In the Darkness of a Blizzard

At the northern edge of humanity
hidden in a polar embrace
forbidden candles flicker and dance
outside wind howls
in the hallway, workers trudge day and night

Inside, there is an island, tiny and fragile
my lips whisper blessings
my cup holds only water, not wine
my table only matzah, not challah
my family far away

I welcome the Shabbos queen
wondering if she’s visited here before
has she seen the unending night?
has she watched out for polar bears?
does she travel this far north?

I say more blessings and curl up in my bed
a small bit of comfort in a small room
a book for company
forbidden candles dying down
prayers for a safe return home on my lips

The Sabbath and I huddle together
strangers in this place
I picture my family, safe and warm
the brighter glow of welcome candles
the Sabbath and I drift off to sleep

To the Edge of the World

Tomorrow I board my flight to Kuparuk, to spend a week in one of the most remote, most extreme parts of the world.  I will most likely be the furthest north person celebrating Shabbos in the world this week, in a land where the sun will not rise for months.  I’ve consulted my Rav about the various laws for lighting there and he’s instructed me to follow lighting times for Fairbanks, the closest location that still has a sunrise and sunset.

The only way to work my way out of the darkness is to travel deeper into it.

In contrast, in just a couple of weeks after this trip to the extreme north, my family and I will be traveling south to scout out what we hope will be our new community, down in the “lower 48,” as Alaskans call the rest of the United States.  My trip flight north will only be a couple of hours shorter than our flight south, but to me, it’s a journey to two extremes.  One is a world set so far apart from Jewish community, where everyone around me will be working 12 hour shifts for 2 weeks straight before they fly out for 2 weeks off work.  There, not only is there no sunlight to mark Shabbos by, but no Sabbath for the regular workers there.

In my Tanya class each week, our teacher uses light as a metaphor for how G-dliness filters through the different worlds to our own.  It’s a very powerful metaphor for me, living where I do.  Winter light in Anchorage is weak in its strength.  In color, it is whiter than light elsewhere or at other times.  It is thin light, beautifully clear for photographs, but not warming. Further north, the light decreases further until there is barely any glow of twilight in the sky and no sunrise or sunset.  The light simply cannot reach those places, hidden by the curve of the earth from its reach.

I think we all sometimes must travel through those dark places, where it is so hard to see Hashem or feel His warmth.  The only difference here is that this distance seems so visual and literal.

By contrast, further south, the light thickens like syrup.  When I visited the south of the US a few weeks ago, the sunlight flowed from the sky like warm honey, thick with warmth.  Plants and animals charge themselves in that glow and it allows things to grow.  That kind of light nourishes everything it touches where the winter light up here simply can’t do much.

There is beauty and meaning in the darkness, though.  There is a value to walking through it and a lot that a person can learn about themselves.  If a person can even find Hashem when that glow is at its faintest, then how can they lose Hashem when it is so much brighter?

As I pack and prepare to fly north, I plan to seek Hashem, even alone in the darkness of a Shabbos spent so far from family or any semblance of Jewishness.  If I can squint my eyes and find the light in that darkness, I will be confident I can find it when we’re moved where there is so much more support for the search.

The Dark Side of the Moon

I remember vividly watching Apollo 13 for the first time, particularly the nervous part where the endangered astronauts pass to the dark side of the moon.  Because the moon is between them and earth, there is radio silence.  They’re unable to communicate with the world outside and are left in an anxious state of separation, not really knowing if they’ll make it around to the other side.

Sometimes, winter here is like that.

It’s hard to reach out into the darkness and the world outside Alaska feels more remote.  Mail takes longer to get here as the barges that bring it up from the lower 48 often have to break through ice to reach us.  The store shelves often go barren in spots when shipments don’t arrive as expected.  Fresh fruit and vegetables are not as good of quality and sometimes harder to find.  Everyone seems moody, withdrawn a bit, as they sink into the darkest part of the year.  Holiday lights help some, but the darkness seems to devour even their cheerful light.

It is against this backdrop and my looming trip to the north slope that disappointing news came our way yesterday and it came on several fronts.

For reasons I’ll spare you, dear reader, we must move our Shabbat RV 2.0.  This will make attending shul on Shabbos much more expensive and difficult.  There are hotels near shul, but their rates are high enough we will probably only be able to attend shul once a month.  The RV, although cold, allowed us to attend almost every Shabbos.  This comes at a time when we all badly felt the need to feel some connection.

