You Keep Using That Word

I put down the magazine, depressed. "Why do you keep reading these things?" Han asked in exasperation, after a relayed another story of misery that had been printed. 

Why? Because they always caption it as being a tale of "inspiration." I always assume (ass, u, me) that there will be a happy ending, when the difficulty is overcome. 

It usually ends in death or worse. 

"These magazines," Han said, "seem to be confusing 'tragedy' with 'inspiration.'" 

As someone who suffers from the genetic malady of "mitleid" (translation: "crippling empathy") I just can't take it anymore. Week after week, I am paying money for a glossy magazine full of dvar Torahs, recipes, and sagas of pain, pain, and more pain, couched as "inspiration." 

It's not inspiration! It's just SAD. So sad I'm in near tears every Shabbos morning. "Can you imagine? They lost not one, but two children; they have a child with an insurmountable disability; these brothers were still unmarried when both their parents died; her baby died in utero; she's just 18 and she was diagnosed with a death sentence." 

I'm not trying to be in denial here. I know bad things happen. Bad things have happened to my family, too. I have an overactive imagination enough, contemplating the million ways one can die or be maimed.

What about the good things? Good things happen too. Aren't those stories more inspiring than others involving a gravestone? 

For my sanity, I walked past the glossy display this week. I need some time off. 

I read a murder mystery instead.

We All Carry Pain

***This post has been redacted. I was informed that the content was judgy and condescending, making me lose all credibility on this topic. Thank you.***

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.

What I See

A few weeks ago, a frum periodical fielded a question—the writer's friend is "a bit much," and she finds her too draining. Can she withdraw? The magazine didn't really answer the question, I think. 

Two letters were printed in the following issue. One said that the writer should be honest, tell the friend her feelings, and the friend will totally understand (not likely, in my opinion). 

The other letter decried the modern mantra of "honesty" and "self-care" at the expense of hurting another, which she says is the antithesis of our faith (that's leaning more to my view). 

This example of how two people can look at a situation so differently has made me realize (yet again) how we cannot judge. People just see things from different perspectives. One viewpoint may be right—for that person. Another viewpoint might be wrong—for that person.  

For me, I have never learned properly how to keep a not-good friend at bay. I am not proud to say I may have resorted to ghosting for lack of better options. I could not be honest, because in essence I would be saying, "I do not enjoy your company, as there is something wrong with your personality." Sometimes two people just don't jive, like in shidduchim. 

Nowadays, perhaps I would try to make some boundaries. Pick up the phone when I feel like I can handle her, then say that I don't have much time to chat, ten minutes max. I thought it was amazing when I discovered I could say, "I'm sorry, I have to go," without giving any reason whatsoever.

Perhaps because it's the miserable time of year, but I've been thinking a lot about sinas chinam and whatnot. 

We all aren't the same. We all see the world differently. That's what happened by the Eitz HaDaas. Before, we could only see truth and falsehood, which are objective; now we see good and bad, which is subjective. My good is your bad; your good is my bad. 

It's not about honesty. It's about tolerance. It's about kindness.  

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.   

Learning Kindness

I'm wondering when I'll finally get over having been an "older single." I still identify as such, even though I officially left the moniker behind more than two years ago. 

I have recently been filled with feelings of . . . well, I'm not sure how to put it. 

I was single. I was dating for over a decade. Han showed up when he was supposed to show up. 

So, I could have spent those years feeling the way I wanted to feel, that Hashem has my man tucked away somewhere and when the time is right He'll produce him. In the meantime, therefore, I should simply be.  

But that wasn't allowed. Because whenever I tried to invoke Him, I was told, "No, you have to do your hishtadlus." Yet, what is hishtadlus? It means different things to different people. 

1. It means cold-calling "shadchanim." 

2. It means going out with every guy who's suggested. 

3. It means going to singles events. 

4. It means tackling every male within site and demanding marriage or else they will never draw breath again. 

When I executed as much "hishtadlus" that I felt comfortable with, and was still single, we moved on to other territory: What I must be doing wrong.  

