A Tisha B'Av Story

My cousin M and his wife L, who normally live in Jerusalem, arrived in my city to visit my family yesterday—and told me the following story.

M and L flew straight to my house from Toronto, where they stayed with L’s family for the nine days. Like the rest of klal Yisrael, they went to hear Eicha on motzai shabbos. When they came home, they got into an intense discussion with L’s father about the horrifically tragic occurrences described in the megillah. M asserted that these atrocities are not as distant as we generally assume. Many similarly terrifying things happened at the time of the Holocaust, and since we are still in galus, no one should ever feel overly secure.

With these thoughts in their minds, they went to bed.

At four in the morning L was awakened by a thunderous boom, as she felt the house shaking beneath her. Shocked, she shook M awake and declared: “Canada is under attack!” More explosions followed, and soon the entire family had gathered, awake and in a panic, trying to determine what was happening. From the window they could see a gigantic column of orange flame licking the sky, and a mushroom cloud of billowing smoke—and it wasn’t so far away.

No one had any idea what was going on. Petrified, they only knew that giant fireballs were illuminating the night sky nearby—and that it was Tisha B’Av. L’s parents made a rapid decision. They gathered up their family, their pets, and their passports, packed into the car, and started driving north, toward L’s father’s office.

They took refuge in his office, waiting to hear an accurate report of what had happened. As daylight broke, they heard: a propane plant had exploded. The area was being evacuated.

Relieved that the truth was far more benign than they had originally assumed, they staked out spaces for themselves on various pieces of furniture and tried to sleep. At 2 pm they were finally allowed to go back to their undamaged house.

Though they ended up sleeping almost until mincha once they finally got to real beds, their experience this Tisha B’Av was in way far more profound than a day, like mine, spent listening to Tisha B'Av appropriate shiurim.

They experienced, firsthand, the fear that characterizes this day in Jewish history. Their eyes witnessed images of destruction that the rest of us only conjured in imagination. They realized that in exile, tragedy is tangible, security nonexistent. Their Tisha B’Av was manifested in action, not just thought.

Thank God, it was a false alarm, and for the most part there were only minor injuries as a result of the explosion--though, tragically, one firefighter perished. May this be the last Tisha B’Av spent in exile; the final year of mourning for the Beis Hamikdash. May our tears next year be tears of joy, as we gather together in Jerusalem.

And let’s hope Toronto stays safe, too.

The Wall

I stood there at the kotel in Yerushalayim, the holiest site we have, and tried to pray.

I searched for the words to express myself, but even more, I searched for the emotion I knew I should feel.

My lips moved soundlessly as I began a one-sided dialogue with God. I told Him that this year has been hard for me, that I have learned a lot, but that I have lost a lot as well. I told Him that, as much as I have gained, I am concerned that the past few months have brought me to a place I’m not happy with, a place where much of my passion is merely surface-level. I am worried, I told Him, that some of the things I’ve learned have had negative effects as well as positive ones. For example, increased understanding of the other side of an issue can weaken one’s own convictions. If I can see every side of any coin, my own view becomes more blurry, my determination to follow through less intense.

You know that I still have my beliefs, I said. They’ve shifted this year, of course, as I’ve grown, and that’s a good thing. And I can still argue my perspective as eloquently as ever, and it sounds right to me, and True. But that’s just it. It’s all sounds. I like the sounds, I like the thoughts behind them, and when I articulate it, I am happy to believe it. But what is belief if it isn’t manifested in every aspect of life, if you don’t feel it there pulsing, behind everything you do? Judaism isn’t, it can’t be, purely intellectual. Intellectual it must be, I believe that, but it must be emotional as well. And more than emotional—it must be all encompassing. I used to have that, at least, much of the time. But now…?

And I told Him that I know the old me is gone. A certain purity of faith, a certain innocence, has vanished. I feel blasé now, in a way, jaded almost. I feel flat. It comes with the loss of emotion, which itself stems from a few factors I can (but won’t) name. I’ll regain the emotion, I am determined to do it, and so I will, but I will never have the old me back. I’ll reach a new level, somewhere more nuanced, more complex; yet I will miss the way I was. I’m a lot older now—not in days, but in spirit. I will be refreshed one day, I pray—but there is no going back. I resolve to go forward.

So I stood there, talking to Him, spilling out my soul, yet all along I realized: it wasn’t real.

I wanted it, so badly, to be real. I was trying so hard. Yet I still couldn’t feel anything. I said to myself, this is the kotel, the holiest place, I must feel the connection. But then I answered back: this is only the outer wall. Inside, behind this wall, the Beit Hamikdash should lie. Behind this wall is where the Shechina really dwelt. But here—I was on the outside.

I stood, gazing up, at the stones of a wall, too solid to break through. And inside myself stood another structure of stone, separating me from my emotion, from reaching God and holiness. And I felt—how I hated to admit it!—that I was only talking to myself.

As I backed away from the kotel and into the plaza, my heart was heavy—because that was the only thought that could wet my eyes with tears.

In The Time of Our Lives...

Lately, it seems that God has been conspiring to remind me that every moment I am permitted on this earth is precious, not to be taken for granted. Yesterday, this post made me cry. This morning, an email informed me of the sudden death of a girl I shared a class with in college, and who attended my seminary only a year before I did.

