Kankan

Exhibitionist No More

2008-01-10T12:04:00.000-05:00

I have not been writing much, lately. I was thinking that I made this blog because I wanted to bare myself to the world, and that sharing my personal thoughts and feelings, and having people comment and respond made me feel good and validated. I feel myself, lately, thinking about writing a new post on the blog, and then upon consideration, thinking, "Do I really want to share this with the world?" A conversation with a close friend would probably do the trick. Or just writing down my thoughts in a journal. I am thinking this is a good development.

The reason that I fell in love with war stories was the raw, naked humanity. I suppose I modeled that style in all of my writing. But I think that I am learning to be more cautious, and more private about my humanity and myself. I just wanted to fill in the world as to why the posts have been coming more infrequent. That's all. If people want to share their opinions about this new trend, I'm interested to hear. But it's not really an open discussion. I see it as a stage in development and growing up. There you have it, folks.

Is a Synagogue a Place to Pray?

2007-11-20T21:07:00.000-05:00

I was in the Upper West Side this afternoon, just before the sun was setting, and I hadn't yet davened mincha. I was right near the Carlebach shul, and while I didn't know about the shul's hours, I thought I ought to check to see if I could daven in there. I found the doors locked, and so I rang up and heard a voice call back, "Who's there?" I didn't see why that mattered, but i told him my name, and that I just wanted to daven mincha. The voice replied, "what did you say? I can't hear you." "I just want to daven mincha by myself," I told him. The unlocking-door buzzer sound, and i was set. I came in, found the light switch myself to what must be the sanctuary, took a siddur off the shelf, and I said mincha.

I was thinking of how many times I have tried to do this and have found locked doors. I passed the church down the block from the shul where I had just prayed, and I thought of the way the church is portrayed in the movies-- if a person needs to reach out to God in times of crisis, despair, or even gratitude, there is a house of prayer that is always open and available for his or her outpouring. I think Chassidic stories tend to portray the synagogue in the same way. But today, our shuls are opened for services, and that's usually it. If a person wanted to call out to God, she might have to do it in the movie theater across the street from a locked shul, in a phone booth (not a bad choice, but they're becoming more and more uncommon) or next to a tree planted in between the pavement of the sidewalk in front of the imposing, locked building. These are places I've gone to pray at times that i haven't had a house of worship available. Of course, my prayers were the same as the ones they say in synagogue during the services, mostly-- I'm just not good with timing. But what if I wanted to call out to my creator from the innermost parts of my heart.

The services are really that conducive to this kind of thing, themselves. But a locked building really kills the opportunity to use the shul as a place to connect to God within a Jewish framework. Of course, those other places also have little angels waiting to carry your prayers up to God, but this phenomenon of the locked synagogue is a missed opportunity to actually create a sacred space for all Jews at all times. Imagine a person is having a hard day, and during his lunch break, he stops into a shul at an off time and goes to rendezvous with God there. That's a pretty cool thought, no?

Writing in Rhyme

2007-11-19T02:51:00.000-05:00

Often I will begin to write a poem, and the first thing that comes out is a rhyme, somewhat resembling a Mother-Goose nursery rhyme. I will begin to write, and then it's as though the sounds of the words make the poem-song write itself.

This is very interesting to me, as a poetry teacher once told me to avoid the rhyming style, since it's too easy; too simple. Find a better word- try harder to make it work. I hear what she was saying. The search for the write word can be hugely important and rewarding. And the rhyme becomes the cop-out.

But what if the reason Nursery rhymes hold the power they hold is that they rhyme. The process of writing a rhyme is, just like i said, one where the sounds make the poem write itself. As though the poem was there before me-- before time, before the words even existed. Like the way the midrash says that the Torah predated the whole world.

The fact that a rhyme seems to write itself, the way a cadence needs to follow the Dominant Seventh, or the listener is left unfinished-- unsatisfied. The rhyme needs to be written, or else you're playing tricks with our minds.

And yes, mind games can be cute, and hold messages. But those messages are not as basic as the one that predates time. And anyway, you often don't need to mention the rhyme, because everyone knows what it was going to be. Since it's expected, the variation from that pre-existent theme is appreciated.

So we can just stop being afraid of what's predictable and human. The experiences we might be going through might sound cliche, but it's precisely the face that everyone experiences it that makes it cliche. And it's okay to be Cliche.

I wrote this poem a couple years ago, and this post reminds me of it:

Tzimtzum

I want structure like a rhyme

But I don’t really have the time

to sit around and think up ways

to measure out words and phrases.

I want to burst out of my very own skin

and dance on the street, so I can begin

to be who I am, no more and no less

and stop for nothing, lest I regress.

See, structure like rhyme is fine and it’s cute

but in my soul, structure makes me feel mute.

If the reason I am writing is because I’m alive

Rhyming a poem’s like going on automatic drive

Where the sounds of the words

and the rhythms I’m hearing

Create all the music

and my mind has no bearing.

Still, there’s something to music

that I can’t get enough of

it, something that’s calling down to me

from way up above.

Penetrating deep into my inner existence

That continues to persist, despite resistance.

How can there be beauty in these far-fetched, stretched lines?

All structure would seem to do is confine and undermine

all human expression, unless that’s just the thing--

that the beauty we hear and feel is exactly what we sing.

Of course, life also has surprise in it, and that's what the plays on the rhyme can try to capture. But I still find the rhyme a comfort and a pleasure.

Comments are welcome, as always.

Leaving Freedom Behind

2007-10-15T20:30:00.001-04:00

At the end of last February, I started a post that I called, "Taking Freedom to Task." It began as follows:
"One of my favorite books that I never finished reading was Erich Fromm's Escape from Freedom. Fromm attempts to explain why Totalitarianism was so popular at the beginning of the last century. He argues that the breakdown of the caste system left people feeling aimless and without meaning in their lives. The structure that predetermined lives with few decisions provided was replaced with loneliness and freedom in excess."
That's all I got to, back in February. This book had a huge impact on me, and it explained to me why the Torah is a huge blessing to people, and how somehow, being subjugated to something greater than oneself is liberating. I didn't understand how far reaching these lessons were, however, until more recently.

Having started teaching, I've been in a kind of "Freedom Laboratory." Before the school year began, I read a delicious book called, "How to Teach so Kids Can Learn." The book emphasises giving information and stating expectations so that students will come to make good decisions on their own. I implemented much of what the book told me, and while I was getting feedback from parents and students that I was well liked (which was hardly my agenda-- at least consciously), I discovered on a recent test that I gave that the students are aching for the bondage of rules and detentions. They feel like I give them too much freedom. The principal has echoed the sentiment. I need to be the queen in my classroom, and rule over the students with a strong hand.

The structure the kids are craving was surprising to me at first. I couldn't understand why kids would want to fight against me, when I am just concerned for their well being that I want to help them learn. But the truth is that, put in their place, I probably would have done the same thing, back then. Too many choices for kids who aren't used to making decisions like, "what am I going to have for dinner?" is overwhelming, and intimidating. The kids don't say so, at first. They rebel, and rejoice in their newly-found freedom. But they end up feeling that the classroom is too chaotic, and they long for structure.

Last week we read Parshat Noach in Shul, and I would like to invite everyone who struggles along with me to take this opportunity to move from the destruction of the mabul (flood) back into a recreation of structure, which will nurture an environment for growth and opportunities. It is the tohu vavohu (some kind of cosmic, primeval mess) of water (which is fluid and without boundaries) that needs to be divided and distinguished from land that makes the vast and beautiful ocean. Without that, there is no room for life. Only chaos.

If anyone has thoughts, comments, similar experiences or any other insights, please share it with us.

Growing-Up Jewish

2007-09-30T13:29:00.001-04:00

I've been thinking lately that Judaism is not made for kids. This hypothesis is counter-intuitive to many. Since there is a tendency in this country to educate children in the ways of Judaism, and then allow them to somehow become disconnected from everything Jewish when they grow older, many people assume that there is nothing for adults to connect to in Judaism.

If adults do connect to Judaism, as in the community I grew up, it is generally an intellectual endeavour to get to obscure and hidden messages beneath the surface, where reading a basic Jewish text from the Bible or even the Talmud is insufficient, and it requires something deeper, something further. I am not saying that those further studies are meaningless, they are certainly not. However, I have come to the conclusion that the basic practice of Judaism has been wrongly labeled as childish and unsophisticated.

I have been preparing and have begun teaching the book of Samuel 1 to 6th grade girls. While the stories are engaging, and mostly understandable, reading the text over as an adult has brought me to the realization that the Bible is hardly for children. It is full of stories about honor, war, politics, true love and loyalty-- all of these themes understood only minimally in childhood and much, much more fully in adulthood.

Similarly, going through the Jewish holiday of Yom Kippur at the age of 23 brought me to an understanding far surpassing what I could have felt and thought at a younger age. It is only through life experience, and different kinds of interactions with varieties of people, confronting real responsibilities and experiencing real loss can people actually relate to so many of the messages of the day. Surely, some parents will try to teach their kids about responsibility and the like, but it has been my experience that life is most poignant when experienced first-hand.

Granted, I stuck it out with my Jewish education longer than most do, and I come from a place where people are engaged in the intellectual pursuit of Jewish texts and history, but I feel the at this point in my life, the Bracha of Shehechiyanu can take on a new meaning-- that G-d had brought me to this time and place where I can grow emotionally in my relationship to Judaism-- and to Him.

Chag Sukkot Sameach!

Certainty on Days of Judgement

2007-09-16T00:29:00.001-04:00

I have been encountering Jews lately who feel Jewish enough to identify themselves as Jewish and to celebrate the High Holidays. I think that it is wonderful that people feel that Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are un-intimidating enough that despite leading inactive religious lives the rest of the year, many people feel comfortable enough to join us all in Synagogue and Temple on Rosh Hashanah, and to send New Years greetings to one another.

I also find this phenomenon somewhat ironic, since the time is traditionally when we crown G-d our King, and reaffirm our commitments to Him for the rest of the year. We reflect on our errors, and we commit to returning to G-d and fixing our ways. For someone to affirm commitments to a religious institution from he is largely unfamiliar and usually unaffiliated, the holiday must have a strange flavor. However, the fact that this time exists for this group is fantastic, in my opinion. I think it allows many people a chance to explore religious questions and issues that go ignored on a regular basis.

I encountered a person on facebook a couple of weeks ago, who, when I reminded him that Rosh Hashanah was coming, proceeded to share a full account of his feelings towards Judaism and his reflections on Temple, Sunday School and his Bar Mitzvah. He discussed an effort to escape conventions, repetitive rituals like prayer and grace after meals that become meaningless and also his frustrations with Jewish-mandated limitations of sexuality.

This past Rosh Hashanah I spent a lot of time talking to some Jews who are college and post-college aged, all involved in the process of questioning communal and traditional assumptions about convention and reconsidering them. We talked about blurring gender lines, and we talked about the soul, spirituality and reincarnation. One of the college students is a musician, and he said that his inspiration comes from John Cage, who questions all of our assumptions about what "music" means. He thought we should live life-- and try to detract from all the meaning-making.

