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. Odkryj znaczenie kart tarota. Ksiega tarota dla wtajemniczonych.

Księga tarota

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Księga tarota 5.0 out of 5 based on 3 votes.

Księga Wielkich Wtajemniczeń Tarota

 
Głupiec
 
(hebr litera szin)
znak zodiaku- Ryby
Planeta- Wenus
Karta ta mówi o człowieku niezdecydowanym, niepewnym swoich wyborów, niekonsekwentnym w działaniu. Często tez mówi o kimś kto za szybko podejmuje decyzje a potem z tego powodu cierpi. To karta braku harmonii i chaosu. To człowiek o słabej woli, który ma skłonność do wykręcania się z obowiązków.
W niektórych znaczeniach oznacza też zagranice.
 
 
I- Mag
 
hebrajska litera (Aleph)
znak zodiaku –Lew
Planeta – Słońce
Mag jest kartą twórczą, mówi o naszych możliwościach, celach, umiejętnościach, które staramy się wykorzystać w życiu. Karta ta tez mówi o indywidualności i obiektywizmie. Może to być początek nowego przedsięwzięcia, nowej drogi życia. Karta ta reprezentuje, pracę, plany i przyszłość.
 
 
II- Kapłanka
 
hebrajska litera (Beth)
znak zodiaku – Rak
Planeta- Księżyc
Jest to karta tajemniczości i wiedzy. Reprezentuje kobietę silną, tajemniczą, która ukrywa w sobie wiedzę i prawdę. Karta ta przyciąga tajemnicze sprawy i aktynie zależne od woli. Karta ta mówi też o wiedzy (również tajemnej) dokształcaniu się, o nauce która jest niezbędna w dalszej wędrówce przez Wielkie Arkana czyli przez życie.
 
 
III- Władczyni ( Cesarzowa)
 
hebrajska litera – (Ghimel)
znak zodiaku –Bliźnięta
Planeta – Merkury
Oznacza liczne zmiany, często korzystne. Przedstawia kobietę- matkę. Karta ta daje szanse rozwoju wydarzeń, nie jest kartą statyczną.
 
 
IV- Władca (Cesarz)
 
Hebrajska litera – Daleth
znak zodiaku- Byk
Planeta – Wenus
Zapowiada pomnożenie dóbr przez prace. W niektórych rozkładach oznacza pracę, zadowolenie z niej i dążenie do sukcesu zawodowego. Oznacza też mężczyznę na wysokim stanowisku, który nie umie ustępować, jest silny, zaradny i przypisuje się mu bierność.
 
 
V- Kapłan
 
Hebrajska litera – He
znak zodiaku – Strzelec
Planeta- Jowisz
Reprezentuje autorytet religijny, duchowy, wolę bożą, przyjaciela, wszechstronnego lekarza. Jest też to znak długiego życia, daje dobrą pogodną starość.
Karta ta też mówi, że czasami musimy sobie z czymś poradzić, co już zostało ustanowione i nie mamy na to wpływu
 
 
VI- Kochankowie
 
Hebrajska litera- Van
znak zodiaku – Panna
Planeta- Merkury
Karta symbolizuje łączenie przeciwieństw, a zarazem więź dwóch podobnych osobowości, których łączy coś więcej. Oznacza też ta karta wybór między dwiema osobami, między osoba a rzeczą, czynem itp.
Czasami oznacza zdradę, możliwość poznania innej osoby.
 
 
VII- Rydwan
 
Hebrajska litera- Zahaim
znak zodiaku – Panna
Planeta – Waga
Panowanie nad wieloma sprawami., dążenie do celów. Rydwan to zwycięstwo, pokonanie wrogów. Założenie własnego interesu, dobre zarobki, sukces zawodowy. Czasami oznacza też częste wyjazdy zagraniczne.
 
 
VIII – Sprawiedliwość
 
Hebrajska litera – Heth
znak zodiaku – Koziorożec
Planeta – Saturn
Symbolizuje siłę, sprawiedliwość, bezstronność, urzędy, władze państwowe. Uczy by wyzbyć się uprzedzeń wobec świata i samych siebie. Trzeba zdobyć umiejętność wyrażania sądów i opinii opartych na faktach
  
 
IX- Eremita ( Pustelnik)
 
Hebrajska litera – Teth
znak zodiaku- Strzelec
Planeta – Jowisz
Ta karta oznacza samotność, starość, kontemplację, poszukiwania naukowe, przemyślenia, zamykanie się w sobie, nie ujawnianie uczuć. Mówi tez o silnym człowieku, starszym który przeszedł w życiu wiele i życie go bardzo doświadczyło.
W rozkładzie radzi milczenie, zachowanie swoich planów w sekrecie, głęboką rozwagę i pozostawienie spraw własnemu biegowi.
 
