Tarot partnerski - Wróżby za darmo

Oblicz kartę związku na podstawie Numerologii oraz Tarota. Darmowa wróżba Wszyscy mamy świadomość, jak skomplikowane bywają związki miłosne. Są takie chwile- czy to wtedy, gdy się zakochujemy, czy wtedy, kiedy czujemy się zranieni, zdradzeni czy znudzeni związkiem, w którym jesteśmy,- kiedy odczuwamy potrzebę sięgnięcia do wiedzy przyszłości, co pozwoli nam bardziej obiektywnie spojrzeć na wydarzenia i na całą sytuację relacji. Każdy powód, by odwołać się do kart jest doby, a Tarot pozwoli nam zobaczyć nasz związek jak w lustrze, dokładnie,...
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Skrzynia na karty Tarota

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slide image

Satanizm - Zwodnicze początki Satanizmu

Skąd wziął się archetyp Diabła Kiedy Kościół katolicki i władza stanowiły całość (XIV- XVII w.), niezadowolone masy nie mogły przeciwstawić się jednemu, nie odrzucając jednocześnie drugiego. Bóg sprawował władzę nad królami, oni natomiast nad ludźmi. Dlatego ludzie byli zniewoleni przez system feudalny. W czasie największego ucisku bezpośredni bunt ludzi nie był możliwy, gdyż oznaczało to śmierć. Dlatego tez przewrót religijny wydawał się właściwym wyjściem dla Kościoła by w ukryciu zrobić to czego chcieli. Wprowadzono postać Szatana, który był całkiem skutecznym...
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Historia Aniołów - Anielskie dzieje

Historia Aniołów

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Wyraz anioł przeniknął do polszczyzny z języka czeskiego, który zawdzięcza go misji Cyryla i Metodego. Pierwotnie pochodzi on od greckiego słowa ἄγγελος (ángelos, według wymowy bizantyjskiej ánhielos), oznaczającego oryginalnie "posłaniec". W biblijnym Starym Testamencie analogiczne byty duchowe są nazywane w języku hebrajskim מלאך, mal'ach - co również znaczy "posłaniec".

 

William-Adolphe Bouguereau (1825-1905) - Return of Spring

 

 Historia Aniołów
 
Anioł na cmentarzu w KatowicachPierwsze wyobrażenia aniołów istniały w starożytnym Egipcie i Babilonii. W religiach tych cywilizacji były całe zastępy duchów i istot, będących pośrednikami między bogami a człowiekiem. Często przedstawiano je jako uskrzydlone zwierzęta z ludzkimi twarzami. Starożytnym aniołom przypisywano pewien rodzaj cielesności, co znajduje potwierdzenie w apokryficznej Księdze Henocha. Anioły tam występujące płodziły dzieci, odczuwały głód i pragnienie. W czasach nowożytnych do tej koncepcji aniołów powrócił Emanuel Swedenborg.

Aniołowie często występują w Starym Testamencie (np. Rdz 3, 24; księgi prorockie). Biblia nie mówi jednak wiele o naturze i rodzajach tych bytów. Więcej informacji na ten temat można znaleźć w pismach kabalistycznych oraz w apokryfach. Chrześcijaństwo przejęło wiarę w anioły z judaizmu. W pierwszych wiekach wśród Ojców Kościoła istniały pewne spory co do natury tych bytów. Np. Grzegorz z Nazjanzu, Jan z Damaszku czy Bazyli Wielki wyobrażali anioły jako istoty eteryczno-ogniste. Jeszcze na Soborze Nicejskim II w 787 przypisywano im subtelne ciała. Ostatecznie kwestię tę rozstrzygnął św. Augustyn: " oznacza funkcję, nie naturę. Pytasz jak się nazywa ta natura? - Duch. Pytasz o funkcję? - Anioł. Przez to czym jest, jest duchem, a przez to co wypełnia, jest aniołem" (św. Augustyn, Enarratio in Psalmos, 103,1,15: PL 37, 1348-49; por. KKK 329).

