We Shall Live

So, how's everyone holding up? 

Not too good? 

Yeah. I can relate. 

I've been thinking out loud with Han—who mostly listens politely then returns to his perpetual doomscrolling—about what is the takeaway here? We've been slammed between the eyes with horror, sadness, fear for our trapped families . . . 

I managed to listen to two shiurim last week. The first was redemption of captives via the strict lens of halacha. What is allowed, what is not. I liked it. It kept to clear guidelines, made by the elders of the past, in times when captivity was definitely more common than today. 

The second . . . to preface, I usually enjoy this rabbi's thoughts. I'm often very taken with what he has to say. But this time, I was left unsettled. 

He made sure to open that we do not judge. No one can say why some were killed and others were spared. But he brought a myriad of anecdotes about how keeping Shabbos seemingly saved a number of individuals. Either they would have been at the rave, or within the kibbutzim themselves, they were ignored by the terrorists. 

We should learn, the rabbi said, that we should be upholding Shabbat better. We aren't judging those who were killed! Not at all! But we should still learn from this. 

This bothered me. I figured out why. 

The rabbi is from a Sephardi community that has a different background than those of Ashkenazim. This community, as a whole, has been slowly progressing in better observance over the years. Nor did they experience the war the way European Jewry did. 

That is what I kept thinking. What of the Holocaust? My great-grandparents were all observant. They lived in towns, not vast, cosmopolitan cities, full of impious distractions (the way I practically do). They kept Shabbos. They kept kosher. They kept everything. 

Straight to the gas. Along with children and grandchildren.  

This Sephardi rabbi doesn't have this history. He doesn't have this narrative. Maybe some Sephardim shrug to themselves that the Ashkenazi Jews had it coming with their Reform movements, with their attending theater on Friday nights. But six million people weren't all the same. Chassidic movements were completely wiped out. Reb Elchonon Wasserman, murdered. Along with my great-grandmother, who would say Tehillim every chance she had. Along with my great-aunt and her six children. Along with my Zeidy's wife and little girl. 

Additionally, it's not like the terrorists were from an alien planet. They knew it was Shabbos. They knew it was Yom Tov. They chose that day, specifically, for its sleepiness and relaxation. They knew people's guards would be down. 

Third point: Lasting change does not come from fear. Embracing mitzvos must come from a place of free choice. Otherwise it will not last. 

So what is, the takeaway, then? 

I guess I realized that there isn't one. This is the Jewish experience. We can sit and parse our logic and facts, but I just remember that scene after the pogrom in Anatevka, when the wedding party begins to sadly clean up the damage, and Tevye looks to the sky, asking God "Why?" 

Then he continues on, the same Jew, enduring. Like Dara Horn said.

Or maybe it's just b'damayich chaii—by your blood, you shall live. These words I invoked at my sons' brissim. This phrase can have more than one meaning, I realize. For the more they persecute, the more we proliferate. 

As Obi-Wan Kenobi said, "If you strike me down, I'll become more powerful than you can possibly imagine."

But . . . I'm still so sad.   

Shhhhhhh

Be private. Travel and tell no one. Find a partner and tell no one. Live happily and tell no one. People ruin beautiful things.

I saw this on IG, and . . . well, this is something I can get behind. 

Social media has its pros, and lots of cons. I don't follow people whose whole purpose is to display their lives through the editing lens to the universe. I would fall for their bushwa so fast. 

I follow informative accounts instead, and if one bikini shot goes up, one gender reveal, I click unfollow. I should not be privy to something that should be private. 

But that's an extreme. Sometimes we share too much socially, to the people we consider our friends. 

There is something to be said for privacy. The quote above didn't say, "don't post it." It says, "tell no one." We like to think, "I can tell my friends. They'll be happy for me!" 

But maybe they won't. Would you? Some people can carry that generosity of spirit and be truly happy for someone else's good fortune, but even then, they could still be struggling with jealousy. 

After I had Anakin, it was with a sinking heart that I texted a friend, who I haven't seen in years but still sporadically keep up with, the news. She was married before me and still does not have children, and I know she longs for them. She had to be told, but I could not, and did not, expect her to be happy for me. She had managed to be gracious by Ben's birth, sending a gift and attending the bris, but this time, she did not respond to my text. I understood. 

When I was still single, I attended many vorts and weddings of those younger than me. When I received the news that my cousin's daughter was engaged, I angrily stomped to that vort, slapped a smile on my face by the door, then went in and gushed mazel tov to the giddy 20-year-old. It was bad enough I was being pitied; I didn't want to appear pitiable.

Then, when I got engaged to Han, I felt no need to announce it anywhere. 

It's very hard to be happy for someone else, especially when they acquired their blessings with seemingly little effort. The quote finishes off, "People ruin beautiful things." Others ruin things out of envy, out of sadness. No need to put a stumbling block in their path.

The blessings we have are for us alone. Bracha comes to quiet, private places. In this age of oversharing, perhaps we should become reacquainted with discretion. 

Grief is Allowed

I've been reading It's OK You're Not OK by Megan Devine, and frankly, she sounds pissed. 

She was actually a grief counselor before she lost her husband in a horrific accident, but found herself unequipped for what followed. But she notes that there was the pain from her grief, and then there was the pain that others inflicted on her. 

People are often quite clueless about the ravages of grief. They also exacerbate the pain with cliches and irritation that the griever is so distraught. 

This was highlighted for me recently when I finished was Han refers to as a "lady book," or chick-lit. I shan't name the book, since I'll be spoiling galore, but it follows multiple characters. 

One is a woman in her 50s, whose husband dies of a heart attack in front of her. 