If those factors weren’t enough, this afternoon I was placed only seconds away from horrible injury, if not death. My sister, who just got her driver’s license, was at the wheel, and though my mother yelled, “Stop! Stop!” she continued to make a slow left-hand turn, right in front of a rapidly approaching oncoming car. I closed my eyes, braced for an impact. The earsplitting screech of the other car’s brakes alerted me to the fact that, miraculously, we had escaped unscathed. It took several moments for my breathing to return to normal, and longer for my mind to attempt to grasp the concept: instead of laughing shakily as my sister repeatedly crept forward and reversed in an attempt to park the car—I could have been dead.

It has been said a thousand times, but it’s infinitely true: life is fragile. We have little control over what happens in our lives, and any day could be our last. Yet, we must not, we cannot, live our lives conscious of this fact at every second. To do so would be to live a life of fear. And so, blessedly, we are often able to forget. Yet, an occasional reminder of mortality is necessary. It is sobering, but uplifting, providing an insistent call to make the most of each opportunity we have to find beauty and meaning in this life.

Of Violets and Light

I have just finished E.M. Forster's "A Room With a View." If you have not read it lately, I recommend that you do. It contains all that a book should: Truth, beauty, hope.

Sometimes, a book affects me this way. Making my breath come fast, my cheeks flush, my heart beat, merely from the truth and beauty of it. When I read a book that is truly successful, it touches me, in a physical way—with tears, with a tangible joy; a feeling of soaring, of extending somehow beyond myself, a strange and marvelous connection. It is not the plot that affects me thus—I never cry at the death of a character, rarely rejoice in a long-awaited reunion of lovers. It is the Truths behind the words—it is always the ideas—that affect me in this way. And this is the power of writing: the power of speaking to the soul, a power that is unique.

I dare not hope to harness such a power—this ability is bestowed on infinitely fewer mortals than live to see their names in print—but if I can channel even a small fraction of this gift, even just once in my life, I will have achieved something wonderful; I will have experienced a euphoria unintelligible to those who have never sought it.

In the meantime, I can only bask in the accomplishments of others, awestruck, benefiting immeasurably from their ability to somehow compress Truth and fit it between the slim and physical covers of a magically transcendent tool that I can hold in my hand.

Seeing More Clearly

This morning, as I was washing my face, one of my contacts fell out.

I have contacts that are meant to be worn a month at a time, without being taken out, even to sleep. This means that I close my eyes at night with the ability to see, and I open them in the morning with the same capacity. It also means that I sometimes forget that I am extremely myopic, in the most literal sense. Without contacts or glasses, anything that is further than four inches away from my eyes appears blurry; things that are mere feet away look like nothing but colorful blobs.

I am supposed to change my contacts every month, and to give my eyes a break by wearing my glasses for a day in between. I hate my glasses. Not only because I think they look awful on me, but because they fall down my nose at the slightest provocation and allow me no peripheral vision. When my contact fell out this morning, I figured it had been about a month since I changed them, so I removed the other one and dutifully put on my glasses, intending to put in a new pair of contacts before shabbos started. I soon found that the glasses were almost more trouble than they were worth—getting caught on my hair and making themselves generally obnoxious. So I took them off, and tried to function.

It was then that it hit me: I have a serious handicap. I can’t do anything, really, without visual correction.

I realized that if I lived in another era, I would be practically incapacitated. Not only that, but I would miss out on so much of what brings me joy in life: a breathtaking mountain view or sunset, a thoughtful and entertaining dramatic production, watching the interesting people on the subway—even my friends’ faces would be lost to me unless inches from my own. Learning would be a lot more difficult too, and seeing the board in class—forget it.

Yet here I am, with the luxury of forgetting that I even have this disability, thanks to the wonders of modern science and technology. In a societal climate of complaint and general dissatisfaction, I can only feel incredibly grateful to God for the opportunities afforded me, not the least of which is the chance to live a normal life, independent and fully-sighted.

And in case you haven’t guessed, I put my glasses back on.

A Solitary Summer

WARNING: The following post lies somewhere on the border between philosophical and just depressing.

I am home for the summer, which means three months of relative social isolation and a significantly decreased level of structured activity. To many, a three month vacation sounds like bliss. But let me tell you, it is easier said than done. At risk of incurring the annoyed frustration of those not fortunate enough to have a summer break, I will attempt to explain why I have often found the past (it hasn’t even been a) week so difficult.

One obvious reason is that empty time gives ample opportunity to think about things that one would rather forget. Left without distractions, all the worries, anxieties, and hurt that you try so diligently to ignore are suddenly very present—and there is nowhere to hide.

The second reason is loneliness. Many of my friends in similar situations have complained of feeling lonely. Personally, I have suffered acutely from the same malady. Yet it seems somewhat unreasonable. Ok, so I’m not seeing people nearly as often as I did during the year when we all lived in a dorm on top of each other, but I still have friends, right? There’s always email and g-chat and the telephone—and one or two people in town who I can drive over to see every once in not-too-long-a-while. Yet alone in my room in the evening, the feeling of loneliness grows oppressive. An equivalent solitary night in the dorm would not have me feeling this way—why?

I think the answer lies in the fact that an extended absence allows me to realize how little I am needed.

I am blessed with many wonderful friends, yet how many of them do I really talk to over the summer? Which of my friends feels the need to call me, specifically me, on a consistent basis? Honestly, very few, if any. We’re in touch, but mostly because they, too, are lonely and crave human contact. It isn’t me they need. No one truly cares enough to feel that a day would be lacking without me, without my unique input and perspective.

