Monday night. Fifty five degrees out. Too cold. Staying in. Running late. What’s the use of going to shul?
Tuesday morning. Failure. Failure. Failure. I feel like a failure. I feel like I’m swirling down the toilet of life.
On that happy note, let’s go to shul.
Tuesday night. I’m swirling. I’m swinging. I’m spinning. I’m the outside man on a daisy wheel and we’re racing around the bima. As the outside man, I have to cover more ground. I have to run faster. I have to avoid crashing into the ark and through the mehitza into the ladies’ section.
I’m spinning faster and faster. If I let go, I’ll spin out of control. I’ll crash and burn.
I must hold tight.
I mustn’t let go.
Must not.
Go.
Ten PM. Fifth hakafot. Time for a change.
I stride east on Pico Blvd and then south on Robertson to the Shtibl Minyan. There’s a high level of fervor. Men dance with women and the Torah. There’s a Sikh bloke with a purple turban. I wonder if he was born Jewish?
There’s divrei Torah about finding a place for women in the tradition. The crowd is largely American Jewish University students and faculty and friends and lovers.
These were once my people.
I feel renewed hope for the Conservative movement. It will be blessed by beautiful rabbis.
I stay in my shell and don’t say more than a few words to anyone. I don’t want to pull a muscle or sprain an ankle or make a fool of myself.
I feel like the world is coming down on my head. I must stay quiet and calm and collected. I must conserve my inner resources. Still my inner drama queen.
Don’t say anything dumb.
Go home. Lie down. Be still.
Boys don’t cry.
