Conversation

Some years back, at the Jewish Learning Fest in the Dallas area, my Conservative rabbi joined with a Reform and Orthodox rabbi in a discussion about halakhah - our fluid guide for religious practices.  I'll never forget the Reform rabbi's assessment of Conservative Judaism: "We come to the same conclusions about virtually everything," he said, "but you spend months or years trying to figure out a way for the Hebrew to catch up to your beliefs, while we in Reform just say, 'here's what we believe and we're going for it' ".

I sat there wondering why I was Conservative. Long before the Reform rabbi made this statement, his words had occurred to me, also. Responses given to me by Conservative Jews weren't satisfying. I had been a part of fundamentalist Christianity where it seemed someone was always twisting scripture to make it say what they already believed. Now here I was a part of a Jewish denomination that seemingly did the same thing.

Enter a much more in-depth discussion at OHALAH - the Association of Rabbis for Jewish Renewal which I recently attended. During one important session, one of our most esteemed scholars and rabbis, Daniel Siegel, asked - and then answered - the question I posed years ago: "Why bother with halakhic conversation? Why not just say this is what we're going to do and then do it?"

Why bother?

Because conversation is crucial to our identity as a People, he said. If we don't look back at what our ancestors concluded about our sacred texts, then we have cut ourselves off from them. Regardless of whether we come to a different conclusion, despite our discomfort over the norms of their time period - sexism, isolation from the broader spectrum of humanity, a myriad of beliefs that our culture can no longer accept - we can and must be in dialogue with those who have committed their lives to study of our sacred texts. It is the process , and not the conclusion that binds us together as Jews, says Reb Daniel.

"What would Moses think?" asked one Orthodox friend of mine, responding to a "liberal" comment I made. Well, I don't know - maybe if he lived in our modern time, he might have applauded our efforts to take past halakhic decisions seriously, while struggling with new ways to interpret sacred texts. Our goal, says Reb Daniel, is to be "backwards compatible and forward looking".

In our classes, study groups, conferences and even in informal gatherings related to our rabbinical program, we're constantly instructed to truly listen when another person speaks - without any kind of comment. The person speaks without interruption and when they're finished speaking, they say, debarti (I have spoken). The rest of us respond with the word shamati (I have listened). Note: listened. Not just "heard".

As a future rabbi, this is my commitment. To listen. To try and understand another's point of view. To be in dialogue with those who have gone before me, who are on the path alongside me, and who are coming up behind me.

debarti

shemati

Mary

My kippah

For the past several years, before I even considered the rabbinical program I'm now in, I toyed with the idea of wearing a kippah (head covering) outside my synagogue. Often I'd wear it all day on Shabbat (Sabbath) and sometimes I'd wear it on other days, but more often I didn't wear one because it made me too self conscious.

Now I'm trying it again.

Let me tell you why.

First, it has nothing to do with my journey to become a rabbi. It has little to do with my identity - in and of itself - as a Jew. And while wearing a kippah actually is done as an act of humility before God, even that doesn't really resonate with me. Wearing a kippah, for me, is more like what wearing tzitzit is for some Jews: it's a powerful nudge to watch my behavior in public and to represent my religion in an honorable manner.

What I want to do is to, say, walk into a restaurant and put out extra effort to be patient while I wait a very long time for a table, (remember what's on your head, Mary), to exude warmth to anyone with whom I have eye contact, (remember...) and to be generous to a server who may have been deluged with too many tables (remember...). I want my kippah to remind me that I, at that moment, represent Judaism. I want to be a top-notch emissary.

Yet I'm afraid. Maybe I'll just be an emissary for looking weird. What if that sarcastic, condescending tendency of mine leaks out and that's how I'll represent Judaism? What if the server really sucks and I don't want to leave a tip?

Many non-Jews I meet still feel proud that they know I go to "church" on Saturday instead of Sunday; what in the world could I possibly convey to people who know absolutely nothing of my faith and religion?

