Respond at Will, Please.

I am thinking of joining a gym. I have a free gym membership on campus, but the joint is a mess and it's full of ski bunnies and that's not how I roll. It would be worth the price, I think. It's motivation.

I shipped off an application to the Rabbinical Council of America's beth din wing. Yes, I have spoken out against the process in the past because I heard horror stories of women across the internet -- waiting months, sometimes years for rabbis and interviews and hoops. After considering my options, and having various batei din organized, and after careful, hard, difficult, and frustrating consideration, I have decided that the RCA way, while not perfect, is the best route for me at this current juncture. B'ezrat haShem, maybe I'll be converted by the time I go to Israel in late November. Please daven for me! And if you want to read my 11-page-long "Journey to Orthodox Judaism" ... let me know. It's a real crowd-pleaser and tearjerker (maybe?).

I'm feeling incredibly disenchanted about school right now. My head just isn't in it. I've realized that having a "real life" and trying to have a "school life" is a mess. It's even messier when you have three Shabbos meals to prepare, 250-page novels to read over a period of a few days, and paper topics to come up with on the fly. If I hadn't been at my Ulpan this summer, I don't know what I'd do because I'd also be having to worry about Hebrew. I find my mind wandering to lists of "what to buy" and "what to do" rather than "what to read for class." I'm in Suzy Homemaker mode these days, and I can't figure out why. I think my mind is on the conversion, my life in the community, my future and possibly impending life with Tuvia, and everything therein. I know it's possible to double, triple, and quadruple duty everything, but I'm not use to the multi-tasking and responsibility outside of my own personal bubble.

I've been pondering a lot of questions, but I'll just pose one here. It relates to prayer. I know I read in my b'racha book that a b'racha said in the head and not out loud means it is as if the b'racha wasn't even said. I know that this is equally try with the Sh'ma from the Midrash. Does this apply to all prayer? Or just blessings (b'rachot)? In my mind, this is where all of the mumbling in shul comes from, but I know there is a precedent for the lips actively moving (without sound in the case of all davening with the exception of those things that *must* be said aloud, like the sh'ma). Am I crazy here?

I'll leave everything at that for now. I have some interesting things to write about from my Midrash class, but I just don't have the energy to grab the book and my Tanakh and type it all out right now. Stay tuned!

The Perpetually Wandering Mind.

Chavi's Cooking -- Look Out!

Winter is readily upon us here in Connecticut. It's a lovely 37 degrees outside at 9:30 a.m., and I couldn't be happier. I get to wear long jean skirts and sweaters. It also means that in no time I'll be needing to make some of my mom's delicious potato soup!

However, for now, I'm just preparing for this Shabbos. Tuvia and I have decided to spend Shabbos not in the community, mostly because our hosts are asking for a break and we need a serious break, too. The chagim wore us out and some serious relaxation time with Bananagrams and Long Naps is in order. So what's the meal looking like?

Friday Dinner
Klops -- Eastern European Sweet-and-Sour Meatballs (a favorite from Pesach 2008)
Sweet Potato Hash (A recipe borrowed from a friend from Pesach 2008)
Potato and Garlic Soup (Boxed, kosher parve! Yay!)
Gefilte
Apple Crisp (From Weight Watchers magazine)
Homemade Challah

Saturday Lunch
Chicken Cholent
Homemade Challah
Um ... not sure what else to serve here. Maybe a kugel?

Saturday Dinner
Tomato and Pepper Lasagna (recipe from WW; for me, because I like tomato sauce)
Stuffed Pizza Rolls (mostly for Tuvia, but I'm going to try one -- sans meat!)
Maybe some Orzo dish on the fly.
Either Cinnamon Crumb Cake or Lava Cake

You know there will be photos. OH YES. There will be photos. Stay tuned!

Coming Full Circle.

Over the weekend, on Sunday to be precise (Yom Rishon), I finished my cycle of holidays as someone studying for a conversion to Orthodox Judaism. Interestingly, it was Simchat Torah – the day in which we take out the Torah, dance around the shul with it, singing songs, and inevitably roll the scroll back to the beginning, to Bereshit. Simchat Torah also is my Hebrew birthday. Technically, that is. I’m not sure if it really counts since I wasn’t born a Jew (although, let it be known, I was born WITH this big Jewish soul of mine). I was born September 30, 1983, and that, folks was Simchat Torah! I keep coming full circle, and Sunday was just another way that I’ve done this. It also means I’ve finished my obligation to fulfill a complete cycle of Jewish holidays in my community. Amen.

