The Roadtrip in a Nutshell

I'm back in New Jersey after a whirlwind week-long schlep to Nebraska and back. Our trip included some interesting stop-offs like Antique Archaeology (a.k.a. the home of TV's "American Pickers"), the World's Largest Wooden Nickel, a former bank robbed by Bonnie and Clyde, Freedom Rock, and, of course, Ken's Diner in Skokie, Ill., for a bit of kosher nosh. We visited the Omaha Zoo, which was amazing and included the Skyfari -- a ski-lift style ride over the expanse of the zoo, and we spent a bucketload of time hanging out with my nephews Oliver and Owynn. I made my parents dinner, and I got to spend some time with a few of my best friends from high school. And I can't forget to mention the beautiful sunsets and the 360-degree view of fireworks on the Fourth of July.

For oodles of photos from my trip, check out my Facebook Album! And check out this very brief video of the sleepy ones in action!

I have a lot to say about the trip, especially how it made me feel. I can't lie: the trip left me feeling kind of sad, but not in a nostalgic way. More like, why haven't I tried harder to keep in touch with people and keep up on their lives? When did I stop being a friend to my friends?

A Jewish Funeral Experience

It's been around 13 years since I attended a funeral. At least, that's the last one I remember. It was my Uncle David, who wasn't really my Uncle David. I wrote a poem about it in college, recollecting the man who was more of a grandfather figure to me than anything else. Uncle David was my father's step-mother's family, distant, but oh-so-close to my father and to us kids. From the poem, "Uncle David Stole My Nose" ...

When I think about the funeral,
I remember looking into the casket
and seeing Uncle David’s face.
I remember, at that awkward age between
childhood and becoming a young woman,
wondering why he wasn’t smiling.
I remember telling my father, as we
left the burial site after crying and hugging
and holding relatives close, that Uncle
David’s lips should have been curved up.
Smiling as he always was.
Because that’s how everyone knew him,
that’s how I knew him,
when he was alive. ... 

I’ve try to forget the funeral and the burial,
while trying to keep Uncle David as
he was the last time I saw him before
he looked so sad in that big black box.
But I continue to recall driving past the Big Boy
where we’d eat with Uncle David every
now and then when we visited.
I remember crying and thinking about how
empty my dad was, because he’d
lost a father figure. But I know I cried
mostly because I’d lost a
Grandfather, and my nose would stay put
and I realized I was no longer
a child.

That funeral took place during a bizarre weekend where there was a wedding and a funeral. Emotional ups and downs were extreme. But this is my memory of funerals -- Christian funerals. 

Until this past week, I had not been to a Jewish funeral. I've written about paying shiva calls and the difficulty of really coming to terms with that tradition, but nothing could have prepared me for this week. I was, in plain words, an emotional wreck graveside. 

At my Uncle's funeral, it began with service at the funeral chapel, there were Bible verses read, the mood was depressing and morose, and seeing my dead uncle in the box put a forever-image in my head. We all took off to the graveside service afterward, where, everyone, dressed in black, huddled around the plot that had been carved out. The beautiful casket was held on props while words were said, words from the Bible were read, and then we departed. Only after that was the casket lowered -- we didn't watch the casket go down. We left knowing that he was still floating somewhere above the service. 

At Roszi's funeral (I blogged about her passing here) -- as I assume is true at all Jewish funerals -- the casket was lowered simply in its wooden-box form into the space in the ground. A rabbi related Roszi's life to those of us huddled under umbrellas in the cold rain, and then, then the men took a shovel and heaved dirt onto the wooden casket. 

Thump. Thump. Thump. 

And I lost it. I don't know why, but my tears just streamed -- and as I write this, my eyes are welling ... and I just don't know why. The sound of dirt -- dirt to dirt -- hitting a simple wooden casket was something I hadn't expected. Something that, to be honest, would never have happened at a funeral back home, back in my old life. The sounds ruptured something deep within me, emotions for a woman who I had barely known and who had not known me at all. 

"How many times did you even meet Roszi?" my husband asked after the funeral. 

I suppose that this is the purpose of such a visceral display of Jewish burial. It is participatory, permanent, and real. In a way, I suppose it seals the truth and the reality of what has happened. As people started to walk away, people were chattering and smiling and everyone except for the immediate family and I seemed to be unshaken by the events. 

I started to wonder: Have I become a softy? Overemotional? Or was it simply my neshama crying out for the loss of a soul so tortured for absolutely no reason.

Baruch Dayan ha'Emet.

That's Roszi, on the left. Probably taken in the early or mid-1930s.

I've known for some time that the generation of Holocaust survivors has been disappearing. Old souls are finding their way to shamayim, and in some way, are finding their way to peace after facing some incredible horrors. But -- as someone who in the past struggled to tie herself into the memory of the Shoah -- the reality of the passing of a generation never truly hit home.

Until now.

I've been meaning to write for such a long time about my husband's family and all of the amazing things we've found out about those who perished in the Holocaust. Tuvia's been cleaning out the home of one of his great-aunts and his great-uncle, and he's found some amazing things, including a document of donation to a British Mandate organization that supported a Satmar Hungarian community in then-Palestine, as well as the only surviving photo of Tuvia's maternal grandmother's family.

Tuvia's family hails from one of those places in Europe that switched hands a million times from Hungary to Romania to Austro-Hungary to ... you get the picture. They lived in Viseu-de-Sus, and we're fairly sure that's where the older siblings -- three sisters -- were born. When anti-Semitism started up, they move to Oradea, Romania, where the only surviving photo we have was taken. The family was shuttled off to the ghetto there, which was the second largest in Hungary, and were taken from the ghetto to Auschwitz in May 1944. The yartzeits (anniversary of death) for two parents and four siblings is in May 1944, because that's the last time the three surviving sisters saw their kin. (The parents and three of the four siblings are in the photo above -- a younger child was born after this picture was taken.)

After that, the sisters took a horrible journey that I will not detail here. My intent is to someday write the full story down, but the problem is that the stories are muddled and only one sister recorded her version. Records are impossible, the family stories are many, and ultimately the conclusion is that the Sisters Berkowitz journeyed to hell and back.

For one of the sisters -- Roszi -- that journey ended Saturday night.

From what we know from the one recorded history, Roszi suffered the worst of the sisters, both during and after the Shoah. After the war, Roszi lived in Sweden and then in Israel, and in one of the last legal documents by President John F. Kennedy, signed just days before he was murdered, he declared that Roszi was to be brought to New Jersey to be reunited with her family.

When I heard that she passed, all I could think was that she finally has her peace. I've spent simchas with Roszi, but I'm sure she never recognized me. Her mind was tired, and her soul was tired. Baruch dayan ha'emet. 


It's real now for me. The memory is slipping away. I can feel it, like sand through fingertips. What will happen when all of our memories -- the survivors of the Shoah -- have grown tired and faded away? I'm scared, really. I'm scared that history will repeat, and sooner than we anticipate we'll return to the earth as dust.

