Fragile Construction

Last week, I attended a devastating funeral for a friend, a member of my community, who died way too young (maybe it's always too young?) after an 8 year long battle with breast cancer.  The funeral was heart wrenching, and I'd give anything to get this woman back, to continue a friendship that had really just begun, to return her to her husband, children, parents and friends. But the theme of the funeral was really the power of community. Person after person told stories of when our friend took them in - when they were recent immigrants, when they needed a meal, when they needed a person to listen. She was warm, and witty, and there for people. The feeling of community in all its messiness and wonderfulness was throughout - an Orthodox rabbi led the service, our Reform rabbi sat in the pews. People spoke in English and in Russian. People called her husband by his full name, his American English nickname, and his Russian nickname. 

I left the funeral and went directly to the airport to visit with the Jewish community in Houston. Much has been written about the impact of the storms in Houston - especially in one neighborhood where many Jewish families live, a neighborhood so often flooded that FEMA is considering buying up the housing and making it a flood pond. 

The streets are still full of rubble. The kids are in preschool on a repurposed indoor tennis court. The seniors are spread across town as their program space remains inaccessible. 

The people in Houston are tired, worn out, traumatized. And resilient. Focused on rebuilding. Unusual partnerships have arisen. Schools are squished into other school spaces. Everywhere where it is possible to open for programming is open - at no cost regardless of loss of revenue. The largest synagogue moved into a mega church for the high holidays - rent free.  Volunteers from around the country and world are sleeping on mattresses in churches and people's floors and mucking and gutting houses all day long. 

"In the days after the storm," a colleague told me, "everyone was either a floodee or a volunteer."  

I came back to NYC for Yom Kippur and then got back on the road. To Miami. 

In the Miami Jewish community, people greet each other with "how'd you make out in the storm?" in much the same way they might ask about the horrific Miami traffic. They are focused on rebuilding in communities near and far who experienced far greater loss than they did. 

In a meeting while in Miami, I heard about children and families who are homeless and those who aren't technically homeless but are couch surfing, or living several families in tiny apartments. I heard from a woman who is quietly helping these families - one cash payment or hotel room at a time. Several times, she noted that she isn't a professional, or an educator, but that she is there to provide a band-aid when needed, to get these families through the day.  In a room with nonprofit colleagues, where people could have been looking to her for funds for their own, very worthy causes, the conversation was wholly focused on brainstorming ways to get her more financial resources, more volunteers, more help for the work she is doing.

Tonight, we begin the Jewish holiday of Sukkot, in which many of us build or visit temporary huts, created to dine and dwell in.  I love Sukkot.  I believe that it would be more popular were it not for its unfortunate timing on the back of the exhaustion that is Yom Kippur.  Most years, Sukkot is for me a lesson in fragility and temporariness. Life right now feels as fragile and temporary as ever.  

This year, though, I'm thinking not about impermanence, but about building.  Each year, we build these temporary huts.  They are similar to the year before, but not exact. They are created for a period of time. They don't fully protect us from the elements, but they create a space in which to experience the world around us. We decorate them, and try to make them beautiful. We invite in guests, and symbolically invite in the thoughts memories of others we are inspired by. 

On Sukkot, we learn what I learned at the funeral, in Miami, in Houston. We have the ability to create shelter in times of need - however imperfect, however temporary, however fragile.  We are in the elements, but we have the ability to try, within that context, to create something to protect us.  That something might be community, it might be family of birth or family of choice, it might be the actions of giving or volunteering.  It never fully protects us. It sometimes doesn't even partially protect us.  When we can't build our own shelter, people do it for us.  That's what shiva in the Jewish tradition is. People feeding us, caring for us, building a hut around us while we sit in our devastation unable to build anything for ourselves.

Sukkot is about creating the shelter we need.  It's about rebuilding. That's what makes the impossible time, possible. It's a small piece of technology in a very fragile existence.  

My Dad

My parents and our Rabbi at our son's Bar Mitzvah

My father was a foul-mouthed, lobster-eating man who didn’t really like to wear a yarmulke.  He wasn’t known for his patience with prayer.  In a kind of Passover apprenticeship, my dad spent several years side-by-side in an attempt to train Jeremy to lead a speedy seder, and then the past couple of years heckling and telling Jeremy to speed up as he led the seder on his own. My dad was just as impatient  when we said the Shabbat prayers at our house.  And I remember him spending a good portion of the High Holidays of my childhood not inside at services, but chatting outside of the building with his friends.

My dad wasn’t patient with the ritual aspects of Judaism, but he was a fiercely proud Jew - adamantly supportive of the State of  Israel, and at the same time (as anyone who followed him on social media knew) openly critical of Bibi.  He was a lifelong Temple member and leader, and a parent for whom Jewish education was mandatory.

But my father wasn’t only a proud Jew, he was a tzadik - a deeply holy man. For those not as familiar with the Jewish tradition -  tzadik isn’t really the same as a saint but it’s similar.  It’s a word we use for biblical figures and  spiritual masters.  I know it is hard to think of my swearing, dirty joke telling dad as a spiritual master, and it’s true - he wasn’t your typical holy man.   But the Hebrew word for tzadik comes from the root tzedek, righteousness or justice, and there was nothing more important to my father than justice.  

Every fight my dad fought, every client he defended, every politician he supported, every social media rant he made, was, for him, about right and wrong, about justice.  For my dad, justice was first and foremost about giving people a chance and protecting the “little guy”.  In any given situation, what it meant to get a chance and who the little guy was weren’t always clear cut.  What was fair for one person might not be fair for another.  My father deeply believed that every person deserved his or her day in court, that the system was pretty much always out to get people, and that it was his duty to help people who asked for it.  There were not simple lines; he defended people I would call good guys and people I might call something else.  Much to my great frustration and the source of more than one argument, he was even known to vote across party lines on occasion.