Anioły pełnią również ważną rolę w islamie. Wiara w nie stanowi element dogmatyki tej religii. W islamie twierdzi się, że anioły zostały stworzone przez Boga z ognia, przebywają w niebie i głównym ich zadaniem jest służba dla swego stwórcy. Pełnią także funkcję posłańców, chronią ludzi oraz spisują wszystkie ich uczynki. Koran został podyktowany Mahometowi przez anioła Dżibrila. W teologii islamu wymienia się przede wszystkim Dżibrila, Malika (strażnika ogni piekielnych), Izra'ila (anioła śmierci), Nakira i Munkara, Haruta i Maruta, Mika'ila i Azrafaela. Jedyny anioł, który odmówił Bogu posłuszeństwa to Iblis, zwany też szatanem.


Anioły w Biblii


Są istotami duchowymi nadrzędnymi względem ludzi — Ps 8, 6; Hbr 2, 7,
stworzeni przed człowiekiem — Hi 38, 4-7,
"Nie żenią się, ani za mąż nie wychodzą" — Mk 12, 25,
jest ich ogromna liczba — Ps 68, 18; Mt 24, 31; Hbr 12, 22; Ap 5, 11,
nie należy ich wielbić — Kol 2, 18-19; Ap 19, 10; 22, 8-9; (zasada: co masz, czego nie otrzymałeś?),
służą ludziom Hbr 1, 14; i ich ochraniają Ps 34, 8,
służyli Jezusowi Mt 4, 11; Mk 1, 13; Łk 22, 43,
część z nich upadła Jud 6; 2P 2, 4; i służy szatanowi Ap 12, 9; Mt 25, 41.

 

Rodzaje aniołów
 
Figura anioła na cmentarzu kościoła San Miniato al Monte we FlorencjiW interpretacjach biblijnych liczba porządków niebiańskich (chórów) waha się od 7 do 11. Ostatecznie zostały one uporządkowane w trzech triadach (podział św. Ambrożego):

Serafiny (Seraphin) (górują miłością nad innymi chórami), Cherubiny (Cherubin) (pełne wiedzy bożej), Trony (Throni) (wyróżniają się posłuszeństwem)
Panowania (Dominationes), Potęgi (Potestates) (przypisuje się im moc czynienia cudów), Cnoty lub Moce (Virtutes)
Księstwa lub Zwierzchności (Principatus) (kierują państwami i narodami), archaniołowie (Archangeli) (spełniają najważniejsze zadania), aniołowie (Angeli) (np. Anioł Stróż)

 

Książęta dziewięciu chórów anielskich
 

 

Serafini


Archanioł Michał, Serafiel, Jehoel, Uriel, Kemuel, Metatron, Natanael

 

Cherubini


Cherubiel, Ofaniel, Uriel, Zofiel, Lucyfer

 

Trony


Orifiel, Zafkiel, Zabkiel, Jofiel (Zofiel), Razjel

 

Panowania


Zadkiel, Chaszmal, Zacharael, Muriel

 

Cnoty


Ariel, Uzjel, Gabriel, Michał Peliel, Barbiel, Sarbiel, Haniel, Hamaliel, Tarszisz

 

Potęgi


Kamael, Werchiel,

 

Księstwa


Nisroch, Haniel, Rekuel, Cerwiel, Amael

 

Archaniołowie


Rafał, Uriel, Michał, Gabriel, Barbiel, Jehudiel, Barachiel,

 

Aniołowie


Faleg, Andachiel, Gabriel, Chajliel

1 Lucyfer sprawował księstwo przed swym upadkiem

Lista upadłych aniołów


Archaniołowie

 

Według różnych tradycji różna jest ilość archaniołów. (zob. Archanioł). Znani archaniołowie to Michał, Gabriel, Rafał. Apokalipsa świętego Jana (1, 4), oraz Księga Tobiasza (12,15) mówią, że tylko 7 aniołów znajduje się najbliżej Boga. Również judaizm wyróżnia 7 aniołów wyższego rzędu, są to: Azreael, Azrafael, Dedrach, Gabriel, Michael, Rafael, Szemkiel.


