Having gotten myself to the rink early morning (Friday there’s no seder), I now need a ride home. Skating is fun, but hard work. After a few hours brushing up on outside edge stops, I’m looking forward to relaxing before greeting the Shabbos queen. Today is Erev Shabbos, so a piping hot potato kugel will be greeting me upon arrival; I can hardly wait.

Scanning the few skaters going round the rink, I spot a few likely candidates. Mostly the Flatbush version of soccer moms, these types fit into the Honda Odyssey, $3K sheitel, and $2 million home category. That’s OK with me- all I need is a ride home, and for the most part, they’re nice enough. As long as there aren’t any annoying questions peppering the way home. I get such queries often from the rink crowd; apparently, a yeshiva bochur at the rink doesn’t fit the profile.

Approaching a middle aged lady with a kind enough countenance, I ask her if my home address is on her way home. It is. Wonderful. She explains apologetically that she plans on leaving in just a few minutes. No problem. I’m exhausted anyway.  I hurriedly unlace my skates, sling them over my shoulder, and head out toward the parking lot, where I wait ten minutes for the lady to emerge, kids in tow. Another young man from the rink has also decided to chap a lift with this lady, and we both slide into the back seat of the lavender ’09 Sienna. We trade names and begin schmoozing quietly betwixt ourselves (yeah, I also love that word. Betwixt. Sounds like a witch hexed the word amongst). The fine lady pulls out of the lot, merges smoothly with traffic and heads home. Status check: so far, so good. Schmooze the  bochur next to me, ask the lady’s cute seven year old where he goes to yeshiva, get a grumble in reply, don’t ask the twelve year old girl where she goes to school, check Twitter, all is still well.

Then trouble begins. With a capital T that rhymes with R and that stands for Rink. Or ride. Either way. The kind lady driving us to our respective domiciles decides to commence Inquiries. Uh oh. She starts gently. First asks me about which yeshiva I learn in, then where I live/daven, and then moves on to the more serious stuff. Size of family, yeshiva history, etc. Before you know it, she wants to know if I’m back (from E”Y) for good, and if I’m going to Lakewood. I don’t like the direction of this conversation. Non-sequituring (Ha. And you thought that sequitur couldn’t be verbed. Well, there ‘ya go. Verb too, FYI), I answer her with a soliloquy on the relative merits of learning in Eretz Yisroel vs. the USA. She doesn’t take the bait. But she does explain why she wanted to know (have you guessed yet?).

She has a cousin.

Aha.

But wait. There’s more. The cousin ice skates. She is therefore, or perhaps just incidentally (this part wasn’t clear)-and I quote- “normal”. Ah. The blessed, sought after normal. Who wouldn’t want a normal girl?

We pull up to my house just in the nick of time. Saved by the bell and the honk of the impatient Lexus wielding driver behind us, I hastily bid the well-meaning amateur shadchante farewell, and race into the safety of Mommy’s kitchen. Mommy’s warm, heimishe, homey kitchen. Where potato kugels un a shiur make their residence on Erev Shabbos.

Snatching a heaping, steaming portion of kugel and settling myself into a kitchen chair, I dig in contentedly. After exactly one lone, solitary bite of pure pleasure, the phone rings. The kitchen is abnormally empty for this time of the day and week, so I heave my aching self out of the chair and pick up the handset. It’s my aunt calling from out-of-town.

“YG, you’ll never guess what I just thought of. The PERFECT shidduch.”

Sigh. Time to head back to the rink.

“All that I am, or ever hope to be, I owe to my Angel Mother”.

–A Lincoln

As I’ve mentioned before, I love going home for Bein Hazmanim. I also love Dira life. No, there isn’t a paradox here. These two forms of living, which live at opposite ends of the life spectrum, can and do co-exist nicely for many of us. True, there are the occasional guys who can’t take life at home or life in the dira, but for most of us, it’s a blast in the dira, and home is good too.

One of the many maalehs (for me, at least) of going home is a one word entity that is expressed perfectly as: Mommy. A doting, caring mother who cares for me, cares about me, cooks for me, etc. is always welcome. Well, not always. I’ll get to that in a minute. But first let me finish the disclaimer stuff. Meals with my favorite dishes are always welcome. Inquiries concerning my day, while not the norm in the dira, are strangely comforting. Auto-laundry service is nothing short of impressive. And the knowledge that a being that unconditionally loves me is just a short distance away is nothing less than a matzav godol (don’t tell anyone I said this; I’m be’etzem a very tough guy- an island and all that jazz). These benefits and more are all part of the being home, and a part of the Mommy experience.

