A Tallit of My Own

As I arrived at synagogue for Shabbat services, I paused in the hallway to unpack my new silk tallit from its bag. The fabric felt smooth and delicate as I carefully wrapped it around my shoulders, ensuring the atarah, the neckband embroidered with Hebrew words, rested comfortably around my neck. “Baruch Atah Adonai Shome’a Tefilah,” it read, which means “Bless God Who Hears Prayer.”

Draping the tallit over my shoulders felt like acknowledging the path that had led me here. This wasn’t just any tallit—it was lovingly hand-stitched specifically for me. Each knot and thread seemed to carry the weight of a journey that spanned decades and thousands of miles.

When I was growing up in a non-Jewish household in St. Catharines, Ontario, the idea of standing in a Jewish house of worship preparing for Shabbat services felt like a world away from my own experiences. I was born to a Scottish mother who was Presbyterian and a Canadian father who was a self-described atheist. I was the oldest child, the only girl, with four brothers. While we celebrated Christian holidays like Christmas and Easter, those were more about the excitement of opening gifts under the fir tree and participating in chocolate Easter egg hunts rather than religious observance. As my siblings and I grew older, our interest in Sunday school waned, and we ignored Mum’s requests for us to join her at holiday services.

I glided through the decades without paying much attention to religion. In my early 20s, I left home and moved into an apartment in Ottawa with three girlfriends. I spent my days studying at Carleton University and working part-time at a fast-food restaurant to pay my tuition. I fell in love with a boy in my medieval art history class and married him at the age of 23. However, the passing of my beloved mother brought a profound shift in our family dynamics. Christmas, once a unifying force, no longer served as the glue that brought the family together. Gift exchanges simply petered out.

Throughout my 30s, 40s, and 50s, I focused on my career in communications, spending time with friends, practicing yoga and meditation, and ultimately deciding to end my marriage at age 46. As I entered my 60s, I began to contemplate a deeper and more meaningful connection to the mysteries of life. I found myself yearning to explore something greater than myself. And that led me to Judaism.

Choosing Judaism was a natural decision for me. Throughout my life, my closest friends have always been Jewish. As an adult, I often was invited to join them around their dining room tables to celebrate the High Holidays. I loved the liveliness of those gatherings and the spirited discussions about food, politics, art, and Israel that accompanied the meals. I felt a sense of belonging and vitality. Even within my own family, there is a strong affinity with Jews: My youngest brother, Andrew, converted to Judaism when he married Iris, a Jewish woman born in Israel; Batia, my own partner of 27 years—as well as my former yoga and meditation teacher—is also a Jewish woman born in Israel.

I have always considered myself a late bloomer. Ideas and concepts—indeed, even true love—need time to percolate before they fully develop, sometimes years later. This was particularly true regarding my relationship to Judaism.

Over the course of seven years, starting in November 2012, I sought guidance from three different rabbis to explore the conversion journey. I inquired about the time commitment, the need to learn Hebrew, and the texts I would need to study. One of the rabbis was a leader in the Reconstructionist movement, while the other two were leaders in Conservative congregations. Despite initially struggling to articulate what I was seeking in a spiritual leader, I found the perfect match in Rabbi Eytan Kenter, the former senior rabbi at Kehillat Beth Israel in Ottawa. I vividly remember our meeting for coffee on Sept. 5, 2019. He was engaging, intelligent, and quirky, immediately putting me at ease. The day after our meeting, I made the decision to transition from being simply a guest at Jewish dinner tables to embracing Judaism as my own faith. (I don’t consider this a “conversion” since I wasn’t switching from one religion to another.) Over the following 14 months of one-on-one studies, he challenged me to think outside the box and consistently encouraged me to ask questions about the Torah readings. Under his guidance, I learned to approach scripture from different angles and to ask questions myself.

Finally, on Nov. 12, 2020, at the height of the pandemic, the day for my conversion arrived. My beth din was held on Zoom, with a panel of two rabbis and a cantor. I took advantage of the online format to populate the corners of my computer and the wall above my screen with a potpourri of sticky notes about prayers, Hebrew words, and holidays—cheat sheets, just in case. Following my acceptance into the faith, and blessed with my new Hebrew name, Shira, I proceeded to the mikvah, the last step in my journey of becoming a Jew. It was, by far, the most intimate and powerful ritual I had ever partaken of in my life. Stepping naked into the still waters of the small pool with a female rabbi as my witness, time stood still. With each step down into the water, the ripples splashed gently against the pool walls and echoed throughout the room. The solemnity of the ancient ritual was broken only by the realization that my naked butt kept bopping up to the surface of the water each time I tried to immerse my body.

There. Done. Converted. I am a Jew. Now what?