I'm an Aunt (Times Two)!

Yes, it's true. Twins have graced my life in the form of nephews in Nebraska, and I'm happy as a clam! My mom let me know on Friday that my sister-in-law was going in for a C-section, so to stay tuned. As the day rolled on and Shabbos grew closer, I heard nothing. Finally, my mom texted to say to check Facebook. Frantically, I headed to Facebook and saw ... nothing! Minutes before Shabbos, I called my mom -- no answer! I texted her, and then called her again, and left a message urging her to call our home phone, only realizing that she didn't have the number! Ach! Luckily, Tuvia's mom stepped in and let my mom know when and where to call: around noon on Saturday, because we could listen to the message as it recorded!

Thus, around noon today, while we sat at our Shabbos table with two other couples, my mom called and I relayed the names and weights to our guests and Tuvia. Our family welcomed to the world the most lovely of baby boys, with more hair than I'd expect on twins born early. Here they are!

Mazal tov to parents John and Jessica Edwards! I can't wait to buy these kids TONS of clothes and toys ... I'm going to use and abuse the title of "aunt." I'm toying with having the kids call me Aunt C or Aunt Jo. What do y'all think?

Obligatory Christmas Post No. 1

Last year, I blogged about being a Secular Christmas Dropout. Here's a chunk from that post:

I imagine if I lived in Israel, the feelings of Christmas would fade over time, and I probably wouldn't even long for the lazy days of mom's cookies and bulk gifts and cheesy, old Christmas ornaments. Did I mention the tree? My mom loves her tree -- it was her prized possession, always. Every year she struggled to get us to help her put it up, and begrudgingly we would always help her. Now? Mom doesn't have anyone to help her. She managed to get my little brother to help this year (with the help of his girlfriend). She sent me a photo of one of the ornaments, a very old one that she has put on the tree since the 1980s. It's a mirrored one, much like all of her early ones (the entire tree is white/silver with a few hints of color here and there), and her comment with it was "Did you know that one of the mirrors was a six pointed star....we must have know way back then that it would represent you :)." My mom, as always, has brilliant insight into these things.

I don't know if my mom read the post, and I'll have to ask her, but the ornament in the photo? I now have it in my possession! My mom sent it to me (among a bunch of other awesome gifts like a Pampered Chef bar pan, Mad Gab, some cute kitchen towels from my Grandma in Branson, MO, and another cute gift that I'll share once my mom sends me the corresponding picture).

Once again, she struggled to get the tree up, but she said it's up now and only a few ornaments broke this year. My mom's tree is beautiful in white and silver. It was always one of my favorite things about the holiday season. We'd sit around the floor in the living room sorting the tree branches by color coating on their ends, and then separate the branches (yes, it was fake) and then put the tree together. My hands always got itchy because whatever the fake tree was treated with just made my hands scratch. This year, my parents will be spending time with my older brother and his preggo (with twins!) wife, as well as my little brother Joe and his girlfriend, both who are home form South Carolina (where they're at school) for the holidays.

Do I wish I were there?

Of course I do. Would it be weird? Without a doubt. Would I deal with it? You betcha. Why? Because -- no matter who you are -- it's always important to remember and cherish where you came from. It makes who you are now all the more valuable, because it's a narrative that you must understand to grow as a person. (I'd post photos of my family, but, well, I don't know how my mom and brothers feel about the face time on my blog.)

So, to my readers celebrating Christmas, Merry Christmas to you. And to all my Yidden, Good Shabbos! And to all my other friends? Happy Winter Solstice and be well.

[Singing] It's Shabbos Now!

But modestly, of course. Because, after all, this is the interwebs and I am an Orthodox Jewess. So pretend I'm in a closet, and no one can hear me. (I am in the Poconos, and it's quiet here. Oh, except for the five burly construction workers banging and sawing and talking about women while putting up the new windows. It's cold. Very cold. Because there are holes in the wall where windows go. But back to our regularly scheduled blog post ...)

Just a note that in a month and a couple days, I'll be rocking Shabbos in Jerusalem. That's the appropriate way for a Chaviva to rock Shabbos, in case you didn't know. Every day, I grow weaker, I think, being here. Almost a feeling of detachment from the world. In Israel? I feel alive. So I'm super stoked to be heading toward Jerusalem soonish. Let's just hope I can survive the coming weeks. (Hat tip to Elianah for her inspiring Israel ROCKS Shabbat post.)

Speaking of the coming weeks, I have a lot in store as far as blog posts go. I just have to get all of my schoolwork done so I can write the blog posts. In no particular order are ...

• TWO, yes, TWO cookbook giveaway contests. There will be some action involved (get your chef's hats ready) and two lucky winners will receive (one person for each book) Jamie Geller's new Quick & Kosher: Meals in Minutes or Susie Fishbein's Kosher by Design: Teens and 20-Somethings. There will be two contests, two blog posts, two winners. The first will start on Wednesday, October 27. 
• A blog post on the hair situation. Yes, hair covering. These happen to be some of my most-read posts, so I'm eager to write another one now that I'm nearly five months into being married and covering. Have I piqued your interest? I might also go all mikvah on you!
• An interesting thing happened in class last week. It involves a class full of Jews with varying observance and self-identification, a kugel, a gefilte fish, and some kale. I know, right? I'll be asking your advice. Feel free to guess where I'm going with this. 
• Tuvia's been helping organize his great aunt's and great uncle's house, and he's found some serious gems of photography and memory. Me, being obsessed with genealogy, took on the task of looking into the photos, the people, the locations, and more. I am looking forward to letting you all know the details, including an interesting revelation about Tuvia's mom's family maybe being Sephardic! As a teaser, here's the photo that got me really going. I believe (and through a variety of checking with living relatives and others) this is Evan's grandmother's immediate family in the early or mid 1930s in Oradea, Romania. This, folks, is a gem, and if it's what we all think it is, it's probably the only surviving photo of a family that (save three sisters) perished in the Shoah. 

Such a seriously good looking frum Jewish family, right?!

So keep your eyes peeled. I promise I'm going to get to these. I have to. This blog is my life force, and maybe that's why I've been feeling so dead and detached lately. Poke me. Prod me. I'll get to it.

Until then? A gut Shabbos. Shabbat Shalom. Peace, health, and lots of cholent to you!

Growing Up & Getting Older.

This is a photo from ... maybe 2005? 2006? I don't remember. It's old. Just like us, now!

I hit the road to South Carolina around 5:45 a.m. on Monday from Teaneck, beating the early-morning traffic around the city. I turned the music up loud, chugged my Skinny Vanilla Latte, and watched the world fly by in my rearview mirror. I drove through Delaware and Maryland and North Carolina and part of South Carolina, and I knew when I had entered G-d's country: Ronald Reagan quotes on billboards and the "Pull off for porn here" billboards juxtaposed with "Have you been saved today?" ones just across the highway.