Jewish tradition teaches us to first give to our families, then our tribe or community, then our town, then the world.  This was my dad’s way as well.  There was nothing more important to him than his family, his community, and his town.  He went out of his way to help his kids, his parents and in-laws, his nieces and nephews.  He volunteered in his synagogue and his community; he took barter as payment, or sometimes he took no payment not at all.

I’m not sure if my father believed in God.  I’m not sure if it was even relevant to him.  What mattered to him was actions.  Not being a snob. Talking to everyone.  Helping when you can. Taking care of your family.  Showing up in your community. Standing up for the individual.

My father and I were different kind of Jews.  He didn’t always have patience for the kind of kosher keeping, prayer saying, Jew I am.  I didn’t always have patience for the kind of "using his cell phone in Temple" kind of Jew he was.  But everything I know and believe about values I learned from him and my mom, and I can only hope and pray to become half the tzadik - and person - he was.  Every moment I spent with him was a blessing; every lesson I learned from him greater than those from any Torah scholar.  I already miss him dearly, and can’t imagine life without him.  

The Balcony and the Dance Floor

Two weeks ago, at the Women's March in Washington, my sister and I worked our way to what seemed like the front of the crowd. We had already been out for 4 hours, standing in crowds and tired of waiting. So, when our (wiser and local) friends decided to walk back to the outskirts of the crowd, we walked in. 

From our new position, we were packed so tightly we couldn't extend our arms without touching anyone. We are both small, and couldn't really see anything. Ahead of us was a monitor showing the speeches. If we stood on our toes, we could see a corner. We couldn't hear anything. Those around us were in similar positions, although our small stature made it harder for us. We assumed, as did everyone around us, that we were waiting for the speeches to end so we could march forward - on the official planned route. 

The speeches were scheduled to end at 1. As the hours ticked by, people kept giving speeches. Occasionally we saw people walking away from the front of the crowd. One couple even told us that they were saying at the front to go back. We stood our ground, firm in our thought that once people stopped talking, we could march. We had no cell service, no twitter.  There was no microphone - human or mechanical. We had ourselves and the crowd right around us. We all waited. As each speaker stopped talking, a cheer rose. Then we would see another speaker and would groan. 

Eventually, as the hours passed, we started chanting, "let us march; let us march". We were so confident in our knowledge that the reason we were not moving was that the speakers wouldn't stop speaking. 

It was only later, seeing the aerial photos, that I realized what you likely already understand.  We weren't moving because there was no place to go. We weren't waiting; we were trapped. We weren't at a march as much as we were in a very mellow mob. We should have gone back, or sideways, or in some direction other than forward.

In my sector, we talk about the difference in view between the balcony and the dance floor. What my sister and I experienced was a classic dance floor problem. On the dance floor, knowledge is limited to immediate vision and we have no choice but to act based on that which we can immediately see. 

On the balcony, we can see the bigger picture. But on the balcony, there is little ability to act. With no vision above the crowd, and no cell service, there was no balcony at the march.  The only to have seen the bigger picture from the middle of the march would have been to go back to the hotel, and watch it on tv.  It wasn't a day for the balcony; so we did what we could, as calmly as possible, and stayed on the dance floor.

Being able to move from the dance floor to the balcony and sometimes to be both places at once is a crucial and hard skill.  Most of us are more comfortable one place or another. I'm a balcony person myself, and find it hard to maneuver on a dance floor when I don't have perspective of the bigger picture. 

Getting the big picture seems harder everyday. This is a moment in time where life on the dance floor feels increasingly frightening, outrage inducing, and morally devastating.  The dance floor feels awful. And the balcony is almost impossible to find.  The news is increasingly complicated; the view is overwhelming. As I look down towards one section of the dance floor that's on fire, another flare emerges. My gaze is continuously diverted.

At the march, finally, my sister climbed a tower.  Briefly, she was able to see the big picture, to find a way out. For a moment, she saw, determined direction, and jumped down.  She grabbed me by the hand and led me forward.  Paralyzed by the dance floor and dizzied by the balcony view,that's where I am today.  Emulating my sister, on that tower, climbing, getting a glimpse of the big picture, coming down, and determining the next step.  

What Do We Tell Our Kids?

It's not over, and who knows what the next several hours - or days - will bring.

But it is clear that millions of people have voted for a candidate who has insulted women, immigrants, Muslims, and people of color.  A candidate who has threatened to deport my children's classmates and families.  A person whose supporters are anti-Semites and terrifying to me on a deeply personal level.

And the question, the one in my head, and the one all over my FaceBook feed is this: what do we tell our kids?

Tomorrow, here's what I will say:

Yes, I am scared for the country. And yes, I am angry.  (And while I am personally scared, that I will keep to myself for now).

I will tell them the history of successful civil rights movements.  I will share photos and stories of protests; I will bring them if that feels safe to us.

I will tell them we aren't leaving America.  (At least for now.)  That most people don't have the privilege to even talk about leaving. We stay.  We create change while we can and because we can.

We will lean into local. Into our own community.  Into deepening relationships with our neighbors. Into meeting people who aren't like us.

We will bring our kids to volunteer. To serve food to the hungry. To weed a community garden.  We will give them the agency to do small acts to make them understand that they can have a role - however small - in change.

Most of all?  When they wake up, and ask about the voters on the other "side", I will not tell them - because I don't believe- that voters on the "other" side are ignorant,  uneducated,  horrific, some unknown "they".  I will let tomorrow be a step towards rebuilding the "two America's" not towards deepening the divide.  

