Last year on Tisha B'Av I was in Jerusalem. Seeing the destruction that remains where the Beis HaMikdash should be standing was sobering.

For Rabbi Ben and I one of the most dreaded questions anyone can ask is, “Where do you live?” The truth is, we don’t live anywhere – that’s why Rabbi Ben is the Traveling Rabbi.  So I simply respond by telling them, “Oh… We’re homeless.”

It’s true, we are homeless – both literally and figuratively.  What shocks people most is that we don’t have any one spot on tierra firma that we call home.  “But… where do you sleep? Where do you keep all your stuff? When you go ‘home,’ where do you go?” People ask questions like this all the time.  Usually this is followed by some sort of shock – most people fantasize about having “no responsibilities” or “traveling,” but until they meet us, they don’t grasp the full implications of what this kind of lifestyle means.  We don’t have a set destination. We don’t have an ending date.  We live out of our backpacks.  Our lifestyles, like our lives here on this earth, are impermanent and constantly changing.

That rootlessness is something we should all be feeling today.  On Tisha B’Av, we are reminded that G-d’s home has been destroyed and that as a result, we have been exiled from ours.  Sure, we build communities and houses and we get comfortable and even happy – but none of this is home.  We can only have a home when G-d has a home, too.

We need to wake up and realize that we are missing out.

Imagine waking up one morning.  Everything is fine.  You go out for a walk and when you come back, your house – and all its contents – are up in flames.  Now imagine that your entire life’s savings were stored in your mattress.  And your friends and family won’t help you out or take you in.  You have no home, no place to sleep, nothing.  How do you feel?

This is, in fact, how we should all feel, all of the time.  In a spiritual sense, this is exactly what has happened to us.  And if we want all those things back – the house, the security, the money – we have to work hard to earn it all back, bit by bit.   This is what we should learn from Tisha B’Av.  Physically, G-d has lost His home – but spiritually, we have lost ours.  And if we want it back, if we want that closeness to G-d, that security, we have to work hard for it.  We have to work on our middos (character traits) and concentrate on being better people and reversing the sin of sinas chinam (baseless hatred) that caused the Temple to be destroyed.

Today and every day, we are all homeless.  Let’s try to remember that. And now… let’s try to rebuild.

I never knew music could be so controversial.

Sure, I know that some music can be pretty controversial – the language and content of some of what’s out there is truly revolting – but that all music could be controversial? What’s wrong with listening to a little Beethovan? Or what about listening to Avraham Fried? Surely these things couldn’t be bad?

Well, during the 9 days leading up to Tisha B’Av, the Jewish national day of mourning, and for some people during the three weeks leading up to it, we’re not supposed to listen to music. What constitutes “music” is a pretty hot debate, it seems. Some people don’t listen to any music, some will only listen to a capella, and some will listen to anything as long as it’s not live. Some avoid it for 3 weeks, some for 9 days, and some only from the Sunday before Tisha B’Av on. There are so many minhagim out there!

And apparently the mere thought that we shouldn’t listen to music is really offensive to some people. A basic search on Google reveals dozens of people ranting, complaining, or just plain kvetching about the restriction against listening to music. Most people seem to be searching for excuses and reasons why this minhag just shouldn’t apply to them. What is going on?

My take on it is that it’s not the listening to music itself that is inherently forbidden during this time, it is the attitude of mourning we’re trying to achieve. The 3 weeks, the 9 days, and Tisha B’Av are like a stepladder of mourning, ramping it up as we proceed through the days until we reach the ultimate mourning frame of mind. But it seems like many of us have a special craving for music that we can’t control (and for some people their appetite for meat during the 9 days is just as strong). The rabbis probably knew and understood this and that’s why they instituted these restrictions. They knew it would be difficult for us to get into a frame of mind of mourning the destruction of the Temple because we don’t even know what we’re missing. The best they could do would be to institute some restrictions on our pleasures (music, eating, bathing) so that we could start to get a bit uncomfortable. The truth is, we should be uncomfortable every moment of every day just because we (yes, even those of us living in the land of Israel) don’t have the Temple anymore.

So, like it or not, we should probably all try to give up music. Not necessarily because the rabbis say to do it, but even more because we don’t want to do it. Because if we get into the feeling of discomfort and mourning, maybe we will work harder to improve our relations with our fellow Jews and maybe, just maybe, we’ll merit to bring Moshiach.

