Ask Chaviva Anything!: Conversion, Divorce, and Observance

It's been quite some time since I did an installment of Ask Chaviva Anything! so I thought I would take a bit of time and hammer one out. These questions all came from the same person back in November, so I hope they're still reading and will be pleased that I'm FINALLY answering their questions! If you have questions for me, feel free to ask away.

Some of these will be heavy. Are you ready?

I'm curious to hear your self-observations on your religious practice (1) Before you were married,  (2) while engaged, (3) while married, and (4) while divorced. Did you find yourself more strict in certain areas at different phases, less strict?

This is a most excellent question. How to answer? I can say without flinching that my religious practice before I was married was much more "full" if that makes sense. My observance was about me, and me alone. When I got engaged, I was able to begin looking at other observances that I was to be taking on come marriage time. While married, I began to feel a little lost. Living in Teaneck, NJ, my religious practice became more rote because it was easy to be Jewish. You didn't have to think about practice or observance; everyone just did the same things, ate at the same places, went to the same synagogue. I think that while I was married I regressed a lot in the sincerity of my observance. Now that I'm divorced, I'm in a place of reexamining my religious practice. As a result, you might say I'm "less strict" than I was while married or even engaged, but I think that is probably a natural progression for many when divorce comes. Either that, or you throw yourself into strict observance to fill the void. But right now, I'm in a comfortable place.

Could you walk us through the thought process you had when choosing to leave the NY/NJ area as a new single with hopes of remarrying?

Well, for starters, I didn't have hopes of remarrying, and to be honest I still don't. Leaving NY/NJ was a simple choice. I needed to be someplace where I could clear my head and start fresh on a life that was all my own. This wasn't the first time I've done this. I picked up and moved to Chicago once on a whim, and did sort of the same thing when I quit Chicago and headed for Connecticut. I'm a move-on, start-over kind of person. It's just how I function.

That first month after the religious divorce -- the get -- I was in a head-spinning place of "Meet someone super religious right now and get married to them right now." Luckily, I got out of that headspace. My ex-husband went that route, whereas I went a different route. I reevaluated my family background, my religious headspace, my wants and needs, and at the current juncture, I have no desire to get married or have kids. There are a lot of reasons for this that I haven't discussed on the blog (shocking, I know), but it's a decision with which I've definitely made peace.

What systems of support do you wish existed for the potential convert, convert engaged with a beis din, and the convert post facto (a Jew)?

The essential system of support should simply be whatever community the convert -- at any stage -- lives in. There shouldn't be a need for some kind of special community or foundation to support the convert, but that's an unfortunate reality and it is why there are organizations devoted to assisting converts in Israel. So I run my Conversion Conversation Group on Facebook for individuals at all stages of the process, and I've found that just having a safe space away from the eyes of rabbis and the prying community has helped so many feel comfortable.

If you could pick one time period of Jewish history in which you could witness (i.e., live through it) what historical period/events would it be?

Without a doubt the Middle Ages. It was such a tumultuous and inspiring time to be a Jew, I think. I would have loved to meet Ovadiah ha'Ger, Maimonides, and the like. There was so much movement between Europe and North Africa, and I think that experiencing Egypt during this time would be quite beautiful. On the same note, I would have loved to float around Europe at this time!

What mitzvos do you feel most connected to? The least?

Without a doubt, I feel deeply connected to prayer -- simple things like the Shema and Modah Ani. They keep me on a cycle of waking and sleeping, living and dying. I also feel deeply committed to kashrut, the true roots of kashrut and what it means to understand food and consumption. On that note, I'm also connected very much to tzniut, in all of its forms, but especially in speech. As for those I'm least connected to, that's a good question. I suppose taharat ha'mishpacha (family purity), largely because the span of my marriage that I observed it, it was a dismal experience. Mikvah in that realm, too, held little comfort for me. That being said, when I observed mikvah for conversion, it was an incredibly powerful experience.

Also: I think that living in -- or at least regularly experiencing -- Israel is a huge mitzvah. That's probably the one I feel most connected to overall!

How connected to your "old life" do you feel?  Meaning how has your mentality changed since becoming more observant/converting in terms of world view, politics, priorities?

The truth is, I don't think that I've changed much, outside of feeling more worldly and interested in how the world functions and how it understands religion, peoplehood, race, ethnicity, and identity. Converting to Judaism and becoming more observant has taught me that our (the Jews) greatest enemy is ourselves. I find it constantly troubling how Jews are willing to join forces to fight outsiders but insist on continuing to judge and break down one another. (A great example: Reform Jews recently spoke out in support of Beren Academy when they were told that their basketball game couldn't be rescheduled. How is that relationship the rest of the year?)

I think, if anything, that I've simply come to be who I always was: curious and searching, believing with a sound mind and full heart that there is one G-d and that our actions in this life are what matter the most. Those are values and a mentality that I have held since I was a child, and those are the things that led my neshama to really thrust itself into the spotlight and led me to realize my Jewish self.

Observance, Ethics, and Being a Good Jew

I want very much to thank Stella for passing this along to me. I'm surprised I missed this back when it printed in 2010, but, well, life was in a funny place at the time.

The article -- Joining the Covenant -- was posted on Jewish Ideas Daily more than two years ago, and it was written by Rabbi Irving Greenberg (aka Rabbi Yitz Greenberg), a modern-Orthodox Jew, and details his thoughts about synthesizing "traditional requirements of the law with a principled openness to converts who will not become fully Orthodox."

The article is beautifully written, and I want to highlight a few thing that he says that gives me peace in my perpetual state of flux as an underconstructionist Jew.

Furthermore: I believe with perfect faith that God loves and honors good, serious Jews-whether or not they keep all the mitzvot. I believe that the merit of the mitzvot they do keep, including in the form of good deeds and self-sacrifice, outweighs all the punishments that can be incurred by non-observance, and that God will treat them accordingly.

Also:

As a concluding note I add this: when it comes to defining a good Jew, stressing the "particularist" ritual mitzvot over against the "universalist" mitzvot of ethical behavior is itself a gross distortion.

I think Rabbi Greenberg has hit the nail on the head. So often, we forget what it means to be a Jew. We also forget that our actions are our own in the end and only HaShem has a right to say, think, or act on our individual neshamot. 

It's an old article, but it's worth a read and a consideration, if not more -- action.

The Magical Minhag Tour

At the beginning of November, I posted about my curiosity when it comes to divorce and minhagim (customs) -- do you keep 'em? What if you're a convert, do you go back to being able to choose? Does it matter if you have kids? Does the length of the marriage matter?

Basically, I'm trying to figure out what constitutes minhag retention in the "frum" (religious) Jewish community.

In case you were wondering perhaps why traditions are so important. Check it, Proverbs 1:8.

I spoke with a rabbi recently about this question I had, and after some quick conversation, he said that he doesn't understand why I wouldn't be able to go back to choosing my own minhagim. So I'm researching and exploring Sephardic traditions, because for some reason, a lot of them seem to make a whole lot more sense to me. That and they're absolutely fascinating. (One Sephardic tradition has it that when you say havdalah, you are to look into the wine, and if you see your face, you laugh aloud after the bracha!)

But you're probably asking yourself: Wait, why would you choose your customs? Who chooses their own customs? Isn't the point of a custom that it's something that's passed down?

Well, when you grow up in a nominally Jewish family (you know, the kind of family where you know you're Jewish but have no clue what a lulav is) and become a ba'al teshuvah or when you choose to be Jewish and convert, you don't have customs. You don't claim any traditions, and when you do, they're typically the kind of things where you know what Chanukah is and you light the menorah. There are minimal traditional differences in lighting a menorah (right to left? gain candles or lose candles?)

So, in these situations, you're blessed with the opportunity to choose your customs, your minhagim.

Well, what if you're a convert, you practice nominal Ashkenazi traditions throughout your pre-conversion existence, then the moment you convert you get engaged, and then married to someone who also has nominal traditions that no one really practices, and then you get divorced from that person. What happens?