I will speak up against hatred, racism, and misogyny.  But I will not incite personal hatred of the millions of Americans who were - and are - themselves scared of a world that is rapidly changing. And I will not demean "middle America", rural America, those who aren't "like us".  Because they are, also, us.

Over the next days and months and years, I will remember and reinforce, as our Rabbi and teacher Heidi Hoover wrote earlier this week, that we are all created in the image of God.

Most of all, I'll share the words of the mother of our nation: When they go low, we go high.

Stay Woke

The marquis on the church near our house is flashing, “Stay Woke. Follow Jesus”.  Stay Woke.  In the anti-racism and social justice world, being woke means being aware, being self aware.  It’s perhaps the modern equivalent to being “hip” to something.   

Stay Woke.  It's a phrase that's begun to creep into my existence. The flashing marquis that has wormed its way into my thoughts. 

We’ve recently begun a new Jewish year.  This past year has been a year of often horrific awakening. The news, and my social media field has been filled with images - black men being killed by police, LGBT folks slaughtered in a nightclub, terrorism around the world, refugees on boats and on shores, the list goes on and on.  They are images that move me, and that move all of us - images that shock me awake. For a moment. And then I scroll down.  The next image - a silly cat, a political rant, a new meme. Sure, I do things.  I volunteer; I make donations; I vote.  But do I truly stay aware; stay woke?

The period between the Jewish holidays of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur is about reflection, apology, and change.  Each year, I try to take this seriously.  Each year, I apologize to others, to myself, to the force in the world I call God.  Most years, there is a moment, sometime, the afternoon of Yom Kippur, during the powerful Neilah service, when I am, finally, awake.  And then, the next year, it’s the same stuff.  I make the same mistakes.  I have the same regrets. Am I truly able to stay woke?

There have been other moments of awakening this year.  That flash of wonder on a gorgeous day. The moments where time freezes in joy - laughing hysterically with my parents and sisters, seeing the look on my daughter’s face after nailing a successful dive into the pool, watching my son read from the Torah in front of our community.  Moments of pure awakening, when the world is only goodness and truth.  These moments, also, are gone, almost as soon as I recognize them.

Stay woke.  It’s beautiful in its new use of the past tense. Stay woke is about taking a moment, of awareness, of being, of change, and remember it, act on it, remain aware of it.  I awaken over and over. But stay woke? Not yet.

Village People

I'm about 48 hours out from having an official teen, and an official bar mitzvah boy, looking through old photos and wondering how we got here.

Here's one thing we did: built a village.  It's true it takes one.  (And I know it'll be even more true in the next phase of parenting).  It's also true that most of us don't just fall into a village, we build one.  Parenting without community is brutal, maybe impossible.  But parenting with community involves putting that community together.

I've started to think of these folks as our Village People:

Family, of birth and marriage -  the perennial of the village.  They always have been and always will be there. They benefit from water and attention, but they are there with us regardless.

Friends who parent in ways we admire.  Who are a little older and further ahead and are on the other side, still breathing.

Irreverent friends who make us gasp in mock horror and reverent friends who sit with us and pray.

Those folks who have known us since we ourselves were young and remind us that we weren't always who we are now.

Colleagues who never ask about our kids and only focus on us. And colleagues who always ask about our kids.

People who flirt with us like we have no wrinkles and people who chime in when we whine about aging.

Friends who bring us food and drink, who can create parties in the middle of hurricanes, and who have never needed an excuse to just sit together and laugh.

Village People, you know who you are.  We love our village and are grateful to have you in our lives.  Now tell us a joke, this bar mitzvah thing is making us weepy.

Choking on Cake

Recently I was chatting with a friend and colleague about my job. I explained how everything is terrific, but that there are so many things - things we are doing, things we want to be doing, opportunities to seize, that it is often overwhelming.  "Ahh," he noted, "You're choking on cake."

He went on to explain that a colleague had taught him that phrase - choking on cake - for when life is great but there is just too much going on.

I quickly fell in love with the phrase, and took to sharing it with others often.  It seemed terrific.  Sure there's a lot going on, but it is sweet and delicious.  It's cake. (For the record, I don't actually like cake.  Another colleague who was with us at the time said that for me, the phrase should be choking on artisanal Brooklyn home brew.)

And so I mentioned the phrase "choking on cake" breezily to my stellar Executive Coach, who paused, and said, "Well, I guess that's better than choking on charcoal."

But is it?  A pound of feathers or a pound of gold - still weighs a pound, right?  Choking on charcoal or choking on cake - still choking, right?

That same stellar coach and I have been talking about cognitive reframing.  I have to admit, I've secretly been a little resistant to focusing on it too much. I tend already to be a glass is half full person.  Reframing seemed a little pop-psychology - kind of "every cloud has a silver lining."

Until I actually thought about the cake.  And released that reframing is genuinely thinking from another perspective.

It's like this image:

Do you see the angels or the demons?  They are both there.  Refocusing to look at one doesn't negate the other, it just brings a different image into focus.

Which is what happened to me. 

I was focused on the cake. Until I became focused on the choking. 

And that very specific reframe changed my perspective. 

Choking? Not really.  I'm not choking.  I am often harried, not finishing everything, but I can breathe, and swallow.  Personally, I'm moving through the tasks.  Organizationally, we are flourishing.

It's more like binging.  I'm shoving a lot - probably too much - in.  But I'm the person shoving it in. I'm not a goose getting prepped to become foie gras.  After a period of looking for a job, I'm more like a kid who hasn't been allowed sweets. I just want more and more and more to the point where I keep eating after I should stop.