Every year during the three weeks leading up to Tisha B’Av, we enter a period of mourning.  We start with a few restrictions during the 3 weeks, adding more during the 9 days, and finally entering full mourning on Tisha B’Av itself.

One of these restrictions is that we are not permitted to listen to music.  Although there are different opinions as to what is music, or when we are allowed/not allowed to listen to it, most rabbis seem to agree that it is ok to listen to vocal music (“a capella”) during the 9 days leading up to Tisha B’Av.  This restriction on music is to help us get into the spirit of mourning – it is often difficult to mourn when we hear music.  Most music is joyous (in fact, this is a crucial aspect of the meaning of “shira,” the Hebrew word for music), so we cannot listen to it.  However, vocal music is permitted by most rabbis.

Rabbi Ben and I are friends with a well-known Jewish musician named Ari Goldwag.  He has produced a song and a video to help us get into the spirit of the 9 days.  The reason the Holy Temple was destroyed was because of sinas chinam, or baseless hatred.  If we are really mourning it, if we really want it back, we have to earn it by doing the exact opposite.  We must show baseless love to our fellow Jew! One way to do this is to give charity.  In this way we realize that we are no better or more important than someone who is poor.  In fact, we are all poor now because we do not have the Holy Temple any longer.

Please take a moment and watch the video at the link below and think about doing some acts of kindness for others during these 9 days leading up to Tisha B’Av!

Watch Ari Goldwag’s song and video for the 9 Days HERE!

In an Indian market, cars and people are forced to go around the cows and pigs, which don't bother to move.

When I was traveling in India, I once had an argument with a friend.  I had made a comment about how so many things in India are, well… lazy.  I didn’t mean it in any disrespectful manner, it was simply an observation about a place in the world where the cows stand around in the middle of the street, goats lounge around in the marketplace, and even the people are often seen to be relaxing and drinking chai at any hour of the day.  I didn’t mean it in a bad way; if anything I was amused; I was laughing, smiling.  Plus, if I made this comment to any of the other backpackers I met in my travels, they would laugh heartily at the truth of it.

A friend of mine, who is Indian by culture but who has never visited the country of her parents’ birth, took this to extreme offense.  In her mind, me calling anything this incredible and industrious nation lazy was the most extreme of insults.  This confused me: having traveled all over the world, I have never in my life seen farm animals chewing their cud in the middle of a busy highway before, not bothered to move at all.  So I called up a friend of mine who is Indian and who was born and raised in Delhi.  Her opinion of it? Not offensive; simply sad.  I was traveling in mostly poor areas of India (well, let’s be frank, that’s most of India) and I had never experienced the side of Indian life that she did, with the fancy gated house and personal chauffeur that she grew up with.  It’s a different world!

So how is it that the selfsame comment made in a spirit of pure wonderment and observation could be received, in turns, as hilarious, offensive, and disappointing?  It’s an important lesson in perspective and that’s what I chose to take away from it.  Sometimes we say things and we don’t know how they will be received.  We mean something one way but it’s taken a totally different way.  The Torah teaches us that we are responsible for the words we say and the impact they have, even if it’s not how we intended it.  In Torah, it’s not always the thought that counts – if we hurt someone, we are responsible and it’s up to us to apologize and ask forgiveness, no matter how right or wrong we think the other person is to feel that way.

So when I read Rabbi Ephraim Schwartz’s d’var Torah this week, it really struck a nerve with me. This week’s Torah portion, he points out, begins with a recounting of all the places the Jews visited on their trip through the desert.  Forty years’ worth of history leading up to their entry into the land of Israel.  Why is this list so important? Because it is each “place” we visit in life that colors our perspective on life, shapes us, and helps us become who we are.  How can we understand who the Jews were as they entered Israel, if we don’t know where they’ve been and what they’ve been through?  You can’t really understand a person’s actions and reactions until you fully understand their unique life journey.

These two cows don't seem to be bothered by the cars and busses going by. I watched them alternately walk and stand in the road for a long time, never once bothering to move out of the way of the many vehicles and people that had to dodge them.