I come to this from a sheltered-ish life, of a modern orthodox, wholesome Jewish home where I was never exposed to cross-dressing, hallucinogenics, or even Jews from other denominations. I've seen much more in recent years, having traveled to more places and sought out some things, but I haven't seen that much. I come with a rather limited perspective, and yet I find that the way traditional Jewish practice has been laid out for us, while not perfect, can be extremely meaningful. I have been in shuls where I didn't like the set-up of the balcony-women's section, and I didn't know a person there, and was not greeted by anyone new, but despite my alienation and bad feelings, when it came time for Kedusha, I could not help but feel inspired by the Prophet's words. I see the angels singing praise to G-d and I forgive the Jewish people for all their sins and all our insularity and unwelcoming qualities.

I hear about people doubting G-d's existence, or metaphorising Him into something that is not a being separate from man, and I hear where they're coming from. But then I feel the clean air outside and I see the sun peaking glaring rays through the clouds in a blue sky, and I feel His presence. I don't have an easy time forcing the religious experiences of every holiday. I think that Rosh Hashanah is a hard holiday to get into, with all it's paradoxes and dichotomies. But when I hear the shofar blasts, it is difficult to be unaffected. There is a power to the practices inherently, and they are what keeps us going.

One of my first days at work, I was running around like crazy all day-- busy planning lessons and preparing materials and games, and I did not have a second to stop. I bring my sixth graders to mincha every day, and at that mincha, I was so grateful for this prayer that cuts directly into the middle of our day. I opened up the siddur, and I knew I wouldn't have gotten a chance to talk to G-d-- but that that was exactly what I needed to do. The Brachot flowed from my lips the way they always do, but my in my heart, they meant something unique. This strengthened my commitment to praying prayers that are very repetitive. I don't think I would have been able to construct an appropriate prayer, but when the time comes for the Bracha that is on-topic, I'm there, and I know that G-d is listening.

Just some reflecting on the "meaningless rituals" that I've heard so much complaining about lately. If anyone has different experiences or thoughts, your comments are welcome, as always.

Mind-Control

2007-08-28T14:31:00.000-04:00

Along my travels this month, I found myself in Toronto, at the Exhibition, which is a huge kind of national fair, with vendors from all over the place, a boardwalk of games and rides, all kinds of displays and shows. I attended a hypnotist show, with my friends there, and I volunteered to be hypnotized, together with some 25 other members of the audience.

We were up on stage, and the hypnotists had us do some things, while he played with our minds, asking questions with too many double negatives so as to confuse us. We had our eyes sealed shut, and I tried to open them, but I couldn't. He had us roll our hands in circles around each other, and then uncontrollably switch directions. I was amazed that it worked, and kind of scared by the loss of control.

Then, the second part of the show, he put the volunteers into a trance, having us relax completely, and fall on the stage floor. I relaxed as he told me to, but as I fell to the floor, I checked to see that I wasn't falling on anyone. it could be that that's what did it, but after that, the rest of the show, I sat on my seat and was unaffected by any and all of the hypnotists instructions. I tried to do what he said-- he had us carve out mountains, he told us we saw a cloud that was the shape of a turkey float into a cloud the shape of an oven, and i tried to imagine these things. He trained the volunteers to be terrified of his face when he placed his thumbs on his two front teeth. He made one guy think he was a superhero, another that he was Captain Kirk. He made a woman forget her name-- a belt turn into a snake, and most everyone on stage was with him on everything. But I sat there, and watched, and tried to feel it-- but it didn't come. He had everyone scream "No, you shut up!" whenever they heard him say "shut up," and to think their butts were being pinched by the person next to them, or even by someone in the audience. I sat, and wondered why it wouldn't work for me. I felt left out, since it seemed, everyone else could loose a hold of his/her conscious mind, but i couldn't.

A friend of mine who does hypnosis told me that when in a trance, a person will not do anything that he finds morally unethical. Maybe that was the problem for me. The hypnotist had us imagine everyone in the audience was naked, and then that we were. But i was out of it way before then. He had a guy give him his wallet repeatedly, under this spell. I was astonished by how well it worked for everyone else, and how i was completely unaffected by his instructions.

I think there's a kind of paradox involved with control in general, and is not different when it comes to being in control of the mind. A parent, teacher, youth group leader, politician-- all these people have a certain amount of power and control over other people, but at a certain point, they all need to recognize that people have their own wills, and they need to let go.

I think people have a need to let go of their minds, as evidenced by the fact that so many of us like to be intoxicated, and because we love to drift into a dream. I think that the process of hypnosis a kind of paradox-- a catch-22, if you will. I had too much control to let go of my mind-- and not enough to be able to go under the trance. It takes concentration and focus to let go of ones mind in a hypnotic trance, and I didn't have what it takes. Or did I have too much?

Do you think I ought to try it again? The hypnotist promised that we would feel more well rested than if we'd slept all night when we came out of the trance. I think that is alluring enough to give it another shot. I aspire to be able to lose control-- at least to a degree. Hmm.

Controlling Discipline

2007-07-28T22:00:00.000-04:00

This morning, someone asked me to present a discussion at the shul in Bradley Beach, NJ today. I agreed, and quickly chose a topic that's been on my mind for a while: reward and punishment. I figured, since in next week's parsha, the source for the second paragraph of the Shema appears, reward and punishment is a timely subject.

My initial thought was, "This should be simple-- just talk about the parsha, some stuff about the Gemaras re. punishment, and then talk about how discipline makes its way into education and parenting." I let that sit, and then the next day, when i started addressing the issues more directly, and trying to construct a talk, things started becoming more complicated.

"The religious coercion that went on in the Bible began to wane already with the Talmudic effort to make executions virtually impossible"-- no, that's too controversial. "The model that the Bible establishes is no longer viable, both because we don't have religious coercion, and because it's a free world, in general-- people will do what they want. Many people are terrified of the prospect of Chareidim in power in Israel because of what religious coercion would mean." No-- this is getting way too controversial. Ok, I thought, so what am I going to say? "The model that the Torah establishes is all about a power struggle between G-d and man. G-d has the power, and so he can make demands on man." Not only does that sound awful, but I feel like I'm giving a feminist critique of the Bible!

Ok, when I turned to my Mom at the end of Mincha, and I said to her, "so Mom, what should I say tonight?" I honestly didn't know what I could say. I felt like it was the top of a curve-- that the simplicity of the initial planning was past, but would return-- and with greater depth. I felt all the complexity becoming way too overwhelming for me, let alone to present in this public forum with all these people.

I went down, and my mind blanked out while I ate challah and talked to my 12 year old brother. When I got up to speak, I felt the presence of a supportive community made up of people who are all on a journey-- all looking for a good, reasonable way to lead their lives. I felt an honesty to the group that I didn't feel in myself.

I didn't end up including much that was controversial. I did present the G-d/man dynamic in the Parsha as a power difference, but I left it at that. G-d is in control of nature, and he can punish us. So he says, that if we will keep his mitzvas, he will manipulate nature to our advantage, and if we don't listen, we will be punished by the nature that he will lash out against us. I then mentioned briefly that religious punishment does extend to the Jewish courts, in particular circumstances, with the Sanhedrin. I then brought it down to real life. Practically speaking, the parent/child relationship is a kind of microcosm of what the G-d/man relationship is. Mommy and Daddy have the power, and so they can make demands and enforce as they wish, since they have that power. How can we show our children that they ought to do what we think is better for them, for their sake? What kinds of rewards and punishments might we dole out? Finally, I'm reading a book called, "How to Talk so Your Kids will Listen and Listen so Your Kids will Talk," where the author asks, What message does it send our kids when we punish them? And how will they model this behavior as adults? Unfortunately, when a child is treated with abuse by a parent, they will often times become abusive themselves-- that is true for all kinds of parenting skills. So I opened the floor up to the audience...

The discussion ensued. One man brought up a piece of business advice, where they recommend that employers sugar coat criticism with positive comments. Another man noted that as a parent, he feels it is imperative that people's pride not get in the way, and that they recognize that the punishment isn't a way to get back at the child. Instead, he suggested that people focus on seeing the result as a natural consequence to the child's actions. A woman stood up and said that she thought it was more important to set out clear guidelines, like the Jews have-- that we agreed to a contract, and when we violate it, we're held accountable. That children ought to know what is expected of them, and then when they don't live up to that, to see that they are punished. That way, everything is fair. A man stood up and said, "When I was young, my parents didn't praise us for doing well in school- it was expected! When we didn't perform, we were talked to, but otherwise, they didn't praise us for doing well-- of course we should do well! This is the tradition, and it works." Another, younger man, said that positive reinforcement is always better received, and should be utilized whenever possible. But of course, every child is different.

At the end of the talk, I felt comforted by the discussion. I felt that we're all in this, and that we're all going through the same issues. No one has THE right answer, but that we're all trying to get at something that works for us. I felt safer moving forward. I also liked that quite a few people came up to me afterwards to tell me anecdotes and pieces of advice for this coming year, when I will be teaching.

Please feel free to share any of your own experiences with reward and punishment in school and at home, and what it did to you, and to share any lessons you've learned along the way, or thoughts you might have on the subject.

Growing-Up Blues

2007-07-11T11:45:00.000-04:00

There's an Alanis Morrisette song that expresses well what I've been thinking about. It's called Precious Illusions. (http://youtube.com/watch?v=d8ak0MyE76M)

you'll rescue me right? in the exact same way they never did..
I'll be happy right? when your healing powers kick in
you'll complete me right? then my life can finally begin
I'll be worthy right? only when you realize the gem I am?

but this won't work now the way it once did
and I won't keep it up even though I would love to
once I know who I'm not then I'll know who I am
but I know I won't keep on playing the victim

these precious illusions in my head
did not let me down when I was defenseless
and parting with them is like parting with invisible best friends

this ring will me yet as will you knight in shining armor
this pill will help me yet as will these boys gone through like water

but this won't work as well as the way it once did
cuz I want to decide between survival and bliss
and though I know who I'm not I still don't know who I am
but I know I won't keep on playing the victim

these precious illusions in my head
did not let me down when I was a kid
and parting with them is like parting with a childhood best friend

I've spent so long firmly looking outside me
I've spent so much time living in survival mode

These lyrics are from http://www.lyrics007.com/

Today I was sitting in a graduate school class about Rashi. For background on Rashi, see http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/biography/rashi.html
As many people who grew up studying in Yeshiva day schools, high schools and seminaries, I have the conception that Rashi is an important and fundamental exegete. In the coming year I will be teaching many Rashis, and I hope to show my students a greatness to the commentary that Rashi brings us. I also feel a special affinity to Rashi becasue Nechama Leibowitz, who has always been a hero of mine, spent much of her life teaching Rashi's wisdom and insight into the text.