Let's say you grow up without any Jewish customs, you become religious in your early 20s, you meet a nice Satmar fellow and get married. You take on the stringent Satmar customs, and then, just a few years into your marriage, you get divorced. Are you bound to holding to those Satmar traditions until you meet someone new? And then what if that person isn't Satmar?

What if you're married, observing Lubavitch customs, and you get married and have three children. Then, you get divorced when your kids are all under the age of 5-years-old, and marry a Spanish Portuguese Jew. Do you adopt the customs of you new husband? Because your children are under the age of b'nei mitzvah and their father plays no role in their life, do your kids take on your new husband's traditions? Or do you raise them in the Lubavitch tradition of their father?

Is your HEAD exploding now!?

Over Shabbat we were considering all of the variations and complications that come with minhagim and the wide, expansive set of traditions that can vary from community to community and even family to family within that community. The glory of minhagim is that they are not law. As Rabbi Marc Angel says in "Exploring Sephardic Customs and Traditions,"

One needs to always remember that the purpose of observing minhagim is to bring us closer to God, closer to our tradition, and closer to each other. 

Furthermore, Rabbi Angel cites Rabbi Eliezer Papo who says that "God knows what is in a person's heart" and that minhagim are not meant to be oneupmanship. If the observance of a minhag results in presumptuousness, it's a very uncool thing.

So my question to you, readers is: Have you been married and divorced? How did you choose your customs, or did you just stick with what you  knew? Did you even think about it or consult a rabbi or was it just something that you didn't think about? If you did get to choose your customs as a ba'al teshuvah or convert, how did you go about doing so? 

Limmud Colorado: Dueling Rabbis!

Rabbi Rose, Rabbi Soloway, Rabbi Tirzah Firestone, Rabbi Goldfeder

Well folks, I'm at my first Limmud conference, sitting in my first session (I was helping out this morning with a video blogging session for teens), which many are calling the "Dueling Rabbis." Officially, however, the session is called "Bound, Together." Here's the description:

For the third time at Limmud Colorado, Boulder's Orthodox, Conservative, and Reform rabbis will agree to disagree from a place of deep friendship and respect, as they reflect on the complex question of religious obligation. Rabbi Marc Rose will facilitate a conversation between Rabbi Josh Soloway and Rabbi Gavriel Goldfeder as we explore together the ties that bind us to our ancient wisdom tradition.

So here I am, live blogging some thoughts! Ready? Let's go!

The rabbis were hanging out at Avery Tap House together, and a guy at the bar, looking for a joke about rabbis walking into a bar and lo-and-behold, what showed up was the articles by the three rabbis. 

There has been a lively discussion based on an article that Rabbi Goldfeder (Orthodox) wrote, followed by a response from Rabbi Soloway (Conservative), followed by Rabbi Rose (Reform). The comments online were nasty, so the context for the session herein lies. There is a series of three questions that will be asked and hopefully answered.

• In what ways does the Jewish tradition obligate you to do stuff? And what is the stuff you feel obligated to do?

Rabbi Rose: Grew up in the Reform movement, and I need to start with saying that there's dissonance between my own practice and my own beliefs and those of the Reform movement. ... But I want to amplify what Marc said ... I am not representing the Reform movement. I grew up in an era, as many of us did, in which autonomy, personal autonomy, was a very deep and significant aspect of Jewish life. I grew up with a deep sense that I had an obligation to the Jewish people, but in the broadest sense. ... My entire religious journey as an adult has been trying to understand what is this very deep sense of obligation and compulsion that I now feel to observe mitzvot. ... 

When it comes to the question to whom or to what am I obligated ...  I am not a person who believes in Torah m'Sinai in the most literal sense. I believe that Torah was constructed by human beings over time. Once you affirm your belief in that, you have to ask yourself, Why am I obligated more to the mitzvahs in the Torah than to say in the Odyssey?

I have a belief that my life has a purpose. My religious journey is understanding what that purpose is. ... I have this deep sense of obligation not only to Jewish history and to the Jewish people, but to some deep point within me -- and what that point is we'll talk about later -- that needs to know what it is and to come to a point of self understanding. Because I believe that w/o a deep hunger to know what my life is about and to know why I am here, there is no way for my life to move in a direction. 

Rabbi Goldfeder: We're all here because, I believe, we're all interesting in learning and hearing perspectives that we wouldn't normally hear. I'm going to guess that my experience and perspective is different than most of the people in this room ... You can use me as a way to understand and filter what you're hearing in the news today. ... I don't think of myself as a standard Orthodox rabbi. 

(Grew up Reform, spent his Junior year of college abroad, telling story about Tzfat and worrying about losing his personality in the mix of becoming religious.)

At that point, I was no longer at the center of my universe. It became true to me that I was no longer the arbiter of what I was going to do in many situations. ... I don't wake up and say, Am I going to daven today? I don't envy those people. 

Rabbi Soloway: I think what I struggle with is the relationship as to what Torah is and what the rabbis think it should be. I feel like the Talmud is a very powerfully rich volume of work that inspires me spiritually and definitely gives me more of an understanding of what my obligation is, but I don't feel that the rabbis of the Talmud are direct descendants of Moses on Sinai. ... I don't believe in Torah m'Sinai. ... I think we are still working out what the details of that covenantal relationship are. 

I feel that part of my obligation is to have serious concern for the environment ... Keeping Shabbat and keeping lights on for 25 hours becomes increasingly problematic for me. What is my obligation in that? I think more than anything else when it comes to the concept of being a mensch, it is about awareness. 

• What about the obligation on other people in our lives? How do we engage in relationships with other Jews who do not feel obligated in the same way that we feel obligated? 

Rabbi G: I wrote an article for the Boulder Jewish News that left to a conflagration of sorts and what was interesting to me was that many people took it very personally. "You're judging me," is what I got. 

If a woman comes to me and says, "I want to be a rabbi," I say, Amazing. You want to be more involved? More connected to your Yiddishkeit? That's amazing. That's so wonderful. I don't judge anyone. ... I feel a genuine sense that this is amazing. A sense of pride and joy. 

Because when I speak of obligation, I am not referring to observance. I'm referring to growth and literacy. I believe that every one of us is obligated to be growing and becoming more literate. So when a person says I'm done, I'm finished, I know everything that I need to know, that offends me more than if a person says, I've decided to give up pork and I'm only eating lobster now. ...

If you haven't gotten literate about it, then it's like your opinion to me seems so diminished in my own eyes. We're not having a conversation about what's there, but about something you thought about 20 years ago and then forgot about. We're so informed about things in our life ... why not our Yiddishkeit? ...

I think what's preventing people from practicing literacy is rabbis like me. ... If you write a polemic in the Boulder Jewish News laying out points without access it doesn't work. I see myself, more than anyone else, being one of the -- in terms of Torah -- ten most literate Jews in Boulder. ...

Rabbi R: For me, Torah has an existential claim on me. What I mean by that is that I don't start with the assumption that okay, here's halachah and that's binding ... and therefore I'd be crazy not to follow the path. It's not that, it's more existential. I have this very deep need to understand who I am and what I am. 

How do you embody a life where your consciousness is not at the center of the picture, where your life is not what the world is spinning around? ... I can't get to the point of saying to someone, You have to keep kosher! But I do feel like it's my obligation to guide people down the path. Halacha is an expression of walking down a path.

Rabbi G: So, if a Jew walked up to you and said, I'm going to join an Ashram next week ...

Rabbi R: I would do everything in my power to say, Why join an Ashram? I would do everything in my power to keep them on a Jewish path. ... I'm going to do everything to say that there is a truth here, that you were born into [Judaism].

Rabbi S: I have had, like many people in this room, profound other spiritual traditions. Sometimes there's an attempt to make them Jewish, when I'm really happy to just have different experiences. ... Part of my obligation is to be in relationship with people of other spiritual paths and practices. ... Part of my obligation is to listen to people and hear their stories. ...

Heschel talks about radical amazement ... and he also talks about religious behaviorism. When we no longer feel amazed by our tradition, we have the capacity to close our hearts and stop listening to each other. 

