Say "Cheese."

We all want to be the person in the picture, not the person taking it. Especially when the people in the picture are seminary girls, meaning each one needs the picture taken on her camera. As the group picture grows, some poor, innocent bystander gets loaded with eight, nine, or even ten cameras.

My seminary went on a tiyul (field trip) recently, and this scene became even more common. Without fail, when we hiked, danced, and got dressed up for Shabbos, everyone needed a picture.

I probably should be taking more pictures of my experiences and travels in Israel. But I can never bring myself to dig through my bag for my camera and interrupt someone else's experience (and my own) to make them get a shot of what I'm doing or where I am.

I feel like so many pictures are the same - a fixed smile, arm in arm with a bunch of other people sporting fixed smiles. These pictures don't seem to capture the actual essence of what you've been doing. A picture like that doesn't show the way you scrunched your face as you carried three liters of water on your back, or how you slipped on a wet rock and your sneakers got soaked, or how exhilarated you felt standing at the top of a mountain, overlooking the Holy Land, scratched up and completely out of breath. Sometimes I wish a photographer would follow me around and take candid shots of me joking with my friends or learning with my chavruta (partner). That way, I would be able to remember what I actually did, not just how I angled my face and plastered on a smile.

My friend sitting next to me just read what I wrote and protested. Well, Devorah, I don't have anything against normal, posed pictures. I wouldn't want to come back from Israel with nothing to show anyone but the self-righteous attitude of "Posed pictures are so...posed." (Imagine the snooty accent). But at the same time, I want my pictures to mean something, even if it means that my memory card has room to spare.

Letters and Limits

I had one of those moments today where my view of something was completely flipped around. I'm not going to pretend that now I've seen the light and my perspective is forever changed and oh how wonderful it is to be alive. It wasn't that dramatic. No, today's epiphany was just me seeing my life through a bit of a different lens.

It was in my class on the depth of the Hebrew alphabet, also known as "The Aleph Bet" (or "The Aleph Bais," depending on how yeshivish you are). We were discussing the letter dalet, the fourth letter that looks like this: ד

My teacher said that the letter itself alludes to a delet, the Hebrew word for door, and that the door leads into the next letter, hay, (ה) that represents Hashem (G-d). The letter dalet has a ninety degree angle - a corner that represents limitations. Ninety degree angles don't occur in nature - they represent man and his imprint on the world.

So how do the ideas of harsh corners and limits segue into G-dliness? Here's something for you to chew on: People can move beyond their limitations because of their limitations.

As a religious Jew, I adhere to the complex, multi-faceted, rewarding, and frustrating code of halacha - Jewish law. From an outsider's perspective, it would appear that I am so restricted in what I can and can't do.

I can't sit down at any restaurant or mall or cafe and pick up a snack, nor can I walk into a grocery store and buy anything that looks good. There are laws of kashrut that govern what I eat and how it's prepared.

I can't participate in fashion trends such as skinny jeans or mini-dresses, or even go to the gym in yoga pants and a tank top. There are laws of tzniut that govern what I wear.

And then there's that day where, in the words of a friend of mine, I "go Amish." On Shabbat, I can't use my cell phone, iPod, or computer, watch TV, turn on lights, or write. There are thirty-nine basic principles of work that are forbidden, which make for volumes upon volumes of detailed restrictions.

But here's the thing: the boundaries of halacha clear the way for us to develop our spirituality and connect to something infinitely greater than ourselves. The restrictions actually liberate us from being slaves to our desires.

I know how to exercise self-control when it comes to food - I am not a slave to the fast-food industry or to the mouth-watering smells of cheeseburgers and chili fries. (That is not to say I don't indulge!)

I have a deeper sense of self than what I look like and what size I am at H&M - I am not a slave to the fashion industry, to airbrushed billboards and outlandish clothes that go out of style after a week. (That is not to say I don't care about fashion!)

And I am capable of unplugging myself from virtually all forms of technology for days at a time to be with my family and friends and community - I am not a slave to Facebook, texting, Glee, or modern conveniences (though I very much enjoy those things - I have been known to text friends while watching Glee, then dedicate my Facebook status to the episode. And, you know, running water is nice, too).

I'm not implying that non-religious people are slaves to any of these things. But let's face it - being a religious Jew is hard. Today, it's so tempting to dismiss halacha as irrelevant and outdated and just ditch it. But if we shift our perspective only slightly, and see the laws as a ticket to a liberated and meaningful existence instead of a ball and chain around our ankles, it can open the door to a whole new way of living.

Caught in the act.

I've been in seminary for almost two months now, and I've come a long way from biting back tears of fear and homesickness by the luggage carousel at Ben Gurion. I've acquired bits of wisdom when it comes to seminary life, such as taking the stairs slowly (I've nearly slammed into rabbis multiple times) and bringing a backpack to go grocery shopping (unless, you know, you enjoy the sensation of your arms falling off). But a reality that I'm still learning to accept is that privacy is virtually nonexistant.

