by Daniel Sissman

For me, I have found that there is no more appropriate place to celebrate Shabbat than outdoors in nature – even the most inspired synagogue architecture has yet to challenge the breathtaking beauty and diversity of the universe – and this past Friday night 1,200 of us, around half in the young professionals demographic, were fortunate enough to be able to come together to celebrate a truly special Shabbat at the Ford Theatre here in Hollywood, California. This very special Shabbat service was held in celebration of the ‘B’nai Mitzvah’ of Friday Night Live – a Friday night Shabbat service created by Sinai Temple of Los Angeles 13 years ago.

The venue itself was still quite impressive, a neoclassical ‘castle’ of sorts cast out of rough concrete, forever laden with the impressions of the wooden molds from which the building was hewn in the 1920s – but what was truly impressive was what we couldn’t all help but notice as we entered the theatre – that there was no roof and that this giant space was fully open to the elements and the night sky! As the Friday night service began and as dusk began to fall, we were able to see the stars appear one by one, helping usher in this special service. As the sky fell darker still and as the music, liturgy and energy grew stronger, one could feel the sense of connection and community becoming ever more tangible. While participating and enjoying the service, I realized that I had never felt so connected, so grounded, or so serene until I had experienced a Shabbat under the stars, reunited with the universe from whence we came, admiring every beam of setting sunlight, even rustle of the wind in the trees, every glimmer of the twinkling stars, and all at once feeling truly a part of the community around me, and this Shabbat outdoors was as perfect as one could hope.

The service reminded me of all the reasons why I love celebrating Shabbat outdoors, and as Rabbi Wolpe said during the service, celebrating the Sabbath outdoors and under the stars is a way of breaking from the traditions of the week, enabling us to truly connect with and appreciate the natural world around us. Our ancestors would have celebrated Shabbat under the stars much more often than we do today, and it really offers us a way of reconnecting with our heritage as well as enabling us to fully disconnect from the distractions of modern life, and provides us with an opportunity to be a part of our local communities and spend time with those around us in a way we seldom have chance to do during a busy working week.

For me the night was significant in many ways, as Friday Night Live at Sinai Temple was one of the first Friday night services and temples I attended upon relocating to Los Angeles and has not only become a spiritual home, but also a community that has enabled many great friendships to develop, for which I’ll be forever thankful. As we all enjoyed the evening’s service, reconnected with old friends, and thanked those who have worked so hard for so many years including Rabbi Wolpe, Craig Taubaum and his band, and the generous benefactors including Ted and Hedy Orden & Family who have enabled such a magical experience for so many years, and Birthright Israel NEXT who helped co-sponsor this special night, I know we were all looking forward to the next 13 years of this very special experience, and to all the other simchas that we’ll be able to celebrate as a community because of Friday Night Live!

Daniel Sissman is a NEXT Fellow based out of Los Angeles.

by Ruvym Gilman

Read Part 1 here.

And now I was going car-camping again, once more to a New York State maintained campsite in the Catskills. What was sure to make this trip different was the group’s commitment to having Shabbat while in the woods, do a hike the next day, and then go through a havdallah service on Saturday night. I wasn’t going to let any silly poem about how “Jews don’t camp” stop me from bringing my Jewishness straight into the dark, merciless heart of Mother Nature.

The weekend started off as only a Jewish weekend could, with an argument over food. I’m a big fan of ease and simplicity, which to me meant foregoing this whole idea of buying kosher meat in the City and schlepping it upstate in a cooler. Why not just buy some non-kosher meat up there? Why burden ourselves unnecessarily?

But more passionate hearts prevailed, and after a delayed Friday night departure, I found myself at the campsite with five of my friends, under the glimmer of piercing starlight, surrounded by the distant spatter of conversation from neighboring campers gathered around fires. We got there at 10pm, just as “quiet time” was imposed by the forest ranger who came by to politely tell us that we could cook our meal, but that we just needed to respect the sanctity of the space.

