"It's simple. I'm right, you're wrong." (Or is it?)

Do you believe strongly in stuff? Great! Belief is terrific. Having convictions is a wonderful thing. We shouldn’t just float through life, never feeling passionate about what we do and what we believe in.

However, a little doubt, even self-doubt, can be a healthy thing. (In case you haven’t guessed, I’m going on a rant)

I live a certain lifestyle. I live this way because I believe it is the right way. Mostly, because I think it is the right way for me. I do not believe everyone else has to make the same choices as I do. I do not think people are wrong for choosing to live differently, for interpreting Torah differently, for being a different kind of Jew. I can even wonder, sometimes, if I am indeed making the right choices. I may question my own practices and change.

Recently, there has been a lot of Wall (as in Western) controversy. Who can pray there, and how? You can read all about it here. But whether you are For the Wall, Of the Wall or maybe just off the wall, a tiny bit of allowance for others mixed in with all those lovely convictions and beliefs can make this world a happier place to live.

Reading the various articles and comments on the topic, I was amazed at how people who claim to be God-fearing Jews could be so arrogant as to claim they know exactly what God wants: How He wants Judaism to be observed, how He wants us to pray and dress. Oh, the certainty! It must be lovely! All I know for sure is that I certainly don’t know enough to know for sure. And I can’t understand how anyone can be so arrogant, so smugly convinced of their own rightness, that there is no room left to see that, just maybe, theirs is not the only, or even the right, way to live.

Are we really so naïve as to think there is one “right” and everything else is “wrong?” And so superior to think that “my way” is right?

I will admit that sometimes, when I read something about long-ago cultic religions that eventually died out, a small piece of me says, “Ohmigod, what if that’s us? What if at the end we find out that we Jews have got it all wrong?”

Excuse me while I duck the incoming lightning bolt.

Yes, it’s just a tiny little piece, an itsy-bitsy flickering doubt that accompanies me as I keep kosher, observe Shabbat and go to the mikvah. But does it make me a worse Jew? I hope not. I hope it means that I have simply left a little room in my life for humility and respect for others. At the very least, it keeps me from arrogance.

About a week ago, I read this cutesy Facebook story, the kind I usually scroll past, but for some reason I clicked on it. It was a conversation between two twins in utero. One was talking about leaving one day, about meeting “Mother,” about life on the outside. The other was convinced that there was nothing other than this life. After all, no one ever came back from “out there” to tell them otherwise. They never met “Mother” and had no proof they could even exist outside the womb. It resonated with me because, in the end, we don’t know. We really just don’t know. We don’t talk to God, we don’t get celestial confirmation in the form of a booming voice telling us, “Hey there! You, over there! You are doing it right! Congrats!”

Yes, we pick a path, we believe it’s right, and we stick to it. But we shouldn’t stick to our beliefs and passions so strongly that it causes us to frenetically raze every other path in sight.

Tikkun Leil Shavuot: Fun for the whole family!

This year, Shavuot is going to be my Pesach do-over.

Well, not do-over exactly. I loved Pesach. I thought our seder was wonderful, the kids were engaged, the food was delicious. Etc., etc. But as I mentioned, it can be so stressful preparing for the cooking and cleaning part of seder that it can be hard to find time to think about the educational aspects.

Luckily, we have another chance, a mere seven weeks after Pesach, to engage in some kid-friendly Torah learning. But this time, bread crumbs are welcome, and there is not a bowl of salt water in sight.

Shavuot night is known as “tikkun leil Shavuot.” The story goes that the Jewish people overslept on the day that they were to receive the Torah. God was seriously exasperated, “It’s Torah day, and I have to wake you up?” And so, we have spent the last few centuries atoning for the error. We spend all night engaged in Torah study, proving to God that we are here, ready and excited, to receive his Torah.

[Note: The word “tikkun” is often used to mean “fix,” as in “tikkun olam,” our responsibility to repair, or improve, the world. It can also refer to a specific, fixed time to study, or a set of texts to learn. In this case, there’s a little bit of both of those meanings.]

Many synagogues have all-night learning programs on a variety of topics. There are often even classes, in the earlier part of the evening, that are geared toward children so they, too, can partake in the Torah study. I have fond memories of staying up all night Shavuot studying for finals (hey, the timing worked out, so why not?) and drinking very sugary coffee, and then finally passing out sometime during the early morning shacharit service.

