Women and Tefillin

In recent days there has been much media attention given to the New York-area day schools that have formalized their policies in favor of allowing female students to don tefiillin during school hours should they choose to do so.  There have been countless articles and statements made by men and women alike exalting these schools and the young ladies in their student bodies who are choosing to take on this iconic mitzvah.  Social media has been abuzz with chatter about the schools, their decisions and the idea of moving the Modern Orthodox Jewish world into more modern times. 

Seemingly, donning tefillin has become tantamount to burning ones bra in the most halachic of terms.  The new face of the suffragette is one with black leather straps framing her face and a small holy box crowning her head; but why?  What, if anything, about wearing tefillin makes women feel so much more connected to G-d? 

Living in the world today, we in the Modern Orthodox Jewish Community are faced with many issues which both challenge and guide us in the further development of our nation.  In the United States we live in a world where the “rights” of humans are many, but do not always coincide with our “rights” as dictated by Torah law.  My rights as an American, which give me the ability to practice my religion as I see fit, are the cornerstone to the foundation of this country and I am endlessly grateful for them.  They allow me to be a practicing Jew, to keep Shabbat, to learn Torah and to generally be the person that I choose to be. 

Having these freedoms allows me to be a Torah Observant Jew, and it is the Torah itself, which I choose to follow, that dictates exactly how far my freedoms may go.  It provides a totally different sort of freedom; one that we as a nation chose as we stood at the foot of Mount Sinai. A nation unified in our dedication to G-d and all that He asks of us.  As a people we chose to except upon ourselves a different sort of Chairut (freedom.)  We chose the freedom of rules, the freedom of structure and the freedom to follow the Creator of the World in whatever way He sees fit.  Jewish freedom is not defined by one’s ability to do whatever it is that we choose, it is defined by our ability to choose Who to believe in and Who to guide us through this world.

Society outside of the Jewish world would dictate that in order to be equal we must all be the same.  As an Orthodox Jewish woman I do not believe this to be the case.  I do not believe that all human beings are required to follow the commandments of the Torah, but I think no less of those not born into our nation.  I do not believe that those born outside of the tribe of Judah are destined to be the kings that lead our nation, nor do I expect to see Israelites stand before our congregation in blessing us during birkat kohanim (the priestly blessing.)  I recognize that no one human being can ever fully participate in each one of the 613 commandments set forth by G-d.  The Torah is a plan for a nation, and only united can His plan ever be truly fulfilled. 

Why then, I ask, has the mitzvah of tefillin for women become so all important?  Is there some primal need and desire for a woman to strap a leather box to her arm and head that makes her feel closer to the Creator of the World?  Were it not for the commandment, I would even go so far as to venture a guess that men themselves would not have come up with such an initiative.  There is little that I have come across that leads me to understand or believe that the desire to lay tefillin is one of a natural spiritual progression, rather it seems to stem from a desire to follow halachah as dictated by the Torah.

So then why, again, are women feeling such a pull and a need to lay tefillin?  It is seemingly not a natural spiritual desire such as prayer, where one reaches out to G-d as if in conversation.  As far as I have been able to deduce the desire to wear tefillin comes from the desire to follow G-d’s law.  But, for thousands of years women have lived highly spiritual and religious lives without the need to fulfill this commandment on the whole. 

Some will contest that for thousands of years the halachot surrounding tefillin have been misunderstood and twisted and it is therefore the job of the Modern Jewish Woman to “take back” the law and reintroduce this concept into mainstream Judaism.  It is widely known that the holy daughters of Rashi himself were said to have donned their own tefillin; and I certainly cannot speak to the finer halachic points regarding a woman’s ability to wear tefillin as I am not nearly well versed enough to make such a determination.  Truthfully though, my question is not whether or not we can, my question remains, why do so many women want to?  I do not dare stand in judgment of anyone who wants to further their connection to G-d, I simply seek to understand how the mitzvah of tefillin aides in doing so.

Why has wearing tefillin itself become such a focus?  Have the other mitzvoth been perfected?  Why this particular mitzvah?  Are there not less controversial mitzvoth to which we women can dedicate our time?  The choice to wear tefillin does not seem to fulfill an intellectual need that has been awoken in women across the world.  It does not even seem to fulfill an innate spiritual need. 

To this one humble observer it seems to fill the need for many living in modern society today to be the same; and in being the same, they then consider themselves equal.  In Jewish life, however, to be equal is not always to be the same.

We can all agree that women and men were not, in fact, created the same.  This is not to say that they were created unequal, simply different.  There are biological and physiological differences.  Is it sexiest or unequal for a woman to seek out treatment from a physician who specializes in women’s health?  Is it elitist to want someone who recognizes that a woman is not simply a smaller man but a unique creation unto herself?  And what about doctors who specialize in Jewish genetic diseases?  Should we deny that such illnesses even exist in the name of being “the same?”  The answer to all of these ridiculous questions is “of course not.”  To deny the differences among people is to deny reality.  Why then do women across the world seek to be so similar to men?

Why did women fight for the right to wear pants yet men never seemed to, en masse, take on the cause of wearing dresses? Why are so many women in the world intent on being smaller men?  Why is it that to be a feminist in today’s day and age one needs to have the desire to do everything a man has traditionally done?  Why is there so little pride in what women have been able to accomplish in their more traditional roles?  

