#BlogExodus — Perfect Timing
At sundown the past Friday, we moved from the frivolity of Adar to the preparatory nature of Nisan.
We retrace our steps.
From enslavement…through the narrow places…to, we hope, redemption. Freedom.
So how fitting that this past Friday was horrid. Just. plain. horrid.
The children would not stop bickering. And Beernut, who had had a particularly trying Thursday, was still out-of-control. Wildly out-of-control.
The very thought of cleaning, cooking, baking, and preparing for the Sabbath Bride was more than I could bear.
And so…I cancelled Shabbat.
Yes, you heard me.
I. cancelled. Shabbat.
Cancelled.
Ka-PUT.
I couldn’t have the angels peer through my windows and see a complete and utter balagan. In my narrow place, it seemed that no Shabbat was better than what would quickly dissolve into yelling, crying, time-outs, etc.
Even as I was in the thick of it, I could not say with any certainty that I’d made the right decision.
But neither could I state that I’d made the wrong one.
And that’s the thing about being in those narrow straits. Even when we see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, it is hard to stand up against the ever-closing walls. Their oppressive nature can overpower. Overwhelm. And cloud our judgement.
Where was my Moses when I needed him??
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This post is part of a larger project, coordinated by The Ima, in preparation for Festival of Redemption, Passover. Feel free to head over to her place and thank her for dreaming up such a creative way for us to understand the themes of Passover in our own lives.
What a Day!
I grabbed twenty minutes this morning and walked. Hard. Fast. Pushing myself. No time to waste. Knowing that the cold air and rushing blood would energize me.
And it did.
Leaving the park, I was ready for all the day promised.
An audition.
With a piece I’ve been writing and rewriting for a couple of years.
The piece made it past the first round.
I was asked to come in and read it.
And then…just forty minutes later…a very lovely rejection letter.
(It really was lovely. Encouraging and sweet)
Rejection is part of life.
It is how we hone our skills.
And when the rejection is given in kindness, disappointment exists but does not devastate.
Really.
Then…to the National Museum of American Jewish History.
“Coming of Age” panel discussion. It was so interesting.
Mayim Bialik delivered the keynote.
She is amazing.
Do you know the word b’tampt? It’s like when a grandparent says “that child is so delicious I could eat him up.” Mayim Bialik is b’tampt. She is unabashedly, undeniably proud to be a Jew. Not one of these “sure, I’m proud of my Jewish heritage.” This is a woman who is living Judaism every day. Imperfectly, which she readily admits, as she strives to join tradition with modernity. She spoke lovingly of her maternal grandmother, z”l. She’s bright. And funny. And passionate.
Then…a three hour dinner with a friend. Girl talk. Books, work, friends, kids, politics. Everything.
It was, for both of us, a much-needed visit.
Today was full of promise.
The outcomes, true, were not as expected.
And yet…it was an extraordinary day.
Thank you, Holy One of Blessing, for making today just as it was meant to be.
Turn. It. Off.
Taken in San Diego, 2007 URJ Biennial
The National Day of Unplugging has been done before: 2010, 2011
And this is what I’ve said before on this topic.
And starting tonight — The Third Annual National Day of Unplugging.
See ya on the flip side.
Cultural Sensitivity
In my ongoing transition to life as a reluctant balebusta here in the cornfield — um, sounds as though I should have a theme song to insert here — I am embracing all types of new experiences. Most of which I didn’t have time to schedule in my old life. And because I spent so much time away from my family, I was loathe to accept many invitations that would keep me out yet another night.
Complete reversal. Now that my primary responsibility is the house and its occupants, I c-r-a-v-e activities and invites that get me out of the house…especially at the end of a long day. Which is when I can do the hand-off to the other custodial parent.
And that, my dear readers, is how Frume Sarah found herself at a women’s self-defense workshop last night.
A local dojo offers this workshop every other month and Poppyseed’s troop leader invited the moms for a Moms’ Night Out. How could I refuse? Spend time getting to know some of the other moms, learn some valuable skills, beat the heck out of something, and avoid the nighttime drama. There. was. no. downside.
