That my mother was driving me to the airport that brisk autumn morning in October of 1976 was already curious—my father was the standard driver to the airport.
My mother at the wheel meant “keep noise to a minimum and allow for concentration.” My father at the wheel meant that traffic laws were optional and speed limits were a matter of interpretation—an ironically empowering experience for the passenger.
But this morning things were different. I was on the way to Israel for a year of study after high school. This was 1976, way before the elongated connecting umbilical cord of cell phones that keep us attached to each other nowadays. A large looming divide lay before us.
I came to understand that my mother distinctly wanted this time together with me; this was to be a weighty goodbye. Who knew? I was focused on finishing the packing, roommates, and adventure.
Holding that wheel steadily, my mother turned to me with purposeful deliberation. She let me know that I was about to embark on an experience that she had dreamed of but never had—a year of studying Torah.
Where did this come from? The words struck me deeply. My mother and I had never ventured into this kind of a discussion. There was something that my mother had wanted and never had?
My mother seemed to me to be the paragon of a persona of perfection. With a decidedly regal bearing and a countenance that hinted at aloofness, she read the New York Times every day, quickly and efficiently solving each day’s crossword puzzle. She was one to discuss politics fiercely, cook and bake Jewish holidays into memory—a sisterhood meeting here, a book review there. Who knew of a longing for Jewish study?
This unexpected sobering revelatory moment did not last long—it was cleared quickly away for pressing matters of tickets, takeoff times, and luggage. I filed it away for later review and sped into the thrill of the year ahead.
My mother passed away seven years after that conversation—we never did go back to it. But something about it must have stayed with me when I made my critical choice between a life in the secular world and a life of Jewish education. I am thankful for a life of Torah and a life of service.
I believe in Jewish women studying Torah—in Jewish women being given the opportunity to taste the peppery passages and the sweet narratives, to contemplate the subtle nuances of text, to wrestle with meaning, and to fall in love with the beauty of our inheritance.
I believe that for generations Jewish women have yearned for an intellectual rendezvous with Talmud, longed to experience the mental gymnastics that comes with rigorous Torah study, and ached to feel the breath of eternity that comes with the turn of a page.
I believe that we should never ever take for granted that we live in a time when there are no barriers for women’s study. That every text is laid open before us and can serve as the palette for our most essential of conversations. That the serious study of Torah can lead to significant contributions by women in all sorts of leadership dimensions. I stand in awe of the next generation of daughters who lead, who are educationally and intellectually adept beyond our wildest dreams.
I believe in fortifying them, sustaining them, and, above all else, talking with them about our deepest held dreams for them. I believe that there are no small conversations between mothers and daughters and that drives to the airport can last a lifetime.