Even if all-night study is not your thing, you and your family can still engage in learning from the comfort of your home and your pajamas. And since this holiday requires significantly less work than its counterparts of Sukkot and Pesach—blintzes and cheesecake vs. sukkah and seder—there may even be some time before Shavuot to sit down and plan a mini-tikkun leil Shavuot for your own family. Some ideas:

1. Ruth. The megillah we read on Shavuot is Megillat Ruth. Though it lacks some of the drama and heroics of Megillat Esther (no one gets hanged, for example), it has some very thought-provoking topics. For example: conversion. Ruth, the heroine, decides to convert to Judaism. What does it mean to convert? Why did she want to be Jewish? How does the Torah want us to treat converts? The megillah also touches on how to treat those less fortunate than ourselves, as the poor gather at the field of Boaz (the hero) to collect leftover grains.
2. Seven species. During this holiday, back in the old days, the Jewish people trekked with their first fruits (bikkurim) to the Beit Hamikdash in Jerusalem. The shivat haminim, Israel’s seven special species, play a big role in the holiday. (First activity: try saying “seven special species” 10 times fast). Your local Jewish bookstore will probably carry books on this topic both for kids and adults. (We have one with pictorial descriptions of the ancient processes of food preparation, including stamping on grapes and throwing wheat chaff in the air.) If you don’t live near a Jewish bookstore, you can even buy something on Amazon.
3. Your choice! Learn anything you want! Last year, my son decided he wanted to read parts of Breishit with me. Why not? He enjoyed hearing the familiar words and stories. Ask your kids ahead of time if there’s something they would like to learn more about or study with you.
4. Be the student. Let the kids teach you. During the rush of the school week, there’s not always time to sit and talk about what they learned that day. Ask them before the holiday to think of something they can teach you during the evening. (Warning: You may have to sit in little chairs for the full effect.)

Whether you buy some new books or simply familiarize yourself with old texts, whether you learn all night or pass out at 9:30, tikkun leil Shavuot is a natural time for Torah study with the family.

(Note: I have nothing against the 33^rd day of the omer, per se. In fact, I have nothing against any days of the omer. My dislike is related to this quasi-holiday of “Lag B’Omer” that we’ve created.)

I love living in Israel. I really do. In fact, this post was originally going to be about why I love being a parent (and why I wish I had been a kid) in Israel. Don’t worry, that post will come. But for now, I am grieving over my ruined view.

You might remember my view. I posted it a while back. It looks like this. Well, it used to.

Last night, an out of control fire turned it to this.

Last night marked the beginning of Lag B’Omer. I tried to explain about Lag B’Omer in this space last year. It’s a funny little holiday, one that we’ve more or less made up. If you were going to rank the holidays in terms of importance, I would say (and keep in mind, I am neither a rabbi not do I play one on JVO) that we start with Shabbat and the holidays (that are biblical), then come Purim and Chanukah (rabbinically ordained), then probably the 9^th of Av (our day of mourning). Then Tu B’Shvat. Then, maybe, maybe comes Lag B’Omer. Even though the only actual mitzvah of the day is to count the omer (something we’ve been doing since Pesach and will continue to do until Shavuot), we’ve created a number of traditions around the holiday that have become as binding as reading the megillah on Purim.

In America, the day is often marked by picnics and other outdoorsy activities. In Israel, it starts with theft and ends with arson.

Lag B’Omer in Israel is all about the medurah (bonfire). The youth of this country, religious and secular alike, adhere to it pretty, well, religiously. Everyone has to do a bonfire. Youth groups, synagogues, schools, families and groups of friends. Last night, driving down one of the streets in my city, there were no fewer than 20 bonfires raging in one of the “sanctioned” bonfire areas.

No one is exactly sure where this bonfire tradition comes from. You can almost imagine the educators of yore sitting around, discussing this strange tradition of lighting things on fire, and saying, “Alright, we’re saddled with this bonfire thing. It’s not going anywhere. I guess we should tack on some historical/religious significance to it.” Theories range from a “ner neshama” (yahrtzeit/memorial candle) for the students of Rabbi Akiva who died in the weeks prior to Lag B’Omer, to a ner neshama for Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai, a great sage who died on Lag B’Omer. Or maybe it’s because R’ Shimon taught lots of Torah, which lights up the world, just like the bonfire lights up the mountains behind my home. Or because during the Bar Kochba rebellion, they lit bonfires to send messages.

Guys, if you have to work that hard at coming up with a reason, well …

In Israel, at least, this tradition with very shaky and hazy reasoning has led to some clear and serious transgressions. Because there is a dearth of trees in Israel, kids have to go to great—and unscrupulous—lengths to obtain wood. So they pillage building and construction sites for “krashim,” planks of wood. Any flammable item sitting in your yard is considered fair game. And they cart off their haul in shopping carts they often pilfer from nearby supermarkets.