There was only one point when I felt a cultural divide. When teaching us how to break free when someone grabs our shoulders, the sensei told us to put our hands together at chest level. How would we remember to do this in a dangerous situation? Because the natural thing to do is pray. And that’s the hand position. Easy.
Except for the Jewess in the skirt in the fourth row, second from the end.
Don’t worry; I chose not to say anything that might embarrass myself, my family, Poppyseed’s Girl Scout troop, the entire Jewish people.
But it is worth noting that cultural sensitivity means being aware that my framework might not work for everyone else. And I might want to consider that when choosing words, examples, or mnemonic devices.
As for me, should anyone attempt to assault me from the front, I’ll make certain to ask myself:
WWFMD – What would Fraulein Maria Do??
Left Behind
This is me.
All dressed up with no where…like, say BOSTON…to go.
In my kitchen.
Where you’ll find me daily.
[Ok…the picture isn’t exactly me. It’s meant to be a representation. But you get the idea.]
I’ve missed CCAR conventions before.
So why is this absence different from all other absences??
[Sorry…couldn’t resist the seasonal humour.]
On all other years, missing one conference was simply missing one conference; on this year, missing one conference reinforces my new reality.
That of a pulpit-less rabbi.
As a #JewInThePew, I no longer have a conference line. Apparently my newest job title, Chief Scullery Maid, doesn’t include that.
As a #JewInThePew, it might seem as though the only conferences I ought to be attending are this one. Or this one. Or even this one.
You know…where the sessions better align with my new-found skills and duties.
But strip away all of the outer trappings and what is left?
A rabbi.
It is the core of who I am.
The prospect of not attending another conference…
Perhaps that shakes me because it reinforces the denial of who I am. Or who I am meant to be.
Or who I think I’m meant to be.
Maybe I’m just missing my rabbi friends.
Remember when we were in Boston and we…
O.M.G-d. — the food in Boston was the worst ever.
The Mikvah Monologues were amazing…you should have been there.
How will I catch up?
The inside jokes will, as so many do, zip over my head. Or past my cheek.
I follow their tweets, Facebook updates, blog posts.
Living vicariously is not all it’s cracked up to be.
Assignment
I don’t do self-help.
And I don’t do happy.
So I certainly don’t do self-help books preaching happiness.
Unless…it’s assigned reading.
Because I’m that kind of student.
Prior to the start of the Year-in-Israel program, I received a copy of Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion: A centennial history : 1875-1975 by Dr. Michael A. Mayer. With clear instructions to complete it in advance of the opening colloquium.
My first assignment for rabbinical school, I thought, excitedly. And completed it within days.
Twice.
I genuinely loved the book. The subject matter was something of interest. The writing style was clear and inviting. But neither the subject matter nor the writing style provided the compelling motivation. The mere fact that it was assigned reading was enough of a reason to start and finish the book.
For exactly one month (and I mean to the very day), I have picked up, and then put back down, a book in an annoyingly-bright yellow jacket: Happier: Learn the Secrets to Daily Joy and Lasting Fulfillment. Written by Tal Ben-Shahar. I mean, is that even the guy’s real name? Dew, Son of [the] Dawn. Really?
With just under six weeks remaining before the next, and final, Rabbis Without Borders symposium, I am starting to wonder what is wrong with me. Why can’t I get into this book? Is it a reflection on me? Does it mean something that I am unable to read a book about happiness? Does it mean something that I am wondering if it means something?
Maybe, with a cross-country move, major career transition, parenting a special needs child, maybe I’m not in a happy place?
Or is it possible that the book is just dreck?
And then something quite remarkable happened today. I turned to a colleague…a mentor, really…and asked her these questions. She turned the questions around and pushed me to confront them. To think about them. She offered an alternate title as a way for me to arrive at the desired place as the other participants via a different route. And she shared with me the goals of the assignment. Most of all, she listened. Really listened to my questions. And the questions behind the questions. So that when I picked up the book again this evening, I was able to look past my misgivings and seek wisdom from its pages.
I am now fifty-seven pages into it which, according to Goodreads.com, is 30% of the book. I still don’t like it. But now I know why. And it turns out, that doesn’t really matter when it comes to assigned reading.
