Party like it's 5769...

It's officially Rosh Hashanah here in Jerusalem: the start of a new year. It's hard to believe the High Holidays have begun, even though the deluge of Chagim-inspired advertisements began to permeate Israel a few weeks ago, and in spite of the recent, fall-inspired change of weather. It's hard to believe, even though every single checkout clerk and waiter, telephone operator and bus driver, is wishing me a Shana Tova.

It's hard to believe it because I'm not where I always am: somewhere in California, leading services, with my family as my guests. Wearing a suit and tallit. Surrounded by Throat Coat, bottled water, and stacks of music. It's the first year since 1997 (that's 11 years, people) where I am not participating in High Holiday services in some way. So it just feels bizarre, and unusual.

Quite honestly, this didn't impact me until I actually sat my ass down at services tonight. I'd been operating on this mentality that I was totally, one-hundred percent excited to be here in Israel. That I was one-hundred percent okay with being a participant in services. Of course I missed being with my family, and being the Shaliach Tzibbur, but I wasn't really thinking about any of that. I was more mentally immersed in soaking up my High Holiday experiences here in the Holy Land than in lamenting the life I used to lead. This could be looked at as a good thing by some.

But then tonight actually happened.

Tonight, while sitting amongst my friends in the Blaustein Ballroom on HUC's campus, I had tears in my eyes and pride in my soul. In that beautiful room overlooking the Old City, I listened as my cantorial student friends sang beautifully. I contemplated the meaning of my existence as Rabbi Marmur delivered a fantastic, stirring sermon. I laughed and clapped with my classmates through a five-course dinner and rousing song session. I looked around and thought, "Wow. It IS a new year, and I'm here celebrating it with all these wonderful human beings." Far from home, but still enveloped in a whole lotta love.

As I listened to the choir, comprised entirely of cantorial students (all female) and a few rabbinical men, it really and truly hit me that that part of my life is over. I had a moment, during Nancy's Avinu Malkeinu solo, where I really got it. I am no longer going the route of the cantor. It's officially over. The career I wanted, the training I devoted myself to, it's all over. I believe it led to something truly wonderful, something I was simply meant to do. But perhaps I needed this High Holidays in Jerusalem to really accept and acknowledge the loss.

The problem is, I love this music terribly. I think it is so beautiful. I still have a tremendous connection to all of it, and wished at several points this evening that I could be up there with them. As a student rabbi, and hopefully in my career, I will definitely be able to sing. I WILL learn guitar, and I will play it. I will lead services, and I'll rock the Janowski Avinu Malkeinu. I will make it happen, and it will be on my terms.

Last September I was tiptoeing into a new world, fairly certain I wanted to become a rabbi. And now, twelve months later, I am here in rabbinical school, where I felt I was always meant to be. It's funny how things come full circle. And it's odd how feelings you thought were lying dormant deep inside you bubble to the surface at the most random of moments.

All in all, it was a deeply moving and powerful service. It evoked feelings and memories within me from years of prayer at Stephen S. Wise. And it brought me even closer to my classmates and friends, all of whom I think so highly of.

So to each of you I send my warmest hugs and my best wishes for a sweet, beautiful new year. Even in these troubled times, in America and abroad, may we hold on to a sense of optimism that if we will it, things will indeed become right again.

Much love,

Jaclyn