I'm afraid, also, of what other Jews will think and say. One friend initially felt it wrong of me to wear a kippah if I ate in a non-kosher restaurant. "What if my Orthodox friend sees you and thinks it's okay to eat there? she asked.

First of all, your Orthodox friend wouldn't trust a woman in a kippah. Secondly, he shouldn't be making assumptions about what wearing a kippah means. It does not mean that everyone who wears one eats only in kosher restaurants.

Perhaps the thing I dread the most is hearing what I so often hear anyway: "Jews by choice are so exuberant! You put the rest of us to shame!"

Sigh.

I know you mean that as a compliment, but please don't distinguish me as a convert. I am a Jew. There are Jews who are much more observant than I am, Jews who are much less observant, and Jews who are about on my level of religious faithfulness. Feel free to ask about my conversion, but don't tell me I'm religious because I'm a Jew by choice.

I don't want to be the convert who wears my Judaism on my sleeve.

With that said, I'm doing it again. I'm wearing a kippah everywhere. I'm enduring the sideways glances. I'm imagining what people are saying, both Jews and non-Jews.

But I'm trying to concentrate on why I personally wear a kippah.

Maybe I'll build a few bridges and create a little more understanding. I remember the woman who, about a year ago, ran screaming across the parking lot of a strip mall, trying to reach me before I got into my car and drove off, just because she wanted to learn more about Judaism. Wearing a kippah opens the door to conversations and relationships.

Mostly, though, I want others to see through the minhag (custom) and ritual of wearing a kippah. I want Jews to understand it isn't a sign of fundamentalism or fanaticism. I want non-Jews to see my religion as one that exemplifies love and kindness and spirituality and godlike behavior.

So if you run into me and I'm wearing a kippah, just go with that - and let me know how I'm doing.

Mary

It Became Home When I Left It

After 3-1/2 years of living in the most gorgeous house of my life, I'm moving to Colorado.

As I've spent weeks ridding the house of excess junk and beginning to pack, I realized I felt an odd sense of detachment from the house, even though it holds a lot of sweet memories. Was that sense of detachment and anxiety caused by people who had offered unsolicited advice about our decision to leave or about our relationship? I wasn't certain. One person I barely knew, for instance, told me she was considering an intervention to persuade me (stop me?) from getting married. Another person told Bob he was marrying outside of his religion because I converted to Judaism. Others tried to persuade Bob concerning how and when to move forward with his life, including what possessions he should keep or give away.

At best, it seemed the house I'd lived in was a place for which I felt little attachment; at worst, a place from which I wanted to escape.

Then, the other night I was lying on the floor listening to music and a song came on by Rick Calvert:

"Blessed are you who have entered here; May you be blessed."  

And!

"May you be blessed as you go forth from this place."

Suddenly I was completely swept away by these lyrics. Rising from the floor, I Involuntarily opened my arms widely and swept them across the room, as if others were standing around me (I could feel them!) and I was handing them something tangible. "Blessed are you who have entered here!!"

Alternately, I became a conduit for the sweetness that seemed to flood every fiber of my being, gracing our departure: blessed are (we) as we go forth from this place."

As engaged as my body became, however, it felt I had floated away from it and, in my spirit, received and distributed some kind of powerful, spiritual energy, flooding me, consuming me. It went on and on until finally I couldn't receive any more and I stopped, stunned, my body feeling vibratory. Then I collapsed, sobbing.

Bob stood watching, uncertain what to do or what was going on with me. As I cried, he came over and gently asked me if I was happy or sad. "I'm not sure," I replied. "Neither? Both?" I was still so overwhelmed I could barely speak.

As I lay there with my eyes closed, hundreds of people "walked through my door" and we shared the same ethereal space. Friends who had eaten in my sukkah, danced in my living room, slept in my guest room, participated in our house blessing, even those who had worked for me... all of them seemed to be present with me, moving this house beyond its physical beauty into a place filled with family and friends. It seemed crazy, but people who had moved my furniture, painted my rooms, or repaired my air conditioner... the powerful forces flowing from me emanated to every person who had helped make my house beautiful in the deepest, most meaningful, sense of the word.

