An Immigrant Moment

Today I had to call a native Israeli in order to apologize for a mistake that I made. (Yes, it really happens! Chayyei Sarah is imperfect and makes mistakes! Hard to believe, I know.)

I got the machine and left a message, in Hebrew.

But I'm afraid that instead of saying the Hebrew equivalent of "I'm sorry, and I'm very embarrassed," I may have said "I'm sorry, and I'm very much drying myself off."

Oops.

Vote Vote Vote

for me, me, me!

Polls are now open for the final round at the Jewish-Israeli Blog Awards! No more of this "vote every day" thing, now it's One person/ One vote, so make it count!

I am up against some incredibly impressive competition, people. I strongly urge you to check them out. Some of my competitors were people I myself nominated, knowing I might have to run against them, because they totally deserve attention. So, check them out, and then vote for me anyway! (Oh, fine, vote with your conscience. Just remember that "A Vote for Chayyei Sarah is a Vote for World Peace.")

My blog is up in the following categories. Click here to vote (for me!):

Best Overall Blog
Best New Blog
Best Life in Israel Blog
Best Personal Blog
Best Post (Taxi)
Best Series (Shabbat- click here and read from the bottom upward, starting with Saturday Dec. 11)

Thanks to everyone who nominated me and voted for me in the preliminary round! Let's make it count!

(and meet me at the clock . . . )

PS Can anyone tell me how to keep this post at the top of the blog until voting closes?

Oh, what the heck, here's a gratuitous link to Dov Bear.

Proud to be counted among such people

I must thank David for writing such a beautiful and flattering post about our brunch last Friday with the writers of Ben Chorin and MOChassid. Indeed, there was something magical about it. David I'd already met on several occasions, and in fact I'd spent a Shabbat at his home; it was wonderful to see him again. MOChassid I had met the one time, when he first got to Israel, and again it was special indeed to have more time to talk with him before he returns to the States.

But for me the highlight was meeting Ben Chorin. I must be honest; I'd hardly read his blog at all before going for this brunch. I think I'd looked at it once or twice. About 30 minutes before leaving I checked it out so I'd have a clue, and was impressed. But after meeting him, I'm more impressed. This is one smart and accomplished guy, and he's got something of the mischievous gleam in his eye, and yet there is something pleasingly soft-spoken, almost gentle, about him. Or at least, there was at the brunch!

As David said, we didn't talk about anything of much import, but as the meal went on, I felt more and more strongly that these are three of the nicest men anywhere. I was really sorry when I had to be the first to go, to finish cooking for Shabbat. As I left, it occured to me that I'd just had brunch with three Orthodox Jewish men (read: "patriarchal misogynists"-- or whatever, not my words), two of whom live in the West Bank (read: "settlers who are an obstruction to the peace process"), and therefore, according to all stereotypes, should be Enemy Number One.

But they were so nice.

Yeah, I was the only woman. Yeah, I was the only single. Yeah, I was the youngest, by quite a lot (heh heh). But instead of feeling different or bored or intimidated, I just felt really honored to have spent an hour eating salads and sandwiches with these guys. They are A+ people.

Well, now that you put it that way . . . .

My sister on the Super Bowl

FYI for women in Jerusalem area

Several months ago an acquaintance of mine told me about a dance class he was taking called "Contact Improvisation." Basically, you partner with someone in the class, the teacher puts on music, and (with guidance from the teacher, sometimes) you improvise a dance. The idea is that you stay in physical contact with the other person, and have to really pay attention both to how you feel like moving at any particular moment and to what your dance partner is doing. I told him that sounds pretty erotic and he assured me that actually the environment was very safe-feeling, and more earthy than sexual. He does Yoga too so I took his word for it. (Geez, there are so many fruity people in this town!)

Well, anyone who has known me in person for more than 5 minutes knows that I'm very touchy-feely, so when I found out that this guy's teacher was now offering a women's Contact Improv class, I had no hesitations about signing up. Since it's not co-ed, I could totally circumvent any "halacha vs. what I want" internal conflict and just go! And it really was great. It was more exercise than I thought it would be, so it's like going for a 2-hour workout. The people ranged in age from about 20-60, and were really nice. And since there are no moves to memorize or techniques to "master," it made no difference that I'd never tried it before. Very non-threatening! And I loved it. You just go there and move. You don't have to be tiny or have rythm or be able to can-can or anything. You just do it. It feels so great!

Then the teacher went abroad for a few months, so that was that.

