This, then, is how it works

I took the day off ulpan today to get some Real Life Grownup Work done–I had to write an abstract for being on a panel at an academic conference in December, and had high hopes for doing some other stuff, too. My other project involved paying rent, which one does here by depositing money into one’s landlady’s account directly at the bank–a whole ordeal that eventually brought me to Kikar Tzion (Zion Square) in the city center just to make it happen.

Since I was around here I decided to do my work at Timol Shilshom, a fantastic cafe/bookstore nearby. Abstract: done; other work: no. However, they did, to my surprise and delight, have a copy of Without a Net, the Michelle Tea/Seal Press anthology on working-class women that I had meant to get before leaving the US. So that was good.

After leaving the cafe I wandered into this clothing store nearby that has a lot of cute, trendy Israeli fashion. I was just browsing, taking in color and pattern, when somebody turned up the radio–there was an announcement of a piguah, a bombing. He was speaking quickly and I didn’t catch everything, so I turned to the woman working in the store, and asked what I had missed. She said there had been a bombing in Bethlehem. [LATER IN THE DAY EDIT: turns out, at least insofar as I know, the only piguah was in Beer Sheva, not Bethlehem. Though she did say Bethlehem–her bad.] “What did they say about people being hit? Did they say how many?” I asked. She shrugged. “I wasn’t really listening,” she said. Everybody else was still browsing and chatting. I had lost my taste for casual consumerism, though, and feeling sad and sick I wandered out of the store.

I don’t know what the look on my face was, but it was sad enough to prompt a security guard to ask me if I was OK. Yeah, I’m OK, I said. What could I say? Oh, there’s violence here and people are hurting and I don’t know how to feel except sick and sad and frightened and sad? None of this is news to him, and how people live here and not go crazy is by blocking it out. They say you have to. I’m not sure I want to. I probably will anyway.

So I just went online (I’m sitting in Kikar Zion now, there’s free wireless here) to see if there was anything posted yet, and there isn’t–but it turns out that two buses exploded in Beer Sheva yesterday, [Later in the day edit: oh, today’s Tuesday, not Wednesday]. 15 dead and at least 72 wounded just from that. Baruch dayan ha-emet.

As I was sitting here, someone I know came by and said hi. I told her about the bombing in Bethlehem. “Was it in a Jewish area?” she asked. I didn’t ask her, but I do want to know why that matters. It matters tremendously and also it doesn’t. Maybe that’s part of the point of events like the Sulha–I have a friend in Bethlehem now; it’s all the harder for the people who are not Jewish to be nameless, faceless “them”s. “Shtachim”–that area.

Yes, of course I care about The Jewish People. I’m dedicating my life to them. But suffering and pain–especially this kind, this hard, this scary, this big–is suffering and pain no matter whose arm was blown off and whose life was lost. When it’s “us”–Jews, and Israel, and my own life and country at risk, it’s a different kind of threatening and scary. But scary is always just scary. At core, I just hate this.

Just as I was told they’d be, people are going about their business and living their lives. This is, they say, just what happens around here.

Ow.

Whatever gets you through the night

…Or, you know, doesn’t. I should by all sane understandings be sleeping right now, but the evil chronic problem of my summer seems to be particularly nasty tonight–mosquitoes. I’ve tried every preventative home remedy I can find online, and I’m not really willing to douse my body in chemicals right before I roll around my bedsheets, which seems to mean that a lot of times I wake at 4am to the sensation of itching and hearing a nefarious buzz in my ear. Not ideal.

Between that and the fact that I’ve been working hard and playing hard, there hasn’t been a lot of sleep lately. Not great for this longtime insomniac, but it seems to be my existential state for the moment, so I’m just trying to hang.

The fun, though, has been really fun. This week alone has included being out late salsa dancing on a school night, runs to Emek Refaim for fig ice cream, running around playing with new people, tonight’s big yummy dinner at Caffit that included a complimentary appetizer because (I’m guessing) the waiter both liked us and picked up on enough semiotics to figure out that my friend and I were Americans here for not-just-tourism and he wanted to encourage us to come back with our American money another time. Maybe he just liked us because we made him define certain slang phrases for us.