Rabbi G: What is more idolatrist: halachah as idol or vehement ignorance of halachah?

Rabbi R: Must there be a choice? Both are things to be avoided. 

Rabbi G: I think that ego as arbiter is a bigger idol, although there is potential damages in each of them. 

And now? Q&A. I'll cut it off here ... interesting stuff, yes? Thoughts? 

Was I Born for Boulder?

Oh Colorado! You with your sloping valleys and winding mountain roads, your heavy snowfall and sunny days melting it all away. Your coffee shops and head shops, your dispensaries and book stores. How I love you, let me count the ways!

There's something about Colorado that has made me feel better, happier, healthier, wiser. It's like breathing has become easier and my skin doesn't feel so tight around my bones. Even in the thinnest of mountain air, while watching deer rest under pine tree branches, I feel like I'm not breathing borrowed air, stale air, boxed-up and packaged-in air.

At times, I'm almost more cognizant of my Jewish self than I was before. With that said, there's still this void, and I feel it most during Shabbos. When I first came to Colorado I took up with the rest of the crowd in my community and ended up at DAT Minyan, and I visited BMH-BJ a few times as well. At first it was comfortable, and then it wasn't. I can't explain it, but the longer I'm here the longer I long for the Orthodox community I knew back in Chicago or West Hartford. There's something about those communities and their mixed multitudes (the good kind) that made Judaism seem so much more varied, diverse, exploratory, confusing, beautiful, bright, growing.

So, at the invitation of Rabbi Goldfeder and his wife up in Boulder (if you recall, I wrote about his book recently, and if you haven't purchased it and you're married, then I insist that you procure it post-haste), I spent this past Shabbos with their family and the community. I had been invited up before but some work drama and family drama and life drama kept me from visiting, so I was elated to make the trip this time around.

I arrived within minutes of candle lighting thanks to a turn-around on the way, but I got there, zipped to my humble abode and got ready for Shabbos. I stuck around with the kids (three, beautiful, awesome, intelligent, hilarious, loving kids, by the way) and the rabbi's wife Ketriellah for the evening and got to know the family a bit, and then a big group arrived and the Shabbos table was full for the evening. The variety and diversity of people -- Israelis, former Israelis, locals and their families -- made for an interesting conversation and a great meal that was, by the way, GLUTEN FREE! Yes, everything (save the challah the rabbi made) was deliciously gluten-free. I was instantly sold on moving in. I wonder if they'll have me?

Saturday morning I woke up incredibly late and schlepped off to shul, which is sort of in half of a home that has been converted, and the sanctuary is just downright cozy. The moment I stepped out of the rabbi's house, I was greeted by a gray sky and snowy mountains in the not-so-distant distance. Can you imagine waking up every day and seeing the mountains right there?

At the shul, the mechitzah hangs curtain-style from the ceiling with beautiful silver ringlet chains, there are brightly colored carpets and artwork, comfy chairs, seforim everywhere, and even a nifty little container with all of the spices and incense used at the Temple. Very, very great atmosphere. And when I walked in, the group was waiting for a few more men for minyan for the Torah reading, so there was sort of a group-study going on, which actually, honestly, I thought was pretty amazing. Walking through the Torah and hearing feedback and comments from the group of men and women is sort of how I picture a group of Jews spending their Saturday morning.

Thinking. Talking. Asking. Exploring. All orbiting the weekly parshah.

We davened Mussaf, and then the room was cleared and everyone helped set up for kiddush, which, by the way, was pretty much all gluten-free friendly! (Did I mention I was in heaven?) We walked home to a warm meal, some reading time (and I got a neck massage from one of the Goldfeder daughters -- she's a pro at the ripe age of six, seriously), and then preparation for the third meal.

And in the midst of it all, it began snowing.

The third meal was filled with the sound of Hebrew (many Israelis were there) and children running amok in the basement. We talked about what it means to be a chosen people, among other things, and I felt like my Shabbos was complete. The sky darkened and all of the kids and guests gathered for havdallah, and then the rabbi busted out his guitar for some Shavua Tov-ing song-style.

I know I only spent about 25 hours in Boulder within the small Jewish community there, but I feel like the aura of the community, the people, the place ... there's something about it. I know so many people who would fit in so perfectly with Rabbi Goldfeder and the intelligent curiosity and belief that is ever-present there. It's something I haven't felt in a long time. And those of you who have searched near and far for a place where you fit Jewishly understand what that means, what that feeling feels like.

So I had an amazing time. I felt, for the first time in a long time, like my Shabbos meant something, like there was a tangible spark in my soul that I could walk away with and start the new week with.

Perhaps the funniest thing about it all is that the community I was in was an Aish community -- and those of you who have read me a long time know about my history with Aish. But there's something about this Aish rabbi and community that has something bigger to offer than is being expressed and understood in the greater Colorado community. (Check out the Boulder Aish Kodesh site here.)

If only I lived in Boulder, eh?

Also: If you want to see the beautiful hamsa that marks the gate for the shul, just Google Map and Street View 1805 Balsam Avenue, Boulder, Colorado!


EDIT/NOTE: So it turns out that Boulder Aish Kodesh is not tied to the large organization Aish HaTorah! Well that explains a lot. 

The Big Reveal

Note: If you want to respond to the content of this post, please post in the comments. Any emails sent to me privately on this topic will be posted in the comments section, with or without the author's permission. I'm trying to keep people's comments/feelings on this public so I don't drown in negativity and criticism that surely will arise, as this is a tenuous and potentially life-altering post. 


Well, my banner gives a hint: I'm rebranding -- both the blog and myself. A lot of people (looking at you @Mottel) believe that people aren't brands, but other people (looking @jeffpulver here) believe that people are and can become brands. Whether I intended it or not, I am my brand and my brand is me. I'm Chaviva, the Kvetching Editor, and this blog is the face of that brand. Do I include every minute detail of my life here? No, gosh no. If I did, y'all would be overloaded and I'd end up looking like some narcissistic lunatic. That being said, I've always prided myself on honesty, forthrightness, and truth.

I was speaking with my therapist today, after several weeks of throwing things around in my head whether this post was going to happen. With that note up top there and with what I'm going to say, this post will serve as therapy for me, and I hope it will take the weight that I'm "hiding" something off my shoulders. I'm a firm believer that if you don't inform on your brand, someone else will, and that's how gossip and lashon hara begins.

I am a Jew. I don't fit in a box, and although I tried very hard after my Orthodox conversion to throw myself into the tidy box of Orthodoxy -- Get Married, Move to a Big Orthodox Community, Have Only Orthodox Friends, Dress the Part, Wear the Headcovering, Go to the Mikvah, Live and Breathe the Box of Orthodoxy -- it didn't work. My marriage failed, my life shook, and I uprooted myself to Denver where I now feel more like myself than I have in a good three years.

Slam Poetry. Music. Film. Writing. Smiling. Laughing. Feeling at peace in my own skin -- except, of course, when others send me emails or texts or chats telling me how I'm letting down the people who look to me the most as a beacon of conversion to Orthodox Judaism. I'm made to feel guilty for feeling happy.

And why am I happy? Why am I really happy? Because unexpectedly, in early November, while sitting at the local Starbucks (a shonda!) doing work, a fellow walked up to me and asked to sit down. While he stepped away, I fled. I was just divorced, I was pretty sure he wasn't Jewish, and I think he was hitting on me. Then, time and again I went into that Starbucks and we struck up a friendship. That friendship over movies and ridiculous YouTube videos and existentialism and family/emotional drama and our love of rodents and books and music and everything else led to now: I'm dating this fellow. His name is Taylor, and Taylor is not Jewish. Taylor's what he likes to call an agnostic-atheist, meaning that he respects everything that I believe but that he doesn't buy into any of it. Has it resulted in any contention? Not really, no. He leaves me to my Shabbat observance, recognizes my kosher-keeping, and the fact that we're both vegetarian (okay, so I eat meat when I go to @melschol's house) makes cooking for each other at my place a breeze. Right now, he's perfection for me. He makes me laugh, he makes me smile, he makes me feel okay being me.