Also - cake? Cake is sweet but nutritionally empty.  Some of what I'm binging on probably is cake. Projects that I love but aren't strategic. Some tasks are more like vitamins; no taste but all nutrition. The sweet spot is those things I am doing that I love and are useful. Sort of how I feel about roasted veggies.  I could eat them forever. And they are good for me.

Reframing is often temporary until we practice it over and over. Our minds want to go back to familiar thinking patterns.  But for today?  I'm not choking on cake.  I'm binging on roasted veggies. And while it might hurt my belly sometimes, in the long run, I'm gonna be healthier.

[p.s. I know it has been almost a year since I've blogged. I'm going to try to do something about that. Hold me to it, ok?]

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.

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....

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.

It's been a year. Thanks, truly, for being part of it.

Thanks Facebook, but I'll pass on "It's been a great year. Thanks for being part of it".

This is the year I turned 40.

I'd like to blog about all the lessons I learned. Like this NY Times article people keep posting. (Side note - I disagree with much of it. Especially the part about soul mates).

I would like to write that this is the year I learned to love my wrinkles. To ignore the extra pounds around my middle that won't go away.

I'd like to write that this year, I learned to let go of my bitterness for those who weren't there for me in tough times. That I learned to focus only on my gratitude for those who were.

I'd like to write that this is the year that I learned that the constant nagging attention of a puppy taught me something about the universe, other than that maybe I don't like dogs.

I'd like to write that I was comforted by "God doesn't give us what we can't handle" or "what doesn't kill us makes us stronger". Both may be true, but it wasn't a comfort.

So I tried to write a anti-Facebook blog: "It's been a crappy year. Thanks for being part of it".  It has been a challenging year, and I am truly grateful for everyone who has been there for me.

But it hasn't only been a rotten year. It's a year that started perfectly, surrounded by family. It's a year in which I was astounded by the strength and resilience I saw around me and even surprised by my own once or twice as well. And while it's been a year of parenting moments that make me want to bang my head against the wall, it's also been a year of parenting moments that take my breath away as I watch my children become people in the world.

It's been a year. And I haven't learned anything.

But I'm trying to learn. I'm trying to learn that years aren't either great or terrible, that they are a series of moments. In the worst of times, those moments slow down in order to help us cope. During the darkest days of a family tragedy this year, when we weren't sure what we would do, I would turn to my sister and say - first, we are going to cook breakfast. Then, we are going to eat breakfast. During the bad times, the only way to cope is one moment at a time.

And I'm guessing that the trick is to try to do that during the good times too. And the in-between times. To stop, and realize this is one moment. One amazing moment.  One terrible moment. One mediocre, boring moment.

If that is really the trick and if I can really learn, then maybe, just maybe, I'll get to the point where I decide, "this is one moment, should I spend it looking for grey hairs? Or should I spend it opening a jar of my favorite jam, even though there are already two open jars in the fridge?" This morning, I did both. Scowled at the grey hairs and opened the sour cherry jam.

So that's 40. It's been a year. Thanks, truly, for being part of it.

On composing and deleting

I've developed a habit over the past several months of composing Facebook statuses and deleting them. Or creating them in my head, and not posting.

It began with the conflict in Israel and Gaza this summer. My Facebook feed was quickly full of advocacy from across the political spectrum, "shouting matches", and sharing of gruesome photographs. There didn't seem to be a space for me, for opinions that were more nuanced, for deep sympathy for deaths on all sides, for a real conversation. So I was largely silent.

I understood that my silence came from a place of privilege. It's easy to be silent from across the world. And I understand that my silence could be interpreted as consent - a fact that was deeply troubling as I watched people spread hatred.

My silence wasn't completely a choice. I was simply paralyzed. Many times I wrote something, thought about it, deleted. In person, I spoke about the situation a lot, with my colleagues and family and friends. I was able to express my opinion, to have civil disagreements, even to directly discuss a Facebook status from the other person. But online? Mostly silence.

Then, at the end of the summer, my family experienced a tragic death of a young person - a member, you might say, of the original Facebook generation.  In our times where Facebook has largely replaced the newspaper and no one under the age of fifty reads the obituaries anymore, Facebook has become the the way to share news both good and bad.

I was faced with a question - what, if anything, should I say on social media? I decided to follow the lead of the person closest to the death: when she posted funeral information, so did I. When she shared where donations should go, so did I.

In the process, I realized something. Or rather, JB pointed something out to me. On Facebook, everything is at the same level. There are no categories, no filters, no sections. One minute you are looking at a silly cat video, the next minute you see a death notice. There is no way to differentiate, no way to filter the news from the opinion, the obituaries  from the style section.

In person, in the town square, we can go to the library for information, to the movies for entertainment, to the house of worship for religion, to the grocery store checkout for gossip. We can do the same with sections of the newspaper. On Facebook, it comes at us all at once.

The "all at once" makes it amazing - I never know what I will encounter and daily read an interesting article that I would not have otherwise seen. It makes it challenging. More than once I've seen someone post something deeply private - often about a relationship - and I've learned things that are more intimate than the bounds of our friendship.

And frankly, the "all at once" of Facebook makes it almost impossible to quit. I have several work related groups that live on the platform. It is a platform that has become crucial to professional branding in my field and many others. To leave could affect my career. And to leave would affect my ability to know the news I want to hear. I also don't read the obituaries and I do want to know when someone in my community is experiencing a loss. Or a success. Or a challenge.

