NOTE: As I approach my 70th birthday, I’ll reprise a milestone post here each day until the end of May. Today – from November 17, 2007.
There we are – Jane and me on her porch one summer during college. Friends since Brownies, we’ve always had a warm, respectful and sturdy relationship, interrupted by years at a time but never diminished. Recently she sent photos of a family reunion – her four kids and their spouses and all their kids. And some things she had written. Beautiful things. Especially about her parents. I knew them well; I spent so many Saturday nights at their house, even going to church with them in the morning. They never ate breakfast before Communion but Jane’s mom always insisted that I eat something even though I was going with them After all, I wasn’t taking Communion so why not?.
A “nice Jewish girl” in a mill town suburb (here I’m on the right and Jane on the left,)I had no Jewish friends; Jane, Catholic, was my dearest. What might have been a huge cultural gap was just a curiosity; differences in our lives but not in how we felt about one another. We’d always sworn to be at one another’s weddings; I’ll never forget her beautiful one in the cathedral at Notre Dame. Years later, when it was my turn, Jane was living in Dallas and already a mother; she just couldn’t make it.
Then, just days before our wedding, she called. “Do you still have room on that boat of yours?” (We got married on a boat.) “I have to keep our promise- I’m coming!” It was so great and meant so much. Just as she knew it would.
That was 36 years ago; almost twice the age we were when the top photo was taken. But it doesn’t matter. The blessing of shared memories — of remembering each other’s parents and the Girl Scout trip to New York and her first love, who died in Vietnam — and mine, who ran off, perpetually stoned, to Santa Barbara — those memories make her part of so much of who I was and who I’ve become. What a gift to me that the one whose friendship blessed me was so blessed herself – generous and fine — helping me to be what she knew I had to be when I wasn’t sure myself what that was…not at all.
NOTE: As I approach my 70th birthday, I’ll reprise a milestone post here each day until the end of May. Today – from March 16, 2007.
One of the great gifts of an observant Jewish life is the lighting of Sabbath candles. At a prescribed time each Friday, 18 minutes before sundown, it is the obligation of the Jewish woman to light candles as a symbolic acceptance of the Sabbath upon herself. The prayer is said AFTER you light the candles because once they’re lit, the Sabbath rules – ignite no fire, do no work etc. preclude the lighting of a match.
Here’s how it works: you light the candles, move your hands above the candles three times to bring their warmth toward you, then cover your eyes and say a simple blessing. It’s in Hebrew, but it means “Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the Universe, who sanctifies us with his commandments, and enjoins us to light the candles of Shabbat.” Yes,the words of the prayer are plain; women say them in every corner of the earth – educated or not, every week and have been doing so for thousands of years. Many of us add prayers of our own, for those we love, for peace, for the lifting of burdens, for a better world.
I always take a very deep breath — the kind they taught us when I was quitting smoking — and exhale very slowly, releasing a lot of the stress of the week before I begin. One of my friends told me that when she was in medical school and having babies at the same time, she’d weep, every week, as she felt the burdens fall from her in the glow of the flame.
Makes sense to me. Something about this ritual is transporting. I also love the idea that this is a woman’s privilege. Much has been written about what observant Jewish women are NOT permitted to do – and much of it is true. That’s another conversation. But the impact of this particular duty is profound, beautiful and serene and I am grateful for it. So, as we move toward the close of this day and toward what I have found to be the true peace of the sabbath – I send to you, whatever your faith – a peaceful wish — Shabbat Shalom.
Few places are more private, spiritually critical, inspiring and, as Rabbi Danya Rutenberg writes, comforting, than the mikveh. Her piece on the unspeakable desecration of that space by Washington Rabbi Barry Freundel, who allegedly used hidden cameras to spy on women while they were there, brought me to tears even though I became observant when I was older and the mikveh less central than it was for all my younger sisters, who taught me to keep kosher and light candles and honor Shabbat. For them it is all so much worse, a kind of collective rape. Rutenberg writes:
I don’t know what percent of the water in the mikveh is actually made up of women’s tears, but I suspect it’s a lot. The mikveh is meant to hold vulnerability. The fact that one is naked when immersing is not just a literal fact — the symbolism of it penetrates every single pore, every inch of the self that goes under the living waters. It is, for a lot of women, a unique place for a certain kind of stopping, a certain kind of reflection, a certain kind of engaging with the present moment and with God. Not everyone has the same experience, obviously, but the ritual of mikveh opens up a space that can be exquisitely intimate and deeply personal.
Six years ago, I wrote about one young woman’s mikveh experience; I’m republishing a version of it here as an example of just what has been violated.
