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

Jeśli często używamy talię Tarota dla wróżb i rytuałów, sama dobrze wiesz, że utrzymanie talii jest często problem. I nigdy nie wystarczają aksamitne woreczki do przechowywania Tarota jako wiarygodnej osłony przed ich zniszczeniem. Talia tarota, które wymagają ochrony, być może bardziej niż jakiekolwiek inne narzędzia rytualne. Karty z którymi pracujesz, wchłaniając Twoją własną energię muszą być chronione. Kiedy wróżysz, musisz być absolutnie pewny, że twoja karta nie jest dotykany przez inną osobę, z wyjątkiem Ciebie. Zapraszam do rytuału w celu...
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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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Tarot internetowy

Aby postawić tarota online za darmo przejdź na koniec strony

i wybierz karty dla siebie. 

Jak wyciągnąć najwięcej korzyści z wróżb z Tarota? 

Czym jest Tarot? 

Człowiek zaczął szukać wiele tysięcy lat temu odpowiedzi na pytanie, co czeka go w przyszłości. Obserwował gwiazdy, wróżył ze znaków natury, analizował układy monet, kości do gry, wnętrzności zwierząt.. i zadziwiające jest to, że otrzymywał prawdziwe odpowiedzi.

Oczywiście są pytania, na które odpowiedzi można uzyskać drogą rozumową. Jednak nie wszystko jesteśmy w stanie przewidzieć, dlatego próbujemy poprzez inne drogi dojść do poznania przyszłości.

Jedną z najważniejszych odgałęzień nauk hermetycznych jest dywinacja. Sposobów przewidywania przyszłości jest wiele. My zajmiemy się tajemniczymi kartami Tarota. 

Tarot to talia 78 mistycznych kart, 22 z nich tworzą Wielkie Arkana ( Wtajemniczenia, Atuty) i reprezentują postacie uosabiające konkretne wartości czy archetypy. 56 kart Małych Arkanów przedstawia z kolei wydarzenia, ludzi, zachowania, idee i działania, które maja związek z naszym życiem. Jest to jeden z najbardziej rozbudowanych systemów dywinackich ( wróżbiarskich), jakie do tej pory powstały. System ten reprezentuje wszystkie wartości, archetypy, które przewijają się przez życie każdego człowieka. Dzięki temu obraz przedstawiony w kartach uosabia nie tylko możliwą przyszłość człowieka, ale również określa nasze emocje, pragnienia, uczucia, które służą do analizy naszego życia. Tarot jest uniwersalnym językiem, gdzie każda karta zawiera obraz, nazwę i liczbę, które są potężnymi symbolami i maja własne znaczenia. 

Skąd się wywodzi?

Tarot jest niezwykle tajemniczy, również dzięki spekulacjom na temat jego powstania. Pisarze, historycy i okultyści podsuwają różne źródła. Wiadomo jedynie, że talie mistycznych, numerowanych kart istniały w Indiach i na Dalekim Wschodzie już w starożytności i zapewne zostały przywiezione do Europy przez templariuszy podczas wypraw krzyżowych do Ziemi Świętej bądź po nich. Istnieje również przekaz, że w średniowieczu Cyganie przywieźli do Europy karty, jednak po dokładniejszych badaniach stwierdza się ze Cyganie przybyli znacznie później. Niektórzy uważają, że karty te wywodzą się ze starożytnej egipskiej księgi albo zbioru tabliczek zawierających mistyczną wiedzę, pozostałości Księgi Thotha. Tą teorię w XVIII wieku wysunął francuski językoznawca, duchowny, okultysta i mason Antoine Court de Gebelin. Nikt tak naprawdę nie zna źródła pojęcia „ Tarot”. Niektórzy sugerują, że pochodzi ono od Thotha, egipskiego boga magii i słów. Inni uważają, że słowo to jest pochodzenia hebrajskiego i stanowi zniekształconą formę Tory, żydowskiej księgi prawa. Jeszcze inni utrzymują, że może to być anagram słowa rota „ koło”. 

anioltarot 

Na czym polega wróżenie z tych kart?

Obecnie wydaje się, że utraciliśmy świadomość istnienia czegoś „ innego”, siła łącząca, która przenika wszelkie życie i byt. Ta siła obejmuje również pozornie przypadkowe tasowanie i wybieranie kart Tarota. Przekonanie, że życiem rządzi przypadek, a jednym istotnym związkiem miedzy dwoma wydarzeniami jest to, iż jedno stanowi przyczynę drugiego, to nowoczesny, naukowy punkt widzenia. Jednak istnieje również znaczenie starsze i powszechniejsze przekonanie, że wszystko we wszechświecie jest ze sobą powiązane, a zdarzenia i wzory zapisane w zodiaku czy w kartach, stanowią łącznie część jakiejś niewidzialnej siły. Przypadkowość wróżenia jest sama w sobie częścią tego procesu.XX wieczny wielki psycholog Carl Gustav Jung posłużył się terminem „ synchroniczność” na określenie tego rodzaju znaczących zbiegów okoliczności. Uważał on, że wyciągnie ta przez nas karta Tarota sama została nam podsunięta przez cos wewnątrz nas ( intuicja), co domaga się uzewnętrznienia. To prawie tak, jakby karty wybierały nas w chwili, gdy my wybieramy je. Każdy symbol niesie ze sobą przesłanie, a każdy obraz kryje znaczenie.Karty łączą się nie tylko z intuicją osoby, której są stawiane karty, ale także osoby, która je interpretuje, czyli wróżki. Wyobrażenia obecne w Tarocie maja również związek ze „ sztuką pamięci”, systemem mnemotechniki wynalezionym przez starożytnych Greków w celu wywoływania obrazów umysłowych poprzez skojarzenia symboliczne. 