But this summer made it clear to me that I personally need to examine my FaceBook habits. I started, almost accidentally, by mostly abstaining during the traditional 30 day Jewish mourning period of shloshim. With the exception of one or two posts, I didn't feel right about sharing fun quips about my day-to-day life while someone I love was in so much pain.

In taking a little time off, I realized that the all day "all at once" onslaught was troubling me personally. Thus while I'm returning to Facebook and will likely once again share all my musings of the day, I've deleted the Facebook app on my phone to create just a little bit of space between me and that overwhelming feed.

I also realized that someone I'm Facebook friends with is always in pain. So I'm trying, especially as I move into the Jewish New Year, to never lose sight of what my posts might look like to others, and to never forget that on the other side of my feed, there are people - people who laugh at silly videos and kvell over cute kid pictures and people who struggle and grief and are lost.  I hope that in 5775, I will be able to remember that those people are my colleagues, acquaintances and friends, and that those people too come to their screens with their whole lives, and leave, once again, to live their lives. Facebook, after all, isn't life. It's just where we talk about it.

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

PS: Once again, I almost deleted this post. I'm sharing it, but I want to be very clear that my intentions in doing so are to reflect on and share my own experiences.  My intentions are not to judge yours. And so, with tremendous fear that this is another preachy thing filling up your feed, I share it anyway.  Agree? Disagree? Feel irrelevant or relevant? Please comment. 

Tale of Two States

We spent last weekend at the State chess tournament. The ten year old and his team were playing.  This was A's second year.  Last year, he had an incredible run: won all of his games; came in second place in his section only after losing a "blitz" tie-breaker; took home an enormous trophy and a team trophy as well.  This year? Won one game, tied one game, lost the rest.  Most of the kids on his team in his section were "playing up" against higher rated teams, and it was a challenging weekend for them all.

Last year, he spent the whole weekend focused on chess.  He didn't swim in the hotel pool. He went to bed early.  He was, as he told me this year, "trying to win."  This year, he swam twice. He stayed up late and played bug house with his friends. (Bug house is four person two board chess and super fun for the chess kids).  He told me it was because he knew he couldn't win, so he could have fun.

Also, this year? He learned some chess. A challenger used an opening against him that he didn't know how to defend and that he plans to ask his coach about.  He lost well. He was upset when he made a mistake and lost because of it.  But when he played for a long time against a high rated player and lost? He felt okay about it.

I've been reflecting on both weekends. I've been wondering - which is more important for him? Which experience will have more impact on his life? Is it better for kids to experience winning or to experience losing and know that they will survive?  I've told him that I think he will learn more from this year. Mistakes are how we learn, and he will be a better chess player. But do I believe that truly? Would I want him to continue to play, tournament after tournament, and lose?

This was all on my mind this week when I was reminded (in another context) of a piece of Jewish teaching which says that each person should carry two slips of paper in his/her pockets. On one it should be written, "the whole world was created for me."  On the other, "I am but a speck of dust."

That, I think, is what we need to teach our children.  That yes, the whole world was created for them. They are the center of our universe in many ways. But also? They are but a speck of dust, another being out of billions of beings in our universe.

Lean one way - too many weekends of winning it all - they become entitled and haughty and unable to deal with the challenges of the world.  They are scared to take risks and fail.  Lean the other way - failure after failure - they lose faith in themselves and don't understand their enormous power to create change. And while they aren't scared to fail, they don't know that they can succeed.

So another weekend of chess is behind us.  He's played for three years and I still haven't learned any chess past the knight goes one, two, turn.  It's not clear how long he will be interested in the chess moving forward. In the meantime, though. there will be at least a few more weekends of winning, and a few more of losing, and along the way, I'll stand by, wring my hands, and watch him learn.

Come back?

My birthday is New Year's Eve.  My grandparents were interrupted at a party by my birth. My across the street neighbor's were eating Chinese food with their friends - a tradition that continued for years into my childhood. My uncle had the first car accident of the New Year on the way home from visiting me.  Or something like that....

New Year's Eve 2012-13, I turned 39. I made a New Year's resolution to have more fun. (Later narrowed to wear more color). I spoke with my Dad in the morning; he told me to take the kids ice skating. I love to ice skate; it was my birthday; I had resolved to have more fun; we went.  At the rink I got a call that my father was in the ER. Before midnight I was with my mother and my sisters (well one was there virtually with every minute phone calls) at his side in the ICU. 

New Year's Eve 2013-14. I turned 40. Again, at my parents' side, but this time at my parent's house. With all my sisters. With JB and my kiddos. With all my bros-in-law. And all my nephews.  

Not sure what happened to 2013. My kids got bigger. My Dad got well. We made the crazy decision to get a puppy. My mom got a new hip. We sold an apartment, bought a house. I had a whole lot of blessings and a whole lot of first world problems. I ran a half marathon.  I blogged once.  

39 was a blur.  So far, 40 isn't. So far, in fact, 40 is great. 

My dad Facebook messaged me today. (That's another thing that happened in 2013 - my dad joined FaceBook). Time for another blog, he said.

So here it is.  I'm trying to make a come back. Hold me to it?

Fine, I'm a Runner

A friend of mine recently asked me whether I feel like a grown up. He confessed that he does not. He's in his forties, has a spouse, a career, children. Not things that define "grown up" by any means but certainly the traditional trappings. Yet, as both his parents and his children get older, he feels that he is often play-acting, faking it.

It's not unusual to have a different conception of a label that might be used to describe you. Ask many progressive Jews to describe an authentic Jew and they will describe an ultra-orthodox man. Not themselves, or their family, or even their Rabbi, but someone who lives a different existence but still represents their concept of the label.

