My Body, My Soul (Part II)

Before my long hiatus away from blogging, my Uncle Joel left a very thought provoking post that I have wanted to respond to and since I’ve just written one blog I consider myself on a roll and may as well write another one….

The nature of his complaint was this: ‘I do not understand why God gave us a mind and a body and somehow he wants us to use the mind but hide the body. It almost seems to be sacrilegious not to appreciate such a gift that he gave to us.’

This was an enormous issue for me when I first entered into the religious world. I was overwhelmed by the lack of skin, the abundance of black, and the inherent de-individualization in the dress of some religious women. I was worried and confused and my feminist alarm bells were constantly ringing in my ears. So I understand this question in a very real way and it's something I've had to deal with, and am still dealing with every day. But as my time here has increased, so has my understanding and respect for the depth of the idea of modesty in Judaism. I hope this can help you to at least begin to understand my change in perspective...

First I would like to point out a very interesting overlook in my uncle’s theory of what God gave us. Since he stated that “God” gave us something at all, I’m going to assume that he believes in God, at least in some way, shape, or form (anthropomorphically of course, since God doesn’t have a literal form). With this foundational step in place, I would like to propose that God did not only give us a mind and a body, but a soul as well, what Jews term a neshama. If you read the beginning of Genesis you will see that on the first day of Creation God created light, yet it was not until the fourth day that He created the luminaries (sun, moon, stars). What would this ‘light’ be, then? It is not a light that we know of, because for us there is no other light besides the luminaries (and light bulbs weren’t invented yet). Our sages explain that this first light was a light that gave us a complete perception of the world. It was a light that allowed for Adam and Eve to be around each other naked at first in the Garden of Eden, because it was a light of Truth. Their bodies were not sexualized because this light allowed Adam to see Eve’s neshama, her soul, which greatly overpowered her physical beauty (and the same goes for Eve’s view of Adam). It was this original perspective, this ability to perceive the spiritual as clearly, if not moreso, than the physical that changed once Adam and Eve ate from the tree. As soon as they ate from the tree they ‘recognized’ that they were naked and they covered themselves. The infinite light left, and it became hidden inside of everything and everyone. It still exists, it is just a hidden and fragmented light that needs to be cultivated and tuned into. It is our neshama.

One of the main movements of Judaism has become this idea of “tikkun olam” which brings these sparks of that original light and gathers them to make them whole again. Some Jews do this through doing community service, other by doing mitzvot (commandments, of which there are 613…it’s a long story that maybe I’ll explain another time.) But anyway, once Adam and Eve ate of the tree and lost their ability to see each others’ neshamas, they only saw each other’s bodies and this physical relationship between them created a lust and desire that was not as pure and holy as the one that they had for each other when they could perceive the true person as opposed to being limited by their physicality. And man’s ability to see a woman’s neshama over the past few thousand years has not progressed very much. In fact, I think it would even be fair to say that it has taken a nosedive.

Ours is a culture where women’s bodies are splashed all over the place. We see beautiful, scantily clad women next to car ads, perfume ads, movies, music videos, magazines, even a lot of clothing ads have models….not wearing clothing. It’s a culture where ‘sex sells’. It’s not a big deal to see a woman wearing a bikini on the beach. It has cultivated fear in any woman with an ‘imperfect figure’ or over 25. Before I left for Israel I remember walking past a window of a cosmetics store that proclaimed, “Join us in the WAR against aging!” We’re at war with aging? What about terrorism? Joblessness? Better education for children? What a relief all of our money is going into cosmetics and wrinkle releaser instead of something as trite as global warming or battered women’s shelters. Our society is sick. I know some people who are incapable of leaving home without makeup on. And I don’t blame them. It’s a cruel world out there. People will judge you. You have to look older if you’re young and younger if you’re older.

The porn industry is a multi-billion dollar industry. It proclaims that sex is not an intimate act between two exclusive, loving individuals with souls and a connection between those souls. It is a circus with props and lights and fetishes. Sex is a joke. It’s something that people can talk about openly in public. It’s more likely that you’ll hear a college freshman talking about how much sex she had last weekend than what her chemistry homework was about, or even what she bought at the mall the other day.

As you can probably tell, I could go on forever.

So, to answer the question, I think it would be a very nice thing for us to all put our bodies in storage for a while and get back in tune with our souls, ourselves. And I think it’s so interesting that my uncle neglected to mention the soul. It makes sense. We have become so inundated in our bodies, and the really ‘smart’ ones have at least gotten some mileage out of their minds, but the point is we are so much more than our bodies and our intellects. We have an essence. We have a soul. It’s more than a personality, our IQ, or our hobbies. It’s what makes us tick, our ability to love and give and be kind. It’s the part of us that is closest to God. And in this day and age it is almost impossible to even REMEMBER that our soul even exists.

So the Jewish answer is to cover up our bodies. Not completely, but by the standards of our generation, a lot. It’s not fool proof. There are still women with body issues and there are still men who lust after women, no matter what they wear. But it’s a method of defense. It’s also an expression of self-worth. The things we value in Judaism are the things that we cover up. Our holiest object, the Torah, if you’ve ever seen one in a synagogue, is clothed in layers of cloth and silver, hidden away in a sacred space. We live in homes that cover us and we put everything that is important to us, both the people and the physical belongings, into them. The High Priests in the Temple 2000 years ago were given linen pants to wear under their robes so as not to risk uncovering themselves to the stone that was beneath their feet as they walked. To cover something is to give it honor and power, worth and reverence. To cover something is not to hide it away because it is wrong or bad, it is a recognition of its holiness, a recognition that there is good and truth and beauty that is beyond the physicality of the being. And by covering something or someone up, it makes it just that much easier to recognize that the thing you’re looking at is precious, that the person you’re looking at is not just a body, but a soul. And for me, it is not just about the other people looking at me. It has forced me to conceive of myself, of who I am, in a completely different way. When I wear more clothing I have to feel confident that I have something else to offer besides my body. I need to let go of my need to be thought of as beautiful in order to be worthwhile or important. I need to have faith that the person I will end up with will not want to be with me because I have the right waist to hip ratio. I want him to be with me because I am a woman who is complex and beautiful and full of fire, not just physically, but in the deepest part of my being. And I want him to see that before he sees the outside.

The body is a beautiful and miraculous creation. It is not something to be covered through hate or disdain, in order to smother or belittle, and it is also not something to be revealed in order to excite or satisfy just anyone. Both of these extremes demolish the intention and power that the body exemplifies. But the body is not everything. It is not our essence, it is not who we are. And when we allow other people to think that, and even worse when we allow ourselves to think that, we are cutting ourselves off from the infinite potential and light that we each have inside of us. We are limiting ourselves to what we can see and feel. We are disconnecting ourselves from God, from the godliness inside of us. And that, Uncle Joel, is sacreligious.