Anioły upadłe

 
Anioł śmierci, Carlos SchwabeLucyfer (łac. niosący światło) to anioł, który zbuntował się przeciw Bogu. :Zobacz: upadły anioł


Pieczęcie siedmiu aniołów
Pieczęcie siedmiu aniołów, władców 196 prowincji nieba, za pismami okultystyka Heinricha Corneliusa Agrippy

Pieczęć Aratrona, anielskiego alchemika, wodza 17 640 000 duchów 
Pieczęć Betora, wodza 29 000 legionów duchów 
Pieczęć Falega, pana wojny 
Pieczęć Ocha, anielskiego alchemika, lekarza i czarnoksiężnika 
Pieczęć Hagita, anielskiego alchemika i wodza 4000 legionów duchów 
Pieczęć Ofiela, wodza 100 000 legionów duchów 
Pieczęć Fula, władcy potęg Księżyca i najwyższego władcy wód

 

Funkcje aniołów


W chrześcijaństwie mają one dwie główne funkcje:

gloryfikującą - wysławiają chwałę i wspaniałość Boga
pośredniczącą - są posłańcami Boga, opiekunami powierzonych im osób, zanoszą ludzkie modlitwy przed oblicze Boga, oznajmiają ludziom Jego wolę, pomagają podjąć właściwą decyzję.

W Apokalipsie św. Jana anioły wymierzają kary spadające na ludzkość.
W Księdze Rodzaju cheruby strzegą wejścia do ogrodu Eden.


Anioły w sztuce
 
Renesansowe wyobrażenie aniołów 
 
Barokowe wyobrażenie aniołów 
 
Romantyczne wyobrażenie aniołów 
 
Akademickie wyobrażenie aniołów, Wiosna, Adolphe Bouguereau
Wizja anioła w Młodej Polsce: Aniele pójdę za Tobą – obraz Jacka Malczewskiego, olej na desce, z 1901 roku. Obraz ten nawiązuje bezpośrednio do fragmentu utworu Teofila Lenartowicza Za aniołem:


Aniele! Pójdę za tobą,
Matkę i ojca zostawię,
I brata, z którym się bawię,
Nic a nic nie wezmę z sobą.
Wstąpienie do Raju H. Boscha – przedstawia wniebowzięcie zbawionych do raju. Światło na końcu tunelu to światło niebios, symbolizujące życie po śmierci, u ich progu wniebowzięci unoszą ramiona w podziwie nad pięknem nieba (gdzie jest on ukryty, co pozwala na poruszenie wyobraźni). W tunelu anioł popycha ocaloną duszę w stronę jasności.

Zwiastowanie Fra Angelico – na pierwszym planie występuje Gabriel zwiastujący dziewicy Maryi, że urodzi syna Bożego. A na drugim planie wygnanie Adama i Ewy z raju. Zostało to przedstawione tak, ponieważ Maria była znana też jako „druga Ewa”, przez którą ludzkość będzie oczyszczona z „grzechu Ewy”.

Zwiastowanie to częsty motyw malarski w twórczości Fra Angelico. Anioł i Maria najczęściej ukazani są na krużganku, przywodzącym na myśl świątynię raczej niż dom, otoczonym arkadami o cechach renesansowych, wypełniającym niemal całą kompozycję. Po lewej stronie artysta zostawia sobie zazwyczaj miejsce na ukazanie w tle ogrodu, gdzie każdy kwiat i listek oddane są z dokładnością. Maria siedzi ze skromnie pochyloną głową, pobożnie krzyżując ręce na piersi. Anioł na jego obrazach wygląda, jakby dopiero co zstąpił z niebios i jeszcze nie zdążył złożyć barwnych skrzydeł. Pochyla się ku dziewicy jakby zamierzał przyklęknąć. Fra Angelico dzieli scenę na dwie części: rozdziela przestrzeń archanioła Gabriela od przestrzeni przeznaczonej dla Najświętszej Marii Panny za pomocą jednej z kolumn dziedzińca, znajdujących się na pierwszym planie. Pozostaje tu wierny tradycji, w której podobne rozdzielenie postaci Zwiastowania było powszechne. Kolorystyka jest dobrana z wyczuciem: delikatna, stonowana, pełna harmonii, oddająca nastrój wydarzenia. W tle, w rajskim ogrodzie ukazane jest wygnanie z Edenu pierwszych ludzi, np. w Zwiastowaniu znajdującym się w Muzeum Prado. Żywa soczysta zieleń roślinności kontrastuje ze sceną główną, utrzymaną w jasnych barwach różu, błękitu, złota i bieli. Sklepienie nad Marią i aniołem przypomina niebo usiane gwiazdami. Stroje postaci, aureole i złote skrzydła Gabriela są namalowane z ogromną precyzją i dbałością o szczegóły. Na różowej sukni anioła widać liczne plisy i złote hafty, a na jego skrzydłach można liczyć błyszczące piórka, zaś okrągłe aureole przypominają wytłoczone w bogate ornamenty złote tarcze. W obrazie tym obecność Boga została zaznaczona w sposób wyraźny i nie pozostawiający wątpliwości. Boska ręka z nieba kieruje między swego posłańca i Panienkę złocisty snop światła, a w nim maleńkiego gołębia – symbol Ducha Świętego. Oprócz tego, wizerunek Boga pojawia się jako płaskorzeźba na zewnętrznej ścianie dziedzińca, ponad sceną zwiastowania, tuż nad kolumną rozdzielającą postaci. Wygląda to tak, jakby przyglądał się objawieniu i sprawował nad nim pieczę. Cała scena tchnie ciszą, skupieniem, świętością. Twarze i dłonie archanioła i Marii wyrażają uroczyste natchnienie, mają w sobie coś nieziemskiego, a ich oczy spotykają się w milczącym porozumieniu.

