Havdalah

There's this feeling I've been having for the past two or three months. An odd, unfamiliar feeling. If had I to put a name to it, I'd say I feel ... solid. For so much of my life, I've felt afraid of various things (failure, loneliness, airplanes), and now - now I feel like I can actually deal with the varied crises of life. Of course, now that I have the hubris to say this, I'll get whammied by the universe and collapse into a quivering pile of goo.

But, you know, I had a lot of change and stress a few months back, and I survived. And I'm happy. Happy with my work, happy with my friends, happy with my place in the world. I feel established. Like I actually have something to contribute.

Huh.

Well, my students lent me Superbad to watch this weekend, so since I've "finished" my Sunday School lesson plans and have nothing better to do (ha!), I think I'll mosey on over to my sofa and give 'er a spin.

So much has happened since I last posted an entry. Most significantly (and in this order):

1) "Chanan" and I broke up. (This is a relatively funny story which I'll discuss in more detail at a later time.)

2) I bought my first home.

3) I met and fell in love with an indescribably wonderful man. (Henceforth known as Mr. Hottie Man.)

More details to follow, but it's past my bedtime.

And that is when Sunday School starts. I do not feel ready. For one thing, I haven't yet been able to share my lesson plans with the school's director of education; we're doing that today. Today! Plus, I haven't written - much less mailed - my introductory letter to parents, and I really wanted to do that. Somehow, the summer melted away before I had a chance to sort myself out. My high school is also starting up, and that's commandeering a lot of my attention as well. I feel pulled in so many directions.

One of the smallest things that's bothering me is taking off work for to observe the Days of Awe. Normally, of course, this wouldn't bother me at all, but here's this year's scenario: September 14th is our school's Challenge Day (if you watch Oprah, you know what this is). My principal was asking who would be able to accompany students to the Challenge Day, and I remarked that I would have to check my calendar to see when Rosh Hashanah would fall this year. And my principal - bless her for taking note - said that she had already looked it up, and Rosh Hashanah this year would be on September 13. Of course, for the majority of Jewish streams, Rosh Hashanah is celebrated both the 13th and 14th. But for my other Jewish collegue, who is Reform, Rosh Hashanah is the 13th, and he'll be working on the 14th. Of course, this is fine, except that I'm paranoid, and I wonder if my principal is thinking, "She's not committed to this job at all. Obviously Jewish people come to work the day after Rosh Hashanah; look at this other guy."

Okay, that's off my chest. Now I've got lesson planning to do.

I understand the significance of this day, the saddest day in the Jewish year. We've heaped nearly all our tragedies on this day, the day of the destruction of the two Temples, the culmination of mourning that began three weeks ago, when the walls were breached.

However.

However, there was something so artificial about this day. How sad can a person be, how deep her mourning, for something she's never lost? Something - let's face it, she's not that crazy about in the first place, namely animal sacrifice and a priestly caste system?

Tisha B'Av represents the beginning of our spiritual exile from God, some say. But are we truly exiled from God? Isn't the point of so many of our holidays - the point of Shabbat! - that we are never truly exiled from God? Our worship has had to change, and for the better, I'd say. We've had to mature as a people. There's something so juvenile, so id-driven about the Israelites in the wilderness, whining their way to the Promised Land. They had primitive ideas about religion and God, as evidenced by their creation of the Golden Calf. Sure, they saw the thunder on the mountain, but some folks don't learn so quick.

How surprising was it, really, that the descendants of these people would foul it up? The Temple didn't work for them, didn't keep them focused and mindful.

What worked, it seems, was the *idea* of the Temple, as imagined from thousands upon millions of miles away from its site. What worked, it seems, was bringing the Temple into the home, making each Jew a priest. What worked, it seems, was the Rabbinic tradition, focusing our lives on reading, interpreting, understanding, and applying Torah.

So, this Tisha B'Av - incidentally, the first one I've observed - I really wasn't in the proper mindset. I thought the evening service was beautiful. (Chanan says it's his favorite.) Candlelight and Lamentations. Not sorrowful - reverent. Luminous.

The fast was tedious. What are you supposed to do after Shacharit anyway? After you've read the book of Job and all the destructive parts of Jeremiah and visited a cemetery? My friends slept, apparently. Very mournful. Chanan and I did our best, reading "sad" things and napping, but by three o'clock, I was ready for Moshiach and we just watched movies until Minchah.(Sad movies, of course.)