Most importantly, though, I knew our departure, despite leaving those we love and will miss, would be filled with the most amazing, Divine joy.

Now, as we prepare to move, we offer our most heartfelt blessings to those who have supported and encouraged us - and we offer the same blessing to those who have not. Tomorrow, we will walk through each room, and leave blessings for those who will live here after we leave. But above all, we will bless ourselves and each other as we flow along in the adventure of life.

I love you all. I will miss you.

Mary

Opening

Years ago I was babysitting a little girl, barely three-years-old, who was like a niece to me. She spent a lot of time with me and we were very close so I was surprised when, one afternoon, I stuck my head around the corner of my living room to check on her and she was sitting on the couch sobbing.

"Leah!" I said, running to her. "What's wrong?"

"I don't knooooowwwww!" she wailed.

Frequently, when I have a particularly powerful encounter with God, I get extremely emotional. It can happen when a phrase of the siddur (prayer book) leaps out at me, or when I glimpse someone whose immersed in the God. Sometimes I just "spontaneously combust"!

It's an emotion that I've been experiencing now for more than two decades, and one that I've never really been able to describe. "My heart broke open this afternoon," I write in my journal, and then I unsuccessfully struggle to articulate and understand. It's so powerful that I require a complete withdrawal from everything and everyone. I've been ravished by God and I'm emotionally exhausted.

Tangible things inevitably occur - I lose my self-consciousness, everything in the world outside of the Divine leaves my thoughts, and frequently, I leave the moment with some change in my life, a freedom from something with which I've been struggling.

What I've never been able to grasp is the actual emotion. So several days ago, during one of the weeks of rabbinical study in Connecticut, I stayed in my room for an evening and morning trying to process another very emotional encounter with God. I wrote this in my journal: "Again, what I feel doesn't seem like pure joy, but it certainly isn't pain. Is it? Is an opening to the Divine merely about pure joy? Is it a mixture of emotion? What is God doing and do I really even need to understand?

The following night I shared my experience and confusion with my mishpacha - a group of fellow students with whom we're asked to regular meet and where, hopefully, we can be open and frank without fear of judgment. I asked for feedback on what others thought of this intense emotion.

Cecily mentioned her visit to a chapel where Bernini's sculpture of St Teresa of Avila lies, and how Bernini depicted Teresa's emotion, when she encountered God, through her facial expression. I've been to the chapel and love both Bernini and St Teresa. "Yes!" I thought. "Teresa's expression is blissful and pained and ecstatic and agonized all at one time.

Sara offered that perhaps I was trying to conceptualize an emotion that didn't fit into any of the "boxes" where I organized my thoughts and concepts. True. Deb added that Chazzan Jack had described a niggun as encapsulating all of our emotions in a simple melody. We can and do feel opposing emotions at any given moment. Powerful.

Then Jesse described talking to one of the retreat center's staff members. "A lot of people have difficulty processing what happens to them here," she said, "because they're encountering pure, Divine love."

Bingo.

Love is the very thing that we are entirely incapable of describing or processing on an intellectual level. When we love another person, when our heart opens to someone, we're flooded with a plethora of thoughts and emotions, both conscious and unconscious: "Is he as in love with me as I am with him? Have I done anything that has hurt this person I love so much? Have I done anything that has affected our love for good or bad? Wow, I LOVE this man. I feel deliriously joyful. He's so fun and he makes me laugh and...

Each and every time you lie in each other's arms or look into one another's eyes or have a conversation, there are dozens, maybe hundreds of emotions and thoughts that buzz through our hearts and minds.

Love is not simply pure joy - even while it's the greatest joy we experience.

As I drove to my room that night, I understood that the love I feel for my fiancé', Bobby, is the best analogy I have for the intense emotion I feel when I come face to face with God and my heart breaks open. This love is so intense it feels unbearable. I want to run away and be alone with my Beloved. God, are you responding to my longing? Will I still feel You this way in a few hours or days or weeks? Why can't I live in these moments of ecstasy forever? How long will this emotion last?