Now she's back! And she's starting a 12-week women's class (2 hours once a week)! It starts this week, at a dance studio in Talpiyot. I am so there. I need the exercise, and it feels good. Totally worth the 50 NIS per session, I must say. It beats trying to force the fencing to work for me. And it's more healthy than spending the money on a 2-hour movie and popcorn.

I'm not posting the day or time of the class because announcing on the internet when I won't be home is not a good plan. But, if you are female and live in or near Jerusalem and want the details, send me an email. I think more people should know about this class, because it's so great.

(Does this mean that now I'm one of the fruity ones? If I ever write a post about the wonder of walking everywhere barefoot, smoking pot, and/or using the words "tikkun olam" more than twice in a conversation, please just shoot me.)

The Roller Coaster of Religiosity, Part II: The Highs (long post)

[Click here for Part I and the disclaimer.]

Let's start with an analogy.

Do you remember the intensity of feelings involved in being a teenager? There was no sadness, only despair; no anger, only hopeless rage; no gladness, only fly-from-rooftops joy. And there is no love like the way you love someone in high school.

I never really had a boyfriend in high school, but I had two serious crushes. Do you remember those? The way there was no one else in the room if that person was there? The way you felt like either shaking or dying every time the person walked by? The way, if they smiled at you, you’d practically spasm from the agony and the ecstasy? The way that person was perfect?

Do you remember the first time you were in love? For me it happened when I was 18. Do you remember being in love at 18? There was a purity to the feeling that can’t be repeated, ever, because once you aren’t a teenager anymore, it’s hard to feel anything with teenage passion. I did love someone in my twenties, and because I was older and wiser and knew the person better, the experience was richer and deeper and in many ways more
important. But it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t as pure.

As David Foster wrote in the theme song to St. Elmo’s Fire, “we’ll never love again like we did then.” That song always reminds me of high school, seminary, and freshman year of college; it awakens, a little, the passion. “We laughed until we had to cry/ and we loved right down to our last goodbye/ we were the best we’ll ever be/ just you and me/ for just a moment.” Fly-from-rooftops joy.

That was the joy I felt, in high school and seminary and freshman year, about Judaism. I felt it most keenly at NCSY Shabbatons. For havdala we would congregate in the darkened social hall of the synagogue, and the band would play rousing songs about Jewish unity and mashiach and Jewish pride. We teens would stand in front of the stage, in rows, arms around each other’s shoulders, swaying and singing and smiling and feeling the Jewish unity. Some older kids, the student leaders, would be on the stage holding candles. The regional director would share an inspiring story and we’d feel how special it is to be an observant, knowledgable, strong Jew. Sometimes the stories were about us, about how important we were, having been created in the image of God.

Now, with the cynicism of the years, I can understand how cliched and carefully calibrated those havdala services were. But from my first Shabbaton I felt very strongly the symbolism of the candles, the idea that each of us has a soul that is unique and alive and has the power to light up the world.

I felt, in those moments, brimming love for Torah and for the Jewish people. My love started with the teens and college-aged counselors around me, and extended to all Jews: the ones around the world who were being oppressed; the ones who came before me and had kept the flame alive; the ones in future generations who, maybe, would have moments like this one because people like me would pass along what we had learned. It was not unusual for me (and lots of other kids) to cry during havdalah, because we couldn’t bear the exquisiteness of our joyful longing for God.

My seminary year felt like one long havdala service, and then I went to college and listened obsessively in my dorm room to songs like Destiny's "Lornero Family" and Avraham Fried’s "The Time is Now," tears streaming down my face and my heart bursting with pride and love for myself, for Jews, for God, for Torah. I loved being Jewish so much I couldn’t sit still. I had to dance, to sing.

“We’ll never love again like we did then.” When it came to dating, everything got more complicated, eventually. Now, it’s not enough for a man to light up a room, though of course that is a prerequisite; now, no matter how brilliant his smile may be, my passion is tempered by realism and practicality, by questions like Do we communicate well? Is he mature enough to make a real commitment? Between us do we earn enough to raise a family? If not, what could we do about that? Would he be a good roommate? Would his mother live next door to us and drive me crazy? The experience, when it goes well, is deeper, richer, more important. But not the same.

Similarly, my pure love for Orthodoxy ended when I was 20 years old. I had a religious crisis and almost left it all behind, the religion, the observance, the community. I decided to stay and to believe, but it was different now. I didn’t automatically trust my community as I had before, and my commitment to Jewish law has a more intellectual, cerebral feeling to it. It’s not usually a passionate love anymore. It’s more complicated, more measured, more adult. More nuanced, perhaps, and therefore richer and more important. But not the same.