On Yom Kippur, I spent the entire day in services, with other Jews who were fasting. I felt part of something special, something bigger. It was an easy, meaningful fast. Tisha B'Av was just...dull. As in, "Are we sad yet? When's dinner?"

Tisha B'Av is a fast of mourning, not penitence. But penitence I understand. We feel bad because we as a people failed miserably. (But name one Jew who got it right! Moses screwed up, Abraham screwed up, nothing but lies and tragedy the whole way!) Let's get together and commiserate and bewail and resolve to do better. But mourn? Avoid greetings, stare at each other's flip-flops, and sit on the floor? If we are truly mourning, shouldn't we try to comfort each other? With food?

Ahhhhh. I'm sane again!

The leyning went great. I found my place, I didn't stumble, I could read every word on the scroll perfectly (no squished letters this time!), I hit my pazers...it was a dream. Well, a dream where I was shaking like a leaf, but that's normal.

The rabbi came up next to me on the bimah and whispered that I had done beautifully. And, like every time, someone came up and said, "That was gorgeous! Was that your first time?"

Why do people always think it's my first time?

I spent all of Shabbat morning trying to reprogram myself. To remind myself that I don't matter, the words do. To remind myself that I've spent weeks preparing my mouth to let these words out - to get out of their way. And I felt a little calmer.

But really, I'm just glad that it's over. Now that I'm on summer break, I have WAY too much time to sit and gnaw off my fingernails with worry. But I'm done done done for a while. Sadly, though, I think I've spooked Chanan off leyning. The rabbi approached him again about learning to read Torah, and his face instantly contorted in terror. I'm probably not the best candidate to reassure him.

I am in a funk.

I'm leyning this Shabbat for parashat Pinchas. The seventh aliyah, which is a mercy, because I'm tired of being the first to read when the scroll isn't rolled to the right place. It's my first twelve-liner, but I wasn't that worried when I agreed to the portion because there's a lot of repetition. And I've been practicing the lines for weeks.

But it doesn't matter. Because what I have finally realized is that with each new portion, I am becoming increasingly anxious. I'd hoped the reverse would be true: that the more I leyned, the easier it would get. And I have been able to learn the portions more quickly. But I have been growing steadily more panicky before I publicly read. Little random bursts of adrenaline throughout the weeks before I read. Heart-thumping fear and trembling.

I don't know why I'm so tense. But I am. So, I think this will be my last portion for a while. Maybe forever. And that's sad because I love reading Torah. But all this anxiety can't be healthy.

Thinking and writing about this is inducing a panic-attack, so it's time to change the subject.

I've been reading, researching, and developing plans for my aleph-bet class (which may end up being just an aleph or bet class). I've been doing this for three days straight, and I just can't stop. I am not trained as a primary school teacher, so I really wish I had someone to talk to about whether my plans are feasible or age-appropriate. Our director of education is in Israel right now, though, and I wouldn't bother her for anything.

But I really, really don't want to screw this up. I basically have only two and a half hours a week to teach these kids Hebrew and about Jewish holidays, culture, history, values, and the parashat hashavuah.

For my first class, I've planned for a guest speaker: someone to blow the shofar. Do I know a shofar-blower? I do not. Do I have access to a shofar? A kittel? A rubber chicken for kapparot? Am I crazy to teach about kapparot? But come on - swinging a chicken over your head? That's good learnin' right there.

And shouldn't my lessons be vertically aligned? Who's teaching gimel? Or bet, if I'm teaching aleph? What do they need my kids to know?

Plus, I've been doing some of my course planning for next year at my high school. We're changing the schedule (again), so instead of two-week long classes, I now have month-long classes. This is definitely a good thing, except that I have to reconceptualize all my courses.

I've been wanting to teach Shoah unit for the longest time, especially since I visited Yad VaShem last summer and picked up this awesome CD with survivor testimony. Of course, the Holocaust is a big chunk to chew, and though I thought about it all last year, I couldn't think of a way to approach the unit. I wanted to read Elie Wiesel's Night, since that's in my district's 10th grade curriculum, and I envisioned this multigenre research project about the Holocaust to go with it. But we're still only talking a month here.

