Clara S. and my Two Religions

Growing up confused about religion was logical. I was given contradictory instruction sets. My parents told me I was Jewish but they also told me all religions were nonsense. In my house, being Jewish meant staying home from school on the High Holidays and big family meals where the men argued about things, especially about the Druze. They loved to argue about the Druze. Why? Something about who came first and where is their homeland. Also, they loved to argue about which was better: the new or the old country. The final victory round went to the uncle who slammed the table and shouted “The only thing you had in the old country was bedbugs!” Then they went back to arguing about the Druze. In lieu of any official religious training, my sister gave me the Big Golden Book of the Old Testament. It contained minimal text and glorious, full page illustrations of important events that somehow applied to us. You might ask why a self-avowed atheist would give her sister a Big Golden Book Bible. All I can say is that it made sense at the time. I got pretty pictures to look at and she would explain what they meant. She was very serious about the lessons in the Old Testament. Two of my favorite illustrations depicted Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego and the Writing on the Wall. I mashed the these stories together into one gigantic Law: We never bow our heads to false idols, even if we get thrown into a burning pit. If that should happen, we will come out unhurt and then we can read secret codes that mysteriously appear on walls. These notions were imprinted upon me in technicolor: We are Jews and as such we must never worship false idols. Also, we are atheists and all religions are nonsense. I think Woody Allen made a movie about this. As I grew older, my friends would sometimes take me to their church services. I would stand when they stood, and sit when they sat. I just never bowed my head because, you know, Shadrach, Mesach, and Abednego. I finally stepped foot inside a Jewish temple when I was in my mid-twenties. There was a Bar Mitzvah my father felt compelled to attend. I went with him. My mother stayed home. This was not your neighborhood temple. This was a Big Deal Temple, like the Pantages Theater. Seriously. We sat in the mezzanine. Looking down, we saw a stage with a curtain. Suddenly, the audience hushed, the curtains parted, the spotlights focused on a dais, and Ta-Da! I saw something sparkling like diamonds on a tiara. It was the Torah, covered with a jewel-encrusted mantle. Men picked up the Torah and carried it from the stage to wherever it was headed. On the way, people sitting in the front row kissed the fringe of the mantle. That’s where I lost it. I hissed at my father in outrage. “I thought you said we never bow our heads to false idols! What do you call that?” He shrugged his shoulders in embarrassment. I got louder. “You’ve been lying to me all these years?” Again, he shrugged and said, “I told you all religions were nonsense.” It was a long time before I stepped foot into another temple. But before we get to that adventure, let me tell you about Clara S, the palm reader. I’m in my early thirties. My husband and all our social set are devout members of SRF. They meditate, play the harmonium, sing songs in Hindi, and think they are eating vegetarian meatballs. I say “think” because I know about the can of beef broth, but I’ll take that other woman’s secret to my grave. I don’t mention I’m Jewish much because whenever I do, my husband tells me it’s not a real religion. Someone hears good things about a palm reader spiritualist. They decide to go see her, as a group outing. I tag along, trying to be a good sport, thinking privately they are all nuts. We sit in her living room while she gives private readings in the kitchen. One by one, people come out more or less impressed. We are just about to leave when I get a passionate desire to have my very own fortune told. Into the kitchen I go. Clara begins by drawing the outline of my hand on a piece of paper. She stares at it and stares at me, and then she says, “You have two religions.” I am stunned. Tears well up in my eyes. I confess to being Jewish and SRFish. She nods in sympathy. “This is not a problem. It is good you have two religions. They are both real.” I am overcome with relief. That early childhood Law had been warring with my love of spiritual mysticism, which I kept to myself so I wouldn’t have to hear about how I was doing it wrong. But Clara saw it and said it was good. Staring at a spot above my head, Clara says, “You have many ideas in your head.” Yes, yes I do. What comes out of her mouth next sounds like “You are alvays tinking. You are de lady mit de tinking.” Yes, yes I am. “You are writing?” she asks. I nod yes. “What you write, no one understands, yes?” I nod again. “Here they cannot understand you. In Israel, they will understand you. You will write books in Israel. You will be famous there.” “Also, you have too much fire coming out of your head.” What? “The flame is too high; you are too angry. Make the flame go down and you will be happier.” I walked out of Clara’s kitchen a less confused woman. She was right about most of what she saw. Life Is better when you don’t have flames erupting from your head; a busy brain Can be put to good use; and, as to Isms, they basically boil down to the same thing. Writing books for Israelis, that I’m not so sure about…unless you’re in Tel Aviv while you’re reading this.