And so for me, the highs are the moments when I love again as I did then. In dating it’s the times I meet a man whose smile makes me feel, all over again, warm and melty and like there’s no one else in the room. In Judaism
it’s the times I feel, all over again, that being a Jew is so exquisitely beautiful and important and special that I can hardly bear the joy of it.

The highs come when a Hebrew song awakens my heart, or when I talk with other Orthodox Jews – friends, rabbis I like, new faces—who are compassionate and smart and sincere, and I feel proud to share a religion with such people.

I feel the highs when I see that I’m not alone in my vision of what Judaism is or could be; when I attend large conferences for like-minded Jews or hang around at Bar Ilan University or find sites like this one or this one. I feel the high when I go to events where Jews of all flavors are getting along with each other, focused on something positive and productive.

I felt a high when my grandmother told me stories about my great-grandfather, who was a respected Chassidic rabbi in Poland, and when my nephew said last Passover “I want to go with Sabba to burn chametz! Please can I go, Imma?” I feel a high when I’m learning a complicated bit of Talmud and suddenly the lightbulb goes on and I understand it and feel satisfied, like I’ve just eaten a delicious meal.

I feel the highs when my struggles with certain Jewish laws somehow lead me to a holier place. I feel the high when I’m talking to God and know, somehow, that despite all the times I feel far from him, he’s still listening to me. I’m still important. My soul is unique and alive and has the power to light up the world. I’ll always be a creature in His image.

***UPDATE***
How do you get your religious highs?

The Roller Coaster of Religiosity, Part I: The Lows (long post)

[In the next two posts, I sometimes use the terms “Orthodox Jew” and “Jew” and “committed Jew” as if they are interchangable. I realize that they are not. I know that there are many Jews who are not Orthodox who are proud of their Jewishness, and committed to whatever Jewish ideology they espouse. But in my internal life, being a Jew and being Orthodox and being committed to other Jews and to God are almost inextricably bound up with each other. Trying to separate them would involve a whole other long post, and may be impossible for me. For now, please accept my apologies for lumping them together.]

Sometimes I feel more “religious” than other times.

Sometimes, I’m simply thinking about things that have absolutely no connection to God, such as how to decrease my electricity bill, or whether I’d rather meet my friends at Cafe Hillel or at Norman’s Steak ‘n’ Burger. (I’m sure there are some people who are now tempted to comment with ways that all things are connected to God and Torah, somehow, but . . . come on, you know what I mean! And anyway, usually I make those connections on my own. There is little in my life that I don’t see or experience through the prism of being a Jew.) In those moments, the reason I’m not being actively religious is simply that I’m thinking about something else. Sometimes, being Orthodox is passive. That’s life.

Sometimes, I’m thinking about religion but don’t feel very religious, because I’m faced with a commandment or a halacha (Jewish law) that is super hard for me, and by some trick of rationalization I fail to bring myself to keep the law. Like any other Orthodox person, I’ve become accustomed to doing things that are sometimes a pain in the neck, and I’ve become accustomed to living without many things that maybe I would have liked. Usually it either doesn’t bother me much because I'm used to it, or I manage to feel some holiness in the struggle. But some Jewish laws restrict me in ways that I really, really, really dislike being restricted, or they obligate me to do something that I really, really, really do not want to do. During these moments, I do (unfortunately) break halachot. (Which ones? That’s between me and God.)

In those moments, I am not being a hypocrite, because I have never in my life claimed to believe that each of us is cosmically bound to keep all the halachot. What I always say is that each Jew has a responsibility to do their utmost, to put in every effort, to do their very best. Everyone fails sometimes. As the Talmud says, when I get to heaven, no one is going to ask me whether I was as holy as Abraham, or as pious as some great rabbi. I’ll be asked “Were you the best Sarah you could be?” Sometimes I’m afraid of how I’d answer that.

There are some interesting mental gymnastics that go on when a person who otherwise cares about Jewish law is about to break one. I’ve been thinking lately about what goes on in that moment, when I have to choose.

In a few instances, the internal conflict does not reflect any sort of grand theological doubting, it’s just a matter of my being lazy, or too tempted by whatever fun or satisfying thing it is that I’m not supposed to have. I might say, in that moment, “God will understand,” or, if I’m very tempted by the forbidden fruit, “God will just have to understand.” It’s a cop-out, yes, one of which I’m not proud. But often, there’s something deeper going on.

Being an intellectually engaged, self-aware Orthodox Jew with one foot in the non-Orthodox world is a lot of hard work. As I’ve indicated before, I do a lot of thinking and evaluating and re-evaluating. In many ways I sit on philosophical fences, but the fence keeps shifting under me and so I can’t stop paying attention, or I’ll fall off. If I fall asleep on the job, events and trends and habits will overtake me, and I’ll get lost.