Yes, I've taken to eating out at the two popular local vegetarian/vegan restaurants -- City O City and Watercourse. I can get my weird vegan kosher Daiya cheese, plenty of vegetables, and a bounty of gluten-free options in a city where the only kosher "restaurant" holds a monopoly on the kosher business and serves subpar food (want to open a kosher restaurant? sorry! it can't be anywhere near the one that exists -- va'ad rules). But guess who thinks it'd be cool to open a kosher vegetarian restaurant? Taylor. Go figure, eh?

What else should I put out there?

I've reconsidered having children, I've reconsidered marriage. The children thing has a lot to do with family things that are too private for me to detail here, and the marriage thing has a lot to do with, well, being married and it going so horribly.

Yes, I know what you're all thinking/saying: Chavi, you just went through a tumultuous time, this is to be expected, don't count anything out! Or perhaps, Chavi! Just go to Israel and study in seminary and figure out your Jewish self there! Oh I know, some of you are even thinking Chavi, you're rebounding! It'll all get better once you meet a nice Jewish boy.

And perhaps all of those point are valid, but I've heard them from every angle. Rationalize things all you want, but this is who I am right now and this is how I'm happy right now. The truth is, I don't think I ever fit into the clean Orthodox box I thought I did. I wanted to, I tried so hard, but the Orthodox I fell in love with and the Orthodoxy I practiced were two different things. It doesn't make my past posts any less valid or significant, and I hope people still read and learn from them. I'm a Jew. An underconstructionist, rebranding Jew.

I'm still kosher, I'm still shomer shabbos. I still believe firmly in everything that makes Judaism work and functional. Torah m'Sinai. The important thing is that I'm not letting myself stop. Some of you may think I'm regressing, pouring into the plight of intermarriage and diluting the Jewish pool. And you'll think what you will, and I'm okay with that. I've come to peace with it.

This is my derech. My derech to which HaShem is privy. In the end, yes -- I'm a public figure, people associate and look up to me, I impact lives -- but at the same time I'm a person who is just as confused and searching as everyone else. The difference is that I've forced myself into the public eye and have to continue to stay true to myself and my readers.

As always, this is just the beginning. I'm going to let my haters be my motivators this time.

I Believe, With Perfect Faith. Do You?

Without explanation or interpretation, these 13 Principles of Faith, enumerated by Maimonides, are my credo. I am a Jew, this is my credo, and labels are the fire that will destroy us.

That flame inside you, that burns bright, is your neshama. Use that fire for good, for tikkun olam, for love and community, not hatred, judgment, lashon hara, or to put yourself above others.

1. I believe with perfect faith that G-d is the Creator and Ruler of all things. He alone has made, does make, and will make all things.
2. I believe with perfect faith that G-d is One. There is no unity that is in any way like His. He alone is our G-d He was, He is, and He will be.
3. I believe with perfect faith that G-d does not have a body. physical concepts do not apply to Him. There is nothing whatsoever that resembles Him at all.
4. I believe with perfect faith that G-d is first and last.
5. I believe with perfect faith that it is only proper to pray to G-d. One may not pray to anyone or anything else.
6. I believe with perfect faith that all the words of the prophets are true.
7. I believe with perfect faith that the prophecy of Moses is absolutely true. He was the chief of all prophets, both before and after Him.
8. I believe with perfect faith that the entire Torah that we now have is that which was given to Moses.
9. I believe with perfect faith that this Torah will not be changed, and that there will never be another given by G-d.
10. I believe with perfect faith that G-d knows all of man's deeds and thoughts. It is thus written (Psalm 33:15), "He has molded every heart together, He understands what each one does."
11. I believe with perfect faith that G-d rewards those who keep His commandments, and punishes those who transgress Him.
12. I believe with perfect faith in the coming of the Messiah. How long it takes, I will await His coming every day.
13. I believe with perfect faith that the dead will be brought back to life when G-d wills it to happen.

Happy Chanukah to those who believe in me, believe with perfect faith in HaShem, and to those who have no clue what to believe. Without judgment, without exception, we all have our own path and no one can tell you that your path is wrong -- only HaShem can guide you. 

Chanukah: 2003-Now

A Novel Idea Bookstore, Lincoln, NE || 2011

Back in 2003, at the urging of a friend, I went to A Novel Idea Bookstore -- my third favorite used bookstore of all time after Myopic in Chicago and the Antiquarium in Brownsville, NE -- and down the rickety stairs to this section pictured above: Judaica. It was there that I first bought Choosing a Jewish Life by Anita Diamant, and it was in front of this shelf of used books that my neshama arose from a weary sleep. The fire continues to burn bright, its shades of orange and red and yellow and amber waxing and waning each day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Eight years ago, the first night of Chanukah fell on December 20; it was a Saturday. At that time, I wrote a lot about my dislike for Christmas and how it made me feel, and I kvelled about probably the first "Jewish" gift ever given to me, by my friend Melanie. It was a musical dreidel. I was a sophomore in college in Lincoln, Nebraska, and I knew I would be Jewish.

Seven years ago, the first night of Chanukah fell on December 7. By that point, I was a Jewish knowledge and observance machine. On December 6, I hopped on a city bus and schlepped over to a Walgreens near the Reform synagogue in order to buy my first menorah. It was a huge, important, ridiculous event for me. The next day, on the first day of Chanukah, I wrote:

Happy Hanukkah everyone! I bought my menorah, lit my candles, said my blessings, and then made some cookies that are shaped like driedels, megandavids, Judah Maccabee, shields, etc. Then I iced them, sprinkled them with blue and yellow sprinkles and brought them down to work. They were literally gone in about 5 minutes. Everyone crowded around them ... it was an amusing sight. Interestingly enough, though, I recieved an e-mail from DAN, the PRES of HILLEL, at 5:45 (though I didn't get it till tihs evening) that they will be lighting a menorah in the J.D. Edwards Kaufman building (where just about every Jew on campus lives ... the "super honors program") each night of Hanukkah. ... Although I don't have the blessing memorized ... mrr. They know I'm a Jew-in-training anyhow. Heh. Did I mention that my Jews in the Modern World prof (Alan Steinweis) played the VIDLIT Yiddish lesson in class today. Oh man ... it was hilarious. I think I enjoyed it more than the rest of the class. Then again, I have a passion for the Yiddish. 

On December 9, 2004, I wrote:

Tonight, after lighting candles with Dan, Cliff and Sari in Kauffman hall ... I definately felt a part of something there with them. Lonely Jews in Nebraska, ha. But Dan sang the blessing beautifully ... Sari lit the candles, and Cliff and I stared on. It was good times.

Shortly thereafter I started working on a paper on why I want to be Jewish for the then-rabbi of the synagogue who subsequently left. I waited another nine months for another rabbi to work with me, and by then I'd mastered so much. I converted Reform in April 2006 and in December 2006 I was in Washington D.C. for Chanukah; I made this video and wrote a lot of blog posts. 

Back in 2007, Chanukah was incredibly awesome, and then Christmas came and it was bad. A little old man accosted me while I was busy at work at the Spertus Museum's open house for Jews on Christmas. If you want to read it, I think it can give you some insight into what it's like to be a non-Orthodox convert.
And then? From 2008 up until last year, I was in Israel for Chanukah. It was a unique, mind-boggling experience where I felt so much like myself. No Christmas tunes, no expectations, just lots of latkes and sufganiyot and chanukiot everywhere. Walking up and down alleyways, menorahs dotted doorways and boxes outside of homes, parks and squares, restaurants even stopped what they were doing to light. In Israel, Chanukah feels right. In America? It feels strange. 
Perhaps it's because for the first time in so many years I'm back where I began, in Lincoln, Nebraska. Estranged from my mother, without a chanukiah, no latkes, no sufganiyot, nowhere to go. So for the sake of memory, I think, I might go over to that same Walgreens where I purchased my first chanukiah and buy another. Maybe when I get home I'll make Chanukah cookies or try out this Gluten-Free Sufganiyot recipe, but at least I'll be there with my chanukiah and my Jewish troll doll and all of my Judaica and my sunrise over the desert in Israel. 
It all began while I was living in Lincoln -- my Jewish journey, that is -- but it never stopped here, and I think that I've worn away all the memory that's here. 

