Mayim Rabim

If you read this post and this post, you know that I am now using two forms of birth control, and that I don't always remember to use both. This time I forgot the pill -- for three days! -- and I didn't realize it until I spontaneously started bleeding.

To be fair to myself, I didn't just "forget" for three consecutive days. I take several medications, and I usually put them, along with the BC, in a one-week pill holder. It's a good system, but you do have to remember to put all the pills in at the beginning of the week. And, as I've mentioned, I'm an idiot.

I know, I know. Don't be so hard on yourself, Ruchama! But I went to the mikvah less than a week ago. And I hate that this is my fault.

Hirhurim has had some interesting posts recently on what is often called "halachic" or "Orthodox" inferility -- the infertility that results when an observant woman ovulates before the end of her seven "clean" days.

The posts (here and here) are based on a media controversy that began in the Israeli religious Zionist publication HaTzofeh. In a March article, Rivka Shimon, a kallah teacher who advocated the abolition of the seven "clean days" in a Maariv article two years ago, interviews Dr. Daniel Roznik, a religious gynocologist whom she evidently persuaded. Subsequent articles by Rabbi Benjamin and Noa Lau and Rabbi Yoel Katan argued that abolishing the "clean days" is not halachically feasible, and that halachic infertility should be addressed on a case-by-case basis. (The controversy is summarized in this Haaretz article, though with a somewhat anti-Orthodox bent, IMHO.) Rabbi Chaim Jachter subsequently took up this position in the Jewish Press.

Orthodox rabbis currently have certain limited means of addressing the problem at their disposal. First, there are the halachic options. Women who ovulate early may be given a heter to shorten the mandatory five-day period before hefsek taharah -- but of course, this is only effective for women with short periods who can produce a clean hefsek. Additionally, rabbis may be lenient regarding bedikot and stains during the "clean days" -- but this only limits the "clean days" to the prescribed seven; it does not help women who ovulate very early. Secondly, there are medical options. Women may use hormonal treatments or (questionable) herbal remedies to delay ovulation, or they may resort to artificial insemination (with their husbands' sperm) prior to tevilah.

Dr. Roznik is clearly a learned Jew, and he advances a number of halachic and hashkafic objections to maintaining a chumrah (stringency) that results in suffering and reduces the Jewish birthrate. He also objects strongly to the use of medical treatments for addressing a halachic problem. When Shimon asks him about hormonal treatments, he responds (my translation):

I'm shocked at this question! Where do we find that one must take medication in order to fulfil a commandment? One must realize: we are talking about hormonal treatments that definitely have no benefit for the body, and may even cause severe medical damage in time.

There may be a philosophical impasse here. For those who view rabbinic law as the human manifestation of God's will and who maintain that established Jewish custom has the status of halachah (if not a higher status), the issue is moot. The rule may be inconvenient, or even cause suffering, but if so, that is God's will. Halachah is halachah is halachah. For those of us, on the other hand, who view the sages as merely human beings (albeit holy and learned human beings with the weight of tradition on their side), the idea of halachic infertility is deeply troubling, and the idea of using medical treatments to circumvent it is, in fact, nothing short of shocking.

What can I say? We have different worldviews. Let's just hope that this remains a machloket l'shem shamayim, an argument for the sake of Heaven.

Last year, I wrote about how I'm never tehorah on my anniversary. This year, though, for some reason, my cycle was such that I could have immersed the night before my anniversary.

I could have -- except that my in-laws were coming to town to take Husband and me out to dinner, and they had scheduled the meal to overlap entirely with the mikvah's hours. Since they would already be here, they were going to take us out the following night as well, again precluding tevilah. The night after that would be Shabbat, and the mikvah isn't within walking distance. So not only would I not be tehorah for my anniversary, but I would have to delay tevilah for three extra days.

Husband accepted the situation, but I was unhappy. I could forgo the "special occasion sex," but for some reason, the idea of losing Friday night really bothered me. I lay awake in bed thinking of ways to get around my little hurdle. Hiking to the mikvah on Shabbat was out of the question, since Husband and I would have to miss shul, and we were temporarily in charge of the minyan. (I guess that's one of those "strange consequences of egalitarianism" things.) I thought of skinny-dipping in the river late at night, but I didn't think that Husband would take to the idea. Finally, I remembered that there was another mikvah in the area, a liberal one designed to accomodate men as well as women for a wide variety of rituals, and it occurred to me that they might be open during the day.

I checked their website, and indeed, they had daytime hours. I scheduled an appointment for 11 AM the morning of my anniversary. I had never been to the liberal mikvah before, not for halachic or hashkafic reasons, but simply because it was further away than the Orthodox mikvah and I don't have a car. To my surprise, it only took a little over an hour to get to the mikvah by public transit -- about the same length of time that it takes to get to the Orthodox one.

The attendant who greeted me was very friendly. Because it was my first visit, she had me fill out some paperwork, gave me a small tour, and explained the mikvah's mission. She told me that about 25% of the mikvah's visits are for niddah purposes, and that these usually take place in the evening during "women only" hours. The majority of immersions are for conversions or to mark major personal events, such as recovering from a serious illness.

I had always thought that the local Orthodox mikvah was rather luxurious, but the liberal one was truly spa-like. The preparation rooms were spacious and well-equipped. Each had a toilet as well as a bath or shower, and a set of sliding doors sealed off the bathroom area to provide an appropriate space for prayer and meditation. Some observant women might object to the white washcloths and towels and to the absence of slippers, but the floor was clean and the preparation rooms all led directly into one of the mikvaot.

The attendant informed me that since I was the first to use the mikvah that day, I would have "the mitzvah of unscrewing the ball cap." The "ball cap," I learned, was the cover on the pipe that allowed fresh rainwater to flow into the mikvah. After removing it, I was immediately instructed to screw it back on.* I immersed twice, as usual, reciting the blessing in between. Then I went back to the preparation room, dressed, thanked the attendant, and took the train home. In the end, I thought to myself, tevilah is tevilah.