I don’t claim to have all of the answers and I certainly don’t stand in judgment of those seeking to improve their relationship with G-d.  I do however have a problem with those who stand in judgment of me.  Those who claim that I lack pride in my own gender or think I am “weak” for not having the same needs and desires as they do.  I am no less a feminist for not feeling the need to wear tefillin then they are for wanting to do just that.  I am a proud Jewish woman; strong, intelligent and spiritual.  My desire to be different from men does not make me subservient or unequal.  It is simply my admission that G-d in His infinite wisdom has created me different then my male counterparts, and I don’t need to earn societies respect by pretending otherwise.

I recognize and dare I even say celebrate the differences between men and women.  Who is to say that women aren’t the stronger of the two sexes?  Muscle mass is not the only measure of strength.  Women have been recognized since the beginning of time as being the spiritually dominant gender.  Why then do so many seek to have the same spiritual requirements of the “lesser sex?”  Again, I can and do respect all people who desire to reach their greatest potential in every area of life. I only hope that someday soon women across the world, Jew and non-Jew alike, will recognize that our worth is not measured in terms of how much of a man we can be, but in how much of ourselves we can be. 

Tisha B'Av - What's the big deal??

As the sun begins to set here in New Jersey, and the Jewish calendar flips to the 9th day of Av, I am, as always, hit with a question, that many Jews around the world are pondering right along with me; what's the big deal? (Perhaps in not so crass a fashion, but the message is one and the same.)  

The 9th of Av, otherwise known as Tishah B'Av, is the holy day when Jews across the planet mourn the many great historical tragedies that have befallen the Jewish people. Most of all though, it falls out on this particular date because on the ninth day of Av, we, the Jewish People, were twice ripped of our most valued national possession... our two Holy Temples.  It is admittedly very difficult sometimes to relate to a loss so far removed from anything any of us have ever seen or experienced, and still every year I take time to wonder to myself... how can I relate to this?  How can I properly mourn something that even my great-great-great-great grandparents had never seen, much less myself?! Every year these thoughts run through my mind and somehow each year I find a new significance to this day and a new way to relate... this is one of two that I came up with this year.

A number of years ago I was a madricha (counselor) on a collegiate birthright trip to Israel.  What made this trip so unique for me was that I was privileged to be taking part in a program which was introducing the land of Israel to Jewish young women from across the United States and Canada for the very first time.  My heart was filled with excitement as I knew how lucky I was to be taking part in others’ spiritual growth, because always, and inevitably it has an equal if not greater impact on my own spirituality.  It was a journey I was ecstatic to be taking part in!

Among the many sites and experiences that we had planned for the group, the one I looked forward to the most was presenting them, for the very first time, with the place where my soul is immediately at peace and my heart soars with excitement… my beautiful Yerushalayim!   We had already spent the day at different sites in the “New City” and it was all about to come to its glorious conclusion at the heart of it all… the Old City of Jerusalem!  Exiting the bus, I was filled with an excitement much akin to that which I felt the very first time that I myself had approached the Kotel! Standing in the plaza that day watching them touch those ancient stones, I could not read their minds or thoughts but I was certain that when we “debriefed” later that evening I would be reintroduced to the excitement and joy that only your first trip to Jerusalem can elicit!

As we all gathered that evening, in our beautiful “home base” of Kibbutz Kfar Etzion, I was filled with anticipation, waiting to hear their reactions to the day’s events.  As the room grew quiet I stood in my place and asked the girls “So, what did you all think about your first trip to Yerushalayim???”  I had hoped for an immediate response, but it seemed that since we were so early on in the program people were still somewhat hesitant to offer up their thoughts so quickly, and so I began by sharing my own thoughts.

I began with my thoughts on the Kotel and then moved on to the greater city of Jerusalem.  I pointed out how beautiful it is to see men with their eyes steadfastly trained on the pages of a Gemara while they stand waiting at the public bus stops.  I spoke of the beauty in hearing the guitarists play their Jewish music on the corners of Kikar Tzion and Ben Yehuda Street.  I discussed the fascinating and inspiring museums of Jerusalem and the poignantly and deeply religious communities of Meah Shearim and Geulah.  I related to the group the extreme beauty I find while walking through the Machaneh Yehuda Market, listening intently as the Jewish merchants peddle their wares in what, to me, becomes a gorgeous hum of modern-day Hebrew; bearing testimony to the thriving and ever growing State of Israel that we are blessed with today.  Truly, there was not one piece of the incredible puzzle that is Jerusalem today that went unacknowledged.  For me, there was beauty and inspiration in every doorway and on every corner.

As I finished speaking I saw one young lady raise her hand! I could not wait to hear her thoughts on the matter! Her response, however, left me shocked.  She looked at me with all of the seriousness in the world and said, “I’m sorry Beth, but I just don’t see how it is so different from where I live in New York!”  As you might imagine, it took all of my strength to calmly ask her to elaborate and explain what she meant; a request which she was all too eager to honor.

