"Tiny Beautiful Things"

After reading Lori Gottlieb's Maybe You Should Talk to Someone, I've been trying to find other books with the same therapy/self-awareness vibe. I don't remember which website I used to find Tiny Beautiful Things by Cheryl Strayed, but I do appreciate the recommendation. 

For a couple of years, Strayed was asked to take over a struggling online magazine's self-help column, called Dear Sugar. The book is a compilation of the questions and her responses. 

What makes her approach so unique is that instead of the typical Dear Abby model, where Abby is an invisible voice dispensing advice, Strayed begins each of her responses with a personal anecdote that seems to have nothing to do with the question. 

The anecdotes are vividly described, and most of them are quite miserable. Strayed grew up in a dysfunctional home, lost her beloved mother very young, and struggled through many years of poverty before becoming a best-selling writer. 

Somehow, magically, she manages to brilliantly tie the life lesson she learned from her own experience to the advice she dispenses to the questioner. 

As I get older, the more I see how we are all really more the same than different. We get disappointed. We figure out what we can and cannot control. We figure out our values and what's important to us. We grieve. We rejoice. 

So even though my experiences may not be exactly the same as someone else's, with 40 very close, I am still able to better see the commonality of the human condition. The empathy we should be giving one another, rather than the blame. 

It's not that Strayed's life made her perfect person to be a self-help columnist. She's not a therapist by training. But she possesses the self-awareness and self-confidence to look unflinchingly at even the most unpleasant moments of her life and turn it into a valuable lesson. 

One experience of hers that she mentions more than once was how her first marriage was to a good man, but a little voice inside kept telling her to leave. She's now been happily married to her current husband for 25+ years. Validation that is always nice to hear: Just because a person is nice doesn't mean they're for you. 

The book has some, um, UA moments, so it's not for those who are squeamish about cussing and other stuff. Yet I find it a valuable read.  

"Rabbis and Wives"

Back in May, the NY Times Book Review rhapsodized over Sons and Daughters, a very posthumous English publication of a Yiddish serial by Chaim Grade. 

Chaim Grade (pronounced Grah-deh) was a Yiddish writer of great renown, to the point when Isaac Bashevis Singer won the Nobel for literature, many in the Yiddish community thought it should have gone to Grade. 

Grade died in 1982, and his widow refused to release any of his papers; after her death in 2010, his documents were pounced upon, and a Yiddish serial that had yet to be translated and published was dusted off and made ready. 

I don't like fighting other library patrons for new releases, so I requested an older Grade book, Rabbis and Wives. It's a series of three novellas, each depicting a very certain type of rabbi: a humble, learned, compassionate man, who eschews a shteler because he cannot bear to tell the poor women of the community that her chicken is not kosher, nor does he want to be embroiled in local disputes. This rabbi is not recognized by many for his holiness, but he doesn't care, obviously. 

Grade vividly depicts a world that was, down to the women's fashions and styling of male facial hair. He describes the children chafing against the ideology of their parents—including the debate if the Land of Israel should be settled by Jews now (Mizrachis) or if Moshiach should come first (Agudahniks). 

The level of detail is mesmerizing, to the point I have no idea how non-observant Jews or non-Jews could possibly chap this universe. One visual made me laugh out loud: the young people are inappropriately taking boat rides down the river on Shabbos, boys and girls cavorting together, however, of course they would not smoke in the streets on Shabbos, for: "they come from good families, after all." 

I had not expected a book such a this, and pulled up his Wiki entry. Apparently, he had learned in Novoardik, and seven years under the Chazon Ish. Rabbis and Wives is dedicated to the wife of the Chazon Ish! Despite the fact that Grade left observance, he apparently maintained a great respect for the rabbinate and his own Rav.  

Grade's mother and first wife were killed in the Holocaust; they remained while he fled, believing that women and children wouldn't be harmed by the Nazis. He tends not to address the war in his books; they are mainly time capsules. 

Here, one can truly envision what life was like before the war; what the shul politics were, what the marriages were like, how children behaved (gotta say, kinda badly). The perspective isn't narrow through one narrator, so one can see the whole picture. 

I think I'm gonna buy Sons and Daughters. 

The Wise Elder

Maggie Anton takes great fictional liberties in her Rashi's Daughters trilogy, but there is a depiction therein that I still think about, a year or so after reading it. 