In fact, I do feel like a grownup (and have the gray hairs to prove it). It's not a label I have a very hard time with. However - I don't feel like a runner. Truly, if you asked, I would tell you I'm not a runner. 

Here are the facts: I run between 3 and 5 times a week. I own running shoes, and clothes, and hats, and socks, and headbands, and one ridiculous visor. I buy energy gels - a kind of weird processed sugar to fuel long runs. Oh yeah, I now have "long runs" because I am ... training for a half marathon (eek). I have used the word split in a sentence that didn't include bananas. 

 

And yet, I don't think of myself as a runner. Runners are things I am not. They are lean; I'm curvy. They've been running their whole lives; I've been doing it for a year or so. They were athletic kids; I had my head in a book. I have an image of a runner in my head, and it isn't me. 

That's what I think is going on with my friend. He has an image of a grown up, and it isn't him. Like many Gen X'ers (including me), he is uncomfortable with labels to begin with.  And, also like many Gen X'ers, his life looks different from the generation before him. He has more balance, probably. He generally loves his career. He's ambitious, but not to the point of interfering with the value he places on his family and his personal sanity. His parents are aging, but they aren't settling down and acting like old people. His children are growing up, and he's facing the realization that our children are not us (that's another blog). 

The truth? He's a grown up. I'm a runner. Labels can define us, or we can define them. If the box doesn't feel big enough, or the right shape, we can embrace the label and change the box. We have done that in this country with "family". I am hopeful we are about to do that with "marriage". Who says that being a "grown up" means you hate your job? That being a "senior citizen" means that you have to move to a retirement community? That being a "runner" means that you have to be fast?  There are times in life we have to create new labels, but there are also times we can change what the labels mean.

This week is Passover, a time when Jews move beyond narrow places to freedom. This strikes me as a time to embrace some of the labels and move on. I'm going to try to release myself from the narrowness of my self-imposed concepts.  So next time you see me, on-line or in the real world, ask if I'm a runner. And I'll try to say yes.

Two Abrahams

"Oh no," my Abraham yelped, looking at some colorful president cards we have, "Abraham Lincoln was... a Republican?"

I'm a child of New Hampshire. For those of you who aren't, here's what that means: it means that all politics was truly local to me growing up. It means we always had signs in the yard. It means that my first "job" was stuffing envelopes and answering phones when I was 13 or so for some candidate in a Portsmouth office. It means that my mom and I met Elizabeth Dole at our neighbor's house and she was so nice that we both might still switch parties to vote for her if given the chance.

Growing up, every Fisher was expected to have a political opinion. Politics were regular dinner table conversation. My father called me a pinko more than once during my adolescence. To this day, I don't watch a debate or a State of the Union address without texting my sisters throughout.

Growing up in NH also means I have a libertarian streak. I have strong party leanings but I don't vote just for party lines. It means I don't like dirty politics. When politics are that local, you realize that the candidates are actually people.  I don't agree with Sarah Palin but I was disgusted by the gender stuff that was thrown at her. I can't stand Rush Limbaugh but I was sympathetic to his challenges of recovery.

My kids, though, are New Yorkers. They are New Yorkers with a giant Obama hope poster in their hallway. (A poster that to me symbolizes both how far this country has come and how far it has to go.)

Their father is passionate about politics. Passionate in a very educated and fairly partisan way. Our Abraham was born during the GW administration. Right after we "won" the war and right before we went back to war. He spent hours of his infancy in the baby carrier held by his father while he read the paper and ranted about the administration.  JB's a guy with strong political leanings, and the kids know it.

Our Abraham is also a fairly literal kind of guy (as noted last week). There are good guys and bad guys in his world. You root for a team. His baseball team is the Mets. His political team, the Democrats. So Abraham Lincoln, same name as him and hero, a Republican? It didn't make sense. (I've left it to his father, much more knowledgeable about history, to explain the evolution of our 2 party system).

But I'm a NH girl, so I'm trying a little to shake him out of the good guy/ bad guy thinking. I'm trying to explain where my values fit in. That I believe that the government should help people. That I believe that people should be able to love who they want to love, and marry who they want to marry. That I believe that those of us who are lucky enough to have good jobs are obligated to help others. That we live in a world where a mayor from another party might be a better choice for our city.

Lots of my friends don't understand undecided voters. I do. Don't get me wrong, I'm completely decided. But undecided voters aren't dumb. They are thinking. They have values. Maybe some conflict with each other. Maybe they truly believe that life begins at conception and they truly believe the government should feed the hungry. Maybe they are just tired of in-fighting and money. They see their neighbors who need jobs, and possibility, and aren't totally sure which candidate has a better chance of providing that, or whether it even matters.

I hope my kids will grow up to understand that politics really is local. That our decisions affect us and those around us. That we should have an opinion and that it is ok if that opinion changes. These days, it's my youngest sister who my dad is calling a pinko. And my dad who has taken a conservative turn that has made us all furious. But that's ok. Cause he's a NH boy. And NH boys, well they may like their tractors and their Dunkin' Donuts and their Red Sox but they love their politics.

One, two, turn

My 9 year old has started playing on his school chess team, affectionately known as the Chess Ninjas.  I know nothing about chess.  Well, I know how the pieces move.  The knight - one, two, turn.  I now know there is a thing called "castling".  And a thing called "en passant".  Although I just had to google that one to be sure.

I went to my first chess tournament this week.  For those of you who have never been, let me assure you that an elementary school chess tournament is not an exciting way to spend the day.  Even if you love chess, you can't watch the matches - the kids are alone for those.  So you spend most of your day sitting in a classroom at a school.  Waiting.  Not eating, because if you get caught eating in the classroom, your team can get kicked out of the tournament. It's kind of like not watching the world's slowest cricket match.

