John Lennon once sang "Life is what happens to you when you're busy ignoring your blog."
Or, y'know, something like that.
In any case, it's been well over a month since I last wrote and you can generally assume that I haven't written because I've been busy. First it was preparing for Passover (spring cleaning with a deadline, as my mom likes to describe it), complete with making my very first seder. Then it was actually Passover, which was surprisingly busy. Then it was full-tilt concert preparation, hard core apartment hunting, New York State teacher's licencing tests, applying for graduate school, and a few other obligations. Thankfully, most of the hard work of the last two months appears to be paying off.
Big news number 1: I made it through my first really, truly, honest-to-goodness, did-it-all-by-myself Pesach! Passover is one of those holidays that requires so much work and has so many laws, traditions, and procedures associated with it that I avoided "making Pesach" whenever I could. As a college student, I either went home for the holiday or stayed with my aunt and uncle. Even in my apartment last year I ate as many meals as I could elsewhere so I didn't actually have to buy new food, new dishes, or cover my countertops. This year, however, I couldn't get out of it. Not only that, but I was also making a small seder for three for the first night. Thankfully I think I pulled it off, and it wasn't even quite as scary as I thought it might be.
Big news number 2: We found a new apartment! Although our current apartment is a total steal in NYC and the hubby is a block away from work, the neighborhood leaves something to be desired. Since finding a synagogue and community that has yet to disappoint me, we started looking for an apartment closer to that neighborhood. It was a long and arduous search, but I am happy to announce we found a place only a few blocks from shul and we're signing the lease on Tuesday.
Big news number 3: My spring concerts for the Pre-K through 3rd grade classes at my school has been a source of great stress for me the last few weeks, but after a few hours of very successful rehearsals on Friday, I'm actually looking quite forward to them. The theme is "Music Through the Decades," and each class has a song to represent a particular genre and decade. Early American folk, 30s swing, 60s R&B, 70s pop, 80s hard rock, you name it. The kids have worked so hard, and after hearing them on stage I am extremely excited for the performances next week. Admittedly, though, I'm not sure if I'm primarily excited for the concerts or for them to be done. Either way, I'm looking forward to it.
Big news number 4: Applied for grad school. Will hopefully get in. Will keep you updated.
Tonight after Shabbat I had every intention of finally tackling some of the house chores that I have been putting off for the last two weeks, but somehow I'm sitting at the computer instead. For the first time in two months I'm feeling like things are actually under control, and I am so chilled that even the piles of laundry on the floor aren't bothering me. It'll all get done. The worst of it is over. And pretty soon, I'll be able to relax in a brand new place to call home.
Showing posts with label Holidays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Holidays. Show all posts
Sunday, May 4, 2014
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
The It Crowd
This past weekend was the holiday of Purim, a Jewish festival celebrating the victory of the Jews over the evil vizier Haman in ancient Persia under the rule of King Ahashverosh (who is most likely King Xerxes I). It is a joyous holiday during which we read from the Book of Esther (known as the megillah), eat hamantaschen (triangle-shaped pastries filled with jam, poppy seed, chocolate, or other goodies), dress up in costumes, and imbibe.
It is one of the most rambunctiously joyous holidays in the Jewish calendar, yet I've never been a huge fan of it. Since I became old enough to decide on my own costumes instead of my parents putting me in whatever mask they wanted, I realized that I was very bad at making costumes and so I haven't dressed up much in the last few years. I don't like drinking, nor do I enjoy being around people who drink copiously, and big parties usually aren't my thing. So I've come to ignore Purim, more or less, and prefer to focus instead on the holidays I'm good at.
But this year, as with most things in my life since moving to New York, things were different.
This year I attended a giant party at a huge Reform synagogue which was co-sponsored by at least three congregations and a couple Brooklyn Jewish social organizations. There were multiple readings of the Book of Esther to accommodate the different communities represented, then we all coalesced afterward in the social hall across the street for a giant costume and dance party.
With a guest list of nearly 300, this is not typically the kind of event I would attend, especially without a group of friends to go with. But in the last few months I've been getting to know some new people and have even made a few friends with whom I've hung out outside of Jewish events. A few of them said they would be there, so I went hoping that I'd at least be able to mingle momentarily with a few people here or there. I didn't expect to stay too long or involve myself much in the party, but at least I would have the experience and be able to say I was there.
I decided to get together with a new friend beforehand and walk with her to the event. She is even newer to Brooklyn than me, so for once I was the one familiar with the area and the people. It felt pretty cool to know what I was doing, where I was going. When we got there I started looking for the people I knew from the shul I've been attending regularly the last couple months, and I wasn't disappointed.
After the megillah reading, we slowly made our way over to the social hall where the party was getting started. It didn't take long to get separated from my friend and lost in the crowd (and it didn't help that I was probably the shortest person in the room), but eventually I found another friend who I knew would be there. She introduced me to her friends and while talking to them someone else bumped into me.
"I'm sorry! Oh, hey! Great seeing you here! I'm going over there, but we'll talk later!"
I recognized the girl, but could not for the life of me think of her name right away. Where had I met her? How did I know her? It took me nearly 15 minutes to remember that I had only met her a week prior at another event for Jewish Brooklynites, and I think I remembered her name. But what's really cool to me, what I consider to be a major milestone in my social exploration of Brooklyn, is that not only am I just randomly bumping into people I know, but others are recognizing me, too.
Nearly eight months ago I moved here knowing nobody. I had no social circle, no friends in the area, no network to speak of beyond Tomm. The fact that I not only attended but thoroughly enjoyed a huge dance party last weekend is an enormous step for me. I can confidently say I'm making friends and finding my niche in this big city. Now that's an accomplishment.
It is one of the most rambunctiously joyous holidays in the Jewish calendar, yet I've never been a huge fan of it. Since I became old enough to decide on my own costumes instead of my parents putting me in whatever mask they wanted, I realized that I was very bad at making costumes and so I haven't dressed up much in the last few years. I don't like drinking, nor do I enjoy being around people who drink copiously, and big parties usually aren't my thing. So I've come to ignore Purim, more or less, and prefer to focus instead on the holidays I'm good at.
But this year, as with most things in my life since moving to New York, things were different.
This year I attended a giant party at a huge Reform synagogue which was co-sponsored by at least three congregations and a couple Brooklyn Jewish social organizations. There were multiple readings of the Book of Esther to accommodate the different communities represented, then we all coalesced afterward in the social hall across the street for a giant costume and dance party.