Years ago I asked my Sufi teacher, during a visit to Konya, Turkey, about how an emotion can feel so intensely joyful and fill me with such peace and yet seemed tinged with grief and longing. He smiled and simply said, "Ashk" (love). I didn't get it at the time and now I do. Love is this amazing, endless range of feelings and emotions that leads us to commitments and pushes us to become better people - and it happens each time we look deeply into our lover's heart and eyes.

May all of our hearts be broken open and may we embrace the mysterious passion offered by Divine Love.

Blessings,
Mary

Get By with a Little Help From my Friends

The other day I was working out with my trainer, Justin, and was at the end of the hour

and

at the end of a set of kettlebell lifts from an exercise ball. I was exhausted.

"I can't do any more," I told Justin.  I was stuck mid-air.

"Yes, you can."

"No, I can't."

"Yes, you can."

"No, I can't."

"Yes, you can. I'll help you," he said. 

That phrase is still resonating with me.  Yes, YOU can. I will HELP you.

For those of you who know me, it won't be a surprise why that phrase jumped out at me. As a fiercely independent woman, it's difficult for me to ask for help. I also don't like to feel like I can't do "mechanical" stuff. When I was four, my dad taught me the names of tools and how to do simple tasks with them. He continued to help me become self-reliant throughout my life. I was one of the first girls to take auto mechanics in my high school and learned to change spark plugs, change oil and to do some minor repairs on cars. I can put together furniture that comes in boxes and get most of the pieces on correctly.

The other day, however, I bought two new DVD players and decided I was going to hook them up by myself. There were loads of problems with that. For one thing, I'd never done it before. Second, the colors of the jacks didn't match like they were supposed to. Third, out of 23 jacks on my TV, 21 of them were options for the prongs. And fourth and the worst thing - one of my TVs is mounted on a bracket inside a custom-built cabinet. The TV only comes out a couple of inches and is so difficult to reach behind that a technician recently had to have me wedge my body halfway into the crevice behind the TV and reach a piece of equipment as well as the electrical outlet.

That this was possible because I'm longer and thinner is SO not beside the point to me.

And that I'm uncertain whether I've just used the terms "prong" and "jack" correctly just downright pisses me off.

With my new DVD balanced on a shelf, though, I managed to maneuver the flashlight and the three miscolored prongs. One of the attachments was obvious. The other two, not so much. So I tried every conceivable pattern - all to no avail. Then I dropped the flashlight behind the TV. The DVD player fell and all three of the prongs came out. I had to start over. I gripped the flashlight under my arm so I could plug and unplug prongs.

Nothing worked.

I sat on the floor and cried - really hard - for fifteen minutes.

That didn't work, either.

So I called for help. Joe told me there was another set of jacks I hadn't seen. Someone else described the jacks I definitely did

not

want to use - but that left a

lot

of options. Finally I was certain I had everything plugged in correctly - but the DVD still wasn't playing. I called DirecTV. They told me that the TV setting had probably changed from Video 3 to 2 or 1.

Bingo.

As I'm living alone for the first time in my life, other than a brief period between marriages, I'm learning there's a way to be independent without the fierce part. It's doing exactly what I did with my new DVD player. Install it with the help of a few brief telephone conversations. Stretch myself and try to do things I thought I couldn't do. Take a break to have a sobbing meltdown and then try it again. But know that it's okay to ask for help while I'm learning new tasks.

Or as Justin would put it, "YOU can do it. Let me

help

you."

l'Shanah Tovah,

Mary

What Really Matters

After services each Saturday morning I hang out and talk, share a

l'chaim

, and eventually make it to the

kiddush

lunch table. Several people graciously volunteer their time every week to provide us with a fabulous lunch so we can prolong our shared Shabbat time. We eat together, often getting to know different people, talk and laugh,

bentsch,

then reluctantly part company.

