NYTimes
ON a cold Saturday morning in May 2007, Nicola Behrman, a playwright from Los Angeles, stood in a bare conference room at a ski lodge in Park City, Utah. She was surrounded by 60 strangers, tucked shoulder-to-shoulder in a circle — all members of a group called Reboot, which since 2002 has conducted an annual conference for young, affluent Jews to discuss their ethnic and religious identity, in between spa treatments and walks among the ponderosa pines of the Wasatch Mountains.
Each attendee had been asked to pose a question related to being a Jew. Ms. Behrman, who grew up Orthodox in London but hadn't been to a synagogue in years, recounted a story about her beloved grandmother's appointment book, which on May 31, 1965, contained the words, "susan, dentist," a reminder to take her daughter in for a checkup. Why didn't Jews write down life lessons for those left behind after they died? Ms. Behrman was wondering. She picked up a white card from a table nearby, scribbled "susan, dentist ..." in green ink and posted it on a corkboard at the back of the room. The act felt cathartic. [...]
ON a cold Saturday morning in May 2007, Nicola Behrman, a playwright from Los Angeles, stood in a bare conference room at a ski lodge in Park City, Utah. She was surrounded by 60 strangers, tucked shoulder-to-shoulder in a circle — all members of a group called Reboot, which since 2002 has conducted an annual conference for young, affluent Jews to discuss their ethnic and religious identity, in between spa treatments and walks among the ponderosa pines of the Wasatch Mountains.
Each attendee had been asked to pose a question related to being a Jew. Ms. Behrman, who grew up Orthodox in London but hadn't been to a synagogue in years, recounted a story about her beloved grandmother's appointment book, which on May 31, 1965, contained the words, "susan, dentist," a reminder to take her daughter in for a checkup. Why didn't Jews write down life lessons for those left behind after they died? Ms. Behrman was wondering. She picked up a white card from a table nearby, scribbled "susan, dentist ..." in green ink and posted it on a corkboard at the back of the room. The act felt cathartic. [...]
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