Despite
my having told all my friends that under no circumstances would I ever marry
anyone chassidish, and especially not anyone having anything to do with
Breslov, I ended up marrying a chassid, and not just any chassid, but a Breslov
Chassid, which means that (gulp) I am too. And that just goes to prove that the
old adage of never say never, because very often you will, is often true – and especially
when it comes to shidduchim.
Being
associated with Breslov does have its funny moments: like the time my sister called
me all in a tizzy to ask if my husband regularly dances on truck rooftops. Just
the thought of my extremely staid, very stick-in-the mud husband jumping up and
down on a Nanach truck caused me to break down in hysterical giggles. And then
to add insult to injury (which is what would happen to my dear hubby if he were
to ever start dancing on the top of a truck) my sister assumed that her words had
struck a painful chord, and that I was crying over my bitter destiny. After
all, it really must be extremely challenging to be married to a rooftop dancer.
Before
I got married, I thought that once I'd become chassidish, Shabbos morning I
would have the luxury of sleeping in until ten o'clock, and then relaxing with Hamodia
while enjoying with a delicious milchig Kiddush. After all, don't all chassidim
daven late? I very quickly discovered
that some do, some don't, and mine most certainly does not. During the week, he
gets up to learn fertug (that's Yiddish for a meshugenah hour before daybreak,
when any normal person should be sound asleep) then he dunks in the mikveh before
davening with the netz. On Shabbos and
Yom Tov we get to sleep in until quarter to six (oh, such decadence); after
all, shul doesn’t start until a quarter to seven, but prior to, there is mikveh
and Tehillim. So no, we do not eat before davening (there goes my dream of cheese
cakes).
Before
my husband and I decided to tie the knot, he informed me in no uncertain terms
that if I decide to marry him, it would be with the understanding that he would
never be home for Rosh Hashana. Although the whole idea of traveling to spend
Yom Tov with a Rebbe, or, in this case, at the kever of a tzaddik, was foreign
to me, I readily agreed. After all, it was only two days of the year. I could
manage, right?
I'll
never forget that first Rosh Hashana. In those days, when travel to Uman was nothing
more than a pipe dream, the annual Rosh Hashanah kibutz took place in Meiron, adjacent
to the Kever of Rabi Shimon bar Yochai. As
I watched my husband walk to the waiting bus, schlepping a large suitcase of
clothes, seforim and some homemade goodies, I tried hard to quell my feelings
of jealousy, but it was almost impossible. He's off camping; having a great
time while I have to go to my neighbors for the meals, I silently fumed.
That
year, as usual, I davened in the local Litvish yeshiva. And my neighbors were
all great cooks, so the food was delicous. But at the same time, I couldn't
help but envy the other ladies as they walked home from shul together with
their husbands. They all looked so happy and beautiful together. "He's
having a great time up in the mountains, while I'm at home, miserable. Why did
I agree to this insanity? I asked myself.
My
husband returned home very late Motzaei Yom Tov, totally exhausted. When
I asked him if he had had a good time, he looked at me as if I was out of my
mind. "A good time?" he asked. "I barely had time to eat! Davening
started at five, and by the time we finished, it was nearly four in the
afternoon! Between davening, mikveh and reciting Tehillim, I barely managed to
sleep three hours a night."
He
proceeded to tell me about toilets that didn't work, blankets that were scratchy
and way too small, and mosquitoes that practically ate him alive.
I
felt sorry for him. "That's terrible," I began, trying to sound
empathetic (although for the life of me I couldn't figure out why anyone would
put themselves through such torture), "It must have been such a
disappointment."
"A
disappointment?" he was shocked. "The davening was incredible!" His
face glowed with enthusiasm. His elation was obvious..
By
now, I was totally confused. Was I married to a strange masochist?
The
following evening, after breaking our fast, my husband and I went outside for a
few minutes to get some fresh air. We ended up walking, and talking, for a very
long time. We spoke about Rosh Hashana, davening, and what it means to be an
eved Hashem. We talked about our dreams, the home that we hoped to build, and the
importance of our being on the same path in our Yiddishkeit. He explained to me
the chashivus of limud Torah l'shma, and how his kesher to the chassidus is
what gives him the inner strength to devote so many hours per day to the avoda
of learning Torah.
And
that's why, on Yom Kippur, I found myself squished into a tiny makeshift
women's section, trying to daven with a small Breslov minyan held in the local
bomb shelter. I missed the familiar tunes, and the singing in unison. Instead of the orderly tefilla that I was used
to, there were wordless niggunim that rose to a crescendo, followed by the Chazon
screaming something that, for the life of me, I could not understand but that concluded with
a long, drawn amen. The lady sitting to my
right smiled as she noticed my confusion and pointed to the correct place in
the machzor (for the umpteenth time). Then she began rapidly flipping the pages
while recited something under her breath. I took off my glasses, closed one
eye, and held the machzor so close to my face that it almost touched my nose.
There were at least five (five!) pages of tiny letters, all of which, in the yeshivishe
shuls where I had always davened, we would just skip over (oh, how I loved
skipping over pages in the mazhzor, and seeing the end getting that much closer
– and now that I mention it, that is one of the reasons I am writing this under
a pseudonym). I didn't even try to catch up.
Every
time the tzibbur exuberantly sang (or perhaps it would be more accurate to say,
kvetched) a niggun between reciting the words of the piyutim in total
disharmony, I would, quietly, under my breath (feeling like a spy from a
different camp) sing the words to the familiar tunes that I loved.
But
then a funny thing happened: I started to cry. Tears were flowing freely down
my face. Me, the girl who never expressed her emotions, and who was always careful
to show a pleasant, matter-of-fact mask to the world (and to myself) was
sobbing – yes, sobbing - as I begged Hashem to grant me a kaparah. Slach lanu,
kapar lanu, machal lanu… The loud, discordant cacophony of the tzibbur crying
to Hashem unleashed a dormant emotion within me, and I became one with it.
The
following year, there were no questions. A week before Rosh Hashanah, I was
already urging my husband to finalize his plans to travel to Meiron. And as
soon as travel to Uman became a reality, he was among the first to go. When
people asked me about our plans for Yom Tov, I was proud to respond that my
husband was traveling to Meiron, and later on, to Uman, because Rosh Hashana is
about davening, and that's where he can daven best.
Today,
if anyone asks me if we're litvish or chassidish, I respond that we're
chassidim, and not just any chassidim, but Breslov chassidim. And people who
know me well are always surprised when they discover that I once considered
myself to be a modern American yeshivishe-litvishe girl.
I
guess you could say that I've come home.
Wonderful piece, Debbie.
ReplyDeleteMy youngest son is now in a pre-army mechina for a year where there seems to be alot of Breslav influence and he loves it. I'm not at all sure about the early rising, though. But I am rooting for it.
We all have our special place that tugs at our heartstrings and that opens the gates to Hashem. I am happy you have found yours and I wish all Klal Yisroel find theirs.
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