I stopped at a large Outlet Mall somewhere in North Carolina, popped into the local Lane Bryant and nabbed a new skirt. While checking out, I had to explain to the woman the difference in names on the cards and all that and she queried, glancing at my head scarf, "Did you change your name for religion or somethin'?" with a thick, curly twang. "Yup," I said, "I got married and converted to Judaism." Without much interest, but with a hint of "well, then ... " she said, "Well, isn't that just nice," handed me my bag, and wished me no pleasantries on my way out. It's easier for me to express the tone in person, with the language and the tone, but, well, perhaps you get the drift. As I left the store, two Muslim women were entering, and I almost issued them a "steer clear!" I almost wonder if my name gives off a hint of Middle Eastern-ness that doesn't say "Jew" to a non-Jewish or non-Muslim crowd. It's not an Esther or Miriam or Sarah or Elisheva or anything. Chaviva sounds to many like Habibi. Anyway ...

So I'm here in South Carolina, where I've been for the past two days, and tomorrow I pack up and ship back off to Teaneck. I am here visiting my little brother, although calling him that feels really strange now. Yes, he's nine years younger than me (surprise!), but he's not little anymore. I resisted a long time seeing him as a teenager, and now seeing him as an adult is even more difficult. He and his awesome girlfriend are sharing an apartment in town until they're able to move into campus to start the school year (which will happen in a few weeks), and at first I wanted to quip, "So how is playing house?" but after being here for two days and watching them cook each other dinner and clean up and do dishes and everything, I realize they're not playing. They're grown up. They buy groceries and watch movies and hug and snuggle and cook pasta in the meager pots and pans they have, but they make it work. And most importantly? They're happy. They're really happy. I'm almost jealous of their happiness. It's simple happiness, but they're really happy.

And it's about 5 million degrees and humid here -- not sure how anyone can function in those temps, but they do. And did I mention they're still happy? Sweaty and snuggly, they're happy.

If anything, being here with my brother and his girlfriend has made me miss my husband more than ever (this is, after all, the first time we've spent nights apart since being married in May). Yesterday we went to Myrtle Beach and roamed the beach, we watched fireworks, we schlepped the boardwalk. And the entire time I was thinking, Tuvia would love this. Vacations without your beloved kind of suck.

I never thought I'd be okay with Joe (that's the brother) getting older, but I think this short trip has helped me cope. I'm beaming with pride and joy in his accomplishments. He's a smart kid, he's always been smart, but his smarts have landed him some pretty sweet stuff here in South Carolina (a scholarship with a FREE computer attached!?), and he's living his life. He's doing his thing. He's living. He's grown up now. And I think that finally -- sof sof -- I'm okay with that. I love my little brother more than anything in the world, more than life itself. For all the hell I put him through as a child, he clung to me and nothing has ever come between the two of us; he is my closest relative, my most special soul. I don't know if he knows how much I adore him, but I think he has an idea. After all, I drove 12.5 hours just to see him.

And buy him sheets and a pillow for school, of course. What are sisters for, after all?

Life is a funny thing. I feel so old around him now. This kid, a man now, with a long-term girlfriend and name on an apartment lease and his own things and life. He's growing up, and I'm getting older. But I'm okay with it now. I have the pride of a million mothers for this boy-turned-man.

Now if I could just get him to cut his toenails ...

Stay tuned for lots of trip photos and me letting you know what it's like keeping kosher around non-kosher/non-Jewish family in a state with very, very, very few options that are not convenient at all. As a preview, check out this gigant fried flounder I got at Cafe M in Myrtle Beach!

I Can't Believe I Used to Hate Cooking!

Although I have blogs wholly devoted to gluten-free and kosher living (the recipe blog and the review blog), I like to share my adventures in cooking on Just Call Me Chaviva because, well, food is what Jews do. Sure, food is the livelihood of all peoples, but there's something special about the flare of Jewish cooking and Shabbat preparation that is incomparable in other cultures.

This week, I decided to do a deliciously spicy Indian menu for Friday night and a light, fish-focused meal for Saturday lunch with leftovers on the menu for seudat shlishi. Tuvia and I are in the Poconos for Shabbat and the weekend, with him heading off to his new job in Newark on Monday and me staying here trying to stay sane, get organized, and get some work done. I'm also going to share with you my plans for Father's Day Brunch tomorrow with the in-laws. So let's get to it.

Friday Night

Challah

Dahl (a delicious lentil soup, it was amazing)

Chicken Tikka (I'd probably do this next time sans yogurt, which, by the way, was totally parve)

Saffron Rice (okay, this was store-bought and easily made on the stovetop)

Aloo Phujia (this was crazy spicy, but so delicious!)

Chickpea/Tomato concoction that I sort of rocked on the fly

(That is: chickpeas, olive oil, onions, garlic, tomato paste, salt & pepper)

Gluten-Free Brownies (store-bought, and they were so gooey in the middle!)

Do you ever do "ethnic" food night? I mean, beyond doing the Israeli thing with falafel and hummus. Do you get your Chinese or Greek on? How do you work your menus? Are you successful with guests, or do they prefer the usual suspects?

Saturday Lunch

Challah

Steamed Salmon

Lemon Rice

Roasted Potatoes (the usual, leftover but I knew Tuvia would eat them!)

Streuseled Sweet Potato Casserole (sans the nuts, oops; probably the "heaviest" item in the meal)

Corn

Gluten-Free Vanilla Rugelach, a la Heaven Mills! (perfect right out of the freezer)

I'm a sucker for cooking lots of food ... someday I'll be a master of hosting 10+ people at my home every week. That is, of course, until I have kids and my head explodes from being overworked. Luckily, this fall I have class Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, with an early-morning class Thursday, and that's it. I'll have Thursday and Friday to get my mad cooking skills on. I intend on using the rest of my time here in the Poconos to try out a boatload of recipes I have up over on Gloriously Gluten Free & Kosher, not to mention some other recipes (for crackers, go figure) that I haven't posted up yet. Until then, here's what I have going for brunch tomorrow for my father-in-law.

Father's Day Brunch

Some delicious OJ, Coffee, and Tea

Gluten-Free Donuts (SO GOOD! I'll have the recipe up later on my other blog)

Gluten-Free Cinnamon Rolls

Fresh Sliced Watermelon and Strawberries

Scrambled Eggs and Oven-Baked Eggs in Tomato Cups

Home Fries

Bagels (sadly, not GF) with cream cheese and/or butter

Mad props to the author of "You Won't Believe It's Gluten Free!" Roben Ryberg. Seriously, she's become my new go-to author when it comes to cooking. Her recipes are absolutely amazing, simple, and will be *excellent* come Passover (she offers her recipes in corn-based, potato-based, and oat-based options!). 

Shavua tov, friends, and happy noshing!

For Posterity's Sake ... Flipbook!

The video is cool, but my HAT is cooler. Mad props to Burlington Hat Coat Factory!