“You see, where I live, every bus stop has men learning Gemara and certainly there is no lack of a spiritual and religious community from which to glean inspiration! Our shops are nearly all Jewishly owned and inside you will find a combination of Hebrew and Yiddish joining together in what can only be described as a beautiful Jewish medley!  On the streets you can hear our music reverberating from inside the Jewish music stores and there are plenty of museums containing fascinating Jewish relics for all to experience.”  I was absolutely dumb founded when, just then, she hit me with “To be honest, I think that it is better in New York because in Yerushalayim there are some of the holiest sites on the planet and literally within walking distance you can find Jews of all different denominations frequenting bars, non-kosher restaurants and committing all sorts of misdeeds!  How terrible! I would far prefer to be in America where there are no holy sites being disgraced, rather than being in Yerushalayim where our holiest of sites are being flanked by such impurity.”

I sat in my seat listening intently when immediately her words pierced straight through to my soul, and finally I understood what she was saying; and even more importantly, why what she was saying was, in my opinion, so very wrong.  I looked at this very intelligent young woman and responded with the following:

“I understand what you are saying, and it is seemingly very sensitive of you.  You are absolutely correct that in America we don’t have our holy sites being disgraced by nearby un-holiness; however maybe, just maybe, that is the problem!

In the United States it is often easier for us to ignore the fact that we are in Galut.  The United States is not an intrinsically holy land.  There is much in the United States that is good and holy, but not because it is inherently meant to be so.  Therefore, when we observe this goodness and holiness we have no choice but to be impressed by it; while the un-holiness (if you will) that is commonly found across the country is mostly people behaving as the “land” would have expected of them.  They are not “misbehaving”; they are simply just living their lives in, what most Americans would label, “freedom.”

In Israel, and Yerushalayim most specifically, the land itself contains a holiness that is intrinsic to its very being.  In Jerusalem, when ones sees their fellow Jews breaking G-d’s commandments there is an inherent dichotomy that is difficult to come to terms with.  The land itself has set the expectations, and it is up to US to live up to those expectations.  The religious bar has been set much higher in a land imbued, by G-d Himself, with holiness; and therefore when we see that holiness defaced we cannot help but to notice it, be bothered by it and feel uncomfortable with it.

Perhaps the answer is that while yes, we are blessed to once again have this holy city in Jewish hands, it is not the TRUE Jerusalem that we all aspire to hold. Yes, we certainly celebrate her for what she is, but we must definitely mourn her for what she has not yet returned to.   She is a Jerusalem bereft and stripped of her most important element… the Beit Hamikdash (the Holy Temple).  When we walk the streets of modern day Jerusalem one cannot help but recognize this all-essential missing piece.  The diaspora is palpable.  The Yerushalayim that we all dream of returning to is one replete with all of the holy trimmings it was designed to house.  Our holiest of locations, the Temple Mount, stands shamed with an all too foreign edifice prominently displayed on her beautiful facade. 

The Jerusalem we dream of is one of unequivocal physical, spiritual and emotional connection to G-d.  The Yerushalayim we sing of is one wherein a pillar of fire rises up from her heart, announcing to the world that G-d has accepted yet another person’s gift and dedication to Him.  The city we dream of is one wherein the sounds heard above the city are the songs of praise being offered up by the Levites in the Holy Temple.

No, the Jerusalem of today is not perfect, but when here, you KNOW that you are in galut.  You can feel it because we are so close yet so unimaginably far at the very same time.  Life in Jerusalem today can be so spiritually fulfilling, but at the same time it leaves us thirsting for more. Perhaps the greatest gifts that modern day Yerushalayim has to offer are insight and awareness, two very important elements that you just simply cannot find in the same abundance or quality when you are in New York.”

It was at that very moment that I began to see hand after hand rise into the air above the girls heads; and I realized that even if they did not all agree with me, Yerushalayim had worked her magic once again, and brought Jews of many different backgrounds to the table in discussion of spirituality and holiness; and really what more can one ever expect from one little “Old City!!!”     

   

Putting one foot in front of the other - not as easy as it sounds!

My day today was in a sense both terrible and absolutely incredible simultaneously.  As with much of my life, I had a hard time of discerning one from the other most of the time.  Today, I received my first full eight-hour medical infusion.  It was not my first infusion, by a long shot, but it was definitely the longest so far.  My day began at 5:45 am when I was woken to the reminder that I had a long day ahead of me.  As I wiped the sleep from my eyes I reminded myself of what I had prepared the night before to wear and as I dressed I thought to myself, “don’t bother with makeup… it’s chemo after all! Who cares how you look?!”  Immediately I reminded myself… I DO!  So I sat down at my makeup chair and put on an appropriately light application of makeup; not enough to look like I’m going to the Oscars but enough to make myself feel human and even a little pretty.