With a guest list of nearly 300, this is not typically the kind of event I would attend, especially without a group of friends to go with. But in the last few months I've been getting to know some new people and have even made a few friends with whom I've hung out outside of Jewish events. A few of them said they would be there, so I went hoping that I'd at least be able to mingle momentarily with a few people here or there. I didn't expect to stay too long or involve myself much in the party, but at least I would have the experience and be able to say I was there.
I decided to get together with a new friend beforehand and walk with her to the event. She is even newer to Brooklyn than me, so for once I was the one familiar with the area and the people. It felt pretty cool to know what I was doing, where I was going. When we got there I started looking for the people I knew from the shul I've been attending regularly the last couple months, and I wasn't disappointed.
After the megillah reading, we slowly made our way over to the social hall where the party was getting started. It didn't take long to get separated from my friend and lost in the crowd (and it didn't help that I was probably the shortest person in the room), but eventually I found another friend who I knew would be there. She introduced me to her friends and while talking to them someone else bumped into me.
"I'm sorry! Oh, hey! Great seeing you here! I'm going over there, but we'll talk later!"
I recognized the girl, but could not for the life of me think of her name right away. Where had I met her? How did I know her? It took me nearly 15 minutes to remember that I had only met her a week prior at another event for Jewish Brooklynites, and I think I remembered her name. But what's really cool to me, what I consider to be a major milestone in my social exploration of Brooklyn, is that not only am I just randomly bumping into people I know, but others are recognizing me, too.
Nearly eight months ago I moved here knowing nobody. I had no social circle, no friends in the area, no network to speak of beyond Tomm. The fact that I not only attended but thoroughly enjoyed a huge dance party last weekend is an enormous step for me. I can confidently say I'm making friends and finding my niche in this big city. Now that's an accomplishment.
Sunday, September 22, 2013
Shul Shopping, Part III
The Holiday Season is in full swing and along with it come plenty of opportunities to go to the synagogue. We began with Rosh Hashanah two weeks ago, then last Saturday many of us spent a good portion of 25 hours in the synagogue and not eating. Just four days later we commenced the celebration of Sukkot, that bizarre Jewish holiday in which Jews suddenly become carpenters and build strange huts in their yards topped with bamboo sticks, tree branches, or corn stalks. Oh, and we also say a blessing while holding onto the trimmed branches of three different trees (date palm, willow, and myrtle) plus an Israeli citrus fruit called an etrog and shake them all around. It's all very symbolic. Take my word for it.
Here are some pictures if you have no idea what I'm talking about:
With all these opportunities to go to the synagogue, it can be a bit of a challenge to get in the holiday spirit if you aren't enjoying the congregation with which you're spending so much time. I spent all of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur at Shul #3 which, although it was the best of the three I tried out, still lacked much of what I was looking for. By the powerful concluding service of the holiest day of the year, culminating with one long blast of the shofar (ram's horn), I knew I needed to start looking for another shul to call home. I've already written at length about my dissatisfaction in my own neighborhood so it shouldn't surprise you that I needed to look a little further.
A quick search on Google Maps for "Modern Orthodox Synagogue Brooklyn" provided a couple other options. I'm sure there are more synagogues than appeared in the search results, but any synagogue that has an Internet presence is probably closer to what I'm looking for anyway. To my dismay, the next closest synagogue was three miles away, which wouldn't be so bad if I weren't planning on walking to shul every Shabbat. But I'll get to that later.
I walked to the synagogue on Thursday morning and entered to find that although I was fifteen minutes late for the service, they hadn't yet begun. I actually took this as a good sign. There's this thing known as "Jewish Standard Time" in which everything starts later than expected, and I'm very used to that way of doing things in a synagogue. The building was a bit smaller than the other three I had been to, but the sanctuary was bright, open, and featured a single curtained mechitza down the center of the room. This barrier was designed as sectioned frames on wheels so they can be moved and manipulated as necessary, and even removed entirely for an event in which they'll allow a mixed crowd. There were no pews; instead, there were rows of chairs set up, again making for a very convertible space. The ceiling featured a domed skylight, and the morning sun poured freely into the space.
The service featured a great deal of singing, much of which was accomplished by the untrained voices of the congregation, a small but delightfully boisterous bunch. Unlike the other synagogues in which most people seemed to sit back and let the leaders do their job, I felt that the members of this congregation were more personally involved with the service and with one another. I especially smiled when one paragraph was read out loud in English by an old man in the back - the same paragraph that my Dad has had the honor of reading in our synagogue for years. We use a different translation, but the message was the same: we want you to pray with us, and we want you to understand it. Let's face it. It can get really easy to forget what's actually being said when you're praying in another language.
By the end of the service, there were maybe 30 people in attendance (a high estimate, perhaps), and most of us went to the sukkah for the kiddush reception. By the way, it was a single kiddush, with a single table. Finally! A kiddush for the men and women together! At the kiddush, I could tell that people were friendly, but nobody really approached me to say hello. I was a little dismayed until I decided to leave and the rabbi stopped me at the door.
"Hello. You're new here. Where are you from?"
"I just moved to Borough Park."
"Oh? And what are you doing all the way over here?"
"Well, I didn't like any of the shuls in my neighborhood, so I came here."
We spoke a bit longer, he invited me to lunch, and I politely declined because I told him I had to get back to have lunch with my fiance. So he invited both of us for the following day. Before leaving, I told him:
"Y'know, of all the shuls I've been to around here, you're the only rabbi who has spoken to me. Thank you. I really appreciate that."
He seemed stunned.
The next day I convinced Tomm to come with me, and after services we were approached and welcomed by the president of the congregation, the Rabbi (who wished us mazel tov on our engagement and confirmed our acceptance for his lunch invitation), and the old man who read the paragraph in English. Additionally, I was invited to lunch by the rabbi's wife who I didn't realize was the rabbi's wife, so I declined only to find that it was her food I was eating an hour later. At kiddush, someone helped us when he realized we hadn't managed to get a bit of the wine after the blessing was made, and when kiddush seemed to be ending and we had lost track of the rabbi, the old man from before said "Oh we'll get you to that lunch! Don't worry, I'll take care of you."
Music to my ears.
