Mayim Rabim

(Alluded to in my post "Something was Missing" from 2006! This post was written around then, but got buried and just now came to light again.)

So usually when I go to mikvah, all of three people know about it: Me, my husband and the Shomeret. Okay, and the Bookkeeper/Treasurer, who is presumably the same person who deposits the checks. (Yes, I write a check. I don't make a habit of carrying cash.) I found out that they really do keep records when I got a phone call just after the end of the year, "reminding me" that I had one unpaid visit. We tracked down my check (the shomeret still had it, oops!) and I was glad that it had been a check and thus there was an actual paper trail to track down, and I also found out about how good their records are! So make it 4.

This time, however, well by the time I was done, there were just too many people involved! First off, the local mikvah was closed for repairs. They had sent out a notice to that effect, and while we may be a one-mikvah town, there are several other 1 and 2 mikvah towns within commuting distance, some of which I'd been to before.

Now, my husband and I are usually verrry circumspect about exactly when I'm going to mikvah. It was very unusual for me to consult others, but in trying to decide, I asked a friend her opinion, without letting on exactly which night it would be. Let's call her Amanda. (I was weighing the farther drive to a mikvah I'd been to before against the shorter commute to one that was totally unfamiliar.) Amanda had also only had experience with the farther one of the two I asked about, but offered to ask around on my behalf (with me remaining anonymous) because she knew people in the closer town. So she asked Betty and Cynthia. (I'm making these names up, obviously, in alphabetical order.)

That at least was useful: I found out it was by appointment only, no open hours. Calls for appointments are usually returned the day of the appointment, so members in this small community receive a calendar so that they can call the individual shomrot directly and not have to sit by the phone all day not knowing when the appointment will be. Cynthia had a copy of the calendar, but it stopped a day or two before I needed to go. This was all going from me to Amanda to Cynthia to Amanda to me, and took several rounds before Cynthia and the calendar were in the same place at the same time and I actually got the info, only to find out that the calendar had run out!

So I weighed the closer one being smaller and by appointment only against the farther one being familiar but having official "hours" where they took drop-ins too, and there might be a wait for a room. Once I realized that more than just the extra driving time was (possibly) involved, I decided to stick with the closer one, so I called and left a message. But I still wanted a chance of knowing when my appointment was at least earlier on that day, since the message said they would return all calls around 5pm the day of the appointment. I'm used to having an appointment the latest by a whole day before, so this was making me very nervous.

After I left the message, I realized that I knew people in that town myself, and needed to talk to two of them anyway, so I called (I'm Desde, so let's leave D and E for me and my husband) Francine and Gwen. Francine wasn't home, so I left a message about something else. I did actually get to talk to Gwen, and asked her if she had a copy of the new calendar yet. I was still being very careful to be vague about which day I needed to know for. It turned out that Gwen is one of the shomrot, but no, she didn't have a copy of the calendar. She added that Helen was in charge, and Isabel was her assistant, and she knew Isabel had the calendar because she had called her when she needed to switch which night she was on call, so she gave me both those numbers. Gwen also didn't tell me which night she'd been on call for, or which night she'd switched for.

By this time it was getting late, so after trying to call both Helen and Isabel and getting voice mail for each (I hung up, not having an alternate message that I could leave, and not wanting to leave my real message on what was obviously the family answering machine) I gave up for that day.

The next night, Gwen called me back. "I just got my new calendar in the mail, so I was going to call you, but then I checked the mikvah line," she said, "and you didn't tell me you were coming that night! That's the night I was on call for, and I switched with Josie! Let me give you Josie's number."

Meanwhile, Cynthia got her copy of the new calendar too, and forwarded the first week's worth of names and numbers to Amanda, who sent it on to me... and there was Gwen's name on it, who of course had switched with Josie after the calendar was printed.

So I finally talked to Josie, and we agreed on a time. And I suppose Betty and Cynthia don't know who I really am, Francine doesn't know that the message I left her wasn't the only reason I was calling, and Helen and Isabel don't know who hung up on their answering machines or why, although one of them or an additional person (Katie?) will have to deal with my check... but to me it still seemed like there were far more people involved than were supposed to be!

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Just when I thought I had it all under control, Hashem threw me a curve ball.
The mikvah thing was getting so much easier now that I wasn't dreading the water, didn't panic just thinking about putting my head under, wasn't shaking with fear as I walked down the steps into the mikvah. I thought I had the routine down pat. And then this.

Let's just say that my hair was very very long. It definitely would have gotten in the way of tying a sash, were I inclined to wear dresses with sashes. It reached my waistband in the back. It was long. In the mikvah, I swept it all off one shoulder and held it as I went under, letting go as I came back up. But not only was my hair long, it was thick and heavy. It was starting to pull my snoods and tichels off my head, unless I kept it braided and partially up. It wouldn't fit under a sheitel, which is usually no great loss, since I rarely wear one. A family simcha was coming up, and I wanted to wear a sheitel to it. Since I needed to cut my hair anyway, I decided to cut enough to donate it, while my hair is still mostly a dark chestnut brown, before it starts going silver/white. After all, I'm not getting any younger, and my family has tendency to premature grey. So I put my hair in my usual two braids, and cut them off.

I cut off a foot of braid and my hair still comes just to my shoulders. Did I mention it was long? My hair hasn't been this short since I was first married! Oh. I forgot, but was reminded the very next time I went to mikvah, exactly why my hair hasn't been this short since I first got married. It's just too short to hold with one hand as I go under, and umm, when my hair is this length, it FLOATS!

That had to be the most traumatic mikvah experience I've had in years. I was practically in tears, because the shomeret couldn't be sure my hair had all been under too. I might no longer be afraid of the water, but I still can't swim, and I don't exactly enjoy being under the water, so I'm fast. Too fast. And it didn't help that the mikvah water was especially deep and buoyant that day. I just couldn't get far enough under, or stay down long enough. I finally had to rely on my old heter, for at least 1 Kosher tevilah. I had one definitely good dip, two probably okay ones, (and at least half a dozen "sorry, I couldn't tell if all your hair got under" ones) and I was done. Oh and next time, I am bringing a hairnet.* It's already in my purse.

*ask your own shaylah, by all means, but I already have permission to use a hairnet from my early married days.
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The other day I was talking with someone about publishing a guide to synagogues, comparable to the Zagat guide for restaurants. That sounds fine, I said, but what the Jewish community really needs is a Zagat guide to mikvahs.

What would you want it to cover, he asked? So many things, at first my brain was working too fast for anything out to come out of my mouth. The number one question, if you ask me: is the bathroom inside the prep room, or do you have to drip down the hall in your bathrobe to get to it. How crowded is it / is there usually a wait. How much do they charge, and is tipping expected. Which prep items they provide and which they don't. Where can your husband wait to pick you up.

Is the mikvah lady nice, he volunteered. YES!! I can't believe I forgot that one. How many questions will she ask. How much will she poke and prod your fingernails. And does she have a meshugas [crazy idea in her head] about not touching the wall.

Obviously there would be some controversy about negative ratings; no one wants to embarrass people who give their time and energy to serve the community. On the other hand, we all know of cases where the mikvah staff could benefit from answering to the public, where the reluctance to talk about bad experiences is doing no one any good.

It could also be the first branding opportunity for Mayim Rabim. T-shirts, anyone?

I came across a comment on beyondbt (a blog for and by "returnees" to observant Judaism) that I found very very disturbing.

as a bt in progress, i just have to say that it’s so hard to fit in sometimes. bt’s do things differently but honestly. we try so hard, and when the ffb community snickers because we might not know as much, it can be a major turn-off.

years ago, i had a horrible experience at a mikvah, where a mikvah lady yelled, yes, yelled, at me because i was having trouble with the bracha. i had only gone to mikvah a few times at that point, and it was still new to me, and i was still getting used to the whole ritual, and because of that one episode, i actually stopped going, and then gradually stopped practicing for many years. it wasn’t until recently that i came back to odoxy.

what the ffb community needs to do, instead of snickering and criticizing, is to give support (yes, i realize that many odox communities are very supportive) and constantly remind themselves that there are jews out here who struggle just to remember the things that most ffb’s learned in kindergarden.