On most days I walk, limp, crutch or roll into the Hospital for Special Surgery with great confidence; but on this day, I was filled with trepidation.  We had tried this particular drug and its associated cocktail of pre-meds just three weeks ago and the near immediate result was a significant allergic reaction… not fun, and quite upsetting.  Since that time I had some blood work done that showed that although I had only received 15% of my medication that day it had had a significantly positive affect on my immune system (ironically, “positive” in this case means that part of my immune system is waaaay shut down.)  This is not terrific for me in terms of germs and possible infections, but it IS good news in terms of keeping my illness at bay and lessening the damage that is being done to my joints and a number of other organ systems.  Therefore, due to the positive results we had received already, my doctor felt that we should “re-challenge” my body to another slower dose with more “pre-meds” to keep my eyes from swelling up like ping pong balls.  As I am sure you can imagine the idea of a “re-challenge” was both exhilarating and utterly terrifying all at the same time; and so as I entered the infusion unit I held my head high, took a deep breath and put one foot in front of the other; because as I have learned, many times in life that’s just the way it is.  One foot in front of the other, one second at a time and one deep breath to even it all out.

I walked in and smiled at all of my familiar faces, both patients and nurses alike, and sat down in one of the infusion recliners.  I made sure (OF COURSE!) to sit in a completely different area than last time… hey, I’m no idiot… that other chair had some baaaaad karma! J So there I sat; I was in position with my father solidly by my side… things were good to go!  THAT is precisely when things started to go down hill.

One of the nurses approached me with her IV kit in hand all ready to go.  As she looked me over (complimenting my makeup -I might add J ) I looked her straight in the eye and asked “did you draw the short straw today?” Not ever having tried to get an IV started on me she wasn’t quite sure what I meant, but when it finally hit her she asked “well, did you bring your veins today?”  Apparently dear friends, the answer to that question is an undeniable NO!  After more than 20 sticks done by over 4 nurses things were becoming quite tense.  I felt bad for the nurses and the nurses felt bad for me.  It was like we were one big Jewish family – tons of guilt to go around (but I was conspicuously the only Jew in the bunch!) 

Anyway, as the hands on the clocked continued to tick away, nearly two hours of poking, pinching, warming, pumping, tightening and sticking had passed and still we had not gained any IV access.  Words like “jugular”, “admission” and “resident” began to float around the room and I was none too pleased with THAT plan.  I begged them to continue to try to find a vein and try they did!  Finally, after over two hours and 20 sticks we all began to cheer (and I do mean ALL… the patients, the doctors, the nurses and my father with me) as saline began to sweetly drip from its plastic bag into my most cooperative vein!  

  

During this two-hour ordeal the patients in my area all became invested in the drama surrounding me; and in order to “lessen” my focus on my pin cushion-like arms they started to discuss our common ailments.  Phrases such as “poor baby” and “it’s not fair, you are too young for all of this” became the day’s catch phrases.  I assure you – this is NOT what I wanted to hear.  Women and men, double my age and more, telling me how lucky they felt for not being diagnosed with this crappy illness until they had already lived out the greater part of their lives.  And there I sat, listening to them, their words hurting far more than any needle ever could, but with intentions so pure I just had to smile and take it.

As this barrage of sympathy continued to swirl around my head I couldn’t help but feel sad for myself.  A deep penetrating sadness stung straight through my heart; and I let myself feel it… but only for a moment.  For that one second in time my heart ached with the sadness of all that I have lost and will continue to loose; for all of the matches that have said “she’s broken” and for the children that I might never have, for the knee that will soon be replaced with metal, cement and plastic and for the joints in the future that I will continue to have replaced.   For the freedoms I have lost and for the pain that I live with day in and day out.  For the struggles I have with G-d and for the pain my illness causes so many others… I was sad.  Deeply sad… and I began realizing that THAT is just fine; but only because I didn’t let it linger.

That very next moment I decided that my sadness was not in control.  It would not determine my self-worth nor my destiny.  I am in charge of how I feel about myself and only G-d knows what I am destined for.  As the nurses continued to poke and prod and the patients surrounding me doused me in pity I decided it was time to change my attitude.  I had allowed the sadness in, which was fine… but only for that moment.  The next moment had arrived, the other foot was in front of the other and the clocked had ticked by another second.  I was now in that past second’s future and only I would determine how I would feel about it.

You see, there is so much in life that I cannot control.  I cannot control my health to a great degree nor can I determine how it will progress.  I cannot decide which joint will fall apart next or which vein will become occluded… what I COULD however control was my response to it.  With that in mind I looked straight at the woman speaking to me about how “young I was for all of this” and asked her what makeup she uses; and in that moment I took control.  It was no longer about my disease, or my surgeries or even the fact that I “must have it real bad because [my] doctor is the head honcho.”  No, in that moment it was about MAC, Urban Decay and Christian Dior! Why? Because I made it so.  I took control of that moment and the feelings inside of me.  I would not feel bad for myself, nor would I allow them to feel badly for me.  After all, I was the one being poked, and I was the one wearing the makeup.  Which of those two topics we were going to discuss was MY decision to make; and so I did!

After that, the tone in the room quickly changed.  Once I had my IV going and the Benadryl was aflowin’ they could have been speaking Chinese and I would have agreed with everything they were saying, because quite frankly, I didn’t hear a word of it!

However, it was in that quiet dazed state that I thought again about my sadness and decided that I had truly copped out.  If I was truly OK with my sadness, I wouldn’t have needed to change the subject.  I would have allowed myself to sit with it.  Feel it… for more than a second… maybe even a minute or two!  I would have allowed myself to feel the pain and be OK with it. 