*I think this may be why some Orthodox rabbis objected to the mikvah's construction: the natural water source is not in constant contact with pool. I haven't studied these laws in detail, though, so I may be totally misconstruing the issue.

For those who haven't been keeping up, I'm on two forms of birth control now: a low-dose pill and a diaphragm. This is because a medication that I'm taking compromises the effectiveness of the pill. It's just as well that I have backup, because I can be a bit of a scatterbrain. Case in point: Last month, when I came back from the mikvah, I forgot to use the diaphragm.

I tried not to worry too much, since I did have some protection from the pill. I didn't tell my husband, so as not to make him unnecessarily anxious. All the same, I was hoping that my period would come on the early side and reassure me. Usually, it comes on Monday or Tuesday. By Wednesday, I began to get nervous and told my husband.

All the next day I was worried and confused. I knew that we couldn't afford a child and that if I was pregnant I'd have to go off my meds, which might have done some harm already. But the maternal urge is very strong in some women, and I couldn't help feeling a wave of irrational excitement when I thought about having a baby. I browsed the web, reading up on signs of early preganancy and health tips for preganant women. I speculated on whether our apartment was big enough for a young child. And I worried about the lack of responsibility that I'd exhibited in various areas of life in the recent past. Could I get my career back on track? Could I care for an infant? Could I possibly do both at once?

When I didn't menstruate by Thursday morning, I went to the drug store to buy a home pregnancy test. It was too early to get the 99% accuracy that the tests advertise, but Husband and I figured that we might as well have a little bit more information by Shavuot. False positives are very rare even at early stages, and if my reading was negative, at least we'd know that the odds were on our side.

I took the test and set a timer for two minutes, the amount of time it takes to yield a result. My whole body was tingling. I closed my eyes, not sure what I was hoping for. When I opened them, I saw a blue minus sign on the strip. The tingling stopped and my breathing returned to normal. Between the pill and the strip, the odds of my being pregnant were now quite low.

I took another test this morning and got the same result. This didn't surprise me. It isn't uncommon to miss a period when taking horemonal birth control; I've missed one before myself. But this was the first time that I really, seriously thought that I might be pregnant. It's a great relief to know that I'm not, but the irrational part of me that was excited before is now a little bit sad.

Ah, well. I guess this makes up for the month when I had to go to the mikvah twice.

As I mentioned earlier, I recently had to start using a diaphragm because a medication that I'm taking interferes with horemonal birth control. What I didn't mention is that I continued to take the pill at the advice of the nurse practitioner who fitted me for the diaphragm. I gathered that this had something to do with the fact that diaphragms are only 80%-90% effective, and that it isn't a great idea to get pregnant while taking medication. This didn't strike me as an entirely satisfactory explanation, since the drug is class B, which means that I could stop taking it at the first sign of pregnancy with a very low chance of ill effects. I rarely argue with medical experts, however, so I took my two prescriptions -- one for a diaphragm, and one for birth control pills -- and left.

I filled the diaphragm prescription right away, but I still had a pack of birth control pills plus a few extras, so I set the pill prescription aside. I decided to give myself some time to decide whether to keep taking the pill, and maybe get a second opinion from my GP. So I put off filling the prescription until the last minute, and then I couldn't find it, and then I ran out of pills and it was Friday afternoon and I decided, to hell with it, I had a diaphragm anyway.

That was my first act of idiocy. My second was ignoring Avigayil's advice and looking at the diaphragm when I took it out yesterday morning. There was blood on it -- real blood this time. I emailed the new rabbi (more on her later) and quickly filled my prescription, but it was to late. I am still bleeding, so in accordance with her instructions I will have to consider myself niddah, barely a week after my last mikvah visit.

I couldn't bear to tell my husband that these seven extra days of celibacy are my fault for going off the pill in the middle of the month, so I told him that the spotting was probably the result of the new meds interfering with the pill. Now I feel doubly crappy -- I never lie to my husband. Maybe I'll tell him the truth when he comes home. Or maybe he'll read this post. Either way, it won't make the situation any better.

I recently had to start using a diaphragm, because a new drug that I am taking has been found to interact adversely with horemonal contraceptives. On the whole, I think that Husband and I are adjusting well. This month, however, something strange happened. I was not expecting my period to start for several days, but when I removed the diaphragm the morning after sex, I noticed some light brown discharge mixed with the contraceptive jelly.

I don't see how this could halachically be considered dam niddah, since it was off-cycle, a light color, and on a flesh-colored diaphragm. That does not mean, however, that it was not menstrual blood. As it turns out, it probably was, since my period started within a day.

The whole experience has left me feeling very weird. I had sex at the beginning of my period, but I was tehorah, as far as I can tell. Or am I getting something wrong?

Since I am not Orthodox and am not observing T"H in a "particularly Orthodox way" (as I like to put it), I have nowhere to turn for a definitive answer. The good news is that my community has a new female rabbi who seems to be roughly on my halachic wavelength. I plan to meet with her this Thursday to talk about T"H and birth control, among other things. Maybe she can help me figure out how to handle this sort of situation.

If you've ever had warts, you know how they come and go without warning, usually in groups. A while back, I had a crop of warts on my hands. I visited a dermatologist, who sprayed them with liquid nitrogen. Blisters formed, some clear, some black. A few of the black ones burst at various points, leaving my hands covered with blood.

Needless to say, the blisters elicited more comments than the warts. "Are you okay?" "Did you hurt your hands?" For a cosmetic treatment, it wasn't very pretty.

When the mikvah lady asked about them, I apologized and told her that I'd washed them as well as I could.

"That wasn't what I meant," she said. "Do they hurt? Are you seeing a doctor?"

I was relieved, but also annoyed, though not at her. I didn't feel like explaining that a doctor had given me the beauties.

Eventually, the blisters dried into scabs and then went away. No sooner had they healed, however, than a new crop of warts appeared in their place. I had my hands sprayed with liquid nitrogen a second time, and then a third. Finally, I switched to an over-the-counter salycilic acid treatment. This had the advantage of not causing blisters, but it didn't get rid of the warts, either. When the treatment ran out, I decided to simply leave them alone.

