Yes, There Are Jews in Omaha

I spent a Shabbat in Omaha, Nebraska, recently and really enjoyed my time. If you ever wondered what the community there is like, read on. Was I asked to write this? No. I did it because I think it's a community worth looking at if you're considering a move out of the city life or the typical NJ/NY experience. Also: Nebraska's unemployment is the second-lowest in the nation and Warren Buffett lives there, so ... that's awesome, right? 

Do you even know where Omaha is? Most people know Omaha and only Omaha when I mention that I'm from Nebraska. We landed in Nebraska in 1996 and I left there after graduating college in 2006, but there are moments of longing for the simple, easy life that it provides. Luckily, Denver gives that same kind of chill living, almost to a second degree.

My only pre-recent experience with the Omaha Jewish community: a Shabbat visit to the Chabad there where they let me light Shabbat candles despite not being converted yet (which made me feel awesome and special and Jewish) and Passover at the big Conservative synagogue there. Both experiences I had with the University of Nebraska-Lincoln Hillel as we attempted to broaden our Jewish life in Lincoln.

So when I was planning my most-of-the-way-cross-country trip, I knew that I needed to stop somewhere for Shabbat, and my options were Chicago, Des Moines, and Omaha, and because I was trying to stay on I-80 for the trek, I opted for Omaha because, well, it's my home state and I'd read in the OU magazine once that the community there was booming with young adults and a happenin' Jewish experience. I mean, they had a kosher bagel shop that burned down and was immediately rebuilt because of its importance to the community.

So I looked up the rabbi at Beth Israel (Orthodox) -- Rabbi Gross -- and sent an email out into the abyss hoping for a Shabbat hookup. He responded quickly with a place for me to stay and meals, too! (Truth time: I actually wrote to him on Shabbat.com and email and Facebook ... I was anxious.)

I arrived just in time to my hosts' house to find out there was another Shabbat guest who currently is United States trotting (her story is fascinating), and at dinner discovered there was another stopperby on his way to Arizona. It was an impromptu Shabbaton, and we were all welcomed with the openest of arms by the rabbi and community.

The shul is very new and modern, which some like and some don't. I'm one of those traditionalists who really likes the old-school, old-world shuls with lots of character and history, but for an Orthodox shul, it had beautiful artwork and stained glass and quite the nice mechitzah, too, which, let's be honest, can make or break the experience of davening. (Wait, am I the only one who thinks this?)

I really enjoyed the rabbi's d'rash, if only because for the first time in a long time, I watched an Orthodox rabbi interact with his audience! He asked questions, took answers, and made it more of an interactive learning experience then a soapbox pulpit presentation, which I really enjoyed. Next time I'll have to study the parsha to make sure I'm prepared for the Q&A.

The community is diverse -- black hats to women without covering -- but it seems that everyone jibes well with one another, and that's the sign of a very powerful dynamic. And rumor has it that the eruv is going up soon, which will be the first time there's been one in Omaha ever!

As the community grows, so too will its infrastructure. I have no doubt in my mind that with Rabbi Gross's leadership the community will be rocking out plenty of Jewish amenities in the future that will make Omaha a more tantalizing location. But if you want out of the NY/NJ scene and want to buy a house for what you'll get a shoebox apartment in the City? Then consider Omaha. A community can only grow and become awesome if people go there.

Believe me, if I weren't in Denver right now, I might very well be in Omaha. My friends are there, the congregation is growing, the amount of children running around is enough to put a smile on your face, and there's a bagel joint. What more could you ask for?

PS: Check out the rabbi's blog here. 

Have I Become a Monster?

This post has been stewing for some time now. I feel really uncomfortable writing it, to be honest with you, but I feel like I need to write it. Maybe I should really look into a therapist, seriously. I think if I did do this, however, I'd run out of the stellar content I have. I have to precursor this by saying that those of you who know me will read this post with my voice in mind, not to mention my evolution and experiences. Whatever you do, please don't read only this post and attempt to pass judgment on me; you've got to know the whole story. So here goes nothing.

I converted under Reform auspices in April 2006 (wow, I'm almost four years out from that) after about 3 years of personal study, as well as studying with a rabbi. Flash forward to January 2010, and I've become more frum, keeping kosher, maintaining a shomer Shabbat lifestyle, and observing shomer negiah (much to the shock of some friends in the community). For all intents and purposes, I'm a modern frum Jew. Along with this evolution has come many other, small things, that I don't necessarily think about on a day-to-day basis. How I carry myself or the things I say. Saying modeh ani in the morning and the shema in the evening has become old hat for me. It's a reflex, if anything. And that's probably teh most appropriate way to relate these things: They have become reflexes.

Every now and again, I sit back and think, "Wow, I remembered to do this or that," and it makes me smile to know that I'm conscious of living in the manner that I do. But there are some things, some reflexes, of which I am not so proud. They're things that make me cringe and make me wonder whom I'm becoming.

My community, for example, is wonderful; I love my community. It's incredibly modern and the paths of Conservadoxish and Orthodox and Hasidic and other flavors of Judaism cross. But for the most part, if you asked anyone in my community, they would tell you that the number of families that keeps strictly shomer Shabbos is small, and the number of families that keep kosher both in and outside the house is even smaller still. I could count on probably two hands and a foot the number of families/couples I know that understand what it means to be a modern, frum Jew in a manner that is on par with Orthodoxy today, and I'm talking modern Orthodoxy, nothing Haredi or hard-line. Just your run-of-the-mill modern, Orthodox Jew.

At first, I was fine with this. I mean, I pride myself on being non-judgmental. My policy, as it always has been, is that what you do is what you do and it's your relationship with the Big Man Upstairs. I can't say whether Christians or Muslims or Jews or Buddhists or Scientologists have it right -- it's impossible, I repeat INCONCEIVABLE -- to say "I have it right, and you have it wrong." In my mind, you do what's right for you, and you call it a day. For me, Judaism is right. For others, Christianity is right. The problem comes when you look at those who are rocking the same thing. And I never thought I'd feel this way, but good lord. I think I'm becoming someone I don't like.

Within Judaism, you have Reform, Conservative, Humanist, Reconstructionist, JewBu, Hasidic, Chabad, Orthodox, Modern Orthodox, Secular, Cultural ... the list goes on and on. If they thought they had it rough back in the day with the Essenes, Sadducees, Dead Sea Sect, and Pharisees, they were just tipping the iceberg. When I was Reform, I was sort of at the "bottom of the rung" as far as the evolution of Judaism went. It was probably the most progressive and most new, and I felt the same -- fresh and new. Then I started picking up more mitzvot, and then I ended up here. Shomer mitzvot, plain and simple. The result, however, is that I look at Jews who aren't shomer mitzvot and wonder, "Why do you NOT want to be shomer mitzvot?" This happens less so when I look at my Reform or Conservative brethren than when I look at those who flatly and boldly identify themselves as "Orthodox" Jews.

I'm coming to realize that I'm not comfortable eating at the homes of people I've felt comfortable with before, because our views of shomer mitzvot are not the same. I find myself looking at friends and scrutinizing how they run their households and the choices they make. I find myself critical of those around me, how they dress and how they observe tzniut. In the beginning I thought, "I'm trying to help figure out who I am and how I'll do shomer mitzvot." And then? I woke up one day and realized that I wasn't doing that. I was doing more than that. I was noticing how frum and un-frum all of these people around me were. It made me uncomfortable, it made my stomach turn.

How do you look at a friend and say, You make me uncomfortable, over something like religion? Or not even religion, but observance of that religion. And like I said, I'm less concerned about those who aren't Orthodox than I am for those who are Orthodox. After all, if you say that you think the mitzvot aren't binding, then they aren't binding to you. Stand proud in your understanding of your chosen path. But if you say, I'm Orthodox, and the mitzvot are binding, then how can you turn around and break Shabbos or go out to eat non-kosher or any of a number of things that most people -- even people in past generations -- never thought twice about.

Who on earth am I becoming? Or have I become. I would like to think the problem is the problem of the people who say one thing and do another. But, as most psychologists would say, there's something I see in these people that I'm deflecting, it's something I don't dig about myself. But I think that's only half the battle. Perhaps the zealousness of the convert in my neshama is just frustrated, extremely frustrated. I look at every Jew and think, "You! You were born a Jew! Stand proud, stand tall, love who you are and observe the mitzvot with the passion and fire that your ancestors surely espoused!" There are those of us who fight, out of nature, to be frum. Not as a competition or because we feel like we need to be MORE Jewish or MORE observant than others, but because our neshamot are insatiably hungry. We need the mitzvot. 

I don't know. This is something that's been eating at me for a few weeks now. I go through these phases of feeling like a horrible person because I don't feel comfortable being around people that a year ago or even six months ago I was completely comfortable around. Is this the ebb and flow of a convert? Do baalei teshuvah go through the same thing? Is this natural? It feels uncomfortable, but expected.

