Life in the Eruv

One Friday night, there is a gentle knock on my front door—so gentle, that I almost don’t hear it. When I step out onto the front porch, I see Benjamin, a young Jewish neighbor who has come to ask for my help. I live in what is known as an eruv in West Denver, an enclave with defined boundaries in which members of the Orthodox community can more easily observe the complex rules of their religion. I’m not sure how or why but years ago, my Jewish neighbors unofficially designated me the Shabbats Goy, which means that I’m a non-Jew who is often called upon to perform certain small tasks that are forbidden by Jewish law during the Sabbath. From sundown on Friday to sundown on Saturday, the use of electricity is prohibited, so my duties usually involve the simple flick of a switch. This time, I follow Benjamin to his house anticipating the subtle clues which will circumspectly guide me to the task at hand. According to Talmudic law, to ask someone to complete a task is as egregious an offense as actually doing it.
We enter the house which is full of family members either sitting in the living room or studying scripture at the dining room table.  Benjamin leads me into the kitchen and casually mentions that the slow cooker on the counter was previously set on high. I look at the dial and notice that it is set on low so I turn it back to the high setting and look at Benjamin who grins at me conspiratorially and nods in satisfaction. He thanks me and formally presents me with a bottle of Zinfandel wine which I try to refuse.
“It’s not necessary”, I protest.
 “Yes” he pushes the bottle at me, “it is. We’re very appreciative.”
So I graciously accept the wine thinking it best not to mention that I’m a recovering alcoholic. Clutching my gift, I wish the family a blessed Passover as I leave and walk home smiling because I am so grateful to live in a neighborhood where this unique religious tradition survives. But what makes my neighborhood so distinctive is that it not only accommodates the Orthodox Jewish community, but boasts a much broader cultural and economic diversity as well. In 1986, after separating from my second husband, I bought a lovely old brick house from an elderly Jewish widow. I was drawn to the inner city neighborhood because it was centrally located, but was also refreshingly different from the homogenous middle-class suburb in the foothills outside of Denver where I had lived during my marriage. I found the melding of Hispanic, Jewish, blue-collar and yuppie cultures exciting and the wide tree lined streets and brick homes charming.
 My soon to be ex–husband caustically asked, “How can you live down there with all the thieves and drug addicts?”
 I dismissed his opinion as narrow minded, but once I got settled into my new community, the charm wore off and I soon discovered that living in West Denver is not for the faint of heart. The police helicopter regularly patrolled the neighborhood at night, shining a bright shaft of light intrusively into my windows. I spewed when I heard loud music or worse, gun shots late at night. Prostitution was a thriving business on nearby West Colfax Avenue and I often found used condoms in the alley behind my house. Every time my next door neighbor parked a dilapidated truck on his front lawn, I cringed in embarrassment. Between tattooed bikers, incessantly barking dogs and a crack house two doors down, I felt like I was trapped in a darkly humorous Fellini film. I stood it for six years before putting my house up for rent and fleeing, vowing that I would never live in West Denver again. But after seven years of exile, during which I wandered the world, I decided to move back to my house so that I could fix it up and unload it for a profit. I did fix it up but twelve years later, I’m still here, passionately in love with my urban niche. I could claim that there are different people living here who have improved the neighborhood, but that is only true to a point. I attribute the shift in my attitude not only to my world travels but also to the inner changes that I’ve experienced as I advance through the lessons of my Earthly class room.


While I’m still not fond of loud music and barking dogs, I appreciate the authentic and vital energy created by the diversity that has organically evolved in my community over time. I have learned that it’s better to focus on the common thread of shared values that binds us together as neighbors, such as family loyalty, fierce individuality, and a respect for age old traditions. It’s still a quirky and eccentric little neighborhood, but then I’m a quirky and eccentric person and the more compassion I have for my own human foibles, the slower I am to judge others. If it’s true that my outer world is merely a reflection of what’s going on in my inner world, then I’m more at home here now because I’m more at peace with myself.