The lunch table was graced by many of the congregants and the rabbi's 20 children (okay, maybe there were only 12), and I managed to get into pleasant conversations with a few other people. After a fabulous meal replete with salads, fish, chicken schnitzel (Tomm's favorite), potatoes, vegetables, and a scrumptious dessert, we had to take our leave early because of Tomm's work schedule. The best part for him? Not a single person raised an eyebrow or protested about the fact that he was working on Shabbat. Instead, everyone treated him with the respect owed to a hardworking doctor, recognizing that there is no greater mitzvah (commandment or good deed) than to save a life, even if it means working on Shabbat.
Speaking of working on Shabbat: Many of us - regardless of our faith background - are familiar with the precept to "do no work" on the Sabbath. It is, after all, the reason many Christian establishments are closed on Sundays. Throughout the Jewish community this commandment is observed to varying degrees depending on the individual's level of religiosity (wow, that's actually a word?). However on the Orthodox side of the spectrum there is a very little room for debate; the 39 categories of labor that define "work" are clearly delineated and avoided on Shabbat. They go beyond the commonly understood definition of "performing a service in exchange for money" and extend into such activities as building, baking, and lighting a fire. These categories provide the framework for the myriad of rules that observant Jews follow in order to create and experience a holy, joyous holiday every single week.
While I do my best to observe the Sabbath, I do so in a way that is comfortable for me, a way is constantly in flux. I haven't reached the point where I strictly follow all the laws of Shabbat and I am still trying to figure out what works for me to make the day holy. There are a few things I do my best to avoid, such as spending money, working (I refuse to work at a job for which I am paid on the Sabbath), and driving. I have my own excuses for certain things, like using the phone in order to stay connected to my family on Shabbat and thereby make my experience more enjoyable, and while that may change with time it suits me for now. As for driving, that is something I definitely try to avoid, especially driving to the synagogue. But when the synagogue is three miles and a full hour each way by foot - potentially through pouring rain, snow, extreme temperatures, and other cumbersome natural phenomena - driving or riding on the bus becomes a much more appealing option. For example, today, when I was just plain tired and didn't want to get up early enough to make the trek. Had I resigned myself to taking the bus I could've cut the commute in half and felt much more willing to go. But I was lazy, so I didn't attend services today.
I want to walk, I really do. But I may have to consider what's really important in terms of my Jewish practice and experience. If avoiding transportation means not going to shul and missing out on the positive experiences of participation in a community, then am I really making Shabbat holy? I realize that for the more observant Jews out there, this is a non-issue. This isn't even a discussion. But the spirit of the law means just as much to me, if not more than, the letter of the law, and I may need to seriously consider what is important to me at this point in my life.
As for the shul, this one might not be the end of my search. I still want to see what else Brooklyn has to offer, to make sure I find the place and the people that make me the happiest. In the meantime, I'm just glad I've found a place that makes me smile and is willing to invite me for a meal.
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| A traditional sukkah Source: The Mendel Sukkah, sukkot.com |
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| The Lulav and Etrog Source: Blueenayim, dreamstime.com |
With all these opportunities to go to the synagogue, it can be a bit of a challenge to get in the holiday spirit if you aren't enjoying the congregation with which you're spending so much time. I spent all of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur at Shul #3 which, although it was the best of the three I tried out, still lacked much of what I was looking for. By the powerful concluding service of the holiest day of the year, culminating with one long blast of the shofar (ram's horn), I knew I needed to start looking for another shul to call home. I've already written at length about my dissatisfaction in my own neighborhood so it shouldn't surprise you that I needed to look a little further.
A quick search on Google Maps for "Modern Orthodox Synagogue Brooklyn" provided a couple other options. I'm sure there are more synagogues than appeared in the search results, but any synagogue that has an Internet presence is probably closer to what I'm looking for anyway. To my dismay, the next closest synagogue was three miles away, which wouldn't be so bad if I weren't planning on walking to shul every Shabbat. But I'll get to that later.
I walked to the synagogue on Thursday morning and entered to find that although I was fifteen minutes late for the service, they hadn't yet begun. I actually took this as a good sign. There's this thing known as "Jewish Standard Time" in which everything starts later than expected, and I'm very used to that way of doing things in a synagogue. The building was a bit smaller than the other three I had been to, but the sanctuary was bright, open, and featured a single curtained mechitza down the center of the room. This barrier was designed as sectioned frames on wheels so they can be moved and manipulated as necessary, and even removed entirely for an event in which they'll allow a mixed crowd. There were no pews; instead, there were rows of chairs set up, again making for a very convertible space. The ceiling featured a domed skylight, and the morning sun poured freely into the space.
The service featured a great deal of singing, much of which was accomplished by the untrained voices of the congregation, a small but delightfully boisterous bunch. Unlike the other synagogues in which most people seemed to sit back and let the leaders do their job, I felt that the members of this congregation were more personally involved with the service and with one another. I especially smiled when one paragraph was read out loud in English by an old man in the back - the same paragraph that my Dad has had the honor of reading in our synagogue for years. We use a different translation, but the message was the same: we want you to pray with us, and we want you to understand it. Let's face it. It can get really easy to forget what's actually being said when you're praying in another language.
By the end of the service, there were maybe 30 people in attendance (a high estimate, perhaps), and most of us went to the sukkah for the kiddush reception. By the way, it was a single kiddush, with a single table. Finally! A kiddush for the men and women together! At the kiddush, I could tell that people were friendly, but nobody really approached me to say hello. I was a little dismayed until I decided to leave and the rabbi stopped me at the door.
"Hello. You're new here. Where are you from?"
"I just moved to Borough Park."
"Oh? And what are you doing all the way over here?"
"Well, I didn't like any of the shuls in my neighborhood, so I came here."
We spoke a bit longer, he invited me to lunch, and I politely declined because I told him I had to get back to have lunch with my fiance. So he invited both of us for the following day. Before leaving, I told him:
"Y'know, of all the shuls I've been to around here, you're the only rabbi who has spoken to me. Thank you. I really appreciate that."
He seemed stunned.
The next day I convinced Tomm to come with me, and after services we were approached and welcomed by the president of the congregation, the Rabbi (who wished us mazel tov on our engagement and confirmed our acceptance for his lunch invitation), and the old man who read the paragraph in English. Additionally, I was invited to lunch by the rabbi's wife who I didn't realize was the rabbi's wife, so I declined only to find that it was her food I was eating an hour later. At kiddush, someone helped us when he realized we hadn't managed to get a bit of the wine after the blessing was made, and when kiddush seemed to be ending and we had lost track of the rabbi, the old man from before said "Oh we'll get you to that lunch! Don't worry, I'll take care of you."
