Pamela's Pekele

Spring Makeover

2011-04-07T04:05:00.000-07:00

Pamela's Pekele has moved to a new cyber-location! Check out my home page at www.pamelagottfried.com. I recently posted a piece there titled "Letting It Go."

You can subscribe to the blog by clicking on the RSS button there. You can also "like" my book on Facebook by clicking on the FB button. Please feel free to send your friends to visit, too!

Teachable Moments

2011-03-21T11:48:00.000-07:00

An excellent teacher possesses the ability to design a lesson plan that includes appropriate learning activities and to maintain a certain momentum in the classroom. According to Jon Saphier & Robert Gower, another trait of a skillful teacher is the ability to handle intrusions upon these well-laid plans with flexibility. (from The Skillful Teacher: Building Your Teaching Skills) Most skillful teachers would agree that often these intrusions are actually opportunities to jump off the treadmill-- to leave aside objectives and benchmarks, to address the most pressing concerns of their students-- to share a life lesson that may not otherwise be covered by the curriculum. I like to call these intrusions "teachable moments."

Lately, I have enjoyed more than my fair share of teachable moments while watching Glee with my daughter. A few weeks ago, the writers attempted to tackle the topic of teenage drinking in both the story line and the music, but left me-- and I suspect many other parents-- in the position of discussing my own opinions about alcohol consumption with my child long after the credits and final commercial aired. The following week's episode centered on teenage sexuality. I spent the better part of the evening unable to enjoy the music as I composed my opening remarks for our follow-up discussion. Fortunately, I was not so lost in my own script-writing reverie that I missed the true teachable moment two-thirds of the way into the episode, when a heterosexual father had "the talk" with his gay son. The dad's lines were written with such artistry and delivered with such sensitivity that my own words vanished from my mind as I listened intently. Then they cut to commercial, and the pressure to seize a teachable moment soared.

"Ask her a question," a voice inside my brain whispered.

"What did you think of Kurt's dad?" I asked her from the other side of the couch.

"He was amazing," she replied. "He's the parent everyone wishes they had."

No kidding. It was that good. I wondered whether I could download a transcript and save it for future use with my son.

Last week, the ultimate teachable moment was delivered by Glee. I had certainly been anticipating the gay character's first kiss, as the storyline has been leading toward it for more than a season. I fully expected that it would be handled realistically and sensitively, and it was, perhaps even more so than many of the heterosexual kissing intrusions to the plot. I was completely unprepared, however, for my daughter's response.

In the thirty seconds of tender dialogue following the kiss and leading toward a commercial break, my mind began racing toward the teachable moment. I knew just what I wanted to communicate to my child about love, exactly what values I wanted to impart about sexual orientation. I lowered the volume as they cut to commercial and turned my entire body sideways on the couch to make eye contact with my child. But before I could open my mouth to formulate a coherent phrase, she spoke. "That was so sweet," she said. "Kurt waited a long time for his first kiss."

"Yes, he did," I replied, nodding.

And that was all that needed to be said. The skillful, teen-aged teacher had seized upon the teachable moment, sharing a life lesson with her mother that might have otherwise been overlooked: Parents impart their values to their children every day, in a thousand teachable moments, over the course of a lifetime. I learned that I had achieved my curricular objective without need of an intrusion. That was so sweet.

There are places I remember...

2011-03-14T11:37:00.000-07:00

Do you have a soundtrack of your life? You know, songs that play in your mind at certain times or memories that are deeply associated with particular music? Maybe it’s only me…

I recently visited a place that I used to frequent a number of years ago, and there I saw some people who I now see only periodically. Both the place and the people are still a part of my life, but not my everyday life. What a delight to return to a place that feels like home and to rekindle friendships from a previous time!

I found that my spending the weekend there not only evoked a case of nostalgia, but it also activated my soundtrack: The Beatles' song "In My Life" has been popping into my head during these past few weeks, as I reflect on my affection for people and things that went before.

Tehilah la-Avodah: A Psalm in Praise of Meaningful Work

2011-03-07T08:30:00.000-08:00

I just received a small slice of perfection in the form of a perfectly-worded question. I had asked a fellow author, whom I recently friended on Facebook, whether he thought I should pursue a job opportunity about which I am ambivalent. His reply was stunning, both in its simplicity and its brilliance. He asked me: “What can you do to create a path for yourself so that you can do the work you love?”

I am so grateful for his reminder that I must embrace the process of my work. I am mindful of this lesson when I wear my potter’s jeans and use my artist’s brain. But sometimes —because of the pressure to achieve financial security from my writing—when I am wearing my writer’s lenses and using my author’s brain I simply forget to focus and live in the moment.

So, now I am logging off to follow the path to the work that I love. I am responding to an urgent need— in this moment— to write in my notebook, because writing long-hand is a completely different experience and gets totally different results from composing at the computer keyboard. Then I will head to the basement to the glazing table, where more than a dozen pieces of pottery await my attention.

Zeh hayom asah Adonai – nagilah v’nismikhah bo: Today is the day God created – let’s sing and rejoice on it!

B'nai Horin - Children of Liberty

2011-03-01T04:02:00.000-08:00

It has been said that no one was ever moved to change because of a pie chart or bar graph.

What can have a more powerful effect on us than facts and figures? Myths and legends, the stories that we tell about our lives, can inspire us to change. A well-told story contains ideas about morality, justice and truth, translated from grand and abstract ideas into a compelling narrative. Such stories have the power to move us.

These stories told through music have the power to redeem us.

Music awakens us, allows us to hear each other. Ideas can be grand, facts can be weighty; yet words alone often fail. Music, however, communicates deeper truths.

This brief video shares a story: A group of Israeli friends wanted to communicate their feelings to their Egyptian neighbors, so they got together and recorded a song they called “Children of Liberty.” I have no doubt that they chose music as their mode of expression because they knew that the sounds of their instruments and their voices would cleanse the ears of their listeners, washing away political slogans and negotiations, hostilities and struggles. Then their music could fill the hearts of their listeners and transform their souls.

2011-02-21T05:58:00.000-08:00

In honor of the MJCCA's upcoming conference Bash with a Splash, I would like to share an article that I wrote seven years ago about my first visit to an Atlanta mikvah (ritual bath). Don't miss this important opportunity to learn: Sunday, February 27th at Congregation B'nai Torah. Just click on the link above for more information!

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Floating Between the Denominations*

I am no longer surprised when people-- upon hearing that I don’t drive or answer the telephone on the Sabbath-- ask me if I am Orthodox. The labels of denominations, and the assumptions about their adherents’ religious practices, are so ingrained that people momentarily forget that Orthodox women cannot be ordained as rabbis. Personally, I enjoy defying the labels, finding the places where it is possible to be “just Jewish” and observe the mitzvot, commandments.

The week that we relocated to Atlanta I needed to go to the mikvah, ritual bath. I found a listing in a local Jewish directory and called to inquire about summer hours. From the recorded message I learned that a woman must make an appointment 72 hours in advance and is given 20 minutes in the schedule to prepare and immerse. In my old neighborhood all you had to do was show up, and with half a dozen preparation rooms there was hardly ever a wait. Despite my last-minute call, I was able to secure 20 minutes that evening.

In New York, the mikvah attendant provided her clientele relative anonymity and freedom from small talk. It’s not that she didn’t care who was patronizing the mikvah, it’s just that in what is arguably the most Jewish city in the world the mikvah attendant couldn’t possibly know everyone. She lived in the house attached to the mikvah and treated the women who visited there as guests in her home. She was a noble and modest hostess-- never judgmental, always unobtrusive. It was customary to give her a little extra, a gratuity, for her devotion to avodat kodesh, holy work.

That evening I was greeted by the attendant warmly with the requisite question: “Are you new in town or just visiting?”

“New in town,” I replied. “We just moved here from New York.”

“Welcome! That’s great. We love it here.” The mikvah attendant had immigrated from South Africa many years earlier.

She followed up then, asking about why we had moved, whether we had family in town and where we were living. She seemed surprised to learn that we were living within walking distance to a Conservative synagogue. So I admitted that I was employed there, but omitted the detail that I was serving as a rabbi in the congregation. I didn’t want to burden her with explanations about non-Orthodox women visiting the mikvah or walking to synagogue on the Sabbath. I assumed that such a combination of ritual practices would be alien to her.

Finally, the small talk was over and she showed me to the back room, where I prepared for immersion. Later, when I paid her, she followed me out to my car. Giving me back a few dollars she said, "It’s only 12 bucks.”

I mumbled something about it being customary in New York to tip the attendant.

“We’re volunteers here, so that isn’t necessary.”

As I turned to go, she said quietly, “tizki b’mitzvos,” which translates “be strengthened by [your observance of the] commandments. Clearly, I had misjudged her as judging me. She recognized that any Jewish woman could be devoted to the mikvah--nowhere else are the fluid boundaries of Judaism’s denominations so apparent. Thanks to a dedicated cadre of volunteers, the mikvah remains functional, and the observance of its ritual viable. I promised myself to be a noble and modest guest in her home.

In time I grew accustomed to visiting the mikvah in Atlanta. I still have to remember to call 72 hours in advance, but the woman who coordinates appointments is kind to me when I forget. I have met most of the volunteer attendants and I’ve stripped myself, so to speak, of any disguises; now many of these women know that I am a Conservative rabbi. In this community of women, I am happiest floating between the denominations, resisting labels and observing the mitzvot to the best of my ability.

*An excerpt of this essay originally appeared in Sacred Days: A Weekly Planner for the Jewish Year, 2004-2005, published by CLAL – The National Jewish Center for Learning and Leadership.

Ms. Green Jeans

2011-02-14T10:52:00.000-08:00

It was pretty empty in Target at 8:30 on Monday morning. Two cashiers were standing together in the checkout aisle. I admit to eavesdropping for just a moment on their Girl Talk: One had just gotten highlights and the other was admiring them, asking for the name of the salon where she’d had them done. “I did them myself,” she said proudly. I was so impressed that I couldn't hold back, and I complimented her work. That's when she replied, "Great bag! Did you make it?"

Now I am used to women remarking about my bag. No, I didn't make it--I wish I had that kind of skill. I don't even own a sewing machine. But the bag was Made with Heart in the USA, according to a label stitched by hand to the inside lining. I bought it at a consignment shop, so I reckon that this pair of Levi's is on its third life. I call it my "green jeans" purse, as I like to tell its admirers who stop me in stores and parking lots on a regular basis. So the early morning conversation at Target was not particularly notable.

