On the other side of the miqveh

8 Tammuz, 5771

Darkness has descended on Boston now, like a comforter that falls gently unto a waiting bed. Night never falls hard here on the Massachusetts coast; it arrives in ever-darkening waves off the water, lulling the city to sleep. I tell friends back in New York what is so amazing (to me at least) about Boston is that, unlike Manhattan with its endless canyons of concrete and glass, the Hub never tries to overwhelm the skyline. In the evening, even when its electric glow is at its brightest, you can still pick out the stars in the sky.

If you are reading this then there are at least three hanging over my head. Shavua tov! I hope you had a blessed Shabbat, whatever that might mean to you. My first as a converted Jew has now ended. I am sitting out here on my back porch thinking about a question asked me before I entered the miqveh: What do you think will be different tomorrow than today? For a moment thousands of clever answers surfaced in my brain (writers always search for the perfect reply) but in the end I decided to go with the most authentic: I didn’t know. I mean, really, would I be more spiritually Jewish in the next few minutes than I was now? What would that even mean? I thought I had been feeling that way for many months now, in the reverence for Torah and observing Shabbat and applying Jewish texts and beliefs and love to my own life. Would that be intensified now? But what if it wasn’t? What if I toweled off and felt no sense of having arrived? Would things sound different, look differently, smell and taste different? What if they didn’t? Ugh, expectations can so clog up the synapses.

What I ended up saying was, I would step out of the miqveh without anticipation, and hope in this way I could encompass and appreciate it all. I am so glad that was my answer, because in the end it made every moment that followed more precious, more sensuous, more heightened, more wondrous, more. I can still remember the feel of my toes on those seven steps as I entered the welcoming warmth waters which enveloped me in a way no other pool or pond or ocean had before; the sound of my own voice as I surfaced each time with Hebrew prayers on my lips; the joy as I rejoined the gathered to their heartfelt  ‘mazel-tovs’. Then later, back at Temple Israel as I received my rabbi’s blessing, my heart moved by the surprise friends in attendance, who listened as I recited a beautiful poem about the faith and people I now consciously and lovingly belonged to, and sang the Shema solo before the opened Ark. Then my rabbi took my hands and blessed me, speaking of my Hebrew name for the first time. That I felt resonate down to my soul

Did the Shabbat service that followed seem any, well, different? Yes, yes it did - although I’m not sure the thesaurus could provide the adjectives to accurately describe how. I said the same prayers as I always did, bowed with the same love as before, took in the sermon with the same hungry curiosity as always – yet this time I felt more present in the moment, more a part of the gathered voices and more of the good energy we were raising. Shalom Rav (one of my favorite prayers) and the Aleinu seem to come from a deeper place and expand more into the evening. More.

Was there a sense of belonging that wasn’t there a week ago, a day hour, just a few hours before? No – and yes. I was still in my same seat (Shabbat regulars always know where to look for me, ha), surrounded by the same congregational family…and yet there was now a sense of being more being present with them, more a part of them, more We than ever before. For someone who has spent most of her life as a wandering lone wolf, that’s quite an amazing feeling to have. Scary and frightening yet warmendearingsafelovely, all in the same deep breath.

Is it any surprise then by the end of the service I felt exhausted – but in a good way, like finally crossing the finish line of a marathon you’ve trained for, finally touching the wall after a meet in the pool, taking away the last dish of a dinner you cooked for those you love. I had meant to stay for some Riverway Unplugged/Soul Food, the later monthly service, and what I know would have been another great sermon by Matt, but knew then I would just be pushing myself and probably would have embarrassingly nodded off. (Next month, for sure.)

Added bonus: this morning at Torah study the rabbi called me up for my first aliyah. I tend to quake whenever I get up before people (ironic since I love doing public readings and spoken word) so hopefully that wasn’t too obvious. I imagined my first aliyah would be a stuttering off-keyed mess but (at least in my ears) the words rang true. I’m not even sure what that means, exactly – again, a moment that defies mundane description. Perhaps that is best. Like kisses, I think, these are snapshots not meant to be dissected but rather 

experienced at the edge of loving lips.

The neighbors have their Saturday night bonfire burning now, the smell of woodfire smoke a lingering summer perfume. I can hear dishes clatter and glasses clink, laughter floating up from their yard. Sometimes at sunset they’ve been known to blow a shofar. Off in the distance The Pru is lit up like a beacon. The lights of incoming flights skirt the horizon on their way to Logan. Fenway remains dark – no game tonight, apparently. Still, I’m told, hopes for the pennant are running high. Welcome to Boston.

A beautiful evening breeze is gently running its fingers through the neighborhood trees. For some the day is ending and for others it is just beginning. Endings, beginnings, light and darkness, sunrises and sunsets, befores and afters. It’s hard not to muse over what separates and what distinguishes, what’s holy and what’s profane, what remains the same and what changes, what’s on either side of havdalah, or a miqveh.

Especially now as a Jew

Shavua tov.