My kid goes to a school full of families who are fairly normal (in a good way) and truly diverse.  I had a nice time chatting with the chess parents, and we had one very interesting conversation about the history of Columbus day and the way Columbus is perceived in countries throughout the western world. I had one nice walk through Harlem to Starbucks.  I got a little bit of work done, but not as much as I should have.

Through it all, I quietly observed the coach of the Chess Ninjas.  And I took home a number of interesting lessons.

Before I share them, let me brag a little.  This is no ordinary coach, and no ordinary chess team.  This is a team that took home a national championship last year.  This is a feeder team for the famous Brooklyn middle school team that won the high school championships last year, that star in this movie.  So, this is a coach who knows what he is doing.  And here's what he does:

Every player, win or lose, goes over his/her game with the coach after it's over.  And the feedback is on the play, not the win or loss.  Don't get me wrong, the coach likes to win.  But the kids sit down and go through their games move by move. When they won 'cause they got lucky, he tells them. When they play great but lose, he tells them that.

Think about it - we've gotten pretty good in the nonprofit world about learning from our mistakes, "failing fast", and pivoting.  But we still always take credit for our successes.  What if we are succeeding despite ourselves?  A popular rabbi who has significantly grown a congregation once said to me, "yes, we were growing.  We are in a community where people keep having kids and they want those kids to have a bar or bat mitzvah.  That doesn't mean that we are successful.  That's demographics, not outreach".  How many of the rest of us analyze our wins as critically as our losses? 

And the losses? After one loss, the coach told my son that the difference between the higher ranked players and the lower ranked ones is the number of possibilities they see at any given time.  It's an important lesson for my kid who is so literal that he sometimes calls himself "Mr. Literal." And an important lesson for all of us.  Think about it - winning it isn't knowing the right thing to do. Losing isn't doing the wrong thing.  It's not fully understanding all of the options. Winning is making decisions based on fully understanding all of the options for all of the players in the game.

I'm not going start playing chess.  Just isn't my game.  (Games aren't really my game, actually).  And I'm not going to volunteer to sit in that room for every tournament.  But while I'm there, I'll listen to the coach. Because maybe there is a life lesson in the castle after all.

Wanna come over?

It's become a tradition in our family to have an open house on the second afternoon of Rosh Hashana. It's the way I like to entertain - casual, everyone brings something.  A few days before the holiday this year, I was speaking to some colleagues and mentioned that I thought we would have "a lot" of people.  "A lot like 20? Or a lot like 40?" my colleague asked.  I didn't know.  Because I was scared to count.

I like to invite people.  I'm not always sure why, because guests can be a pain.  They are messy.  They are loud.  They often overstay their welcome.  The Rosh Hashana open house is often chaotic and exhausting. Yet I keep inviting people.  Sometimes more than I have room for.  Sometimes people I don't even know that well. Or people whose kids drive my kids nuts. 

One explanation is DNA.  Inviting people is a tradition that I get from my parents.  One year, at synagogue, the rabbi announced, "if you need someplace to go for Passover, call Margie." My mom hadn't volunteered, and she wasn't chair of some committee whose job it was to find people places to go.  It was just that the rabbi knew she would take people in.  Another time, the doorbell rang and it was the Domino's pizza delivery guy.  Somehow, someone in my family had figured out that he had some connection to Judaism, and there he was at Seder with us.

It wasn't just holidays. There were extra people year-round at my house when I was a kid. My dad would return from his early morning ramblings with someone in tow. (A habit I have recreated with inviting my running buddies over for coffee). Several of our cousins moved in with us at one time or another - for a month, or for several years.  Our friends ran away to our house, or crashed there while in between places.  One time, both my grandmother and our good friend V were staying in the house. She was in her eighties; he in his twenties.  They used to pass in the early mornings - she on her way out, he on his way in.

Inviting guests is also in my Jewish DNA.  The holiday of the week, Sukkot, commands us to invite guests into our sukkahs.  These are both mythical guests from the bible, and real live guests.   We are commanded to invite in the needy.  Needy is traditionally thought of as those who are hungry and in need of a meal.  And there is no question that there remains too much hunger, both in our very own communities, and throughout the world.

Yet inviting also addresses my hunger - for community, for people around me.  For laughter, for company, to toast and break bread.  To have people who feel comfortable rooting around in my fridge.  So, despite the fact that every year I say we aren't going to do it again, next year I will start the inviting again. If you didn't get an invite to Rosh Hashana this year, sorry about that.  Probably just didn't run into you.  Come next year anyway.  But be prepared for a million kids running around, too many plates to fit on the table, and not enough chairs. Because it's in my genes.  And I just can't help it.

How do I do what?

I sat down at a work lunch recently with another professional woman.  At the chitchat part of the lunch, the subject of kids came up.  "Do you have kids?" she asked.  "I do. A 9 year old and a 5 year old."  She gave a sort of half bow across the table.  "How do you do it?"

My first response was, "how do I do what?"  And yet, I knew what she meant.  Balance. Prioritize. Climb the (nonprofit in our cases) ladder.  Sleep.

I've been avoiding writing about this.  Avoiding responding to this much talked about article.  Or its many responses.  Because, honestly, how does anyone do anything?  I know a couple with twins, one of whom has significant medical and developmental issues.  How do they do it? I know a recently married woman whose husband is in the hospital fighting for his life.  How does she do it? I know people in their 30s and 40s who are single and put themselves out there several times a week on first dates.  People who work several jobs to make ends meet.  People who take care of aging parents.  People in recovery.  How do any of us do anything?  And yet, we do.  To paraphrase Louie CK, "Your life doesn't suck.  Life sucks."  And yet, all of us, all these people and people all over the world with much more serious stuff than balancing life and family, still manage to not only live but enjoy life.  To laugh, to eat with friends, to go for a walk on a cool evening.  So, on some level, I just do it.  And really, of all the things I worry and stress about, work/life balance isn't on the top of the list.

