Yom Kippur is over, and I am so thankful for how easily it went. Shuie came home from shul mid-morning and I was able to enjoy a desperately needed, four-hour nap to keep my energy reserves in check. During Yonah’s (and Shuie’s) afternoon naptime, I was able to take a few minutes to sit on one of our lounges in the backyard and take in the view. The air was so sweet and filled with a distinctive Yom Kippur energy. Naturally, my thoughts wandered from old journeys to new beginnings, and then beyond, wondering where this new year will take us. As the day came to a close, I remembered the advice that one of my teachers, Rebbetzin Karlinsky, offered me: “On Yom Kippur, the gates are open. Take whatever is in your heart and put it through”. So I did. I took everything in my heart –the hope, the pain, the questions, the yearning– and talked it out before Gd. While it didn’t follow the standard holiday procedure, it was a Yom Kippur experience that was all mine.

So we’ve just finished our break fast and Shuie and Shloimie are outside building our Sukkah, a hut made of organic material in honor of the upcoming holiday of Sukkot, the festival of Tabernacles. For Sukkot, Jews are commanded to build a simple house and eat and sleep in it for 7 days, relinquishing material comforts as a reminder that everything is reliant upon Hashem. Shuie and I are both very excited about Sukkot because we have a huge terrace to build on and plenty of room for guests. We have guests coming for almost every night of the holiday, which will mean a lot of cooking, but also a lot of company. Shuie, of course, will be sleeping out there every night and is trying to convince me to let Yonah stay out there with him. I told him that if he’s willing to invest in a mosquito net, I’ll consider it. Maybe.

After the intense “Teshuva” (repentance) period of Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, Sukkot is a happy holiday with which to end the high holiday season. When we were at the Masons’, we heard a beautiful allegory that gave me a great perspective on the holidays. Yom Kippur is considered the “wedding” between the Jews and Gd, when we recommit to our covenant to each other. During Neilah, the final prayers of the night, the gates are open, and when they close, we are brought inside the Yichud room (a private room in which the bride and groom are alone together for the first time after the ceremony) with Gd. Our break fast is the seudas mitzvah (a festive meal shared by bride and groom), and then, with the arrival of Sukkot, the bride and groom (the Jews and Gd) build their new home (the Sukkah) together. I found that to be such a powerful image, and one I hope to hold with me as I celebrate my first Sukkot in Jerusalem.

One of the things that continues to surprise me about Jerusalem (even though it probably shouldn’t), is how much Jewish culture permeates everything. For example, the buses (which, in honor of the high holidays, flash “Shana Tova” [Happy New Year], instead of their destinations) stop running about an hour before Shabbat and don’t start running again until Shabbat is over. Every morning, I see women reciting tehillim (psalms) at the bus stop the way I see commuter women in America playing with their Blackberries. Every other store sells some kind of Judaica, be it holy books or hair coverings or menorahs, and even the billboards use Jewish holidays to advertise: “Treat yourself with a new car for the new year!”. Cabbies and storeowners alike, religious or not, have been wishing me a “Shana Tova” and “G’mar Chatima Tova” (A Good Inscription in the book of life) whenever I do business with them. No wonder people find it so much easier to be Jewish here. This is a living, breathing Jewish world with everything you could want at your fingertips.

I was talking to my dear friend Alex in L.A. and she asked me what I miss about the States. My first response was, “I’m in Israel! How could I possibly miss the States?!?”, but after a minute or two I realized that I actually do miss the good old U.S. of A. Sure, there are parts of it I am happy to do without (American television and celebrity culture, for one), but indeed, I do get a wave of nostalgia when I think about the following:

1. Autumn in New England
2. GIANT grocery stores
3. Trader Joe’s (I have to go to Nachlaot to get tofu)
4. Driving on I-95 (when there’s no traffic)
5. Cape Cod
6. Babies R’ Us
7. Appliances that don’t have mood swings
8. The view of the Hudson from my father’s apartment
9. Heavy Bahston accents
10. My sister

I just heard an “Oh!” from outside, followed by the sound of wood collapsing to the ground. Looks like I need to go do some Sukkah-damage control.

