My visit in Evanston was leisurely and relaxing. My friend, whom I've known since seventh grade, is a busy career woman and mother of three young girls and yet she pampered me to the point of embarrassment. She insisted on including my laundry in one of her many daily loads and made sure I was well fed, well rested and well sugared; we both dipped into her stash of York Peppermint Patties. Perhaps her caring for my physical needs was a way to re-establish some intimacy between us. Over the years, partly due to geographical distance but mostly to differing life choices and my reactions to those, we had grown apart. I was glad for an excuse for a brief visit and to spend some time with her daughters, ages 8, 5 and 3 1/2.
To my delight, the children took to me almost immediately and before I knew it I was being recruited to draw, do other art projects, and sing and dance to the Mamma Mia CD. It was like taking a trip back into childhood, but this time having some little sisters. I learned that the two oldest girls were absolute Hoola pros, effortlessly Hoola-ing for minutes on end while doing various tricks with the hoop. I was an enthusiastic audience and they convinced me to try it, too. I was able to keep the hoop aloft for about five seconds before it, along with my ego, crashed to the floor.
A middle child myself, I couldn't resist the charms of the middle girl, also a sensitive soul, who insisted on sitting next to me at dinner on Friday night and who invited me to watch her first soccer game on Sunday. I decided to see the game and then continue on my journey, but when I went to pack up my car late Sunday morning I noticed it had a completely flat tire. For a brief moment I experienced the same mixture of helplessness and inertia as when I left my mother's house - if I have a flat, how will I ever leave? I snapped out of it fairly quickly, realizing how lucky I was to get a flat tire while at my friend's home, rather than on a highway in the middle of nowhere.
Within 30 minutes of calling AAA, a tow truck operator arrived to change the tire, which had been punctured by a nail. I brought it into a body shop in Skokie, IL and soon enough they had patched and properly inflated it. I was good to go, if only I knew which direction to take. My mental fog still hadn't cleared enough to reveal a preferred route. My friend's husband, kindly but also a bit protectively, offered to let me borrow a GPS device for the rest of my trip, so at least I'd know where I was at all times. I declined - the AAA office in Massachusetts had loaded me up with tour books and maps for every state I was bound to traverse. And part of having an adventure is, occasionally, getting lost, pulling over and checking a map or asking for directions. Besides, I couldn't decide where to go so having the ability to type in a destination and map a route wouldn't have solved my immediate problem.
By the time I was roadworthy the soccer game had ended but it was still early enough to keep driving so I decided to head to Wisconsin. Shortly after crossing the state border I saw a huge sign for the Mars Cheese Castle. That sounded colorful, local and a bit kitschy. It was. I purchased some smoke string cheese, a sourdough roll, two chocolate bars and a half decaf, half regular coffee, poured by a sullen employee. My spirits lifted again and, on my own again, I knew that I would enjoy the rest of my trip, whichever way I ended up going.
Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
Monday, September 8, 2008
Thursday, May 15, 2008
In Memoriam, My Father
It's been a long time since my last post. And the longer I go without writing, the harder it is to get back into it.
But tonight begins the observance of my father's yahrtzeit, the anniversary of his date of death according to the Jewish calendar, the 11th of Iyar. And Tuesday, May 13, was the fifth anniversary of his death according to our calendar. He passed away on a Tuesday, so this year marked a rare coincidence of date and day of week. And last Friday, at my synagogue, the rabbi read his name out loud as one of the many people for whom yahrtzeit would be observed in what was the week ahead. To help mark the occasion, I sponsored the kiddush after services and, to elicit his presence, also brought some extra food that my father loved and shared with us: chocolate babka and two large pastries filled with cocoa and poppyseeds, respectively. I would have purchased another poppyseed pastry - which wasn't nearly as moist and flavorful as the ones my father would bake himself - but I got the very last one. Maybe that was how it was supposed to be. Those purchases, plus the special memorial candle that I lit tonight, came to $19.67 exactly. That is the year I was born.