From that point, we got things going pretty quickly – one of my friends who may or may not be a pyromaniac had the fire raging within minutes. Upon discovering that we were missing the ever-important corkscrew, a necessity for Kiddush, a friend suggested that we walk around to neighboring sites to see if we could borrow one. I shrugged off this idea, uncomfortable by the thought of bothering people about this, of having strangers (us) emerge from the pitch black in search of tools.

“Come on,” she said, “don’t be so shy.”

“I’m not shy, I just don’t want to disturb anyone.”

I was convinced to go anyway, and after fumbling around in the dark for a little while, we came upon two men seated at their fire.

“Hello there!” she said as we approached.

One of the men, seemingly startled, most likely just drunk, stood up to meet us. We told him of our predicament and he went digging in his tent for a corkscrew.

“You don’t see those right there. I don’t have anything here,” he said as he riffled through a pack filled with prescription pill bottles and at least one machete-sized knife.

I gave my friend a “I am so annoyed that you made me do this” look.

Eventually he found what we were looking for and insisted on following us back to our camp because, so he claimed, the corkscrew was a prized possession of his.

Despite my discomfort with the situation, we led him to the campsite. When we got there we made some introductions, and as soon as we had a couple of bottles open, one of my friends moved straight to pouring out some wine.

“What’s your name?” he asked the man.

“Carl.”

“Well, nice to meet you. Here, have some wine.”

Carl took the cup offered to him.

“And now,” my friend continued, “we’re going to do a quick blessing over it.”

Carl looked confused.

“So you know, we’re Jews,” my friend offered as explanation. “It’s no big deal.”

“All of you?”

Everyone nodded enthusiastically. I was more hesitant in making the admission.

“I’m fine,” mumbled Carl.

My friend went through the blessing quickly and we all said “l’chaim.”

A “salut!” was what we got in response.

A moment later we heard another voice approaching the site.

“Carl, you there?”

“Hey Vince, get over here, all of these guys are Jews. I’m doing something Jewish.”

Carl and Vince only stayed for a few more minutes. They promised to come back the next day for havdallah but we didn’t see them for the rest of our time in the woods.

The remainder of the weekend went down without anything dramatic happening. We survived our hike and had another great meal on Saturday night. One girl who was having her first camping experience, kept shouting “Oh my God! I love camping!” at random points throughout the evening. I would have liked for her to chill out, but who was I to temper someone’s excitement?

The next day we stopped at a diner on our way out of town. This has, perhaps, become my favorite part of these sorts of weekend camping trips – the opportunity to unwind and converse while you’re on the cusp of having the experience end, just as you’re about to cross back over that line that separates life in the City from the time spent cooking and sweating and sleeping in the woods.

We usually sit for at least two hours, drinking endless cups of coffee and picking at the toast even after its cold and the butter has soaked straight through to the porcelain plate. On this particular occasion, while sitting there on the diner’s patio, we struck up a conversation with a woman walking her dog.

“He’s a show dog,” she told us, gushing with enthusiasm at the opportunity to tell us the dog’s story, about his pedigree, about his as-yet-unearned medals and awards, the ones he was bound to win sooner or later. “Chow-Chow and I were featured in the February 2010 issue of Kibbles,” she added.

We looked at her blankly.

“You know Kibbles don’t you? It’s the premier dog magazine in America.”

In that moment, I was overcome with a sense of clarity, of certainty about the world and the way it worked, about my place in it.

“Even if it’s just car camping…Jews camp,” I determined. “But they definitely don’t do dog shows.”

Photo provided by the Author.

Ruvym is on the Alef editorial board.  In addition to his fondness for camping, you can find him discussing traveling in Israel,  foreign languages, Russian accents, and fur coats.

by Vicky Farhi and Muki Yankelowitz

This post originally appeared on RJ.org, News and Views of Reform Jews.

