Challah

There are so many things I want to write about, but at the end of the day, I usually just want to rip out my contact and sleep.

But.

It was just Rosh HaShanah, the Jewish New Year. This time between the new year and Yom Kippur, the day of Atonement, always get me thinking. We are taught that the book of life is open over this time and on Yom Kippur it is sealed for the upcoming year. I take this as a metaphor, and instead think of myself as an open book, wondering what to write on the empty pages for the upcoming year.

Last year, I decided to take on the ritual of making (and eating, of course) Challah on Fridays for Shabbat. I was able to most Shabbats. In addition to just making (and eating) Challah, we actually celebrated Shabbat. We made a nice dinner, we lit the candles and blessed the wine. We sat together as a family (which we do during the week too, but it felt a little different). I was honored to share my Challah with our congregation’s students cantor when we had him for dinner.

In my open-book-ness, I was thinking about this Challah making ritual. When I began, I made the Challah with Abraham in the sling, putting him down for a rare moment to put the Challah in the oven and take it out again. Now, he helps with the egg wash and sesame seed sprinkle, he dutifully watches the Challah in the oven, and he eagerly lights the candles and sticks his fingers in the “wine” (which is what we call grape juice, which is what the kids have in PA) so he can get to the Challah.

I’m always trying to get back to the feeling of being Jewish that I felt at Camp. Though I cried many tears of homesickness while I was there, I cried many tears of camp-sickness upon my return home. I credit camp with my commitment and continued interest in being Jewish. I can’t wait for Abraham to go to camp. For me, making Challah is a little like camp. It is experiencing being Jewish, experiencing being part of a long line of people (women) who have made Challah and a long line of families who have delighted in eating it.

So I’m wondering, what do I add now, what will I write in my book for this new year. We have been talking about taking on the practice of Havdalah, the ending of Shabbat. We haven’t because we don’t have a set (spice box, braided candle, wine glass…). But that is a cop out. We’ll just do it. And I bet with the frame of Challah and Havdalah, we will be more aware of Shabbat in general. Maybe this will be the year that we all learn to step back, turn off, and truly relax.

L’Shanah Tovah!

The Saddest Day

It is Shabbat, and Yom Kippur. I have taken on Shabbat this year, baking Challah each week and lighting candles with my family, putting work aside for rest. Yom Kippur, which began at sundown, is the holiest and most solemn day of the Jewish year; it is literally the day of atonement, and over the years, I have tried to practice it as a day to really limit my connections to the outside world and focus on my relationship to Judaism and to God.

But tonight, after putting the baby to sleep and sitting here, waiting for David to come home, my heart and my mind are not on Shabbat or Yom Kippur. For the past week and a half, whenever I have a quiet moment, my heart and mind go to my Aunt Jan, who died just before Rosh HaShanah.

Abraham and I flew down to Pensacola to be with my family for her funeral, sitting Shiva (briefly) and for Rosh HaShanah. It was the saddest day I have ever experienced. With her passing, the world lost a kind, funny, generous, loving, inspiring woman.

She lived in Pensacola until I was 10, when she married Robert and moved to the mid-Atlantic to live with him. Rachel and I knew her best of all her nieces and nephews, spending the night with her at her apartment, visiting her at work, helping her set up various fundraisers. She loved work, she loved her family, she loved helping others.

I don’t know how long she had Lupus (no one talked about it to me when I was a child). She has been unwell for a long time. One summer in college, I was working at a theatre in Southern Virginia, and on my days off I would go visit Ga (as we called her, I couldn’t say Jan when I was a tot) and Uncle Robert. Even then she had doctor’s appointments with regularity, but she could drive, get her nails done (red, of course, to match her glasses), and go out for dinner.

She came to Pensacola to meet David when we visited. She came to our wedding in New York. She never had children of her own, and I think Rachel and I consider her a second mother as much as she considers us her own. It was important for her to be there for my special days, no matter how difficult it was for her to get there.

