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. 

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?