Over the last few years we’ve had the opportunity to experience worship services in Reform synagogues both in Israel and America. The similarities and differences have been interesting to observe and experience, as one of us (Vicky) has an American Reform perspective and the other (Muki) has an Israeli Progressive perspective. We’re happy to share with you some of our observations.

On the whole, Israeli society is more informal than American society, especially in terms of dress codes. Rabbi’s never wear robes and seldom if ever wear suits, while summertime congregants have been known to turn up in shorts and t-shirts. It’s also much more family oriented; family is the core of what happens in Israel. These are both reflected at services. American congregations often have family services which attract young children. Some congregations have children’s rooms where parents and children can sit together and view the service without causing disruption. But for the most part, there is more of an emphasis on decorum in American synagogues. In Israel, disruption is minimal but it’s part of the experience. The sanctuary is often set up with a large open space in the back of the room where children can gather and move around if they are restless. Young children attend Kabbalat Shabbat services with snacks to hold them over until Shabbat dinner. Being able to enjoy services while your children sit with other children is lovely. Not having to worry about feeding hungry children, allowing them to snack while waiting for Shabbat dinner, makes welcoming Shabbat that much sweeter. The prayers continue in the front of of the sanctuary as the young community building continues in the back.

The setup of the rooms is very different as well. A majority of American congregations have stationery seating, while some have seating that can be moved with effort. Israeli congregations have more flexible seating arrangements, which may in some cases be due to the room’s multiple usages. This more casual seating combined with the simple lines of a sanctuary with little to no ornamentation create a more open, less formal atmosphere. This simplicity is emphasized by the absence of yarzheit plaques – there are not many displayed in Israeli congregations, while they cover the walls in many American Reform shuls.

There is another key ingredient involved in the worship experience. Hebrew is the traditional language of Jewish prayer. Israelis pray in their vernacular, which is Hebrew – here in America we struggle as we learn or refresh our Hebrew. Of course, there are areas of worship that Americans are more comfortable with, as many Israelis are new to the experience of Reform worship. But our common language, Hebrew, is more readily accessible in Israeli worship.

Share your thoughts with us: have you experienced a Shabbat Service in an Israeli Reform synagogue? Did it change your view of what the experience of a worship service is?

Muki Yankelowitz is an Israeli Educator and Tour Guide as well as a member of Yozma, the Reform congregation in Modi’in. Vicky Farhi is the URJ‘s Outreach Specialist.

Photo by Hamed Saber, licensed under Creative Commons.

By Erika Davis

This post originally appeared on Erika’s Blog, Black, Gay, and Jewish: A Gay, Black Woman’s Discovery of Her Jewish Self.

A few conversion classes ago the rabbi asked how we thought we, a room full of Jews-to-be, would change Judaism. We all gave answers and today, for some reason, two weeks later I’m still thinking about it. As converts, we are changing Judaism and as a result the “face” of Judaism will be forever changed. Things that I like, foods that I like, music I enjoy will inevitably become Jewish Things, Jewish Food, Jewish Music.

As a black woman, that fact seems clearer, or more obvious, but is it? When I think of my born-Jewish friends I think they all are making changes to Judaism in their own way. One of my friends is in love with a Catholic man who loves being Catholic. Whenever I see him lately, it is at Shabbat service and he’s wearing a kippah, clapping, singing, chanting. He’s there because he loves her and if they get married they will change what Judaism means. Their children would be Jews because their mother is a Jew but they’d be living in a multi-faith family weaving different traditions into one another-forever changing the fabric of Judaism.

I have another friend who is a born Jew who’s a lesbian (truth be told, I’ve got a lot of lesbian Jewish friends) and we’re all changing the structure of the Jewish family. When two Jewish women make the decision to spend their lives together and create a family together that family will be Jewish-as both mothers are Jews-but that Jewish family is “different” than what the mind thinks of as a Jewish family. The family may be secular or observant but that lesbian (or gay) family changes the face of Judaism.