Sometimes, my butt hurts from sitting on fences. Sometimes, I’m just tired. Tired of always worrying about my actions and my words. Tired of “representing” Jews and Torah and God, and having to worry about what kind of impression I’m making on others, whether I’m being a kiddush or a chillul Hashem, whether I or others in my community are giving us a bad name. Tired of redefining myself, over and over, against the people to the “right” or the “left” of me. I’m tired, sometimes, of worrying about Jewish continuity, and replacing the people we lost in the Holocaust, and passing Torah to the next generation. I’m sick, sometimes, of being part of the “grand sweep of Jewish history.” I’m tired of wondering about God’s plan for me and for Jews and for the world, and what is my purpose in life, and am I fulfilling it?

And then, on top off all those things . . . is there a bloodspot in my breakfast egg? Is this shirt too low-cut? Can I finish this project before Shabbat begins? Does this restaurant have kashrut certification?

In short, sometimes, being a committed Jew is just too exhausting. And so, sometimes, I dissociate. It’s like an out-of-body experience, almost. I can see myself in my body, making a choice, living with all the trappings of religious belief, knowing what I’m supposed to do. And yet I’m also standing on the side, not caring anymore.

This “not caring” sometimes manifests itself in the thought that “I just can’t believe that God really concerns himself with whether I do such-and-such or not.” It’s a handy way of displacing the indifference, to say “I do care about God’s instructions and his plan for me, but I don’t think, right now, that this law is really what He wants. So I’m going to ignore it.” Later, I might feel guilty. Or not.

But what’s worse, so much worse, is when I stop caring even about God. When I’m so tired and so removed and so unspiritual and empty that the only thought filling the emptiness is "futility, futility, all is futility.” This is not an intellectual thought, nor is it a belief. It’s a state of being. It’s what happens when I’ve been caring so much about my Jewishness that I’ve blown a spiritual fuse and my brain rebels, screaming “Enough. It’s too much responsibility. I cannot carry this yoke anymore.”

Those are the lows.


[Coming up soon: The Highs]

Tova Mirvis responds to Wendy Shalit (but I'm still pissed off at Nathan Englander)

In an article in today's Forward (registration required), Tova Mirvis reminds Shalit that not only does Shalit not have a monopoly on the Orthodox experience, but that it makes no difference: the fact that Mirvis makes things up is what makes it fiction.

To which I say: Tell it, sister.

I'm a bit disappointed that Mirvis includes Nathan Englander in her argument, since Englander does not limit his fiction to his novels. He laces publicity interviews with fiction as well. For example, while I can see how growing up in an affluent Long Island suburb may be stylistically stifling (for anyone, Jewish or not), and he's not the first person to call the suburbs a "cultural vaccum," isn't it going a little overboard to call it a "shtetl mentality," as if he grew up in Williamsburg instead of West Hempstead? Are all the (parent sponsored) pool parties and teenage drinking common in his community indications of "fire and brimstone"? Is it fair to call his HANC (read: Ivy League prep school) education "anti-intellectual"? Or to say that reading literature was his way of "looking elsewhere," when his "fire and brimstone" Orthodox high school includes Shakespeare, Orwell, and Bronte on their reading lists?

He says that "I had no idea that you could spend your life writing fiction, that this was actually an option. Coming from my background, I didn't think it was permissible." Who told him that? His AP English teacher?

Face it, Nathan. When you make up stories to be sold in Barnes and Noble, you're a fiction writer. But when you make up stories to a reporter or your publicist, it's just lies.

Random and only somewhat meaningful thoughts for the day

A few things I thought of today, when I was supposed to be doing other, more productive things. If you are looking for very deep thoughts, this is not your day.

1. It is so easy to blame everything wrong in my life on the fact that I'm still single. Almost completely unjustified, but so easy.

2. Many moons ago, my 8th-grade Social Studies teacher, Mrs. Kaufman, had us read, every week, one of these "current event" magazines for junior high school students. This was in the mid-80's, when teen pregnancy was a hugely talked-about social issue. One time there was a little blurb about a 13-year-old girl who had just had a baby. I remember thinking "Ewww! Gross! On so many levels!"

But one of the girls in my class, who we'll call, uh, Shaindy, said that she doesn't understand, what's wrong with someone having a baby? What could be bad about a baby?

Mrs. Kaufman [peering at Shaindy from over her glasses]: Shaindy, how old are you?!?
Shaindy: 13
Mrs. K: And are you, young lady, ready to have a baby?!?
[boys in the class start snickering]
Shaindy: No!
Mrs. K: I thought not.