I wish I could say I was confident enough to ignore the naysayers, but I wasn't. I would blog about it, listing proofs as to my normalcy, pleading with my audience to concur that I wasn't a freak, right?  

Either way, finding a spouse was on me: I wasn't doing enough hishtadlus and/or I was a nutter who cleaned her toes during a lobby date. 

I could have been more chillaxed in that time, instead of battling breathing-into-a-paper-bag anxiety. I could have seen my life as more than "pathetically single" and, perhaps, have utilized my time differently. Maybe I would have gotten into sourdough earlier. 

I'm doing that annoying 20/20 hindsight thing. Based on parental hopes alone, I would have still been a nervous wreck. But did others have to rub it in? To make me feel like you-know-what? 

Sigh. 

I suppose one thing I have certainly learned is that whenever that judgy inner voice starts piping that it's "their fault," I shut it down. Or try to, at least, which is more than I used to do before. I think I have become a kinder person after being subjected to wagging fingers for a decade. Everyone has their own burdens. Whether it's their fault or not is besides the point. 

So let's be kind.

To Judge Favorably

One morning, I was off to the cleaners. 

I hadn't had a very restful night. I had a vivid dream about Ma, and after awaking in the wee hours, couldn't fall back asleep. So I was driving rather single-mindedly, dimly focusing on the bumper in front of me and no further. 

My cleaners has a parking spot on their property; if occupied, one has to turn into the metered lot behind it. A large van had its blinker on in front of me; in my fugue state, I thought it was turning into the lot, not the spot. So I slid in to the spot. 

The furiously waving arm cut through my mental fog. Apparently, the van was intending to back into the spot, and I had stole it. He then blocked me in, glaring all the while. I knew I should have been apologetic, but I was taken aback by his anger and I was also very tired, compromising my judgement. 

He stomped into the cleaners after me, banging as he went. I was scared to engage with simmering resentment, smiled cheerfully at the owner, and scurried out. He probably intended to take his time leaving to punish me, except that would delay him too. 

This incident made me think of dan l'kaf zechus. If he knew my explanation—not excuse—would he have been more understanding? "I had a dream about my dead mother last night and I couldn't fall back asleep so I wasn't a very aware driver this morning so I didn't realize you were backing in." 

I doubt he was dan l'kaf zechus me. Yet it made me realize how much more I should cut others some slack. Because we just don't know what goes on in other people's lives. And we hope others don't bear us ill will for a bad night's sleep.

How to Stay Sane While Dating: XIII

Han and I constantly agree on one thing: Whilst single, being single was the least difficult part. After all, in the cosmic scheme of painful circumstances, being single ranks sort of low.

What was difficult was people.

The community rises to the occasion for issues. Sick people get Bikur Cholim. Infertile couples get organizations to assist. Children flirting with the line have organizations too, which usually involve unconditional love.

Single people get "You're too picky."

In terms of the blame game, while there are those who can maneuver their feet into their mouths with acrobatic grace, it is not considered socially acceptable to hound ill individuals how their condition is "their fault." Some may thoughtlessly ask a childless couple, "How many children do you have?" 

Yet singles are special. For "their own good," they are castigated by all and sundry, stranger and friend, family and quasi-relative, as to what they are "doing wrong." 

I was upbraided by a relative that I was single because I didn't date online. I was told by a woman I had just met by a wedding that "Don't be hung up on looks," after I had simply told her my name.  I was told, repeatedly, to settle, settle, settle. Whatever that means.

Then, oh God, the shadchanim. These supposedly well-meaning but misguided folk believe that their self-proclaimed status gives them right to harass and terrorize. Polite "no thank you"s are meaningless in their sphere. Then their personal opinions about one's appearance. Yes, yes, I'm tall. Sadly, I can't shrink in the wash. And the makeup stays.

But what really gets my goat? 

