My Shabbat traditions have evolved over the years. Observance has waxed and waned in my life, in my family, and in my environment. I attended services a few times as a freshman in college, but never really felt comfortable (having finally adjusted to the songs and prayers of my hometown congregation, I was horrified to find that the Jewish community I had committed to getting to know better sang the same words to completely different tunes and rhythms). My sophomore year, I lived in the Jewish house at school and created my own tradition with friends. After attending services that continued to make me feel uncomfortable, whether because my spiritual search had lead me to Paganism or because a year of attendance still had not made me familiar with the different traditions, a few of my housemates and I decided it was time for our own tradition. We watched a movie to keep our minds off of the delicious smell of food that filled our house while more pious students sang and chanted below us. Then we would sneak back the downstairs (even though we really never had to sneak, everyone knew we hadn't gone to services and no one cared) and would join in the big, delicious Shabbat dinner. After going on Birthright, I decided to attempt to practice Shabbat. I loved the freedom of not having a phone or a computer, but allowed myself to do things that I never had time for during the week, such as read or write in my journal. Rehearsals invaded my Saturdays and I lost my ability to practice Shabbat. I'm never sure whether it became too difficult to survive with Shabbat or whether my life became more difficult because I lost Shabbat. At home, plans to attend services always fall through, as Friday night is a big babysitting night. Shabbat became a hassle, something that I knew was beneficial, but to which I was unable to commit the effort required to do absolutely nothing.
And now I live in Jerusalem. Saturday is called Shabbat - there is no other name. All the days of the week lead up to it and when it arrives, it is palpable. All the stores shut down early on Friday morning, after everyone rushes around insanely trying to complete their errands and chores before sundown, and the city quiets. Most of the roads through Haredi neighborhoods are closed off, those that are not and are susceptible to cars loudly voice their opposition to the breaking of Shabbat by others. The train, the buses, the stores, everything follows the progression of the sun in the sky. Whether at 6:30 or at 3:30, Shabbat begins right before the sun sets. And yet, in this place of deep tradition, I have made Shabbat my own. As I have written about often in this blog, Friday night is a time of gathering. Friends pile into an apartment to cook and consume fabulous food, then dissolve happily into sated masses in a cuddly pile. I have not attended services, I have not fully observed Shabbat; I have simply let it influence my life as much as it will, impeding my ability to go places and to run errands. On Shabbat, I laze around, enjoying the quiet and the passivity with which I can rest. I do not have to fight for free time. I spend my Shabbats with friends, food, and my thoughts. It is what I make of it.
Tomorrow night is my last Shabbat in Jerusalem, Israel. Next Shabbat, I will have to returned to my home, one of my many homes, I suppose I should say. I am currently being consumed with a thousand feelings. And I know that this Shabbat marks the difference.
It is rather fitting that this week, Shabbat dinner will be different. It is not the meal that is the focus of my week. This week, we are preparing for Havdalah dinner. Before I came to Israel on Birthright, I really knew nothing about the concept of Havdalah. Havdalah is the ceremony that marks the end of Shabbat. Literally the word means "separation". It is a celebration that calls upon the participants to use all five senses: to smell the sweetness of the spices that commemorate the sweetness of Shabbat, to taste the wine, to see the light that emanates from the multi-wick candle, to feel the warmth of the flame, and to hear the blessings that remind us of the sanctity of Shabbat and prepare us for another week during which we will anticipate the perfection of Shabbat.
Shabbat, like everything else in Israel, comes with its pluses and minuses. It is incredibly difficult to complete all one's tasks when one works or goes to school full time. This is a complaint I heard from my Hasidic teacher and is one that I have heard from many friends who study from morning till evening. There are few ways to get around and few places to go if one can find a way to get there. The weekend requires a complete standstill. But there is such beauty in the traditions of Shabbat. People walk in the streets, greet one another, seem just a bit more relaxed. There is less noise, less pollution, more singing and dancing. There is a feeling of rest in the air (despite the hard work that it takes to create such tranquility). I know that it is something I will miss and that it is something that I wish to preserve in my life when I "go down" from Israel.
So, this week, I will celebrate Havdalah. I will mark the difference, the separation between my life in Israel and my life in the States. As I try to prepare myself for the difference, I am constantly contemplating how the things I have learned and thought about in Israel will bleed into my life in the States. Truly, as much as I try to predict what will happen, I have no idea. I have been so altered by so many things here, I have had my eyes opened, I have grown immensely. What I have experienced in Israel is now a part of who I am, as are the amazing people that I have been privileged enough to spend my adventures with. I leave with more questions than I came with, questions I would have never known to ask 5 months ago. I am so aware of how little I know about the world and am struck by the seeming futility of attempting to learn as much as I can. I am constantly inspired by those who, regardless, dedicate their lives to learning about this life in any way that they can. It is with these thoughts and many, many more that I will soon move from the home that I have found and created in Israel to the home that I was born into in Colorado and, eventually, to the home that I have built in Connecticut.
It is with this blog post that I suppose I wish to begin this contemplation. I continued to feel the distressing joy of the beauty that always emerges from the melancholy end of adventures. And we always begin anew.
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