At synagogue last Friday the rabbi, with his eye on the clock, rushed through the mourner's kaddish, the normally meditative prayer we also recite during the yahrtzeit. The fast pace threw me off and left me feeling disoriented, disappointed and somewhat violated, as I hadn't had enough time to properly articulate each word. The moment in the kosher grocery store when the clerk said, "Your total is $19.67" had had more spiritual resonance.
On Tuesday, the American anniversary, I was fully immersed in creating mosaics and preparing for an upcoming art show when my cell phone rang. I saw it was from an old friend, who normally doesn't call.
"Is something the matter?" I asked her, wondering if she had phoned to share difficult news.
"No," she said, "I just remembered that today is the anniversary of your father's death."
"You're right," I said. I was surprised and appreciative that she remembered and surprised and relieved that I wasn't dwelling on it. I was glad to discover that I had been so engaged in what I was doing and in thinking about the future that I was not so focused on his passing, as I had been in previous years.
My father used to quote the passage from Deuteronomy 30: 15-19, "And you shall choose life." My brothers and I had it inscribed on his headstone.
And I honor him tonight, on his yahrtzeit, by again choosing to write.
But tonight begins the observance of my father's yahrtzeit, the anniversary of his date of death according to the Jewish calendar, the 11th of Iyar. And Tuesday, May 13, was the fifth anniversary of his death according to our calendar. He passed away on a Tuesday, so this year marked a rare coincidence of date and day of week. And last Friday, at my synagogue, the rabbi read his name out loud as one of the many people for whom yahrtzeit would be observed in what was the week ahead. To help mark the occasion, I sponsored the kiddush after services and, to elicit his presence, also brought some extra food that my father loved and shared with us: chocolate babka and two large pastries filled with cocoa and poppyseeds, respectively. I would have purchased another poppyseed pastry - which wasn't nearly as moist and flavorful as the ones my father would bake himself - but I got the very last one. Maybe that was how it was supposed to be. Those purchases, plus the special memorial candle that I lit tonight, came to $19.67 exactly. That is the year I was born.
At synagogue last Friday the rabbi, with his eye on the clock, rushed through the mourner's kaddish, the normally meditative prayer we also recite during the yahrtzeit. The fast pace threw me off and left me feeling disoriented, disappointed and somewhat violated, as I hadn't had enough time to properly articulate each word. The moment in the kosher grocery store when the clerk said, "Your total is $19.67" had had more spiritual resonance.
On Tuesday, the American anniversary, I was fully immersed in creating mosaics and preparing for an upcoming art show when my cell phone rang. I saw it was from an old friend, who normally doesn't call.
"Is something the matter?" I asked her, wondering if she had phoned to share difficult news.
"No," she said, "I just remembered that today is the anniversary of your father's death."
"You're right," I said. I was surprised and appreciative that she remembered and surprised and relieved that I wasn't dwelling on it. I was glad to discover that I had been so engaged in what I was doing and in thinking about the future that I was not so focused on his passing, as I had been in previous years.
My father used to quote the passage from Deuteronomy 30: 15-19, "And you shall choose life." My brothers and I had it inscribed on his headstone.
And I honor him tonight, on his yahrtzeit, by again choosing to write.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Inexpressible, Incomplete
When days go by without a post, it sometimes means that I have too much to say, rather than nothing to say. This post is the seed for something else, I think. It is not complete.
Last week I attended the Chassidic wedding of one of my many third cousins, none of whom I had ever met, let alone known about until recently. The bride's aunt had found my brothers and I via the Internet, after searching for our father and discovering that he had passed away. The bride's aunt and my father would be second cousins. For those for whom the concept of second and third cousins is a bit elusive, a simple way to remember the relationship is as follows: (first) cousins have common grandparents; second cousins have common great-grandparents; and third cousins have common great-great-grandparents. For many families that were decimated by the Holocaust, leaving an aching void where grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins would have or could have been, third cousins are a relatively close relationship, or at least not so distant.
Until the last few years, I had been put off by extremely religious people of any denomination, and I had a particular aversion to orthodox Judaism, which to my feminist sensibilities seemed like a culture built around the subjugation of women. Certainly, that is one lens through which one can view some of the practices of ultra orthodox Jews. But as I've become increasingly comfortable with having some Jewish ritual and affiliation as part of my life, and as I witness my oldest nephew and nieces growing up with a strong and positive Jewish identity in a caring modern orthodox community, I have tried to temper some of my aversion to hard core traditionalists with curiosity and respect.