Music to my ears.
The lunch table was graced by many of the congregants and the rabbi's 20 children (okay, maybe there were only 12), and I managed to get into pleasant conversations with a few other people. After a fabulous meal replete with salads, fish, chicken schnitzel (Tomm's favorite), potatoes, vegetables, and a scrumptious dessert, we had to take our leave early because of Tomm's work schedule. The best part for him? Not a single person raised an eyebrow or protested about the fact that he was working on Shabbat. Instead, everyone treated him with the respect owed to a hardworking doctor, recognizing that there is no greater mitzvah (commandment or good deed) than to save a life, even if it means working on Shabbat.
Speaking of working on Shabbat: Many of us - regardless of our faith background - are familiar with the precept to "do no work" on the Sabbath. It is, after all, the reason many Christian establishments are closed on Sundays. Throughout the Jewish community this commandment is observed to varying degrees depending on the individual's level of religiosity (wow, that's actually a word?). However on the Orthodox side of the spectrum there is a very little room for debate; the 39 categories of labor that define "work" are clearly delineated and avoided on Shabbat. They go beyond the commonly understood definition of "performing a service in exchange for money" and extend into such activities as building, baking, and lighting a fire. These categories provide the framework for the myriad of rules that observant Jews follow in order to create and experience a holy, joyous holiday every single week.
While I do my best to observe the Sabbath, I do so in a way that is comfortable for me, a way is constantly in flux. I haven't reached the point where I strictly follow all the laws of Shabbat and I am still trying to figure out what works for me to make the day holy. There are a few things I do my best to avoid, such as spending money, working (I refuse to work at a job for which I am paid on the Sabbath), and driving. I have my own excuses for certain things, like using the phone in order to stay connected to my family on Shabbat and thereby make my experience more enjoyable, and while that may change with time it suits me for now. As for driving, that is something I definitely try to avoid, especially driving to the synagogue. But when the synagogue is three miles and a full hour each way by foot - potentially through pouring rain, snow, extreme temperatures, and other cumbersome natural phenomena - driving or riding on the bus becomes a much more appealing option. For example, today, when I was just plain tired and didn't want to get up early enough to make the trek. Had I resigned myself to taking the bus I could've cut the commute in half and felt much more willing to go. But I was lazy, so I didn't attend services today.
I want to walk, I really do. But I may have to consider what's really important in terms of my Jewish practice and experience. If avoiding transportation means not going to shul and missing out on the positive experiences of participation in a community, then am I really making Shabbat holy? I realize that for the more observant Jews out there, this is a non-issue. This isn't even a discussion. But the spirit of the law means just as much to me, if not more than, the letter of the law, and I may need to seriously consider what is important to me at this point in my life.
As for the shul, this one might not be the end of my search. I still want to see what else Brooklyn has to offer, to make sure I find the place and the people that make me the happiest. In the meantime, I'm just glad I've found a place that makes me smile and is willing to invite me for a meal.
Sunday, September 8, 2013
Getting lost at the Da Capo
Rosh Hashanah (lit. "Head of the Year") has become one of my favorite holidays in the Jewish calendar. It even beats out Hanukkah which, although fun, doesn't have quite the spiritual breadth and depth of Rosh Hashanah. The Jewish New Year is celebrated as a two-day holiday which manages to encompass a wide variety of Jewish values: family, community, joy, prayer, and thanksgiving, as well as introspection, repentance, forgiveness, and humility. And food. Lots of food. What kind of Jewish holiday would it be without food?
I've always enjoyed the spirit of the holiday and the symbols that are so ingrained in its celebration. We eat apples dipped in honey to remind us that we should have a sweet new year, and we pour honey on our challah instead of dipping it in salt, for now is not a time for sadness. The challah itself is shaped differently: Instead of being braided into a loaf, we make it into a round braid or spiral to emphasize the idea of continuity from one year to the next. Traditionally we eat a new fruit on the holiday, and many people choose the pomegranate for this custom as it is rumored to have 613 seeds - equal to the number of commandments in the Torah.
And those are just the symbols at the dinner table!
Every year, I have celebrated Rosh Hashanah at home with my parents, my siblings, and whomever my mom invited to join us for either of the two festive meals. Even as a college student, I always went home for the New Year. There were some years where I debated, thinking maybe I would stay on campus instead of schlepping home, but ultimately I could never resist the comfort of spending this particular holiday with my family. No matter where my roots were spreading, I always felt an unconscious desire, a need, to start the year at the beginning -- my beginning.
This year everything has turned topsy-turvy and my new home is some 800+ miles away, so I was faced with the opportunity to start a completely new beginning. Yet another Da Capo moment! But I realized about five hours too late that I wasn't prepared to "make Rosh Hashanah;" to account for the food, the timing, the traditional elements that always seemed to appear before me - like magic! - at home. (Thanks, Mom!) Realistically, I don't think there is any way I could have recreated any of my life's intimate experiences with this particular holiday even if I had tried. For starters, Tomm is working a month of nights without any time off for the holidays, so big, festive meals in the evening were out of the question. We did, however, do our best to make Wednesday night's dinner something worthy of the New Year, even if the holiday wasn't beginning until three hours later. Pasta Primavera may not exactly be standard fare for such a meal, and unfortunately I completely forgot about the traditional pomegranate, but we blessed the grape juice, the round-ish challah, and the apples with honey, so it still counts, right?
After he left for work I went to shul for Maariv, the evening service. I don't believe I have ever before attended the evening service before Rosh Hashanah. Usually I was at home helping my mom prepare for guests. I'm glad I went, though, because the small choir that supported the chazzan lent a great deal to my experience. (For an orthodox synagogue to have anything resembling a choir is virtually unheard of to my knowledge.) Yet despite the music - so grand and beautiful to behold and in stark contrast to my typical shul experience - it could not make up for what was lacking. I didn't dwell on it, but in the back of my mind a thought, not fully-formed and more closely resembling a feeling, nagged at me.
