Neshama Center Writing Circle

Our group had come to the Kotel -- my first time -- and we had some private time. Not one for notes in walls or reverence for stones on their own, I was still struck by being there. I was in a holy place, one many of our people fought fiercely to defend. And at the same time I was aware of how the place marginalized me -- the women's section a fraction of the space, crowded while vast expanses were open on the other side of the mechitzah. And I thought of how I was doubly marginalized as a Reform woman. No, make that triply -- a Reform woman convert. And yet, despite all that, I was in a holy place and I spoke to God and watched other women do the same. For a moment in time the outside world didn't matter to me.

There were many people in the Kotel plaza when I emerged -- other tourists, soldiers, beggars, Israeli men and women, a few children. And then the person I thought least likely to do so approached me.

What reason would an old man clad in black coat and black hat, sporting a full white beard, have for approaching me? His brethren in Pittsburgh routinely ignored me and my greetings of "shabbat shalom" on the street. I stood there taking in the scene around me as this man drew closer.

He said only two words to me, and with them I felt a connection to this land, this people -- even him -- that I didn't know I had. Sure, I connect with Israel on an intellectual and historic level, and I had come on this trip after all -- but I really didn't know, going in, how much of a religious experience I was going to have there. I went because I was curious and maybe because one ought and certainly because my rabbi was leading the group, but I went without expectations.

So no, I never expected a black-hatted man at the Kotel to pay me any heed at all. He and I lived in different worlds. But he spoke to me and awakened a flood of feelings in just a few seconds -- that this is mine too even if I wasn't born to it, that I have a right to be here, that I could be fulfilled here, and that there was something here calling to me.

Two words -- just two words: "welcome home".

(Written October 2, 2010)

(October 2, 2010)

A new year, a new beginning -- and we start the cycle all over again. Freshly forgiven for the transgressions of 5770 I strive to make 5771 better -- more thoughtful, less inept, more whole.

Returning to the beginning of the torah scroll makes this concrete for me; we rewind past the words of the last year to the first column, eitz exposed for the only time this year. We read -- when God began to create the heavens and the earth -- and I wonder what heavens and earths I might create this year. Is it a futile exercise destined to reveal the exact same deeds as last year, much as we will read the same words in the scroll? I choose to think that it will be different this year -- the words are the same but the reader is different, my perspective changed, and if my perspective can change, then so can my actions.

It seems odd to mark the birth of a new year while the leaves and flowers are dying. But they're not just dying; they're laying the roots and seeds and mulch for next year's rebirth. Fall is a time of planting deeds for the new year. If I'm careful now, perhaps in the spring I will see a beautiful creation with more to appreciate and less to apologize for. It is, after all, a new year, and anything can happen.

[This is the piece I wrote for the Yom Kippur morning service.]

Al cheit shechatanu l'fanecha... with these words we confess our sins, generally and collectively. We have been stubborn, we have disrespected our elders, we have used hurtful speech... the list goes on, seeming to cover nearly every possible transgression. But is it really a confession without specifics? Does confessing to these general sins cleanse my soul, sort of like an annual "get out of judgment free" card? No, this text challenges me to look much deeper.

Al cheit shechatanu l'fanecha... for the sin we have sinned before you with inappropriate speech -- and I think of the times I fell too easily into making negative comments about an acquaintance without having all the facts. For the sin we have sinned before you in public actions -- and I think of whether I could have achieved my goals at that meeting more gently, without making others uncomfortable. For the sin we have sinned before you by acquiescing to immorality -- and I think about standing silently when a friend made a derogatory joke at the expense of a group not my own. For the sin we have sinned before you privately -- and I think of the times I have "cut corners" with God when I could have done more to deepen our relationship, and I think of how nothing is ever private from HaKadosh Baruch Hu.

To me "al cheit" is not just a confession, a litany of sins. It is a list of reminders, a prompt to really look inward and examine my behavior over the last year. The list includes transgressions committed unknowingly, but how can I correct them if I don't know about them? "Al cheit" urges me to know them anyway, even though it is uncomfortable, in the hope that if I can confront them, maybe I can prevent some of them in the coming year. Just confessing and moving on would be easier; this text calls me to do more to set myself on the right course, one transgression at a time. Al cheit shechatanu l'fanecha... what have I hidden from myself, that this text helps me uncover?

Baruch atah Adonai, 'ozreinu lizkor.
Blessed are you, O God, who helps us to remember.