When Abraham was born, she was too sick to come for his bris, which I think broke her heart. I sent her photos as often as I could get to the computer, and answered all her questions about him.

In July she went to the hospital (at first, I wasn’t too worried, for she was always in and out of the hospital), but her doctor said he didn’t think she would be leaving. She moved to a Hospice care home shortly after. Hospice means the end, but she was determined to go home.

In September, David, Rachel, Abraham and I drove down to North Carolina to visit her. We knew it was to say goodbye, and she did too. Her greatest fear, as far as I could tell, was that she would be forgotten. I kept telling her there was no way, but she didn’t have children and wouldn’t have grandchildren. I promised her that Abraham would know who she was (I am so grateful we were able to visit her with him). I promised her I would say Kaddish for her.

She never complained about being in pain, although she was constantly in pain. When I called her on the phone, even a few weeks ago, she was so cheerful and chatty, even though she spent most of her time lying in bed. I am grateful that I was able to see her twice in the past year, once when I drove from PA to FL with mom when I was pregnant last October, and this trip in September. But I am so deeply saddened that I will not see her again. But that sadness is met with relief for her that she is no longer suffering.

Her life makes me question how and why the world works in the way it does. How can we say, as Jews, that G-d is just when someone so good suffers as she does? How can I say, as a yogi, that the seeds of her karma were planted over lifetimes and this time around just really sucked? How can I say as her niece, as someone who loved her, that anything in the universe makes any sense?

She got to hear Abraham say “Ga.” She will not be forgotten.

Safety

I’m in a bit of a bind.

I don’t know who reads this and how much I really want to say (I realize how annoying that is and I’m sorry), but I need to process a bit.

Here’s the thing. We’re Jewish (which you probably know) and belong to a congregation here in Reading. It has recently come to my attention that a non-Jew (who is married to a non-Jew) has joined the congregation and joined a committee that I also just joined. This person has threatened and bullied me and my family in the past and I do not feel safe. I would like to leave said congregation. And, of course, the committee.

This person is not the only reason, but more the carrot that tipped the scale. I prefer to practice Judaism in a different way that is practiced at this congregation. I want to raise my child in a different way. The people (otherwise) are lovely and the Rabbi is really wonderful. But this is my faith and my spiritual practice. I should like going and praying there, right? And I should feel safe.

The problem is, I don’t want to let the bully win. I want to be indifferent; this is what yoga teaches, to be indifferent toward vice. I don’t know what Judaism teaches. Note taken.

Perhaps I will speak to both Rabbis of both congregations in town to see what Judaism suggests I do. Am I prejudiced for not wanting a non-Jew in the congregation? Am I caving to a bully? Am I just doing what is best for me and my family by leaving? What would you do?

Sigh. Growing up kind of sucks sometimes.

UPDATE: With encouragement from my husband, I have decided to push through and stay. Two main reasons I am ok with this: First World Problems and Impermanence.

David recently showed me a video, a rap song called First World Problems. It is hilarious and a good reminder that people are dealing with real, life and death problems. This is not that (I hope).

AND, my yoga teacher once said (in response to me saying i wasn’t sleeping well due to having a tiny baby) “Impermanence, baby” and I think that rings true here. It is true with Abraham, who is growing up faster than I could have imagined. With this charming person (you can’t tell sarcasm on a blog, can you…?), it will pass. Someone will move on, perhaps the relationship will change for the better. Nothing is permanent.

 

Happy Hanukah

I have varied my opinions about Hanukah over time. As a child, I loved it because it was greasy food and presents – what’s not to love?!

As a young adult, I struggled with it – Was it only important as an alternative to Christmas? Do I really want to celebrate a war victory? Why are we encouraging America to be MORE commercial, especially at this spend-happy time of year? I don’t even believe in miracles, so why am I celebrating a holiday about a miracle?