Mirrors and Windows

Hello again. I know it’s been a very long time since I last wrote. Much has happened, the most dramatic of course being the war. I’m wary of writing about it for many reasons, one definitely being that I have never liked controversy and another being that I am still digesting what happened here, and what has consequently happened (and is continuing to unfold) the whole world over in terms of the overt and widespread acts of anti-semitic hatred that make me feel oddly secure being in Israel as opposed to anywhere else.

Through this process of war and the world’s outcry against it, I have found Israel to be strong (albeit flawed, just as any country or people), and its people even stronger. It is not a strength of gun power or nuclear power, but of peoplehood, of resilience and bravery and hope. I was deeply afraid at times for many different reasons. During that war I had to come to terms with what it is that I believe about this world and who runs it, and I also had to contend with feelings of isolation from those at home who couldn’t be expected to understand my perspective and the Jewish people’s perspective. The deaths of the innocent on all sides were painful while the stories of miracles granted to soldiers and settlers uplifting. It was alienating, and it was unifying. It’s a perfect case study of what I learned in religious studies and in psychology, how the human mind not only loves to define itself as something, it also seeks to be “not” something. Not racist, not American, not Jewish, not Muslim, not one of ‘them,’ whoever ‘they’ may be. And many people all over the world have decided that the Jews are the people not to be. Ironically enough (or maybe not), through the same situation, my recognition and feeling of belonging with this people has increased, and my feelings of gratitude and faithfulness to God have also expanded beyond measure.

As a result, over the past few months I have done of reflecting on the concept of perspective, of what it means to be ‘global,’ or ‘objective,’ and the world’s apparent ability to simplify a situation that is anything but simple into clear-cut ideologies of good and evil, right and wrong.

A major tenant of Judaism is that even the most positive of actions has negative repercussions, and the most evil has positive ones. Ours is a world where every word, thought, and action is powerful, a mix of good and bad. When Adam and Eve ate from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, they were putting into the world a force that was much harder to conceive of than clear true or false. They were adding a new element to the world. It has formerly been Good, ultimate and absolute, at all times. Everything was pure, unblemished, without discrepancies. And by eating of that fruit (not an apple, I’ll have you know), that simplicity left. Duality arrived, with it coming all of the issues of choice, including the knowledge that no choice is completely good or evil. Even the ‘right’ choice has bad side effects, even the ‘wrong’ one can bring us to the place we need to be or teaches us lessons we must learn. And thus, this world where we do our best to simplify, to categorize things or people into ‘good’ or ‘evil,’ ‘right’ or ‘wrong.’ Everyone suddenly has a scale for deciding such things, a way of deducing who is better or worse through numbers of dead, years of suffering, types of suffering, numbers of missiles or rockets or dollars. We try to quantify what peace of mind is worth, what peace is worth through these inaccurate and flawed statistics. We see the humanity of one side at the expense of the dehumanization of the other side. We sympathize with one and therefore must demonize the other. And then we are left broken, hurt, and full of hate. And then we tell each other that we are ‘so much more civilized’ than the ones who we are ‘not.’ We nurse the wounds of our egos instead of those of our people and the world. We breed more hatred, we come up with more numbers to prove ourselves right, and we go on with our lives.

My Rabbi once asked me a question. When you read a book or hear an idea, do you want to see a mirror or a window? It is easiest for us to see mirrors. When someone agrees with us we feel vindicated, assured in our convictions. We see ourselves in them and feel comforted that we are smart, worthwhile, ‘Good.’ And then there are windows. We can only see windows when we can first be humble and say “I don’t know.” We don’t need to put our two cents in, to show ourselves how smart we are and then pat ourselves on the backs and call it a day. We see what is harder to see, because it is not ourselves. It’s not what we learned in school, what we heard on the news. It transcends ‘good’ and ‘evil.’ It is the human condition. A complex, intricate system of weighing positives and negatives, trying to devise systems of quality and quantity that will give us the final answer so that we may be ‘right’ and ‘good’ and ‘just,’ and then we can sleep well at night.

During the war I couldn’t sleep well some nights. I remember going to bed crying one night because I was recognizing how vulnerable we all are at every moment. And I am so grateful for that night. Because when you cry, when you give up on the numbers and the politics and the sides and you just cry for humanity and for your people and for yourself because there is nothing else to do, then you can truly appreciate life. And God. Because what is life if this world is all that there is? If we have no obligations except for the ones our small brains can create? And what is war if there is nothing True to fight for, to live for, and sometimes to die for? We all have our own Truths that more times than not come into serious conflict with everyone else’s, and I truly believe that we will all kill each other if we all live by those alone. If logic is all we have, if it is our academically proven, socially accepted, double-blind tested, FDA approved, scale that we use to measure right from wrong, we are JUST as fanatic as the most fundamentalist of Jews and Muslims and Christians.

So what do we do? I don’t know. What I have realized since starting to create a relationship with God is how truly egotistical we are. We think that we can reason and rationalize anything, that we can figure out Truth. My dad loves the quote that “If the human brain were so simple that we could understand it, we would be so simple that we couldn’t understand it.” It is the same with our world. We do our best to contain it with our minds. We devise equations and write treatises, make laws and conjure systems of morality. We define ‘Justice’ and if the God we or our parents subscribe to doesn’t live up to this system, we impose it for Him, or get rid of Him all together. Because we are Individuals, Existentialists, we are in control of our minds and our hearts and our actions and our destinies. And that’s all well and good until someone we love becomes sick, until our system of justice differs from that of another person or people, until the realities of the world come face to face with what we want the world to be. And then either we just say the world is cruel and we make our own rules to make meaning in our lives in any way we can, we give up and turn to the nihilists, or we recognize that maybe we don’t know everything. If we look at the world and we just see the realm of man, the mirror of ourselves, then I fear that there is not much that can be done. Our subjective theistic and non-theistic ‘Truths’ will always clash. But if we can shatter the mirror and create a window, if we can see that there is something beyond ourselves here, our existence has the capacity to be more than just a parenthesis in eternity. And I think there is great hope in that.

