"Just Orthodox"

Isn't it strange to be an Orthodox Jew yet be afraid of the frum world? That's me to a large degree. I can't quite explain it, but I'm guessing it stems from some lifelong insecurities that happen in social or school settings. Not being "like them"; standing on the outside looking in.

A few months ago someone described me in a blog as "...a frum woman..." I stopped reading right there, and was momentarily panic-stricken. I thought I'm not frum, I'm Orthodox, but not frum. Does this person really think me to be frum -- I didn't attend yeshiva day schools or high schools; I didn't go to seminary; I don't cover my hair all the time; I wear short sleeves; I listen to all music; I sing out loud; I'll "mix dance"; I'M NOT FRUM.

How odd is that -- to be Orthodox, but wanting to diassociate myself from a "frum" label. To me "frum" connotates sheitels and shteibels; black hats and stockings; it implies a degree of Yiddishkeit that goes beyond mine.

There were several times when I attended an Agudah minyan in Toronto on Shabbos because we'd been invited to acquaintances' bar mitzvahs there. My husband was downstairs with his work chevra and it was okay because he looked like them, just minus a black hat. I, on the other hand, very reluctantly climbed the stairs to the ladies' gallery, knowing I wouldn't know anyone, and knowing I wouldn't feel right.

I was probably the only married woman each time I went who wore a hat, not a sheitel. In those days I had no children yet, nor was I pregnant. Strike number two. This is not imagined by me at all, nor set up by me at all, but it was clearly evident that I was not one of them; I was not frum, I was "just Orthodox".

Or there were several times when my husband and I walked to different shuls along Bathurst Street, the main Jewish thoroughfare in the city. He either would be wearing a black suede kippah or even a crocheted kippah. And when we'd pass frum men, dressed in "bekeshes" and "shtreimels" or even Borsoleno hats, and my husband would say "Good Shabbos", we received no response in return. Why? Because they were frum, and we were "just Orthodox". The fact that we did not dress like them, did it mean that we were not like them? They looked right through us as if we weren't there.

So I'm really not there. I'm not frum; I'm "just Orthodox".

The Long And Winding Road Part Two

(You can find part one of this story here.)

When we arrived at the high school we were all sent into the gym along with the other campers, counselors, staff and families. It was a tense situation and there were a lot of tears, cries and whispers.

I remember trying to process what was happening. Back at camp we had all waited on the baseball field and watched as a series of buses pulled in and were loaded up with people.

The youngest campers were only nine and they were among the first to be sent out. We made a point of waving and smiling at them so that they would feel better as we felt an obligation to be good role models.

Bus after bus was filled and then there no more buses, yet we remained. We were told to stand up and we began the first of what would be many marches that summer. We headed up the road out of camp and were loaded into US Forestry trucks. As we left camp I looked out the back window of the truck and watched the flames roll down the hill and wondered what would happen to camp and if my trip to Israel was over before it started as my passport and clothing were all left there.

I can't quite remember any more if I slept at all that night, but I do remember that early in the morning they got all of us together, the entire machane and told us that we going to daven shacharit.

Initially I was angry and a bit dumbfounded by this as it seemed to be particularly cruel. Why would we be asked to do this. Were they stupid. It just seemed ridiculous to me.

It was during the Shemoneh Esreh that I suddenly realized that I wasn't just saying the words, that I was trying to participate again. The realization caught me off guard and like any good teenager I immediately ceased participating and tried to pretend that nothing had happened.

There are a lot of other stories about the fire and the things that happened during that time, but they are not relevant to this story, perhaps I'll share them at a different time. What I can tell you now is that later that day we were able to go back to camp to get our stuff and later that evening we left the high school and spent the night in a hotel by LAX.

The next morning our parents hugged us goodbye at the airport and wished us a safe journey. Some hours later we landed in New York and switched planes, tired, but exhilirated.

As I walked to the very back of that TWA jet I remember being in awe as it was my first time on a 747, not to mention the first time I had been on a plane in 15.5 years. I can remember wondering if maybe, just maybe I was wrong about a few things in my life.

But the introspective thought was pushed aside as I realized that there were literally hundreds of other teens from the other camps on this flight. I was far too excited to do more than gawk at some of the girls and conspire with the boys to impress them with tales of our amazing escape from the fire.

It was a long flight from New York to Tel Aviv and I remember so many other things besides trying to meet girls. One of the primary memories is of realizing that I was a part of a huge community, maybe not as large as some others, but so much larger than I had ever realized.

It felt like every few hours there was a buzz among the passengers as the men tried to gather a minyan. I especially remember noticing that it wasn't a problem, there wasn't any lack of volunteers.

It helped to build upon the sense of community that I had been feeling, but in a different way. I grew up being involved in Jewish life, but whenever it was that I stopped believing in G-d I had also lost some of my faith in the community.

That is, I knew that we all shared something in common, but it really didn't have any meaning to me. Now, the meaning was returning to me. Now I was starting to feel as if I was a part of something special again. On that plane ride I really began to feel like I was coming home again.

(cross posted on Jack's Shack)

Do you feel "it?

When I was in College, I attended a school that was not in a big city, but fairly close to a Chabad House. Since I am Lubavitch, all though at the time was more on the modern side of the orthodox landscape. I thought it'd be a good idea to hang out there a lot. The Rabbi was a great guy, who really had a way with words and giving each person the attention they needed. I helped out from time to time with different things. As my time in school went on, I became less and less involved in the Chabad House. I started making a lot of friends and hanging out in town, I got very into the Local music scene. There is something about seeing bands start out, their beginning stages, that I really enjoyed.

Growing up I always had a hard time connecting on a personal and intimate level with being frum. Most of the things I did just seemed bothersome & robotic. Sort of like "Oh, it's Friday afternoon again, now it's Shabbos, here comes a day of doing nothing" I had trouble seeing the holiness in a lot of things. It's a product of many things which I plan on writing in later posts.

One Simchas Torah I was at the Chabad house and there was some more than usual drinking on my part (which I promise you WAS unusual, I was not one of those getting drunk off your head Lubavitch types) When I do get shall we say "tipsy" I have a tendency to get very "deep" and conversational. So I somehow got into a conversation with this girl who was at the beginning stages of being frum through that Chabad House. She had been hanging around for a year, I had met her before, she had just started keeping Shabbos in the previous months. But she was VERY into it. She was very devoted (and later became completely religious, got married to a nice Lubavitch boy (not me) and has 3 kids.)