The one a few weeks ago at Panera, however, was astonishing. I was picking up a sandwich for my daughter and set my purse down on the counter. Two young men-- in their early twenties I would guess-- said in unison: "Cool bag!" Then one added, "What a clever idea." I was so surprised that I almost dropped the sandwich. Within days, several other men had commented on the purse, one or two even asking me if I had created it and admiring the handiwork of the seamstress, who had expertly attached the leather strap and glittery belt buckle.

I regret that I was close-minded, thinking that only women would notice my purse. I should have realized that excellent craftsmanship and artistic recycling efforts can be admired by all. Doesn't everyone love to see a pair of Levi's with a purpose?!

There's No Place Like Home

2011-02-07T10:01:00.000-08:00

Research has demonstrated that scents can evoke strong memories and emotions; our sense of smell may be our most powerful sense. But I would like to suggest that our sense of place -- being centered and firmly attached to the ground beneath our feet-- is also powerful. I am not talking about a pleasant nostalgia for somewhere you have been, but rather a kind of geographic memory that is deeply embedded within.

For me New York City is that place. My sense of geographic connection is strongest there. It is where my pulse -- and the pace at which I walk the streets-- seems to be synchronized with the place itself. When I first realized this about myself I thought I was strange. But listening to a podcast of WNYC's Radiolab, I learned that what I was feeling can be explained scientifically. In "It's Alive," the hosts of Radiolab explored what makes cities unique, including the physics and mathematical formulas of individual cities. Now I have come to understand that my feeling displaced in Atlanta is not strange. It's just that I am a stranger here.

Recently, I was sharing my observations about geographic memory with a friend, explaining that while living in Atlanta for more than a decade I have maintained my desire to go home. He described his life here as "living in the place of paradox." He enjoys teaching at a Progressive school in a Conservative county in a Red State, where life requires real work. I imagine it must sometimes feel like pushing a boulder uphill. This is an interesting contrast to living in the place of comfort, where if nothing needs fixing, it is easy to become accustomed to coasting downhill.

Creativity stems from discomfort and discontent, whereas complacency stems from comfort. For this reason alone, I don't regret living in the place of paradox. Had I not lived here I might never have enjoyed the transformative experiences of sitting at the potter’s wheel, writing a book and driving a minivan. I have worked side by side with artists and made loyal friends at Camp Ramah Darom; expanded my world view and forged an identity as a parent at High Meadows School; and enjoyed the privilege of serving Jewish communities in smaller cities in Alabama and Georgia. Living far from the center of the Jewish world has forced me to strive as a rabbi, to work earnestly at imparting Jewish wisdom to my students. Moreover, I have met unaccountably brave and unbelievably kind people in the south. They have enriched my life in ways that I cannot begin to describe in this essay.

Yet, after more than a decade in Paradox, I continue to yearn for the comfort of Home. My own children, even the two who were born in NYC, get annoyed with me when I say this aloud, and I am not unsympathetic to their discomfort with my discomfort in Paradox. After all, this is the only home that they remember. They are unaware that we are strangers living in a strange land; that we came for a sojourn and became more rooted to this place than I had originally intended. My family resides here-- through employment and mortgage loans it has become home-- but I am still searching for the shoes that will transport me from the place of paradox to the land where my feet are most grounded.

Wednesday the Rabbi Said Kaddish

2011-01-31T04:06:00.000-08:00

Growing up, all I knew about the Kaddish was that it was recited by children whose parents were dead, thus I was absolutely forbidden from saying it. An important tenet of folk religion --otherwise known as superstition-- is that a child who recites Kaddish tempts the Angel of Death to take his or her parents from this earth. Traveling the country and teaching, I have found this tradition to be universally known and observed by Jews.

During my second year in rabbinical school I studied the history of the Kaddish and its role in Jewish liturgy. I was already aware that the words of the prayer had nothing to do with death, and that the person leading the recitation was in fact heaping praise upon God. But I was surprised to learn that the origin of the Kaddish was not as a mourner's prayer at all. In its ancient formulation, as the Rabbi's Kaddish or Kaddish d'Rabbanan, it was recited upon the conclusion of Torah study. The custom of mourners saying Kaddish arose centuries later.

It was in Rabbi Joel Roth's classroom that I abandoned my attachment to superstitions about not saying the Kaddish and allowed the prayer to assert its primacy in my daily life. Like his colleagues in the Talmud & Rabbinics department, Rabbi Roth followed a pedagogic approach to the text that included calling upon the students to read, translate and explain passages without warning. This somewhat intimidating practice ensured that no student would attend class unprepared. Every class period was effectively a pop quiz, at least for the students called upon to read that day. It was also an opportunity for individual students to demonstrate their progress, which Rabbi Roth both encouraged and rewarded.

Toward the end of every 90-minute class, before we closed our volumes of Talmud, Rabbi Roth would take a laminated sheet from his desk and hand it to the student who "stood out" that day from among the group. Then we all stood together to recite the Rabbi's Kaddish. When this privilege, an invitation to lead the prayer, was bestowed upon me for the first time that semester, my heart rejoiced. I felt my praises of God's name rise up to join the chorus of angels in heaven. I still remember how I felt that morning, nearly half a lifetime ago.

These days, I attend a weekly Torah study at my doctor's office. It is comprised of adult learners who are professionals in other fields. As a rabbi and the assigned facilitator, I am often the only one present who has prepared the text prior to class. Usually other members of the group volunteer to read aloud from the text, ask questions about the translations and commentaries, and readily offer their own interpretations of the material. At a well-attended session, six to eight friends sit around a conference table, enjoying coffee and snacks with Torah study and conversation. This past Wednesday, however, our host spent half the class moving chairs from every exam room into the break room. At the end of the hour I realized that we had a minyan – the quorum needed to say the Rabbi’s Kaddish. We quickly ascertained which direction was east, and I scrolled through the prayer book on my iPhone to find the words, fondly recalling Rabbi Roth’s laminated sheet. My heart sang as the chorus of students stood with me to praise God's name.

Book Tour Travel Log: Lessons from Florida

2011-01-24T12:31:00.000-08:00

A multi-generational audience gathered in Jacksonville Jewish Center's Social Hall on Sunday morning to attend a session titled Bubbemeises: True stories or Stories about Truth? We began by sharing various traditions that we learned from our parents and grandparents, listing the customs that comprise Jewish folk religion, also known as superstitions.

One grandmother courageously demonstrated how a person is to spit in the evil eye, affording me an opportunity to explain that in Yiddish we say "pooh, pooh, pooh," while in Hebrew it is "tooh, tooh, tooh." Always three times, in keeping with the ancients' tendency toward odd numbers. Her son began to recall folk traditions that she claimed to have forgotten along the way. It was a rare half-hour of sharing and finding commonalities across generational, cultural and even religious boundaries. As a teacher, I was delighted to be engaged in this richly textured conversation. As an author, I was enthralled to continue making connections with my readers, signing copies of my book and chatting informally with the workshop participants after the formal presentation concluded.

In the years since I took my sabbatical and left the classroom, I have learned that I am fully capable of pursuing a career as a writer. But writing is a solitary pursuit, and presents a real challenge to the social being. I made a marvelous discovery this weekend in Florida: The Book Tour provides me a perfect means of balancing my time between living in the real world and living in my own mind.

If you would like to travel with me on a Virtual Book Tour, please visit the Facebook page of Found in Translation: Common Words of Uncommon Wisdom and press the "like" button at the top of the profile page. I will post travel logs, photos and other information there in the coming weeks. You will also find a link to amazon.com, where you can be among the first to review the book and purchase the book as a gift --taking advantage of their free shipping. Join me in my journey as we "spread the words" worldwide!

How do you get to Carnegie Hall?

2011-01-17T12:51:00.000-08:00

I have been writing all my life. First as a student, and then later as a rabbi and teacher. But now that I am a writer, I am beginning to appreciate the discipline that true writing requires.

This is my writer's notebook:

I never go anywhere without it. If you see me around town, there's a good chance that I will be leaning over it and scribbling away. While I am not particular about notebooks -- any "cow book" or lined journal will suffice-- I have found a favorite pen, which is usually hooked over the page as a bookmark. Sometimes I sketch or highlight certain ideas, while I am mulling over whether I want to turn my jotted notes and musings into a full essay. I NEVER take my notebook out at a red light, but I have pulled over to capture a fleeting thought. I like to browse through my notebook when I arrive early to pick up the kids and turn off my engine to wait in the carpool line.

Monday mornings, I invest a chunk of time in the revision and publishing part of the writing process. I employ every ounce of my self-discipline to post an essay on my blog every Monday by late afternoon, even when my kids are home with me for a snow day or national holiday. I truly believe that the way to become a good writer is the same way you get to Carnegie Hall. So I have been practicing a lot, and I am grateful when I hear from readers-- not only from my mom-- that they are enjoying the essays. Of course, it's great to hear from Mom, too.

This morning I was rifling through an old notebook and finally wrote a 1,125 word essay that I have been meaning to write for more than a year. Instead of posting it, though, I decided to give you a glimpse into the writer's mind and a brief insight about how a person might progress from an incidental writer to a practicing writer.

I have sent the lengthier piece to a colleague who I hope will publish it in a journal. Perhaps, some Monday morning in the future, I will post a link to share those words, as well.

After the Storm

2011-01-10T08:56:00.000-08:00

After the firestorm of bullets a nine-year-old girl is dead. Much ink will be spilled about the blood that was spilled. Pundits and politicians will lay blame at the feet of their opponents. The NRA will defend the right of mentally unbalanced individuals to bear arms. Nothing much will change.

This may very well be the most depressing thought of my day. From time immemorial, human beings have made an awful mess of the world that God gave us to inhabit. We have repeatedly failed to achieve our potential to be our best selves. Instead of selflessly tilling and tending the paradise in which we live, we destroy the garden until it becomes hell on earth.

In one biblical story, it is the words of a woman that precipitates the fall from grace. To see the modern parallel, one must turn to cached pages on the internet, for the woman has learned after several thousand years to eradicate the evidence of her misdeed. Will there be ramifications of her having put such a negative energy into the world? Or will nothing much change after the detritus of the storm is cleared away and we attempt a return to normalcy?