The Voice Within ~Part 3~

**If you have not already, please read the previous two posts before this one. It will make much more sense if you do.**

Since that first Shabbos at the Moshav I have continued to go back for more. I now know a great number of the people who live there, and more than a handful of people have asked me if I myself have moved in. The Moshav has, in effect, become my second home. I travel between two worlds of Orthodox Judaism, both reading the same Torah, but one so indescribably different from the other that I get culture shock every time I leave one for the other. And although the singing is truly transcendent at the Moshav, now that I have basically mainstreamed myself into the community, the holy glow of the first Shabbos has focused itself into a more realistic perspective. And the more time I spent at the Moshav, I realized how the singing is not the real issue here. My being able to sing is just a manifestation of a greater tension in myself. My voice, the one I use to speak and sing and express myself, how do I want to use it? How will all of these tensions between what my heart wants and what God wants come to meet? A million questions spring from here.

I spent the week before Sukkot, almost all of Sukkot, and Simchat Torah at the Moshav (Jewish holidays which you should feel free to research---they are both incredibly joyous and full of rich potential for understanding the Jew’s relationship with God), and in that time I really got to know a lot of people who live there, seeing them both in their religious capacity as well as in the day to day. And that’s when I first started to see what was really different. At the Moshav I could see the ‘religious’ side of a person and the ‘secular’ side. In Har Nof I haven’t seen so much of that dichotomy. It’s all Judaism all the time. Wake up in the morning, pray, eat, play, go to work or go study Torah or go to school to study Torah, pray, eat, pray, eat, pray, study, pray, sleep, pray, start again. In Har Nof, life is dedicated to God in a very physical way, in time and in space. There is so much ritual and so much learning going on all the time, it is a world in which Judaism plays itself out minute by minute. It’s an amazing thing to watch. At the Moshav, Judaism isn’t so….obvious on weekdays. The men pray in the morning and evening, but other than that life goes along as normal with people going to school and doing their jobs. It’s not so obviously Jewish. I’m not saying this is bad or good, it’s just a very different lifestyle. A different Judaism.

For a lot of the adults who started the Moshav, there is a continuity of character, but with their children I can see a divergence, a dissonance. Their children are very much a part of a different world. They drink and smoke and party and a number of them don’t observe the Sabbath. The ones I know are absolutely wonderful people, please don’t get me wrong. But the dissonance for me was deafening when, right after Sabbath ended and I was still buzzing from my religious high, there were people dancing to loud rap music and drinking, enveloping themselves in the opposite energy and purpose of the entire day before. It just didn’t add up.

To be realistic, these are teenagers and young twenty-something and they were acting the same, if not better than, most people their age. But something was still off. There was some sort of rebellion going on. These kids love the music of the rabbi that their parents connected with so deeply, and many of them are deep and beautiful people, but there are also a lot of lost souls on that Moshav. One of the parents and I were talking about it and I was asking him about Kol Isha, women singing in front of men, and he told me that Carlebach had let them ‘stretch the rules’ a little bit. And there it was. I live in one world that was rigid, where rules guide your every movement and are never broken. I live in another world of stretching rules, of tweaking and bending, of flexibility and the paths are more…personalized. And both places are imperfect. Neither interpretation of Judaism suits me. I am, as always, somewhere betwixt and between.

You see, I got to discover Judaism for myself. None of its rules and regulations were imposed on me as a child, and although I went to Hebrew school and learned a bit here and there, everything I took on was my choice. This was the same for the first generation of people on the Moshav. They all wanted to be there, they had all found Judaism and chose it. Their children then grew up in an environment full of beautiful philosophy and music, but they did not have a rigid or ingrained structure to follow and replicate. They were given the freedom to walk their own paths, some of them choosing to believe in God and all of the values their parents spoke of and lived, while some got lost and confused along the way. And which is better? Is it best to create a culture, like in Har Nof, where praying in the morning, afternoon, and evening is the norm and people do it just as naturally as brushing their teeth? Judaism can be mechanical, meaningless for these people, but they keep doing because everyone else does and continue the lineage, whether with faith and belief or not. Or is it better to take that chance and give your children more freedom to decide on their own and possibly end up with no connection, sending your children into the world with no set path of rules or morality, like at the Moshav?

I have been grappling with this whole situation furiously since first stepping foot on the Moshav. It has brought up questions upon questions upon questions and I have been running myself in philosophical circles trying to ‘figure out’ what kind of Jew I want to be, what kind of parent I want to be, where I will live, and whether or not I should sing in front of men. And each time I start thinking about this, as the wheels begin to spin faster and faster towards a brick wall of impossibility, I remember that there is a brick wall in Judaism. Actually, it’s made of stone. It’s called the Western Wall, the Kotel. And this wall holds all of the possibility in the world. It has been standing for more than 2,000 years despite the best efforts of the Romans, the Crusaders, the Inquisitors, and the Nazis. It is a wall I am running not against, but towards. It represents the utter impossibility of a people lasting, yet rising victorious over the most evil of tyrants, the most hopeless of situations. And the wall still stands. We still stand. And so as I remember this I begin to breathe once again and remember that God does everything for a reason. I am flopping (or flying?) between Har Nof and the Moshav for a reason. I love to sing for a reason. I have a reason in this world. But I don’t know the reasons yet. All I can do is keep learning, keep breathing, and keep on searching for my true voice within, letting it rise and fall, hum softly, and crescendo, until the day it finds its true pitch and harmonizes with God's.

And Then The Bubble Burst ~Part 2~

**If you have not read the blog below this one, please read it first. This one will make much more sense if you do. **

I was doing really well. I wasn’t talking to men, I was going to classes, I was believing everything they were telling me, I was thinking that my teachers had all the answers, that my life would magically be figured out in this small corner of the Jewish world. But every Shabbat I stayed in Har Nof I sat silently at the Shabbos table and listened to the men sing. As much as I loved the food and the company and the conversation, I couldn’t sing.

I had heard about this place called ‘The Moshav’ from some friends. It’s a kibbutz-like commune of old school hippies who were brought back to Judaism by a charismatic rabbi, Shlomo Carlebach, who connected to uninterested Jews through his ability to take Torah and Jewish philosophy and make them accessible and relevant. One of his major additions to contemporary Jewish life in general was his music. He was an amazing musician and took the daily and other prayers and put them to music that made the normally 'boring' or 'dry' experience a much more meaningful one. I heard that the women there could sing, and it was still religiously 'kosher.' So at the end of September, just before Rosh Hashana, I stepped foot on the Moshav for the first time.