And then there are the downsides. You see, every mother believes, or at least desires to believe, that her bochur’l is perfect. A Yirei Shamyaim, Masmid, well-rounded, handsome, etc. Aleh maalehs. And I do have them. But sometimes, especially during Bein Hazmanim, there exists this disconnect between reality and fantasy. I call this the “Mommy Vekker” syndrome. It’s what occurs when the sharp, unimpressive reality of our shfeilus clashes with the olam hadimyon of our Angel Mothers. Case in point…

According to Halacha, I have a chiyuv to wake up at time X to lein Krias Shema. And I must daven before time Y. The immutability of these times (unless you’re Chassidish) doesn’t typically leave Yidden with potential for “sleeping in”. A shame, I know. But this is the way He set it up. Because of this, I don’t have that much fudge room in my schedule. So when I come home Pesach Bein Hazmanim, and zman K”S happens to be at 10AM (second zman, yes, but who’s counting?), please, please, let me enjoy my beauty sleep. You see, dear mother, sleeping late in the dira is just not an option. Alarm clocks, construction workers, various inexplicable sharp noises, and annoying roommates with penchants for partying to piercing music early morning all conspire to prevent any possible extra poofing time.

I realize that you think I should be more productive; that I should pop out of bed bright and early at 7AM every day Bein Hazmanim. I know that you think that if Totty can do it at 5:30 for the daf, etc., then I certainly should be able to (never mind the vast differential in our respective bedtimes). But you see, Mommy, I don’t feel this way. Neither, as it happens, does the Mishna Berurah or Shulchan Aruch. Certainly, it’s a wonderful thing to be mashkim for tefillah and learning, but really Ma- give me some time (pardon the terrible pun). When I’ll be a Rosh Yeshiva, Rav, or Rebbe, I’ll have plenty of time for that. Until then, Ma, can you just shtell a shtickel slhuf?

Thanks, and Goodnight.

(Photo Credit to louhamilton)

“Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,

Till earth and sky stand presently at God’s great Judgement seat”.

– Rudyard Kipling

They met this past Shabbos. In a small shteibl in the small space of approximately 6 sq. feet, East and West met and converged, overlapping, taking another look at the other, and at least for one direction’s part, were impressed with the other.

Rolling into shul Shabbos morning on time only a half hour late, I grab the closest available seat and commence praying. As it happens, this seat is a likely spot, nestled in the shul’s back right corner in close proximity to the Halacha seforim shrank. Which, as it happens, works out well, since I’m a firm believer that Halacha is one of the most matim limudim for those mid-davening breaks. You’d be amazed at how many simanim you can pound down in those few minutes. Soon, a friend from the block chaps the seat next to me, and before you know it, an hour has gone by and the oilam is holding by leining.

At this point, the Odd Couple (two local baalebatim in their low 30’s, Ploni and Almoni) sidle in. Nudging each other and guffawing all the while, they are here to schmooze, not to pray. Making a beeline for our spot, they seat themselves in the two empty chairs to our immediate left, and commence what will be a two hour marathon run of straight schmoozerai, interrupted only for a couple minutes devoted to the amidah. Thank G-d for small miracles. Basically, we ignore them, and they ignore Him. Five minutes later during bein gavra l’gavra, however, Ploni  touches my arm, and asks me for a favor.

“Sure, what’s up?”, I respond. Ever the gracious type, I’m known far and wide for my ability to handle all sorts of customers with charm and wit. As you can tell, I’ve performed up to my usual standard in this case as well.

“Well”, he says with a sheepish grin, “my buddy and I were kinda hoping you could vacate your seats and switch with us. Those seats are our makom kavuah”. This last he says with a not-bad yeshivish ha’avarah, betrayed only by his handling of the last syllable of the second word. Aside from the grin, you’d think he was serious about what he said. I lift an eyebrow at him.

“Makom kavuah?”, I repeat back to him, in an astounded tone. (They’ve spent more time talking than davening in the few minutes since they have been in the shul). “Yes, we really sit here every week, and you know, you’re supposed to sit where…”, his voice trails off as my left eyebrow starts heading for space. I can barely believe what I’m hearing. Still he asked in a polite tone, was not aggressive, and I honestly didn’t mind… too much. My friend and I switch with Ploni and Almoni.

As we’re changing places, I hear chaver Almoni complaining to Ploni underneath his breath. He’s upset that Ploni made us go through the hassle of switching, minor though it was- a sentiment I can identify with. To which Ploni explains that the truth was that he really preferred the corner spot for comfort reasons; no shaychis makom kavuah. Apparently the acoustics are better for low-level schmoozing there.