Which is why I didn't want to write about balance or rather, the term I prefer: work/life fit.  But it has become clear to me that many young women, including some I know personally, are hearing the message that it isn't possible.  And are opting out of working outside the home.  And in my opinion, without igniting the mommy wars, that is a shame.  Because working can be fun, and stimulating, and, for many of us, the mission of our work is to do our part to fix what is wrong in the world. Or create what is right.  Let me be clear: I strongly support people who choose to stay home because they are personally compelled by parenting.  But I'm concerned by the trend I see for bright women to opt out because they don't see another way.

With all that said, below is an expanded version of my actual response at lunch that day.  A few of the ways I do what I do.  I know that not all of them are options for everyone.  And I recognize that I am very lucky.

1. I don't do it alone.  I have a spouse who is a musician, whose hours are largely night where mine are largely day and who is a terrific father.  Having one parent home part of the time is key to my personal situation, but it isn't the only tenable solution.  I know couples where both people work part or 3/4 time and other families where the parents work full time and have a full time caregiver for the kids.  We also have grandparents and siblings who help when they can, although none of them are right in town with us.
2. I ask for help.  We've created a community of friends with kids and when one of us needs help, we ask.  It isn't a babysitting coop.  There aren't any rules.  We kind of self-monitor.  But I have learned: when you need help, ask.  People will ask back.  And soon you will all have a little more support.  
3. I don't do it all.  This is the one piece of "balance" everyone cops to.  My apartment hasn't been dusted since the Bush administration.  My kids wear mismatched socks and call it style.  I can't remember the last movie I saw.
4. I do make a point to do the things I care about.  I get up and run with my friends.  I read books.  I sneak out for a mani/pedi every now and again.  I bake challah.  I cook Shabbat dinner on Fridays.  I, like Sheryl Sandberg, leave the office in time for dinner with my kids. 
5. I have supportive supervisors.  But I learned to ask for that support.  And to prove that I worked hard, accomplished my goals, and deserved that support.
6. I embrace technology.  Since my first PDA, technology has enabled me to work where I am, when I can.  I can leave the office at 5 and be back on line at night. I can take a conference call while waiting for my kid at an appointment. 
7. But I'm not a slave to technology.  My team knows that I'm usually in bed early and won't respond until the morning.  I take an entire day a week off email entirely. I go on vacation occasionally and unplug. 

That's 7 things I do.  For me, it's not just possible, it's fun.  It's stimulating.  I enjoy working.  I enjoy parenting.  I don't want to choose one or the other. It's hard, but back to Louie CK: Life's hard.

I'm curious what you do.  How do you "do it"?  Anyone interested in joining with me to bust the myth that it is impossible to find the fit that works?
 

Put Your Shoes On

As parents of school age kids, we've mostly made the shift from being woken up to waking the kids up.  But waking the kids up each morning is only part of the job.  I'm pretty sure, in fact, that the four most common words I say every morning are "put your shoes on".  My kids aren't so hard to wake up, and they pretty much get through the eating breakfast, brushing teeth routine on their own, but the shoes? Every single morning.  "Put. Your. Shoes. On".  Over and over and over again. 

This weekend is the Jewish holiday of Shavuot, and there is a cool campaign amongst a group of rabbis and others to get the #Torah hashtag to the top of the most popular list.  So there has been a lot of tweeting Torah today, and I am enjoying the 140 character at a time learning.

This morning, Rabbi Sari Laufer (@RabbiLaufer) tweeted: "Midrash: The night before receiving the #Torah, the children of Israel slept all of that night,& Moshe had to rouse them to receive #Torah."

I've been thinking about that rousing, what it meant at Sinai and what it means in our generation.  Yesterday I had the extraordinary privilege of learning with Rabbi Yitz Greenberg. At one point, he was asked about the generation gap. His response: for hundreds of generations, from Sinai to today, parents have had to teach their children that this (Torah, community, Judaism) is relevant and meaningful. 

For hundreds of generations, we have had to wake our kids up.  Yesterday's learning was part of a conversation convened by the Schusterman Philanthropic Network, The Cohen Center for Jewish Studies, and our team at NEXT: A Division of Birthright Israel Foundation. We were there to hear from Birthrighters themselves and their peers - innovators and entrepreneurs throughout the Jewish community who are helping us think about how to think about Birthright, the gift of a free 10 day trip to Israel, and the days, months, and years that follow that trip.

In many ways, for many participants, Birthright Israel is that waking up, the rousing to receive Torah - in the most broad sense of the word.  And it does a pretty good job of that.

But Birthright Israel doesn't make breakfast.  It doesn't remind you to pack your backpack.  It doesn't nag you to put on your shoes.  And it doesn't do what is my ultimate goal with my kids - get you to the point where you do all these things on your own because it just makes sense to you.

That job - the backpacks, the shoes, the understanding of relevance and applicability, that's up to the rest of us. I'm honored to work with a group of people who think about this everyday.  But we can't think of it alone.  Whatever your background, whatever your religion (or lack thereof), it is our role to pass our values on to the next generation.  How are we doing that?  And what are they passing up to us?  And how do we all get to a place where we don't need to be reminded to put our shoes on?

Originally posted on www.alefnext.com