The concluding chapter of the book, "Brigadoon, a Place for Dreams to Grow," describes the life of a contemporary Jewish feminist community, Bnot Esh (Daughters of Fire). It comes full circle, bringing the author, the individual explorer we have come to know through the book's journey, into the life of a living community where she finds her place as one of many, unique still, but one of many.
Finding a sister. In August 1969 I found a sister, the first Jewish woman I had ever known who cared so much about being a Jewish woman, who hurt so badly over the exclusion and second class status of that identity in those days that she cried over it. She cried over it.
I didn't know anyone back then besides me who cared that much. The fact of her existence, and the companionship of her spirit, gave me courage to push forward myself. Right and left young Jewish women (and older ones too) were jumping ship, saying, if this is the way the tradition is going to treat me, then fuck the tradition. But my sister had a need to stick it out, to be seen, to be heard, to be understood, to be valued. To contribute the unique voice that is hers. And so did I.
I've watched over the years as she engaged the texts, did battle with the tradition--see me, count me, let me sit at the table, I have a right to be here, I have something to say. Her journey has been different than mine--she has become a formidable Jewish scholar, a teacher of our sacred texts, a theologian. She happens not to be a part of Bnot Esh. I speak of her in this context because she exemplifies for me the powerful women who are in Bnot Esh, because she was the first for me, because knowing her taught me to be on the lookout for such women.
Sisters. Powerful women with powerful needs. It turns out there are a lot of us in the world. We actually can be found all over the place. Sitting right next to you in [synagogue], I wouldn't be surprised if there's a powerful woman, waiting to find a community of soulmates. Sometimes when people hear of Bnot Esh they say, well yes, you have something very precious there, but that's because those women are so exceptional. No. Wrong. We have dared together, trusted together, worked together, cried together, celebrated together, and each of us allowed the other to see herself as powerful. We have strength as a community in large measure because we have given each other strength. We have been respectful of our own needs, responsive to each other's needs.
But the reality of living in community is multifaceted, not only a taste of the world to come. Sometimes--inevitably?--living in community raises primal demons for us--do I fit in, am I indeed a part of this group, a valued part of this group, am I loved here, how much am I loved, would anyone care if I disappeared? This is not the powerful voice within us speaking, it is not the voice of a powerful need. A powerful need pushes us always forward, to greater self-realization, to greater capacities for caring, helping, sharing, achieving. No. This is the voice of the wounded child inside of us, the child who is insecure, needy. There's a world of difference between the powerful need and neediness...
One Saturday night at Cornwall [site of the yearly Bnot Esh retreats] the evening's program had ended and people were scattered in the living room, hanging out in the kitchen, sitting on the darkened porch. In small groups, in twos, in threes. And I couldn't seem to find a conversation. Everyone seemed absorbed, mid-conversation; it felt as if there was no comfortable place for me. Though I wasn't all that tired, the hour was late, so I went upstairs and put myself to bed. I lay there in the dark, alone in a triple (my roommates for that year were still out and about), sounds of talking and laughter drifted upstairs to me and I began to cry. I felt so alone, alone only as you can feel in the midst of people who are supposed to care for you, whose caring you yearn for. And I thought, what am I doing here, I'm an outsider, why did I come back? Oh, I suppose I could go downstairs and find someone and say I'm miserable, take pity on me, but I want to be wanted, I want to be chosen.
This is not a powerful need, this is neediness, that black hole somewhere in each of us, the hole which cannot be filled, the hole which is poison for community. Some time the next day, I swallowed my pride and shared my pain. My confidante said, Merle, stop thinking about who is and isn't interested in you and how much. Think about who you'd like to have lunch with because you care about how she is, because you're interested in what she's up to and want to hear about her...She was right, it's an important lesson. I guess I disagree with the Wizard when he tells the Tin Man, "Remember, the heart is not judged by how much you love, but by how much you are loved by others." No. In community or one-on-one, to focus on "how much am I loved by others" is a sure way to grief. The needy hole.