The next two days I spent a great deal of time at the synagogue. The services were about three hours longer than I would've anticipated, and the choir only sang for part of it. But I was there, I recited the prayers, I heard the sounds of the shofar, and I sang along where I could. Did I commune with G-d? Not so sure. Even less uncertain is the answer to the vexing question: Did I commune with the community?
Since moving here I've been feeling like I'm missing something in regards to the Jewish community. I feel like more of an outsider than I really should be, and I can't help but contrast my largely uninspiring experiences here with the overwhelmingly positive experiences I grew up with. With that in mind, I'd like to share an experience Tomm and I had on Friday night:
We had just arrived to the synagogue for the afternoon and evening prayers, quick services that would mark the end of Rosh Hashanah and the beginning of Shabbat. It didn't seem the services had commenced so we dawdled outside the doors of the sanctuary for a minute. An older gentleman with a long, straggly beard appeared and made some comment about the talk that was going on before the services. Perhaps they were going longer than expected? I asked him if they'd started the afternoon service yet and he said no, then - detecting either our accent or our uniquely Midwestern sense of kindness and civility - he asked us where we were from. We told him about our respective hometowns and the city where we met. "Oh! That's Twerskiville!" he announced, referencing the large Hasidic community on the West side of the city. I attended shul there a couple times and I'm familiar with the rabbi, though I certainly wouldn't identify myself with him. At any rate, this man had at least some idea of where I was from.
"Y'know," he said, "for people from out of town, meaning of course anywhere outside New York or Lakewood [NJ], it's different. Jewish communities are more open, more welcoming out of town. But in town, it's like there are too many people. People don't notice you as much, it's not as much of a community. When a place gets so big, it's easy for people to get--" and he reached over to point to a notice on the bulletin board. LOST.
"But come, let's daven (pray)." And with that he led us into the sanctuary.
Lost. Precisely. As this man spoke I looked at him and wondered how he had managed to so perfectly encapsulate my experiences up to this point. He was an absolute stranger, but it was as if I was meant to cross his path so that he could give credence to the very feeling I had been trying to ignore.
The fact is, my presence in the synagogues around here has been largely ignored. The mumbled "shana tova" (Happy New Year) or "gut shabbos" (a wish for a good Sabbath) exchanged with others are mere pleasantries said as quietly and unenthusiastically as we can. I am not a part of this community and I am no closer to them than the black-hatted and bearded Hassids who breeze past me on the sidewalk with bristling indifference.
At both the congregations I've called home throughout my life, I went to shul to feel connected -- connected to others and by extension to G-d. I went to shul to be counted, acknowledged, appreciated. I went to feel part of something larger, holier than myself. Singing out loud and saying the words that are so many hundreds of years old with my families - real or surrogate - surrounding me and singing with me was what made it a holy experience.
In music, especially when playing through a piece with an ensemble for the first time, reaching the words da capo at the end of the piece can be disabling. Faced with the sudden change in direction, we may have to quickly turn a page or five only to reveal that the music's tempo, time signature, key signature, dynamics, and style have completely changed since the beginning. Eventually we manage to get back on track, maybe even skipping a few measures of music between the da capo and the opening bars just to get our bearings. But inevitably we catch our breath, return our focus to the music we make, and move forward.
This year, the da capo is certainly throwing me for a loop. I seem to have lost the melody, and I'm looking at the conductor thinking Where the hell are you? but it's not too late to make something beautiful. I just have to take a breath, pause for a moment, and find where I belong in the music.
L'Shana Tova u'metukah. May you have a happy and sweet New Year.
I've always enjoyed the spirit of the holiday and the symbols that are so ingrained in its celebration. We eat apples dipped in honey to remind us that we should have a sweet new year, and we pour honey on our challah instead of dipping it in salt, for now is not a time for sadness. The challah itself is shaped differently: Instead of being braided into a loaf, we make it into a round braid or spiral to emphasize the idea of continuity from one year to the next. Traditionally we eat a new fruit on the holiday, and many people choose the pomegranate for this custom as it is rumored to have 613 seeds - equal to the number of commandments in the Torah.
And those are just the symbols at the dinner table!
Every year, I have celebrated Rosh Hashanah at home with my parents, my siblings, and whomever my mom invited to join us for either of the two festive meals. Even as a college student, I always went home for the New Year. There were some years where I debated, thinking maybe I would stay on campus instead of schlepping home, but ultimately I could never resist the comfort of spending this particular holiday with my family. No matter where my roots were spreading, I always felt an unconscious desire, a need, to start the year at the beginning -- my beginning.
This year everything has turned topsy-turvy and my new home is some 800+ miles away, so I was faced with the opportunity to start a completely new beginning. Yet another Da Capo moment! But I realized about five hours too late that I wasn't prepared to "make Rosh Hashanah;" to account for the food, the timing, the traditional elements that always seemed to appear before me - like magic! - at home. (Thanks, Mom!) Realistically, I don't think there is any way I could have recreated any of my life's intimate experiences with this particular holiday even if I had tried. For starters, Tomm is working a month of nights without any time off for the holidays, so big, festive meals in the evening were out of the question. We did, however, do our best to make Wednesday night's dinner something worthy of the New Year, even if the holiday wasn't beginning until three hours later. Pasta Primavera may not exactly be standard fare for such a meal, and unfortunately I completely forgot about the traditional pomegranate, but we blessed the grape juice, the round-ish challah, and the apples with honey, so it still counts, right?
After he left for work I went to shul for Maariv, the evening service. I don't believe I have ever before attended the evening service before Rosh Hashanah. Usually I was at home helping my mom prepare for guests. I'm glad I went, though, because the small choir that supported the chazzan lent a great deal to my experience. (For an orthodox synagogue to have anything resembling a choir is virtually unheard of to my knowledge.) Yet despite the music - so grand and beautiful to behold and in stark contrast to my typical shul experience - it could not make up for what was lacking. I didn't dwell on it, but in the back of my mind a thought, not fully-formed and more closely resembling a feeling, nagged at me.
The next two days I spent a great deal of time at the synagogue. The services were about three hours longer than I would've anticipated, and the choir only sang for part of it. But I was there, I recited the prayers, I heard the sounds of the shofar, and I sang along where I could. Did I commune with G-d? Not so sure. Even less uncertain is the answer to the vexing question: Did I commune with the community?