And so it was with a mixture of trepidation and excitement that I packed up my salt sprayed Subaru and drove to Montreal for this festive occasion, to meet this part of the family that my father - for reasons I can only surmise - had not told us about. I had rustled up a long black skirt, selected an elegant but modest green velvet top and had ordered some new shoes for this evening wedding. Arriving to the hotel where the ceremony would take place, I schlepped my large wheeled duffel and a garment bag through the lobby, already filled with sparklingly well groomed women in floor length gowns and men with those unmistakable black hats. Passing a mirror, I caught a glimpse of my tired face and greying hair, frizzy from the dry air in my car, and I felt like the poor country cousin. Suddenly my chosen outfit seemed highly inadequate, as did my skills at applying makeup, of which I have very little. My unpolished nails, which had looked fine the day before, now seemed to scream that I lacked elegance and traditional femininity. The hotel clerk must have sensed my momentary discomfort because he asked me, upon noticing that I had reserved a room with the wedding rate, if, indeed, I had come for the wedding.
"Yes," I said, partly wishing I could turn around and leave, if not for good then at least to visit a salon. He handed me a welcome bag filled with kosher cookies, chips and candy. I added that bag to my load and headed for the elevator, hoping no one would see me in my dishevelment.
At this point I had about 90 minutes or so before the wedding was to begin. My initial plan had been to arrive early enough to use the pool, but the thought of traversing the lobby in my swimming gear, passing a gauntlet of religious men and women, was too intimidating. Instead, I took a short nap.
As I dressed for the celebration, I adjusted my attitude and told myself that I would have a great time, even if I were the only single person there, not to mention childless at an age where some of the women in this community might already be grandmothers. I also decided to suspend judgment and take it all in, as if I were an anthropologist visiting a new subculture.
I found my relatives within a few minutes. Their warm welcome was reassuring and a bit overwhelming - I couldn't remember the last time I had entered a room and been greeted so enthusiastically by so many people. My experiences with other distant relatives have not been so positive. In preparation for our encounter, I had printed up the family tree that they had e-mailed my brothers and me so that I could show other people my connection. This folded up piece of paper served as my passport for the evening, allowing me into a world that most non-religious Jews (or others) would never get to see. One woman questioned whether I was "real" family or not - she seemed satisfied after seeing my passport. Family and shared ancestry are the currency of this community, and even though in many ways I am an outsider to the Chassidic way of life, for this occasion I was made to feel like an insider. The sense of acceptance and belonging I experienced was far more powerful and palpable than the twinges of uneasiness I felt, such as when the bride - her head and face completely obscured by an opaque veil - was carefully escorted by her mother and future mother-in-law down the aisle to the outdoor chuppah (wedding canopy), where the groom waited for her in the freezing cold.
The chuppah was adjacent to a canvas walled tent, where brave guests sat shivering as the bride - still veiled and aided by her mother - circumnavigated the groom an agonizingly slow seven times. The mercury was in the single digits. This community took seriously the custom of marrying under the stars and was undeterred by the winter weather. The wedding photographer had been warned and wore a hooded parka. Some of the women were in the know and wore mink coats. I was unprepared and nearly lost sensation in my fingers. A few guests, religious themselves, thought the outdoor chuppah was a bit meshuga.
Men and women sit, eat and dance separately at orthodox celebrations. My tablemates were mostly diamond decorated matrons who were surprised to learn that I had driven to Montreal by myself. Ten years ago, I would have thought about such a sola trip as evidence of empowerment and independence, and smugly used it as a way to make myself feel superior to these traditional women and to emphasize our differences, but this time I simply said, yes, I drove by myself. My only company on the journey were the voices on the French language cassettes I had checked out of the library. For a moment I envied these women's lives, filled with people and with no shortage of companions for long car trips.