Another is a woman in her 20s, whose fiance calls off their wedding three days before the shebang. 

Obviously, both take to their beds. 

However: 

Approximately six weeks after her husband dies, the widow's friend demands that she has to get out of the house, she has to move on, come to a get-together. The widow begrudgingly agrees, and drags herself outside and has a good time. 

The jilted bride wallows in her misery, to the point where she no longer follows her friend's lives. When she surfaces, she finds herself begging her friend for forgiveness as said friend chastises her for being so "selfish" by falling off the planet. Almost bride is chastened and apologizes. 

Both of these situations annoyed me. 

Grief comes in multiple forms. There's losing family, and there's losing a dream. Even people who develop celiac disease experience the grief of a future life where they can't mindlessly eat in a public setting. 

But grief is not allowed. 

Six weeks is not a long time. That's not even the span of a season. A widow is expected to process and file away the loss of her husband of 30 years in a few days? Heck, my mother's been gone for over six years and I'm not remotely over it! 

As for our almost wife? Um, yeah, she's allowed to move into bed and go dark. No, no one died, but she had her heart ripped out, the future as she saw it dissolved, and she had the humiliation of explaining to her friends and family that the wedding is off. 

Then her friend tells her off? Her friend didn't even go through what she did. So who is she to cast judgement? 

What was even more surprising was that the author's note in the beginning explained that she herself had lost her husband recently. Sooooo . . . she should know what grief is. She should know that grief is allowed, that there is no set time period, and that those in active grief should be cut some slack. 

There are times in life when we have to adjust to a new reality, which will sometimes involve grief. It's allowed.

The Old Heroes

 Another takeaway from Picard 3: 

For those who actually have an interest in watching it, I'll try to keep it vague enough not to cause spoilers. 

The whole intent of this Season was nostalgia. They brought back the original TNG cast, threw in some DS9 villains, and featured a couple of Voyager characters. 

*Sniff* It was perfect. 

Enough time has passed that our TNG peeps are parents, like LaForge and Riker. This brought a new dimension, seeing them as family folk, no longer willing to risk their lives every Tuesday for the heck of it. 

Yet they are also, quite clearly . . . old. The youngest actor is Levar, at 66—everyone else is close to or above 70.

Yet it is because of their age and experience that they end up saving the galaxy. 

There was this tweet a few years back by Kathryn Ivey: 

Why is "the chosen one" always a teenager? We're really gonna put the fate of the universe on someone with an undeveloped prefrontal cortex? Give me a story with a chosen one who is a 42 year old mom that has already seen some s**t and is totally out of f**ks to give

She has a point. The "chosen one" is usually a clueless child that has this insane burden thrust upon him. He doesn't need life experience, because he was selected to be an unwitting tool for forces beyond his ken. With regard to general fictional teenage heroes—adults are the clueless ones who need saving. 

It sort of reinforces the trope that adults "don't get it," and yes, while that may be true for some people who were stupid their whole lives, most adults, due to their age alone, are "it-getters" (credit to Jon Stewart). 

So while it may be that I am watching the last vestiges of my youth trickle through my fingers, it is also with the dawning horror that the kids today will find me irrelevant for my inability to take a decent selfie. 

But there is more to life than technological savvy. 

There was a scene in Picard where Jean-Luc is dining in a bar near the Academy, and he is besieged by starry-eyed cadets begging him for background details of his exploits. Jean-Luc has become an icon, a once hero. But he's not a relic of the past. He's not done yet. It's his experience that keeps him from becoming obsolete.

Ma would get so frustrated when she told us to do something a certain way and we wouldn't listen. She wanted to save us the trouble, that she had learned the right way to go about it, so couldn't we just listen?! She was usually right.

Moshe Rabbeinu is the closest we have to a "chosen one," and he didn't start leading until he was 80. He had life experience first as a prince, shepherd, husband, father. Because we don't believe that being chosen means you magically get there with no effort. The chosen people were chosen to bring our excellence, and we failed to such an extent that we were persecuted and murdered for 3,000 years. 

Moshiach is gonna be old.

Vic Fontaine

I have a confession. 

While this blog is vaguely Star Wars-themed, the truth is . . . I'm a Trekkie. 

Luke raised me on The Next Generation, and watching the Picard, Season 3, reboot, I nearly cried seeing the beloved characters of my childhood. Especially Worf. He's my favorite. 

Yet Luke was not so passionate about the other iterations, Deep Space Nine and Voyager, so I never watched those through properly. I've been rectifying that error now, finally getting through the last few episodes of Season 7 of DS9. 

I've been pleasantly surprised at how excellent this series is. The first few seasons could be eye-rollingly cheesy, but then it morphed into an absolutely brilliant show, complete with episodes that had me sniffling. They pushed the TNG envelope, and pulled it off. 

There was a line from one episode that I thought about. 

A character in the show is injured in combat. He's young, an ensign, and this experience rattles him. There is a program in the holosuite which has a self-aware holographic character, Vic Fontaine, and he ends up becoming a central player in a number of episodes. Vic owns a casino in Vegas in 1962.

So the ensign loses himself in this program, refusing to leave, enjoying the safety of the fantasy. Vic even enjoys the company, but at some point realizes that this isn't healthy, and tells the ensign he has to leave. 

The ensign explains that he's not ready to face reality again. Vic tells him: 

Look, kid, I don't know what's going to happen to you out there. All I can tell you is that... you've got to play the cards life deals you. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. But at least you're in the game.

It made me think of how our religion says that being living is the ideal, that we can do, that life is always the best option. Life may be disappointing at times, or worse, but at least we're in the game. 