Rashi came from a family of vintners, but he was away at yeshiva for many years before returning to the family home. His widowed mother ran the show.

He dutifully toils in the fields with the others, but in terms of agricultural strategy, his mother is the one with the experience. So if the rains came too early or too late, she knows what to do in order to salvage the crop. 

As Book 1: Yocheved, continues, Rashi's mother begins to suffer from cognitive decline. Yet even in dementia, the family still turn for her knowledge when it comes what to do with the grapes. Even when mentally disadvantaged, her experience is still sought after and respected. 

In a time when the science of agriculture—all of science, rather—stayed the same for hundreds of years, the wisdom of elders was valued and respected. They saw many years of bad weather, which would result in a bad harvest. Yet in their old ages, they would know what to do to at least make out the year with something rather than nothing. 

Yet as technology advanced to the point that the new becomes old in a matter of months, not centuries, that once valuable experience became obsolete. The reverence of the aged became scorn. 

I'm not elderly yet, but as I am almost 40, I'm noticing a shift. Younger people use unfamiliar slang that doesn't feel natural to me (I still say "awesome" and "dude"; I have no idea how to use "salty" organically except in terms of food). When I pass by 20-somethings on the street, I realize now I'm not their contemporary anymore. Han is just a few years older than me but other guys his age are marrying off children, while our oldest is six. 

I've become that crotchety complainer by weddings. "The music is too loud. Do you have ear plugs?" "This is how the kids are dancing nowadays? Shrieking and jumping? This isn't dancing!" "Can we leave yet?" 

I've also become aware how important life experience is. It's not the new features on the phone that matters. It's about learning from one's mistakes, doing better, being willing to recalibrate. It's about understanding what is important, what should be priorities. It's about the values we carry and try to pass on. It's about so much more than technology. 

I've already resigned myself to a future witnessing eye-rolls in response to whatever I say, but that'll just be the youth not getting it. 

Age Can Be a Number

I recently read Vera Wong's Unsolicited Advice for Murderers, featuring Vera Wong, the tough Chinese "auntie" who insists on investigating a mysterious death. 

The book itself was pleasant. No complaint there. My quibble, however, is in how Vera Wong is described: a little old lady. 

That would be correct if she was, say, 80. However, our protagonist is a mere 60 years of age, and she is repeatedly referred to as "old." 

Old? I kept thinking. 60 isn't old. Ma died in her mid-60s, and no one said, "Well, she lived a long full life." It was "How tragic, so young."

I wonder if this is because 40 is inching ever closer, but truly, I don't see how 60 is "old." 

There has been chatter online as to how the characters in "The Golden Girls" looked so old when they were playing women in their 50s. A reel popped up in my feed explaining that it was simply the fashions and hairstyles they had—he shows a crudely edited picture with Betty White's old-timey 'do topped with a long, sleek alternative, and suddenly she looks ten years younger. 

Seen women nowadays in their 50s? Not remotely old. At all. 

Apparently, I wasn't the only one to find this a problem, as another reached out to the author of Vera Wong, Jesse Sutanto, that by referring to her as "old," she thought Vera was 85. Jesse responds that in Asian culture, one receives more respect depending on their age, so Vera herself would be referring to herself as "old." 

Yeeeeeaaaaah, except the other characters—even the Caucasian ones—think of her as "old." 

Well, maybe it's the hairdo. Sounds a lot like Dorothy's from Girls. 

"Peony"

I have been quiet this last few months. Obviously, nothing that I've been thinking of sharing has seemed important. The words that usually chase each other in my head have been rather indolent. 

But I would like to summon the interest to begin again, for writing is my . . . thing. 

In the last few months, I was introduced to the book "Peony" by Pearl S. Buck (author of the more well known "The Good Earth"). Apparently, Madame Buck was a prolific writer, having written many, many books. 

"Peony" is applicable to my audience because it has a rather surprising topic: The Jews of China. Apparently, Jewish traders settled in China has early as the 9th century (or even earlier) and established communities. There, they lived in peace, the Chinese having no quibble with them, to the point they intermarried. 

According to the historical postscript, Buck was not very accurate in terms of timeline, but it takes place somewhere in the 1800s. While the book is called "Peony," it's really about David, the young man of the household. 