Then comes bonfire time, which usually starts a few days before Lag B’Omer. The city offers sanctioned bonfire sites, cordoned-off areas where it is “safe” to build a bonfire. You are only allowed to light your fire in one of the sanctioned areas at one of the specified times. It’s kind of like the city sighing with resignation—if you’re going to do this thing people, let’s try to make it as safe and controlled as possible.

But, unfortunately, there are always those who believe the law is for other people. For example, the people that decided to make a bonfire on the mountains across from my building. Those mountains are an archaeological site; you can’t build on that area, you can’t barbeque there and you certainly can’t have a medurah. But someone—or someones—did, and the fire raged for most of the night.

Aside from the aforementioned theft, the lack of respect and appreciation for nature is appalling. As a religion, we generally have great respect for the environment. There are many, many halachot that discuss the care of trees and crops. We have a shemittah year, where we need to let the land lay fallow. Each of the major holidays (Pesach, Shavuot and Sukkot) is not just celebrating a milestone in the Jewish people’s history; they are each agricultural holidays as well. The Torah spends a significant chunk of time discussing the agricultural significance of Chag Ha’aviv (the spring holiday), Chag Ha’asif (reaping) and Chag Hakatzir (harvesting). In fact, one of the themes of the upcoming holiday of Shavuot is bringing bikkurim, first fruits, to the Temple. We even have a special “Rosh Hashanah” just for trees (Tu B’Shvat).

And then on Lag B’Omer we go ahead and cheerfully say, “To heck with you, environment! Bring me more planks! Bwahahaha!”

Maybe kids all over the country will hate me for saying this, but perhaps it’s time to start letting Lag B’Omer go. Last night’s fire was another reminder that the risks and dangers of this holiday—or “holiday”—simply outweigh the fun. Even though it’s “something we’ve always done,” that’s not necessarily a reason to continue a tradition that poses such great risk to man and to nature.

My poor blackened hills would certainly agree.

Victims of the Boston Marathon Bombings. (Source: AP)

What can you say after the horrific events of last week? The bombing at the marathon, the shooting at MIT, the fear gripping Boston while one of the terrorists was still armed and at large, and the entire city on lockdown? In the end, the terrorist was found hiding and bloody, in a boat in someone’s driveway. He was arrested and is currently in the hospital.

Not exactly a happy ending, but at least an ending to a week of terror.

How do we respond to something like this? This indiscriminate murdering and maiming of innocent people? Each time I hear about a horrific event like this one, it is hard for me to comprehend how a person could do this to another person. Pictures of the bombers show them milling around, elbow-to-elbow with the people they would shortly kill or injure. The two brothers were able to stand mere inches from their victims and apparently feel no remorse for the terror they were about to unleash. I am amazed and dismayed that as a human race, we have given birth to monsters such as these. In addition to the four innocent people murdered—three at the marathon, plus a security guard at MIT—a number of marathon-goers sustained severe injuries. Including the loss of limb, or limbs; injuries that will require several surgeries, prostheses and years of physical therapy. A few moments in the wrong place have irrevocably altered their lives.

So how do we respond? Well, for starters, I know a few things I’m not going to do. I’m not going to take the attitude of, “Well now you know what other parts of the world (Israel, Syria, etc.) experience.” This picture from Syrian sympathizers sums up that uncomfortable combination of sympathy and smugness. Maybe there’s a time for teaching eye-opening lessons about life under terrorism. But it is not now.

I’m also not going to jump to conclusions about why this happened. There are lots of very smart people working on the answers to that question. I’m not one of them. My job now is not to listen to or spread rumors, or make sweeping generalizations about ethnicities and religions. My job is to sympathize and help.

Speaking of which, if you are looking for ways to help, CNN has an extensive list of ways you can help, both with your body and your money. The list includes donations and funds for the families of the victims and the injured. If you’re not sure how or where to start, well, you can always give blood. It’s always needed, always appreciated, and gives you an excuse to eat cookies and juice for the rest of the day. (“I’m still a bit lightheaded! Time for another Oreo!”)

In addition, if you are a runner, walker or stroller-pusher, join the Facebook group Run 26.2 for Boston. You can create your own local version, like a friend of mine did for Modiin.

And of course, we have prayer. We often end discussions about tragedies with the phrase, “Our thoughts and prayers are with you.” Because sometimes, when things are bleak, when we feel helpless or angry, when we feel we can’t even muster up the strength to march forward, thoughts and prayers are all we have. So we talk to God. We pray to Him to help the grieving, heal the wounded and to please, please, make this week a better one.

The emblem of Israel: A menorah flanked by two olive branches.

You are invited!

What: Celebration for Israel’s 65^th Independence Day.