The knowledge that if I had married at an appropriately youthful age, I would have been no different. I would have sat at my kitchen table with my husband, shaking my head forlornly at so-and-so's "pickiness."

Empathy is something we can all try to achieve, but it is still hard to understand the situation another is in. Yes, my heart twists for you, but um, not quite sure how it feels . . . 

Before Ma's illness and passing, my empathy was certainly of a different caliber. Now it has achieved a greater status, a comprehension, a meeting of minds. I now know what it means, the heaviness in the chest, the despair, as life as we know it vanishes, and a new reality begins. 

So I can say, one good thing that has come from my 10+ years of dating . . . I have achieved true empathy for all those that, when I was young and stupid, I blamed for their plight. 

It's an opportunity. See the pain of others.

Don't Think You Are Alone

The irony of stigma-tainted situations is that it has the image of rare occurrences, but they are actually quite common. 

The "older" single. Infertility. Miscarriages. Divorce. Mental illness. Physical illness. Unemployment. Off-the-derech family. The list continues. 

When Ma became ill, we chose not to announce the news from the rooftops, however there were times when in response to a direct question, we reluctantly informed. 

A common reaction, to our surprise, was reciprocation; the other quickly shared their own trials—a parent, a sibling, a child. They were eager to unburden themselves, to make a connection. Suddenly, the viewpoint changed: You think you are singled out in your hardship. You feel alone. But you aren't. 

Jennifer Senior, in her review of The Art of Waiting by Belle Boggs, relates the sensations of loneliness: 

. . . what lingered with me is the social isolation she describes during her many years of trying and failing to get pregnant. “Increasingly, our life was less and less like the lives of our married friends,” she writes, “who had entered a new and somewhat exclusive world of playdates and birthday parties and bedtimes.”

You need not be struggling to start a family to identify with this melancholy observation. People who’ve opted not to have children will surely see something of themselves in it, and so will those who are still searching to find a life mate. (Having reached 36 before pairing off with my husband, I felt a familiar heartsickness when reading these words.) There’s something truly challenging, if not excruciating, about being out of step with your cohort. And if you want what they’ve got, what story do you tell yourself as you bide your time? That living without is the new normal? Or that it’s only a temporary spell of distress?

In terms of fertility, the article states that one out of eight couples have difficulty conceiving. That's pretty common. The same would go for the other examples I listed above.

Yet those going through them feel alone. But they very much aren't! If anything, nearly everyone out there has gone through pain of one form of another. Yet we don't want to admit it. 

For good reason. 

I would think that the right person to commiserate with me would be someone who married "late," or who had also lost a parent at a young age. Not so. Very often those same individuals who went through the same trial are eager to condescend, as opposed to empathize. They had been pitied; they wish to correct the balance by pitying in turn. 

Pain is pain, and many have had it. Empathy doesn't require the exact circumstances to be felt. One needn't feel lonely. There is a community of fellows out there, believe me. 

The Lonely Subway

Metropolitan Diary, Beth Bengualid:

Dear Diary:

I witnessed a verbal altercation between two women on the subway today. One was about 60 years old; the other was probably in her early 30s.

The younger woman had a big bag around her shoulder and was holding onto a pole as the older woman entered the car.

“Don’t you dare push me,” the older woman yelled.

“That is your perception,” the younger woman replied. “I did no such thing. You bumped into my bag.”

The older woman insisted that the younger woman was wrong and escalated the argument. I tried to make eye contact with her to encourage her to calm down because I could sense that the situation was getting out of control.

Then, to my surprise, the younger woman did something remarkable while she trying to keep her cool: She asked the older woman: “Do you need a hug?”

“Why yes I do,” the older woman said.

The two women embraced and forgave each other.

My motto for surviving working in New York City is: "Do not engage and escalate." Well, that's sort of my motto in general. We come across, in our daily lives, all sorts of overly chatty, boundary-less individuals who frankly don't care that you have to be elsewhere. 

Therefore, RBF can be a girl's best friend. When frozen in android mode, subway-riding wackos leave you be. 