Also, I'm an English teacher, not a social studies teacher. I had to think of an English and English-standardy way to teach Night. So, I re-envisioned the unit as being about memoirs and personal testimony and how they enlarge our understanding of history.

I sat down and created the skeleton of the unit and the summative assessments. But now I'm doubting the worth of this unit. Is this really the best approach? What could I do in this month that would really help the students become better readers, writers, thinkers?

I'm just a giant stressball. And this is summer vacation! I don't want to think any more. What I should do is read the Gordon Ramsey biography that's slung over the couch's armrest, play a video game, or bake a plum tart. I should not study my Hebrew as I have planned. I should definitely not practice my Torah portion. I should take all these Jewish teacher books and lock them in the closet.

And, oh God - what's going to happen to me next year? Am I moving? Where? What am I going to do with my life? Should I stay in public school? Should I get a degree in Jewish Education? Should I give it all up and cower in a corner somewhere? Can I handle a traditional school? What will I do with thirty plus kids in a classroom five or six times a day? What will I do with a continuous curriculum that actually lasts an entire year with more or less the same students?

What am I doing to myself?

So, my partner's dissertation proposal passed, with no revisions necessary, and with the dissertation itself underway, the hunt for a job begins. The first possibility that has arisen: Indiana University in Bloomington.

Hurrah?

I'm trying to be excited and supportive and, um, excited, but what in the world does a Jew do in Indiana? I checked: there are three synagogues in the entire STATE. And none of them are in Bloomington. The nearest is more than an hour and a half away!

My partner and I had been talking about how much we both wanted to live within walking distance of shul. But now reality is upon me: we could end up living somewhere with no synagogue at all!

I know, I know. I'm getting worked up over nothing. Or am I?

It's been forever and a day since I last posted! Well, at least a month. So much has been happening! Happily, distance from the events will probably curb my garrulous journaling.

The big event, the one I've been afraid to blog about lest I jinx the matter, is that my partner converted to Judaism. Calloo, callay! O frabjous day! Just about a month ago, he underwent the brit dam, the ritual drawing of blood which is the circumcised man's equivalent of the brit milah. The poor boy was terrified; he spent the day in a kind of rigor mortis. To make it worse, the other folks in our Living Judaism class who were also converting made horrible jokes (like wearing all red "so the blood doesn't show"), and yowled dramatically from the room during the process. (The room, by the way, was our rabbi's study, and I can't walk by that room any more without giggling.)

Though my partner was more anxious about the brit dam than any other aspect of the conversion, I was far more worried about the beit din and the mikvah. First of all, my partner had not yet told his parents that he was converting. (Actually, he still hasn't.) What if the beit din refused him because of this? And, as a matter of fact, they did ask him; how could they not, when his father is a Lutheran pastor? Happily, all my nagging for him to call his folks and tell them paid off, because he was able to report that he had made a good faith effort to contact them, even though he hadn't gotten through. Different time zones and all that. Then again, maybe the beit din felt as my partner feels; his conversion is a personal matter, and his parents needn't be involved in it. Hmm.

Well, the beit din gave him the go-ahead, and the following day, we made it down to the mikvah, where my sweetheart was duly dunked before his beit din. Because two of the rabbis were female, I was able to stand with them outside the door of the mikvah and listen as my partner dipped, splashed, and recited the blessings. Then we all sang "Siman Tov." I thought my face would split, I was smiling so wide.

And my partner, now Chanan, looked equally happy, even a little misty-eyed as our rabbi read him the charge.

Four other members of our class converted on the same day, so there was a lot of joy in that little waiting room. Two of the converts were a married pair who had never taken off their wedding bands (I'm not sure how they've been washing before the motzi, but there you have it), so we accompanied them to a park where they had the woman who had performed their commitment ceremony re-marry them. I think they're also planning yet another wedding, this time a Jewish one.

So, Chanan and I are now a Jewish couple. Funny - he's my first Jewish boyfriend! (And I had so enjoyed calling him my goy-friend.)