Of course, this is perfectly normal. Very few people are that reliant on their friends. But we don’t like to remember that—and on an ordinary basis, we don’t have to. We can feel important; involved in each other’s lives every day because we see each other every day—and that is reassuring. But here, over the summer, in my dimly-lit room at night on my own, I remember that I am just one insignificant person. And that can be scary; and it can make me feel alone, in a way that irrationally whispers to my soul, "No escape."

Perhaps it isn’t such a bad thing—an occasional reminder of one’s relative unimportance is probably quite healthy. But then again, three months of the brutal truth is likely more than I need—though hopefully not more than I can handle.

Clarification: The comments on this post indicated that I wasn't totally clear about my intention and meaning; therefore, my expanded response is as follows (as copied from the comments on this post):

I never meant to intimate that close friends don’t truly care about each other—of course we do—but that is not the same as needing each other. Certainly, our lives are enhanced by our interactions, and we miss each other when we’re apart for extended periods of time. And naturally, when things happen in our lives, we want to discuss them with our friends—but in a more general sense. In other words, because I need to vent or want an outsider’s perspective, I will select one of my friends to talk to. Often, though, that choice will be dependent on who’s logged in to g-chat when I want to talk, or who is around and will be open to listening. Except in occasional specific situations, we don’t usually single out one individual as the person whose unique opinion we seek. Generally, it isn’t, “Wow, this issue just occurred to me—I’ve got to call SJ to hear what she has to say,” or “I won’t feel that I have a complete perspective on this until I’ve heard Erachet’s opinion.”

Nor do I think that it would necessarily be better in any way if this was the case. In my experience, such intense investment in a specific person primarily occurs only in romantic relationships or in a situation where one person is viewed as mentor to the other (in which case, the mentee needs the mentor, but not vice versa). However, being confronted by the reality that there is no one who relies on you to such a degree, who would find his/her life significantly less comprehensible without you, isn’t so much fun. We don’t like to remember the fact that when our friends—even close friends—are no longer in close proximity to us, we often drift apart.

Also, I did not intend to imply that I do not know how to be alone. I think it is extremely important for people to be comfortable enough with themselves to spend time alone; such time is vital for introspection and self-discovery. During the school year, I enjoy spending time on my own—reading, writing, walking, watching, and thinking—which is why I wondered what makes the summer different: why does being alone suddenly become oppressive?

This post was not about having a negative attitude. I didn’t write it merely to express my loneliness or to receive assurances from friends (though those are, of course, additional perks). I wrote it because in contemplating my distress I came to a realization about why I was feeling that way, and I thought that realization was interesting for what it reveals about human nature.

Like Today Never Happened Before...

What can I say about this year?

It is amazing how much can happen, how much can change, in such a short amount of time. This year I have experienced more, have learned more, than I ever dreamed I would. I remember the girl I was at this time last year, and though we’re still on good terms, I’m not that girl. I’m older, hopefully wiser, definitely more mature. I’ve gone through major upheaval, in both the emotional and intellectual realms. I’ve made important decisions on my own: good decisions, stupid decisions, decisions that have taken me down paths I didn’t know I would choose.

Of all that I’ve learned this year—and, as I said, it has been much—one of the most important practical lessons I’ve gained is this: you can’t allow the things that bother you to take ownership of your life.

Everyone has problems, each of us on our own level, and whatever our issues, they seem most important to us. And though much may be said about putting your problems in perspective and realizing how good you have it in comparison to others, ultimately we are self-centered creatures—God made us that way—and we will always be concerned about our own issues, however trivial they may be in the grand scheme of things. And the truth is, that’s natural.

But it is vital not to allow these problems to stand in the way of life. Focusing on and constantly rehashing issues will lead only to a life of negativity and despair, resulting in uselessness. No matter how bleak things feel, we must push ourselves to be productive, to strive for our ideals, to fight the fight, no matter how small our army may seem.

It isn’t easy. I sometimes fail. But I keep trying, and I will keep trying—and somehow I will find my way.

The Limits of Empathy

When tragedy hits another, someone you’ve never met and never will meet, what is your response?

Very few people will brush off the news without even a second thought. Even fewer (probably none) will feel the pain like someone who was directly affected. But between these two extremes, what is your reaction, and what do you believe the proper reaction should be? Is it correct to feel pain, and if so, to what extent? Should one encourage feelings of pain and sadness, or try to dispel them?

There are, as I see it, pros and cons to each side. One might argue that you should encourage and experience sensations of grief: this is empathy, feeling for someone else, a compassionate human quality. When you suffer, I suffer, because we are all intrinsically connected.

However, on the other side, if I allow myself to grieve, if I dwell on the tragedy, cry, and feel pain, where do I draw the line? At what point do I distract myself from these thoughts, or allow myself to be distracted? At what point does my grief for people unknown become excessive, detracting from my ability to do other things, to be productive, to live my own life? Is it really right for me to be sad and depressed, even for just a number of hours, because of something that didn’t happen to me, and that only hurts me because I allow it to?

"Which Way Is Up?" Revisited

About a year and a half ago I began this blog. Before logging on to create an account, I knew I needed a name—but I drew a complete blank. I had a hard time coming up with a title that I felt would somehow epitomize me and what I intended to do with my little piece of cyberspace. Eventually, after much deliberation, I settled on “Which Way Is Up?” with the subhead “Perpetually searching for the answer.”

I’ve always been a thoughtful person, someone who thinks about what she does and why she does it. I’ve come to where I am in life through much reflection and by drawing my own conclusions. And I acknowledge that, young as I am, my process of development is nowhere near its end. In fact, I hope and expect to be thinking and growing for as long as I am allowed the privilege of living in this world.

