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.

Upon 'Becoming' (My Conversion Song)

6 Tammuz, 5771

Shabbat Shalom.

In the Mishkan T’filah there is a poem that has stayed with me since the first time I randomly opened to its page. It is called “Becoming”:

“Once or twice in a lifetime

A man or woman may choose

A radical leaving, having heard

Lech lecha — Go forth.

God disturbs us toward our destiny

By hard events

And by freedom's now urgent voice

Which explode and confirm who we are.

We don't like leaving,

But God loves becoming.”

     As its footnote in the siddur points out, Rabbi Norman Hirsch’s poem is based on the Genesis passage in which HaShem tells Abram (soon to be Abraham, arguably Judaism’s first convert) that it is time to go forth and take the first of many small and probably frightening steps that would become the journey to all Jewish people.

     Now I did not know the meaning of Lech Lecha when I first started out on the path that would lead me here today. I hadn’t read that Genesis passage - let alone any passage from the Bible - for a good number of years. Decades even. Yet I did hear something - a wind outside my door that knew my name, a song from a dream I had never heard before but somehow knew every word to – tempting me to look beyond the walls of my work cubicle and my NY apartment. And while I didn’t think my decision to move was all that ‘radical’ a good number of friends did, sharing with me their well-intended concerns. I will always love them for that. I have no doubt Abram would have considered himself lucky to have known such good people.

     Just how drastic was my path did not become apparent (at least to me) until I found myself out in the concrete wilderness of the urban desert. I wish I could tell you it was a burning bush, unconsumed, that sent me on my way but no, the reasons appeared much more profane – a bad economy, a fruitless job search, an unsteady paycheck – hard circumstances to be sure. But – and I did not understand nor appreciate this at the time – we cannot escape what enslaves us (or perhaps even know we’re enslaved to begin with) without first walking the walk of our own personal exodus.

     Luckily, I came to realize you cannot have an exodus without a few miracles along the way. No, the dirty waters of the Riverway did not part for me nor did I have manna rain down but that did not mean the wonders I encountered were any less profound. A kind stranger’s offered couch, a co-worker’s shared lunch, my employer’s support, a best friend’s surprise visit, the smile from a passing stranger…and a community that was there every week with open doors, open hearts, a safe space for a weary body and ragged spirit. These then became the waters from the well that followed me and kept my thirst slaked, enabling me to keep on keeping on.  

     I realize now this journey of mine was less about needing to arrive at a destination than finally finding a place of heart and hearth. For whether it is the musical prayers of praise during a Friday night Shabbat service or the lively discussions on a Saturday morning Torah study, the activism embedded within Tikkun Olam, or simply the Simcha that makes one want to dance in the streets, so much of Judaism has felt intimately familiar to me, like a remembered love ballad. Look, I have never been a blindly obedient acolyte but rather someone who has always questioned the answer, even if that meant wrestling with angels; I have not been one to wait on the redemption of lottery-ticket miracles but rather someone who needs to learn what it takes to help herself, her community and others; I have never been one to foster anesthetic and unrealistic expectations about human nature but rather has striven to plumb the depths of its untidy sensuous mystery. And finally I have never been one to shy away from shaking timbrels on the far shores of parted waters, singing unto wells, or climbing mountains to meet my ever-patient, ever-loving Higher Power.

     This is for me what ‘becoming’ a Jew feels like, then - a homecoming.

     Like coming home.

     Shabbat Shalom     

Mi Chamocha - Theme Song for Day?

Woke up with this in my head. Theme song for the day? Considering I now have a confirmed date at the mikvah (water, redemption, praise) makes sense to me...

URJ Hukkat: Remembering Miriam - My Jewish Learning

URJ Hukkat: Remembering Miriam - My Jewish Learning

So glad and thankful someone is remembering Miriam during this Parshah

The Ten Commandments - A Song for Shavuot

Happy Shavuot!

Re-surfacing

18 Iyar 5771: 

      1.  Re-Surfacing

If you are reading these words it means I have finally re-surfaced from the bottom of that bottomless ocean otherwise known as a college semester, in which light does not truly dawn on the new day until the final final has been, well, finalized and handed in. This semester it was three major papers all dropped one after the other, plus presentations and debates, all following a heart-stopping computer crash thanks to a nasty virus.