źródło:

http://pl.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anio%C5%82

 

 

 



Blending in While Standing Out – Tablet Magazine (Tablet Magazine) I was the little girl in the large, floppy hat. It was called my “davening hat,” and I wore it dutifully every morning during prayer services as a child. Even though I was raised in an Orthodox home, my parents sent me to a Conservative day school starting in kindergarten, and I did quite a few things differently at school than I did at home. pre bonded hairAll students, girls included, were required to wear kippot during our school prayer services. This upset me on several levels. First, I did not want to wear what I recognized so distinctively to be boys’ clothing; gender difference was a particularly sensitive issue when I was at an age when cooties were still relevant. But more than that, I did not like the idea of some obscure (and apparently fickle) religious authority instructing me what I should or should not wear on my head. A healthy spirit of defiance beginning to stir, I went to see the principal, my 5-year-old self sitting across from him at his handsome oak desk, my feet not nearly touching the floor. Together we came up with an ingenious solution: I could wear a hat instead. But even though we had shaken hands on the idea, my small palm getting lost somewhere in the conciliatory gesture, my flower-emblazoned pink sun hat made me feel silly in the reverent pews of the school sanctuary. The deceptively cheery flower perched front and center did not match the gloomy pout persevering underneath. I felt uncomfortable. The hat made me look different and strange—a blaring sign that a disgruntled kindergartener was flouting communal norms. I could not have known that one day many years later, wearing a hat would become an integral part of my Jewish identity, instrumental to my sense of self and feeling of belonging. ***