Sigh. Mah la'asot?


Have I become a monster? To look at my fellow Orthodox Jew and think, Shame on you. Stand firm in what you firmly believe is true, no matter what that belief is. Just, be honest with yourself and those around you. Do not be two-faced, do not be double-sided, do not be someone that you truly are not.

Is that so wrong?

Miles, miles, miles and shiurs out my ears!

Shavuot was, in a word, excellent. In another word? Exhausting. The best way for me to relate the entire experience would probably be a timeline, so here goes. Elaborative posts shall follow!

Thursday

7 p.m. Head to our dinner hosts' house to drop off five challot and a bunch of soda and some juice for the young adults' dinner after services. Then headed to our OTHER host's house (where we sleep) where we dropped our bags, dropped the car, and schlepped off to the shul. Clocked distance: 1 mile. 


8:30 p.m.-11:30 p.m. After a rousing and people-filled service, not to mention a delightful shiur by a 5-year-old boy about the giving of the Torah and the varying tribes (which he named in order), all of the young adults headed next door for our big dinner. There were about 18 people and a few babies and kids in attendance. The dairy meal was outstanding, and left everyone full for the walk to our first shiur-fest location. Thus, around 11 something or other, we all headed off our OTHER host's house (where we sleep) for the first leg of our adventure. Clocked distance: 1 mile. In the rain!


11:30 p.m.-2:15 a.m. There were a ton of people at the first stop, and a truckload (not really) arrived at the house not long after our group arrived. They flooded like a clown car into the playroom adjacent to the living room where all the of the adults were listening to a shiur on a new form of minyans that have been popping up where women are granted similar aliyot as men. I'll be honest: I don't get much out of some of the victimist feminist theories that are out there. I like to think that I'm pretty darn forward thinking, but I love the mechitzah, I love that men and women are granted different "roles" within Judaism. It's not defeatist or realist, it's just that I get how things are. The second shiur was absolutely fascinating, and I'll write a whole other post on it perhaps. Or maybe I'll get the fellow who gave the shiur to write a guest post! It was an interesting look at how the rights of converts truly parallel those of Abraham, the original convert. Just as G-d gave Abraham, so G-d gives to the gerim. I'm not doing it justice, so I'll wait and deliver some more thoughts later. The final shiur was given by the rabbinical intern, who spoke about an Epistle to the Yemeni Jews by Maimonides, which was about how to discern a false prophet. Fascinating stuff! And then? With a bit of exhaustion in my step, we all headed off to the shul for the final portion of the program.

Friday

2:15 a.m.-4:15 a.m. We got soaked heading back to the shul -- the weather was miserable, yet beautiful. The streets were quiet and the street lights glistened in the puddles on our trek. I stepped in a gigantic mud puddle, but managed to laugh it off. We arrived at the shul to a group of loud and rowdy teenagers, the same who were stacked into the playroom earlier (they were a huge group of NCSY kids, about 35-40 of them). I grabbed a hot chocolate, and we regrouped when everyone arrived, settling in the main sanctuary for another interesting shiur. I'll admit that my mind was a little floaty at that point. I remember it being fascinating, about whether a stolen item can be used to complete a proper mitzvah (like eating stolen matzo on Pesach), and I think there was even another shiur after that but I forget. It was hard to stay up, but it was nice to have a group of about 10 other people who were there with me the entire night, laughing and joking, schlepping around the shul in order to keep awake. Clocked distance: 1 mile ... in the rain!

4:15 a.m. Someone announced that we could start davening at 4:20 and everyone got really excited -- we thought we couldn't start services until 4:30. A friend and I ran out into the lobby to check the sheet with all the times but, well, there was no announcing time for the service, so we ran back in and it turned out it was a false announcement! People were slowly arriving for services, and everything had been prepared for the service start. Amen. I was exhausted, my knees hurt, I needed sleep!

4:30-6:00 a.m. The service was a muddle of Hebrew, quick traditions and readings. Everyone was in a horrible hurry to get home to their beds, so there was no singing, much to the dismay of myself and one of the other women there. We tried our hardest, only to be scolded (playfully) by a friend! The entire thing started and finished in one quick action, and it disappointed me. Here we are, in this ultimate, beautiful moment of reliving the revelation at Sinai and it's zipped through as if it were a grocery list for meat loaf and mashed potatoes. I wanted to say, "Stop! Slow down! Read slowly! Feel the words, breathe them!" But alas, I was exhausted, and my energy didn't allow me to protest. So there I was, standing, listening to a speed reading of the 10 Commandments/Decalogue, and I wanted to cry. Even as the words were quickly read, I still felt them, in my own way, and it was beautiful. 

6:00-6:20 a.m. I walked home from shul, alone half of the way and half with a few friends, in the rain. The sky was gray and cloudy, and rain misted in that annoying way where it isn't enough but it's far too much. There were few cars on the street and the birds were in heaven with all the wiggly worms crawling out of the earth. I arrived back at my host's house, having realized halfway during the service that I neglected to secure a way to get back INTO the house upon my morning return. So I arrived, sat on the front stoop, waiting for Tuvia to come out on his way to work or someone to see me sitting there. I sat in silence, watching the birds pick at the ground, the rain falling from the trees, and people driving by on their way to work stuffing breakfast sandwiches in their faces. What an interesting, beautiful world. Clocked distance: 1 mile. 

Around 6:45 a.m., someone happened to walk out of the house, letting me in. The someone had fallen asleep early in the morning while studying, and had just woken up. Lucky me! I went upstairs, said hello to Tuvia who was on his way to work, and fell not so quickly asleep. 

Friday-Saturday

Shabbat was like any other Shabbat. Services (with lots of Shavuot-y goodness), meals, socializing, davening, schlepping. I walked back and forth to shul twice, clocking an additional 4 miles. I ate more than any normal person should ever eat in a two-day span, that's for sure, everything from pizza to cheesecake to blintzes to lasagna to macaroni and cheese. I think every dairy food possible made its way through these lips. The entire weekend was long, filled with people and constant movement from place to place. By Saturday night I was absolutely worn out. I can't imagine what it would be like for Shavuot to fall on a Weds-Thurs followed by Shabbos. It might well be murderous to the social butterfly. Overall ...

I clocked more than 8 miles (my knees weep), 

heard about 6 shiurs + 1 d'var Torah by a 5 year old, 

ate more than 5 meals (not to mention snacks), 

and stayed up until 7 something in the morning one day. 

For my first Shavuot, in full, it was excellent, outstanding, educational, spiritual, and moving. Next year, I'll probably take a schluff on one of the leather couches between 4:30 a.m. and the full 9:30 service on Shavuot so I can get a "real" experience of the full service, not a rushed incarnation of it. But overall? Beautiful. 

Wait, you're NOT supposed to trash Chametz?

This post was inspired by a conversation I had over Shabbat in W. Hartford...

Less than a year ago, I was gearing up for my first real (well, not really, I didn't kasher my kitchen at that time) observant Pesach. It was April 18, 2008 that I first went to an Orthodox shul for the first time, and wow here I am now a regular attendee of the local Orthodox shul, I stay weekly in the community, and I'm working on a conversion with the rabbi there.

When I was getting ready for Passover last year, I went through my entire kitchen -- cupboards, fridge, freezer, you name it, I found chametz and items with chametz and kitniyot (not getting to a kitniyot blog this year, it just isn't worth the time or energy). The result of my search was a donation to a local foodbank of some unopened stuff, and a gigantic box of stuff that I put in the lobby of my building with a note for people to PLEASE TAKE since Passover was coming. The thing is, when I learned and read about Pesach, in my mind, the whole point was to not be in possession of chametz -- period. Not in the house. Not at the office. None of my spaces could have the dirty little leavened goods.

This whole selling your chametz thing throws me for a loop.

I remember doing it last year, on one of the last days, because I was told that's what you HAVE to do in case there are crumbs. But believe you me, there was not a single product with chametz in my house. Isn't that the point? Didn't the rabbis say that you couldn't have chametz, period? They didn't say to throw it in a cabinet, cover it with foil or tape it off, did they? The point is to go a week without it, to get rid of it, to purge. Purge!Now, it makes sense that college students, people living in poverty, the elderly, etc. would keep their chametz and just block it away -- throwing away a bunch of bread and chametzdik products could be completely hazardous to their finances, their health, their livelihood.

But the rest of us? People who can afford to go to the grocery store and re-purchase that $1.00 box of pasta? That $1.50 loaf of bread? Really? We can't manage to donate that stuff to a food bank and purge the chametz?

I don't know if this is really radical or ridiculous thought, but if I have my way, in the future, when I'm married and what have you, there will be no chametz in my house. It just makes sense to me. This whole selling thing seems like a crock.

As an aside: I have it on a good account that there is (was?) a town in New Jersey where, when you sell your chametz, the people who it eventually gets sold to -- the non-Jews -- actually go to people's homes and take out what they want during Pesach because community members are required to inventory their chametz supply at home. Talk about absurd ...

