middle East will sit still for a day, relishing in the gifts they've been given -- the Jews for their Torah and Israel and the breath of life and the Muslims for the giving of the Koran to Muhammad. Neither religion or nation is blemish free. I'm not going to argue politics or history, for both peoples have committed crimes and acts that G-d would sooner mark us off than have to watch. But let us hope, and pray, that on Sept. 24 both groups -- and all of those who live near -- can calm their minds and hands to reach not for triggers but apples and honey.

Ani L'Dodi V'Dodi Li

Oh I wish all of you who read my blog and whose blogs I read would hop over and get a BLOGGER BETA. It's quick, it's painless, and I can't comment on any of your blogs becuase I switched. Do you know how much this sucks? Hugetime, that's how much.

So, consider it, will you?

Also: Got the new laptop today. It's gorgeous. I'm not sure what I'll name it yet. I find that naming the inanimate objects in my life somehow makes them more agreeable. It's a Dell, and it's lovely. It also means there's a good chance I'll post more often, as when the thoughts hit me, I should have my computer there with me.

That is all.

On this day in History

So we sat down to remember, today, the tragedy that befell the world's greatest civilized, industrial nation five years ago. The tears, the fear, the injustice of the destruction of human life -- free, intelligent, American human life. The life of dreams and picket fences. The life of corporate suites, elevators, bathrooms with automatic sensors. THE dream. The one, and the only. Everybody wants it, and we have it. And "never again," we say, will such destruction befall we, the people of the United States of America, who love peace, justice and liberty for all. Who demand it, who breathe it. Never. Again.

I have mixed feelings about 9/11. I feel guilty about it and wonder why I can't seem to smile and nod at the truckload of unanswered and unaswerable questions that haunt the skeptics. "You know, saying it was a conspiracy is like those people who said the Holocaust never happened," someone said to me today. But it isn't the same thing. Not at all. Not in the slightest. I never DENY that those thousands died on 9/11/01. Rather, I deny the why and how they died that is given, fed, pumped into each of us. And I'll leave it at that.

On this day in history, which we all know will be a turning point in history books and civics lessons worldwide, there were other important things. Of course, these things I'll mention have a mighty Jewish flavor, but I don't want to forget thoese things. So here they are:

1) Sept. 11, 1941: Charles Lindbergh makes an infamous speech called "Who are the War Agitators?" in Des Moines, Iowa, where he states that the Jewish "prowar" machine is responsible for promoting entrance into the war. He refers to the "Jewish race" and how unfortunate it is for the troubles they face, but that it is no reason to enter the war.

Said Lindbergh: "If any one of these groups -- the British, the Jewish, or the administration -- stops agitating for war, I believe there will be little danger of our involvement."

He went on to say that the Jews, in running most major industries of communication, had the capabilities to promote their ideas and that this was a great threat to "our interests" -- meaning nonJewish interests.

Said Lindbergh: "Their greatest danger to this country lies in their large ownership and influence in our motion pictures, our press, our radio and our government."

He clearly painted a picture of "us versus them." Don't worry, we put his happy face on a stamp.

2) Sept. 11, 1921: Nahalal, the first moshav in Israel, is settled. A moshav is a collective of farms, in a community, very similar to kibbutzim. Interestingly, starting in the 1970s and 80s, most moshav relied largely on outside Arab labor, as many of the folks living on the moshavs took jobs outside the community. I'd like to think there's been a return to the community-mindedness, but who knows. It's weird to think a settlement similar to kibbutzim became known largely as exurban or suburban.

3) Sept. 11, 1962: You know that boy band from Britainland that took the world by surprise? Yes, the Beatles recorded their first debut single, "Love me Do." What happened to that happy, Britpop that the world loved so much? The BSB and N'Sync don't really compare. And as much as I hate to say it, neither did the New Kids on the Block (bites her tongue).

4) Sept. 11, 1978: Peace talks. Yes, peace talks. It was Carter, Begin and Sadat and they sat down at Camp David to talk PEACE between Israel and Egypt, as well as the greater Middle East. I'm glad Egypt and Israel got their skeletons packed away, but what about everything else?

5) Sept. 11, 3 BCE: This one sort of shocked me. After my known interesting Sept. 11 facts ran out, I turned to wikipedia, which says that this date is the second day of Rosh HaShana in the Julian calendar. My response: Que?

6) Sept. 11, 2005: Almost forgot this one, can't believe I did. This time last year, Israel shocked the world and those living in Gaza settlements by announcing the removal of settlers from Gaza after 38 years. I don't know that it had amazingly immediate results, but I will say that in the long run, it was a good step, the best of steps. You have to start somewhere, and with the amount of compromise Israel has tossed in the peace-building pot, this doesn't surprise me in the least. Now if we can just get a Palestinian leader who cares more about his people than ridding the world of the Jews and Israel.

And there we are. There's your history lesson. Don't forget that also in 1941, ground was broken on the Pentagon or that in 1978 the final victim of smallpox kicked the bucket or that John Ritter died on Sept. 11 and so did Johnny Unitis. Or that several thousand people died for reasons that we may never know or understand.

Give it 20 minutes, it'll be a new day and anniversaries will seem trite and insincere. I promise.

A large portion of the Torah discusses the suffering Jews will face if they do not properly serve G-d when they enter the land of Israel. And after all of the talk of destruction and illness, there comes the statement in this week's portion, Ki Tavo, that explains WHY these things will befall the people, "Because you did not serve G-d with joy and a happy heart , when you had everything" (Deuteronomy 28:47).