He had his first aliyah last week, and I helped make the kiddush in his honor. Honestly, that was an incredibly stressful week. I was staying at work until 6:00pm working with panicking seniors, we had the siyyum for the completion of our Living Judaism class, I was being observed by my principal for my end-of-year evaluation, and somehow I had to squeeze preparing a salad for 150 people into this mess during the specific hours I could access the shul's tiny kitchen, which had no salad spinner and was crammed full of the rest of the folks sponsoring the kiddush and the 6th grade minyan's Shabbat dinner. It's a little silly how stressed I was because, after all, I was only preparing a salad, whereas the other folks were baking and stewing and creating fruit bowls and salmon-cream cheese domes. On the other hand, it took me two and a half hours to wash all the bugs off the lettuce.

Chanan had promised to make Shabbat dinner that night so I could come home and relax...but he wasn't home when I returned to our apartment at 7:45pm, and I ended up doing all the Shabbat preparations. He also wasn't home when I lit candles at 8:30pm. And he wasn't home when I went to sleep at 9:45pm. In fact, he didn't get home until 11:00 or so because he had gone to Happy Hour with his department, and I was so sad and disappointed I had nothing to say. He, for his part, claimed to be deeply ashamed. He was under a lot of pressure and stress himself, and there had been an incident at work that had depressed him. Although I was disappointed, I wasn't nearly as angry as I had been in the past under similar circumstances. Chanan had already proven his commitment to living Jewishly by undergoing conversion, so I no longer had the anxiety on that front to feed my wrath.

In any case, the next day was a new day, a wonderful day. The day of Chanan's first aliyah. It's strange; I've heard him sing as he plays the guitar, but it wasn't until he was upon the bimah singing the blessings that I realized how beautiful his voice truly is. I wasn't surprised when a number of people assaulted him and asked when he was going to learn to leyn. There was a lot of gleeful beaming all around, and a lot of hugs.

Somewhere in between this mess, I leyned for the fifth time, and I was exceedingly anxious after my last two flubs on the bimah. Stomach churning, heart pounding, I made way up to the bimah for the first reading. Surprise, surprise: the scroll wasn't rolled to the right place. Believe you me, I checked and triple checked. Then I backed away and let the gabbais sort it out. It took a good five minutes of muttering and rolling and unrolling. And then it was fine, and I read.

When I bought my Artscroll tikkun, my mentor predicted that I would love it so much that I would feel let down by our Torah scroll. I had no idea what she meant; I've always loved our scroll. However, this time, I knew exactly what she meant. I'd always had shorter portions, five or six lines or less. This time, I had a portion with about ten lines, and I quickly realized that when there's more text, the scribe sometimes has to fudge a bit to squeeze everything into the proper place. As a result, the letters shrank and words almost ran together as I moved down the column, and my hand began shaking violently as I realized that if I lost my place or forgot a word, I would have no idea where I was or what I was reading. But I made it through, no mistakes. And I made my mentor promise me not to give me the first reading any more. (I've had the first reading the last three times!) And, I can take a breather until the fall. When I start teaching Sunday school. I am SO not going to think about *that* right now!

So, this weekend has featured a guest for our Scholar-in-Residence program: Rabbi Naomi Levy. Friday night featured the Kabbalat Shabbat service, followed by dinner, followed by Rabbi Levy's talk on "Saving God's Life." I was excited to attend Kabbalat Shabbat; usually my partner and I stay home Erev Shabbat because it's really the only night in our week we can spend together without other commitments dragging at us. Unfortunately, the week being what it was, we both slept through the service and barely made it to dinner!

The talk was interesting. Rabbi Levy focused on one of the priestly blessings and, weaving personal stories with rabbinic ones, urged us to let God's light shine through us, to remember our essential worth, to seek the serenity and equanimity of chein (grace).

I rather wish there had been less hype about Rabbi Levy (one of the top 50 rabbis in the country!). She was a lovely woman and an animated speaker, but I didn't feel she was saying anything unique. My partner even compared her to the Sunday morning televangelists - the same slick, polished performance and even similar themes. Again, she was a lovely woman and I enjoyed her 'drash - I just wish my expectations hadn't been quite so inflated.

The next morning, we made our way to shul, where we were quickly corralled in to make a minyan. As frequently happens, I was offered an aliyah, and in celebration of being hired as a teacher in the Sunday school, I happily accepted.

All went well...until my aliyah. I felt a little trickle of nervousness, but ignored it. After all, I'd done this at least a dozen times, not to mention that there was a transliterated copy of the blessing taped to the bimah. I touched my tzitzit to the scroll, held the rollers, and ... botched it miserably. I have no idea what happened, exactly. The details have blurred. Suffice to say, I stuttered out and mangled the opening words of the blessing badly enough for a gabbai to start sounding it out for me - which flustered me even further. Then I raced through the rest of the blessing, only to trip up again during the final line. Humiliations galore.