When: Tuesday, April 16, or the 6^th of Iyar. Immediately following Yom Hazikaron, Memorial Day for fallen soldiers.

[Ed. ( very long) note: Technically, the Hebrew date for Yom Haatzmaut is 5 Iyar, the Hebrew date of the declaration of Israel’s independence in 1948. However, we rarely end up celebrating on the actual date. Because of concerns of Sabbath violations, we frequently push off (or back) the memorial/celebration of Yom Hazikaron and Yom Haatzmaut. For example, this year 5 Iyar is actually on Monday. However, that would cause Yom Hazikaron to be on Sunday, which means memorial ceremonies would start Saturday night, which means they may begin before the Sabbath has ended, which would violate the Sabbath. So instead, we push off Yom Hazikaron to Monday, and Yom Haatzmaut to Tuesday. (We also don’t have a Thursday-Friday combination, again for fear of celebrations running into Shabbat). End of note.]

Time: We will transition from Yom Hazikaron to Yom Haatzmaut at a ceremony on Monday evening. Yom Hazikaron, Monday, will be a somber, serious day. Places of entertainment close starting on Sunday evening. Restaurants and cafes close early Sunday evening and many operate only a half day on Monday. They also refrain from playing music over their loudspeakers. There will be commemoration ceremonies throughout Sunday evening and Monday; most TV stations will replace the usual shows with televised ceremonies or other Yom Hazikaron-related programming. Both Sunday evening and Monday morning a siren will sound, and the country will come to a halt. Shoppers in the mall, drivers on the road, bosses and employees, teachers and students—everyone will cease what they are doing and stand in remembrance. It is no coincidence that Yom Hazikaron immediately precedes Yom Haatzmaut. Tying our Independence Day so closely to our Memorial Day makes us acutely aware of the price of freedom, at the extraordinary lengths we have traveled, and continue to travel, to ensure we will be a “free nation in our land.”

Then, Monday evening, the “tekes maavar” (transition ceremony) will bring us from the somberness of Yom Hazikaron to the celebration of Yom Haatzmaut. At the end of the ceremony, many congregations hold a festive evening prayer service, complete with Hallel, the collection of praises we sing on holidays. Later in the evening, citywide celebrations will take place, involving loud music, lots of crowds and fireworks.

Food: Barbecue is the theme of the day! Whether you have yours on Monday evening or Tuesday afternoon (or both), grilling meat is practically a mitzvah on Yom Haatzmaut. Portable grills and coal go on sale immediately after Pesach as the country starts to get into gear for our big day. Barbecues start early and end late, and you may end up attending more than one, as everyone tries to pack in as much fun (and food) as they can.

Place: Our national parks! The parks will be overflowing with visitors on Tuesday. If you plan to barbecue at the park (combining BBQ and park is an extra mitzvah!) you better get there early. And I mean EARLY. Families arrive with picnic baskets and police tape at six in the morning, cordoning off choice spots of the parks (choice = lots of shade and picnic benches), ready to party. And I am not exaggerating about the 6:00 a.m. or about the rope. Our first Yom Haatzmaut barbecue, we arrived at the park at 11:00 a.m.; we figured it was pretty early. And there was not a single spot of grass left. The celebrants at the park had a settled-in look about them. Their extensive furniture and food setup said, “We have been here for a while. And we have no plans to move,” as they coolly observed us newbies driving deeper and deeper into never-before-explored areas of the park. (Veteran tip! While getting to a park anywhere in the 10:00 a.m.—2:00 p.m. range guarantees you will be barbecuing on the hood of your car—which, by the way, Israelis would find perfectly acceptable—the crowds do start to thin out around 4:00 p.m. So if you can hold out, pile into your car in the late afternoon and you can most likely have your pick of the spots.)

Dress: Here’s where it gets tricky, where knowing how to dress distinguishes the newbies from the veterans. The national colors of blue and white (known in Hebrew as one word, “kacholavan”) are for ceremonial purposes only. So for the tekes maavar—get out those dark pants and white shirt. But Yom Haatzmaut during the day is strictly a vacation day. You will notice a distinct lack of anything formal or ceremonial, both in terms of activities and dress. The citywide and synagogue celebrations were all held the night before. Now it’s time to relax. So when you wake up, break out your t-shirt and shorts. Nothing screams “I just moved here!” like showing up at the park on Yom Haatzmaut in your kacholavan.

How are you planning on celebrating Israel’s Independence Day? (If the answer includes “grilled meat on sticks,” then you are off to a good start!)

My son, ready for Seder at 7:00 a.m. (And yes, he sang his Ma Nishtanah before and after, but not during, the Seder.)