The family is a wealthy one, prosperous traders. The patriarch, Ezra, has a Jewish father and a Chinese mother, a fact that his pious wife, Naomi, abhors. Ezra immerses himself in Chinese culture, while Naomi is a fervent Jew, who upholds all the practices and fiercely maintaining a distance from their Chinese neighbors. David, their son, finds himself caught between two worlds. 

Peony is a bondmaiden who was acquired in childhood to be a playmate for David. A bondmaiden was neither a lowly servant, nor quite a member of the family. She helps run the household, and adores David. 

I had always thought that America was the first time that Jews were accepted, which led to assimilation, but apparently that was not so. Because the Chinese held no primitive grudge against these Jewish transplants, they, too, assimilated. 

Buck also explains why the pull was so great: The Chinese sought pleasure. Why not be happy if that was possible? The Jews, however, espoused what they deemed to be unnecessary restriction, along with a lot of sobbing and moaning. No wonder David struggles so. 

Buck writes simply, and the book is an pleasant read until it takes a horror movie turn. Additionally, it shouldn't be expected that Buck should have an accurate understanding of Jewish law. For instance, it is written more than once that "Jewish men do not have multiple wives," when that rule was established by an Ashkenazi rabbi, and considering how Ezra is most definitely not a descendant of an Ashkenazi lineage, that wouldn't be an issue. 

Also, the matter of matrilineal descent; many who identify as Jews in the book would not be considered halachically Jewish, but according to the postscript the Jews of China went by patrilineal descent. These descendants still exist today in China, and they are proud of their Jewish heritage, even lobbying with the newly founded Chinese government to be considered a minority people. 

I don't want to provide any more spoilers, but I do recommend it as a fascinating read about a topic that is not common knowledge.    

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.

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. 

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. 

The Jewish Heart

Unlike Han and my father, I do not "do" Holocaust books or films. There are a few exceptions, as there usually are in life, but I do not actively seek out their company. 

But since I'm the one who reads the Book Review, I introduced Han to Dara Horn's People Love Dead Jews, and Han is smitten (I might actually make PLDJ another exception). He prefers audiobooks, and he played me a segment he found interesting. 

The essay he played I was able to find online, on the Smithsonian website. 

Anne Frank's memoir has been insanely popular, worldwide. While it is about Jews hiding from the Nazis, it doesn't really deal with the genocide currently taking place. Other memoirs, that do recount the acts of horror, are not remotely as popular. 

Horn cites the work of Zalmen Gradowski, a Sonderkommando who was later killed in a failed uprising. Reading a passage Horn inserted into her essay, I was breathless at how a man who was forced to be a part of such indescribable crimes can not only remain religious, but recount the murders of his charges with compassion. 

Any other soul in such a position would have numbed himself, refusing to connect to the acts he is forced to commit. but Gradowski even details an example of a young woman who not only defies a Nazi official but manages to hit him too before she is taken away. She was no sheep led to the slaughter (a metaphor I have always disliked). 

Sonderkommandos were dead men walking, on limited time (they were killed every three months and replaced). And yet, Gradowski managed to hold on to his humanity and faith, to use beautiful language to describe ugly actions. His empathy remained, even while the Nazis tried every way to burn it out of him.

Queen Anne

I recently read The Jane Austen Society (the book was simply okay, in my opinion). 

Two characters were discussing their favorite characters. One said (obviously) Elizabeth Bennet. Another countered with Emma Woodhouse. 

It made me consider who my favorite character is. 

I am not sure if it's allowed to have a favorite Austen character if one has not yet read the book (I have only the 1995 film adaptation to work with at the moment) but mine is Anne Elliot. 

I first saw it in my youth—maybe in my tweenhood?—with Ma. It was on Masterpiece Theater and I had taped it. I then rewatched it, as I was wont to do with my favorite films, many many times. 

Anne does what has to be done, even if no one appreciates her for it. She gets no parade—if anything, she is merely scorned by her own family for her efforts. But she keeps soldiering on. (That's why Wentworth is an ideal mate—he's an actual officer in the navy, complete with stiff back, who knows what it means to keep soldiering on).

Removed from her oppressive household and placed in fresh surroundings, she blossoms. Kind and receptive company brings out her qualities. And yet, a common-sensical creature, she never loses her head. As various crises arise, she is the one who wades into the fray and calmly takes hold of the situation (like the captain of a ship?).