With that background, I was sitting in class today, and the Professor was demonstrating that Rashi will sometimes bring different, contradictory midrashim (homiletical exegesis of the bible) in different parts of the Chumash, and think nothing of it. For instance, Rashi will mention in one place that Yitro (Jethro), Moshe's father in law, has seven different names. rashi did not make this up, it is found in a midrash. He does, however, mention elsewhere that Yitro has only two names. This too, appears in a midrash. In the different midrashim, this is not a problem, because the Rabbis who authored the midrashim sometimes differed from one another. However, Rashi was one man, and so one would expect that he would string a consistent position on such matters throughout the Five Books of Moses.

Many have spent lifetimes explaining and getting to the bottom of what was Rashi's intention in leaving such contradictions in his commentary. Nechama Leibowitz, as I mentioned earlier, was one such scholar. She followed in the footsteps of hundreds of illustrious thinkers who authored many super-commentaries on Rashi's work. The common feature in all these people was the regard they gave to Rashi, based on the assumption that Rashi was sensitive to the language of the text and cognizant of his own words as well. The commentaries on Rashi will attribute deep meaning while resolving a difficulty from Rashi's words.

The brilliant deduction made by my professor today was the following: Rashi tends to quote midrashim that were written for a given book in that book.

What a let down. To me, such mundane answers make the questions not worth asking. I suppose this is all part of my own romantic sentiments about Rashi, but I'm not ashamed of those feelings. I don't see any good reason to study something as intensely as scholars do if all I will walk away with is an answer like "in Shemot, Rashi brings down from the Mechilta (a midrash on Shemot), and in Bamidbar, he brings down the midrash from Sifrei (a midrash on Bamidbar and Devarim)." I've learned nothing in the exchange, and would have spent my time doing something more productive.

The disappointment that I experience here captures a theme that's been repeating itself in various parts of my life. I've found that growing up is full of disappointments to the Romantic. I wrote in one of my first blog entries about the historical development from the Romantic to the Modern eras in music, and I accepted the process in that context. However, I feel a nostalgia now, trying to recapture the transcendental energy that Rashi's ingenuity inspires. When Dr. Haym Soloveitchik taught his History of Halakha class in Stern, he spent 40 minutes praising Rashi as art. That sense of Rashi as intentional and meaningful is not at all a part of the picture in much of today's scholarship.

I'm not saying one is true and one is more fun. I'm also not saying that ideas need to be meaningful to be true. However, I do not personally want to invest in something with so much time and energy as someone like Rashi demands, unless there is something enormous to be gained from it. I suppose some academics will study anything, no matter what. I am not one of those people. I crave enthusiasm that comes from impassioned exaltation.

But the world is a big place, and I haven't given up hope yet. As a matter of fact, I think that writing this post has brought me to a place where I can move forward. I was going to ask the readers to please send me words of comfort, but I feel comforted by my own words. Feel free to comment, don't get me wrong. But I have confidence in the artists of the world, and in the romantics. And also, I think that there is a place for people who don't care for romance.

Confronting Fears

2007-06-14T18:13:00.000-04:00

I have a friend who is a wonderful person. She is actively involved in her Jewish community, and hosts many large gatherings, bringing people together often. We were friends a long time ago, and when we saw each other again after many years, she instantly welcomed me back into her life, and I did the same to her.
I noticed one time when I was at her apartment on a Shabbat that she puts pre-cooked food in the oven on Shabbat. I noticed this, and felt somewhat awkward, since I've learned that one is not supposed to return food into the oven on Shabbat, even after it has been cooked, but instead, we are to cover our flames and knobs and only then (and even then in a very limited fashion) can we put food onto the fire on Shabbat.
I left her apartment very troubled, since I was so happy to have finally reunited with this wonderful human being, but was devastated to find that there would be conflicts of interest every time she would invite me over (and she would, often). I talked about it with some friends, and some of them insisted that she must have a Rabbi's permission to heat up food in this way. Others said, "ok, but that's what we do when we're halakhically observant. We can't eat at everyone's home." I went back to her house one time and ate there again, but became extremely uncomfortable about it, and I finally brought the question to a Rabbi. He told me that he did not see how this could be allowed, and that maybe after it's been heated up, I might be allowed to eat it so as to avoid embarrassment, but it was generally prohibited, and I could not go back, knowing that the food would be heated up that way.
I was saddened by this answer, although I found the Rabbi's efforts to find loopholes heartwarming. I continued consulting with other people. I spoke to a friend of mine who was in Rabbinical school (but has since graduated) and he told me that I should explain to her my position, and see if she wouldn't change the way she heated up food when I was there (and maybe others, too) in order to be accommodating. I thought the idea was a good one, but the idea of confronting someone about a religious matter-- and so personal, too! was terrifying. I didn't want to insult my friend, and I didn't want to make her think that I didn't want to be her friend anymore, if she chose not to take my advise. I can imagine someone trying to make me heat up my food on shabbat in a different way, and being terribly offended and personally insulted.
i avoided the conversation for a long time, and this week she invited me to Friday night dinner again-- on facebook. I had no other plans, and I was actually looking for a meal. I told her that I would love to come, but that I wanted to talk to her about something, and when could i call her? She called me a few minutes later, and asked if I could talk then. I told her I could, and where was she? I thought she might be at home, and then I could go over and talk to her in person. I feel better with confrontations in person, for some reason.
She was at work, but had some time to talk, as she had not taken a lunch break. I lunged in. I said, "This is a kind of sensitive issue, but I want to talk to you about how you heat up food on shabbos." She repeated, "How I heat up food on shabbos." I explained why i felt uncomfortable with the way that she heated up food, and she said that she doesn't leave the oven on in the summer, so that wouldn't be a problem, anyway.
At this point, I started regretting the whole phone call, since the immediate issue was no longer present. But she continued to say she's never heard of this issue before. She asked me a couple questions about the rules, and I tried to answer them. But I was really not thinking about the rules. I was shaking, worrying that I had insulted my friend. I mentioned that to her, and she said, "No! Are you kidding? I'm so glad you told me about this. If people are uncomfortable, I want to fix that. I need to look into this some more."
I was so grateful to her for responding in this way, and I told her so. I think that she thought I was a little extreme, getting so worked up about this, but there I was, exceedingly relieved by the way that she had responded. She called my back a few minutes later, and told me that she had spoken to her father, and he didn't know where she got the idea from that it was ok to put food into the oven on shabbos. She wanted me to know that he was grateful to me for pointing it out, and that her roommate had heard and she was also grateful.
A couple of thoughts: I learned from this experience that I should be less scared to confront people if I want to address an issue. Some people can take more than others, but as long as it is done in a respectful fashion, it seems that communicating issues is a good thing all around, and can even lead to resolution.
I hope that this story can inspire me and you all to speak up and not be so afraid to share your concerns with people-- especially your friends.

Scholarship and Obedience

2007-05-29T15:40:00.000-04:00

There is a very famous statement in the Talmud that claims there is no reason to study Torah except to enhance and increase a person's yirat shamayim (fear of Heaven). Fear of heaven is colloquially understood to be synonymous with observance of the halakha and obedience to Rabbinic law. There are, of course, other positions out there, most famously Rav Chaim's conception of "Torah Lishma"-- that is, Torah study for its (literally her) own sake-- that is, for the sake of studying Torah. The phrase "Torah Lishma" has been understood, however, by different people differently. Some of the more kabbalistically inclined have understood the feminine possessive form of "lishma" to refer to the Shechina, the Divine Spirit. I've read that the Zohar understands "her" to be Eve-- we study Torah for the sake of correcting her sin in the garden of Eden, when she ate from the Tree of knowledge of good and evil.

I wonder if this disagreement has anything to do with a larger question: What is the purpose of life? I have heard many people searching for a concrete answer to this question. I heard someone give a talk on Shavuot with that question as the title, where he answered the question by quoting a couple of verses from Deuteronomy that say, "Behold, what does G-d want from you except that you keep His commandments and fear Him?" There was a girl in my class in High school who displayed prominently on the back of her notebooks the Richard Leider quote, "The purpose of life is to live a life of purpose." Viktor Frakl writes in a similar vein that people have a psychological need to live for a reason. This is evidenced, Frankl argues, by the concentration-camp survivors who held on to an image of something waiting for them after the war. Without something to live for, these people would never have made it through, as they were practically walking skeletons already. The one thing that kept them going was some meaning that they brought to their lives.

The analogy is clear: When a person asks the question, "What is the purpose of learning Torah?" He can be on a search with a need for an absolute outcome. For instance: I need to fear G-d more by the end of this class, or I need to be inspired to be a better person by reading this text. Other people will read the same text with no expectations at all. Let the text speak for itself. Some people will open themselves up to being affected by the Torah, others will study in search of some other kind of truth. The study itself is a journey they embark upon. Why? Because, that's what they do. Maybe because that's what Jews do. But they do not attach a necessary outcome to their study, only the act of studying itself.

When I was in high school I was very taken by the question "What is the purpose of life?" I remember asking a classmate one day what she thought was the answer to this earth-shattering question. She said very simply, "I think every person has to find his or her own purpose. The answer is different for everyone." What wisdom. Thank you to my friend who told me this many years ago, because it stuck with me. I would like to offer my friend's answer today to answer the question at hand about studying Torah. Every person will have to answer the question for himself/herself. Why do I study Torah? What is my purpose that I'm trying to accomplish? What skills and strengths am I bringing to the table? What are my weaknesses? How can I compensate? What do I want to gain from this experience? If a person has answered this question honestly, she has a starting point. But the experience of learning, much like life itself, will more likely than not shift ones goals and attitudes along the way.

Happy Learning!

Globalization and Identity

2007-04-29T16:01:00.000-04:00

One thing that distinguishes American Education from the European system is that it is less focused on a particular field until a very advanced level, when specialization finally happens. The fact is, that I've been noticing lately, all around me, that we require that people be "well rounded" in everything that we do. Americans need to know about all kinds of literature, history, philosophy, music, television programs, movies, art... And then, once they find areas of specialization, need to know every author/ historian/ philosopher/ actor/ composer/ producer/ artist who ever dealt with the subject. If I tell someone that I play the drums, they begin to list all of their favorite drummers of all time by name, and ask me what i think of them. This person, mind you, doesn't even play the drums-- he is in family law. But it doesn't matter. People take up subjects of interest with such glee and enthusiasm. And the same people can talk about the philosophy of Kant and Descartes, and about Robert Frost's poems, and Robin Williams' movies.

What has this mentality done for us? It has created a world that is very colorful-- and each of us wants to fulfill our potential in so many areas, so we run from dance class to poetry club to meditation group to the movies and at the end of the day, we say wow! What an exciting life I lead! I am so multi-talented, and so worldly. I am the renaissance woman, par excellence.
This piece leads to some basic questions:

Do we specialize as well in our fields? Does the philosopher with economics on his mind and tongue philosophize better? Worse? What effect does the globalization of interest have on our points of emphasis? Do we end up doing justice to any of the areas that we dabble in? In the way R. Soloveitchik describes the difference between the way a chemist and a mathematician view the world-- how do our mind end up shaped? is there more lost or gained? Are the Rabbis of the Talmud correct when they said, tafasta meruba lo tafasta, tafasta muat tafasta (Yoma 80)-- which mean if you bite off more than you can chew, you're worse off than focusing on one thing and catching it completely--? How are our identities affected by the flooding of ideas from every perspective and angle? If a person only has friends from his community (a difficult feat, in the modern world, but sometimes achieved), that is seen as myopic and overly insular. A person like that has nothing to say about people. The studies of anthropology and comparative religions thrive on the ability, or assumed ability to gain from a broader understanding of many cultures. What does this study do for my identity as a Jewish person? Am I a richer Jew because I know about the Eucharist and Whirling dervishes? I would tend to think so, since i am so involved in the culture, and in the process of collecting more knowledge. But I wonder if these things are retracting from what was once the simple tamim-pure Jew? Is my love for G-d greater because I can meditate with the Buddhists?