Dancing with these women, linked together as we circled the bride, I was struck by the delicacy of their hands. Mine are strong and firm from yoga and from years of working with them. And unlike the bodies of these women, mine has borne backpacks but not children. And I couldn't help but imagine that my life could have turned out like theirs had my father chosen to stay in the orthodox fold and had raised me in such a community. But he left that orbit to create his own family and his own universe, to expose his children to the wider world. Yet there I was, in many ways a privileged contemporary woman, feeling soothed by the beat of Judaism's Chassidic heart.
In a way I am glad that I didn't learn about these people until now, even though upon meeting them I felt that a certain void had been filled and that, in fact, I had been missing them for a long time. As a child, teenager or young adult, I doubt I would have been able to see the women under the wigs and the men under the hats as individuals, as people with whom I share ancestry and Hebrew names. During the final part of the ceremony, with most of the hundreds of guests already gone home or to their hotel rooms, I witnessed the very special Mitzvah Tantz. The badchen, the wedding entertainer or poet, stood on a chair and with microphone in hand chanted improvised Yiddish rhymes to lovingly describe the bride's and groom's forebears, essentially invoking their spirits. The mood in the room was meditative and mystical, with the family and remaining guests paying focused attention to the badchen's words. After each person was honored, a male family member or group of men would stand up and take hold of one end of a rope - the other end was held by the bride - and would dance "with" the bride, who would just sway as the man or men would kick up their heels, eventually dropping the rope to dance in a circle with each other. Although I barely understood the badchen's rhythmic chanting, I was mesmerized by his loving and reverent invocation of the names and stories of my ancestors, acknowledging their role in contributing to this happy occasion. Entranced by the soothing rhymes of this ritual, I suddenly and surprisingly felt enormous affection for this hybrid tongue. I regretted terribly that I didn't speak or understand Yiddish, a language whose soft sounds and curious expression I've rejected for years.
As the night wore on and as guests began to dwindle further, the badchen remained in good rhyming form, generating wet eyes and causing the appearance of white handkerchiefs as he movingly honored the parents of the bride and groom. The bride's final dance was with her father. For this, there was no rope. They first clasped their hands and then clasped in an awkward embrace, a final tearful farewell.
Last week I attended the Chassidic wedding of one of my many third cousins, none of whom I had ever met, let alone known about until recently. The bride's aunt had found my brothers and I via the Internet, after searching for our father and discovering that he had passed away. The bride's aunt and my father would be second cousins. For those for whom the concept of second and third cousins is a bit elusive, a simple way to remember the relationship is as follows: (first) cousins have common grandparents; second cousins have common great-grandparents; and third cousins have common great-great-grandparents. For many families that were decimated by the Holocaust, leaving an aching void where grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins would have or could have been, third cousins are a relatively close relationship, or at least not so distant.
Until the last few years, I had been put off by extremely religious people of any denomination, and I had a particular aversion to orthodox Judaism, which to my feminist sensibilities seemed like a culture built around the subjugation of women. Certainly, that is one lens through which one can view some of the practices of ultra orthodox Jews. But as I've become increasingly comfortable with having some Jewish ritual and affiliation as part of my life, and as I witness my oldest nephew and nieces growing up with a strong and positive Jewish identity in a caring modern orthodox community, I have tried to temper some of my aversion to hard core traditionalists with curiosity and respect.
And so it was with a mixture of trepidation and excitement that I packed up my salt sprayed Subaru and drove to Montreal for this festive occasion, to meet this part of the family that my father - for reasons I can only surmise - had not told us about. I had rustled up a long black skirt, selected an elegant but modest green velvet top and had ordered some new shoes for this evening wedding. Arriving to the hotel where the ceremony would take place, I schlepped my large wheeled duffel and a garment bag through the lobby, already filled with sparklingly well groomed women in floor length gowns and men with those unmistakable black hats. Passing a mirror, I caught a glimpse of my tired face and greying hair, frizzy from the dry air in my car, and I felt like the poor country cousin. Suddenly my chosen outfit seemed highly inadequate, as did my skills at applying makeup, of which I have very little. My unpolished nails, which had looked fine the day before, now seemed to scream that I lacked elegance and traditional femininity. The hotel clerk must have sensed my momentary discomfort because he asked me, upon noticing that I had reserved a room with the wedding rate, if, indeed, I had come for the wedding.