We talked for a few hours, and the thing I kept asking her was "Why do you want to be religious?" This is a girl who came from a wealthy family, was attending a good school, had big hopes and dreams, she had a very normal life, and she WAS happy. She wasn't one of these people who have nothing in their lives and turn to G-d. Or are sad, and turn to Religion as a "Life Crutch" Yes, she did tell me she felt a lack of spirituality on her life, and had felt that she was always missing something, and that in the end- that was her real reason for wanting to be more involved with her connection to G-d.

The one thing she did say to me, which forever resonated in my head, was "I just feel it" That was her description. "it". She said ever since the first time she came to a shul. She saw it all. People practicing a religion. The man reading the torah. The man leading the Davening. The image of the Rabbi. The children happily running around the house. She said "it" felt right.

"It" felt like this is where she belonged. That was something I had no answer for. She wanted to be a Doctor. But admitted that she was more likely to settle down, get married and raise her kids, than become a doctor now. That to me was so hard to grasp. But every time she said "it" I looked at her and felt sad. Sad that I didn't feel "it"

I eventually did have my own "it" moments, but that's for another post ...

We All Have Chiclets

In his book, Listen To Your Messages, Rabbi Frand related a story about a rabbi who helped a woman kasher her kitchen for the first time. When the rabbi arrived at her home he noticed a pack of non-kosher Chiclets laying out on a table and gently informed the woman that they would need to discard the Chiclets before they began. The woman adamantly refused and decided against kashering her kitchen. All because of Chiclets.

On this story Rabbi Frand commented, "We all have our Chiclets. We all have some reprehensible items we cling to so tightly that it seems as if our lives depend on them. But no matter what that something is, it can be done. We can give it up. We can change. The key to change is starting small."

The rationalizations and excuses I give why I need to hold on to my own "Chiclets" would probably sound ridiculous to an outsider. They continue to be little road blocks in my brain and hurdles that I am not ready to jump over at the present time.

G-d willing, one day I will be able to recognize these obstacles for what they truly are and overcome them.

--
(Cross Posted on A Simple Jew)

The Long And Winding Road

I often think about how many twists and turns life throws at us. By the time I was 14 or so I knew that I would be going spend the Summer of 1985 in Israel. In part my father had pushed a little for it but it was also something that I wanted to do because I saw so many of my friends older siblings do it, not to mention the impetus of being relatively independent from my parents.

In order to be able to afford the trip I saved all of the money I received at my Bar-Mitzvah and then did what I could to add to it. My parents covered the rest helping to buy a backpack and providing me with $400 in cash to spend over the nine weeks I was to be gone.

It was an incredibly exciting time for me. Just a short time before we were to leave for Israel a TWA flight was hijacked in Athens. The terrorists made a number of demands including that Israel release a large number of prisoners.

I remember my father sitting me down to speak with me about terrorism, but more to offer advice on how to act and blend in overseas. He explained to me that as an American I would stick out in some situations and explained that it would be smarter to try not to do so. I remember bits and pieces of the conversation, including his telling me that I should remember that he loved me and to be safe.

In the world around me there was a fair amount of chaos and there were a number of people who told me that they thought I was stupid to go and that I could be killed, "just look at what happened in Athens."

It didn't faze me at all, which I can attribute in some respects to being young, dumb and male. Besides, I was going with a group of friends from camp and we even spent a little time discussing how we could stop a hijacking. That was the beauty of being a sixteen year-old boy, we couldn't conceive of failure only how badly we would beat the crap out of anyone dumb enough to try and hijack our plane.

As part of our trip we went back to camp for a week long orientation. There were 38 of us on the trip, most of whom I knew from past summers at camp. During that initial week we spent time learning some key phrases such as where is the bathroom, were briefed upon some cultural differences and used the rest of our time to try and figure out who we thought the hottest girls on the trip were.

We also participated in a somewhat normal camp routine including waking up for Shacharit (morning service) daily as well as the rest of the Jewish liturgy and ritual of camp life. At that time i considered myself to be an atheist so I was less than pleased to be asked to daven, let alone do so after spending the majority of the evening screwing around with the boys.

About a day or so before we were supposed to leave camp and fly off to Israel we noticed a fire in the hills behind camp and joked around about what could happen if the wind changed direction. I remember it well, flames in the hills and ash floating in the air. Even though we could see the flames they were relatively far away from us.

Later that day the camp held a fire drill in which the director stood up and gave a speech that was supposed to reassure all of us. We didn't care all that much because we were leaving and I can remember jokes about the camp burning down. They were tasteless, but we were 16 and who really believed it was possible.

That night when the sun set we noticed a few things. In the darkness we could see a number of different patches of flames in the hills, it wasn't located in just one are any longer. The other thing that sticks out is that there was an exceptionally warm breeze. When I went to sleep I made sure that my shoes were beneath my bed.

And with good reason. At 3 am we were awakened by the sirens of the camp fire alarms. When we looked outside the tent it was evident that this was not a drill as the hills surrounding camp were in flames. That dry hot wind was blowing and there was a crackling noise in the air, even now just a few weeks short of 20 years a wind like that reminds me of the night we were evacuated from the fire that covered 118,000 acres and is referred to now as the Wheeler Fire.

By 3:30 AM we had been evacuated to Nordhoff High School and within a couple of hours I was well into an experience that would be part of making me a believer in G-d again.

Part 2 coming shortly
(cross posted on Jack's Shack)

A Moment of Blindness

It happened last summer, while I was at home and the kids away at camp (learning Jewish folks songs and collecting bug bites). I had let the two cockatiels out of their cage to stretch their wings and was keeping a close eye on the situation, as my dogs still hadn't decided whether these spunky little songbirds were food or family.

The doorbell rang with the usual accompaniment of barks as the two bigger dogs ran to the front door. The two "little dogs" (not that much littler, but much more shy), found their hiding places and made themselves invisible. The woman standing at the door was in her thirties and looked like your average soccer Mom - short hair, petite figure, casual clothes from Old Navy or The Gap.

