Iconoclast, Iced Brownies

I felt privileged today to participate in a ceremony to prepare a friend and her companion for the birth of their child, whose arrival is anticipated in about a month. After enjoying a rich and delicious brunch of creamy quiches, assorted bagels with an array of schmears, guacamole, vegetables and other goodies that I simply didn't have room to try, we assembled in their gracious home to wish them well as they embark, knock wood, on parenthood. This occasion was not a baby shower, a concept antithetical to the Jewish tradition of waiting until a child is born before celebrating, but it was motivated by my friend's desire to create a community for her offspring-to-be, a community that might have otherwise been introduced to one another at a wedding, had my friends decided to do that.

My friend is a nurse and a nurturing person, a gentle and persistent builder of relationships and not someone who rocks the boat. So I was intrigued that her father, when it was his turn to speak, described her and her boyfriend as people who don't take advice from anyone. They are both free spirits camouflaged by their conventional appearances and jobs, a camouflage that, sadly, I had not really questioned or attempted to investigate during the years I've been acquainted with her.

Her specialness was revealed in the gathering itself, an occasion that brought together extended family, some of whom had felt isolated from one another for many years, colleagues and far flung friends. She asked that each person speak of their experiences - positive and negative - as parents and children, or to share a story behind the beads that many of brought to be strung into a necklace for her to wear when she delivers. Although many of us did not know each other, the atmosphere in the room was conducive to listening and sharing, and not just the humorous anecdote.

A woman spoke of the difficulty of parenting, how her own family does not work so well all the time. She shared a poem by Khalil Gibran, verses that I think should be required daily reading for all parents and prospective parents. It begins: Your children are not your children. We applauded her when she was done. I invite you to click the link and read the rest.

As we went around the large circle, the atmosphere became increasingly intimate, tears of joy and happiness flowing freely down many faces. At the conclusion, I turned to the woman behind me, someone I had never met, and by accident or divine design (who knows?) we had a long and profound conversation about feelings of otherness, the grieving process, and places we go for spiritual healing (Walden Pond). She is a Polish Catholic convert to Judaism, something she felt called to do.

Bidding farewell to my friend after sampling a second peppermint iced brownie, I found myself in a lengthy conversation with her, during which she described herself as an iconoclast. I'm not sure it is the most appropriate word to capture who is - she doesn't so much "attack settled beliefs or institutions" but she does intuitively and independently, following her own internal navigation system, create her life exactly how she wants it.