Maimonides wrote that we must serve G-d with joy. And of course, this makes me think about living with a joyous and happy heart. It makes me think that whatever befalls me, if I live with a happy heart, then nothing can seem unable to move beyond. It's my, well, philosophy in the past few years, and it's why I seem to be able to do things with a happy heart, even when everything seems horribly grim.

I just wish I could impress it upon others.

When there's too much to handle, look to the sky.

I'm sort of struggling with a lot right now. I'm attempting to maintain calm as I trudge through a seemingly neverending field of thorns. Everytime I come upon a beautiful swath of green grass, I seem to step on the one rock present. One after the other, after the other. But the sky is still blue and the sun bright. I'm trying to keep my head up, and above, what lies below. What else is there to do but hope for things to be okay, coasting at a pace of comfort and ease? If there's one thing I've gained from my experience within and path to Judaism, it's that this is what matters.

I managed to have a day where I lost my place to live, fell in a puddle in the Safeway, got locked out of my apartment and had back and neck pain that surpassed any pains I've had in a long time. This also came after 24 hours of being the happiest and most taken care of I've been in a long, long time. Good with the bad? The past three or four days have been lengthy and painful. I've decided to take my car home to my parents, so they can have the car and I can rely on public transport. Last night, as I told my dad I'd gotten the days off for my trek home, the check engine light came on. The car jerked and the speedometer wigged out. I took it to the Auto Zone today and found out my transmission module is acting up again. The same thing happened last month. I. Just. Can't. Win.

But I'm smiling anyway.

My trip West will be taken with a fellow o' mine. The company will make the adventure less horribly unbearable and probably also easier to do. I'm looking forward to the adventure. Probably my last shot -- for a long time -- at being home. I'll see John, BisonWitches, poke into the Daily Nebraskan, and show him my town. It'll be a good refresher, a good reminder, and time to ease myself into the High Holy Days. And that's why I'm smiling.

I look at it, as the ultimate mitzvah. An adventure to aid my family, to ease their minds and hopefully help them out. What a time for a mitzvah of epic proportion, too. I hope my fellow knows his coming with also is an ultimate mizvah.

Just as a tiny seed awakens the infinite power of life hidden within the earth, so a mitzvah buried quietly in the ground can ignite an explosion of infinite light. Charged with that power, all the world is changed. --Teaching of the Lubavitcher Rebbe

And hopefully, soon, I'll be back on track with my studies, my mind, my prayers, my habits and my life.

Islam, where have you taken my friend?

So the release of the two fox "journalists" by militants after being kidnapped in Gaza two weeks ago gives me hope. Are militants realizing that maybe their efforts in kidnapping are absolutely futile? That, you know, maybe there are more civil, logical ways of dealing with demands and frustrations?

Evidently the two men were "converted" to Islam before being released. After their release, they said it was not a "real" conversion. I mean, if all they wanted to do was convert a few shmos who work for Fox, they could have set up a little stand outside the Fox office hocking the Koran. No need to kidnap, really. Look at the Christians; they're doing wonders converting folks, and they're not kidnapping anyone.

On a similar note, I found that a friend of mine who took up Islam has disappeared, in a way. That is, he went on some trip, to someplace, and even some of his closest friends don't know where he is. His exploration of Islam I first took as a wonderful thing. He'd been an athiest and we got along well without talking religion. But the few times after he took up his studies that we spoke (after moving out of the dorms, there was a lull in conversation after two years of spending time every day together), his resolve was mighty. Islam was the one true religion, the one religion that never treaded on any people, let alone did anything out of peace-loving character in the history of its existence. I opened my mouth to respond and he dismissed himself for his prayers -- this was before he and another friend were to attend shul services with me, out of curiosity. He said, after services, that he could understand a lot of the Hebrew, because there were similarities between the Arabic and the Hebrew. It was the only connection he and I had in the awkward last year and a half of college. I saw him at a party once, he had on the cap that I see many Muslim men wearing. My friend, with pale skin, freckles and blazing orange hair who I spent so many nights up late with, and I had nothing to say.

It's strange because I forced myself into his life freshman year. Those wipe-off marker boards that people attach to their doors for passersby to write obscene things on, became the welcome mat for me into his life. He was quiet, in his big, oversized red shoes. I started writing notes on his door and once he came to my room, asking to look at my calendar -- he didn't have one of his own, he said. We talked, awkwardly, and the next year he and one of my closest friends lived together. I spent every waking moment not at the newspaper or in class in their room. He had little crabs and at one point, a mouse. Before moving out that year, he brought his puppy to his dorm room. I visited him a few times that first year outside the dorms, but he started to change. I started to change. We changed simultaneously, but I embraced this truth and questioning philosophy of my religion, my faith. To me, he seemed to embrace an isolationist, definite quality to everything.

