Commentators

I'm going to confess something to you now. This secret is so heinous that you must keep it to yourselves. 

You'll keep shtum, right? I can count on my peeps. 

Here goes. 

I've decided not to sleep train Anakin. 

Was I being a wee bit dramatic? Perhaps. But deciding to or not to do something with one's offspring can unleash a torrent of unsolicited comments. 

And I've discovered that the root of all evil in this world is just that: comments. 

I mean, anything is up for criticism. Like, anything. And some of these comments can wreak quite a lot of havoc. 

Over 20 years ago, by my brother's vort, someone sniffed to my sister, "Well, I'm surprised your mother took someone from that seminary." Sure, that was just what my anxiety-ridden mother needed to hear.

At a Shabbos meal that my sister-in-law hosted maybe ten years ago, she served "sweet chicken," a dish Ma had discovered that had become a fast family favorite. It calls for dipping chicken cutlets in a batter and lightly frying, then smothering it in a sauce and finishing it in the oven. 

When a guest commented on its deliciousness, my sister-in-law explained how it's made. "Oh," the guest delicately laughed, "I couldn't make that, it's too much of a patchke." 

My sister-in-law blanched. She prides herself in not patchke-ing. (What is bizarre about comments about these if that someone expends more effort in cooking, she finds herself on the defensive?) 

"I don't like to patchke either—but the kids eat it all up—I don't make it that often—" 

I'm trying to remember if she ever made it again. 

Someone lobbed a comment like that at me recently, and I did not like it. I felt initially belittled, then annoyed. Because I'm doing that work, you're not, and yet I'm made to feel stupid?

L'havdil elef havdulos, tv shows have a recurring premise that I do not like. The protagonist is humming along, happy with her choices, when someone makes a comment. Suddenly she's reevaluating EVERYTHING, and makes a drastic change to her life, simply because of a comment. 

Back to Anakin. 

So why am I not sleep training him? 

Quite frankly, it never worked with Ben. I sleep-trained—rather, I attempted to sleep-train him—because "everyone" made it sound like a given, rather than an option. 

 It was a flaming train wreck. 

He's a determined chap when he wants to be, and he howled every night. I would wait outside his door, waiting for him to taper off, only to be awoken in the night when he would stay conscious for hours, chattering away. 

The final straw was a few months after his second birthday. He had gotten to the point where he would reluctantly lie down when I put him in his crib, but suddenly he started standing and crying. It was going on for weeks. I got frustrated with him, and even lost my temper once. In my desperation, I asked a mommy group, and a few suggested an ear infection. 

It was an ear infection. 

He was in pain and unable to express it. It took a few weeks for the antibiotics to work, followed by another bout of teething. 

I gave up. 

I started cuddling with him at night until he falls asleep. That time in bed helps to soothe any daytime "difficulties." 

When Anakin turned 4 months old, meaning he was old enough to be sleep trained, I wasn't sure what to do. I didn't want to do it again, especially since it didn't achieve anything the first time around. 

I prowled online. Apparently, sleep-training is NOT a requirement for successful parenting. It is an OPTION. 

My friend, for instance, sleep-trained her oldest and it worked fabulously for her. Her daughter loves her crib, loves her sleep. 

For some mothers, getting their full night's sleep is necessary in order to function. In my case, listening to my baby cry for hours on end shredded my nerves. When I was younger and tougher, I heartlessly let my nieces and nephews bawl in the crib. But they went back to their parents in a night or two. I can't listen it to it for months. 

It actually assuages my anxiety when I am "allowed" to respond to my baby. That's my choice for my peace of mind. Others may choose otherwise, and power to them. I'm not saying my choice has to be everyone's choice. 

But I don't want to be put on the defensive. So I lie or evade. "How does he sleep? Like a baby." There are many ways to teich that statement.  

It's a big world out there. There isn't only one way of doing things. We can find all the sources we want in order to validate our choices, but it shouldn't be required. So people shouldn't feel a need to comment, and everyone should trust themselves and their choices. 

The Other Side

 "It was the perfect date," she declared. "We had so much in common. We talked for hours. But, he came late, so I think that's gonna mean a 'no' from me." 

Has anyone said that, ever? At least, has anyone sane ever said that?

I saw an article about a former older single who opines that her friends are just being so stupidly picky. Like, they won't see a guy again who was late or didn't open the door for her or took her for dinner and not coffee, or vice versa. 

Look, if a woman is complaining that her date was late, chances are the rest of the evening was a dud as well. She's just starting from the beginning. 

I happen to be a punctual sort of person. Like, ridiculously punctual. I'm usually early and spend my time twiddling my thumbs. And Han is . . . not. For example, for the majority of our dates I would get a text about a half hour before the meeting time with an apologetic delay. It got to a point that I would put on my makeup first, scrub the kitchen, and only get dressed if I knew for sure he was en route. 