This gets me ticked off. Deserting my place during the next aliyah change, I head for the closest Shulchan Aruch. A few minutes of browsing later, I have the relevant Magen Avraham open before me. After waiting until the next leining break, I slide the tome over to Ploni and Almoni, and tell them to take a look at M”A 38. Almoni stares at me blankly. Ploni gives the amud a quick glance, and then turns to me. “Ah. It’s about makom kavuah”. A wise fellow, this one.  Again, I urge him to look at the M”A, 38. He peers intently at the small letters for a minute, and then looks up. “So what does he say”? Sigh. I take a deep breath, gathering the strength to explain a seven word halacha to what is no doubt a pair of highly uninterested baalebatim. And then Almoni interjects…

Leaning forward in his seat, he looks directly at me, and says in a truly eager voice, “Really, tell us the halacha. What does he say?” Well, you coulda knocked me over with an e-siddur. Whatever reaction I had been expecting, this wasn’t it. Upon translating the M”A into English for them* and explaining the svarah behind his amendment to the Mechaber, they both thank me in ehrnste (serious, non-facetious) tones.

Late? Check. Schmoozing? Check. Am Ha’aratzim? Check.

Desire to learn Torah and understand what Hashem wants from them? Check.

And that, ladies and gents, is why Klal Yisroel is still around. IY”H, all Jews, from all directions, East, West, North and South will soon be zoche to travel to that ultimate East.

Amen.

*The Magen Avraham (O”C, Siman    ,  , ) explains that the din of makom kavuah has a shiur of 4 amos, being that one can ever sit in the precise same place as he did yesterday anyway.

A guest post l’kovod Purim by The (Yeshivishe) Shadow. This post originally appeared on his blog, “Fleeting Thoughts of the Shadow”.

The scent of Purim is in the air!

Then again, so is the scent of dead fish, raw meat, fruits, vegetables, and about forty thousand different flavors of halvah. That is because I’m traipsing through Machane Yehuda, searching for components for my Purim costume.

It is a time-honored tradition among yeshiva bochurim learning in Eretz Yisroel to invade Machane Yehuda around Purim time. Unless you plan on buying a bear suit for 500 shekels, the standard bochur’s costume consists of shopping at cheap clothing stores in Machane Yehuda, buying whatever weird clothing you can get your hands on, and mix-’n-matching them in the oddest possible way.

This proves not to be too difficult in terms of finding the stuff – since virtually all the clothing sold there is fair game, in terms of outlandishness – but it can be quite challenging to get the stuff you want before anyone else beats you to it. The simple, cost-effective solution is to fire several warning shots into the air with a .22 caliber pistol, then move in and collect the bounty. Should you find yourself arrested, however, it could potentially ruin your Purim plans, so use the aforementioned idea with caution.

While in Machane Yehuda, it pays to check out some of the other stalls there – particularly the ones selling halvah, since they give out free samples. For the uninitiated, halvah is a sesame seed concoction with the density of cement, only less tasty in some cases, and containing more calories per cubic inch than you would have thought physically possible. To compensate for the ridiculous amount of calories, the shopkeepers add chocolate, coffee, cinnamon, mud, roofing cement, etc. – okay, it doesn’t compensate much calorie-wise, but it does make it taste somewhat better.

To lure people into buying halvah, they offer free samples – tiny cubes of one flavor or another, each with enough fat content to clog a major artery faster than traffic in the Battery Tunnel during rush hour. The idea is that after surviving one piece, one will surely be compelled to buy a larger chunk that will take care of one’s caloric needs for a month. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Personally, I just take a few free samples, then lay down and roll home.

If Machane Yehuda isn’t your speed, you can check out the “drinks district” – a series of beverage boutiques on Shmuel Hanavi between Bar Ilan and Givat Moshe. My personal favorite among these is A. A. Pyup, a store that sells everything from (relatively) tame sodas, to alcoholic beverages with enough kick to stun an elephant. Here, throughout the Purim season, you can find many a wine connoisseur (which is French for “unbearable snob”) shopping for fine wines. I, personally, come here for a nice bottle of wine for my Rebbe, and something cheap for myself.

I haven’t actually spent much time in Geula yet, though that’s bound to be a fun place as well, as long as you avoid getting bleached. For instance, I understand that there are all sorts of unique, Purim-only meshugoyim in Geula, as opposed to the year round meshugoyim that tend to inhabit the neighborhood.

I have, in case you’re wondering, been to the Armenian Shuk in the Old City, which is a great place if you like to negotiate (read: yell at the top of your lungs at the Arab shopkeeper that the item is too expensive, then storm out in a huff). Bargaining is not my forte, though, so I brought along a friend to help me out, and we came away with a white robe and whiter pants for a mere 120 shekels. Not too shabby.

As Purim creeps closer, the music gets louder, the streets livelier, and the scenes ever more chaotic. It’s a great time to be around – the matzav is incomparable to anything in the US. The only real drawback is that this time of year is particularly mesugal for gaining weight. And those halvah samples aren’t helping any…

Raw meat. Next time, I’m gonna take a sample of raw meat instead.