Talking about makeup doesn’t make being “broken” and single any less painful.  The thought of never having children of my own, specifically BECAUSE I can’t find my match hurts just that much more.  Having parts of my body, created by G-d Himself, only to be replaced with man made parts pains me greatly.  As for the freedoms I have lost and the physical pains with which I live… well who wouldn’t be sad??? And as for my struggles with G-d and the pain He has punished my family with through me, well, there truly is no greater pain.  So there I sat, in my drug induced haze, pretending to watch a TV show about (you guessed it…) makeup, when all of a sudden it hit me… it truly is OK to be sad… and for as long as I choose, as long as I am actively choosing to do so.  I could be sad for more than just one moment and more than just one minute.  I can be sad for an hour, a day or even a week… as long as I remember that it is MY CHOICE to be sad or happy.

So, I continued to sit there… and sit there… and sit there, with my sadness, my anger and my pain.  I chose for those 8 hours to be sad.  It was my choice and that is what I chose.  My father and I gathered my things, and as I exited the hospital I put one foot in front of the other and decided, I am done being sad.  Even if it is just for now… I choose to be happy once again! 

I thought to myself about all of my grievances and issues, and tried with all my might to find just one spark of joy among them.  To my great surprise, I found more than just one… I found many.

Yes, my G-d given parts might be changing, but only by the grace of G-d is there the technology to do so and ease my pain!  The freedoms which I have lost do hurt, but I have found new and wonderful ways of living, many of which I would never have found without my lost “freedoms.”  My pain, no it does not make me happy, but I am blessed with some of the country’s best physicians (if not the world’s), imagine how much worse off I could and would be without them.  Yes, my case sparked the interest of the “head honcho” but where would I be without him??? And of my struggles with G-d… well, you show me someone who doesn’t struggle with G-d and I will show you someone who doesn’t believe that there is one with Whom to struggle.  How blessed am I to still know that G-d IS, and that I am here only because He wills it to be so each and every second.  I do not know what He expects of me, and yes, I sometimes feel that my lot has been unevenly distributed to me… but I know deep inside that He has chosen this path for me… and while I don’t stand among the great and righteous men and women who have walked before me on this earth, I can’t think of even one who did not struggle at some point. 

Indeed, you will find that some of the points on my “sad list” do not have an accompanying “happy list” thought.  But that is what the test of being human is all about.  Living with the sad, recognizing the good and always remembering, most importantly, that it is absolutely fine to feel both; all the while though you and I must always remember, put one foot in front of the other, take it one second at a time and always take a deep breath to even it all out!

My Happy Place – when times are tough

Over the past weeks I have found myself glued to the television, radio, newspapers, internet news and social media web sites.  With nail-bitingly intense anxiety I've been watching, reading, listening; waiting to hear even the smallest piece of news or update on the condition of our nation’s homeland as a barrage of vicious rocket attacks rains down upon  our innocent brethren.  Sometimes the images that I see before my eyes quite literally brings me to tears, as I am reminded over and over again of the danger that my friends and loved ones live in for reasons that seem impossible to this Modern-Day Jewess.

At first, recognizing the speed at which the holiday of Chanukah is approaching, I couldn't help but feel an eerie generations-old sort of dejavu.  Did we not already fight this battle so many hundreds of years ago as the Greeks tried capturing our land, our Holy Temple, and slandering us among the nations of the world? Have we not already fought bravely for our home time and time again, standing up against a world that would otherwise have seen the Jewish people long ago destroyed? And just today I thought back to a recent trip to Israel that reminded me, why, in fact, our nation seems to be reliving these horrific wars over and over again.

A few years ago I was privileged to be spending a month in Israel.  Not really touring heavily, I simply woke up each morning and spent wonderful days lazily rediscovering my beautiful Jerusalem all over again, as if for the very first time.  No matter where my daily travels and walks took me, they always found me standing before the great gates of the Old City walls.  It mattered not how I got there, and some days I didn’t arrive until late in the evening; but nonetheless each and every day of my stay in Israel I made sure to connect to the place that helps me to connect with my Creator.

My trip that year brought me a tremendous amount of comfort.  Seemingly, just walking around Yerushalayim brought me great solace and peace.  But, just as all good things seem to do, this trip was quickly coming to its end.  As that final evening approached I called a cab to pick me up and take me directly to the Kotel.

It was one of the most beautiful times of day.  The sun was just beginning to dip beneath the trees and as I approached the Old City walls they truly glimmered with the golden aura of the fading sun.  Immediately my eyes filled with tears as I knew that this would be my final trip to the Kotel for some time to come.  My heart beat with a quick yet terribly sad thud at the thought of leaving my beautiful Yerushalayim.

I exited my cab and walked slowly towards the open courtyard.  The setting sun lit up the sky above with a prism of reds, pinks, purples, yellows and golds.  I approached the wall and steadied my trembling hand as I went to reach out to touch her stones.  Immediately upon touching the wall I felt the heat of the day still securely preserved within her heart.  The warmth from within these stones warmed my palms as it calmed my soul. My heart poured out to the Borei Olam for over an hour, when I had finished, I had thoroughly exhausted myself.  By that time, the sun had completely set, and the beautiful Jerusalem night was upon me.  Knowing that I had to soon leave, my heart ached; and so I allowed myself a little more time to sit at the back of the courtyard and simply take it all in.