This poor woman actually stopped using the mikvah and practicing T"H and all other mitzvot because a mikvah attendant criticized her for having trouble with the brocha? Instead of helping her? As familiar with the "basic brocha on a mitzvah" (asher kidishanu...) as many of us are, it's generally posted on the wall (in many mikva'ot) for a reason!!!! It's easy to trip up on the words, especially if you can't see the poster without glasses or contacts, or to just blank for a moment, since after all, you're standing there naked, feeling exposed and vulnerable in the water, which I would assume isn't the most comfortable situation for most of us! How dare she!?! (The attendant, not the woman using the mikvah)

Okay, I'll stop steaming out my ears now, and I'll jump down from my soapbox in just another minute, but as I said, I was deeply disturbed by this woman's comment. Before I end, I just want to say, please, please, please, anyone who is in the position of being an attendant, make it easier, not harder! And for G-d's sake (literally), don't yell or intimidate, or laugh or poke fun at someone using the mikvah. We don't want to drive her away from the mitzvah entirely!

Last year, I wrote about how I'm never tehorah on my anniversary. This year, though, for some reason, my cycle was such that I could have immersed the night before my anniversary.

I could have -- except that my in-laws were coming to town to take Husband and me out to dinner, and they had scheduled the meal to overlap entirely with the mikvah's hours. Since they would already be here, they were going to take us out the following night as well, again precluding tevilah. The night after that would be Shabbat, and the mikvah isn't within walking distance. So not only would I not be tehorah for my anniversary, but I would have to delay tevilah for three extra days.

Husband accepted the situation, but I was unhappy. I could forgo the "special occasion sex," but for some reason, the idea of losing Friday night really bothered me. I lay awake in bed thinking of ways to get around my little hurdle. Hiking to the mikvah on Shabbat was out of the question, since Husband and I would have to miss shul, and we were temporarily in charge of the minyan. (I guess that's one of those "strange consequences of egalitarianism" things.) I thought of skinny-dipping in the river late at night, but I didn't think that Husband would take to the idea. Finally, I remembered that there was another mikvah in the area, a liberal one designed to accomodate men as well as women for a wide variety of rituals, and it occurred to me that they might be open during the day.

I checked their website, and indeed, they had daytime hours. I scheduled an appointment for 11 AM the morning of my anniversary. I had never been to the liberal mikvah before, not for halachic or hashkafic reasons, but simply because it was further away than the Orthodox mikvah and I don't have a car. To my surprise, it only took a little over an hour to get to the mikvah by public transit -- about the same length of time that it takes to get to the Orthodox one.

The attendant who greeted me was very friendly. Because it was my first visit, she had me fill out some paperwork, gave me a small tour, and explained the mikvah's mission. She told me that about 25% of the mikvah's visits are for niddah purposes, and that these usually take place in the evening during "women only" hours. The majority of immersions are for conversions or to mark major personal events, such as recovering from a serious illness.

I had always thought that the local Orthodox mikvah was rather luxurious, but the liberal one was truly spa-like. The preparation rooms were spacious and well-equipped. Each had a toilet as well as a bath or shower, and a set of sliding doors sealed off the bathroom area to provide an appropriate space for prayer and meditation. Some observant women might object to the white washcloths and towels and to the absence of slippers, but the floor was clean and the preparation rooms all led directly into one of the mikvaot.

The attendant informed me that since I was the first to use the mikvah that day, I would have "the mitzvah of unscrewing the ball cap." The "ball cap," I learned, was the cover on the pipe that allowed fresh rainwater to flow into the mikvah. After removing it, I was immediately instructed to screw it back on.* I immersed twice, as usual, reciting the blessing in between. Then I went back to the preparation room, dressed, thanked the attendant, and took the train home. In the end, I thought to myself, tevilah is tevilah.

*I think this may be why some Orthodox rabbis objected to the mikvah's construction: the natural water source is not in constant contact with pool. I haven't studied these laws in detail, though, so I may be totally misconstruing the issue.

The Kallah, a dear friend of ours, was a guest at our Shabbos table the week before her wedding. "May I call you tomorrow?" she asked. "I have some questions... and I would like to ask them of you."

Hmm... I thought, a Kallah, a week before her wedding, has questions, and it sounds like it doesn't really need to be me who answers them... must be about mikvah. And I was honored that she'd chosen to ask me.

On Sunday, she called. Sure enough, her questions were about the mikvah.

The Chabad House Rebbitzen she'd been learning with lived only a short drive away, but the mikvah the Rebbitzen used was the other way from the Chabad, and while also a short drive, it added up. The Kallah was set to immerse on Saturday night for a Sunday wedding... a late summer Motzei Shabbos. Since she would be living near me after the wedding, she needed to learn how to find our local mikvah anyway, so why not now?

I quickly checked the schedule, to learn who would be on call, and gave the Kallah the information on how to make an appointment. I was quite pleased with what I learned. All of our attendants are nice, but this particular shomeret is especially welcoming, and I felt she would help make the Kallah feel at home. Sure enough, she was as excited as I was to welcome this new Kallah to our community. The appointment was made, and we all waited anxiously. I was to pick up the Kallah from the place where she was staying, and escort her to mikvah.

I was on time, but she wasn't quite ready, so I waited, and made small talk with her hosts. I didn't have to wait long. I could tell, and she readily admitted, that she was very nervous. We drove quietly to the mikvah.

The attendant met us at the door, and gushed over the Kallah appropriately, showing her to a room. The Kallah took me aside. "She seems very nice, but I'm a bit nervous, and I know you but not her...would it be possible for you to supervise my immersion?"

I'd been to mikvah many times, but always as a patron, never as the attendant... but by now I know the drill pretty well. I okayed it with the attendant, and assured my Kallah that I could supervise her. "Just let me know when you are ready," I told her.

Around here, they only check what you want checked, but for a Kallah I figured I'd better check at least her hands, feet and back. I sent her back to soak a small scab, to make it soft. I helped her remove her bracelet, the clasp difficult to get with one hand. I asked about her long nails: "I did trim them!" she insisted, and having heard friends complain about being forced to trim their nails unnecessarily, I just made sure they were clean, neat and filed.

Then I helped her off with her robe, and hid behind it until she was in the water. She faced away from me, and immersed once. She may have been nervous, but she dipped like a pro. I tried to remember what I was watching for. Body and all hairs under, check. Not hitting the wall as she immersed, check.

She then craned her neck around to look at me to ask, not having heard my pronouncement, "Kosher!," if she had done it right, and I reassured her. I helped her with the brocha, her nervousness making her forget what she had known only minutes before. (My Kallah teacher would have made her dip again, so as not to talk between the brocha and the tevilot/immersions sandwiching it, but I am not my Kallah teacher, and I only remembered this after.)

She dipped twice more, each time I pronounced it Kosher as she came up, a little too soon for her to hear me, apparently, because each time she craned her neck to see me and ask if it was good. But what can I say? It was my first time as mikvah attendant, and I hadn't had the usual training.

I took refuge in the thought that I had learned that when the shomeret pronounces a tevilah "Kosher!" here on Earth, a heavenly voice repeats "Kosher!" in Heaven, and the tevilah is accepted. I trembled inwardly to think that I had been granted such power, however briefly.

As the Kallah came up the steps out of the mikvah, I helped her back into her robe, and shook her hand, pronouncing her tevilah Kosher once more. Then I gave her some tips for the next time. How the attendant would say "Kosher!", and she should listen for it, so she wouldn't have to ask each time. How she would probably be given a washcloth to cover her head with for the brocha, once she was a married woman. Then I sent her to dry off and get dressed.

Once she was dressed, I showed her where to pay, advised her to buy more bedikah cloths now, to build up a small stash, and after accepting more good wishes and mazel tovs from the Shomeret, we made our way home. The Kallah confided that she felt less nervous now, more settled. Mikvah always does that to me, so I understood completely.

The wedding was beautiful, of course, as was the Kallah. She thanked me many times for escorting her, but it was I who needed to thank her, for including me in this way, for giving me the honor and privilege of helping to start them off on their observance of Taharas HaMishpacha, for giving me the merit of participating in this very special, very private mitzvah.

May they enjoy many many joy-filled years of mazel and brocha together.

This haunting feeling that something was missing lay over me the whole week. The first inkling that something was strange was when I realized I had a chance of getting that elusive day 5 hefsek! Okay, so maybe it was only day 5 (and not 6) if you don't count the spotting on day 0, but I've always counted this way, and still never gotten a day 5 hefsek taharah before. So I tried anyway, and surprise number two was that it worked!

There was a bit of anxiety over where I'd be going to mikvah (That's a story in itself, which I may post about eventually!) when half way through the week dh uncovered the notice from the local mikvah that it would be closed for repairs.