It's rare that we run out of food but it does happen occasionally, especially to those of us who consistently make it to the table late. That happened to me a couple of weeks ago and I turned to ask someone if we'd run out of food. His answer? "Yes, but I have food at home."

I've thought about that simple statement for two weeks now. I'm not sure if he intended that sentence to mean anything other than what it appeared to be on the surface - that is, that running out of food didn't matter because he could eat at home.

For me, though, it was a powerful reminder that we should tune into what's most valuable at any given moment of our lives.

My dad bought the house I grew up in, for example, for $2,000. He was a coal miner and he spent pretty much all of his other time working additional jobs, building onto and fixing up our home, and loving his family in every way. My mom worked full-time and sewed clothes for me. Sometimes she and my dad made me elaborate birthday and holiday gifts that really were exactly what I wanted. Together, my parents made sure I had everything I needed. I never realized that other people were better off financially. My parents only talked about - and helped - all the ones who were worse off, and because of that, those were also the only people I ever noticed.

In addition, beyond our necessities, my parents simply didn't care that much about money. We saved for an annual vacation, but evenings and weekends were filled with local trips to state parks and lakes, riding the ferry, Sunday drives in the country (anyone remember

those?

), berry picking, playing games with large groups of friends, and afternoons at our grandparents or cousins... our lives were incredibly rich.

Mom and Dad instilled religious and spiritual values and ethics in me.

I never had to ask if I could have friends over, even for the entire night. My friends were always welcome, and my parents loved having them. Some nights my room would barely fit all the teenagers in, and although we undoubtedly kept Mom and Dad up all night with our relentless trips to the kitchen for snacks, they never once complained.

Through their example, they taught me what matters in life.

And that's what that simple sentence a couple of weeks at shul reminded me of. And while I'm certainly grateful I don't have to wait until 2 or 3pm on Saturday to eat lunch, my friend is right. There's food at home. The two hours I have to talk and laugh with those I've just prayed with are what matters.

As we move into the High Holy Days, make it a point to assess what matters at any given moment. And sink your teeth into

that

.

Mary

It's (Mostly) About the Journey

Growing up, when we took family vacations, my parents always made the trip part of the vacation. We stopped at all the roadside attractions, every Stuckey's and DQ in existence, and each day we'd pull into a hotel around 4pm because my parents wanted us to have plenty of time to swim and enjoy the evening.

Once, when I was nine, we spent the night in Memphis on our way home. It was the Beatles final U.S. tour and John Lennon had just stated that they were more popular than Jesus. Everyone in Memphis was burning Beatles paraphernalia and turning in their tickets, so Dad bought two tickets and took me to the concert. It was one of the most exciting nights of my life.

For most of my adult life I've taken road trips by myself, but because of changing circumstances in my life some time back, I've been unable to do this for the past seven years. Then a few weeks ago I set out for a week of instruction at DLTI - a

davvenen

workshop - and drove about 3,600 miles - alone. It was a gorgeous drive. I had hours with my music blasting away and hours of complete silence. Hours to formulate ideas for writing. Hours to pray and meditate. I stopped early and enjoyed the evening. I met a lot of fascinating people along the way. I didn't set my alarm in the morning.

When I arrived in Connecticut, I was refreshed and invigorated, and that helped make my week all the more transcendent. The special way our rabbis taught us to lead services filled with depth and

kavvanah

helped me in unimaginable ways. What utterly amazing teachers we have! Wow! I was astonished at how intimately and quickly so many of us bonded. Wow!

I'm so glad I took my time on the trip there and arrived ready for all that everyone had to offer.

Sometimes I just want to get to the destination. I'm not overly fond of writing, for example, but I LOVE getting to the finished product and holding my own new book in my hand. Practicing scales on my guitar, or new arpeggios, is agonizing - I just want to get that new song down NOW.

In most areas of my life, though, I just enjoy the journey.