Do I find this quirk sometimes exasperating? Yes. But was it a deal breaker? Well, no, obviously, because everything else was great. But if a date was late, and he was a jerk, I might have mentioned his tardiness on the list of his other failures as a human being. 

And what is up with once older singles chucking their compatriots under the bus? Hello, you weren't exactly 21 when you got married, lady, so why are you turning on your own former demographic?

OK, I can obviously understand their betrayal, it's not that hard. Hurt people hurt people; after years of abuse, it's nice to have the "upper hand," so to speak, to become one of the married masses and talk with that "I got married because I did such-and-such" voice. 

I've fallen into that trap too many times before to get snookered in. I didn't meet the right person until I was old. That's it. There was no grand internal reckoning, there was no sage I consulted, there was no sacrificial goat on a mountaintop with thunder and lightning. 

Ergo, I cannot claim it was something I said or did that got me married to the right person. I'm just thank the Big Matchmaker in the Sky, and try not to be obnoxious to other people.

Physician, Heal Thyself

I finished "Maybe You Should Talk to Someone" by Lori Gottlieb, a therapist who finds she needs therapy. 

She brings sagas of her own patients (with details carefully changed, she makes a point to say), along with the story of why and how she became a therapist. 

So Lori has a life event that she finds herself unable to recover from. She is so unmoored that while she gives wise guidance to her patients' crises, she is otherwise lost. She decides to go into therapy. 

What I found fascinating about this is that if a patient came to her with the same issue, chances are she would have been able to help. But she was helpless when it happened to her, requiring an outside perspective to get her over the rut. 

If a therapist, who has been trained for this, is unable to guide herself, how much more blind are we? 

It takes so much to be self-aware. Ma would say that we have to be able to look at ourselves in the mirror, but from the side, using peripheral vision. We can't be expected to handle ourselves head on. It's too much. 

Oscar Wilde said, "To love oneself is the beginning of a lifelong romance." Only the most obvious narcissists can manage to do that, I think. But coming to know oneself is a nobler enterprise, as self-improvement is a lifelong project.

Blessing vs. Control

"My friend married at 40," she was saying over the phone. "She says he was everything she could have wanted, he's her Mr. Perfect, and definitely worth the wait. But," she sighed, "she doesn't have children."

"But who's to say," I replied, "that if she married at 30, she would have had children?" 

The phone went silent. 

I try to think if I would have married "someone" just to have children. It sounds rather bleak. Especially as there are no guarantees that one can actually have children. 

Children are a blessing, the same way marriage is a blessing. While some insist marriage is a choice, my own experiences has made me believe that it is a blessing, meaning out of one's control.

Articles that shake their heads over the "crisis" talk about "the no" as though it is the end of everything. "She said no," they gasp, "and then he got engaged to someone else!" Well, yeah, that's bound to happen at some point. I don't think she expected him to stay single forever pining over her. 

But if he doesn't get engaged to someone else . . . I mean, we've all heard stories, right? Days later, weeks later, months later, years later, they marry. 

OK, so what's my point? It's not in our control. Not the spouse, not the kids. I've started to hate the word "hishtadlus," a term initially meant for parnassa that was applied willy-nilly to dating, because I CAN'T CONTROL WHO SHOWS UP. Suddenly everything is hishtadlus: research is hishtadlus, singles events are hishtadlus, dating online is hishtadlus. That doesn't make sense.

The joy of being religious is the belief that I am part of a greater plan. I am part of the story, not the storyteller. 

Triggers

Han and I were taking a walk on one of these Shabbosim, pushing the stroller. We took a scenic route.

I saw a house, a beautiful house. "Oh my God," I said, as a sickening feeling took my stomach.

It came flooding back: It was during my single days. A shadchan had called. She asked me to visit her on Shabbos, before lunch, while she was visiting her parents. 

I carefully dressed that Shabbos morning, for yet another "interview." It was winter, or it was at least cold out. I arrived with a chilled nose. I was nervous and hopeful. 

I was embarrassed to be welcomed into a full house, her other married siblings having all come for some sort of family occasion. I want to say her father's birthday. I was ushered into a side room. 

I don't remember much of the conversation itself. I remember her expression, initially friendly, becoming stiffer and stiffer with disapproval. I remember leaving with that all-too-familiar sensation of hope turning to sludge, as I was yet again deemed "unworthy" by a stranger. 

Maya Angelou said, "I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel."

Sometimes I see a person, and my insides freeze up. I don't remember what she said, but I remember how she made me feel. Many people (male and female) made me feel that way when I was single. Opening pleasantries. A shidduch suggestion. Then, for lack of a better term, the bitchy comments on my life choices or appearance or behavior. 