"Yes," I said, partly wishing I could turn around and leave, if not for good then at least to visit a salon. He handed me a welcome bag filled with kosher cookies, chips and candy. I added that bag to my load and headed for the elevator, hoping no one would see me in my dishevelment.
At this point I had about 90 minutes or so before the wedding was to begin. My initial plan had been to arrive early enough to use the pool, but the thought of traversing the lobby in my swimming gear, passing a gauntlet of religious men and women, was too intimidating. Instead, I took a short nap.
As I dressed for the celebration, I adjusted my attitude and told myself that I would have a great time, even if I were the only single person there, not to mention childless at an age where some of the women in this community might already be grandmothers. I also decided to suspend judgment and take it all in, as if I were an anthropologist visiting a new subculture.
I found my relatives within a few minutes. Their warm welcome was reassuring and a bit overwhelming - I couldn't remember the last time I had entered a room and been greeted so enthusiastically by so many people. My experiences with other distant relatives have not been so positive. In preparation for our encounter, I had printed up the family tree that they had e-mailed my brothers and me so that I could show other people my connection. This folded up piece of paper served as my passport for the evening, allowing me into a world that most non-religious Jews (or others) would never get to see. One woman questioned whether I was "real" family or not - she seemed satisfied after seeing my passport. Family and shared ancestry are the currency of this community, and even though in many ways I am an outsider to the Chassidic way of life, for this occasion I was made to feel like an insider. The sense of acceptance and belonging I experienced was far more powerful and palpable than the twinges of uneasiness I felt, such as when the bride - her head and face completely obscured by an opaque veil - was carefully escorted by her mother and future mother-in-law down the aisle to the outdoor chuppah (wedding canopy), where the groom waited for her in the freezing cold.
The chuppah was adjacent to a canvas walled tent, where brave guests sat shivering as the bride - still veiled and aided by her mother - circumnavigated the groom an agonizingly slow seven times. The mercury was in the single digits. This community took seriously the custom of marrying under the stars and was undeterred by the winter weather. The wedding photographer had been warned and wore a hooded parka. Some of the women were in the know and wore mink coats. I was unprepared and nearly lost sensation in my fingers. A few guests, religious themselves, thought the outdoor chuppah was a bit meshuga.
Men and women sit, eat and dance separately at orthodox celebrations. My tablemates were mostly diamond decorated matrons who were surprised to learn that I had driven to Montreal by myself. Ten years ago, I would have thought about such a sola trip as evidence of empowerment and independence, and smugly used it as a way to make myself feel superior to these traditional women and to emphasize our differences, but this time I simply said, yes, I drove by myself. My only company on the journey were the voices on the French language cassettes I had checked out of the library. For a moment I envied these women's lives, filled with people and with no shortage of companions for long car trips.
Dancing with these women, linked together as we circled the bride, I was struck by the delicacy of their hands. Mine are strong and firm from yoga and from years of working with them. And unlike the bodies of these women, mine has borne backpacks but not children. And I couldn't help but imagine that my life could have turned out like theirs had my father chosen to stay in the orthodox fold and had raised me in such a community. But he left that orbit to create his own family and his own universe, to expose his children to the wider world. Yet there I was, in many ways a privileged contemporary woman, feeling soothed by the beat of Judaism's Chassidic heart.
In a way I am glad that I didn't learn about these people until now, even though upon meeting them I felt that a certain void had been filled and that, in fact, I had been missing them for a long time. As a child, teenager or young adult, I doubt I would have been able to see the women under the wigs and the men under the hats as individuals, as people with whom I share ancestry and Hebrew names. During the final part of the ceremony, with most of the hundreds of guests already gone home or to their hotel rooms, I witnessed the very special Mitzvah Tantz. The badchen, the wedding entertainer or poet, stood on a chair and with microphone in hand chanted improvised Yiddish rhymes to lovingly describe the bride's and groom's forebears, essentially invoking their spirits. The mood in the room was meditative and mystical, with the family and remaining guests paying focused attention to the badchen's words. After each person was honored, a male family member or group of men would stand up and take hold of one end of a rope - the other end was held by the bride - and would dance "with" the bride, who would just sway as the man or men would kick up their heels, eventually dropping the rope to dance in a circle with each other. Although I barely understood the badchen's rhythmic chanting, I was mesmerized by his loving and reverent invocation of the names and stories of my ancestors, acknowledging their role in contributing to this happy occasion. Entranced by the soothing rhymes of this ritual, I suddenly and surprisingly felt enormous affection for this hybrid tongue. I regretted terribly that I didn't speak or understand Yiddish, a language whose soft sounds and curious expression I've rejected for years.