Gam Zu L'Tovah: I No Longer Am Consistent

I thought about making a podcast. I thought about writing a cryptic slam poem. I thought about just saying that this blog has taken too much out of me and I've passed up on many a chance to focus on me, to be and live for me. But this blog has been my baby, my internal dialogue, my therapy. You guys are the flies on the wall of my mental canvas. You get to see the inner workings of a stranger. The world gets to see the inner workings of a stranger. So what would be stranger than me simply disappearing from the blog, citing stress, questioning everything I know about myself, family drama that cannot even be described, and new people in my life?

The weirdest thing about being divorced is feeling like I was never married. Is that normal? Is it normal to look back and think, where did the past three years go? Who was I? Was that even me? Don't misunderstand: I got married because everything seemed to fall into place. I sought the physical and emotional comforts that marriage and relationships provide. But looking back and reflecting on it all, I did myself a great disservice denying my own feelings about the whole thing. To put it more simply: I have no clue who that woman was over the past three years.

There are clear moments: Graduate school, my Orthodox conversion, Israel. But all of the things that should matter, that should stick with me are as if a fog. Like watching a tragic movie with a tragic woman who wants nothing more than to be that image of the Orthodox woman living the Orthodox life with her Orthodox husband in an Orthodox world. And I got that. I dressed the part, I spoke the part, I ate the part, I lived the part. I was that person that people strive to be, and for those who read this blog and look for guidance on conversion to Orthodoxy, I was that example to follow.

And all of the important stuff was honest. It's the superficial stuff that I'm starting to wonder whether it was real. I believe everything -- I believe and have a firm conviction in all that Orthodox Judaism provides and demands, but I've hit this point where, because I'm unraveling who I was for three years, I don't know that I am capable of following through as that person. Not right now.

Man. I sound like I'm being cryptic. Like what I should say, what I want to say is so obvious. But, you see, I've placed myself under the microscope of so many people, at least 55,000 a month. And as you start to question yourself and where you're going, it's like the sun is shining so bright you're on the verge of combustion. In the Jewish community, for me at least, the fear of retribution, exclusion, denial are beyond words. The fear that, if I decide that eating out at a vegetarian restaurant is something in which I want to dabble that I will be rejected wholly by those around me. That if I decide that I'm interested in someone who isn't Jewish that my readers and friends will look at me with judgment and horror.

Oh how the mighty might fall.

In one of the segments of Ask Chaviva Anything! someone asked whether I put too much emphasis on being a convert, and I said that it's impossible, because being a ger is the very fabric of who I am. It defines my social life, my diet, my clothing, my approach to everything in life. A Jew can go "off the derech," and we scoff and laugh and pray that they come back into the fold, no matter how nominally affiliated he or she is. But no matter how not Jewish he or she chooses to date, he or she will always be Jewish. An ancestor's ketubah or picture of a grandparent's grave, and matters are solidified. A convert? Well, I have a folder that holds both my Reform and my Orthodox conversion certificates. Pieces of paper signed by modern rabbis in a modern rabbinical court in an environment installed with processes and circumstance. But those papers can disappear, they can be questioned, they can be enough to cast away someone indefinitely.

I sound dramatic, I know. But this is a glimpse into my head, my life, my world right now. People tell me that HaShem never gives us something that we can not handle, and others say gam zu l'tovah (this, too, is for good). And that makes me wonder why I currently find myself in the circumstances that I do. The more difficult thing, however, is that I feel good. I feel right. I feel happy. For the first time in a long time, I feel like me.

People are fluid. Our experiences are fluid. From one moment to the next, we cannot expect consistency from either ourselves or others. We're impacted by our environments, our emotions, our genetics, resulting in an ever-changing sense of self that should never stand still. Drastic changes, we assume, must be attributed to some life-altering event or emotion. However, in truth, it seems to make sense that we would be constantly in flux, changing, inconsistent. After all, that's why Judaism has so many installed proscriptions of how to live -- consistency. Everyone works better on a schedule. Or do we? I guess what I'm saying is that we expect too much from ourselves, from others, in the way of consistency. We expect people to have patterns, and when the pattern is thrown, we assume the worst.

Don't assume the worst, please.

Also: As an aside, if you didn't see Mitch Albom's "Have a Little Faith" on TV the other night, then you need to find it and you need to watch it. It had me in tears at the end, and I don't cry easily. The only movie I ever cried during was "My Best Friend's Wedding." But in the movie, the rabbi (played by Martin Landau) poses the following (and I'm paraphrasing) Why didn't G-d create one perfect tree? Why did he create multiple trees, spruces, pines, oaks? It's the same with man and our beliefs. There are many ways to G-d, not just one. (And this, folks, is my comfort.)

Choosing: Ashkenazic vs. Sephardic

I've been meaning to post this question for quite some time (okay, since the divorce), but after talking it over very briefly with a few friends, here I am finally posting it.

Before I got married, I had the option -- as a convert -- to choose my minhagim or customs. That means that technically, because I didn't grow up with any, I had the option of choosing the lifestyle of the Sephardim. Beans and rice on Passover! And a lot of other really awesome, fascinating, unique customs that would have made me more normal in Israel than here in the U.S.

(Sephardim, oddly enough, are more strict on many things, including bishul akum, which forbids a Jew to eat food prepared by a non-Jew, something I observed when in the conversion process that I had no problem with -- this is where that "Jew turns on the flame" bit comes in handy for a non-Jew at a grocery store bakery or the like).

Then I got married, to someone with nominally Ashkenazic traditions and a strong Ashkenazic genealogy. Although he grew up not always following the no-leavening bit on Passover, he loosely identified with the Eastern European ways, considering his family came from Romania and areas around there. So we took on those customs, despite my pleas and knowing that we technically could choose our customs. We adopted our rabbi's Yekki tradition of washing our hands before both kiddush (blessing over wine) and motzi (blessing over bread), which, by the way, has a very legit and sense-making reason if you're interested.

But now, since I'm divorced, does that take me back to square one? Do I get to choose my customs? Or am I bound to the 16-month commitment to Ashkenazic traditions? I mean, I look like I'm straight-up Eastern European (note: my family hails from England and France and Switzerland), but ... until I get married (please HaShem) again, can I just have a little bit of Sephardic fun?!

VERSUS

I don't like the eggs, but ... 

For those of you interested in the halachos that are out there, they're incredibly confusing, and opinions are incredibly varied, but there's a great response and plenty of contradictory sources cited over at Fifth Avenue Synagogue. According to Rav Schachter, community comes before family, but how often do any of us live in a community anymore where there is a single established minhag? 

Can't wait to hear your thoughts!

There's More Than Lemons, Chavi

As I'm sure you can all tell, there's a lot of tension in my life these days. Divorce, moving, readjusting my entire idea of what it means to be me. It's weird how this life change, more so than any other I've experienced (and I've moved a lot and changed communities a lot) has really shaken me to the core, making me reconsider what I want, where I'm going, and what makes sense to me in life.

Don't worry, I'm still a committed Orthodox Jew. I'm just trying to figure out what that means.

After the divorce, a lot of people commented with gam zu l'tovah -- this too, is for good. I find myself saying it a lot, although I don't find myself saying it to others much. I think that the phrase can really confuse the emotions. Bad things happen to good people, life changes, and the world keeps spinning, but staying positive is the hardest part.

I'm infamous for focusing on the negative. My friends have told me that, my exes commented on it, and even my therapist says that I need to figure out a way to get out of it. I can't take compliments, and when the world hands me lemons, all I see is lemons; at least, all I focus on is the lemons. I might make lemonade, but I'll still be looking at those darn lemon peels.

Since September, I've gotten a speeding ticket, rear-ended a car, had my phone stolen, become quite broke, left my car windows open so my passenger seat was full of snow, and ... well, there's more. But again, I need to refocus.