No one wants to tangle with that.

The above story, however, reflected another concept: those who pick fights in a desperate attempt at connection. Sort of like a tantruming toddler willing to take bad attention over no attention.

People are lonely. Some people are so lonely they're willing to be a subway-riding wacko. 

I learned this recently, that while in my naive, childish mind the only way to forge a human relationship is with kindness and affection, there are those out there who will actively insult others in an attempt to connect. Sad, but true. 

Perhaps if we learned to take people's words not always at face value, but attempt to peer into the wounded souls beneath, we'd be a lot more tolerant. 

Pay It Forward

I had noted him as I prowled the produce aisles. He was peering carefully at the Golden Delicious apples, which made him already interesting as a fellow fruit-lover. They don't make 'em like they used to. 

He was talking educationally to his little boy in the cart. A good Tatty, I thought approvingly. He looked weary, but he spoke patiently to his excited young son. 

I had in one hand my cart, in another, a bag of zucchini; with an ominous thud-thud-thud, I looked down to see my carefully selected summer squash slipping through a tear, banging into the floor. 

"Oh, maaaaan," I emoted in annoyance. I hoped they weren't bruised. 

As I knelt to recover them from the floor, I heard a quiet, "Here." The good Tatty was matter-of-factly proffering a replacement bag. 

"Thank you," I replied distractedly, taking it and chucking my veggies in. 

He silently vanished. 

Emerging from the store, I felt . . . upbeat. There is a bounciness when one experiences kindness. 

The next morning, I saw a cell phone and keys forlorn on the train seat across. I lunged down the car, tapping the girl on the shoulder. "Is this yours?" She gratefully reclaimed them, and I attempted to vanish discreetly as he did. 

There is also a bounciness when one can forward the kindness to another.  

"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.

And the Oscar Goes To . . .

Very few believe that I'm an introvert. They cannot comprehend that I simply inherited a divine acting gene. 

It's not enough that the presence of too many people sucks the life force out of me; I'm also a "Feeler," meaning I'm always worried (to insane extremes) about people's feelings. Was I friendly enough? Did I just accidentally insult her? I was so focused on the pain of my shoes that I didn't see her come in—does she think I was intentionally ignoring her? 

That's why I'm zonked at night. Housework is less strenuous for me than all these mental machinations.

Susan Cain enlightened introverts worldwide that they are not alone, and that embracing their personality is okay; I was one of the redeemed. As was KJ Dell'Antonia ("Am I Introverted, or Just Rude?") 

But I can set aside my inclinations, and for much of my life, that’s exactly what I did. I came to the party. I made the small talk. And because I was raised in a world where manners mattered, I did more. I introduced myself to strangers. I approached the lone older family member at the wedding for a talk about the bride. I was a good guest, and when necessary a good host. I did my mother proud.

Oh, how we act. "Oscar," as Babi would say. But with introversion now being "cool," Dell'Antonia found herself refusing functions left and right—after all, she's an introvert, and needs to "self-care."

Society has a rich history of people seizing on social evolution as an excuse for bad manners. From the Romantic poets to the transcendentalists to the Summer of Love hippies, many have rejected a supposed facade of good behavior in favor of being true to their inner nature. Good manners are mere mannerisms, the argument goes, which serve only to put barriers in the way of deeper connections.

But then she felt guilty. 

When I skip big gatherings of strangers, I’m not just being a little rude to the individual people around me, I’m being uncivil in a larger sense. The more we isolate ourselves from new people, the more isolated and segregated our society is likely to become. . . 

When I asked Ms. Cain if self-indulgent introverts risked crossing the line into antisocial behavior — if we might, in fact, just be being rude — she laughed, and agreed. Sometimes, she said, “you have to consider the other person’s point of view instead of getting wrapped up in your own discomfort.”

Personally, I'm always freakin' worried about the other person (not that I don't slip up at times). 