So, Pesach is over. You’re probably thinking, “Phew! We made it! Don’t have to think about it until next year!”

Au contraire, my friends. Right after Pesach is in fact the very best time to think about next Pesach. All of your thoughts and ideas are fresh in your mind, not yet driven out by work and kids and summer plans. (“Pesach? Was that just last week?” you will be thinking shortly.)

My husband and I always update our “Pesach” file on the computer right after the holiday. We write down what new items we bought and items we may need next year. (Things like, “Our hot water pot broke! Buy new one!” Or, “Don’t buy so much jelly!” Or “We have enough cheese graters! Stop buying them!”) We update recipes and add new ones.

But post-Pesach is also a good time to reflect on the less purchase-y aspects of the holiday as well. It’s a time to take stock of the week that was, especially Seder night, and think about what worked and what you would do differently.

The much-anticipated Seder night is one of our most important nights of the year. The age-old rituals. The traditional foods. The focus on children, family and education. It’s a night of carrying on family customs and memories and creating new ones, ones that will be etched in our children’s minds forever. We spend weeks preparing for those few hours.

The problem is that by the time Pesach preparations roll around, I’m so busy cleaning and doing other stuff (like buying a new hot water pot and not buying cheese graters), that it’s hard to focus on the night itself, on what will happen when the house is clean and ready, and we are—finally!—sitting down around the table, making kiddush on that first cup of wine. I always feel guilty before Seder that the physical preparations always seem to overtake the spiritual and educational ones.

So in addition to my shopping notes, I am going to add some Seder notes for next Pesach.

Haggadot

Pick Haggadot beforehand and familiarize yourself with it. One year, my daughter picked a Haggadah she really enjoyed—enjoyed so much, in fact, that she spent most of Seder absorbed in the little stories and anecdotes dotting the pages and wasn’t really following what was going on around the table. This year, she spent much of Shabbat Hagadol (the Shabbat before Pesach) reading through the Haggadah, getting her fill of the stories and pictures. By the time it came to Seder night, she was able to fully participate and share what she had read and learned. (In fact, there is a minhag on Shabbat Hagadol to read part of the Haggadah in order to prepare ourselves. I would always forget about it, but now—since it’s in my notes—I’ll be pulling out those Haggadot on Shabbat afternoon.)

Similarly, beware of overly interesting Haggadot. Because of the educational focus of the holiday, along with the necessity of keeping kids engaged during the long evening, there is no shortage of made-for-kids Haggadot, with colorful pictures and activities. We have a “Where’s Waldo”-type with hidden pictures that you can look for on each page. The problem is that the Haggadah may become more interesting than the Seder happening around it. So, note to self: When looking for a new, exciting Haggadah, keep in mind that the goal is to keep the kids engaged with us, not on their own.

Seder Games: Delegate

Get kids involved in preparing the activities to do on Seder night. As friends all around me were concocting elaborate games to play during Seder, I was panicking because I didn’t know when I was going to have time for that. I finally turned to my children and tasked them with preparing questions and activities for everyone to do. Not only did it help fill those pre-Pesach vacation days, but when it came time for Seder, they were much more invested in the activities they had created.

No Pressure

A yearly reminder to myself. I’ve worked so hard for this night that I want it all to go perfectly. I want my kids to show off everything they learned. But we’ve all had (or been) the kid who’s suddenly shy, won’t share a thing and simply refuses to say Mah Nishtanah. So no worries—Seder can continue to roll merrily along, the kids participating as much or as little as they want. And whenever little Sammy decides to belt out his Pesach songs (the next day, three weeks later, next Pesach), we will be just as enthralled as we would have been Seder night.

Those are my tips. What about you? How was your Seder? Anything you want to share for next year?

Translation: "This year, once again, there will be hundreds of thousands of people in Israel with nothing to eat. They are called: ASHKENAZIM. Let's help them!

Jews come in all different stripes. Yet it’s amazing the diversity that can exist inside a single stripe. For instance, among those who define themselves as “observant/Orthodox Jews” there can be a wide range of “observance.” Waiting between meat and milk is one example. My family minhag, or custom, is to wait six hours. Some of my friends wait three. And my sister-in-law married someone of Dutch ancestry, whose custom is to wait only one. If my sister-in-law and I go out for a meat lunch, and an hour later we see an ice cream store, she can partake of it while still being fully compliant with Jewish law. If I eat a spoonful, I am essentially eating treif (non-kosher). So even within a homogenous subset of Jews, there are strong differences, often dictated by family minhag.