When I went out to my car this morning and opened the driver's side door only to notice that I left the window cracked (this is Denver, it was warm yesterday, snowy today), I felt relieved that the wind blew the snow in the opposite direction. Then I looked at my passenger seat: snow everywhere. Yes, I'd left the passenger window open, too, and I wasn't so lucky. I stood there, in the snow, smiled, shook my head, facepalmed, and laughed at myself.

Gam zu l'tovah. 

It's taken everything -- all the lemons -- over the past several months to bring me to a point where I can laugh at my misfortune.

My place in life has always been as a caretaker. I take care of people, I help them, I guide them, I counsel them. This is both my greatest attribute, I think, and my greatest flaw. Why? Because I forget that I'm here, that I'm also on a journey and that my problems, my concerns, my feelings are just as valid as those who I am here to protect, guide, and speak out for.

I have a lot going on, and I want to than you all for your patience, your kindness, your outreach, your love. I'm trying to get over the lemons, but it's going to take a while. But as long as I can figure out how to laugh at myself, I think I'm going to be okay.

My Jewish Observance, Colors, and the Weird!

Last month, I started an Ask Chaviva Anything! series. I had two installations, and it's time for a third! (Check out those posts here.) Are you ready for more Q&A? If you have a question to ask, just click here!

What's your favorite color?

This is a good question. For the longest time (read: forever) it was red. At some point, it transitioned to green, and about six months ago, I realized that I owned a lot of purple. When I moved, I got purple sheets, and a purple lampshade. I have a purple purse and purple shoes. So, I guess right now, it would be purple.

Do you ever question your level of observance? Do you ever reconsider it or think about being less traditionally observant? Do any aspects of progressive, egalitarian Judaism appeal to you?

Honestly? No. As I discussed when I was moving to Denver, the thoughts crossed my mind, but they weren't real thoughts. They were what-ifs, and I wasn't committed to those considerations. Once you go kosher, I can't imagine what it's like to not be kosher. The guilt? The regret? And, of course, the disappointment. Nothing is ever as good as you remember it. When it comes to being Shomer Shabbat, I couldn't fathom life without it. Even if I -- heaven forbid -- went off the derech, Shabbat would be something I always would hold on to. I honestly have no idea how I got by without a day to shut down, refresh, and recuperate.

As for progressive, egalitarian Judaism, I have to say that it's never something that's appealed to me. I guess I've discovered a way to be a woman and Orthodox without the two contradicting each other, let alone resulting in a feeling that I'm not as equal, respected, or responsible as my male counterparts. I had my days of aliyot when I was Reform, and it always felt awkward. I never understood the appeal of the kippah or tefillin, but I fully support those who, as women, feel like those observances are something that is importnat to them. I have found my own way to feel valuable, important, and necessary in the Jewish world, without those aspects of egalitarianism. Also: I love the mechitzah too much to give it up!

What's the weirdest thing you've ever been asked on your blog?

Good question. I haven't been asked so many "weird" things as I have received extraordinary emails from extraordinary people with amazing stories and queries. If only I could share them all with you guys! So instead of "weird" questions, I'm going to give you some of the weird search queries that land people on my blog!

• cholent (that's No. 10 for all-time searches that led to my blog ... weird)
• chinese zodiac
• gefilte fish
• famous beards
• indian vests (um, huh?)
• chasidish halloween (tis the season!)
• hitler painting jesus (without any kind of reference, that sounds really, really funny)
• what is a jew called who can't prove their bloodline? 
• political kippah
• pirate scarf (ha ha ... the Captain Jack Sparrow!)

Okay, that's enough for now. Stay tuned for more Q&A with Ask Chaviva Anything!

The Covering Crisis of 2011

Not that I needed a reminder, but thanks to Facebook, I was reminded that

On This Day In 2010

Chaviva Elianah Galatzis now a member of the Sisterhood of the Traveling Sheitel ;)

Ahh, memories! It seems like just yesterday that I went with my bestie Ally to a sheitel sale where I picked up my first hair piece -- a hat fall. I blogged about it (Taking the Hair Plunge), with pictures and everything, and to this day it is my most-read blog post. In that post, a year ago, I wrote,

I like to joke that I was born with bangs. I've had these bangs since forever, and when I started covering, I vowed to keep them there, and I have. Everything else covered up, I've discovered that I love covering with scarves (okay, I knew I would), with one small caveat: I miss the volume. I miss the shape of my hair. I miss the way my face and my head look with the hair all up and out like it used to be. I miss having a "look," that made random strangers in random stores ask me if I'm a hair stylist. 

Do I miss it enough to give up hair covering? Of course not. I miss my hair's shape and body like I miss putting 70 buttons on my purse and wearing tons of colorful bracelets on my wrists. It's nostalgia. It's a "moving on" kind of nostalgia. A choice that I'm 110 percent okay with.

Followed by,

In the end, I'm still a tichel kinda girl. But a sheitel gives me something that a tichel doesn't right now, and that's body, a 'do, something to work with. I look forward to wearing it on Shabbat, with cute winter hats, and for specialsimchas and events in cities and locations that, well, are perhaps a little more sheitel appropriate. It gives me something to play with, to do like I didn't do once upon a time when I had long, irritating, thick hair. And, as myreal hair begins to grow long, I look forward to taking it to a special place: growing it, cutting it, donating it. Repeating. That, it appears, is what the awesome gals in my complex do, and I admire them for doing that. (Of course, first I wondered why people don't get their hair cut and turned into a sheitel, but then I realized how silly that was. *wink!*)

Oh how the tides have turned, and oh have my opinions, needs, and feelings changed. To all of those people who said that it would get hard, you now can say "I told you so!"

The headband fall that I just can't love.

A year and a half after getting married and taking on the mitzvah of hair covering, I'm standing in front of a mirror hacking away at my own hair, wondering why I don't feel beautiful anymore. Twice in the past few weeks I have chopped off lengths of hair. Too long, then too awkward, and now? Well, I don't know why I look the way I do. And those bangs that I've had since birth that I've always loved? Also struggling with liking them these days (sorry to those of you who covet my bangs).

Have I worn my fall every day over the past year? No, but I've worn it plenty, and I've complained about it plenty, too. Falls are hard when you have bangs and have to figure out what to comb that fall into, which has left my head often aching. Likewise, the long-hair look just isn't me. It's never been me, and although I enjoyed having some length in the beginning, I ended up throwing it into a ponytail about seven months ago. And still? It hurts, it's too long, it isn't me.

I spend most days taking hats, tichels, and scarves on and off, trying to figure out what looks right. Over the past few months? Nothing looks right. Nothing feels right. But I still cover, it's a mitzvah that I can't give up because the act, itself, is part of who I am, and I believe firmly in everything it stands for. But how I want to do it has changed.

So a month ago I went online and bought a very, very inexpensive "fake" wig off a Chinese website geared toward "cosplay" (that is, people who are into Japanese manga and want to dress up, I guess). I bought a cute bob, short in the back, longer in the front, with side-swept bangs. I wasn't expecting to like it, let alone love it. I figured, for $25, I can't go wrong. If it's a bust, it's a bust. If I love it, maybe I can take it to a sheitel macher and say "this is what I want" and get it done, without winging it with a sheitel stylist.

The fake. Yes, it looks a lot better in this photo
than it does in person. Believe me. 

The "fake" wig arrived, and I was in love. The color wasn't really right, and it was incredibly shiny, but I loved it. I loved how my face shown through the frame of the shape. I didn't wear it for a few weeks, scared that someone might really spot it for the fake it was, but then, on a whim, I wore it out to dinner with some of my convert buddies, and they all loved it as much as I did. Filled with confidence, I wore it to shul a few weeks ago, but it was spotted -- it looked fake. It was too shiny, and no matter how much baby powder I've thrown on it to tame the gleam, it just hasn't worked. The netting is done poorly, there are no combs in it, and the hair already is falling out.

My response? Get a real sheitel in the style that I love, that frames my face, that makes me feel glamorous -- a feeling that I haven't had since getting married. But that, friends, is $500+, money that it's hard to convince your spouse is worth spending, especially when your spouse -- G-d love him -- doesn't dig the sheitel look, period.