She said hello and introduced herself, then asked me what "services" I attend and if I was a member of Agudas. I jumped to the conclusion that this was someone from the Agudas Achim congregation, perhaps a Sisterhood lady, come to ask for some volunteer service or donation or just to give me information.... So I chatted on with her for a while about the different synagogues in our town.... And then she pulled out a Jehovah's Witness "Watchtower" magazine and handed it to me.

She might as well have handed me a vial of arsenic. I believe I actually recoiled. Instantly, I felt duped and angry. Our door has a sign that says "Shalom, Y'all" (the correct translation of "Shalom Aleichem"). I guess she had known from that, or from our name, or both, that this was a Jewish home.

"I'm not interested," I said.

"Just take it for later. You don't have to read it now," she said, holding out the magazine.

"I'm not bringing that into my home," I snapped at her. I stepped back and shut the door.

I was sweating and my heart was pounding. I went to the bedroom to wash my face. It was then that I heard one of the birds screeching. Though one hesitates to assign emotions to birds, I have to say his screeching sounded desperate. Unlike any sound I had ever heard from him before.

I rushed to the front hallway in time to see the female cockatiel caught by my terrier mutt. Meiko had the bird in her mouth and was carrying it. The larger male bird - bright yellow wings flapping -- circled around Meiko, diving down and then climbing up, screeching, crying, screaming.

I yelled at Meiko to "drop it! drop it now!" She dropped the bird and I ran to pick her up. It was already too late. The tiny body was lifeless. There were no teeth marks or blood; no injury, but no heartbeat. For a few moments, I held the small creature. She had been a sweet bird. Friendlier than the male, she was very affectionate with people. She sang to us, chatted with us, happily perched upon our shoulders.

Later, when I thought about it, I felt that the death of the gentle bird and the intrusion of the missionary were somehow connected. My attention had been diverted. I had been fooled. And in that moment of inattention and gullibility, the dog attacked, the bird was caught, and one small song silenced.

Davening For Dollars

When I was a younger man, so much younger than today I never needed anybody's help in any way because I could speak to G-d. I knew that I could because that is what I had been told. All I had to do was just think or say it and G-d would hear my words.

How simple, how easy, how I wish that sometimes that it had stayed that way. I don't know when things changed for me but I think that it was just before or just after my Bar-Mitzvah. Maybe it was part of the awkward feelings associated with puberty and that time of life or maybe something else, I am not sure.

What I am sure of is that at some point davening became a task, a chore and something that my friends and I laughed about. Or should I add the few friends I had that were as involved in Judaism as I was. Many of them did the Bar-Mitzvah two step at their receptions and didn't set foot in shul again or at least not more than two or three days a year. I'll let you figure out which days those were.

So the few, the proud, the committed would go to minyan Saturday mornings and just as soon as possible sneak out so that we could talk. At one of our covert meetings on the shul playground someone found a ball and some cans and we began our own parody of the show Bowling for Dollars, only we called it Davening for Dollars.

This went on and off for weeks upon weeks, or maybe just a couple. The truth is that I cannot remember specific details other than feeling guilty about it and wondering where I could find kavanah, where could I find something to believe in.

The shammas at shul was a man named Gershon Gruen. He was a short man that we thought of as being cranky. Every time I read Torah he would stand just behind me and mutter the words along with me, or should I say that he was always one word slower than I was, so I had to really concentrate on the words to make sure that I didn't make a mistake.

I later found out that this man had been forced during the war to walk through minefields as a sort of living minesweeper I mention it now because I some things about him make more sense.

In any case at some point following the Davening for dollars I lost all belief in G-d and prayer. It no longer made any sense at all and I was convinced that it was all a big sham. In a separate post I may spend some time discussing this, I haven't decided yet.

What I can share with you now is that eventually I rediscovered my belief. It happened during my time in Jerusalem during the Summer of 1985, or maybe it was in Tzfat, or Eilat or when we escaped a forest fire prior to departing for Israel. If you asked me then I don't think that I could have told you exactly when it returned, just that it did.

Davening is still a challenge for me. I still have trouble focusing, clearing my mind and getting into a place where I can concentrate on nothing else. I think that in part is why I like to daven outdoors in places that I find to be beautiful. It is easier to find that connection to return to that child like status where I think that G-d hears everything I say and that perhaps he/she even answers.
(Cross Posted on Jack's Shack)

You Should Be a Rabbi

Yes, this is yet another previously written post. I promise soon I will begin posting brand new, never been seen material. I might even start tonight. ;)

This is one of those posts where I am not really sure where I should start, there is no obvious beginning. And I think that the reason there is no obvious beginning is because it is a personal matter that I have considered for many many years, for so long now it is not real clear where it begins anymore.

It is little bit like catching a train midway along the route. You assume that there are at least a couple of people who know where the journey began and about where it should end. The big distinction here is that although we know that one day I will die, we do not know all the different places/stops my journey will take me upon.

What really grabs me about writing a post like this is that it feels like what I imagine childbirth to be. It is a long, arduous process with a lot of grunting, sweating and muttered curses, only I have no one to blame for impregnating me except for myself. Somewhere there are people who are thinking "I never realized that when I told him to go screw himself he would take me seriously." ;)

If I followed the directions that my English and journalism professors provided I wouldn't have so much difficulty because there would be an outline for me to follow and I would merely need to fill in the blanks. That is not an option because I hate making outlines, too detailed and too anal for this boy. I like to compose on the fly and what shows up here is what shows up here.

I have years of involvement with the Jewish community, primarily conservative, but there is a fair amount of activity with what could be termed as Modern Orthodox and even some that would be categorized as being further to the right of that. I'll let the Chassidim and Mitnagdim friends battle each other about this later.

Judaism is just incredibly interesting to me, there is so much there to discuss. I am appreciative of the efforts that have been made to cover virtually every aspect of life and how it should be lived from a Judaic standpoint. I may not follow most of the rules, but I can carry on an intelligent conversation about a large chunk and can at least make informed decisions about why I choose to do or not to do something.

My own interest in learning and the Judaic emphasis mesh well together, so I think that probably has something to do with it.