I started attending shul regularly, alternating between Friday evening and Saturday morning services, baking challah for Shabbat dinners, lighting the candles on Friday evenings, struggling to curtail my use of social media during Shabbat and registering for online classes on Jewish law, liturgy, and history.

I also married Batia, in a Jewish ceremony, under the chuppah, with Rabbi Adina Lewittes officiating. Inviting my wife to join me on this journey has been especially meaningful, as she had never been a synagogue member before. She eagerly plunged into Torah study classes and even delivered two d’var Torahs. The more engaged she became, the more she rekindled her love of Jewish thought.

As I gradually found my own place in the shul community, learned to recite the prayers in Hebrew transliteration, and proudly received my first aliyah, I began to feel a deep yearning for my own tallit. While the mezuzah on my front doorpost was evidence of my faith, I longed for a personal item that could truly symbolize my deep connection to Judaism.

As a longtime meditator, I find it calming to wrap myself in one of my many woolen shawls from India before closing my eyes. During my visit to India’s Kullu Valley in 2001, I honed my ability to meditate for extended periods of time with other devotees, all wearing shawls, under the spiritual guidance of a guru. So, wrapping myself in a tallit before engaging in prayer with fellow congregants under the spiritual guidance of a rabbi felt like a natural evolution in my journey. But I wanted a tallit that felt meaningful to me personally.

I met Danielle in my weekly “Women and the Torah” online class, where I learned she made tallitot by hand for congregants. Although we had never met in person, she kindly agreed to make one for me. During our first meeting, she explained how donning her tallit helped prepare her for prayer. She introduced me to words like atarah (the crown or collar part around the neck that usually incorporates a Hebrew blessing) and the tzitzit (the knotted ritual fringes or tassels on each of the four corners of the tallit).

I had purchased a wedding sari—hand-woven using fine silk threads and featuring a border of gold parrots and intricate motifs—in the city of Kanchipuram during my first trip to South India in 1992. I wore it several times during my visit. Back home in Ottawa, however, the sari felt out of place: too glamorous to wear, and too beautiful to turn into anything else. I stored it safely in a box under the stairs for 32 years where nobody could marvel at its radiance. Until I met Danielle.

Danielle inspected the sari, which I had chosen for my new tallit. She delicately rubbed the black silk shot with red between her fingers, then nodded her approval. “Are you sure you trust me to cut this up?” she asked. “Definitely,” I replied.

Danielle and I approached the creation of my new tallit with intention, allowing the fabric to guide us through its transformation. We had no strict deadlines. With every cut of the fabric, tying of the hem threads and hand stitching she applied, my Indian wedding sari gradually evolved into a Jewish prayer shawl. Finally, we were ready to thread the tzitzit through each of the four corners of the tallit, using seven strings of equal length and an eighth longer one called a shamash. Securing each corner tightly, we tied two knots, and wrapped the longest string around the others seven times, followed by making two more knots. We worked quietly, our heads bowed in concentration. Then, when we were finished, we put on our kippahs, and Danielle recited the Shehecheyanu, the blessing for firsts:

Baruch atah Adonai
Eloheinu melech ha olam
Shehecheyanu v’kiy’manu
V’higiyanu laz’man hazeh.

Blessed are you Lord our God
Ruler of the Universe
Who has kept us alive, sustained us
And brought us to this season.

Our work was done. Before leaving, Danielle presented me with the bag she had made for the tallit. Once a green silk scarf I had worn with my Punjabi shalwar kameez, she transformed it into a stunning bag adorned with tiny sparkling beads. She also included two kippot: one, a traditional brimless head-covering, and the other, a Bukharian-style kippah. After a final hug, our time together came to an end.

I drove home with my new tallit tucked inside the bag on the car seat beside me. I felt slightly giddy with excitement. At shul the next morning, I paused in the hallway. But rather than putting on my tallit, I entered the sanctuary and sat holding the bag with the tallit on my lap throughout the service. As the ancient Hebrew text of the Torah reading washed over me, I wondered what was holding me back. Then, I recalled how, as a teenager, I frequently had to ease my way slowly into wearing new clothes, as if a sudden transformation would feel jarring and focus unwanted attention on me. Similarly, I needed to ease into wearing my new tallit with the same intention and pace as I had prepared for the mikvah.

There is a time for everything. And you can’t rush a new tallit.

Baruch atah Adonai
Eloheinu melech ha olam
Asher kidishanu b’mitzvotav
Vitzivanu l’hitatef b’tzitzit.

Blessed are you Lord our God
Ruler of the Universe
Who has sanctified us with your mitzvot
And commanded us to wrap ourselves in tzitzit.

I gave my atarah a final tug, ensuring it sat perfectly across my neck. I took a deep breath and stepped into the sanctuary, wrapped in my tallit. The cantor’s melodious voice filled the air, lifting the congregation in song, and I joined in.