A year ago, I went home for the 4th of July. We had a great time shopping, BBQing, and watching the Phillies, but I spent most of one evening sobbing about how much I hated my job. I interned for a Jewish non-profit last summer, so I spent my time sitting in an (almost) empty office, sifting through old camp newsletters. Actually - to be more precise - I spent my summer asking questions, and getting mad when I didn't like the answers that friends and family offered. Why I was stuck in a cubicle all by myself? Why didn't I love my summer job as much as everyone else did? What was I supposed to do with the rest of my life? Why didn't I know exactly where I'd be in 10 years?
Back then, I still thought of myself as a Reform Jew. I made the same mistake that I so often criticized more observant Jews for: I didn't question my world, my practice, my choices. I continued to do what I'd always done, despite my inner sea of uncertainty.
Life is different now.
I love my internship this summer. It is undoubtedly the biggest opportunity that I have ever been granted journalistically: I am challenged, as a researcher, a writer, an editor, and a team player, every single day. I don't leave my job wondering why I continue to shuffle into work every morning - I leave the office every evening excited for what the next day will assuredly bring. I help to create something that women look forward to each month, and I am part of a tradition, of a cultural mainstay, that has existed for over 100 years. It is thrilling (as one of my dear friends would say). And so, thank G-d, this summer, I did not have an emotional breakdown on the 4th of July. There were no questions wailed into pillows, no late-night movies interrupted by smeared mascara and unanswerable cosmic quandaries. Instead, I spent this Independence Day watching fireworks, snacking on picnic food, and thanking our forefathers for granting themselves and their posterity such a glorious 3-day weekend.
This 4th of July, I was at peace. I have figured out, at last, that Judaism is not something I "do;" it is who I am. So, now, I force myself to question what is meaningful for me. I have to challenge what I know. I have to push my limits, and reach for new meaning, and grapple with this tradition that has been handed down to me. A great Jewish concert or a weekend reminiscent of campfire sing-a-longs might be spiritual for some people - but I've learned that sometimes I need a little silence in order to hear myself think. I sing at services, not to harmonize with instruments, but to offer up as sincere a prayer as I can. Being a Jew, as I've realized during this past year, means being part of a community that is larger than I can ever fathom - so I try my best to connect, through prayer, through thought, and throughout my life. Now, I ask questions, even if I can't find the answers. I like being ruffled from my complacency and seeing where it takes me.
That's the difference, I think, between me at 20 (well, almost) and me at 21 (okay, again, almost): I don't ignore the big questions naively anymore, but I don't waste my breath with the even bigger questions. I cannot possibly know what the future holds, but I'd like to think that I'll be better prepared for whatever comes my way if I'm able to wrestle with who I am and what I hold dear. So I wonder and argue and inquire. Que sera, sera.
My mom gave me a card almost 6 months ago; I kept it, even though the quote on the front was irksome to me at the time. (I wanted answers! I wanted things to be neatly resolved and folded up and put away.) ... The card makes more sense to me now:
"Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer..." (Rainer Maria Rilke)