I don't know the answers to these questions, i don't even know if there are answers. I'm just wondering about it. This culture is all around us, and while we become the Renaissance people that we are becoming, let us allow ourselves to step back and take inventory of what we're doing and how it is affecting us.

Priorities and Objective Truth

2007-04-18T14:04:00.000-04:00

I came to school late today, and one particularly zealous woman in the program asked me why I was late. I told her, "I took the morning off," and she responded, "I don't like what's happening. It's very important that you get the most out of this program, and that means coming on time. Especially when you're getting paid!" I agreed with her, and she walked away. A similar conversation happened with my teacher a couple of weeks ago, who'd noticed that I was coming late. He said to me, "it's very important that you come everyday, on time. This time is kodesh kodashim (the Holy of Holys) to me." I agreed to try harder to come on time, and parted from the meeting.
I understand that I have an obligation to be on time for a job that I'm being paid for. I don't think that that was actually the issue, in either of these conversations. I don't think so, anyway. If it were a matter of my stipend, there could be a threat of some kind to withhold the stipend, which, I would honestly feel fine with, since I probably don't deserve the money that's set aside for me.
But it wasn't about the money. It was about the way I spend my time. About my value system and priorities. It reminds me of the time that I was in eighth grade on my junior high school basketball team. My coach told us, "This team is your priority. No matter what, if you have your cousin's wedding, if you have doctor's appointment-- this team comes first. Unless your sick in the hospital, you should be here for practice." I heard this, as a 13 year old, and I thought, "oh no! I can't do that for a basketball team!" But then, I laughed to myself, thinking that it was a crazy standard to set for a basketball team. It occurred to me, at that stage in my life, that I would always have different people telling me that they knew on what I should focus my attention. My mom would tell me one thing, my dance teacher another, my friends another, and now the basketball coach. Fine. I need to make my own decisions. That's what I learned in 8th grade. But I find that grown adults, for some reason, still make the assumption, that if they tell me that my priority should be x, that I will accept whatever they say without questioning.
I sound like a brat, kvetching about people telling me what to do. But I am shouting out to people, everywhere: "You are not the only person in the universe! Your community isn't even the only one in the universe! Every single person you know will have a different set of values and priorities when making a decision! Get used to it."
The same goes when people can't understand how a person doesn't like chocolate or something. How is it that we can't understand that different people have different taste buds than we have? Or different interests and Career plans?
I suppose that I am writing this post is, in itself, a sign that I am also guilty of this kind of myopia. So let me just say that this is a part of our humanity that we should acknowledge. We have to balance values, and one needn't listen to the person who is the most emphatic when he says "This is REALLY important." You are the one who gets to decide that for yourself. And that's OK.
This is kind of reminding me of the song from the end of "Into the Woods," No one is Alone:
Cinderella:Mother cannot guide you. Now you're on your own. Only me beside you. Still, you're not alone. No one is alone. Truly. No one is alone. Sometimes people leave you. Halfway through the wood. Others may deceive you. You decide whats good. You decide alone. But no one is alone.
LRRH:I wish..
Cinderella:I know. Mother isn't here now
Baker:Wrong things, right things
Cinderella:Who knows what she'd say?
Baker:Who can say what's true?
Cinderella:Nothings quite so clear now.
Baker:Do things, fight things,
Cinderella:Feel you've lost your way?
Baker:You decide, but
Both:You are not alone
Cinderella:Believe me, No one is alone
Baker:No one is alone. Believe me.
Cinderella:Truly
Both:You move just a finger, Say the slightest word, Somethings bound to linger Be heard
Baker:No acts alone. Careful. No one is alone.
Both:People make mistakes.
Baker:Fathers,
Cinderella:Mothers,
Both:People make mistakes, Holding to their own, Thinking their alone.
Cinderella:Honor their mistakes
Cinderella: Everybody makes
Baker:Fight for their mistakes
Both:One another's terrible mistakes. Witches can be right, Giants can be good. You decide what's right you decide what's good
Cinderella: Just remember:
Baker:[Echo] Just remember:
Both:Someone is on your side
Jack, LRRH:OUR side
Baker, Cinderella:Our side--Someone else is not. While we're seeing our side
Jack, LRRH:Our side..
Baker, Cinderella:Our side--
All:Maybe we forgot: they are not alone. No one is alone.
Cinderella:Hard to see the light now.
Baker:Just don't let it go
Both:Things will come out right now.
We can make it so.
Someone is on your side-- [interrupted]
[Thanks to chittycbangb@attbi.com for lyrics]
Wow. What a comfort. If anyone reading this has not seen this play, she must go and see it. period. Have a great day.

Wedding Wonders

2007-03-24T20:58:00.000-04:00

Last week, I went to my friends' extraordinary wedding in Washington, DC. The couple is not from a traditionally orthodox background, and so the wedding was not traditionally orthodox. The couple is, however, very Jewishly aware and active. The groom, with whom I'm more closely acquainted, came to YU, and became very close with Rabbi Reichman, who came down to the wedding with us. The ceremonial part of the wedding was completely orthodox, and all of the YU guys who came down were the eidim and only men came up for the sheva brachot.
What was special about this wedding?
The wedding invitation was a purple-scroll that they got from India. It was beautiful, unique, and from what I gathered, rather inexpensive. The location was a historical synagogue, preserved for its wonderful architecture, and currently rented out by various private institutions as a disco club and also as a shul for Friday night services. The people attending the wedding were mostly from the Mid-West, as the couple both grew up in Iowa. Their friends were mostly not religiously observant at all, but they came to the ceremony with a wholesome open mindedness and respect for religion that you seldom find in New York.
The music was provided by a klezmer quintet, which was wonderful. It had a uniquely and authentic Jewish sound and feel, but it wasn't the blaring-in-your-ears that some other Jewish weddings I've been to have. The dancing lasted for a little while, and then the couple's friends made toasts for them. Now, while some might have said that that it a goyish (gentile) custom, I thought that it added so much to the substance of the wedding. The wedding is transformed from another identical reproduced color-by-number wedding that you've been to a hundred times (although this wedding was already quite unique). But it became much more personal when the friends and family got up to speak. The toasting and well-wishing only added to the celebration. It also allowed the bride and groom to spend time with one another during the wedding, which is unheard of, unfortunately, at many orthodox weddings, after the yichud (seclusion) room.
The YU chevra (group of friends) who came down for the wedding made the ceremony sections of the wedding fun. Two of the guys had guitars they were playing, one had a flute and I brought a bunch of percussion instruments that I played and passed around. The singing at the chassan's tisch (groom's gathering around a table before the wedding where documents are signed) was fun, and one friend with a guitar brought his guitar with him under the chuppa for the last bracha of the sheva brachot, to share the singing with everyone. The groom spoke beautifully and genuinely at the chassan's tisch, where he spoke about the specialness of the date on the Jewish calendar. He gave a blessing that G-d's love for the Jewish people should be as strong as the love that he feels for his bride today. This was a very real blessing, and it brought home the image of G-d being compared to a bride-groom and a lover of Israel.
I think that what I liked so much about this wedding was that it created a balance between traditionally Jewish and Halakhic considerations with a spirit of individuality that allowed the wedding to have a unique flavor. Is it wrong of me to value that individuality? I don't really question my enchantment with it-- it is natural for a person raised in America in the modern world to appreciate individualism. In fact, I would argue that most, if not all Jewish weddings today, have a piece of this, with the schtick that people bring-- with the markered-up tee shirts they through over their expensive outfits, the signs that they make, and whatever little chachkas that people find to dance with before the bride and groom. These are all efforts to accomplish this same goal of appreciating the couple as unique individuals. I would hope and expect that at my wedding, people would not be dancing merely because it is a mitzvah, or because that is what is done at a wedding, but also because they might be genuinely gladdened by my simcha, and need to express that outpouring of happiness with me. This as a feature of a unique relationship that I have with the person, and perhaps that she has with us as a couple.
I am not saying that everyone should have a wedding that looked like my friends-- that is precisely not the point that I want to make here. I do think, however, that individuals who get married ought not be afraid to do things differently that have a singular, distinctive quality such that it is not an extravagant cookie-cutter wedding, but shines as something that they can share with their friends and family, and with each other!

