Sometimes gratitude cannot be contained.

I would like to thank my Creator 

for all of the incredible things in my life. 

No, my life is not perfect. 

But on a clear day, like today,

I can see that even those elements

I have in mind 

when I say 'not perfect' 

...are actually blessings. 


(the above photo is was taken in a bus station in Switzerland, where I traveled with my husband last week)

Normal for Israel, Abnormal for anywhere else

The other day, 

I took a bus home from the outdoor market in central Jerusalem. 

I sat down next to a lady in her 50's wearing polka-dotted pants. She was Israeli, but not from Jerusalem.

She said to me,

Her (in Hebrew): Excuse me, but I am looking for a place. It's called Olamei Beit Yisrael. Do you know where that is?

Me (in Shme-brew): Actually, I know it very well- I got married there.

And I was able to give her full directions to get to the wedding of her relatives. To express her gratitude, she promised to ask the bride to pray for me and my husband and our future children (it's customary for brides to pray on behalf of many on the day of their wedding).

FYI, there are a ton of wedding halls in Jerusalem.

 And that bus pulled up the instant that I arrived at the bus stop and saw that there were absolutely no seats in the waiting area (and if you have ever waited for the #7, you know how miraculous that really was). 

And when I boarded the packed bus, there was only one seat available. In the front row. Next to this person, who needed my help. 

Living here

 gives you the feeling

 that the scenes are constantly being set up

 for your entrance. 

In Case You Needed Inspiration

Our deepest fear is not that we are

  inadequate. 
Our deepest fear is that we are 

powerful beyond measure.

It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.
You are a child of G-d.

Your playing small does not serve the world. 

There is nothing enlightened about 

shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. 

We are all meant to shine as children do.

It's not just in some of us;

 it is in everyone. 
We were born to make manifest the glory of G-d that is within us.

And as we let our own lights shine, 
we unconsciously give other people 

permission to do the same. 

As we are liberated from our own fear, 

our presence automatically liberates others. 
- Marianne Williamson 
(who is not Nelson Mandela- thanks Meg, for the clarification!)

This Picture Made Me Laugh

Do you remember being a child

 and creating complex and elaborate chaos?

 I remember deciding to cover 

every square inch 

of my bedroom floor 

with clothes and toys,

and I worked diligently to accomplish this goal.

I felt productive,

 even innovative. 

When my mother saw it,

 instead of applauding my attention to detail

 in successfully concealing the floor from view, 

she surveyed the damage and then said 

"Great. Now clean it up."

She must not have appreciated 

my vision...

a dear friend

My husband lost a dear friend yesterday. And after the initial shock, and besides the deep pain, hearing of death always reminds me that there is so much to be grateful for.

Having a heartbeat

And experiencing the perfect temperature

And natural light

My phone and having people to call

Feeling peaceful

Ice water 

with lemon 

and a straw. 

A Sparkling Gift

One cold day, years ago, at the end of winter, I was closing the door of my Brooklyn apartment and discovered a sparkling yellow gift bag hanging from the outside doorknob.
Within it was a small bottle of grape juice and a box of chocolate-covered jellies that said 'kosher for Passover'. And a note, which was written in children's handwriting, saying, 
'Happy Purim!'. 
Between my class and rehearsal schedule, and lack of religious affiliation, this gift took me completely by surprise.

1. today was Purim?!

2. someone left me a gift?!

Keep in mind, this was New York City. Not Pleasantville! And my life had yet to take on the constantly-charmed quality it has since moving to Jerusalem. This was a little unusual.
Knowing precious little about the Jewish religion or the holiday of Purim, I viewed these items as ritual offerings, not to be consumed. I saved them in my dresser drawer, in my 'room' with a tapestry for a bedroom door.
There is a specification when giving small gifts of food on Purim (called Mishloach Manos-a commandment that comes straight out of the Book of Esther) that, although the gifts should preferably be sent from the giver to the recipient through a messenger, the recipient should know the identity of the giver. The reason is that a gift builds relationships between the giving and receiving parties, and this can only occur if you know from whom you are receiving.
But in the case of my anonymous glittering bag, I accepted it as a gift from all the religious Jews of New York City, who walked by me every day, with whom I rode the train, to whom I was often too shy to admit that I was Jewish. When I lived in New York, before coming to Israel, my instincts were constantly screaming to me that I had a connection with these people which stretched back for thousands of years and would somehow, in the future, become relevant.