Since moving here I've been feeling like I'm missing something in regards to the Jewish community. I feel like more of an outsider than I really should be, and I can't help but contrast my largely uninspiring experiences here with the overwhelmingly positive experiences I grew up with. With that in mind, I'd like to share an experience Tomm and I had on Friday night:
We had just arrived to the synagogue for the afternoon and evening prayers, quick services that would mark the end of Rosh Hashanah and the beginning of Shabbat. It didn't seem the services had commenced so we dawdled outside the doors of the sanctuary for a minute. An older gentleman with a long, straggly beard appeared and made some comment about the talk that was going on before the services. Perhaps they were going longer than expected? I asked him if they'd started the afternoon service yet and he said no, then - detecting either our accent or our uniquely Midwestern sense of kindness and civility - he asked us where we were from. We told him about our respective hometowns and the city where we met. "Oh! That's Twerskiville!" he announced, referencing the large Hasidic community on the West side of the city. I attended shul there a couple times and I'm familiar with the rabbi, though I certainly wouldn't identify myself with him. At any rate, this man had at least some idea of where I was from.
"Y'know," he said, "for people from out of town, meaning of course anywhere outside New York or Lakewood [NJ], it's different. Jewish communities are more open, more welcoming out of town. But in town, it's like there are too many people. People don't notice you as much, it's not as much of a community. When a place gets so big, it's easy for people to get--" and he reached over to point to a notice on the bulletin board. LOST.
"But come, let's daven (pray)." And with that he led us into the sanctuary.
Lost. Precisely. As this man spoke I looked at him and wondered how he had managed to so perfectly encapsulate my experiences up to this point. He was an absolute stranger, but it was as if I was meant to cross his path so that he could give credence to the very feeling I had been trying to ignore.
The fact is, my presence in the synagogues around here has been largely ignored. The mumbled "shana tova" (Happy New Year) or "gut shabbos" (a wish for a good Sabbath) exchanged with others are mere pleasantries said as quietly and unenthusiastically as we can. I am not a part of this community and I am no closer to them than the black-hatted and bearded Hassids who breeze past me on the sidewalk with bristling indifference.
At both the congregations I've called home throughout my life, I went to shul to feel connected -- connected to others and by extension to G-d. I went to shul to be counted, acknowledged, appreciated. I went to feel part of something larger, holier than myself. Singing out loud and saying the words that are so many hundreds of years old with my families - real or surrogate - surrounding me and singing with me was what made it a holy experience.
In music, especially when playing through a piece with an ensemble for the first time, reaching the words da capo at the end of the piece can be disabling. Faced with the sudden change in direction, we may have to quickly turn a page or five only to reveal that the music's tempo, time signature, key signature, dynamics, and style have completely changed since the beginning. Eventually we manage to get back on track, maybe even skipping a few measures of music between the da capo and the opening bars just to get our bearings. But inevitably we catch our breath, return our focus to the music we make, and move forward.
This year, the da capo is certainly throwing me for a loop. I seem to have lost the melody, and I'm looking at the conductor thinking Where the hell are you? but it's not too late to make something beautiful. I just have to take a breath, pause for a moment, and find where I belong in the music.
L'Shana Tova u'metukah. May you have a happy and sweet New Year.
Sunday, September 1, 2013
A Stranger in a Strange Land
Growing up in a small town in Wisconsin which boasted a century-old Jewish community, Shabbat morning services were kind of a big deal. My relationship with the community was built upon Torah readings, poorly but passionately sung Hebrew melodies, and the smell of herring at kiddush. The weekly d'var torah (sermon) was our communal learning, and together we thrived in our small but dedicated congregation. I never thought it odd that my sister and I were the only two kids in shul every week, and my sense of normal was very much shaped by the members who were at least two generations older. As far as I knew, it was normal to go to shul every week and pray for a minyan (the required quorum of 10 to proceed with the service), normal to make changes to the service in order to suit the needs of our membership (like counting women for the minyan), normal to feel obligated to attend because my absence would be felt by every other congregant. Spurred by my parents, my education, and my community, I was dedicated to my shul and loved it wholeheartedly.
Outside of the synagogue or my home, normal was being the only Jew around. Unlike some young Jews in similar situations, I wore my religion like a badge of honor. I gladly answered my classmates' and teachers' questions about my practices, dutifully did the extra work to make up for missed days of school around the High Holy Days, and enjoyed the respect that accompanied my uniqueness. In a city overwhelmingly full of Catholics and Protestants, I loved being different. To me, that was normal.
In college I enjoyed a slightly larger Jewish community, but even then I was still different. I was nearly the only observant Jew in the music school, and the only consistent college-aged congregant at the shul a block away from campus. Again I was surrounded by non-Jews in school and an older community at the synagogue (albeit younger on average than at home), and I knew I was right where I belonged. It didn't bother me that I didn't have a close-knit group of Jewish friends with whom to share a Shabbos dinner or go out on Saturday nights. In fact, I was markedly more comfortable in non-Jewish circles and preferred the feeling of adding to the diversity of a given group.
When I first moved to campus I was excited to participate in the Hillel (an organization for Jewish students on college campuses). Surrounding myself once a week with other members of the Tribe was comforting. Inside jokes passed freely among us, the kinds of jokes that our non-Jewish friends could never really understand. We played Apples to Apples: Jewish Edition and laughed openly as we juxtaposed gefilte fish, Albert Einstein, and Jewish mothers and debated which one fit better with the adjective "misunderstood." Yet while I was comfortable there, it was a decidedly atypical part of my sense of Jewish community.
There was, however, one unifying feature of all my Jewish interactions in Wisconsin: we knew we were all part of a much smaller community within the general public and as such, we made a point to include one another. For what it was worth, many of us stuck together despite the unspoken feuds between various sects or followers of particular traditions. Together we were part of the larger, global Jewish Community, and many of us honored that, at least among the Jews I knew.
In this neighborhood in Brooklyn, things are different...vastly different. In fact, in New York City in general it seems easy to take our religion and practices for granted. I'm still getting used to seeing Jews regularly in the subway, on the street, and in Ikea. As I get used to this new reality, I also have to come to terms with the fact that being Jewish doesn't automatically grant you access into the Jewish community. Apparently, when being Jewish is not unique and your existence doesn't threaten and isn't threatened by anyone else in the general public, there is no strong need to stick together just because you had a Bar or Bat Mitzvah in middle school.