This anecdote got me: 

Years ago, I was habitually late. “I can’t help it!” I declared to an expert in time management (I’d turned my effort to reform into a magazine article, as writers do, which gave me the excuse to seek professional help).

“Have you ever missed a plane?” she asked. I had not. “Then you can help it. You just care more about yourself than about the needs of others.”

Oh, snap. 

She concludes that "selfishness" is the gauge. Yet I found her logic to be a little . . . forced. If she doesn't go out, society won't be diverse enough? That seems a little dramatic. 

I would argue, as an exhausted Feeler, that there are plenty of social interactions with strangers that keep diversity going—like waiting in line to pay in Costco or T.J. Maxx, or traveling by public transportation. Luckily, frum Jews have further religious and social obligations that force us out there, like shul, simchas, parlor meetings, and yeshiva dinners.

And it's not like I loathe all social interaction. I like going to simchos when I have a connection there (otherwise I feel stupid). I enjoy it when invited out for a Shabbos lunch by pleasant hosts, and if they have invited other pleasant people, that's lovely. 

Be nice. Always be nice. Yet it is imperative to know your limits, and plan around them accordingly, so you don't go stir-crazy.  

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.

The Gift of Sight

There is seeing, and there is seeing.

Mild example: Eewok is (finally!) a reader, and she is eager to curl up in bed with a book, which then necessitates a nightstand and lamp. In my error, I got her the Kosher Lamp first, before it had an official base; it took a crack-inducing tumble. 

Now she requires a new lamp, but I was adamant about a nightstand first. Orgiana repeatedly emerged from Homegoods empty-handed and frustrated. I considered possible obsolete pieces about the house that I could lend until the ideal was discovered. 

Whilst cleaning my room on Sunday (more like "half-heartedly hanging up tossed aside skirts") my glance fell on a dark corner. Tucked away, under a desk, was my sister's old white wicker nightstand, complete with shelf. 

You MORON. 

See what I mean about seeing and seeing? 

Sometimes it is based on a frame of mind—there are moments when we are so fakocht that even though our eyes are open, we are so caught up in the fog of our own mind that our vision is fuzzy. 

Sam Anderson, in "Letter of Recommendation," suggests the joys of looking out the window. (From my serious kinfauna-sitting days, taking a baby to a window was a lifesaver; they were usually entranced by the outdoor view.)

As Anderson explains, outside is out of our control, unlike selecting images or video from the internet. As a Jew, I still need to be reminded of that: We've got no control. 

The second message he imparts is this: After witnessing a car crash into a fence, he took a dislike to the driver, neatly boxing and labeling him. Yet what he saw showed something completely different. 

Rear Window

I judge even while trying not to judge. Dan l'kaf zechus is so bloody hard. Yet one day, one gets to a point where assuming the worst of people is more of an effort than assuming the best. One feels better too. 

Then one wonders why she would have opted for bitterness and wrinkles, when the alternative is so much easier on the skin. 

Faces of Bravery

"You'll feel better if you talk about it." Then they lean in eagerly, proffering an inquisitive ear. 

But we are not all the same. Not everyone desires to upchuck their emotional guts. Some find such withholding to be unnatural, unhealthy. If only they knew what the other side thought of them . . .  

In Betsy Lerner's memoir, she recalls her misunderstanding of her mother's staid, dignified bridge group, chafing and clashing against their expectations while yearning for their approval.

But in 2013, as her mother, Roz, was recovering from an operation, the author resolved to make peace. She began her campaign by infiltrating the bridge circle, intending to break through the ladies’ polished surfaces and gain a deeper understanding of their inner lives, and, she hoped, her mother’s.

Sitting with Roz, Bette, Bea, Jackie and Rhoda (the club had five members, in case one had a conflict), she eavesdropped as they bid, passed and took tricks. For years, she had imagined that during card play, the women let down their guards, spilled secrets, groused about their spouses and worried about their children.

Instead, she found, to her disappointment, they did not ever “trash anyone” or “share a deep feeling.” Their commandments were: “Thou shalt not pry. Thou shalt not reveal. Thou shalt not share.”