When Jews adopt children from China, Korea, or black boys and girls those children will be raised as Jews and hopefully they will raise their children as Jews and then the spectrum of color in the Jewish religion in the US would be as varied as the faces of Christians and Muslims.

I always struggle with the concept of the Jewish race because I’m a religious Jew. When emerge from the mikvah as a Jew and identify with all Jewish people my racial make up will still be black. I’m learning, as I visit synagogues and talk with other black Jews or Jews of Color, that in the US the picture that comes to mind when one says Jew is European. Even when one says Sephardic Jew, the image isn’t one of a black face, or even an Asian face when there are many black Jews and Asian Jews-born and converted.

Part of the reason I want to go to Israel so badly is to see what the faces of non-American Jews look like there. Even now, when I see an Orthodox Jew of color walking down the streets of Ditmas Park or Midwood I’m shocked, in awe, and I’ll totally admit I’m captivated. I actually tried to stop a woman on Coney Island Avenue late summer to chat her up. She thought I was crazy, of course, and brushed passed me and what could I have expected from her? For her to chat with a woman who was her same color but definitely not of the same faith. I was wearing pants and most definitely sporting a low-cut v-neck shirt, she was frum.

Before I made the formal commitment to going through a conversion I attended a few different synagogues in Manhattan. I was incredibly nervous. I was sure that I’d be the only person of color in the room. I was sure that everyone would turn around a look at me, as if a spot light had shone on me. I was sure that I’d be completely lost. When I walked into the first synagogue some people looked up, most did not and I was completely lost. Even now when I enter a new synagogue I get annoyed at the people who look at me, and do not talk to me. I want to say, “If you have a question, ask” Other times I think, why should they look and stare? I have walked into synagogues where no one seems to notice me and I get paranoid that they’re trying to avoid looking at me and become incensed that they aren’t seeing my blackness.

There was a time when, to be PC, people would say “I don’t see race, I see the person.” That sentiment irked me, and still does today, because I need you to see my race. I need you to see that I am a black woman and try to understand what that means. If you don’t see my race then you don’t see who I am as a person. As a Black Jew, I struggle with identifying as such. Yet, I am a black Jew and I need you to see that the two can be one. I may be a convert but my future children will be just a Jews who are black.

In the end all of us are changing Judaism’s face. We add to it and take away from it what we will, at the same time strengthening it and dare I say, sometimes weakening it? I like to think that I’m bringing to Judaism my years of Christianity, however faulty they were. I’m bringing my love of Southern cooking and what it means to bring in a New Year (with black eyes and collard greens) I’m bringing my love of singing, clapping, and praising God in a way that brings a “joyful noise”. I’m bringing my questions and doubt, most of all, just me.

This month in Sh’ma, there are great articles on the definitions of Jews along with a beautiful photo essay on what a Jew looks like. I love meeting Jews of Color and born Jews here and in my life. It’s a blessing and joy to know that there are so many of us, small threads, being woven into the larger fabric that is Judaism. I can only hope that our diversity, our ethnicity, and our non-Jewish paths can only enrich the Jewish experience now and in the future.

Photo by Zeevveez, licensed under Creative Commons.

Read more posts from issue #16: Diverse Jews

If you’re anything like us, you probably feel hard-wired to your computer and cell phone, if not also your TV set, tablet (or iPad), and iPod.  After a while,  all those radio waves can really go to your head.  Reboot, an organization that encourages Jews to literally “reboot” our traditions, suggests that the solution to our overload is easy.

The National Day of Unplugging, which officially begins today (March 4th) at sundown and lasts until sunset tomorrow, is taking recruits.  Commit to putting down your cell phone and shutting off your computer (or at least putting it into sleep mode) and reconnecting with the real human beings around you.  You can even (ironically) have your last social media hurrah by sharing your commitment with your Facebook friends and Twitter followers.  And did we mention there’s now an app for that?