Untangling the mixed messages I was receiving at home and in school became too difficult for me, and my parents moved me after fourth grade to an Orthodox school, where I remained through high school. The standard in the school matched the standards I kept at home, and in my Orthodox shul: Only married women covered their heads. In synagogue, a hat was an infallible indicator that the wearer was a married woman—as sure a sign as a ring on her left hand. Weathered matrons in particular wore intricately engineered creations, boasting lace and feathers and sometimes pieces of fruit. There were other options besides hats, too: Newly married women primly patted down glamorous new sheitels, or wigs, that served as full head coverings. Rabbi’s wives popped in and out of services, sporting unceremoniously tied headscarves, or tichels, before darting back out of the sanctuary to tend to one screaming child or another. But girls and young ladies who had not yet experienced the trials and tribulations of matrimony left their heads conspicuously bare: Hair was worn down or up, straightened or natural, but there were no hats (and certainly no kippot) found among the single women. My mother, who had not grown up observant, embraced the idea of wearing a head covering when she chose to become Orthodox later in life. She always wore an Israeli scarf, wrapped in colorful layers around her head. When I was young, her heading covering meant home and familiarity to me. Only when I entered my teenage years did I start to think about the way strangers in the supermarket or on the streets of New York perceived her scarf; it was foreign—a statement of otherness. Not wanting to be conspicuously different, my teenage-self became increasingly apprehensive about the decision that I would someday have to face. remy hair extensionsAs the years went by, I continued to muse about the way I would one day cover my own head. In the Orthodox world, covering one’s head was less of a choice and more of a rite of passage for married women. I can’t say I looked forward to it. To the contrary—recalling my alienating experience as a kindergartener in a floppy hat, I dreaded the morning when I would have to return some foreign item, in all its pomp and glory, to the top of my head. I became acutely aware of the different head-covering possibilities that surrounded me, mentally putting some on the list of options while simultaneously striking others off that list. I asked my friends if they had thought about what they would, or would not, wear someday—most had not spent a lot of time thinking about it, but the general sentiment toward the matter was relatively uniform: I’ll wear what my mother wore. I, however, didn’t have that same level of certainly—I didn’t want to wear what my mother had worn. I didn’t want to look different; I didn’t want to be an unmistakable other. When my now-husband, a young rabbi, asked me to marry him a little less than a year ago, the question of head covering ceased to be hypothetical. No more abstract notions of what someday I would or would not someday do—I had to face the question squarely. My mother-in-law, who herself wears the gamut of different head-coverings, was thrilled to help me take the leap. Hat shopping and sheitel shopping appointments somehow squeezed their way onto my calendar, almost without my consent. While hat-makers and sheitel-machers swirled and chattered busily around me, I found myself frozen in a sea of ambivalence. I needed an answer, but I had none. The hats in the shops I visited seemed matronly and stiff. Their colors, either too bright or too tepid, felt forced and stale. My bare, familiar head was too much a part of me to hide once again underneath a brim, no matter how unobtrusive. But the hats were purchased all the same, and I half-heartedly prepared for a change I did not want to make. Last November, I walked down the aisle with a bouquet of white roses and ushered in a new phase of my adult life. Together we moved into a new apartment, began to follow recipe blogs for the first time, and confronted the reality that electricity, food, and shelter demand compensation. But aside from all the expected adjustments that come with transitioning from one person to two, the change of covering my head seemed to overshadow the rest for me. There was no principal with whom I could strike a deal: Within the Orthodox community, married women traditionally cover their heads in public, and the halakha requested, respectfully, that I comply. I decided to experiment. I started buying hats in all different styles—the kind you wouldn’t ordinarily see in shul. I asked my friends to contribute to my growing collection. I purchased fedoras, for those times I visited MOMA or sat inconspicuously in a coffee shop in the East Village. I bought coquettish, Jackie-O.-style pillbox numbers for when I felt particularly fashion-forward on a Saturday morning. I found Israeli scarves in fuchsia and teal and learned how to tie them to perfection, and I discovered lazy-school-day beanies for those mornings when I wasn’t feeling up to the trouble (I ended up wearing those most often). Slowly, I began to embrace my new accessories and started having some fun. I looked forward to changing my style each morning. When I forgot my hat, or absent-mindedly left it lying on a library desk or in a gym locker, I felt instinctively that something was missing. I even sacrificed catching the bus a couple of times to dash back to my apartment, fumble with the keys, and grab my woebegone hat off the coffee table. My defiance toward a law I didn’t completely understand or emotionally accept did not fade completely. I still felt frustrated at times about the foreign appendage on my head. But friends and family alike complimented my creativity and commented on my variety. Peers of mine began to buy hats similar to my own and even borrow some from the large (and growing) pile on my dresser. Continue reading: Wearing many hats

More than a marker of fashion, my hats slowly became external markers of my identity as an Orthodox woman. A certain sense of stability accompanies external identification. Whether it’s a T-shirt, a baseball cap, or a catchy tote, our style of dress indicates belonging. The hats I wore daily started to do that for me. I started to feel a sense of pride in my head covering. That pride did not stem from the communal approval my head covering garnered, though that was my initial motivation—rather, it came from of an emboldened sense of self as I shared something with the world about who I was and the community to which I belonged. The feeling of identification was both internal and external, depending on the hat. When I walked outside in a baseball cap to go jogging or a wool hat on a frigid day, I was the only one who knew there was some deeper significance to the way I was covering my head. It felt rather like a secret, something I knew and appreciated that didn’t make the rest of the world look twice. But when I one day chose to wrap a colorful Israeli scarf around my head, similar to the ones my mother always wore, my head covering signaled to the world that I was different. While my teenage-self had blanched at the idea, my adult self wore the look proudly. My scarf was an external sign of oneness with my community. perruques cheveux naturelsAs one of my non-Jewish colleagues astutely observed when considering my new headgear: “I feel like so much more goes into this decision than people realize.” I nodded emphatically in assent. You have no idea. Hat or no hat expands to which kind of hat? Hair up or down? Wig or no wig? Wig with hat? The permutations become dizzying, each new combination signifying something subtly different about the wearer. A wig might indicate that you are more right-leaning, a stylish hat with nothing underneath might imply that you are comfortably Modern Orthodox, a wig with a hat on top might signify that the wearer is chassidish. No head covering is arbitrary—every detail, to the carefully trained eye, is significant. For me, however, covering my head has evolved from an attempt to appease my community into an effort to belong to my community. Now, when I walk into synagogue on a Saturday morning, I’m proud to be wearing a hat. My hat is not pink, flowery, or floppy. But the head covering that once made me feel like a stranger now makes me feel at home. *** Like this article? Sign up for our Daily Digest to get Tablet Magazine’s new content in your inbox each morning. Hannah Dreyfus is an editorial intern at Tablet.