Community Constraints

2007-03-13T14:16:00.000-04:00

I went to a retreat this past weekend with a group called "Jews in the Woods." The political structure of Jews in the Woods is something resembling small-scale communism. There is no official leadership. The people who run a given shabbaton are volunteers called "comfy chairs," and the responsibilities of food/housing/transportation/learning etc. are all given to different members of the "community." These responsibilities shift every time Jews in the Woods meet.
There is no set location for Jews in the Woods. This past weekend, we were at a nature preservation center, but my impression is that they move around to different locations every time.
Everything they served was vegetarian. There were gendered male and female sleeping spaces and bathrooms, and there were also non gendered sleeping spaces and bathrooms. The shul had two mechitzas-- the non-gendered section was in between the men and the women sections.
The shabbat began with a meditative ice-breaker, where everyone said what she wanted to bring into shabbat, and what she wanted to leave outside of the sacred space that we were entering. We sung and danced kabbalat shabbat and ma'ariv, and sat on the floor for dinner-- there were not enough tables and chairs for everyone-- and anyway, that would have been altogether too conventional.
The plates were bio-degradable, made from processed sugar cane. We all brought our own cups, and there were no disposable utensils. The environmental consciousness is the trademark of Jews in the Woods, it seems.
On Friday night after dinner, there was a learning session on the Ishbitzer's philosophy in his mei hashiloach. The group was very receptive to it, and not altogether too shocked by his drastic positions about God's will. The Ishbitzer apparently held that there is G-d's will that is pure and changes depending on circumstances, but since we cannot always be surrounded by the "clouds of glory" that served as divine inspiration to the people of Israel in the desert, we need a system of laws that are Halacha. Otherwise, people would basically be able to intuit, through their own clear thinking, how to behave. He likened the principles that govern Halacha to idols that we make for ourselves to worship.
Now, the population at Jews in the Woods, it seemed was mostly very serious young Jewish people who currently associate themselves with Conservative communities around the country. This philosophy didn't seem to surprise them much, since their norm is to trust their moral intuitions about egalitarianism, homosexuality, etc. One eloquent student at JTS commented in the class, "well of course, we all know that categories are bad, and that bad things happen when we make categories." Everyone sitting in the room (including me!) agreed. I reconsidered a moment later whether I actually think that, but when anyone (especially someone as eloquent as he) starts a sentence with, "well, everyone knows that..." the person has primed the room for brainwashing. But I digress. It occurs to me that while categories do limit possibilities, they also enable much to be. I think that while it would be nice to have the ability to intuit God's will, in order to be part of a community, conformity to community standards is sometimes at hand. Granted, I don't encourage all of one's decisions to be based on those limitations. But I do think that we would be lacking as a community if we were always thinking about being as individualistic as we could be.
On Friday night, I had this incredibly Community-Rabbi moment. There wasn't just one chazzan for all of kabbalat shabbat. Every paragraph was led by another member of the community. In the middle of Lecha Dodi, the person who had chosen the first tune was supposed to switch to another tune, but he went blank, and couldn't come up with the tune that he had come up with. He was sure it had been brilliant, and stood there, silently for 5 minutes, trying to remember what the tune was. He finally remembered some of it, I think, and it came out half-baked. During the silence, I felt the leadership in the community lacking. No community Rabbi would have allowed such a silence to last for that long for no good reason. There was Kavod Hatzibur to consider, as well as the embarrassment of the chazzan himself, that seemed to be growing. I pointed this out to my friend, and he said, "that's the whole point of this community! Individuality and personal expression are much more important than the community as a whole." Now, I'm not the one claiming to be communist, but I know that the community is worth more than it was granted, waiting for five minutes for a single person to recall the tune to the second half of lecha dodi. This occurs to me as truly lacking in a community like that. How ironic. When the individual is the only concern, communism is only a mask for the Korach-like effort to make each individual the center of attention. I think that people can shine within a community, and I don't really object to women participating in services (everyone coming to the first Migdal Or service tonight-- I hope to be there!), but I don't think that that is licence to forget a hierarchy of values and priorities.
I've been very negative about the weekend until now, so I'd like to now present some highlights. On Motz"ash, we had a drumming group while most of the group danced around freely to our rhythms. There were a couple of people on African hand drums, I grabbed a washing cup, and a few other people took pitchers and and aluminum pans. The music was fun, and people really enjoyed it. During kriat HaTorah on shabbat, the Sefer Torah was found to be passul (rendered invalid to read-- one letter was missing half of itself), so we had to read out of a chumash instead of the scroll. Instead of simply reading from the chumash as they would have from the Torah, the Jews in the Woods saw this as an opportunity to be creative. One aliya, a person sang the English translation every verse with the cantillation that the hebrew had. The next aliya, every pasuk, someone read the targum unkelus (traditional translation into aramaic). Then, someone who knows Yiddish fluently was laining one aliya, and he translated every verse into yiddish. Simultaneously, someone else signed the verses is ASL.
The creativity was amazing and free. There was a free spirit that was contagious and inspiring. This creativity does not exist in the conformist communities that we grew up in. I wonder if there is a way to strike a balance, or if this is a choice we make. I think that there must be a way. Ideas? Thoughts? Please share!

Sensing Presence

2007-03-05T14:47:00.000-05:00

My drum teacher told me that he's a self-help book nerd, and that he read a book where the author interviewed Wayne Gretzky about how he plays so well. He told them, "I slow down the game in my mind." What an amazing concept. Wayne Gretzky sees a chess board of hockey players, and methodically and carefully in his mind, he manipulates the game to his advantage.

My teacher recommended that I do the same thing with drumming. He said that I'll be able to fit much more into the space of time if I slow it down in my mind. It's nothing I'm not capable of. If you clap slowly-- let's say, 90 times a minute, you will hear the claps and spaces in between. When you add a clap in between every clap, making 180 claps a minute, the minute seems much more full. In your mind, more time has passed. Now, try four in between every clap-- including the first one, that is. This is the basic sixteenth note-pattern. I was having trouble playing around with this pattern. Drummers will accent and delete given parts of this pattern at will. When I read the notes, I can do that. I can also do it when I play slowly, but when I'm playing the sixteenth notes, the pace is overwhelming. "Slow down the music in your mind." He told me to close my eyes. Feel the music at the moment. I did. It helped.

My voice teacher told me something similar-- when I have a difficult melodic pattern, told think about it. "Just let your ear do the work." My voice knows what to do... I need to slow down the quick notes in my mind and let the music come out. I told her what my drum teacher told me, and she said, "Yes! I like your teacher!"

All this talk about slowing down music in my mind made me wonder. How can I slow something down in my mind. I can only experience time as it happens, no? No! precisely not. Time passes the way we let it pass. When you're having fun, it flies. When we're caught in a moment, it can last forever. When we dream, five minutes can span hours and hours. How are these things possible? The passing of time seems to be something completely subjective. But it is a common experience that brings us into the same moment as one another. The clock ticks the same second on your watch and mine, and we can sing a song together because we can share moments. What does it mean to slow down the music in my mind? Let each note have its own value. Be present. At any given second in the song-- let that second count.

This concept might extend into the world of space as well. I don't really know that much about this, so if anyone else has more background in visual art, please contribute, but I think this might be an expression of the same basic concept. When I look at a space on the wall, I perceive the space as being a certain size. Fill that space with a picture of a flower. The space seems to expand, doesn't it? Now imagine the space covered with a picture of an ocean. It's huge! But is is also kind of limited. A song on the radio seems like it could be 5-10 minutes of material covered over the course of 2 and 1/2 minutes, but now compare those two and a half minutes with the same time sat in silence. And if we compare a slow song the same length to a fast song the same length, what are the differences? It's so odd, how we perceive time and space.

My mother does something called Energy Mirrors, which is a kind of energy-healing system. They do a lot of what other people would call meditation and focusing on being present. The well-selling author, Ekhart Tolle writes all about presence in our activities. For some reason, the way we perceive time can be greatly affected by our state of mind. Imagine someone tells you he'll spend a half hour with you. Now, fill the half hour with quickly checking email, receiving two short phone calls and then telling you what happened to him on the way to meeting you. Then, fill the hour with him looking into your eyes, listening to you, and smiling at you. Where is the presence? And what presents!

Hey Baby, Baby- It's a Wild World

2007-02-18T01:05:00.000-05:00

Will I insult people along the way? Probably.
OK, but it's like that Billy Joel song I've had in my head for the last week, "My Life." (Lyrics from http://www.sing365.com/music/lyric.nsf/My-Life-lyrics-Billy-Joel/C351330977A537C448256870001D54FB)

Got a call from an old friend
We used to be real close
Said he couldn't go on the American way
Closed the shop, sold the house
Bought a ticket to the West Coast
Now he gives them a stand-up routine in L.A.

I don't need you to worry for me cause I'm alright
I don't want you to tell me it's time to come home
I don't care what you say anymore, this is my life
Go ahead with your own life, and leave me alone

I never said you had to offer me a second chance (I never said you had to)
I never said I was a victim of circumstance(I never said)
I still belong, don't get me wrong
And you can speak your mind
But not on my time

They will tell you, you can't sleep alone in a strange place
Then they'll tell you, you can't sleep with somebody else
Ah, but sooner or later you sleep in your own space
Either way it's okay, you wake up with yourself

I don't need you to worry for me cause I'm alright
I don't want you to tell me it's time to come home
I don't care what you say anymore, this is my life
Go ahead with your own life, and leave me alone

I never said you had to offer me a second chance (I never said you had to)
I never said I was a victim of circumstance (Of circumstance)
I still belong, don't get me wrong
And you can speak your mind
But not on my time

I don't care what you say anymore, this is my life
Go ahead with your own life, and leave me alone (Keep it to yourself, it's my life.)

I went to what's called a "cholent party" last Thursday night at this shul in midtown Manhattan. The shul is on 6th Avenue between 38th and 39th streets. They house these gatherings for anyone, but they were originally started for the Williamsburg Jews who need a hangout. The group is incredibly diverse, and I was struck with the vastness of the "orthodox" Jewish community in America. Somehow, growing up in Teaneck, NJ, with a strong Jewish education, I had a set of expectations from the Jewish people who call themselves "Orthodox." I suppose that these expectations have not been met on many occasions, but for some reason, it never affected me in the same that it did last week. I suppose I wasn't ready for this sort of message to process.

The people who come to this gathering are a lot of ex-chassidim, people who are new to Jewish learning and practice, and a bunch of people on their own "journeys" along the way. I heard about the party from a musician friend of mine, who found at these cholent parties that he finally found a place where he could relate to other people, and they to him. I spent much of the time talking to a woman named "Ruchie," who grew up Satmar in Williamsburg, but moved to Bayswater-Far Rockaway in a step away from the community. She works in Boro Park, and she has a BA in Psychology from Touro, but is currently studying to be a physical trainer. She told me that she never learned how to read hebrew, which as I write those words, brings tears to my eyes. She is upset at the poor education she received, and wants desperately to catch up. I offered her to teach her to read hebrew, and gave her my phone number.

I spoke to a man who calls himself Laizer, and lives in the middle of Boro Park. Looking at him, I would have placed him closer to the neighborhood he comes from originally, which is the upper east side. He is infatuated with Yiddish. He studies it, speaks it, and works for a Yiddish Newspaper.

Every person at the gathering has a story that is absolutely unique. I felt strange, coming from a community where I'm mostly satisfied with what I've been given and with what I have. I was overwhelmed with the huge world of possibilities for Jewish people. I think if I a bunch of random people in a secular non-Jewish context, I would not be as taken aback, since I expect of people coming from different religions to come with different cultures and lifestyles. But when I meet someone Jewish, I have,until now, come in with false assumptions and expectations about beliefs about religion, and about people in general; about what is acceptable social decorum, what would be considers operative sanitary standards, etc. But you can't assume anything about anyone-- Jewish or not. I'm not saying that Ruchie didn't smell clean, not at all. The room was not clean, though, and the heat wasn't working, which made the facilities unfit for habitation this time of year and inadequate for the purposes for which it was being used. People were smoking drinking, and eating cholent, and it seemed that was all anyone could do to stay warm.

A candid impulse I felt during this party: turn around, run home. Go back to Teaneck, where things are safe and predictable. But the world of this party was also luring me in, and while I didn't feel entirely safe with all of the strange men who seemed to say, "you're clean, can I give you a kiss on the cheek?" I did honestly appreciate the openness and genuine accepting atmosphere that the environment created. Everyone is different, everyone might be considered weird outside of these walls, but 1. you're in Manhattan, so who isn't a little weird? and 2. Everyone here will accept you, despite your past story and your current situation. That culture is very appealing to me. It frees people from the shackles of the expectations that they imagine are upon them, and it allows them to be true to themselves.

Will such a culture produce stable members of society? I imagine some people will choose stability, after some time. In fact, I think that the reason the people at the cholent party are often unstable is correlated with the culture of acceptability, and not a direct result of it. I know unstable people who are not very tolerant of people who are not like them, and people who are both accepting and stable at the same time. The cholent party culture is only a profound and wonderful model for what communities need if they want 1. not to scare away people who won't like their cookie-cutter lifestyle, and 2. their member to explore their own capacities and potentials. Some people will find both of these values unimportant and frankly terrifying. But I think they are essential and under emphasised. But that's just me.