And that was when I realized. I was perhaps anxious about the hoops I jumped through to figure out how to obtain an appointment (actually making the appointment was the easy part, it was figuring out who to talk to that led me in circles!). I was maybe nervous about the longer drive and timing it so that I arrived on-time. (I can do early and I can do late, but promptness has often been about as elusive for me as that day 5 hefsek.) I was somewhat apprehensive about visiting a mikvah I'd never been to before. But I wasn't the least bit scared.

Now, some of you may be thinking, okay, Desde, this is what, your third post about not being scared of the water? We hear you, you're not scared anymore, get over it, okay? But please understand, being scared of the water has colored my entire life, even before I was observant. It took on additional importance when I first decided that I would be living an Orthodox lifestyle and learned about the mikvah's prominent role in that lifestyle. It gave me panic attacks when I became engaged and started Kallah classes.

It hung over me each time I made a hefsek taharah and started counting the days until my next mikvah visit. I tried not to think about what I was counting toward, trying to instead focus on the reunion with my husband. Each month was a balance of putting off making that appointment so I wouldn't have to think about it, and making it early enough that I didn't have the additional fact of not yet having an appointment to panic about. I forced myself to make the trip to the mikvah. I did my preparations, (actually, I'm surprised that I've never been obsessive-compulsive about the preparations, so that at least I had no excuse besides my fear for not calling myself "ready") and took an extra few minutes to compose myself, searching for something else I hadn't checked, but finding nothing, before calling for the attendant. I then had to compose myself again in the water before each dunk, gathering my courage each time. My fear was so very REAL and so very PRESENT, a constant companion.

I hesitate to say I miss it, but I definitely notice its absence. So I counted the days, without any fear. I (mostly) prepared at home, without any fear. I drove to the mikvah, without any fear. I finished up my preparations there, without any fear. I called for the attendant, made small talk while she checked my hands and feet and picked three million hairs off my back, without any fear. I entered the water, without any fear. I took a moment to compose myself before each dunk... to daven for myself, and others, not to gather courage. And it was a much shallower mikvah than I am used to, so I had to make an extra effort to get all the way under, but I did it without any fear. I did it all without any fear.

And while once I was afraid (ha!) that my mitzvah was somehow diminished through the lack of fear, this time I exulted in my lack of fear. Like a cancer patient in (permanent!) remission who will always be a "survivor," I have survived and surmounted my fear, and while it no longer follows me, it haunts me by its absence, and adds an extra dimension to my observance.

A few months ago I had to go to the mikvah when I was visiting my parents. I had only been to the mikvah in my hometown once, before my wedding, when I had a special appointment as a Kallah. This time, when I got to my mikvah of choice, the parking lot was crowded. When I walked in, the attendant apologized to me for the difficulty parking.

“Will I have to wait long?” I asked.

She looked at me as if I had asked whether I would have to ride a unicycle into the mikvah.

“Of course you won’t have to WAIT,” she declared, and ushered me into a prep room.

My hometown takes the mikvah very seriously. Growing up, I learned over and over that the first thing a Jewish community must build, before even building a shul, is a mikvah. My hometown has numerous mikvaot. In addition to a few big, beautiful ones that are open every night, every major shul has a mikvah that is open on Shabbat and holidays, so that women don’t have to walk too far, and certainly no one has to wait a night to go the mikvah.

When I first got married I lived in a city with a large Jewish community but only one mikvah. At that time I was surprised that so few people seemed to be keeping taharat hamishpacha, since I often didn’t see anyone else there when I was at the mikvah. But a couple of years after getting married, my husband and I moved to a town that is considered something of a center of Modern/Centrist Orthodox Judaism in America. The town we currently live in has five or six large shuls that are bursting at the seams in addition to countless minyanim in people’s homes. We have more than ten sit-down kosher restaurants, and plentiful takeout places, kosher markets, Jewish schools and programs, you name it. In some parts of town the frum population is so dense that on Shabbat afternoon you can stroll down the middle of the street with only the slightest possibility of having a car drive by. This community is much more affluent than the one I grew up in: bigger houses, fancier clothing, fancier vacations.

So as you can imagine, there are around fifteen mikvaot in this town. Just kidding! How many do you think there are – maybe ten, or at least six or seven?

Try one.

One mikvah in the whole town.

One ugly mikvah with rust and mold in the prep rooms; one mikvah in which you swelter in the summer (no air conditioning) and freeze in the winter (insufficient heating).

One mikvah where you must arrive by 10 PM, even in the middle of the summer when zman tvilah is close to 9 PM.

Now you may assume that this says something about the state of taharat hamishpacha observance in my town. Perhaps none of those Jews who are overflowing the shuls and kosher restaurants actually keeps hilkhot niddah. But that is not the case. In this town, it seems that everyone keeps taharat hamishpacha. There are hilkhot niddah shiurim, and even talk of bringing a Nishmat Yoetzet Halakha into the community.

So here is what happens in a town where everyone keeps taharat hamishpacha, and there is one small mikvah: everyone hurries, and everyone waits. The mikvah’s décor consists of paper signs instructing women that they may not bathe for more than 30 minutes, encouraging them to bathe and shower at home, and other equally inspiring messages. Typical wait time at the mikvah is easily between one and two hours, and that’s just until you get into a prep room. I’ve been kept waiting after ringing the bell for an attendant to take me to the actual mikvah for ten to fifteen minutes, as I sit there sweltering or freezing (depending on the season) in my robe and flimsy paper mikvah slippers.

To be fair, money is being raised for renovating and expanding the mikvah. But it is too little – they should be building ten new mikvaot – and too late - if and when it ever happens.

How can a frum community have so little respect for such an important mitzvah? How can wealthy baalei bayit allow the mikvah to exist in such conditions, while they live in their mansions and spend their money on expensive restaurants? How can seriously frum people, who keep taharat hamishpacha, live in the parts of town where the walk to the mikvah is over an hour, so they can never go on Shabbat and holidays?

Is it sexism – no need to put money into a mitzvah that only benefits women? Is it simple avarice? Is there something wrong with Jewish education that causes people to forget about the mikvah? I am completely baffled by the shameful mikvah-neglect in this community. I know my experience is a far cry from our righteous grandmothers in Poland who supposedly brought their ice-picks to the river in the winter so they could tovel in the water, but in our affluent, complacent communities we can - and must - do a lot better than this.

~ Aviva

I knew it was, on paper at least, the right thing to do. Touch with an erva is forbidden. I was a nidda, and therefore an erva to my beloved fiancée. Every hug, every hand-holding- assur at least derabanan, possibly deoraita. But one magic dip and- not even a derabanan.

We’d stopped being shomer negiah three months into our courtship, with firm agreements as to “this far and no further.” I knew we would never transgress an issur karet, and aside from the terminology of issur and heter, we were both totally committed to not having sex before we got married. Going to the mikva seemed out of the question for us.

For one, it would put me in the awkward position of living out an urban legend, the frum single girl at the mikva. I thought casually about buying a twenty-dollar ring to match my engagement ring, throwing on a scarf and heading out to the suburbs. Or going to the heimish mikva, not all the women who go there wear wedding bands anyway.

I grew up in a very intellectually open household. Knowledge of mikva and sex and holiness was as accessible as the English books on Nidda I devoured as a teen and later in college from the original sources. I knew how to do a bedika, could have told you what was and wasn’t a hatzitza according to who and why. I wanted to go. It would have been so easy. Hafifa at home, clip my nails short, untangle my hair, hide it under a hat- inconspicuous enough in wintertime- pumice scrub on my heels and elbows, scabs carefully peeled away, nail polish meticulously removed.

We decided to go through with it. I sat with him and hugged him one last time. We were going to be shomer negiah through my next period and I’d count 7 clean. Then I’d prep and we’d make the trip out together. He’d be waiting for me outside, I wouldn’t be alone. We were both glowing with the excitement of choosing goodness, righteousness, and purity.

I cut up an old white t-shirt. Inspected the cloths. Made a hefsek on day 7. Bedikot, bedikot, and more bedikot. They hurt a bit, (more than I expected really, I’d used tampons before), even though the cloth was soft and thin.

I got back from work early, about to get in the bath and soak. It had been a cold, grey, unfriendly day and I certainly needed a hug and an its-all-going-to-be-ok more than an unknown trip to a place of utter nakedness where my flimsy disguise could be pulled aside at any moment. Something in the way I’d done my nails, some innocent remark I would let slip- anything could tip the mikva lady off that I wasn’t your standard scarf-wearing-but-modern housewife. I hated more than anything this Sabbatean inversion, this lie necessary to become pure. Sometimes, something just feels weird or wrong, even if it is intellectually honest or a better option halakhically.