Modesty, Shomer Negiah, and Me

Photo courtesy of Aunt Patty!

This is a post that could be said even to be outside my comfort zone, and, typically, nothing gets me all "ooo, what will the people say and think!?" So what's the topic that has me a feeling a little squishy?

Shomer negiah. Modesty (tzniut). Not touching your boyfriend, significant other, partner, spouse. Observing ta'arat ha'mishpacha (that's family purity). And all that good, no-touching stuff.

This is probably the most private post I'll ever write, and I'm okay with that because I think that what is known and understood about modesty and shomer negiah is misunderstood. So here I am, hopefully to serve as an example and provide the positive, necessary experience that these aspects of being observant and Jewish can offer for your neshama. Get it? Got it? Good.

I spent my entire teenage and adult life, up until this narrative begins, living as a normal girl with the normal urges and the normal actions. I was a product of secular America and I dated boys, kissed boys, and hugged boys. Then, Tuvia and I met in late August 2008, went on our first date Labor Day 2008, and were knee-deep in a serious relationship shortly thereafter. We were, for all intents and purposes, like every other "normal," American couple out there. We kissed, we hugged, we were in love. We held hands, we gave cozy snuggles. As time went on, however, I started to feel ... uncomfortable. My neshama was not happy with how I was carrying myself as an Orthodox Jewish woman, especially one going through the Orthodox conversion process. Tuvia and I discussed being shomer negiah a dozen times or more, with me spearheading the effort. I needed to be shomer negiah, I needed that modesty.

I needed to not kiss him, or hug him, or touch him.

So we started slow. There was no more physical intimacy and the kisses and hugs grew further and farther apart. Finally, at last, we reached a point where I declared no more. No more kisses, no more hugs, no more hand-holding. Nothing, nada, zilch. The intimacy that would exist, then, was a touch-less, emotional intimacy that had to translate into words. It was difficult at first, but as time wore on, it became life. We understood that it was necessary for our relationship and the success of our relationship in the long-run, to devote ourselves to modesty and thinking forward to family purity via the route of shomer negiah.

Many people assumed that after my official RCA conversion we'd skip out on shomer negiah, that it was just part of an act we put on for the committee of rabbis. It always bothered me that people thought that this aspect of respecting each other and our not being married yet was not who we were, but was just part of an act. It was never an act -- never. In fact, after the conversion, time officially could tick down to the wedding; the countdown made the observance of shomer negiah all the more easy (for me, anyhow).

So the wedding day came, we took pictures, we went to the chuppah, and the we went to the yichud room -- exhausted, tired, sweaty. Everyone assumes that people get down and dirty in the yichud room, but I can't imagine that it's like that for every couple. After all, for many couples, the marriage is quick, they know each other very little, and they've never touched before. If anything, I think the yichud room typically is calm, serene, and romantic.

It's funny how -- even after the several months we spent together kissing and hugging and holding hands -- it was so awkward at first kiss and first hug. It was, without a doubt, like feeling those physical emotions translated into pure emotion for the first time. I often wonder how couples make the wedding day special after having lived and experienced each other in the same way they will as a married couple all along. It seems to me that traditionally, among all cultures, a sense of modesty and separation was the norm for just about forever, up until maybe the past 100-200 years. The way we view and appreciate each other is incredibly key in how we grow to appreciate and view each other in marriage, I think. So why not start in modesty and respect to end in modesty and respect?

The times were tough, they were unbearable at times when my emotions were running rampant in a ridiculous roller coaster ride, and all I wanted was a hug. But I resisted. I knew that my neshama and HaShem were rocking something special, and I was prepared to wait for Tuvia's big arms to be wrapped around me. I can say, firmly, without a doubt that it was all worth it. The stress the months of not touching or kissing or hugging. Because now, I know how to appreciate Tuvia for who he is, how he speaks and thinks and acts, without having to touch him to feel him. It's a powerful feeling to feel so connected to someone without a need for physicality.

Now, I prepare myself for all that will come along with the new steps of modesty and family purity. I cover my hair (which, for me, so far, has been awesome -- I feel a lot more comfortable, I can walk freely in the rain without worrying about messing up my  hair even!), and I will begin going to the mikvah and observing the laws of niddah (you know, those days where Tuvia and I can't touch, again). These days of niddah, in truth, allow a couple to reboot. To relearn to love each other without touch. To talk, to listen, to laugh, and to have no expectation from the other. In my eyes, it's a beautiful, serene thing, issued by HaShem for the sake of shalom bayit (literally, peace in the house!).

Each day, a hat or scarf. Each moment, anew. Each second, my neshama is growing and thriving because of it.

Without these observances of modesty, without creating these lines of peace, I'm not sure how some couples persist. We all need to reboot, we all need to respect and fall in love all over again with our spouses. It's a roadmap to shalom, if you ask me.

How do you do it if you don't have these observances? How does the relationship stay fresh? How do couples not drown under the weight of one another? <--- Those are serious questions, by the way, if any of you want to answer!

I never thought I'd be this person; I never thought I would have been able to go so long without the touch of a man I love, but I did. And I will. Because love is more than touch, it's more than the sensation of feeling -- it's love, emotion, the feelings traversing time and space to create an impression. HaShem has a roadmap for us, and it makes sense to me. Despite never thinking I'd be this person, I am, and I'm so proud to say that without shomer negiah, without modesty, without family purity, I'd be wandering.

Do Carrie and the Mikvah Mix?

Ahh, a new day. I'm standing her in a darkened kitchen, eating Gluten Free Cinnamon Chex and writing this little note here. I'm marveling that I've nabbed TWO new followers over there on the Blogger follow thing, so hello to whoever you are (I hope you stick around for everything!). The boys are off to a Yankees game (that's my Tuvia, @ravtex, Tuvia's dad, and his uncle, as well). I don't know if I've emphasized just how much he needs to reapply sunscreen every five seconds.

After all, we are getting married tomorrow. Pictures, after all, are at this time tomorrow. Sof sof, I'll be able to see my chatan. Thank haShem. I'm ready for this no seeing and dancing around each other to be over. It's rough, even for someone as sort of emotionally handicapped as me.

We had a big party (kiddush that is) at shul yesterday. Tuvia davened at the big minyan downstairs, and I was upstairs at a smaller, quieter minyan (for the first time, I got to daven in peace at that shul!). We both ushered into the social hall for a beautiful, lavish kiddush that stuffed me good. There were a few almost-encounters, but our awesome friends managed to keep us apart. (Mad props to @ravtex and @susqhb, not to mention our awesome West Hartford friends who also helped out.) I was, in a word, overwhelmed by the people -- strangers and acquaintances -- wishing me a mazal tov. "Thank you for coming!" I said. Sus quickly pointed out to me that, well, it's a synagogue, on Shabbat -- they probably would have come anyway.