I can’t really describe how Sukkot , Shemini Atzeret, and Simchat Torah were. The funny thing about being observant is that I can’t use cameras on the holidays. Now, I’m a big picture-taker. I like to capture the beautiful and special moments in my life. I wish I could have captured so many small moments. Small things.

For example, it rained here last Saturday, a lot. The rabbi discussed how we aren’t obligated to eat in the sukkah if it’s raining cats and dogs, so we resigned ourselves to NOT eating in the sukkah. But for dinner that night, before we entered the second day of Sukkot, we grabbed the challah, ran out into the sukkah – the whole family, the kids, the guests, everyone – to say a blessing in the sukkah. Someone even brought out the green stuff (parsley, garlic, olive oil) for dipping!

Or take the erev Simchat Torah, on Saturday, when I held the Torah, dancing around, women in a circle around me, hopping and smiling and laughing, clapping and singing. That thing was heavy. The men were doing the same dances, the same songs, just on the other side of the bimah, which served as our mechitzah. The joint was jumping, and the musical musings of Harmonia were keeping us all on our toes. We then headed outside for the second to last hakafot, it was dark and cool, and the entire congregation was outside singing and dancing. There was a busload of people unloading at the church across the street, probably looking at us like we were absolutely off our rockers. But we danced on the cool, damp grass and the teenagers kept the songs loud and vibrant. I had started to feel pains in my knees (as was expected, since they sort of lack cartilage) and I walked away, leaning against one of the pillars by the entrance. I started to cry, just a little bit. It was the most beautiful site – the community, dancing with Torot, singing loudly, laughing, joking. It was a moment of complete bliss, a true wedding of Israel and the word of G-d in the Torah. But then I got a little lightheaded and had to sit down.

I wish I could have captured those moments. Click. Snap. Perfection.

There was, of course, the sukkah hop last Sunday. It was geared toward the kids, but plenty of adults carried on with the kids. We walked from sukkah to sukkah to sukkah, hopping along to five in the neighborhood that were nothing alike. The kids, having arrived at the fourth sukkah, complained that the goods being offered – grapes and nuts – weren’t “cool.” I assured them that there were plenty of goods at the next location and boy were they stoked. They were greeted with cookies, twizzlers, and every other sweet snack known to man.

On the note of sweets, I’m intrigued by the massive quantities of sweets that flooded the shul during Simchat Torah. M&Ms, Snickers, Nilla Wafers … the sugar high these kids (and some adults) must have been on definitely fueled the dancing. The sticky mess on the floor reminded me of movie theaters and I definitely wish I could have snapped a photo of the little girl I was holding, as she gnawed away at a lollipop (got to save her from swallowing something badly and choking, blech).

There was also the rabbi, dancing with the young guys, and his wife, whose energy I can only dream of, leading dancing with the women.

It was interesting. It was intense. It was unlike anything else I’ve ever experienced. Never before did I eat in the sukkah, never before did I dance with the Torah, never before did I watch a group of women reading from the sefer Torah privately with a dozen other women, never before did I experience Simchat Torah. The past two weeks were new to me, fresh, and beautiful. It was as if the entire community came alive. After all of the holidays, all of the time in synagogue, all of the busy houses and guests, and in those moments everyone was dancing and singing – alive!

Of course, now we’re all exhausted, trying to recover from the holidays. They were long, they were busy, but they were more than worth it. After all, we reaffirmed everything when it comes to being Jewish. It’s that starting point where we’re all anew. We’ll sleep a lot, relish in not having another major holiday until Pesach, and swear to ourselves that we won’t eat as much in the coming Shabboses.

Snapshots are nice. I think that memories sometimes lose their vibrancy without photographs, but they remain memories nonetheless. And when it comes down to it, it is better to simply keep memories because when they’re just memories, you have to maintain them. You have to constantly remember them, their emotions, their every moment.

We Pardon the Interruption of Regularly Scheduled ...