For solace, I turn not to the biblical story itself but to its interpretation by an artist, Jheronimus Bosch, who depicted the aftermath of the storm using oil paints and his fertile imagination. In his painting of the world after the flood, we see the human beings who have survived the storm attempting to inhabit the earth once more. They are stranded in a boat which teeters on the precipice. They have not yet recovered their balance, but soon they will stand firmly again on the land. They are poised to do better this time, to fulfill God's promise to return to Eden. It is in this moment-- after the storm-- that anything is possible.

Hey is NOT for Horses

2011-01-03T06:18:00.000-08:00

I met Becky during Freshman Orientation week, which was called Customs Week at Haverford College. She was my first friend from south of the Mason-Dixon line and I learned one of her Carolina customs immediately.

Becky's typical greeting was “Hey!” I remember thinking that it was such a strange greeting. My Brooklyn-born parents considered hey to be rude. If we ever said hey to them, they would inevitably reply: "Hay is for horses." Becky said hey every single time she saw me. I wondered what my parents would make of her when they met her on Parents Weekend.

Now, more than 25 years later, having moved to Atlanta and, regrettably, no longer in contact with Becky, I find myself saying Hey! Of all the southern regionalisms, the only one that I have unconsciously adopted is the one that I most assiduously resisted. Of course, I had also roundly rejected y'all (too folksy) and all y'all (redundant), fixin' to rain (God as the chief plumber of heaven?) and might could (temptingly vague, but sounds odd). When I noticed myself passing people on the street and greeting them as Becky did, I realized that I had slipped into speaking southern. Clearly, such behavior from a die-hard Yankee Carpetbagger demands justification.

First, hey is somehow friendlier than hi, perhaps because it can be pronounced southern, the diphthong of the "ay" emphasized, even drawn out into its own syllable. While gently drawling hey, holding the vowel an extra moment in his or her mouth, the speaker maintains eye contact and a smile. In NYC, I walk the streets not making eye contact or smiling at all, instead softly exhaling my breath into silent vocalizations and debating the merits of living in the greatest city on earth where strangers do not share pleasantries.

I have found no superior substitute for hey. "Good morning" is excellent before noon, but "good afternoon" and "good evening" are too many syllables and too formal for sidewalks. Sometimes, when I greet my neighbor I am vaguely aware of sounding like a local, but the “Hey!” has left my lips before it registers in my brain. As I pass by, still smiling, I think of Becky and wish her a silent hey, wherever she is now.

Wishing Everyone a Sweet New Year!

2010-12-29T12:04:00.000-08:00

I'm going to keep this post, my last of 2010, short & sweet, so to speak. While visiting grandparents in Florida, my kids ably met the challenge of enjoying indoor activities during the coldest December in Florida in more than 100 years. Imagine our family's delight at finding a free tour of Angell & Phelps Chocolate Factory in Daytona Beach. We were like kids in a candy store!

Our guide shared trade secrets and free samples during a brief but informative tour of the facility. We watched through the glass as she explained why the employees use copper pots to heat the chocolate-- they are better than stainless steel for maintaining heat-- and conveyor belts to cool the chocolates. Meanwhile, mint creme-filled, dark chocolate-covered, delectable pieces made the 15 minute journey through the factory alongside us, as 2 air conditioning units cooled them to 54 degrees. Can you see the man in the background of the picture? He stands at the end of the conveyor belt, removes the chocolates one handful at a time, checks to ensure that the bottoms of the candies retained their shape and emerged undamaged, and then he boxes them to be sold. Creating such delicious treats is quite a labor-intensive process.

We did spend an hour, on the warmest day of our visit, collecting sea shells and deeply inhaling the ocean air. We did not, however, collect the hand-crafted, chocolate sea shells pictured above. Sadly, as we considered our 2011 resolution to eat healthy foods, we were forced merely to imagine this candy melting in our mouths.

The Rabbi's Secret

2010-12-20T06:17:00.000-08:00

I guess if I write about it, it won't be a secret anymore.

I guess I don't mind too much if you know my secret:

I love Christmas songs.

Since I feel such a sense of relief at sharing this secret, I will add some details: My delight in Christmas songs began when I first sang them in my elementary school choir, merely mouthing the lines that referred to Jesus as the Christ or Savior. During my high school years, Christmas Eve dinner spent with my friend Lisa's family was followed by caroling in her neighborhood. In college, I discovered gospel music. Much of the Christmas music that I love consists of upbeat, cheerful (jolly!) melodies, festive piano chords mixed with bells and tambourines, drums and horns. Some of my favorites-- traditional tributes to the season-- were actually composed by fellow Jews. If the great Irving Berlin can dream of a white Christmas then it can't be a shameful secret that I know the lyrics by heart.

This holiday season, thanks to a quirk in the Hebrew calendar, Hanukkah ended during the first full week of December. This allowed me additional time to indulge my Christmas joy without interference from Hanukkah music. (In the interest of full disclosure, I would like to add that I enjoy listening to Hanukkah music, a preference that I have never attempted to hide.) Nevertheless, halfway through the eight-night celebration, I lit my menorah and headed straight out the door to my first Christmas concert of the season. My daughter and I were delighted to hear her friend perform with the Georgia Regional Girl's Choir at St. David's Episcopal Church in Roswell. The girls' angelic voices filled the church and our hearts with joy at this preview concert. The next day, the girls performed downtown with the Atlanta Symphony Youth Orchestra at the Woodruff Arts Center. Still, being a traditionalist, I am glad to have attended their church concert.

The following weekend, my spouse and I ventured to Buckhead to hear the Atlanta Gay Men's Chorus perform at the Cathedral of St. Philip. More than 110 singers strong and celebrating their 30th year, the men of the AGMC were joined by the Atlanta Young Singers of Callanwolde on stage. The pews were packed to capacity with an appreciative audience, while the balcony and aisles filled with a standing-room-only crowd. The first act set a more serious mood, especially the stirring debut of a commissioned piece, Ring Out Wild Bells. In the second act, we were regaled with a more lighthearted set, which included some cartoon favorites. I left the church humming about the Grinch, and strains of A Charlie Brown's Christmas echoed in my head as I drifted to sleep that night.

In Atlanta, perhaps everywhere in America, there is a wealth of Christmas music in the air. But what I most appreciate is the opportunity to hear beautifully-sung Christmas music in majestic, richly-adorned churches all around the city. As a rabbi, I celebrate my own spiritual legacy of Jewish music; as a music lover, I rejoice when my spirits are lifted by Christmas songs.

The Rest is Still Unwritten

2010-12-13T05:47:00.000-08:00

We all have stories to tell, and often we want to tell them. We want other people to hear them, to validate our feelings and to share their stories in return. Writing is one medium we use to share our stories. We are all writers.

Although I have heard that blogging is passe and has been surpassed by Twitter, I know so many people who blog. While not all of my blogger friends are using their blogs as a platform for serious writing, they are all writers. Of course, not everyone's writing is equally polished. I guess that fits the paradigm, since not everyone's story is equally compelling to others.

I have been thinking a lot about the process of writing lately, as well as about the process of becoming a writer. Here are some conclusions that I have drawn, in no particular order:

1. Writing is not a "demanding mistress" (that's such a demeaning and sexist characterization), rather a "colicky infant." In my experience, the need to write cries to me, insistently, at inopportune times. In rare moments of grace, I am able to soothe the cries, to put my story into a coherent sequence of transcendent words.

2. Writing is not an occasional stroll around the neighborhood or a game of catch in the backyard, rather a daily, physical education class or scheduled workout with a personal trainer. Thus, a writer must dedicate time in her day to write. To become a writer is to affirm a commitment to daily practice.

3. Writing is never finished. Or, more accurately, the process of writing that entails revision is never finished. Unlike the clay, which eventually reaches a stage of dryness that denies the potter access to make changes and improvements to its form, the written word is at once preserved in stasis and offered for modification.

When I see a copy of my recently published book, I am struck by its physicality as an archive of my stories from a certain period in my life. It is, in a sense, finished. And yet, the rest is still unwritten.

Smoke & Mirrors

2010-12-06T02:40:00.000-08:00

Ten is one of those mystical numbers in Judaism. Its special significance is introduced in biblical literature, and the rabbis of the 1^st century codify ten as the number which represents critical mass in a Jewish community. A Jew can pray alone, anywhere, but he or she is required to find nine others with whom to recite the prayers designated as most important. Ten is called a minyan, quorum, and sometimes nine Jews gathered for prayers will pause in the service to wait until the 10^th arrives.

Sometimes it feels like there are only ten Jews in the entire world, and the rest of us are a magician’s stunt, an illusion produced using smoke and mirrors. I feel this most keenly when I play the game that Jews initiate upon meeting each other for the first time: Jewish Geography. It is similar to Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, only a much older and more beloved version, and it goes something like this:

Jew #1: You’re from [name of town in New Jersey]? Do you know [name of random Jew from that town, with a common Jewish name, such as Cohen or Levine]?

Jew #2: Of course! He is a few years older than I am, but I grew up with [name of Cohen’s younger sister or cousin].

In Jewish Geography, it’s usually fewer than six degrees of separation, too. We are a small clan, and just a few generations ago it was not uncommon for distant cousins to marry each other for the sake of endogamy.

So I should not have been at all surprised when I met a fellow Jew for the first time a few weeks ago and he asked me: “Did you go to JTS?” For a fleeting moment, I wondered if he was curious about my rabbinic training or checking my credentials, as I will be reviewing his book for a journal next month. Then I realized, from his follow-up question, that he was playing the game:

Tom: Do you know [name of rabbi who also attended JTS]?

Me: Of course! He was a year behind me in school, but I think he is a few years older than I am. We work together at camp and our sons are going to be bunkmates this summer. I’m going to be visiting him in [name of town in Florida] in January. How do you know him?

Tom: He was my roommate in college.

Ten Jews. Smoke. Mirrors.

I had the feeling that if we’d played Jewish Geography a few minutes more, we would have discovered a common ancestor.

As the evening progressed, we discussed mutual interests and affiliations, and chatted about his book, the publishing industry, politics-- the usual agenda of people getting acquainted.

Leaving Starbucks and saying goodbye to my new friend, I understood that we are actually old friends, possibly mishpochah (family), in the sense that we are part of the quorum of ten Jews who, wherever we gather, comprise a community.

My children have bested me!