I called him and let him know that we weren’t going to the mikva that night. I explained to him that even if he came with me, I would still be utterly alone and exposed, and I didn’t think I could bear it. He understood.

~ Bat Planya

Bat Planya is a very ordinary observant girl in her twenties who reads more than
she should. She lives in a major metropolitan area and has had dreams about mikvaot. She is very into sociology and halakha, although she sometimes struggles with both.

If you've ever had warts, you know how they come and go without warning, usually in groups. A while back, I had a crop of warts on my hands. I visited a dermatologist, who sprayed them with liquid nitrogen. Blisters formed, some clear, some black. A few of the black ones burst at various points, leaving my hands covered with blood.

Needless to say, the blisters elicited more comments than the warts. "Are you okay?" "Did you hurt your hands?" For a cosmetic treatment, it wasn't very pretty.

When the mikvah lady asked about them, I apologized and told her that I'd washed them as well as I could.

"That wasn't what I meant," she said. "Do they hurt? Are you seeing a doctor?"

I was relieved, but also annoyed, though not at her. I didn't feel like explaining that a doctor had given me the beauties.

Eventually, the blisters dried into scabs and then went away. No sooner had they healed, however, than a new crop of warts appeared in their place. I had my hands sprayed with liquid nitrogen a second time, and then a third. Finally, I switched to an over-the-counter salycilic acid treatment. This had the advantage of not causing blisters, but it didn't get rid of the warts, either. When the treatment ran out, I decided to simply leave them alone.

Some time later (it might have been weeks or months, I'm not sure), I noticed that the warts were shrinking. And then they were gone.

Time went on, and I got used to having wart-free hands. Then, one morning, I noticed a Thing on my right hand where one of the warts had been. It was roughly the size and shape of the wart, but it was black and didn't rise above the skin. I showed it to my husband, who shrugged. Not eager to see the dermatologist again, I decided to wait a while and see whether it went away on its own.

By the time I had to visit the mikvah, I had gotten so used to the little, unobtrusive thing that I almost forgot that it was there. After my shower, a young, friendly attendant escorted me to the mikvah and introduced herself.

"I'm new," she said. We made a little bit of small talk, and I showed her my hands.

"What's that?" she asked.

"Um, I don't know. I just woke up one morning and it was there."

She smiled nervously. "Isn't it funny how your body just does these weird things?"

I smiled back, not sure what to say.

"Did you try to get it off?"

It had only been there for two or three weeks, but I was already so accustomed to its presence that I felt like I was being asked whether I'd made a good faith effort to remove my nose.

"Um, I washed it," I said lamely.

"Hmm, well," she said, "let me ask [the head attendant]." She smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry. I just wouldn't want your tevilah not to be kosher."

She was so kind, and so apologetic, that as she left the room I thought to myself that it would be nice if she were my attendant next time. At the same time, I was annoyed and a little bit nervous. I couldn't imagine that the Thing would be declared a chatstista, as it was obviously under the skin. But then, if I was so sure, why wasn't she?

The young attendant returned with her supervisor, who took my hand and examined the Thing.

"Did you rub it?" she asked.

"Yes," I responded, not sure whether or not I was answering her question.

"Could you rub it again. With the robe." It was more of a command than a question. I took the corner of my robe and rubbed the hapless Thing.

"If it doesn't come off, it's under the skin," she declared. "No problem." And that was that.

This was months ago, and I'm still not sure what I think of the whole affair. Intellectually, I realize that it's not worth getting hung up on. The mikvah attendants did their job, I did mine, and we all lived happlily ever after. Still, the incident has left me with a vague sense of irritation at the System, a System that turns every bodily blemish into an issue. There is a positive side to this, of course; the more attention we pay to our bodies, the more likely we are to become aware of any medical condition before it becomes serious. And yet. . .

I haven't seen the young mikvah attendant since that night. I'm sure that this has nothing to do with me, but I sometimes wonder why she didn't stay (or, if she did, where she's been hiding). As for the Thing, it went away as suddenly as it appeared.

I approached my first after-baby mikvah appointment with trepidation. No, nothing to do with my husband, my feelings had everything to do with the mikvah itself. It had been on the order of 11 months since my last visit, when I had suddenly realized that I wasn't actually afraid of the water anymore. And I worried that I had imagined it, that maybe I was actually still afraid of putting my head under the water. In fact, I wasn't sure if I was more worried about still being afraid, or of having no fear.

As I walked down the steps, I knew that I was not still wary of the water, that I felt no fear at all. The attendant, someone I knew socially but had not seen at the mikvah before, was completely unaware that I had ever been afraid of the water, and I felt no compulsion to enlighten her. I skipped my usual shpiel completely. No explaining that I was terrified of putting my head under, no mention that I had a heter for only one Kosher tevilah, and that having that heter made it possible for me to get the three, et al. No, I simply told her that I dip 3 times, making the bracha after the first dip. Out of habit, I had brought a washcloth with me, so I gave it to her to hold until I would use it to cover my head during the brocha. (Still not sure how I feel about the need for that, but I've fallen into the habit, as I said.)

I composed myself before each dip, formulating my prayers each time, (I can't think while under the water) then pulled myself under by the handrail, letting go before resurfacing.

"Kosher"
"Kosher"
"Kosher"

And then I came out of the mikvah, got dressed, paid her, and went home to my husband.

And yet, was that it? While I don't claim to have felt that deep connection to other women, past, present and future, who have used and will use the mikvah, I've always felt something after, stronger somehow, empowered by the knowledge that I had once again conquered my fear, and the security of knowing that my mitzvah observance was pure: Obviously, I was doing this only because I believe it to be a G-d given commandment. Without that, you wouldn't have gotten me into the building! But this time I hadn't had my fear to overcome. Was my mitzvah somehow lessened by this lack of fear, by not having this huge wall to climb over? When we don't worship idols because we don't have a Yetzer Hara (evil urge) for worshiping idols, are we stronger or weaker than those who felt the pull to worship idols and overcame it?

I don't have all the answers, obviously, but in the days that followed, I realized that I did feel different. Not stronger, as in the past, but somehow lighter. Like a heavy weight I hadn't even known I was carrying was lifted off my shoulders. And I realized that perhaps Becky was right when she suggested that the removal of my fear was my "reward" for fulling the mitzvah in spite of my phobia, and a sign that I no longer needed this fear. And I think that my future mikvah visits won't be less of a mitzvah for me: All those past visits will accompany me, and remain a part of me. I will remember them each time, and I will give praise to G-d for removing my fear... and using the mikvah, like every mitzvah we do, will continue to bring me closer to him.

I feel burned. I was so excited when I heard about this blog. I loved the mikvah. I loved going, I loved prepping, I loved knowing I was maintaining a mitzvah that goes back so long. My heart stops when I read about mikva’ot found at Masada or buried under buildings in Europe or hidden away cisterns in S’fat. The stories that we’ve all heard about Russian women chipping through the ice in frigid temperatures so they can immerse gives me goosebumps. The danger women put themselves in to immerse during inquisitions, progroms, the Holocaust just astounds me. Would I be as strong as they, I often wondered.

I even liked the wait. The first week of “freedom” – not having to respond to pressure from my husband, not having to feel bad if I wasn’t in the mood, enjoying the space in the bed and the shyness of covering up. The second week of anticipation, building to frustration and annoyance. Isn’t it mikvah night, yet?! Then of course, there’s the actual mikvah night. Full of expectation, nervousness, anxiety, but regardless of how we – ahem – observed the night, finally being able to fall asleep in each other’s arms again. Bliss. I couldn’t wait to write about all that, and share my enthusiasm and maybe, possibly, even get someone else to start observing taharat ha’mishpacha.

Now I just find it annoying and painful. Yet another month in a long, unbroken chain of months of going to the mikvah. A long, unbroken chain that will keep going and going and going until menopause hits. Everything is compounded. I’m dealing with mild depression as a result of the infertility treatments not working, which is pounded into my head each month when I get my period, and then when I get to the mikvah: “YOU’RE NOT PREGNANT. YOU NEVER WILL BE. And you’ll have to do all of this again next month. And again. And again.” So I get more depressed. And because, while I’m niddah, I can’t get any hugs or other physical comfort from my husband, I get more depressed. Then comes the mikvah, and well, you get the idea.

So it makes it very hard to be enthusiastic about mikvah. And very hard to write about it. I had no idea so much time had passed since my last post. I made a commitment to post a certain amount and I have not been able to live up to that. And I didn’t want to be a stick-in-the-mud, only writing “boo hoo, poor me” posts, but that’s all I’m feeling lately. So if y’all will just bear with me, I might not have the most upbeat posts, but I’ll at least try to do better about posting at all.