And this is where I stumble back into that mirror and try to figure out who I am and why I can't feel beautiful as is. It's silly, and I never thought I'd be that person who couldn't pull that inside beauty out and just suck it up under a tichel and deal. But this is the narrative of many women who take on hair covering, who buy a sheitel or fall and months later need something new. First one's never the charm, that's for sure, and most women will tell you that. I was even warned that the fall would be short-lived, and although I scoffed at it, well, those who told me that were right.

So where do I go from here? How do I figure out how to either deal with the hand given me or to magically find $500 and convince my husband that it's worth it -- to me? Is it an investment worth feeling good about oneself?

From Sisterhood of the Travelling Sheitel to the Covering Crisis of 2011. If this is what happens after a year, where will I be in 10?

Pebbles on the Grave

When I converted to Judaism, something I learned very early on during a marathon of Jewish and Holocaust movies (not to mention the show Dead Like Me) was the tradition of placing stones on the graves or headstones of the deceased. Where I come from (Christian Middle America), flowers are the item of choice for visiting deceased loved ones. It was a ritual that we partook in every Memorial Day when we'd drive to Kansas City and visit the graves of my grandmother, grandfather, and other relatives buried there. We purchased the plastic, tacky memorial flowers and wreaths, and at some point, days or weeks later, someone would be forced to come through and remove the harmful-to-nature plastic concoctions. 

In 2008, on a genealogy roadtrip, I found the grave of my great grandfather and great grandmother.
Not knowing why, and knowing that they weren't Jewish, I placed stones on their graves.

I never asked anyone why Jews don't do flowers at funerals or gravesites; it was something Jews do. It's part of the choreography of death, following the timeline of shiva (the week-long period of mourning) and matzevah (unveiling of the tombstone). Why didn't I inquire? I might have Googled it, or I might have read about it in a book, but it became part of my personal choreography of being Jewish. Sometimes, we just don't think about the things we do. But perhaps we should.

So, when visiting the grave of a Jew, the custom is to place a small stone on the grave using the left hand. According to Wikipedia, "this shows that someone visited the gravesite, and is also a way of participating in the mitzvah of burial." Likewise, Rabbi Simmons of Aish.com says, "we place stones on top of a gravestone whenever we visit to indicate our participation in the mitzvah of erecting a tombstone, even if only in a more symbolic way." According to Talmud Bavli, Masechet Mo'ed Katan, in Biblical times graves were marked with mounds of stones (an example being when Rachel died), so by placing or replacing the stones, one plays a role in perpetuating the existence of the site and the memory of that person buried there.

But the reality is that stones had been used forever for burial. In ancient times, bodies were covered with large boulders or stones to keep animals from picking away the flesh and desecrating the body. It likely didn't play any kind of religious or supernatural role, but more of a practical role. Perhaps our meaningful act of placing a stone on the grave of a Jew threads back to this practical set of origins. But when did that transition in understanding -- of practical to mitzvah-making -- happen? Who can be sure.

Today, to place a stone on a gravestone says, to me, that I was there, I remembered, and I cared. Ultimately, it's more about the visitor than the buried, I think. What do you think?

As an aside, matzevah actually means monument, and although there is no halachic obligation to hold an unveiling ceremony, in the 19th century it became a popular ritual. Some unveil the tombstone a year after the burial, some a week after the burial. (I've seen the former more than the latter.) In Israel, as it turns out, the stone is unveiled after shloshim, or the first 30 days of mourning.

This blog post came out of my beginning to read "Jerusalem, Jerusalem" by the author of "Constantine's Sword" in combination with finding out that a dear family friend, Zitta Weiss, passed away on August 17. Zitta was a survivor of the Holocaust and an amazing and memorable soul. My first shiva call ever was at the home of Zitta when her brother died. And now? I suppose I'm coming back to where my Jewish bereavement experience began. Back to Zitta's home, but to mourn the woman herself. She was born on May 5, 1929. Baruch Dayan ha'Emet. 

Mikvah Gone Bingo

I'd really wanted to make this a vlog, but as the fates would have it, my beloved camera is in the shop somewhere in Virginia. Yes, I know, I could record this on my computer, but for some reason the quality just isn't where I want it, so I'd rather write it all down. The topic?

Why, mikvah -- aka the ritual bath that Jewish women visit once a month after their niddah period -- of course! The mikvah is sort of like a spa these days, with many of them being done up in marble or faux Jerusalem stone. You get a robe, some nice towels, makeup remover, nail polish remover, and everything else you need to beautify yourself before dipping thrice in a well-heated pool of all-natural water under the watchful eye of the mikvah lady. I've written about it before -- give it a read.

I thought I'd make some observations/questions that are, for the most part, unconnected, but relevant.

Mikvahs should be more like Bingo Parlors than they are. You know what I mean, right? Okay, so at Bingo Parlors enthusiasts bring all their little toys and lucky items with them. When I walk into the mikvah prep room where the tub and sink and toilet and all the fixins to beauty are, I feel like I should have a little altar set up with all of the things that I need/want to feel at home at the mikvah. It made me wonder: Are there women who bring in a bottle of wine and some candles and set them up for a relaxing prep experience? Because, to be completely honest, I'm considering it.

People should leave their cellphones at home, in the car, or at least in the "silent" position while in the mikvah prep room. I mean, as much as I like hearing your creative ringtone while I'm trying to center myself for the big dip, I'm really not so interested in the interruption.

Question: Can I hit the "Ready" button before zman? Explanation: So the mikvah opens about 30 minutes or so before you actually can dip, so people show up early, get ready, so that the moment it's kosher to dip you can do it and get out of there. I realized the last time I was at the mikvah that I was the last person to go in, despite hitting the button at zman time. Should I hit it whenever I'm ready to dip, even if it's loads of time pre-zman?

I've realized that going as early as possible and taking my time with a bath is more rewarding personally than going in for a quick shower and zooming my way back home. Why? Well, how often do you get to take a nice bath in a nice, clean facility at your own pace? This plays back to my first comment. Picture it: bath, wine, candles ... oh wait, you can't dim the lights. Scratch that.

I wonder what old-world mikva'ot looked like. I'm talking shtetl-style digs. Clearly they're not like the ancient mikva'ot we uncover, but they're nothing like what we have now. I'd love to see a mikvah circa 1700 in the middle of nowhere Eastern Europe.

How do I convince my husband to do all sorts of fun prep and stuff like I must on mikvah night? Bribery? Food?

And, lastly, would it be wrong for me to bring some goods to tovel into the mikvah when I go in for the big dip? I mean, I don't think I'd really ever do it, but ... I'm intrigued at the thought.

Have questions about the mikvah? Funny experiences? Hit me up!

A Light: My Tisha B'av Timeline

Photo taken and graphic made July 26, 2004.

Once upon a time, in 2004, I properly observed the no-food, no-drink fast of Tisha B'av that starts Monday night for the first time. The fast, in a nutshell, commemorates a variety of tragedies that have befallen the Jewish people, most notably the destruction of the Second Temple in Jerusalem in 70 C.E.

So what did I have to say on July 26, 2004?

Tonight begins Tisha B'av. If you don't know what that is, feel free to click here: Learn about Tisha B'av! It's a day of fasting, low-key activities, and reflecting on the destruction of the Second Temple. It's the first holy day of the yearlong cycle for me. I'm kind of excited to participate in my first fast of my path to Judaism. It sounds ridiculous, but I feel a part of something.

I'll admit that I did edit that a bit -- but only for the sake of capitalization and compound modifiers. Later, on July 27, 2004, around 6:30 p.m. I wrote this:

Ok, so fasting is hard. Especially when you promise to meet someone at THE COFFEE HOUSE and then remember you can't drink/eat in respect of the day. So I slept in as late as possible in order to not have to be awake and then went to the coffee house around 3 p.m. and there was Gregory. We sat for about 2-1/2 hours doing our respective tasks and talking in between about the holy grail, Christianity, Atlantis, people, Oasis, music, and everything else you can imagine. I absolutely love my time with Greg because he makes me laugh, a lot. Which I shouldn't have been doing on a day such as today, but I couldn't help but laugh. And now, now I'm here at the DN doing my normal thing. I'm starving though. For pancakes. Chicken tacos. Anything. Everything. Aghhh! Especially coffee. 