2010-11-29T11:11:00.000-08:00

There is a famous story in the Talmud that describes several rabbis arguing about whether a fellow's oven is fit for use. In the course of trying to prove his point, the rabbi who holds the minority opinion attempts to convince his colleagues that he is correct by calling upon God to support him. After the river runs backwards and a voice calls out from heaven that he is correct, his colleagues scoff, saying that they do not determine legal matters based upon heavenly voices. They quote God, who told Moses and the people of Israel that the law is "not in heaven," but in their own hands (Deuteronomy 30:12). The story concludes with God laughing and declaring "Nitzhuni banai," my children have bested me! This is one of my favorite images of God: the parent who is delighted upon realizing that the next generation has finally grown up to be independent adults, who are indeed smarter and more capable than their parents.

Just over one year ago, I wrote an essay about the demise of the Japanese maple tree which adorned our front yard. Its trunk was eaten by ambrosia beetles, and we had to remove it and treat the surrounding trees to protect them from the fate of their neighbor. At the time, I was bereft at the loss of the tree and I could not foresee a future moment when I would be laughing in delight, taking in the visual splendor of the tree's child. While I knew that our maple tree was female --it had dropped many seedlings in the yard, most of which did not grow beyond a few inches-- I was unaware that a sapling had taken root and begun to flourish in the sunshine that now reached its branches. Once its mother had been removed, the child was no longer hidden by her shadow from the sun's rays. Today, I imagine that old maple tree would be laughing with me, nodding her agreement and rustling in the fall breeze, whispering nitzhuni banai, my children have bested me.

Counting to Ten

2010-11-21T21:10:00.000-08:00

I recently agreed to review a new book by Thomas Block, titled Shalom/Salaam: A Story of Mystical Fraternity. When the publisher excitedly pressed the book into my hands, I simply couldn't refuse. Knowing the limitations of my organizational skills, I requested a deadline and was given six weeks. Now, sitting at my desk, I am faced with the daunting task of reading the book and writing the review. My mind wanders while I procrastinate: When did I become a girl who can't say no?

The truth is that I think I may be turning into a softy. Not just a bleeding-heart liberal; but a softhearted, peace-loving, idealistic, naive sap. At first I considered not writing these words and posting them publicly, because I fear that they evoke a caricature rather than a clear picture of my character. But as fall breezes give way to winter winds, I am warmed by the thought of revealing myself. I have been waiting-- counting to ten-- deciding whether to share these thoughts since September.

In early September 2001, I was happily living in the moment. I was pregnant with my third child, and although I was still nursing the wounds inflicted by the 2000 Electoral College, I was guardedly optimistic about the future. Now I am warily living for the future, dreaming of where I will be in September 2011. I hope to be praying at an interfaith gathering to honor the memories of those who perished on 9/11. Not because I am a sap who believes that all God's children must live together in peace. Rather, because I am a person of faith -- faith in God and faith in humanity-- who believes that we must learn to heal our broken selves by working together to live in peace.

I used to discuss these ideas with some of my Jewish friends, but I find that we are no longer united by shared beliefs. For too many months I have heard the now-familiar refrain, "Where are the moderate Muslims? Why don't they speak out about the extremists?" But I have barely heard a word about the rising Islamophobia in western countries or about the self-inflicted damage to our own ideals and principles. When we allow our anxiety to fester and we nurture our grievances against an entire people because of the actions of a few, we hurt ourselves in ways that we rarely acknowledge.

And so I find myself compelled to ask, Where are the moderate Jews, whose grandparents fled countries in Eastern Europe, Russia and the Ukraine to escape rampant Judeophobia, and who arrived in this land of freedom only to be humiliated and censured by their German-American brethren who did not wish to be associated with immigrants? Do we no longer share the collective memory of being reviled that ought to inoculate us against revulsion and pronounced hatred of "the other?" Or do we believe that we have arrived in our safe haven where, no longer defined as "the other," we are free to despise others?

As I count the remaining months on my fingers from now until September, I see my hands stretch open wide. I hold them, palms facing upward and fingers splayed, ready to receive God's forgiveness. I imagine that God's loving hands will protect us from ourselves.

I count to ten again and open the book, supporting it with my widespread fingers. The time for procrastination is at an end as I begin reading, careful to keep my mind open wide like my hands. And I pray that God will protect my soft heart.

Barriers to Breaking Bread

2010-11-12T08:26:00.000-08:00

There was a flurry of emails -- back and forth, over several days-- with the host insisting that nothing was too much trouble. She wrote, "I make menu changes for everyone. I once had a dinner with 7 major religions and 2 extreme allergies. No one died or had to go to confession afterward. What can't you eat?" I thought that my response was clear, but I discovered later that it was not explicit enough.

You see, I keep kosher and I adhere to pretty strict rules within the system of Kashrut, the Jewish dietary laws that originate in the Hebrew Bible as part of a holiness code. Their original context is important: this code created definitive boundaries for eating, along with other daily activities, to draw a distinction between the Israelites and their neighbors. The earliest Jews were not permitted to break bread with "others," the inhabitants of the land, whose practices and customs were different and deemed -- in many cases-- abhorrent.

Kashrut is not necessarily about eating a healthy diet, which I also strive to do. But like my healthy diet, it does restrict me from eating certain foods altogether, eating some foods together with others, and eating certain foods at certain times. This system of eating gives my everyday life tremendous meaning, as it helps govern my food choices. At the same time, it also affects where and with whom I can eat.

The night of the dinner meeting I arrived a few minutes early, the Imam walking in just after me and the Pastor, and the Pastor's wife. The host led us all into the kitchen, letting me and the Imam know immediately that she had cooked the beef roast before the pork roast, using different utensils. The Imam, a generally easy-going fellow, smiled and thanked her. The rabbi, a more intense personality, felt a panic triggered in the brain begin to seep into her stomach.

Softly, but deeply, I exhaled a long and steady breath. The nausea subsided. I told my host that I couldn't eat the meat, only salad and vegetables. I explained that although she had gone to the trouble of using separate utensils, the meat itself was not kosher, not ritually slaughtered. I thought to myself that I was already bending the rules by eating rice and vegetables cooked in her non-kosher kitchen, but I didn't get into those particulars with her. I had made a conscious decision to enjoy a meal of fellowship with others, whom I no longer considered to be "others." I had chosen to compromise my personal observance of ritual law in pursuit of fulfilling an ethical imperative to love my neighbors.

In the face of such warm hospitality and genuine friendship, Kashrut seemed to me exposed as a divisive barrier to establishing community, rather than an enlightening channel to practicing holiness. I exhaled gently a second time, smiled and complimented my host for preparing a bountiful array of side dishes in the manner of a true Jewish mother. The Imam led us in a prayer, in the kitchen, inviting God's grace to our gathering. My Lutheran sister poured me a glass of wine, and invited us all to the table, where we sat down to break bread.

Love Your Neighbor As Yourself

2010-10-18T08:32:00.000-07:00

On the afternoon of Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement and arguably the holiest day in the Jewish year, the Holy Ark is opened and the Torah is taken out to be read. According to the traditional liturgy, the reader chants from the book of Leviticus, chapter 18, a litany of laws pertaining to the uncovering of nakedness, known as gilui arayot, which concludes with the statement: “And you will keep my charge: not to do any of the abominable customs that were done before you; and you will not become impure by them, I am YHWH, your God.” (Leviticus 18:30)

Reform rabbis, in their wisdom, chose to institute the reading of a different passage from Leviticus 19, often referred to as the Holiness Code. This reading also contains many laws governing human behavior, most notably laws against withholding the wages of a day laborer, cursing the deaf, holding grudges and exacting revenge. This holiness code also concludes with a summary statement: “And you shall love your neighbor as yourself. I am YHWH.” (Leviticus 19:18)

It is unusual to find Jews in complete agreement about anything– Jewish tradition is predicated upon argumentation and differing opinions. However, the ancient rabbis agreed that the principle of v’ahavta l’reyakha kamokha, love your neighbor as yourself, is of paramount importance. Rabbi Akiva referred to this verse as a fundamental principle of Jewish law, kl’al gadol ba-Torah. He could not have predicted that thousands of years later his statement would be put to music and the catchy tune would be taught to children in Jewish day schools in North America. This law is adopted by Christianity and Islam, and it exists in some form in every religion that I know.

It is a problematic verse, however, because love is an emotion and emotions cannot be legislated. In fact, Rabbi Akiva called it a principle, rather than a law, perhaps acknowledging that he and his colleagues were limited to creating laws governing actions. As such, this rule or principle is often understood to encompass acts of hesed, loving kindness, which cannot be repaid, such as visiting the sick, burying the dead and comforting mourners. While there is general agreement that we must treat others with respect and kindness, it is not surprising that the rabbis do not agree about the particulars, namely, how to express that love and to whom it extends.

Here are some excerpts from the generations of biblical scholars, who wrote extensive commentaries on the Torah, and from the legal experts, who wrote codes of Jewish law based upon the mitzvot, commandments, enumerated in the Torah:

Maimonides (12^th century) defines v’ahavta l’reyakha kamokha, loving your neighbor as yourself, as a specific action, that of taking care of your neighbor’s material objects in the appropriate manner: “When he protects the possessions of another person, he must think and feel as if he is guarding his own possessions.”

Sforno (15-16^th century) defines v’ahavta l’reyakha kamokha more as a state of mind, as putting yourself in your friend’s position, and praying for your neighbor in the appropriate manner. He gives the example that if your friend is ill you must think to yourself: “If I were ill myself, what would be the best blessing I could receive from God?” Then you must pray that your friend receives that blessing.

Nahmanides (14^th century) offers a more realistic approach, recognizing that it is impossible for a person to love anyone as much as he loves himself. He cites Rabbi Akiva’s statement in Talmud that if a person is in a situation in which he has a choice to save his own life or the life of his companion, his own life takes priority. Therefore, v’ahavta l’reyakha kamokha means that one should not only pray that his neighbor receives all the blessings he hopes to receive himself, but also not allow himself to envy another’s good fortune, because envy leads to hatred.

These explanations are certainly useful in guiding our behavior toward others close to us. But they do not offer guidelines about how we are supposed to treat hostile neighbors.

The rabbis who compiled Siddur (prayer book) followed Nahmanides’ approach, that it is impossible to love your neighbor as yourself, and took it a step further, acknowledging that some neighbors are total jerks. We can infer from the following meditation, which they included in the morning service to be recited every day, that they considered what prayers were appropriate for hostile neighbors and concluded that we are allowed to pray to be safe from these neighbors:

May it be your will, O Lord my God and God of my ancestors, to save me today and every day from arrogant people and from arrogance. Save me from evil people, evil companions and evil neighbors, from mishaps and destructive powers, from difficult judgments and opponents, whether they are members of the covenant or not.