And that was kind of the end of that. I think Shaindy got the message about the social problem at hand. But more importantly, it was ingrained in my head that "Oh, my God, I'm 13, too. And somewhere out there is a girl exactly my age with a baby. Holy cow."

Today I was thinking that somewhere out there, the baby is now 19 years old. Actually, that baby may have been one of my students when I taught in New York. And somewhere out there is a woman exactly my age with a 19-year-old daughter. She may even be a grandmother by now. Holy cow.

3. Next thought: She might already be a grandmother, and I'm still single. Where is the justice?

4. There is no such thing as my to-do list ever being empty. As long as I eat, there will be dishes to wash. As long as I open windows and doors, there will be dust to . . . dust. As long as I get mail, there will be papers to wade through and bills to pay. As long as I wear clothes, there will be laundry to do. As long as I live, I will generate garbage (literally, though I hope not metaphorically). There will always be tax forms to fill out, and hair to get cut, grocery shopping to finish, and meals to cook. There is no such thing as being "done." If I'm waiting to be "done," I'll be waiting forever.

5. . . . but if I were married I could split the work.

Before you complain to Verizon . . .

Some Jewish websites are reporting that according to Verizon Wireless "there is no Israel" or implying that there must be some nefarious intent behind Verizon's listing of "Palestine" as a place where one can SMS, but not Israel. Also, when you click on the map of Asia, and then the dot for "Palestine," the PA flag pops up, completely covering the holy land.

I was glad to see that some of the commenters at the Jewlicious link had their heads on straight about whether there is really any reason to complain, and that if one does complain it's best to do it POLITELY.

First, the menu of countries on the Verizon list obviously is not meant to include every country (or political entity, if you prefer) that exists or which they believe "should" exist. The list doesn't include Austria, either, and I'm sure Verizon has no issues with Austria. Also missing: Luxembourg. Saudi Arabia. And probably around 50 other perfectly "undisputed" countries around the world.

It just so happens that Verizon has a contract with a Palestinian cellular carrier, and not with an Israeli one. Who knows why? Perhaps they haven't gotten around to it. Perhaps they are in negotiations. Perhaps the Israeli terms were too high. Perhaps Israeli cellular companies are in cahoots with Austria.

And regarding the map and the flag: All the flags, of all the "partnering" countries (political entitities, whatever), are the same size. It's not Verizon's fault that Israel is so small that the flag graphic swallowed it up.

However, it it's an insensitivity that I hope Verizon will correct, once it is pointed out to them. Obviously, we Jews and Israelis are very, very sensitive about the fact that there are a bajillion-million people out there who would like to drive our little Jewish state into the sea. And it's only 60 years after the Holocaust, and so we've got every reason to have the heeby-jeebies about people who want to destroy us. Our paranoia is justified, you know? (I'm not really being facetious, here. The Arabs do want to destroy us.) And so we are very very scared of the dark. And along comes hapless Verizon and, thinking they were just saving electricity, they turn the lights out. Time to write to them and ask them to please leave a night-light on.

If you want, go ahead and ask them if they could please write "Palestinian Authority" rather than "Palestine," and make the flag pop up a little higher or a little to the right so that it is over Lebanon or Jordan, rather than Israel. I tend to think that once they realize that they've stepped into a landmine, they'll do what they can to be more accomodating to our feelings. As they should. (And then the Palestinian bloggers will have a field day talking about how hysterical and jumpy we are. And in this case they'd be right.)

Anyhow, I look forward to hearing how Verizon handles all the complaints they are about to get from angry, angry Jews.

You know what this reminds me of? I used to have a graphic on my blog from weather.com. It said "the weather in Jerusalem is . . . " and then gave the temperature, humidity, etc. Underneath that it said "as reported from Queen Alia Airport, Amman, Jordan." This annoyed me because Amman isn't much closer to Jerusalem (if at all) than is Tel Aviv, which is almost always noticably warmer than Jerusalem. Due to all the mountains and other geophysical factors here, Jerusalem's weather is very different from the weather in other nearby areas; so why should I believe that if it is 45 degrees Fahrenheit in Amman that it is the same in Jerusalem? I didn't think anything of it politically. I just felt it can't be so scientifically accurate.

But one of my readers left a comment to the effect of: "Have you noticed that the weather report on your site is anti-Semitic?"

What an idiot! The weather does not see political borders. I pointed this out to him, asking him whether he thinks that a storm front over Jordan would discriminate over Jerusalem due its being in a Jewish state.

It's not always about us, people.