Anne's "error" was for not accepting Wentworth's proposal when she was 19—an understandable mistake, considering how he was penniless at the time and her only trusted source was Lady Russell. But she does not make the same error again. Nor did she compromise in the interim. 

Elizabeth Bennet, while highly admired for her wit and sparkle, makes quite a few boo boos. She messed up big time by believing Wickham's lies so readily, especially in a society when tattling is considered déclassé. But then, she wanted to believe the worst about Darcy, so she did. 

Anne herself is capable of a retort, perhaps without Elizabeth's delivery, but because of her stillness her response is more likely to be heard and accepted. 

Emma—well, a bit of a self-important meddler, wasn't she? She nearly ruined Harriet's life, and she was cruel at times to boot. 

Elinor Dashwood is a close second for favorite (I read the book, but must say the 2008 adaptation was infinitely more enjoyable), but Anne has my vote.  

Book Review Continued: "Group"

The second aspect of the book that I noted . . . 

It's not like Tate came from an abusive home. Her parents were solid Catholic Texans. There was no fighting. She mentions her siblings in passing, and they seem to be fine, married and settled. 

But Tate's upbringing did leave a mark. She was a tween when she witnessed a horrific accident, and her parents did not know how to deal with it. They told her to buck up, to put on a happy face, to power through. At some point the school sent her to a therapist who was not a good fit, and she lied to her parents after one session that she was good to go. They were happy. 

It made me think of Thomas Boyce's dandelion and orchid theory. Some children come into this world mentally and emotionally sturdy. No matter what life throws at them they can cheerfully trundle along. (A neighbor once said about Luke, "You could send him to public school no problem." Yeah, total dandelion.) 

But other children are more sensitive. They need more support, more nurturing, more attention. If they don't get that from their caretakers, they flounder. If they do, they flourish, becoming ever more than a dandelion can. 

My thought on this was—besides for the belief that Tate is an orchid, and many messages given consciously or unconsciously to her by her parents and teachers left deep marks—that what if it doesn't have to be so extreme? What if there is a plant that falls between a dandelion and an orchid? (My botany is not proficient, so I don't have an example there.)

Life is rarely black and white—it's not like children are either one thing or the other. Some kids can be more sensitive in some ways, and less sensitive in others.  

Chanoch l'naar al pi daarko—it's a toughie. Parents can do everything "right," and the kids will still end up on a therapist's couch complaining about their upbringing. 

Ben is too small for me to be worried too much right now. He's content with regular meals, a good night's sleep, and reading the same book on a loop (I'm going mad). I'm curious as to what he is, but I think it's neither dandelion nor orchid. I have to be in tune for when his personal sensitivities pop up, so I can be ready to accommodate them.

Book Review: "Group"

I don't usually read much non-fiction, but I seem to be drawn to therapy memoirs. The first, Lori Gottlieb's Maybe You Should Talk to Someone was from the perspective of both therapist and patient; the second, Catherine Gildiner's Good Morning, Monster was strictly from the therapist. I recently finished the third, Group: How One Therapist and a Circle of Strangers Saved My Life by Christie Tate. 

She's obviously a patient. 

The book opens with Tate in her late 20s, wishing for death. She's smothered by loneliness. She wants a significant other. But the only men she's been attracted to thus far are incapable of relationships. 

She goes to a therapist (Jewish, of course) who has an atypical method of treatment: it's group therapy, and EVERYTHING is shared. His belief is that secrecy is damaging, as secrecy is tied to shame. 

That's not quite my outlook on secrecy (isn't there a difference between secrecy and privacy?) but the therapy does wonders for Tate. We see how she progress step, by step, by step. Sure, there are some missteps too, but the seven years that she details is fascinating, although I could have done without some of the EVERYTHING she relayed (warning: very UA). 

Two aspects jumped out at me from the book. 

The first:

There is a raw scene when Tate expresses her desire for a family of her own. The members of the group are inviting her for the holidays (all are married), but she wants her OWN family. It was at this point when I began to relate to Tate. 

That understanding continued as she describes one of her relationships. She has made progress with the sort of man she dates, but these attempts have not ended happily. The next relationship she's in, he's, well, a bit odd. But he has a stable job, a stable personality, suitably boring. She expresses her misgivings to the group, but they all firmly say that this is what she needs. She herself swallows her misgivings because, after all, this is the best she's going to get. 

