I almost never tell anyone that I’m a lady who wraps, which is to say, that I’ve been binding myself in prayer every morning for nearly a dozen years. When I mention tefillin outside Jewish circles, and sometimes even within them, a surprising number have no idea what I’m talking about. The mention of leather straps can elicit wide-eyed stares, as if I’m describing a form of religious kink.

Tefillin, a pair of little black boxes containing Hebrew parchment scrolls that are attached to the forehead and arm by leather straps, are mentioned four times in the Torah, including in Deuteronomy 6:8—“You shall bind them as a sign upon your hand, and they shall be for a reminder between your eyes.” Traditionally, only men observe this mitzvah.

The passages written on the parchment speak of all that was done for us by God. They include the Shema, our central statement of oneness with the Divine. Jews wear tefillin during morning prayers because if we’ve got something tied to our forehead and wrapped around an arm and hand as a symbol of something, we’re not likely to forget its meaning.

I’ve heard tefillin described from a contemporary, neurodivergence-informed point of view as calming for the nerves, a way of being held in place and kept safe, much like the idea behind a weighted blanket. From this perspective, I’m not a likely candidate for wrapping. I have a teensy inclination to claustrophobia, and a weighted blanket is about as appealing to me as being buried alive.

I never meant to take on the mitzvah of wrapping tefillin. When the first of my three children was in the year leading up to his bar mitzvah, I enjoyed a glimpse of the tefillin workshop offered at the Reconstructionist shul we attended. But it was a one-and-done experience for my son, and I in no way related to the ritual myself.

Child number two was dazzled by the workshop. We were already doing what she called girls’ tefillah, singing prayers on the drive to school each morning, when she insisted we try tefillin together. I refused. After a while, she wore me down. We borrowed two old sets from a rabbi who collects them and makes it her mission to encourage their use, and one Sunday morning, we gave it a twirl.

A photograph from that day shows us in our prayer shawls and little black boxes, my daughter wearing her bright pink Wonder Woman T-shirt. Going forward, my daughter’s interest waned. I, however, never looked back. To my own astonishment, I laid tefillin for morning prayer the next day and the next and every day since, except Shabbat and major holidays, including Tisha B’Av, which falls this year on August 13. On these other days we wrap during afternoon prayers.

Why do I continue to wrap? I don’t know. Am I also a teensy bit compulsive? I’m only certain that the ritual became an instant habit.

Ironically enough, from the beginning, wrapping has felt safe, not claustrophobic. Not like spiritual bondage, but rather a way to focus and take charge.

At the same time, laying tefillin also feels unsafe and transgressive, and I am especially drawn to what I’m told is transgressive for women. When I began to lay tefillin, I heard the inspirational stories (apocryphal? real?) about how I was following in the footsteps of Michal, daughter of King Solomon, and Yocheved, Miriam and Rachel, daughters of medieval French rabbi Rashi, all said to have wrapped. I also heard stories (apocryphal? real?) about a woman beaten on the streets of Israel by an ultra-Orthodox man who recognized the telltale impressions running up her arm and felt threatened by a woman invading his ritual turf.

Since the horrific attacks of October 7, wrapping tefillin has become a moment to grapple with the heartbreak we are experiencing. Many Jews feel under antisemitic siege in the supposed safety of our Diaspora communities. We may feel fractured. We may see ourselves as if we’re in danger of flying apart. Or we may experience ourselves as a people being bound more tightly together.

I still wrap the tefillin passed down to me when I first took on this mitzvah. From time to time, I think of the man who used my set 50 or even a hundred years ago, though it’s a sure bet he never imagined me. Maybe he felt unsafe in the world he walked in. Maybe he didn’t. He might be happy to know that his tefillin have come into the hands of someone using them daily—or he might not. 

I’d be lying if I claimed that this spiritual practice always feels particularly spiritual. Sometimes it’s routine. And while I am a lover of the transgressive, I’ve never wanted to wrap because I’m not supposed to do it. I do it because every morning I feel that I am. 

---

Christine Benvenuto is the author of two books, and her stories and essays have appeared in many magazines, newspapers and anthologies. She lives in Western Massachusetts.