The Story of My Hair (part I of a series)

I never knew quite what to do with my hair.

I think it's been in a ponytail for most of my life. But there was a time when even the ponytail option was not available to me. 

The photo above is from my hair's darkest days- after my dreaded Boy haircut. So dreaded was this haircut that I would have destroyed these photographs at the time, if they were in my possession. Thankfully, they surfaced years later, and I've healed so thoroughly from this disaster that I am even capable of sharing it with you.

You may ask, how did this Dreaded Boy Haircut come to be?

I think it was rather chic, in 1990, for women to have short hair- women with
a) less-round faces and smaller heads than I
b) more identifiably feminine features than I
c) an ax to grind about societal gender roles
Until this disaster grew out, I was frequently pointed towards the Men's room when I inquired as to the whereabouts of the restroom in public places.
Many women in 1990 would have called this 'liberating'. I, on the other hand, desperately wanted to buy a wig (we'll get to that in a later installation of The Story of My Hair) or just coax my hair to grow out 16 inches through nothing but sheer will.

To me, that expression says it all- "Dad, please don't take my picture until I look like a girl again. Oh, I guess you already took it...".

Not For Sissies/my first and only concussion

Today, I took a long, hard look at the flaws in my character that I want to change.
Then, I took a long, hard look at when exactly I became aware of these flaws.
Then, I took a long, hard look at what progress I have or haven't made, since becoming aware of each of them.
Then, I admitted to myself all of the excuse-labels I give my flaws, how I explain away their continued existence. 
Then, I vividly imagined what my life, my marriage, my relationship with my future children, and my contribution to the world will look like if I never fix these flaws. 
And then I realized that exercises like the one above, that I did today, are not for sissies. They are almost unbearably painful and humiliating. It reminded me of my first, and only, concussion.


My elementary school had great monkey bars that were high, wide, and far apart from each other. From a raised wooden platform, one could jump to the even-higher bars and monkey-swing one's way across. 


I lived nearby and used to play there at every recess with my friends, and then after school with my older brother and his friends. From the high wooden platform, I watched as my brother and his friends would jump to the farthest monkey bars they could reach- sometimes the 3rd, rarely the 4th, and once I even saw Juan (this was so remarkable in my eyes that I remember his name, 14 years later) jump to the 5th. 


At recess one day, long since having mastered the 3rd monkey-bar jump, I resolved that today was the day I would reach the 4th. I gathered my courage, quieted my doubts, crouched on the platform, extended my arms, and flew out across the wood-chipped playground, towards the 4th bar. 


The cool iron of the 4th bar brushing my fingertips was one of the last sensations I remember. 


The momentum of my jump caused my body to flip- in other words, my flight began with my legs behind me, but they gradually had moved below me, in front of me, and then above my head, for my final descent, head-first, into the wood-chips. It was a minor concussion. I woke up seconds later to the playground monitor, Mrs. Weatherbee, saying 'Are you awake?! Are you okay?!' And I laid in the nurse's office for the remainder of the school day. 


Today, I took a very long, hard look at my shortcomings. This sort of long, hard looking will, with G-d's help,bring me closer to becoming who I am meant to become, but-


I know that if I am not careful, the pain and shame that can come out of this long, hard looking could work against me to block my growth, which is like falling face-first into the wood-chips in the process of leaping for the bar...

Throwback to 1989

Yesterday, I cried so much that my eyes were puffy, I could merely hiccup rather than breathe, and I had a dehydration headache from all the water I'd lost. It was like a throwback to 1989 (i.e. when I was a 4-year-old). This was not due to any major crisis, just a compilation of things that were not going as I would like them to go.