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On that note: I still haven't gotten my kosher l'pesach Coke. I haven't seen it anywhere, and this severely bums me out. I'm leaving tomorrow night for New Jersey where Tuvia and I will be spending a day or so, and on Wednesday morning we're heading to West Palm Beach for Pesach with his dad's family. So for now, I'll leave you with the results of the most recent poll -- Pesach plans! For me, I'll be attending two seders. I think it'll be a long time before I'm hosting my own.

Sorry about the hideous color scheme. Not sure how that happened!

Why am I converting Orthodox?

After my post of frustration yesterday, and a conversation tonight with a Reform rabbi friend, I decided to write this because I don't know that I've written anything like this before. It's long and wandering, much like my path so far, but give it a go if you will. I might write more on this again, and if I do? Well, I hope it's well-perceived.

For a long time, I thought that the fact that I converted almost three years ago under the auspices of the Reform (not Reformed, folks) movement was to my advantage in my pursuing an Orthodox conversion. I mean, I know the rules of the game. I've studied for almost six years now. I've learned halakot, traditions, customs, prayers, songs, holidays, you name it, I know it. The neshama says feed me, I give it lots of Jewishly oriented foodstuffs, and it wants more. My neshama is an overweight 6-year-old with a penchant for Manischewitz, kugel, and everything challah.

But then, just last night, someone asked me why I felt like I needed to re-convert. This person, a respected friend (I think I can call him that), said that he has a problem with people who nullify or negate their Reform conversions when they convert Conservative or Orthodox. And that really got me thinking. Do I really have it so lucky?

You see, people who come at Orthodox Judaism with a fresh face, from a Christian or Atheist or Pentecostal or Muslim or Buddhist background are going at it straight. They say, "I chose Judaism" and it's left at that. There's no questioning why they chose specifically Orthodoxy as their conversion method. There might be, but it doesn't come with the question: "So what? Reform conversion not good enough for you?"

A long time ago, when I started this whole path down the road of Orthodoxy, I made very clear that I'm not re-converting. I don't need the certificate. I have one, and it's really pretty, and I'm quite a fan of it. It's in an envelope, and every now and again I pluck the envelope out of my file cabinet and look at it. The white out spots because the rabbi accidentally wrote the location of our shul and not the location of the mikvah and beth din. It has personality, a history, it's where I began. That shul? It's my family. It's like that family you can't ever forget. Because, first and foremost when you convert, is you can't forget where you came from.

I have a first family, my nuclear family. They were my "the golden rule is the rule" family who never made us go to church and insisted upon pride, truth, and the pursuit of honesty. Then there's my second family, the shul family, who helped shape me and show me that my Jewish soul wasn't just a figment of my imagination. They helped me grow and thrive and become Chaviva, the Jew, the girl who has traced both sides of her family back to the 1700s without finding a single Jew (lots of Quakers though!). And now? I have a third family, my Orthodox family. A community of people who insist upon dinners and stay-overs and challah and kindness and smiles and hugs and helping me affirm my Jewish soul, the Jew, Chaviva. To them? I'm nothing but Chaviva. A girl who will someday dip in a mikvah and will come out the same as she is right now this very second.

So it's not, I repeat not, re-converting. I'm reaffirming my Jewishness. It's a reaffirmation of my neshama, my path, and acknowledging that I'm still moving on that path, and that I've arrived at another fork in the road, I've come upon another family, that here I am in this beautiful place with these beautiful people and my Jewishness is thriving and springing forth in a more observant, traditional, skirt-filled, and heckschered-food kind of way. You're not looking at a photo here, folks. This is a motion-picture. A movie. No stills here.

I can't really express how much I am not nullifying or discounting or throwing out my Reform conversion. How can I? It's what got me started on this path. You've heard it before, and you'll hear it again -- Reform Judaism (for me and many others I know) is the gateway drug. It's the most opening, welcoming, easy-to-feel-at-home-in form of Judaism that's out there. Without my Reform family? I wouldn't be here. Had I just gone to that grumpy ole' Conservative shul way back when, I probably would have stopped dead in my tracks. I would have said "goodbye Judaism! hello ______!" Reform Judaism was my starting point, I was there hashkafically and it made sense then. Now I'm here. My ending point? I don't know.

I'm not exactly sure what will happen some day when I feel more observant, more Jewish, whatever. It's a process -- a process of evolution and reevaluation and reconsideration and most importantly, reaffirmation. That's why we have such important milestones within Judaism. You have a naming ceremony or bris, an upsherin, a bar or bat mitzvah, an engagement, a wedding, a first baby, and the cycle repeats. Some men have second bar mitzvahs. There are all of these cycles that we honor, we affirm that we're Jewish and these events are significant in our growth personally and spiritually. And for me? Well, the conversion under the auspices of the RCA and Orthodox movement just means that I'm hitting another milestone (here's hoping the next is engagement, eh!?).

I'm not affirming my hashkafah amid Orthodoxy because I'm worried about having fully Jewish kids who won't have to suffer through conversions or questions or because I want my wedding to be legit for my future Jewish husband and his family (though these are definitely bonuses to the whole shebang). It isn't for a sheet of paper. It isn't because -- like I said so long ago -- that I will jump through as many hoops as Orthodox Jews want so that they'll see me as REALLY Jewish. No, it's because I want to affirm where I am Jewishly, where my neshama is Jewishly, where my body is Jewishly. Sitting before a beth din and having them ask me if I'm going to raise my kids Jewish, if I'm going to cover my hair and go to mikvah and all of these things, well, to me that makes sense. It is me affirming where I am now.

The question was then posed -- if I had originally converted Orthodox, and decided to go Reform, would I insist upon a Reform conversion? And my answer was no. But the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. It's nice that we can float so fluidly between belief and observance and everything. I've oft referred to myself as an Underconstructionist Jew and I think that's how ALL Jews should identify. Labels create havoc and confusion and frustration. They create the "us and them" philosophy, and they are what is driving the right further right and the left further left. The middle? It's a lost art. But wouldn't it make sense, if people really thought about where they were? Am I an observant Jew? A non-observant Jew? Am I pro-Israel? Anti-Israel? Am I pro-mechitzah? Anti-mechitzah? And think these things without feeling like there's a suffocating pressure to actually CHOOSE a side, or to do so with the fear of oppression and dissection and being picked apart by the other side. If only we could feel safe to define ourselves and affirm ourselves. To define ourselves by what we ARE and what we BELIEVE and not by what we are NOT and what we don't believe.

I refuse to define myself by what I am NOT.

So this is all I can say. I see myself as a traditional-seeking, mitzvot perfecting, mechitzah loving, GLBT and women's rights believing, hopeful, realist Jew who happens to feel cozy right now in the modern Orthodox community. As such? I feel like it's a good time for me to reaffirm my Judaism. Once upon a time, I refused to even consider that someday I'd be Conservative or Orthodox. Why? Because people told me, and I read everywhere, that it was oppressive, hateful, condescending, secretive, unwelcoming, archaic, and wrong. It was anti-forward thinking. It was stuck in the past. It was not what Judaism is meant to be. But then? I realized that wasn't the truth. At all. It was the opposite. What I experienced was different. And I chose to NOT define myself by what I wasn't and instead take a look at what I was and what I felt and believed.

And here I am. Reaffirming, reaffirming, reaffirming.

But the most important thing? I'm doing this for me. It feels right for me. I was planning this before Tuvia. Before Connecticut. Before all of this. I'm not doing it for anyone or to prove anything. I have nothing to prove. It's how I feel. It's what my heart sings, and if it's right for me, if it's what I feel is necessary for me, for my neshama, for my own heart and mind and body, then that's all that matters. And if you don't agree? Well, you can have your own conversation with G-d to battle that one out.

Because, really? It's between G-d and me.

(It would be nice to have everyone on board with me here, though.)

Airing Out.

No matter how long I'm living Jewish, no matter how much I know, or feel, or breathe ... I'm still reminded, in the most ridiculous instances that, well, you know in the end I'm not Jewish. Nope. Not Jewish. I'm a non-Jew. All those non-Jew rules? They apply to me. Little ole me. Chaviva (is that your REAL name?). And it burns. It almost burns more now than it did after my Reform conversion nearly three years ago. Why? Because I'm living this lifestyle of an observant Jew who is shomer Shabbos and really doing the kashrut thing and devoted wholly to an observant and traditional lifestyle. Because my neshama? It's screaming. It's been screaming. It's still screaming.

In a simple conversation over mevushal and non-mevushal wine (a topic which, until now, I was completely ignorant of), I was reminded that despite all my knowledge and lifestyle and belief and dedication and the past six years of my life -- I'm still a non-Jew. I don't have that Orthodox conversion. I'm working on it. I really am. I would dunk now if they'd let me. Would they let me?