Last year I asked someone how he was. I saw him once in a blue moon and I heard he was "taking inventory" of his friends. Ridding himself of some, growing closer to others. He was throwing out the people he didn't think were necessary anymore. I don't know where or if I fit into that. So the last time I saw him was at that party. My final semester of college. He jumped up out of the chair he was idling in and greeted me so warmly. We exchanged "how're yous" and then other people walked up, started talking. The conversation moved into the kitchen and we kept looking at each other, smiling, this old sense of familiarity, but nothing. Others carried the conversation and when I decided to leave, I sort of half new it would be the last time I saw him. Maybe for now, maybe le olam. I remember walking back to my car, feeling distressed that I couldn't connect to him. But there was this automatic divide, and maybe he didn't notice it. Maybe it was our religion, our cultural adaptation to different ways of life. It's sad, though, because if two converts within two embattled faiths can't hold a conversation comfortably, how can we expect a born-Jew and born-Muslim to be warm with each other? Or maybe it's easier. I don't know.

I think often about him. I worry about him, and I worry what he'll become and what he may do. It's the fear of radicalism that scares me. The devoutness that consumes you into blindness. When I hear Bob Marley or ska music I think of him dancing around his room. Vegan delicacise make me think of the mush he'd sometimes eat in his room when the cafeteria failed him. There's so much about him I loved so dearly, I wonder if it's still there. But I can't bring myself to find him and ask, and I don't know why.

"A teshuvah-wind was blowing" -- Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn

One: A break.
A meme I stole from Tikkun Ger (though not tagged, I felt the need ...):

1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the next 3 sentences on your blog along with these instructions.

The text: "Israel is surrounded by enemies. Nations conspire and take counsel together to destroy her. Yet, He Who sits in the heavens laughs; ... " from The Prophets by Abraham J. Heschel, which I am reading with a friend (or will be reading, anyhow).

Tagging: Andrew, Christy, You know who you Are, Melanie, Beth

Two: Some Elul thoughts, or A month of the rabbis on Elul
From Chabad.org (probably my MOST favorite site):

"It is like a king who, before he enters the city, the people of the city go out to greet him in the field. There, everyone who so desires is permitted to meet him; he receives them all with a cheerful countenance and shows a smiling face to them all. And when he goes to the city, they follow him there. Later, however, after he enters his royal palace, none can enter into his presence except by appointment, and only special people and select individuals. So, too, by analogy, the month of Elul is when we meet G-d in the field..." (Likkutei Torah, Re'ei 32b; see also Likkutei Sichot, vol II p. 632 ff.)

Further: "In Elul, teshuvah is no longer a matter of cataclysmic “moments of truth” or something to be extracted from the depths of the prayerbook. It is as plentiful and accessible as air: we need only breath deeply to draw it into our lungs and send it coursing through our veins. And with Elul comes the realization that, like air, teshuvah is our most crucial resource, our very breath of spiritual life."

Three: Parsha Shoftim
Shabbat Shalom. This week, Moses instructs the appointment of those who will pursue and enforce justice. In every generation, according to Moses, there will be those entrusted with the task of interpreting and applying the laws of the Torah. This parsha has quite the place in modern Judaism, and an article I read last night in Tikkun really makes this hit home. The article discussed the modernization of Judaism, the evolvement from priests to rabbis to lay people. The latter, of course, being the modern application of those entrusted with leading services and minchas.

It wasn't rare at my shul back home to have a lay person lead services, delivering the sermon and bringing the Torah out. It was strange, to me, though it also was relaxing, as I could paint myself in that picture up on the bima. At the same time, I worry about the future of the rabbi in modern Judaism. Orthodox and Hasidism seem to have a pretty tight rein on the idea of the rabbi -- they are, as Moses foresaw, those entrusted with "interpreting and applying" laws of Torah. The article stressed the importance of an academic Jewry that could serve as lay leadership, interpreting and applying the laws. Analyzing them to bits for blogs and sermons on Saturday mornings. Is this the next step of the teacher evolution?

There's nothing wrong with lay-led services, but the rabbi's purpose is ever so important. Rabbis (those trained, anyhow) serve as encyclopedias of every cubit (har har) of Judaism, from Rashi to Maimonides to the Baal Shem Tov to Moses. Rabbis I've encountered may not know everything, but their passion for exploring and teaching and interpreting the laws of Torah are astounding. Lay leaders are often very involved in shul activities, serving on trustees boards and donating large sums to the local Yeshiva or Birthright foundations. They often have a deep-seeded need to participate in the community, Torah studies and shul choirs. But lay leaders also tend to be businessmen/women, journalists, artists, computer scientists, engineers, doctors, etc. Rabbis have the chance to home their skills and focus on one thing -- Torah, Judaism, halakah. Lay leaders already have so much on their plate without tossing responsibilities of rabbinic duties on top.

Maybe it is preemptive, but the article made me wonder. Is this the evolution of our sages, scholars and teachers in modern Judaism? Are rabbis an endangered species, not from a lack of interest but because lay leaders are taking the reins?

Who's to say. Anyhow, I'll think on the role "those entrusted" on this Shabbat, as I also reflect on Elul and my kavannah. Shabbat shalom, friends.

You know you're edging on the High Holy Days when ...

So a Jew walks into a CVS around 2 in the morning looking for some eggs (No, it isn't a joke). This Jewess was craving eggs and in addition to some eggs picked up a few Rosh HaShanah cards. Why? Because I actually have people to send them to this year. I've had the month of Elul on my mind all week, but this really smacked me into gear. That, and the insert in the Sept/Oct. issue of Tikkun that will likely serve as a supplement to my routine for Rosh HaShanah, Yom Kippur, Sukkot and all the other minor holidays filled with goodies that swamp the next few months.