A couple of hours before this crying session (and unrelated to it), I had been choreographing a group of early-teenage girls who were actually very diligent and talented, for their dance recital which will take place in a few months. With each 8-count of steps that I would give them, I was met with squeals of protest:


"We're gonna look silly! 
"The tall girl is next to the short girl!"
"I don't want to be in front/in back/in the middle!" 
"I can't do this step!"
"I look stupid!" 
"The music is too fast/too slow!"
"Why don't we do this move instead?!"


This went on for about 45 long minutes. New step, squeals of protest, new step, squeals of protest, etc.

Towards the end of the class, I had them run their new dance for the first time start-to-finish, and when they were finished, at that crucial moment when they were looking to me for a reaction, I told them (and this was true), 


"People are going to go crazy when they see this. You have no idea how great you guys are." 


This made all the difference to them. They relaxed, stopped fighting, and started really dancing the steps. What does this have to do with yesterday's crying session? 


Actually, yesterday, things were fine. But they were fine in a bigger-picture way, and I couldn't wrangle my emotions in long enough to appreciate that. Difficulties with pregnancy mean I am going to have a child, my husband being sick for 5+ weeks means we're both being tested to reach higher levels, and etc. etc. with the many challenges of life. 


My tearful reaction to G-d's orchestrations was very similar to my students' reactions to their given choreography. He was assigning me certain tasks and circumstances and at the time, I just could not accept them or believe that they were part of a bigger picture. Since G-d chooses not to openly reveal himself to explain, "It's a dance, and it's looking fantastic, just trust me", I have to bolster my own beliefs, read, write, and pray to stop fighting and start dancing the steps. 


And sometimes, even with all this in mind, the first 'step' is to cry.

just magnificent.

Pierre Auguste Renoir. Was. So. Talented.

This is a painting, by Pierre Auguste Renoir, of Claude Monet, painting in his garden. I don't love this one as much as the first one, but the subject? Whoa!

Softening the Blows of Day-to-Day Cultural Collision.

I was waiting in line at the bank. Yes, I still wait in lines, contrary to the minhag-ha-makom (accepted local practice).

 My teller, a mainstream-looking Israeli man of 20-something, informed me that his window was available by exclaiming,"GIVERET!" (this is Hebrew for LADY!)

I try to use my Hebrew as much as I can, but it's just not ready for bank transactions. I recently tried to be cool and do an entirely-Hebrew ATM withdrawal (who needs that English option anyway?), and...I had to re-do so many times that the machine ate my card for security purposes. Another time I mis-read the outside of the machine and put my card into a card-shaped slot that actually spits receipts, and needed to have the machine opened and the card retrieved (this included rebuke from the bank staff, in case I didn't already feel stupid and late for the class I was teaching). So I no longer play around- especially when it requires bank vocabulary.

With this in mind, I walked over to the teller's window and immediately asked if he spoke English. He said, "Ehm...ken" (which means 'um, yes' and is usually a sign that he knows English like I know Hebrew) and so I started to state my request in English for depositing a check and withdrawing a certain amount from what I had deposited. This was my actual bank branch, so I thought I could get away with such a transaction.

He listened to the first 1/2 of my request while printing out a deposit slip, and interrupted the other 1/2 by saying "SIGN!" I signed the slip, giving him the check. He then looked at me quizzically, as if to say, why are you still here? I repeated the second half of my request (to withdraw a portion of said check), and he said "I HEARD YOU, BUT THE CHECK'S...'ow you say....NOT READY".

Since he hadn't verbalized that, I had been a little in the dark about his inner monologue regarding my money's availability. I asked him when it would clear, and he said, "SOON, WHAT DO YOU MEAN?" And then he started helping the next person, who had elected to push rather than wait, and that was the end of my turn. 