Stepping onto the Moshav, especially after all of my time in Har Nof, was quite a culture shock. Har Nof can be friendly, but the Moshav is much more so. Women AND men (gasp!) say hello as they walk by, women wear short sleeves, color abounds. Especially purple. The Moshav in itself is placed over a few hundred acres of forest and rolling hills. The houses are a bit run down, but there is no absence of character. One especially animated front yard has a ‘bathtub garden’ with old bathtubs with plants growing out of them all over the lawn. In the same yard there is an archway with blown glass orbs dangling down over those entering, and there’s even a wooden Jewish star on a nearby tree. The older members are all basically religious hippies. The women wear flowing dresses and skirts, beautiful scarves cover their hair instead of the stiff wigs of the Har Nof women. The men wear flowing linen or cotton pants, loose tunics, and white kippas (circular head coverings that men wear). Gone are the men in black suits I had grown used to. The temple (what we call ‘shul’) has been hand painted by one of the Moshav residents with beautiful pictures of Jewish scenes and the women’s section is lined with the names of all of the powerful women in Torah interwoven with painted flowers and leaves.

I was actually completely confused when I got to the Moshav. My free flowing side was beyond pleased, the unkempt look of the place showed that real people lived there, but my newly 'religious seminary girl' self was a bit uncomfortable with this self-proclaimed Orthodox community and its free flowing relationships between men and women. Men of all ages came up to me to talk to me. Wierd. I know I sound like a crazy conservative, but that’s the world I’ve been living in for the past few months. It’s just not done. But on the Moshav, it’s…different.

I actually caught myself judging the people in the first few hours I spent there. The girls didn’t dress right, this was off, that was off, and then the sun began to set and we all went into shul to welcome the Sabbath. And it all melted away. The praying, the singing that happens in that place is…transcendent. We started to pray and the men and women's voices melded into one, neither one paying attention to or being (at least visibly) concerned by the other. As the minutes went by, I felt my heart soar with joy and for one of the first times since being here I could focus on the words I was saying, and even more, I could feel them. We welcomed the Sabbath (Shabbat is likened to a bride and at the time when the sun sets and it begins, we literally turn around, bow, and turn back to face front as if ushering a queen through a door). The whole reason I began observing the Sabbath was because I realized how important it was to take a day off. I was doing it for me, for my mental growth, to be able to put down my phone and computer for a day and just be. But bowing to greet the Sabbath that first night, it almost took my breath away. I was welcoming something so pure and beautiful into the world, into the room, into my life.

We recited the verse where it all began,
“And the children of Israel shall keep the Sabbath, to make the Sabbath an eternal covenant for their generations. Between me and the Children of Israel it is a sign forever that in six days God made heaven and earth, and on the seventh day He rested and was refreshed.” (Exodus 31: 16-17)

And I got it. This was one Friday night in an unending string of hundreds of thousands, maybe even millions of Friday nights where this time was kept sacred. It is what Heschel calls a “cathedral in time.” Through the destruction of two temples, the Inquisition, the Crusades, the Enlightenment, the Holocaust, everything the Jews have been through, this day has been kept by Jews, many times at the danger or even cost of death. It is about this God who created the world and created and continues to create this special time for peace and prayer so that the generations before me, myself, and my children and all the generations after can have a break and be. Not just be, but be with God. I don’t expect you to understand this experience exactly, but maybe to help, think of the three most meaningful and joyous times in your life. They are undoubtedly times of connection, of union. If not with God, with yourself, with one person, or with a group. But whatever that amazing moment or day, it was the connection. Seeing more than just you. Absolute joy. And that’s what I felt. Full to bursting. And, best of all, in the Moshav I could sing. I sang loudly and completely, breaking into a huge smile as I sang, knowing that this was me and I needed to sing. I needed to sing to and for God, and for the Sabbath, and for all of the other blessings in my life. And that is when the bubble burst.

If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out (Or Don't?) ~Part 1~

As my father so studiously pointed out, I haven’t written on my blog for quite some time. I know that not all of you are as enthralled or invested in my life as my father is, but I figure that you all deserve some catch up.

I wrote part of this in my journal in mid-October. I’ve embellished a bit to give you a better understanding of where I’m coming from….

Let me first preface this by explaining how much I love to sing. Most of you who know me know that I sing all the time. I sing while walking, in the shower, I’ve sung in choruses, in school plays, and I even sing instead of talking sometimes. It’s kind of a big thing for me. Before coming to Israel, my most powerful religious experience was singing to patients in a hospital in the Dominican Republic. It was almost four years ago, but I remember so clearly the feeling of complete joy and openness, and…God that washed over me as I sang, not for myself, but for these people and for them to be healed. I connected so deeply by using my voice for something higher and greater than I was. It was the closest I’ve ever felt to transcendence.

And it’s also something that according to Jewish law, I’m not allowed to do in front of men. It’s called ‘kol isha’ (woman’s voice). Basically, a woman’s voice is said to be alluring to men and keeps them from concentrating, and therefore women shouldn’t sing in front of men. There are also interpretations about women’s voices being something to be shared among women, etc. but for the most part it’s basically for the sake of men. This, of all of my issues with Jewish law, is probably the most difficult for me to deal with.

In many ways it is the epitome of my biggest problem with religion. Faithfulness. In Hebrew, it is called Emunah. First, I worry about what it is exactly that I’m trusting and putting faith in. As an academic, I’ve read a lot of historical analyses of what ‘actually’ happened and I’ve read a lot of theory about the social, cultural, and anthropological reasons why the Rabbis decided to create certain laws around women. So basically, learning from a completely religious perspective is using the opposite side of my brain. Actually, I don’t even know if it’s my brain that I’m supposed to be using here. And that’s the hardest, although also the greatest part.

In terms of where this ‘kol isha’ law came into being, it is never explicitly said in the Written Law, the Torah, that women should not sing in front of men, but there is a whole other part of Jewish law, called the Oral Law in which the most holy and intelligent Rabbis grapple with issues that are not made clear in the Written Law. Basically, to my best knowledge this idea that women shouldn’t sing in front of men stems from the Biblical passage where Miriam leads the women in song after the Jews cross the Dead Sea. From here the Rabbis say that a woman is not allowed to sing certain songs in front of men, then in order to ‘build a fence around the Torah’ (protect it and make sure that it is not lost, basically) five of nine rabbis decide that women should not sing anything in front of men. So basically if one Rabbi had a wife who nagged him to let women sing around 2,000 years ago, I wouldn’t be having this problem.

This is what I’m supposed to have faith in. This….is hard.

To be fair, that is a very dry interpretation of the process, but because I’m relatively opposed to it, that is my fairly biased explanation. In actuality, these men were not only complete and utter geniuses, but apparently all of this information came directly from Sinai and there are countless other vital judgments that these men made that are responsible for the foundational day-to-day continuation of Judaism and Jewish philosophy.