The other news is that there may be more complications with us finding a Beit Din to convert us.  When we met with our local sponsoring Rabbi before the high holidays, he was hopeful and had some plans, but the fall has been very busy and nothing has moved forward.  It is looking more and more like nothing will move forward until after we have moved and that we may have to begin again with a new sponsoring Rabbi in our new community.  This could potentially add 1-2 more years to our conversion process and essentially mean our time spent working here in Alaska doesn’t really count as far as conversion goes.

As our minds worked through all this after our meeting with our Rabbi, I looked at Mr. Safek across the table from me.  In the years we’ve been in this process, his beard has grayed and our children have grown from little ones to a teenager and tween.  I could tell he was crushed, thinking of all that lay ahead for us when he thought we were nearing a happy ending of our story.

“Well, we’ve put in this many years…what is one or two more in the grand scheme of things?”  I did my best to smile, to lighten the mood, “and that’s the worst case.  Perhaps another door will open in the meantime.”

Sometimes the only way out of something difficult is through it.  It’s true of difficult projects at work, a tough hike through the mountains, and it’s definitely true of winter.  The only way back from the dark side of the moon is to just keep going, keep waiting for the light and the signal to return.  It’s hard accepting that we have so little control or power over our own lives…but we don’t.

It’s all in Hashem’s hands and it always has been.

But we sure could use some sunshine or some connection now.

The Darker Side of Kiruv

I hesitated writing this post.  I never want to speak ill of the Jewish people, even isolated parts because I understand how someone reading my words might take that to be all Orthodox Jews, particularly if they’ve had little to no experiences with other Orthodox Jews.  I also hesitated because I kept wondering if what happened was my fault, just like how my son didn’t tell us when a man at shul just picked him up during the High Holidays, scaring him.  I feared if I said anything about what happened, it would either be dismissed as minor or it would somehow have been my fault.

But that’s exactly why things like this happen.  Not every Jew that comes to a kiruv organization wanting to learn more about their Judaism is a good person, but we are commanded to assume that they are.  In this case, though, I was placed in a situation with someone who was known not to behave appropriately.  I’m fortunate that very little happened to me, but I feel like it’s something that BT’s and conversion candidates need to be aware of and to feel like they can stand up for themselves if they’re in a similar situation.

Kiruv is an overwhelmingly good thing.  It’s the word for the process by which non-observant Jews are brought back to observance and thousands of Jews have increased their observance as a result of outreach efforts by observant Jews.  As a result of so many attacks on Jewish identity, generations were raised with little to no idea of what being Jewish could mean for them.  Kiruv organizations like Aish and Chabad work hard to help bring that message to secular Jews who might not even know what they are missing.

However, there are some downsides and I experienced one of them recently at a Shabbos table.

I was a guest, alone in an unfamiliar city and staying with a Rabbi and his wife.  I was already feeling down and unwelcome for other reasons, but I hoped that dinner would help me connect here and feel the warmth of Shabbos.  They had one other guest who showed up late and by the fact that he drove and his dress it became clear that this man was someone they were hoping to bring to greater observance.  He sat down between me and the Rabbi at the head of the table and initially I welcomed him the same I would anyone else.  That’s when things steadily went downhill.

This guest began to make offhand, inappropriate comments and eventually began touching my arm and shoulder to punctuate these comments.  I felt very uncomfortable and I looked to the Rabbi at the head of the table, hoping he would say something to his guest…he didn’t.  I saw him uncomfortable and trying to steer the conversation elsewhere, but it continued until I finally benched (said the blessing for after eating) and went to bed.  The fact that the guest had mentioned that he’d been told by the Rabbi to “behave himself,” told me that this wasn’t surprising behavior from him.  When I spoke about what had happened after Shabbos to a friend, they asked me why I didn’t stand up for myself.  I really felt at a loss.  The Rabbi and the Rebbetzin were right there and I didn’t feel it was my place to cause any conflict at their table.  I told myself it was nothing, just some words and he’d only touched my arm and shoulder.

The fact is…often kiruv Rabbis are in a tough situation.  The person who is acting inappropriately might be a major donor, someone who helps keep the doors of their shul open so that they can do the work they need to do in their community.  Tolerating bad behavior from one might allow them to serve many.  In other cases, the person acting poorly might be someone they see badly in need of help, a Jew on the edge.  The person might be related to someone who is powerful or wealthy.