We know the prospect is terrifying, but anyone who’s ever had a cell phone die hours before getting home to charge it knows that once the terror subsides, being unplugged can be pretty liberating too.

Read more about the National Day of Unplugging:
Wired
New York Times
The Huffington Post

For more on Shabbat, check out Alef’s Issue #18, Friday Night Lights.

Photo by Samuel M. Livingston, licensed under Creative Commons.

By Stephen Rosenberg

In my family, most traditions seem to build themselves around the tasty, the inebriating, and the downright dangerous (seeing a movie over the holidays no matter what the weather). We also tend to over-complicate things. Case in point, an email from my brother-in-law about New Years that I received this morning: “I have not chosen my appetizer, however rest assured that it will be very labor-intensive, involve several special ingredients that may have to be mail-ordered, and delicious.” While everything about his plan is amazing, and follows our family’s custom of cooking together on New Years, some are more simple and based on a shared Jewish family history.

One of my favorite parts about Judaism is the sense of being connected to history through a shared set of customs and traditions, practiced through the ages. That’s probably why I like Passover so much. Jewish or not, though, we’re all part of a greater human narrative, and the connections we make–or don’t make–to our ancestors, helps define who we are. Those connections come in all forms. I am proud that one of my favorite family traditions connects me to my Zadie, a proud man that I wish I had been able to know better. That same tradition connects me to my father, who shares a rich memory from his own childhood, and also tells a special story about his relationship to Zadie, his father-in-law.

As a boy in Bloomfield, CT, my father fondly recalls helping out at the synagogue on Shabbat, where davening old men celebrated with shots of Canadian Club blended whiskey. Years later, after completing his residency, he and my mother moved in with her parents for six weeks until they shipped out to England — he as a captain in the Air Force, she as the smart, lovely bride who had to put up with him. During that brief time, my dad had an opportunity to get closer to his father-in-law. Zadie, an honest soda company owner, who turned down bottling Coke to continue his own brand, wasn’t exactly the chatty type. Turns out, though, he was fond of cigars. Grandma forbade them in the house, so he and my father frequently enjoyed each other’s company on the porch, occasionally with cocktails. Zadie wasn’t much of a drinker, but when he did indulge he favored Canadian Club. From that period on, for decades thereafter (long after Zadie stopped smoking cigars on doctor’s orders), my dad would offer Zadie Canadian Club when he and Grandma visited, remembering his drink preference and honoring the memory of their brief time under the same roof.

It is remarkable how much history can inhabit a simple tradition. When the hearty of my family breaks the Yom Kippur fast with a shot of Canadian Club, we connect to our past and rejoice in the present. We also, with a loud “l’chaim!,” honor the memory of loved ones not in the room.

Stephen fancies himself a web entrepreneur, and is a self-described beach bum, cooking enthusiast, and geopolitical junkie. He’s currently building brainpik.com, and is co-organizer of StartAtlanta.

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Photo provided by the author.

Read more from Issue #25: Changing Traditions.

By Danielle Selber

Come to one of my many Shabbat dinners, and you’ll find a motley crew of diverse and spirited people. You’ll see a dark Yemenite Jew with a broad smile arguing about Torah with a freckled Jew of Polish descent, kippahs askew; a contingent of secular Russian-born Jews playing Hungry Hungry Hippos; and a black Jew trading chummus recipes with a Jersey-born Italian Jewish girl with an attitude to match. But even if the room is packed, you won’t be able to miss my good friend Cindy. Cindy is a Columbian, dark-skinned, jet-black haired beauty, with heavy eyelids and a bright, catching smile. And to the chagrin of all my Jewish male friends, whose faces become comically crestfallen when I break the news, Cindy is the only non-Jew in the room.

Roman Catholic by faith, Cindy ended up in my group of close friends through my best friend from high school who she works with. Our circle is comprised almost exclusively of Jews, people with strong Jewish identities and a close connection to our local community. That means Cindy spends a lot of her time doing very Jewish things, surrounded by very Jewish people. She attended the very first Shabbat dinner I ever hosted, and since then she has become a best friend and an integral part of my community.