And leaving the academic stuff and the rabbis, I myself have actually learning a lot through dealing with this whole singing conundrum. I have begun to watch myself as I sing, seeing that there is in fact a lot of ego involved in my singing, in having a nice voice and singing loudly and with...gumption. So, I must ask myself, is the singing good for me all the time anyway? Is it just another way for me to get love and attention? Or am I really doing it for Hashem? And if I am, can I sing for Hashem softly so as to be able to praise God AND not fluster men at the same time? Or should I say, screw what the rabbis said and just sing my heart out? Is there a middle ground?

Basically, I could talk about this forever and I’m struggling with it and asking lots of questions and will be sure to keep you all updated if I ever do ‘figure it out.’ But that, believe it or not, was not supposed to be the theme of this post. This post is supposed to be about how my happy, innocent, gender-separated, modest dressing Har Nof bubble was popped.

That, my dear friends, is coming soon....(bli neder*)



*Since my time in Israel I have acquired some helpful new phrases. One is 'bli neder' which basically means "without taking a vow".....so basically no promises, but I do expect that part 2 will be coming soon. :)

Other excellent really religious phrases include:
Has va-shalom (God forbid)
Has va-haleela (An even cooler way to say God forbid)
Baruch Hashem (Thank God)
Meertz Hashem (With the help of God)

Although I definitely say a lot of these things in jest much of the time, it's actually really interesting to talk about God so much during the day. It makes lifes little dramas seem....diminished in many ways. More on this later as well.

Putting My Hair Up and My Thoughts Down

I have been known at times to say, "I am my hair." To a lot of people, it is how they think of me, how they connect with me, how they classify me. When I'm speaking with someone over the phone and think they may not remember me, my go-to reminder is, "the one with the curly hair." People talk about my hair when I'm not there. It's their association with me, with who I am. It is wild and free and people are drawn to it. It's a conversation starter, the way that at least half of the people I meet greet me. There's something about it, apparently. And I love it. I think it's beautiful and fun, and embodies who I am in a way that no other physical part of me can.

I was recently having a conversation with one of my professors from seminary. I was telling her all of the things in Orthodoxy I was worried about, and as I was listing them she cut in and said, "And WHAT are you going to do about all of that beautiful hair?" Let me explain. In Orthodox Judaism there is a law that married women cover their hair. Hair is a symbol of many things, one of which is your influence in the world. You have hair on your head (symbolizing the mind, your intellect and thoughts), your underarms (representing your hands, your actions), and your nether-regions (your procreative energies). And, in Judaism, these are all places that a woman needs to cover because they are meant to be shared between her and her husband and God.

So women wear head wraps or wigs to keep those parts of themselves...contained if you will. Wait! But a woman is only supposed to share her thoughts with her husband???? That's not okay. That's ridiculous, it's oppression! This is where the other part of the equation comes in. It's not about hiding the intellect. It's actually about bringing it out. You see, when someone comes to talk to me about my hair or looks at it and thinks I'm beautiful because of it, they're probably not thinking, "Wow! I bet she's got quite an intellect." They're thinking about my physicality. And that's what I've been thinking too. Who am I without my hair? People literally don't recognize me when I put it in a bun or ponytail. I was on the bus the other day and took my hair down and my friend who sat across from me sighed. "Phew!" She said. "Now you're back to the real you." Who is this real me that everyone can only perceive when I put my hair down? I have taken it on too, internally. I don't like the way I look with my hair up. I feel vulnerable. Really. I don't get as many compliments, my face is sticking out into the world without my hair covering my imperfections, shadowing my doubts and fears and flaws. It really does that, I've realized.

My hair puts me in the realm of the physical, it makes it so that people will automatically recognize me and take notice. They will look at me with lust or envy or at least appreciation. And all from just seeing my hair. So once I put it up, who am I to other people? I am, if not nothing, much less. My face is nice, but it's my hair that gets all this attention and love and touch. Without it, I am alone, with only the thoughts that manifest through my hair.

It's also said that hair is a manifestation of potential. I actually was learning this in one of my classes and I remember at least five girls turning towards me and staring at my hair, this 'monster of potential', apparently. I felt naked. It was like they could all see everything that I could be, and how I wasn't yet that. That may be the truest way my hair has ever been seen. Through my hair, people see that I have something to give, but they can only see it physically.

And so I've realized that I need to put my hair back so that I can let my thoughts down. So that people can stop seeing the physicality of my potential and take notice of the inner potential.

But I am very scared.

I feel like my hair is much better at conveying a message than my mouth. And it's true.

As much as we'd like to believe that we will meet our true loves because they can sense our wonderful personality, it's the physical that first draws a person in. So what if by putting up my hair I miss out on all of the amazing people who would usually approach me because of my hair, even my soul mate? Well I guess I just have to take that chance and hope that the other things that emanate from within will catch their 'eye'.

It's so ironic. I'm shedding layers of fear and self-doubt by putting things on, by putting away all of the things that I once thought defined me. By putting modest clothing on and putting my hair up, I am, if not taking away, at least decreasing the ability for people to see me as a body, as hair. I am giving people the chance, I am giving myself the chance, to not see, but to meet the real real me.

Some inspirations for this post come from....
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KtYarYhKa9c
Gila Manolson

P.S. As an aside, this is an interesting way to think about and look at Orthodox Jews (and possibly Muslims, and other peoples who use such tactics, though I have not studied them and their reasons for doing so as intensively). People get very confused/offended/put off when a group of people look and dress alike. Many people think that it means that they have lost their individuality, their identity. I would like to counter this by saying that by taking away the physical clothing and other distractions, it invites a person to look at the other for something besides the physical, to look towards the spiritual or the intellectual. This has been an area of great tension for me. I love wearing unique clothes and looking different, and I am certainly not in a place where I want to dress in all black and be a completely blank canvas (and I doubt that I will ever get there), but I think that there is something to this. Of course, a problem arises when this is interpreted by people as a way of making women subservient/invisible/unimportant (I think there are examples of this dehumanization and silencing in small sects and individual cases in Judaism, in parts of Muslim culture, as well as others), but at its essence I think that there is something legitimate and powerful in removing the focus from the body. Maybe instead of seeing these people as lemmings, it may connote a great understanding of the human tendency to judge based on the physical and therefore it may present an interesting theory, if well and thoughtfully applied, on how to combat this and push people to look deeper.