I found this quote from MARK TWAIN, which appeared in HARPER'S in SEPTEMBER 1899: "All things are mortal but the Jew; all other forces pass, but he remains." 

It made me brilliantly happy, it did. It makes sense, as well. It seems that although numbers of Jews have decreased, the continuity of the people is what stands and stands tall, might I add.

Ahh. I need to occupy myself for the next several hours. Agh. The sunset is scheduled for 8:47 p.m. folks. It will be a long two hours. Help? Maybe I'll go use my free ticket to see Cat Woman?

Did I go see Cat Woman? No way to tell. But I clearly wasn't doing anything remotely related to Tisha B'av other than fast. (Later that night, while watching the Democratic National Convention, I predicted that Barack Obama would someday be president -- albeit the prediction was for 2016.)

Tisha B'av in 2005 is a void -- I have no record, and I can't recall what I did or didn't do. Did I fast? Did I even get what fasting involved? I was in Denver, CO, interning at The Denver Post, so chances are I was busy sleeping and then working, and chances are I broke my fast by going to Subway for the Teriyaki Chicken sandwich. But that's just a prediction. Who knows what really happened. 

Then, in 2006, I wrote about my experience fasting on Tisha B'av and my frustration with one Jews approach to Tisha B'av for Secular Jews. I think I was the most reflective then. I was frustrated with the idea that Secular Jews don't need Tisha B'av because there's no need for a Temple, so why mourn something that was destroyed when it doesn't impact us today? Of course, at that time, I was a Reform Jew. And it still bothered me. Now, as an Orthodox Jew, it still bothers me. Back then, I wrote the following about the fast and day of observance:

It isn't just about religion, it's about the people and the history and the furthering of the existence of Jewishness.

I suggested that if everyone in the world spent a single day fasting and reflecting on destruction, drought, disease, war, famine, oppression, abuse, and inequality, perhaps we'd all be startled into action. But maybe it's a naive hope. After all, as I said then and I say now, What do I know? I'm just a Jew from Nebraska who grew up in the Ozarks.

In 2007 I wrote about my frustration with the sentiment that on this day we "mourn for a life we no longer want." I was wondering -- and still am -- whether if/when the Temple is rebuilt (G-d willing), will we still observe sacrifices in the same way? Or will the messiah come with some ethically evolved plan for sacrifice that is inline with how we observe things today. Finally, in 2008 (and last year) I wrote about how I felt distant from Tisha B'av, as if I were just going through the motions.

Will I sleep all day and wake up to check blog posts and see everyone else's meaningful and positive declarations of Tisha B'av observance on Tuesday? I don't know. What I do know is that I plan to read -- and read a lot -- on Sunday night and Monday in hopes of properly preparing myself for Tisha B'av. 

And, as the saddest day on the Jewish calendar, I think it's only proper to consider what it means to bring light into the world. To mourn a loss of light in our time, but to imagine a restored light. I suppose by emptying ourselves, literally, of food and drink, we have a chance to fill that place inside with light -- a light that can move outward through a fight for justice and peace. 

I hope that everyone who observes the fast to finds a unique meaning in it, and for those who don't observe the fast to still consider what it means to fill the darkness of the world with light. 

The Tzniut Project 23: A Walking Art Gallery

This is the 23rd in a multi-part series called The Tzniut Project. Women from a variety of backgrounds with a variety of observances have volunteered to anonymously answer questions that I have written about their practices, people's assumptions, and more. For more information on origins the project, click here. Please continue to check back with The Tzniut Project to read more stories and comment abundantly!

Note: This post is contributed by a reader.

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1. How do you affiliate Jewishly? Feel free to elaborate on the words people use to describe you and the words you use to describe yourself.I describe myself as Yeshivish to Yeshivish lite. Meaning, I definitely fit in the Yeshivish box, but I also surf the 'net (obviously), watch a little Hulu, Netflix, whatever, read secular books. Basically, I'm open to secular culture, but I wouldn't say I'm Modern Orthodox.

2. Growing up, did your mother or grandmother dress modestly in any way? Do you think modesty was something instilled in you by your family? Did you dress modestly growing up?Modesty was definitely NOT something I grew up with. My mom (who is great, for the record) would walk around with nothing on. At all. Thankfully, she no longer does that. I did happen to wear a lot of skirts growing up, but that's just because I liked them. I also liked tube tops and strapless dresses, so there you go.

3. Are you married? How does your spouse feel about your choices for modest dress? Is it a dialogue or does your partner leave the mitzvah to you?I'm married. My husband likes it when I dress all "shtarked up," with a button-up blouse or blazer. Thankfully, he also likes it when I wear trendier outfits, but I think I get more compliments from him when my clothes are more tznuah, less form-fitting. He doesn't put any pressure on me one way or another. [Shtark = looking very religious]

4. What would you wear on a typical day? On Shabbos? If you dress differently on weekdays and Shabbos, why do you make this distinction and how?Weekdays I typically wear comfortable, casual but fashionable clothes. T-shirts, some button-ups (never tucked in though, it never looks right on me), sweaters in the winter, and I basically alternate between five or six skirts, all comfortable. That's a big thing for me, to find clothes which look stylish but that I can move around freely in, and that I don't worry about the kids getting them messy.

I do dress up more for Shabbos, with fancier button-ups, blazers, skirts and shoes. I reserve these clothes only for Shabbos, Yom Tov and Rosh Chodesh. For me, not wearing them during the week gives them a reserved status, so even if the actual article of clothing isn't so fancy, it still feels special when I wear it. When they start getting worn out, I "demote" them to weekday.

5. What do you think other people infer from your clothing and hair covering choices? Has anyone ever said anything to you outright that expresses a judgment based on your appearance? (Ex: “You don’t cover your hair or wear skirts, so why do you keep kosher?”)From the way I dress, people usually assume that I grew up frum. During one of my sheva brachos, one of the guests asked if I went to Bais Yaakov in NY [a schol for girls]. Also, friends have told me that some of my clothing choices are a little farfrumpt [very, very frum].

6. Have you ever surprised someone by dressing more or less modestly and making them rethink their stereotypes about what it means to be an observant Jew?Well, after I started wearing modest clothes, my mother's aunt, a staunch Catholic, told me that I reminded her of a nun. I think that was probably a new association for both of us.

7. When you see someone who observes tzniut differently than you, what are your initial thoughts? How do you deal with them?On seeing someone with a different level of tznius, I'd say that I used to try and categorize them. I guess I was trying to decide where they would be coming from, what they "stand" for, etc. That was when I had just become frum and was probably a wee bit judgmental and zealous. Now, when I'm talking to a woman who, say, is wearing shorter sleeves than I would, or showing more hair than I do, I actually listen to what she's saying instead of pigeonholing her. I guess I've mellowed, and I've seen that where someone is holding on the tznius spectrum really has little to do with who they are as a person. This isn't to say that I don't categorize at all (I wish I was holding there), just not as much as before.

8. I say modesty or tzniut … what does that mean to you?Tznius to me means a way of being. It applies to how much we expose to the world in both an external and internal sense. How much we want to put out there and how much we keep for ourselves, our family, Hashem.

9. Anything else you’d like to add about your choices, experiences, and more!After I started dressing more tznuah, I did notice a marked difference in how strangers treated me. I definitely felt an increase in level of respect (though considering how I dressed before, it's not so surprising). I think that having to dress so utterly differently than I did before, and to be so much more, well, dressed, caused me to introspect a good deal. It made me think about how I used to use clothing as artistic expression. Like, my body was my palette, or I was a walking art gallery. After donning the frum "uniform," I had to re-assess who I was internally if I wasn't just a walking statement-maker. Or, to ask myself what statement I was making now, with the frumiform. It was an interesting transition.