Some time later (it might have been weeks or months, I'm not sure), I noticed that the warts were shrinking. And then they were gone.

Time went on, and I got used to having wart-free hands. Then, one morning, I noticed a Thing on my right hand where one of the warts had been. It was roughly the size and shape of the wart, but it was black and didn't rise above the skin. I showed it to my husband, who shrugged. Not eager to see the dermatologist again, I decided to wait a while and see whether it went away on its own.

By the time I had to visit the mikvah, I had gotten so used to the little, unobtrusive thing that I almost forgot that it was there. After my shower, a young, friendly attendant escorted me to the mikvah and introduced herself.

"I'm new," she said. We made a little bit of small talk, and I showed her my hands.

"What's that?" she asked.

"Um, I don't know. I just woke up one morning and it was there."

She smiled nervously. "Isn't it funny how your body just does these weird things?"

I smiled back, not sure what to say.

"Did you try to get it off?"

It had only been there for two or three weeks, but I was already so accustomed to its presence that I felt like I was being asked whether I'd made a good faith effort to remove my nose.

"Um, I washed it," I said lamely.

"Hmm, well," she said, "let me ask [the head attendant]." She smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry. I just wouldn't want your tevilah not to be kosher."

She was so kind, and so apologetic, that as she left the room I thought to myself that it would be nice if she were my attendant next time. At the same time, I was annoyed and a little bit nervous. I couldn't imagine that the Thing would be declared a chatstista, as it was obviously under the skin. But then, if I was so sure, why wasn't she?

The young attendant returned with her supervisor, who took my hand and examined the Thing.

"Did you rub it?" she asked.

"Yes," I responded, not sure whether or not I was answering her question.

"Could you rub it again. With the robe." It was more of a command than a question. I took the corner of my robe and rubbed the hapless Thing.

"If it doesn't come off, it's under the skin," she declared. "No problem." And that was that.

This was months ago, and I'm still not sure what I think of the whole affair. Intellectually, I realize that it's not worth getting hung up on. The mikvah attendants did their job, I did mine, and we all lived happlily ever after. Still, the incident has left me with a vague sense of irritation at the System, a System that turns every bodily blemish into an issue. There is a positive side to this, of course; the more attention we pay to our bodies, the more likely we are to become aware of any medical condition before it becomes serious. And yet. . .

I haven't seen the young mikvah attendant since that night. I'm sure that this has nothing to do with me, but I sometimes wonder why she didn't stay (or, if she did, where she's been hiding). As for the Thing, it went away as suddenly as it appeared.

Hello, all. Sorry about the long hiatus.

Last week, when I called the mikvah to schedule an appointment and heard the recording listing its hours, I noticed something: the mikvah is open on Shabbat but closed on Yom Tov. This peculiarity doesn't affect me, since I don't live within walking distance, but it strikes me as strange. Shouldn't the same leniencies and restrictions apply, whether it's Shabbat or Yom Tov? Is tevilah allowed on Shabbat simply because it is the preferred time for men to fulfil their conjugal obligations to their wives? I'd always assumed that Yom Tov was similar to Shabbat in that regard, but perhaps I was wrong.

If anyone understands this phenomenon, please explain.

Before my wedding, I took an extra birth control pill each day for three days. I needed to put off my period for about twenty-four extra hours to be in the safe zone. As luck would have it, I got it the next evening.

It wasn't until a year later that I realized what the implications of this timing were: each year, for the next five years (provided that I remained on birth control), my wedding anniversary would fall during my period. For my first anniversary, I decided to repeat what I'd done for my wedding, taking an extra pill each day for three days. I did it even though the extra pills make me sick to my stomach, because of some silly notion that on your anniversary, you're supposed to have sex.

This year, for my second anniversary, I let it go. Insetad of lingerie, I put on a dress. We went to a nice restaurant, then came home and relaxed. It got me thinking: frum women (who aren't always pregnant) must face this sort of situation pretty often. Nearly half the time (as opposed to my 1/4), the "special occasion" sex touted by secular culture is out of the question. You have to come up with different kinds of presents, different kinds of celebrations. Some might say that's better than always being able to have sex; it gets you to focus on other aspects of your relationship. Still, it must be frustrating.

On the other hand, frum couples get something that secular folks don't: a "special occasion" for sex every month. Maybe that's better than birthdays and anniversaries. You can't have everything...

One Friday night, the subject came up at our table. One of our guests had served as a rabbi for a number of years, and his experiences working with congregants had led him to a particular perspective on the role of the mikvah attendant. He told us that before he had smicha ("ordination"), he was sometimes called upon to assist in various lifecycle ceremonies. At weddings and bar mitsvahs, he said, he always made a point of the fact that he was not yet a rabbi, and that if the family involved needed rabbinic guidance, they should turn to someone else. At funerals, however, he made no such point, and even went so far as to call himself "rabbi." He explained to us that people coping with a relative's death are very vulnerable, and they need the illusion of authority. His feeling was that the mikvah lady plays a similar role, presenting the illusion of authority to women in a vulnerable position. By comporting herself in an authoritative manner, she allows them to feel that they are performing the mitsvah correctly, with the sanction of someone who knows the rules.

My feelings on this asessment are mixed. It is logical, but is it accurate? For my own part, I'm much happier to be helped by one of the assistant mikvah ladies, who don't always seem sure of themselves, than by the head attendent, who has an air of authority -- the assistants make me feel like my sense of vulnerability is shared. In theory, this could be because I'm less concerned about the halachic side of tevilah than other mikvah-goers, but the impression I've gotten from previous discussions of this subject is that my feelings are shared.

It has ocurred to me that observant women today may be too educated to need or want the sort of false authority that their foremothers required. The reality, however, may be more complicated. Perhaps our needs are so different that there is no such thing as a one-size-fits-all mikvah lady. This would mean that no matter how an attendant conducts herself, she will make some women uncomfortable or unhappy.

Unfortunate if true. What do you think?

The following appears in a draft of a responsum by Conservative Rabbi Susan Grossman:

We live in a society that, while sensitized to sexual harassment and abuse, also treats touching between sexes very causally. . . Therefore some physical contact can continue between partners during the woman's menstruation as long as it is limited to that which is generally accepted in society between siblings.

