Trust me, I don’t know how I made it to shul this morning – I got up around 6:15, had my coffee, uploaded the pic of the day and the vid of the day, had my ablutions, got dressed, rushed along the road up on the cliff overlooking the Netanya shore, and made it to my shachrit minyan by Barchu (which is the point where the preliminary prayers become serious), and I remember suddenly that it’s not just another Sunday, it’s Rosh Chodesh Kislev (Head of the Month of Kislev). Nice, I’m thinking, I’m glad I pushed my sorry old self to shul, because otherwise I would have had to endure the Rosh Chodesh celebration in my room. Still, it was very late and a lot to do to keep up with the boys.

I’m an old shul hand, so I caught up with the congregation by the Amidah prayer and proceeded through the Hallel, the special Torah reading and the Mussaf. I’m not sure how much spiritual elevation I experienced, it was probably a whole lot nicer and more uplifting than doing it alone, at home, or not doing it at all. Otherwise I probably had about two or three moments of an inspiration, and one Torah idea which I shared with my neighbor, Avraham, a short and stocky Sephardi guy who tolerates my badgering because I, in return, tolerate his.

OK, so I’m done with my prayer service experience which, I know, so many of our frum readers would recognize from their own hectic reality. Then it hits me that I have to rush home to cover yet another explosion between the Women of the Wall and their habitual enemies, the Haredim. I come home, I sit down by my computer screen, I go to my email – nothing. Usually, at this time of day, there’s already a message there from the WOW spokesperson about Haredi and/or local rabbi’s crimes against humanity, plus all my Kotel related RSSs should be in with tales of cops and women and talaisim and spitting and furniture – like a Jewish mixed prayer should be celebrated.

But there’s nothing. Silence. No WOW, no violence (which is a dynamite slogan, come to think of it). Did Moshiach arrive while I was in shul (something I often fear)? I go to the WOW website, and am greeted by the following:

25th Anniversary November 4, 2013: Rosh Hodesh Kislev at the Kotel and the 25th Anniversary of Women of the Wall

You see, ever since our conquest of the land of Israel from its indigenous inhabitants the Canaanites, we, Jews, have been relying on eyewitnesses to tell the high court that they had spotted the first sliver of the new moon. The court would assemble on the thirtieth of each month, in anticipation of witnesses who would testify and then the court would declare that day the Rosh of the upcoming Chodesh (and, consequently, the previous month automatically became a 29 day month).

Since the thirtieth day of the month was always potentially Rosh Chodesh, whenever a month has thirty days, the thirtieth day is observed as Rosh Chodesh together with the next day, the first of the following month. But if a month has only twenty-nine days, the Rosh Chodesh of the following month will only constitute one day (from chabad.org).

Those calendric decisions have been essentially frozen in the fifth century by Rav Hillel, who revealed a complex mathematical formula known as “secret of the impregnation” (it has to do with deciding on 13-month Jewish years, which are known affectionately as “pregnant years”). He was forced to do it, because there was no longer a functioning high court to make those decisions based on eyewitness accounts. Rav Hillel, among other things, decided that Cheshvan, Adar (and Adar Bet), Iyar, Tammuz and Elul will all have two Rosh Chodesh days; Sh’vat, Nisan, Sivan, Av will all have one day of Rosh Chodesh; Kislev and Tevet will fluctuate, depending on the year, and the first of Tishrei is Rosh Hashana and all the rules are different then.

What do I want you to take away from this mess?

First, that it’s a mess. Our tradition is messy and complicated and rife with decisions and stories and history and imagery – and that, above everything else, is why I schlepped this morning to shul, just off the beach of Netanya.

The Jewish Calendar is fantastically, brilliantly created combination of the lunar and solar calendars. You can get a pretty accurate idea of which day in the month by the size, shape and location of the moon in the sky.  A full moon means we’re in the middle of the month, while the skinny crescents mean it’s either the beginning or end of the month.  An extra month added every two or three years according to a brilliant bit of pre-computerized calculations assures us that the Jewish Holidays will fall in the correct seasons and not float around the year which happens to the Muslims.

The month of Cheshvan (or Marcheshvan-bitter Cheshvan, which it is also called) is supposed to be the first very rainy month of the year.  Unfortunately, we haven’t had any serious, long heavy rains; although it has poured a couple of times in some of the country.

Yesterday I was in Jerusalem which enjoyed* unseasonably warm, dry autumn weather.  I was rather surprised when I got back home to Shiloh and noticed very wet roads and sidewalks.  Apparently it rained very hard in Shiloh a couple of times during the day.

I organize Women’s Rosh Chodesh Prayers at Shiloh HaKedumah-Tel Shiloh. The next Rosh Chodesh, Rosh Chodesh Kislev, (which is the month when Chanukah begins) is next week, and it’s a double one.  That means it’s celebrated both on the last day of Cheshvan and the first day of Kislev.  My friends and I were debating on which day we should go to pray together.  It’s not that easy when it’s raining, although we’d never complain about the rain.  It would be sort of sacrilegious to do so.  Rain is so precious here.  Finally I decided on Sunday, the 30th  of Cheshvan, because it’s always good to start the week with something special and to do a great mitzvah as early as possible. Here are the details.

Sunday, November 3, 2013

*Such continued dryness should be more worrisome than enjoyable.

Visit Shiloh Musings.

This is almost a tongue-twister, except for the fact that the “w” sound isn’t very confusing for the tongue.