Inherent Value

NYTimes featured a rather long article about Greta Gerwig and her Barbie movie. In the very end of the piece, there's this bit from out of nowhere: 

She told me that when she was growing up, her Christian family's closet friends were observant Jews; they vacationed together and constantly tore around each other's homes. She would also eat with them on Friday nights for Shabbat dinner, where blessings were sung in Hebrew, including over the children at the table. May God bless you and protect you. May God show you favor and be gracious to you. May God show you kindness and grant you peace. Every Friday the family's father would rest his hand on Gerwig's head, just as he did on his own children's, and bless her too. 

"I remember this feeling the sense of, 'Whatever your wins and losses were for the week, whatever you did or didn't do, when you come to this table, your value has nothing to do with that,'" Gerwig told me. "'You are a child of God at this table. And that's your value.' I remember feeling so safe in that and feeling so, like, enough." 

Sometimes we need the perspective of an outsider to make us see the values of our own world. 

This bracha I would usually associate with pomp and circumstance, when the kohanim would seriously remove their shoes and hide themselves beneath their talleisim. 

Yet that same bracha is accessible to the common man, for any father, outside of the priestly class, to bless his children. For me, the Sabbath Blessing in Fiddler on the Roof always sends me bawling; I would sing it to Ben as a baby (he finally realized I can't sing and he doesn't let me anymore). 

 

There is this pressure on us to do, to achieve, to accomplish. Yet we can't always sustain that. Sometimes our victories don't look like much of a victory. 

But it doesn't matter. Because the world was created for each and every one of us, as we are. For as a parent loves their child unconditionally, so to God loves us.

None Can Escape Grief

Before we start, please read this, by the late Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks.

I read it a few weeks ago, on the Shabbos of the applicable parsha, and I found it hit so many important points. 

As someone who has personally experienced the grief of losing a loved one SIX YEARS ago, I'm still unprepared for the welter of emotions I continue to experience. My next door neighbor has been motherless for seven years; we just understand each other. Grief has its own unspoken language. 

Rabbi Sacks provides a simple yet brilliant explanation for why Moshe hit the rock: He was grieving for his sister, who had been like a mother to him. 

MIND BLOWN. 

What continues from this idea is that even the greatest of our ancestors were HUMAN. The same humanity we experience, so did they. They loved. They lost. Then they became lost themselves. 

The education system they I went through, which emphasized the vast difference in madreiga between ourselves and our forebears, did me a disservice, I believe. We do know that they didn't always have the answers. They didn't always do the right thing. They were often torn between their hearts and their faith. 

They were not angels. The Torah was not given to angels, but to stumbling humans. Mistakes are a part of being human. We just have to go forward knowing and doing better. 

Then: 

What the parsha is telling us is that for each of us there is a Jordan we will not cross, a promised land we will not enter. “It is not for you to complete the task.”

What I took from this was: We each have our own task. It's not necessarily the same as someone else. Some of us have feelings of inadequacy, because they are incapable, for a myriad of reasons, of doing what another can with seeming ease. That is because we each have our OWN task. 

What @iwassupposedtohaveababy took it a step farther. 

In response, God has [Moshe] take a step back. Moshe is told he shouldn't be the one to lead the people into Israel. God knows that Moshe is about to lose another sibling and God understand that Moshe will need the coming time to grieve his losses. 

Although it may feel that Moshe is being punished for expressing his pain, this moment is more like a mentor telling you, "Hey, I see you have needs that aren't being met. It's time to take a break." 

It's okay that you're not okay. 

Moshe bore a lot in his life, and perhaps he reached a point when it became too much. Hashem then said, "It's okay. You're just one man, who did more in his life than ten men combined. Someone else can continue your work." 

I have my limitations, and I try to recognize them. I have a set time every night when I cease my labors. If I'm not feeling okay, I allow myself to rest when possible, even if I "should be" doing something else. Because I am only human, I'm not a machine, and I need to recognize when I'm at my breaking point.

We are all—ALL—too human.  

In and Proud

While I was born in the US, I was raised with European, old-world values, which would often have American contemporaries not quite getting where I'm coming from. 

In high school, the morahs couldn't really make up their mind: one minute it was all, "Eisav soneh es Yaakov," how the world hates us, etc., and the next it would be, "If you are an outwardly proud Jew, everyone respects you." 

Exasperated, I tried to counter their rather flawed logic, and said that we are not in our own country, and we shouldn't be flaunting our Jewishness, that my grandfather, who survived the war, said this. The teacher sneered, "Oh, so you believe in 'when in Rome.'" 

Another classmate, from the same background as myself, chimed in, but the morah could not or would not understand what we meant. I was in near tears as she insinuated that my grandfather, who fasted on Yom Kippur while starving in the labor camps, was not a proud Jew.

If we went out to the city on a rare Chol HaMoed outing, my father told my brothers to tuck in their tzitzis and wear a baseball cap. As for attending the Israeli Day Parade? Nuh-uh, not happening.

Some take this to mean that we are not proud Jews. Then I realized that "proud" nowadays means "out and proud." Meaning, if I am proud of who I am, that means I have to announce it to the world, and expect that world in turn to celebrate me. 

But what does my own personal pride have to do with the world at large? Isn't that my own, internal, business? 

Han works primarily with non-Jews. And you know what? They aren't always so nice about him being observant. I myself endured years of verbal smack about Judaism from my secular Jewish employer (to be fair, he was also sexist and racist).