Every now and again, I like to take a few seconds to give mini "shout outs" or free-of-charge mentions for people who are trying to get their blogs, businesses, or promotions going. This space is reserved for them!

This month, PopJudaica.com will be donating 20 percent of the purchase of special merchandise to Sharsheret, a not-for-profit organization dedicated to addressing the challenges faced by young Jewish women with breast cancer. After all, it is Breast Cancer Awareness Month and if the football stars (in their jocky goodness) can manage to wear pink armbands and athletic gloves, you can bring yourself to make a purchase and help out an outstanding cause! But even if you don't choose to buy something from PopJudaica, be sure to head over to Sharsheret and give an independent donation for the cause (or to ANY breast cancer organization!).

One of my good friends (the best of the best, I say) recently started his own online business and I demand that you visit his website! The digs? SweaterDump.com. We all have sweater love (except for Tuvia, who doesn't even own a sweater), and it's the perfect time of year to start stocking up on the comfy pull-overs. Of course, I'm hoping that someone throws a Bad Sweater Party, because those are the best, and I know SweaterDump would have something perfect for the fete. The pickins may be small right now, but you KNOW they'll pick up. So get your sweaters while they're hot!

That's all for now. So go surf the web, and do something good!

The Road Diverges, Where's Chavi Going?

I'm worried that I've lost hope in the future (or the present) of mankind. All it took was a small stack of exams given to me to grade, and I was scratching my head, shaking my head, opening my mouth in utter surprise. All I could think was, "This isn't rocket science, folks," as I marked down points that would make even a regular ole D student cry. I mean, these exams? They're bad. They're really bad. And as I scribbled notes into the margins -- the same idea about 20 times, that is -- I began to wonder, to really wonder, if I could handle being a professor, knowing that the words that I might speak on a daily basis would be sucked into ears, processed in some absolutely mindless filter, only to be regurgitated out on paper like this.

Ever since I returned from Middlebury, I've been thinking, reconsidering, where I'm going. My desire to teach hasn't changed, don't get me wrong, but I am trying to figure out what's practical and possible for me at this point in my academic journey. I started out thinking modern, after all, my big-time term paper in my undergrad was on Ulysses S. Grant and the Jews. I slowly moved backward, thinking about Rashi and his daughters, considering Medieval Jewry. I read books and more books and the text that discusses the rabbi who decreed that if you're yawning in shul you better cover your mouth had me delighted. And then I came here to Connecticut and I found myself drifting even further back, to the Talmud, the rabbis, and the Second Temple Period as we know it today. But as the past year showed me, I'm so far behind it might take me years to catch up. In a perfect world, I'd be reading-fluent in Aramaic, Greek, French, German, and of course Biblical Hebrew. I'd read the texts in their originals, because that's what a scholar does. I vowed after realizing that the author of Rashi's Daughters didn't do any of her own legwork that I wouldn't be like that -- I'd work from scratch forward. But the reality? It might take me years.

I keep telling myself that I have all the time in the world. Tuvia has granted me that time, knowing that I want to follow my heart and really throw myself into that which I am passionate about. He's patient and kind like that. And in reality, I could probably toil away at school for the rest of my life studying those languages and working the texts until I'm blue in the face. Even if I don't pursue academic Talmudic work or what have you, I'll still do that in the outside world -- after all, my inquiring mind doesn't let me sit still on the sidelines when it comes to my Orthodox Judaism. I seek, read, and learn.

But the reality of the situation is that I'm reconsidering my situation. Life is a series of reconsiderations, you know. And after Middlebury, and even before, I was considering a future in Hebrew language. My time in Middlebury allowed me to gain a fluency I couldn't have dreamed of. But it was just a start, and much like my hungry neshama, my hungry brain wants more. Speaking Hebrew feeds my mind, my heart, and my soul. It's like I'm speaking in the voice of generations past and future. It empowers me and it makes me happy and excited.

And for all intents and purposes, it's practical and doable. At least, I think so.