Another minhag that always crops up this time of year is kitniot. Kitniot are legumes, which include rice, beans, soy, string beans, peas and lentils. Jews of Ashkenazi descent do not eat kitniot on Pesach for a few reasons: Kitniot are processed in the same way chametz (unleavened bread) is processed, they can be ground into a chametz-like flour and they may have chametz grains mixed in. Kitniot, however, are permitted for Sephardi Jews. My Sephardi friend eats some string beans on Pesach? Totally fine. But for me? Forbidden!

Not eating kitniot was never really a discussion topic when we lived in America. American Jewry is largely dominated by Ashkenazi customs. So it was no big deal to keep to a kitniot-free Pesach. All the food labeled “KFP” (Kosher for Passover) meant it was also non-kitniot. You could waltz into any kosher supermarket and purchase non-kitniot oil, dairy products, snacks and mayonnaise.

Once we moved to Israel, things got a bit more complex. Israeli culture certainly has a strong Ashkenazi component, but when it comes to Pesach, it seems the kitniot-eaters are the dominant group. Depending where you live, it can be downright difficult to find kitniot-free items. (The aforementioned mayonnaise? I cannot begin to describe how many conversations I have overheard regarding the difficulties of purchasing kitniot-free mayonnaise in Israel. There is a guy who actually imports it to Israel for Ashkenazim. Like a bootlegger.) During food shopping trips, I have to squint to read the fine print on the food labels that indicates whether the item has kitniot in it. (And be careful—you can’t just look for the word “kitniot” because it can either say, “For kitniot-eaters only” or “No kitniot.” Happy squinting!)

But it’s not just the array of kitniot-infused products that makes it so complicated to continue to toe the kitniot line. Eating kitniot is a mainstream part of Israeli society. Us kitniot-eschewers are definitely in the minority. You feel like an outsider digging through the shelves to find the legume-less products. Many people simply give up, pulling a “When in Rome” attitude: I live in Israel now; therefore, I eat kitniot. Even friends of ours who grew up kitniot-free in Israel decided, once they were married with their own families, to simply start eating kitniot. The “intermarriage” between Sephardim and Ashkenazim has complicated the matter even further. If your child marries a Sephardi, do you not eat in their house over Pesach for fear of eating kitniot?

Avoiding kitniot just seems like a lot of work for something that is perhaps not so applicable anymore. Yes, we were once worried that Jews would confuse kitniot with actual chametz. Yes, there used to be less oversight in food production, so bits of chametz could possibly have made their way into the lentils. If that is still a serious concern—if we are truly worried that bread crumbs are in our rice and lentils—then wouldn’t all of Jewry refrain from eating kitniot? That it is perfectly acceptable to have “kitniot eaters” says something about the seriousness (or lack thereof) of the prohibition.

Perhaps not eating kitinot, at least for Israeli Jews, is simply no longer relevant or sustainable. Israel is kitniot-eaters’ world, and we’re just living in it. Even the argument of “you have to keep your family custom” is growing weaker. I look back one generation, to the people we most directly inherit our minhagim from—our parents. I see my parents, who made aliyah as well and have begun to be less strict about not eating kitinot. I see my in-laws, who plan to move here in a few years; they, too, have indicated that they would most likely begin eating kitniot. So if the “family” behind the “family minhag” changes their tune, does the custom even have a leg to stand on?

Sometimes, certain customs that were an accepted part of our culture for many years, even centuries, reach their natural end. Many modern Rabbis today think that having fast days and special prayers during years of drought is no longer relevant. As you read in this spot a few weeks ago, a rain-less winter used to be a death sentence, a problem mentioned numerous times in the Bible. Rivers dried up, crops and animals died, people had nothing to eat or drink. Starvation was the prognosis, unless God sent us some rain. And so we came together to fast and pray. Now, though we still live in a desert, we can survive a dry winter or two. Fasting for rain simply is no longer relevant.

Maybe the relevancy of kitniot has also come to an end. In my family, we have slowly started down the slippery slope, buying products that are not actual kitniot, but have kitniot derivatives in them. While I still can’t imagine serving rice at my Seder, it’s just as hard to imagine continuing to be a kitniot teetotaler in Israel.

When it comes to tradition and custom versus cultural relevancy—what side do you come out on?

Prayer at the Western Wall

This past Friday, my son (along with nearly 100 first grade colleagues) received his very first siddur. As anyone who has participated in or attended a “mesibat siddur/siddur party” can attest, the party is an exciting celebration of reading, of tradition, of Judaism. There are flashy costumes, singing and dancing, mixed in with a few quieter moments, like watching the children anxiously scan the audience until they locate Mom and Dad, or seeing them open up their brand new siddur for the first time. The party is a culmination of weeks of preparation, and it marks the official beginning of their lives as pray-ers.