I give a d'var at an Orthodox rabbi's table, I daven next to 80-year-old women in hats, I sit behind a mechitzah with pride, I spend hours in the grocery store looking for heckschers with glee, I answer questions about why Orthodox Jews do the things they do, I identify as a (modern) Orthodox Jew. I wear a Magen David around my neck. I own more than three siddurim. I have five different chumashim. I have a Judaica collection that would make my pocketbook weep. There are all the trappings, but they're not enough. I feel the way I feel, and I want to be able to show THAT to people, because THAT is what really matters.

But how do you show someone your soul?

It can't be drawn or explained or photographed or videotaped or displayed on a big screen. It's just there and you hear it and feel it and dream it, but you can't let anyone else see it. I try, so hard, through words and deeds and words words words. But that's all they are. Can people really see the passion behind words? Little symbols and characters born out of sounds?

At any rate, I'm at this awkward frustrated point. I'm a Jew! I am. But I'm not. But I am. It's like I'm in purgatory or something. This middle ground between being born and being just a soul floating through the atmosphere waiting to be whole again.

Sincerely frustrated with people who feel the need to remind me that I'm not a halakhic Jew, 
Chaviva E.

A Flurry of Pesach Questions!

As always, I know that checking with my LOR (Local Orthodox Rabbi) is the best route to go, and I fully intend to throw these questions his way during our meeting Wednesday (or via email if I can't manage to get all my queries in then). But I like to throw questions out to the greater viewing community to see how different folks, from different backgrounds, approach issues of halakah! We all have different minhagim (customs), and as someone becoming more religious, I'm particularly fascinated in how different minhagim end up where they do.

For example: My rabbi, who has a German ancestral background, has a Shabbos tradition of washing before saying the blessing over not only the challah, but also the wine. So, one gets up, washes, comes back, and blesses the wine, then blesses the challah, and it's one fluid movement. His is the first house I've ever been at where such a tradition is observed, so the rebbetzin explained why! During Pesach, the children ask why the night is different than other nights, and during Pesach you bless the wine, wash, then bless the matzah. So, it makes sense to mix things up every other night of the year, no? Logical to me.

At any rate, here are a series of questions that I've derived from studying the haggadah (the text used during a Passover seder) and the OU Passover Guide. Feel free to answer, or simply to muse at my curiosities!

• Why, during the seder, do we only toss water on each hand ONCE (as opposed to thrice)?
  
• Why is red wine preferred for the seder? Why do people typically use red wine for the Shabbos wine, too?
  
• Why should the drinking of each cup of wine and eating of the matzah/maror be completed within 4 minutes?
  
• If my toaster oven is essentially free and clean of chametz, can it be koshered l'pesach and subsequently for the rest of the year? Every item ever cooked in it was cooked on a foil-covered baking pan? Thus can I kasher the baking pan without using a torch? I don't own a torch ...
  
• What's the best material to use when covering fridge shelves?
  
• As far as I'm concerned, Quinoa is legit l'pesach. Do you eat Quinoa on Pesach?
  
• I'm confused about the restriction re: the whole "avoid chametz products" after Pesach issue. Does this mean I can't go to a grocery store owned by Jews (a chain, for example) and buy bread? Ever?
  

I'm stoked for a full week of FRESH veggies and fruit, though. My fridge will be filled with fresh goodies. Although ... how seriously do I need to sit and dig through my fresh goods in order to make sure they're kosher l'pesach. I mean, is the Bug Checker really necessary?

Shabbos Roundup.

Since I had direct orders from my Shabbos lunch host (mind you it was him, and not her) to not, I repeat NOT blog about my experiences (though, to be honest they were completely tame) at their home, I'll just present my Shabbos in a series of bullet points.

+ Once again at the Rabbi's for dinner, we once again talked about Twitter. Twitting. Tweeting. Blogging. Etc.

+ I didn't convince a doctor to switch to the ways of the Google.

+ I had the most delicious hamantaschen, again.

+ Ordered to leave the rabbi's at 10 p.m., we failed, arriving back at our host's around 11ish.

+ We then stayed up till well after 1 discussing kashruth (which I feel a lot better about now), conversion, community politics, and family life.

+ I think I'm allergic to the laundry detergent.

+ Aufrufs are fun, especially since you get to peg the chatan with lots of tiny little pieces of chocolate.

+ The many, many hats women wear at my shul are beautiful, large, and I think I'll stick to scarves someday.

+ Evidently it's possible to be "drunk with kidney stones" when you're super preggo.

+ Houses in West Hartford are really, really, really expensive.

+ The rabbi, our hosts, and everyone else really, really, really wants us to move to West Hartford.

+ Buying a house built in the 1700s would be fun, and exciting, but impossible.

+ Hearts of Palm are actually really good in salad.

And lastly? I can't live without my weekly in-take of Everything Challah. How will I last over Pesach!?

"So is it Twitting, then?"

"Tell me about Twitter."

When these words came forth from the rabbi's mouth over Shabbat dinner, I was a little, well, shocked. I'm always blown away at how quickly I'm emailed back (considering my rabbi back in Nebraska never emailed me -- I'd have to call to get an answer to my emails days and days later), but I never expected for the rabbi to ask about Twitter. He knows well about Facebook and all those other web 2.0 giants, and I was even more surprised when another one of the Shabbat dinner guests posed the question, "Well, then, what is Tumblr?" (Just so everyone knows, not even I knew what Tumblr was.) I mean, I'm not saying I expect all people around my parents' ages to be completely inept, after all, my mom is on Facebook and MySpace. But I didn't expect the rabbi to ask for an explanation. I found myself stumped, I didn't know how to answer the question, "It's ... microblogging!" I blurted out. Another one of the guests asked in an intense Israeli accent, "What's microblogging?" And I just looked at Tuvia, in a mixture of awe and shock, while the man's wife (the one who asked about Tumblr) explained it to him. The conversation went on for some time, comparing Facebook to Twitter and explaining that it's "Tweeting" and not "Twitting" and that yes, the whole world can read your tweets if you're not set to a private account, but that yes, some people do have private accounts and that, well, yes, maybe that does defeat the purpose ...

And this was only half of the Shabbat dinner conversation.

The other half? Money. I'm always blown away when Shabbat dinners and lunches end up covering every aspect of finance and investment known to man. It seems to me that such conversations would be considered, well, as muktza as handling money on Shabbat (consult your local rabbi!). I'm only half kidding, and I'm sure some rebbe somewhere decided that such conversation was forbidden! So we heathens talked about investing now that stocks with big giants like ING are so low, learning about the market, buying and selling houses, returns on investments, interest rates! You name it. After all, Tuvia is an accountant and when people find out they're in awe, so they seek his depth of wisdom.

But this is only partially accurate. We did take a break -- between Twitter and the drowning market -- to discuss last week's parshah. The rabbi posed a question, Tuvia mentioned that Exodus 32 is my baby, and the rabbi gave his thoughts on the incident and then asked for mine. The rabbi was mostly in line with my thinking, but another fellow at the table took problem with some of my thinking. I mentioned having my two papers accepted to a conference, and at some point the dessert came out and the conversation about Torah and Talmud and all things parshah disappeared with the chomping of the rebbetzin's delicious hamantaschen (brown sugar, nuts AND honey? oh my!).

The other guests left and for the next hour plus Tuvia and I stood around with the rabbi and his wife talking about our plans -- houses, conversions, school, cars, life, our future ... by the time we got back to our host's house, the clock was striking midnight and I, completely alive and invigorated by a truly unique and warm Shabbat dinner, was turning into the obligatory pumpkin. Amid snoring and coughing, I managed to get a bit of sleep before waking up and schlepping off to morning services, where I quickied Shacharit to catch up to the Torah service. It was weird seeing the rabbi and his wife the next day, after such a personal Shabbat evening before at their home. I bid each a hearty "Shabbat Shalom!" and that was that.

I have this problem about being too personal with people sometimes, I think. I worry about comfort levels and how to act with people in different settings -- public versus private. A conversation and relationship in someone's home is not necessarily the same as it is outside that snug and comfy little box with rooms and Judaica and delicious food. You know what I mean?

But in all honesty, it was one of the best Shabbats I've had. Our host family was quite ill, the lot of them, but they were -- as always -- friendlier than anyone I've ever known. The youngest one continued to call Tuvia (whose name is really Evan) "Kevin," which gave me giggles, and cookies were the food of choice for just about all of us. And, of course, Friday night's dinner was definitely memorable and remarkably special, though I can't exactly explain why.

I suppose, in a way, eating dinner by the rabbi sort of sealed some kind of special deal. It was an official in, to the community, that is. Like a knowing glance or a firm handshake. An experience that lets you know that you're safe, you're welcomed, you're liked, and most importantly? You're home.

A Shabbos to Remember, a Lifetime to Go.

If you could paint a picture of your best or most ideal Shabbos, would it look anything like this?