Ultimately, that’s what happened with my friends and their three radically different responses to my statement.  The backpackers laughed because they, too, had spent the last few months traveling in India and seeing the way it works, with the bovines in the streets too lazy in the hot, humid haze to move, even in the face of oncoming trucks – a common and comic sight.  My friend from back home reacted based on her cultural pride and her love of national origin, tinged with romance and backed by a life of relative luxury lived entirely in the first world.  My other friend reacted with sadness because, having grown up in India she knows the truth of the observation, but also because, having grown up in the upper class, she was always on the inside, looking out. And me? This entire incident became another stop on my journey through life, another lesson learned, another teaching integrated into my life and my perspective.

As we continue to journey through each of our lives, let’s stop and reflect for a moment on past stops we’ve made, both good and bad, and consider how they’ve helped make us who we are.  And in doing so, let us focus on gaining perspective about ourselves and about others and the journeys they, too, have made.

SHABBAT SHALOM!

Bolivia children working in mines

This morning I was doing some research on some companies’ stock that deal in mining and I thought of my mining experience in Bolivia.

I did a tour of some mines in Bolivia, which I don’t recommend for the claustrophobic. My guide first took me to buy bottles of sugary juice and coca leaves to gift to the miners. It was not a touristy thing where one pays an entrance fee. These were real mines with real people working in them. It was dangerous.  Some of the areas we went through would not be safe enough by law to operate in any developed country, let alone take a tourist through.

The workers were friendly and appreciated the drinks and coca leaves. The coca leaves alleviate their pain and discomfort and the drinks quench their constant thirst. I met workers as young as 12 years old working in the mines.  “It is dangerous work,” they told me, “and all of us have friends who died.”

One of the highlights: My guide took me to a shop that sold everything a miner needs (including 98% proof alcohol, for consumption). I bought a stick of dynamite and fuse, for only $1.50. My guide showed me to an empty field where we lit the dynamite. Two minutes later there was a big ‘BOOM,’ a nice treat for the pyromaniac inside of me.

The working conditions are extremely unhealthy and hazardous. Having met the boys working in the mines of Bolivia and experienced crawling through passageways that can give in at any moment, I came to a deeper appreciation of how lucky we are for the life we live and how much more I should give thanks to G-d.

These native village children in Ollantaytambo, Peru are happy and enjoy themselves even though they really don't own anything.

Recently, I was having a conversation with a friend of mine.  She was telling me a story about a coworker who was assigned a certain group of troubled people to counsel.  Her coworker was having a really tough time because it seemed that none of her counseling books or training had given a real solution to their problem.  The problem was that all the clients were depressed – horribly, deeply depressed – yet they all seemed to have fantastic success in their lives: great jobs with high salaries, fancy apartments, new cars, and just about any luxury money could buy.  Yet, they were still terribly depressed.  Why?

At that point I couldn’t help but notice the contrast.  Having just returned to the first world from India and Nepal, I was stunned to see the affluence of the U.S. again… and the misery.  You see, in India and Nepal, I was constantly surrounded by people who have virtually nothing.  People living in the most abject poverty that it would seem to us Westerners virtually impossible to survive.  Yet, these people were happy.  They didn’t have much and their lives were tough, but they were happy.  How could this be?

While traveling through India, Rabbi Ben and I read the autobiographical novel Holy Cow, one of the most popular books on India.  In this book, the author is addressed by a poor man in a village, who tells her that the misery of westerners is because they are always looking at people who have more than them and wishing they could have it (and thus making themselves miserable), while the Indians are always looking at those who have less and are grateful for what they do have.  It’s a poignant point and I think that in a lot of ways, he’s right.

We can learn a lot from children, especially children in third world countries. They have an ability to have fun, play, and enjoy themselves, even if they have nothing. They don't need video games or even any real toys to be happy!

In Judaism we have a similar approach to happiness.  We don’t advocate judging others, so our approach is not based on looking at what others have or don’t have.  Instead, we follow the wise adage of Ben Zoma in Pirkei Avot (Ethics of Our Fathers): “Who is rich? He who is happy with what he has.”  We are taught that the key to happiness is to cultivate gratitude for what you do have, rather than to lament over what you do not have.

I’ve recognized in my own life that I tend to be much happier now that I do not “have” as much as I used to.  Although other people have plenty of things I do not – a car, a house, a boat, etc. – I find that I am rich in the ways that really do count.  I have a loving husband, fantastic friends, constant meaningful life experiences, and plenty of opportunities to improve my middot and grow as a person.  The lesson I learned in India is that we do not need any material item but ourselves to be truly happy.