This exact exchange, especially with bank employees, government employees, bus drivers, and medical personnel (anyone whose help you need on a regular basis) is so utterly commonplace that my auto-pilot was almost uninterrupted on this particular errand. Like most things in this country, I knew that if I just waited a few hours, or a day, and then tried to withdraw the money, it would somehow be fine.

That was pretty much an uneventful trip to the bank.

But later, I thought about how the teller had said 'SIGN!' and realized-
Hebrew has a command form that is not used in English (unless you want to sound like someone's gym teacher). He was just translating his Hebrew word-for-word into English. It's like when I want to give an semi-affirmation (as in 'does this bus go to Geula?' 'I think so') and I do so by saying, "ani choshevet" (this is a literal English translation of 'I-Think', and not a normal Israeli way of expressing 'I think so'). And his complete lack of explanation about how I could not withdraw part of the check upon deposit was probably due to his inability to find the words in English, so he skipped it (I know because I do this all the time with Hebrew).

So my new American-In-Israel survival tip, culled from this experience, is:
When people seem to be barking at you, they might be perfectly nice, they're just translating the command form literally. And they may seem callous towards your need for further information because they can't explain it in your language, not because they want to make your life hard. 
I can relate to that. Hey, I sometimes stick my watch into people's faces if I am too tired to translate the accurate time into Hebrew.

  I do not appreciate photos like this. 

They are not life.

This shopping bag is the 'suggestion' of a top magazine's article about organization, in which it suggests, "This carryall is spacious enough for shopping trips and stylish enough to use as a tote!"

Uh, really?

Whose grocery shopping trip fits into something the size of an upright shoebox? Why are sprigs of herbs, french bread, and cheese jutting out, unwrapped, if they are all classified as 'perishables'? Where are the non-glamorous items, like toilet paper and chad paami? And all of a sudden I need to worry about the 'style' of my shopping bags?

If you tried to follow this article's advice in Jerusalem, that half-picnic would be all over the floor of the #2 bus, faster than you can say 'slicha'. And then the passengers would simultaneously yell at you in Hebrew for not using plastic bags, and offer you their extra one (this part has actually happened to me). 

Why am I ranting so? 

Because when I saw this picture, I had an almost-inaudible thought of, 'I wish my shopping bags looked like that.'

Because I've been so media-trained, that it's easy to look at images like these and feel that life really SHOULD look like them. 

And this is sheker. 

Felt-shopping-tote-with-herbs-sticking-out life never existed and never will.

Real life, plastic bag life, is why I'm here and what I should find most beautiful.

*Chad Paami- disposable plates, cups, etc.

*Slicha- excuse me

*Sheker- falsehood

(wicked witch music in background)

Today, the weather in Jerusalem was very 

Wizard-of-Oz.

A strange cloud cover turned everything on my street into Sepia. 

I was certain a resolution would come of it- 

but so far, its

  ambiguous. 

Opening Up the Gates

Sometimes, complaining can really open the gates.

I have, for a while now, harbored the misconception that when I complain, i.e., mention a difficulty or discomfort, that I am showing a lack of gratitude or a bad attitude towards life. Times when I couldn't help it, I would air out my frustrations, but I wouldn't feel good about it.
But lately, I've started to realize that 'complaining' is sometimes 100% beneficial.
It shows the belief that a solution is out there.
 I have seen more and more that when I admit a struggle to another person, it gives G-d a conduit to help me through it.

Big Issue Example- Health Care:
Me, to my Tap student, who is a grandmother :
 "I don't understand the healthcare system in this country, at all. I can't call a doctor- it's wait forever for an appointment, or go to the emergency room. And then you're charged money for going to the emergency room without a doctor's referral! I've yet to meet a doctor who allows you to call him, ever.How am I going to raise children in this system??"
While I am saying this, I am thinking- I am really being negative right now. I hope the other people at this bus stop don't understand English. And I hope my student doesn't think I am always this negative.
My student: "That's usually true, but there are actually two English-speaking doctors, a family doctor and a pediatrician, about 3 blocks from where you live, who are exceptions. I could always call them at 2:00 am for anything, all the years I was raising my children. Which healthcare do you have?"
Me: "Meuchedet"
Student: "Great! They are Meuchedet doctors. Tell them I sent you."
Do you know how many YEARS of frustration she had just subtracted from my life?