Another link in the chain...another mikvah opens.

Someone forwarded this article to me. Rather than send a link, based on what happened when Kuzo linked to the Atlanta article, I thought I'd just cut and paste...with full attributions.

Jews' ritual bath makes comeback
Tuesday, November 15, 2005 by Nancy Haught The Oregonian

For many Jewish women, keeping mikvah -- immersing themselves in natural, flowing water -- is a private matter. Their husbands probably know when they leave home to visit a mikvah. Attendants may know if a woman immersed herself so completely that not a strand of her hair floated to the surface. But only God knows, quite literally, the sincerity of a woman's prayer.

Water flows through many religions in rituals that symbolize transformation, from death to life, rebirth and renewal. The mikvah is an ancient Jewish tradition still practiced in the modern world both because it is required by Jewish law and for a handful of other more contemporary reasons.

The word mikvah is Hebrew for a "gathering" of mayim chayim, or "living water." Centuries ago, in accordance with Jewish law, women immersed themselves before their weddings and monthly thereafter, seven days after their menstrual periods ended. Only then did they resume physical contact with their husbands. Jewish men immersed themselves, sometimes as part of their daily spiritual practice and, in other cases, before Jewish holy days.

Today, many Jewish men and women never set foot in a mikvah, but the practice is preserved for those who find it meaningful and for those whose conversions to Judaism demand a ritual immersion. It is probably most important to Orthodox Jews, but some others use it for nontraditional reasons, immersing themselves before or after surgery or after a divorce.

Portland has two mikvot (the plural of mikvah), one that dates from 1958 and another that, after five years of fine-tuning, will be dedicated this spring. The Jewish Federation of Greater Portland has undertaken a fund-raising effort on behalf of the older community mikvah, which is administered by the Oregon Board of Rabbis. The newer facility, Mikvah Shoshana, was built by Chabad of Oregon, and at their invitation an expert on the mikvah is visiting Portland on Thursday for a lecture.

Sara Karmely of New York City is a traveling authority on keeping mikvah and the ancient tradition's power to revitalize modern marriages. Married for 40 years herself, she is past menopause and misses her monthly visits to the mikvah. In a telephone interview, she is almost wistful as she recalls her monthly preparation.

"It meant that that morning, I would wake up with a sense of anticipation," she says. She would soak in a bath for half an hour, scrub herself from head to foot and shower to remove any foreign particles from her body. A woman may not wear nail polish or even contact lenses when she steps into the mikvah.

"Each month you come out of the mikvah and see your face glowing," she says. "It is a rebirth. As soon as I came home from the mikvah, I became a new bride and my husband was a new bridegroom for me."

Avoiding physical contact during a woman's period and for seven days afterward encourages a couple to work on communication and respect for each other's sexuality, she says.

For Sima "Simi" Mishulovin of Portland, a member of Chabad-Lubavitch of Oregon, a Hasidic group that encourages Jews to practice mitzvahs or "commandments," sees the mikvah as a link to the Jewish women who preceded and will come after her.

She remembers her first visit to the mikvah, before her wedding almost two years ago.

"I felt a strong connection to the women of the past and, being the first grandchild (in her family) to be married, I felt like the beginning link of this mitzvah for the family."

Karmely and representatives of other community mikvot see a resurgence in the spiritual practice, but because visits to a mikvah are so private, it is difficult to tell whether the number of women using them is on the rise, and still more difficult to describe their reasons for doing so.

But Rabbi Joseph Wolf of Havurah Shalom, a Reconstructionist community that meets in Northwest Portland, understands the wariness that many Jews feel about the mikvah. It originated in a time, they say, when women were judged to be inferior to men and in need of purification after their periods.

"Spiritual practice is everything," Wolf says. "If women are finding this empowering to their own mind, far be it from me to want to undermine their practice."

Nancy Haught: 503-294-7625; nancyhaught@news.oregonian.com

Hello, all. Sorry about the long hiatus.

Last week, when I called the mikvah to schedule an appointment and heard the recording listing its hours, I noticed something: the mikvah is open on Shabbat but closed on Yom Tov. This peculiarity doesn't affect me, since I don't live within walking distance, but it strikes me as strange. Shouldn't the same leniencies and restrictions apply, whether it's Shabbat or Yom Tov? Is tevilah allowed on Shabbat simply because it is the preferred time for men to fulfil their conjugal obligations to their wives? I'd always assumed that Yom Tov was similar to Shabbat in that regard, but perhaps I was wrong.

If anyone understands this phenomenon, please explain.

Just wondering if anyone else goes through the stomach churning anxiety that surrounds making a mikvah appointment for motzei Shabbat?
Maybe if you live in a larger community with many mikvaot this might not be a problem. In my community, it's an ongoing issue, and add to it that the particular attendant on duty for Shabbat and Saturday has a habit of returning calls rather late.
The mikvah's voicemail recording announces that one should make a Saturday evening appointment at least 48 hours in advance. OK, with bedikot and counting, I'm fine with this. And being the Type A person I am, I often give even more notice with a caveat.
But, what gets me is that I don't get a return call in a timely fashion. I mean, hey, hello. It's Friday afternoon. I don't have all day!
Any suggestions...aside from taking a deep breath?

My husband had to sit in the car alone, anticipating my return and our reunion, a few extra minutes one recent cycle. I waited to call the attendant because of the beautiful song I heard outside of my preparation room.

(splash) "kaaahh-sher"

(splash) "kaaahh-sher"

(splash) "kaaahh-sher"

(pause)

(splash) "kaaahh-sher"

(splash) "kaaahh-sher"

(splash) "kaaahh-sher"

(pause and repeat)

The beauty.. it renewed me as much as my own participation in the song, the cycle, the life..

I know these are not the things to focus on. Taharat hamishpacha is not about the picky details; there's a grander drama going on, of separation and reunion, of longing and anticipation. It can be a pain, but it can also be high romance. As my kallah teacher memorably said (this will probably identify her to some of you), "If you come home from mikvah upset by the hairs the woman before you left on the tub, you've really missed the boat."

But the details can make a difference, at least for me. Being at an unfamiliar mikvah last month threw some of them into higher relief for me.

- All-white bathrobes, towels, and wash cloths. Why? Why??? Am I the only one who never sits down on anything white, from the moment my 7th day is over? Am I the only one who sometimes makes it to mikvah by the skin of my teeth, and worries until I'm actually under the water that I'll look down and see fresh blood? I don't need any more anxiety at the mikvah, thank you, I can manufacture enough of that on my own.

- The lack of consistency about how much of my backside the mikvah attendant wants to check. It's not a big deal to me, either way; check just under my hair, or check the whole thing -- I don't care. What I don't like is trying to feel out which it is, dropping the top of my robe first, then guessing from her hands whether she's trying to pull the rest of it off. What I especially don't like is shrugging out of the entire thing, then realizing she didn't want to see that much of me, at all. (But thanks for sharing!)

And here's one that made a difference in a good way: my home mikvah has recently switched from frumpy beige, never entirely clean, healthcare worker-looking slippers -- or paper slippers which fall apart at the first drop of moisture -- to embroidered plastic mesh slippers in girly colors: blueberry, lime green, hot pink. Does it matter that they obviously got them at the dollar store down the block? Not a bit. They make me feel pretty.

I don't know about you, but by the time I'm ready to immerse my hair is half sopping and half faster drying frizz, I'm wearing my never-leave-the-house glasses instead of my contacts, and my skin is splotched red from the steam and scrubbing. And of course I'm about to be naked in front of someone who has no reason to overlook my figure flaws out of love. I'm vulnerable, I guess. And I'm supposed to go home in fifteen minutes and feel like a love goddess?

Every bit of pretty helps, that's all I'm saying.

For me, PMS is not pre-menstrual, or post-menstrual (as it used to for me) but now pre-mikveh.

After I get my period ceases for the cycle, I generally get moody : very cranky, irritable, snappish, headaches, total horror to be around. I don't think it's a iron thing.. I've tested fine. Anyway, it generally ends about a week after I stop bleeding. Now, that time frame has different meaning for me and my husband.

Now my husband has something tangible to use to guage my mood swings. Side benefit ? He now is looking forward to mikveh night! This past time *he* wrote it in his calendar and then reminded me of it (since I hadn't added it to my civil/daily) calendar yet. He was quite excited. We still a bit unsure of remembering kisses and things are now ok after I came back but our entire relationship in this time-period has improved greatly. :)

A visitor to our site wanted to ask us the following... please post your replies so we can possibly help her with her situation!

