I’ve been the token Jew for much of my life. People have referred to me as “my Jewish friend, Amber” and some have told me that I’m the only Jew they’ve ever met, especially out here in Wyoming. Since I went to Israel for the first time 7 years ago, I have successfully lived up to the title, subsequently returning to Israel 4 more times, receiving a Judaic Studies minor in college, working for multiple Jewish organizations, leading services, studying at a yeshiva…the list goes on.

But within the past year, something changed. I got tired of it all. I was working full-time as a Jewish Youth Director and it was really wearing on me; I was helping others connect to their Jewish identities, but my own connection was weak at best. I needed a break. I needed to be far away from it for a while, and a remote location like Yellowstone National Park was the perfect escape.

As far as I know, there are one and a half Jews working at Old Faithful. I’m the one, and my friend Brian is the self-proclaimed half.

At first it was exciting. I got to be anonymous. It didn’t come up all that much in casual conversation. I didn’t really want to get into it and have to start explaining what being Jewish meant to me…because it’s complicated, especially for people who aren’t Jewish.

But then, just when I thought I was the only one, I found my people in the wilderness.

I went camping several weeks ago with some friends at a sweet spot called Shadow Mountain overlooking the Grand Tetons in southeastern Wyoming. We arrived on Friday evening and had a great time singing, making s’mores, hiking around the mountain, admiring the breathtaking views. The fact that it was Shabbat (the Jewish Sabbath) hadn’t even crossed my mind.

The next morning, I walked out of my tent to enjoy the morning sun over the mountains. I sat amidst tall purple flowers and did a little meditation, becoming aware of each beautiful thing surrounding me. I asked the universe to give me whatever I may need today or whatever it wants me to know. A few moments later, I heard a small group of people singing on the other side of the trees. I recognized the tune and started walking closer. As I got closer, I realized that they were singing in Hebrew. I noticed yarmulkes on some of their heads. I thought, “Those are probably just beanies – it’s a little chilly.” Getting closer still, my suspicions were confirmed: I found Jews. I joined them for Shabbat morning services, something I haven’t done in a very long time, let alone any service. Familiar melodies and words flowed out over the mountain peaks and filled me with a sense of comfort and longing. Unlike in the past, when I’ve scrutinized every word to the point of frustration and rejection, it didn’t really matter what the prayers were. It just felt nice to be saying them with other people who understood.

When the High Holidays approached, I had no idea what I was going to do. For the past 7 years, I’ve been very involved in either college campus festivities, leading services, or being immersed in learning and living the holidays in Israel. I was sad that I wasn’t going to have a holiday meal with my family and enjoy my mother’s homemade honey cake. I felt that familiar Jewish guilt for not doing anything very “traditional,” or what I used to do. I could have gone to synagogue in Bozeman, but that option felt more to me like something I should do rather than something I wanted to do. Though I felt resistance, I still wanted to honor this important part of my identity. I’ve gone through a big transition; my life is very different than it used to be. I celebrated the holidays in accordance with where I am now, physically and spiritually, and my current quest is all about challenging norms and listening to my heart.

On Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, I ate an apple and honey, sharing the tradition with a few friends who had never heard of such a combination. I went back to Shadow Mountain and played holiday songs by the campfire. On Yom Kippur, I went to one of my favorite spots in the park overlooking the Firehole River and Grand Geyser, nestled in the woods. I reflected on the past year and what I’d like to change. I took three rocks, gave each one what I wanted less of, and threw them into the rushing water as my own symbolic tashlich ceremony. I wrote some music and again played holiday songs that spoke to me. Shlomo Carlebach’s words struck me most significantly:

“Return again, return to the land of your soul. Return to who you are, return to what you are, return to where you are born and reborn.” I came all the way out here to have a new life where I wasn’t “Amber the Jew,” where Judaism wasn’t the main focus, where people would just see me as a human being. But when I got here, I started to enjoy being the token Jew. Being different often makes us even more proud and committed, which is apparent throughout Jewish history. I want to share my heritage and culture even more because it’s different and special. And though I longed for the sense of community that Judaism places such great emphasis upon, being isolated this year allowed me to choose what traditions and rituals are meaningful to me.

Perhaps in this new year, I shed an older layer of my Judaism and began to grow a new one that is more fitting – not better or worse – in this season of life. I am in the West, a land I have longed for, and it nourishes my soul. In exploring my new frontier, parts of me are dying, blooming, and evolving. In 5775, my Jewish identity is reborn, and there is still much to discover about it in this new context. L’shana tova u’metuka – to a good and sweet year.