Laizer and I were suggesting communities Ruchie might want to try out. We suggested Riverdale, the Upper West Side, Washington Heights. She said to us, "I don't want to join a modern orthodox community!" "Oh," I thought. "I wonder why that is." Ruchie continued, "I just want to be able to do what I want!" I understood. She could leave the ghetto of Williamsburg and enter the ghetto of Teaneck, where the normative practices are not what they were in Williamsburg, but they are still restrictive of one's autonomy. Having come from such a community, I can understand why such an option would not appeal to someone trying to escape the conventional conformism of an insular community.

I wonder, though, if a serious religious community could exist that allowed its members complete autonomy in the way that Ruchie wants it. I don't know how much she wants as an individual, but I don't think that it's necessarily the answer to all of the world's problems. There have to be some boundaries sometimes. There ought to be norms of behavior and expectations, oughtn't there? Chaos and anarchy are not ideal models for a functioning society. And yet people need their autonomy. So we strive to find communities, and to build families that have a healthy balance.

Does anyone have any ideas about this? Thoughts on how to strike a balance? Whether any autonomy is appropriate? Any limitation of that autonomy?

Dissonance and Harmony: Halakhic Man Revisited

2007-01-30T02:58:00.000-05:00

The midrasha (Seminary) that I attended in Israel for two years had several teachers who studied in Gush. One of my favorite teachers, who liked to lead discussions about Jewish theology and philosophy with the students once told us that the mussar (moralistic instruction) that everyone gets in Gush is, "go read footnote four." Now, "footnote four" is a foot note from the end of Rav Joseph B. Soloveitchik's Halachik Man. In this footnote, the Rav berates the tendency people have to use religion as a comfort. when I first learned this, I really liked it. I believed in it. Religion is more substantial than silly comfort that people need. We're all about struggle and conflict, and how nothing comes so easy.
And so I feel guilty, today. I have a few more years of life experience, although not as many as the Rabbi who first introduced this footnote to me had at the time. However, I found myself, a couple of says ago, walking around Washington Heights and into Fort Tryon Park, where I thought up the following poem:

In Winter, Hearts are Broken

The twigs are suspended
Exposed to the cold
Night air, and I fear for them,
and for me—for I am also bare—
naked, my pride stripped
like the branches from
their leaves

I follow the lines, and I see
Hundreds of twigs lead into
dozens of these leafless branches.

The branches are strong, less susceptible
to breakage, and they all connect to the
proud trunk. The roots are sturdy—he
stands proud in the earth, even
without leaves.

I breath easier, with
nature's assurance
speaking the Creator's words
to me.

Ought I feel guilty? Jewish guilt is inevitable, I suppose. But I come today to question the Rav's whole premise. What's wrong with comfort? We are only human, and we have weaknesses, and we are affected by our experiences. And that's OK. There's no reason to deny those things, and there's certainly room to find G-d and grow in our connection Judaism through those experiences. I will allow that the entire religion ought not be about comfort exclusively, but I would like to see our experiences in life as variations on a theme, as in a piece of music, and that the dissonances only direct us and only lead our voices more directly to the home key.

In modern music, there is an effort to increase the dissonance-- Schoenberg with twelve tone music, and others with atonality. This doesn't appeal to me that much. The composers will argue, since we've seen the horrors of war that the world has witnessed, modern art and music reflect a darker, more dissonant reality. It isn't supposed to feel good. Art isn't about comfort. But I don't see why it can't be that, too. Granted, the dissonance is necessary, but it needn't take over our lives. Surely, there can still be the comfort of a 7to8 voice leading. We can still find a painting that looks like a landscape beautiful, without worrying about what terrors lay beyond the mountains, or what emotional problems the painter was compensating for by painting with those colors. Life can still be cheerful, and people optimistic, can't we? Or have we all grown old and cynical with the world, only impressed by complexity and conflict?

I am interested to hear what people think about this. Please share your thoughts.

Tackling Tough Issues

2007-01-17T12:59:00.000-05:00

I plan, with G-d's help, to go on a retreat in Winnipeg, Canada, at the beginning of February. The retreat is meant to be a relaxed way for a group of mostly non-observant high school kids to experience a non-judgemental, informative Shabbos. The objective is honorable, and not part of any organization that is trying to save the world or the frum community. I decided to go, and then I was told that I needed to pass an interview (where I was supposed to explain things like why I'm a good person for this retreat-- ugh!) and answer some really hard questions via email.
The questions that the person running the shabbaton asked me to answer via email were:
1. As a feminist, why do I remain in a religious community that treats me as a 2nd class citizen?
2. A student comes over to me at the end of the retreat and tells me that he had a wonderful time. He wants to learn more about observance, and he really felt comfortable with the orthodox environment that we created. One catch: he's gay. How do I respond?
My interviewer then told me that I shouldn't think about these questions too much. He said that if I spend more than 15 minutes on these questions, I'm thinking too much. I replied, "well, they're both really simple questions, so it should only take me two minutes to answer them." Very funny. These are not simple questions. I'll tell you what I sent him.

Shalom interviewer. Here are some cursory responses to your extremely difficult questions:

1. You bring up an extremely valid issue that one addresses when she honestly approaches orthodox practice in traditional Judaism. I personally have been bothered by issues pertaining to women in Judaism since a very young age. When I was 11 years old, I insisted that I read from the Torah at my Bat Mitzvah, which I did in a women's prayer group. I relate very much to many women's frustrations with the halakhic system. But I also know that I love Judaism-- the way that I know it. I love the community, I love the meaning that I find in it, I love many of the practices. I read a relationship book recently that said that good marriages are not made up of people who never disagree about anything. Instead, they have what the author calls "Positive Sentiment Override." That just means that despite their differences, the couple feels generally positive feelings towards each other most of the time. I think that this rule in human relationships with one another can also be applied to my relationship to Judaism. Does every single part of Jewish law please me? Honestly, no- not at all. But as a whole, am I happy with the religion? YES! I really am. I love being Jewish, and I'm proud of who I am, my history, my fellow Jews, and my relationship to G-d. I do believe that the orthodox community can work on adjusting certain norms that exist in the community to be more women-friendly, and I want to be part of that. I don't want to escape, and just throw it all away because I'm annoyed that none of my rabbis are women.

2. A friend of mine in high school was from a conservative home where there was a strong connection to Jewish identity. She was in an exceptional group of students at the Hebrew school where a bunch of them were drawn to religion and growth, and many of whom chose to be orthodox and are still practicing today. She herself was becoming more interested, and she enjoyed NCSY shabbatons, and frequently attended them. In the middle of High School, this friend of mine came out as a lesbian. She told the administration at NCSY, and they said that she was welcome to continue coming to the shabbatons, but to please keep this information private at the shabbatons, and not to mention it within the NCSY context. She then left NCSY and never came back. They wouldn't accept her for who she was, and she didn't want to feel rejected in any way. I totally understand that. I'm not really sure why the administration made this decision, but I would like to warn you that the orthodox community is not welcoming of homosexuality. It's unfortunate, because I ran into this friend at a recent Hebrew school shabbaton, and she said that she likes the orthodox service, and would attend, but the students all go to the conservative service. And anyway, she feels more comfortable there. In any event, she now lives with her partner, and has not pursued her religious growth in the same way that many of her peers did. I can totally understand that. I think that this is an area where the orthodox community runs into a brick wall. But I'm not saying there's nothing good about the community. I love my community, and I think that Jewish Family as my community sees is it wonderful and beautiful. Being that as it may, there's little room for acceptance within the halakhically observant community for homosexuality. So I would just have that in mind while you continue with your journey exploring religion, and take that into consideration.

That's the end of the email. I think that this task that I performed captures a paradox that is prevalent among people I know. It actually came up in another question in the interview. He asked me, "I don't like to label people, but how would you categorize yourself?" What is that? Give me a label for your fluid, dynamic religious self in two minutes. Tell me, in five minutes, how you feel about the most pressing issues in the Jewish community today. These questions strike of insensitivity to my thoughts and real, deep and substantial feelings about these issues. But I think the paradox goes beyond this. I think that he asks me to keep it short because in the end of the day, we want to focus on the positive aspects of Judaism, and kind of side-step the elephant in the room. Yes, those issues are real, and the way that you respond will say a lot about who you are. But, who you REALLY are lies beyond-- aaahhh. That's right. The inspiring Dvar Torah that you said at the shabbos table this week, that was really who you are.
We want the positivity to override, and so we pretend these issues can be glossed over in a short email. Meanwhile, this is not actually the case. I spend much more time thinking about these issues and talking about these issues with my friends than I spend on kriyat shma, or on shmirat halashon. The topics that are en vogue are the ones that he asks about, not whether I have Yirat Shamayim. Maybe he thinks that the way I will respond will answer both questions. But the message that comes across is, this isn't really, really that important, but it is really the only thing that interests me. Does that make sense to you? Obviously, we can't scale well for Yirat Shamayim. And maybe he was just screening me to see whether I can relate to people with problems with Judaism, or if I get preachy, or dismissive. Maybe. But I think that the focus is directed towards the negativity. It's something I'm guilty of as well, and I think that it's kind of self destructive for the community to obsess over crisis like these. But at the same time, I find it irresponsible and myopic not to do so. Suggestions?