I'm sitting now typing this at my kitchen table with a baby babbling at my feet, with Han washing dishes. I've proved them wrong, obviously, not that they care. They met me, judged me, and dismissed me, without a second thought; those remarks haunted me. I questioned myself repeatedly, vacillating between self-faith and "But are they all wrong? Or am I the insane one?"

I know I'm being a broken record, that I've been harping about this constantly lately. I know the people who should be reading this probably aren't. But for those who are: 

1) If you have been hurt by such remarks, be strong. All that matters is that you are striving to be a good person and try to be kind to others. Whatever anyone else says is bull. 

2) If you have said such remarks for others "own good," shut up. There is no such thing. Don't be the messenger. They get shot. 

3) There is someone for everyone. I repeat, THERE IS SOMEONE FOR EVERYONE. 

 

4) Ice cream will always be there for you while you are hurting. Wallow in your pain, acknowledge your feelings. Then get up the next day and use your fury to vacuum like a boss.   

Alone But Not Alone

This Pesach will be a lonely holiday for many of us. It will be a long one as well, three days for us chutz l'aretz folk. 

For those who will have to be alone—as in alone alone—for Pesach, there is the concern that what sort of Seder could they possibly conduct? Ask the Mah Nishtana to oneself? Answer the questions oneself? 

Especially if one has happy memories of previous Sedarim surrounded by multitudes. Or at least one other person to share the experience with. 

A lot of our mitzvos have to be practiced in solitude nowadays. This isolation is a major adjustment for our communal programming. We are so used to Jewish practice along with our tribe that for some, it's akin to an identity crisis.

But I wonder: Have we forgotten the point? Sure, it's fun to do things with others—davening,  rituals, celebrations, meals, etc.—but the point of these practices isn't always the company.  It's service. Avodah. Which, in the end, is between Hashem and the individual.  

There is an article by Rabbi Pini Dunner that is circulating, telling over a story of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, as witnessed by Rabbi YY Jacobson. 

My Zeidy had been chummy with the Rebbe, and while not chassidish, he was quite the fan; this story confirms why. The Rebbe was an Eved Hashem. He could have a solitary Seder—by choice—because he saw it as a mitzvah, as opposed to a family dinner. 

Browsing through the Mishpacha Magazine website, I came across a story called "Night Light" by Michal Marcus, printed in 2016. The story is about a teenage girl who is feeling lost. Her parents have recently divorced; her mother is no longer frum, her father is tired and preoccupied,  her sister is newly married and wants to escape into her new life, her brother is away in yeshiva. There's only so many times she can knock on her friend's door. 

Shabbos now involves takeout and awkward silences with her father. Without the home-cooked meals, the warmth of family, the joyous flair, she struggles to hold on to Shabbos. 

The one person who is attuned to her predicament is her teacher, and after a disastrous Shabbos by her mother, she finds herself at her Morah's apartment.  

Her teacher lives alone, no family nearby. She explains to her student that she tried to get Shabbos right—while she didn't have the husband and kids yet, she could go to other homes and get it right there. But it still wasn't hitting the mark. 

She made Shabbos for herself. She felt odd busily preparing for one, eating for one, singing alone.

“And it hit me: Shabbos wasn’t about the challah and wine. It wasn’t about the husband and kids. It wasn’t even about zemiros. Shabbos was about Hashem. It was about His creation, all of it — including me. It was about all the beautiful things I enjoyed, and all the difficult ones I couldn’t understand. It was about finding the Source.”

She falls silent. The candle sputters. The room is draped in peace. “Once I realized that, it was fine having a meal alone. Do I wish my Shabbos was different? Of course. But the core I have. No one can take that away. Shabbos — all of life really — is just about the two of us: Hashem and me.”

This was the message the girl needed to hear. That even though there was no longer a happy, complete family, she still had Hashem, and Shabbos is their day together. 

Hashem redeemed all of us from Mitzrayim on Pesach. Pesach is not about the cute four-year-old lisping the Four Questions. It's an opportunity this year to dig deeper, to discover new insights, to reaffirm our connection Above, when we are cut off from those besides us.

For Cuteness!

A number of months ago, there was an article in the NY Times that niggled at me. And niggled at me. And niggled at me. 

I have found the only way to deal with the niggles is to write about it. 

The article, by Pagan Kennedy, was called "Why You Want to Eat This Baby Up: It’s Science." She begins by describing how since childhood, she never wanted to have children, to the horror of everyone. 

She just doesn't find babies cute, she claims. According to her, that's the only reason a woman would want to have a child. 

Like, for reals?

The only reason why people have children is because they're cute?