I picked up Tuvia in Ye Olde Jeep on Friday around 4:30, and having an hour until we really needed to be at shul, he took me on a mini-tour of his old stomping ground in West Hartford. We headed to our host's house around 5 p.m. and, with open and warm arms, we were welcomed into their home. We said hi to the little ones who were pre-Shabbos bathing and we ran upstairs to put our things down and make sure all the lights we needed were on. Tuvia was in the library -- a room full of Judaica books, nifty artificats and a gigantic air mattress -- and I was in a room down the hall with possibly the most comfortable guest bed I've ever slept on. We thanked the host again and again, said we'd see her in a few after the service, and headed off to shul in the car. At the shul, we parked the car -- making sure we didn't leave anything in it that we might need, and (armed with umbrellas thanks to the impending storm) headed in for the service.

I don't need to go into the service because, well, as usual it was awesome. The rabbi is doing a series on how to go about asking/getting a non-Jew to do things for you on Shabbos that are necessary (the heat in the sanctuary is too hot, too cold, etc.). It's a pretty fascinating series, which we just started last week after a series of weeks on muktza.

After services, Tuvia and I put up the umbrellas (I know, assur to some, but I refuse to be soaked walking home from shul), and set off for our host's place. The house smelled absolutely divine when we arrived. It was the hosts, a few others, and us for dinner and we dug right in to the meal over casual conversation and stories. It was a pretty tame dinner, and shortly afterward we helped clean up the table, chatted with our host in the kitchen, and then set off to sleep on the third floor. I'd hoped to do some reading first, but man alive I conked out. (Probably because the night before Tuvia and I schlepped 4+ hours round-trip to see FrumSatire get his comedy on in Crown Heights!)

I can't say that I slept super well -- I was up every few minutes thanks to a heater that was touchy and the fact that I was worried about oversleeping. We were set to get up at 8 a.m., get ready, eat some breakfast (challah + jelly and butter? yes! coffee with hazelnut creamer? YES!), and head off to shul -- children and stroller in tow. It was incredibly windy and cold, but the walk was outstanding. There's something nice about schlepping to and fro from shul -- you work off all that food you haven't eaten, and all the food you will eat. The morning service is still a lot for me to pick up on. The rabbi's wife helped me out in what I should daven while the Torah service was going on, and by the time I was done it was time for the service to move on. I followed the rest of the service with ease, and the kiddush was pretty interesting (we ate on a food stamp budget), especially since the crowd, well, pretty much heckled the speakers. Tuvia and I left with a few other guests for the lunch at our host's place and on the way we talked about a lot of things, including the community, observance, and how I converted (a popular topic these days!).

The lunch and rest of Shabbos was just mind-blowing. The meal lasted several hours, there were l'chaims and discussions about Israel, faux meat, veggies, delicious wine and the most amazing everything challah I have and will ever eat, and plenty of time spent playing with the kids (there were FIVE children there, and I am in love with each one of their cute little faces). The crowd dwindled bit by bit, and those of us that were left discussed blogging and Hebrew. I was lucky that the guests at the lunch were so diverse -- lawyers, mothers, Israelis, super Orthodox, sort of Orthodox, you name it. Shabbos slowly dwindled and Tuvia and I packed up our things while the family got ready for their post-Shabbos plans. Havdalah rolled around and we smelled the spices, blessed the wine and the light, and said goodbye to probably the most restful, fulfilling Shabbos I've ever had. To be sure, it was my first real, complete Shabbos (umbrella-use aside).

I can't really describe how thankful I am for the community in West Hartford that has so welcomed us with the most open of arms. I have yet to run into a single person who isn't as eager as ever to have us over for a meal or to offer a bed or an ear or shoulder. People have stories, want to hear stories, and love to tell stories. It's a beautiful community willing to go to any length to fulfill the mitzvot while also acknowledging the great, big world that is out there and in their community. These people? They're my kind of people.

On Thursday, Tuvia and I will be in Chicago at my old shul (SO STOKED), and then after that, we'll be spending most weeks at our host's home, dining at the homes of friends, and meeting with the rabbi every Wednesday together to discuss the steps in our future -- and more specifically, in my future. There are a series of difficult aspects of the timeline for Tuvia and I, and they're making a lot of things really come into focus. Between our relationship, my conversion, graduate school, the geographic constraints of where we both live, and everything else, we're having to think about a lot of things. In reality, our lives are being put into perspective, and the most oft thing heard between us is, "I can't wait until we're married, living in West Hartford, with a kosher home."

I've come a long way from three years ago, don't you think?

Talent Scouts and Rabbis

I had my second meeting with the rabbi yesterday morning, bright and early, and I'm finally completely at ease in his presence and in the realm of our topic at hand -- an Orthodox conversion to follow-up the Reform conversion I had nearly three years ago. We discussed my family background, my parents, how I was raised and the friends who I lost -- either spoken or unspoken -- over the conversion back in 2006. He explained to me that I'm not a novice, and that he wants to start studying with not just me, as a result of this, but with me AND Tuvia. Why? Well, let's just say that Tuvia and I are pretty serious folks, if you hadn't gathered. The rabbi wants to make sure he and I are on a parallel course so a collision or crisis situation doesn't arise. Thus, we'll be learning how to be observant together. To be honest, it kind of excites me. It's like couples counseling for the soul, hah. The one thing I've come to love about this rabbi, though, is his intense use of analogies that make absolute sense but that can be a little, well, zany. Analogies, for me, help me learn. I come up with analogies to explain just about everything.

A recent example? In Talmud class we were discussing Honi the Circle Maker, Hanina bar Hama, and other wonderworkers and how the rabbis sort of "adopted" or rabbanized them in the Talmudic stories. For me, it doesn't make sense that the rabbis would adopt these miracle workers -- after all, it makes the rabbis look incapable. If the rabbis can't make it rain, but this magical figure can, then doesn't it undermine the abilities and the authority of the rabbis? The argument is that because the rabbis found or know who these people are, and can as a result make requests of them, makes rabbis the ultimate talent scouts. And this was my analogy. You have these wonder workers (the stars, the talent) and you have these rabbis who rabbanize the stories and make them glorified stars (thus the rabbis are the ultimate talent scouts). The talent scouts are then looked to as the amazing ones, the big wigs, for discovering this amazing talent walking around a village somewhere or pulling water from a river (or, you know, walking around a mall or at a McDonalds stuffing their face or singing in a bathroom stall). No matter what way I paint it, I still don't see the positives to the rabbis including these stories, but ... well, that's for another post. This was just to prove my analogy point!

On another note, Tuvia and I will be in West Hartford tonight staying at a host house for a first real dive into the Orthodox Shomer Shabbos lifestyle. I'm excited to see how a house functions for the full 25 or 26 hours, and even though I know it's probably not as grandiose as I might think it is, I'm still quite excited. I'll be bunking with a permanent house guest of their's and Tuvia will be joining the books in the library. We'll be schlepping back and forth to shul (it appears to be QUITE windy outside today, ugh) and wining and dining with family and friends of our hosts. I'm still struggling with this hair thing -- I wish I could just get married already so I didn't feel so weird about covering my hair on Saturday mornings to hide the absolute mop that it becomes between point A and point B when I'm sleeping on Shabbos. But this? This I will have to get over.

And on a second, yet more unrelated note, don't forget to sign up for the Purim Basket Giveaway , though -- the contest ENDS at 11:59 p.m. on Sunday night. If I can get up to 50 comments (not including my own, I believe), then we will be giving away TWO gift certificates. So, you know, pump up the press!

Until then, have a good and restful Shabbos!

A Warm Welcoming

What a wonderful Shabbos! What a wonderful weekend! Optimism abounds as the week begins again, and I'm hoping this high doesn't wear off.

On Friday, Tuvia and I rushed from downtown to West Hartford to make candle lighting at 5 p.m. at a friend's house. We arrived, parked in the kosher grocery store's parking lot, and schlepped to the friend's place. On the way, we ran into a few people -- one who knew me from my blog, another who knew me through friends from school -- and I was reminded of what a very, very small world the Jewish one is. We arrived, set the tables with tablecloths, plates, silverware, challah cutting boards, and more. More people arrived, and in the crunch to light within the 18-minute window, while trying to guide a friend to the house, while trying to set everything up ... we were cutting it close. Finally, the women light the candles, we put on our coats, and headed to shul (very late!). We went to a synagogue that Tuvia and I hadn't been to before, and it was a bit of a schlep in the cold. It was definitely an interesting experience, but not so different for me than at the other orthodox shuls I've been to. The women had a "balcony" and by this I mean that it was merely a few feet raised above the men's section, behind the men's section, portioned off by a short wall and a piece of glass. We davened, we schmoozed, and we went back to the friend's for dinner. It was the first Shabbos dinner I'd been to where I really helped out -- I put rice in bowls, mixed salads, took the kugel out, cleared plates, pre-opened seltzer bottles so Tuvia wouldn't make more messes, and more. It felt so good to be a part of the entire process, to be a member of the household, to really throw myself into the evening. There was singing and joke telling and a few d'var Torah bits. Overall? It was an amazing evening.

