We are so conditioned to think of the world, and the challenges it presents, as binary.

Night, day. North, south. East, west. Black, white. On, off.

Some believe we are actually wired to consider options, make decisions, and solve problems this way. I for one am not so sure.

This month I am especially reminded of the limits of binary thinking. My LGBTQ friends and comrades continue to patiently teach me about identity, pronouns, and so much more. Years ago, at the White Privilege Conference, I was surprised, humbled, and eventually grateful when a participant spoke with me afterwards about my use of “he/she.” I realized I had a lot to learn about the limits of binary thinking.

Over the years, I have struggled against rigidity and have said that I try to “live in the grey.” This became an even more important skill for me after I married a man who could only see things as either black or white.

In the months following Peter’s (z”l) death, most of the women and men with whom I attended KARA’s spousal bereavement groups spoke about struggling with decision-making after losing their loved ones. I experienced this challenge too, noticing my increasing inability to easily say “yes” or “no” to what might have been, under different circumstances, simple questions with seemingly simple answers.

I was quite confused and troubled by this development, for I had always been proud of my decisiveness. I grew self-critical for this new deficit.

At some point, though, instead of fighting to regain my access to “yes” or “no,” I realized I could break through the confines of the binary box with a sincere, “Not yet.” And now, although I am feeling decisive again, I embrace this healthy, heartfelt response whenever I can.

 

 

Since last fall, I have been spending an increasing amount of time reconnecting with my first love.

No, I am not talking about Harry, who was my co-president in kindergarten. (Yup, both my leadership aspirations and amorous desires emerged early in life.)

Nor have I been thinking much about Brian, whose shiny, engraved I.D. bracelet graced my left wrist the entire summer before 6th grade.

This is not even about Steven, with whom I read Thoreau and Emerson as we walked through the woods to high school in the pre-dawn hours.

What I’m talking about is poetry, a passion I have recently welcomed back into my life with open arms and a full heart.

This love was rekindled last August, when the latest, bilingual collection of Pablo Neruda’s Odas arrived in the mail, a luxurious gift to myself as the summer days began to disappear.

Unlike my previous liaisons, this current relationship has progressed slowly, as I have revisited several former loves: Neruda made room for Yehuda Amichai, and Amichai cleared the path for Marge Piercy. Most recently, after flirting for months with Mary Oliver, I jumped feet first and embraced a collection of her work, spending the better part of a week curled up in bed, reading each poem aloud, cover to cover, under the covers.

I’m not sure who will be next, but for now, I am feeling satiated. And content.

While I waited on the lunch line after Shabbat services a couple of weeks ago, I found myself disturbed by an enormous purse as the woman ahead of me fidgeted and turned around every minute or so. By the third knock, I gently tapped her on the shoulder, requesting that she please be aware of her errant bag. She glared and growled, “I am not trying to bang into you.”

Wow. The old debate of intent vs. impact, a topic in the anti-racist and other social justice movements in which I have participated, was right there, in the personal realm, on the lunch line.

Of course she was not trying to bang into me. That is why I spoke to her politely and with a smile. I was hoping to hear, simply, “I’m sorry,” or even, “I will be more careful.” Something to let me know it wasn’t going to happen again.

Instead, she answered defensively, dismissing responsibility for her wayward purse because she hadn’t intended to hit me with it.

I recognize that the woman, her purse, and her weak excuse are actually long gone. I’ve already joined with friends and family for another Shabbat, am currently menu planning for this week’s Erev Shabbat, and I should have let go of the entire unpleasant experience already.

So why am I still thinking and writing about this?

I recognize that at times I too have quickly become defensive when someone lets me know I’ve done something wrong. Sometimes I am too quick to proclaim, “I didn’t mean it,” instead of fully hearing the other’s words. Sometimes I apologize for my actions, and then rush to explain what was going on with me, instead of listening attentively. These are behaviors I would like to change.

Good intentions are important, but not enough. The wayward, offending purse reminded me of this.

 

 

 

 

The release of Orange is the New Black’s Season 4 is still more than 4 weeks away, and like a kid approaching the end of the school year, I am already counting down the days (32, to be precise).

A window into a world that I have never personally experienced, Orange is the New Black grabs every bit of my attention like nothing else on the screen has. Ever.

Given the number of characters whose stories we get to know, there are actually multiple microcosms that invite us to dive into and grapple with issues of gender, race, class, and the various ways in which they intersect.