What I never quite understood about those who profess no desire to besmirch their comfortable existences with demanding little humans is this: we were ALL children once. Our parents besmirched their comfortable existences to create and raise you. 

Additionally, how long are we cute? Not very long, in the grand scheme of things. Many babies enter the world colicky and crabby. Babies leak from every orifice. As Han's friend joked, "Babies begin smiling when we're about to chuck 'em out a window." Cuteness is for survival. 

But why do we have kids? As Jews, we know why. Heritage, mesorah, passing on the flame, etc. etc. The cuteness is just a perk. 

Fearfully Blessed

I have always feared the worst. Even before Ma died, I was constantly aware that all that I cherish could be lost. 

"What are you worried about?" Han asks me from time to time. 

"I'm always worried," I reply. 

Logically, this is no way to live. Will "foreboding joy" (Brené reference) mean that tragedy will be kept at bay? No, obviously. 

Religiously, this is no way to live. Worry means a lack of bitachon. My worrying is not effective action. My job is to do the mitzvos, and place my energies into that, not fretting. 

Additionally, why do I have anything I cherish in the first place? He gave it to me; it is up to Him whether it remains or not. 

Physically, this is no way to live. Jacking up cortisol levels isn't good for health. 

Frank Bruni wrote of his deteriorating vision: 

Joseph Lovett, 72, a filmmaker whose 2010 documentary, “Going Blind,” chronicles the slow worsening of his vision from glaucoma, told me that his best counsel was that “you cannot spend your life preparing for future losses.” It disrespects the blessings of the here and now. Besides, everyone lives in a state of uncertainty. Mine just has funky initials and fancy medical jargon attached to it.

The irony is that there is a million ways to die. Ma's death was caused by a freakishly rare illness that no one saw coming (my go-to fantasy was always a car crash. No particular reason. She was a good driver). 

After her passing, I did experience gratitude that I had the best mother for a pretty good run. I think I was appreciative while she lived, too. I hope I was. 

But I haven't stopped fretting. Now I have Han-related anxiety. "If you die, I'll kill you," I say, much to his amusement. Yet of course I know it's not in his control, nor mine. 

I must breathe, learn to rewire my faulty programming, and simply . . . cherish. Without fear of loss. 

Let Girls Be Girls Any Way

When I was a kid, I officially did not want to be a "girlie girl." The books I read always had boyish heroines who played sports and climbed trees. I actually suck at sports—Ma despaired of my inability to catch a ball, unlike her—and I didn't really understand the need to climb a tree. 

Also, to my detriment, I had a weakness for Barbies—but I will contend that to this day, I have an aversion for the color pink. 

I tried my best to be a tomboy in every other way, which meant wearing my brothers' outgrown sweatshirts as casual attire. I was so lame. 

I refused to wear makeup to Luke's wedding, when I was 15. That would definitely make me a girly girl! Although my gown was magnificent and I had flowers in my hair and sparkling jewelry. Eye pencil drew my imaginary, arbitrary line. 

At some point, I stopped fighting. Sephora was calling to me. Clothing that fit was calling to me. Pretty shoes were calling to me. 

I was reminded of my evolution by this article, "Like Tomboys and Hate Girlie Girls? That's Sexist." The author, a feminist that also used to eschew "girlieness," now finds herself stumped by a 6-year-old that loves pink, Barbies, and froo-froos. She realized that by welcoming her older daughter's tomboyish tendencies, she was still valuing masculinity over femininity. 

Via AlexandraJustineChapman

Additionally, there are plenty of (straight) men who have what could be considered feminine qualities (like a fondness for hand cream), for which they have been mocked. 

As the author, Lisa Davis, explains, makeup is not about being alluring to men. If anything, the majority of my dates found my Face horrific. Rather, it is a "fun and creative form of self-expression."

Especially since the arrival of a number of "girlie girl" nieces, as well as others who are not, I've comprehended there is no right or wrong way to be a girl. As long as "like, whateverrrrrrr" is not part of their lexicon.

How to Stay Sane While Dating: XV

"You know, when you get to a certain age *sigh*, you just have to be willing to compromise." 

Smile and wave, boys. Smile and wave. 

What these people who didn't know me from Adam (or Eve?) neglected to differentiate: There are levels of compromise.  

They assumed I had a detailed laundry list. Um, no. I had like maybe three criteria. And one major dealbreaker: He had to be nice. 

But "nice" was, disturbingly enough, subject to interpretation. A guy had been suggested to me for years, with this specific adjective: NICE. "He's sooooo nice!" countless advocates gushed. 

I eventually, reluctantly, agreed to a date. Pleasant discovery: He was not NICE. Not remotely. 