I am also a strong believer in the multiplicity of perspectives that exist within Torah Judaism. As one of my Rebbeim in seminary put it: “Gray is my hashkafa.” The right choice is not always clear; every decision comes with sacrifices, every chumra with a kulah. Because of the existence of endless nuance, every choice must be evaluated on its own; the answer perpetually sought, rarely crystal clear.

For all of these reasons, I chose “Which Way” to represent myself and my blog—symbolic of my constant search for the truest path, a search I know will never be concluded.

However, for most of my blog’s lifespan, its title has not necessarily reflected the content of its posts. Though it was an accurate depiction of a crucial aspect of its author’s philosophy, the blog itself was not (primarily) utilized as a medium to further that mission. Though I’ve touched on philosophical topics, most of those posts did not generate much further discussion—and I’ve also spent lots of blogspace regaling readers with tales of procrastination and adventures (in NYC, London, Israel, and elsewhere), as well as musings on writing, chagim, and lots of other randomness.

Over the past number of months, I’ve found myself thinking even more than usual. I’ve come back to philosophical questions I might have considered “settled” before, and have pondered many more that had never occurred to me. More than ever, I feel myself seeking discussion and debate. Not just about the ‘big’ questions of life and religion, but also about more specific topics that occur to me at random.

At the beginning of The Lonely Man of Faith, the Rav writes, “Knowledge in general and self-knowledge in particular are gained not only from discovering logical answers but also from formulating logical, even though unanswerable, questions.” Asking questions is a crucial exercise, even when no one conclusive answer is reached.

So when questions occur to me, I want discussion, above all. I thank God that I am blessed with several circles of wonderful and intelligent friends, but often I want more than a single perspective can offer. I want a discussion that extends beyond one, two, three, people, into a larger circle of diverging viewpoints.

And so I’ve found myself turning to my blog as a place to ask questions, and hopefully generate discussion. Within the past months, the comments on these posts are the closest my blog has come to providing what I’m looking for, but I have about six or seven posts—philosophical issues or questions—running through my head that I’d like to write up and discuss. I cannot promise that I will do so, and I’m not planning to start writing every day (far from it!), but I would love to create a place for meaningful thought and discussion—and none of that can happen without you, the readers and commenters.

So welcome all—I encourage you to add your unique perspectives to every post, to make this blog a place for questions, for Truth-seeking, and for knowledge in general and self-knowledge in particular.

God's Plan and Free Will

We like to say Hashem has a plan, He doesn’t give us more than we can handle, it’s in His hands and it’s all for the best. But how often are these sentiments repeated merely to make ourselves feel better? How much hashgacha does God really have over each event in our individual lives? At best, it is a major philosophical debate. Is He really choosing each occurrence, leading up to a final culmination of the fate He has in store for each of us? Rambam would say no. And we have no way to know for sure.

And even assuming that He is guiding each step of our lives, how much room is there for us to mess it up? We have free will, don’t we? Doesn’t that mean that despite Hashem’s best laid plans, we have the ability to make mistakes and ruin it all? What if, presented with that golden opportunity, we turn it down? We are human, we are flawed, we cannot always see what the correct choice is, so we stumble along, doing out best. But what if we are wrong? What if that chance is lost?

Why I Cried

As I sat in the back seat of my parents' rented car, departing three hours early for a wedding that was 1.5 hours' drive away (my father is ridiculously paranoid about traffic), my emotions were mixed. I was grateful to be well enough to be out of bed, happy to see my parents, glad to be going to a simcha; but also weak and drained from my illness, nervous about the week and a half of school I'd missed, and stressed by the rush from class to meet my parents. My feelings sloshed around messily inside me. And then my phone buzzed, a text message from my friend.

"Terrorists infiltrated yeshivat merkaz harav and have killed at least 7 yeshiva boys. Please say tehillim and please pass the message around….."

My heart stopped. It didn't sink in. "Um, bad news," I stuttered aloud to my parents. "There's been a terrorist attack at a yeshiva in Yerushalayim."

For once my news-conscious father had not been listening to the radio. He turned it on.

"…at least seven killed and dozens wounded in a terrorist attack on a religious seminary in Jerusalem. Sources say the attacker infiltrated the school by dressing up as a student…"

When I heard the anonymous American news anchor say these words in his flat, emotionless American voice, the tears began to spill out of my eyes faster than I could catch them. Even I was surprised by the violence of my reaction. I didn't want to make a scene or alarm my parents, so I tried to cry noiselessly, unobtrusively, in the back seat. My father noticed, and tactfully said nothing.

I cried.

....

I love my land, my people; I feel connected; but I am not usually the type who cries so easily for tragedies that I haven't experienced firsthand. So why today?

Lately, I think, I have been far away. While my ideals of unity and connectedness were still intact, the emotions that accompany them had been gradually diminishing. My mind had been full of other ideas, other emotions. Important ideas, important emotions, yes, but my head and my heart can only focus on a certain amount at a time. It is part of the limit of being human; every choice requires a sacrifice, whether conscious or not.

And suddenly, I found myself confronted with a tragedy. A reminder.

In my head, I saw Yeshivat Merkaz Harav as I most vividly remember it: the night of Yom Ha'atzmaut after maariv, hundreds of young men, dancing with pure joy, full of gratitude to Hashem, celebrating our ability to live in our homeland. And then I imagined the same place, filled with emergency vehicles, stained with blood.