I should mention that Rabbi Levy was our guest darshan, so the sanctuary was packed full of folks eager to hear her talk. Pretty much everybody I knew was there to watch me make a complete hash of it. In fact, the next aliyah was Rabbi Levy herself, which meant I got to shake her hand and wished her "yesher koach" with burning cheeks and an utter lack of chein.

Of course, it wasn't all that bad. People botch the blessing all the time, and nobody really cares or remembers. But I'm a sensitive soul, and I wanted nothing more than to skulk out of the sanctuary and cry. (Which is precisely what I did when services were over.)

I always try to sess out a lesson or use from all of my mistakes. I know that the story of my embarrassing myself on the bimah may help a future bar/bat mitzvah feel better about his or her future honors. I know that mistakes keep me humble - wouldn't want to be cocky or even comfortable when approaching the Torah. Still, I hope hope hope I never, ever go through that again.

It definitely shakes my confidence that my last two times on the bimah, I flubbed it (once leyning, and now for the aliyah). I am especially anxious because next Shabbat I'm leyning the longest and trickiest portion I've yet met (and had the least amount of time to prepare it).

Oh, well. I'll make it through...one way or another!

Of course, what is really preoccupying my mind is my new job as a Sunday school teacher in the fall. Yes, it is no longer a mere possibility - it is now a confirmed reality. I'm going to be teaching 1st (Aleph) and 2nd (Bet) graders Hebrew, Jewish history & culture, holidays, music, values, et al every Sunday for 3.25 hours. This is insane because 1) I'm certificated to teach secondary school, 2) I'm still taking beginning Hebrew myself, 3) I still haven't celebrated all the Jewish holidays, 4) the holidays I have celebrated I've only celebrated once, and 5) even 1st and 2nd graders have more experience with Jewish history, culture, holidays, and music than me.

The director of education said I would enjoy the challenge.

She's right.

But, oy.

After services yesterday, the director of education at my shul asked if I would like to begin working part-time in the fall teaching in the Sunday school or young adult program.

I was completely floored. Me? A teacher?

Of course, I'm already a teacher. I teach English and Senior Seminar at an alternative high school, where I've been working for three years. But I never experienced Jewish education as a child. The idea of teaching little kids their aleph-bet frightens me. Unswayed, the director offered an afternoon session teaching middle schoolers whatever Jewish topic I'd like. I think this frightens me even more. I've only been in Jew 101 for about a year, and I'm pretty sure even the most disinterested sixth grader knows more about Jewish life, history, culture, etc. than me.

But I said yes. Yes, I would love to start the process of becoming a Jewish educator. Yes, I would love to help little kids learn the letters I've just learned. Yes, I would love to figure out what topics would engage teens and sustain their love and interest in Judaism.

I forsee a lot of research this summer...

To prepare for the seder, my rabbi asked her guests to come with a question to ask creatively. I wrote the following poem:

Questions of a Wicked Child

In the Flood,
the fish were spared,
for only the fish were without sin.

In Egypt, the fish died first.

When the Nile choked in blood,
did anyone dig wells to water the animals of Egypt?
The birds and lizards and feral cats,
the crocodiles and gazelles and even the rats -
did God lead them out of Egypt,
or were they also found guilty?

When Pharaoh commanded the death of the newborn, the midwives refused.
Pharaoh's daughter, who was also God's daughter, adopted one of the doomed.
Pharaoh's courtiers cried out for the Hebrews' release, for Moses was much
esteemed among them.

Small resistances: pebbles biting Pharaoh's feet.

Did they die of pestilence, of hunger, of fear?
Or did they merely wake to find their children dead?

Were there not ten righteous in all of Egypt?

Can peace only be won through bloodshed?
Can peace ever be won through bloodshed?

I ask my wise and wholesome siblings:
If God could harden Pharaoh's heart, why did He not soften it instead?

Not long ago, I watched a series of young people read from the Torah very, very badly. It was clear they had not practiced their portions much, and they stumbled over nearly every word, painfully sounding out syllables, interjecting ums and uhs and "Oh! MOshe!" as they crawled along.