I heard of a girl who married "late," and divorced shortly thereafter. Someone quoted her: "I thought I could compromise on hashkafa. But I couldn't compromise on middos." 

Some people aren't into nice, so that's not an issue for them. Contrary to popular belief (eye roll) not every person prioritizes niceness in their lives. They aren't nice, they don't need nice. 

But for those that do? You do not have to compromise on your dealbreakers.  

Because Han has niceness oozing out of his pores to such an extent that those who just meet him dazedly ask, "How did you find such a nice guy?" (I didn't find him. Can't take any credit for that.) Eewok, an excellent judge of character, met Han prior to our engagement and asked, "Are you going to marry Han? Because he's sooooo nice." A nurse asked me at an appointment a standard question about domestic violence, and I burst into riotous laughter.

For those who are nice, and NEED nice, you DO NOT "compromise" on that. And "the good ones aren't all taken," either. 

We Can Do It!

I do not have a math mind, despite my math minded parentage. If you ask me to add two numbers together, I gaze vacantly into the distance and hope you go away. 

Oddly, though, I aced my Regents. My high school teacher had called up my parents, worriedly reporting I was falling asleep during her classes (I didn't fall asleep in class in general, but her voice was so monotonous), warning them I would be unprepared for the exam. 

"I'll be fine," I attempted to reassure them. "I've been doing the practice tests. I've got this covered." 

They did not believe me. After all, they knew I didn't have a math mind. They took away my tv. MY TV! The trauma!

Yet they didn't realize that every spare moment I had, including recess, I was doing practice problems (I was voted "most likely to do homework during lunch"). The sheer repetition taught me better than my poor teacher could. To my parents' (and Luke's) shock, I got a 99. 

I suppose I knew I was slacking off in class, and that I could do better. But some kids need to be told that they can do better, and then they do, writes David Kirp.  

 

I think this same premise applies even to adults. We're here on this earth to improve, right? To overcome our negative innate qualities. To "strive for excellence." 

And yet I am surprised by how many fellow frum Jews shrug defeatedly and blame nature, rather than taking personal responsibility. 

It takes awareness. It means one day, choosing not to operate on automatic pilot, acting instead with deliberate thought.  Until it becomes automatic.

It can be done. I believe in you, and me. 

How to Stay Sane While Dating: XIV

I finally finished The Mindy Project. *SPOILERS*

Mindy was strong-armed into giving the wedding toast by Tamra and Morgan's wedding. 

 

Mindy: I never thought Morgan and Tamra would work as a couple. Tamra is so beautiful and cool, and frankly far too talented to work in our practice for very long. 

Tamra: It's true! I've gotten several offers to leave!

Mindy: And Morgan is, shall we say, a bit of a fixer-upper.

Morgan (sniffling): That's the nicest thing anyone has said about me. 

Mindy: But what I didn't realize is how much people can change. And how much we can help each other change. Tamra stopped thinking she was better than everyone. And Morgan, you've really matured, too. I mean this is the man who finally moved out of his grandmother's house. 

Morgan: Oh my God! I forgot to invite Grandmother! 

Mindy: And maybe they weren't right for each other then, but somehow they are now. That's the funny thing about people changing. It happens so slowly, you know? You don't realize how much a person's changed until you look at them and they're not the person you thought they were.  

Fun fact: Han was actually mentioned to me for the (first) time when I was 21. But by the powers that be, a date did not come to fruition until I was 30. 

It never even occurred to me to think, "If only . . ." Because I wasn't who I am now. The person that I was at 21 was still unformed in many ways, still had much to learn, still was not where she should have been to appreciate the relationship she has now. 

Chances are, Han was the same way.  

I try to recall how young I was when I started to feel the angst of singlehood. 23? 24? When I look back, I laugh at my youthful stupidity. 

I hear from time to time about a young lass who "just wants to get married." Because her friends are, because she feels on the outside, because she wants to move on. 

But there are other ways of moving on. Like by changing. 

A comment was left on my last "Sane" post by an Anonymous: "I'm a totally different person than I was 15, 10, or even just 5 years ago. I've changed so much. I worry a lot about my future of course, but I recognize that my life circumstances have shaped me in a way nothing else would have."

Some of us achieve change by pursuing knowledge, self-awareness, and -improvement. Some of us have change thrust upon them by life circumstances. Yet some of us refuse to to change. Which is a shame.  

There is much conversation about those Gemeras regarding marriage. There is the "40 days before conception" one, and there is the "harder than splitting the Yam Suf" one. I've heard quite a few shiurim on the topic, and here's one interpretation: 

Everyone is born with a predetermined zivug. However, there is also the option of getting a different zivug based on the madreiga one is currently on. So if one brings oneself higher than one's mazal, one can achieve a more appropriate bashert. 