Anyway, I am–much to my surprise, kinda–having a lot of fun. I don’t know entirely what that’s about–partly, certainly, the fact that the last couple of years have involved a lot of Hard Personal Work and moments of fun really felt respite from that rather than a meal in itself, and now for whatever reason I’m getting my fun straight up, no chaser (Not complaining! Though yes, I’m feeling some vague guilt about the fact that I should be working harder during Elul, but, um, I guess I’m not just yet. There’s time! Not much, but, you know, time!) Part of the surprise is partly due to meeting reality against my various Stateside anxieties about living here. The language isn’t a problem as I feared it would be–I surely ain’t fluent, but I have much better skills than I thought I would, and have some Israeli friends with whom I hang out quite a bit, speak almost exclusively in Hebrew and barely notice that I am. Miles to go but improving constantly. And safety stuff–well, it’s been pretty quiet lately, basically no bombs, except that one at a checkpoint, since I’ve gotten here. Some people say that’s because of the wall. I’m not so certain about that, and have a sneaking suspicion there will be many more to come as things ebb and shift around the poliitcal process. But for now things are quiet, and I feel quite comfortable in my illusions of safety. I have a friend who drinks wine almost every time she goes to a restauraunt because it calms her nerves re: just being in a crowded public place. I don’t feel any of that anxiety; which of us is being more realistic is anybody’s guess.

But for the moment it’s summer, I’m in a new place that has quite a nice mix of things that feel familliar (mostly c/o the increased Americanization of this country and the other Anglos around) and things that are new and exciting, and I am having myself some fun. There are definitely things that are hard, frustrating, maddening, and days when I wish I could not leave my house lest I have to deal with the pushy people and their pushy language and when all I want is a TV playing reruns of Will and Grace or whatever. But there’s a lot of good, too–walking around Jerusalem at night with my discman, just takin’ it all in.

peace of my heart

Last Thursday I went to part of this 3-day peace gathering/festival thing called Sulha, and I’ve tried to blog about it before, but I think I needed a few days to let all of my thoughts really collect themselves.

Their aim was ambitious and, I suppose, noble–to bring Israelis and Palestinians together to dialogue about the hard stuff and get to know each other as people, all the while connecting on a wavelength that might have some religion somewhere in it (I’m hesatant to use the word “spirituality,” since it so often means so little, but maybe it’s apt here.)

They seemed to do well on logistics–they got permission from Arafat himself to bring 300 Palestinians over the green line, and they got 50 Jordanians there as well, in addition to some old-school guest activists from South Africa, Tibet, England and Ireland, as well as some unspecified number of Israelis, Jews, and other random internationals. The schedule of events was mostly workshops, “listening circles” and playtime. Sulha, it should be noted, is an Arabic concept of a reconcilliation meeting in which–I think I have this right–both parties say what they have to say, but no “forgiveness” is necessarily implied. The Hebrew linguistic equivalent is, of course, “slicha”

I was hesitant to go because it did look kind of ungrounded and new-agey. But quite a number of people had told me about it, and I like the idea of honest dialogue, so I was curious. I only made it to the last day; it turns out a lot of the hard work was happening during days 1 and 2, and actually first thing Thurz was a ritual to say goodbye to the Palestinians because they had to leave early, as much of the day was going to be spent waiting at checkpoints. Oh, right.

It was very moving to see everybody saying goodbye to one another–it was clear that some real connections had been made. I was reminded that the work of confronting What’s Hard really is important, and that there is something that can come of doing difficult but sometimes amorphous inner work. Oh, yeah, I believe that. Right. After goodbye time, the Palestinian folk hung around for a while (they still had to wait for buses and stuff to show up) so I got to chat with some nice people. And it was interesting to hear various people’s’ takes on things like Arafat (according to one woman, lots of Palestinians think he’s the only one capable of making peace with the Israelis) or the word “shtachim” [”territories” in Hebrew, oft refers to the West Bank and Gaza] (one guy said he thought its vagueness was problematic, like referring to a race as “those people”).

After awhile the P-folk left and there were a bunch of other events–speakers, a Sufi sheikh leading a zikr, a concert that featurured a great Arabic singer, a phenomenal Yemenite chazzan (still annoyed that I didn’t get his name) and some 8 year-old girls on lead vocals. Mostly I just hung out the rest of the day and socialized. It was fun. I got home feelling the rosy glow of peace in the Middle East all around me.