I made a promise to myself that that would never, ever be me.

So I went up to the bimah yesterday, Shabbat HaGadol, excessively well-prepared. I knew both aliyot that I would read backwards and forwards. My heart thumped in my chest, but I felt excited. Ready.

I had the reading for the first aliyah.

I went up to the bimah, and the gabbai unrolled the scroll. I looked for the first words of my portion: "Vayadaber Adonai el-Moshe lemor." There they were. They looked just like the words in my brand new tikkun. I pointed, the gabbai verified, the person honored with the aliyah kissed the margin, the scroll closed, the blessing was intoned, the scroll unrolled. I placed my yad and read: "Vayadaber Adonai el-Moshe lemor . . . kach . . ."

The ellipses reveal the moment that I realized that I was not, in fact, reading from the correct place in the scroll. God told Moses to "kach Aaron," to take Aaron, but there was no kach Aaron in sight.

My heart and stomach lurched. Had I forgotten how to read Hebrew? Was I, in fact, looking at kach Aaron without realizing it? Oh, God, what should I do?

I knew my portion backwards and forwards. So I kept reading words that weren't there. I read them very well. So well, in fact, that I was three of five lines in before the gabbai noticed that my yad was hovering vaguely above the words, and four of five lines in before she realized that I was reading from memory.

"Stop!" she whispered urgently. With one line left to go, I stopped. The rabbi came over. "She's reading from memory!" the gabbai said. A leyner's job is to read from the scroll. No matter how well you know your portion, it's inappropriate to sing the words without following along on the scroll. I knew this, and I realized - too late - that I should have stopped "reading" immediately upon discovering I was in the wrong place, but I panicked.

All three of us looked at the page. "There it is!" I said, pointing to another place beginning with "Vayadaber Adonai el-Moshe lemor" - but still no "kach Aaron." Not the right place.

We unrolled the scroll and searched and searched and searched ... and found it at last. "Should I start over?" I asked the rabbi. She told me to pick up where I had left off. So I read the last remaining line.

The congregation, of course, had no idea what had happened. From their vantage, I had been reading flawlessly until the final line, then stopped for a minute or two. Had I lost my place? Had I forgotten the last line?

I slunk off the bimah to sit with a friend. As it happened, he had the honor of the fifth aliyah, which was the next portion I would read. We went up together. The gabbai made a point of showing me the place in the scroll.

I read, no mistakes.

At kiddush, a number of people congratulated me, said I had done a beautiful job. "Was that your first time?" a number of them asked. I blushed, embarrassed, and had to mumble "no."

As I prepared to leave for home, the rabbi stopped me. I cringed in preparation for the words of consolation.

"You really need to learn how to lead davening," she said. "You have an amazing voice."

I was filled with happiness.

The rabbi says that reading Torah is as close as we can get to experiencing the awe of Sinai. As long as we retain that sense of awe and humility, it doesn't matter what mistakes we make. And this "awful" experience definitely humbled me!

Its been a long time since my last post. I remember writing about how stressed I felt at work. Then, preparations for Pesach began. Oy.

This is the first time in my life that I've kashered my home, to say nothing of kashering it for Pesach! Heck, I've only attended one seder my entire life. I thought I was doing pretty well if I didn't bread - who knew that all my plates were absorbing the taste of chametz, that my toothpaste may have been processed with chametz, that any food that had been around during the days of chametz couldn't be eaten during the festival?

I read reams of paper about Pesach preparation, I knew that the traditional day to begin preparations was the day after Purim (but that I should have probably begun weeks before that), I knew I knew I knew.

I still put off all preparation until last Sunday.

For weeks after Purim I fretted and planned and fretted some more, but I did nothing but dread the days of cleaning and boiling and tossing.

It wasn't that bad.

Sure, I've replaced my 5am run and davening with my 5am cleaning and nailbiting. But here I sit in my living room, on a blanket that still needs to be washed, looking at my foil covered kitchen, which now contains a dozen unopenable cabinets, a kashered stovetop, and a kosher microwave. Heaven. Especially heaven-like if they don't eat in heaven.