Which would you rather have? 

Opt for change we can believe in.

Advantages vs. Challenges

The human mind is an ungrateful one. It tends to focus on when things go wrong, as opposed to when they go right. 

How often do we thank the Eibishter? We tend to ask for assistance or complain more often. 

Today's society likes to say that everything is terrible. But the experts point out, in exasperation, that compared to, say, all of history, we are doing quite, quite well. 

Sendhil Mullainathan notes this quirk of psychology in terms of economic advantages. When successful businesspeople are asked how they made their achievements, chances are they will elaborate on the many challenges they had to overcome, as opposed to all the resources they were gifted, whether by birth or other circumstances. 

We tend to remember the obstacles we have overcome more vividly than the advantages we have been given. . . both Democrats and Republicans believe that electoral maps are not apportioned to their advantage. The scholars also find that, within families, people tend to think their parents were tougher on them than their siblings recognize.

Those sneaky, crafty voices can create a completely different narrative in one's mind. But it really all depends how we choose to see our world. Happy people aren't happy because they have better lives than others. They are happy because they want to be. 

The Mundane is Sacred

This is the opposite of escapist reading. Knausgaard plunges you into the material world, not just with his choice of subjects — apples, adders, tin cans, faces — but in the telling. He narrates and philosophizes as he empties the dishwasher, boils macaroni, combs lice from a child’s hair. A whole entry is sparked when a daughter loses a tooth and gives it to him — it’s not her first, and thus has no drama for her anymore. Knausgaard is left holding it and wondering why we stop marveling at loose teeth, why we stop marveling at the world. This becomes the central preoccupation of the book: to restore our sense of awe, to render the world again strange and full of magic, from loose teeth to rubber boots to hardened pieces of chewing gum (“which with their grey color, hemispherical shape and many little indentations resemble shrunken brains”).

Parul Sehgal is reviewing Knausgaard's book "Autumn." I suppose it can become tiresome, after a while, consciously viewing our everyday surroundings with awe. 

Yet as the world spins its wheels as busy, busy, busy—we forget why we are so busy to begin with. We neglect the quality of life we are supposedly seeking. My neighborhood has burst into annual bloom, and most of the blossoms only remain but a few short days. Gazing upon such short-lived beauty soothes the soul. It would be to our benefit to actively seek out all forms of wonder.

In one scene, Knausgaard’s daughter throws up on him on the subway: “The stench filled my nostrils, and vomit was dripping slowly off my jacket, but it was neither disgusting nor uncomfortable, on the contrary I found it refreshing. The reason was simple: I loved her, and the force of that love allows nothing to stand in its way, neither the ugly, nor the unpleasant, nor the disgusting, nor the horrific.” 

We cannot selectively love. A person is composed of many parts, and as we cannot selectively numb emotions within, picking and choosing what aspects we love in another is not possible. When a girl says, "I want to be loved for who I am," she must acknowledge that she also has annoying parts, as does her future significant other. 

Children, especially, like Knausgaard's barfing baby—the love must be unconditional. They are also sources of an ever-flowing vat of wonder. 

Wajahat Ali was preparing for hajj, yet the demands as father of two small children were interfering with his mindset.

I recently complained to my wife about how our kids’ sleep schedule (or lack thereof) was stealing the time I needed to be truly ready for this moment. I immediately felt guilty. It occurred to me that I had to think of these frazzled pretravel days — and all of our days — differently.

After all, what’s the point of saying, “Here I am,” when you’re not present at home? What’s the point of seeing the Kaaba if you can’t appreciate the miracle that is two manic munchkins running around after midnight?

. . . part of me believes I still have a chance to do it right — starting before I leave. That means watching another “Paw Patrol” episode with patience instead of resentment, and bringing renewed energy to being the kind of dad who will return to kids who have actually missed him.

. . . I hope to return to my family in Virginia, see a bag of soiled, affordable diapers in the trash near the doorstep, hear the voices of babies who are gearing up for another all-nighter, and smile, grateful to be home.

The mundane does not interfere with the sacred. The mundane is the sacred.  

Be Flexible, Not Fixed

This week is all about going back from the wrong path and starting again. I'm surprised how many (frum!) Jews aren't willing to acknowledge how they have the power to alter much—not by trying to save the world, but by tackling their own minds and actions. 

Studies are showing that "DNA is not destiny"—in terms of heart disease, for instance, a good lifestyle makes up for bad genes, while a bad lifestyle negates good genes. And one didn't have to be an angel, either; "It looks as if the biggest protective effect by far came from going from a terrible lifestyle to one that was at least moderately good."

Dr. Jane Brody profiled Brooklyn borough president Eric Adams, who completely reversed his lifestyle and successfully handled his diabetes diagnosis in the span of three months. 