I have a few minutes of down time while Yonah is napping and my various dishes are boiling on the stove. It’s already been an adventure of a day, beginning with a trip to Mr. Bean–I mean, Dr. Wolff’s office. It turns out that Bug has a bug (stomach infection) in his belly for which he was prescribed antibiotics. So, off we went to the drugstore down the road, where we were promptly told that they were sold out of the meds we needed (apparently, every kid in Jerusalem has the same bug). Next stop, the local health food store, where we got some probiotic powder and chamomile tea for Buggy’s buggy belly. When we got home I mixed up a probiotic cocktail with chamomile and honey which the little man proceeded to suck down. Hopefully, we’re officially on the road to Wellville.

Yom Kippur is quickly approaching but I am much less apprehensive now than I was, as Shuie has decided to spend some time at home tomorrow so that I can rest. Many rabbis posken (rule) that a husband should stay home from shul in order to help his wife fast, if it is difficult for her. So, while he won’t be spending the whole day, at least I’ll have an extra pair of hands for part of it. Whew!

I spoke to my father this morning, who gave me a blessing before Yom Kippur and for the new year, a custom I hope to continue with my children. Right before Rosh Hashana, my father blessed me that this upcoming year should be better than last year. It was not an easy one for any of us, but I believe that even though it is not clear now, everything we have been through is all for the ultimate good. I trust that as we move through this loss, we will all have blessings coming our way. I wish the same for all of you, family, friends and loved ones, that you all have a year of blessing, growth, love, joy and the realization of ultimate goodness.

Well, this was certainly a Shabbat I will never forget. It began with our bus trip from Ramat Eshkol to Nachlaot, a perfectly peaceful ride until Yonah proceeded to puke all over himself right before our stop (he had had diarrhea in the afternoon but was his usual, happy self, so I figured it was something he ate. Not so much).

So there we were, at the Machane Yehuda bus stop, stripping Yonah down his diaper and getting covered with baby puke in the process. It was an hour before Shabbat and we debated about what we should do: turn around, head home and wing shabbos meals, or go over to our hosts’, the Masons, and see if they would be okay with having a stomach-virus-plagued baby in their house. We went for option #2. Thankfully, the Masons were perfectly fine with us staying, and Chana promptly went into her library of homeopathic remedy books to see if she could whip up something for Yonah.

After we got Yonah fed and settled in for the night, I was actually able to take a minute and check out the Masons’ house, which was absolutely GORGEOUS: a converted, three-floor house with exposed stone walls, a winding staircase and an earthy, woodsy decor. I fell in love immediately. We sat down to dinner with 14 other guests, a mixed bag of students, visitors, a family of olim chadashim (Americans newly immigrated to Israel), a couple of newlyweds and a couple who will be getting married in a few weeks. The Masons had everyone go around the table and share who they were and a word of Torah, or something that inspired them during the week. It was very moving to hear everyone share so openly and there was a great spiritual energy around the table for the entire meal. Chana cooked an entirely vegetarian dinner, so I felt very light, physically and spiritually, by the time dinner was over :).

Today was a rough one–Yonah was still not feeling well–and he and I spent a good deal of it sleeping. We went to lunch at my friend Keri’s, where we were able to visit with a group of new friends who all lived in Nachlaot and mostly hailed from the Toronto area. Aside from the happy banter, it was fun to hear a conversation sprinkled with a whole lot of “aboot”s and “Toronno”s. After a quiet afternoon (well, mostly quiet after Yonah’s 6th stomach explosion) Shabbat drew to a close and we came home, laden with bags of foul-smelling clothes. We are now officially exhausted and in bed for the night.