As the night wore on and as guests began to dwindle further, the badchen remained in good rhyming form, generating wet eyes and causing the appearance of white handkerchiefs as he movingly honored the parents of the bride and groom. The bride's final dance was with her father. For this, there was no rope. They first clasped their hands and then clasped in an awkward embrace, a final tearful farewell.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Interiors, III
I'm writing from a penthouse apartment on West 112th Street in New York City. By New York standards, it is palatial, with two large bedroom, 2.5 bathrooms and two balconies with sweeping views of rivers, bridges and water-tower dotted rooftops. It even has a laundry room which, when equipped with a twin sized air mattress, converts to a cozy bedroom. For Thanksgiving, much of the family piled into the apartment, where my older brother is staying during a semester teaching at Columbia. My younger brother, his wife and two young children slept in one of the bedrooms, my older brother and his wife took the other bedroom, and my older nieces and nephew camped out in the living room. I spent two nights sleeping in the laundry room but tonight - the rest of the family having dispersed to Rhode Island, Boston and Riverdale - I have the place to myself. Like Goldilocks, I might have to try out all the mattresses to find the one that is just right.
This evening I attended Shabbat services at B'nai Jeshurun, the synagogue I discovered a year before I left New York City. It is about 25 blocks south of the apartment, a decent walk in nice weather but a bit of a schlep in the cold and wind. The joyful and musical service in the amply heated sanctuary restored me for the return to 100th Street, but about halfway back I spotted an Asian restaurant bar and decided to take a sushi and tea break. After eating a bit more than I really I had room for, the maitre d' brought the check and a fortune cookie. I opened it in anticipation that its interior would yield an amusing proverb or uplifting saying, much in the way that someone might crack open an oyster, hoping for a pearl.
Rather than revealing a gem of wisdom it said:
LEARN CHINESE - Still single (mae yao jeh huan).
Thank you, fortune cookie writers, for providing this line for me to read as I sat alone at a Manhattan sushi bar on a Friday night. I'm sure this phrase would come in useful if I'm ever searching for a soul mate in China.
The flip side, the fortune side, wasn't terribly inspiring either:
Today, give control over to another person. It is definite.
Well, the day was almost over, and I had given control of half of it to another person, mainly my older brother's wife. She makes many of the decisions in their family and when I stay or visit with them I've learned to try to go with the flow, even when I'd rather be paddling in a different direction or think that there is a better way of organizing or planning an activity. My ability to give control over to another person - and not just my sister-in-law - is quite limited. Usually after 48 hours of ceding control I start to feel uncomfortable and seek solitude. Tonight I have that in spades.
This evening I attended Shabbat services at B'nai Jeshurun, the synagogue I discovered a year before I left New York City. It is about 25 blocks south of the apartment, a decent walk in nice weather but a bit of a schlep in the cold and wind. The joyful and musical service in the amply heated sanctuary restored me for the return to 100th Street, but about halfway back I spotted an Asian restaurant bar and decided to take a sushi and tea break. After eating a bit more than I really I had room for, the maitre d' brought the check and a fortune cookie. I opened it in anticipation that its interior would yield an amusing proverb or uplifting saying, much in the way that someone might crack open an oyster, hoping for a pearl.
Rather than revealing a gem of wisdom it said:
LEARN CHINESE - Still single (mae yao jeh huan).
Thank you, fortune cookie writers, for providing this line for me to read as I sat alone at a Manhattan sushi bar on a Friday night. I'm sure this phrase would come in useful if I'm ever searching for a soul mate in China.