Mindela writes:

I am a young widow. I originally thought that it would be improper for me to go to the Mikva after he died because it seems like an announcement that I am available. Now that a few months have passed, I wonder if going to the Mikva again, one last time would be a carthartic thing to do. Perhaps I'd reconnect with my husband in a new spiritual dimension. What is proscribed halacha? I welcome all comments.

OK, so it was a river. That's a technicality.
Remember how I volunteered to go in the freezing mikvah waters in La Paz, Bolivia? Well, I just got my chance...albeit stateside.
We were on vacation and my night finally came. I might add we were on vacation with my entire family...siblings, their spouses, kids, parents...the ganse mishpocha.
We were three hours from the closest mikvah but minutes from a river. So during the daylight hours on the day of the spouse and I scouted out a likely location and I made my preparations.
We found a calm spot -- not far from the Class 5 rapids. The only challenge we figured would be spectators. You see the "marina" (the dock and shallow access to the water) was in sight of a restaurant.
I should add the spouse said we could wait until we got home late Monday if I didn't think I could do it. I dipped in a toe to test the water beforehand. Brisk but bearable. I told him that if women in Siberia could do it, so could I. And, anyway, since we'd be getting home at midnight Monday, and he was leaving until the following Sunday on business and I was leaving on Tuesday for business that would leave us all of 2 days or so of together time. I decided that we might as well try to carve out another day or two.
Luck was on our side. When we came up to the site, it was deserted. While I know this was probably not the most "kosher" we had the toddler tucked in the car seat as we drove to the spot. There was no way to leave the child with the aunts/uncles/grandparents. Trust me on this.
The spouse served as my mikvah attendant. He didn't check my toenails quite as thoroughly, but then he was rather a good sentry.
We had a tiny flashlight; the restaurant was closed. Good signs. We clambered onto the dock and he held up a towel as I stripped in the cooling night air. On the count of three I plunged into the water. YOWIE. COLD.
But, I did it. I immersed, said the bracha with chattering teeth and heaved myself back onto the dock. I didn't do my usual number of dunks or the Yehi Ratzon but it was kosher.
As I got out of the water and shivered, I looked up at the night sky. It was gorgeous -- clear and sparkling with twinkling stars. So far from the city the air, the quiet and the smell of the trees was magical.
The spouse wrapped a towel around me and draped another one over my head. The we looked over at each other, giggled and held hands as we walked back to the car.

So the last time I went to mikvah, I had an epiphany. The mikvah attendant was new to me (well, new as an attendant, I had met her socially before) so I launched into my usualy spiel about being afraid of the water, and having a heter to only get one Kosher tevilah, but always trying for three anyway, and how having the heter had helped me not need to use it... (For the history of my fear of the water and mikvah use in spite of it, see here, here, and here.)

And while I was talking, I changed the beginning to "When I first started using the mikvah, I was afraid of the water, so..." Half way through, I heard what I had said, and realized that I was not afraid! I hadn't even noticed exactly when the fear disappeared. I'm still not sure I wouldn't be afraid in another setting, were I to try putting my head under water at the beach, for example, instead of for the mitzvah of mikvah. But it didn't matter.

I wasn't afraid!

Naturally, the mikvah lady invited me to come back during the week in a bathing suit and "practice." "It's great that you aren't afraid," she said, "But you should be comfortable." Why everyone always jumps to try to get me there in a bathing suit, I have no idea. I didn't even know where my bathing suits had been packed away, or if they even still fit, not having used them in 10 years or so. (I since found them, just so I would know where they were, but haven't tried them on.) But I wasn't interested, then, or ever. What I really wanted to do was go home and savor the realization that I wasn't afraid!

So that's what I did.

So there I was, unhappy with the idea of trying to fit myself into a mikvah schedule I didn't understand in the jam-packed days before my wedding, and equally unhappy with the idea of my first immersion taking place like some kind of nasty secret at night. Something had to give. As it turned out, it was the mikvah.

Some time back, Eli and I had made arrangements to travel to a large Northeastern city for a professional conference of his about six weeks before the wedding. Said city had (and has) a recently opened liberal-run mikvah. A few weeks before our departure, I thought about both of these things simultaneously, and before I could lose my nerve, I called and left a message requesting an appointment. The woman who called me back was friendly, sympathetic, and professional; she answered my questions about how long it would take to reach the mikvah from our hotel, and she made me an appointment for the one morning we would be in that city after I'd taken off my birth-control patch (but before there was any real chance of my period starting). Even better, they emailed me a confirmation -- and their website was gorgeous. So I packed extra Q-tips in my luggage and off we went.

The liberal mikvah was (and is) gorgeous. The preparation rooms are ceramic tile and cherry wood and gleaming modern chrome fixtures, with enough toiletries to constitute a small spa. The instructions on the wall are phrased as a series of "kavvanot," which is kind of goofy, but they're still observably instructions (and nothing there I didn't already know). I had spent half the morning at the hotel scrubbing various parts of me, so that rinsing off in their shower was merely refreshing -- and slipping into the pool felt great. It was warm, only faintly chlorinated, and the mikvah attendant had me open the pipe to the rainwater source myself, so that I felt the two temperatures blend. There was daylight coming in through high dormer windows. Nobody asked me anything except whether I knew the blessings and whether I had any questions; I only asked the mikvah lady to check my back for hairs and to leave me alone in the mikvah for a few minutes after immersion. Their mikv
aot, you see, are these tall stone chambers, and I could tell they'd have great acoustics. I sang as many psalms as I knew by heart before I returned to the prep room.

So that was my first immersion, and afterwards I made my way back to the hotel and dealt with various work-related chores of my own, with shipping books home from the conference, and with going out for the conference's final dinner. Each task made me feel a little bit grimier. By the end of the day, I had independently figured out why nighttime immersions might be preferable: ten hours is too long for that post-mikvah buzz to really last. (At one point, I reflected that the result of wearing metaphysical lingerie all day is probably a metaphysical wedgie.) Somehow, though, we managed.

Of course, my period came three days later, right on schedule, and I knew I had only postponed the problem -- I did actually want to immerse before my wedding, no matter what anyone else said. ("But you already did it," my mother said, baffled.) Only now everything seemed clearer: I knew what I was doing, and it was my choice. I called up the local Mikvah Lady and said I needed an appointment on Thursday such-and-such. I didn't explain that it was ten days before my wedding and the absolute last evening not Shabbat, Yom Tov, or inhabited by mandatory familywide dinners; scheduling, I had decided, was my prerogative. Through no fault of my own, I wound up with a ladies-only wedding shower earlier that evening, so I even had a party, although it ran later than scheduled and pretty well nuked my prep time. Thank G-d I'd done it before, so I knew what I was doing!

The local mikvah isn't as pretty as the one out of town -- standard institutional fixtures in the bathroom, standard toiletries (if you forget your toothbrush like I did), vanity sink not quite working (I washed my hands under the bathtub faucet after a final pee) -- but all the right stuff was there. I read the instructions on the wall and rolled my eyes at what I knew to be a particularly stringent set of rules being labeled "halachah," then panicked and cut my fingernails short Just In Case. In person, however, the Mikvah Lady was friendly and slightly maternal; she didn't check anything I didn't ask her to, and although the immersion wasn't quite as ecstatic as my first time, it felt good. Thanks to the resultant high, I acceded to the posted "halachah" of not showering after the mikvah (note: eau de chlorine = NOT sexy), cheerfully swapped birth-control patches, and wrote a check (note: the local mikvah is a lot cheaper than the Big-City Liberal Mikvah) with
good cheer.

When the Mikvah Lady asked where I lived as I handed the check over, I wondered if she was fishing for demographic information, but it turned out she needed a ride home -- the only other woman dipping that night wanted to swing by the grocery store so she could tell her kids that's where she'd been. Anyway, the Mikvah Lady didn't live much out of my way, and it was pleasant to chat with someone on the way home, even if we didn't quite speak the same language. ("Who's your rov?" she asked. "My what?" I said, distracted by driving. "Your RAB-BI," she enunciated carefully. "Ohhhhh," I said.) She reminded me that any prayers I held in my heart on my wedding day were sure to be fulfilled, and I believed her.