So I sent an email off to my morah (teacher) from the summer, to see what she thinks and whether she has any advice. I would continue on with a PhD, but it would be in language -- Hebrew language. I'd rehash all the grammar rules I've forgotten (from English, that is; who can tell me what a past participle is!?). I hate to say it but although I've got mad editing skills, when it comes to the vocab and the nitty gritty, even the best editors are lacking. I want to perfect my language skills so that I can take what I know to a university or day school level and INSPIRE people. Inspire them to use and love the living language of the Jewish people. And furthermore, at least with a language, there are rules and measures and styles and words that mean exactly what they mean. I don't have to explain themes or devices to students. Language is like mathematics -- 99 percent of the time, there is really one right answer.

And maybe, once I've got that under wraps, I'll turn back to my dreams of being a Talmud chacham.

Of course, I want to be a mother, too. A mother, a wife, a community member, a shul member. A friend and a confidant. There are many things I want to be, and I find that as time goes on, my desires change along with my needs. What the soul needs to be comforted changes as new people come into our lives and also when we realize we need to reassess a situation. Unfortunately for Tuvia, being Morah Chavi the Hebrew teacher might not be exceedingly lucrative, but if there's one thing my father taught me, it's to do what makes me happy.

I've learned that, in life, you can't waste your time on the things that don't excite you. If it isn't one of the first things you think about when you wake up and when you go to sleep -- positively, with absolute excitement and eagerness -- then maybe you should reconsider where you are and where you're going. Life's to short to waste your time and energy. As Qohelet tells us,

So enjoy what you have. (Note: Many read Qohelet/Ecclesiastes as a text about the futility of life. I do not read it this way. I read Qohelet as an old man, full of wisdom, relating to us how to live one's life in order to gain the most from it. To seek happiness in all things and to not toil over that which is wasteful or futile. Rather, seek happiness in all that you do, here, in this life!)

The Ultimate Kosher Culture Shock

Last year, Tuvia had mentioned something called "The Big E" to me when I asked him whether states out this way rock State Fairs like we do in the Midwest. We missed it last year because we were newly dating and our schedules weren't meshing, so we'd vowed to go this year to the gigantic fair that honors all of the states out here -- Maine, Connecticut, Rhode Island, Massachusetts, New Hampshire and Vermont. I was stoked that we got tickets and managed to find a small window of time to go this past week. But boy oh boy was I in for a serious shock.

We arrived at The Big E fairgrounds with dozens and dozens of other cars, people schlepping on food, and RVs pulling in for the long-haul. We parked, walked through piles of mud, handed them our tickets (which they digitally scanned, which I thought was odd considering fairs in my mind are old-school), and went on our way. We wove our way through sheds and jacuzzis for sale, landing out near the Midway and near what would be something I wasn't prepared for: Fair Food.

When I was a kid, we once drove to the fairgrounds in Missouri, driving around for hours trying to find an empty hotel room, just to see some butter sculpture of Garth Brooks. We ate fried food, funnel cakes, gigantic turkey legs, and every fried goodie in between. You see, the Midwestern way when it comes to fairs is to consume as much as you can that is either fried or on a stick, or better yet -- both! You drink soda or hot chocolate or a big slushie, chow down on a deep-fried Twinkie, and marvel at gigantic vegetation or animals.

As we walked around the fair, I was reminded at how un-Midwestern it was. Yes, they had all the food trappings (the fried dough could be smelled from every corner of this place), but to see the gigantic animals you had to pay a buck. It was disappointing. But the buildings all housed the basic goods -- ShamWOW!s, choppers and knives, various pet goods, and the obligatory "Pray with Us" booth and the "Abortion is Wrong" booth with a gigantic fetus plastered on the booth wall.

As we walked around, I was feeling starved. All I wanted to do was buy some fried pickles (a classic Southern Missouri/Northern Arkansas treat), grab a basket of cheese fries, and top it off with some funnel cake. But I couldn't. I couldn't even approach the stands. I couldn't even consider it.

I'm kosher.

So imagine my delight when, after entering the craft corner, Tuvia shouted "Chavi! Look! Kosher!" Yes, there we were, in front of a candied nut booth that sported a local hechsher. Nuts. This is what I can eat at a fried, fatty-filled fair? Nuts? Cinnamon candied nuts? That's it? Okay, that's a lie. Tuvia managed to grab a coffee (a locally hechshered brand, mind you) while I had some chai (also kosher). We thought about purchasing a pretzel, since the brand that's plastered all over the heating elements is one that's kosher. But who's to say that the pretzels IN there are kosher?