Under these guidelines, partners should not sleep in the same bed unless clothed and should exercise modesty in undressing and dressing in front of each other during this time period. Newlyweds. . . must be particularly careful not to be drawn into physical intimacy which we might colloquially describe as necking or heavy petting.

I am inclined to take these guidelines seriously, as they appear in a responsum that I otherwise consider quite lenient. On the other hand, it is evident that the details are based on practicality rather than halacha, so it seems only reasonable for me to take my own sensibilities into account.

Here's the thing: I come from a family that's big on physical affection and not so big on clothing. My parents and sisters and I hug and kiss and cuddle all the time, and it comes naturally to me to behave the same way with my husband, without giving possible sexual implications a second thought. I wouldn't say that my interactions with my husband while niddah are just like my interactions with my mother and sisters (or, certainly, my father), but they seem a natural extension of what I consider casual, non-necessarily-sexual physical affection.

As for clothing, this may strike some of you as exceedingly odd (to put it mildly), but everyone in my nuclear family walks around the house in their underwear most of the time. Growing up, the first thing I typically did after walking through the door was take off my shoes, skirt and stockings or slacks, and when applicable, bra. Granted, as I grew older, I became more inclined to change into an oversized t-shirt, whereas with my husband I often wear no more than a tank top and shorts. Still, I think, the principle of "natural extension" applies. I've grown used to wearing very little clothing and developed extremely low tolerance for restrictive garments (particularly bras). Removing them when I get home doesn't seem like innuendo. And, after walking around with so little on, finding a private place to change, or going to bed fully clothed, just seems silly.

On several occasions, I've asked my husband how he feels about all this. His usual response is that he's happy with the physical affection and doesn't much care how I dress. Since neither seems to result in uncontrollable temptation for either of us, I'm not particularly inclined to change my habits.

But then I come back to this responsum, and I think, out of respect for the mitsvah, shouldn't I make something of an effort? Buy a big ugly house dress like my bubbie's, maybe? Learn to keep my hands to myself? I mull over these questions every month, but I never make up my mind to change. It just doesn't seem worth it.

The following is my own unofficial translation of a Hebrew article to which Out of Step Jew linked recently (see "Contributions From Other Sites").

Oppression of Women by Women
or How I Almost Became a Mikvah Attendant:
The overbearing supervision of some mikvah attendants turns mikvah visits into humiliating experiences for women. One woman's personal testimony, which is somewhat funny and very sad.

I'm not the type of person to relate my experiences at the mikvah, or even in less intimate places, but I have to get this off my chest. Here's what happened: I found a nice mikvah. I rang the bell and waited, happily (because there was no line and because in ten minutes I'd be going home) to be called to immerse. I was called. A very nice attendant, smiling, signaled me to hold out my hand. A warning light went on: she was one of those, from the old mikvahs, the ones I'd run away from, where they check to make sure you've cut your fingernails and don't have any specks on your body or loose hairs clinging to your back. I held out my hands, like a first grade student holding out his hands to be checked for cleanliness. The attendant gently passed her finger over a suspicious finger of mine, but she decided to let it pass. Afterward she checked my face, proceeded to my hair, and remarked with a smile that it was short, so surely there was no reason to suspect any loose or hanging hair. I decided to subject myself to the pressure. (Why didn't I say anything? I have a response. I thought of it later, when I was dressed. It's easier to think when you're dressed.) Did she intend to continue checking my entire body? Apparently not. Instead of checking my body, she gave me a pop quiz. The nice, smiling mikvah attendant asked: had I done a hefsek tahara? I answered that I had, only so that she would let me in the water. But she persisted: when? At this point I was seriously nervous. I blanked: what is a hefsek tahara, when the flow of blood stops, or the final self-examination on the seventh day? I gambled on the seventh day. (Why didn't I ask her what it was? I have a response. I thought of it later, when I was dressed. It's easier to think when you're dressed.) I said: this morning. The smile on her face disappeared, and an expression of shock mixed with censure took its place: today?! I understood that the answer I'd given was incorrect. Make a mistake, try again. Like a child trying to guess the answer on an oral exam. What the hell is eight times four? Twenty four, right? Maybe thirty six? If only they'd leave me alone! Finally I said, yesterday morning. The shock on her face increased. Yesterday morning?! I realized that I was stuck, that I wouldn't get into the water, that there was a chance she might send me to the principal, to the religious court, to the chief rabbinate (and that wouldn't be pleasant, I still wasn't dressed, a towel hanging from my body -- how embarrassing). Or maybe, at that point, in the depths of my miserable soul, some consciousness was kindled, some tiny spark of self-esteem, a glimmer of awareness that I wasn't actually taking an exam, and even if I was -- why shouldn't I ask the teacher to give me some hint, even if it meant they would deduct a few points! So I asked: wait, what is a hefsek tahara, is it the end of the flow, or the self-examination at the end of the seven clean days? And the smiling teacher/ supervisor answered with a question: when did your flow end? That kind of question I could answer, without doubt. I straightened up and responded: seven days ago. This almost satisfied her, but then she remembered my previous lie, and asked: wait, then couldn't you have come here last night? My self-esteem was almost entirely restored and I responded, lamely: no, I couldn't have. Somehow, this satisfied her and I made it to the finish line, to the edge of the warm waters.