The next day, Tuvia and I showed up at the shul we've been going to for morning services. We got there much earlier than most of the crowd. It seems that the service begins, people slowly come in, and by an hour after the service start time, everyone else shows up! I had a rough time trying to figure out where we were in the service, and I've decided that my security-blanket transliterated siddur is hurting me more than helping me. I'd be better to follow the service in Hebrew/English and do the parts I know in Hebrew and the other parts in English rather than to get lost sifting through the transliterations that drive me nuts anyway because of the T(tav)/S issue. The service zipped by, friends came and sat with me, introduced me to others, and afterward there was a kiddush and a talk by the rabbi, where he discussed conversion and how we sort of get to the requirements we use today. It was interesting, but man alive I was exhausted, hungry, and unable to focus my energies to the topic at hand.

At last, we left with our lunch hosts, schlepped over to their place, and had an absolutely delicious Shabbos lunch. I think I consumed the most delicious lasagna I've ever had at their dinner table. There was conversation and discussion about the rabbi's talk, about how Tuvia and I had met, about many a'thing with the hosts and their other guests. Around 3 in the afternoon we all agreed that we all needed naps, and everyone went their separate ways.

Now, Tuvia and I did drive home Friday night, and we drove back to the shul Saturday morning, and we even drove home at 3 something in the afternoon -- but we were there, we were in the community seeing both sides of the Orthodox community there. It was a first step in really diving head-first into everything.

Starting the week after next, Tuvia and I will be staying in W. Hartford with a host family (did I already mention all of this?). These folks have opened their home to us when we need a place to stay, and even more people have opened their homes to us. Of course, the caveat that we're not married means that there are limited options for us to stay with people -- there has to be plenty of space for us to have our own separate sleeping spaces. But the open arms of the community are so uplifting to a couple of young Jews in love like ourselves who are trying to make our way into the community, to really fold ourselves within the dynamic and heart of the place.

After this Shabbat? I'm reassured in my confidence in the kindness of others to welcome others into the fold so readily, without questions, without concern. The love, the warmth, it reminds me that the perceptions of the outside world are not always accurate when it comes to Orthodoxy. The rejection and fear of outsiders is not the standard in my experience -- it's about self preservation a lot of the time.

So shavua tov, and here's to a week of good things! Next week, Tuvia and I will be in the Poconos -- the antithesis of the W. Hartford Orthodox community :)

The Grumbling Neshama.

This morning, my heart was jumping in and out of my throat. I couldn't eat breakfast, I couldn't smile, I couldn't breathe. I got the shul almost 30 minutes early, I sat in the car, I freaked out. The weather was gloomy, overcast and looking as if the sky would drop at any moment. At 10 till, I got out of the car and walked into the shul.

I sat down with the rabbi this morning, to have our first conversation about my eventual, hopeful, conversion to Judaism within Orthodox Judaism. I sat on the couch, he sat across from me. I was hopeful, I was trying to be positive, optimistic. And then? The questions. Why not Conservative Judaism? What are you looking for? Are you keeping kosher? Shomer Shabbos? You live dozens of miles from shul, how do you want to work it so you keep Shabbos? So many questions. And stories about past, failed, regretful conversions of people who just, well, couldn't crack it. The rabbi told me that the neshama is a delicate thing, it's like a light bulb. A rabbi doesn't take the neshama lightly. You can't rush things, you can't force things.

Perhaps the most fascinating thing, that put me at ease, that settled my mind and my soul for just a few minutes, was that he said it wasn't an Orthodox synagogue -- it was a synagogue that was Orthodox. He wasn't an Orthodox rabbi -- he is a rabbi who is Orthodox. I wish more rabbis, more congregations, more JEWS had this perspective on things. There is the synagogue, there is the rabbi. Our way is our own, no?

He suggested I need to start praying every day (I agree), I need to be serious about kashrut (I wish I didn't like eating out so much or that Hartford had eating-out places for observant Jews), I need to find a way to make Shabbos happen. So? He suggested I start staying with a family every Shabbos. Luckily, we know a family that is more than willing to have Tuvia and I in their home on Shabbos. It can happen, and we'll make it happen.

Where there's a will, there's a way, right?

The rabbi said that, the intellectual side is there -- I know what there is to know -- but that he sees that my neshama is hungry, and he wants to help sate that hunger. So? Every Thursday I'll be studying with the rabbi. I'll be at shul every Friday/Saturday.

But I left the synagogue this morning feeling overwhelmed. Kind of distraught, but mostly overwhelmed. I worried about my relationship with Tuvia and my living situation (should I move to W. Hartford? buy a car? rent an apartment? quit school ...?). I sat in the car for a long time, talking to Tuvia, listening to myself. Wondering and wishing for answers.

I do not feel differently about where I'm going, it's how I'm getting there that is difficult and frustrating. If I lived in a city? Things would be easier. Life would be easier. Without a car, without a home near a shul, without being within the community, there are questions that must be asked and answers that must be sought.

But, let's just say, my neshama might be overwhelmed, but it's still hungry.

An Orthodox Jew: Part I or, Meeting the Rabbi

From Twitter several days ago:

Yes, it's official. It's true. On Thursday, February 12, 2009, I will be meeting with an Orthodox rabbi to discuss my pursuit of an Orthodox conversion. I know what you're thinking, "Chavi, you're Jewish! You converted almost three years ago!" And the answer to both is "yes." I'm not out to please anyone or to prove to anyone that I'm this Jewish or that Jewish, and it most certainly isn't about securing the comfortable Jewish lives of my future children. Call me nuts or selfish, but it's about me. A lot of people along my path have suggested that Orthodoxy isn't so much what I am, but rather that I'm drawn -- as a zealous convert -- to the traditions, the heritage, the lifestyle, the people. In a way? Yes, that's all very true, but it's so much more than that.


Hashkafically, this is where I'm heading and where I have been heading for the past year and a half or more. I'm not BECOMING a Jew. I already am a Jew. What this is is acknowledging who I am as a Jew. 

So Thursday, I will be talking a rabbi. Will I have to go through two years of study -- again? Will I have to start wearing skirts every day? Will I be able to carry on as I am on Shabbos? How can I manage an Orthodox conversion living dozens of miles away from the shul? Will someone start putting me up for Shabbos? Will my current non-shomer negiah relationship be questioned? And most importantly, will I ask all the right questions?

The rabbi I'm meeting with is outstanding and I was sent his way by some friends back in Chicago at the Orthodox shul I went to there. The rabbi sounds eager, and I hope my nerves and apprehensions and my concerns about my logistics don't get the best of me.

Anyone have any tips on things to ask? Any encouragement? Advice?

Tugging My Strings

Well before I left for Israel, and well after I got back, I was feeling a void religiously and spiritually. It happens. We all know that it comes in stages. For months we'll feel connected, tied to G-d and the community and our spiritual strings are happily tugged day and night. And then, out of nowhere, one day we realize that the strings are covered in dust and cobwebs and their limpness leaves us feeling empty. Of course the "we" and "us" is really me. The other night I told Tuvia this. I mentioned that I was feeling kind of empty. I realized that I hadn't written about anything religious in some time on the blog (though, I guess to some it might seem like I have). It seemed like everything I had written was pop culture or politics or just general "blah blah blah." It's been a long, long time since I've written a d'var Torah and probably even longer since I sat down and read through the parshah. I used to be on the ball, head-first, my strings were active.

So I was looking forward to shul on Friday. Tuvia and I drove over to the Orthodox shul, arriving a little bit after minchah had started. I remembered to take my transliterated siddur with me, since I'm not so comfortable with the regular Artscroll just yet. Add to this that the shul's siddurim are in much-loved shape, I figure better I batter my own copy rather than their's.  I found my place quickly in the women's section, opened up my siddur, jumped to where we were, and began to daven. The men's section was loaded with men in varied kippahs, some in black hats, some with payess, some with beards, some meandering about. The women's section was empty except for me until another woman showed up next to me. But I was so in the zone the entire service that I missed things going on on the other side, missed any missteps or air bubbles in the service. I read the words with strict devotion, I threaded my tongue around the syllables, hoping to find that passion, to feel the tug of those strings, and it happened. Slowly, but surely.

After the service, we headed over to our Shabbos dinner hosts' house, where we were joined by another couple and a family of five. Overall, there were 13 of us at that Shabbos dinner table, noshing salad and challah and kugel and pie. Conversation flowed from Israel to the local Jewish day schools, from school to Nebraska and Wisconsin. The hospitality was good and Midwestern, which is what I'm used to. The host reminded me so much of the Kosher Academic, which is probably why the entire experience was so comforting and at-ease. I didn't feel like I had to act a certain way or say certain things. It was exactly what I needed to continue the evening. The strings continued to be pulled, I was alive again. With the blessings and the kippah-headed men and the challah and the bensching ... I missed all of these things.