What to eat when you can't have bread or cereal but don't want to open your matzah until Pesach? Hardboiled eggs, cottage cheese, yogurt, fruit. Not especially filling. But simple. Part of me thinks we should leave our cushy homes and go camping for Passover. Live outside with the simplest food. If we truly want to feel as if we too left Egypt - with its riches and sensuous comforts that made us long for our enslavement - shouldn't we leave our luxuries behind as well?

I've been reading Miriam's Kitchen, a memoir by Elizabeth Ehrlich. I'll have more to say about the book when I've finished reading it, but a particular passage begged attention:

"We're not there. We're miles from kosher. I sorted my dishes, pots, and implements for a trial run, assigned drawers and cupboards. Some of these items can't properly be kashered, or bear associations that taint them. Throw them in the drawer and pretend. Pretend I will use that barbecue fork to stir pasta with meat sauce from now on, because I've committed the pasta stirrer for dairy. Pretend the cheese grater never grated Parmesan.

"Must I live without real Parmesan?

"Don't have enough things. Washing up is a nightmare. Pareve things should be washed separately. Dishwasher half-full of the wrong kind. Meat and dairy sponges stacked together. Quick dinner leaves dairy plates; sink is full of previous meal's eat dishes. Silverware jumbled together in the dish drainer. Spatulas and graters in the wrong drawers, contaminated, pulled out by someone and used the wrong way.

"Do I have to stand there clearing the decks after each meal? Washing drying, putting away, supervising, being preoccupied? Does this force me into a little sphere, the kitchen?

"I'm only interested in the symbolism, so what if things get mixed up? I sort them out...but it's not the same anymore, the object carries a projected burden, projected by me, if not by actual molecules."

That's exactly how I feel about all parts of my Jewish life: I cross a threshold, and I can't pretend anymore. It must be done "right." Even if I don't believe there is a right way.

It's Purim, and - for the first time! - I have fulfilled the mitzvah of hearing the Megillah Esther. Grogger in hand, my partner and I whooped it up with the rest of the congregation. My favorite part was watching my fellow congregants davening with solemn sincerity while wearing tall, fluffy, many-colored hats and flashy costumes. (Our rabbi dressed as a rainbow, complete with pot-o-gold and face paint, and watching her dandle her costumed babies in both arms made me long for a camera.)

I've always identified with Esther, being a Persian Jew myself. Or, rather, a Jew who is half-Persian. My membership in the tribe comes by way of Eastern Europe. But, like Esther, I've been working on reconciling these disparate parts of my being.

I donated cans to the food drive, will be pooling tzedakah coins into a check for charity. Unfortunately, I didn't manage to get my baking done. I aspire to be like the couple in my Living Judaism who always go the extra mile and today distributed bulging gift bags with fruit, nuts, biscotti, and homemade brownies.

But my life motto for Judaism is: better late than never. So, when I returned home from shul, I baked the dough I made on Thursday. I'll give the cookies (shaped in peh, vav, resh, yod, and mem to spell Purim) to my Living Judaism class on Tuesday. Better late than never!

I am tickled pink! On previous snow days, I've felt a little lost without the safety of my schedule - especially when the snow has kept me trapped in my apartment. But today - oh, today! The snow began falling heavily at my school yesterday afternoon, blanketing my car, slushing the street, and making me skid through my thirty-mile commute. At home in Seattle, however, the snow dusted the treetops delicately, and the roads remained clear and dry. O frabjous day!

I have such plans for this day. My partner and I huffed our way through our chilly morning run. He went to work, and I finished my Hebrew assignment for the week. In about twenty minutes, our local Judaica store will open, and I'm going to buy myself a birthday present: a Kestenbaum tikun from which to study my leyning assignments. I'm also toying with the idea of baking up a storm to create mishloah manot for Purim. And mucking about the library a bit. Buying thank you cards for my partner's family, who all sent me birthday presents, much to my surprise.

So many possibilities, and finally a little time to actualize their potential!

I'm off to market! Purim cookie cutters, here I come!

I discover Shabbat dinner, part II: Saturday night. During the winter, this isn't a big deal; the sun sets and either we fire up the stove or take a walk to our favorite restaurant. But the days are getting longer. I've become a little too comfortable with my Shabbat evening menu: soup, salad, frittata, bread, cheese. I light the candles and rest easy, knowing my work is done.

Except that, in a short while, that won't be enough. I haven't been preparing anything for Shabbat lunch (we rely heavily on our shul's oneg luncheon), and I certainly don't prepare anything for dinner. Soon enough, the sun will set at 9:00 pm, and I won't be able to cook until 10:00 pm!

