“I Do Not Remember the Temperature of the Water.”

“I do not remember the temperature of the water.”

I don’t remember the temperature of the water. This is strange for me. I have poor circulation and have grown accustomed to the striking physical shock that typically accompanies entering anything less than a hot tub. But no such tremor of the internal equilibrium came. The boundary between body and body of water blurred. My spirit and the spirit of the mikvah began to talk. 

I shouldn’t have worn these socks.

They were green crew cut Darn Toughs, crusted with the dirt of the mountains I had been living in for the past two months. 

They’re gonna see that the socks look stupid and gross and they’re gonna reject me for it. 

It was the kind of anxious, obsessive thought that would clang around in my brain before a test, before a comedy show, before a race. Or before a Beit Din, apparently. 

“So, why are we here today?” 

The question posed by my rabbi hung in the air — the air that was far too humid and far too hot for comfort. The mikvah guide had profusely apologized for their faulty A/C, had handed me ice water after ice water in an attempt to dissuade the sweat from soaking my shirt. It did not work. 

Why were we here today? 

I knew this was not the intention, but for a brief moment it felt as if they were asking me to justify my existence. Judaism was the central locus of my life — it had been for quite a while. It was just as much a part of me as running or writing or womanhood or instinct. It wasn’t so much “Why are we here?” as it was “Why are you, you? Tell us who you are.” To convert is not to become Jewish, it is to realize that is who you have always been. I do not remember what I said to the Beit Din — the heat, the nerves, the raw vulnerability served up a powerful cocktail for momentary amnesia. But I was not rejected on the basis of poor footwear. 

I am nothing but dust and ashes, the world was made for me. 

Staring at myself in the mirror for 5 minutes. Then, staring at myself sideways in the mirror for 5 minutes. I paced the 100 square foot preparation room until I memorized the divets of the tiles with my toes. Mine was not the anxiety of second guessing.  It was the bubbling and beautiful and terrifying anxiety of knowing — of really knowing — that for the first time in your life, you are exactly where you need to be. 

You are nothing but eyes staring sideways into the mirror, nothing but feet tracing circles into the floor, and the world was made for you. 

It is said that the souls of all Jews — past, present and future — were standing at Sinai when the Torah was given. 

I do not remember the temperature of the water. I do not remember wetting the tips of my hair or the places in between my fingers. I do not remember having a body in the water. 

The mikvah contained generations within it, it contained centuries. Between the minute whispers and ripples of the pool, I felt the thousands of women who had come before me, here and everywhere. For birth, for marriage, for conversion. An immaterial assembly of Jewish souls across space, across time. These were living waters. An echo of Sinai. 

Long after the final blessings were said and the singing had quieted on the other side of the sliding wooden wall, I remained in the mikvah. I tried to climb the stone stairs once and found myself sliding back into the water. I did not want this moment of discorporate connection to end. 

But you can’t stay in the mikvah forever, can you? Immersion requires reemergence. You require a body. There is beauty and God and love in here but there is beauty and God and love out there, too. 

It’s time to get out now.