It’s Time
It’s a case of simple avoidance. I just don’t want to say goodbye.
These shoes have been with me a long, long time. Knowing that sneakers ought to be replaced every five hundred miles (roughly three to six months), I am far too embarrassed to tell you how long I’ve had these. Let’s just say that it was during a prior Presidential administration and leave it at that.
We’ve been through a lot, these shoes and I. Tread many, many miles together. I’ve known for quite a while that I needed to replace them. It was on today’s walk, however, that I decided it was high time to make the commitment.
Like moving three thousand away from family and friends. And the life we’d known. If I don’t commit to creating a new life here, then we’ll just be visitors. And that’s no way to live. Really live.
Looking Back
It’s on the list. Girl Scouts, that is. Along with ice skating. And Camp Swig. And a few other things.
My List of Life-long Regrets. That’s the name of the list.
In my naïve youth, I thought it was important to live a life free of regrets. But regrets are only negative when they hold us back. Or cloud the past. Regrets can inspire growth. And new dreams.
Today is the one hundredth birthday of the Girl Scouting movement. I was a Brownie. And a Junior. And…then I quit. Oh, the reasons were all legitimate. Our troop disbanded. I didn’t have enough time. And so forth.
Why, oh why, did I not appreciate the value of staying with scouting?
And how do I make certain not to live vicariously through Poppyseed? She must make her own mistakes decisions if she is to learn from them.
Word to the Wise
You are at your company’s annual sales meeting. In, say, Florida. Your spouse is back home with your kids.
Top Five Things NOT to Say to Your Spouse:
5. I forgot to pack my sandals.
4. The food’s good…not great…but good.
3. I won an iPad2 — for doing so well in the casino game session.
2. The hydroplaning tour session through the Everglades was cancelled.
1. No space left on the sea-fishing session so I signed up for a massage instead.
Homesick
Since we left home just over seven months ago, I have only been homesick a handful of times. Sure, there are things that I miss. Like the beach. Or certain restaurants. Family and friends, of course. But here are other restaurants. And we are making new friends. And we have a cornfield across the road.
No, we haven’t replaced the things and people from home. Just opened our hearts to new experiences and people.
Tonight is Purim. And tonight, I am keenly missing my home shul. I am missing the place where Purim is a humongous big deal. The place where everyone really gets into the craziness of it all. Where being a Reform shul means that holidays are observed as ordained…even when it’s not convenient.
I struggled with this when I first learned that our new synagogue moved Purim to the Shabbat closest to it. It’s not as though I’d never heard of places doing this. I just never thought that I’d belong to a place that does this.
I thought about boycotting our synagogue’s service this Friday and going to the conservative shul instead. Though I don’t want my kids to judge the practices of others, I struggled with how to explain that Purim is actually tonight and NOT this Friday night. [Davka — they had to stick it on Shabbat. Our calendrical system ensures that, for good reason, it never falls on Shabbat. Though if Purim begins on a Thursday night, then Shushan Purim does fall on Shabbat — but it then becomes Purim Meshulash and there are some alterations made to the observances.] I don’t want them to think that things can be changed simply because they are inconvenient.
But a wise rabbi friend reminded me:
אל תפרוש מן הציבור — Do not separate yourself from the community
His tweet?
In other words: Go hear the #Megillah at your home syn no matter what day they read it. #community
And he’s right.
After asking around, I learned that the local conservative shul has a family Megillah reading at 7:00pm. We could go to that and attend services at our synagogue this Friday. However, it just so happens that timing is everything. Both good and bad. PC is out of town. And Beernut shuts down around 7:00pm. With no one to stay home with him, there was no way that the littles and I could make it to the conservative shul. So the decision was made for us; we will be going Friday night.
My Twitter feed and Facebook stream mock me with the ongoing evidence of Purim. Even with all of the recent Purim prep that’s been occupying us here at Beit Frummie, tonight was just like every other night. Is this what’s it’s like for those who don’t observe?
My heart is aching…
Frume Sarah is Shabbos-observant -- in a Reform way, that is. Please note that from Friday afternoons until one hour after sundown on Saturday evenings, Frume Sarah will be unavailable, in observance of the Jewish Sabbath.
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