By now you are probably wondering what the title of this post has to do with this since I haven't mentioned anything about being a rabbi yet. In college I became very close with some guys who are Jewish by birth but by practice they are nothing. One Pesach we ate lunch together, or should I say I had my Kosher-for-Passover lunch while they laughed and ate their pizza and beer when one of them asked me if I was going to become a rabbi.

I asked him what prompted the question and he said that it was clear that I took Judaism very seriously and that since I liked to tell long drawn out stories I would be perfect for the role. It surprised me, I hadn't really considered it is as any sort of future vocation.

As I have mentioned in the past, I find davening to be difficult, it is not something I can do easily and I wasn't real certain that I would want to try and lead others if I had problems doing so myself and so I kind of shelved the idea.

Several years later a couple of other friends floated the idea and said that they thought I should really consider it. I mulled it over, discussed it with a few friends that had already received smicha and even made a few more calls about it. And again I shelved it, placed it in the back of the freezer to be reviewed on another day.

And then just a couple years later one of my colleagues at work suggested that this might be a good profession for me. So I thought, am I receiving a message from on high. Is someone trying to tell me something. I thought about it again and again and still didn't think that it made sense for me, but this time I opened my mind to the possibility.

Not that it wasn't open before, but the last few times I had always thought of it as being a step stool into leading a congregation, taking a pulpit and that is not real interesting to me. I don't like the politics. I don't want congregants making funny assumptions about who I am and how I should live and there is no way that this will not happen.

I am the guy who would tell the president of the shul where to go and how to do it, politics is not going to be my strong suit. So that is not really the direction to head in, but then it occurred to me that I had been too narrow in my concept of how this should be or could be and I reconsidered.

It would be a good opportunity to work as an educator and that is something that still interests me. I always enjoyed teaching and always wanted an excuse to just spend time learning about some areas of interest and this could provide a means and a method to hitting that mark.

Now I don't know if I will ever go through with it, but don't be surprised if one day you find yourself at Rabbi Jack's Traveling Blog of Blues, Bizness and Barbecues, Kosher of course.

It may not ever happen, but then again it may. Part of the joy of life are experiences you gain on the journey.

(Cross Posted on Jack's Shack)

CONSERVADOX -- THE SAGA CONTINUES...

So my family joined the bigger frum shul; I was nine years old. I was still able to go down into the men's gallery and visit with my father and brothers, look up and wave to my mother.

I always sat with my mother. I didn't live so close to the shul, so I wasn't friendly with the neighborhood kids; I didn't attend their Eitz Chaim or Bais Yaakov schools, going to a Modern Orthodox/Conservadox type school; I didn't go to B'nai Akiva groups (don't recall if the shul had them, although they did have a "Tefillin Club" for post bar-mizvah boys that had davening, breakfast and social events. I wanted to join my oldest brother at that club. At least, once again, it was a place to belong.)

So I went to Orthodox shuls, my father davened every day with my brothers, we observed the chagim but we weren't Orthodox. There were still many changes in our family's life that would have to be made to deem us Orthodox.

I went through the Jewish day school and one year of Jewish high school and then went on to public school that had a large population of Jews. There was one boy in my year who walked the halls and wore a kippah, but that was only one. I was still more observant than any one of my typical peers and for the most part had to turn down Friday night party invitations, or if they were Saturday night, I'd arrive rather late, after Shabbos was out.

It was weird to have a foot in both worlds. I can't say it was confusing, but there were times as I grew older that I would "make exceptions"--eat out, but only milchig; go out, but only after Shabbos dinner or lunch...you get the picture. How was I able to explain it to others? I don't really know, but I think I often just brushed the topic away with "I can't really explain it." (of course, I couldn't, because I didn't know myself why I was doing certain things and not others, why my family was doing certain things and not others.)

I grew older and still wore my Judaism on my sleeve -- in university, and later when I went to Israel, where I opted to be a volunteer on a Mizrachi kibbutz, where I needn't worry about Kashrut or Shabbos or Yom Tov. And then into the workplace...where I started to try to explain Yom Tov and Shabbos and Kashrut to co-workers.

I loved Judaism, but didn't "live" every aspect of it. It's clear to me that I wanted it to remain a major part of my identity (I'd never even consider dating a non-Jew, although I was in a position twice in which a non-Jew wanted to go out with me), but the path wasn't so clear. I either could have pursued looking for someone actively conservative, who'd go to shul every week, even if he had to drive to get there, who'd know what Yom Tov and Shabbos observances were all about, who'd have the interest to send any future children to a Jewish day school.

I cast aside the way I was meeting people, and decided to pursue the Shabbaton route. Doing so had me meeting many new people, who became a good, solid and social chevra for me...when I needed one, while my other friends were already married for a few years.

When I did meet my husband, it was in a shul setting. I davened in a shul beside his (his being "an old man's minyan") and that's where I like to think that the roots of our courtship lay. He was Orthodox to my "Conservadox", but it truly was not a far leap for me. I always told people, "I have all the right tools; I just don't use them."

These days I am no longer Conservadox; I am Orthodox, modern Orthodox, FBC (frum but cool). My children attend an Orthodox Zionistic day school, we attend Orthodox synagogues, and we have a great comfort zone in how we live our lives day to day.

I do not consider myself to be a ba'alat teshuva at all; I am just someone who was always on the path of Yiddishkeit and "almost there". These days I'm glad to say "I've arrived."

a shmata is not just a housedress

I never knew that “shmata” was not an English word. I thought shmata meant housedress. I didn’t even know that the word housedress existed. My mother would say, “Wait, I’ll be right there, let me put on my shmata.”

Since we began sending our son to an orthodox cheder, we have been exposed to much more Yiddish. Our community speaks and/or sprinkles their speech with Yiddish and Yiddishisms. I have learned many more meanings for shmata:

a rag; something you throw on the floor when: your 18 month old insists on using a real cup instead of a sippy cup and tips it over; or when your 3 year old just drank too much chocolate milk and throws up; or your husband drips juice from meat that was defrosting in the fridge

a headcovering; what a woman grabs when she needs to take off her sheitel and she can’t find a hat or proper tichel (I’ve been known to use my husband’s undershirt)

an abused person; similar to a “doormat”; a spouse who gets berated in public; a person who gets taken advantage of

a piece of clothing; does not have to be something old and falling apart. Could very well be something nice, but just not what is desired to be worn by the owner (ie. “How do you expect me to wear that shmata to the wedding? I wore it to the last one we went to!”)