Oh, there always a story here and there, about so-and-so who went to work somewhere and their boss had a wonderful experience with a Jew and because of that makes him head partner or something, but for every story like that, there are plenty of examples when an observant Jew was discriminated against by a non-Jew or even Jewish (secular) boss. 

In high school, they regaled us with stories about frum women who refused to shake hands with men, and how they were accommodated, and even admired. While in the NY Times The Ethicist, a woman wrote in, irate, that after a business deal her frum counterpart wouldn't shake her hand and Roger Cohen (cough cough), the ethicist at the time, affirmed her belief that this was sexist behavior and she was within her rights to no longer work with him. 

We can't have it both ways. Our people survived through thousands of years of violence and murder—now we're going to claim that to be a proud Jew means announcing it? Not so long ago, outward pride got you dead. 

My great-grandfather, it was said, was a Belzer chassid. He kept his streimel "in the credenza." Meaning, it never left the house. He wore it at his own table, never outdoors.

My Zeidy would say that if you want to be an "out and proud" Jew, make aliyah. That's our land, our place. But chutz la'aretz? Keep your elbows tucked in. This isn't our land. Yes, it did a wonderful job melding in all sorts of different races and cultures, but everyone experienced racism (even the Italian and Irish immigrants a century ago).  

I'm a proud Jew, even if you don't believe me.  

Your Mitzvah

Ta told me a concept recently, which he ascribed to the Rambam (disclaimer: I didn't fact check). Why is there 613 mitzvos? We could just have one, and do it over and over. 

Because amongst that 613, there will be one that will speak to each of us, as individuals. That mitzvah, the one that we cling to and cherish, is our unique way of practicing our faith. 

Perhaps due to the Baader-Meinhof effect, I then saw a reel on IG (can't find it again to give credit) and the gal was speaking about the same thing. She said her thing is saying Tehillim, while her friend loves to bake challah. 

I, too, have discovered my own mitzvah. I'm not comfortable with sharing it, but it's in the chessed realm. It suits me. It doesn't involve much human interaction (which tends to make me anxious) yet still does good, I hope. 

I was thinking about my sister-in-law, who visits elderly people. I don't have that ability. When I was in pre-1A and first grade, my class was constantly visiting the nursing home next door. I found it torturous then, and 30 years later, I still find it impossible. I don't know how to do small talk. 

This has nothing to do with being uncomfortable with old people. In general, I suck when it comes to interactions with strangers. Once, by a simcha, I saw someone standing alone, and I felt a swell of goodwill. I sailed over, intent on making this poor soul feel welcomed, and it was a wreck. She ended up taking pity on me and brought our lame conversation to a thankful end.  

Now, some may say I should try, practice, comfort zone, blah blah blah, but it's a full-time job keeping Anakin alive, ok? Seriously, that kid is turning all of my hair white. 

In the meantime, I still want to find something that's my own, that speaks to my strengths. And I found it. 

So, if you haven't found yours yet, I highly recommend you do. It does wonders for the self-esteem.   

My New Hero

Disclaimer: I haven't heard the whole thing, but really enjoyed a few highlights. So if there ends up being anything in there about clubbing puppies, my bad. 

 

So-Called "Shabbos Food"

One of the office employees was invited over to our employer's home for Friday night, since she lives in the same neighborhood. While not Jewish, she grew up in a rather Jew-y area and went to public school with lots of Jewish classmates, so she's familiar with our shtick. 

She ended up reviewing the happenings of the dinner with me afterwards, like why it was so quiet after the hand washing. She then hesitantly brought up the disturbing horror of "gefilte fish." 

I explained that the "traditional" Shabbos foods are, in actuality, peasant food. "Where people lived, in land-locked Eastern Europe, everything was expensive or hard to get. Fish. Chicken. Meat. They could only manage to get or afford a little bit. So they stretched it. Fish was mixed with filler. Chicken turned into soup. A bit of meat was mixed with beans and became cholent. But, the thing is, today? We can get salmon. A whole slab of it." 

That's why I laugh when people get defensive of, or even worship, "traditional" Shabbos food. Taste of Gan-Eden and all that jazz. Don't get me wrong, I like gefilte fish. Mmm, on a piece of matzah, munch munch. But is it heilig? Er, no. 

Shabbos food is supposed to be elevated, expensive, right? So it's kinda bizarre when people dine on whole fish during the week, then revert to the Frankenstein peasant loaf on Shabbos. Well, maybe the fine china helps. 

So if anyone has been guilted that they aren't eating the "right" foods on Shabbos, that's bushwa. Shabbos food is what you enjoy, for richer or poorer.

Singlehood is Not the End of the World

When I was a kid, I was a sucker for romance. I just wanted everyone (characters in books, tv shows, movies) to pair off and ride into the sunset. 

But I've become a romance grinch—or, more accurately, a romance critic. I've become particular about my happily ever afters. 

I recently read a book (I shan't give the name, since I'm pretty much going to give everything away) and I was actually happy with the atypical ending. 

Our heroine, all of 22, has a boyfriend—who she cannot believe actually wants her. She's middle-class and bore the ire of high school bullies; he's a WASP who "summers." She finds out he cheated on her, and breaks up with him. She takes up with another man, albeit a lovely one, as a rebound. The boyfriend, however, wants her back, and even proposes. She struggles a bit with what to do, but declines his offer knowing that she can never trust him again. The rebound breaks up with her too, as a new development in his life requires it. 

Our heroine walks off into the sunset, alone. 

I was delighted. 

As the book drew towards the end, I was puzzled. Chick lit usually has neat, coupled endings, so I was wondering where this one was going. 

The character's mother repeatedly tells her that she's young, she doesn't have to settle down yet. She doesn't have to choose now just because someone wants her, and she thinks no one else will. 