I cried.

I felt it, I felt the hurt. How could they do such a thing to us?

And then, to hear the bored anchor continue tonelessly on to other news, treated as equally, if not more, important—trivial news, most of it—ripped me apart. I yelled silently at the radio: "What do you mean!? That's all?! That's all you have to say? Do you understand what you just said? How can you just move on from that? How can you talk about the stupid tiny details of the primary vote tallies, or the four-year-old girl who showed up to school drunk? They just killed at least seven members of my family!"

But, of course, the news anchor really didn't care much. Why should he, in truth? Israel is a tiny country, far away; for him, the people there exist only in the same way that all theoretical people exist, the ones we've never met and never will meet.

Realizing this, I felt, anew, that connection, that pull, that reminds me why I care, why this feels so different to me than it does to Mr. News Anchor. Kol Yisrael areivim zeh lazeh: we are one family; we are connected.

It is not a question of politics. It is not about the right solution, the wrong solution, whether there is a solution. And for me, it doesn't feel like a time to ask God why, either. It feels like a time to feel. A time to experience the emotion of connectedness; to hurt because of my brothers' and sisters' hurt, to stand together as one people, united against those who wish to exterminate us.

Am Yisrael chai.

Thank You

Over the past three days I have been reminded how much I take for granted on a daily basis. I have bronchitis, but thank God, I am now on the mend. I’m still in bed, but the fact that I even have the strength to type this, that I have the mental clarity to write semi-coherently, proves that I am doing better. I have been pretty much totally bedridden since Monday morning, too weak to move, think, or do anything at all. And the hallucinations were fun, too. I can’t remember the last time I was this sick, if ever. Being sick in a dorm, thousands of miles away from home, is not pleasant, let me tell you. Three days may not sound long, but stuck in bed in a tiny room alone, it feels quite a bit longer.

But of course, I have learned some valuable lessons in appreciation.

I appreciate so much my ability to think, to go to class, to learn, to absorb, and to come to logical conclusions.

I appreciate my ability to create, to write essays, stories, blog posts, and even emails.

I appreciate my ability to be active, to go places and see things and get things done.

With all these abilities taken away from me temporarily, I am reminded how infinitely blessed I am.

And finally, I appreciate my friends. I appreciate every single person who has helped me through this—from wishing me a refuah sheleimah to giving me a hug and not fearing the germs; from getting my prescription for me to bringing me food (you know I wouldn’t have eaten at all if it wasn’t for you guys). Thank you all so much; you are truly wonderful and I love you.

And b’ezrat Hashem, I’ll be up again tomorrow!

After The Show

It’s amazing how a performance lifts you out of real life. The past two days have been nothing but a blur of rehearsal, preparation, and brief intervals of classes that I barely even remember. There’s always a sort of wistful feeling when a performance is over—even a minor performance, like the one I just completed.

Getting ready, right before the show, is incredibly nerve-wracking but simultaneously exhilarating. I prep, I practice, I primp, until everything is as right as I can make it in the short time I have left. Costume is essential: whisked out of my typical denim skirt/solid top ensemble, my new outfit defines me, transmitting vibes of a different persona, the person I will become on stage.

Performing itself is, for me, like an out of body experience. I hardly know I’m there as it’s going on; it isn’t me in control; I’m only half-conscious; and then BAM, it’s all over—all the hard work, the hours, the energy: gone.

Then there are the regrets: I was so much better during the rehearsals—I didn’t come off as well as I should have—if only I could do it again!

Then the rush of watching the rest of the show, my amazing fellow performers; then, after the show, enjoying (and evading) congratulations from friends, and trying to discourage well-intentioned audience members offering overenthusiastic praise that I don’t really deserve.

I always hang around until the very end, lingering at the performance venue until everyone is gone and the disassembling and clean-up is nearly complete. I hate that part, the ending: going back to my dorm room, on a high with nowhere to go, no way to channel the remaining energy.

So here I am. There’s no way I’m getting any schoolwork done tonight. Tomorrow I’ll confront real life again, but tonight, I’ll admire my leftover makeup and dream about glamour now past.

Another Post About Driving

Guess what? I’m hosting a blog party, and you’re all invited!

Since I am currently home for winter break, which makes the gathering of my friends for a spontaneous celebration considerably more difficult, I decided that the blogosphere would be a universally convenient place for us all to congregate.

What is the special occasion, you ask? “It can’t be her birthday,” you wonder, “she turned 21 just over a month ago. Perhaps it is an unbirthday party?” No no no. It is, in fact, a celebration of my braverism (ten points to anyone who gets the reference).

As follows: faithful readers will recall my freeway driving experience of a few months ago, and the elation I felt upon achieving that milestone. Those of you clamoring for an update are in luck: another milestone has been reached. Several, in fact.

Today I drove: (a) without a thorough (or even cursory) knowledge of how to get where I was going, (b) on seriously long expanses of freeway, and (c) through feet of snow and ice. No I am not joking; those of you who know me can pick your jaws up off the floor now.

Right, I deserve a party?

Admittedly, I did have Erachet in the passenger’s seat navigating and providing moral support, but since she is no driver herself, and had even less of a clue about where we were headed than I did, I still consider it quite a feat.

No matter that we skidded a little; that the steering wheel took on a mind of its own a few times; that I made a sudden swerve across three lanes; that I had to focus all my energy merely on clearing the windshield of foggyice for much of the trip; that I drove most of the way home as night fell without my headlights on—I made it, all in one piece, and so did Erachet, and so did the car—and that is what really matters, right?