As we walked through the state houses, we discovered Ben and Jerry's and a local dessert ice place, as well as a placed that was dishing out baked potatoes (with OU-certified Cabot [barf] sour cream), but by then we were worn out. Tired from all the food we couldn't eat. Or maybe it was just me. Tuvia's a Jersey boy. I'm a born-and-bred Midwestern with a palate for fried cheese and treats on sticks.

I know that it's just food, but food is how we socialize, it's how we relate to one another, the world around us. And being there, on gigantic fairgrounds spewing food that we couldn't eat, was depressing. It was a culture shock. The reality of my situation really hit me then.

Since early June, I've only eaten non-kosher once (it was a Jones for some TGIFridays). It's not so bad, but it is hard. I like to eat out. After all, my Yelp profile is full of eateries in Chicago and Washington DC and even here in Connecticut. Unfortunately, in Connecticut, the closest kosher restaurants are in Waterbury and that's just deli and pizza. If you want something real -- sushi, burgers, barbecue, steak -- you have to schlep to Monsey or Boston or New York.

I haven't had a cheeseburger in probably five years. That goes the same for shrimp and pork. If I consumed pork or shellfish since then, it was by no knowledge of my own. It took me a while to warm up to the idea of no meat and cheese. Don't get me wrong -- I've been doing no beef/dairy for years. But the chicken/cheese took me a while to really figure out. Keeping kosher dishes and containers and pots and pans and stuff hasn't been so bad. It's been staying healthy and kosher that's been the biggest problem for me. But I'm working on it. I'm back on my Morningstar Burger bent. Amen for Morningstar.

How do we do it? How do Jews in the boonies (not that Hartford is boonies, but I can't even go to the deli and get a sandwich for Pete's sake) manage without kosher restaurants? We all get tired of cooking, especially when it's the same stuff over and over again. Even trying new dishes can burn you out. I just know that when Tuvia and I are in Israel in two months that coming back will be difficult, if not impossible. Having kosher food at your fingertips -- even having that cultural mindset of kashrut -- will blow our collective minds into submission to those pushing aliyah.

But one thing's for sure: I can never go to the fair again.

Until, of course, they offer something kosher and delicious. How hard would it be to put up a kosher booth? After all, The Big E states are full of Jews -- Connecticut and Massachusetts especially. Do Jews not go to the fair? Maybe I'll start my own fair. Or maybe that's what the Purim fair is for. Who knows.

Either way, this Kosher Cornhusker can't go home again. At least, not with a corn dog in one hand and fried cheese on a stick in the other.

Haveil Havalim is Up!

You can check out the newest edition of Haveil Havalim -- The Sukkot Edition -- at Esser Agaroth.

Enjoy! Chag Sameach! And Shavua tov!

"Hello, This is Gilad."

I am lucky enough to be free. I am lucky enough to live in a part of the world where my religion and my lifestyle do not cause others to commit harm toward me on a daily basis. In Israel, perhaps I wouldn't be so lucky. HaShem knows that Gilad Shalit -- in captivity now for nearly 1,200 -- was not as lucky. Gilad is suffering for Jews the world over, for Israelis the world over, for humanity and the right to breathe.

Tonight begins Sukkot here where I live, and in Israel Jews are already observing Sukkot. We invite friends and family over, we sit in booths that we have built, and we eat food joyously with one another, laughing and singing and discussing the smaller things in life. And Gilad? He'll be sitting in captivity. But at least, baruch HaShem, we know he is still alive and with us. This Sukkot, this Sukkot will be about Gilad. And we know he's alive because Israel agreed to release dangerous Palestinian prisoners in exchange for this small look into Gilad's life, captured in early September. Is he still alive? We must hope so. We must know so.

This video, publicized today, had me in tears. I look at Gilad, reading from a script, looking up at the camera, and wonder what he must have been thinking when this was filmed. Knowing that the high holidays were coming. Knowing that Jews the world over were thinking -- and are thinking -- of him.



I don't know what the right answer is as far as getting Gilad back goes. I do know, however, that returning hundreds or thousands of violent criminals to Gaza and Hamas will not solve anything. But the famous adage for we Jews is that if you save one life, it is as if you've saved the world. And in suite, we must save Gilad.