For our heroine, I wanted her to be with the right guy for the right reasons. The rebound, while a nice chap, wasn't 

As Fay says in Jewish Matchmaking (I'm paraphrasing), "When I was 24, I thought it would be the end of the world to be single at 28. Now that I'm 28, I see . . . it's not the end of the world." 

From personal experience, I can say that it's worth it to wait for the right relationship, when you're in it for all the right reasons. 

Younger is Not Better

"We will do our part for the shidduch crisis!" Han announces dramatically. "We spoke to our son! He is ready to start dating!" Han then plucks a babbling Anakin up from the floor, holding him aloft as Rafiki brandished Simba in the opening scene of The Lion King. 

Yeah, we're both kinda snarky about this so-called solution to the so-called "shidduch crisis" (snort). Sure, let's have a bunch of immature boys date for the express purpose of putting some rando girl "out of her misery." That'll end well. 

Hello? We aren't living in the shtetl anymore, when parents would arrange shidduchim with complete strangers and that would be that. No one is marrying blind, unless it involves a mail-order bride. 

L'havdil, take Indian Matchmaking! Sima Aunty (matchmaker extraordinaire) just cannot get with the times. Granted, this season made a point to make her appear more human, even helpful, at times, but her disapproval at her clients' expectations can get tiresome. "Kids today! They don't listen to their elders!" Well . . . um . . . I'm not going to marry someone based on a random shadchan's "perfect on paper" suggestion . . . 

If something isn't working, the go-to solution is usually "Well, back in my day . . ." Yes. That's how it worked then. Maybe. Generations aren't static.

OK, I married when I was a doddering decrepit, which I am not advocating. But looking back I see that I was not ready for marriage at 19. Definitely not. 

Divorce is no longer the taboo it used to be. An older woman, who divorced after her children married, said she knew it was a mistake during the week of sheva brachos. "But I couldn't hurt my parents," she explained, and stayed miserably wed for decades. 

There are too many stories I'm hearing of young couples who are either divorcing or choosing to stay married despite the difficulties. That's too much on young people. 

I'm not saying that if they waited until they were older they wouldn't necessarily have ended up divorcing. Yet youngsters shouldn't be making one of their biggest life decisions based on "I just don't want to be the last person in my class to get married." Let them see more, experience more, and perhaps develop a little radar for red flags.   

Again, a person can marry at 25+ and get divorced. But at least they weren't unexposed children when they made their choice.

Like Aleeza says (and I'm paraphrasing) "My job is not just to get you married. It's to get you stay married." 

Jewish Matchmaking: A Review

Jewish Matchmaking! Hella yeah, did I binge it. Then as the credits rolled, I exhaled: Thank. God. 

Why? Because we look good for flipping once! 

There has been some snark online, quibbling about details, but I don't care! 'Cause we look good!

Aleeza Ben Shalom was an excellent choice as a shadchan. She's not remotely like the stereotypes that I usually dealt with, who were more like Sima Aunty from Indian Matchmaking. 

What was refreshing about Aleeza was that she did not shame her clients for having criteria—even if that criteria was seemingly ridiculous. While I did once believe that standards have to "make sense," I've realized that the world is a big place, and shallow morons (both male and female) also manage to get married.  

The clientele are primarily reform, traditional, or "flexidox" (as Aleeza calls it) which I thought was refreshing. Being Jewish and marrying Jewish is important to people even if they aren't 100% practicing. And even those singles mentioned God, unlike the other examples I cited in my previous post. 

It's reality television, so of course that means there is definitely a scripted element. Let's be honest here: finding someone to go on the show, then finding someone who's willing to date the first someone on that show, is a big ask. As I watched these dates happen, all I kept thinking about was that these people are being followed by cameras along with a boom floating above. It's not remotely real life.

The one frum candidate, Fay, says on her IG account that she went on the show for the purposes of showing the Netflix world how we operate, not to actually meet someone.

People were whining online, "Oh, why didn't Fay keep dating Shaya? They were so great together!" Like, please.  It was all manufactured. You saw like 10 minutes, tops, of their interactions. Shaya is engaged now in real life, so there you go.

No one still seems to be together from the show, but I didn't expect them to be (although I was rooting for Stuart and Pamela). A matchmaker is not an all-knowing, all-powerful deity who can deliver your someone on a silver platter. She's an avenue of possibility, no more, no less, than others.    

Identity, Practice, and Belief

My brain can't handle most literature nowadays unless it's of the "fluffy" variety. Enter chick-lit! Even though I tend to be aggravated by formulaic premises, I don't have to concentrate so much when shrieking offspring launches themselves at my head. 

I was reading Mr. Perfect on Paper and I was sucked in by the overload of Jewish references. I can't figure out which denomination the heroine, Dara, belongs to—she drinks non-kosher wine at a restaurant, but she has impressive knowledge of obscure halacha (turns out the author was a rabbinical student). 

But despite the heavy Jewish details, there was something missing. 

Simultaneously, Han and I started watching Rough Diamonds. I was put off by the first episode, so didn't watch further, while Han got in too deep and was forced to hate-watch it. 

The chassidim depicted make it seem that they were simply born into this lifestyle, and that's the only reason why they live it. Their behavior becomes horribly despicable in their attempts to salvage the family business—despite the fact that chassidim don't usually keep their identity in their livelihoods (all they had to do was dabble elsewhere). They fashmear people, they steal, all without qualm. Um . . . 

Then I realized what's going on here. Judaism is presented as an identity. Nothing more. There's no spirituality. There's no mention of God. Bupkis.