 
X- Koło Fortuny
 
Hebrajska litera – Mem
Znak zodiaku Skorpion
Planety- Mars i Pluton
Koło fortuny oznacza nagłe, nieprzewidziane zmiany, nie zawsze korzystne, to już zależy od ułożenia się karty obok. Karta ta może zarówno ochraniać jak i szkodzić
 
 
XI- Moc
 
Jest to karta optymizmu i zaufania. Przedstawia silną kobietę, która wie czego chce i która dąży do wyznaczonych sobie celów. Nierzadko jej decyzje są zbyt pochopne. Zapowiada ta karta też dużą odporność fizyczną i siłę przebicia. Oznacza też namiętność, która mówi, że serce ma pierwszeństwo nad głową.
 
 
XII – Wisielec
 
To jedna z najciekawszych kart Tarota. Oznacza ona przestój, zawieszenie w czasie, niemożność zrobienia niczego, odpoczynek. Ta karta mówi, iż coś jest niezależne od nas i musimy cos przyjąć na własne barki. Mówi, iż trzeba wypracować nowe koncepcje a nie czekać z założonymi rękoma na wydarzenia, które przyniesie los.
 
 
XIII- Śmierć
 
To karta odcięcia się od czegoś a zarazem karta nowego początku. Nastąpi coś co wszystko przemieni. Śmierć to symbol przejścia w nowy etap życia. Patrząc pod kontem zdrowia oznacza to problemy zdrowotne, które trzeba zbadać.
   
 
XIV - Umiarkowanie (Równowaga)
 
Hebrajska litera – Nun
Znak zodiaku – Byk
Planeta- Wenus
Karta ta mówi, że czas zmian już niedługo. Reprezentuje również rozmowy, kontrakty, ugody, komunikacje międzyludzką. czasami warto dyplomatycznie z kimś porozmawiać by coś załatwić, niż iść ścieżką walki słownej. Mówi też o kobiecie płodnej lub w ciąży.
  
 
XV – Diabeł
 
Hebrajska litera – Samach
Znak zodiaku – Waga
Planeta- Wenus
Przedstawia walkę dobra ze złem, karta ta burzy równowagę. Mówi zachłanności, zazdrości, zawiści, nałogach ( seks za pieniądze, alkohol, papierosy, narkotyki)
To walka o pieniądze, i zachłystnięcie się materialnym sposobem życia.
 
 
XVI - Wieża
 
Hebrajska litera- Ain
Znak zodiaku – Wodnik
Planety- Uran i Saturn
To jedna z najgorszych kart Tarota. To zburzenie istniejących układów, rozpad związków, katastrowa, która niesie złe zmiany.
 
 
XVII – Gwiazda
 
Hebrajska litera – Phe
Znak zodiaku- Bliźnięta
Planeta- Merkury
Jest to karta nadziei na spełnienie marzeń, planów, Możemy spać spokojnie gdy ta karta pojawi się w rozkładzie dotyczącym problemu.
 
 
XVIII-Księżyc
 
Hebrajska litera- Tzade
Znak Zodiaku- Rak
Planeta – Księżyc
Nie należy działać pod wpływem emocji, Nie realnie poglądach na świat, żyjesz w nierzeczywistości, bujasz w obłokach. Karta ta oznacza też kłamstwo, oszustwo, oraz ciąże.
  
 
XIX- Słońce
 
Hebrajska litera- Quoph
Znak zodiaku- Lew
Planeta- Słońce
To jedna z najszczęśliwszych kart w Tarocie. Sprzyja ona szczęściu materialnemu i uczuciowemu. Wróży pomyślność dla wszystkiego. Obiecuje bogate i trwałe małżeństwo. Karta ta jednoczy ludzi.
 
 
XX- Sąd Ostateczny (Sąd Boży)
 
Hebrajska litera – Resch
Znak zodiaku- Panna
Planeta – Merkury
Sad jest końcem drogi i nauki, podjęciem ostatecznej decyzji, podsumowaniem. Mówi ona o połączeniu rodziny, zjednoczeniu, nawet przywitaniu dziecka w rodzinie.
 
 
XXI- Świat
 
Karta jest symbolem mądrości i umiaru. Oznacza ona zakończenie podróży rozpoczętej przez tarotowego Głupca.. Oznacza to, iż pewne procesy dobiegają końca. Może to być n, ukończenie studiów, otrzymanie pracy, spełnienie życzeń.

{jcomments on}

 
 

 



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.