Basically, a shmata is something worthless. But my mother would disagree, unless you are describing a housedress that was too worn out to wear.

What Does G-d Look Like

I am very thankful for this blog because I have so many thoughts and questions that I'd like to share with you. I truthfully didn't realize how many until I started to look at posts I had already written. I feel a little guilty about posting material that has already floated around cyberspace, but I also feel like these are questions/comments that are really appropriate for this blog.

For that matter, given the nature and goal of this corner of the web it seems appropriate to share them here as this place is starting to feel like it has it's own energy and lifeforce.

This particular topic really resonates me with me.

I have written about prayer and G-d on a number of occasions. Most recently I wrote a little about it last night because it is something that my son has been asking me about.

Typically I do not read my posts. Once I have posted them I leave them alone and try to forget about them. Last night just before my son fell asleep he asked me if I could describe what G-d looks like.

It is an excellent question and I am really trying to remember if I spent any time learning anything that gave me any sort of handle on this. I just can't recall if there was such a time. I cannot think of the Classical Judaic Response to this question.

If you asked me what the Christian G-d looks like I would mention Jesus, although I don't think that if such a man existed that he would look so European. I rather imagine that he would be a little bit more semitic in appearance.

So I have been mulling over what images I have in my head and what kind of response I want to give. I would have said something last night but he basically fell asleep before I could answer.

My initial image is kind of the classic image of a very large, muscular man with a beard and long hair clothed in a robe or toga. But thanks to the wonders of Hollywood and the media in general it is not limited to that, sometimes it could be George Burns.

It is hard for me to articulate. There are places in which I feel G-d's presence, but not in a place that I can see G-d. It is similar to the feeling you get when you have someone in your peripheral vision. You can almost see them, but not quite. There is enough to feel their presence, to sense them, to feel like if you turned around you might bump into them, but not quite enough of an image to really capture.

And in the past when I have tried to focus on this image it ran away. It was grasping water in my hands. The harder I tried to grab ahold of it the less I retained.

So I am stuck in a place where I am not real sure. I like the idea of the "everyman" G-d where G-d looks rather ordinary, like anyone you meet on the street.

When I think about it hard enough I come to the place where Moshe Rabeinu is on Har Sinai and asks to see G-d's face but is turned down. That has always bothered me. The almighty should be able to create the almighty shield that would protect Moshe.

Truthfully it has felt a bit like a cop out, but like I said I think that this is ok. I almost prefer the everyman approach so that everyone feels like they are G-d like as opposed to a society of Sneetches who fight over who gets to wear a star and who does not.

And now I find myself in the same place I was in when I started. I can provide an answer for adults, I can provide an answer for teenagers and children, but young children, I am not so sure about.

I am going to have to consider this one for a while.

(cross posted on Jack's Shack)

CONSERVADOX

I was in my mid to late twenties when I first heard the term "conservadox" -- and boy, was I elated. Finally a label to call my own. Up until then, I didn't know what to call myself and my Jewish observance. But once "conservadox" was established, I had a sense of belonging to a group.

I'd meet people thereafter, they'd ask "Are you Orthodox?" and I'd say, "No, I'm Conservadox." "What's that?" "Conservative...with a twist...with leanings to Orthodoxy."

Some of you might say, "Pearl, you sound as if you were Conservative all the way." To that, I'd say "No way." We always went to an Orthodox shul, the first one being a real shtiebel in a home, with a mikveh in the basement, a mechitzah separating the men from the women and even a cut-out in the flooring upstairs, so that when there was an overflow of women davening at that shtiebel on the High Holidays, the men took over the women's section, while the women davened upstairs, with the floor tile removed so that they could hear the davening below.

In those early days I remember going to shul and wearing little white gloves, sitting at the back of the shul and giggling with another young girl and being busy eating our potato chips and raisins on Yom Kippur while everyone was fasting, checking out the mikveh area, going over into the men's section and playing with the fringes on my father's tallis. In those days he owned a silk tallis and the fringes were cool and silky as I slid my finger through them over and over. Mainly I remember the sea of white talleism, the brightness of the shul and the sense of belonging.

One of my fascinations was when Yom Kippur would be out, the shofar would emote its long notes, marking the end of the fast, the end of the Yom Tov. The men would climb up the stairs to gather outside this home/shtiebel on a busy street and pray to the moon. I stood behind the gathering, picking my father and brothers out in the crowd and waited...caught up in the murmured chanting, caught up in this strange-to-a-young-child ritual. But it was beautiful.

And after leaving that shtiebel, we moved on to a larger Orthodox shul, which was rather new. It was a good 25 minutes to walk there from my parents' home, but it was a place to belong, a place to put down roots and establish ourselves and my brothers for their upcoming bar mitzvahs.

The only point being, I never felt as if I quite belonged.

***to be continued***

My Siddur

It is a tiny thing, about four inches tall, with a cheap blue plastic cover.

It was purchased - where?

Let's open it and look inside

Inside the back cover, Hebrew script, handwritten blue ink now barely legible, the acronym: "Peh - Eyin - Yud - Heh - Kuf"

Po Ir HaKodesh (Here in the Holy City) Yerushalayim (Jerusalem)

And when?

"Tashlah" - tof, shin, lamed, heh - the Hebrew year that corresponds to 1975.

On the front cover flap I wrote Bet-Samech-Dalet which stands for Besiyata Deshmaya - With the Help of Heaven - and my name. Below that, I wrote, LaHashem HaAretz Umlo'o - To G-d belongs earth and all.

I wonder now, truly with wonder, at the fifteen-year-old girl who wrote those words. I imagine she purchased the prayer book and held it in her hands. She opened it and, sensibly, wrote in her name. But then, standing outside the bookstore in Jerusalem, looking up at the deep blue sky intersected with white stone walls 2,000 years old, she added "Here in the Holy City, Jerusalem." She put the book away in her purse and walked a few steps. She saw the hills surrounding the city, the olive trees, the distant mountains. She took out the book and wrote in the front: "To G-d belongs earth and all."