. . . I fantasized about calling him later to say, "Have a nice life."

But I didn't think I was allowed to let go. That was literally the word in my head: allowed. I'd been bellowing about relationships for years. I'd invested thousands of dollars in therapy . . . I'd recently been involved with a married man. Therefore, I wasn't allowed to walk away from [him]. He was single, solvent, and kind. . . I knew I wouldn't break up with him. The urge to flee was overpowered by my need to prove I was willing to do the hard work I was sure intimate relationships required. 

And there we have it. 

This group of people love her. When you spend hours upchucking your emotional guts to a group, of course you feel something for each other. They socialize together outside of sessions. And yet, and yet, they encourage her to ignore her gut because this is the best option—so far. 

Well, does that sound familiar. 

During my dating years, I certainly heard this message enough. I heard mothers say it about their own children, how they told their kid that they must commit to the current option. Sometimes that works out—and sometimes it doesn't. 

Thankfully, Tate's boyfriend finally raises a red flag high enough that she could break up with him with the blessing of everyone. That irritated me, that she was told to ignore all those other flapping signals, supposedly for her own good.  

This breakup, unlike the others, carried something novel: a strong whiff of relief. Now I could stop pretending that [he] was my soulmate and get on with my life. 

In the end, it's not all those other random people who will be present in a relationship. It's two people, alone. Shouldn't they be the most comfortable together as possible?  

The second aspect in the next post. 

More Than Happiness

Happiness. The founding fathers made a point to mention it, although I think their version of "happiness" doesn't align with the modern translation. 

Parents say, "I just want my child to be happy." Do they, though? If their child was happy to live in a yurt and off the grid, would that be what they wanted? 

Sally Hepworth's The Mother-In-Law was an interesting read, flipping between the mother-in-law's and daughter-in-law's viewpoints. I like books that tell two sides of a story. It's not about wrong vs. right; different people see things differently, operate differently, have different needs, and this can cause clashes in perspective. 

The mother-in-law, Diane, is a woman of principle. She runs a charity for pregnant refugee women. She believes that the good things in life are earned, not given. 

If you ask me, everyone is a little too interested in their children's happiness. Ask anyone what they wish for their kids and they'll all say they want them to be happy. Happy! Not empathetic contributing members of society. Not humble, wise and tolerant. Not strong in the face of adversity or grateful in the face of misfortune. I, on the other hand, have always wanted hardship for my kids. Real, honest hardship. Challenge big enough to make them empathetic and wise. Take the pregnant refugee girls I deal with every day. They've been through unimaginable hardships, and here they are, working hard, contributing and grateful. 

What more could you want for your kids?

I agree with Diane that happiness isn't the goal, especially, in my opinion, that empathetic, humble, wise, tolerant, strong, and grateful people are happy because they have cultivated these traits. 

What I don't necessarily agree with is that hardship will guarantee those results. 

Yes, there are some people who emerge bigger and better from hardship. But others are crushed beneath challenge. They become bitter, or timid, or focus on victimhood. 

Happiness comes in many forms. But it often begins in gratitude. If someone finds their life partner, and they are happy, it is because of gratitude. If someone can support their family comfortably, and they are happy, it is because of gratitude. If we are joyful on our yomim tovim, it is because of gratitude that we are Jews.

Then, I wonder. Is someone who found their bashert later in life happier than the one who married at 21? Meaning, did hardship (dating for eons) create a greater level of happiness from gratitude? 

I think it depends on the person. We all respond differently to hardship. Not all materials can withstand stress. 

Diane wants her children to have hardship. But did she prepare them for it?  Do they have the qualities that will guarantee survival?

Tradition vs. Observance

I read The Dinner Party by Brenda Janowitz, and I rather enjoyed it. It's about a Passover Seder hosted and attended by traditional Jews and the drama that ensues. 

One passage: 

The house Alan lives in now is far different than the house he grew up in. A home filled with two Holocaust survivors who feared going to the dentist and refused to stand on line. Parents who never slept at night. . . his childhood home was cold. There had been no rugs on the floor; the furniture was sparse. Nothing adorning the walls. It was as if his parents wanted to be ready, if they ever needed to again, to run and hide. 

