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?

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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.