Implementing Education

2006-12-20T13:52:00.000-05:00

How many times have I learned that exercise is good for me? And a healthy diet, and a good sleeping schedule? Do I do these things? Not exactly. Does the smoker not realize that he is giving himself lung cancer? Of course not! How many times have I learned that I have to stand up for myself-- that I have to take initiative? How many times have I learned that self control is the way to holiness? Have I not internalized these messages? I think I have. I suppose that question is up for debate, but I think that the missing link between knowledge and practice is teaching implementation.
It seems to me that the educational system is structured such that the more removed one is from real life, the more academically prestigious she is. Ideas should be judged in a vacuum, on their own merits. I am not necessarily disputing that position (granted, I might another time), but it strikes me as a paradox of tremendous proportions that we can achieve great development of the mind so much that the ideas become removed to a point that we never even consider the need to bring what we've learned into what we all know as "real life."
Some would argue that this inability to implement knowledge shows a deficiency in our understanding. However, I think that it's just a different part of our minds at work. It could be that once implemented, these ideas develop new meaning to us, but i don't think that an inability to implement indicates poor knowledge.
I think that we have role models who haven't implemented the lessons they teach, and so we continue the vicious cycle from generation to generation. Rabbis and teachers are sometimes the most power seeking, emotionally and physically unhealthy people, and they are whom we send our children-- and ourselves! for guidance. How twisted is that? Why would I judge a person's leadership abilities based on how well he did on an exam, or even how well he can give a sermon? We aren't focusing on the right things.
Halacha class is another example of where this issue comes up. In a class about Jewish law, at best we study rules based on a system-- at worst, we study rules. In none of these instances to we learn implementation of the rules. The closest thing to this would be in a Jewish Philosophy class or discussion group where the question might be brought up: should we do x? and why? However, even in those contexts, implementation is a step further.
You will tell me, and I would have said this a few years ago, too-- that the reason we don't learn implementation is because that is where a person's free choice comes into play. That's where yirat shamayim and personal discipline and responsibility become important. Fine. I will agree with that argument. But that just begs another question: when did i learn about yirat shamayim? I'm told that in more Yeshevish places, yirat shamayim is discussed more frequently, but in my educational experiences, it has been notably absent. In what class did we cover self discipline? Is this post sounding ridiculously fluffy? I don't think that implementation-al, behavioral training has to be fluffy. I think it is an essential piece of the puzzle that is missing from our educations.
When I sit in a class, I can be a star student, and that will make me a teacher's pet. A kid who zones out, loses his homework and does poorly on his tests could be doing a better job implementing what he knows into his life. The relationship between knowledge and real life is weak, and implementation of knowledge learned is not considered in school until you have reached a level where the educators feel they are preparing you for your career. What message does that send? The only practically important part of your life is your career? Or, termed generously, the only useful thing for life that school can help you with is your career?
This highlights a real problem with the educational model that we have. It is detrimental to students who are practically minded at all stages of schooling, and it is detrimental to every single one of us, since we are all missing out on a very essential part of our education-- the implementation.
I'm not exactly sure what a curriculum to teach implementation would involve. In Faranack Margolese's Off the Derech, she discussed the importance of building a child's self-esteem in her youth, as that gives her the confidence to be self discipline and to therefor live by her ideals. I imagine that in grade school, the mandatory tefilla attendance, and group bracha making and the like, were all trying to develop habits in school-- a form of teaching implementation. How could we implement lessons from classes that didn't seem practical? How can I bring Chumash Vayikra into my life without bringing animal sacrifices? Conversly, how would we teach an implementation of the ethics in Pirkei Avot? Would it just be a bunch of rebbe stories that you would hear at an NCSY tisch? Or could we somehow make this substantial? Is teaching implementation overstepping the bounds of a student's rights to privacy and free choice? Would the students feel more turned off by implementation education-- like so many do for tefilla?
If anyone has other ideas and thoughts about how someone would do this, please feel free to share.

Finding Identity Alone

2006-12-08T13:46:00.000-05:00

I paid a shiva call a few weeks ago to a middle aged woman whose sister passed away from cancer. She was a true blue New Yorker- the woman who i was visiting was sitting in her sister's apartment-- a hip studio with a loft near the village. She spoke about her sister with enthusiasm as though she were still around, remembering good times together with her. She passed around pictures, and told how her sister was an energetic, intelligent woman who had a dedicated boyfriend who stayed with her until the last. Her sister designed kitchens, and she said that quite a few people had visited during the shiva saying that they loved the job that she did. She was well loved by her nieces and nephews-- they all called her their "cool aunt."
One story stuck out in the woman (whom I was visiting)'s mind. She said that one of her sons got into a car accident, and when she called her sister while she was working, she answered the phone, "what do you want?" which, she explained, was how they answered each other's calls. After she told her how her son got into an accident, her sister responded immediately, "take all the time you need." She said she was so much there for her when she needed her to be.
Her sister showed me a copy of what her daughter said about her aunt at the funeral. It bespoke genuine love, admiration, awe and respect for this aunt's entire life. The way she could finish the crossword puzzle in an hour, the passion she had for art, the energy she put into her work and attention and compassion she gave to her friends and family.
And the cancer took her, and the nurses all loved her, and she would still look after her boyfriend, getting him a physical trainer.
She reminded me of my grandmother-- single for a large part of her life, loved by all, a serious, ambitious woman. She reminded me of my writing and music professors, liberal, non-conventional artists in New York who never marry and settle down with a family, even if they do have life-partners.
I thought of other experiences I'd had in shiva houses, where I felt that the niftar's spouse and children didn't have that much to say about the person they were mourning. They felt a sadness, and they missed having a parent/spouse. They spoke of how the person was a good person; a good employee; a good parent. I haven't always heard of how the person inspired those who are living, how they changed their lives.
Obviously, this description is not comprehensive or accurate, and there are exceptions in both directions, but this experience made me think that one chooses between one's self and one's family. I imagined that women (in particular-- this might be true for men, too) who do not marry can spend their lives finding themselves, and pursuing dreams. Women who marry, on the other hand, and stay married until the end, give up their dreams of personal fulfilment for the satisfaction of having safety and security in a stable marriage and with the preoccupation of raising children.
As I noted before, of course, this is not a true observation, but was highlighted by comparing a very small number of instances, and viewing them with a very particular lens. My question is why? What makes me view these experiences from this end? I know of many men and women personally, who have been able to maintain a personal sense of identity while at the same time participating in effective family life. Of course, it is ideal that the family should enhance one's individuality and vice-versa, but for some reason, I imagined this necessary sacrifice of one for the other. In fact, a part of me is still saying that one does, to a certain extent, necessarily give up on individuality when she joins in this heteronomous partnership, and that these experiences were classic examples of this.
I think that perhaps my life experience points me in this direction based on the fact that we spend much of our lives as youth growing and developing into the people we will become on our own. Especially since I gave up being friends with boys while I was in high school in an effort to focus on personal growth. I associate single-hood with a personal development. Relationships, for some reason or another, seem like finished-person territory. I think that this worked as a perception before I reached a stage of life where marriage was a real possibility, and now that I'm here, it's no longer plausible. Don't get me wrong-- some people are finished the minute they start. They have basically the same personality, the same values, often the same thoughts, when they're thirty as they had when they were in high school. But I can't be that person. I'm going to be changing for a good long time, and this is a difficulty for a few reasons:
1. It seems to join up together with another person, certain decisions have to be made about values and beliefs. This forces you to freeze a dynamic, fluid life at a given moment, and say, "this is me!"
2. Practically, much of one's time and many of one's resources are dedicated to one's personal fulfilment, and this cannot be maintained in adulthood. The thoughtful, introspective college student will wake up one morning buried under bills and house chores, with carpools and doctors appointments, and wonder why she hasn't read (or written) a good piece of thoughtful literature in a while. The transition from one stage of life to another begins with the relationship that will become a marriage, where we loose our autonomy to a degree.
In the end of the day, though, I think it is important for us to know ourselves, and to look for people with whom we'll be able to thrive as partners-- but also, as individuals. We cannot only be concerned with our personal goals anymore, because we have another person (and then people) in the picture to consider, but we cannot give up on them entirely.
I suppose this post is starting to sound cliche, but it's not an easy thing to implement into one's life. Once we are confronted with the relationship, we realize that so much of our identities are formed alone, and that this relationship is going to challenge that autonomy. But, we hope that that will lead to personal growth, and that it will all be worthwhile.

Relationships: A Talmudic Perspective

2006-11-30T13:42:00.000-05:00

In the mornings, the Stern Talmud Program has been studying the Jewish Laws of stealing, and what is the thief's relationship to his stolen property-- can he ever own it? Today, we read a Tosafot that said that he can, to a certain degree. A thief who has stolen in front of the owner is called a gazlan, and the Torah gives him an opportunity to rectify the theft by returning the object to the owner. However, once a person despairs from ever getting his object back, the relationship that he has from his property is lost. Ties are severed, and the robber can then sell the object, or move it into the domain of the Temple. These are rights that are usually exclusive to the owner. But the owner has given up on the object. Thus, say Tosafot, while the robber might decide to return the object to the original owner after he's despaired, that does not qualify as a true-corrective hashava that would be required by the Torah. By then, the opportunity has been lost. All he can do is give back the item as a gift, and the rights to selling and dedicating the item to the temple will be returned as well. But, say Tosafot, he is forever a gazlan.
For the last week, I've been creating an analogy between the laws of stealing and breaking up. In my mind, the break-up parallels an act of theft-- a removal of the self from what one was once connected to. After that point, the person is in a quasi connected state/quasi unconnected. It is only with despair and/or movement into another person's domain that one can truly break ties from the original person.
Following this analogy makes me wonder how we relate to our property as that compares to how we relate to people. Are the ties that bind us to people stronger? Weaker? Do we feel broken and lost if we loose a notebook? A pen? A shirt? A friend? Is it only the relationship to the item/to the person that we're mourning? Is it the item/person itself? Obviously, people have their own minds, and therefore cannot be considered quite the same as the item that we've lost. But when the lost item is picked up by another person, does that make us relieved that the item is being put to good use?
Before last summer, I was preparing a class about the mitzvah of hashavat aveida-- the commandment that we have to return lost objects to our fellow Jews. The preparation put me in a mindset that made me think about restoring things to their owners is a kind of metaphysical tikkun-- repairing something that is wrong in the world. I remember feeling that I had to retrieve a cd that I'd left somewhere, as a way of returning something that belonged to me-- not because I needed the cd so badly, but because, it is appropriate for people to be responsible for what they own, and that this was my property that I had to look after. Pirkei Avot might have referred to this when the rabbis said, Marbe kesef marbe da'aga-- the more money we have, the more we worry.
The Talmud calls the act of marriage a kinyan-- a kind of monetary transaction, which also makes me think that perhaps our relationships with people and with property might have more in common than we like to think. I don't have good conclusions on this point, but it's been on my mind for a couple of weeks, and so I'm throwing it out: anyone have any ideas?

Who wants to face facts, anyway?

2006-11-23T00:03:00.000-05:00

Ever since a recent post on Underground Heights, I've been thinking about what music I most relate to. I keep thinking of the Carole King song, "Believe in Humanity"(http://www.caroleking.com/index.php?p=discography&subp=ck_song_appears&amp;letter=B&filter=&order=#.)
LYRICS
If you read the papers you may see History in the making
You'll read what they say life is all about
They say it's there for the taking
Yeah, but you should really check it out
If you want to know what's shaking
But don't tell me about the things you've heard
Maybe I'm wrong, but I want to believe in humanity

I know it's often true -- sad to say
We have been unkind to one another
Tell me how many times has the golden rule
Been applied by man to his brother
I believe if I really looked at what's going on
I would lose faith I never could recover
So don't tell me about the things you've heard
Maybe I'm wrong, but I want to believe in humanity

Maybe I'm living With my head in the sand
I just want to see people giving
I want to believe in my fellow man
Yes, I want to believe
© 1973 Elorac Music (ASCAP)

In the song, Carole admits that she might not being honest with herself, and she might be objectively incorrect about her assessment of the situation, but she doesn't care. Her attitude is basically, "Don't tell me every terrible thing that's going on in the world, because I want to believe in humanity." This attitude is of interest to me, since she is extremely self aware-- it's not that she has heard from some people that it's assur (prohibited according to religious law) to read the newspaper. She's read the papers, and she realizes that if you really want to know what's going on in the world, then you ought to keep up with the times. But she finds the facts too depressing to bear, and she cannot go on sustaining her trust and faith in the world while still maintaining a hold on the facts. The cognitive dissonance the reality creates forces her to choose one to the exclusion of the other.
Cognitive dissonance is something that everyone practices, whether or not they like it or are aware of it. The fact that most people find it extremely difficult to coexist with two conflicting conceptions of reality and so they eliminate one is completely dishonest, as far as facts go. But we do this. And so, I think it is fair to conclude that human beings are not merely truth seekers. We seek internal peace and harmony. And that's ok.
The ramifications of this conclusion are huge, but at some point, we have all recognized ourselvelves and our friends overlooking some idea at the expense of another. It's nothing to be ashamed of. It's part of being human. We're all in this together. So maybe it's ok that I don't have a hold on conflicting realities, but thankfully, we have other people who will preserve them for us. In my religious observance, I have found this to be especially true. I might be inclined to ignore the problems posed by some parts of Jewish law, since they do not affect my every day life.
Take the aguna problem as an example. I choose to ignore the problem in a day to day sense, because I think that if I were to belabour the point, I wouldn't want to be a part of this system-- unable to reconcile my humanist values with my Jewish commitment. However, while I might not be thinking about this problem day and night, there are people who are-- usually people who are personally affected by it, but sometimes just people like Josh Ross, the Founder of ORA -The Organization for the Resolution of Agunot, ) , who want to make a difference. It is because there are people who have different thresholds for what they can handle, and which beliefs trump which beliefs, that we all end up with different perspectives and pursue different fields. And people keep us all honest.
Thank G-d for people!
Happy Thanksgiving, everybody!