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Elul begins at sundown and also begins a month of, well, reflection and planning. It is a month where, for the first time, I will read Psalm 27 each morning when I wake in addition to my other morning prayers. Elul is a month where I will think of the phrase Ani l'dodi v'dodi li from the Shir HaShirim -- the roshei tivot (first letters) which spell out ELUL. The phrase translates as, "I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine." This is the essence of what Elul is. Elul turns G-d toward us and us toward G-d, reminding us of the love, strength and support we plead for. Elul also is a time to think of Moshe and his ascent for Adonai to re-inscribe the tablets, which happened on Rosh Chodesh Elul in 2448. Moshe was on the mount for 40 days (Yom Kippur) at which time he gained G-d's forgiveness for the people. How amazing to think that more than 3,000 years ago on this very date Moshe was climbing the mount ... and Moshe managed to achieve Divine mercy and forgiveness. It's a startling, and almost unreal thought.

One rabbi suggested that Elul and teshuvah are meant to return us to the beginning, to allow us to dwell in the place G-d intended for us, to restore us to our original character. In some places, each morning of Elul the shofar will be blown, and Jews will listen with kavannah, or intention. This is what Elul also is about, kavannah -- what is my intention? What is Elul for me?

Sh'ma adonai, qoli eq'ra v'chaneni v'a'aneni. --
Hear Adonai, as I cry with my voice; be gracious and answer me
(Psalm 27: 7, my transliteration/translation).
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The thought of not hearing Clarissa blow the shofar this year -- because she is at B'nai Jeshurun in Lincoln and I am here -- is a sobering thought. For two years I got to listen to her mystify the twice-a-year Jews with her talents. But when I think back to listening to Clarissa and the shofar and the bearded man from the balcony with the voice of a young tenor shout each of the shofar calls, I don't think I had kavannah. To be sure, my attention was had, but was I within myself in the place I needed to be?

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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.

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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.

Ha Ohelim.

I am out of sorts. And these are the words I sing.

Sh'ma Elohim rinati, haqshivah, t'philati.
Miqtseh ha'aretz, elecha eqrah -- va'atoph livi.
V'tsuryorum mimeni tanheni ki hayitah mahsetli migdal otz mipenoyev.
Agura v'ahalkah, umalim; echeseh ve'seter chenaphecha. Selah.

It is my own transliteration of Psalm 61:2-5. A prayer that says,

Hear my cry, O G-d, attend unto my prayer.
From the end of the earth I will call to you when my heart is faint. Lead me to a rock that is too high for me.
For you have been a refuge for me, a tower of strength in the face of the enemy.
I will dwell in your tent forever, I will take refuge in the cover of your wings. Selah.

Selah? A word that can't seem to be translated, found in many of the psalms. Or as Merriam-Webster says: "a term of uncertain meaning found in the Hebrew text of the Psalms and Habakkuk carried over untranslated into some English versions." Some say it is purely for the musical nature of the psalms. It represents a pause in the text. Others say that it serves as a reminder of the significance and importance of the prior words. I suppose it doesn't help that even ancient biblical commentators didn't mention the word or its meaning.

There is something unimaginable, special about reading the Hebrew and knowing the translation, feeling the words as they present themselves. One semester of biblical Hebrew and several years at shul have given me a vocabulary necessary for completing phrases and speaking the prayers in the morning and evening and being able to whisper them as I move through dark hallways and along tree-lit paths.

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I went out tonight and got some ice cream. I was feeling lonely, despondent. I went over to Glover Park (also the name of my neighborhood) where there often are baseball games being played. I sat down on the top step, four steps above a kid in a baseball cap clapping furiously for two teams of men he didn't know. I watched two teams lob balls into the outfield, scoring a few runs and eventually some home runs. The team in full black had a double header, so I went inside to the Whole Foods and bought a drink for the second game. The team in all black was having its way with the other teams, and I was at peace, for a bit.

It reminded me of my entire childhood, until we moved to Nebraska. The first 12 1/2 years of my life, or what I remember of them, I was on the baseball field more or less every summer. First it was dad playing with his work team and then it was my older brother playing tee-ball and then baseball and up into high school. I spent a lot of time hating the time on the field, and a lot of time loving it. My best friend's dad practically ran the league in Joplin, Missouri. We'd pick up trash in exchange for a free Chick-O-Stick or full pickle from the concession folks. If we picked up a foul ball, we'd get a free small soda. We spent most of our time with the other kids our age behind the brick building that housed the bathrooms. There were piles of wood that we would never sit on, but we'd play our own games and talk. When my little brother was born my friends and I got kicks out of watching him interact with a little girl a few days older than him named Chloe. We pretended they were destined to be together becuase not only were they born in the same hospital days apart, but their big brothers played in the same league. I was a child and on that field I was free. Until midnight or later we'd dance around with the fireflies until the last crack of the ball against a bat. Families would pour out of the parking lot on the rocks and dirt and the crunching is a sound I'll never forget. Dust rolling up from behind the train of cars is an image that sits with me every summer. Sometimes I'd stay at my friend's house and sometimes she'd stay at mine. Summertime was ours. Occasional we'd go to Country Kitchen with the winning team and eat chicken fingers or mozzarella sticks.

The dust, the chalky dirt the color of earth, pickles, chick-o-sticks, large black plastic bags, bottles of water, yellow-colored brick structures, lights with a haze of bugs and dirt below -- this was my summer as a child.
Sh'ma Elohim rinati, haqshivah, t'philati. Attend unto my prayer, Adonai.