During this academic drama I have managed to continue with my conversion - the learning, the questioning, the reading, and yes the celebrating.   

      

      2.       Yes, the celebrating

Just a few weeks ago I was invited to my first Pesach, which at first I was sure would end up being some sort of a social disaster. Although I had read up on the holiday and went through the Maxwell House Haggadah twice (I am told it’s a classic) it still seemed so new and huge and therefore terribly complex. There are readings, there are songs, there are four sons (?) and four glasses of wine at appointed times and bitter herbs and charoset. The first night of Passover seemed fraught with a thousand different ways for me to surely embarrass myself and inadvertently switch the CONVERT light on my forehead to on. (Hmmm, maybe it’s 

time to start leaving that at home?)

As you have probably already figured, in the end I had nothing to fear. (Note to self: Nothing. To Fear.) I had been invited to the sweet and friendly home of some friends whose table was adorned with all of the above, plus helpings of humor and melody (if you knew them neither of these adjectives would surprise.)

Yes, I did get a reading and yes, I did sing songs I only half knew, and no, I was not the only non-Jew (at the moment) in the room; no, I did not spill a single drop of wine (as far as I know) or talk out of turn or munch away on a matzo before I was supposed to. Yes, there was a Miriam’s Cup next to Elijah’s, hopping frogs and I believe an orange on the Seder plate. (If you don’t know its meaning check out its her-story via Susannah Herschel).

The story I knew. What I didn’t was this version of it, recited so richly, so sensuously, through food and drink and story and song. And community, always community. But then, what else should I expect in the home that is Judaism?

3. Parshat Bechukotai

It being 18 Iyar, 5771 the Torah study this week was all Parshat Bechukotai, the chapter which closes the Book of Leviticus. It was one of those challenging portions for me. Just like Terumah (in which Moses gets away with some unchallenged misogynist editorial license after descending Sinai), Ki Tisa (God wants to smite the fledging nation for the Golden Calf, but Moses says no, remember the covenant – but then he smites half of them anyway?) and Shemini (Avihu and Nadav take a hit for, er, um, what exactly again? Strange fire? Wait, isn’t that an Indigo Girls’ song? And Aaron says nothing as they are dragged away? Whoa, and I thought my father had issues ), this parshat left me initially unsettled with disturbing images. God decides to list for the new nation of Israel all the positives and negatives of remaining true to the covenant - follow the rules, your fields will yield such harvests that your stomachs will not know what hunger is. Great! Awesome! But wait, hold on there cowboy. Because if you stray from the covenant I will not only evict you from the land like a group of hung-over frat boys late on their rent but I will make things so miserable through famine, desolation, etc., that eating your own children will seem like the only alternative.

Like, really, HaShem? The threat of hunger and anguish and exile from the Your land isn’t frightening enough, so You just had to add cannibalism of children as extra incentive? Nice.

Every time I hit this kind of surprise (or at least a surprise to me) theological pothole I force myself to stop, climb out and re-examine what it is I have driven into. Because no one said this Torah business would be easy, linear, simple or even explainable. If all I wanted was a smooth trip I could always hop on the Orange Line. (Or not.) The Torah is a different kind of ride all together. It makes no promises of comfort, only to confound, contradict, challenge, confront and perhaps proffer contemplation. All of which is fine by me. Indisputable answers tend to end conversations and offer no growth in its solutions. Torah study fosters discussions and even debates and in the heat of those colliding thoughts and words something happens – sparks in the dark, real light and warmth, the energy that animates. I forgot who said it but things in this Universe grow only through some sort of friction. Welcome to Judaism.  

In embracing this particular mission statement, I turn to an Introduction to Judaism class in which one of the rabbis reminded us that the Torah does not concern itself with a nation’s history but rather a people’s collective memory via myth and metaphor. (Add in that there were multiple authors over different time spans and all that implies.) I am also grateful for this Rosh Hashanah sermon during last year’s High Holy Days at Temple Israel.

All of this continues to make space for my questions as a Torah studier to be asked and subsequent ideas to expand, overlap, synthesize and develop. For me this is no small thing but rather the difference between stretching your limbs in a sun-steeped meadow up toward the clear blue, and banging those same limbs against the sides of a closed dark airless box.

May I continue to grow in that field.

Preserving The Covenant - My Jewish Learning

Preserving The Covenant - My Jewish Learning