I guess my whole positivity/gratitude “Life of Answered Prayers” trip is being put to the test; life as a parent is not always easy, but even in those moments of getting puked on on a bus, I can remember that this child is the one I prayed for, and that bus in Israel is one I prayed to be on. So that is also a dream come true. I think, next time, I may have to put in some addendums to my prayer list…

Shuie and I went to the Mamilla Mall for date night. Mamilla is a new promenade/shopping center that was built right outside of the old city. It’s very beautiful, with an open ceiling and a view of the Artists’ Colony, but it’s also very touristy and overpriced. I told Shuie that for our next date night I want to go explore a more low-profile neighborhood. Today at school, instead of regular classes, there was a Yom Iyun, a day of lectures centering around one subject (in this case, it was Yom Kippur, which begins on Sunday night. I was moved by one class in particular, in which we learned about the Jewish concept of individuality. In our tradition, every soul is comparable to an entire world: if you destroy a life, it is like destroying the entire world. Same for saving a life. This gives each person a level of importance beyond anything, even the Torah, which is the holiest thing in the world. We each have our own specific characters that are unique to us; there has never been anyone nor will there ever be anyone exactly like me again. Every one of us is special, and we each have our own unique purpose. These were of course things that I have thought about before, but when applied to the day of Yom Kippur, it is a comforting concept. Yom Kippur has a reputation of being a heavy, solemn day during which we are narrowly escaping punishment for the multitude of sins we committed in the past year. But if Gd made me so special and cares so much about who I am and what I’m doing, then Yom Kippur is a day of joy when I return to the Source. “Ani L’Dodi V’Dodi Li”, they write (”I am my beloved’s and my beloved’s is mine”). Yom Kippur is also a day of love that I spend getting as close to Gd as possible. That idea put a completely different spin on things for me, so much so that I am actually looking forward to the holiday. While Yom Kippur doesn’t require me to do any major cooking, I do need to prepare by finding childcare. I don’t do well during fasts and I am definitely going to need help taking care of Yonah. Here’s hoping I find someone.

So I woke up this morning completely exhausted –like, exhausted in my bones — and gave myself the day off (my Aunt Renee, cheerleading from NJ, gave me permission :). While Yonah was at Rivka’s, I took a long, gorgeous, 3 hour nap. Bliss. Shuie came home with the good news that we’ve been invited for Shabbos in Nachlaot. One of his yeshiva friends and his wife will be hosting us, and are setting us up to have lunch with another family with a baby our age. I’m looking forward to getting to know the neighborhood and, even better, I don’t have to cook! As I start recollecting my strength, my days will hopefully be packed with some more adventure, which will make for better reading. But alas, for now, I say goodnight after a quiet, uneventful day.

This afternoon, Yonah and I took the bus over to Nachlaot to pick Shuie up from school. I had been to some areas of the neighborhood before, like Machane Yehuda, the big outdoor market that sells everything under the sun. Other sections I had never seen until today. Nachlaot is a maze of stone alleyways and funky, converted houses. The vibe there is very hippie/spiritual, definitely right up our alley. Shuie and I have been considering moving there so that he can be closer to his school and I can actually make some friends (Ramat Eshkol is not the friendliest place), and my visit there today confirmed my desire to make the change. Thankfully, there’s no major hurry, so we can take our time until the right place turns up. After our trek through the hills of Nachlaot, we visited Shuie’s friend Avi and his wife Chana Sara, Chaim’s brother and sister-in-law, and their four kids Elimelech, Binyomin, Betzalel and Penina. Penina (15 months) was instantly taken with Yonah and chased him all over the apartment. Can you blame her? Meanwhile, I was so exhausted from running around that I fell asleep on their couch. Talk about a nice first impression…I had a great inspiration today after watching a video blog featuring Chana Weisman, a Jewish woman who writes about Jewish pregnancy and motherhood. She talked about the little irritations that come up each day — a spilled glass of juice, an untimely rainstorm when she needs to get the kids to school– and how when she takes a step back, she remembers that these are all aspects of the life she had always wanted, a life of answered prayers. I was totally blown away. It is so easy for me to get swept up in self-pity and negativity — “Poor me, I live in a neighborhood where no one talks to me”, “Poor me, I only get to learn for half the day”– but when I get over myself I realize that the neighborhood I am living in is in JERUSALEM, and that that I get to learn for four whole hours a day, and I get to spend the rest of the day playing with my amazing son. Am I not living a life of answered prayers, too? Is my life not a dream come true? I wrote Chana an email to thank her for her wisdom because it totally turned me around. Last night, back in the States, my cousin Linda threw a party for my sister Shira’s birthday. Shira posted pictures up on Facebook today, including one with her and my two handsome brothers. I regret not being there to help celebrate, but I pray that we will have many more opportunities to do so together when we come home.