I took my seat and told myself to take a mental picture of all that surrounded me.  I closed my eyes and listened to the hum of the courtyard.  Prayers, thousands of years old, had been directed to this one spot, and with my eyes closed I was almost sure that I could hear each and every one of them.  The cries of men and women, calling out in pain, crying out in thanks and simply singing the praises of a G-d who surely made it possible for us to be here at this moment, at this spot and at this time.  The hum quickly morphed into a sort of mystical song that to this day I can recall with great accuracy, yet somehow cannot reproduce with my own voice.

With my eyes remaining steadily shut I began to breathe deeply; to take in the smells that wafted around me.  The pungent and delightfully unique smells of Middle Eastern spices, mixing with the clean yet ancient Jerusalem air filling my lungs.  I secretly wished that I could have lived off of that very lungful all the way back to the United States. All of a sudden a gorgeous breeze blew through the courtyard and as if in answer to my prayers, the atmosphere around me seemingly seeped into my burnt fair skin, cooling it in only the way that a nighttime Jerusalem breeze could.

Then I slowly opened my eyes.  Once they had adjusted to the lights around me it was as if I was viewing the Kotel for the very first time.  The golden stones of the Kotel seemed literally to glow against the inky-black night sky.  That very same sky, a twinkle, with those very same stars that Hashem blessed Avraham Avinu with as he stood atop Har Hamoriah; prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice in HaKadosh Baruch Hu’s name.  Every woman standing before the Kotel’s mighty façade seemed to take on an ancient kedusha in my mind’s eye.  Each one a representation of our holy Imahot; all of whom serve as constant and everlasting examples of what truly strong and righteous Jewish women should be.

I stood up and walked behind the dividing fence that separates those praying from the general courtyard.  I walked toward the men’s section and saw standing there a combination of Jews from all walks of life.  Rebbe’s with their stately, long-white beards; soldiers having just turned eighteen, yet old enough to carry the weight of the Jewish world on their shoulders; young boys, exhausted from a long day at cheder, but whose voices rang out as sweetly and as clearly as I would imagine the voices of the malachim themselves as they surround the Kisai Hakavod.  There were men wearing yarmulkas made of paper, simply out of respect for the place at which they stood, but whose faces told the story of a soul’s journey to find the truth.

At this time, in this place, I saw before my eyes what I can only describe as Atchalta D’Geulah.  If only we could bottle this tolerance, this peacefulness and this unity.  These are the moments that form the very bricks of our longed for Beit Hamikdash.  At that precise moment I closed my eyes, took it all in, in its entirety; the cool breeze, the perfumed air, the glowing stones, the melodic hum of the tfillos and most of all the peace that I felt at that moment, as my neshama was cradled by nearly all of my senses.  I was absolutely SURE that Moshiach would soon be here to take this moment in time and make it last for all eternity.

It is when times get tough that I close my eyes and reach into my memory and recall those very moments.  The moments that made me believe that Am Yisrael would indeed soon bring an end to all of our suffering by reaching out with their souls to the Borei Olam in total and complete humility, and storm the Gates of Heaven pleading with Hashem to free us from this interminable Galus.  War would be a thing of the past. Rockets would never find their way onto Holy ground, the blood of the innocent would no longer saturate this land that was promised to flow with Milk and Honey; children on every side of every line that G-d draws in the sand will live without fear and will once again play with the young abandon that only a child can possess. 

 Perhaps what we can all do to see an end to wars and battles such as those that we fight now is to fight back, not only with the strength of the mighty Israeli Tzavah, but with the strength of the millions of us not privileged enough to stand in physical defense of our land.  Perhaps were we to show more kindness to one another, more understanding, less judgment and far more love, perhaps then we would stop hearing the sounds of rocket sirens screaming overhead, rather the call of the magnificent shofarot and trumpets of our third and final Beit Hamikdash instead. 

Eat, Pray, Love... Indeed!

Well, it is holiday time once again! Meals are being planned, clothes are being pressed and the house is being cleaned; all in preparation for the upcoming holiday, the Jewish New Year, Rosh Hashana. It seems like the lists of chores and errands that must be completed before the quickly-approaching holiday arrives are endless. I, for one, take particular satisfaction in creating intricately detailed spreadsheets in order to organize our menus for the endless stream of meals that we must prepare. It takes many many hours of work to go through my previous years’ menus and library of cookbooks in order to decide what exactly gets a place of honor on this year’s menu. Then I take meticulous care in organizing what dish will go with what meal, and the ingredients required for each recipe. Finally, I create a shopping list replete with quantities needed for each item and organize them by supermarket isle. This way our shopping is stream-lined and we never need to go back to the supermarket for another round of shopping. (OK, so perhaps this part doesn’t quite pan out the way we would like it… there’s always that rouge instant pudding mix or extra dozen eggs that we SWORE we bought but is nowhere to be found!!) Regardless though, by the time the week of Rosh Hashana rolls around our menus take their place of honor upon our refrigerator, hanging in all of their color coded glory!