The Dream I Never Knew I Had

The view from Har Nof, my new home

These days I’m finding myself disconnected from the world I used to inhabit. Some by choice, some by chance. I am surrounded by Jerusalem stone and millions of stairs everywhere. I walk up 250 stairs to school every day. The Jerusalem forest begins just next to my apartment building, and in the distance I can see stretches of mountains and the other cities of Jerusalem. I have no internet access in my apartment. There are maybe three or four restaurants in the small city I live in. They’re all kosher and none of them serve Indian food or Chinese food or sushi. I have to take a bus to get that. There probably isn’t any shrimp or lobster or pork within a fifty mile radius.

On weekday mornings (Sunday through Thursday), on my way to school I walk through the streets of Har Nof and pass by men and boys in black suits and hats, I walk past a few yeshivas, schools of Jewish study for men, where on the porches men are bowing their torsos up and down, in tallis and tefillin (ritual prayer shawls and leather straps around the arms and head) praying with deep intention, never glancing to look at their friends or at me. The women in the streets wear long skirts and dresses, the mark of a married woman is a hair covering of either a scarf or a wig. The young girls wear long sleeve buttoned oxford shirts and long blue or black skirts as their school uniform. Men and women don’t walk together or speak to one another much unless they’re children under 13 or married.

On Shabbat there is not a car in the streets because every person in the city is observing the day of rest, eating elaborate meals, singing, praying, and spending time with their families and friends. I walk out of my apartment on a Friday night or Saturday afternoon and there are hundreds of people in the streets. The children are playing hopscotch or jumping rope in their best Shabbos clothing, couples walk slowly side by side. It’s a very different ideal than the one full of diversity of culture and ethnicity that America so heartily extols. It is homogeneous in many ways. One would never know by being there that Muslims or Christians or Hindus exist. But, having never been in a place where there has been more than a handful of people who were Jewish, this is something that I have never experienced and as weird as it may seem, it’s amazing.

A Rabbi I have learned from described it like this: if you think back to the three best moments in your life, they will all be moments of unity. Unity with yourself, with friends or family, or with God or the universe. I walk through the streets on Shabbat and I feel unity in all of these ways. I hear people singing the same songs I do, I walk by yeshivas where the men are learning the same Torah portions and laws as I am in school, I share a heritage and a history with all of these people. And to be turning off my phone and my computer to be in the world instead of trying to run it, being able to pay attention to what truly matters to me…to be able to do that with thousands of other people is huge.

It is a place I never would have put myself into intentionally. It was only through a family friend that I came here. After Birthright I had three weeks where I thought I was going to be homeless. I didn’t have any plans or family or programs to go into. So I called a friend of my parents and she put me in touch with ‘Mrs. Liff’. ‘Mrs. Liff’ turned out to be Rebbitzen Liff, the wife of a rabbi who is the head of a yeshiva in Jerusalem. And without hesitation she said, “Come stay with me.” But before coming she prefaced her city by saying, ‘You may want to dress modestly. Just so that you feel more comfortable.’ I was nervous. And on my first day here I walked into a world that was alien to me, one which made me feel self-conscious and confused. I would get dressed in the morning in long sleeves and a long skirt, take a bus out of the area and immediately purge myself of my outer layer and return to my “usual” self in a tank top or pants. At the Liff’s, just to go to the bathroom or take a shower I had to put on a long sleeved shirt and skirt. To be honest, it pissed me off. Why did I have to put on all of this clothing to make this man comfortable? Couldn’t I just go pee?!?! There were a lot of things that frustrated me. The lack of the diversity, the cloistered nature of the place.

But it also started to grow on me. It grew on me when I met women in the elevator of my building who before even learning my name asked if I had somewhere to stay for Shabbat, if I needed anything, or told me that if they could be helpful in any way to just knock. My house was their house. It grew on me when, after Shabbat, an elderly couple asked me if I needed a ride to the other side of the city and then would only speak to me in Hebrew because, as they said, “You’re in Israel. Talk our language.” It grew on me when I went to prayer services on a Saturday morning and a boy was having his bar mitzvah and his little sisters walked through the room handing out candy that we threw in celebration once he finished reading his Torah portion. But still, I didn’t want to live here, I told myself. It’s too religious. Too homogeneous. Too...not me.

I went to Ulpan in Haifa and came back, as I wrote before, in search of a school. I had my sights set on one school, the intellectual equivalent of Pardes, but with all women on its own campus. It was still very intellectually minded, but also had the all women’s element. The Rebbitzen, who I had gone back to live with during my search, gently nudged me, saying “Just go take a class at She’arim.” She’arim is the school she taught at and as much as I loved the Rebbitzen and how amazing she had been and how nice all the girls I had met who went there were, I knew it wasn’t right for me. Too religious. I wasn’t there philosophically and didn’t know if I wanted to be. But, a bit grudgingly, I went to a class there before heading to the school I had intended on. I walked in and I was surprised by how warm the place was. As soon as I walked in, I was greeted by more than a half dozen people I didn’t know, women swarmed everywhere, talking amongst themselves and rushing off to classes. I went into two classes and had two very competent and vibrant teachers give lessons on interpersonal relationships and the Book of Jonah. I learned a lot in just a few hours and I left considerably flustered that a place I was so sure I would hate had been so….pleasant. But I knew I’d love my original plan. After an excruciating trip on two buses with four different people giving me directions, I arrived. It was a beautiful campus, but when I walked into the office to find out about classes, the women I had spoken to on the phone didn’t have much but administrative stuff to say and when I met the head of the program, a man, after I told him my story about my change of heart from studying with men and women to only women, and being so excited to study and learn, his only question for me was if both of my parents were Jewish. Kind of an anti-climactic question which signaled that he either didn’t care about my experience and helping me in any way, or he just didn’t know what to do because he didn’t understand women. (Okay, maybe a bit harsh, but it was really weird.) A bit skeptical, but still very hopeful about the program, I went to some classes. And somehow it just didn’t click. One was so intellectual, that it was dry, and the other one was good, but something just didn’t feel right. I can’t explain it, but the fact that I enjoyed the school I thought I’d hate and really didn’t like the school I was expecting to love threw me. And then later that night, when I went to one of my favorite lectures in the Old City of Jerusalem, I used the knowledge I gained that day at She’arim to understand the teachings on a completely different level than I would have before. And it just clicked. There was a difference between the two schools and I could feel it. At She’arim, of the girls I had spoken to, they were all there to learn, but they were first and foremost there to grow. At the place I had originally wanted, they were still too stuck in the intellectual. I want to learn and need to learn, but more than needing to learn, I need to grow. This year isn’t just about being able to give a class at the end or take a test, it’s about living a better life. And just from spending a day at She’arim, even if they were more religious and I was a bit skeptical, I would be with other women like me who were there to become better. And if I don’t want to keep the philosophy I don’t have to. But I also realized that I wouldn’t know if it worked for me unless I tried it. If you’re gonna jump, you can’t hold back. So I jumped into the most unlikely of situations in the most unlikely of schools. I study eight hours a day with fifty other girls. I learn texts in Hebrew and go through them word by word, translating and analyzing, but I also have classes on the interpersonal, on learning to be grateful, on forgiveness, classes that make me a better person. The idea would have made me cringe before. I would have thought it was silly and that I needed to learn the texts and ask all the hard questions and fight for women’s rights all the way, but by being here I’ve learned to see that sometimes those are not the battles that need to be fought. I can learn texts for the rest of my life and I intend to, I will fight to give women voice for all of my days, but first I need to study the text of my own life and self, find my own voice. In a million years I never would have imagined I would have come to She’arim, in a region of Jerusalem I never would have wanted to live in, wearing clothes I never thought I’d wear in 90 degree weather, but once I stopped seeing the red lights that flashed in my head that said “fanatics” and “repressed,” I was able to see the women who actually inhabited the school. It is run by a woman. Almost all of the teachers are women. Many of them have Masters Degrees in subjects like English Literature and Biology. The girls I am studying with are not only normal, but they are fantastic. They are intelligent and funny and passionate and they are individuals. If you told me I’d be here two months ago, I would have laughed, but somehow, shockingly, I am here. And even more shocking, I love it.