This afternoon I traveled to Kever Rachel, Rachel’s tomb. The trip there was relatively quick, only about 20 minutes, and it flew by while one of our teachers, Menucha, gave us some history about the site and shared with us a story about the merit of our foremother, Rachel. It is interesting to note that she is not buried at Ma’arat HaMachpelah (the family burial plot –Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, Rebecca, Jacob and Leah are all buried there). Rachel passed away while the family was travelling and Jacob buried her, literally, on the side of the road. Joseph was very upset with his father’s decision and asked him why they couldn’t wait until they got to Ma’arat HaMachpelah. Jacob explained to him that in the future, when the Jewish people are in exile, they would travel along this road and pray at Rachel’s tomb. Rachel’s merit enabled her spirit to carry their prayers up to Gd with extra intensity. It it said that her soul weeps for her exiled children and that she prays directly to Gd on our behalf. Ironically, the first exiled Jew to pray at Rachel’s tomb turned out to be Joseph himself, after he had been sold by his brothers as a slave and was on his way to Egypt. Since then, Jews and Muslims from all over the world have come to her burial place to pray, especially during the high holidays.I was very curious about what Rachel’s tomb was going to look like, expecting something like an ancient cave with dirt floors, maybe a shepherd or two in linen robes. Driving up to the site, there were two cement walls running alongside the road and at the entrance there was a watchtower where two armed gunmen sit (although we found them hanging out on the steps to the parking lot, their guns draped casually across their laps). When you first enter the stone building that houses the grave, there is a large handwashing stand (washing hands is a ritual of purification that is a part of many aspects of Jewish life), and then a long corridor with steps leading down to the gravesite. Heading through the stone passageway, the spiritual energy of the place was palpable. At the end of the hall were two separate sections, one for men and one for women (as is customary in places of prayer). Above the men’s section is a beautiful sign that reads, “Kever Rachel” in Hebrew. The grave itself is not visible from the women’s section, as it is blocked off by a mechitza (partition) that separates it from the men’s section (I would have liked to see the grave, but I realized that even with no mechitza, I probably wouldn’t have been able to see it anyway through the throng of women around me). I was lucky enough to find a seat on a bench against the wall, where I could pray in relative comfort while the room became more and more packed.One of the most moving images in the women’s section is a lace Parochet (torah cover) that was hanging on the mechitza. The material actually came from a wedding dress that belonged to Na’ama Appelbaum. She was a young girl who, on the eve of her wedding, Na’ama went with her father to pick up some extra place cards from the wedding hall and then stopped to pick up some coffee on Emek Refa’im, a popular street in the German Colony (interestingly, Shuie and I almost ended up living right next to it). While she was there, a terrorist bombing killed her and her father. Her family took her wedding dress back to the seamstress and had it remade into a Parochet. The tragedy of such a thing is so unspeakable, and yet it is fitting that this tribute should be with Rachel, who mourns beyond consolation for all of her children.I wasn’t sure how I would feel in a place with so much history; sometimes, despite what I understand intellectually, these things seem too remote to feel personal. And yet, today I found myself moved by image of Rachel as the mother who watches over all of her children and her children’s children. She is my grandmother. I am her grandchild. When I thought of her that way, the prayers came easily and I could feel in my heart that they were heard.The latest development in Yonah’s world: the Bug has a bug. Sadly, little man threw up at Rivka’s today and then later when I was feeding him dinner. He’s been kvetchy all day and definitely not his regular, happy self. We may have to take another visit to the doctor tomorrow, but in the meantime, any suggestions for caring for a buggy Bug are most welcome.One thing that I find amusing here in Jerusalem are the random typos I find on seemingly important signs. For example, one sign on the bus reminded to me “Fasten my seat balt!” and another told me that hanging a right would take me down Nachaliel Ally (Alley). Guess no one thought of spellcheck.

