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?

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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.

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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.

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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.