But as good as I felt, something still niggled. Like the image of Jews enthusiastically attending a Sufi zikr, even though they are not only not Muslim, but there are no Muslims anywhere in sight. What is that about? I don’t know what the Palestinian attendees got out of the event–most of the ones I talked to seemed pretty enthusiastic about their experience–but it’s hard to get the image out of my head of them sitting in checkpoint lines and my carpool stopping at Abu Gosh for a nice dinner on the way back. Lots of sharing and caring, but does it really affect the political and social reality? Are these events just opportunities for Israelis to feel less guilty and like they can party their way to political change? It seemed, from a cursory glance, that the people who are already doing activism of whatever sort would continue to do so irrespective of this event, and that most of the people who aren’t probably wouldn’t start that following Friday. But is the goal to have people become involved in activities designed to change external reality? If not, what is the goal?

Again with the multiple lenses thing. Part of me is horrified that I’m even asking these sorts of questions–I mean, I am banking my whole life and career on the assumption that prayer and spiritual work really do something, and that rearranging a few people’s hearts is achievement enough any day. Yet part of me is wary, in situations like this, about a sort of sentimentalism and tendency towards self-congratulation that I see sometimes on the Left. Look at me, I talked to a Palesinian today, aren’t I openheated and ghetto-fabulous? Tokenizing and disrespectful. I do believe in authentic connection, but I think we have to be werry, werry careful when we try to figure out what that actually means and how (if at all) we can achieve it in a powderkeg such as this. I also recall Yossi Klien Halevi’s comment about Oslo having failed because it was a meeting of elites–that doesn’t feel irrelevant to events like this, but I’m not even clear about what that means or how one might try to end a war without some elite activity. As usual, no answers, just a lot of questions.

Ultimately I can’t fully speak to Sulha qua itself–I was only there for day three, and I think a fair assessment of the event would require actual presence at days one and two. Maybe I don’t even have the “right” (whatever that means) to even ask hard questions of a certain kind of activism–at least people are doing something, which frankly is more than I can say of myself right now (though after the High Holy Days I do hope to get involved with a particular human rights org here.)

But but but. But if I knew what sort of activity I could attend, vote for, stand up for, wear a sign about, or chant slogans for that would make this part of the world a place where there’s a lot less suffering and where people feel safe and comfortable sending their children to school and like they have ample opportunities to grow and flourish–I’d do it. I think what’s so heartbreaking about this situation for me (and for a lot of people) is that it’s not clear at all how to make that happen.

I did buy a t-shirt when I was there. It has a star of David, a cross, and a star and crescent on it. That is one image I can get behind, because however long we’re here and however it is we get out of this mess, it is going to have to be a group effort not only between people, but between all of us and God.

socialized medicine is the best thing ever.

Thursday night I chipped a tooth on an olive pit (of course.) Didn’t have time to deal with it Friday before Shabbos (and besides, Friday here is a weekend day, so offices would be closed) so this morning I looked in the info booklet for my dollar-a-day health insurance. Why, indeed, dentists were listed! So I called the one whose address seemed closest, and they said, “Okay, come by between 2 and 5 today.” Well, allright!

I got to the dentist’s office around 3:30. They were nice. I had to wait a bit, but not outrageously long. And it was kind of fun, only in that the Olympics were on–Women’s volleyball–and I got to watch the frum (very religious) 11 year-old boy watch the women bop around in sport bikinis with his mouth hanging wiiiide open. I bet he doesn’t get that every day.
Anyway, I got into the exam room and they told me that the routine checkup would be covered by insurance, but that filling the chipped tooth wouldn’t, because it was considered “cosmetic.” I got nervous. Coming from the States, I’m used to not having one’s basic health needs be covered–to the point where I, with insurance and a nice dose of middle-class privelege, am pretty skittish about having to go to the doctor for anything–I know it’ll wind up costing me a pretty out-of-pocket penny. I can’t imagine what it must be like for folks who are uninsured or insured but have less general access. In any case, I ask how much the filling would be. They consulted with each other. 110, 125, something like that? The doctor turns to me–125, I think it’ll be. Shekel or dollar? I ask. Oh, shekel, she says.

Right.

So I was in and out of there with a new filling, a checkup, and a clean bill of health, having spent a whopping $28 for my egregious out-of-pocket expense.

Dear Sweden, Canada and Israel: How do you do it and can one of you please come by to fix things in my country of origin?
And yes, I fully do intend to get every last hair and toenail checked while I’m in on the goods this year. Jeez.