As I embark on the path to become a rabbi, I'm prepared for all the years this will take. All the hard work. But I'm SO excited about the journey. I'm already certain that the people I've already gotten to know - and others whom I'll get to know later - will become some of the most intimate friends of my life. The course schedule will probably be rigorous and difficult at times, but what I learn will be filled with beauty and purpose and spirituality. It has not and will not be a lot of empty, dry facts filling my head. I know this because I know my teachers - men and women who are brimming with beauty and depth and the kind of knowledge that enriches every space in their souls.

During this journey, I plan to drive at my own pace, to take care of myself physically and emotionally, and most of all, to savor each moment with my teachers and friends. For me, it will never merely be about the destination. Thank you for letting me become part of this path. Thank you for walking on it with me.

Shabbat Shalom!

Mary

Prejudice

I've always tried to stand up with the underdog - with people who are persecuted.

Example on a small scale: when I was in fifth grade, at camp, several children began taunting and teasinf a girl I didn't know. I walked over and asked her to join myself and my friends. That little girl, from another state, wrote me letters until we were in our early-to-mid 20s.

On a larger scale: I've joined protests with black leaders, including controversial John Wiley Price, when they protested sleazy establishments trying to move near their residences, when cigarette and alcohol companies targeted them with billboards, and when companies and governments failed to adequately represent them.  There is no doubt in my mind that prejudice and discrimination against the black community remains rampant.

Now, however, there's a need to stand up against a black group in its protest against a Korean convenience store owner who killed a man after he ran off with his entire cash register. The man had just been released from prison where he had served time for committing "several robberies". That cash register probably held enough money to feed this poor man's family for a month - and he had worked hard to earn it.

The protests are now taking place six days a week by volunteers who steer potential customers away from this man's store. And the trouble all began when a Nation of Islam leader, Jeffery Muhammad, got into a verbal skirmish with the store owner.

The Dallas Morning News quotes Muhammad as saying this: "Pak must go. So should other Asian-American merchants in black neighborhoods. ..They are just the latest in a long line of people who have come to this country - like Jews, Italians, Indians and now Asians - who have sucked the blood of and exploited the black community."

Please be safe, but please stop by and buy something from the Diamond Shamrock Kwik Shop on Martin Luther King Blvd.

Being in a holy place often means taking action to make our world a more holy place. Fighting prejudice in all its forms, against its many targets, is one way of doing this.

See you at the Kwik Shop.

Mary

Pausing to Think About God

That's my kitchen mezuzah in the picture above and I just snapped the photo. I'm already getting prepared for tonight. The table is set, the challah is fresh and hot, bright new flowers are arranged alongside the candles and kiddush wine. We'll share our table tonight with friends. I'm excited.

But OK, this blog is about the mezuzah again. Really, I didn't expect that the simple, little ritual of kissing that pretty object hanging on my doorpost would change my life so much, but it has.

Since I've been pausing longer at the mezuzahs in my home to reflect on what I'm grateful for, I find that I'm thinking about God A LOT.

I have a friend, an attorney, who used to actually keep a tiny alarm that reminded her hourly to pause and remember God. I use the mezuzah for that purpose. And I'm finding that by lingering each time I walk in or out of a room for an extended period of time that it's actually changing my overall consciousness. I feel God's presence more frequently and more readily. I'm more deeply grateful for everything in my life. My very recent battle with negativity - my first ever - is dissipating. When people call and say, "how are you doing?", I spontaneously and sincerely find myself saying, "Fabulous!!". Stopping frequently to give thanks for each aspect of my life is changing the way I feel throughout the day and evening. I'm a little awed by these fresh feelings of joy.

Most of the time as I pause by my mezuzah, my gratefulness gushes out, but there are certainly times it's a struggle. Yesterday, for instance, I walked out of my office feeling utterly frazzled. Only a fraction of my to-do list had been completed. Four different telephone lines had rung incessantly all morning. I had woken up too early - a REALLY bad thing for me. I needed a new, part-time staff member and none of my assistants had been available all week to help me out. Trying to concentrate on any task was difficult because I kept thinking of something that was more important - how could I prioritize when it was ALL priority? How the hell would I figure out which task to tackle?