Oh, and speaking of braverism, we also successfully faced a demon squirrel, and came away none the worse for wear, and with our lunches intact. Stop laughing, it was seriously scary—ask Erachet!

Now that you know why we’re having this party, come in, relax, put on some music, help yourself to some virtual ice cream, and start a deep philosophical conversation in the comment thread (what better party activity, after all?). Or write me something very creative or amusing. Or just say hello. Let me know you’ve come, in any case. It would be a shame to have a party without any guests.

Oh, and since I’m legal, let’s drink a toast: to conquering all our fears!

Do We Create God In Our Image?

We are the devout, the believers. We follow God’s laws to the best of our abilities, we center our lives around what we believe He desires, we address Him daily in our prayers. Yet, do you and I really worship the same deity?

Orthodox Judaism dictates belief in a single God—a God whose oneness transcends any unity we can conceive of; whose omniscience is undisputed; whose incorporeality puts Him beyond the scope of our imaginations. Yet we attempt to have a relationship with this God—because we wish it and because we believe that He wishes it. And so we try, futile as it may be, to figure out what He wants us to do on a daily basis, to turn to Him for answers.

The problem is this: as humans we are so limited, our perspectives so narrow—is it really God we relate to, or merely our own personal conception of Him? As limited humans, we know only ourselves. We relate to others, but we can never really enter into anyone’s consciousness but our own. As Rav Soloveitchik explains in his essay Confrontation: “Each [person] exists in a singular manner, completely absorbed in his individual awareness which is egocentric and exclusive. The sun of existence rises with the birth of one's self awareness and sets with its termination. It is beyond the experiential power of an individual to visualize an existence preceding or following his.”

Because we are so innately self-centered, it naturally follows that our view of God is affected by our own personal outlook and biases. The way I view God differs from the way you view Him, because I view the world differently than you do. Even two people within the same sub-sub-group of Orthodox Judaism will not view God in the same way, because each person is, inescapably, an individual.

I was speaking to a few friends the other day, remembering the ways in which we used to picture God when we were very young. We were all brought up with the idea of one God who knew everything, we were probably taught very similar things in school—yet the differences between the ways we conceived of Him were easily discerned. One friend remembered thinking of a tall, Rabbinic looking figure with a long white beard. Another friend simply visualized a large, magnificent throne to pray to. And yet another (slightly odd) friend imagined a giant cucumber in the sky (no, I’m not kidding). Personally, I don’t remember creating a visual image, but no doubt I had my own unique ideas nevertheless.

In children, these differences are obvious, because they conceive of God in a very physical way. We can easily recognize the contrasts between the various pictures we drew in our minds. As mature adults, though, are we so different? Perhaps we are no longer thinking of old men or thrones or cucumbers, but we do imagine a God that fits with our own personal ideas. Is He a friend to confide secrets to, or a stern taskmaster who punishes? A regal king or a familiar father? Theologically we’d probably answer “all of the above,” but when we talk to Him, who are we really talking to?

This presents a serious danger. If everyone has a tailor-made God, where is the line between God and self? When I talk to Hashem, who is to say that in reality I am not merely talking to myself? This is a frightening thought. If I have created God in my own image, then what do I have, really? I have an imagined relationship with something of my own creation, not with the true King. Yet, is this an avoidable phenomenon? It is truly a dilemma, and one that I think we all must recognize.

It occurred to me that is this issue that makes the prescribed words of tefillah so important. Many people (including myself) are often frustrated by the repetitiveness of tefillah--the same words, three times a day, over and over and over. Where is the originality? Where is the individuality? How is one supposed to feel anything when we are forced to endlessly repeat? As valid as these concerns are, individualized prayer presents a hazard that is even more pressing. Without a prescribed formula for prayer, people would simply tailor their words to their own personal God, and could very soon lose sight of the greater concept of God entirely. The words of tefillah force us to think of God in a certain way, reminding us of true ideas about God, preventing us from praying to a God wholly of our own imagination and conception. Though it does not eliminate the philosophical dilemma entirely, by any means, it is one tool that the system provides in order to help us grapple with this complex issue.

21

I turned 21 today. It just felt like I ought to mention that.

Ok, that was fun.

(Comments on the post below are still going, so keep talking because I'm interested!)

Which Would You Choose?

Last shabbos I attended an NCSY regional convention, where, among other things, I played a game called “Would You Rather?” This game, an indecisive person’s ultimate nightmare, presents you with two scenarios (usually, both awful) and then forces you to choose which one you’d prefer.

A few weeks ago, someone asked me a question which put me in a similar position. I gave my own answer, but I’d be interested to hear some other perspectives. The situation is this:

If you had the choice between being mekareiv 10,000 people who will then be “frum” to a normal halachic standard, or being mekareiv one person who will go on to become the gadol hador—which would you choose?

The Perks of Living in the City

or
Amazingly Awesome Things I have Done In the Past Few Weeks:

I am not a New Yorker, nor do I ever plan to be one. Though this is my third year living in NYC for college, I do not plan to stay here long—certainly not long-term. Yet, as much as I may complain about the New York area and Manhattan in specific, sometimes living in the city is amazing. In the past I’ve sometimes tended to get caught up in school and school-related things and not get out as much as I should. This year, I am happy to report, I have been doing a better job of exploring and experiencing New York. As follows, a brief guide/summary of some of the attractions I’ve discovered in my current city of residence.