Also, a little correction to the last post–the RaDiSH has pointed out to me that the origin of Mea Sharim is not about gates, but rather 100fold reapings, cf. Genesis/Bereishit 26:12. Though one could translate “shaar” as either gate or reaping, the good rabbi does have textual citation on his side. And in Judaism, s/he with the heaviest books pretty much always wins.

100 Gates

So I made it today, for the first time, to Mea Sharim (lit, “100 Gates”), the ultra-notorious ultra-Orthodox part of Jerusalem, most famous for throwing rocks at cars who drive through on Shabbat and dumping bags of urine (and the like) on women who walk around with their licenteous knees showing. They are, however, also famous for good Judaica at very good prices, so there is, shall we say, an allure.

I tried to go there last time I was in Israel–clad, naturally, in my nice long skirt and long-sleeved shirt–to buy tefillin (which at the time I hadn’t started wearing, though I wanted to, desperately. Of course I was going to be buying them for my “brother”.) Not quite sure what happened, but somehow I never made it, and wound up buying my first kippah on Yafo street instead. It was a weird day.

Since then, I’ve had kind of a hangup about the place, scared that I’d quickly manage to reveal my uppity ambitions and somehow get the living daylights creamed out of me.
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And yet one of my classmates has been coming back with mass quantities of seforim (holy books) and I couldn’t stand not getting in on the action.

So today I went with another classmate and her husband, dressed like a perfect bas yisroel (daughter of Israel; long long skirt, long sleeves, scarf in my hair that, though it “meant” kippah to me, read “nice married woman.”) It was fascinating walking over to meet them and feeling, for the first time since I’ve gotten here, really invisible. I was flagging “married” and “pious”(frum), and as such was of no particular interest to anybody–I didn’t appear to have Big American Money to spend, and I certainly wasn’t sexually available. This sort of neutrality is a lot of the argument I’ve heard Muslim and Jewish religious feminists make–dressing modestly allows people to focus on your mind, not your body, you can engage with someone in a way that’s clearly not about sexuality, etc. etc. Whiile I agree that this is an excellent goal, I can’t hold by any solution that seems to imply that women’s bodies themselves are the problem. What if we just worked on evolving as people and seeing each other more as people, rather than creating artificial boundaries in which sexuality is constatnly implied? If nothing else, it’s clear that most secular (straight) men don’t get sexually aroused by the sight of a woman’s elbow, because there isn’t this heavy taboo. Perhaps if religious men were more used to praying with women, seeing them act normal in mundane contexts, etc.–while continuing to NOT use women’s bikini-clad bodies to sell beer or cars or whatever–we could really get somewhere as a culture. Wishful thinking.

Anyway, it turns out Mea Sharim is not nearly as scary as I had made it out to be. It had narrow, winding streets, and yes, a lot of hareidim (ultra-Orthodox Jews of many stripes), including some married women who looked to be about 14 (sigh), and a lot of bookstores and Judaica shops. And the bookstores were uh-may-zing.
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Just lots and lots and lots of yummy stuff, for really, dirt cheap. I got a top-of-the-line quality 2-volume set of Tanchuma (an important midrash collection) for like $15 US. Pomeranz, a bookstore more towards the town center–the one that also sells multi-denominational books (and some feminist ones! And said they’d order Yentl’s Revenge!) and gives discounts to Conservative yeshiva and rabbinical students–had comparable prices on some stuff, so I’m going to try to support them as much as possible.

But that doesn’t mean I didn’t go to town today. I got a Mishna Brura, the Tanchuma, a Jastrow Talmud dictionary (I have one, but the printing on the ones you can get here is unbelievably better), this kiddie book on Shabbat laws that’s actually quite helpful for adult learners, and a BIG FAT book on–yes–modesty. I’m a little obsessed with the subject now, and I’d like to do some more formal writing on it, but need to bone up on the halakha (law) and history, first. It’s fabulous, from my twisted POV–entire chapters devoted to how many buttons one can have open at the neck and how one defines the upper arm. It turns out the Mea Sharim price for Midrash Rabba is the same as Pomeranz’, so I’m gonna get that there.

They also had some fabulous kids’ games–the kind that appeal simultaneously to my actual piety and my deeply-ingrained sense of kitch. Like, they had pictures of old, bearded, not-terribly-attractive famous rabbis that come in pairs to play that memory game (the one where you turn over the cards to try to match them). I passed this time, but I’m sure I’ll go back eventually for it.

