The social arbiters of E! Entertainment tell us we’re living in a post-metrosexual world. I think they must be right. Today, men get their nails done and sign up for breast implant surgery. Women pose for the cover of Cigar Aficionado magazine and die in combat. Gender neutrality is now a competitive sport.
So then, I wonder, why shouldn’t guys go to the mikvah?
Heretofore, mikvah — the monthly ritual bath required of married Jewish women — had been one realm of Jewish life closed to me.
It’s not that men are forbidden to go to the mikvah; in fact, in some Orthodox communities, men use the mikvah regularly. It’s just that it’s not a requirement. But mikvah has been central to Jewish life for millennia. According to tradition, a community should sell its Torah scroll if that’s what it takes to build a mikvah.
So, having never been, and wanting to see what it was like, I contacted Rabbi Yehuda Ferris and his wife, Miriam, of Berkeley Chabad to arrange a dip. They were happy to oblige.
I met up with them at Mikvah Taharas Israel, located in the Berkeley hills, where winter rains begin their westward journey to the bay. (The mikvah, which requires a natural source, catches some of that rainwater and holds it in a cistern.)
Before I took the plunge, we talked in the mikvah’s cozy redwood antechamber.
“It’s a hidden jewel,” said the rabbi of the ritual, which also requires that women abstain from sex during menstruation and some days afterward. Then, HaShem turns ’em loose. “It’s a marriage enhancer, a honeymoon once a month.”
As nice as all the hot sex sounds, I pressed him to tell me more about the underlying purpose. “Mikvah,” he added, “is also a whisper of death, a mourning process for a life that could have been.”
Noted Miriam, “Every Jewish marriage is a triangle. HaShem is the silent partner.”
Perhaps that partly explains the solitary nature of the ritual. Women go to the mikvah alone, often at night, with only an attendant present. They scrub themselves scrupulously clean before bathing, right down to the cuticles (“Physical cleanliness gets to spiritual cleanliness,” said the rabbi). No makeup, no jewelry, nothing between skin and water.
Then they immerse themselves completely and emerge renewed.
After a few final words of encouragement, the Ferrises left me alone in the mikvah.
The quiet of the day wrapped the space in drowsy stillness. The pool is lined with blue tile, and though filled with rainwater, it’s heated to a comfortable temperature.
As I stepped into the water, I was surprised to find I did not feel out of place. I simply offered up my own made-up prayer and submerged myself, slowly drifting in the pool like seaweed.
I suppose I had hoped for some sort of mystical awakening. It didn’t happen.
Maybe overexposure to the concept of baptism set me up for something that couldn’t be. Or maybe it was a gender thing, and any meaning embedded in the mikvah ritual was inaccessible. It was a relaxing dip, but beyond that, nothing happened. I just got wet.
Still, I could see how, over a lifetime, a Jewish woman might come to love the mikvah. It’s like a micro version of a Palm Springs spa getaway.
Some see the laws of family purity, which forbid physical contact between husband and wife during menstruation, as archaic. True or not, I see how a couple devoted to mikvah could melt into each other’s arms later that night.
Yehuda told me that during the days of abstention, Jewish couples learn to deepen their relationships by turning to non-physical forms of contact and communication. Nothing wrong with that.
Though I doubt I’ll return to the mikvah, I have a new appreciation for this most feminine of mitzvot. Yehuda had joked that Jews have an “edifice complex,” overly concerning themselves with synagogue buildings and other temporary monuments. But in the mikvah lies something profoundly eternally Jewish, available to all Jewish women. And men.
Dan Pine lives and kvetches in Albany. He can be reached at [email protected].
columnist wanted
Think you can write punchy columns about yourself and the Bay Area Jewish community? We’re looking for a new columnist who can add poignancy, humor, pathos and spirituality to The Column on a rotating basis. Send samples to [email protected].