We had a party Saturday. Ice cream cake, fruit, songs and verses. It wasn’t exactly a birthday party, but kind of. It’s very tough to convert to Orthodox Judaism. Rabbis ask you over and over if you’re serious. You have to study. You have to read out loud in Hebrew. You have to answer questions to a board of 3 (male) rabbis. Then, you have to immerse yourself in a mikveh. It’s the culmination of several years of study and soul-searching.
So we had a party to celebrate a young woman who had navigated the process and, just this past week, emerged from the waters – Jewish. As she spoke to the assembled women she told us not just about her own journey, but, in a way, about our own. Unable to begin without tears, she decided first to read the passage that seemed to her to describe where she’d been – and where she’s landed. (Another convert friend of mine told me she’s clung to the same verses; they have particular meaning to those who choose to become Jewish, to “go where we go.”) Standing at one end of the table and surrounded by many of the women of our congregation gathered in her honor, she began to read from the Book of Ruth.
Mother-in-law Naomi is trying to convince her widowed daughter-in-law Ruth to go back to her own nation and not suffer with her.
But Ruth answers “Don’t ask me to leave you! Let me go with you. Wherever you go, I will go; wherever you live, I will live. Your people will be my people, and your God will be my God. Wherever you die, I will die, and that is where I will be buried. May the LORD’s worst punishment come upon me if I let anything but death separate me from you!”
The story represents much of what she feels about her new life. Her choice: to immerse in the mikveh as one person and emerge as another, committed to the very demanding requirements of conversion and to join the tribe that I was born into and, for much of my life, lived within – accepting my identity as a Jew but very little else.
In many ways, I have made the same choices she did. Compared to the way I live now, the Judaism I knew then was an identity easily moved aside when inconvenient. Now, after four years of increasingly observant life, my identity is so tangled with my Judaism that there’s no way to pretend it isn’t there, isn’t affecting all I see and every choice I make. They call it “the yoke of heaven” — acceptance of the rules handed down so long ago. It looks so weird from the outside, so whether you’re my young friend choosing to become a Jew, or me, choosing to actually live like one, you’re somewhat set apart by your decisions. Keep kosher – you can’t eat in most restaurants or even at your old friends’ homes. Observe the Sabbath, you can’t go see Great Big Sea or Bruce Springsteen or to a good friend’s 40th birthday party because they’re on a Friday night. Honor the holidays and you may antagonize clients and risk losing business. And sometimes, friends, and even family, look askance, withdraw or just shake their heads.
Even so, what my friend has chosen — what my husband and I have chosen — what the community of friends we love has chosen – is a life rife with meaning and commitment, with tangible goals to be better, more honorable, more committed beings with an informing value system and sense of purpose. After a lifetime that was pretty successful and often seemed glamorous and highly visible, this is a choice of which I am very proud. Different from before, but at least as demanding intellectually, ethically and emotionally as any other stop on my life’s journey. In many ways, it has allowed me to rediscover the person I used to think I was, and liked – as a writer, a thinker, a wife and mother and friend. I am grateful that I have found it, and so very glad that this generous and articulate young woman reminded me, through the moving and exquisite reflections on her own choice, just why I made mine.
Two new little boys will enter our family before the end of September. We’re excited, happy for our lovely sons and their wives and very happy too that our grandchildren have such wonderful people as parents.
There’s another thing, that (even though it is, of course, obvious) I hadn’t thought about in a long time: these children, while we can’t trace personal generations very far back because so many records and stories were lost in the Holocaust, have a family that goes back to Abraham and to Moses and Mt. Sinai and to Sarah and Rachel and Rebecca. Of course, we all, biblically, begin with Adam and Eve but because I’ve always known I couldn’t trace our family, I didn’t let myself consider what we might never know – it was too painful.
I think that’s why the sudden recollection of this spectacular Jewish lineage became an almost new discovery even though the reality has always been part of our lives. We, and our children, and theirs, are part of something well beyond ourselves. I am grateful to be part of the tribe – and pray that our boys, and theirs – and their moms – travel safely as the world continues on its magnificent, scary and complicated trips around the sun.
How can there be a women's story that women are not allowed to tell? Today is Purim – the celebration of the rescue of the Jews from the Persian King Asueras' evil adviser Haman. In a classic (and highly fortunate) intermarriage, she became the favorite wife of the powerful king. Unaware that she's Jewish, he's chosen her from all the maidens of Shushan and fallen for her – hard. The story is intricate but it ends with a bad guy trying to get the King to kill all the Jews (sound familiar?) and the Jewish Queen Esther convincing the King that the bad guy is indeed bad, and thus saving the day.
It's an old story with both sexist and feminist implications but today it emerged with a new life – at least for me. Here's why: it's required that Jews hear the story of Esther, the Megiila Esther, read twice during the holiday. It's read with a melody – a "trope" that's quite lovely. Usually, in observant Judaism, men preside. Prayers and readings are the domain of the male voice. But women are "permitted" to read the Megilla for a gathering of women. It's a act of Jewish feminism. And that's what happened this morning.