I suppose that's the end of my mikvah story, really, except that I have been nudging my RAB-BI to take up the issue of bridal mikvah scheduling with the Powers That Be who run the kivah, and to maybe put a little educational material into the wedding packets he hands out during premarital counseling. I also seem to keep reading about T"H -- I suppose it's become a habit. I haven't been to the mikvah since my wedding, but I've thought about it each time I end my period, and very nearly went once except for the inconvenience of needing an extra patch. Maybe at my next gyn appointment I'll ask about mikvah-friendly alternatives to the patch. Or maybe I'll just wait till we start trying for a family -- it won't be all that long. Meanwhile, I keep reading -- it's gotten to be a habit. And next time I go to the mikvah, at least I'll know how to schedule the appointment.

~ Dulcie

Dulcie is a thirtyish Jewish woman who averages out Conservative; she is writing about her experiences with tongue firmly planted in cheek. This essay is the final one of a three-part series; the first essay is available here, and the second essay is available here.

One Friday night, the subject came up at our table. One of our guests had served as a rabbi for a number of years, and his experiences working with congregants had led him to a particular perspective on the role of the mikvah attendant. He told us that before he had smicha ("ordination"), he was sometimes called upon to assist in various lifecycle ceremonies. At weddings and bar mitsvahs, he said, he always made a point of the fact that he was not yet a rabbi, and that if the family involved needed rabbinic guidance, they should turn to someone else. At funerals, however, he made no such point, and even went so far as to call himself "rabbi." He explained to us that people coping with a relative's death are very vulnerable, and they need the illusion of authority. His feeling was that the mikvah lady plays a similar role, presenting the illusion of authority to women in a vulnerable position. By comporting herself in an authoritative manner, she allows them to feel that they are performing the mitsvah correctly, with the sanction of someone who knows the rules.

My feelings on this asessment are mixed. It is logical, but is it accurate? For my own part, I'm much happier to be helped by one of the assistant mikvah ladies, who don't always seem sure of themselves, than by the head attendent, who has an air of authority -- the assistants make me feel like my sense of vulnerability is shared. In theory, this could be because I'm less concerned about the halachic side of tevilah than other mikvah-goers, but the impression I've gotten from previous discussions of this subject is that my feelings are shared.

It has ocurred to me that observant women today may be too educated to need or want the sort of false authority that their foremothers required. The reality, however, may be more complicated. Perhaps our needs are so different that there is no such thing as a one-size-fits-all mikvah lady. This would mean that no matter how an attendant conducts herself, she will make some women uncomfortable or unhappy.

Unfortunate if true. What do you think?

This photo and extended caption from the New York Times (free registration required) is somewhat interesting and somewhat inspiring. It's also somewhat about men, but I've never been one to turn down a chance to ogle some shirtless men.

I'm very possessive about mikva'ot. I feel like men have been given so many mitzvot - tefilin, tzitzit, minyan, learning Torah (among others) - and we have been given so few. Yes, when the Temple stood mikva'ot were used by both women and men for ritual purification. But in those days many things were different, and I get the impression that gender roles were both more and less polarized. It's rather irrelevant today, as the Temple is not there and ritual purity for men is basically a nonissue. Today, only women are required to use a mikvah. Tumah and taharah are practical concerns directly for married women, and for their husbands only by extension.

When Orthodox women try to edge into the world of "men's mitzvot," they are often told to be happy with their roles as women, to appreciate the differentiation between the sexes and to first seek meaning in those mitzvot which are incumbent upon them before venturing into the world of the voluntary. Why, then, do these same men feel the need to share in our special mitzvah?

So tonight's the night.
The spouse has been sweet and kind and looking forward to it. He promised candles, kids asleep!, a romantic atmosphere...just like those first times.
And wouldn't you know it, I've picked up a stomach virus from Child #2. How sexy is that? Instead of looking forward to the evening, I'm spending the day in my pjs and barely moving.
At least I can get a backrub tonight.
If this is a joke, I'm afraid I fail to see the humor in the punchline.

Ok, I’m probably just blowing this whole thing out of proportion, but it has come to my attention that a man passing through our town wants to make use of the mikvah in the morning before davening. While I think this is a very admirable thing for any man to do (I mean would you want to dip every day?) I can’t help but feel a little selfish/protective of our little mikvah.

Since we only have one mikvah for everything (women, dishes & men) it’s well known around our town that men should bring their own towels and we strongly suggest that they shower before dipping. But a traveler would not know that practice and since it is during the Nine Days my mind is drawing up little images of him not showering at all during this time and considering his daily dip sort of like his refresher... and all I can say is “eww.” That’s the mikvah we have to dip in too.

I asked my husband to tell him to shower and bring his own towel, but he said that it was not his place to do that, and I agree with him. It’s not his place or mine to tell a stranger what to do, but part of me wants to draw up a big sign that says “Please shower before entering” and run over and post it on the mikvah.

Am I just being a bit too mental? A bit too overprotective? How am I going to get these silly images out of my head before I have to go to the mikvah next week?

Argh. Why do things have to be so hard?! Okay, so we decide on TaB (this, not this), only to find out the day before (and too late to call for a mikvah appointment, even though I really, really, didn’t want to use the mikvah, and yes, I know, I could have called anyway and the attendant might have been a little put out, but she still would have had to fit me in) that there was a giant concert at the beach. And thousands of people would be there.

Okay, well, that’s the best beach for tevilah, but there are a couple of other places to try. So we pick a nice beach, drive out there, and hey – they close at 10. Yep, pretty much right around the time for me to immerse. They have big, mean-looking gates and big signs saying, “giant ocean monsters come up onto the beach after dark and will eat you, so stay out.”

Fine. So the signs didn’t really say that. But I don’t get it. Why close the beach? We have lots of beaches that are unattended, so it can’t be a lifeguard issue. Whatever. Now we have to find another beach. In the dark. Ah, we have a brainstorm and head out to the only other beach we can think of – very far away. Their parking lot is closed off, but there are no finger-wagging signs (can’t you just hear your Aunt Gertie now: “what are you thinking coming out here when there is a perfectly good mikvah?! You don’t know what’s in this water or what kind of people might be lurking in the bushes. And it’s not like it’s August, you know – you could catch cold in this water.”).

sigh

We walk past sign after sign warning that swimming is not advisable in this area. Um, why? Fecal count? Boat traffic? Jellyfish? Why, WHY?

Anyway, we finally find a clear spot (and no signs!), and make it down to the water. I should mention that while I love the ocean and beaches more than any other place in the world, I’m not a big fan of being in the ocean (there are waves, unseen dropoffs, riptides, crawly things…) and add to that that it’s dark and things were bumping into me (turned out to be parts of a branch, but still). Anyway, I finally mustered up the courage, got down to my skivvies, dunked my 3 times, hightailed it back to the beach, got myself completely modest again and realized that there had been a couple on the beach the whole time.

Of course, it was dark, and they couldn’t see me, but still.

The highlight was walking back to the car along the beach, holding hands, looking at all the stars. Very romantic.

My husband really enjoys these TaB’s, but then, he’s not sticking his head underwater. Next time, if there is a next time, I’m making him go all the way under, too. Naked. Three times. See if he still enjoys it. Oh, yeah, and next time, I’m checking the community schedule at least 3 days before my mikvah day!!

Perhaps I'm being overly dramatic, but I wept when I read GoldaLeah's recent post, "Troubled Waters. She is on her congregation's mikvah development committee, and in discussing her changing view on their current mikvah plan, she writes:

I am behind the idea of a mikveh for this congregation, but I don't see a pressing need for one. There is one within an hour's drive of here, and there are also natural, outdoor mikvahs (mikvaot?) that we can use. The demand for a mikveh in our congregation for halachic reasons is almost nil. The demand for other uses is moderate, but I'm still betting only a few people will use it, and very few on a regular basis.

Contrast this with Rivka Slonim's famous quote from Total Immersion, which is also reprinted on the front page of our site:

Most Jews see the synagogue as the central institution in Jewish life. But Jewish Law states that constructing a mikvah takes precedence even over building a house of worship.

I understand that GoldaLeah's personal priorities may be different, and I'm pretty sure that no one's going to change her mind about that (though she is asking about the best way to go about making her views known, or not). Still, I'm sad. I'm sad for the handful of families in her community (if even that many) who are observing T"H and have to juggle other responsibilities to make the two-hour round trip to the nearest mikvah. I'm sad for the others who may be considering mikvah use, but who will decide that it's just "too much trouble" without a community mikvah. I'm sad for the (probably hypothetical) couple already struggling with T"H, perhaps contending with short cycles or halachic infertility or frequent weekday business trips, who finally throw in the towel when the wife's tevilah night turns up on Friday one too many times and there's no mikvah within walking distance. I'm sad for the children growing up in her town who will never learn to value T"H (even if they choose not to observe it as adults), because their elders did not place enough value on having a mikvah.