So today is a sort of kick-back day. Tuvia at America's Favorite Past time, while Sus and I head to see "Sex and the City 2" (totally appropriate for a kallah the day before her wedding, no?), some food, some CostCo, then my big mikvah dip at 5 p.m., followed by a rousing Pizza Party at 7 p.m. at Tuvia's dad's place. I think it's funny, actually. Tuvia's friends joked yesterday about him "becoming a man" yesterday doing all the shul hullabaloo and aliyot, and here today we're having a pizza party.

I think my little Tuvia is becoming a man. Har har. (Insert smiley face here.)

I'm really stoked though because so many family members and friends are going to be there. I'm stoked to see my West Hartford people and my online people and my new, awesome mishpacha all in one place, intermingled, all for our simcha. My new mishpacha, the loving with unconditional and open arms and emotions. And that makes me so happy.

So the cereal is gone (it was really delicious, in case you were wondering), and I need to wrangle Miss Sus from her French Toast-induced coma. Off to get our Carrie Bradshaw on. We're so glamorous.

Memories, Nothing but Memories.

On the way down to Jersey yesterday night, I perused my computer's old files of poetry and photos of family and my early years in college at the Daily Nebraskan (forever my happiest memory). I'm amazed at the content of some of the files, not all of them poems, but late-night rants of me talking about religion in 2003 (noting, by the way, that I was looking into Judaism) or dreaming the ideal vision of Christmas morning that same year (happiness, a tree, family, snow). I have pictures of long-since-dead relatives, decked out in Victorian gowns, and yet another, still, of the grandmother I never knew playing around, wearing the army-issue hat of the grandfather I never knew. (I wish I knew where the photo was taken, what landmark sits in the background, or what exactly they were doing out on what appears to be a cool day.)

My computer, it seems, has become a hotbed of history and memory, and sometimes it's just hard to swallow. Some of it, however, makes me wonder why I got so old, so young. My poetry precedes me, in all things. I'm not sure why I stopped writing, but it happened when I moved to Connecticut. I have breakthrough spurts of emotion and lines, but they're fleeting. That poetry used to be my therapy, especially when I slammed, standing in front of a crowd made silent by rhymes of death, the Holocaust, and being Jewish, and hollering, hooting, over lines about my figure and the words "you could be the first fat miss America."

Here's something old, something from September 9, 2001. It's weird, because, well, two days later it happened. I'd never connected it before, actually, but sometimes, I see these things coming.


Apocolyptic Atmosphere

Someday
the stars
will fall from the sky
and land on your head
and the
moon will fall into your hands
and melt before your eyes
with star dust crawling across your skin
and fireflies and dragonflies will buzz beneath ur chin
all before the world comes crashing in.

Faux Cursing? Not in This House!

Scene: Starbucks on Easter

Chaviva is busy grading exams, watching the after-church traffic flow in and out steadily. A couple and their daughter plop down at the table next to her. She continues to grade, interspersing exam marks with questions from the wife about what I'm doing (Judaic studies). A moment of silence, grading.

Woman: Oh my, I don't know if I should say that.
pause
Man: I don't even think she heard you.
Me: What? Huh? I didn't hear you say anything.
Woman: Oh, I said (in whisper) oy vey! Is that a curse?
Me: Um, no. It's like saying "Oh geez" or something. It's fine.
Woman: Oh, wow, thank you. I was worried.

That was a weird encounter. Weird only because I'm always experiencing weird encounters at Starbucks. Then, as they left, the man wished me a "good day" and the woman issued me a "happy rest of the semester."

The funny thing is that growing up, despite my parents not being at all particularly religious, my parents wouldn't even let us say things like "oh geez" because the assumption was that it was a shortened form of "Oh Jesus." This went the same for other words that resembled curse words, like "fudge" and "crud." My father was very strict about the faux swearing in that he wasn't having any of it. Of course, as kids we pushed our limits by creating new and creative ways of saying the f-word, s-word, and the h-word. My father's least favorite one of all, actually, was heck for hell. You could have computer or TV cut short for saying heck.

Memories! Just more morsels from the childhood of Chaviva E. At your service!

Pesach Cometh, Have You Shaken Your Books?

While looking on Chabad.org for a place to sell my chametz (I sort of hate this ritual, but I suppose it helps cover all the bases), I happened upon a pretty useful Q&A on "Passover at the In-Laws." The particular line that I felt I needed to share?

...It is incumbent upon every Jew to drive their rabbi nuts before Pesach.

Love it! Poor rabbis, however. I've had minimal questions for my rabbi this year, and most of the questions Tuvia has passed along (e.g., what's the difference between a convection oven and a regular oven?). But I am, in a way, heading to the in-laws for Pesach. Future in-laws that is. We'll be in Florida strictly for the first two days of the chag, which means flying down, doing the seders, and then coming back. No vacation time, no time to drive down to Boca, nada. We're staying with family friends (who aren't kosher, and I mention this only because I worry about refusing something so simple as a cup of water because of issues of kashruth), and I'm hoping that things go smoothly. Last year, Tuvia and I were still getting into our observance around this time. We were still lenient on our kashrut, functioning kosher in-house and watching what we ate out of the house, so going out to eat with family or driving around on Pesach were no big thing. Now? Yipes. We're in a different boat.

I think the hardest thing about becoming frum -- or more observant/more shomer -- is how your observance comes to affect those around you and how it affects situations with friends and family. Where you can eat, where you can't, how you address the issue of food and Shabbos. Dealing with being told you've become "too religious" or the like. All ba'alei teshuvah and converts deal with these kinds of things, and the issue is very delicate. For me, I can't expect my non-Jewish family to figure out what I need or to understand next to anything that comes along with being Jewish. But with Jewish in-laws? It's a whole other story sometimes.

So we'll go to Florida, hopefully get through the seder with the other shomer cousins, and tread delicately and thoughtfully with my future in-laws. I'll sport my prescription sunglasses, a dozen books, and hopefully enjoy some R&R wandering around the golf course.

In the end, logic must always prevail (just think: common sense), and, as the Chabad website says, there is halakah and doing only what you have to do in the presence of those who are uncomfortable is probably best. And most of all? "Passover is a festival for goodness sakes! Festival=time to bring families together in harmony, love and goodtime fun. What's desperately needed here is some education, sensible priorities and common sense."

I suppose I couldn't say it better. It's difficult to present myself to the in-laws sometimes; I worry they worry that I've transformed their kin in a unique and unnatural way. My spark of influence helped spark something in Tuvia's neshama and allowed him to develop himself in observance. To the in-laws, it easily can look like I've forcibly transformed him, and that's the last thing I want them to think. After all, it's the farthest thing from the truth.

What are your tips on staying with non-frum in-laws? Or hey, those of you out there who aren't frum, what gets your goat most about your frum friends or family when they come to visit or when you organize social events? Let's dialogue this. I want to help you help me, and, you know, vice-a-versa!