To her surprise, this was no wine-fueled contemporary "book club." 

Week after week, these women met, played bridge, and kept conversation way above the depths.

With Bette, she brought up a tragedy that her mother had always refused to discuss: the death of Ms. Lerner’s baby sister, Barbara, in 1964, from pneumonia.

Had the ladies known about it? the author asked. “Everyone knew,” Bette replies. Had her mother spoken of it, during all those bridge Mondays? “Not once,” Bette says.

Ms. Lerner found such reticence callous. Yet, gradually, grudgingly, she came to accept that TLC did in fact exist in the pre-TMI world. Just because a bridge luncheon didn’t operate like a therapy session didn’t mean it wasn’t therapeutic, she saw. For the ladies, it was a safe, neutral zone where they went to recharge as they weathered life’s blows, keeping up appearances and their spirits as they trumped, finessed and ate kugel from china plates.

She writes, “I never thought I would say this, but I think the Bridge Ladies are brave.”

"Talking it out," I have found, is not always magically cathartic. For a number of issues, hashing them to death will not help. These women craved stability and structure; when life threatened their balance, they were able to re-attain their equilibrium with a weekly ritual amongst their comrades.

Yes, in an ideal world, we could be vulnerable with one another without fear. Brené Brown has started the revolution; perhaps a wholehearted future awaits us. But we should respect the previous generations' means of perseverance, when presence was needed more than words.    

"The Eve of Rosh Hashanah" by Yehuda Amichai

The eve of Rosh Hashanah. At the house that’s being built,
a man makes a vow: not to do anything wrong in it,
only to love.

Sins that were green last spring

dried out over the summer. Now they're whispering.

So I washed my body and I clipped my fingernails,

the last good deed a man can do for himself

while he's still alive. 

What is man? In the daytime he untangles into words

what night turns into a heavy coil.  

What do we do to one another—

a son to his father, a father to his son?

And between them and death there's nothing

but a wall of words

like a battery of agitated lawyers. 

And whoever uses people as handles or as rungs of a ladder

will soon find himself hugging a stick of wood

and holding a severed hand and wiping his tears 

with a potsherd. 

Discovered via this article by Rosie Schaap. 

#Blessed

Kate Bowler is a historian of the American prosperity gospel—"Put simply, the prosperity gospel is the belief that God grants health and wealth to those with the right kind of faith." Ask any Jew, and they will scoff, of course, at such a precept being in Judaic belief. Yet there is a vast disconnect between official doctrine and the desperate flailings of the mind. For I see others, and also am guilty of, believing and acting on such a mindset. 

Chevi Garfinkel says, "Don't confuse bracha with accomplishment." Finding a life partner is a bracha. Having children is a bracha. Being healthy is a bracha. There is nothing one does to achieve that. There are wonderful people out there who are unmarried. There are wonderful people out there who are childless. There are wonderful people out there who are ill. If one believes that bracha comes from earning, the logic that would follow is that others "earned" misfortune as well. 

Blessed is a loaded term because it blurs the distinction between two very different categories: gift and reward. It can be a term of pure gratitude. “Thank you, God. I could not have secured this for myself.” But it can also imply that it was deserved. “Thank you, me. For being the kind of person who gets it right.” It is a perfect word for an American society that says it believes the American dream is based on hard work, not luck.

If Oprah could eliminate a single word, it would be “luck.” “Nothing about my life is lucky,” she argued on her cable show. “Nothing. A lot of grace. A lot of blessings. A lot of divine order. But I don’t believe in luck. For me luck is preparation meeting the moment of opportunity.” This is America, where there are no setbacks, just setups. Tragedies are simply tests of character.

It is the reason a neighbor knocked on our door to tell my husband that everything happens for a reason.

“I’d love to hear it,” my husband said.

“Pardon?” she said, startled.

“I’d love to hear the reason my wife is dying,” he said, in that sweet and sour way he has.

