L'Shana Tovah

It’s Erev Rosh Hashanah—the beginning of the Jewish New Year. I got out of class about forty minutes ago, at 8:30 PM, and came back here to my room, to do whatever prayers I could. I don’t have a proper prayer book of my own, but I found a rather unallowable copy of a mahzor online and downloaded it. Of course, most of what I’m doing this Rosh Hashanah would be considered unkosher by many. I’m not attending services, I’m working, I’m on my computer, and I’m praying completely by myself. I’ve lit Shabbat candles alone on many an occasion, and I’ve done Hanukkah alone, but being without a Jewish community for the High Holy Days is new for me.

This isn’t my first time celebrating in China. When I studied abroad, I attended services at Kehillat Beijing, a liberal alternative to Chabad. It was an almost entirely ex-pat congregation, with some folks just around for a year or two and others who’d spent most of their adult lives in China. I remember being surprised by the familiarity of it all, from the prayer books to the food to the little kids in kippas running up and down the aisle. Although I didn’t go to services regularly during that semester, I really appreciated the welcoming people I found there, and if I ever move to Beijing I’ll definitely get involved.

The last two years, of course, I’ve been in Minnesota, where I was given the incredible opportunity to lead services at Mac. I learned a good chunk of the Conservative mahzor and was able to spend the time with a community I truly love. I miss that now, in the same way that I missed my childhood congregation in Virginia when my family moved to New Jersey. At this point though, I’d take almost any Jewish community.

Judaism is very much a communal religion. Technically, you’re not even supposed to do many prayers without a minyan—a group of ten people (or ten men, depending on how Conservative you are). I’ve never spent a Rosh Hashanah I can remember without a service of some sort, without a group of people who share some background with me. I’m the only Jew in Pengtun. It’s quite possible I’m the only Jew in Heqing, in fact. There are a fair number of Israeli tourists up in Lijiang and down in Dali, but as far as I know nobody put any sort of Rosh Hashanah thing together.

I wouldn’t exactly say that I’m sad. It’s just…quite different, especially when contrasted with the last two years. As is the case with everything here, I’m having to make adjustments, decide on my absolutes, and find a balance.

So, in terms of Rosh Hashanah, I decided it wasn’t a good idea to skip my classes. I could have, fairly easily, switched with another teacher, but I felt like without the justification of services there was no reason for me to do so. I'd only be alone, instead of with people, and when you're celebrating the birthday of the world, I think it makes sense to be with people--even my little Chinese students. (Yom Kippur’s different. It’s a Saturday this year, but if it weren’t I would definitely skip.) As it happens, Thursdays I have all my classes from 11:15-3:45, so the morning and later afternoon are completely free. I plan to do what I can in terms of replicating a service in my room tomorrow morning, although I’m missing some key components (like, you know, a torah. And a tallit. And a shofar. And a congregation). Aside from that, I’ll probably take a walk next to the lake/marsh by the school. I’ll take some time to feel the world.

The weather’s changing. It’s back to grey and white today, but Monday morning the clouds were made of wisps, licking the tops of the mountains. We could see them properly—surrounding Pengtun, scratching the sky, sunlight catching on patches of earth. Monday night, Mary and I took a walk out to the road that runs by the rice paddies behind the school. It was pitch black, enough so that we had to be careful not to fall into the rice paddies, and the heavens were full. I’ve grown so accustomed to cloudy nights that the number of stars I could see took me by surprise. Blue skies, and starry nights, never fail to make me at least slightly more cheerful, and while I’ve never forgotten what a special place I’m in, Monday made it easier to keep in mind.

I did, also, make honey cake today. It came out surprisingly well, all things considered. It’s certainly not as good as an oven-baked one, but my little rice cooker is a fighter. I had to use instant coffee though, and I didn’t have vanilla, or lemon juice. Oh well. It still tastes good. I have an apple on reserve for tomorrow as well, and, of course, more honey. There will also be a rice cooker challah in the works at some point in the near future. I’m a bit more nervous about how that’ll turn out. Needless to say, it will not be a pretty braided loaf, but maybe I can spiral it…?

I was thinking, earlier this week, how amazing it will be to have not one, not two, but three New Years in this place. Rosh Hashanah is the first, and then January, and finally the Chinese New Year—which will be mine: rabbit. I’m provided with a lot of good excuses for reflection. What kind of a person do I want to be this year? By the time the year of the rabbit rolls around, what do I want to look back and smile at from the proceeding months?

The answers to some of those questions are obvious. I want to be a person better equipped in terms of linguistic and cultural understanding, and I want to be a better teacher. I want to have mastered the art of cooking pancakes on a hot plate. All of those things, I think, will develop naturally, just by virtue of my being here (and loving pancakes). But I also want to be more outgoing. I want to embrace my world here in a way that, so far, I’ve been reticent to. I want to get more comfortable with being uncomfortable, in such a way that what’s uncomfortable for me now stops being such.

For now, I’m lucky to be able to take these ten Days of Awe as true time for thought.