And so, although I am disconnected from one world which I knew, with less internet access and wearing much more clothing (in terms of coverage of my body, not quantity), I am very connected to another world which I never knew existed. It is a world that I tread on lightly because I am still unsure of all of its customs as well as my agreement with them, but it is a world full of love and passion and joy and spirit that I am beginning to claim as my own. There is endless knowledge to be gleaned, many traditions to learn and question, and so much growth to continue. So I will continue, hopefully with more consistent contact, but know that all of the days I don’t write are not because I am lazy, but because I am busy studying and learning all day and more exhausted than you can imagine from all of the mental and physical stairs I am climbing…towards the top of the tree.

Finding the Words (And My Way)

Yesterday, I took my final exam for my Ulpan (Hebrew Intensive Course) in Haifa, and as I was writing the essay at the end, I suddenly found that I had the words. Well at least more words. Before getting to the Ulpan I could have conjugated verbs until the day I died, knew a smattering of verbs and nouns and adjectives, but couldn’t spit out much in the way of sentences that went beyond ‘I love my family’, and ‘this is a good book.’ Although at the end of Uplan I hadn’t gone through a magical transformation into a fully functional, all-Hebrew-knowing Israeli look-and-sound-alike, when I wrote that essay there were words coming out of my pen almost as easily as if they were in English. The usually pain-staking work of carving out ten to fifteen sentences from my limited vocabulary was not so full of anguish this time.

I had been worried throughout my month in Uplan that this stuff was just not sinking in, that it was hopeless to try to learn a language where every word sounds like every other word and there are three letters that sounds like an H that are basically indecipherable to me but made my Israeli teacher squirm when I put too much or too little H in it. But somehow it seems that, without even fully realizing it, that I have built a foundation for myself, that from here maybe it will be easier to learn because I have learned the basics and understand how to speak about the present, past, and future. When a waitress speaks to me in a restaurant or a woman asks to sit with me on a bus or to take my feet of the seat (which has happened more than once actually), I may not understand every word, but I’m beginning to get the picture and even a few key words can help me navigate what was before a completely foreign and unintelligible sentence or question.

And as I ascended into the Jerusalem hills yesterday, looking out the bus window, equipped with my new, better, larger, though still quite inadequate vocabulary, I felt…jubilant. I felt like I was coming back home. My heart swelled, and I couldn’t help but smile as I saw the illuminated path that lay before me. I have been a nomad for the past two months, travelling across this beautiful, confusing, foreign country. I have slept in Bedouin tents with a cool evening breeze and university dorms in the most humid part of Israel without the luxury of fans or air conditioning. I’ve hiked Masada, ridden a camel, lost my wallet and gained enormous amounts of perspective. But driving into Jerusalem on this green coach bus brought me some of the greatest joy I’ve felt in Israel to date. I have come home and I am ready to begin the true journey inside of myself that I have been longing for ever since setting my sights on coming to Israel one year ago, or maybe even before. I am so ready. In these two short months I have gone through immeasurable changes and considered ways of life that I used to mock or laugh at or even deplore before and I have become stronger and wiser, but also have come to realize how far I have to go. And I can’t wait to begin.

I have a friend who came to Israel and started Yeshiva (school for Torah study) right away, and I also have realized how grateful I am that I got to do everything else before and didn’t just dive into study. I now know about the bars in Tel Aviv and the beaches in Eilat and the restaurants in Haifa, and I also know that I want so much more than that. I’ve had two months to experience it and to feel that emptiness that sits within me as I sip a cranberry and vodka in a bar with its walls vibrating, scantily clad women and predatory men searching for nothing special to the beat of the unbearably loud music that barely allows you to hear and the dim lights that barely allow you to see. And I saw the irony there. And the emptiness. And have also felt its pull. But when I drove into Jerusalem, a brighter, more holy pull rushed through me, almost commanding me to be smarter and stronger and better so that I could then reap the pleasures and joys and triumphs of truth and knowledge and belief.

Jerusalem just has this way of opening me up and slicing through my doubts and fears, and I think it is because it’s a place where people have gone for thousands of years to do exactly what I’m doing. I’m just one in a line of millions of souls searching for something greater and more whole. And it’s as if when I come into Jerusalem I can feel those millions of souls resonating at my frequency, singing and searching with me. There is a lot of hate here, there are bad people and good people, religious and secular, Arabs and Jews, but there is something else here that transcends all of that which I cannot describe except to say that the air is filled with…potential. And I can’t help but breathe it in.

The World is in the Words

In the past two days I have embarked upon a voyage, a ‘journey’ if you will, to learn Hebrew. I am in Haifa, a beautiful and mountainous city in Northern Israel, full of beaches and hills and now about 190 students of all ages and nationalities who want to learn to read, speak, and write the national language all in the next month. It’s one of the best programs of its kind in the country and people really have come from all over to learn here. I already have friends and/or acquaintances from Denmark, Finland, France, Holland, Germany, Czech Republic, Egypt, Italy, and the list goes on. One of the main reasons I decided to come to Haifa is that it is one of the only parts of Israel where Arabs and Jews live in relative peace and even sometimes camaraderie. The University I’m studying with, the University of Haifa, is known as a leading University in studying and working for peace. This is a part of Israel that I have really wanted to see because considering all of the doom and gloom in the papers and around some parts of Israel, I wanted to see a different situation. In the dorms I’m staying in, there are both Jewish and Muslim students, and there are no dirty looks or angry shouts…there seems to be no tension at all. Everyone is just off to learn as themselves. It seems so easy to coexist in this peaceful microcosm, but it’s as if most of the rest of the Middle East is blind to such possibilities. More on that can be found at nytimes.com, cnn.com, jpost.com, etc. You don’t need me to tell you.