Rather than proselytize, Mr. Adams prefers to teach by example, introducing people to healthy foods and providing helpful information. “I don’t want to become an annoying vegan,” he said. “My hope is that by having people focus on adding healthy things to their plates, rather than unhealthy things, they’ll eventually only have room for the healthy ones.”

Sur mei'ra, v'asei tov.   

Via cookingclassy

Very often, we create limiting beliefs and we stubbornly cling to them. Like Aya Cash: "The First Time I Ate a Vegetable (I Was 22)." 

For years, I had been telling everyone that I didn’t eat vegetables. I believed I hated them. I even took pride in the fact that I could fill my body with junk and not gain weight. I secretly, ridiculously, bizarrely thought my anti-vegetable stance made me intriguing. Unique. Idiosyncratic.

But sometimes we tell stories about ourselves that aren’t true. Sometimes stories we think are fixed are actually flexible. . .

I realized that I had determined a defining characteristic based on who I was at 6. I had not tried again for 16 years.

What else had I decided about myself that might not be true anymore? What had I decided about other people? That piece of lettuce was my first recognition that my identity was not set, but malleable.

I used to think belly button piercings were cool. I used to date men who didn’t like me. I used to smoke. I had never wanted to get married; I thought it wasn’t “who I was.” But a few years ago, I found myself feeling otherwise. This didn’t mean I was a different person. But the narrative I had about myself had changed.

Would I have learned this in other ways? Probably. But that bite opened me up to the possibility that change can happen even when you’re not trying; you just have to stay curious.

"Be That Person"

I like to think I have reached a point where I no longer absorb snippy comments. Often, if on the receiving end, I look intently at the other and wonder, "Golly, she must be really hurting about something." 

Anonymous trolls, the most cowardly of the cowardly, offset their own misery by depositing nasty little statements here and there. This cooking blogger posted a video taking such a one to task, by sharing her own burdens and appealing to the world to just be freakin' nice.  

Dr. Perri Klass, M.D. ("What Knitting Can Teach Us About Parenting"), is a pediatrician; to unwind, she browses through a knitting website, where she noted that despite the, er, straight-up ugliness of the various posted projects, the vast majority of comments are nice. Yet she doesn't see that empathy outside, as parents are usually subject to sniffing disdain if their toddler has a public meltdown (an occupational hazard, and to be expected). 

I would like to suggest that everyone who has posted more than one comment in the last two years passing judgment on other parents learn to knit as soon as possible. Winter is coming, and we all need scarves. There are some really nice, easy patterns on Ravelry, and you can download many of them free — and then you can choose your yarn and put your heart into it and make something beautiful.

With luck, the people who see it in real life and the ones who admire it in the photos you post online will respect the effort you put into it, and offer praise and encouragement. And if they don’t have anything nice to say, they won’t say anything at all.

Whenever I now get that judgy voice in my head, I'm disappointed in myself. Then I choose to see a quality about the other that I am forced to admire. And I can.

A Cautionary Tale

Jack, my boss, had the greatest of faith in medications. He would stand by my desk and wax poetic about his myriad prescriptions (between ten and fifteen) that "took care of everything," snorting at my "rabbit food" (that I greatly enjoy). 

"If a person is serious about quitting smoking," he would say, "he would take drugs, like I did." He somehow managed to make it sound that a truly selfless individual would nobly accept chemicals churning throughout his system as a means to overcome an addition.

I don't think I ever saw him eat "living food." His standard lunch was from Burger King or a deli. If he "dined" in, I would gag from the smell of the fake microwave "meals" wafting from his office. 

He was a man of intelligence. He was a man of, not quite wit, but humor. He was a man who had been looking forward to his retirement years in a sunny, tax-free locale. 

Note how I keep using the past tense? 

First came the heart operation, that required months of recovery; then the infection, caused by diabetes, seized hold of his limbs. He was in pain—constant pain. He was in and out of hospitals. He blamed it on "getting old." He wasn't old. He didn't take care of himself.

He used to grandly say to me that my lifestyle meant life was not worth living, yet his was not worth living, either. He never made it to his sunny, tax-free locale. He died in his mid-60s, young for today.

When I informed the doorman, his immediate response: "I'm not surprised." All the building staff knew that Jack didn't take care of himself.  

Ma grew up in a bland household. Zeidy battled with ulcers, which meant no zesty spices—no black pepper, no hot paprika. Babi had high blood pressure, which meant no salt. (Ma still believed her childhood to be idyllic.)

Babi was on high blood pressure medication for fifty years. But she never considered it a magic pill. She watched what she ate—and she liked her salt—knowing that the drug can only do so much. 