Small issue Example: Ice Trays
Me, to my husband:
"My least favorite thing to do in the kitchen is fill the ice tray. I hate it! I cannot do it without dripping water on the floor, unless I fill it 1/3 of the way full and then the ice cubes are not cubes. So I make normal-sized ice cubes but I don't realize I'm spilling the water, then I walk in it, and then the floor turns black."
While I am saying this, I am thinking, do I need to complain about this? Is this necessary?
But watch this:
He answers: "Why don't you just put water in a measuring cup, carry it to the freezer, and pour it into the tray?"
And I tried it. And I never need to complain (mentally or verbally) about that task ever again! So I've started to realize that a small amount of verbalized negativity can prevent a large amount of non-verbalized despair.

There's a song from the musical 'Shenandoah' which declares:

Freedom ain't a state like Maine or Virginia...

Freedom's in the state of mind

Which came to mind when I realized I'd been stifling the ability for people, or G-d, to help me. 

once a Colonial, always a Colonial

    The other day, I was unsuccessfully attempting to describe Morristown, NJ (the town where I grew up) to my husband, and I decided to look online for photos.

    I found a 229-photo slideshow of Morristown, full of historical facts and details about every photo. And it wasn't until viewing this slideshow, with Gavriel (who was awestruck by the pictures), that I realized-

 Morristown is actually a beautiful 

and richly historical place.

Even by Gavriel's standards- and he's from a place which resembles paradise. But for some reason, I don't remember the beauty at all. And I never asked myself, 'what's with all these statues? What took place here?' 

It makes me wonder- how many things I am being given now, for the sole purpose of appreciation, that are flying completely under my radar?

View the slideshow here: 
http://travel.webshots.com/photo/2747476120031860892PaGbYA

Get Up At 3:00 and other grand plans

Thank G-d for my father, 

who is the perfect blend of organized and sentimental. In the 80's and 90's, he would file away our childhood mementos. Now, in the 10's (what do you call our current decade anyway?), he occasionally scans and emails little reminders to us of our younger selves. 

Below is my morning agenda that I wrote out (probably far, far in advance) for the day of my 5th-grade audition for Annie on Broadway. 

 

This agenda worked- I was the first one on a line that stretched around two city blocks. But I didn't even get through the door, because I was a whole inch taller than the cardboard cutout of the current Annie.

Now, I find this very funny. 

Then, I think I was prepared to saw a few inches off my ankles 

and try to get back in line. 

One of THOSE things

I know that this blog, though it's my first attempt at a blog, is going to be one of THOSE things.

You know. That I am SUPER INTO

at first.

And SUPER DILIGENT about.

At first.

Then...every now and again...I'll write two words or add a picture.

Until the next sick/snow/sleepy day when I will write for miles.

Then...

Not until the following Purim.

The only difference between this time and past incarnations of this bad habit is:

I am fine with that! It's just a blog!

If I am no longer having fun and it becomes a bunch of guilty should-haves,

PLEASE PLEASE hack in and delete the entire thing.

You will have done me a favor.

a Big Myth

I was conditioned, via everything from YM magazine to Moliere, to believe that broken hearts, many of them, were a part of life. That feeling one's heart wrenched from one's chest would help a person in their future relationships.

Don't ask me how this happened- I know it's not typical- but my husband and I have both never experienced the break-up of a prior relationship, and now it looks like we never will. I think I initially shied away from dating because I had grown up in the midst of a turbulent divorce and didn't want to repeat the cycle in any form- and this thinking gave way to a more mature viewpoint of why-date-someone-who-will-be-a-future-ex, unless-i-am-ready-to-meet-a-marriage-partner-which-um-i'm-not. Then I started becoming more informed about Judaism, and the Jewish paradigm for the importance of marriage matched the values which I had been cultivating in secret for years.