The flip side, the fortune side, wasn't terribly inspiring either:
Today, give control over to another person. It is definite.
Well, the day was almost over, and I had given control of half of it to another person, mainly my older brother's wife. She makes many of the decisions in their family and when I stay or visit with them I've learned to try to go with the flow, even when I'd rather be paddling in a different direction or think that there is a better way of organizing or planning an activity. My ability to give control over to another person - and not just my sister-in-law - is quite limited. Usually after 48 hours of ceding control I start to feel uncomfortable and seek solitude. Tonight I have that in spades.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
(z)It
My eldest nephew became a Bar Mitzvah last weekend, a carefully and lovingly prepared for and anticipated event that drew family and friends from all over the country. The preparations took place on many levels.
There were the Bar Mitzvah boy's preparations over several years, during which time he leyned (learned) with his maternal grandfather, his rabbi and other members of his orthodox congregation to master the Torah reading, the Friday night service and most of the Saturday morning service, not to mention preparing and reciting two speeches (he got a bit of a break - they were both in English).
There were the preparations of the Bar Mitzvah boy's mother, who orchestrated and coordinated and organized a Shabbat dinner at the synagogue for out of town guests, an extended noshing session at their home on Saturday and, on Sunday, as if we hadn't already eaten more than enough, a brunch for out of town guests. Not to mention contacting nearby hotels, reserving blocks of rooms and negotiating the best possible deal. And she hired a photographer to take various permutations of family portraits on Friday afternoon, before the Sabbath began, and on Sunday, during our final food-oriented gathering.
There were the preparations of the out of town relatives: reserving plane tickets, hotel rooms and rental cars and, not trivially, figuring out what to wear and, realizing they had nothing suitable for a summer event at an orthodox synagogue (no short skirts, no sleeveless tops!), hitting the stores in a flummoxed frenzy.
Events like these - important milestones in a beloved family member's life - are a cause for celebration but can also provoke anxiety among the relatives, the vicarious variety as they imagine what it might be like for the Bar Mitzvah boy to complete all of his tasks in front of hundreds of people, or actual anxiety related to the passage of time...how did the last 13 years go by so quickly, and can we remember how we've spent those years?
Among the single women of a certain age attending this event, there was the possibility of anxiety around whether they'd ever marry, raise a child and be able to attend that child's rite of passage. Among the grandparents of the Bar Mitzvah boy, perhaps there was anxiety around whether they would live to see all of their grandchildren become Bar or Bat Mitzvot.
But, interestingly, despite these many possibilities, I detected very little free floating anxiety at this event. My theory is that all the anxiety - of the Bar Mitzvah boy himself, of his family and friends, of his relatives - gathered itself into a tiny but intense ball of pulsating energy and implanted itself squarely on the very Jewish nose of my younger brother (who is a husband, father and uncle), turning itself into an enormous red zit.
I think my younger brother's schnozz was the most appropriate place for this coagulation of collective anxiety to attach itself, since it was going to land on someone. By choosing my brother, the anxiety-filled-zit spared the Bar Mitzvah boy (and all the women in the family) the lifelong disgrace of appearing in the family photos with an unsightly red mound on his face (my nephew has clear porcelain-like skin, and may it stay that way throughout his adolescence and beyond). Moreover, since my younger brother adamantly refused to become Bar Mitzvah when he was at that age, deeply disappointing my parents and wreaking havoc on the life of our family during that time, it seems fitting that, for the weekend of his nephew's big event, he should bear this pulsating pimple on his beak, perhaps as penance for the Bar Mitzvah he never had?
That is my theory, anyway.
There were the Bar Mitzvah boy's preparations over several years, during which time he leyned (learned) with his maternal grandfather, his rabbi and other members of his orthodox congregation to master the Torah reading, the Friday night service and most of the Saturday morning service, not to mention preparing and reciting two speeches (he got a bit of a break - they were both in English).
There were the preparations of the Bar Mitzvah boy's mother, who orchestrated and coordinated and organized a Shabbat dinner at the synagogue for out of town guests, an extended noshing session at their home on Saturday and, on Sunday, as if we hadn't already eaten more than enough, a brunch for out of town guests. Not to mention contacting nearby hotels, reserving blocks of rooms and negotiating the best possible deal. And she hired a photographer to take various permutations of family portraits on Friday afternoon, before the Sabbath began, and on Sunday, during our final food-oriented gathering.