(Tablet Magazine) I was the little girl in the large, floppy hat. It was called my “davening hat,” and I wore it dutifully every morning during prayer services as a child. Even though I was raised in an Orthodox home, my parents sent me to a Conservative day school starting in kindergarten, and I did quite a few things differently at school than I did at home. perruques cheveuxAll students, girls included, were required to wear kippot during our school prayer services. This upset me on several levels. First, I did not want to wear what I recognized so distinctively to be boys’ clothing; gender difference was a particularly sensitive issue when I was at an age when cooties were still relevant. But more than that, I did not like the idea of some obscure (and apparently fickle) religious authority instructing me what I should or should not wear on my head. A healthy spirit of defiance beginning to stir, I went to see the principal, my 5-year-old self sitting across from him at his handsome oak desk, my feet not nearly touching the floor. Together we came up with an ingenious solution: I could wear a hat instead. But even though we had shaken hands on the idea, my small palm getting lost somewhere in the conciliatory gesture, my flower-emblazoned pink sun hat made me feel silly in the reverent pews of the school sanctuary. The deceptively cheery flower perched front and center did not match the gloomy pout persevering underneath. I felt uncomfortable. The hat made me look different and strange—a blaring sign that a disgruntled kindergartener was flouting communal norms. I could not have known that one day many years later, wearing a hat would become an integral part of my Jewish identity, instrumental to my sense of self and feeling of belonging. ***

Untangling the mixed messages I was receiving at home and in school became too difficult for me, and my parents moved me after fourth grade to an Orthodox school, where I remained through high school. The standard in the school matched the standards I kept at home, and in my Orthodox shul: Only married women covered their heads. In synagogue, a hat was an infallible indicator that the wearer was a married woman—as sure a sign as a ring on her left hand. Weathered matrons in particular wore intricately engineered creations, boasting lace and feathers and sometimes pieces of fruit. There were other options besides hats, too: Newly married women primly patted down glamorous new sheitels, or wigs, that served as full head coverings. Rabbi’s wives popped in and out of services, sporting unceremoniously tied headscarves, or tichels, before darting back out of the sanctuary to tend to one screaming child or another. But girls and young ladies who had not yet experienced the trials and tribulations of matrimony left their heads conspicuously bare: Hair was worn down or up, straightened or natural, but there were no hats (and certainly no kippot) found among the single women. My mother, who had not grown up observant, embraced the idea of wearing a head covering when she chose to become Orthodox later in life. She always wore an Israeli scarf, wrapped in colorful layers around her head. When I was young, her heading covering meant home and familiarity to me. Only when I entered my teenage years did I start to think about the way strangers in the supermarket or on the streets of New York perceived her scarf; it was foreign—a statement of otherness. Not wanting to be conspicuously different, my teenage-self became increasingly apprehensive about the decision that I would someday have to face. As the years went by, I continued to muse about the way I would one day cover my own head. In the Orthodox world, covering one’s head was less of a choice and more of a rite of passage for married women. I can’t say I looked forward to it. To the contrary—recalling my alienating experience as a kindergartener in a floppy hat, I dreaded the morning when I would have to return some foreign item, in all its pomp and glory, to the top of my head. I became acutely aware of the different head-covering possibilities that surrounded me, mentally putting some on the list of options while simultaneously striking others off that list. I asked my friends if they had thought about what they would, or would not, wear someday—most had not spent a lot of time thinking about it, but the general sentiment toward the matter was relatively uniform: I’ll wear what my mother wore. I, however, didn’t have that same level of certainly—I didn’t want to wear what my mother had worn. I didn’t want to look different; I didn’t want to be an unmistakable other. lace front wigsWhen my now-husband, a young rabbi, asked me to marry him a little less than a year ago, the question of head covering ceased to be hypothetical. No more abstract notions of what someday I would or would not someday do—I had to face the question squarely. My mother-in-law, who herself wears the gamut of different head-coverings, was thrilled to help me take the leap. Hat shopping and sheitel shopping appointments somehow squeezed their way onto my calendar, almost without my consent. While hat-makers and sheitel-machers swirled and chattered busily around me, I found myself frozen in a sea of ambivalence. I needed an answer, but I had none. The hats in the shops I visited seemed matronly and stiff. Their colors, either too bright or too tepid, felt forced and stale. My bare, familiar head was too much a part of me to hide once again underneath a brim, no matter how unobtrusive. But the hats were purchased all the same, and I half-heartedly prepared for a change I did not want to make. Last November, I walked down the aisle with a bouquet of white roses and ushered in a new phase of my adult life. Together we moved into a new apartment, began to follow recipe blogs for the first time, and confronted the reality that electricity, food, and shelter demand compensation. But aside from all the expected adjustments that come with transitioning from one person to two, the change of covering my head seemed to overshadow the rest for me. There was no principal with whom I could strike a deal: Within the Orthodox community, married women traditionally cover their heads in public, and the halakha requested, respectfully, that I comply. I decided to experiment. I started buying hats in all different styles—the kind you wouldn’t ordinarily see in shul. I asked my friends to contribute to my growing collection. I purchased fedoras, for those times I visited MOMA or sat inconspicuously in a coffee shop in the East Village. I bought coquettish, Jackie-O.-style pillbox numbers for when I felt particularly fashion-forward on a Saturday morning. I found Israeli scarves in fuchsia and teal and learned how to tie them to perfection, and I discovered lazy-school-day beanies for those mornings when I wasn’t feeling up to the trouble (I ended up wearing those most often). Slowly, I began to embrace my new accessories and started having some fun. I looked forward to changing my style each morning. When I forgot my hat, or absent-mindedly left it lying on a library desk or in a gym locker, I felt instinctively that something was missing. I even sacrificed catching the bus a couple of times to dash back to my apartment, fumble with the keys, and grab my woebegone hat off the coffee table. My defiance toward a law I didn’t completely understand or emotionally accept did not fade completely. I still felt frustrated at times about the foreign appendage on my head. But friends and family alike complimented my creativity and commented on my variety. Peers of mine began to buy hats similar to my own and even borrow some from the large (and growing) pile on my dresser.