Times Square -- though it is one of the most well-known tourist sites in New York, there is so much to see and do that it’s exciting to go back again and again even for those of us who live just a few blocks away. Some things to see in Times Square:

• Toys “R” Us – this store may be known to in-towners as nothing but a trite date-site, but really it is much more. Yes, it’s a great place to spy on shidduch dates, if that’s one of your hobbies (“Oooh, that one’s not going well, look at how her arms are crossed—I guess she’s not a fan of Ninja Turtles”; “They’ve for sure been dating a while, they look totally comfortable together”; “No matter how many we see, I still think a black hat and suit look strange in a toy store”), but it’s also a terrific spot to go with friends. One upside of going with an all-female group is the ability to spend extended amounts of time in the Barbie section without having to deal with a male feeling his masculinity challenged by an overload of pink. Seriously though, for those of us who are still on good terms with the 7-year-old inside us, it is always a ton of fun.


• The M&M Store, The Hershey’s Store – the former is much bigger (three floors) and carries anything you could ever want or need—all emblazoned with the M&M logo or pictures of the various M&Ms from the ads. They also carry M&M candies in more colors than you could have ever imagined. You won’t necessarily buy anything there, but it’s fun to look. The latter is much smaller, and in my mind a bit overrated. It doesn’t really sell much but chocolate—but then again, there’s nothing wrong with chocolate. :)


• Dale and Thomas Popcorn, aka Popcorn Indiana – carries popcorn in all sorts of flavours, including cheddar, kettle corn, barbeque, chocolate caramel, and white chocolate peanut butter—and it’s all kosher! My personal favourite is the kettle corn, which is the only flavour of which I am able to consume large amounts at a time. The ones with chocolate are amazing, but so rich that it’s hard to have more than a little. The popcorn costs little more than Starbucks, but is much yummier. I’m a fan.


• Broadway Shows – I am a huge fan of musicals, and Broadway shows, though often quite costly, generally provide an experience exciting enough to talk about for weeks. There are various methods of obtaining tickets for less, some of which I’ve found more effective than others. TKTS, in my experience, won’t offer tickets cheaper than can be bought at the box office, but will usually give better seats for the same price. Student rush tickets are available for some shows, or if you’re feeling lucky, many shows have a lottery for $20-25 front row seats. Take, for example, Wicked—one of my favourite shows ever. Long-time devotees of this blog may recall that I saw it in London, but of course that isn’t the same as seeing it on Broadway. Before today, I had twice entered the lottery and left empty handed. Today, however, I entered…and won! My friend and I paid $26.25 each and sat in the second row! We were so close that I could see Galinda’s zits hidden under seven layers of cover up. It was awesome, to say the least.

Pylones Stores -- never heard of them? Neither have most people—but trust me, they are incredible. Pylones makes accessories, furniture, kitchen appliances, keychains—all in bright, shiny, funky prints and shapes. They have three stores in the city; I recently discovered the one in Soho. The picture on the left will give you an idea of the kind of place it is. ‘Nuff said.

Poet’s House Reading Room – ok, so my Writing Children’s Lit teacher forced me to go. But it was cool anyway! A small room on the second floor of 72 Spring Street houses shelves and shelves of books and a quiet reading/writing area. And the door is yellow. I read an awesome children’s book there (Plum, by Tony Mitton, illustrated by Mary Grand Pre). But they are moving locations very soon, so it won’t be the same long.

Fish’s Eddy – another random store I discovered on a trek to Barnes and Noble; proprietor of such items as the “Heroes of the Torah” glass set, featuring pictures of Rabbis with generic Jewish names that neither I nor my friend had ever heard of—we are convinced they made them up. They also had colorful mottled dishware and plastic reusable straws with stripes and polka dots. I like bright colors.

The Great Children’s Read – you can’t go to this anytime soon, because it happened already this year. On the quad of Columbia University, children’s authors and performers gathered to read aloud, answer questions, and express their love of books and writing. I saw Julie Andrews. In real life. Proof on the left. I nearly passed out. And I saw a lot of other fun people/things too. Go next year.

The Staten Island Ferry – it’s a ferry, and it’s free, so why not? It’s better when it’s not so cold outside, but if you’re willing to brave a little wind you can get a great view of the city and the Statue of Liberty. And did I mention it’s free?

Midnight Runs to Duane Reade – “a drug store??” you ask, “that’s supposed to be fun??” And I answer: yes! 24-hour Duane Reades are awesome. Walking to Duane Reade with your friends at one am is a party in and of itself. And once there, there is no limit to what you can discover. Like laundry detergent. And chocolate. Ok, whatever, don’t knock it ‘till you’ve tried it.

Getting Ready for Shabbos Aboard the LIRR – admittedly, it takes a very specific set of circumstances, and a very special type of person, but it is an exhilarating experience. When you’ve missed the train you meant to take and then missed your back-up train, you aren’t left with many other options. The experience includes the classic one-handed makeup maneuver (the other hand holds the mini-mirror), and if you’re really brave you can do the train-bathroom-hair-ironing-trick (no, I didn’t do it, but my friend did…and I have the picture to prove it).

Bonus: Anywhere you go in the city, keep your eyes and ears open for interesting sights and dialogue. Example: in Toys “R” Us today I saw a group of be-payised, bearded, bekeshe-clad Chassidim posing with a bin full of bright red stuffed Elmo dolls while a young Chassidish girl took a picture. I coyly took out my cell phone and snapped one of my own. :) And eavesdropping (a necessity of life, for a writer) in the city is always sure to yield lots of colorful dialogue.