It was a beautiful little ceremony. Everyone waved their arms and turned around in time to the music. They sang their hearts out and completed their various costume changes at lightning speed. After all the singing, dancing and speeches, they waited patiently until their name was called, at which point they received a siddur and a kiss from their teacher and proceeded through the decorative arches to shake hands with the chief rabbi of the city, the principal and the “rav” (rabbi) of the school.

What can I say on this momentous occasion? I thought about the oft-repeated sentiment of “May you always pray with the same excitement and devotion as you do today.” The same way people say at a wedding, “May you always be this happy, this in love, etc. as you are right now.”

But then, I thought, that’s not really right, is it? Are my husband and I as happy today as we were on our wedding day, nearly 13 years ago? Certainly not. Love grows and changes, it is not a stagnant and unmoving thing, a thing about which you can say: “This. This is how happy I want to be, always.” I cannot say that we are in love today “just like” we were on our wedding day. The glamour and romanticism of the wedding have given way to the mundane, routine lives of a couple of old married folks and their kids. Is the love less, because we spend less time smiling sappily and gazing into each other’s eyes? Of course not. Through the years together, the love grows, deepens and matures.

So, too, does our relationship with God.

To my little boy, I know that you may not always open the siddur with the same intensity and excitement as you do today. But that is OK. Because your relationship with your Creator certainly will not be the same when you are 15, 30, 50 or 75 as it is right now, when you are almost-seven. Your relationship will change and grow as you do.

The excitement of the siddur party will not last. In fact, that very siddur you are clutching so tightly today may not make it out of elementary school.

I hope that what will last is your desire and effort to communicate with God.

My prayer for you, then, is that your relationship should not be “just as it is” today. May you continue to develop a personal connection with God, and through your years together, may it grow, deepen and mature.

Running water: A beautiful thing. May it live a long, healthy life.

Let me give you a glimpse into the inner workings of a JVO blogger. As I go about doing my thing, I’m always on the lookout for good blog-worthy topics for JVO. I have a running conversation with myself, weighing and often rejecting blog ideas. Sometimes, I reject a popular, juicy, made-for-the-blogosphere topic because, oh my god, does the world really need another article about the Dov Hikind blackface controversy? (Anyway, John Stewart’s “The War on Purim” summed it up so well, there really is no need to write anything else.)

And sometimes I come across something that really pulls at me, something that I just have to write about, even if I’m not really sure what I’m going to say. This is what happened to me last week. I read an article called “How Israel Beat the Drought.” It is a fascinating and informative article about how Israel, a country in one of the driest regions in the world, has essentially ended its water crisis.

The water shortage is not over because of the two winters of torrential rain we experienced, but because of something else—conservation and ingenuity. According to Alexander Kushnir, head of Israel’s Water Authority, Israel’s intense, blunt, dramatic conservation campaigns worked, reducing our water consumption by about 10 percent. (I still remember our first vacation up north, seeing a sprawling billboard with the message: “Even in your summer rental in the Galilee, use the smaller handle [to flush].”

But our true salvation lies in the desalinization plants dotting the coast of Israel. Desalinization is, essentially, taking seawater (here, from the Mediterranean) and making it usable. While the Water Authority is cautious to urge Israelis to continue using water conservatively—after all, we do live in a desert—the desalinization plants are an incredible achievement, accounting for about half of Israel’s water source and effectively guaranteeing that when we turn on the taps, something will come out. (Not a foregone conclusion in other Middle Eastern countries).

Even recently minted Israelis such as myself felt the effects of the water crisis. Not letting water run while we wash dishes, doing laundry only when we had a full load, filling up the bathtub halfway—saving water was part of our daily lives. We live and breathe water conservation.

So it was amazing, and even a little anti-climactic, to hear, “OK, everyone, go home, party’s over, water crisis averted.” It received little fanfare in the press—of course, with our neighbors in a state of war, our government as-yet unformed, and shady stories of suicidal Mossad agents—perhaps it is logical that “Your kids can now each take their own shower” did not receive as much ink.

But something about this story grabbed me and wouldn’t let go. What about it is so fascinating? As I pondered, discussing it with myself, I realized that this water story (a story which began well before desalinization, which started in the 1950s, when David Ben-Gurion made the decision to build Israel’s National Water Carrier) reflects the heart and soul of this country.

Our land is called the “Promised Land.” Adam and Eve were deposited in the “Garden of Eden.” Yet, this land is far from paradise. The summers are hot, hot, hot. Winter temperatures may not reach the icy coldness of the northern US, but our buildings and infrastructure are not designed for it, so homes and offices can get cold, cold, cold. A great swath of our land is desert, not naturally arable. Water, as we’ve learned, is not plentiful.