I wish I could describe the emotion that arises as one hears the women's voices together, and the single voices, one by one, reading out the story. It's an act of faith, an act of love, really, but it's also an act of community – the community of women coming together to share the story of a feisty queen who overcame fear to save her people.
Of course you would be correct to suggest that the simplest solution would be to choose a branch of Judaism that has made its way past such rules and you'd be correct. But we've chosen, despite the difficulties, to live this life, partly because of the very community that produced this day. And it comes, as a friend reminded me last night, as a package. So there will be moments – many of them – of frustration and anger. Of a sense of deprivation and loss. And the, just when it seems terrible — something lovely happens. Something like today.
We all feel gratitude for the beautiful moments in our lives. In the observant Jewish life we live now those moments are often built around life-cycle events, usually moving and sometimes profound. Last week, we had a Sunday that brought the entire thing into broad relief. It's taken me a week to think it through and write about it though. It was just so huge.
We began early, at a bris. That's the moment of circumcision, welcoming a Jewish boy into the covenant with God on the 8th day of his life. This one was held at the parents' home, full of their friends and those of the grandparents. The mother's mom and dad are good friends of ours, kind, generous, no nonsense people, a librarian and a doctor. Like any mom, she was helping her daughter. Like any mom, she was greeting guests with hugs and personal welcomes. Like any mom, she was dashing from counter to table with salads, platters of food, drinks, desserts. Unlike most moms though, she did it all with a "crew cut". In the midst of chemotherapy for breast cancer, she's decided there was no sense in "wearing something silly" to cover her hair loss, so she didn't. Watching her hold her new grandson, both of them reminding us of the value of life at its most basic, was amazing. You can imagine how it felt to be part of this – new life, fighting for life, affirming life – all in one family in one day. It was quite a thing.
Blown away, we set off for our second destination, far less nuanced and very sad. A young friend with a toddler, expecting her second child very soon, had lost her mother to cancer. The funeral, filled with other young parents with infants in their arms, was sad as they always are, laden with the grief felt by both this daughter and her husband. Her parents had long been divorced, her ailing father lives with them, and for her last months, her mother had as well. It's a huge thing to be that responsible for each parent singly and still live with one's responsibilities for spouse and children. This couple took the responsibilities on gracefully and willingly.
It was heartbreaking to hear the impassioned tribute this young woman gave to her mother, to understand the depth of her loss. Jewish funerals are immediate, simple and highly symbolic: the 91st Psalm recited as the procession stops seven times on the way to the grave to symbolize the reluctance to bid farewell, internment in a simple pine box, all attendees contributing to covering the coffin until the grave is full, shovel by shovel, to support the lost and the mourners. I've always said that the way Jews deal with death is one of my favorite of its many beautiful attributes; it seems to add symbolism to the grief and meaning to the death.
Deeply depleted, as if a gray cloud had descended on our day, we returned to the car and moved on. We were late, but able to arrive midway through our next engagement – a wedding. As you can imagine, it was tough to rally but we did our best. The bride and groom are a lovely (and very tall!) young couple, with a combined sweetness and wry sense of humor that endeared them to everyone. So we were honored to be there. It reminds, too, that life is indeed a circle, as corny as that sounds, filled both with sadness and joy.
We ended this amazing Sunday with a kind of interim ritual – between the beginning of life and the rituals of adulthood: a bar mitzvah party. The young man celebrating his Saturday Torah reading and entry into Jewish adulthood is a remarkable kid, and the joys of this celebration were compounded by the special nature of this boy and his family – all hugely active in the community – fun, scholarly and kind. They were the first people we met when we moved to this aging community that has since grown into a thriving, intergenerational congregation. Newly arrived from Boston, they had chosen it because it needed new members to replace those who had moved away or died. When we got here, the "bar mitzvah boy" was a little kid. Now he's a poised young man with legions of friends from age two (really) to 82. We all consider them a gift. It was wonderful to celebrate with them.
So that was our day: a journey through Jewish tradition, commemoration of joy and grief, birth and loss, life and death — and a reminder of what an amazing journey we all – Jewish or otherwise, travel together.
In a few hours I go "off the grid" for a combination of two days of Passover (Thursday and Friday) and Shabbat on Saturday. Then I'm back, but gone again next Wednesday and Thursday for the final days of this labor-intensive holiday. It really is a trip – lots of cleaning and cooking and using different dishes and not eating anything with five grains, wheat, rye, barley, oats, and spelt (except for Matzoh which has to be made from one of them. Special mustard, vinegar and all packaged foods need special "Kosher for Passover" labels. I have written about this in other years so this year felt kind of "last year" as wondered what to say before going silent for so long.