My neighbor wasn’t trying to sell him a spiritual guarantee. But there was a reason she wanted to fill that silence around why some people die young and others grow old and fussy about their lawns. She wanted some kind of order behind this chaos. Because the opposite of #blessed is leaving a husband and a toddler behind, and people can’t quite let themselves say it: “Wow. That’s awful.” There has to be a reason, because without one we are left as helpless and possibly as unlucky as everyone else.

For all the development of empathy, petty thoughts, feeding on fear, still lurk within. My brain, pathetically, has lurched to the blame mode—the very blame mode that I have been subjected to by others—when I hear of others' horrific pain. Because in my selfish, primitive, chimp-mind, I want guarantees: This can't, won't happen to me. 

One of the most endearing and saddest things about being sick is watching people’s attempts to make sense of your problem. My academic friends did what researchers do and Googled the hell out of it. When did you start noticing pain? What exactly were the symptoms, again? Is it hereditary? I can out-know my cancer using the Mayo Clinic website. Buried in all their concern is the unspoken question: Do I have any control?

I can also hear it in all my hippie friends’ attempts to find the most healing kale salad for me. I can eat my way out of cancer. Or, if I were to follow my prosperity gospel friends’ advice, I can positively declare that it has no power over me and set myself free. 

I struggle with this. It is so easy to say, to write, to nod matter-of-factly, but when in that situation, all that mental prep struts out the door.  

. . . And God is always, for some reason, going around closing doors and opening windows. God is super into that.

The prosperity gospel tries to solve the riddle of human suffering. It is an explanation for the problem of evil. It provides an answer to the question: Why me? What do you hear God saying when it all falls apart?

Well, for me, it feels like He's not talking. But that's because I'm not really listening. 

It offers people a guarantee: Follow these rules, and God will reward you, heal you, restore you. . . The prosperity gospel has taken a religion based on the contemplation of a dying man and stripped it of its call to surrender all. Perhaps worse, it has replaced Christian faith with the most painful forms of certainty. The movement has perfected a rarefied form of America’s addiction to self-rule, which denies much of our humanity: our fragile bodies, our finitude, our need to stare down our deaths (at least once in a while) and be filled with dread and wonder. At some point, we must say to ourselves, I’m going to need to let go.

Being frum is not about being certain. We are certain about a number of things; the existence of God, the validity of His Torah, the laws He gave us to follow. Often there are clear descriptions about divine reward. But remember Acher and that incident with the young boy who died while performing shiluach hakan for his father (two "long life" compensations right there)? Judaism was not decommissioned because of it. Acher is faulted for his inability to comprehend.   

But cancer has also ushered in new ways of being alive. Even when I am this distant from Canadian family and friends, everything feels as if it is painted in bright colors. In my vulnerability, I am seeing my world without the Instagrammed filter of breezy certainties and perfectible moments. I can’t help noticing the brittleness of the walls that keep most people fed, sheltered and whole. I find myself returning to the same thoughts again and again: Life is so beautiful. Life is so hard. 

Eyes

On Super Soul Sunday, Oprah (shudder) featured Rob and Kristen Bell, the husband and wife team of Zimzum of Love. 

That's right. Zimzum. As in "Tzimtzum."

They admit it is a kabbalistic concept. As the blurb explains, "Zimzum is a Hebrew term where God, in order to have a relationship with the world, contracts, creating space for the creation to exist. In marriage, zimzum is the dynamic energy field between two partners, in which each person contracts to allow the other to flourish. Mastering this field, this give and take of energy, is the secret to what makes marriage flourish."

Aright. 

I have not read the book. What I am sharing is a concept they shared with Oprah during the program. 

Rob explains that he's impulsive by nature, a leaper as opposed to a looker. His wife is more deliberate, slower to act. (In Meyer-Briggs, Rob is a Perceiver, while Kristen is a Judger.) When he gets psyched about something and is gung-ho, Kristen tugs him back. Once he would have been frustrated by her hesitance. 

