Anti-Segulah

I've always had a problem with so-called "segulas," then Rabbi Natan Slifkin sucked whatever residue of mysticism out of me. So far in our marriage, Han's more mystical in outlook than I am, but now he's also reading Rabbi Slifkin's book and I (wiping away a tear) am giddy that he's come (somewhat) to the rationalist side with me. 

Han noted that one of the differences is that mysticism believes in the ability to manipulate spiritual forces to achieve their own ends—which sounds a lot like segulos. Segulos tend to be on the woo-woo side: visiting various dead sages, lifting havdalah candles to a specific height (never lifted mine, still got a tall guy), lighting various candles for unknown reasons, etc. etc. 

How come no one says, "I'm giving tzedakah as a segulah?" 

"I'm visiting a lonely elder as a segulah?" 

"I'm buying groceries for that struggling family as a segulah?" 

Segulos tend not to help anyone. 

Hashem doesn't need your candle. The dead sage is not sitting around his grave waiting to take a sack of requests up to his Manager. The havdalah candle has no correlation to one's bashert. 

Instead of a segulah, help someone. Hashem likes it when we help others. It doesn't matter what your motivation is. Ma would say, "As long as the poor man gets to eat." We know motivation doesn't mean much in Judaism; action does. 

So instead of spending money in the name of "segulah," give that money to tzedakah instead. 

Rationalist out.  

Zipper-Mouth Emoji

I was in for a 45 minute drive, so I pulled up the YU Torah app and punched on a shiur at random. Surprise me. 

I had never listened to this rabbi before, and . . . well. 

He was discussing a writing of the Rambam, specifically his take on "Do not hate your fellow in your heart." 

The Rambam wrote there is a simple solution to this. So you don't hate your fellow in your heart, the remedy is to tell them in what manner they bug you, they'll correct it, and problem solved! 

I thought he was joking, but no. He repeated this "solution" numerous times, including a separate example of rebuking someone who is violating halacha. Apparently, that person will also be glad to be "rebuked," because obviously he knows it's for his own good! 

Um . . . 

Look, the Rambam is my man. Seriously, I refer to myself as a "Rambam Girl." But, sweetie, no. This isn't going to fly. 

There is a very good reason why most of us prefer to keep our mouths shut even if resentment is percolating away in our chests. Because if telling another that a behavior of theirs bothered us was simple and straightforward, we wouldn't be dealing with ulcers. 

I do believe that the biggest problem in relationships is usually communication. Yet there are many barriers to effective communication. One of which being that none of us like critique. Sometimes, honest feedback can destroy a relationship.  

I told over this shiur to two people, and they both found it unintentionally hilarious. 

I'm still Team Keep Shtum.  

No Regrets

 "Looking back," she asked, "did you make any decisions that you think now you would've done differently?" 

She means, of course, in terms of dating. 

I wasn't even insulted; I get versions of this question from time to time, specifically from people who married at the "appropriate" age (of 21 or so). There's still that undercurrent of: It was your fault, in some way. It just doesn't make sense otherwise. 

I recently listened to a Meaningful Minute: Stories of Hope with Jackie Glaser as the guest with her husband. Jackie has quite the tale; a baalas teshuva, she only started dating in her late 30s, married at 44, and had a baby at 50. She had some insights which I had also realized in my own experiences. 

One of which being: Han is my person. Even when I'm annoyed at him, he's my person. Even when we fight, he's my person. It never, ever crosses my mind that I made a mistake or married the wrong dude or think wistfully of some other guy I went out with once. He's my person.

The only reason I know this is because I dated all the other candidates for over ten years, and no one, no one was remotely him. 

Whereas, for those who married to the first or second or third chap that they went out with, when the bumps in the road come (and believe me, they'll come) they might wonder, in a moment of weakness . . . Did I choose right? 

It's human nature. I doubt I would be different. It's only because I took the long and winding road that I know. 

This is what I tell those who are freaking because their child (typically daughter) is still unmarried in their mid-20s (gasp!): There's pros too, not just cons.  

So, no: Looking back, I know 100% I had made the right decisions. It wasn't that I was a silly, flighty 21-year-old and I said no to someone who was probably my soul mate but I had been ridiculous about something minor. 

Another thing: Ma would say, "They find you, even if you're hiding under the bed." Meaning, just because someone once said no to their potential soulmate doesn't mean Hashem decrees, "No soup for you!" Tziporah Grodko discusses this: Is Hashem that cruel? One mistake on our part and we are denied fulfillment in marriage? Shidduchim have happened all the time despite rejections along the way (including my own). If it's meant to be, it'll be.  

God, Take the Wheel

We don't have control. 

This is a message that I thought I learned after dating forever and Ma dying. Yet this message didn't really kick in until I had offspring. 

An article popped up in my feed from The Atlantic by Jessica Slice, a disabled woman, titled "The Biggest Surprise About Parenting With a Disability." I'm not a paying subscriber, so the most I could gather was from the teaser: Slice thought parenting would be incredibly difficult, considering the modern narrative, plus she is disabled to boot. 

Yet, to her surprise, she didn't find it as hard as she thought it would be. Her theory was that being disabled, she was already quite aware that she did not have control. Postpartum mothers can be suddenly dealing with an unaccommodating body, and most definitely an unaccommodating baby, and that new lack of control is terrifying. 

We hear about helicopter parents and snowplow parents and parents who sign up their fetuses for the high-tier advanced playgroup that is the first step for future success. Despite the fact that there is no proof that the high-tier advanced playgroup leads to a corner office—yet there certainly is enough data that resilience is a better predictor of accomplishment. 

The tighter our grip, the more slips away. It's not easy. We live in a culture where parents are blamed for everything, whether by society or by their own children, so it's not such a stretch that parents would think that they have to be perfectly on top of their game OR ELSE. 

I was the youngest. It was very apparent then that Ma felt little to no pressure at that point. She expected me to study and try; as long as I did that, it didn't matter if I got a bad grade. She didn't feel the need for extracurriculars, unless it was something I wanted to do. She knew what kids really want: cartoons to be watched in peace, toys, and cake. She didn't begrudge them. She was still terrifyingly European and expected good behavior and going to bed on time, but she didn't demand academic excellence. When I was in high school, I decided I wanted to do well and really applied myself.

So with my kids, I try to see them for who they are and what they need, as opposed to what I would want them to be. I try for them to feel accomplished for themselves, rather than my doing things for them. 

Will they be mad at me when they grow up? Probably. But they'll be mad at me no matter what I do, so I might as well take it easy on myself. 

We don't have control, whether we think we do or not. For many of us, our lives did not turn out remotely the way we expected. And that's ok! It's not an indicator of failure. It just means we aren't in control.