You nod, you who have visited Jerusalem as teenagers. This is a familiar song. We all go through it, right? That great high you get when you are with your peers (NCSY, NFTY, USY), traveling through the land, touching the ancient walls, blinded by the Mediterranean light and the blue blue sky.

Eight months later, you're at a disco in New York City and some guy from Barcelona is groping your breast. OK, not you, me. But you know what I mean. The high does not last, for most of us.

Still, I held on to the siddur. It is Siddur Tefilah HaShalem, nusach Ashkenaz. The binding is cracked and opens to certain pages: Birkat Hamazon (though surely I knew that by heart); Kriyat Shma al Hamitah (when did I finally stop saying that childhood prayer?); Kabbalat Shabbat; Havdalah (a wine stain on this page). There is a lipstick mark on the edge of the pages, because of course I would kiss it when I closed it.

That was many years ago. Then the siddur went dormant, as did my Jewish life. The little book rested in a box somewhere, perhaps in a cabinet. I don't remember the exact day I unearthed it again. Perhaps it was the same day I went back to shul for the first time in over twenty years. The day I faced my mortality head on. (I wrote about that here.)

Now I am reading my siddur again. I wouldn't say that I am using it, davening with it. Not yet. I have become a "not yet" Jew. A friend of mine from college (Natan, where are you?), used to say he was a "not yet" Jew. He was Jewish, certainly (a rabbi's son, in fact), but in his observance he was not yet ready for some things. He kept kosher but did not wear tefillin. Not Yet.

When I was Orthodox, I could not understand this approach to Judaism. If halacha demanded that men wear tefillin, then do it. Right? Now, I'm okay with this view of Jewishness as a journey. Maybe for you, now, the words "l'ot al yadecha" mean that G-d's words will be as a sign on your arm, an oath; not necessarily a literal black box containing a scroll of scripture. Maybe now you observe Passover but will not stay up all night on Shavu'ot.

My Judaism has gone from particle to wave; from an assumption to a set of choices. I make these choices each day: To be involved in the Jewish community; to set an example for my children; to behave ethically; to refrain from lashon harah. When I was young, growing up Orthodox, I found it hard to picture any other manner of living. Now that I know the other ways of living, I choose, deliberately, to be Jewish each and every day. My siddur - and my heart - still fall open to The Shma.

Jerusalem

I had initially promised myself to take it easy and not post too frequently or too often, but I feel the need to share some more thoughts and figured that this would be the perfect place to do it.

David has gotten a number of acolades about the post he constructed regarding Yom Yerushalayim but in some respects it is the inspiration for this next entry.

For those of you who haven't had the chance to read it yet it details the moments during the Six day war in which the Old City was retaken and we regained control of Har Ha-Bayit. The broadcast never fails to move me, I get choked up and teary eyed every time I hear it.

Jerusalem is of incredible importance in my life. Even though I live in Los Angeles there is a piece of my heart and a slice of my soul that forever remains in Jerusalem. I write about it often, but think about it more frequently than I care to admit. How many people do you know that carry around Asimonim, mine are not cufflinks.

For that matter any time things get too stressful I go back to Jerusalem. I haven't been back since June 1998, but I am trying to figure out when I can go back. Anyway, I am babbling. Here is the first of what is likely to be many thoughts about Jerusalem.

It is a Tuesday morning in Los Angeles and I just had a flashback to August of 1985. I am 16 years-old and living in Jerusalem for the Summer. My trip is almost over and I am just beside myself because I don't want to leave Israel. I miss my family, but I am caught, captivated and mesmerized by everything around me.

The intifada hasn't broken out yet and I wander through the shuk and Arab quarter on a regular basis. I wander into the Jewish quarter and head to the Kotel. I am not sure why I am there. Up until a short time prior I had been convinced that I was an atheist. I hadn't been one for very long, but I was convinced that I was.

I can't remember what day it was. I know that it wasn't Shabbos, but it really doesn't matter. All I know is that my Hebrew is flowing and I don't feel like an outsider looking in. I just feel like I am home. I am in Israel, I am in Jerusalem and I am home. I am a content teenager. I don't care that my girlfriend and I broke up for the third time. I don't care that I don't have any money, I just care about having to go back to my other home.

Duality begins at that time, that is when I remember that suddenly I feel like I am two different people inhabiting the same body. So I head to the Kotel after having wandered aimlessly. I am invulnerable, I am powerful, I am alive in every sense of the word. I walk to the wall and lean against it. I slump down with my back to it and put my head in my hands. I turn and face it again and look straight up, I am like a crazy man trying to figure out how to become a part of it. But flesh and stone don't merge, no matter how hard I try.

I offer my thoughts and ask G-d to give me a sign. It can be anything. The strange older guy that is davening in the corner can deliver it. One of the notes can fall out of the Kotel and strike me on the head. Or maybe it will be something like ESP and I'll just know. Nothing really happens, but I just decide that G-d exists. It is kind of arbitrary and I feel a little peculiar about having just changed my mind, but I do and I wander away.

A short time later I am back at our base which in English was called the Goldstein Village. It is roughly at Ben Baba and Agnon. For what seems like an eternity we have lived in dorms with teens from around the world, primarily the US and Canada, but there are others as well.

The others are going to leave this evening. My group is staying on, but the others are going to head out. The friends I made are heading back to Toronto, Chicago, Cherry Hill, Nashville, wherever. It doesn't matter because it is another sign that the end of Summer is rapidly approaching and I will have to leave home to go home.

That evening we hang out with the other groups, it is a chance to say goodbye while they pack. At some point someone breaks out bottles of beer, vodka, wine, brandy, gin and who knows what else. I am one of the boys so I try them all. I have never really been drunk and now I am hammered, just wrecked. I can remember people trying to talk to me and we can't really understand each other. Ben tells me to stop speaking Hebrew, speak English. Mike says that he can't understand me.And now I feel like I am standing on the other side of a fence looking in.

I decide to get some rest, to sleep it off and I'll try to wake up to say goodbye to my friends. I wake up in the morning and my friends have all left. I never said goodbye, or if I did I can't remember. I remember thinking that their last image of me will be as some stupid drunk kid and it makes me feel worse than the hangover I have. I have never had a hangover prior to this, but this is as bad as any I have seen on TV. And that is really all I have as a reference point, I have never been drunk and the experience is turning into a bit of a nightmare.