Then he realized that when one marries, one gains another set of eyes. "Help me to see what you are seeing," he now asks her. In addition, he goes further, every child one has also contributes further "eyes," obtaining even more perspectives.

We all see the world differently, which creates differences in opinion. Arguments are usually about demanding that the other sees things your way. Yet the only way to achieve resolution is by comprehending what the other sees. 

This isn't just about couples. This applies to any relationship.    

iPeople

It's been a while since I had an anti-phone rant, right? Well, let's make up for lost time: 

We have—rubbing hands together in glee—Sherry Turkle's "Talk to Each Other, Not Your Phone"; Jonathan Franzen's review of her book, Reclaiming Conversation; Tony Schwartz's "Addicted to Distraction"; Amy Cuddy's "Your iPhone Is Ruining Your Posture—and Your Mood"; and a CBS News story, "What makes us happy and healthy?" (it has to do with giving our loved ones undivided attention).

 

First Turkle, who has written extensively on the subject of how technology is destroying the quality of our relationships. This article is addressing the feedback she received regarding another article of hers that I already linked. One comment she received was that if an interaction is boring, why shouldn't one seek entertainment elsewhere? 

I have heard this objection before: In order for conversation to earn its right to be attended to, it needs to be compelling and novel. This way of thinking incorporates a view of conversation as a transactional tool: It has to accomplish something or provide new information. So, if these are your values and you find yourself in a conversation, there is pressure to be interesting and to perform. With that kind of pressure, it is not surprising that so many of us find it more relaxing to interact on screens. There, where we can edit and revise, we imagine that we are less likely to be dull and more likely to seem interesting.

Middleton offers his view of human conversation as a critique of my thesis; I see it as evidence of why we find ways around conversation. It holds conversation up to a standard that inhibits us from talking with spontaneity, from letting conversation develop naturally. Yet these are the kinds of conversations in which intimacy and empathy thrive.

In order for true connection to happen, there will be some emptiness, a lull, silence. Embrace it. Be freakin' bored, it won't kill you. 

According to this view, when you are engaged in talk, you are interested in hearing how another person approaches things — her opinions and associations. In this kind of conversation — I think of it as “whole person conversation” — if things go quiet for a while you look deeper, you don’t text another friend. You take the moment to read your friend more closely or look at something you haven’t attended to before. Perhaps you look into her face or pay attention to to her body language. Or you simply allow the silence.

On to Franzen on Turkle: 

The people she interviews have adopted new technologies in pursuit of greater control, only to feel controlled by them. The likably idealized selves that they’ve created with social media leave their real selves all the more isolated. They communicate incessantly but are afraid of face-to-face conversations; they worry, often nostalgically, that they’re missing out on something fundamental.

The potential detriment to children, in particularly, is the most alarming. Without conversation, they don't develop empathy, nor do they learn the means to deal with hardship, like bullying. Eek. 

 

Schwartz relates his struggle to detach from technology. When he was unable to focus on a book, he realized he had to cut back on email and web surfing. With his daughter's assistance, he went cold-turkey (except for texting).

During those first few days, I did suffer withdrawal pangs, most of all the hunger to call up Google and search for an answer to some question that arose. But with each passing day offline, I felt more relaxed, less anxious, more able to focus and less hungry for the next shot of instant but short-lived stimulation. What happened to my brain is exactly what I hoped would happen: It began to quiet down. 

That was for vacation. He's back to work, which means, of course, he has to deal with emails and internet. But now he's able to control how much time he devotes to it.

Cuddy was the one who taught us that standing tall makes you feel awesome; so slouching over an iPhone can make you pretty bummed. Also premature hunches cannot be that appealing (but that's just my note).

iHunch.

I'm not so much of the DOOM outlook. I believe when something new comes on the scene, those who grew up without it don't know how to deal with it responsibly, as opposed to those who were born with it in hand. Print books are back to the point that bookstores are reopening, and e-book sales are decreasing. The novelty of ignoring real people will wear off soon. I hope.