Classroom Considerations

2006-11-20T22:25:00.000-05:00

Today in Halacha (Jewish Law) class, Rabbi Berger presented to us an apparent contradiction between two Talmudic sources:
Shabbat 97b recorded that a person who intends to throw something within the public domain on Shabbat four cubit (the minimal prohibition), but he overthrows and throws it eight cubits, he is patur (exempt). What can be understood from this exemption is that we are not liable for violating laws in ways that we did not intend to violate them. Shabbat 73b records that if a person meant to throw only two cubits (which would be biblically allowed), and he overthrew to four, in that instance, there is a disagreement whether he would be patur (exempt) or chayav (obligated). Now, Rabbi Berger recognized that the second case could not be a case where he was going to be stoned for throwing four cubits, since it was only a biblical prohibition done by accident. However, the possibility that you might be obligated to bring a sin-offering for overthrowing into four and not into two, but completely exempt from everything for overthrowing eight instead of four doesn't make much logical sense. All Rabbi Berger could come up with was that the two Gemaras are in contradiction with one another. I suggested, instead, that the first Gemara could be addressing the possibility of being stoned exclusively, and the second Gemara could be discussing only the potential requirement to bring a sin offering. Rabbi Berger thought about this for a minute, and he approved of the suggestion, saying that this is a definite possible reading.
The details of this legal discussion are secondary to this post. What I wanted to comment on was the aftermath of these events. The other women in the shiur (class) cheered, and I got the two other students in my row to give me five in the middle of class. I felt so great about the experience. I was so pumped, I called out, "Creativity rocks!" and that also elicited a hysterical response. Now, this class that we're in can get a bit rowdy, but I've never seen it quite like this before.
Thinking back, my idea wasn't so brilliant, and wasn't necessarily correct. But the energy that the idea created in the classroom was fantastic, and it made me feel so much more motivated to understand the material better in the future.
It might be that I'm exceptional, and that I like attention, and I thrive on experiences like these, while other people would hate them, and that is precisely why most people do not even make efforts to come up with their own ideas in classrooms, let alone express them to a teacher. But, if I'm anything like other people, I think that encouraging class participation-- particularly when it involves the students' own thoughts and creativity, is beneficial to the classroom in so many ways. Firstly, any variety in a classroom will keep people interested. It is the monotony of lecture that puts people to sleep most effectively.
Not only does interaction in the classroom improve the students' participation and enthusiasm in the material, but it also builds self confidence, if done properly. Also, when a student participates in a process of discovery within the material, the material becomes her own, and that acquisition is priceless.
Rav Shmuel Klitzner, a wonderful Tanakh (Bible) teacher from Midreshet Lindenbaum, incredible scholar and tremendous human being, has just published his second book, "Wrestling Jacob: Deception, Identity, and Freudian Slips in Genesis," published by Urim Publications (His first book was a children's book called The Lost Children of Tarshish, which I'm sure many of you read in your childhood). Rav Klitzner's book includes much of what he taught us in his Parshanut class, and he told me that he included something that I once mentioned in class in a footnote. That's what I'm talking about. Real appreciation of your student's ideas.
I think this tendency also demonstrates an openness to other people's ideas and minds outside of your own. This is a wonderful model for students to see in their teachers. I think that this is a potential opportunity to help form more open, thoughtful people who are personally invested in their learning and make it a real part of their lives.

War and Peace

2006-11-19T12:25:00.000-05:00

It was my first time in Boston. This past weekend, I took the bus in on Friday morning and spend Shabbos with my cousin, who's studying in Harvard Divinity school, and then I returned last night. So, with all this traveling, I had the opportunity to finish listening to a dramatization of War and Peace that I have been taking with me on my commute, lately.
A word or two about Cambridge, before I address Tolstoy's work. I like the city, since it's not so much a city as is New York. The neighborhood that I was in, between Harvard and Porter Squares, was a quaint, quiet neighborhood with small, colonial looking homes. It was really lovely to walk around there, with Universities and Colleges at every street-corner, bookcases filled with books lining the laundromat walls. Some of the more athletic students running on the sidewalks in their shorts and tee-shirts. The big Harvard-Yale game was on Saturday afternoon, so there were hundreds of young people walking around sporting Crimson Sweatshirts. Yale won, if you're curious. Apparently, that hasn't happened in a while. It's kind of ironic and sort of telling that, despite all of their academic standing, it is the football league that sets these schools apart from others.
Anyway, we ate at my cousin's apartment for dinner on Friday night, and at Chabbad for lunch. The community is very small, but everyone I spoke to was at least moderately friendly, and some people seemed exceptionally nice. It was nice to get away. I recommend Boston for a getaway weekend to anyone who needs to get out of New York.
This brings me to War and Peace. I originally thought I was getting a regular book on tape from Amazon.com, but when it came in the mail, I realized that it was a dramatization, done by BBC. So all of the Russians, the French people and everyone else, had British accents.
(I've just discovered an website with the entire text on it http://www.online-literature.com/tolstoy/war_and_peace/)
The author presents the Russian nobility's perspective on the Napoleonic wars. He bounces the reader back and forth between the characters at home, concerned with love, money, pride and religion and the generals and soldiers on the battlefront, faced with starvation, life, death and illness on a daily basis. The sense that I got from the novel was that the author was really saying that there are times of war and times of peace in both the domestic and military spheres. People can discover that their trapped in their home with spouses they do not love, and all they want is to die for a purpose greater than themselves. People at war can be captured, taken prisoner, and starved, and they can meet someone who changes their whole lives and makes them feel more happy than they ever where in their state of physical comfort.
There are, of course, Christ figures in the book, and messages that we are to take away from the novel. For instance: Life's not always fair. Sonia, the poor orphaned cousin who her cousin Nicolai promised to marry, gets left single and alone while her cousins enjoy a life of love, fulfillment and family. Or: After much suffering, people can revive themselves, and discover that they still have a love of life. After Prince Andre dies, Natasha discovers that she can forgive herself for her mistakes and can move on and marry Pierre Bezukhov. And so on.
Before entering 11th grade in Ma'ayanot, we had to read Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried. We spent the first couple of months analyzing the book in groups and writing logs with an in-depth analysis. This experience made me fall in love-- not only with the book, but with war stories in general. I love reading about the way people are stripped so bare when they are confronted with possible death. The soul is forced into its most naked form, and people are seen for what they are. I love people like that. O'Brien didn't fight in the Napoleonic wars. He fought in Vietnam, and he had a much less noble perspective on the war that did Tolstoy on defending Russian soil from Napoleon in 1812. He writes that if a war story has a moral, then it isn't a true war story. I thought of him especially at moments when Tolstoy used almost identical language to O'Brien with regards to morality. There was a sense, I guess as reflected by much of the era's romantic literature and art, that experiences were meaningful, and that we could learn lessons from everything. O'Brien doesn't feel that way. War is something that takes a lot out of people, and that no one can really justify completely. Granted, Tolstoy does have the same stripped bare sort of soldiers that I find so appealing, but in the end, he needs to find something else to talk about. He needs to transcend the war. O'Brien questions the war from start to finish, but he doesn't need to learn a moral.
I realize that I really am not qualified to discuss Tolstoy's novel in its entirety, since I only listened to BBC's dramatization, and didn't read through the thousand-page novel. But it's a start. And it was great fun, listening to what was a kind of audio book-movie.

Disconnected

2006-11-17T14:30:00.000-05:00

Two and a half weeks ago, I ended an eleven month relationship. Since then, I've been feeling disconnected. I felt very connected to one person, and this seemed to take over my whole self, such that I don't even feel ties to anyone or anything anymore. My family, my closest friends, my favorite books and music all seem strange to me. The self that once related to all these people no longer feels that she is the same self, but instead, a new, different self.
So in some ways, it isn't the family and friends who are the strangers, but instead it is me.
I've chosen to start a blog instead of just writing into my computer and leaving it there, because, I, like many writers poets and musicians need to be acknowledged by readers and listeners. So anyone who wants to comment on this blog, you will be doing a big mitzvah, giving me a reason to live-- something to which I can be connected.
Why the title? Kankan was the name I chose for my band, where I am the drummer, but my fellow band-members recently insisted we abandon for something else, still undecided. I feel it is my duty to preserve this name. Why Kankan? Kankan means vessel. The phrase from Pirkei Avot, Ethics of Our Fathers, "Al tistakel bikankan, ela b'ma sheyesh bo" means, to not examine the container, but rather what is in it. Basya Schechter once sang a song with these words at a Mima'amakim event, and I was with my Bass player, and I said to her, "That's it! Kankan!"
People don't get it-- they all asked me, Do you, or don't you want us to look past your externals? Fair question. I think I liked this name so much because it has implications of looking past externals, but in some way, what you see is what you get.
I think that I developed a lot of my ideas in college and since then about looking at medium and externals to understand things about the world. A composer might want to express elation, but he needs to work in the right modulation and chord progression with voice leading etc. Technique in writing poetry either inhibits expression or allows for communication. I think I had the sense before that one's thoughts were all she needed. But the kankan is the way we get through life in this world.
Similarly, Chasidic masters have described a person as inherently a soul, and the body as a vessel that merely contains the true self. But psychology today has shown us that so much of our minds (perhaps discussion of the soul should be saved for another time) is manipulated and arranged by chemical reactions in the brain. additionally, our whole lives, we're constantly being affected by how people react to us, which is largely a response to our physical appearance. Studies show that babies who smile more are paid more attention by adults, and then that will affect them forever. Al tistakel bikankan? Ha! Whether we like it or not, we are the Kankan.
But I'm still convinced that I have some inherent thought or feelings that make me acceptable-- even without the fancy externals. It's been ingrained it me. Any thoughts? Please! Feel free to share your thoughts on this matter, or anything else.