"Your people shall be my people, and your G-d my G-d."

Steven M. Cohen and Jack Wertheimer recently wrote an article for Commentary magazine called "Whatever Happened to the Jewish People." I printed out a copy a few weeks ago and neglected to read it. I misplaced it, and it got lost. So for my trip to California, I reprinted the article and read it on the plane by an overhead light, much to the dismay of my row partners. But the article asks a lot of poignant questions that I often ask myself. Namely: Is a loss of ethnic neighborhoods, or clustering according to culture/race/religion, a bad thing?

Most people would say "no!" because of the idea of a melting pot of people -- everyone, no matter skin color, religion, creed, etc., should live together in order to learn to accept all peoples. The melting pot or salad bowl or whatever you want to call it is the true goal of a free, democratic society. Or is it? I've always been fascinated by assimilation and acculturation. Assimilation isn't the completely scary part, it's the acculturation. When cultures absolve themselves of all defining factors to become quintessentially liberal and secular. Is it a good thing? I say no. It's a very, very bad thing. But why? I imagine the preservation of culture and history can be well kept in museums, but it's the living culture that is truly wonderful.

Philosopher Martin Buber once said,

Israel is a people like no other, for it is the only people in the world which, from its earliest beginning, has been both a nation and a religious community.

Within this is the dimension of peoplehood. Religious, cultural, racial, national. When looking at Naomi, who adopted first the peoplehood and then the faith of Abraham, there is an interesting concept of the community. The Jewish people had a connected history, religion, customs and practices and as the authors say "a common fate." It only made sense for Jews to convene in similar neighborhoods and areas because it was a necessary means of growing and sustaining the people. Isolationism with a cohesive end in a societal, cultural, national and political sphere began to dominate all societies. The idea of "world-wide allegiance" began to erode. And what was a people, spread to every corner of the world, to do? Assimilate? Acculturate? Fight the erosion?

I think that for some time there was a successful erosion. I also think that in the past 10 years, this has changed -- drastically -- but only in a few ways. Israel, with the creation of the Birthright trip, has led to a more connected and embracing generation of Jews who see Israel as more than just a "homeland." But still, we're taught that congregating in neighborhoods stinks of ghettos and the life of the dhimmi. It is interesting to watch the immigration of different peoples to the U.S. and the concentration of those people in neighborhoods together. Lincoln, Neb., was an interesting example -- the Sudanese lived near one another and opened shops there, the Middle Eastern refugees would settle and open insurance agencies, restaurants and other shops; the same with the Vietnamese community. And I was jealous of that connection, that community. I could also get into intermarriage, but that's another battle on a different day.

Why can a community not be a community in a larger community? Why is it not OK? What is so wrong with wanting to be around the comfort of people who live and believe as you do? Not every group of people takes on a racist, isolationist attitude. But is that what it's really about? Do we lose the thriving culture of peoples because we fear ignorance?

Then again, life in the U.S. is different than in most other countries with large Jewish populations. I attribute this largely to patriotism and nationalism -- the desire to achieve the American Dream. To become someone who is not different than anyone else, to be a part of a bigger, unrecognizable race of people. Thus everyone becomes, well, nothing. There is no peoplehood any longer. But what is there in this? What is psychologically appealing about this? As the authors say, "... contemporary American society seems less hospitable to the perpetuation of strong bonds of peoplehood."

We're victims of the erosion of peoplehood. And

To retreat from peoplehood is to repudiate what has been at the core. Even from the point of view of the individual, the loss of this core can be devastating To see oneself as part of a larger collective entity is to situate oneself in a history of 3,200 years and more, imparting a sense of transcendent connection, purpose, and destiny. It buttresses faith, enhances religious activity, lends significance to communal affiliation.

Even more, as Eugene B. Borowitz, a Reform theolgian, wrote in 1965:

Jewish peoplehood is an indispensable part of Jewish religious thought and Jewish religious practice. A specifically Jewish religious life ... means, therefore, life in and with the Jewish people, the Covenant community. ... When at least ten Jews congregate to pray, they ... represent all Israel, past and present, here and everywhere.

Thus, I suppose no matter what there is a a peoplehood. But how can a people sustain itself when there is an erosion of the idea of peoplehood, when there is a lack of self respect for the nation itself. I guess, I feel like the idea of a community of people is not a bad thing. I look at Hasidic communities and I find myself wishing I could be a part of the closeness, having everything there. It's much like the communities of early America -- you have your religious house, your market, your butcher shop, your bakery, your dairy. It's all there. It's logical and convenient.

Community. Your people shall be my people, and your G-d my G-d. I feel like perhaps I rambled a bit. I'm finding it harder and harder to organize my thoughts. There's too much that sweeps through after reading a simple 4-page article.

But the thought of a lost GLOBAL COMMUNITY of Jews, being replaced with an individual existence of individual Jews ... is unnatural for us, it is unnatural and fear instilling. Evolution and redefining is essential. But what are we without our core?

There are some things you don't expect.

Thanks to this blogger, I happ'd upon something I knew nothing about. Of course, there's plenty I know nothing about, but when I come across Jewish history bits that I don't know about, it's especially exciting. Sort of like the time I came across General Grant's expulsion of the Jews or when I discovered some fellow was literally buying Jews to save them from persecution. So what is it this time, you ask? Well, it's the Jewish Autonomous (Oblast) Region in Russia.