I am not sharing this to be smug. Just to dispell a Big Myth.

a) we don't feel we've missed out, we are actually infinitely grateful for this

b) our relationship is much better, not worse, for this lack of heartbreaks.

I am sharing this because so many of my single (or intermittently single) female friends are allowing their hearts to be repeatedly trampled on, believing that dating their current boyfriend, though far from marriage material, is a better growth-and-learning experience than being single until someone worthy comes along.

This sounds right. And TV, movies, magazines, literature, and music all endorse it. But I believe this is a big myth. Being single in high school are college wasn't cool or the norm, but now that I am married, I thank G-d ever day that I don't have that baggage. If you have baggage, you have it, and you should learn from every experience in life. But I think it's a myth that you're better off in a dead-end relationship than single.

For a much better look at the subject of the Multi-Relationship Myth, please read:

I Only Want to Get Married Once, by Chana Levitan (available on Amazon.com).

My Meeting with the Matchmaker

I always imagined that I would one day meet my husband-to-be in the aisles of a New York City bookstore. Hah.

My husband and I met through a matchmaker in Jerusalem. What is this, Fiddler on the Roof?

Now, there are many, many people in the religious community who are matchmakers- some more successful than others. When I met with Mrs. C, I had already heard about her for years. She has the reputation of being an extremely insightful and successful matchmaker, who specializes in setting up men and women coming from a non-religious or converted Jewish backgrounds. It is well known that she has albums full of wedding photos of couples whom she has introduced.

In person, she was a friendly, stylish South African who joked about growing older, or how she grew up with maids and never in a million years thought she would end up in Israel, let alone the neighborhood of Mea Shearim. She made fun of me for asking if I 'may' use her restroom- apparently most Americans say 'can'.

I was wary of my own urges to please and impress her, and that I would feel the urge to morph myself into what I thought she would approve of, since much of my future (in dating and marriage) could potentially be in her hands. Actors are very good at this- when auditioning, you develop a 6th sense for 'what they're looking for' and morph into that as fast as you can. She was the equivalent of the most well-connected agent in the industry. I didn't want to bring that facade into my dating life, so I did nothing, other than dressing well, to impress her. In fact, she later told me that she couldn't figure out why I was so 'uptight', or why I hadn't mentioned to her that I sang, danced, and acted professionally, and was now teaching and performing in Israel. Usually people underscore their talents and areas of accomplishment when meeting matchmakers, but I didn't want to go there. I looked at it like this: while I still acted, sang, and danced, I had long since abandoned the performing arts as the core of my existence, and I had 20 minutes to show her an accurate depiction of my soul, which had a mate, that she may very well be able to introduce me to.

She asked me where I was from, how I got to Israel, where I had studied in Israel, my age, and my height (not in that order). She recorded all of this on an index card, and stapled my passport-sized snapshot to it. These snapshots are not for showing the other party, rather, to jog her memory of the person- its not uncommon for her to meet with someone once, and then set them up 2 years later. She then asked me the big question, the answer to which I had distilled over the process of years of self-discovery:

'Well, Shoshana, what are you looking for?'

'Actually, there are 4 traits that are necessary for me, in a husband:

someone who loves Truth

someone who is constantly growing

someone with a good heart (a trait that I told her was found in my father and my brother).

someone Chareidi with a Rav (translation: someone on the mainstream Jewish/Orthodox path of observance, who has the humility to accept and follow a mentor who knows much more than him)'

I had been told months earlier by Mrs. L, a mentor, that I would be asked this question when I started dating for marriage, and she advised me to narrow it down to things I could not live without. She said that it would probably come down to about 4 things. She was right. Anything not on this list, does not belong there. (My husband happens to be good looking, and funny, and well-rounded, and loves the outdoors, and I am very happy for that, but these traits aren't internal enough to make or break a lifelong marital relationship, and therefore they weren't on my list for the matchmaker of what I was looking for in a spouse).