Given all my perceptions about the gender thing, people were really much nicer than I thought. Nobody asked a lot of questions about why, say, I’d be needing the Jastrow–I suppose if they don’t ask, they can take my money more comfortably. I’ve heard that they give better discounts to men who come in and say that they’re yeshiva students (which clearly they wouldn’t for me–hi! I’m studying to be a rabbi! hah.) but I also felt comfortable enough to be able to go back and ask hard questions and have at least most of the booksellers be able to engage.

Best of all, I get to build my big happy Rabbinic library–and this is a lifetime investment. If I tried to do that from the States, I’d need to win the lottery to be able to afford this stuff.
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Exposed

You know, when I started this blog it was really, honest to goodness, so that my friends and family could keep track of me while I spent the year in the War-Torn Middle East ™ without my having to spam the inboxes of whoever I decided really, really, really wanted to read about my big adventure doing laundry (ohh, but Israeli laundry. How very exciting.) And little by little I’ve discovered that other people are reading it, which is both nice and strange, in that who-am-I-speaking-to-and-why kind of way. Now, with this Jew*School thang, I wonder if there won’t be even more traffic this way. I just decided to give up any illusions of anonymity and put my professional (old, outdated) website in a more findable place than wherever I had had it buried. You know, whatever, you win, it’s me.

Part of me really does want to hide anything that could trace me to my “real identity” (not that I know what that is or where I left it) so that I can have the freedom to be my real, unenlightened, couth, dorky self and not have to qualify every offhand comment that might be accidentally misinterpreted. But then I think about AKMA’s wise comments to me a year-plus ago about the value of blogging for clergy-to-be (n’sh’Allah/b’ezrat Hashem). He argued that it was good for baby ministers and rabbis to get used to, well, getting misinterpreted, and figuring out how to speak casually yet responsibly in a public space. And he’s probably right. So even though I’m having flashes of having to defend blog entries at the interview for some pulpit job–after some board member found this site and became enraged about sub-point 17b from something three years earlier–I guess I’m going to risk it. Will my future potential employers or, more importantly, my future potential congregants care that I painted my toenails an ugly shade of yellow? Who knows? But I’m pretty certain that I can’t possibly become good clergy if I don’t risk exposure, if I don’t put myself out there and tell the truth insofar as I have discerned up ’till now (truth subject to change without notice) and let the chips fall where they may. So, Okay, let’s see how this goes (*deep breath*).

I guess I’m here, I’m outed as a blogger, hey. I’d still love to know who’s out there, so if you read this thing, please do quit the lurking and comment every now and again, K?

And hey–Hodesh Tov! Rosh Hodesh Elul starts this evening, kicking off a month of serious contemplation in preparation for the High Holy Days. Maybe this is an appropriate post in the season of finding the hidden and revealing it (to yourself, to God, to those around you.) Yidden, may your tshuvah be fruitful and your time to actually do the work of making tshuvah actaully be abundant this year. And so it begins………

Jew*Schoolhouse Rooock

So it looks like starting as soon as we can fix the minor technical tangle, I’ll be a contributing blogger (or whatever you would call that) at the most excellent news/culture stop, Jew*School. Fun! So if you find good and/or juicy new stories on Jewish culture, life, politics, whatevah–post-Kabbalah celebrity gossip, rabbinical drama and IDF intrigue equally welcome–please do send ‘em to me (my email addy’s now in my profile).

Ohh, now maybe I have to start keeping up with the news after all, eh?

what gets taught/what doesn’t

Today, it seems, was Brainwashing Day at ulpan. Another student (in a different level) had commented on the not-so-subtle political slant of the classes, but so far I haven’t really felt it. Sure, there’s the bit about Famous Israelis at the beginning of every unit, but mostly we’re just reading inane stories about a kid who steals a watermelon or the academic issues around being an older student. But today, our teacher started out with, “What is an Israeli?” People said stuff like, “Religious” and “Halakahic” (Jewish law) and “Jewish” and the like, and he was pretty happy with those answers. It didn’t occur to me until later that what I had wanted to say was that “Israeli” is also “Arab” and “Bedouin” and “Druize” and “Christian.”