Yes, we have a homeland in Russia (with Siberian weather) most of us neither knew or know about. The capital is Birobidzhan and the oblast has about 200,000 people living in about 13,800 square miles. It's in far east Russia in the Khabarovsk Territory. It was formed in 1928 to give Soviet Jews a "home territory" and to increase settlement along vulneratble borders of the Soviet Far East. Additionally, it was an "ideological alternative" to the Zionist's idea for a Jewish state in the historic "homeland." The area became autonomous in 1934. The Jewish population peaked in 1948 at about 30,000, or 1/4 of the total population. If you want to read about the history, please click here. There's also a movie about the area and its history, called "L'Chayim, Comrad Stalin." And a evidently a Washington Post reporter ventured to Russia and blogged about it late last year.

But a little summary for you: Between the late 1920s and early 1930s, 41,000 Soviet Jews relocated here. Some were fleeing persecution and famine in western Russia and Ukraine, and others were drawn by promises of free rail travel and 600 rubles per "settler" (sounds like the great land movement in the U.S., no?). But many of them left almost as soon as they got there -- by 1938, 28,000 had fled the region’s harsh conditions. In the late 1930s the "program" of the oblast was ceased, and Jewish leaders were thrown into jail and executed. Yiddish schools were closed and it was general death of the culture. At the end of the war, though, many of the programs were restarted and the Jewish population existed as such.

There is an official Web site for the autonomous region found here. Part of me wonders how the Orthodox community would feel about the flag of the JAR. It is, as you can see, a beautiful flag of many colors. It almost looks like, well, a PRIDE flag. Today, the JAR is an independent subject, with its own governing body, etc. Despite some still-alive Yiddish influences (including a Yiddish newspaper), Jewish cultural activity is pretty much nil (since Stalin's anticosmopolitanism campaigns and the mass liberalizatoin of Jewish emigration in the 1970s). Jews now make up less than 2 percent of the region's population. But check out their gorgeous shul (with an Israeli rabbi, even) and there is a Jewish school there with 600 students. According to the Washington Post reporter, there's been an upswing in Jewish participation in recent years.

I guess it shouldn't surprise me that Jews are literally in EVERY corner of the world. Argentina, the U.S., Siberian landscapes of Russia, Japan ... what about Iceland? I wonder if there are Jews in Iceland. Where have we not touched with our prayers and morning rising?

I love discovering these tiny bits of history. Small places we've been hidden or have hidden ourselves. It gives me pride and comfort.

Am Yisrael Chai!

Next year in Jerusalem.

1) Leon Wieseltier, the editor of the New Republic whom I had a chance to meet while at university, once said "A bi-national state is not the alternative for Israel. It is an alternative to Israel."

2) Amos Oz, Israeli author and an advocate for peace whom I heard speak while at university, said
"There are no sweet compromises. Every compromise entails renouncing certain dreams and longings, limiting some appetites, giving up the fulfillment of certain aspirations, but only a fanatic finds compromise more bitter than death. This is why uncompromising fanaticism always and everywhere exudes the stench of death. Whereas compromise is in the essence of life itself.
The Torah says:
'Thou shalt opt for life.'
Let us opt for life."

Two brilliant men with a depth of knowledge on Israel, the history, the constant crisis. Two very, very brilliant points. I'm currently reading "The Case for Peace" by the author of "The Case for Israel," Alan Dershowitz. This book is inspiring, hopeful, positive, full of history as it needs to be told.

It's frustrating to recollect all the chances. The many, many chances that the Grand Muffti and Yasser Arafat turned down because -- as Palestinians seeking peace know -- they cared more about decimating Israel than about building a state for their people. The two-state solution at first favored Arabs, and ever since, the area has gotten smaller, and smaller. As Dershowitz points out, had the Palestinians agreed to the initial plan, they'd be sitting pretty.

But of course, the real question is Jerusalem. Should it be an international space? Should it be split as it already is, with jurisdiction going to the proper nation state? And what about the kotel? Is it POSSIBLE for two Monotheistic religions to set aside their claim for RIGHTS (which Dershowitz also does a great job dissecting) for the sake of opting for life?

If Mahmoud Abbas can set aside the demand of rights of history, and people can stop throwing in "Muhammad wasn't even ON the temple mount when they say he was!" and "Solomon's temple wasn't even IN Jerusalem" ... maybe something can be compromised. Either way, it's clear that a bi-national state is a suicidal compromise and opting for life is the only path of logic.

Why is a bi-national state suicidal? A bi-national state would rid the world of the Jewish people slowly, but surely. The nation would become quickly Muslim and Syria/Iran would quickly do away with the Jewish nation. While I feel firmly that the Jewish people is a people of prevailing all circumstances (Shoah, Inquisition, expulsions, wandering, antiSemitism), I also don't truly worry about a bi-national state ever being truly considered by Israel. It's the most illogical proposition ever. Luckily, only crazy, blindly antiSemitic folks and Noam Chomsky even discuss it anymore.

I feel confident in a 2-state nation. But Jerusalem. What DO we do about Jerusalem?

He's Bubba, and I'm Sis.

Well, I'm staying in Washington, D.C. It is now where I will lay my head, at least until December. Starstruck within myself, I just discovered this: Search & E-mail me from the Washington Post web site.

