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.