It is important to note that the ancient rabbis, as well as many of the medieval biblical commentators, lived surrounded by hostile neighbors and had no legal autonomy or equal citizenship as we enjoy today. Understandably, they defined “neighbor” as referring exclusively to fellow Jews.

In fact, some modern Jews still hold to that definition, and would say that love begins and ends at home, that no one else will take care of the Jews, that we must stick together and take care of our own, and that tzedakah (charitable funds) should be donated only to Jewish organizations. I cannot disagree: It is critical for every Jew to feel a sense of identification with the Jewish community. The Jewish people are a small minority in the world, and we must take care of one another in order to remain both vibrant and viable.

At the same time, I am troubled by the legal limitations of v’ahavta l’reyakha kamokha as our sages have delineated them. It is widely known that the principle of pikuah nefesh, saving a life, is also considered central in Jewish law. The ancient rabbis taught in the Mishnah (circa 200 C.E.), that “He who saves a life, save the world entire.” (Mishnah Sanhedrin) Furthermore, the next generation of rabbis taught that “saving a life takes precedence over Shabbat.” (Talmud Bavli, Shabbat) We read in the Hanukkah story that the Maccabees defended themselves on the Sabbath, and we know that doctors, nurses, EMTs and other medical care providers are permitted to work on Sabbath.

This principle, that saving a life supersedes the Sabbath, is so familiar to us that we don’t really question it. However, the rabbis who instituted this rule did not extend it to non Jews:

If a building collapsed on the Sabbath and [the debris] fell on a person, if there is doubt whether he is there [buried under debris] or not there, whether he is alive or dead, whether he is a non Jew or a Jew, they must remove the debris. If they find him alive, they must remove the debris for him, but if he is dead, they must leave him [until after the Sabbath]. The text does not need to say “whether he is a Jew who is alive or dead, rather, “whether he is a non Jew or a Jew.” (Talmud Bavli, Yoma)

The disturbing implication of this textual analysis by the later rabbis is that extraordinary measures are only taken to save the life of a Jew. If there is any possibility that a Jew is buried in the rubble, we keep digging with no concern about breaking the laws of the Sabbath. Not so for a non Jew. Given the historical context in which these laws were written, it is unsurprising. Still, here the Talmud offers textual evidence to support the claims of those who would only love their fellow Jews.

Later commentaries further constrict the boundaries of v’ahavta l’reyakha kamokha. Rashbam (12^th century) taught that you must love your fellow Jew if your neighbor is good, but if your neighbor is evil; do not love him, as it written in Proverbs: “Those who revere God hate evil.” Radbaz (15^th century) wrote: “It is not necessary to extend oneself to a person who has cut himself off from Jewish people. The Jewish community is compared to the body of a person. Just as one would not think of deliberately injuring or neglecting his own limb, so too every Jew must seek the well-being of the Jewish people.” Some of these later commentators add that the reason for v’ahavta l’reyakha kamokha is that God created all people in the Divine Image. And yet they are clearly stating that our obligation extends only to Jews, or even to “good Jews.”

I don’t doubt that it is easier to extend compassion and loving kindness to those who are like us, who are members of our tribe, our mishpochah (family). And it can be challenging to extend beyond ourselves to our neighbors who are not like us, to the “others” who may not love us.

I appreciate how difficult v’ahavta l’reyakha kamokha was for our ancestors, living among hostile neighbors, and I would hardly suggest that it is any easier for us to observe this law in our own times. But I would also contend that we live in a world without borders. Therefore we cannot withhold our love for our neighbors.

My next door neighbor is separated from me by an invisible property line, sometimes demarcated only by her greener lawn. She is my neighbor because we live side by side. But the woman in South Africa who logs onto my Facebook page to view my pottery is also my neighbor. We may be separated by the International Date Line (which is also invisible), but we are, it seems to me, living side by side on the Internet. The nations of the world are interdependent and inextricably bound to one another. We Jews cannot afford to love ONLY our Jewish neighbors, or those we deem worthy.

I have been looking for textual support for my interpretation of v’ahavta l’reyakha kamokha , and it has not been easy to find. I recall the headlines from the beginning of 2010, and I am again gratified by the Jewish community’s response to the earthquake in Haiti. What Jew would not be proud when Israel, the Jewish state, responds so immediately to a disaster, extending their love well beyond their neighborhood? I continue to listen carefully for news about the Jewish response to the flooding in Pakistan, which has put some 3 million children at risk for diseases that are carried by contaminated water and insects, not to mention dehydration and starvation. I wonder whether Pakistani children are our neighbors. Does our loving kindness extend beyond this political border?

Moreover, I follow the current headlines about the French deporting the Roma, about the Dutch fanning the flames of hatred against Muslim immigrants, about our own politicians and law enforcement agents promising to rid our country of Mexican immigrants. Not only are we not loving our neighbors, we are actively engaged in the segregation of neighborhoods to exclude anyone we deem unwelcome. We Jews know too well what it means to be defined as “other,” to be unwelcome in the neighborhood. I find myself desperate for a definition of v’ahavta l’reyakha kamokha that will restore sanity and hope in our troubled times.

Our Jewish tradition has a legal precedent for defining love of our neighbor with strict limitations. This attitude and these laws evolved over centuries of our being the oppressed, hated and homeless people of the world. But we are not ancient or even medieval Jews. We are post-modern Jews, living in 5771, and we have the opportunity to define v’ahavta l’reyakha kamokha as broadly as Ibn Ezra interpreted this verse in the 12^th century:

There should be no difference between what a man wishes for himself and the good that he wishes for his fellow man. The reason: “I am YHWH.” Because I created all of you.

Only when we recognize the Divine Image in ourselves and in EVERY OTHER PERSON can we aspire to the ideal of love our neighbors as ourselves. This is the central lesson of the Holiness Code; this is our duty on the holiest day of the year, Yom Kippur, and every day of our lives. May we have the strength and courage to love all others in the coming year.

DIY-TWO (Do-it-yourself, together-with-others)

2010-03-29T14:52:00.000-07:00

It was Ash Wednesday and I was working from home all morning. Procrastinating, I logged on to Facebook and read a spate of status updates from people who were giving up chocolate, caffeine, and even Facebook for Lent. Shortly before noon, I arrived at my son's classroom to volunteer and ran into a friend who was taking her daughters to church during the lunch/recess hour. When I asked her what she was giving up for Lent, she said that she was not speaking about other people.

Giving up gossip?! That struck me as an enormous task to undertake for just one day, let alone an entire season of penitence. It is not that refraining from eating chocolate, drinking coffee and wasting time on Facebook are insignificant sacrifices. It's simply that I found my friend's choice to be on an entirely different spiritual plane. Her decision to limit her topics of conversation would affect her and anyone with whom she interacts during Lent. She had already affected me. In addition, I assume that people sacrificing foods and material pleasures would likely return to their habits of indulgence after Easter. But my friend's foregoing of gossip for several weeks had the potential to impact her everyday social interactions well beyond Holy Week. She would now be poised to find the Divine in others.

Last Wednesday, I heard from another friend who sought a spiritual transformation-- in her case by baking her own matzah for Passover. Realizing that preparing the dough and baking it into loaves within the 18 minute time-limit would require more than one pair of hands, she convinced another friend to join her in the endeavor. Together they were able to make 14 handmade loaves. Later that day, as they reflected on their shared experienced with me, both women remarked that they were surprised by how much the matzah preparation of previous generations of Jews depended upon communal cooperation. By reclaiming the baking of matzah at home, these women deepened their friendship and, I believe, brought God a little closer to home, too.

In a recent New York Times article about Christians who were performing community service as a form of religious expression during Lent, the Reverend James Martin was quoted as saying that "anything that can help someone experience God in a new way, a surprising way, is very helpful." I couldn't agree more. These friends have reminded me that a person who seeks spiritual transformation alone is admirable, and a person who seeks to share in the spiritual transformation of her friends is truly righteous.

Kol Ishah (The Voice of Woman)

2010-03-22T07:41:00.000-07:00

According to Jewish rabbinic law, the sound of a woman's voice is enticing to men and can present a terrible distraction from their service to God. That is why devout Jewish men do not pray in mixed groups, and when they do, women are forbidden from leading the prayers or even singing in full voice. The prohibition of kol ishah is also how ultra-religious Jewish men in Jerusalem justify their shouting and throwing chairs at a group of women who wish only to pray aloud on the women's side of the Western Wall.

But I don't really believe that it is merely the melody of kol ishah that troubles men. I am fairly certain that our lyrics, especially those challenging the established hierarchy or suggesting alternatives to male-dominated institutions, get us into trouble. Or perhaps it is the combination of tone and text that upset the men in charge: men who lead nations and represent us in government; men who lead religious groups and set their standards; men who in the 21st century in this country allow women to earn only 78% on the dollar for the same work that they do; men who command armies and lead our sons into battle.

Women who raise their voices in protest at this leadership are often silenced. I understand that it can be difficult to hear unpleasant words-- words of criticism-- and I recognize the human impulse to squelch that particular noise. Kol ishah, when permitted to be heard at all, is expected to sing sweetly.

Perhaps that is why I did not find it surprising, though quite distressing, to hear the news that Iranian authorities seized the passport of Simin Behbahani, a prominent poet who has been critical of the Iranian government's policies, especially those directed at women. Behbahani has not been charged with any crime, yet her freedom to travel has been curtailed in a way that must seem familiar to her after decades of negotiating her freedom of speech with government censors. Her poetry sings bravely, if not sweetly, about the ways in which men have ruled her country. Her voice at 82 is still strong as she reminds us that those who lead us cannot afford to ignore kol ishah.

In one week, I will join Jewish men and women around the world in the celebration of Passover, our holiday of the triumph of freedom over slavery. At our family's Seder, men and women will raise their voices, joyfully praising God for our redemption. And I will pray for a new era of peace, in which kol ishah will be permitted to sing the melody of truth, and men will add the harmony to our song.

I beg your pardon; I never promised you an herb garden

2010-03-15T07:01:00.000-07:00

Until quite recently I believed that I had a black thumb. I have killed the hardiest plants, including cacti, which are purported to be indestructible. When I moved here, only one houseplant had survived my years in a NYC apartment. I left it behind with the Super's wife, hoping it would have a better life with her. But everything changed for me last week, when I noticed that something STRANGE was happening in the pot of my Jerusalem Cherry Tree.