Of course, I also love ice skating in Bryant Park and Rockefeller Center, and looking at the holiday windows at Macy’s and Lord and Taylor, and lots of other things too…but really this entry was meant to record only those things I’ve done recently, because I didn’t want it to get too long. Oh. Right. Well. Ahem.

Sooo…that’s it for now, folks. Wherever you live, get out there and enjoy it!

This message brought to you by Adventurous People Promoting Life and Excitement (APPLE) and the Committee of Procrastination (COP)

Write Away

When I go through stressful times, or if I have something on my mind, often friends suggest that I write about my problems, venting onto a piece of paper (or word document, as the case may be), and I often do. The problem is that doing so only causes me to think about my troubles more. So another friend suggested that, since I want to be a writer (however futile I may feel it sometimes), I write my frustrations into fiction, temporarily forgetting reality and channeling my feelings into a world of my own creation. I always assumed that this was advice I couldn’t take. When I’m frustrated, I’d respond, I can’t write. And besides, I’ve never been able to escape into writing--it’s just not something I know how to do.

Until now, that is. Almost entirely inadvertently, I’ve found out what it feels like to lose myself in my writing, to be consumed by it. Last night, I decided to try something new. I was inspired to attempt a writing style that is extremely ambitious and different than my norm. For once, instead of waiting ‘til the urge passed, as I usually do (because I am lazy or decide that I should be focusing on dull school essays instead), I went with the instinct and started to write. And wrote and wrote. I had to come up for air occasionally, pacing around my room (or rather, taking the two steps between my desk and the door repeatedly—my room isn’t exactly spacious) and reminding myself of the world I’m really in. But then I’d submerge myself again, back into my writing.

When I stopped, I had only written two single-spaced pages, not a tremendous output for several hours of work—but those pages are so different than anything I’ve ever written that I’m proud. They very well may be lousy, and probably are, but they represent a step outside of my comfort zone and a pursuit of my passion.

Then, the whole rest of the evening, night, and now morning I have been distracted by thoughts of my story—words to change, things to add, where to take it next. My real life issues seem far away, in the background, while only my story occupies the forefront of my mind. And I think that’s amazing! If I learn how to channel this skill, not only will I be able to worry less about the things that trouble me, but I will also end up writing a lot more. And that is important, because it’s going to take a huge amount of practice and discipline if I ever want to get good at this.

Driving Myself Crazy

Yesterday, I reached a very important milestone.

Those who know me are aware that there are many things I can do--but driving is not one of them. I didn't get my license until I was 19, after failing the driving test once--and I'm convinced the second tester only gave it to me out of pity. However, my father tells me I should consider myself lucky: my grandmother failed the test four times, my father failed it three...so really, to continue the pattern, I should have had to fail it twice before passing. In any case, even after I obtained the coveted piece of plastic (with a shockingly decent picture!), my independence was still incomplete. Though I mastered driving in my tranquil suburban neighborhood, I was still utterly petrified of driving on the freeway. With my mother in the passenger's seat, I would occasionally take the wheel on short drives, for practice, but even those excursions were extremely nerve-wracking. The fact that I have no (and I mean literally ZERO) sense of direction doesn't help matters. Heck, I still have trouble telling the difference between left and right (seriously).

So now I've had my license for over a year, and though I've made a few solo freeway drives (requiring about 45 seconds of freeway each), I've never gone farther than that. My lack of transportation independence has aggravated my friends for years, since it means that if they ever want to see me they have to make the half hour drive to my house, and I rarely pay a return call (my parents are anti-kid schlepping).

So last night, when I told my mom that I wanted to go to the 'hood to see my friends, and she unexpectedly said, "Ok, take the car," my reaction was less than tranquil. I knew that this day would come, and I wanted it to, but that didn't make it any less terrifying. In contemplation of the drive before me, I nearly burst into tears. I envisioned myself getting into various accidents--even if miraculously I didn't end up in the hospital, at least I would damage the car and incur my father's wrath.

I wavered back and forth. Should I do it? Though my timid side urged me to give up the crazy scheme and succumb to passivity (as I do far too often), another part of me refused. "No!" it said. "There comes a time for a girl to act...and that time is now. You need to learn not to be afraid. Grow up, dude!" So, hoping that giving this side of me some exercise would help me be strong in other areas, I steeled myself for the task, grabbed the keys, and got in the car.

And I made it. All in once piece. And so did the car! True, it took me a while to figure out how to work the windshield wipers (did I mention that it was raining?), and yes, my freeway lane change was less than ideal, but I didn't get pulled over, and no one even made any obscene hand gestures (though, of course, this isn't NYC).

At my friend's house, her parents were even more excited than I was about my newfound skill. After all, it means that she no longer has to abscond with their cars to come see me all the time. Later that night, my brother was dropped off in the 'hood after an NCSY event, so I got to experience a new dimension of driving: the teenage boy as passenger. Though my brother is no driver (he's only 15), his presence and the knowledge that I had already done it once before made the drive home far easier than the drive there--despite the fact that it was nighttime, and despite the music blasting. (When I drove by myself I turned off the music, realizing that it was only a distraction...though that didn't really help much, because I just ended up singing to myself anyway.) With my brother egging me on, I hit 70 on the way home...and loved it.

When we arrived back home triumphantly, my parents awaited to hear about the disasters that had occurred on the drive--but there were none to report! Hoorah for me!

My next challenge: learn how to read a map.