Yes, planning our many appetizers, entrées, side dishes, vegetables and desserts is certainly a massive job. Still though, it doesn’t hold a candle to the actual cooking that is always soon to follow. Cooking in the Goldsammler household is nothing short of fantastic. Together, my mother and I become an unbeatable tag team; roasting, baking, sautéing and boiling our way through the menacing menus that stand before us. Together we have developed a sort of rhythm; an ebb and flow, as natural as the tide itself. My mother dices onions as I peel the carrots; my mother prepares the turkey as I mix up batters. Rarely do tempers flare or moods falter. When my mother and I are preparing for the holidays it is as if we are in our own warm little cocoon. In that cocoon the worries of the day seem to fade into the background and we enjoy each other so deeply that I almost wish for the cooking to never end. The memories created and the family stories that are shared in our cozy kitchen are the moments that I cherish year-long. Each utensil, pot and dish carries with it its own history. I am so blessed to come from a long line of Jewish women who also found love and laughter in the kitchen, and even though they have long since passed, I can still feel their love and laughter as I stir my own pots with the spoons they themselves once lovingly prepared holiday meals with.

As I approach the holidays this year I hope to try and remember this joy, this warmth and these moments, as I stand before G-d. I hope to remind myself of the happiness that permeates my life and of my enormous fortune in being blessed with a family that is not afraid to laugh loudly and to love deeply. Yes, my life is at times difficult, but perhaps this year I will be able to remember that while I cry out to G-d to heal me in the innumerable ways that only He can, I must also shout out in gratitude to Him for the supportive and loving family that He has given me, without which my life would be bereft of the deep joy and love that is so acutely part of who I am, and who we are together.

I will try my best this year to remind myself to be grateful for all that I have and whatever G-d chooses to give me beyond that… well that’s just gravy! (Which, by the way, we have a GREAT recipe for… :-) )

My Not-So-Funhouse Mirror

When I was young I used to love the funhouse mirrors. You know the ones; you stand in front of them and your body’s reflection becomes completely distorted. Some mirrors make your hands look huge while your head is the size of a marble. Other times you might get lucky enough to find the mirror that gives you the TINIEST of waists with the only ill affect being a nose the size of your entire face (but really, who cares about your nose when your waist is that tiny?!?!?!) There were all sorts of funhouse mirrors, each with their own unique way of distorting reality.

As I have grown older my love of funhouse mirrors has diminished considerably, perhaps it is because I know that the image I see before me is not real, or maybe it’s because I realize that those looking in the mirror as I stand before it aren’t seeing the real me. Either way, I have grown to dislike the funhouse mirrors. Ironically of course, as I grew to hate them more and more they became more and more a part of my life.

For those who don’t know, some 8 years ago I was diagnosed with a disease called Mixed Connective Tissue Disease (but let’s call it MCTD – shortening it makes it sound so much cooler… dontcha think?) MCTD is a rheumatic/autoimmune disease that affects the many different soft tissues of the body, including the usual suspects (cartilage, tendons and ligaments, etc.) and some not so usual suspects (the eyes, blood, kidneys, hair, etc.) It is a disease wherein my body attacks itself. It recognizes my own tissue as a foreign body and goes into attack mode. Essentially… I am allergic to myself. Yeah – bizarre… I know!

Yes, in the world of rheumatic disease there are some bigger and flashier celebrities, such as Scleroderma, Rheumatoid Arthritis and Lupus. So, in order to better understand MCTD, just picture the cover of the National Inquirer doing an expose on the scandalous love affair between Lupus and RA wherein they parented a secret love child… that love child is none other than MCTD! Yes, I get the best of both worlds. I have the blood of a Lupus patient (I don’t care what you say Dr. House… sometimes IT IS Lupus!) and the joints of an RA patient. Some package, huh?

Having MCTD has certainly not been a walk in the park. During the past 8 years I have developed a serious hate-hate-hate relationship with this bastard love child. It has taken a lot from me, thereby forcing me to hate-hate-HATE it! It has taken away months of my life as I recuperated from surgeries, illnesses and injuries. It has taken away my ability to easily do certain mundane tasks that my joints used to do almost reflexively on a regular basis. It had even stolen my hair for a few years there. Still though, the one thing that it hasn’t been able to get its grubby little cells on is my sense of self, my sense of the REAL me.

It is difficult, I won’t lie. MCTD has turned into my own little no-so-funhouse mirror. I carry it with me everywhere I go and try to keep it out of view of curious onlookers as best I can. Try as I might though there are times when my MCTD mirror is on display for all to see. Sometimes, my MCTD mirror makes things seem as though I am weak… I certainly am not! Sometimes it makes me look broken… wrong again. Your standard onlooker would probably take one glance at me through my horrible looking glass and think that they understand the reality… that they understand who I am… that they see the real me. But as anyone who has stood before a funhouse mirror knows, what they are seeing is not the REAL me… it is just a distorted reflection of who I truly am.

My MCTD mirror somehow always emphasizes the wrong parts of what makes me… me! (Yeah, that awesome skinny waisted mirror? No such luck, I didn’t even come close!! And I TOTALLY would have settled for a cantaloupe-sized nose too!) No, my mirror reflects the parts of me that scare me the most. The parts that I detest the most. The parts that hurt the most. Someone looking in my mirror might mistakenly see weakness, vulnerability and limitations, because in my mirror they seem to inflate a thousand times over.