Endlessly curious and open to new experiences, Cindy is always up for a Jewish happy hour or a hearty game of dreidel at my parent’s annual Hanukkah party. One Friday night, a bunch of friends and I, including Cindy, ended up at a “Jazz Shabbat Concert” in the city. We settled ourselves into the pews, Cindy between two of our best girl friends, and me one row ahead. I had assumed there would be a short service before the jazz began, but most of my friends hadn’t thought that far ahead. When the cantor opened his mouth to sing, our two friends began to shift in their chairs, giving each other sideways looks in worried panic. I had a moment of pause – poor Cindy, how uncomfortable she must be! But when I turned around to look at her, she was clapping her hands with a look of pure delight on her face. Afterward she exclaimed about the loveliness of the service, the beauty of the music.

So surrounded by Judaism and Jewish ritual, I find I sometimes take for granted things like the elegance of a Shabbat service or the camaraderie of a Jewish community. It’s so easy to miss the loveliness of these rituals that often become rote after too many years of Hebrew school and Bat Mitzvahs. When I see Judaism through Cindy’s eyes, I suddenly appreciate it that much more.

I am getting my Masters in Jewish Studies and plan to enter the field of Jewish communal service. I will certainly be exposed to Jews of varied backgrounds and mixed faiths. Cindy’s presence in my community keeps me constantly inspired to create a culture of welcomeness, where even a practicing Roman Catholic can feel accepted and comfortable. I’m extra careful to define terms and explain rituals so she never feels left out or slighted. I find that even people who were brought up Jewish benefit from this consideration, learning new things about rituals or being encouraged to ask questions.

Once in a while, the fact that Cindy isn’t Jewish comes up (like the time she sent away her half-finished plate of food at Houlihan’s and the rest of us – all Jews – yelled to the waiter to bring it back, someone remarking “Cindy, you are definitely not Jewish” as she laughed, shaking her head). But usually, Cindy blends seamlessly into our community, soaking up experiences and radiating positivity. This year, we all spent Christmas Eve at Cindy’s parent’s house. For once, it was me who was asking questions, learning new things, and experiencing something so foreign from my upbringing.

It happens to be that Cindy embodies some of the most coveted Jewish values – impossible kindness, endless humility and easy grace. I see her choice to be so closely connected to a community so different than her own as reflecting a genuine love of humanity, an embracing of differences for what they can teach us instead of how they can divide us. In this way Cindy is a role model to me, and I have found that our friendship makes me a better person, a better friend, and a better Jew.

Read more posts from Issue 24: Jewish Women

Photo by Jakob Montrasio, licensed under Creative Commons.

There’re few things that make Alef happier than good food.  That’s why we were pretty bummed we weren’t invited to this NEXT Shabbat meal in LA.  While we’re not sure the hostess’ estimate of “85 tons of pita” is a totally trustworthy description of her Shabbat menu, our mouths were watering at the rest of her Shabbat spread.   Don’t believe us?  Tuck in your bib, this Shabbat meal is drool-worthy:

The Hostess With the Mostest (Hummus)

I like having guests over. Blame it on my mother – after all, she is Martha Jewart. Ever since I was a kid I was raised knowing that there are very specific ways to throw a party. She has very strict rules about how dishes are arranged, what we’re allowed to serve, how food is displayed, etc. When I was little I thought that was ridiculous. “Show me the guest who gives a shit if I put the ketchup bottle on the table without first scooping it into a crystal bowl!” I would scream.

Of course, now I’ve inherited that behavior. So when it came time to throw a special Shabbat dinner for a group of my friends last weekend, you know I went to town…

Continue reading “The Hostest With The Mostest (Hummus)

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Click here to read more from our “Why I Eat What I Eat” series.