And now you know. In the pursuit of the perfect job solution, I called my 14-year-old brother. He's the 8 or 9 year later child, and the family member who best understands me and cares about me. He and I are pretty, well, we're pretty special, we are. I love that kid, and he knows it. So I called and Joseph is wise beyond his years. He always has been. He's absolutely brilliant, and his friends should be proud to know him. He plodded along with me through my conversion, asking questions -- always asking questions -- and was excited for me when I "officially" converted. He knows me, well. So I called him. I told him I needed answers, and he asked about what, and I told him about my job situation. (Text isn't word for word, but it's what was said, to the best of my recollection.)

He asked, "Is there one paper you're leaning toward?"
I answered yes, and he asked why that one, so I explained at length the ups and downs, the ins and outs. I explained that I wouldn't have Shabbat off, but that I can go in the morning, that I can probably make it work, if I really want it to.
"What's so bad about the other paper?" he asked.
I explained about the place, the smallness, the California, the everything. But then I explained about Shabbat and its importance and how California was offering me my Shabbat -- and then some.
"What do I do, Joseph?" I asked him.
He then told me that he understands religion is very important to me, but that if I have to sacrifice everything else (happiness, a city I like, feeling comfort), then what's the point? He sounded so smart, so sure, so comforting. He talked me down and concluded with,
"You can make it work if you want, sis, just like you said. If you want it to work, it will."

I could have kissed him square on the cheek. Or bought him an immediate ticket to come see me. I miss the kid, who is really a teenager. It's funny how for granted I took him being so close. We used to go out and get lunch. He put up with me taking pictures of him for photography class. He also put up with the summer of Kevin -- in high school Joseph and I went bowling many times a week and then to Taco Inn for lunch with my boyfriend, Kevin. Now Joseph is going into high school. He'll have dates, girlfriends, trips, real experiences. And I'll have him on the phone for a half-hour while I traverse downtown and Dupont looking for my car at midnight. I hope I don't miss his big moments by being so far away.

After I got off the phone with Joseph I knew. Somehow he managed to regurgitate and organize how I was really feeling and make it make sense to me. This kid is ... brilliant. I thanked him, told him I loved him, and hung up, and the decision was made.

I just hope that the next time I need to make a decision, he'll be the same little brother I've always had. He'll offer the sound, wise advice of someone much younger than me, but all the same sure and confident. To be honest, I don't know that I'd know what to do without him.

Thanks, bubba. I can make it work.

A rant, or don't read if you don't want to hear me complain about nonJewish things.

I've always said that this is a Judaism blog, and it is, but right now, I need to talk about work. But briefly, and only because I'm sort of having a miniature meltdown. I am, for a lack of a better phrase, unravelling as I write. I did most of the unravelling earlier today near Baggage Claim No.s 11 and 12 and while standing near the America West exit, waiting for the Economy Lot shuttlebus. Why? I'll tell you why.

The trip was fantastic. The weather was perfect (upper 70s/lower 80s and cool at night) and I was fascinated by the palm trees. I was shmoozed, taken out for lunch and dinner, given muffins and breakfast foods for my flight, talked to by everyone (but the editor in chief, interestingly) and treated like royalty. They love me, they really love me (note: that isn't the real Sally Field quote). I had moments of "this is the place for me" and moments of "this paper needs so much work, inside and out." Then there was lunch at In-N-Out with a man initialed R. He made me laugh and I felt like I'd found Jerry incarnate. But it was quickly over and I was back in the newsroom taking tests (which I love; that is, copy editing tests I love). I passed with swimming colors (save the geography, which I suck at. Mt. Everest, anyone?). They offered me a position, a very good, stable, insurace-filled and Sabbath-off filled position. And they gave me less than 48 hours to decide if I want it. And I was feeling good.

But I didn't sleep much. In fact, I haven't slept but maybe 20 hours in the past week. And here I am, sitting at the blog, tapping away. For what? I don't know. I need to sound off. I've sounded off to BVK and to Jerry (thank G-d for him, my knight in shining armor). And it seems to come down to certain things. But first, I've been up since 2:30 a.m. I sat at the airport for ages. I spent all day on the plane watching Robin Williams in "RV" while eating cheese and fruit from a plastic aiport-chic container. I got off the plane, glad to be home, and my luggage was missing. My luggage WAS MISSING. So I cried. All my work clothes in that black piece of crap. My makeup. My clips -- all of my clips. My cellphone charger. All the things I really need. Several hundred dollars worth of stuff in that little black piece of shit. And where is it? I don't know. Expensive bras (that fit!), underwear, a blazer, some tanktops, capris -- all the things I bought NOT on sale. The expensive, nice things. Gone in an airport cart somewhere. So I cried. I cried all the way to work, where I worked till 1:30 a.m. Nearly 24 hours of nonstop shit. I glazed over at work and ordered Greek food and fucked up some stories and felt like crawling into a hole.

My boss wasn't there. I had to harrass her while she was caring for an ailing father, just to find out what my incentive for staying put is. But I did, because I NEED to know if I can have my Shabbat if I stay at the Post. Rather, it's the only way I'll stay at the Post.

But I came to find out, thanks to Bremerton Boy in the shuttlebus at 3 a.m. telling me, that Palm Trees really aren't native to California. Well, that's half true. A certain type is, but they're not the type you see everywhere. They are NOT the quintessential California palm tree that I have imagined in my mind. That disappoints. And who wants to drive to the mountains for snow? I want it right there, in front of me. I want sweaters and scarves, damnit. And the town is the size of Lincoln. It was like ... Lincoln a la Hawaiian theme. I love Lincoln, but if I want Lincoln, I'll live in Lincoln. There's a Temple, but it's pretty big and it's reform. I really want to start going to a Conservative shul. Why? Because I'm searching for something.