Shabbat shalom v'chag sameach friends.

Yom Huledet Sameach to Me!

Yes. It's my birthday. Wahoo! The big Two-Six. What happens when you turn 26? Not a whole lot. So I'll just sit by and wait for 30, the next big thing. My inbox is exploding with Facebook Wall birthday wishes, my Twitter runneth over with kind wishes, and even the blogging universe (Thanks TMC and Heather!) have sent me their tidings.

What to say as I turn 26? I have the world's greatest friends. You guys rock, and I'm continually blessed as a result. What a way to start 5770. I kind of like that my birthday falls during the holidays because it's like starting anew, and anew, and anew. But it also makes celebrating hard (who wants more cake after Rosh Hashanah and break-the-fast babkas and treats!?). There are also no kosher restaurants to dine at around these parts, which is a little bummer, but I'll survive.

I do, however, have to share the most awesome gift EVER that I received from Tuvia (and his mum!). Yes, this gift is seriously the most thoughtful gift ever. Why? Because it takes me back to being a kid, and it's the kind of gift I'd never in a million years expect to get. I got the American Girl's new Rebecca doll, which I blogged about in the past. She's their first Jewish doll to be released with her own story, accessories, and American Girl life! So why's she so special to me?

Here's the story.

When I was a kid, I started to get the American Girl doll catalog in the mail. I'd sit down with it, circling all the books and dolls and accessories that I wanted. This was in the late 1980s, early 1990s, when I was still living in Missouri. They even came out with a special "make a doll that looks like you" feature in the catalog, and I dreamed of having my own doll. Even if I couldn't make one (they were more expensive), I could at least get Molly because her and I were practically twins (brown hair, glasses, pale, geeky). But as much as I prodded my parents, they could never afford the dolls. So every month when we'd visit my parents in Branson, Missouri, we'd go to Silver Dollar City (a very old tyme themepark with train robbers, glass blowing, and hot s'mores during the winter), I'd spend what little money I had on purchasing American Girl collectors cards. I also managed to get a couple of Addy books along the way. But I never got a doll, while some of my other friends did. It was depressing, but I eventually stopped looking at the catalog and moved on. My dreams would never be realized -- after all, you hit a point when dolls become a thing of the past.

So when I saw the Rebecca box and the box with her Shabbat set (challah! hot water urn! tea! challah cover!), I was elated. It was such a special and thoughtful gift, a gift unlike I would expect or ever think of receiving.

The rest of my birthday will be routine. No big parties, no big celebrations. No cakes, no surprises. I'll be teaching a review session at 6 p.m., schlepping into Manchester after that, and hopefully decorating Tuvia's sukkah with him. Chances are I'll curl into bed with my Ancient Fictions book or some Midrashic gem and wrestle myself to sleep with dreams of where I'll be in another year -- Jerusalem? Graduate school? Married? With child? This is the fun of life. Never planning ahead, taking it all in stride, and enjoying every moment surrounded by friends and loved ones.

Amen!

PS: I forgot to wish Elie Wiesel, my very own birthday buddy, a Yom Huledet Sameach last night. Curses!

A Picture's Worth a Thousand Words.

You'll notice the title of this post, and then you'll notice that I'm writing words that really, to be honest, won't do much justice to a simple photograph. My face, in this photo, is swollen. I'm still recovering from my allergic reaction last weekend and the medication I'm on has caused my muscles to ache, my body to fatigue, and my face to swell. So that's me. But that guy next to me?

He is what I consider a celebrity. An academic, spiritual, Jewish, brainy celebrity. My heart beat fast when he was asked my question, among the four that were asked, during his talk this afternoon and when he was walking into the dining hall to eat a delicious kosher meal with about 50 of us, I got sweaty and nervous.

I walked up to him, "Thank you for answering my question, thank you so much for answering it." And he responded with "Well, thank you for asking it." (The question was irrelevant -- about Iran and the Holocaust and how we approach these people, what Elie Wiesel so aptly deemed those who are "morally ill.") I stood nervously. "Can I get a picture with you, please? If it's not too much trouble?" He answered that it wasn't, he put his hand around my back, leaned in, and this is the photo that I have.