As an aside, I feel compelled to mention that I received this particular plant as a gift from someone who did not know about my tendency to hasten death in houseplants. During the last 18 months, this beautiful plant had lost its bright orange berries and more than half of its leaves, but it refused to die. In fact, it grew steadily until even I realized that it required a transplant to a larger pot. Within a week of its transfer, the plant began budding and small, white flowers appeared among the leaves. I took notice, but maintained a strong skepticism about its survival following such a radical procedure at the hands of an incompetent practitioner.

Last week, my negative self-talk was drowned out once and for all when I walked by the plant and noticed thin green shoots, which looked like tiny blades of grass, sprouting up around the perimeter of the pot. "What on earth?" I muttered aloud. Turns out I should have asked "what in earth?" instead. You see, my children go to an environmentally savvy school, where they can be Junior Master Gardeners and other students' parents can adopt-a-spot and tend to the flower beds on campus. Last April, in celebration of Earth Day, they planted seeds in small, decorated pots and brought them home. Assuming that I would fail to nurture the tiny seeds into actual plant life, I just left the pots in the garage. Then 9 months later, when I needed additional soil to transplant the Jerusalem Cherry Tree, I saw little point in purchasing a new bag. I had already calculated the likelihood of this plant's death at 99.9%. In an effort to reduce, reuse and recycle, I tossed the soil from the Earth Day pots into the larger pot, watered the plant and placed it near a window where I could ignore it for a while.

Apparently, herb seeds can survive many months of abandonment in a garage. Now I have an herb garden growing alongside my flowering Jerusalem Cherry Tree in my powder room, and I am beginning to reconsider my capabilities as a cultivator of life. Spring really is a time of growth -- all kinds of growth.

100 years

2010-02-08T09:35:00.000-08:00

In a few weeks, one of my favorite students will officially accept the responsibilities of Eagle Scout. We adults who have watched this young man grow up feel privileged to share in his celebration. After raising far more money than he needed for his Eagle Scout project -- he built an outdoor classroom at his high school-- he invested the surplus in a fund to help other, less-fortunate, aspiring Eagle Scouts realize their goals.

On the same day of Alex's ceremony, my spouse will attend a training session to become a Den Leader. I am so proud of him for accepting this responsibility and so grateful that he is an active participant in my son's life. He was surprised to hear this from me, though, because he knows that I am deeply conflicted about the Boy Scouts of America, and I continue to harbor mixed feelings about my son's participation in Cub Scouts.

As recently as this past Friday, I was reminded of my ambivalence when I heard an interview with the new CEO of the Atlanta Area Council. I smiled as he described the marvelous activities that would mark the 100th anniversary of scouting, and nodded appreciatively as he emphasized the scouts' commitment to the environment. He spoke of the long tradition of service to the community and of keeping the image of Boy Scouts fresh and relevant to today's kids. And then he poked a pin in my swelling balloon of joy, when he answered firmly and without hesitation that the Boy Scouts' ban on gay leaders has not changed: "That's been our tradition, and it will remain so." Unspoken, but clearly communicated, was his moral certitude based on his Christian values.

I had long opposed this stance in my own religion, understanding both the exclusion of gays from leadership positions and the sentiment that homosexuality is wrong to be a most narrow interpretation of one verse in the Hebrew bible. But as a member of this tribe and a rabbi, I was able to teach alternative interpretations and work toward ending the institutionalized discrimination against gays and lesbians in Conservative Judaism.

I had likewise discouraged my son's participation in Cub Scouts, because I felt that I was without recourse to oppose their policy. My spouse and other leaders in Pack 1800 reassured me that homophobia would not be felt at the local level. In fact, one of the boys in my son's den has two mothers, both smart and articulate women who share my concerns. Still, they encourage their son's involvement in scouting and they participate in local meetings and events.

My son, who proudly wore his uniform to school today in recognition of the 100th anniversary, has already benefited so much from scouting this year. He has slept in a tent, hiked in the mountains, visited elderly people in assisted living, and designed an aerodynamic car that earned him first place at the Pinewood Derby--all this with his father by his side. His father and I continue to discuss our concerns about that one "tradition" in scouting that we simply cannot abide. But he is only 8 years old. It isn't time yet for him to share in these discussions.

How will I mark today's anniversary? I open my Hebrew bible to a different chapter and read: "There is a season for everything, a time for every experience under heaven... a time for keeping; a time for discarding." Then I pray: Perhaps it will not take the next 100 years to establish a new tradition.

An Uncommon Person

2010-01-12T11:31:00.000-08:00

"I, myself, I'm just a very common person."

These words, uttered by Miep Gies, got me all choked up this morning. Gies, who was honored as a Righteous Gentile by Yad Vashem Holocaust Museum for hiding Anne Frank and other Jews during the Holocaust, died yesterday at the age of 100. She was anything but "common," but her description of herself is a gift to all of us, a reminder that it doesn't take a remarkable person to help others. It just takes a willing person. The sincere humility of Miep Gies is an inspiration to me, a common person.

Having joined the masses of unemployed professionals nearly 18 months ago, I sought purpose in my daily life through volunteerism. A Jewish mother at heart, I chose to work at the Food Pantry of North Fulton Community Charities (NFCC), feeding the hungry. I did not know what to expect, but I hoped that a weekly reminder that there are people more in need of help than I would humble me and keep my self-pity in check. High IQ, years of graduate education, multiple degrees, fluency in several dead languages -- I remain a common person, no better than anyone else, if only a bit "better off."

In the past year, I have been sorting and shelving soup cans, repacking diapers in brown bags, and filling plastic bags with groceries for parents who need a little extra food for their children, cancer patients on special diets who can't manage on Disability, older adults who have stretched their monthly Social Security checks to the limit. They are considered “the needy,” but I have received such an extraordinary gift from them. Every time a client thanks me as I hand them their food, they lift my spirit. And to those who say "God bless you," it is all I can do to flash them a million dollar smile and wish them good luck before running back to the soup shelves to shed tears in semi-private.

What did I do, really, beyond spending a few hours of my relatively empty work week filling grocery bags? NFCC is teeming with wonderful volunteers, other common people like myself. I am no more deserving of God's blessing than any other person, yet I feel so blessed every Friday afternoon when I walk out to the parking lot. My own burden feels lighter for having helped my neighbors, even in such a small way.

Today, listening to the NPR interview with Miep Gies, I was reminded that being a common person is the point. When she was alive, she always made a point of saying that she did not want to be called a hero. She did not want people to think it takes a very special person to help those who need you, fearing that ordinary people would feel discouraged or overwhelmed. She was right, along with being righteous. There is not one of us incapable of helping another person, and we must help not as an act of heroism but as an act of kindness. May we all strive to be as common as Miep Gies, a remarkable person, and may her soul be bound up in eternal life.

I thought dogs were supposed to be diurnal!

2009-12-07T06:04:00.001-08:00

This is Jenna. She is, as the children whom I carried in my womb will tell you, my FAVORITE. It's true, I always reply. She never talks back, she's always happy to see me when I get home, and she doesn't hold grudges. Why wouldn't she be my favorite?

Still, last night she was pushing the limits of my love. Well, it was actually early this morning-- around 2:30 a.m. I realize that she sleeps a lot during the day, but she's not a toddler. She's middle-aged, like me. And, apparently, her grip on a good night's sleep is tenuous, like mine.

From the depths of my exhaustion, I hear splashing water. I roll over, thinking it is an irony of my life that the "white noise" machine that is supposed to mask other sounds with its gentle rain is waking me. Then I hear it more clearly -- the sloshing sounds are intermittent, not steady like the rain. It must be my daughter in the bath, I think. The last thing I remember before turning out the light was her telling me that she was going to take a shower. She said shower, my sluggish brain finally registers, not bath.

Then I hear the unmistakable sound -- faint at first and then growing louder as it approaches -- of panting. That nutty dog was drinking from the toilet! Creaking floorboards in the distance...she's in my son's room now. She'll probably cover his face with slobbery kisses, and then he'll be in my room complaining. Nails grazing the wood floor... she's made a failed attempt to jump into his bed.

I am wide awake now. She settles in next to my bed, no longer willing to make the effort to jump up and shove me and my husband to the edges to accommodate her. She is content to sleep on the cool floor, chasing rabbits in her dreams. She snores softly. I surrender: Mine will be a long night of short naps.

Comfort Food

2009-11-12T16:44:00.000-08:00

New York City is my city in a way that Atlanta will never be. Yet, walking the streets of my once hometown, I recognize that I must remain in exile for a little while longer, while I finish raising my children and walking my aging dog along the suburban sidewalks of my current neighborhood. New York is an unlivable city -- too expensive, too noisy, too dirty, too crowded-- too much for our family, right now. But stepping off the train in Grand Central Station, herded along with too many people through the narrow exit to the terminal, I vow to return to this city. I feel the City's gravitational pull as it draws me toward the center of my universe.

My recent visit was too short. I arrived at the tail end of rush hour, exited Grand Central, and crossed town through the Diamond District as the shop keepers began reassembling their displays for the day. I turned right on Broadway into the heart of the Theater District, the brisk morning air charging my spirit forward. I am headed back to my neighborhood, the Upper West Side, as if an invisible tether leads me there.

In the ten years since I left home, the price of a subway ride has climbed to an unimaginable $2.25. I swipe the Metrocard and notice that everyone around me is hooked to a device: Blue Tooth, Blackberry, iPod, iPhone. No one on the #1 uptown train leans against the pole, clutching a NY Times folded into a narrow column. I am forced to supply this visual from my memory. In the crowded car, I am jostled against my neighbors but I do not feel claustrophobic. I look around again, careful to maintain an impassive New Yorker expression. There is an endless diversity of humanity here, and I realize how much I miss this particular form of human contact.

Emerging from the subway, I discover that the audio is the still the same-- the train pulling away from the station, the blaring of car horns, the shouts of delivery men. Mostly, though, my memory is triggered by the scents of the City. Approaching H & H Bagels, inhaling deeply, I feel nostalgia and a longing for a warm pumpernickel with butter.

I spend several hours wandering up and down Broadway, until it is a respectable time for a deli lunch. The healthy diet of my middle age will not permit the overindulges of my youth: I order a half-sandwich, a long-awaited hot pastrami on rye, to be washed down with a Dr. Brown's diet cream soda. The waiter wordlessly sets down a plastic cup of ice, a monkey dish of cole slaw, and a bowl of pickles. I bite into a half-sour; it is crunchy, perfect. The half-sandwich arrives, piled so high that I am sure its caloric content outpaces any full sandwich I have consumed in Atlanta during the last ten years. I have to squeeze it firmly to get my mouth around it. Ultimately, it is my sense of taste that evokes the strongest memories of my life here. I am sitting in a booth in a NYC deli, 1,000 miles from my house in Marietta, GA, savoring the feeling of coming home.