So I have till 5 p.m. California time to figure myself out. That gives me a few hours to sleep and a few hours to clear my mind and create a clear, coherent train of thought that hopefully won't result in me being worse off. Though the JMan tells me it's impossible to have a bad choice here. I just have to weigh what I want. One is a full-time gig with benefits and a moving package and the other is just an extension with no medical and uncertainty. I prefer to work outside the box, but when it comes to these kinds of things, I don't know. This is real life. I got my loan bill schedule in the mail. Insurance is a big thing. I may not get sick much, but damn if I'm giving up the b.c.

I think I've answered my own question, but I wonder what my motives REALLY are. I'm half-assing my intensity for the business anymore, and I don't want to mislead anyone. I either need to be reminded of why I love this, or I need to run for the hills. Either way, I will get Shabbat, and I think that's a good starting point.

Shalom Aleichem. Lilah Tov.

It's hard, figuring out why we do what we do.

Well, I'm getting up at 7 a.m. I have things to do. Places to go. Copies to make. You know the drill. Or maybe you don't. I'm looking at an apartment tomorrow. It's a basement studio up in University Park. Sort of far away, but it looks perfect. Then, I'm working 12ish to 7ish and then hopping a plane from National to Riverside, Calif. I'll be there through Thursday, at which time I return to D.C. and go straight to work. Luckily, I have lots of free time at night in Riverside. Time to read, to lounge, to be someplace that isn't here. To feel temporary, and for it to be OK.

You know, that feeling like it's fine to feel out of sorts for a few. But then, then I have to figure out my life by Friday. Round about Friday. That's what I want, anyhow.

So for the flight and more I've printed out some essays. Things I want to read, things I want to reread. They are as follows

• Theodor Herzl's "The Jewish State" -- It's the introduction, and that's where I'm starting. I remember reading the whole piece my sophomore or junior year and being enraged at Herzl, the mastermind of the Zionist ideal. We'll see if I can remember why I was so angry.
• "The Laws Concerning Mashiach" by Maimonides himself, from Hilchos Melachim (it's chapters 11 and 12).
  
• Eric Cohen's "Why Have Children" from Commentary magazine.
• "Whatever Happened to the Jewish People" by Steven M. Cohen & Jack Wertheimer
• And last, but not least, an e-mail from a gal at work about how she handled a work offer extension ... mostly because I want to read it repeatedly so I don't forget it.
  

Anyhow, I should have a lot to say upon my return. And hopefully, an immediate-future plan. Until then ...

911 Cover Up

I can't not share this video. I don't know how much I prescribe to conspiracies, but damnit, this video screams and makes me angry. It's long, but worth the watch. The questions it asks are good. Take the time to watch it sometime. It makes me angry. Real angry.

Peace be unto you.

Tomorrow is Shabbat, and I'm already thinking about it. Thinking about shamor and zachor, and how I wish I could taste the wine and sing kiddush. Instead, I'll be sitting in a freezing cold office, floor No. 5, amid cubicles where probably great journalist Bob Woodward walked by once or twice. Maybe Dustin Hoffman stood where I sit. Who knows. Either way, I know that the sweet scent of Sabbath isn't mine. Not yet. Shomer Shabbos is something that, for me, is a pillar that supports my Judaism, my person, my mind and my body. Summertime, when things become hectic and my mind doesn't sleep and I have a schedule that resembles nothing normal, is when I need my Shabbat. Instead I sit up late erading blogs and eating cereal and watching horrible late night television. And all that I can think about is is shamor and zachor, the smell of the Shabbat candles I want to light, but can't, not yet.

I've managed to figure out Olam: Part II. And it's short and sweet, mostly because no one has written about it, or rather, no one on the Interweb seems to have anything substantial to say about it. Tikkun Olam is translated literally everywhere as "repair of the world." So how did we go from (accepted from Part I) "obscure" or "really long time" or "undefined amount of time" to "world"?

It would be easy to say that we use the term "world" to describe the nebulous nature of what we understand as existence. But that's just to juvenile for me. I think it limits what we should really understand as tikkun olam, it makes for a very basic approach to what it is that we do. It makes us say "recycle! give to the poor! clean up after your dog when he poops!"

So I say the best way to approach this, perhaps, is to look at the (accepted from Part I) definition of olamim: "ages." It's almost like someone decided to take the backroad in when deciding what the modern construct of olam should be. In this case, in going from the plural (olamim: ages) to the singular (olam: age) we get "world" as a quaint translation. World is to age in the sense that an age is the time in which we live, in which we can grasp that there will be an end (we know that people tend to not live beyond 120 years of age). Thus, we "repair" the "world" in our time as best we can.

But doesn't this hurt the future "world"? Shouldn't we be considering tikkun olam as "changing the course of life" ... all life, not just the present. Tikkun olam is more than giving, acting, doing ... it's using all we have to create a future that, perhaps, is eternal.

Pretty basic, yes? And there we are. Someday maybe I'll work more on it. When I'm back into my biblical Hebrew, maybe I'll watch as the word evolves and see where in texts it began to mean "world." It's interesting how even within the Tanakh the word began to evolve from the early writings to the later prophets. Words, how funny they are.

Shalom Aleichem, friends.