On an unseasonably warm March day this year, I found myself winding my way through Los Angeles’s hilly streets to take part in an ancient ritual that also felt right out of the LA wellness playbook. The destination wasn’t a workout class, but a Jewish ritual bath, called a mikvah.
Everything about this experience was novel to me — mikvahs, for the most part, are visited by Orthodox and traditionally observant women who follow laws of family purity, or by people in their last step of Jewish conversion. Some men will visit for special occasions. And, as I learned, Reform Jews don’t often go.
But my reasons for having never been to a mikvah weren’t just about not being Orthodox: For most of my life, I’ve never observed Jewish rituals at all.
Though three of my grandparents were Jewish, I wasn’t raised with any religious background or education — save for my friends’ bat mitzvahs and family friends’ Passover seders. For most of my life, this didn’t bother me. Most in my community were Jewish, and that felt good enough. Still, when my friends would return from summer camp with new songs and friends to talk about, I felt a twinge of jealousy, knowing I was missing out.
When I grew up and moved across the country for my first job as a newspaper reporter, I started seeking Judaism through meetups for young adults, volunteer opportunities at Jewish-run food pantries and visiting the closest synagogue. Nothing ever felt right.
As I’ve grown up, my interest in being Jewish — and understanding Jewish life — has become more acute. I suspect this is because I’ve always looked to belong to something bigger than myself, and I’ve always had big questions about what it means to live a meaningful life. This search for meaning led me to Jewish rituals, like the mikveh.
Like most new things, my mikvah trip filled me with a deep sense of anxiety and imposter syndrome. What if the attendant found out I’m just a podcast producer with a deep curiosity about ritual baths? What if I did something wrong, like wearing my watch into the mikvah?
“This is what I love about mikvah,” Bev Klau, director of programs and partnerships at Mayyim Hayyim, a community mikvah in the Boston area, told me, when I interviewed her for my podcast about Jewish rituals and identity, called Shofar, So Good! “Number one … you don’t have to have any prior knowledge to do this. All you have to do is be present and get wet.”
That day, I found that to be true: The hardest part wasn’t figuring out what to do in the mikvah, but to remember to stay present. I challenged myself to remain confident and remember the ritual was mine, too.
This is true across Jewish rituals, from Shabbat to tashlich. These rituals are available to all Jews, regardless of our background, education level, or whether or not we learned the right songs at summer camp.
And while they may feel daunting or inaccessible, Jewish rituals offer built-in opportunities for repetition — to try, and try again. Every year on Rosh Hashanah, you can toss breadcrumbs into the ocean as part of a tashlich ceremony. And every single Friday night, you can light the Shabbat candles before dinner.
Each time we practice these rituals, we’re presented a gift: A chance to feel a little more comfortable, to claim (or reclaim) a tradition that belongs to us.
That day in the mikvah, I didn’t feel anything magical, nor did I feel suddenly comfortable in the ritual.
Instead, I felt proud that I’d taken a leap in trying something new. And I left with a promise that next time — and the time after that — I might feel a little more comfortable in the traditions I’m claiming as mine.
In season two of Shofar, So Good! host Kate Mishkin teams up with My Jewish Learning to explore Jewish rituals and practices — where they came from, how they evolved and why they endure. You can listen to all six episodes, on topics ranging from mikveh to tikkun olam to Jewish burial rituals, wherever you get your podcasts.
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