There were the preparations of the out of town relatives: reserving plane tickets, hotel rooms and rental cars and, not trivially, figuring out what to wear and, realizing they had nothing suitable for a summer event at an orthodox synagogue (no short skirts, no sleeveless tops!), hitting the stores in a flummoxed frenzy.
Events like these - important milestones in a beloved family member's life - are a cause for celebration but can also provoke anxiety among the relatives, the vicarious variety as they imagine what it might be like for the Bar Mitzvah boy to complete all of his tasks in front of hundreds of people, or actual anxiety related to the passage of time...how did the last 13 years go by so quickly, and can we remember how we've spent those years?
Among the single women of a certain age attending this event, there was the possibility of anxiety around whether they'd ever marry, raise a child and be able to attend that child's rite of passage. Among the grandparents of the Bar Mitzvah boy, perhaps there was anxiety around whether they would live to see all of their grandchildren become Bar or Bat Mitzvot.
But, interestingly, despite these many possibilities, I detected very little free floating anxiety at this event. My theory is that all the anxiety - of the Bar Mitzvah boy himself, of his family and friends, of his relatives - gathered itself into a tiny but intense ball of pulsating energy and implanted itself squarely on the very Jewish nose of my younger brother (who is a husband, father and uncle), turning itself into an enormous red zit.
I think my younger brother's schnozz was the most appropriate place for this coagulation of collective anxiety to attach itself, since it was going to land on someone. By choosing my brother, the anxiety-filled-zit spared the Bar Mitzvah boy (and all the women in the family) the lifelong disgrace of appearing in the family photos with an unsightly red mound on his face (my nephew has clear porcelain-like skin, and may it stay that way throughout his adolescence and beyond). Moreover, since my younger brother adamantly refused to become Bar Mitzvah when he was at that age, deeply disappointing my parents and wreaking havoc on the life of our family during that time, it seems fitting that, for the weekend of his nephew's big event, he should bear this pulsating pimple on his beak, perhaps as penance for the Bar Mitzvah he never had?
That is my theory, anyway.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Intelligence
My oldest niece, not quite 10 years old, is sensitive, creative and religious. Like me, she is the middle child and has artistic inclinations, and so I more closely identify with her than with my other nieces and nephews. On a recent visit to the East Coast from California, she told me that towards the end of August she'll be visiting Las Vegas, where her mother's parents live, for a few days, returning home the day before her older brother's Bar Mitzvah weekend.
"It was my idea to go," she proudly told me. "I didn't want to be at home during such a stressful time for my family," she explained, referring to the frenzy that will likely be taking place as the household prepares for this important milestone and celebration.
I was blown away by her awareness, at such a young age, to take such good care of her sensitive self by relocating to a calmer place, where her grandmother will probably treat her to a manicure and otherwise pamper her.
When I was her age, the most I could do to extricate myself from difficult and chaotic times at home was to get on my bicycle and ride for a few hours, hoping that by the time I returned the storm would have blown over. I had no other place to go, either on foot, by bicycle or by airplane.
She is lucky that her parents have the means to send her to visit far flung family. And she is extremely intelligent to have figured out when it's a good time for her to get out of town.
You go, girl!
"It was my idea to go," she proudly told me. "I didn't want to be at home during such a stressful time for my family," she explained, referring to the frenzy that will likely be taking place as the household prepares for this important milestone and celebration.
I was blown away by her awareness, at such a young age, to take such good care of her sensitive self by relocating to a calmer place, where her grandmother will probably treat her to a manicure and otherwise pamper her.
When I was her age, the most I could do to extricate myself from difficult and chaotic times at home was to get on my bicycle and ride for a few hours, hoping that by the time I returned the storm would have blown over. I had no other place to go, either on foot, by bicycle or by airplane.
She is lucky that her parents have the means to send her to visit far flung family. And she is extremely intelligent to have figured out when it's a good time for her to get out of town.
You go, girl!
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