Continue reading: Wearing many hats More than a marker of fashion, my hats slowly became external markers of my identity as an Orthodox woman. A certain sense of stability accompanies external identification. Whether it’s a T-shirt, a baseball cap, or a catchy tote, our style of dress indicates belonging. The hats I wore daily started to do that for me. I started to feel a sense of pride in my head covering. That pride did not stem from the communal approval my head covering garnered, though that was my initial motivation—rather, it came from of an emboldened sense of self as I shared something with the world about who I was and the community to which I belonged. The feeling of identification was both internal and external, depending on the hat. When I walked outside in a baseball cap to go jogging or a wool hat on a frigid day, I was the only one who knew there was some deeper significance to the way I was covering my head. It felt rather like a secret, something I knew and appreciated that didn’t make the rest of the world look twice. But when I one day chose to wrap a colorful Israeli scarf around my head, similar to the ones my mother always wore, my head covering signaled to the world that I was different. While my teenage-self had blanched at the idea, my adult self wore the look proudly. My scarf was an external sign of oneness with my community. cosplay wigsAs one of my non-Jewish colleagues astutely observed when considering my new headgear: “I feel like so much more goes into this decision than people realize.” I nodded emphatically in assent. You have no idea. Hat or no hat expands to which kind of hat? Hair up or down? Wig or no wig? Wig with hat? The permutations become dizzying, each new combination signifying something subtly different about the wearer. A wig might indicate that you are more right-leaning, a stylish hat with nothing underneath might imply that you are comfortably Modern Orthodox, a wig with a hat on top might signify that the wearer is chassidish. No head covering is arbitrary—every detail, to the carefully trained eye, is significant. For me, however, covering my head has evolved from an attempt to appease my community into an effort to belong to my community. Now, when I walk into synagogue on a Saturday morning, I’m proud to be wearing a hat. My hat is not pink, flowery, or floppy. But the head covering that once made me feel like a stranger now makes me feel at home. *** Like this article? Sign up for our Daily Digest to get Tablet Magazine’s new content in your inbox each morning. Hannah Dreyfus is an editorial intern at Tablet.