This, God, is our “Promised Land?” Our “Garden of Eden?” Where are the year-round moderate temps, lush greenery and frozen drinks with little umbrellas?

Israel, at first glance, seems anything but promising. But that’s the point, and the beauty, of this land. It does not yield its secrets easily. You have to work to create the beauty, the lushness and the water. In fact, God tells us this in the beginning—when he places Adam in Gan Eden, he says he put him there “l’avdah ul’shamrah” (Gen. 2:15). To work it and to guard it.

A desalinization plant, as unromantic and unglamorous as it may seem, is actually the manifestation of God’s words to Adam long ago. We can have this land and all of its beauty, its glory and its treasures, if we are willing to work to find them. This is a paradise—for those who roll up their sleeves and dig deep, who look past the dry desert and envision our promised land. And when we toil to guard and protect it, we are rewarded with breathtaking beauty, fertile farmland and even plenty of water.

Purim costumes. Made out of t-shirts and - you guessed it - disposable tablecloths.

You may be asking: How can you bring joy back to Purim? Isn’t Purim a day all about happiness and rejoicing? Don’t we belt out every year, “Mishenichnas Adar marbim besimchah?” (When Adar [the month of Purim] begins, our happiness increases.)

I have a Facebook friend who has a “Purim countdown” every year. “30 days till Purim!” … “17 days till Purim!” … “11 days till Purim!”

While he is a lovely person, his Purim countdown makes me want to throttle him. And then curl up in the fetal position till it’s all over.

Yes, when I was a kid, Purim was all about the joy. Costumes! Mishloach manot! A big festive meal!

But now, Purim makes me break out into a cold sweat. Costumes! Mishloach manot! A big festive meal! There’s a lot of pressure, and you don’t want to fall down on the job.

Many of my friends begin their holiday panic attacks after Purim, when Pesach preparations begin in earnest. Pesach, with its special-dishes-cleaning-frenzy-don’t-go-in-there-with-Cheerios madness, can make a person crazy. But for me, I figure at least there’s a reason behind the craziness. God did say, after all, “No chametz! More matzah!” (Or something along those lines). So we can justify our panic.

However, our Purim madness is somewhat self-imposed. Nowhere in God’s Torah does it say, “You must dresseth up in creative costumes; verily you will either spend much silver on these costumes or driveth yourself crazy making them. And thine Lord your God shall surely command you to send gift baskets to your friends. Themes are strongly encouraged. Also a cute poem.”

The day of Purim is already frantic enough, with four mitzvot that must be completed within the 24-hour period: The aforementioned gift baskets (mishloach manot), charity to the poor, hearing megillah twice and eating a festive meal. Then, we add on the pressure of costumes (that your children change their mind about 15 times a day, finally settling on something impossible and/or expensive) and creating original, elaborate mishloach manot packages. (Bonus points if your family is not only dressing up together, but your mishloach manot coordinates with your costume theme.)

If you’re not a naturally talented and artsy person (as I am not), this all adds up to a lot of pressure. Which eventually leads to scowling and resentment. What happened to the joy???

But this year I am making a conscious decision to take it easy. I am not going to have the perfect costumes and mishlaoch manot. And I am going to be okay with that.

I started with simplifying our costume idea. I drilled the “homemade costumes are so much better than purchased ones!” idea into my children long enough that they actually believe it, and then I figured out the easiest way to make them, using disposable tablecloths and permanent markers. (Disposable tablecloths are amazing! The things you can do with them!)

Next, I tackled mishloach manot. Each package is supposed to contain two types of food. Ours will have cookies (homemade; I’m terrible at “cute and original” but pretty good at cookies) and a chocolate bar. Because who doesn’t love chocolate?

Our seudah meal won’t be fancy, but the food will be good, there will be plenty (read: too much) of it and we will enjoy our company.

I have the utmost respect and admiration for those who are cooking up fantastic meals, utterly creative costumes and themed mishlaoch manot. I love their passion and enjoy watching them pour their considerable talents and energy into Purim. I know that “going all out” brings them great joy.

But I have accepted that it doesn’t bring me great joy. So instead of focusing on everything my Purim is not, I am going to focus on what it is: A day to hear the dramatic story of Megillat Esther (every year, when we reach the part where Haman visits Ahasuerus in the middle of the night, the point of the story where the Jewish people’s fortunes finally turn, I get chills); a day to drive around the city delivering mishloach manot and seeing crazy costumes on everyone, young and old; a day to see good friends and eat good food.

In other words, a very joyful day.