There is something about the 2006 film “Little Miss Sunshine” that compels me to watch it over and over again. Most recently, I indulged myself last weekend, and enjoyed many energizing laughs and cathartic sobs, thanks to the unforgettable Olive Hoover and her family.

It’s a family classic, sort of. It’s the pursuit of the American Dream, at least for little girls hoping to win a Little Miss beauty pageant. Undeniably, this edgy film is consistently hilarious and occasionally heart-breaking as well as, argues the literature lover in me (apologies to Steinbeck), a modern-day Grapes of Wrath.

I love movies in which each character is more flawed than the next, and this one is a veritable “Who’s who” of dysfunction. Let me introduce you:  Uncle Frank, who arrives straight from the hospital after a botched suicide attempt; teenaged brother Dwayne, who has taken a vow of silence and spends his leisure time reading Nietzche; Olive’s cranky, heroin-snorting, skirt-chasing Grandpa; her father Richard, whose obsession with being a winner makes his big-loser status pathetically ironic; and loyal-as-a-mama-bear Sheryl, who holds this tribe together by the most delicate of cords. Finally, we have the star of the movie, Olive, whose 7-year-old innocence is about to get a run for its money as she naively and unintentionally challenges American standards of beauty, the hyper-sexualization of young girls, and shameless hypocrisy, forcing her mortified family to make a decision about how to best support their youngest member.

So why do I love this film so much? I love it precisely for its depiction of imperfection. I love how we find out what is wrong with each character within the first 15 minutes, and yet we still watch, quietly (or loudly, depending on how unabashedly we giggle or cry) cheering them on. I for one don’t want the Hoovers to change; I simply want them to treat each other kindly (which they sometimes do), and to love and protect one another (which they undoubtedly do).

At the end of the day, who am I to judge another family for its dysfunction? I often recall, with fondness and respect, a former colleague who used to repeat, “Every family larger than one is dysfunctional, ” and “Anyone who says her family isn’t dysfunctional is either lying or in denial.” Sounds about right to me.

Because we celebrate Purim during the Jewish month of Adar, we are told to be happy. This year, 5776, is a leap year, and we have Adar 1 and Adar 2, and so we should experience twice as much happiness, right? Hmmm…

I spent the better part of the first Adar wondering what it would take to find and hold onto happiness. I reached out to spend more time with loved ones, I downloaded some oldies but goodies for my Ipod, I bought a new dress, I dreamed about my future. When I heard people at synagogue laughing and saying, “Be happy, it’s Adar,” I turned to my cousin and declared, “I’m always happy. Except when I’m miserable.”

My rabbi spoke several years ago about the difference between the (secular) pursuit of happiness, and the (spiritual) cultivation of joy. The verbs themselves (pursuing vs cultivating) give some clues as to the difference between the two. A blog post from Psychology Today explains that happiness is external to one’s self (hence needing to be pursued and/or found), while joy resides inside each of us, waiting to be cultivated. The opposite of happiness is unhappiness (duh!), maybe even misery. What is the opposite of joy? I’m not sure…maybe depression and emptiness? I don’t think I want to find out anytime soon.

Lately, one of my weekly study buddies and I have been turning our attention to blessings. Individually and collaboratively, we’ve added blessings to our daily and/or weekly practice, as well as to our study sessions and Shabbat meals. I am beginning to notice an organic connection between the reciting and receiving of blessings and the steady growth of my own joyfulness.

A highlight of our study came last week when we revisited a Yom Kippur sermon by another of our rabbis (we are blessed with many rabbis!) from a few years ago, in which she talks about the importance of being a blessing by filling other people’s imaginary buckets through words and acts of kindness, generosity, and love. What a great way to cultivate joy! This week, I have been looking forward to adding an intention of how to be a blessing in the week to come as part of our Erev Shabbat rituals.

And, who knows…perhaps in replacing my pursuit of happiness with a renewed cultivation of joy, I will indeed also discover some happiness alongside the joy I’ve been creating.