NOTE: I use the term "frum" to signify individuals who consider themselves strictly shomer mitzvot (observant of the mitzvot, such as shomer kashrut and shomer Shabbat). I avoid using terms like "more observant" or "more religious," because of the diversity of my readership. I think saying "more" anything can rub people the wrong way. After all, there is no scale.

The Big Questions. Answer at Will.

Life is hard. Life is tough. My father says, "Life's a bitch, and then you die." Sometimes, I think his approach is accurate. I try to maintain my optimism, and Tuvia is a great help. But sometimes, it's difficult to see through the clouds. So let's pose a question. I'm asking for some full-frontal here, so feel free to respond anonymously -- I won't be hurt!

If you're a ba'al teshuvah, or if you hate that term but are still someone who has returned to Orthodox roots, or even non-Orthodox roots, but has found some type of active Jewish lifestyle contrary to how you might have grown up, or if you're a convert, how has your family dealt with your lifestyle choices?

How has your family dealt with your wedding or simchas that might be out of the bounds of what they are familiar or comfortable with? What do you do when family events -- weddings, graduations -- are on Shabbat and you simply can't make it and family doesn't understand?

Maybe you changed your  name, or go by a different name, what has been the reaction to that?

And most importantly: How do you cope with all of these things? Or do you not? Are you closer, less close, with your family? How much can you say, "this is my life, and this is how I choose to live and be," and how much do you feel you have to back down and give in?

I am a Secular Christmas Dropout!

Riding down in the elevator of the new Science Center, on my way for coffee while Tuvia finishes up his day at work, I read the sign: "Science Center closes at 3 p.m. today in honor of the holiday!" In my head, all I can think is, How weird that this has become just another day for me.

It's so weird, every time Christmas rolls around, to think that I used to be a huge fan of Christmas. I loved the songs, the trees, the lights, the celebration. I never really took the idea of it being the birthday of Jesus to heart, because I knew my history and I knew my religion. Regardless of this, in my parents house Christmas was the kind of day where everyone sat back and watched TV, played with the new gadgets and gizmos, and ate Christmas classics. Oh, and we also gorged on cookies. My mom was big on cookies during the holidays, and she usually sent my dad into work before and after Christmas with tins full of confectionery goodies: No Bakes, Chocolate Chip Cookies, Chinese Chews (now that I think about it, the name is kind of inappropriate), those cookies she made with the cookie gun that had all sorts of shapes, like Christmas trees and snowmen and snowflakes, as well as fudge and lemon cookies and every other kind of cookie her little hands could make. We'd chow on Chex Mix (homemade, of course), and watch whatever happened to be on television. New video games were torn open and inserted, played for hours. I remember one of my favorite gifts of all time was this nifty Crossword Puzzle thing, where you turned the knobs and you'd get a new game each time. I got my share of Barbie dolls and art supplies and books and definitely pajamas, too. But the aura of the day was beautiful. It was relaxed and casual and a day where we wouldn't do anything -- after all, you couldn't, because everything was closed. Sometimes we'd have to run out to Walgreens for batteries or milk or green beans, but really the only reason to go out was to look at the lights.

I still love the lights, of course. But only the white ones -- the colorful mess of wires and lights that ends up on some people's houses leaves me feeling queasy. There's something universal about the lights of the holidays (the white ones, anyway).

Now? Chanukah came and went, and each day was just another day, aside from the lighting of the Chanukiah and the opening of a few presents. It wasn't one day of extravagant present-opening or gorging on sweets. Chanukah just isn't set up for that, and it wasn't meant to be. In fact, I'm not sure that there *is* a holiday set up in the Jewish calendar that can compare to what we've turned Christmas into. And I'm okay with that. At the same time, the nostalgia that I feel for Christmas concerns me sometimes. It feels wrong or inappropriate. I bob my head to Christmas tunes in the store, and while sitting at the dentist yesterday (Christmas music blaring despite the fact that most of the dentists at this particular location are Jewish) my feet were tapping to the classic Christmas carols of my youth. At one point, I was busy singing those songs in choir and in class. What a different world I lived in!

I imagine if I lived in Israel, the feelings of Christmas would fade over time, and I probably wouldn't even long for the lazy days of mom's cookies and bulk gifts and cheesy, old Christmas ornaments. Did I mention the tree? My mom loves her tree -- it was her prized possession, always. Every year she struggled to get us to help her put it up, and begrudgingly we would always help her. Now? Mom doesn't have anyone to help her. She managed to get my little brother to help this year (with the help of his girlfriend). She sent me a photo of one of the ornaments, a very old one that she has put on the tree since the 1980s. It's a mirrored one, much like all of her early ones (the entire tree is white/silver with a few hints of color here and there), and her comment with it was "Did you know that one of the mirrors was a six pointed star....we must have know way back then that it would represent you :)." My mom, as always, has brilliant insight into these things.

At any rate, I just wanted to share some of my thoughts with you all. Very stream-of-consciousness here, so I apologize if it's unreadable. I'm just trying to figure out the emotions at this time of the year. It's impossible to wash them away, or to even wish them gone. In fact, I think the fact that I have positive memories of that time of my life is good -- Secret Santa, ornaments, mom's green bean casserole and Chex Mix, the constant gift of flannel pajamas -- they're all a part of who I was and inevitably will shape who I become. Plus, I think they give me particular insight into what it means to be a Secular American (Jesus never existed in our Christmas, period). Someday, when I have kids, I think I'll be able to explain things better because of my experiences. Let's just hope that they develop a sense of worldliness like I have, so that when Christmas time rolls around they will neither long for it nor disparage those who celebrate it.

If you're in the mood, read a very emotional Christmas Day post from 2007, or about Nittel Nacht, the traditional way Ashkenazi Jews spend (or don't) Christmas Eve!

Yom Huledet Sameach to Me!

Yes. It's my birthday. Wahoo! The big Two-Six. What happens when you turn 26? Not a whole lot. So I'll just sit by and wait for 30, the next big thing. My inbox is exploding with Facebook Wall birthday wishes, my Twitter runneth over with kind wishes, and even the blogging universe (Thanks TMC and Heather!) have sent me their tidings.

What to say as I turn 26? I have the world's greatest friends. You guys rock, and I'm continually blessed as a result. What a way to start 5770. I kind of like that my birthday falls during the holidays because it's like starting anew, and anew, and anew. But it also makes celebrating hard (who wants more cake after Rosh Hashanah and break-the-fast babkas and treats!?). There are also no kosher restaurants to dine at around these parts, which is a little bummer, but I'll survive.

I do, however, have to share the most awesome gift EVER that I received from Tuvia (and his mum!). Yes, this gift is seriously the most thoughtful gift ever. Why? Because it takes me back to being a kid, and it's the kind of gift I'd never in a million years expect to get. I got the American Girl's new Rebecca doll, which I blogged about in the past. She's their first Jewish doll to be released with her own story, accessories, and American Girl life! So why's she so special to me?

Here's the story.