There are exceptions, of course - over Sukkot, I had my room to myself because my two roommates slept out most nights. But for the most part, there will always be someone else around, whether you like it or not.

I've learned this the hard way many times now. Just tonight, I was about to update this blog when a bunch of my friends in the computer lab saw the page and asked if it was mine. I haven't posted anything I'm not proud of here, and I'm a terrible liar anyway, so I confirmed their suspicions.

Subsequently, they all pulled up the page on their browsers, and after squeals of excitement, a friend decided to start a blog of her own. I was actually wheezing of laughter as she penned her first post. If you're interested, her blog is titled "Forever a Bird Lover Wanna Be Ornatholigist," and it talks about "margarine melting down your heart" as you consider birds and their emotions. I'll let you have the pleasure of discovering the rest for yourself.

When it comes to the bizzarre universe of seminary, you can let these little things get to you, or you can see the humor in it and laugh. A few months ago, maybe the whole lack of privacy situation would have made me want to run to the desert and live among rattlesnakes and scorpions just for some peace and quiet.

But the older, wiser me just laughs and lets the margarine melt.

Make yourself at home.

What a time to be in Israel.

Firstly, it's Sukkot. That means rabbis offering their lulav and etrog sets at bus stops, sukkot outside of every restaurant, and festivals with music and art and dancing around every corner. It also means that the weather is gorgeous - sunny and hot with a constant cooling breeze.

Then factor in that Gilad Shalit returned home today. That means signs with his picture posted on every block reading "How nice it is to have you home" and every Israeli you encounter asking for updates and singing "V'shavu banim ligvulam."

I've known this whole time that I've been in Israel, obviously. But today, I really began to feel it.

It truly is zman simchateinu - a time to rejoice. And when I saw all of the banners with Gilad's face welcoming him home, I felt as if they were meant for me, as well.

Of course, I haven't been held captive in the Gaza strip for five years. Thank G-d, I've lived a wonderful life in America. But it's not the land of my forefathers, nor is it the true, ultimate Jewish homeland.

It's taken me a while to adjust to shopping and traveling and just living normally in a foreign country, away from my family and friends and familiar surroundings. I'm not planning on making alliyah, and I definitely still feel homesick on occasion.

But today, I felt Israel embrace me and welcome me home.

Chag sameach!

Inspiration? Not where you'd expect.

There's no shortage of inspiration in Israel. Sometimes, you can't help but notice it. The buses flashing "chag sameach" in between numbers and routes, the shopkeeper of a home goods store reminding you to tovel the frying pan you're buying, and buildings graffittied with "Am Yisrael Chai" instead of vulgar words or gang signs are small but powerful reminders that this is not an ordinary country.

But oftentimes, inspiration appears in the most unlikely forms.

A few days ago, I walked to the Kotel to daven Shacharit (English: I walked to the Western Wall to say the morning prayers). There could hardly be a more electrifying location than where prayers from around the world ascend to the Heavens. Where once stood the Beit Hamikdash, the epicenter of Jewish life. Where people come to cry and whisper and sway and fold heartfelt notes into cracks in the ancient stone.

Yet it was not only these factors that so moved me as I prayed. That morning, I couldn't stop watching the person in front of me.

She was a tourist - the baseball cap, fannypack, and orthopedic shoes made that much clear. She appeared to be middle-aged, wearing a light cotton shirt and pleated trousers. She was African-American, with her hair cropped short, and didn't appear to be sporting any religious articles. No Jewish star. No cross. No hijab. No bindi.

Yet the intensity with which she prayed, the way she leaned into the Wall and held onto it with silent desperation and squinted her eyes and whispered feverishly, spurred me to daven with extra feeling.

I don't know this woman - for all I know, she could be deeply religious. But chances are she was one of the many secular tourists that visit the Western Wall daily. Regardless, she was still able to connect to G-d in such a pure, simple way.

She may not have fully realized the historical and religious significance of where she stood, or been able to bring quotes from the Torah or Gemara about the Divine Presence or the city of Jerusalem. But something within her, some spark of G-dliness that burns deep and steadfast, felt tied to her Creator.

I've been religious since birth. I've been fortunate to receive a full Jewish education, culminating with this year of study in Israel. I can rattle off names, dates, facts, and minute details of Jewish law. I can recite psalms and prayers and blessings by heart. I can open a Chumash or Mishnah Brurah, and recently even a Gemara, and immerse myself in learning the words that have shaped my life for eighteen years.

But how often do I stop to consider the basic, fundamental concept of having a real relationship with G-d, of connecting to Him in a solely intrinsic, natural way? Of recognizing Him as my G-d not because it's written in my siddur to say "Shema Yisrael Hashem Elokeinu Hashem Echad" but because I feel so genuinely and instinctively that it is true? Of not only considering G-d a judge or king, but my dear friend who has been with me through every second of my life?

Pirkei Avot tells us that one who is truly wise is one who learns from every person.

Even if that person is wearing a fannypack.