Even in my search for a modern Orthodox synagogue in the neighborhood - where modern Orthodoxy has been pushed aside by the much larger and more conspicuous Charedi (ultra Orthodox) population - it's easy for my presence to be overlooked or ignored. I'm just another Jew; nothing special about that, right? Besides, the synagogue isn't the only place around here where you spend time with your Jewish neighbors, so even the importance of participation in the service is diminished.
I have to keep reminding myself that what I am witnessing and experiencing is more-than-likely specific to my neighborhood. In fact, I spoke with a man (modern Orthodox) who works in the neighborhood but lives in a different one altogether, and he described this area as being uniquely unfriendly at times. People have their own lives, their own personal bubbles, and according to him it's not unusual for them to be standoffish even to those they see daily as they run their errands and go about their lives. Additionally, I may find that in synagogues with younger membership I will be more immediately accepted. Who knows? My experience is exceptionally limited for the time being and I can't let my current opinions define my entire outlook.
The hard part is that in order to find those synagogues where I will feel more comfortable, I might have to travel into the the neighboring areas or even into Manhattan. This brings up a whole slew of issues to take into consideration, a discussion which I will reserve for another blog post altogether. In the meantime, I'll use the upcoming Jewish New Year and the Days of Awe to think more deeply about what my Judaism means to me in my new environment, and perhaps to redefine my concept of "normal."
Outside of the synagogue or my home, normal was being the only Jew around. Unlike some young Jews in similar situations, I wore my religion like a badge of honor. I gladly answered my classmates' and teachers' questions about my practices, dutifully did the extra work to make up for missed days of school around the High Holy Days, and enjoyed the respect that accompanied my uniqueness. In a city overwhelmingly full of Catholics and Protestants, I loved being different. To me, that was normal.
In college I enjoyed a slightly larger Jewish community, but even then I was still different. I was nearly the only observant Jew in the music school, and the only consistent college-aged congregant at the shul a block away from campus. Again I was surrounded by non-Jews in school and an older community at the synagogue (albeit younger on average than at home), and I knew I was right where I belonged. It didn't bother me that I didn't have a close-knit group of Jewish friends with whom to share a Shabbos dinner or go out on Saturday nights. In fact, I was markedly more comfortable in non-Jewish circles and preferred the feeling of adding to the diversity of a given group.
When I first moved to campus I was excited to participate in the Hillel (an organization for Jewish students on college campuses). Surrounding myself once a week with other members of the Tribe was comforting. Inside jokes passed freely among us, the kinds of jokes that our non-Jewish friends could never really understand. We played Apples to Apples: Jewish Edition and laughed openly as we juxtaposed gefilte fish, Albert Einstein, and Jewish mothers and debated which one fit better with the adjective "misunderstood." Yet while I was comfortable there, it was a decidedly atypical part of my sense of Jewish community.
There was, however, one unifying feature of all my Jewish interactions in Wisconsin: we knew we were all part of a much smaller community within the general public and as such, we made a point to include one another. For what it was worth, many of us stuck together despite the unspoken feuds between various sects or followers of particular traditions. Together we were part of the larger, global Jewish Community, and many of us honored that, at least among the Jews I knew.
In this neighborhood in Brooklyn, things are different...vastly different. In fact, in New York City in general it seems easy to take our religion and practices for granted. I'm still getting used to seeing Jews regularly in the subway, on the street, and in Ikea. As I get used to this new reality, I also have to come to terms with the fact that being Jewish doesn't automatically grant you access into the Jewish community. Apparently, when being Jewish is not unique and your existence doesn't threaten and isn't threatened by anyone else in the general public, there is no strong need to stick together just because you had a Bar or Bat Mitzvah in middle school.
Even in my search for a modern Orthodox synagogue in the neighborhood - where modern Orthodoxy has been pushed aside by the much larger and more conspicuous Charedi (ultra Orthodox) population - it's easy for my presence to be overlooked or ignored. I'm just another Jew; nothing special about that, right? Besides, the synagogue isn't the only place around here where you spend time with your Jewish neighbors, so even the importance of participation in the service is diminished.
I have to keep reminding myself that what I am witnessing and experiencing is more-than-likely specific to my neighborhood. In fact, I spoke with a man (modern Orthodox) who works in the neighborhood but lives in a different one altogether, and he described this area as being uniquely unfriendly at times. People have their own lives, their own personal bubbles, and according to him it's not unusual for them to be standoffish even to those they see daily as they run their errands and go about their lives. Additionally, I may find that in synagogues with younger membership I will be more immediately accepted. Who knows? My experience is exceptionally limited for the time being and I can't let my current opinions define my entire outlook.
The hard part is that in order to find those synagogues where I will feel more comfortable, I might have to travel into the the neighboring areas or even into Manhattan. This brings up a whole slew of issues to take into consideration, a discussion which I will reserve for another blog post altogether. In the meantime, I'll use the upcoming Jewish New Year and the Days of Awe to think more deeply about what my Judaism means to me in my new environment, and perhaps to redefine my concept of "normal."
Friday, July 5, 2013
Independence
As we all know, the 4th of July is a day to celebrate our freedom, to spend time with family and friends, to dine on hot dogs and potato salad, and to decorate your new apartment.
It's amazing how much you can get done when both people living in the apartment have the day off - thank you national holidays!
For those who don't know, I've moved to Brooklyn for one reason and one reason only: my fiance. He graduated from medical school a few months ago and moved here to do his residency at a local hospital. Since he has to be here for at least the next five years, I figured I'd join him because let's face it, long distance sucks. For the purposes of this blog, let's call him "Tomm." (It's a thing he came up with. Just go with it.)
So Tomm, by some glorious and miraculous flash of good fortune, was granted off for the 4th of July. This made me excited for two reasons: One, I got to see him during daylight hours. Two, he got to help me finish setting up the apartment. There's a lot I can do on my own, but I felt he should be around to help pick out an air conditioner and window treatments.
So we shopped. We got that air conditioner, the curtain rods and curtains, and all the miscellaneous things our apartment was lacking. We also went on a massive grocery shopping spree to fill our barren kitchen because nothing says "welcome home" like a fully-stocked fridge.