The rest of my group heads out to take the train into Tel-Aviv. I stay at the base, I am too sick to travel. And now the teenager who doesn't mind spending time by himself feels alone. I am again on the outside looking in.

It takes me until 2 PM to get out of the dorm and head out into Jerusalem. I take a bus to Ben Yehuda and tool around. I hit Ritchie's Pizza, Pizza Rimini, Mr. T's and some other cafes. No one is there. I wander around the city and there are no familiar faces, but again the magic of that Summer envelops me and my batteries are recharged. I am home, now I just have to figure out how to go home so that I can leave home to come back home to Israel. I am 16 years-old, but I have a real goal in mind. And if nothing else, I am happy.

(Cross posted at Jack's Shack)

I'm a Soul Sister, and Proud of It!

"You're so Jewish..."

How many times over the years have I been told that? What makes it such a dead giveaway? I've always wondered.

Is it my inflection? Is it my personal philosophies? Is it my attitude to the world at large?

What makes one so Jewish? What is the connection?

I think it truly is the soul. As Jews we are all gifted with a Jewish soul. Some people might aim to do the utmost with their Jewish soul; others are still discovering that they indeed have one; while yet others try to deny that theirs even exists...or ever did, for that matter.

I have always had a Jewish soul. I was given the opportunity to observe Yiddishkeit from close and from far over the years, given the opportunity to learn about Yiddishkeit, and given the opportunity to delve into Yiddishkeit, whether that meant day schools, seminars, higher education, synagogues, youth groups, lectures.

Back in grade 12 (twelfth grade to you Americans) I took a class "Man in Society." One of our major assignments was to write about our "Canadian Identity" while using fiction and non-fiction to help us along.

I described the immigrant experience, as my father, and later my mother lived it. I described education, as I and my brothers experienced it. I described communities and how they developed in this city.

The common theme in all these descriptions was the Jewish point of view; I found stats about the Toronto Jewish community post World War 2; I found Jewish fiction by great Jewish Canadian authors who knew, understood and perfectly depicted what life was like for Jewish immigrants; I cited biographical information about Toronto Jewish leaders.

My closing statement talked about being a Jew first and being a Canadian second. At age 17, in a public high school with a mixed, but high-proportioned number of Jews, I was strongly Jewish.

I have always sought out Jews, not because I'm biased, but because of the commonalities that we share. We are MOTs (members of the tribe) who might be different in how we choose to live our lives, but when it comes down to basics, we share a most special gift: the Torah. This binds us together, just as the "mantel" helps bind the scrolls together.

As my dear father said many years ago, "Without Hashem, without Torah, we are like lost lambs without a shepherd."

This "soul sister" is pleased to be a part of this new blog and says, "Yashar Yashar Kadimah to you all." (personally translated as "Keep reading...you're on the right path!" or even better, "Keep the faith!")

A Moment In Time- Perspective for the coming Shabbos

I have been carefully considering what to write about and thus far have come up with several different ideas. But prior to getting into those I thought that I would share a post that I wrote earlier this year about creating a Moment In Time because to me that is a large part of what being Jewish is and about. More on this later.

I have spent my entire life as a practicing Jew. That sounds rather sterile to me, it doesn't have the life and energy I want it to have. Lawyers have a practice, doctors have a practice and here I am the practicing Jew.

Out of those three my description of myself seems to be the best if for no other reason than there seems to be the least amount of risk associated with it. I don't want my doctor to practice on me, I want him to be an expert. But that is a topic for a different day.

I want to focus on the topic of the post, creating a "Moment in time." This is something that is incredibly important to me. We spend much of our lives running in circles, rushing from place to place. It can be harmful and hurtful to ourselves and those around us because when we do not create a "Moment in time" we eventually reach a place in which we are less thoughtful, less feeling and less aware of what is happening around us. "Moments in time" are those occasions in which we are able to push aside the concerns of daily life and focus on ourselves, friends, family and the inner spirituality that connects us.

I think that it is fair to say that we have all had some "Moments in time." And by that I would say an experience in which it seemed like time stood still. A moment in which you almost feel like you are standing outside of your body and watching yourself. They can be very intense and very powerful.

Now that may sound like a lot of crap, but I believe it. One of the components of Judaism is laid out in the 10 Commandments, it is the one that says that we should honor the sabbath and keep it holy. I paraphrased there because this is not about the language of that commandment, it is something else. We call it Shabbat, or Shabbos and it is specifically designed to serve as a "Moment in time" It is a respite, a break and a chance to recharge our batteries.

Shabbos is a time that I always love, but it has also been a challenge to me. I am not Shomer Shabbos, although I have spent many Shabboses with friends who are and am familiar with what that entails. I have some theological issues with some of the prohibitions, but again I don't want to get into that.

Every Shabbos without fail I bless my children. Their mother and I work very hard to make this a "Moment in time" within a "Moment in time." If we do our job this will be something that they forever remember and something that they will want us to continue doing for the rest of their lives. We light candles, we say kiddush, we wash and we say motzi. The idea is to create something that is holy, a "Moment in time." And regardless of whether we find the derech or continue to wander across it, we have this time to set aside the concerns of the week and to just be.

But I would like to add that I have many "Moments in time" some of which are mine and mine alone and others I'll share with you here.

Jerusalem 1985- We walk across the rooftops of the Old City and daven at the Kotel. It is my first Shabbos in Israel.

Watching the sunset in Tzfat in 1995.

Maui 1996- I am snorkeling in clear water and watching schools of fish and sea turtles float by.

The births of my children.

The funeral of a dear friend. We are literally burying the casket because it is a final tribute to him. And in my grief I still find time to be thankful to have had such a friend.

Sunsets and sunrises in Yosemite, Algonquin Provincial Park, Lake Casitas, Oahu, Maui, Lion's Canyon, Baja California.

The weddings of some dear friends and so many more.

Other "Moments in time" include realizing that I was in love or no longer in love. A "Moment in time" does not always have to be a happy experience, but it is preferable. And it should always be something that reminds you in no uncertain terms that you are alive.

I tell my children all the time to live their lives, you only get one time around so pick a pony and enjoy the ride.

(cross posted at Jack's Shack)

Welcome to The Jewish Connection!