Dara follows the rules, or rather which rules she wants to follow. But there's no feeling behind this practice except for "well, this is what my grandparents did." Not one mention of the Lord. It's just "We've survived for thousands of years so I guess this is what I gotta do." 

It made me think, in contrast, of Shtisel. There was a scene when Akiva, after falling out with his father, is offered to stay in the guest-house of a fellow artist, a rather nice frum girl. He's painting and painting, and then realizes what time it is. He's horrified to find out it's the afternoon—and he hadn't put on tefillin that day. He's so upset he gathers up his things and bolts. 

Akiva isn't home. No one is telling him what to do. He can do whatever he wants. But his religion is his priority. He hurries back to the milieu that will encourage him to observe it properly. 

It's not just an identity or practice. It's a belief. 

And They Don't Stop Coming

A few weeks ago, during Post-Pesach Recovery, I took Anakin out for a walk while Ben was (finally) back in school. The forecast had said sun and 66 degrees; it was already midday, but it was still cloudy, damp, and chilly. 

I had already put Anakin in thermals that morning, which I then topped with a fleece jacket. I then tucked around him his plush microfiber blanket. 

I debated whether to find his booties, but figured the blanket would be enough. He happily propped one foot on the stroller bar, his toes wiggling in the fresh air. He sighed contentedly. 

Of course, after emerging from a frantic supermarket, we were accosted by an unknown woman, perhaps 70 or so. 

"Look!" she cried dramatically. "He's lost his socks!" 

I invented passive-aggressive, lady. Two can play that game. 

"Why, so he did," I mildly replied.

She looked up sharply into my face, and laughed. Got me, it acknowledged. She continued on her way, but not without a parting shot over her shoulder, "I'm cold just looking at him!"  

In order to prevent anymore commentary, I tucked the blanket again around Anakin, who then kicked it off in annoyance. He wanted his feet free. 

I fretted a little on the way home, double-checking my logic to keep his toes exposed. Not 10 minutes later the sun suddenly exploded into view, sweltering us all. 

It's comments like these (she is not the first biddy to make a passive-aggressive comment about my children's lack of footwear) that invariably makes me recall my single days. 

Comments are diabolical. 

There I would be, dating. I was trying. I was analyzing. I was coming to conclusions on a regular basis on what I needed. And I would be satisfied with my decisions. (While being a nervous wreck who lost 5 lbs from anxiety alone—side perk!)

Then a complete stranger would mosey into my midst, and not knowing anything about me, nothing at all, would dismiss me for being "picky." Then it wouldn't be enough to simply deride me mentally, they also had to make some sort of verbal dig (can we go back to just judging people behind their backs? Please?). 

Those comments would send me into a free fall. 

Maybe I am being unreasonable? Maybe it is my fault? Maybe, maybe, maybe? 

There is a pattern to these "concerned citizens," in that their comments, they believe, are "for the greater good." But are they, really? There is also a distinct streak of glee in their voices when they told/tell me off, that joy of finding someone to belittle.

Logically, I knew that Anakin was perfectly fine in 55 degrees beneath his thermals, fleece, and microfiber (while wondering why hands are "allowed" to be exposed to the elements, while feet are not), but a comment from a rando still had me questioning if I was fussing sufficiently over my offspring.

Since comments are here to stay, perhaps it's time for me to grow a thicker skin. 

Easier said than done. 

Endure

I've FINALLY started reading Dara Horn's People Love Dead Jews (which should be on every curriculum everywhere) and she mentions Sholom Aleichem's Tevye the Milkman (also a "fun" read).

Her point is that Jewish-themed novels don't contain the typical "ephiphany" that other novels expect. For instance, Tevye experiences horrific hardship, but stays the same. "He endures," she says. 

After Ma died, my sister and I started talking. A lot. We were in this unfamiliar milieu, and we were stumbling through it together. We did have a number of epiphanies between us . . . and a number of conversational threads that go nowhere. 

One topic is the mistaken belief that hardship = betterment. Meaning, that if a person has gone through pain, then they "must" also be kinder, more empathetic, more generous. 

Or . . . that struggle merely strengthens their selfishness. 

Or . . . they simply stay the same. 

When Ma got sick, the one word on my mind was "endure." To get through it. To not fall apart, because I can't fall apart right now. There was no thought of "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger" (not true, btw) It was survival. I don't need to be stronger or better on the other side. I just need to be strong enough right now. 

I have known many Holocaust survivors in my time, and I think it is a mistake that they are always viewed in context of "the war." That they were the people they were because of "the war." That was certainly my childish perspective.

But they were people like any other. Maybe the war changed them. Maybe it didn't.

And, as Dara Horn says, there is something to be said for enduring. Jews endure. We stay the same, for the most part, over the centuries and persecutions. 

Enduring is enough.   

In Case You Needed Reminding—Cause I Did

Wow. It's been a while. But hey, Pesach prep is FUN, right? (Demented laughter.) In all seriousness, I do the bare minimum, no deep cleaning anything, and I'm all for being checked into a sanitarium to have pity on my poor nerves. 

So, let's get into whatever bugaboo is . . . bugging me now. 

I have cousins who live across the world. Not close cousins, second cousins, or something, maybe, but close enough that we're friends on social media. The mother is my relative, and she lives a lifestyle very different from mine.

Her feed is . . . stunning. Stylish. Glamorous. She's as slender as a rake. I don't think I've seen her wearing the same ensemble twice. She's constantly at bars with her friends for someone's birthday, her tanned arm raising a champagne glass. There are the magnificent views from a magnificent home, and I still don't know if it's her abode or an AirBNB. Her kids are beautiful and talented. 

