OPINION: My alternative guide for the spiritually homeless

I’m a religious flirt. There. I’ve said it.

Masorti. Reform. United. Liberal. I’ve toyed with them all in the search for somewhere my Jewish soul feels comfortable.

Alas, I’ve failed to find a home for myself at any of them. Our ancestors spending 40 years wandering the desert? Over three thousand years later, I can empathise with the sensation of limbo, having traipsed to Shenley, via Woodside Park, Cockfosters, Borehamwood & Elstree and Finchley.

For many Jews, the synagogue represents a place of spirituality. For me, it does not. Trust me, I’ve tried. Many, many times, intellectually seduced by the sanguine air of contentment, peace, knowledge, religious succour and rarefied air that lingers inside each sanctified building.

But here I will admit another secret: I have never, ever felt comfortable in a synagogue. I may admire the beautiful architecture and be moved by the voices in prayer. And, God forgive my cellulite, but I do love a good kiddish. But I can’t follow the service. I stand up when everyone stands up. I sit down when they sit down. Indeed, as a ‘three-times a year’ Jew, on those particular occasions I do attend, I can confidently offset half of my daily step count purely with the up and downing.

I never had a batmitzvah. Back in the days before it was a ‘thing’, my parents told me it was a waste of time for a girl. Stricken, as I had adored my cheder teacher, I set aside my childish things; the pages on Shabbat candles and challah, all dutifully coloured in with a really good set of Crayola pens, were tidied away.

When I go to shul, I feel suffocated. The long dresses. The tights; bless them, despite their best efforts, Marks & Spencer have yet to create a size that neither cuts off circulation to your spleen, nor shimmies down to your ankles after ten minutes. And the judgment. Do you not ever feel judged just by walking into a service? Not by the Almighty, but especially by those who have access to contraband, comfortable hosiery.

I feel like a fraud. I feel wrong. I feel ‘other’. And all the whilst, searching for something to spiritually make me whole.

It’s taken me until today to realise that over the years, albeit unconsciously, I have been building my own homage to Judaism. Let’s call it the IKEA ‘chutzpah’ version of a spiritual space.

The building may not be physically tangible, but it’s very real to me. It’s made up of filmy memory fragments, of Yiddish phrases, such as Ein Schick fleich mit zwei Augen, (a lump of meat with two eyes), my great grandmother’s favourite insult.

The black and white photographs of my great grandparents; the recipe to make strudel biscuits from my beloved Grandma and the sublime gedempte potatoes created by my Nana.

My books. The romantic in me utterly believes that we are truly ‘People of the Book’. And that the 500 I have (“absolutely everywhere”, according to Mr. Rosenberg) serve as absolute proof of my inherited collective ancestry.

The joy at speaking with intellectually brilliant minds such as Rabbi and Rebbetzen Epstein, who have become my go-to gurus within my Matrix-style walls, for generous pick and mix bursts of wisdom.

The instructions for chicken soup “that even you can’t ruin” by my friend and all-round mensch Judith Radomsky; the indisputable knowledge that Ridley Road was THE place to get bagels. The shared history. Even the shared trauma. All this is kept under one roof: mine.

The feeling of yiddishe comfort (and anticipated weight-gain) of buying chopped herring, chopped liver, fishballs and rugelach. The necessity of really good houmous is not up for discussion.

Revelling in those gorgeous words stored in our collective consciousness, that roll off the tongue just when you need them:, ‘Schloimick’; ‘Bubbe and Zeide’; ‘oy broch’; ‘chlop’;  ‘kvetch’;  ‘Balaboosta’; ‘Meshuggeneh’. A veritable linguistic cornucopia to relish.

Whilst alas, burial rites do not come as standard with a three bedroom semi, instead of looking elsewhere for spiritual fulfilment, I have decided to preserve my own version of reverence in my own home, and outsource to wiser minds when the intellectual and religious need arises.