On the day of my bat mitzvah, I was given my tallit. It was beautiful, white, and full of love. My mother handed it to me, I said the prayer and then placed this marvelous garment upon my shoulders. It was a warm hug of encouragement, pushing me forward through the rest of my Torah service. Whenever I wear my tallit, I remember where it came from. It was made by my hands and those of my mother, filled with enough love to cure the world.  

The significance of the tallit in Jewish culture is not directly defined in the Torah– but rather in the Talmud. However, the Torah does explicitly depict the necessity and significance of the tzitzit (the fringes of the tallit): they are meant to remind the wearer of God’s commandments. In my community, the tallit, made or bought, is gifted to the b’nai mitzvah by their parents or family members and then worn when attending services or reading the Torah. 

When it came time for my parents to acquire a tallit for me, my mother thought back to her past for inspiration. When she was preparing to become a bat mitzvah, her class in Hebrew school was given the assignment to make their tallit by hand. Of course, they didn't have to weave the fabric, but they would sew and construct their tallit. And most importantly, they would be the ones to tie the tzitzit. Knowing she comes from a long line of craftswomen and dressmakers, my mother turned to her grandmother for help with this project. Together, they selected fabric and ribbons to adorn it and assembled her tallit. This whole project was done with my mother learning and working side by side with her grandmother. However, when it came time to tie the tzitzit, that’s when they split off. This next step was hers to take on her own. I can only imagine the pride and joy in her eyes when she had finished, knowing she had been involved in every step of the way to make her tallit, which she would then cherish for the rest of her life. Participating in a tradition like this—creating beautiful garments just like her mother's before her and keeping them—is exactly what my mom wanted for me when it was time to prepare a tallit for my bat mitzvah.  

​So my mother and I set about on that journey, just as she had years before. We didn’t have to look far for most things. The fabric for the body of the shawl would be leftover silk from her wedding dress. We picked up the fringe to tie the tzitzit from a Judaica shop. Ribbons for the ends were found at a craft store. The final missing piece was a ribbon for the neckband, but nothing we looked at felt right. My mother and I spent weeknights and Sundays after Hebrew school going to stores and looking for something that would work. Finally, my mom called the only person she knew could help in this situation: her mother. My grandmother came up with a possible solution and gave us the most amazing ribbon. It was maroon with twisting green vines and little pink flowers and daisies. I loved it, my mom loved it, and my grandmother was happy she could help make us happy. It was all perfect. At that moment, I was so proud of the beautiful nature my tallit depicted. I had never seen anything like it in real life—that is, not until the summer before tenth grade, when I was at sleepaway camp.  

That summer, my cabin got the chance to go on a two-night backpacking trip into Yosemite Valley, and even through all the nerves, we were so excited. Halfway through the uphill hike to our campsite, though, it started to drizzle, which quickly turned into a heavy downpour and a thunderstorm. The mood turned miserable as we were too far in to turn around, so we were forced to push through, soaked and freezing with tears streaming down our faces and no hope for a warm night. 

It was at this point that we saw the most spectacular, dreamlike view. A grove of tall, dark green trees formed a perimeter around a large open meadow filled with lupine, poppies, and fireweed. The rain had lightened a bit, and everything was misty. The dark, cloudy sky lit up occasionally with far-off lighting, and that light shone through to perfectly illuminate the glisten of the water on each flower. It was the most incredible moment, and I knew I would likely never experience it again.  

When I put on my tallit, I am reminded of warm memories of sewing with my mother just as she did with hers and the feeling of awe I experienced when the light shone just right and created colorful light in the cold darkness. These memories cling to the smooth fabric of my tallit, which I will cherish all my life.