Big Sister is Watching
I entered the water, and I wanted to stay there, for the life of me, to drown myself from all the humiliation, from all the misery of the situation, and from my own misery. Why hadn't I said to her calmly: excuse me, I want to immerse, and I have no interest in answering these questions, I'm competent in Jewish law and observe it, and that's why I'm here. I'd be happy to talk to you when I'm dressed, whenever we have the time. Instead, I lied like a little girl! I got nervous, I didn't know the answer, I lied twice, and then I had to lie again in order to complete the picture. Why had I allowed her to humiliate me? Why had I taken part in the act? Why did she have to know whether and when I'd done a hefsek tahara? Her authoritative position in combination with her clothing, in contrast to my position as customer/ guest/ beneficiary in combination with my lack of clothing immediately made me an actress with a script that I would not have have allowed myself to be afflicted with under any other circumstances. If I came to the mikvah, presumably I wanted to immerse, presumably I needed to immerse. And what if the attendant had discovered that I hadn't counted seven clean days, would she have sent me home with a note to my parents and a copy for the Master of the Universe? Is this what they teach in the course for mikvah attendants? Is there any other commandment that the authority is so involved in making sure I fulfill properly, to the point of pedantry? Why don't deputies from the religious authorities come to my home from time to time to see what I'm cooking for the Sabbath, and how, and whether I finish all the preparation before the Sabbath begins? Why aren't there examinations of my meat and dairy pots? Why don't they help me avoid speaking badly of people, and prevent me from gossiping -- someone, some Big Brother -- each time I stumble (after all, I do stumble, and I do, after all, need help)?! Why don't they appoint an overseer in the synagogue to reprimand us when we, God forbid, chatter during prayers, or appear unfocused? After all these thoughts, all that was left for me to do was to dry myself off, feel sorry for myself, and be comforted by the fact that it would be another four weeks before the next time, and that at some point I intended to become pregnant again, and that in the more distant future I would be entirely free of this mix of emotions, this purification ritual. When I arrived at home, after being angry at the attendant and at myself and after laughing at the attendant and at myself, I suddenly cried out: I'm going to be a mikvah attendant. If you want to change something, it doesn't help to just complain. I'll be a different kind of attendant, I'll show that it's possible to do exactly what's necessary to help a woman, that I can ask each woman how she wants to be helped and not turn myself into an oppressor in the name of Jewish law and humiliate her. Later, I decided to sleep on it. I woke up in the morning and was no longer certain that I was such an idealist, that I would be able to join some women in the mikvah (since at this point I'm free of obligation for four weeks between immersions), and beyond that, I wasn't certain that I'd be able to be answerable to those women who did want me to examine them, or, worse than that -- I would scratch their bodies trying to locate any obstructions to immersion that remained on them. After all, there was a reason that I didn't choose to study medicine or the related fields, but rather, decided to involve myself in the spiritual realm, right?

Up to this point, I've related my experiences and feelings. Do I have something learned and reasoned to say, or am I just whining? Before I started writing, I said to myself -- if you're going to write something serious, and if you want people to pay serious attention to it, you have check: maybe this really is an exceptional area of Jewish law? Maybe there is some reason that, with regard to this issue, you aren't trusted, and they appoint overseers and examiners to make sure you're behaving properly?! Later, I thought it over and said to myself -- I don't care. Let them say that I don't really understand the subject of the purity of Israel, let them say that I'm making a mountain out of a molehill, let them say that, in the end, the nice mikvah attendant helped me fulfill the law, let them even say that it's an obligation and find proofs for it in the Torah. I'm not out looking for them.

I'm just not willing to take this. I'm not willing to have a woman oppress me, to oppress in the sense of acting as a helper from a position of inequality, under unfamiliar conditions and unnecessarily. I'm not willing to experience humiliation. Let me be clear: I want to immerse. It is a legal obligation and I want to fulfill it like the other commandments. It isn't clear to me why they have to add to my hardship. Why women think that when I'm naked, on the edge of the mikvah, that's the time to quiz me on my knowledge of Jewish law or my mode of religious observance. Why they think that after I've checked myself -- as Jewish law requires -- they have to check me again, in case they find something. After all, we're on our own, and there's no Big Sister to say "nu nu nu" and smile as a sign of approval. Or maybe this isn't something they think up on their own, but rather, something they teach them in preparation for the job? Then why is this what they teach them? And why don't they think a little for themselves and rebel or object, or at least temper this behavior a bit -- after all, they're dressed, they can think comfortably, weigh issues and make decisions. True, you could look at my formative experience and conclude: in the end, it's your problem that you got nervous and lied. The fact that you're a liar doesn't mean that world, or Jewish law, or the religious establishment has to change. Work on the way you respond to pressure, you could say, be mature. You could. But it seems to me that my little lies aren't only my problem. I go around lying or feeling sorry for myself or dreaming about being a mikvah attendant. Other women simply don't go. Everyone has her own struggles, but it seems to me that for most of us this is a struggle, and not exactly a religious experience, this mikvah. And if not -- then say so, after all, hardly anyone ever talks about it! And one more thing -- this is really what I think and feel, and I really want set this matter right in order to fulfill the commandment of immersion and not in order to mar it or to rebel. Really, I'm not lying about this (I'm dressed).

Modern Orthodox Woman recently posted a link to an article in Science and Technology News discussing a study on Orthodox women and sexual satisfaction. According to the article,

Orthodox Jewish women are very sexually active in their marriages, but fewer than 75 percent are emotionally and physically satisfied, according to the results of a survey released May 5 at the annual American Psychiatric Association meeting in New York. . . .

The results were compared to a 1999 study published in the Journal of the American Medical Association, which found that 93 percent of American women from various denominations were physically satisfied, and almost 90 percent reported a high level of emotional satisfaction.

The remainder of the article discusses the results of the study from the perspectives of two "experts:" an Israeli professor who clearly has an axe to grind against Orthodoxy and an American professor whose research focuses on newly Orthodox women, a group that inevitably stresses the positive aspects of observance when questioned. Not the most objective sources imaginable.

Another failing of the article (or, more likely, the study) is the absence of any discussion of the possible impact of children on the women's responses. Women who strictly observe T"H are more likely than members of the general population to have many children beginning early in their marriages, and other studies have shown that child-bearing and -rearing can have negative effects on marital satisfaction as well as libido. Moreover, strictly Orthodox women who do not have children are frequently struggling with fertility issues, which can also interfere with marital satisfaction and make sex stressful.

All the same, the discrepency is substantial, and it seems likely that the periods of separation mandated by T"H have something to do with it. I would imagine that periodic avoidance of non-sexual touching (also not mentioned in the article) results in lowered emotional satisfaction for some women. It is also possible that the abrupt transition from no touching at all to a sexual relationship intereferes with some women's ability to enjoy sex, since women often take longer to "warm up" for intercourse than men do.