When I was a kid, I started to get the American Girl doll catalog in the mail. I'd sit down with it, circling all the books and dolls and accessories that I wanted. This was in the late 1980s, early 1990s, when I was still living in Missouri. They even came out with a special "make a doll that looks like you" feature in the catalog, and I dreamed of having my own doll. Even if I couldn't make one (they were more expensive), I could at least get Molly because her and I were practically twins (brown hair, glasses, pale, geeky). But as much as I prodded my parents, they could never afford the dolls. So every month when we'd visit my parents in Branson, Missouri, we'd go to Silver Dollar City (a very old tyme themepark with train robbers, glass blowing, and hot s'mores during the winter), I'd spend what little money I had on purchasing American Girl collectors cards. I also managed to get a couple of Addy books along the way. But I never got a doll, while some of my other friends did. It was depressing, but I eventually stopped looking at the catalog and moved on. My dreams would never be realized -- after all, you hit a point when dolls become a thing of the past.

So when I saw the Rebecca box and the box with her Shabbat set (challah! hot water urn! tea! challah cover!), I was elated. It was such a special and thoughtful gift, a gift unlike I would expect or ever think of receiving.

The rest of my birthday will be routine. No big parties, no big celebrations. No cakes, no surprises. I'll be teaching a review session at 6 p.m., schlepping into Manchester after that, and hopefully decorating Tuvia's sukkah with him. Chances are I'll curl into bed with my Ancient Fictions book or some Midrashic gem and wrestle myself to sleep with dreams of where I'll be in another year -- Jerusalem? Graduate school? Married? With child? This is the fun of life. Never planning ahead, taking it all in stride, and enjoying every moment surrounded by friends and loved ones.

Amen!

PS: I forgot to wish Elie Wiesel, my very own birthday buddy, a Yom Huledet Sameach last night. Curses!

Pesach Reflections, Part I

Where to begin, where to begin. I spent my day working on a paper for my Ancient Near East course about the importance of an interdisciplinary approach to ancient studies, as well as cutting down my Golden Calf paper from last semester for a Society of Biblical Literature conference that is less than two weeks away. Oy. Now, I'm a pro on nanogenerators as I prepared a sample blog post for a friend who is considering taking me on as his once-weekly blogger for a new engineering business he's presently setting up. Yes, I might actually become a paid blogger. My take? If you're a good blogger, you can blog on absolutely anything in the world and make it sound like it's your first area of expertise. So here's hoping I'm a good blogger.

But Pesach? I had matzo pizza today and it absolutely elated me. I know I won't feel that way come Thursday, but for now, it's comforting. So far, all of Passover has been incredibly comforting. I've never felt so loved, wanted, needed, accepted, and cared for in my life than I have over the past several days. It's all thanks to the three-day chag. Two days of Passover seders in West Palm Beach, Florida, by Tuvia's family and then Shabbat in West Hartford with our host family and their extended family, as well as many, many guests. I was left feeling exhausted last night, just wanting to sleep, and now that I've slept, all I can think about is how special I feel. How blessed I truly am.

The holiday started out with a devastating turn of events. The iTouch I had bought the week before as a reward for years spent paying off credit card debt, not to mention being accepted to Middlebury's Language School and having my paper accepted to SBL, was stolen from my flight to West Palm from Newark. I'd left it on a seat and it was swiped up in the blink of an eye. The anxiety and stress from the past two weeks culminated in a near-asthma attack, a muffled anxiety attack, and hugs from perfect strangers apologizing for the loss of the $300 item and my sense of security and accomplishment. I spent my time pre-Pesach first night hastily changing passwords to my email, Twitter, Facebook, and other programs that were pre-loaded to appear on my iTouch. So when I got the seder? I didn't want to be there. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to rest and relax and not be near people. I needed to be quiet and sad. I needed to crawl inside myself like I do when things feel like they're falling apart.

Instead?

I was hugged by Tuvia's grandmother and cousin and aunts and uncles and friends and more family. I was attacked by tiny dogs shoving balls around tiled floors in the most beautiful and grand homes I've ever been in. I was shuffled to a two-table-long seder where the Maxwell House haggadah was the text of choice. Men placed on kippot and the seder leader -- an Israeli whose Hebrew made me feel calm -- began the festive meal with blessings. The food was delicious, the conversation fascinating. I got a chance (both nights, actually) to share my academic works. I got to talk about the Golden Calf and oranges on seder plates and why Jews dress the way they do. I got to put my brain on display and for me? That's something that I live and die for. It's self-indulgent, I'm sure, but I like to teach people things that they might not know or that they might have misconceptions about. It was brilliant and I left the seder that night feeling special, as a true Jew, as someone proud of my knowledge and someone who was sitting around a table with people who will someday be my family. The only bummer of the night? After the festive meal, well, no one continued the seder. There were three of us who had to finish up with the third and fourth cups, letting Elijah in, bensching, and all the other bits and pieces of the second half of the seder. The seder was seriously lacking from the meal. For me, I'd rather have a seriously lacking meal and a full seder. But I shouldn't complain -- it was an amazing time.

Everyone hugged and departed and Tuvia and I trekked off to our hotel near the turnpike. We slept, exhausted, after a long and stressful day that left me without proper footing. As such, we slept in really late Thursday, as our only plan for the day was to head to the Second Seder -- same house, same time, most of the same people. We got up around noon, slapped on some clothes, and headed downstairs for some pre-breakfast coffee. To our excited surprise, the hotel had put out a gigantic plate of matzo! Never in my life had we been so excited to see matzo.

Only in West Palm Beach, folks. Only in West Palm. Did I mention this was my first trip to West Palm?

But more on next time ... stay tuned for Pesach Reflections, Part II!

School starts soon, and I am so unprepared.

I'm back, part two. (That's me in the Omaha airport on Thursday, nursing a 2-hour delay with $3.99 unlimited day's web access.)

After returning from Israel, I headed home to Nebraska to get some time in with my family -- specifically to see how my father was doing after his first round of chemo at the end of December. The trip out wasn't too bad, we flew out of Newark in the wee hours of the morning on Monday and got to Nebraska with time to do some outlet shopping at some sad, sad outlet malls between Omaha and Lincoln. Our first stop? Runza. The world's greatest fast-food joint. Tuvia loved the place so much, every time we talked about getting another bite to eat, he'd joke about going back to Runza. We spent the next few days driving around town, me showing Tuvia my old haunts (especially the Coffee House, where we went three of the four days we were there), my high school, my favorite places, and cheesy places like the mall to buy me a nice formal dress for an upcoming awards ceremony that was canceled due to the inclement weather last night (but it was beautiful -- well, the weather, that is; I guess the dress is okay, hah). We ate at all my favorite places -- Runza, Bison Witches, Lazlos -- and a few places that I wasn't so fond of. We went book shopping and I discovered that my favorite bookshop -- The Antiquarium -- that used to be down in the Old Market in Omaha is no longer there, trading space for someplace out of town. The old places are turning into new places with condos and lofts popping up all over downtown Omaha and in the Haymarket in Lincoln.