I think I just miss the full Shabbos experience: services, conversation, the meal, the wine and the blessings, the feeling of the evening and the day, the real rest and focus. Luckily, the people at the shul are so kind, so welcoming that we've been invited back for Shabbos dinner and the full-day Shabbos experience.

This week, I'll be here on campus for my first Shabbat at Chabad in weeks. Nay, probably in a month and a half. I'm excited to hook back up with the campus Jewish crew, but I am also disappointed that I won't be making challah and lighting the candles and enjoying Shabbat with Tuvia, but all good things come in time.

Until then, I'm shining my strings and hoping they continue to lead me on and on and on ...

Women in Judaism: Chin up!

I can't help but write about the topic of women in Judaism. Specifically, the reason I'm inclined to write is because several Jewish, woman bloggers have written in the past week about Simchat Torah being a man's holiday. You can find posts over at Ilana-Davita , Kosher Academic , as well as Raizy and Isramom. I'm sure there are an abundance of blogs on the net that share kvetches about the holiday while making an assessment about the situation of women in Orthodox Judaism, but these are all I have in the collection right now. Interestingly, last night at the rabbi's another dinner attendee (a male of the Conservative Jewish variety) and I got into a discussion about the topic of women in Orthodox Judaism, the mechitzah, Simchat Torah and so much more.

The posts are a lot about the division of men and women in Orthodox Judaism, how women don't get called for aliyot and how during Simchat Torah the women all sit around watching as the men and boys dance around in great joy. I'm summarizing here, but it's sort of the same kvetches that people have had for eons about Orthodoxy, and it's one thing that I've never really had a beef with -- and this is coming from someone who wasn't raised Jewish, who came through as a Reform convert. Maybe I'm naive and because I didn't grow up in Orthodox I don't have the beef that others do, but in my experience, the only way that I can truly feel a connection to G-d in prayer and action and sentiment and lifestyle is when it is the "Orthodox" way of doing things.

So when I was talking to a friend last night, I was explaining that the mechitzah -- to me -- is so necessary and important in Jewish prayer. My only beef with mechitzot is when they are too tall and you can't see the rabbi, but even then, I'm comfortable enough in my prayer that I don't need to see the rabbi. After all, the rabbi isn't meant to be like a priest or pastor, he is meant to guide the services, but he isn't the key to a proper Shabbat service or otherwise. The mechitzah, to me, is marvelous. I go to shul for me, I go to pray in a community setting, but I go for me and it's all about how you view it. When I go to shul and people are all touchy feely (this is at a non-Orthodox shul, that is), it seems unnatural to me. It's just people going through motions but without the ability to focus on the point of being in shul. The mechitzah allows me to focus, it doesn't separate me from the men, it allows me to be myself.

Now, when I go to Chabad on campus, the mechitzah isn't like it was back home (about four-feet-tall), but is rather a folding thing that can be easily put up and taken down. It's tall, and it blocks the view almost entirely. During Simchat Torah, the mechitzah was up. We women -- there were never more than five of us -- were cutting a rug, really dancing, really being joyous and taking part in the holiday, and when we got really raucous, we moved the mechitzah so that the men couldn't see us. We were celebrating, and I wasn't thinking at all how awkward it might have been or how separate we were or the division. During the service, the rabbi even had me read the English portion before we chanted -- I was involved. Back in Chicago at the modern Orthodox synagogue I went to, nearly every week one of the rebbetzins got up and did a d'var Torah in the shul and all listened with poise and respect. It is not impossible for women to play a powerful role in an Orthodox setting, and anyone who tells you otherwise is stuck on the "can't" and not the empowering aspects of the mitzvot. Mitzvot are not there to bind us, they are there to make us more aware of how we live, be we women or men, and our differing roles are unique and purposeful.

I guess, what it comes down to, is what you can personally get from Judaism. In my mind, I am so devoted to my personal experience with G-d and within Judaism, and I get to express that in how involved I can and cannot be in synagogue. I know that when women get married, their role changes and they have children and homes to attend to, but if you are driven and inspired to maintain that experience of personal, ethical Judaism, then it will be done. You just can't get caught up in all the "you can't do this" and look at them as G-d's way of providing each of our souls with our unique needs. We don't always know what is best for us, but I have to believe that G-d does.

And it isn't all women raise the kids, make the food, keep the home and men go to shul, study, read Torah, get called for aliyot, etc. There's so much more to it than that. We just get so caught up in what we don't have or don't get to do that we lose the meaning and the purpose for those special things we DO get to do and what our individual needs and experience are.

Chin up, ladies.

I'm back ... but wait!

Wow. Really? Seriously? Best weekend I've had in a long time. Shabbos in Washington Heights in NYC with Susanne and friends, drinks with various bloggers and internet personalities such as Sara from PopJudaica.com , EstherK , Ezra Butler and Susanne , of course, followed by the meeting of Evan's mother and grandmother (she was elated to feed me gefilte fish) and the conclusion of the weekend eating at a "kosher style" restaurant outside of Hartford? Well, yes, it was pretty darn amazing. But I don't have the energy or time (I have boatloads of homework to do before I sleep) right now, but rest assured you'll hear about my Orthodox shul adventure, eating lunch at Yeshiva University, and clomping around in the rain all weekend.

Until then, though, please go check out the newest edition of Haveil Havalim -- edition #184 "A Barbarian Roars Again" over at A Barbarian Yawp's blog! (And whoa, I got a mention this week, wahoo!) Oh, and just for fun, check out this awesome picture from the weekend -- yes, those are Internet superstars Chavi, Susanne, Esther, Ezra, and Sara! Until I get a free moment ... Shana Tova and may your new year be ever so sweet!

Let's Talk Books!

As if we ever talk about anything at else around here anymore? Books are my joy, my life, my livelihood! As evidenced in my bookworm/bibliophile post of recent. I'd wanted to do this in a vlog, but I'm just not in the mood, and I'm in desperate need of a haircut. So for now, this is how we'll roll.

I've been meaning to write about Rabbi Marc D. Angel's new novel, "The Search Committee," for about three weeks now. The rabbi was kind enough to send me a copy of whose words I devoured quickly and with delight. To be honest, the book is an incredibly quick read. I do find it interesting, though, that his name appears on the book as "Marc Angel" and not "Rabbi ..." But maybe I'm just nitpicking! So first, some background on the rabbi.

Rabbi Angel is the rabbi emeritus of Congregation Shearith Israel of New York City (a Sephardi congregation), and is the founder of the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals -- a group which I highly recommend you look into. They put out oodles of interesting papers and responsa about issues facing Orthodox Judaism, not to mention the greater Jewish community. Rabbi Angel is the author and editor of more than two dozen books, and this is his first work of fiction! How exciting for him and for us, eh?

So where to begin? The story revolves around a series of testimonials issued to the search committee at a prominent Yeshiveh. The most recent rosh yeshiva has died, and his replacement is to be made by this search committee. There are two rabbis in the running -- one the son of the former head of the school who is essentially staunchly similar to his father and maintaining the present order, and the other a younger rabbi who comes across as very modern in his Orthodoxy. We hear from each rabbi, their wives, students, philanthropists who give to the school, yet interestingly -- we NEVER hear from the committee itself. What a juxtaposition for the book to be titled as such and yet the committee never graces our presence.

Many of the characters are entirely believable, their testimonies sounding as though they were truly coming from the mouths of real individuals. Other characters, including (in my opinion) the deceased rosh yeshiva's son, seem almost unreal in their outrageousness. I do appreciate that the characters -- both those believable and perhaps not so much -- are deeply encamped in their Jewishness. As characters are giving their backgrounds and how they arrived at the present situation, we get long, meandering stories with often unnecessary details -- I can picture the traditional rabbi and his wife at the meeting, as if standing at the pulpit, carrying on and on with over-emphasizing hand gestures and a deep accent. The book is written very much so that we can sympathize with one party over the other, I think, and it is quite obvious that there is a message here about the old versus the new, tradition as it evolves, and the world of the yeshiveh and Orthodoxy in general -- as it accepts outsiders, new ideas and approaches, and makes decisions about the future of how it schools its children.

But to be honest, the book's outcome absolutely surprised me, and I think that for those who take the chance to pick the book, you also will be surprised. The book seems to lean one way -- it is cut and dry that there are two definite sides of Orthodoxy here -- but the outcome chosen by the search committee left me feeling perplexed and almost uncomfortable. But perhaps that is Rabbi Angel's intention, and if so, then I applaud him for a well-composed book that questions what we know and what we think we know.

I think anyone and everyone should pick up this book. I imagine Rabbi Angel has unique experiences that allow him to assist us in delving into the world of the yeshiva and the schisms between more traditional Orthodoxy and more modern Orthodoxy. It is, as I said, an incredibly quick read. So nu? Pick it up already!