This is all conjecture, of course, and since I don't practice these laws strictly, my conjectures may be less accurate than some of yours. So, what do you think? Is this a real problem? If so, what might the underlying causes be, and what, if anything, can be done about it?

If you affiliate with a modern Orthodox community (or ever have), you've probably heard of "tefilin dates." For the uninformed: these are occasions on which the gentleman brings his tefilin (phylacteries, if that helps) along on a date, because he does not plan to return before the time for the morning service, when Jewish law requires that he put them on.

I remember discussing this phenomenon with a friend early in my college years. She mentioned a night when she was unable to sleep because of a loud thumping noise coming from the dorm room above her. In the morning, when she went upstairs to complain, her neighbor's boyfriend was wrapped in tefilin, in the midst of prayer.

At the time, we both thought this was terribly hypocritical. Many years later, however, the subject came up again, and we had both changed our minds. Maybe we'd seen too many Orthodox boys turn away from religious observance in part or altogether after finding a transgression that they enjoyed too much to give up. Or maybe we were simply older and had had our own brushes with temptation. Either way, it now seemed to both of us that the very best thing a young, religious Jewish boy could do the morning after having premarital sex would be to wrap himself in tefilin and pray.

It seems to me that this issue isn't much different from the dilemma that faces observant women debating whether or not to use the mikvah before premarital sex. Psychologically, it's easier not to go. That way, you don't have to think too much about what you're doing, and later, you can pretend it never happened. Isn't it better, though (halachic particulars and divine retribution aside), to make the effort to bring Jewish observance into your life, even when things get complicated? Or, maybe, especially when they get complicated?

Certain recent posts have reminded my how much there is to appreciate about my LOM. It's a well-maintained building, with a comfortable waiting room, luxurious preparation rooms, and mikvaot that are very clean and pleasantly heated. In the prep rooms, guidelines for performing breast self-exams hang on the walls, and piles of discrete business cards for the Shalom Task Force sit on the counters, belying the notion that Orthodox Jews don't care about the well being of women.

The attendants have good and bad days, like anyone else, but on the whole they are very considerate. I often come in slacks, with my hair uncovered, and I am treated as congenially as anyone else. On my first visit, I didn't clip my nails, because I wanted to get a manicure for my wedding. The attendant (aware of the fact that this was a matter of custom, not law) checked my hands, saw that they were clean, and let me right in. I dunked only once (the standard custom for Ashkenazi women being at least two dunks, usually more), and still she said nothing, simply smiling pleasantly and handing me my robe as I emerged from the water. Technically, I was tehorah. Why should she make me uncomfortable and possibly discourage me from coming back?

In spite of all this, I have often been uncomfortable at the mikvah, especially during my first year of marriage. A few times, I wore a long skirt and a hat in an effort to fit in (even though, logically, a mikvah is hardly the place to worry about modest dress). Once, I came home crying. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was a phony, a modern girl masquerading as a frummie, and that if the mikvah attendants knew what I was really like they wouldn't approve of me at all.

It's hard, being the type of person who has always wanted everyone's approval, to acknowledge that my concerns were probably legitimate: these women wouldn't "approve" of many aspects of my lifestyle, just as I would not "approve" of many aspects of theirs. That is precisely why it is so commendable that they treat me like a mensch. And that is why I have to keep reminding myself how indebted I am to the attendants, to the rabbi who oversees the mikvah, and to everyone else involved, for making it possible for me to observe this mitzvah with dignity and comfort.

One day, I may live in a neighborhood with a Mayyim Hayyim type mikvah, where I can go and "be myself," so to speak, halachic incongruities and all. For now, I have a perfectly adequate mikvah -- much better than adequate, in fact. Yes, indeed. It could be much worse.

I'm not a very "spiritual" person. Shortly after I got married, I mentioned the fact that I was practicing T"H to a couple of women, a friend and a Conservative rabbi. Both asked about my "experience" using the mikveh. Both times, I replied with a complaint about the train ride.

This really was how I thought about mikveh (and often still do): an hour and some-odd long train ride in each direction, which makes me motion sick; a lot of hot water, which makes me sleepy; the trouble I have combing my hair thoroughly without leaving half of it stuck to my body. The tevilah itself goes by so quickly that I barely notice it. This may not be terrible; I know from experience that observing halacha habitually, even without the greatest kavanah (intention) can have an effect on one's consciousness. Still, the reading I've done on the subject recently, and my participation in this community, has made me realize that there can and should be more.

So I'm working at it. If there's one thing I believe about spirituality, it's that you have to create it yourself. I've tried davening mincha (the afternoon service) right before leaving for the mikveh (it's always light out when I leave, what with that danged train ride). I've tried staying under water a little bit longer than I used to, focusing on every part of my body, thinking about what it means to serve God with the whole of my being. I've tried thinking of my mikveh visit as a mini Yom Kippur, a chance each month to get a fresh start at trying to be a better person and a better Jew. It's hard, though, especially for a two-dunker like me -- not much time to focus. While I've considered spending some extra time in the water to pray (as per frombeneath's post), I'm sure I'd be too self-conscious about keeping the attendant waiting to concentrate properly.

I remember reading something in Total Immersion about the menstrual cycle being something like a winding staircase. It seems like you're going around in circles, but if you pay close attention, you realize that you're moving upward. It's been that way for me these past few months. No earth-shaking spiritual experiences, but for some reason, when I step out of the mikveh, I'm just a little bit happier than I used to be. And when I get home, I'm less annoyed about the nausea and the fatigue. I know that it will pass. And when my husband puts his arms around me, I remember that I'm doing all this for a reason.

I just finished reading Rivkah Slonim's Total Immersion: A Mikvah Anthology, and I have mixed feelings about it. That's only to be expected, I suppose; each essay offers a slightly different perspective, even if they do all ultimately advocate observance of T"H.