Early in the day we had talked about what we wanted to do to celebrate the Fourth. We agreed that a fireworks show was the way to go, but in researching the various options it looked like the only fireworks show going on was the Macy's show on the west side of Manhattan along the Hudson. Discussion wasn't even necessary to decide that we weren't going to travel into and out of Manhattan that late at night to be pushed around by a million people, so I looked into alternative options. As it turns out, there's a park not too far away that happens to be the highest natural point in Brooklyn which, according to the website, made it a wonderful place to watch the Manhattan fireworks show. Sure, it'd be a little far away, but it would also be significantly less chaotic and easier to get home afterward.
Well, all the errands took longer than expected and by 8:00, only an hour before the show, we realized it just wasn't going to happen. That's when Tomm was struck by a brilliant idea: why don't we go to the 10-story apartment building next door and try to watch the fireworks from there?
We ate our lox and bagel on the way (happy birthday, America!) and found an open window near the entrance to the roof. We were cautious about going onto the roof for fear that it might get us in trouble, especially since it wasn't our building, so we resolved to stay at the window. We weren't facing Manhattan, but we did have a beautiful view of Coney Island, the Verrazano Bridge, and at least three separate fireworks shows going on within our view. It was lovely.
After a few minutes a man who may have been the super came up the stairs and asked if we had been on the roof. We dutifully said no. "Did you see anyone else?" "Nope, nada, no one, sir." "Alright then. Come with me," he said as he opened the door to the roof.
Wow.
From every point on the top of the building, walking around in a full circle, we could see fireworks. Staten Island, Coney Island, Brooklyn, Manhattan....there were fireworks going off in every direction. We didn't know where to focus our attention! Some were close enough to really enjoy, others were further in the distance and provided just a hint of colorful light on the skyline. Around 9:30 we saw some finales beginning with unstoppable streams of fireworks, one after the other in robust, glowing grandeur. From what looked like the heart of Manhattan we saw a glorious display of red, white, and blue explosions that were probably perfectly timed with music, blaring over the voices of a million spectators. We didn't hear the music; instead I heard a soft breeze and the occasional sweet nothing whispered into my ear.
We tried to count how many shows we could see and figured that 20 was probably a low estimate. Neither of us had ever seen anything like it, and we both agreed that it was way better than anything we would have witnessed from the park. What's more, since we could see so many we were there for a full hour and left while some shows were still going - much longer than the 25 minute performance Macy's would have given us.
While watching the fireworks, I thought about this Independence Day. Quite honestly, this may be the most independent Independence Day I have ever celebrated. Installing an air conditioner and putting up curtains may not be quite what the Founding Fathers thought of as statements of freedom, but it certainly is for me. And as Tomm and I stood upon that rooftop with fireworks lighting up the sky in every direction, I felt assured that we can make it work in this big, scary city with so much to offer. I just need to right vantage point to see it.
It's amazing how much you can get done when both people living in the apartment have the day off - thank you national holidays!
For those who don't know, I've moved to Brooklyn for one reason and one reason only: my fiance. He graduated from medical school a few months ago and moved here to do his residency at a local hospital. Since he has to be here for at least the next five years, I figured I'd join him because let's face it, long distance sucks. For the purposes of this blog, let's call him "Tomm." (It's a thing he came up with. Just go with it.)
So Tomm, by some glorious and miraculous flash of good fortune, was granted off for the 4th of July. This made me excited for two reasons: One, I got to see him during daylight hours. Two, he got to help me finish setting up the apartment. There's a lot I can do on my own, but I felt he should be around to help pick out an air conditioner and window treatments.
So we shopped. We got that air conditioner, the curtain rods and curtains, and all the miscellaneous things our apartment was lacking. We also went on a massive grocery shopping spree to fill our barren kitchen because nothing says "welcome home" like a fully-stocked fridge.
Early in the day we had talked about what we wanted to do to celebrate the Fourth. We agreed that a fireworks show was the way to go, but in researching the various options it looked like the only fireworks show going on was the Macy's show on the west side of Manhattan along the Hudson. Discussion wasn't even necessary to decide that we weren't going to travel into and out of Manhattan that late at night to be pushed around by a million people, so I looked into alternative options. As it turns out, there's a park not too far away that happens to be the highest natural point in Brooklyn which, according to the website, made it a wonderful place to watch the Manhattan fireworks show. Sure, it'd be a little far away, but it would also be significantly less chaotic and easier to get home afterward.
Well, all the errands took longer than expected and by 8:00, only an hour before the show, we realized it just wasn't going to happen. That's when Tomm was struck by a brilliant idea: why don't we go to the 10-story apartment building next door and try to watch the fireworks from there?
We ate our lox and bagel on the way (happy birthday, America!) and found an open window near the entrance to the roof. We were cautious about going onto the roof for fear that it might get us in trouble, especially since it wasn't our building, so we resolved to stay at the window. We weren't facing Manhattan, but we did have a beautiful view of Coney Island, the Verrazano Bridge, and at least three separate fireworks shows going on within our view. It was lovely.
After a few minutes a man who may have been the super came up the stairs and asked if we had been on the roof. We dutifully said no. "Did you see anyone else?" "Nope, nada, no one, sir." "Alright then. Come with me," he said as he opened the door to the roof.
Wow.
From every point on the top of the building, walking around in a full circle, we could see fireworks. Staten Island, Coney Island, Brooklyn, Manhattan....there were fireworks going off in every direction. We didn't know where to focus our attention! Some were close enough to really enjoy, others were further in the distance and provided just a hint of colorful light on the skyline. Around 9:30 we saw some finales beginning with unstoppable streams of fireworks, one after the other in robust, glowing grandeur. From what looked like the heart of Manhattan we saw a glorious display of red, white, and blue explosions that were probably perfectly timed with music, blaring over the voices of a million spectators. We didn't hear the music; instead I heard a soft breeze and the occasional sweet nothing whispered into my ear.
We tried to count how many shows we could see and figured that 20 was probably a low estimate. Neither of us had ever seen anything like it, and we both agreed that it was way better than anything we would have witnessed from the park. What's more, since we could see so many we were there for a full hour and left while some shows were still going - much longer than the 25 minute performance Macy's would have given us.
While watching the fireworks, I thought about this Independence Day. Quite honestly, this may be the most independent Independence Day I have ever celebrated. Installing an air conditioner and putting up curtains may not be quite what the Founding Fathers thought of as statements of freedom, but it certainly is for me. And as Tomm and I stood upon that rooftop with fireworks lighting up the sky in every direction, I felt assured that we can make it work in this big, scary city with so much to offer. I just need to right vantage point to see it.
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