But what about the real me? Yes, my MCTD mirror would have you believe that I am weak, because my MRIs and X-rays say so. But if you take a good look at me… the REAL me, you will see that I am stronger in so many more ways than the mirror can reflect. My mirror might have you believe that MCTD has given me tremendous limitations, but if you walk away and look at the REAL me, you’d see that for every limitation, I find a way to get around it. Most of all, and WORST of all, some onlookers passing by, taking a quick glance at my reflection might think that this disease must have taken away my passion for life and my sense of humor, the essence of who I truly am. This is, I believe, the most terrible illusion of all. Because if you look at me, through knowing eyes, you would know that it is those very things that give me the strength to take my mirror and throw it in the corner, free from prying-yet-sympathetic eyes, and allow me to grow each day and surpass each challenge as it comes.

Yes, MCTD, has tried mightily to take me down. Certainly there have been times where it has been close; and there are even days when I too have a hard time discerning between the reflection in the mirror and the woman who stands before it. Yet with each difficulty I have miraculously found the ability to forge on, move ahead and to keep on laughing while I do it. Sometimes it took more strength than I alone could muster, but I am blessed with many people in my life; doctor’s, family members and friends, who when my own strength fails me, have been and always will be there to lend me some of their own. Sometimes I need their shoulders to lean on and other times I just need them to cry on, but between my “people” and myself, I always seem to find a way to take that mirror and hide it away, even if only for a little while.

No, MCTD isn’t the sexiest disease out there; for G-d’s sake, it doesn’t even have a cool name! But it is mine, and I’m stuck with it. My mission now is to get over the fact that I am carrying around a mirror, and instead focus on the real me. Focus on who I am, what I want out of life and how I am going to go about getting there. One day I will have the strength to smash my MCTD mirror for good and walk around without a care in the world as to what other people think. For now though, I will just keep my custom-made-pretty-little-European cane by my side and walk with it as proudly as I can (and if I catch you staring at me for too long... I'll just take that custom-made-pretty-little-European cane and whack you with it!)

Now how’s THAT for weak, vulnerable and limited!

Eat, Pray, Love... Indeed!

Well, it is holiday time once again! Meals are being planned, clothes are being pressed and the house is being cleaned; all in preparation for the upcoming holiday, the Jewish New Year, Rosh Hashana. It seems like the lists of chores and errands that must be completed before the quickly-approaching holiday arrives is endless. I, for one, take particular satisfaction in creating intricately detailed spreadsheets in order to organize our menus for the endless stream of meals that we must prepare. It takes many many hours of work to go through my previous years’ menus and library of cookbooks in order to decide what exactly gets a place of honor on this year’s menu. Then I take meticulous care in organizing what dish will go with what meal, and the ingredients required for each recipe. Finally, I create a shopping list replete with quantities needed for each item and organize them by supermarket isle. This way our shopping is stream lined and we never need to go back to the supermarket for another round of shopping. (OK, so perhaps this part doesn’t quite pan out the way would like it… there’s always that rouge instant pudding mix or extra dozen eggs that we SWORE we bought but is nowhere to be found!!) Regardless though, by the time the week of Rosh Hashana rolls around our menus take their place of honor upon our refrigerator, hanging in all of their color coded glory!

Yes, planning our many appetizers, entrées, side dishes, vegetables and desserts is certainly a massive job. Still though, it doesn’t hold a candle to the actual cooking that is always soon to follow. Cooking in the Goldsammler household is nothing short of fantastic. Together, my mother and I become an unbeatable tag team; roasting, baking, sautéing and boiling our way through the menacing menus that stand before us. Together we have developed a sort of rhythm; an ebb and flow, as natural as the tide itself. My mother dices onions as I peel the carrots; my mother prepares the turkey as I mix up batters. Rarely do tempers flare or moods falter. When my mother and I are preparing for yontif it is as if we are in our own warm little cocoon. In that cocoon the worries of the day seems to fade into the background and we enjoy each other so deeply that I almost wish for the cooking to never end. The memories created and the family stories that are shared in our cozy kitchen are the moments that I cherish year-long. Each utensil, pot and dish carries with it it’s own history. I am so blessed to come from a long line of Jewish women who also found love and laughter in the kitchen, and even though they have long since passed, I can still feel their love and laughter as I stir my own pots with the spoons they themselves once lovingly prepared holiday meals with.

As I approach the holidays this year I hope to try and remember this joy, this warmth and these moments, as I stand before G-d. I hope to remind myself of the happiness that permeates my life and of my enormous fortune in being blessed with a family that is not afraid to laugh loudly and to love deeply. Yes, my life is at times very difficult, but perhaps this year I will be able to remember that while I cry out to G-d to take away my pain, I must also shout out in gratitude to Him for the supportive and loving family that He has given me, without which my suffering would be far greater.

I will try my best this year to remind myself to be grateful for all that I have and whatever G-d chooses to give me beyond that… well that’s just gravy! (Which, by the way, we have a GREAT recipe for… :-) )