My host and hostess didn’t speak to me about what had happened afterwards.  They avoided me the rest of my stay there.  I wonder if it’s because they felt awkward about it all or if they somehow blamed me.  I can’t know.  I try to judge them favorably, assuming they were probably in one of those difficult situations or unsure how to handle what was happening.  They were younger and perhaps this was something new to them.  I also thought a lot about how I could handle things differently.  I could have spoken up for myself.  I could have asked him to stop touching me or to stop talking about lewd topics.  Instead, I laughed nervously, trying to find the best time to politely get out of there.  I felt unsafe, jetlagged, and alone.  I couldn’t blame the experience on my halakhic status or lack thereof since it had never come up.

Kiruv is hard and difficult work and I admire the people who engage in it.  They also must often tolerate so much directed at themselves and their families to do what they do.  It may have been that what I went through was minor compared to what they’ve endured.

My husband and I also talked about how we would handle a similar situation at our Shabbos table.  What would we do to keep any female guests feeling safe and comfortable if there was a male guest who crossed the line?  Would that change any if it was a Rabbi or someone important?  (It won’t.)  Are we willing to deal with the fallout if we made someone feel unwelcome for their behavior?  Where are our lines in the sand and where can we compromise?

I feel like this experience, as difficult as it was that weekend, was important to have.  I walked that Shabbos day, my guests having left me on my own after services, and cried, but I also thought a lot about what had happened and what I could learn from it.  I knew I didn’t want any woman traveling alone or whose husband was away to feel that way in my own home.  I also looked at all the complicated layers to the situation, acknowledging that I couldn’t know all the details, either.

To me, it’s here, in the murky place between being a good host to a Jew who obviously badly needs Torah and allowing that which I cannot stomach that the rubber meets the road.  Can I love my fellow Jew while still keeping my home a safe and welcoming place?  Is there a point at which my fellow Jew has separated himself so much from what is good that I can no longer attempt to bring him close?  I would guess that everyone has different lines.  I needed this experience to show me where mine are.  I left the home before my guests had returned after Shabbos, relieved to drive away.  I left my thank you card and hostess gift just the same, still questioning whether I had done something wrong for them to leave me with the lockbox code and avoid me.  I needed this experience to clearly show me what I don’t want in my home and what I don’t want people to feel in my home.

And that particular gentleman, in our home, would have been politely shown the door if a kind warning hadn’t put a stop to his behavior.  He wouldn’t have been invited at all if his behavior was known, Jewish or not, wealthy and powerful or not.

I found my line.

 

The Deepest, Darkest Winter

All things must live in darkness before they are born.  Seeds sprout underground, hidden in the dirt and animals live either in their mother’s wombs or in eggs until they are ready for the world.  Today, the sun doesn’t rise until 9:12am and it will set at 4:16.  Candle lighting time is earlier than that, so we will have to pick the kids up from school halfway through their day so that we can prepare for another Shabbos cuddled up for warmth in the RV.

Spiritually also, we are in winter.  Our sponsoring Rabbi, due to a lot of different commitments, has been unable to meet with us since before the high holidays.  Last weekend, what I had hoped would be a Shabbos of warmth and inspiration was instead an experience of being unwelcome.  Our move looms large in our minds and there are days…I’m just not sure how it’s all going to work out.

There is nothing left but to trust that spring will come in its time and that we will make it through this winter to brighter days.

We take our vitamin D and try to get outside when there is light.  We bundle up and lean on each other.  And we daven.  Only Hashem can bring the light back and only He can prepare us for our new lives.

Welcoming Strangers?

I’ve been fortunate to travel to different Jewish communities during my years as a conversion candidate and it’s always interesting how different different Orthodox communities can be.  Every single one has its own personality and subtle differences and it’s neat to see all the different directions people in different places take their Judaism.

The downside is that sometimes…I find myself visiting a community that may not be so open to visitors.

This past weekend, unfortunately, I landed in such a community when I was traveling.  I spent Shabbos far from home and mostly alone.  I was hosted by a family, but they actually left their home to visit family after kiddush on Shabbos and didn’t return until some time after Shabbos had ended and I had left.  The day before, there were also some issues that helped me to feel very unwelcome.  At the shul, I tried to smile my best smile and be friendly, but the congregation itself also seemed to have a very closed off feel to it.  I managed to find another woman who seemed to feel a bit outside of it and sit with her for kiddush and we had a lovely chat, but beyond that?  I felt alone in a crowd.

Some Jewish communities are more insular than others and it can be difficult to tell from brief phone calls or emails what you’re getting into when you go to visit.  Some communities are rather happy as they are and don’t really see the need for new people to enter or perhaps they’ve developed a kind of culture amongst themselves where friendliness isn’t encouraged.  I’ve run across this in a few communities and I’ve also run across communities that are warm and welcoming, but it is definitely why I recommend for people to go and visit a community before deciding to move somewhere.