I’ve been organizing women’s prayers at Shiloh HaKeduma, Tel Shiloh, where the Biblical Chana successfully prayed for a son, for quite a number of years already.  There’s Rosh Chodesh, the First of the Jewish Month all year long, including the winter and very rarely have we found it too rainy to walk around the Tel, the digs all the way to where most experts think the ancient Mishkan Tabernacle had stood for three hundred and sixty nine 369 years.

This year’s upcoming Rosh Chodesh Kislev is a two-day one, the last of Cheshvan and the first of Kislev, Sunday November 3rd and Monday November 4th.  I asked some of the women who come to the prayers which they prefer, and nobody could give a definitive answer.  There’s always a chance that G-d willing it will rain on either or both days of Rosh Chodesh Kislev.

So I decided that it’s best to start the week off with our group prayers at one of the holiest sites in the HolyLand, Shiloh.

In all of the years I’ve been organizing the Rosh Chodesh prayers, we’ve almost never had too much rain to pray at or near the site of the Mishkan.  There are buildings in the Shiloh HaKeduma tourist site we can use as shelter if needed. For some of us with very busy schedules it’s hard to reschedule at a “moment’s notice.”  So I don’t see the point in saying that rain on Sunday means rescheduling until the following day, because it can rain even more heavily then.  And in the winter it is forbidden to pray for dry weather, since the rain is a blessing.  We only get rain in the winter, and if there isn’t enough rain it’s a curse, a punishment from G-d. So if it’s raining on 30 Cheshvan, then we will ask the workers in Shiloh HaKeduma for the use of a room.

Rosh Chodesh Kislev marks the 10th yahrzeit of my father, Chaim ben Aaron-Yosef Hakohen. Lately, whenever I think of him, the image that pops into my mind is of him sitting at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of “grishek.” I think we would call it porridge – although that term seems to be outdated these days.

To me, there is very little that could be more boring and unappetizing for breakfast – after all, how exciting can grayish, gluey gruel be? I imagine my mother thought it was healthier for him than cereal.

My father, a Holocaust survivor who was quiet to the point of almost being invisible, never uttered a word conveying his opinion about this dish that my mother so frequently prepared for him. Yet I know he savored it. I saw it in his face. No, he didn’t smile as he brought the spoon to his lips every few seconds. He didn’t have to. I knew that just the fact that it was there, that it was his for the taking, was enough to make him relish it.

My father had a deep, unwavering hakarat hatov for the warm albeit bland food in front of him. He who had known excruciating, unrelenting hunger, and had seen fellow Jews slowly starve to death in the labor camp where he was forced to do slave labor for the Nazi war machine – appreciated the gruel he was eating decades later in Canada. He understood that this grishek would nourish him, would give him strength to live another day. And he embraced it.

Although he has been gone for a decade now, the life-enhancing lesson of appreciation that he taught by his silent example has outlived him, for I carry it with me everyday. At least I try to.

I try to accept – if not enjoy- the “grishek” in my life when I would rather have something more appealing. For example, I would love to fly first-class when I travel instead of flying economy – or going on an overnight bus as I often have done to minimize the expense. But from my father, I have learned to appreciate the fact that I can travel in the first place. That I am healthy enough to do so, and that I have a destination to go to – my children and grandchildren. Of course I wish we all lived within walking distance – life would be so much easier – but I appreciate this “greshik” on my plate.

Still, I am only human, and it is a struggle to do so all the time, for I look around and my perception is that others have it better, others have more, and that what I may have found so challenging to attain came so easily to so many.

I know that this ” I want something better” attitude is universal among mankind. We all would like a daily “breakfast” of fresh fruit, and pastries, omelettes and cheeses, fresh rolls, bagels and lox, herring, juices and flavored coffee – and we whine and complain so bitterly when we end up with “grishek”. We gripe, we get angry, we feel deprived and depressed when life gives us “gruel” instead of the “feast” we feel we deserve and are entitled to.

And that is why the requirement to say brachot almost constantly is such a huge gift from Hashem.

I used to wonder why we had to make a bracha for every little thing from the moment we wake up to the moment we go to sleep, especially since brachot are not actually blessings in the traditional sense of the word – but rather are expressions of gratitude. I would ask myself why our Creator, the Master of the Universe – seemed to need our constant thanks, our verbal “pats on the back.” After all G-d doesn’t have an ego – why the requirement from us lesser, mortal beings that we sing His praises literally 24/7? Why this seemingly very human need for validation?

I came to realize that it wasn’t Hashem who needs expressions of hakarat hatov. We do. For when we utter a blessing, we become aware – if only for a fleeting moment – of how the mundane, “don’t give it a second thought” aspects of our lives, such as waking up, going to the bathroom, getting dressed, etc. are truly precious.

Each time we make a bracha on what we mindlessly take for granted; each time we express hakarat hatov for what we consider routine, dull and boring- we are reminded – if only for a moment- to embrace and enjoy the “grishek” in our lives.

When we do so, we become that much closer to dispelling the unhappiness, resentfulness and regret that drain us, and step closer to living our lives b’simcha.

 To us, the woeful days of our lives must seem like an eternity, but they are not. They too are like the blink of an eye, and our loving Heavenly Father quickly and compassionately turns on the light for us. Forever.

         I remember a mishap years ago while in first grade and happily swinging on the playground swing during recess. I had just put the finishing touches on a sand castle in the sandbox and, proud of my achievement, I jumped on the swing in celebration.

         Not only did he grab the ropes of the swing, but he also swung away from the past and soared into the future.