Alan wasn't allowed to have friends over. "Who are those people?" his mother would ask. Alan's parents didn't trust anyone but other Holocaust survivors. They didn't entirely trust them, either. It was easy to avoid the outside world in their tiny Brooklyn enclave. His father worked as a haberdasher just blocks from their home. His mother rarely left the house. The only socializing they did was on the holidays, and that was with other Holocaust survivors. People Alan barely knew. They had no family. 

Alan was embarrassed by his parents. He was scared of them. He wanted very little to do with them. 

I don't know if Janowitz is depicting a situation that she knows personally, or if it was invented by her as how survivors reacted to their experience. But I found it to be an interesting contrast to my grandparents, and Han's. 

I don't really know of any survivors (and I know many) who lived their lives as described above. They didn't perpetually live in fear. If anything, many were joyful. 

I couldn't help but wonder if religion played any part in the contrast. Does religion provide us with the structure for resilience? To be able to move forward, beyond pain, towards a more optimistic future? 

Hmmm.   

Chick Lit Musings

Abby Jimenez's Life's Too Short was a pleasant shake-up from typical chick lit. I mean, it's totally chick-lit, but not the usual plot. Oh, there's the inevitable disagreement and the inevitable, dramatic reunion, but it was a less irritating version that usually occurs since the stakes are higher. 

There were a couple of quotes that spoke to me: 

 . . . maybe being a father was just like this. Just being there and doing what needed to be done, one small task at a time until they added up to something good.

Most good meaningful things in life are not one-and-dones. Change occurs over time, all part of countless choices that add up to elevation. Isn't that what Rosh HaShana is about? As long as the majority of choices are the right one, they are the ones that matter, not the minority. 

And: 

I wondered how long the ripple effects lasted after someone died. Maybe until everyone who knew them was dead too? Or was it something that went on for generation after generation because the damage was handed down, touching each new person and changing them, even if they didn't know why? 

Something told me it was that one. 

Obviously, that one made me think. Not just in my own case, but regarding my grandparents, who lost a lot more people than I did. Even before the war—Babi's father died when she was four months old, her mother when she was in her 20s. Everyone else lost their own parents as well as siblings and kinfauna. That doesn't even count further relatives and friends.  

A college professor believed that such damage was visited upon the descendants, such as myself. I wonder if that's why I freak out a little whenever Ta or Han don't answer their phones, and believe me, I did that before Ma died (not Han, obviously, but Ma).

It made me think of the story in the Gemara, of the woman who could not stop weeping for the loss of her child, and she was warned to stop. She could not, and eventually all her children died. 

There is grief, yes, which is considered warranted. But is the damage from focusing only on grief? On the inability to see beyond it, to let it overtake any possible joy?

The narrator was contemplating her family's devolvement following a death. But that doesn't have to be the only option. There is a difference between carrying pain and letting it taint all aspects of life. My grandparents experienced happiness following their agonies, some more than others. 

As Jews, we're pretty familiar with pain. But also resilience.

Shidduch Lit: It's Not You

 OK, I know I have been saying that the persecution of singles takes place all over, in all cultures, countries, and societies, but I don't think that it really hit home until I read Sara Eckel's It's Not You: 27 (Wrong) Reasons You're Single. 

I mean, I thought it took place on some level, but not to the extreme as it is in the frum world. From what I've been gleaning from this book, which was recommended by an anonymous follower, the perception of something inherently wrong with singles is a view shared by, well, the entire human race. 

As I read, I was surprised how practically every sensation I experienced as a single was accurately described. Her chapter on being picky was practically my post on the same topic, word-for-word. 

That lead me to another epiphany: I'm expecting too much from our community. 

If the entire human race finds singlehood terrifying to look at, how is it possible for the frum demographic to calm the hell down? Eckel is describing a lifestyle where people aren't particularly religious yet they expect everyone to pair up; our faith demands that men get married and make a go at populating the earth. 

I can't expect the frummies to become mellow with the whole concept of "older singles." The campaign slogan, instead, should be kindness. Or tact, at the very least. 

Tragedy exists in a multitude of forms. People are born with disabilities. People die young by illness or accident. People yearn to be parents, but remain childless. Those subject to those circumstances must struggle with hurtful comments as well. 

The problem isn't the wrong perception of singlehood. It's the typical reaction that in our discomfort and need to control, we often say things in a desperate attempt to believe that we can prevent such circumstances, that if we do the "right thing" then we shall be thusly spared. 