By Ruvym Gilman

It’s Friday night and I enter the Sidofs’ home just as I have on so many occasions over the past couple of years. It’s odd to think just how much time has passed since I was invited to Shabbat dinner here for the first time, how different my life feels. But this Shabbat in their apartment on the second floor of a walk-up in Crown Heights, is destined to be their last.

I get the news right before the High Holidays begin.

“They found a new place,” Saadya tells me. “Only a few blocks down from the current one, so it’s the same subway stop. But dude, this is going to be our last Shabbat there. This is where it all started.”

I laugh and nod introspectively. Saadya, even with his black hat and long beard, his soulful eyes, has a way of dude-ifying everything.

“When they visited the new place,” he continues as we’re standing around with a bunch of Hassids who are praying on the eve of Rosh Hashanah, “Yossi saw that the front was broken up into two small rooms – a living room and a dining room – and he was all like ‘how the heck are we going to have Shabbat here?’ Yocheved just gave it one look and went, ‘we’ll break down the wall.’ Dude, like it’s a no-brainer – of course they’ll have Shabbat in the new apartment and a silly little wall isn’t going to stop them.”

A year and a half ago, Shabbat was not part of my vocabulary. I understood the idea behind it, I got the concept, and there were times when I attended Friday night dinners that happened to be characterized as “Shabbat” by virtue of their placement at the end of the week. But it was not a part of my life, it was not something I thought about or looked forward to or considered my own.

Then came Yossi and Yocheved who, with the help of my friend Saadya, began to host Shabbats in their apartment every 2-3 weeks. You could, without fail, expect an invitation from them on that schedule, and as soon as you had a thought like “oh, well I haven’t been to their place in a while,” along would come an invite, right on cue, as if they were tuned-in to the personal cravings for Shabbat I was starting to develop.

There would be the trip down to Kingston on the 3 train, the walk past Chabad national headquarters, then the climb up to the second floor of their building and the opening of their unlocked door. I could always expect to be greeted by shouts and cheers and outstretched arms – “Ruvym! Shabbat Shalom!” And it felt like being home, even though home never offered me Shabbats of its own.

And now, on this final Shabbat in the apartment, there’s the familiar deep red hue of the dining room walls. There’s the floor-to-ceiling mirror right near the entrance, outlined by elaborate molding, all of it a vestige of what the brownstone walks-ups in New York probably once looked like before the 60s and 70s layering of thick white paint over everything even mildly extravagant. There’s the gilded filigree candelabras on the table, one for each member of the family, with a new one just purchased in honor of their second baby girl. Already I can smell the waft of Yocheved’s Persian cooking coming from the kitchen in the back, the warm crust of freshly-made challah. We begin the rituals, begin to eat, and it’s only when we’re going around the table during a second round of l’chaims that we finally get to Yocheved who looks around the apartment and takes it in.

“Over there,” she says, pointing to a spot by the window, “we had our son’s bris, very soon after we moved here.” She pauses and points to the back of the apartment. “And I gave birth to both of my daughters in that bedroom.” The comment is followed by a round of inquisitive questioning about her decision to have home-births for the both of them. When we’re quiet again, she continues. “Here, in this room, we’ve had so many beautiful Shabbats and celebrations, so many wonderful people coming into our home.” She trips over her words. “It’s going to be sad to leave it after all of this time, but I know we’ll have many more incredible memories in the new place.”

And that’s when I understand what an apartment, a home, a physical space, is all about – it’s a witness to our past and to the people who we have become, it’s where we create experiences. While it might seem sad to be leaving a place that has so many moments and memories attached to it, the reality is that the spaces we occupy only ever serve as enablers of our lives. An apartment does not create memories, we do. On its own, it’s just walls and some rooms, some windows, a table with chairs; it’s unrealized potential. It is our intervention and energy, the love that we bring to it and the home that we make of it, that makes it into something more.

