Friday, May 1, 2015

Dad's Rules

My father turns 70 today. Those of you who know him know he has a tendancy to make pronouncements, and has several rules he lives by.  In honor of his birthday, I thought I would share a few of his many "rules" with you; just a handful of the things I have learned from him:

Go to school. Go to Hebrew school. Be happy.
When we were kids, these were really the only formal rules we had. Oft repeated, these were the only things we had to do: get an education. Be part of the community. Get a Jewish education. Be part of the Jewish community. And be happy? I used to cringe a little at that one. I felt that "be happy" didn't leave enough space for moments of sadness or anger or other emotions. But now I believe my dad means what we might now call "authentic" - be yourself. Find what makes you happy.

Nobody's perfect. Except your mother.
Spoken pretty much every time I ever made a mistake or complained about someone else doing so. Don't be a perfectionist. I'm still trying to learn this one.

You need a hobby.
Here's another one I'm just learning. My dad is a man of many hobbies, interests, and collections. There were always things to do other than work and family. 

Everyone's crazy.
There is no normal. Be yourself. And don't judge others.

Don't lift your pinky finger up when you drink.
This is one of many in a category I call - Don't Be a Snob. My dad can (and does) talk to anyone. It's one of the things I think that all four of us learned from him. My disgust for snobbery runs deep.

Have a good handshake.
I drill this one into my kids too, although they aren't quite there yet. Have a firm handshake and look someone in the eye. It's helped me in life and business and I learned it through my dad making me practice over and over as a kid.

Blood is thicker than water.
When you have to choose family over friends, choose family. When you have to trust family or friends, trust family. The last amazing memory my family has of our brother-in-law and the kids' uncle, who passed away suddenly last year, is of a night of games and ice cream. It's a night that could not have happened - we were invited to a party with my son's friends, but we made a decision that we needed to have family time. Choose family. I am so grateful to have one I love and trust that makes the choosing possible.

And the patriarch of that family, Bob / Zadie / the "perfect man" / who's "just a humble guy" (nicknames for himself and others are another rule), is 70 today. Happy birthday Dad. Thanks for everything.

Thursday, March 19, 2015

First world problems

My sister J is perhaps the most forgiving person and least judgmental person I know. Most anecdotes she shares start with, "well, no one else likes (or gets along with) so-and-so, but I like him/think she's nice, etc."

Shortly after reading my last blog, J gave me the world's most gentle combination of pep talk/talking to. The gist of it was - you are much luckier than most people. Enjoy this time and relax. You are very fortunate.

She's absolutely right. I may be bored and angst ridden about what's next, but I am very, very fortunate. I have the benefit of some time to make sure I'm making the right move for me personally and professionally. I have a strong network, terrific friends, an amazingly supportive family. I've had conversations about prospects that are dream jobs.  My issues right now really are problems of privilege.  Issues of what we called the "worried well" in social work school. Things that we now call "first world problems."

First world problems. The time our heat broke and we could only heat two rooms with space heaters in the dead of winter. The time our flight was delayed on the way home from an amazing vacation. The time the espresso grinder broke. Being temporarily unemployed and financially able to weather the transition. 

Here's the problem with "first world problems". They are our problems. They affect us and our lives. They cause us real stress. And we want to, and should, talk about that stress. Yet, complaining about them is uncomfortable when we recognize that our problems pale in comparison to others' problems.

There is always someone less fortunate than us. Always someone we should think about when we complain. And there is always someone more fortunate about us. Someone whose complaints we find utterly ridiculous.

A while back in another post I wrote about a piece of teaching I think about often. It says each person should carry two slips of paper in his/her pocket. On one it should be written, "the whole world was created for me."  On the other, "I am but a speck of dust." We are the center of the universe. Our problems consume us. And, we are a speck of dust. Our problems are inconsequential.

My boredom in this temporary period of unemployment is truly a first world problem. I recognize that many people, including readers of this blog, have more real concerns.  What to me is hopefully a short period of uncertainty is for many years of true struggle and worry.  But I also recognize that many reached out to me following my last post sharing their feelings of being in similar situations. Able to put food on their table and keep a roof over their heads, and grateful for it, but uncomfortable in the uncertainty and waiting.

All we can do, I think, is to remember that both are true. We are lucky and we are unlucky. We are fortunate and we are pained. Most of us live with immense privilege, and yet, that privilege does not prevent us from struggle or challenge. We need to recognize both, living in gratitude and also feeling our challenges.  It's easy for me to write. To do, on the other hand? We'll see....

Monday, March 9, 2015

Waiting for shmita

On the Jewish calendar, this is the shmita year, the agricultural "sabbath", when we are commanded to take a year off from farming the land. 

I've enjoyed the modern interpretations that have emerged this year about the sustainability of community and the concept of fallowness.  But I'm plagued with a practical question: what the heck did the farmers do while they weren't farming?

Earlier in my career, I knew and had the privilege of working closely with several professional farmers, and here's what I know - farmers are always busy. Between the actual work of farming, the paperwork of modern farming, the business deals, the equipment to fix, the side jobs to fill in the financial gaps - farmers work pretty much all day, every day. And while thousands of years ago they might not have had government paperwork, I can't imagine they were less busy.

To take people who work every day (or 6 days a week, maybe) sunrise to sunset and then, to tell them, stop? This isn't the modern day sabbatical.  Farmers weren't at home, wanting to write books or travel the world.  Their entire life and livelihood - everything they knew - was put on hold. So when told to stop, what did they do?

*********

I've worked since I was 16. It was the rule in my house growing up. Turn 16; get a summer job.  I went to school, or I worked. For the latter part of undergrad and all of graduate school, I did both. Minus one or two months when I moved, and two 12 week maternity leaves, I've worked consistently for the past 25 years.

Until a few weeks ago. Because at the moment, I'm unemployed. Or, "between things".

And honestly? I have no idea what to do.

I'm entering week 5 of my "shmita". Week 1: I was sick, in bed. Week 2: on a long planned and much needed family vacation. Weeks 3 and 4: meeting with people, networking, and, well, going slightly crazy.

That's not entirely true. I've also baked a lot. And exercised. And spent a lot of timing yelling at the dog (that's another post entirely). I chaperoned a field trip for my daughter. I've had some lovely lunch dates with my husband. I've read some great books.

But in between it all? I'm pacing around the house trying to figure out exactly what to do with myself.

********************

Time, without boundaries, is endless.  Perhaps shmita is tolerable because it is scheduled and has limits. Same with Shabbat. Once a week for 25 hours and it is over.  25 hours during which, by the way, I don't work, and also don't worry about what to do with myself.

Shmita literally means release.  I've spoken to many people who have had an experience like the one I find myself in now, and I've heard them speak of "release" - of expectations, limitations, baggage. I'm not there yet.

I'm guessing that as soon I know when my personal shmita is ending, I will be full of things to do. Projects around the house; friends to see; blogs to write.  Release will be easier with an end date.

In the meantime, here I am, slightly fallow, waiting for the soil to renew, hoping for the growth that I have faith will come, baking, talking, walking, and wandering. This is early shmita.