Despite the fact that I've posted repeatedly that social media cannot be trusted, it's very hard to distrust what's right in front of you. I don't have an imagination—I can't write fiction—so I fall for it. That's why I don't follow anyone, usually, who claims to have a wonderful life—because I can't prove that they are human like the rest of us. 

But I have to follow my cousin, obviously, and I fell for it. 

Then one night, I was scrolling through her feed to find a specific photo to show my father. And then I saw it, a comment a friend of hers left on yet another gushy birthday post: 

"Happy Birthday! You've had a tough couple of years, so I wish you have a much better year to come." 

*Needle scratch*

Come say what now?

It's always disorienting as you mentally spin a 180. 

The bombardment of fabulosity still continues. But now I see it with a little more context. 

We are all human, and none of us live perfect lives.

The Chosen

I'm slowly working my way through the final season of "Dead to Me." I'll try not to give any spoilers. I also don't remember the dialogue perfectly, so I'm taking license.

So there's the sweet, "what is the universe trying to teach me," patchouli oil Judy (in contrast to the tough, sarcastic, very un-zen Jen). Judy really wanted to have children, but none of her pregnancies took (in contrast to Jen, who has two boys). 

Judy is talking to an older woman, who's talking about her own kids. There are those that are good, but one who was sent on earth, she jokes, to make her life hell. "You don't choose your kids," she says. "They choose you." 

She asks Judy if she has any children, and she sadly replies no, that "She wasn't chosen." 

"Well," Florence shrugs, "maybe you were chosen for something else." 

That exchange got the pondering juices going. 

In the Jewish world, we may think that there is only one way to have meaning and purpose in our lives. Which is the accepted model of marriage and children. But what if someone marries late, or never marries, from no fault of their own? What if someone has children late, or never has children, from no fault of their own? 

Does that mean they have no purpose? They have no meaning? 

Of course not. 

It's at times like this that I think of that Shakespeare quote, "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy." There is so much we don't understand. We are so bound by our small human minds, thinking that there is only one way to do things, only one way to live, only one way to be of worth—but we are so much more than that. 

Sometimes I see advertisements for a dinner or something and they say about the honoree: "He/she is a devoted son/daughter, husband/wife, and father/mother." 

That's always annoyed me, because aren't we more than our relationships? We have value on our own two feet, with something to offer, especially when circumstances doesn't place us with family? 

Maybe, we are chosen for something else.  

All Are Welcome

This article by Channah Cohen is on point. 

When I was single, I didn't fit. 

There was no place for me. I was a third wheel. My parents were invited out a lot for Shabbos meals, and we hosted in return, but my parents' contemporaries were in their 60s. I had a great time socializing with them—I've always gotten along better with the older cohort—but I wasn't supposed to be there, right? I was supposed to be in my newly-married apartment or starter house with two kids. 

We do say that in Judaism, the center is the home. A mommy, a totty, and children. That is also how we see others, as one half of a couple.

We are not quite sure what to do with the lone individual, who has no spouse, no children, who may or may not be tagging along with her mother or father. They are not in the same place as tuition, carpools, and frozen chicken nuggets. 

In my singlehood my accomplishments didn't matter, all that mattered was that I was single. Full stop. Nothing to see here. 

Mind you, once you do join the realm of nighttime feedings, it's not like anyone hands you a trophy. A mob of mothers don't rush you when you go to the park. You are just another someone, but a someone that can be categorized, as opposed to an indeterminate hmmm. 

But is our world any different than the world at large? Not really. Secular books and movies all have a similar theme, how being single is a shameful aberration, how a wedding invitation can strike such fear in singles' hearts that they pay an actor or escort to be their plus one. 

Society, in general, likes paired couples. They like people neatly matched up. They like rugrats running around and destroying store displays. (No, wait, they don't, then everyone tells you what a bad parent you are.)

So when the single woman in the article says she'll leave the community because she doesn't have a home, does she believe a home awaits her on the other side? What is this home? Is it that erroneous assumption that since the dating pool in the secular world is larger, she'll be able to score a man—and the accompanying home—with ease? Han has the most stunning co-worker who is single, and she's trying very very hard to find a man. It's not like the gentile world boasts a better rate for marriage and happiness than ours does. 

But our community has to do better. Yet when people say "things have to change"—well, easier said than done. Some behaviors are so ingrained that it's hard to undo them. To my horror, I found myself glancing at the stomach of a woman who had been married for a bit. I could have kicked myself for that automatic eye flick. 

I remember the time I was in a different area for yuntif, and attended shul. I was politely ignored by the other shul goers, no matter how I smiled and tried. But the girl ahead of me, an obvious BT in training (her clothing was way to casual for yuntif and she wasn't familiar with a siddur) was mobbed following davening, meal invitations being warmly offered from all sides. 

How come we can we warm and welcoming to BTs, but the FFB singles get short shrift? 

So we can be welcoming. We just have to widen our scope a little.  

For the Commenters

A quick note to those who leave comments: I really appreciate your feedback! I apologize if I am not timely in my responses, as Ben and Anakin make flying leaps for the laptop whenever I attempt to fire it up. 

Thank you for your patience! 

What a Difference a Shade Makes

It's amazing what you'll buy whilst half-asleep when a sale pops up in your feed. 

To clarify: IT Cosmetics (the website, not through Sephora) was having a 30% OFF SALE. Say whaaaaat? 

I can always use another tube or two of the illuminating cc+ cream, but I had not been happy with the shade of the Bye Bye Under Eye Concealer that I had. 10.5 was too light. I should have known better than to purchase the lightest shade; I'm not that fair. 