Standing Still

2009-10-21T19:57:00.001-07:00

"Retrace your steps."
"Don't think about it and it will come back to you."

I used to follow this advice, when I was in my 30's and I would suffer a momentary memory lapse. But things have changed for me, as those lapses tend to last more than a moment, as time compresses my memory to a mere shadow of its former self. The regularity with which I enter a room only to forget why I'm there still surprises me. I used to turn around, walk back to the room where my journey originated while deeply concentrating on my mission. What was I looking for in the kitchen junk-drawer?

I used to pace, talk to myself, allow my frustration to simmer-- sometimes boil-- until I remembered. Now I have adopted a new strategy: I stand still. I just stand there, with my hand on the drawer pull or door handle, and I wait for my mind to reboot. Sometimes when I draw a blank, I am able to recover quickly, after mere seconds of stillness. Other times my brain boots up like my old PC, which we bought in 1999 and eventually gave to our daughters when it was only useful for playing Solitaire and typing short essays.

I may have burned more calories pacing and growing irritated with myself, but I feel better standing still, silent, unthinking, only blinking, waiting for my memory to regain its mobility. My mind may be less nimble than it was in my youth, but my body remains perfectly poised, ready to welcome the return of every stray thought.

Afebrile Children

2009-09-26T18:43:00.001-07:00

Now, I know my kids aren't perfect, but they are generally good kids. On my best days as a mother, I feel proud to have raised courteous children who often receive compliments for their behavior in public. On my really good parenting days, I can't even find fault with their behavior in private, and I relish in their antics at home. There is one thing about my kids, however, that drives me crazy: They are afebrile.

That is not to say that they never run a fever when sick, but they hardly ever do.

The rules of mothering dictate that she must nurse her children to health, spoiling them with cold compresses and popsicles when they have fever. I am unable to fulfill such simple duties because my kids' bodies lack the common courtesy to inform me of their illnesses.

As a result of his afebrile tendencies, my son's eardrum has burst on multiple occasions, with that being the only indication that he'd contracted an ear infection. My daughter, who tends toward stomach bugs, has thrown up in school many times, and once had strep throat for more than a week before being diagnosed. These were not proud parenting moments for me.

Fever is the body's alert mechanism for mothers; often the first and best indication that her child is sick. Of course, I'm speaking of average children, who care enough about their mothers to keep them in the loop. My kids, instead, prefer to keep me guessing. By eschewing fever, they challenge me to be a better mom; one who has to raise her children to be tuned in to their own bodies and health -- seeing as how their external monitors are a tad unreliable.

Planning Ahead

2009-08-28T14:04:00.001-07:00

I have recently become completely submerged in plans for my daughter's Bat Mitzvah celebration. I am pretty sure that I'm driving her crazy, and the rest of my family along with her, because they audibly groan every time I mention these plans at the dinner table. Somehow, it seems to me, the topic always winds its way back to the Bat Mitzvah. Did I mention that it's still more than three months away? I admit to having poked fun at my mother-in-law who was similarly obsessed with planning her recent "milestone birthday and anniversary" party. I guess I will have to apologize to her, now that I finally understand the compulsion to plan.

It's not about having every last detail organized, and it's not about controlling every aspect of the weekend, despite what others may assume. It's really about savoring the sensation of having something joyous to plan. When there is a happy occasion on your calendar, when you having something to look forward to in the (relatively) near future, the drudgery of daily work seems bearable. My here and now is already pretty fabulous, and I make a point of telling my kids to enjoy the present. But thinking about December, imagining how wonderful it will be, is slightly more fabulous. I am deeply grateful for the planning itself, which entices my mind to such fanciful journeys into the future.

No less than three generous and lively people I know were recently diagnosed with grave illnesses. These sobering reminders of the importance of living for today also goad me to live for tomorrow. If I plan to celebrate in December, and I plan for these brave friends to celebrate with me, maybe I can tweak God's conscience into ensuring that together we will reach that happy occasion.

Tree Hugger's Lament

2009-08-13T18:03:00.000-07:00

These are adult ambrosia beetles, and they have infested my favorite tree.

Worse yet, they have infested my children’s favorite tree. “The ONLY tree in our yard that we can climb,” my children are quick to point out to me when I tell them that the Japanese maple tree is being removed next week. They are not comforted by the arborist’s assessment of the surrounding trees – a gorgeous water oak among them—which have not yet been infested. They do not care that the arborist’s team will spray the yard to ward off these awful creatures and rid the water oak of its dead branches, which threaten to fall on them whenever they play under it on a windy day.

The truth is I am sorely disappointed to lose the tree. In my mind’s eye, and in several family photos, it sprawls above the heads of my children, its red leaves ablaze in summer and early fall, turning an earthy brown until shed in early winter. In my yard, however, it stands forlorn, its branches desiccated and half denuded of leaves, its trunk covered with spidery trails of beetle dung.

“The yard will look so empty,” my husband says wistfully, when he hears the arborist’s plan. I glance out the window, but it is almost dark, and I can hardly see the bare branch which served as a harbinger of the tree’s demise. Could we have saved it, if we had realized sooner? My husband gives voice to the very question that plagued me all afternoon, since the moment the arborist scraped the roots of my favorite tree with his shoe, scattering the dusty beetle dung and shaking his head sadly. “It’s a good thing you called in time to save the other trees,” he told me kindly. I looked up at the sky through the canopy of oak leaves, trying to find the good in losing the maple, wondering if the beetles had drunk their fill of ambrosia.

Expletive Deleted

2009-08-04T06:29:00.001-07:00

Did you ever notice that certain words really pack a punch? There are some words or phrases that, when I hear them, can make me feel physically weak. I don't just mean "curse words," which I have been known to utter, sometimes in front of my kids. I share this because I don't want to appear to be a moralizing, goody-two-shoes rabbi. Despite my penchant for swearing at other drivers, I do find some words--that are indeed unprintable here -- to be simply unspeakable. Racial and ethnic slurs fall into this category.

There are also things said aloud, and it isn't so much the words themselves that hurt or offend, but the tone of voice in which they are spoken, or the body language that accompanies them. Often the words that hurt us are most painful because we care deeply about the speaker. A spouse who spits out a hateful accusation like a morsel of rotten food, unable to be choked down in an argument, can destroy a marriage with words. A sibling's withering "you're so stupid" or reflexive "I hate you" can alter a child's sense of self. The carelessly blurted insult of friend, the coworker's sarcastic response in a meeting, the joke told at another's expense: These words and comments only half-remembered and half-intentional can cause the irrevocable damage to relationships.

What must we do with these words? If we attempt to excise them from our speech, harnessing the societal forces of political correctness and our own personal determination to cause no harm to those around us, these words will continue to exist in the recesses of our brains. Swallowed words are still palpable; they echo silently in our memories, even as silence robs them of provoking a more visceral reaction. Perhaps our only recourse is to remain aware of their potential to harm. We can blunt the power of our words, but we cannot dispossess them from our lives.

This Date in Jewish History: Tisha B'Av

2009-07-29T04:34:00.000-07:00

"On the 9th of Av it was decreed that our ancestors would not enter the land."

Mishnah Ta'anit 4:6

In the Mishnah, edited approximately 2,000 years ago, the early rabbis list five specific events which occurred on the 9th of the month of Av. According to their calendar, on today's date in history the twelve spies sent by Moses to survey the land of Israel returned from their mission. Ten of them brought back a negative report, saying that giants inhabited the land and that the people of Israel would never succeed in overtaking them. Their words created panic and despair in the camp.

Rabbis throughout the generations have chronicled the calamities that befell the Jewish people on the 9th of Av, including many expulsions from host countries and several events of the Shoah, the Holocaust. But the fact that the rabbis of the first century reach back in time to this particular event--God's punishment of our biblical ancestors-- to represent the first Tisha B'Av, is significant. On this date in Jewish history, a minyan (quorum) of Jews caused a fracture in our unity and prevented us from reaching the Promised Land. On this date in Jewish history, we were exiled from the Promised Land, our Temple and our holy city Jerusalem left in ruins.

We can deduce from the rabbinic chronology of tragedy that it is human nature to try to make sense of the random occurrences in our lives. We strive to create order from chaos, to connect the dots of the circumstances that befall us into a linear biography. We assign dates to events in our ancestors' lives, which are to be commemorated by our progeny, because we need to find purpose in our own lives.

My Canniversary

2009-07-20T06:29:00.000-07:00

Canniversary (colloquial) noun: a year from the date on which you were fired from a job [Source: www.urbandictionary.com]

We generally think of birthdays and anniversaries as milestones to be celebrated. At same time, these dates offer us opportunities to look back on the year that has passed and plan ahead for the coming year.

I recently celebrated my canniversary – it has been one year since I began my period of unemployment. This year marks the first time in my adult life-- and if you count babysitting and summer jobs, the first time since my 12^th birthday-- that I have not worked. Of course, I did work odd jobs throughout the year, including substitute teaching and a five week summer camp gig, and since January I have been volunteering weekly at a local food pantry. Still, my canniversary proclaims that the process of “redirecting my career” has spilled over into a second year without steady income.

A friend of mine shared a wonderful insight about how this change in employment status affected her: We were raised with certain parental expectations, namely, that we would go college, get a masters degree or other professional training, and begin a career in our chosen professions. This period of transition is difficult because we are breaking boundaries, making new choices, defying expectations.

Fifteen years ago I wondered whether I was "mother" material. Now I am a stay-at-home mom, choosing not to work full time this year so that my teenager who is starting high school will not come home to an empty house. I often struggle with guilt about this choice, as I am not contributing financially to the family's budget. But juggling the part time and volunteer commitments that I have made, along with the schedules of three children and a spouse, is a full time job. Recognizing this as my work, although it cannot be measured quantitatively with salary scales and promotions and scheduled vacation time, I feel relieved of a great burden. This canniversary was a time to reflect on life's many transitions and a moment of joyous celebration of the life that I am now leading.

All the little birdies on Jaybird Street

2009-04-27T16:33:00.000-07:00

My Hebrew name is Tziporah, like Moses' wife, and it means "bird." My maiden name is Jay, like the bird. Nevertheless, I refuse to tweet.

