The Mikvah

The ritual bath plays an important role in the life of a traditional Jewish home, and is associated with spiritual cleansing and uplifting for women as well as men. A married woman immerses herself in the mikvah seven days after the completion of her menstrual cycle, which marks the resumption of a sexual relationship with her husband on what is generally the most fertile day of her cycle.

Immersion in the mikvah is compared to immersing oneself in the simplicity and purity of the primordial waters before the creation of the world, as well as to the amniotic fluid of the womb. A woman's immersion in the mikve helps the woman to prepare spiritually for the awesome possibility of conception- becoming a vessel for a Divine soul.

Journalist Elizabeth Ehrlich writes in her memoir Miriam's Kitchen (Penguin Books, 1997) about her emotional first visit to the ritual bath after a dozen of marriage:

"It was a long time ago, I've forgotten-" I admite to the mikvah lady, following her to another door, and the inner chamber, the ritualarium itself.

"I'll hold your glasses," she begins.

I hand her my glasses. Without them, all is blurry. I can just make out a square pool with steps and a handrail. I place my robe on a chair. I am naked and completely clean, not at all embarrassed. I don't actually feel naked, but somehow- prepared. Nearsighted, I descend carefully down the hazy steps, feeling my way down the handrail, with tiles underfoot, and into the bath. The water is warm. It reaches to my chest.

"Go completely under water, without touching the walls or anything," she instructs.

I do. I feel my hair drift in the warm, slightly moving water. As I emerge, the attendant hands me my glasses, so I can read a prayer off a laminated card. I bless G-d for commanding me to immerse. I give back to the glasses and dunk twice more.

Last time [before the wedding] the attendant pronounced me "Clean!" This time, the mikvah lady tells me, "You did great!" Then , she says, "Your glasses," and hands them down to me. A strange thing happens, standing there. I begin to weep and I cannot stop.

I climb the stairs and slip into the robe, still sobbing. The mikve lady has vanished, leaving me that moment for emotion and release.

I pad in paper slippers to my bathroom and close the door. I don't know what has happened. The tears have stopped, just as suddenly. In a bit of a trance, I get dressed... I walk to my car in the dark, damp night.

I drive home, guided by instinct, in some sort of heightened state. There is traffic on the highway, but it is quiet, there are lights and there is neon, but it is muted. The skin on my hands, usually sandpaper, feels smooth. My hands feel the way they used to feel, before daily laundry, dishes, finger-painting, children's baths, weeding the garden, dumping compost, lugging briefcases, before assembling bookcases, before scraping the barbeque rack.

The world is padded, or softened, or something, a pleasant feeling. And when I get home, my husband is there, not yet quite asleep. I am not at all sorry to have gone.