What I can tell you though, is about what I’ve experienced so far in my intensive language classes, and outside of them. We have five hours of Hebrew classes five days a week. I am in level 5 out of 15. Basically, this means that I know very little, but I know more than 4 out of 15 people here, or less than 10 out of 15 people here (for the glass half-empty people). The classes are good and I’m comfortable in my level. There are people who are struggling more than me and a few who are doing better, so I think I’m a good fit. Though it is a very different situation for me than in Jerusalem, where I am constantly taking the religious and the spiritual into account.

Haifa is a relatively secular city, and although of course there are religious people, it lacks the overwhelming visual references to Judaism and Orthodoxy. Gone are the wigs, long skirts, and long sleeves from the women and off are the black hats, black coats, and long sideburns (called peyus) from the men. It is a city just like any other city in America, just all of the signs and conversations are in Hebrew. And the toiletries are more expensive. But anyway, the point is that I’m not having mystical experiences by just being here as seemed to be the case in Jerusalem. I’m working much harder for my divine revelations.

Really, so far, nothing major has happened. I have not gone all the way up the mountain, but I have not gone all the way down it either. I am just concentrating on my studies and cramming as many words and phrases as possible into my head. This is where my most interesting thoughts come from: words. Tonight I took a walk just outside of the university gates just as the sun was setting and I sat down on a bench to try to digest all of the knowledge, people, and words that I have encountered in the last few days. And I was thinking about how little Hebrew I know, about how little I can communicate in this foreign, very confusing, tongue. And it dawned on me how much we take our words for granted. How I can say, usually, what I’m feeling and what I want and need without great effort or aggravation. With words, the world is at my fingertips. At least the English-speaking world. And this is where it stops. When I need something or feel something, I many times cannot express that need or feeling in Hebrew. I can say “I want,” and “I feel,” but I simply do not know the rest of the sentence. And so I must pantomime and improvise, but cannot at this point convey almost anything important in Hebrew. I rely on the kindness of strangers who have already taken the time to learn my language to get along. And it is the words that I am missing, the words that I know in English and (usually) even in Spanish, that hold the most power. Because I do not have them. And how can you learn all of the words in a month? A few months? Most likely I can’t, no matter how highly acclaimed the program may be.

In Judaism as well as in Yoga (Hinduism) and other religions and belief systems, there is great attention paid to our words and the ways in which we use them. It is a truth universally acknowledged that words hold great creative power. And that I cannot use mine in many situations is debilitating and isolates me from the world I live in and the people who surround me.

Not to worry though, I am not being paralyzed by my fear, I have not become incapable of receiving information or memorizing, I have just become keenly aware of how vast the world is, and how, by having the words, we have the ability to pare it down, to make sense of it all. And how, when we don’t have the words, there is less sense, less understanding, less comfort, less peace.

So, as I slowly begin to gain the words over this month and the months to come, I hope that with these words come all of these things that in many ways I feel that I lack here. I hope that once these words become my own, this place and these people will become my own, too. That I will be able to express my needs and thoughts and feelings, and equally importantly, that others will be able to express themselves to me.

The 42 Journeys

Every week of the year there is a parshah, or portion, of the Torah that is assigned, read, discussed, and questioned by Jews all over the world. Not all Jews do this of course, but the ones who do are all reading and discussing the same words and many are navigating the same thoughts and theories about what the portion means, what the practical messages are, and what deeper, hidden meanings can be uncovered and illuminated. Right now we are in the part of the Torah where the Jews are in exile in the desert and they are going on many journeys. 42, to be exact. And where is the final resting place? Israel, of course. The homeland of Jewish existence and the highest place for us on Earth.

On their journeys towards Israel, the Jews do go to 42 physical places, but more importantly, they learn something important and vital to their growth and maturity in each one. It's an interesting way to count your journeys, to count by what you learned instead of what you saw or did. For me, to think about Be'er Sheva as the place where I learned to clearly see the part of me that yearns for the middle instead of the place where I went to a street fair, transcribed some interviews, went to an archaeological site...I think that's a much more meaningful memory. The Torah teaches us that each journey is not only to a physical place, it is a journey towards greater understanding, the opportunity to build a step, to move up, to become more.

I've been a veritable gypsy since coming to Israel. I've been all over this crazy country without stopping for more than a few days, with one exception of a week and a half in Jerusalem. It's hard not having a home, not having a place to lay my head, have my things, feel secure and comfortable in my own space. I've had to make a place for myself in Bedouin tents made of goat hair (water proof, apparently), hotels, hostels, guest rooms, side rooms. It is a difficult life when there is no routine to keep me grounded and stable, but at the same time I realize that these have been some of my 42 journeys. And Israel may not be the final step for me, as it was for my ancestors.

But, as I said, it's not about the physical place itself, it's about what you learn there. And Israel is my place of conquering fears and desires and maybe a place for learning to build a home in my heart since I do not always have the same four walls surrounding me. It's like the bedouin tents that they can take apart and rebuild whenever, wherever. There are no bricks or stones to keep it intact forever, but maybe I don't need forever right now as I journey outside of myself and, simultaneously, inside of myself. In these hectic five weeks I have found myself floating without roots, and it has really illustrated my need for some sort of routine that goes beyond having the same bed and going to the same restaurants and friends' houses. I need an inner, travel-friendly discipline and routine so that I may feel at home, controlled, and grounded wherever I am. So I am beginning to read the morning prayers every morning as a way of starting each day the same, no matter what bed I slept in or situation I've flung myself (or been flung) into. Because, as much as I want to believe that I don't need a home, that I'm an intrepid wanderer and adventurer, I have found that I do very deeply and intensely need some place, some thing, some ritual to call home.

I am coming to a place now where I am beginning to slow down. I'm at the University of Haifa for a month to learn Hebrew (the more important lessons TBA) and then to Seminary for ten months. I will be taking longer stays, building more sturdy foundations, but not my final house. And so I will need to keep building that inner foundation along the way. And I look forward to my 42 journeys inside of myself that are to come, that are already in progress. Although I have a feeling I will need more than 42 to get where I'm going.