Her children seemed to have inherited the blood pressure issue. My uncle now officially received his diagnosis, and power to my aunt for calling Ma constantly to ask how to cook for him. Because she knows that you can't eat whatever you want and expect a prescription to fix it.  

We can't predict the future; there are a myriad of ways one can go—like getting hit by a bus. But I would prefer to try, to the best of my ability, to preserve quality of life, and really, the daily donut is sooooo not worth it. 

Ask Jack. Oh, you can't. 

The Phoenix

How we define ourselves is rather important. Yet plenty of us don't know who we ourselves are, oddly enough, or place emphasis in the least important of areas. 

If I would have to identify myself, the top of the list is not "interest in sci-fi." It's more like the low, low bottom. But someone reading my blog may think I sleep beneath the glow of crossed lightsabers or a Klingon bat'leth. Er, no. 

Then there is how we choose to identify ourselves. There is a lady I know, very pleasant, very intelligent, but her only—and I mean only—conversation is her recent, mild medical inconvenience. Nothing serious, mind you, but she is really incapable of talking about anything else. Only about her visits to the dermatologist to treat an annoying rash. When I see her, I find myself casually turning around and scurrying away in the opposite direction.

What about something more serious? Like cancer?

Debra Jarvis, a hospital chaplain who survived cancer, proclaims "Don't Call Me a Cancer Survivor." When she was sick, she was baffled how people assumed her illness would become her identity, predicting she'd promote "pink" awareness. But she had her own personal reaction to her situation, that had little connection to the disease itself.

Yet why should trauma, over which one has no control, become identity? My grandparents didn't identify as "survivors." They had been shoved into a horrific situation and made it through. But that agonizing year did not define them; that's not how they introduced themselves to strangers. "Hello, nice to meet you, I'm a survivor." 

Identity is inside out, not outside in. It's how I choose to react, what I choose to enjoy, what my natural talents and interests are. 

Jarvis tells over how a fellow cancer survivor couldn't get out of the loop of telling everyone her story, even when finally in the clear. She liked the attention that her sickness brought her, but didn't realize that by harping on the past, she was pushing others away (like my clueless lady friend). Jarvis bluntly told her she had to "Get off her cross."

You may think I was a little harsh with her, so I’ll add that I was speaking out of my own experience. Years before, I was fired from a job I loved. Afterward, I wouldn’t stop talking to everyone I met about my innocence, the injustice, and the betrayal until, just like with this woman, people were walking away from me.

I realized I wasn’t processing my feelings—I was feeding them.

But with any resurrection story, we know that you must die before you can be reborn. Jesus was dead for a whole day in the tomb before he rose. For us, being in the tomb means doing our own work around our wounds and letting ourselves be healed. We have to let our old story go so that a newer, truer story can be told about who we are.

What if we lived in a world without survivors? What if people decided to claim their trauma as an experience instead of taking it on as an identity? It could mean the end of being trapped by our wounds and the start of defining ourselves by who we are becoming.  

TGIF

Happy Choices

Sometimes a random scene from a random show sticks with me. Like the episode "Blood is Thicker Than Liquor," of the defunct Girlfriends. 

Toni, the unlikable, self-centered real estate agent who fought her way up from her working-class upbringing, has it out with her sister Sherri. While Toni lives a glamorous life in L.A., Sherri lives at home, cares for their alcoholic mother, and works at the local Walmart knock-off. 

Toni, in typical Toni fashion, disrespects Sherri for staying. She thinks Sherri is angry at her for "having the strength to leave." Sherri retorts that Toni didn't have the strength to stay. 

But she admits that she resents Toni for leaving, but not how she thinks. Sherri reminds Toni that she was the one who raised her (as their mother was usually out of commission), and now Toni belittles her. Chastened, Toni thanks her, then offers her help to "get out." 

Sherri looks at her in surprise. "Toni, I chose this life. I'm happy. I just want you to respect that."

People assume the oddest things about me. They don't realize that I live my life the way I want to. 

While waiting for the Novocaine to kick in, my dentist and I chatted about traveling. She can't stay home, even on a day off—she has to get out of the house. Me? Pajamas are my default state. 

She's miserable where I am happy, and vice versa. My idea of an accomplishing Sunday is concocting a fresh batch of sauerkraut and watching 60 Minutes. (Now you know why I blog anonymously. If I admitted such a thing in public, I'd be pilloried.) 

Certain lifestyles come into fashion, and certain activities are considered a "must." Some people don't know themselves, so they are puzzled why they aren't happy on a spontaneous getaway with a bunch of friends. News flash: Maybe you are happy in your own bed, in your own home. It's not a crime. 

For those "stuff-doers," I wish you well. I can even summon some tolerance for you folk. 

As long as you leave me alone.