I don’t like to be nude around other people. After swimming lessons as a lad, I’d take off my bathing suit in the toilet stall; as an adult, I’ve mastered the art of changing underwear with my pants still on. I’m half Jew, half WASP, and while the Jew in me is beseder with the idea of a mikvah, the WASP recoils at the very thought of exposed human flesh.
But I didn’t travel all the way to Israel to stay in my impeccably dressed comfort zone; I came here to see what I was capable of. So even though I kept the towel around my legs until the last possible moment, I removed it to enter the Ari Mikvah, a five hundred year old rainwater bath at the foot of the ancient city of Tzfat, the birthplace of Kabbalah, Jewish mysticism. Here I, my traveling companions, and a bunch of Orthodox Jewish men lined up, buck naked, for a ritual cleansing.
When it was my turn, I stepped into the mikvah and crossed my legs at the bottom, placing one hand on either wall to steady myself underwater. Then I held my breath. I didn’t last as long as I would’ve liked (it’s been a while since those swimming lessons), and I didn’t have any religious awakening or profound epiphany. But just before I rose for air, I felt something. Something like a switch flipping, something like a light flashing. I’m not sure what it was.
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