I had a lot of time to myself this past Shabbos to think and the weather was so much nicer than in Alaska, so I took a long walk and thought about what I want in a Jewish community as well as what I’d like to avoid.  It turns out that this experience was a good one because it reminded me that while a community like the one I was visiting might be perfect for someone else, it wouldn’t be a good fit for me or my family.  It helped me crystalize more of what I’m looking for.  It also made me think about my own community back in Alaska and appreciate its warmth and openness more.

I also began to wonder if anyone visiting my community had felt the way I felt here?  Had I ever neglected to welcome a visitor, to show an interest in them?  Had I ever led a visitor to feel excluded or left out?  Were there ways I could be better at welcoming strangers, at helping them feel at home and included in my own shul?  I know I’ll be looking for visitors more closely now and I’ll try harder to make sure that they feel welcome.

One day, G-d willing, Mr. Safek and I will be able to host guests for Shabbos and when that happens, I hope that we will be able to help make their visit something wonderful that brings them closer to yiddishkeit and welcome in our community.  Perhaps it took an experience of feeling unwelcome and alone to help me think more about what we need to do to prepare for that day.

I am grateful to the people who hosted me.  I don’t think they intended for me to feel hurt or unwelcome and I think there were circumstances around my visit that had little to do with me as a person that led to what happened.  They still opened their home to me and I sense that it may have been difficult for them to do so at this time and that they just weren’t in a place where they could do much more, but also genuinely didn’t want me left without nowhere to be at all.  My experiences were just a snapshot of a moment in their lives and I think they did the best that they could do in the situation.

And, I’m grateful for a difficult experience and all the lessons it can bring.  Sometimes, that’s where I learn the most.

 

Shabbos, Cold and Dark

Last Shabbos, I was curled up in my arctic sleeping bag.  Granted, that particular sleeping bag was a little overkill for the night we were having.  The temperature in the RV was only in the 40’s, not below zero.  Still, it was a taste of things to come as we each did what we needed to do to stay warm.  The kids were curled in blankets and jackets and our crockpot dinner was welcome warmth.  Shabbos began early, although not as early as it will.  It was the last Shabbos for a while that the kids were able to do a full day of school.

Cold, like hunger, gnaws at the spirit, with patience wearing thin and small discomforts magnified and yet, there was a pride we all felt and a connection to previous generations of Jews who braved all kinds of discomforts or even danger to keep the Sabbath.  We’re far more fortunate in that there are no dangers for us and even our discomforts are mitigated by modern technology.  There is camping gear here in Alaska that allows people to camp even in the most extreme conditions and we even had a shelter and the ability to have warm food.

I’m preparing for an even darker Shabbos.

In a few weeks, as soon as some equipment arrives, I will need to travel to Kuparuk, an oil drilling camp.  It lies just inland from the arctic ocean, far north of the arctic circle and not far from the northernmost point of Alaska.  Yesterday, I attended a training that is mandatory for anyone going to these kinds of camps where I learned just how extreme an environment it is and about all the dangers and what to do to avoid those dangers.  Each module, essentially, was all about another way to die there.  Polar bears that never hibernate and see humans as food make grizzly bears seem cuddly by comparison.  Cold that can kill in a short period of time if you aren’t prepared for it.  Contagious disease that spreads quickly in confined quarters.  Poisonous gases released from far below the frozen permafrost.  Cold so bitter that machinery stops functioning.  Darkness that lasts months.

I will only be up there for a week or two and the company that has contracted us is providing me kosher food.  I’m working with my local Orthodox Rabbi to work out candle lighting times and I’m taking a coworker with me who I will train to do this work and it’s likely that he’ll handle any future trips like this.  It feels almost like preparing for a week or two on a moon colony.  I will spend a Shabbos or two there, among the oil workers, in a long night that takes months until the first dawn, far from home and family.

Yet, even there, there could be opportunities for connection, for warmth and for Judaism.  Who knows if one of the workers might see my sheitel and casually mention that his mother was Jewish?  Who knows what inspiration might come from spending this time in a place so foreign, so extreme?  At the very least, I am sure I will have some time for uninterrupted reading and davening.  The questions I have are interesting ones that make me wonder about future Jews.  How will space traveling Orthodox Jews handle Shabbos and candle lighting in the constant night of space?

Where there is a will, there is almost always a way.