Welcome everyone, I'm not going to write a long intro, just a quick getting to know you.

This blog will focus on Jewish Spirituality & Identity, from everyone's personal and religious perspectives. We have many different voices in our Jewish Blog community. Each one of these stories will hopefully serve to help other people understand one anothers personal connection that they have with Judaism, and in particular their own connection to G-d.

In addition I'm sure with the abundance of talent we have already lined up, (see sidebar) these posts will all be amazing reads! If you are a J-Blogger, and are interested in writing about this topic, please feel free to e-mail me.

The first blogger to post is Psycho Toddler, most of you I'm sure know him and he's an all star if you ask me. Enjoy his post, and our debut post below. I hope you enjoy this blog, and we'll share it with your friends.

Thanks for stopping by!

Ode to Yisroel

For the second time in as many years, one of my chassidishe friends brought back regards from Yisroel in Los Angeles. Yisroel is a Breslover Chossid. He was my best friend from the ages of 6 through 18 or so. I haven’t seen him in close to 20 years.

He had a profound impact on my life. Many of the facets that make up my personality are directly attributable to his influence. My taste in music, for example, comes from the many cassette tapes that he lent me. He had an older brother who was mean to me, but whom I secretly looked up to, and who played electric guitar. We played Legos, Star Wars, and rode bikes together. We drew our own comic books. But there was one thing he did for me that has made the most difference in my life: He made me frum.

He didn’t go by Yisroel when I first met him. That was the name the Hebrew teachers called him. I knew him as Ian. I met him my first day of school. My father, who didn’t speak a word of Hebrew, had the foresight to know that the best way for him to end up with Jewish grandchildren was to give his kids a Jewish education. So he sent us to Yeshiva Dov Revel, a Modern Orthodox, fiercely Zionist school in Forest Hills. At the age of six, I didn’t know about ideology. All I knew was that I was getting on a bus to a strange school, to study a culture I knew next to nothing about, with a bunch of kids I had never met. And so, walking onto that bus for the first time was very daunting. As I slowly made my way down the aisle, I looked from side to side for a friendly, welcoming face. Getting closer to the back, I would have settled for a non-hostile face.

Finally making it to the last seat, I sat down next to a kid who didn’t seem intimidated at all. With a big smile, he introduced himself to me as Ian. We would end up being in the same class for the next eight years. I would refuse transfer to higher level classes in the future because I didn’t want to be split up from him. Ian’s personality was very different from mine, but in a complementary way. He was the Starbuck to my Apollo. The Starsky to my Hutch. The Sundance to my Butch. He was popular, and not afraid to make a clown out of himself. I was uptight and insecure. It worked out pretty well.

Ian was not chassidish. He was from a Modern Orthodox family, the stress being on Modern. They went to movies, concerts, mixed swimming, etc. But compared to me, with a father who worked on Saturday and Hostess Twinkies in the pantry, they were incredibly Orthodox. They went to Shul every Shabbos. They kept kosher, even kept the custom of waiting a few hours between meat and milk.

One day, when I was eight, my Father told me that I needed to start going to Shul. I needed to become familiar with the service to get ready for the day when I would have to lead it. The thought terrified me. But I could see his point, and he delivered me one Saturday morning to the shul. That experience will be dealt with in a later post, but suffice it to say that after that day I never wanted to step foot in a synagogue again. The only friendly face in that shul, once again, was Ian’s. I sat with him, and I’d go over to his house on Saturday afternoons, and we’d play spaceships, or board games, or read comic books, instead of staying at my house and watching TV. His family was very welcoming, even his brother, whom I could tell was annoyed with me for hanging around. I felt comfortable there. He would eventually talk me into coming to the Mincha services and Shalos Seudos as well. At 14, we both went to Israel and had the summer of our lives.

I never considered Ian to be a terribly religious person. Quite the contrary, he seemed way out on the fringe of Orthodoxy. The more I learned about it, the more I discovered that the brand of religion that he practiced would be considered quite unorthodox. He was a bit too much of a rebel for the conformist doctrine of Orthodoxy. He was into Rock Music and girls. He wasn’t the guy raising his hand with the answers in Hebrew class. He was the guy who took me to see the Rocky Horror Picture show. And yet, his family practiced a kind of Judaism that I could get into. A kind that said, “Go to Shul, eat Kosher, be a mentch, and you can still listen to the Kinks and watch Star Trek.” I think it took someone like Ian to affect me. A person who hated the outside world, who said that Rock and Roll was devil music, that TV was idolatry, would not have been able to reach me. But Ian and his family could. Not that they were necessarily trying. But I could look at them and think, “they keep Shabbos…what’s my excuse?”

Over time we drifted apart. It started when we went to different High Schools. I went to a heavy-duty academic Yeshiva HS in Manhattan, and he went to a less intense co-ed school in Queens. I eventually went to Yeshiva College. He went to Queens College. He seemed to be getting less and less interested in frumkeit. He joined ROTC. He dropped out and grew his hair long. He started hanging out with a different group of kids. Ironically, I think it was the music that finally drove us apart. For all his love of music, he never learned an instrument, while I went on to emulate his brother, and joined a band. Soon it would take up all of my spare time, and he seemed to show no interest in it. When I got married a few years later in Milwaukee, he did not attend.



About ten years ago I ran into his mother on one of my trips back to New York. She told me he was living somewhere in California, and had a ponytail, and was studying to be a chef. I didn’t hold out much hope for him. A few years later I received an email from him. He was working for Kedem winery at the time. He had found my website on AOL. I sent him some pictures of my kids. I told him that he had made a profound difference in my life. I truly believed that were it not for him, I would not have returned to the synagogue after that first day, and that was something I had never told him before. He seemed flabbergasted by this.

A few more years passed. I got an email with a picture of him at his wedding. Wearing a black hat and calling himself Yisroel. A little time after this I tried to email him again. My mail came back undeliverable. He was off the net.

Last year, my Rebbe’s son came back from a convention in San Francisco. They had the most amazing gourmet food there. He went to speak with the chef, who turned out to be a bright, friendly chossid named Yisroel. “Milwaukee?” he asked. “I think I know a fella in Milwaukee…”

Yisroel, thanks again.

Renegade Rebbetzin

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