Rosh Hashana, the beginning of the Jewish New Year, has come and gone here in Israel. As I wrote previously, Rosh Hashana is a holiday that centers around connecting with Gd. By coronating Gd “Our Father, Our King” (and overlooking any controversy those specific words may stir up), I am reminded that Gd is at the center of my life, ruling everything. I can think about how everything comes from Him and that He loves me, protects me and wants the best for me, like any parent would for His child. Unfortunately, it was not so simple for me this Rosh Hashana. While I wanted very much to be present for this day, I found it too painful to take part in much of it. I could not help but think about my mother at this time last year, praying that Gd would grant her another year of life, and it broke my heart. I was able to participate in the meals and to bring Yonah to synagogue to hear the shofar, but every time I tried to pray, I started crying. I left the service early this afternoon and, walking home, found myself in the middle of an intersection that had been closed to traffic for the holiday. It was just me and Yonah in this open space, the rolling hills of Jerusalem in the distance. I could hear the echo of men’s prayers and a shofar being sounded. Then, in an apartment above me, I heard a little boy calling, “Ima! Ima! Mommy! Mommy!”. I was struck by the metaphor of the moment: there I was, standing at an intersection of life, in the holiest city in the world, on one of the holiest days of the year, and wanting to cry out for my mother. While I did not spend hours in synagogue as many people did, I end this holiday knowing that Gd is there, that He is protecting me and that He loves me. I also know that, while the pain I feel comes from His decision, He is also crying right along with me. In happier news, we had lovely meals during the holiday. Friday night, Nechemia, Shloimie and Tovi came for dinner. Nechemia brought along all of the simanim (special foods eaten on RH) and bags full of unique fruits he had picked up from the Shuk (including dried dates that were pure ecstasy). Yesterday for lunch we went to my friend Rachel’s, which was lovely (save the little love slaps Shmuel Yaakov gave Yonah–don’t worry, only Yonah’s pride was hurt) and then we enjoyed Tovi’s company for the rest of the holiday meals. Now that Rosh Hashana is over and the kitchen is (relatively) cleaned up, I am thoroughly exhausted but ready to dive into the new week. Tomorrow I will be going on a trip with my school to Kever Rachel, the tomb of our matriarch, Rachel. It is considered a very holy place, where Rachel’s spirit prays on our behalf. The tomb is located in the town of Hebron, which has a very loaded political history (the Intifada moved in there about a decade ago) and has been known to be a dangerous place. Recently, however, the threat of violence has eased up a bit and people feel safer visiting. So, off we go. I am looking forward to spending a full day at school, getting to know some of the other women a little better and having Mommy’s Day All to Herself.