“It’s too hard”, he complains plaintively. “He, G-d, will understand. My son, he is a Rabbi. In Brooklyn. He is Lubavitch. (Here, he serenades me with the first few bars of Yechi to prove it. Great. A chiloni taxi cab driver Meshichist. Just what my night needed). For him, it is easy. For me, not so easy”. “Ah”, I nod my head, wisely. Like I know the score. Except I don’t. As long as he thinks I do, I guess. I am, however, interested in understanding this cabbie a little better. So I continue the conversation.

I rip into him. “So explain to me again why you think He will understand your chillul Shabbos, your blatant violation of His laws, and worse, your denial of Him. You do realize that this- I indicate his bare head- isn’t what He wants.” A bit harsh? Perhaps… I’ve had enough of being gentle with politically hawkish but religiously dovish cab drivers who think they’re good people. Maybe they are. But to claim they are doing His will at the same time… It gets my goat, it does.

“Well, I am good, I do what he wants. I give tzedakah. Also, I learn Torah, sometimes. Look.” He holds up a laminated pamphlet version of some Chabad sefer that he supposedly studies in his off time. More likely he glances at it every now and then and uses it for show and tell purposes in order to extract a larger tip from his Chareidi clientele.

I tell him that’s wonderful. And ask him again, for the third time, why he believes the G-d he believes in is going to give him a free pass. Nothing is free. The cab ride certainly isn’t free- in fact, it took three minutes of hostage-rescue-style negotiation to secure a rate that would have matched the meter, had we used that. (Why didn’t we use the meter in the first place? Because it’s “broken”. Much like this fellow’s logic abilities, and my grammar.) But I digress. He, like so many others in this broken world we inhabit, has mastered Orwellian doublethought. Somehow, he believes in Torah, in it’s validity, it’s legitimacy. In its, in our, heritage. But not all of it. Only the easy parts. Doublethought.

Finally, he answers my question, or attempts to. “I simply can’t keep the Torah. It’s too difficult. Shabbos, Kashrut, all that. And I think that if I’m a good person, He’ll understand. He knows how hard it (Torah) is, how impossible. I just can’t do it. So why should I? For you, for people like my son, it’s easy”.

Right. Like I don’t have my own nisyonos, my own failings. I’m all too cognizant of the many nisyonos I fail, and the too few that I pass. Like I don’t rise and fall, every day, like the sun. Like I don’t sometimes feel that it’s only a matter of time until the yetzer hora gets me on a biggie, and then it will be too late. Oh, I know it’s hard. I need him to tell me this? And just to be clear, he initiated the conversation. He started the schmuess. Not I. I was just stuck next to him in the passenger seat. A hostage.

I truly don’t know what to tell him. How do you explain to someone the fallacy of such an obviously inherent contradiction in logic, in belief, in weltanschauung? What is the therapy for a patient experiencing hallucinations? The brain can instantly workaround any logical argument with a fresh creation by the brain.

“Oh, so you’re seeing purple dragons on the table in front of you? Try putting your hand through the dragon!” An effective strategy, right? Wrong. The brain will explain that this dragon is a substance-less dragon. Either that, or the brain fools the sense of touch much the same way it fools the sense of sight. Maybe not. I’m no psychiatrist, that’s for sure. I don’t know the precise mechanics of how people fool themselves. I just know that it works, and works well. Whatever you want to believe, as long as you aren’t constricted by absolute intellectual honesty, go ahead and believe it. Don’t worry about the logic issues. Your brain will create the necessary constructs to let you sleep at night. Be sure of that, if not the lie.

So I leave him with a pithy, cliched answer. Sadly, cliched is the best I can muster in my depressed state. (These types of people occasionally get me down, get me depressed.) I tell him that the Creator knows the catch-22 he’s created for himself, and that he’s already supplied an exit strategy. That the truth is there if he’s looking for it. That truth seekers will always find what they’re seeking. Perhaps if I’d been in a more comfortable state of mind…oh well. Spilt milk.

Stepping out of the cab, I tip five shekels more than necessary (I know, a sucker is born every minute, but still, that doesn’t mean we throw manners out the window).

I thoroughly enjoy the rest of my evening. Exiting the venue, however, my phone manages to sneak out of my pocket and worms it’s way onto the counter, unbeknown to me. The attendant, a kindly Russian chiloni fellow with a wonderful walrus mustache, spots it just before I leave. Calling me over, he presses it into my hand and bids me a good evening. But not before delivering a show stopper of a line, neatly packaged into two words. “Yetzer Hora” he tells me, in his brutal Russian accent, gesturing to my phone. Numbed, I stop and stare. I hadn’t even been sure that he was Jewish. “What is it?”, he asks silently with a lift of his eyebrows. He has no clue what his innocuous comment meant to me.

“Nothing”, I answer, turning and leaving.

He’s pointed out something I knew already, but preferred not to think about. Or thought about, but created enough constructs that it became a non-issue.

I, too, am a hostage to doublethought.

Maybe we all are.