Then we read this story about how formative Zionist songs were to building the state of Israel and creating a collective Israeli identity. And it’s not even like I mind that subject matter in theory, even in that setting, but the way it was framed felt really problematic to me. There’s one Arab kid in the class–there are a number of Arabs and/or Muslims in the ulpan program (I imagine good Hebrew equals better job, tho I haven’t interviewed people about their reasons for being there) and lots of random non-Jewish internationals around. It wasn’t great that the teacher assumed that everyone was Jewish (and Jewishly literate) when he said (as he did), “Everybody knows the song, “Eli, Eli”, right?” But it’s much more complex to be talking about state-building with the assumption that everyone in the room is equally enthused about the prospect in a setting that’s, shall we say, highly-charged pluralism. I think the word “we” (okay, “anachnu”) was used a lot. And I shot a sympathetic smile over to Amir, but that certainly wasn’t going to be enough to keep him feeling comfortable in that room. He looked like he had absolutely, totally checked out. If I were Amir, I imagine it would be hard enough to be in ulpan with a bunch of spoiled American Jewish college students (I am the old lady of my class, sigh) but to have the conversation focus on lyrics that establish a Jewish connection to the land–well, I doubt I’d feel very safe at that moment if I were him.
I thought about trying to say something that would reframe the conversation a little, and I–even from a place of privelige in that room–couldn’t think of anything that would have seemed appropriate. After the break, he didn’t come back for the rest of the afternoon.

After that, we had a little song-fest, a workshop on the songwriter Naomi Shemer, who is a pretty big hero in this country, and who died sometime this year. For a while–especially after the bit earlier that day–I was feeling pretty evil and cynical about the whole thing. They showed us videos of these shmaltzy, heavily-produced versions of her songs done by what could only be the Israeli Celine Dion (but with more cleavage). In between songs there was a little explanation of her life, and there were a lot of the stock points–her on the kibbutz, her in the army, etc. The long-winded description of “Yerushalyim Shel Zahav (Jerusalem of Gold),” her most famous song, included a whole bit about the ‘67 war that, again, I couldn’t help hearing from the POV of an Arab Israeli, and how hard that might be. Because, whatever the “right” version of history is (heck if I know–I’m beginning to believe there isn’t one), certainly not everybody in that room agreed on what that history really was. But there was only one person on the podium–so not a lot of room for what we call in Leftist America “diverse voices to be heard.”

But then they got me–oh, they had a clip of Ofra Haza, the incredible, mighty-voiced Ofra Haza (z”l) singing “Yerushalyim Shel Zahav” and I was left breathless and teary. Man. And again, I found myself feeling that strange sensation of many lenses at once. I am very glad that as a Jew I have access to the Old City, to the Wall, to everything. So glad I want to cry. Somewhere in my very wiring is a yearning for the Old City of Jerusalem, and Ofra Haza singing “Ha-lo le-khol shirayikh/Ani kinnor” (For all your songs, I am a violin) expressed that as profoundly as can be. It really means something.

I’m glad to have had the experience of hearing that–it was definitely personally very meaningful. And I’m even OK talking about “the role of songs in Zionist nation-building” in an all-Jewish context (thankfully, I think we wouldn’t all agree), but I do think that it’s irresponsible of the program to pick such charged topics, especially without a more explicit acknowledgement of the diverse nature of the population of the program. And it’s not like we couldn’t read an essay in Hebrew about Druize culture if somebody in power decided that it was a worthwhile topic. But, sadly, I don’t think they would.

davvening and polka-dots

So I’m supposed to be doing ulpan homework right about now, but I am tired and any attempts to focus on the nice words in the pretty language seems to be for naught at the moment. So instead I’m painting my toenails. They can only be described, in the vein of Kissing Jessica Stein, as “sexy-ugly”. Or maybe just ugly, but in a way I personally find quite appealing. They’re a sort of irridescent yellow, the color of egg yolks. I’ve been sort of craving orange-colored things in my life lately, but alas and alack, the drugstore in my neighborhood isn’t quite the girly-girl paradise that you find at your US chain stores, so I’ve had to make do. There will be green polka-dots added after everything is dry.

I suppose this episode is a pretty good microcosm of my ulpan world, really. I’m trying to focus, I am. I want to be a good kid and learn–I really do want to learn–but at a certain point of overload, I shut down and need to take recourse in the more tactile world. For a few days I made some elaborately beaded necklaces–there’s a great bead shop down on Emek Refaim–and I may stop by there for a supply refuel tonight. I love little crafts–of which I consider my elaborate toenail creations a piece. I’ve no great skills artistically or in terms of real crafts, like knitting or embroidery or whatever, but I’ve found that in the very in-your-head world of rabbinical school, it’s good to explore the possibilities of low-level creative and aesthetic pleasure.

