Get it? Got it. Good.

Do you remember when you were younger and you were taught to do something without understanding why?  It might have been as simple as a routine or tradition within your family, or perhaps something like performing the order of operations in algebra.  Throughout school, I remember many situations (especially in Math classes) where we were taught how to perform a particular operation or told to follow a certain rule without getting the long and complicated explanation for why it was so.  In nearly every situation, I had some trouble grasping the concept because I wasn't satisfied with the answers to my pleading Why? "Because that's how it works" was not sufficient for me.

Yet the moment in which I finally learned enough to piece together the reasons for the rule was always a greatly proud moment.  The "Ooooh!  That's why it works!" was its own reward, and when my teacher would smile at me with recognition of my hard-earned realization I felt as if I had been given a gold star - equally special to me whether I was eight or 18.

I cherished every new discovery that made previous lessons more complete and significant.  Simply put, I have always loved learning because it affords me the opportunity to make sense of otherwise nonsensical things.

Now, one of the many reasons I wanted to learn to speak Hebrew was because since I was very little I have learned how to read and write in the ancient language for the purposes of Jewish prayer.  I memorized blessings, forming the unique sounds in my mouth and declaring them either publicly or privately as the circumstances required.  And in many cases I knew what they meant but only because of the antiquated English translation that always accompanied the prayers and blessings in my siddur, prayer book.  Baruch atah adonai, elohenu melech haolam..., the beginning of so many of our prayers, I knew meant "Blessed art Thou, Lord our God, King of the universe..." but even though I knew what it meant it was like two separate statements.  I knew a couple words here and there but I understood nothing of the Hebrew grammar or parts of speech and had to simply trust in the translator's skill in order to make any sense of what I said.

In many ways, I prayed blindly.  At the synagogue I prayed silently or sang with the community, proudly proclaiming words in a tongue that was not foreign but still not my own.  Yet despite uttering the words I had memorized as if the language were my own - and sometimes even with fervor and my own ill-conceived meaning - I didn't do it because it made me feel personally connected to God; I did it because it was part of the tradition.  It was a way for me to connect to Jews the world over who were probably just like me - repeating Hebrew phrases with only a vague understanding of their French, German, or Chinese translations, and doing it because that's simply what we do.  And even though I didn't always know what I was saying, I somehow felt it was more significant to pray in the Holy Tongue rather than the English translation.  It's like the story of the young boy in Hebrew school who tells his rabbi he needs to learn Hebrew because God doesn't speak English.  Sure, I know I can get my point across in any language, but Hebrew just seemed more "right."

Well, after five months learning Hebrew I have successfully learned a good amount of its grammar and parts of speech, and a small but important part of it's vocabulary.  While I was there, though, I didn't spend too much time in synagogues.  Now that I'm back and am attending Shabbat morning services regularly again, I'm experiencing an interesting phenomenon.

Remember those little gold stars from school?  Even the imaginary ones?  Well, it's like they're raining down all around me!  (Which is cool except they often fall right onto my page and make me lose my spot or train of thought.)

Suddenly, entire multi-page prayers that I had memorized word-for-word and said effortlessly are sparkling with glimmers of comprehension and a myriad of opportunities for "Oooh, I get it!" moments.  It's fun to test my skills against the English translation on the facing page, seeing where the editor took minute poetic liberties or added explanatory words for a more complete rendering.  But the most fun?  Understanding.  And with understanding comes profound appreciation and a stronger sense of purpose.

Prayer for me has always been less a personal endeavor and more communal or based solely on tradition, but now with these exciting moments of understanding my concept of prayer is going through a metamorphosis.  I find myself saying things differently, adjusting my cadences and pronunciation to more appropriately reflect it as a structured, hierarchical language and not just a monotonous series of sounds.  And now, when I bow and say Modim anachnu lach, I know that not only does it mean "We thank you," but I feel that I myself am saying it instead of depending on an interpreter as I have for so long.

In an effort for more discourse among my readers, I'd like to hear what you have to say.  I'm curious: How do you feel when you experience that moment of understanding?  What are some of your personal favorite "Oh I get it!" moments?  And if you are religious in any respect and pray from a pre-composed liturgy, does it feel like something personal or do you prefer knowing more about its source and depth?