I remember, during this meeting, having a feeling of split consciousness. I knew as I described these traits to her, I was really speaking to G-d, who is the only true matchmaker, who hears our sincerest requests and meets our deepest needs.

She normally listens to what you have to say, then (you hope) goes through her male index cards, pulls out a 2-3 who are currently available and, in her opinion, possibilities for you, and reads out their cards. She did this with me, and in the process, read out loud the index card of a guy named Gavriel, as a prospective match. I had my misgivings about her description of him (he's...Swiss? Does he speak English?) but agreed to have my people check out his references and told her I would get back to her if I wanted to move forward. I figured he would possibly end up being my first date on my long dating journey towards meeting my husband through the religious system of matchmaking, which can take many years.

And the outcome was this: we didn't hit it off personally (she was warm, I was not), but she later told me that she had thought of Gavriel's face as soon as I crossed the threshold of her apartment for the first time, before she had even offered me tea and hung my coat.

Little did I know that Gavriel, this first idea she had, after meeting me for the first time in her life, was my soulmate.

She acted as the go-between for our dating process, set up dates for us, got feedback, offered a listening ear and a lifetime of relationship expertise. And before you knew it, Mrs. C had done it again. This first meeting was in November 08. I was sporting an engagement ring at the end of January 09. Don't be shocked by the timeline- when you're observant, you only date men when you and they are prepared to get married, and the only reason you're dating is to see if it's right, and if not, you move on. If it is right, it doesn't take long because you face all issues head on, check backgrounds extensively, and (small detail) completely refrain from physical contact until you are actually married. I didn't feel rushed. Actually the opposite- spending time together, while waiting for a 5 month engagement to pass, before you can even hold your soulmate's hand for the first time, requires the willpower of finishing 10 triathalons. Maybe even 15.

Mrs. C proceeded to help us in every way she could with the engagement and wedding plans, and remains a close mentor for everything from recipes to dealing with pregnancy.

My grandchildren will be in the world because of her.

She doesn't even take money for this service. Gavriel and I both gave her money upon our engagement, dismissing her objections as South African manners, and she later disclosed to my husband that she had donated it all to charity.

Kollel

I grew up 'normal'- with fast food, 2 cars, a 3-story house, TV, a dishwasher, a microwave, and everything a middle-class American would expect. Now, I actually cook 3 meals a day (and it's fun), with only a toaster oven and 2 burners. We don't have a car (I have a monthly bus pass), we don't have a dryer (I use clothes pins and a drying rack), we don't have television, we don't have a microwave, our apartment has the size and inner dimensions of a caravan, and we are HAPPY.

What?

Some of this sparcity is due to our newlywed status (to date, we've been married almost 9 months), some of it is a cultural adjustment to Israeli standards of living, and some of it is ideological. We will one day move, we will one day have a dryer, we may live in a house at some point, but we will never let a television into our lives. Even a microwave- we both agree it breeds a certain impatience, and our goal is to one day leave this world with better character traits than those we had upon entry.

And this materially simple life that we live is actually a choice. My husband is studying full-time in Yeshiva, and we are living in one of the most expensive (aesthetically...gray, but expensive nonetheless, due to the high-demand in the religious community to be near synagogues and houses of study) and overcrowded areas in Jerusalem. So on my three part-part-time salaries, a small stipend that he receives as a Yeshiva student, plus whatever comes our way, this is what life looks like. And honestly- every week that he is in Yeshiva is ecstasy for me. His Yeshiva education is an investment in his ability to be a husband, father, and better person. And what he brings home at the end of a day of breaking his intellect over ancient texts in Aramaic, translated to Hebrew, translated to English (which is his third language to begin with) is a distilled spiritual energy that bolsters our moment-to-moment consciousness of G-d.

I'm not saying I never take cabs. Or that I never buy clothes and never splurge on smoothies. But it is definitely a lifestyle adjustment, especially for an American. This lifestyle is called Kollel. And I hope we can stick it out for a long time.