I am resurfacing from the maelstrom of cooking going on in my kitchen to sit down for a well-deserved break. So far we’ve got 3 kugels and a bean salad down; we’ll see how much energy I have left before my body calls it quits. Picking Yonah up from Rivka’s today, I noticed that his face looked a little splotchy and was sprinkled with tiny, red dots. While tempted to stew up a pot of worst-case scenarios–a vicious Israeli germ running wild in his pampered little American body, Gd forbid–I talked myself down and made an appointment with Dr. Wolf, a British pediatrician whose office is right in the Mercaz (thankfully, our student insurance came through just this morning, so we didn’t have to pay out-of-pocket). Dr. Wolf, who had a delightful bedside manner and a characteristically British face–you know the one: eyes a little buggy, cheeks that flop a little, like Rowan Atkinson or the guy who played Gollum–quickly diagnosed it as a harmless skin virus that’s going around and which should disappear within a day or so. I am extremely grateful that it was nothing serious, though I get the feeling that this won’t be the last time that Yonah comes home from playgroup with some interesting little ailment. Some of you know that I was dreading having to cook and serve five meals in two days over Rosh Hashana, so I was very pleased when my friend Rachel (playgroup Momma of Shmuel Yaakov, Yonah’s new BFF) invited us to come for lunch for the 1st day. While I know the High Holidays are meant for connecting with Gd, I am also looking forward to the opportunity to connect with other people. A very interesting discussion arose at my school today regarding the topic of Tzniut (modesty in both dress and behavior). Out of consideration for my schoolmates’ privacy, I won’t go into the details of the discussion, but I will say that it gave me a lot of food for thought. Tzniut is something that I’ve wrestled with from the time I decided to become a Torah-observant Jew; it means I am obligated to dress modestly (Jewish law says knees, elbows, collarbones and in the case of married women, hair must be covered) and conduct myself in a becoming an not overbearing manner. Now, there is nothing wrong with dressing modestly if one wishes to do so. In fact, I will say from personal experience that I feel exponentially more feminine in my long skirts than I ever did in jeans (though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss them sometimes). I can also relate to the argument that when clothes are not distracting, there is more room for the personality to shine through. But being TOLD to do it is a completely different story. As someone who grew up wearing and saying pretty much whatever she wanted, it has not been an easy transition to where I find myself currently: modestly dressed, hair covered and no longer swearing (well, trying not to anyway). For a long time I resented being told what to do and how to do it. I’m a pure-blooded American, aren’t I? Eventually, step by step, things got easier, but I wrestle with the tide even today. The discussion I found myself in today gave me a very different perspective on the whole Tznius issue, one that I had never considered. Before my thoughts on the subject were centered on how it affected ME, my life and my choices. Today I was given the opportunity to think about how my dress and behavior affect other people. And like it or not, even in small ways, it does. This does not mean that I should make choices completely for other people, but that I need to remember that I am not the only part of the equation here. My choices have the power to inspire, to disgust, to change, to illuminate, and even to hurt others. It’s an important thing for me to keep in mind; in a me-centered world, it’s the easiest thing to forget.

Maybe it’s just me, but Jerusalem has always had a mythical quality. Maybe it’s the history of it, or maybe it’s just how beloved it is for people all over the world. That’s why it sometimes catches me off guard when I remember that Jerusalem is also just a city, like any city in the world: bustling, crowded and filled with all kinds of sights and sounds. The pulse of people coming and going, calling out from storefronts selling their wares, yelling into cellphones or at each other from their cars. The screech of bus brakes and the hiss of their doors opening and closing. And the smells. For some reason, everywhere I go in the city, I find one of two smells to be a constant companion: freshly baked bread or freshly smoked pot. Mingling with these are the tempting scents from the foodstands selling shwarma (roasted meat), toasted nuts, sticky baked goods (which, when displayed on the street attract a disconcerting amount of flies). There’s the occasional whiff of garbage, typical of any place where a multitude of people share a small amount of space. Sitting at dinner in the middle of Ben Yehuda Street, I looked at Shuie and realized, “We live in a city!”. Quite a culture shock from the quiet of Cape Cod. Thank Gd, Yonah is back to his happy self. He was able to go back to Rivka’s yesterday, where his baby friends were very happy to see him. Yesterday, I had an hour-long meeting with Lynn Finson, the education director of Midreshet Rachel. Although I’ve been attending the school for almost two weeks now, we hadn’t gotten the chance to sit down and talk about my schedule and, as it turned out, my story. Listening to myself tell her how I ended up in Israel–I’d been wanting to come, then I met Shuie and got married, had Yonah, then I lost my mother–it made me realize how much I’ve been through in a relatively short amount of time. “You’re a pusher,” Lynn said to me, meaning I was the type to be strong and move forward. “I am a pusher,” I conceded. I’m my mother’s daughter.