Now, as a slightly older young adult, but as a wife, parent, active-member-of-my-congregation, and religious school director, I find myself wrestling with Hanukah in new ways.

For many non-Jews, it is a holiday they are familiar with, at least superficially. It is a conversation starter, a way into deeper understanding. This is useful as a way to talk about why being Jewish is important to me, what this holiday might really mean to us now, and what other holidays matter. My relationship to Judaism is constantly changing and I like the opportunity to constantly reevaluate it.

I also like considering what Hanukah may mean now, in 2010. I’ve been reading about teaching children about the history vs. mythology of Hanukah. Both are improtant, but I’m a huge fan of stories. Why can’t we tell the story of the miracle of the oil not as a statement of fact but as a story that illustrates devotion, faith, and bringing in the light? We all could use a little more light this time of year.

In a recent re-reading of the story, I found myself drawn to the “standing up for what you believe in” and “religious freedom” aspects of the story. Sadly, both themes are as important today as they were when/if the historical event took place. Any way in to a conversation about standing up for what you believe in is welcome, with children or adults.

A few years ago (and maybe it continues) there was a movement, at least within the progressive Jewish movements of which I am a part, to add an environmental bent to Hanukah and encourage us all to change our lightbulbs over to CFLs. And why not? Why not use a holiday about standing up for what you believe in to make the world more energy efficient and thoughtful?

I often find myself fighting with Hankuah in my own family because I don’t want to celebrate something because I don’t celebrate Christmas. If anything, maximizing the present-giving and “seasons greetings” aspect of Hanukah take away from the story.

David and I lit our menorah last night, even though the kids weren’t with us (why do we only do these things when the kids are around…another post will have to tackle that one…). I would have been content not to light them, but because we did, I said the blessings. To him, the lighting was important. To me, the whole act was important – either do it or don’t. We didn’t give each other presents, on purpose and by accident, and I like it better that way. We sang a little (Don’t Cry for Me Argentina and some Georgian songs though – not Hanukah songs ).

And today I’m going to have a donut. I can’t make sufganiyot, so I will settle for Dunkin.

Happy Hanukah!

Our Father, Our King

Shanah Tovah – it is Rosh HaShanah, the Jewish New Year, a time of reflection and preparation for the year to come.

One of the prayers that we sing on this holy day is Avinu Malkeinu (translated: Our Father, Our King). As we approached the this prayer, Rabba (our female rabbi prefers this title) asked the congregation how we feel about the image of G-d as King.

Note: I belong to a Reconstructionist Jewish congregation, and I love the thoughtful discussions we have about liturgy and everything.

Many congregants shared that they struggled with this image. Some shared that they also struggled with the image of G-d as Father, some preferring Parent and others preferring nothing to do with parenting at all.

This made me think (perhaps my favorite part of the Reconstrucitonist congregation): What does the image of G-d as parent mean to me. And what kind of parent am I/do I want to be.

I’m still thinking. I am comforted by the image of G-d as parent, but a little put off too. Comfort comes from the love, acceptance, and warmth that a parent should give to a child (should being loaded, I know). But put off because I do not like personifying G-d. It helps me to think of it as a simile: G-d, like a parent. But because parent is so loaded for so many people, myself included, the simile carries a huge weight that perhaps isn’t right for G-d.

Being a step-parent and a soon-to-be bio-mom, I see the role of parent having many different meanings. I emphasize to my step kids that while I am not their Birth Mother, I am one of their parents.

But what does that really mean? I love them, I care for them, I want the best for them. But I feel that way toward many people in my life, not just my kids.

I also emphasize to them (as I will to my offspring) that they have many parents – grand parents, great grandparents (aren’t they fortunate). Each of us has a role. It is not always clear what it is.

And perhaps, because of the lack of clarity of what it means to  parent,  this is a wonderful word to describe one aspect of our relationship to G-d.

Complicated, unclear, but always full of love.