 

As a young girl, I took little joy from the study of history. Memorizing dates, coloring in maps, reciting the names of one dead white male after another — none of this mattered to me. I disengaged, and instead was drawn to the poetry shelves at my school and local libraries. While some of my classmates amused themselves by naming countries and capitals, I eagerly devoured poems by Walt Whitman and Nikki Giovanni, smitten by their cadence and images, and fueling what would become a lifelong passion for me.

A few years later, in high school, my compañeras in our feminist group demanded that the administration offer a “Women in History” class. We had both enough students to justify this, as well as a young, engaged teacher, Ms. Bushke, willing to take it on. Together, with no textbook (this was 1972), but overflowing with enthusiasm and righteousness, we joined with our teacher to write the curriculum as we launched what became New York City’s (and possibly the country’s) first such course in a public high school.

We took a critical look at the role of gender in popular television shows (I wrote about “The Brady Bunch”), and then delved into essays by and about Mary Wollstonecraft and the Grimké sisters. I remember the excitement of discovering these chapters of America’s past. My hunger for learning my country’s (and eventually, the world’s) untold history grew, and so did my learning, as my book bag grew heavier with even more frequent trips to the library.

And yet, in my mind, history (quickly, for me, becoming herstory) was still very much about one heroic person after another. I was still not seeing the core role of social movements and the changes being birthed by everyday people. I definitely did not see myself as one of millions of agents of change in the world. From today’s vantage point, I can see the irony in my compañeras and I not seeing ourselves as making history by struggling with a conservative school administration over the women’s history course.

Thanks to the struggles of those who came before me, I have had more opportunities than my grandmother and mother, and my daughter has more than I have. It could be easy for me, as a white, middle-aged woman living in Silicon Valley, to be complacent. Instead, I think of the following written by Audre Lorde (may her memory always be for a blessing), and ponder what my next solidarity project will be.

“I am not free while any woman is unfree, even when her shackles are very different from my own.”

 

 

 

 

 

Recently, my Mussar[1] study partner and I delved into a chapter of With Heart in Mind called “Limiting Conversation.” The reading invited us to look critically at the amount of meaningless talk in our lives, with an eye towards being more thoughtful and intentional in our exchanges with others.

Having avoided small talk for many years now, at first blush this was barely a challenge for me. For example, if my close friends aren’t able to meet me in the pool, I choose to work out alone, ignoring everyone else around me after exchanging brief salutations. I much prefer to remain in my own head than be drawn into meaningless conversations about diets, reality television shows, or the price of gasoline. Occasionally I worry about being considered a snob, but not enough to want to join the conversations. Left alone, I often enjoy imagining the stories of everyone’s lives, quietly and at my own pace.

At the pool, I’ve been able to convince myself (and hopefully everyone else) that my desire for solitude is justified because I want to move more quickly or more slowly than everyone else walking or jogging around me. Unfortunately, in other venues, such as the supermarket, the medical clinic’s waiting room, or the synagogue, I haven’t had such convenient excuses and I sometimes feel trapped like a captive audience.

One of my close friends often sees me grow restless and impatient when acquaintances rattle on. He sometimes gently reminds me that these individuals are probably lonely, or have some other reason that propels them to talk. After he says this, I feel remorseful for my attitude and behavior, but sadly, so far, my commitment to change disappears by the time it’s happening again.

In re-reading my own blog post from last week about more careful listening, I realize that I am not proud of my impatience and intolerance. I can see that by withdrawing, I am disengaging from a live person and not simply from the talk. Do I really want to push people away? Are the stories I invent about people truly more interesting than the people themselves? What is so urgent about what’s in my own head that can’t wait until I am alone? Where is the generous spirit that I wish to cultivate in myself?

While I will probably never be easily drawn to small talk, I recognize there is a growth opportunity for me right here and right now. For many reasons, I hope to actually push against my conversational limits, and indulge more in some small talk, learning to appreciate that it can be a bridge connecting me to the rest of humanity.

[1] “…Mussar …imparts wisdom and tools for character development grounded in Torah and the classical Mussar tradition, enabling all Jews to elevate their souls–and through them, those of all humankind–to holiness. Spiritual growth is supported through the development of community and through individual Mussar learning and practice applied to everyday life.” (from The Mussar Institute’s website)