(And while you're at it, check out his book on conversion, which although it is about Orthodox Judaism, is a good primer for the background on conversion in Jewish history through Torah, Talmud, the rabbis, etc.!)

It's Like a Big Pink Kugle in the Room.

I got an e-mail earlier today, right as I was arriving back in Chicago from a delightful mini-roadtrip to a (crappy) drive-in in Nowheresville, Indiana, and I spent the entire day mulling over the text trying to find the appropriate way to say what I was feeling about the words.

Bat Ayin is not for conversion candidates. It is for Jewish women but they also accept conversion candidates.

Bat Ayin was what the woman at Aish suggested for me, as a "conversion candidate." In this very simple couple of sentences, this woman is saying "You are not a Jew." As soon as I got in front of the computer earlier today, I wrote ferociously and quickly. It was angry, it was volatile. It was a big "take off your hater pants" fest directed at this woman, at Aish, at Orthodoxy. And I couldn't center my thoughts. I couldn't put exactly what was so frustrating into words.

So tonight, while bawling my eyes out in the shower because I feel like I'm in a vacuum -- things pulling me every which way, tugging my heart strings and prodding my delicate brain about love and religion and belief and faith and the future and the things we cannot effect or change -- it came to me. I finally can say what it is about such people that makes me want to tear my clothes and scream and weep and completely fall apart.

The thing of it is, I had a conversion. I went into the mikvah (twice, actually), I sat before a beth din, I stood in front of a congregation of Jews and (some) family and friends and vowed to take on the plight of the Jew, to raise a Jewish family, to have one G-d, to be a connected member of the Jewish community, of Israel, and I was pronounced Chaviva bat Avraham v'Sarah. It happened. There are witnesses and there is documented proof and pictures to prove I was there. There was a synagogue, a beautiful building, and a mikvah and there was even sushi afterward.

You cannot tell me that I did not step in a mikvah or that I did not stand before those people and proclaim, I am a Jew.

But yes, I understand that to many this was not a "Torah true" conversion. It was a conversion, just not that which some Conservative and all Orthodox parties recognize as legit. But it did happen. Even if it is some rickity-rack conversion that has no meaning, it happened. You can't tell me I didn't feel the mikvah waters over my skin or that I did not say the blessing over the Torah.

It might not be right to you, but something *did* happen. It isn't a tree-falls-in-the-forest situation.

It's like if you order a coffee with two sugars and the waitress brings it to you and you swear up and down that she didn't sweeten it, yet her coworkers saw her, it doesn't mean the sugar isn't there, it just means it isn't sweet enough for you. But the sugar is still there. It isn't as if nothing happened. Something, something is there.

Am I making sense? I guess what I'm saying is that you can't ignore my situation. You can't pretend like I'm some shmuck starting from scratch. I know more halakah and Jewish thought than probably some pretty observant folk. I am aware and I am proud. So don't tell me that nothing happened. Don't pretend like I am some random no one who has not spent at least five years moving backwards and forwards and every which way wrapping her heart and mind around Torah and Judaism and G-d. Acknowledge. ACKNOWLEDGE that something happened. I just want you to say "okay, it is there, now let us move on."

ACKNOWLEDGE that something, even a small something, did happen. I don't expect you to say it's right or it's true or it's legitimate. I just want you to say that something happened.

A Birthright.

I'm standing just off the curb near the bus stop, watching taxicabs and cars zip by, waiting for a free space in the traffic to make it across Broadway. Really, I'm at ease -- my skirt flapping wildly in the wind; gale force winds have painted the day. I wanted very much to just stand there, eyes closed, early summer wind brushing over and around me, making my kosher-for-shul skirt dance. And then there's a clearing, and I run, sandles clicking against the ground, and I'm thinking: when did skirts become oppressive. And then I'm thinking: I should blog about this and shul tonight and about how it's hard to fight the urge to blog after something beautiful whips around your mind making it difficult to think -- you must get the words out in some form, else they'll continue to stir up and around making it uneasy to concentrate, to breathe.

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I showed up 15 minutes late to shul. I followed a young couple in and as they were picking through the headcoverings I opened the sanctuary door to find it empty. I tucked myself into their space and asked if they knew what time services were. I then found out that sometimes they have services in the basement, in the room where on my first visit to the Orthodox shul they'd had a Shabbat dinner and where I'd scooted myself into an already-full table of Jews. I plodded down the steps and there, in the big room, were crowded dozens of congregants separated women from men by a lace curtain divider. I (reluctantly) grabbed my transliterated (brown) siddur and grabbed a seat. The men's side was pretty hoppin', and the woman I'd run into mentioned that when they have services downstairs, there's dancing and lively(er) singing. Now, I'd skipped a service at the Conservative shul because I was hoping to avoid acoustic guitars and the like, so it was funny that the Orthodox shul had a similar thing going down; but rest assured, there were no drums or guitars or anything aside from the voices -- the beautiful voices -- of the congregants.

I quickly found my place in the siddur, but realized for the first time at the Orthodox shul that I really loathe the transliterated version. The thing is, the transliteration does that whole "s" versus "t" bit from the Ashkenazi/Sephardi pronunciations and it just throws me. I know the prayers, but when you're staring at a transliterated page you have a tendency to read what you're given and it's just frustrating. If only everything weren't so ... fast. Yes, if things were slower I could probably keep up in the Hebrew. But at the same time, the pace is what enthralls and excites me. There is so much, so very much, and all of it is beautiful. I found myself marveling tonight at how quickly I was moving along in some of the prayers you find in all shuls for the ma'ariv. I wouldn't change the service at all. It's me who needs to change. The Hebrew needs to be like a second skin, a glove. I should be able to open the siddur and know precisely where we are in the service, know the words and the melodies. And in due time, well, I'll be there.

And there was dancing. On the men's side, anyhow. The women sort of smiled and looked on over the divider as the rabbi and several other (also rabbis) danced in a circle. I wish I could convey the beauty that emanates from this congregation when they're singing and davening. It's like our entire past, all of our ancestors, are in the room voices belting loudly in many different melodies making the most serene sound. I can close my eyes and it's as if the entire room has become Israel -- the people, the entire congregation. And that, of course, is what Shabbat is meant to be. I've never experienced that before, that washed over feeling of generations past and present alive in the voices of those singing and davening.

But then there is the guilt. I left services, opting to skip out on a (most likely delicious) Shabbat dinner to go home. The day left me weary -- the heat was suffocating and the wind left me feeling worn. I need sleep, it's true, and I have many a plan for the weekend (not partying hard, folks, but going to a green market and chalk art festival and book fair). The entire week drifted by seemingly without any sleep, and despite the joy and absolute happiness I feel when joining a Shabbat table, I knew I needed to come home. I trekked down the street and, seeing two buses coming, stopped at the corner and waited. As I stood there, people leaving the Orthodox shul walked by, and a feeling of dread overcame me. I began to think, What will they think of me? Am I being judged? Should I just start walking so they think perhaps I was just taking an idle break?
No one said anything to me. They probably didn't even notice me. I'm sure there are plenty of people who take the bus -- not everyone lives in the eruv or within walking distance, right? I was over-thinking it. But having already started thinking about blogging about services, I'd also turned on my Blackberry, which I subsequently (and shamefully) shoved in my bag. The bus came, I hopped on, pulled out Potok, and read the entire way home.

And now, we're back to where we began.

I'm trying to figure out how to reconcile a lot of things. From what I hear, this (modern) Orthodox shul isn't like other Orthodox shuls. The rabbi is one of a kind. The people? Also unique. The atmosphere? You won't find it anywhere else. I'm beginning to worry: Is this going to turn into another situation like with my "starter shul" back in Nebraska? Will it come to be that no shul on the planet will be able to compare with this shul? On the same note, is this synagogue "acceptable" in its Orthodoxy or is it talked about by the folks up in West Rogers Park and Skokie? Scratch that. Now that I think about it, every year I guess there's a mass migration of new families from this Orthodox shul up to the Orthodox neighborhoods in the near suburbs. They even have little reunions I guess. So yes, it's kosher.

Why am I asking all these questions? Who cares?

While standing in services, not paying attention to the prayer, my eyes floated through the lace curtain to all the young bachelors. I began to wonder (so much thinking going on) whether -- if I really wanted to land me a nice Orthodox boy -- this whole conversion debacle would make someone apprehensive about me, even if I had chosen to convert Orthodox. Would it keep someone from loving me? From accepting me? And how would I handle that. Is it even worth it? Afterall, I've been known to be in love with goyim (past and present).

Oy. My head hurts from all the thinking, but this is what shul does to me. I go, I experience something beautiful, I leave, I begin to think. Sometimes I wonder if my approach to Judaism is too academic, too serious, too fretful. And then I step back and look at those words and think of the sages and great thinkers and realize no, this is precisely what I'm meant to do. It's who I am.

It's my birthright.