Speaking of small pleasures, when I think of Jerusalem in the summer, this is what I think of:
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Brightly-colored flowers against pale, pale stone.

Things are starting to find their own flow. I’m still checking out different davvening possibilites–to my great surprise, I had an incredible time at Yakar this Friday night. It’s a place started by followers of Shlomo Carlebach, and for a few reasons I didn’t think I’d connect there, even though I had some great experiences upstairs the last time I was in Israel. (There are 2 levels–upstairs is the younger–ie 17-23 yo, and downstairs is for “grownups.”) The mechitza is not split down the middle of the room, but rather halves the room the other way, that is to say, women are in the back–and there are no real moves, as there are in a lot of other Orthodox shuls around, to increase gender eqality. Plus, really, spiritually I didn’t think it was gonna be my vibe.

But it was amazing. I walked in, and could tell right away that the place was charged. Whereas at Shira Hadasha, which meets in a building/room that’s used for lots of other things during the year, the people have to come in and bring the energy/ruach/kavvannah/intentionality/whatever each week, Yakar is its own building and they know a thing or two about energy-raising, and the stuff can just stay there all week. You can tell, it’s tactile and present. Then they started Kabbalat Shabbat with a long, long series of niggunim, wordless melodies. Niggunim are at core designed to put one in a trance state, and again, these people knew how to make that work. Rather than being a big ecstatic experience (like they have with the kiddies upstairs), this was a deep, slow, meditative experience. And I realized, oddly, that the fact that they had no feminist rhetoric actually enabled me to let go–at Shira Hadasha, I’m always acutely aware of the imbalances, and my brain’s pretty plugged in to who’s leading what, eg. But here, it was clear that there was going to be none of that, and strangely enough it enabled me to just. let. go. and have whatever experience I was gonna. Lots of God showing up, to a degree that’s not everyday for me. It was good. (This is not to say that I think women having some power in shul is not better than them having no power, and we’ll see what my long-term relationship to Yakar will be. But I think ultimately the lesson here was about releasing expectations, and how useful that is.)

The davvening scene is soooo weird here. Shabbos day I went to a minyan (the Leder minyan) which is less egal in a lot of ways than Shira Hadasha, but both a man and a woman douchened (led the Priestly blessing), which is VERY unusual. (Very few places douchen at all, which is a whole other shebang about why.) Anyway. Hopefully if I don’t find, like, a spiritual home in one place here, I’ll have a few that feel like good places to go on a regular basis. Definitely still exploring.

Anyway. My tootsies are dry. Now I’m gonna fix my evening coffee plans and see if I can convince myself to do a little more homework before that happens. Unngh. Homework.

check-in

Hey, all–

Just a quick note to let you know that I”m OK. There was a bombing at a checkpoint last Wednesday, though as I am out of the habit of reading the news (I tend to go on media fasts in America, sometimes it’s just better that way) I didn’t actually find out ’till Friday. Am trying to get back in the habit of at least checking the local paper every day. Anybody have tips on reading the news–which is, after all, mostly not great news–without it causing daily dispair?

Also, not quite sure the deal on this one, yet: I went to this a hotel where some friends were staying while in town for Shabbos; it has a lovely view of the Old City, and we were sitting by the pool, feeling very Western and decadent when we noticed some nefarious-looking smoke rising from the middle of the Old City. One of my friends guessed that it was coming from either the Jewish or the Armenian quarters; I don’t know. We didn’t hear an explosion, or sirens, and after awhile the smoke let up and eventually vanished. So I’m guessing (hoping) that, whatever it was, everybody’s OK. Just checked the news and there didn’t seem to be anything about it, so I still dunno what happened.

Every once in a while I notice that this is a country where nefarious smoke has a whole different set of associations. Also found out last week that cafe Moment, which was bombed a couple of years ago, has closed down due to financial difficulties, evidently stemming from debt (which, I would guess but don’t really know, probably stems from the efforts to rebuild the place.)

Anyway, more soon on war, joy, and the other little things in life. Now I have several essays, workbook exercises and a test to study for, for tomorrow. Yuck.