But the most important part of the trip was probably the time spent at home, just sitting with my family. Tuvia managed to spend a good hour stumping my mom, little brother, the little brother's girlfriend, and me with a game called "Petals Around the Rose." I could have killed him, that game is so ridiculous. I got to look at old photos of my mom and dad, and many of my mom when she was just a child. My grandmother, in an effort to clean out the house after my grandfather passed last year, has come up with some real gems. My favorites are probably the ones of the car my mother wrecked -- there are so many of that poor front bumper. But the photos of mom and dad opening gifts, dad in his plaid shirts and overalls (a style he managed well into the early 2000s) are some of the most prized I saw.

Last Tuesday, we took my dad to his doctor's appointments, eventually shuffling him to a hospital across the way for some extra looks into what was making him feel so crappy. We spent nearly four hours with my dad that day. I followed him into the doctor's office, helped ask questions, and took about four pages of notes to share with my mom on his medicines, how he was feeling, his shocking weight loss, and other notable things. He kept apologizing for taking up our time, and I kept reminding him "We're in Lincoln, Nebraska, there isn't that much for us to do, it's okay!" In some way, I have to believe that me being there helped calm him, in some way maybe.

It was more emotionally exhausting than I had planned for, and it didn't really hit me how drained I was until Tuvia and I got back to our little Motel 6 room each night. I just wanted to sleep it all off, prepare myself for another day, and go. Even now, as I sit comfortably in Connecticut staring out the window after a night's snow leftovers, I feel a little tired. I talk to my mom who tells me when dad is having his up days and down days. Some days he's down for some Subway, other days he just feels sick. It's the chemo.

So that was the past week for me. Trying to smile and stay lifted. Excited to see my little brother, who has managed to grow a nice little "emo" 'do on his head (men in my family are blessed with thick heads of hair), which his girlfriend seems to really like. He's a smart kid, a really smart kid, and he always makes me smile, no matter how crappy I feel. I miss him -- a lot. Luckily, having Tuvia there was a great lift. He's kind of a personified smile. He is always optimistic, uplifted, and manages to keep me afloat. I think it was a good thing for my parents to meet him when they did -- he allowed laughter, smiles, and fun to enter the house for a few days.

At any rate, a sobering post, I know. I have more Israel to talk about, of course, and I'll probably write next on my Bat Mitzvah ceremony, which was a major trip. I think, if anything, the photos will do the talking for me, though. The look on my face? Priceless and cheesy!

A Stream of Consciousness Post

My coat -- a fluffy, bright pink Lands End piece -- makes me feel like that kid in "A Christmas Story." I walk around, arms stiff, like a penguin, unable to move or rotate my head, but feeling quite warm nonetheless.

I'm not really sure what this revelation has to do with the bigger picture, namely that I'm feeling all out of sorts in a number of ways, but it seemed like a good segue from point A to point B, wherever point A might have been. And suddenly, as I write this, I realize I had no idea how to spell "segue" prior to now (why did I think it was segway?).

I've traded a relatively painless life for a life of uncertainty and difficulty. I went from schluffing around an economics department at one of the country's most prestigious schools, making good money and saving up, but being subjected to emotional and verbal assault on some ocassions, to academia, where I spend every day wondering when my fingers will find their way to the keys so that I might put something down on paper to impress the holy prophets -- that is, the professors. On winter days like this, I'm reminded of sitting for hours on end at the Coffee House in Lincoln, Nebraska, during my undergraduate years, studying biblical Hebrew and preparing editing marks for the school newspaper (which, it seems, is where most of the excitement I remember about school arose from). I'm also reminded of my time in Washington D.C. when I was working at the Washington Post, when I'd get out of work at midnight and schluff over in the cold to my favorite little coffee shop haunt in Dupont Circle to read the week's parshah and dish out a d'var Torah for the blog. I miss that kind of dedication where I provided the reader of this very blog with something Jewishly substantial as far as the Torah went.

It's something about this time of year makes me want to crawl into coffee shops for days and days, drinking mochas and running into old friends, conversing about tout le monde. Unfortunately, my university is devoid of any coffee shops like what I'm familiar with -- couches, dank corners, intellectuals waxing poetic over a chess board. The coffee shops on campus are all loud and filled with people and aren't really coffee shops at all, they're just places that sell coffee that happen to be inside various campus buildings. The ambiance, which I found so inspiring during my undergrad, just isn't here.

I called my little brother last night, to get peace of mind about how he was coping with the whole dad thing. He managed to brighten me up, like he always does, with his infinite wisdom and interesting outlook on life. When I asked him how he was feeling about things, he aptly responded, in the Edwards way, "There's always something bad happening around here, I'm just used to it." That, folks, is wisdom. 

I've signed up for classes next semester (though the large chunk of graded work for this semester still has yet to be penned), and I'm quite excited about them. I think they'll offer more intellectual stimulation than this semester managed to, though, I think it will be a much more difficult semester. My classes? Of course there will be Hebrew, there will also be a class on Holocaust cinema, but it will be focused on the cinema of the decade at the end and following the Shoah, specifically in Europe and Russia, and I think it'll provide some interesting insight into little-known film. And then, my third class will be Talmudic and Midrashic thought, which is a graduate seminar that should be advanced to the point of forcing me to get really damn good at my Hebrew really damn fast.

To be honest, I'm nervous about writing these two papers. It's sort of going to set the stage for the next three semesters, I think. Will I impress the professors with my Judaic studies prowess and mad writing skills? Will they be wowed with my punctuation and verbage? My choice of words (I'm anti-big words and anti-thesaurus, for what it's worth)? My rhythm and flow? I think, to be sure, that I'm far too worried about what people think of my writing. When I tell people I was a journalism major they always say "Oh, you like writing?" forgetting that there's a whole editing -- not to mention design and photographic -- component to journalism. I was never a writer in the journalistic sense, but I've always been a writer. A poet, anyway. I like to think I have a sense for how something is meant to sound and how the words are supposed to be paired.

But enough about me.

I pose a question for my readers of the academic or religiously curious persuasion: Recently in my Bible course we were discussing the Trinity and Jesus/G-d. Now, I can't seem to get a really straight answer about how Christians reconcile the following things. Assume the following are all accepted as true.

1) G-d is all powerful and cannot suffer

2) Jesus is G-d

3) Jesus is flesh, and thus able to suffer

So how do Christians reconcile the idea that G-d cannot suffer but Jesus does suffer if Jesus is G-d (which he has to be, otherwise it's idolatrous)? I'm asking this seriously, as an academic. It seems to me that all explanations boil down to the following: "We cannot know, for G-d's ways are mysterious to man." And that, unfortunately isn't good enough for me. Sure, there's a lot in Judaism that people throw into the same category, but at least we argue about it!

Anyhow, for this week's parshah, Chayei Sarah, check out G-dcast.com , and have a good Shabbos!