I walked out of my office and paused at the mezuzah like I always do. I couldn't figure out what to be thankful for, other than a job that at the moment was driving me insane. As I stood there, however, I felt a wave of serenity. The mezuzah, I realized, had become a simple and powerful reminder of God's presence, even when gratefulness didn't immediately bubble up. Even when I was having a bad day. The mezuzah prompted me to take a breath and move into a difference mental space as I moved into a different physical space. I took a deep breath and headed down to the kitchen for lunch. And as I did, I felt again a deep gratitude for my life.

Today I added something else to this ritual. The mezuzah contains the Shema and the verses that follow the Shema, so this morning when I arrived home from class, I stopped at the mezuzah to give thanks for what I learned today and what that learning is preparing me for (rabbinical school!!). But I also spoke the Shema aloud. Because while I'll always have something to be grateful for when I walk into and out of any room, as I leave or arrive home, I also simply want to remind myself that along with the blessings of my life, the greatest of all is the presence of God.

Shabbat Shalom!

Mary

Next Step with the Mezuzah

I'm deeply drawn to rituals. They help me concentrate, they're often beautiful, and when you absorb their meaning, they enhance the spirituality of the prayer or action you're doing. The problem is, rituals can become so habitual that we fail to pause and absorb the meaning embedded in them. Take the ritual of kissing the mezuzah. I've written about it before, but it's something I continually struggle with.

When I put up my first mezuzah, I placed it on the garage door entryway, the only way I usually left the house. I'd brush the mezuzah with my fingertips and allow a quick thought of God to pass through my mind.

Could I think about God, without a mezuzah, when I left my house? Of course, but I usually didn't. The visual reminder, the pause, helped.

Later, I began to think about putting mezuzahs up on other doors. Halachically we're supposed to have them on every doorpost except the bathroom, but this just didn't gel with me. Even if you kissed the mezuzah every time you passed through any doorway, wouldn't that make it all the more reflexive and meaningless?

I've been to friends' homes who aren't in the least Orthodox but who have mezuzahs on every doorpost. It looks beautiful, and I get their attraction to the ritual of hanging one on every doorpost. I've never asked them, but maybe every time they glance at one, it reminds them of a faith, of a God, they love.

But I still personally hadn't wanted to go that far.

Some time back, though, Joe and I decided to hang mezuzahs selectively - on the kitchen and bedroom doors, on the office door, and on all entry doors except the one that leads to our backyard. But a year later, I realized that I rarely noticed most of them. I certainly didn't kiss them or pause for any kind of reflection.

So several days ago I started doing something new and I have to tell you, I'm loving it.

Rather than grazing the mezuzah with my fingertips, I stop, touch it fully, and pause there a little while. I reflect on what the room I'm entering or leaving means to me.

As I walk into my office, for instance, I stop and fully touch the mezuzah, kiss my fingertips, then touch it lightly again, for several seconds. While touching it, I offer a prayer of gratitude for the work I'm privileged to have. Leaving or entering the bedroom, I lean against the mezuzah and feel its presence on my cheek. My heart wells with gratitude for a good night's rest and for the sweet husband who lies close beside me. Entering the kitchen, I stop for a half-minute, kiss the mezuzah and thank God for providing such an abundance and variety of food.

But why the mezuzah? For me, knowing the mezuzah contains Judaism's holiest declaration - the Shema - gives me the opportunity to make myself consciously aware that God, the One, permeates everything. I enter and leave a particular space and a particular task that's part of my life with a different level of consciousness.

As I write this, I'm anticipating placing mezuzahs on the rest of my doors. I want to pause, resting against this beautiful, visual reminder as I enter the room where I play guitar, the room where I read, the room where I study and write, the room where Joe and I curl up with popcorn and a DVD, the backyard where I listen to the frogs and smell fresh herbs growing alongside the pool...

Hear, people who struggle with God and with the rituals of our faith, God is One. Bring that Divine Energy into each of your tasks, into your rest and play, and into the world outside of your home.

That's what I'll be trying to do.

Shabbat Shalom,

Mary