Hmmm. Looks like I have some new cooking tricks to learn.

Alas, our two-day midwinter break is over. And I feel ... great! My partner and I have started running again after a three-month hiatus. When he first brought it up, I resisted noisily; there was no way I was getting up even earlier! I didn't have time to run - didn't he realize how stressed I was about my extra work hours and classes and new Torah portion? But we ran anyway, and I immediately felt better about everything.

I'm actually sleeping more, eating less, and feeling more awake. And it was so easy; we just slipped back into our half-forgotten routine.

Meanwhile, I've been practicing my new Torah portion. I've taken on two aliyot this time because I want to eventually be able to handle an entire parashah by myself. I have the first one more or less down, but the second - oy! A tongue-twister!

For the first time in a long time, my partner and I skipped services this Shabbat. We had planned to go - it was Shabbat Shekalim, and although neither of us knew what that meant, it seemed important. But, after a restful night (for me, at least - my partner fell asleep on the couch and could not be budged), we woke to a gorgeous sunny day and impulsively made the decision to skip services and go for a long Shabbos stroll instead.

The past few weeks have been very stressful. I'm working additional hours at my school, which means I'm driving more (since I lost my carpool) and have more classes to prepare for. Even though my partner and I have been spending about the same amount of time together, we're both too exhausted during the week to really talk. Our typical Shabbat evening has us eating dinner and then falling asleep; our typical Shabbat morning has us attending services and then falling asleep.

So walking and talking for miles and hours was a rejuvenating experience. Not a smidgen of regret. Well, maybe a smidgen. Before our walk, I finished reading Abraham Joshua Heschel's The Sabbath. Heschel's vision of Shabbat is powerful and beautiful and intimidating. I'm at the point where I really do look forward to Shabbat and feel very relaxed and happy during its twenty-five hours. But Heschel...well, Heschel was definitely at a different level of experience. Part of me feels that "cheating" on Shabbat impedes my progress toward this deeper, fuller Shabbat experience.

That's probably the reason I am feeling increasingly compelled to make the daily prayers part of my life. I had always planned on davening at least the morning service every day after my bat mitzvah, but that hasn't happened. It's hard to surrender your time to something whose worth you're still evaluating.

But my inner impulse is urging me to stop dithering and pick up my siddur. One Amidah at a time, I suppose.

For the past couple of weeks, my partner and I have enjoyed Shabbat dinner at the homes of shul members, stayed up late, and drowsed through services the next morning. This past Friday, we finally stayed in. As predicted, we fell asleep at 7:00 pm. Bliss.

We were still a little late for services the next morning, but since that's because our pace was relaxed and shabbat-y, I didn't mind. We arrived toward the beginning of Shacharit, heard the full kriah of Yitro (and an amazing d'var by the rabbi about *seeing* the thunder at Sinai), schmoozed, went for a Shabbat stroll, snuggled on the couch with Jewish-y books (I'm still working on Hedaya's Accidents), made havdalah, and went to poker night with my coworkers.

Because of the poker night (where it was, as usual, alternately hilarious and unsettling to watch teachers let loose and party), we were eager to make havdalah. My partner had everything set out well ahead of time, was practically hopping in anticipation of trying out his new beard trimmer.

It's often like that Shabbat afternoon; we're both looking forward to making cups of fresh, hot tea or slices of buttered toast and popping a movie in the DVD player. As our work week becomes increasingly arduous, more and more sources of pleasure and entertainment are relegated to the weekend. And, with Shabbat restrictions, that usually means Sunday.

I was completely exhausted by 11:30 this Sunday morning. Sunday is the day of meal planning, of apartment cleaning, of errand running. We were also supposed to fit in a shul dues meeting and a walk in the new sculpture park with some of my partner's colleagues. And do our Hebrew homework. And, somehow, to relax. The thought of sitting down and watching a movie stresses me. Where's the time? I have groceries to buy, laundry to fold, dishes to wash. I have a long, long to-do list, and where does a movie (or a walk to the bookstore or a dinner out) fit in?

Frankly, all I really want to do is sleep. And now I miss those moments before havdalah, the last free, peaceful moments of Shabbat, when everything that needs doing can wait until tomorrow.