Co możemy uzyskać dzięki Tarotowi?

Tarot zapewnia nam bezpośrednia i szybką drogę do zrozumienia rytmów i wzorców, które działają w naszym życiu. Tarot przewiduje również pewne zachowania i zdarzenia, które dopiero nas będą czekać. Bardzo często Tarot jest drogowskazem, by móc podjąć jakaś decyzję, czy potwierdzić coś w wypadku wątpliwości. Karty tez odbijają nasze własne ukryte pragnienia, działania i cele. Może pomóc także w rozwoju samoświadomości, podejmowaniu przemyślanych decyzji, rozumieniu przyczyn sytuacji, w jakiej się znaleźliśmy, a także dać wskazówki dotyczące naszej przyszłości. Tarot jest wędrówka człowieka przez meandry życia. Dzięki Tarotowi uzyskamy odpowiedzi niemalże na każde pytanie. Zostanie nam ukazana najbardziej możliwa przyszłość, oraz drogi, którymi będziemy mogli kroczyć przez nasze życie. Będziemy też ostrzegani przed niebezpieczeństwami, przed błędnymi decyzjami i problemami. Dzięki wróżbom z tych kart będziemy mogli znaleźć równowagę w naszym życiu.

O co możemy pytać karty?

Zadajemy pytania związane z naszym życiem. Rzadko kiedy usłyszymy klarowną odpowiedz na pytanie „ Co mnie czeka?”. Na przyszłe życie składa się wiele elementów- sfera życia uczuciowego, rodzinnego, zawodowego, finansowego, zdrowotnego, osobistego sukcesu itp. Im pytanie będzie konkretne tym konkretniejsza odpowiedź otrzymamy. Możemy natomiast pytać jak będzie wyglądać nasze życie w obecnym roku. Nie pytamy o takie kwestie jak data czyjejś śmieci, pytania dotyczące gier losowych. Nie zadajemy pytań odnośnie innych osób, jeśli jesteśmy tylko ciekawi, co u nich się dzieje. Jeśli jednak mają te osoby istotny wpływ na nasze życie, możemy zapytać o relacje z tymi osobami. Warto pamiętać, że karty te idealnie określają nasze emocje, pragnienia, pozytywne i negatywne strony naszego charakteru. Dzięki temu, możemy doradzić się w sprawach emocjonalnych, dlaczego czujemy się źle w danym momencie itp.

Jak skuteczna jest rada kart i jakiego okresu czasu dotyczy?

Na to często zadawane pytanie nie można odpowiedzieć w dwóch zdaniach, ponieważ najpierw powinno się określić i ustalić przyszłość. Przyszłość jest zmienna, nie jest stała. Tworzymy nasza przyszłość poprzez wybory, jakich dokonujemy dzień po dniu i często w dodatku nieświadomie. Tylko ta bliższa przyszłość jest prawie ustalona, ponieważ ona została już jakby przygotowana, na podstawie wielu decyzji, które zdążyliśmy już podjąć. Ale im dalej spoglądamy w przyszłość, tym częściej powodujemy jej zmiany.Do tego dochodzi wpływ pytającego. Czy skorzysta z możliwości, jakie pokazuje mu Tarot, czy będzie zbyt leniwy czy bojaźliwy i przegapi wszystkie dobre okazje, mając zarazem nadzieje, że los sam będzie troszczył się o jak najlepsze rozwiązania.Tacy ludzie często szukają rady Tarota, wierząc, że musza tylko wyciągnąć właściwą kartę by los się do nich uśmiechnął. Tarot pokazuje tendencje, które są najbardziej prawdopodobne, jeśli pytający będzie postępował jak dotąd oraz możliwości, które mogą stać się realne, jeśli pytający z nich skorzysta. Aby dowiedzieć się za jaki czas cos się wydarzy, należy wraz z danym pytaniem, o to zapytać, np. „ czy do roku czasu sprzedam mieszkanie?” Jednak z doświadczenia wielu tarocistów wynika, że czas w Tarocie przyjmuje trochę inne prawidła niż czas wyznaczony przez człowieka. Często karty odpowiadają na pytania, które nie wydarza się w przeciągu najbliższych miesięcy, tylko np. lat. 

 
 razy

 



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.