The OU is sponsoring this event on 31 July (Sunday) "in honor of the many women who give of their time and energy to facilitate the mitzvah of mikvah in our communities".

Event details here: Pearls of Appreciation

Thank you for all your hard work. :)

Okay, so I’ll put it right out there: sorry I haven’t posted. It hasn’t been a good month. Our first attempt at IVF failed, in spite of everything looking good and going well. So my mind was on things other than t’h and mikvah.

But now my mind is on t’h and mikvah because I got my period and am now faced with going back to the mikvah. I have to say, I didn’t really get what other infertile women were saying about the difficulties of facing the mikvah. On an intellectual level, yes, I got it. But now I understand. I so don’t want to face the mikvah again. And again. And again.

But it’s much warmer now. Maybe we’ll try the beach again.

I do have to say that I am extremely grateful, b"h, that my period came a few days after we got our negative results. It gave me and my husband a few blessed days of being able to hold and comfort each other. The hugs were a blessing.

Does anyone else have this phenomenon? When I come home from the mikvah, I'm STARVING. Ravishing hungry. I frequently eat a huge dinner of steak, mashed potatoes, spinach, etc. when I come home from the mikvah.

My theory is that there is some psychological connection between the chlorinated water of the mikvah and my childhood associations with swimming pools (also chlorinated water). There's something about swimming that makes me hungry - aren't your kids always hungry after swimming?

Does this happen to anyone else? Because maybe I'm just a bit mental with the mental associations.

I didn't think it could happen so soon...

... Last night as soon as shabbos ended I started to get dressed so I could go to the mikvah. It took my husband about 30 minutes to get home and in that time, my three year old asked me, "Mommy, where are you going?" She saw I had my sheitel and shoes on and she knew I must be leaving. The only answer I could give her was, "Mommy is going out to do a mitzvah." Thank goodness she didn't ask any more than that!

The following is my own unofficial translation of a Hebrew article to which Out of Step Jew linked recently (see "Contributions From Other Sites").

Oppression of Women by Women
or How I Almost Became a Mikvah Attendant:
The overbearing supervision of some mikvah attendants turns mikvah visits into humiliating experiences for women. One woman's personal testimony, which is somewhat funny and very sad.

I'm not the type of person to relate my experiences at the mikvah, or even in less intimate places, but I have to get this off my chest. Here's what happened: I found a nice mikvah. I rang the bell and waited, happily (because there was no line and because in ten minutes I'd be going home) to be called to immerse. I was called. A very nice attendant, smiling, signaled me to hold out my hand. A warning light went on: she was one of those, from the old mikvahs, the ones I'd run away from, where they check to make sure you've cut your fingernails and don't have any specks on your body or loose hairs clinging to your back. I held out my hands, like a first grade student holding out his hands to be checked for cleanliness. The attendant gently passed her finger over a suspicious finger of mine, but she decided to let it pass. Afterward she checked my face, proceeded to my hair, and remarked with a smile that it was short, so surely there was no reason to suspect any loose or hanging hair. I decided to subject myself to the pressure. (Why didn't I say anything? I have a response. I thought of it later, when I was dressed. It's easier to think when you're dressed.) Did she intend to continue checking my entire body? Apparently not. Instead of checking my body, she gave me a pop quiz. The nice, smiling mikvah attendant asked: had I done a hefsek tahara? I answered that I had, only so that she would let me in the water. But she persisted: when? At this point I was seriously nervous. I blanked: what is a hefsek tahara, when the flow of blood stops, or the final self-examination on the seventh day? I gambled on the seventh day. (Why didn't I ask her what it was? I have a response. I thought of it later, when I was dressed. It's easier to think when you're dressed.) I said: this morning. The smile on her face disappeared, and an expression of shock mixed with censure took its place: today?! I understood that the answer I'd given was incorrect. Make a mistake, try again. Like a child trying to guess the answer on an oral exam. What the hell is eight times four? Twenty four, right? Maybe thirty six? If only they'd leave me alone! Finally I said, yesterday morning. The shock on her face increased. Yesterday morning?! I realized that I was stuck, that I wouldn't get into the water, that there was a chance she might send me to the principal, to the religious court, to the chief rabbinate (and that wouldn't be pleasant, I still wasn't dressed, a towel hanging from my body -- how embarrassing). Or maybe, at that point, in the depths of my miserable soul, some consciousness was kindled, some tiny spark of self-esteem, a glimmer of awareness that I wasn't actually taking an exam, and even if I was -- why shouldn't I ask the teacher to give me some hint, even if it meant they would deduct a few points! So I asked: wait, what is a hefsek tahara, is it the end of the flow, or the self-examination at the end of the seven clean days? And the smiling teacher/ supervisor answered with a question: when did your flow end? That kind of question I could answer, without doubt. I straightened up and responded: seven days ago. This almost satisfied her, but then she remembered my previous lie, and asked: wait, then couldn't you have come here last night? My self-esteem was almost entirely restored and I responded, lamely: no, I couldn't have. Somehow, this satisfied her and I made it to the finish line, to the edge of the warm waters.

Big Sister is Watching
I entered the water, and I wanted to stay there, for the life of me, to drown myself from all the humiliation, from all the misery of the situation, and from my own misery. Why hadn't I said to her calmly: excuse me, I want to immerse, and I have no interest in answering these questions, I'm competent in Jewish law and observe it, and that's why I'm here. I'd be happy to talk to you when I'm dressed, whenever we have the time. Instead, I lied like a little girl! I got nervous, I didn't know the answer, I lied twice, and then I had to lie again in order to complete the picture. Why had I allowed her to humiliate me? Why had I taken part in the act? Why did she have to know whether and when I'd done a hefsek tahara? Her authoritative position in combination with her clothing, in contrast to my position as customer/ guest/ beneficiary in combination with my lack of clothing immediately made me an actress with a script that I would not have have allowed myself to be afflicted with under any other circumstances. If I came to the mikvah, presumably I wanted to immerse, presumably I needed to immerse. And what if the attendant had discovered that I hadn't counted seven clean days, would she have sent me home with a note to my parents and a copy for the Master of the Universe? Is this what they teach in the course for mikvah attendants? Is there any other commandment that the authority is so involved in making sure I fulfill properly, to the point of pedantry? Why don't deputies from the religious authorities come to my home from time to time to see what I'm cooking for the Sabbath, and how, and whether I finish all the preparation before the Sabbath begins? Why aren't there examinations of my meat and dairy pots? Why don't they help me avoid speaking badly of people, and prevent me from gossiping -- someone, some Big Brother -- each time I stumble (after all, I do stumble, and I do, after all, need help)?! Why don't they appoint an overseer in the synagogue to reprimand us when we, God forbid, chatter during prayers, or appear unfocused? After all these thoughts, all that was left for me to do was to dry myself off, feel sorry for myself, and be comforted by the fact that it would be another four weeks before the next time, and that at some point I intended to become pregnant again, and that in the more distant future I would be entirely free of this mix of emotions, this purification ritual. When I arrived at home, after being angry at the attendant and at myself and after laughing at the attendant and at myself, I suddenly cried out: I'm going to be a mikvah attendant. If you want to change something, it doesn't help to just complain. I'll be a different kind of attendant, I'll show that it's possible to do exactly what's necessary to help a woman, that I can ask each woman how she wants to be helped and not turn myself into an oppressor in the name of Jewish law and humiliate her. Later, I decided to sleep on it. I woke up in the morning and was no longer certain that I was such an idealist, that I would be able to join some women in the mikvah (since at this point I'm free of obligation for four weeks between immersions), and beyond that, I wasn't certain that I'd be able to be answerable to those women who did want me to examine them, or, worse than that -- I would scratch their bodies trying to locate any obstructions to immersion that remained on them. After all, there was a reason that I didn't choose to study medicine or the related fields, but rather, decided to involve myself in the spiritual realm, right?

Up to this point, I've related my experiences and feelings. Do I have something learned and reasoned to say, or am I just whining? Before I started writing, I said to myself -- if you're going to write something serious, and if you want people to pay serious attention to it, you have check: maybe this really is an exceptional area of Jewish law? Maybe there is some reason that, with regard to this issue, you aren't trusted, and they appoint overseers and examiners to make sure you're behaving properly?! Later, I thought it over and said to myself -- I don't care. Let them say that I don't really understand the subject of the purity of