I’m sitting in class counting the minutes until the end. My head is pounding; I’m exhausted; all I can think about is heading home to bed. However, this is not an option. Tonight is mikveh night, and one does not delay in the performance of a mitzvah.
Class ends. The cold November wind whips through me as I step through the revolving door. Walking to the subway, I dodge pedestrians with each step, buffeted by the crowdedness of the rush hour sidewalk. I run down the station steps just as the train pulls in. Jumping, I squeeze into the crowded car. The crush of the commuters weighs heavily upon me. I’m thinking of home, of the warmth of the apartment, of my husband and son. I am frustrated that all that will have to wait. Ritual supersedes, and tonight is mikveh night.
At Seventy-ninth Street I squeeze out of the train, barely making it before the doors close. I dash the two blocks to the mikveh. Head down, straining against the wind, I barely notice the beggar standing in the cold. I am buzzed through the double doors, pausing, for the first time, to consider the sad necessity of this security measure in Manhattan. I am shown to a shower.
I close the door behind me, placing my backpack on the floor. I unpack my toothbrush, floss, comb, and other toiletries, all the while looking in the mirror. With each item I remove from the bag, I somehow look less tired and angry than I did moments before. I read the prayer on the wall asking God to guide me in my taharah, in my spiritual cleansing.
Along with my clothes, I shed the tension from my body. The room is warm, and I stand for a moment, allowing the last of the November chill to leave my body before beginning my cleansing.
I step into the shower. The hot water pours over my head, running down my body. I wash, reaching upward as I rinse, as if to God, allowing the spiritual impurity to run down the drain with the day’s accumulated grime.
I stand there an extra minute in the shower, eyes closed, feeling the warmth fill me, contemplating the waters of the mikveh.
I am ready. I sit, thinking of nothing, as I wait for the attendant. A knock and the door opens. I enter the room of the mikveh.
The attendant checks my hands and feet. I remove my robe. Running her hands over my hair, she checks my back for stray hairs, inquiring about my son.
“How old is he now?”
“Almost eight months.”
“You brought a picture this time?”
“Of course.”
I am in the mikveh. The waters lap at my shoulders. They are warm, like a comfortable bath. I could stand here for hours. I dunk, feeling the waters close over my head. As I surface the attendant declares, ”Kasher”. I recite the blessing, and dunk again. Again, “Kasher”. “Yehi ratzon milfanecha, Hashem Ehlokeinu, vaylokei avoteinu…” “May it be Your will, Lord our God, and God of our ancestors…” A final dunk; “Kasher”. Suddenly it’s over. I climb the steps, up, out of the mikveh. The attendant places my robe around me, and I return to my room.
I dress, a lightness to my movements. Refreshed, I step out into the crisp air, my hair still damp on my neck.
As I walk to the subway, I see the man I passed earlier. This time, looking in his eyes, I hand him some change, and spend a moment talking to him.
“Good luck. Try to stay warm.”
“Thank you darling. God bless you.”
I smile, feeling He already has.
I wrote these words in November 1997. I have had wonderful mikveh experiences, and a few not so wonderful mikveh experiences. I have used the ocean off Key West, FL and Hickam air Force Base, HI. We once drove three hours for a mikeh from Camp Lejeune Marine Corps Base, kids in tow. I have dipped in the Delaware and other rivers. One night the heater was broken, and I dipped in frigid waters thinking of generations of women who had to break through ice to observe this mikveh, and wondering if they did it for themselves, or simply because they never thought otherwise. I have accompanied brides and converts.
My first mikveh experience was in Cedarhurst, NY. Days before my wedding, it was actually Sean who drove me to the mikveh. The attendant was so thrilled to have a kallah, she ran out to the car to give Sean candy to bless us with a sweet life. The month after my wedding, I attended a mikveh at a bungalow colony in Kiamesha, NY. The hasidic group that summers there sets it up, and rooms are divided with bed sheets. I dressed the part, but was still clearly not one of them. Even so, everyone there celebrated with me, offering blessings for many healthy children, nachas, and a sweet life with my hassan. When I would leave the mikveh in Israel, after a long day of classes, many in Hebrew, I would come out refreshed, speaking in Hebrew, no longer tired and drained from the effort of functioning in two languages. Sean would say it was like I was a different person.
Mikveh has been glorified and vilified over the centuries. It has been used as a weapon by both genders, but it is also used for healing, and to represent life. It is a return to the waters of creation. For me, it's a blessing.
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