So, single person, you must be too picky. You must be commitment phobic. You must not be trying hard enough.

Now we can all sleep at night. 

To get back on topic, Eckel's book is an excellent read for those who have been battered by well-meaning yet ego-devastating comments. I would have highlighted and posted 85% of it and reposted it, when it's much more gratifying to simply read it. She doesn't simply make a statement like "that's ridiculous"; she backs it up with other papers, other thinkers (even Brene!), other points, logically disproving the myth at hand.

Marry Him?

After finishing her book, I googled "Lori Gottlieb" to find more material on her, and I discovered that she wrote a book ten years ago called Marry Him: The Case for Settling for Mr. Good Enough.

Uh-oh. 

It was based on an article she wrote for The Atlantic in 2008: 

My advice is this: Settle! That’s right. Don’t worry about passion or intense connection. Don’t nix a guy based on his annoying habit of yelling “Bravo!” in movie theaters. Overlook his halitosis or abysmal sense of aesthetics. Because if you want to have the infrastructure in place to have a family, settling is the way to go. Based on my observations, in fact, settling will probably make you happier in the long run, since many of those who marry with great expectations become more disillusioned with each passing year. (It’s hard to maintain that level of zing when the conversation morphs into discussions about who’s changing the diapers or balancing the checkbook.)

Et tu, Lori? 

Reading on, I realized the issue is based on what "settling" actually means. I can't quite relate to this, because I'm actually a very boring person who just wanted to set up house and I was on the search for someone to set up the house with. Note, it was easier said than done. 

She's making the claim that a steady, reliable guy who will be a hands-on father and care about your feelings are a dime a dozen, and women primarily search for the sweep-me-off-my-feet dashing cool dudes who will only divorce them for younger models. Generalization much?

I came across this article in Jezebel magazine from earlier this year rehashing Gottlieb's book. The author, Tracy Clark-Flory, is annoyed how women are broadly painted with the "unrealistic expectations" brush, "Meanwhile, men come under no meaningful critique for superficiality or entitlement in the realm of sex and romance. They are largely the sane observers of women’s irrational whims." 

Gottlieb considers herself guilty of "unrealistic expectations." She ended up becoming a mother via sperm donor as she had no man on the horizon. Spoiler, her most recent book, published nearly a decade later, opens with her boyfriend breaking up with her when she thought he was "The One." It makes me wonder if she believed that if she was willing to try hard enough then a relationship would work. But it takes two to tango, and don't we know that. 

However, Clark-Flory does note that the publishers insisted on this eye-catching title, while Gottlieb's point was more about prioritizing character in a life partner as opposed to his looks. 

Clark-Flory had broken up with her lovely boyfriend when she was 26 because she wasn't ready for a forever commitment. She had fretted if she had made the right decision, and did end up marrying later on. But she concludes: 

Now that we’re here, many of us have realized, if we hadn’t long ago, that marriage isn’t a guarantee of happiness, it doesn’t automatically secure an equal partnership in parenting, and it’s often only a temporary state.

More to the point: no predictive storyline emerged around pickiness or settling, because there are no rules to this game. An individual woman’s marital status at any point in time is often chiefly representative of the unpredictable lives many of us are now allowed to live.

THERE ARE NO RULES! I really thought I was not being picky about dating (even though people said I was). I went out with guys who did not fit my criteria. And it didn't go anywhere until Han came along, who, I might add, had also been accused of being "picky."

I was not looking for Brad Pitt. Other single women I know of were/are not looking for Brad Pitt. But they still had a tough time. Because finding the right partner is not always easy, nothing to do with "settling." 

A woman may find her Brad Pitt immediately, and happily spend the rest of her life gazing at his pretty face. A man may be "searching for a heart of gold," but he's "growing old." Finding the right person, for anyone, no matter what the criteria might be, is not always a simple matter "reasonable criteria." Sometimes it doesn't work, no matter how much compromise is on the table.

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.

The Cruel and the Thoughtless

When the libraries are shut down, it can be a lifesaver to bump into a reader whilst out for a stroll. Then you can negotiate an exchange. I got my hands on Magpie Murders by Anthony Horowitz. 

I'm not usually into whodunit books (I prefer to watch them, courtesy of BBC via PBS). But Horowitz was the writer of Foyle's War, one of my favorite series (Foyle is a detective solving murders in England while World War II rages).  