What bothered me most was the continual rehashing of the idea that Judaism is a "golden mean" between hedonistic paganism and ascetic Christianity (or, alternatively, between ascetic Chritstianity and contemporary secular culture). As one friend put it, "pagans have sex all the time, and Christians never have sex, so since we have sex almost exactly half the time, that means it must be a happy medium." Mathematically speaking, she pointed out, "it could just as easily be an unhappy medium. . . either of the extremes could be the right approach, and we're just hedging our bets."

There are a number of other problems with this notion (which, incidentally, is pervasive in contemporary Jewish apologia.) First, "paganism" is far too general a term to accurately associate with any particular attitude toward sexuality. Greek pagans described Canaanite pagans as hedonists, and Christians described Babylonian pagans as hedonists, but neither account can be reasonably considered unbiased. True, pagan mythology typically depicted the gods in highly sexualized terms, but that hardly means that humans were expected to behave in like manner. Certain Greek cults were, in fact, serviced by celibate priestesses.

Second, it is not entirely fair to contrast early Christianity with contemporary Orthodox Judaism. Christianity is a product of the first century, a time when ascetism was all the rage among pagans and Jews alike. Christianity is thus "rooted" in asceticism in a way that Judaism is not, but we Jews have had our fair share of ascetics as well. Philo of Alexandria (20 BCE-40 CE), for example, stated that Jews have sex only for the purpose of procreation; in other words, he considered sex a "necessary evil." As recently as the 1950s, a T"H book was published that stated that a man's life force is in his semen and that the purpose of T"H is to minimize the number of times that a couple has sex so that the husband will live longer. These writings certainly aren't representative of Jewish tradition, but they do illustrate that the Jewish attitude toward sex has not, historically, been entirely monolithic.

Further, if we are to bring contemporary secular culture into the picture, it is only fair to consider contemporary Christianity. Today, the vast majority of Christian denominations do not have celibate clergy. Even the Roman Catholic Church, which arguably places the highest premium on sexual abstinance, describes sex between husband and wife as a sacred act in some of its apolgetic literature. The bottom line: Christianity isn't monolithic, either.

In truth, the factual weakness of this line of argument isn't the aspect that I find most troubling. What really bothers me is the idea that we have to denigrate others to illustrate the beauty of our own tradition. The truth is, we don't. The parts of Total Immersion that most affected me were the personal accounts by women. These women, who had come to T"H by many different paths, all found it to be a worthwhile, meaningful observance, in spite of the difficulties and challenges that it posed. That, in my opinion, is a persuasive argument for mikveh use.

I’m not a big fan of Vagina Monologue feminism (“the more we talk about our genitalia, the fewer women will be beaten and raped”). Separating public from private is part of being human, part of being civilized, part of being holy. Still – many of you will disagree with this, I’m sure – the concept of modesty can become oppressive, and it is often used to oppress women, in particular. Sometimes, I think that the emphasis on modesty with regard to T”H falls into this category.

At other times, I just think it’s an unnecessary nuisance. Like Desde, I don’t like lying, and I often feel that T”H is forcing me into a position of dishonesty. It’s hard to come up with plausible excuses for going out alone at night, and I can’t retroactively go grocery shopping if someone asks me where I’ve been once I’ve gotten home.

I appreciate that we all have different sensibilities, and I don’t begrudge Desde her right to keep her mikveh visits from her kids. My question is whether T”H must necessarily be regarded as such a private matter. Certainly, sex between husband and wife is private, but not everything related to sex is or can be. In the nineteen fifties, American women were expected to remain out of sight while they were visibly pregnant, pregnancy being a clear sign of having had sex. To my knowledge, Judaism never endorsed such an attitude toward pregnancy. Moreover, even in the fifties, Americans had public weddings, went on honeymoons, and were not generally ashamed of having children.

In many ways, observant Jews are actually more open about sex than other members of modern society. We congregate in the waiting rooms of mikvaot every month to be guided through a ritual that will allow us to resume relations with our spouses. We send rabbis our stained underwear, asking whether or not we can have sex at any given time. The Gemara is loaded with detailed discussions of sex and anatomy that would shock the uninitiated. With all this frankness, what harm would it do to say to a friend or acquaintance, “I can’t meet with you on Monday; I’m going to the mikveh”?

In a comment on my previous post, From Beneath said that she thinks her husband could have benefitted from some form of T"H class. I know several men who took "chatan classes" before getting married. I don't know much about these classes, though, and I am curious. How common are they? How long have they been around? How do they compare to kallah classes in terms of duration and subject matter? Anyone?

In my previous post, I mentioned that when I began to learn about T”H, I didn’t know where to turn for guidance. I did ultimately find someone: a recently married female Conservative rabbi who was willing to sit down with me, talk through some of the issues, and study some of the sources. Our concerns were not quite the same (she was still deciding whether to commit to mikveh use at all), but it was immensely helpful to have someone to talk to who was at least in the same philosophical universe as me when it came to T”H.

If only opportunities for this sort of learning and discussion were more available in the non-Orthodox world, I might have been better prepared for T”H before I got married. Comments on Tall Latte’s post, What I wish I would have learned in a Kallah Class, emphasized the lack of halachic consensus in the progressive movements, but I think that problem is surmountable. The key is to empower couples to make their own decisions regarding T”H, rather than simply offering practical instruction.

An ideal course of this nature would have the following components:

1. An overview of halachic source material, tracing the development of the laws from the Torah through the Gemara, and culminating with practical proposals by non-Orthodox rabbis. The Talmudic portion of the overview would have to be very selective, and should be geared toward giving students a sense for the halachic process. This portion of the course may as well be co-ed.

2. Theoretical discussion of the biblical and rabbinic conceptions of tum’ah and taharah (“purity” and “impurity”) in general and T”H in particular, preferably with reference to some of the contemporary scholarship on the subject. Relevant literature by progressive Jewish thinkers should also be discussed. This portion of the course may also be co-ed.

3. A non-dogmatic introduction to common T”H practices, on roughly the level of detail offered in the FAQ’s at the Nishmat site. Students should be informed of resources that can help them learn more about specific practices on their own. Teachers must realize that in order to be comfortable using what in most cases will be Orthodox-run mikvaot, women must be able to understand their surroundings, and this entails familiarity with even those practices that they may not personally adopt.