Ultimately – and this is totally cliche but cliches exist because they have some truth to them – home is where the heart is. The Shabbat was the last we would have in that apartment, but it would not be our last Shabbat. At our core, we are friends, we are family, and we’ll make new memories wherever we are. Its this knowledge that makes me smile, that helps me realize that this is only the beginning.

Read more posts from Issue 21: Places and Spaces.

Photo by Listener42 licensed under Creative Commons.

By Laura Jo Hess

No place but a sidewalk crack, a bridge across water, the oily death of a crooked coast. Here, you sip tea on a balcony made of wood, spit tears from a hotel roof, jut eyes across a dimmed room. Hammocks are slung between bedposts, blankets pile high on the floor, shadows take the shape of a sailboat. If you try hard, you can recall the angles of the woman in the marketplace and the hue of her orange skin. You can locate love in the zee of two bodies clasped together at a bedside or a coffee shop. All you need to know is this smeared window and the existence of plastic tables and telephone poles. Take your feet and place them down—learn the loose alleyways and etch your face on the tavern wall as you turn to leave.

What life there is, is remembered on the balcony of a soon-to-be vacant room. Shirtless boys with tanned skin bend at the hips and knees; girls in shoes walk like birds to the local bar, kiss gloss to the side of glass and make you remember their scents. I, in canvas shoes, just learned how to breathe. I, an animal, forgot you when the air came through. How must the cracks in the desert hide jewels, a scroll of history, bedposts of old lovers. How must soldiers hold metal in clasped hands and recall, broken, the face of their best friends, their brothers, shema over the arch of a bomb. A man wipes the skin beneath his eyes and his teeth shine as he speaks—I can’t hear the words but his lip movements are inevitable. I can’t see his hands but later they place stones on a grave flat and secure. Later, his chest heaves and his gun sags with the weight of his tears.

But how could this be in a place that just began? Let us recall a boy in shirtsleeves and a tie clip, ten years old, studying letters in black ink, shapes that start with lines and end in squares: moments you mustn’t trust until spoken. Climb aboard, his father says, yelp these words from rooftops havens and hammock beds. Place sounds in wood petrified to stone, in the stratified parallels of doorways, the limestone fibers of a place you claim to love. If you want language, he boasts, learn to love a foreigner. If you want history, memorize these words, tattoo them on the inner side of your wrists; remember them once I’m gone. When addressed in Yiddish, respond in Hebrew. When wide-eyed boys throw stones in your direction, throw back in Hebrew. If you want food, shiny shoes, or a slice of bread, use only Hebrew words.

A hundred and fifty years later, a street moans in language: lamps sway and sound emits from the crown of the head, light from the back of the throat. What you know is limited to distance and boiling points, minutes of mediocrity. Amid a circle, find swans dancing limbs across the radii, blonde arms flailing and torsos aghast, static becoming motion momentarily. Let me explain you the drummers with tanned skin and definition, a shofar in hands callused, lips pursed red. But at a beach in the afternoon, a light splits the air in thirds and a white horse prepares for a ceremony, human legs sturdy on either side of its tough and furless hide. I heave my body upon sand, haul breaths from my open center, pause for heat to gather on my chin, my toes. I suppose it took such a contrast of color to make me weep.

At synagogue, a woman with thick stockings and a wig leads my finger along Hebrew words. She picks the lint from my skirt and covers my calves with fabric. You come to my house, she whispers, you eat Shabbat. If Israel is a moment, then put me in a café with a wooden deck and chairs with straight backs, a cue. Give me a real hand on a real thigh, an instant of smoke billowing from the lungs. If Israel is a day, then sit me on a bench at Jaffa with jagged coastlines and flags folded over in wind. For now, Israel must be larger—sand surrendered in the fiber of a pant leg, a graveyard set at dawn.

Photo by acroll, licensed under Creative Commons.

Laura Jo Hess is a midwesterner living in Brooklyn. She is attending The New School in the fall.

Read more posts from Issue #19: Israel.