I’ve heard it said before that Yom Kippur should be joyous.

Rosh Hashannah is Yom HaDin, the Day of Judgment, not Yom Kippur. The month of Tishrei which leads up to Rosh Hashannah we focus on Cheshbon Nefesh, an accounting of our souls, and we do teshuvah, repentance and atonement, between ourselves and our fellows, ourselves and God, and ourselves and… ourselves. The 10 days between Rosh Hashannah and Yom Kippur, the cheshbon nefesh gets kicked into high gear, because on Rosh Hashannah, it is said, it is written, and on Yom Kippur it is sealed who will merit what for the coming year. By the time we reach Yom Kippur, we have done all of the work. On Yom Kippur we fast, but not mournfully. We dress in white and we spend the whole day praying as though we had nothing better to do. On Yom Kippur we don’t bathe or eat or drink or take care of our personal needs. On the one hand, the command is to afflict our souls. We fast in contrition. On the other hand, on this day we stand before God like angels. And we know that we will be forgiven, because God has given us this day for repentance, for atonement, and for forgiveness. Year after year we stand before God and are forgiven, pardoned, and absolved.

As my teacher Shaiya is fond of saying, Ashkenazi Jews, that is, Jews from Eastern Europe, on Yom Kippur weep and wail and cry “We have sinned! We have sinned!” Sephardi Jews, descended from the Jews of medieval Spain, on Yom Kippur sing and dance because “Hey, isn’t this the same judge who let us off last year?”

The month of Tirshrei, Rosh Hashannah and Yom Kippur have never been easy for me. The past ten years have been especially difficult for me at this time of year. For personal reasons, the work of cheshbon nefesh and all the talk of forgiveness has weighed on me horribly, and I’ve never been able to feel good about Yom Kippur. Besides which, I’ve never been in a space on Yom Kippur where I felt I had a chevre, a group of like-minded individuals who take all of this as seriously as I do.

This year, a lot happened in Elul. I had a lot thrown at me, I’d been hurt emotionally, and as a result a lot of stuff got hashed out and thrashed out and worked out. And on Yom Kippur I davenned at The Leader Minyan. I’d never been before, but my good friend David was going there, and Shaiya was as well, and I felt the need to try something new.

I walked over with my new friend Josh, who lives up the street from me. I met him at his apartment at 7:15, we waited for a couple of other people, picked some people up along the way, and found our way to the Zionist Youth Farm where they were holding services. At some point I asked Josh what time they start. He laughed and said “about an hour and a half ago.” We got there in time for Borchu, around 7:50.

The first time the congregation broke into singing and dancing, I was conflicted. I had spoken to David the night before about toying with the idea of having a joyful Yom Kippur this year. Elul had been so hard. David suggested that I had to. I had to have a joyful Yom Kippur. I told him I wasn’t sure if I could. And when I saw the women begin to dance, I hesitated. I wanted so badly to join them, but something held me back.

The day continued. The singing became more spirited and more intense. As we started to feel the fast, little containers of eucalyptus oil and powder were passed around for smelling. At some point a piyyut, a liturgical poem, was sung that people started clapping to. It got me clapping. Clapping and swaying. I looked up and saw dancing again. I saw that David was dancing over on the men’s side. A circle formed on the women’s side. And I remembered something that David had said to me the night before as we were finishing up dinner alone at his place before we headed out to Kol Nidrei. He said “Gella, you will be inscribed for a good year. There is no way that you could not be. If you’re not inscribed for a good year, then I don’t want any part of this.”

For the first time in my life, I stood before The Lord on Yom Kippur, and was not alone.

I tied my tallit around my neck so that it wouldn’t fall from my shoulders. I climbed over chairs. I grabbed the hands of two women, and I danced. I closed my eyes and I danced and I sang.

Someone had my back. Someone argued for me. I had support. I had solidarity. I had someone standing behind me saying “if she goes, I go.”

And I knew, then I knew, I was being forgiven. Released. How can you not dance?

There was no break between mussaf and mincha. I’d been nervous about that, but now I was glad of it. I didn’t want to stop praying. Even at the end, when we’d davenned neila, the last service of the day, the locking of the gates of heaven, and we’d already gone a half hour over the end of the fast, I still didn’t want it to end. In that last amidah I’s held my hands out to God in thanks and praise and love and marveled that every year, every year, we get to stand before our God and every year God forgives us our iniquities and gives us the chance to do better next time. God was suddenly a father. A good and loving father who cares and cradles and looks upon us with kindness. I, in turn, loved everyone and everything. After ma’ariv we broke the fast with water juice and cake. I just had a little water, and immediately went to find my friends and hug them, because that is what nourishes me.