4. Practical guidelines for using the local mikveh. In order to maintain a reasonable comfort level, women must know exactly what to expect.

5. An opportunity for both men and women to discuss practical, philosophical, and emotional concerns relating to T”H in a non-co-ed setting.

As long as no such class exists, non-Orthodox women interested in T”H are left to either (a) take an Orthodox class, (b) try to learn as much as possible on their own, or (c) abandon the practice altogether. For those who choose (b) as I did, here is a list of recommended reading material:

Biale, Rachel. Women and Jewish Law: An Exploration of Women’s Issues in Halakhic Sources. New York: Schocken, 1984, chs. 5 and 6.
(A clear presentation of halachic source material in translation, along with Biale’s analysis.)

Cohen, Shaye. “Menstruants and the Sacred in Judaism and Christianity.” In Women’s History and Ancient History, ed. Sarah B. Pomeroy. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1991.
(An excellent overview of the development of the laws of T”H. Cohen argues that the laws are not fundamentally misogynistic, though they have been used to misogynistic ends during certain periods of Jewish history.)

Greenberg, Blu. On Women & Judaism: A View From Tradition. JPS, 1981, pp. 105-123.
(A defense of T”H by an Orthodox feminist, with a few suggestions for modifying the theory and practice of T”H. Appropriate for those who tend toward the traditional end of Conservative Judaism as well as those who practice a liberal form of Orthodoxy.)

Grossman, Susan. “Feminism, Midrash, and Mikveh.” In Conservative Judaism, Winter 1992, pp. 7-17.
(A practical and theoretical rethinking of T”H from a liberal Conservative perspective. IMO, this article is also appropriate for Reform and Reconstructionist women thinking of bringing mikveh use into their lives.)

Hauptman, Judith. Rereading the Rabbis: A Woman’s Voice. Westview Press, 1998, pp. 147-176.
(An insightful, provocative analysis of the rabbinic sources on Niddah.)

Wasserfall, Rahel R. (ed). Women and Water: Menstruation in Jewish Life and Law.
(Essays by scholars in various disciplines on the ways in which T”H has been understood in diaspora Judaism.)

Feedback and additional recommendations are more than welcome.

NOTE: I composed this post before reading about Tall Latte's strikingly similar experience. Next time: thoughts on chatan and kallah classes for non-Orthodox couples.

You might call it a sign of the times.

I was raised in a Modern Orthodox home (perhaps more “modern” than “Orthodox”). My mother tells me that she never visited a mikveh. I no longer consider myself Orthodox, yet I visit the mikveh every month.

There was never any question in my mind that I would observe the laws of Taharat Ha-mishpachah (T”H) in some form. My husband and I both attended Modern Orthodox day schools, and, although they left us skeptical of Orthodoxy in many respects, they also left us with a certain respect for the halachic system. It seemed hypocritical to observe so many of the “public” aspects of halacha (Shabbat, kashrut, etc.) while rejecting the “private” aspects.

There were decisions to be made, however – decisions that my husband insisted upon leaving up to me. Certain Conservative authorities permit a lenient approach to T”H, allowing couples to share a bed during niddah and maintain a (non-sexual) physical relationship, and allowing women to use the mikveh one day after menstruation rather than seven. I could see the logic behind this position (and I had no intention of discontinuing my physical relationship with fiancé after getting married), but I was uneasy with the idea of eliminating the “seven clean days.” Stringency or not, the “clean days” have been part of Jewish observance for millennia, and cannot (I thought) be abrogated without reasonable justification. At the very least, I wanted to know that my practice was in keeping with the standard of an observant community. This was a problem, since T”H is such a private matter. One doesn’t know how many couples observe the laws in any given way.

A related decision that I faced was whether or not to take a “kallah class.” As far as I know, all such classes are taught by Orthodox women, and I was uncomfortable with the idea of learning halachah l’ma’aseh (“practical law”) from a real live person and then failing to observe it. If I took lessons, I would have to commit to traditional practice.

As my wedding day approached, I decided that I was not prepared to make that commitment. Unfortunately, I made my decision without grasping the complexity of the laws and customs that surround T”H, and without being aware of the nuts-and-bolts issues that accompany visits to the mikveh. Entering the building was like landing in a foreign country. A woman in a sheitl escorted me into a preparation room, where I encountered two rather distressing signs. One sign warned of the importance of consulting a rav regarding ambiguous “colors.” The other was a list of instructions, including a few unexpected ones, such as “remove all hair that is usually removed,” and “clean genitals and anus – also internally.” After 45 minutes of obsessive-compulsive preparation, I asked to be escorted to the mikveh, only to realize that I did not know when to say the blessing, and was suddenly uncertain of the words. (Having removed my contact lenses, I did not realize that the blessing was written on the wall.) I left without paying, because I did not realize that there was a fee.

After this first visit, I was naturally inclined to do a bit of research. Like most research, it made me only more cognizant of my ignorance. I began to realize that there were many more decisions to be made than I had thought. Would I do a hefsek taharah? Would I observe vestot? If I found ambiguous “colors” on my underwear or bedikah cloth, would I show them to a rabbi? If so, who? Then there were the minor issues: Bath or shower? How many dunks? Should I worry about the color of my underwear? How low should I file my nails? It was all a bit overwhelming, and I didn’t know where to turn for guidance. More than halachic guidance, I wished that I could talk to someone with experience, someone who had made decisions similar to mine and had ultimately found a practice with which she was comfortable.

I would have been thrilled if this blog had existed at that time. Now that it does, I hope that my presence can provide an opportunity for those with a less traditional approach to halacha to ask questions and share thoughts on the practical and philosophical issues that T”H raises. I am also looking forward to hearing from women who don’t approach these matters the way I do. Because T”H normally applies only after marriage, we all experience the laws as new and strange at some point, and that experience is prolonged by the aura of secrecy that surrounds the practice. Many thanks to the woman who started this blog, for giving us a chance to clear some of that secrecy away.