Then, thanks to the always-ahead-of-the-curve City Council Candidate Jill Zimon, I learned this: there will be a White House Seder! How cool is that? I've always felt that the Seder and its tale of redemption from slavery was a universal story; one to which anyone with either a history of enslavement or a sense of justice could respond. And now, the first African American president, himself a symbol of freedom and, hopefully, a more just America, has seized upon this universal story as a message of openness and unity. Listen to the Post's account:
In his letter, Obama called the story of
Jews' ascent from slavery to freedom in the Land of Israel as "among
the most powerful stories of suffering and redemption in human
history," accompanied by rituals and symbols that indicate "the beauty of freedom and the responsibility it entails."
He also said the holiday presented a message for all humankind. "As part of a larger global community, we all must work to ensure that our brothers and sisters of every race, religion, culture and nationality are free from bondage and repression, and are able to live in peace."
As Jill tweeted this morning, I to would give anything to be there – she wants to live-blog it. I'd just like to see it in action. Either way, it's an extra reminder not only of the freedom we celebrate but also of the gift of messengers who remind all of us – Jews and non-Jews, of the many treasured ways to honor and preserve that freedom together, whatever our history. Chag Sameach.
When I first got involved in observant Judaism, I was appalled at a lot of what I saw. Without any background or knowledge I was ready to condemn rules from keeping kosher to circumcision to the bedecken in a marriage ceremony to Jewish education.
I’ve changed my mind about many things (though not all) but more important than any single issue is the larger lesson of this lengthy and complicated transition: you can’t judge anything until you really understand it. It’s so easy to laugh off a traditional life, modest clothing, 613 commandments (and I still struggle with many of them and remain, I know, ignorant of many others.) But as each rule and ritual is placed into context, its importance emerges, if you let it. Not for everything, certainly, but for more of this somewhat exotic existence than I ever expected.
Last night I went with friends to celebrate their son’s receipt of his first siddur – prayerbook. It is a remarkable event. In advance, parents come to school and decorate the books’ cover; the kids wear crowns with prayers on top, there’s a long performance full of the child’s version of many of the traditions and they dance and sing and tell us what they will contribute to the future. Parents and siblings and sleeping infants and grandparents are gathered to watch, in a balloon-decorated room with cupcakes and apple juice waiting in the back.
Of course, all this is a kind of indoctrination. But what I’ve realized is that I think any child rearing of merit imparts values as this ceremony does. In this case, the gift of prayer is celebrated, and being old enough to become, at least a bit, master of one’s own prayers is pretty cosmic. Most Orthodox ceremonies I’ve been part of celebrate this gift and the journey of our emerging relationships with God, each in our own way.
But as I remember taking my kids to marches, and boycotting Nestle, and raising them on Pete Seeger and the Weavers and politics all the time, well – that was a form of indoctrination too. And we were determined that they would receive the values that we thought most important, and be raised with a keen sense of right and wrong in political as well as personal terms. Now, of course, they’ve modified all that to suit themselves, as they should. But they had a set of values to push up against, as their father used to say. Instead of prayers, the signs in their school said “Each one, teach one” and every kid had a task to contribute to the community. Not so different, just not Godly.
I know that we are a secular nation, and that many American Jews live highly secular lives. I did too. But somehow, we foundourwayhere. Tonight I’ll light Sabbath Candles and feel the quiet peace that comes with them. And I’ll be grateful not only for that but for the grace and love of the parents who invited me to share in their son’s celebration, and who have so often provoked me to think harder and struggle more to understand this life I’ve chosen. And have taught both of us so much. Believe me, I’m at least as surprised as you are by my reactions, but as long as that continues, I know I’m keeping faith with the name of this blog, along with the larger faith I seek.
There we are – Jane and me on her porch one summer during college. Friends since Brownies, we’ve always had a warm, respectful and sturdy relationship, interrupted by years at a time but never diminished. Recently she sent photos of a family reunion – her four kids and their spouses and all their kids. And some things she had written. Beautiful things. Especially about her parents. I knew them well; I spent so many Saturday nights at their house, even going to church with them in the morning. They never ate breakfast before Communion but Jane’s mom always insisted that I eat something even though I was going with them After all, I wasn’t taking Communion so why not?.
A “nice Jewish girl” in a mill town suburb (here I’m on the right and Jane on the left,)I had no Jewish friends; Jane, Catholic, was my dearest. What might have been a huge cultural gap was just a curiosity; differences in our lives but not in how we felt about one another. We’d always sworn to be at one another’s weddings; I’ll never forget her beautiful one in the cathedral at Notre Dame. Years later, when it was my turn, Jane was living in Dallas and already a mother; she just couldn’t make it.