Magpie Murders was quite gripping, to the point I shamelessly let Ben play with my phone (in airplane mode, so he can't call Luke's doctor friend) so I could finish it. 

There were two quotes in there I found intriguing. 

One: 

In fact, Fraser had often heard the detective remark that there was no such thing as a coincidence. There was a chapter in The Landscape of Criminal Investigation where he had expressed the belief that everything in life had a pattern and that a coincidence was simply the moment when that pattern became briefly visible.

The detective, I should note, is a Holocaust survivor who is a professed atheist. 

Two: 

OK, I don't have the actual quote, because I failed to memorize the correct page on Shabbos. I didn't have the energy to start rifling through a few hundred pages to locate it, and then my sister-in-law popped by and she desperately needs books the way I do, so I handed it off. 

So, as best as my memory can summon it: Cruelty and thoughtlessness have the same results. 

Or something like that.   

Han was telling over something he had read by a black Jewish woman. She is constantly hurt by people who make assumptions that this is her first time at a frum simcha, or that she is a guest as opposed to part of the family. She has gone home in tears more than once. 

But here's the thing: I'm FFB, and I've gone home in tears from people's comments as well. You don't have to be obviously different to suffer from stupid assumptions or unfiltered words. 

There are those who are malicious, and will tear others down, knowing what they are doing is mean. But most people are simply thoughtless. There is a direct line between their mental dialogue and their mouths. They don't intend to be hurtful. They may even think they are being considerate and sensitive. 

I've been guilty of that too. I recently made a friend (I know! Me! A friend! Call the papers!) and I have, in our last few meetings, consistently screwed up. I made assumptions, and said mindlessly hurtful things because of that, thinking all the while that I'm so nice. 

And I've been doing it over, and over, and over! Yes, I do have baby brain and about a year's worth of sleep debt, but even so, couldn't I use that filter thingie that I wish other people would use? 

I'm a card-carrying grudge-aholic. I still think about the time in high school a girl said to me, "You're tall," and I said, for lack of a better response, "Thank you," and she said, "I didn't mean it as a compliment." It was almost TWENTY YEARS AGO. Like, GET A LIFE, PRINCESS. 

I have to cut other people slack, because I wish they would cut me slack. It's hard to make a response in the socially acceptable time frame after properly thinking it through from every possible angle. I think, "Yup, sounds good!" and then as soon as I have uttered it, think, "OMG, did I do thaaaaat?"

Most people are clueless, not malicious. Most people are trying their best, and we really don't know what burdens other people have. 

So when this COVID mishagaas is over, and I finally socialize again, someone will say something to me that will upset me. If I am aware enough, I will remember that I am not perfect either, and may actually let it go.  

Not That Desperate

She couldn't bear matchmaking. In Southampton friends had tried over the years, and it had never worked. There was normally a reason why the man was still single: overbearing, or humorless, or self-absorbed, or with a disinclination to wash. And she had a perverse reaction to being told she would like someone. When she was a child, if her mother said she would like a particular dress or toy or pudding, Violet almost willed herself to hate it. — A Single Thread by Tracy Chevalier

Violet is a "surplus woman," a term for the outnumbering of British men by women by two million following World War I and the Spanish Flu. (I'll see your shidduch crisis and raise it.)  It's amazing, when you think about it, that there was a sufficient next generation of young men to fight in World War II.

Ergo, there usually was a reason why a man would still be single back then, as most women, if they wanted marriage badly enough, would definitely "compromise." Although, her list of reasons sound familiar enough to me, including a date who had a "disinclination to wash" (he was trying to be, literally, "greasy yeshivish." I didn't realize that was a thing until I went out with him). 

Are we familiar now with the term, "Good enough for yenem" meaning, "Not for my daughter, no way, but for you, he's totally good enough"? What makes it worse is when one is accused of being "picky" for not entertaining the "good enough" suggestion. 

It's not as though Violet is desperate enough for any man, for there are a few, and seem to be acceptable. She was in love with her fiance, who died in the war; but she still dislikes setups.

It was a bleak life for women back then if they decided to leave home, as Violet did; the only work they could do was usually secretarial, and that paid barely enough for Violet to eat. 

And yet, it's not even an option for her to consider a man she does not like. She would obviously rather starve. 

So why should women today, who thankfully can earn their own bread, be any different?