I pored over the online swatches, and their hefty descriptions of C, N, and W undertones, and got the 11. 

I wasn't sure how it would go; it was only .5 shade difference, right? 

That .5 makes a BIG difference, y'all. 

Now, the concealer (which has yellow undertones, which I need) blended seamlessly into the cc+ cream, instead of starkly contrasting. I squealed in delight to Han, who was very happy for me. 

The devil is in the details, people.

Understanding Vs. Empathy

I've been thinking a lot about the importance of personal experience versus detached observation. 

Example: Before Ma died, I was always awkward in a shiva house. I didn't really know what to say, what to do, and I'm sure my nervousness was obvious. 

Now? I'm part of the club. A shiva call, no sweat! Because, at least, the other person on that low chair knows that I know what it's like. I went to a shiva call for a relative, who had died suddenly. His children were already part of the tribe, repeating the stupidity that other callers came and spewed at them. 

It makes a difference, that shared understanding. 

Take the obvious one, "older singlehood." No matter how much those who married young say they understand, on some level they don't. Heck, I wouldn't have had! If I married at 21 I would have sadly shaken my head at the obviously picky catch who just can't let go of her unreasonable expectations. 

This applies in a multitude of areas.  

Take this one. It's a running joke how militant Ashkenazim can be over baby names. (I say Ashkenazim because Sephardim have a protocol to follow, while we do not.) 

Han and I are big believers in heritage, and we both consider it a great privilege to name our children after our grandparents (both Ben and Anakin are). But some new parents are affronted at any such expectation. "It's my child. How could my parents or in-laws expect me to use their choice of name? How dare they interfere!" 

What those new parents are missing is that they still have their own parents. They don't understand the toll of grief, and how a name can become so important to the one struggling with loss. For them, the name can be a comfort, a balm, to know their beloved's name will continue. 

So I've been concluding that it is impossible to truly understand another's painful journey unless we're in it, too. Empathy goes some distance, but we still don't speak the same lingo.

Tread carefully. And try not to judge too harshly.

Human Error

Recently, I made a pretty bad mistake. 

What was particularly frustrating was that this was the second time I've made this mistake. I had thought at the first incident that, at least, I would never make this mistake again. Well, there goes that theory. 

There are, BH, no epic, lasting consequences. But I have still been berating myself while Han insists that it's ok, to err is human. It could have been worse. Okely-dokely.

His logic was not sufficient for me. I was furious at myself for my carelessness, finding myself unworthy. 

This led me to ponder the nature of mistakes altogether, and whilst in bed, my thoughts unspooling, I had a vague image in my mind of Ben, one day, making a mistake, and what my response would be. 

My imaginary, future self said, "Even the avos made mistakes." 

That jolted me. Wait. Even the avos made mistakes. 

The avos and the imahos. Then Moshe, Aharon, Miriam, Dovid, etc. But they were still beloved by Hashem, and our icons.

While some believe that every action of our foreparents was perfection, I follow the school of many a rabbi that our ancestors were actually quite human, and prone to human error. 

There is a difference between aveiros and mistakes. But they did make boo-boos, which did have long-term consequences. 

They did the best they could at the time. It's easy to look back 2,500 years and nitpick, but I think that's not the point.

We are given the gift of teshuva and mechila in order to rectify our mistakes. Judaism doesn't demand perfection. It knows that's beyond each of us. But what about our gedolim? Some counter. They were perfection! 

Really? How do you know that? Biographers cannot be that honest, because any sort of attribution of humanity on our modern-day sages is considered slanderous (see the banning of "The Making of a Gadol," which Luke gleefully acquired before the price shot through the roof). 

Think a minute. If the ancients messed up, is it so improbable that the contemporaries have, too? 

I recall an interaction I had, close to 20 years ago, when I first started college. A classmate had discovered I was an observant Jew, and breathlessly asked "what happens" if I, say, mistakenly eat non-kosher. 

I shrugged. "Well, what can you do?"

She was puzzled. What did she expect? I would get struck by lightning? Dragged before a tribunal and flogged? 

We are expected to do our best. Even if our best can seem mediocre to others. But our best is our best.  

Another Devoted Fan of Double Cleansing

I had posted about cleansing quite a while back, and a comment gently chastised me I was going about it wrong. "Double cleansing," HH recommended. 

I have to say I was dubious. 

Any previous forays I had had with my face and oil had not ended well. I had once tried moisturizing with jojoba oil and had a terrible breakout. 

So it took some time for me to come around. Like a year or so. 

"Double cleansing" kept popping up everywhere, with stalwart enthusiasts. One of my favorite IG skincare gurus swears by it, and her skincare dragon is acne.  

For those who don't yet know, "double cleansing" is when an oil-based cleanser is used first to melt away the day's grime and makeup, and then once the skin is free of goop, a water-based cleanser comes along and washes away the oily residue. 

Eventually, I bought Palmer's Skin Therapy Cleansing Oil, and then ignored it for a few more months. Until I finally decided I was being ridiculous, what's the point in having it and not using it, and tremulously popped it open. 

Huh. Well, that actually worked.

My one lingering fear is that an oil cleanser will clog up my sink, as other cleansers have, so instead of rinsing it off I gently wipe it off my face with a wet paper towel. Then I follow up with Cerave Hydrating Foaming Cleanser. 

My skin feels wonderful afterward—soft and moisturized, not tight and squeaky. 

However, I once did have a chin breakout and I think it was because I hadn't washed off that area properly. So if prone to blemishes make sure to rinse off the oil-based cleanser well.