I have recently received a number of invitations to join Twitter. My hairdresser, Dennis, also gave Twitter an enthusiastic endorsement. He is a self-described addict who follows the tweets of numerous personalities, from Lance Armstrong to Ashton Kutcher. I have a difficult time explaining to my Twittering friends my resistance to this medium. After all, most of my friends know that I check Facebook regularly, even if I post status changes rarely. Naturally, they assume that I would also enjoy the occasional tweet. Would it be insulting to tell them that I hardly ever check their status feeds? (Oops! I think I just let them in on that secret.) When I want to know what other folks are thinking and doing I read the NY Times--the version that leaves ink smudges on your hands and coffee mug. When I want to explore an idea or get lost in someone else's imagination, I check a book out of the library.

I readily admit that I am enjoying my new cell phone with Internet access, and I have already bookmarked my iGoogle and Facebook home pages. But I embrace new technology with the appropriate caution of an immigrant to the digital age. I chuckle to myself, marveling at the speed with which my teenager is able to type with her thumbs, but I am not tempted to text alongside her. I eschew texting, with its funny initials. IDK, YRU texting me? Just call me – we can LOL. I have 750 minutes, and they roll over better than my dog can most mornings. Dare I mention that I pay 20 cents for every incoming text? Oy, i h8 that!

So, for now I do not tweet. It's not that I am not interested in what my friends are doing. It's just that I'd rather meet them for a coffee and hear about it in a real-time conversation.

Following Julia's Blog

2009-04-13T20:25:00.000-07:00

Julia is the first blogger I ever encountered, and I began following her blog on my Google home page last year. I don't check it daily, but I take a peek when her titles catch my eye. Julia is my pottery friend and a librarian, and although we disagree on all things political we have similar tastes in books and movies. She is really smart and articulate, and wickedly funny. I switched pottery classes in January, and I miss sitting next to her in class and getting shushed by the teacher during demos. Following her blog makes me feel a tiny bit more connected to her, and allows me to enjoy her sense of humor until I can occupy the wheel next to hers again in the fall.

Last week she posted a link to a nerdy librarian quiz -- it's kind of like a horoscope written in "Dewey Decimal." Her post was just funny and quirky enough to entice me to try out the quiz. Here are my results:

Pamela Gottfried's Dewey Decimal Section:

906 Organizations & management

Pamela Gottfried = 613521750068954 = 613+521+750+068+954 = 2906

Class:
900 History & Geography

Contains:
Travel, biographies, ancient history, and histories of continents.

What it says about you:
You're connected to your past and value the things that have happened to you. You've had some conflicted times in your life, but they've brought you to where you are today and you don't ignore it.

Find your Dewey Decimal Section at Spacefem.com

By the way, Julia's blog is http://brainella.blogspot.com.

There's a fine, fine line

2009-04-07T16:18:00.000-07:00

"There's a fine, fine line between a fairy tale and a rhyme," goes the witty song in Avenue Q. I have been noticing these fine lines lately -- they are appearing on my face around the eyes and mouth, and also in my daily life. The lines are most visible to me at the food pantry, as the distinctions between my life and the clients' lives become quite blurry.

I was inspired to volunteer at North Fulton Community Charities by my friend Rochelle. She worked a number of shifts there in the fall and found it to be a humbling experience. It is not like the Atlanta Community Food Bank, where you spend several hours in a warehouse sorting and boxing up food to be distributed to food pantries throughout Northwest GA. When you volunteer at NFCC, you actually hand the bags of groceries to the clients, sometimes exchanging a few words with them. "Do you need to take the buggy to your car? You can just bring it back in a few minutes." "There is no Similac, so I gave you Enfamil with iron, okay?" "Azucar? No, lo siento. Quieres Splenda?"

At first I was concerned about this personal contact. In order to be helpful to the clients and efficient as a pantry volunteer, it is necessary to maintain some distance. At the same time, I cannot stop from making eye contact, smiling and offering a few kind words. The first time a client grabbed my arm and said, "Thank you. God bless," I was sure I would lose it. But I held it together until I got to my car at the end of the shift. God has already blessed me and I am so grateful. I may not have a full-time job right now, but I have a spouse who earns enough to feed our family. And I can walk into the supermarket to buy fresh fruits and vegetables any time I want.

What separates the person filling the grocery bags in the pantry from the person receiving them in the lobby? An unanticipated illness? An insurance hike following a car accident? A salary cut or enforced furlough time at work? Is it just luck or circumstance or fate that I’m the one saying "take care" and hearing "God bless?" There's a fine, fine line.

Stalled at the Corner of D&D

2009-03-31T17:42:00.000-07:00

I remember when D&D stood for Dungeons & Dragons. My kids believe that it stands for “doom and destruction,” which is how we jokingly refer to the intersection where we had the accident. That was back in November, but I still hold my breath occasionally when I drive through there.

As my doctor checked me thoroughly for neck injuries, I described the accident to her: “It was raining. I heard an ambulance siren. I checked my rear-view mirror but saw no flashing lights. The driver behind me was being cautious—plenty of stopping distance. I tapped the brakes gently. Looking up, I saw the lights approaching, in my lane. I leaned on my brakes. Then I heard a loud ringing in my ears. When the car finally skidded to a stop across the four-lane intersection, I realized that it was the ‘door indicator.’ The sliding door on the passenger side was crushed open, accordion style. There was screaming and crying coming from the back seats of the van. All three children were with me, but my 14 year old is great in a crisis. She calmed her brother and sister down, while I called 911.” My doctor nodded and didn’t say a word.

“It wasn’t the driver behind me,” I continued. “He came right over to help. It was the driver behind him, who didn’t hear the siren, who was in an awful hurry, who didn’t realize why traffic had slowed to a near-stop, who slammed on his brakes when he scooted in between us.” “Oh, I see,” she said nodding again. “And have you driven through there since the accident?” she asked. I checked my watch. 10:30 a.m. “Yes, of course. Four times today already,” I replied. “And how do feel about that?” she asked. “I’m still pretty anxious,” I admitted, “but I’ll have to get over it.” “It will take some time,” she cautioned.

It’s been months, and I still feel a bit jittery at that corner, especially when it rains. Is this PTSD? I’ve been in far more stressful situations, including 15 seconds of terror during a major earthquake. No one was seriously injured in the crash, and although my car was totaled, it was easily replaced. So why did I freeze to a stop last week when I heard an ambulance siren as I approached that intersection? Maybe the main difference between easily getting over previous shocks in my 20’s and feeling stalled at the Corner of D&D in my 40’s is that I now possess the cumulative experience of life’s stresses. And it is more difficult to unlearn a reinforced response. Still, I’m doing the best I can and using all my mental resources-- especially my sense of humor--to assist in my recovery. As it turns out, dungeons and dragons are not so scary after all.

My two Jims

2009-03-25T07:17:00.000-07:00

My teenage daughter is thoroughly embarrassed by my inclination to chat with strangers as we go about our errands. "You don't have to talk to everyone who passes by," she grouched at me as we waited in front of the movie theater for her friend to arrive. Still, I find these friendly conversations have a positive effect on my life. Recently, two of the people who I see regularly-- at the coffee shop and the copy shop-- made my day. Coincidentally, both of these people are named Jim.

The first Jim is the manager of the Starbucks nearest to my kids' school. Sometimes I hang out there, nursing a latte and scribbling in my writer's notebook, while I wait for afternoon carpool to begin. Jim, who is also a writer, once noticed me working and struck up a conversation. He is a big, gentle bear of a man. Last week I told him that a publisher was interested in reading my manuscript, and he shook my hand so hard I was left breathless. Jim's agent is trying to get him a movie deal for one of his books. I can't wait to bear-hug him when he shares his good news with me.

The second Jim is a customer service rep at the neighborhood Office Max. Between teaching, writing and pottery, I have a lot of photocopying needs, so I spend a lot time there. In fact, I have already been there 3x this week. On Monday, when I went in to ask about binding the manuscript, I was surprised that Jim wasn't there to help me. I discovered he was scheduled for the afternoon shift this week. "Well, tell him I stopped by to see him," I told Robin. Later that day, when I was juggling several canvas bags filled with yummy treats from Trader Joe's and thinking about my nice chat with the man in the checkout line, a tall man called to me, "Hey, there! How have you been?" It was Jim! I told him about missing him that morning at Office Max and about finishing the manuscript. I almost dropped my bags as congratulated me with a hug.

I think that married adults shy away from touching folks who are not our spouses and children. It's too bad, actually. A friendly hug can communicate support more effectively than words. As I move to the next stage of the publishing process, feeling so uncertain of success and occasionally lonely in my new existence as a writer, I find that my optimism and perseverance are bolstered by my two Jims. I am grateful for our many ways they cheer me on and brighten my daily existence. Technically, they are no longer strangers to me -- but only because I consider running errands an opportunity to connect with others in my community.

2008-08-19T20:12:00.000-07:00

Pekele (Yiddish) noun: package, parcel, bundle [pronounced: peh-keh-leh]

My grandmother always had a collection of shopping bags in her front hall closet. She stuffed them in there after shlepping them home from the neighborhood stores in her native Brooklyn, and she packed them full of leftovers when we visited for dinner. Her bag rule, like her Tupperware rule, was that if you returned it empty she would refill it for you. My first memory of the word pekele was as a reference to one of those bags.

The better-known usage refers to the metaphoric pekele that each of us carries with us. This connotation of pekele is so common that it appears in the Yiddish-English dictionary as “burden” or “bag of troubles.” In English we might call it our “baggage.” What do we keep in a pekele? We shove frustration and disappointment in there, difficulties we are experiencing, personal issues that we don’t want to share—and we carry it everywhere. Sometimes we use what’s in there. Sometimes the bag leaks. Mostly we just carry it around, thinking that it’s heavier than everyone else’s pekele, imagining that our lives would be perfect if we could just get rid of it. But that bag has staying power, like the ones in my grandma’s front hall closet.

One lesson of the pekele is this: Your pekele is unique. No one else can really feel how heavy it is, because only you can carry it. You can never trade your pekele for someone else’s – nor should you ever want to do such a thing. If you believe that your pekele is filled with the heaviest burden, then it is time to regain perspective. According to my grandmother’s wisdom, God only fills your pekele with what you can carry.

Another important lesson of the pekele: If you are fortunate enough to find ways to share its content with compassionate friends, they can relieve you of some of its weight. True friends remind us to put the pekele down for a few minutes, stretch those arm muscles and adjust its contents as you regain your strength.