A friend from Russia took the photo. I got the camera back from her and noted that in the photo he looked sad, tired. His eyes were saying something timeless, but something devastating. Even when he was smiling in the photos he took with countless benefactors and important persons this evening, he wasn't smiling. His expression always crawled back into a fatigue. He looked tired. I thought to myself, "If I were Elie Wiesel, I, too, would be tired."

But it's interesting how, while sitting and listening to this man -- this icon, this inspiration -- speak, I started to realize that I don't even remember what it feels like to not be Jewish. It was a funny thing to think upon while he was discussing what constitutes a moral society and whether we live in one today. He was discussing the Holocaust, surviving, his friendships and his experiences, how he lives his life and what it means to be moral. All the while, he was relating Hasidic legends, talking about the Talmud, and reciting popular quotes we find from the sages -- all to teach about morality. I realized, in those moments, that to be Jewish is so much of who I am, my efforts to relate to this aspect of Judaism and its history -- the Holocaust -- have stopped being difficult. Have I realized my fullness? I've finally crawled over that bump in the road where I found it so hard to relate to the Holocaust, to the survivors, to that period of Jewish history. In those moments, listening to this man inspire and emote, I felt as if I were listening to my grandfather, my father, my brother, my people.

So when I finally got to shake his hand, and feel his arm around my back, I felt as though I was finally realizing a part of me that was hidden. His hand, which surely had seen so much, felt so much -- both pain and simchas -- touched my back, and I felt so at home near those sad eyes.

Will I ever see Elie Wiesel again? Perhaps. But if I don't, I have the memory of asking him a question, him spending so many minutes answering it passionately, him shaking my hand, putting his arm around my back, taking a photo with me, and listening to me stammering nervously. What a man.

Sticking it to the UN: Have You No Shame?

Hat tip to Jack for posting this up. I have to say, well put. He puts it perfectly.





"A mere six decades after the Holocaust, you give legitimacy to a man who denies the murder of six million Jews? While promising to wipe out the state of Israel? The state of the Jews? What a disgrace. What a mockery of the charter of the United Nations."

Pardon Me While I Wax Gematria ...

9

Thanks to Shirat Devorah, I finally have my answer to the gematria behind this new year of 5770.  The year can be written as תש"ע, which those of you might recognize as the Hebrew number tishah, or nine (9).

So what does that mean? What's the point of this year being "nine" ...?

Some interesting tidbits? The number nine appears exactly nine times (according to Shirat Devorah) in the Torah. And, as you'll all remember from my 09/09/09 post, the Hebrew word for truth -- emet (אמת)-- has the gematria value of ... wait for it ... NINE!

I'm not always big on the big and wow of Judaism, the miraculous moments where things click and everything fits and the weird and eeriness of connections. It seems superficial almost, like I'm looking for things that might not be there. But I have to say that NINE is a big number here. We're in 5770, the year 2009 (still, for now), and truth is in all things, especially this year. Maybe there will be a great truth this year? I could use a little truth, a little bit of clarity in a few things.

Anyone else see anything interesting about this year being spelled out as tishah? Or perhaps the significance of the number nine in the coming year?

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!

Chabad on the Moon!?

While perusing Etsy.com, as I do sometimes when I'm bored, need to refresh my brain, and don't have a graphic novel laying around, I came across some funny comics up for sale. This one gave me a happy giggle. If you'd like to purchase one, just visit this Etsy Shop! (I also like the Rashi on a date one, tee hee.) After all, we have to be able to laugh at ourselves, right?

A Flashback!

I promise there's a RH post to come, but I will write it only once my face is looking better. It's put me in a crappy place having my face all bludgeoned up with hives and what have you. Luckily, I'm on prednisone now and hopefully my face will chipper up quickly.

But I thought I'd entertain you all in the meantime with an early photo of me. I suppose this photo might be an indication of my future almost-frummie lifestyle. Weird, isn't it? This is Freshman Homecoming, circa ... 1998 I think?

Yes, that's crushed velvet and a long, velvet black skirt. And that hair? I had that my entire life, until about 2001 when I chopped it all off. What a relief! And the guy next to me with the glasses and the black/white shirt and black pants is my older brother. Let's just say he looks nothing like that now. I think I resemble myself, right?

Happy trails!

EDIT: Just for kicks, here's me a mere year later!

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!)