Some viewers describe Orange’s characters as old friends with whom they visit annually for a long, intense weekend. With Netflix releasing the entire season in one swoop, binge watching is not only possible, but is tempting. Last season, I watched the 13 episodes over the course of several weeks, pacing myself so that I could savor each storyline without forgetting important details or losing the deep emotions aroused in me.

I had also revisited Seasons 1 and 2 before launching into the third one, which appropriately felt like a “let’s become reacquainted” phone call before the blind date. Now that almost a full year has passed since our last get together, I look forward to another viewing of the three previous seasons to help me prepare. I am especially curious about Season 3, about which I recall very little. Until I do watch it again, I am going to assume that my poor recollection of it says more about my grief-stricken state of mind at the time, and less about the quality of the episodes. I’ll let you all know if I feel differently after viewing.

If you are reading this blog and have watched the show, I would love your thoughts about the show, the characters, and related issues.

 

 

 

 

 

My labor roots run deep, and have been very much on my mind since I prepared for and celebrated Passover last month. The granddaughter of a founding member of the ILGWU, I was raised to always respect a picket line, and to look for clothing with a union label. I experience deep feelings of solidarity when I support people struggling for justice. When I give my time, my energy, and/or my money to further the cause of justice, I do so knowing that my own liberation is bound up with everyone else’s.

I am reminded of, and inspired by, a quotation I read when I first engaged in solidarity work with Latin America in the 1970s:

“Solidarity is not charity. It is the mutual aid between two peoples engaged in the same struggle.”

I am frequently uncomfortable when I hear the phrase, “I want to give back to the community,” especially when it comes from people who experience unearned privilege on a daily basis. For years, maybe decades, certainly since I have lived in Silicon Valley, I have listened to people first express gratitude for all of the riches they are “blessed with,” and then follow up with statements about how they are involved with one charity or another in order to give back. Upon hearing this talk, I find myself pondering that if they didn’t take so much in the first place, then maybe they wouldn’t feel compelled to give back. If this simply sounds like clever semantics to you, then I invite you to think about it more.

 

Inspired by the Passover Seder, I’ve spent the last week pondering more questions. Here are some that have been floating around in my mind:

•  Does being content mean being satisfied?
• If I say I am content, does it mean I am somehow settling for something less than?
• Or, is being content a healthy antidote to perfectionism?
• Finally, how does being content compare to being happy? To being joyful?

Prepping for last week’s Seder, I was grateful to have the company of and share the work with a close friend. The classical music in the background helped us both stay calm, and the promise of a good lunch out, our last chametz for awhile, encouraged us to finish our cooking in a timely fashion. I remember noticing how happy I was feeling, despite the large number of tasks still ahead before Shabbat and Pesach arrived.

The following evening, together with my children, their partners, my friend and his brother, we lit candles, said blessings, and lingered over some of our Shabbat rituals. My heart overflowed with much joy as we took turns sharing expressions of gratitude. So moved by what the others had already said, I couldn’t muster more than “I am grateful for this moment.”

Hours later, after the last guests were gone, I sat quietly with a glass of seltzer, closing my eyes and reliving highlights of the evening. My Passover had begun with people I loved. Together we had relived the exodus from Egypt while making it our own, sharing delicious food, meaningful learning, and good cheer along the way. Sipping my drink, as I asked myself if I was feeling happy or joyful, or both, I knew that the calmness enveloping me was nothing more nor less than a deep feeling of being content.

So while I don’t have definitive answers to my own questions, I do in fact embrace the presence of all three—happiness, joyfulness, and contentment—in my life.

 

 

 

T.S.Eliot was wrong; April is not the cruelest month, at least not for this writer.

The beginning of the baseball season…my son’s birthday…fresh, local asparagus…and Passover (most years)…all reasons for renewed joy.

Growing up in a family that was affiliated with the Conservative movement only by geographic accident, I celebrated most of the Jewish holidays in a cursory way, and some, not at all.

Passover, though, was always a big deal. My favorite cousins and aunt and uncle came over for both nights, along with my grandfather and his wife. My parents always invited some non-Jewish guests as well for the first night, hoping to teach them a bit about our unusual and wonderful tribe. We ate until our stomachs almost burst, and then ate some more. We barely cracked open the Manischewitz Haggadot strewn around the table, except for when my grandfather pointed at me, and loudly said, “Now!,” indicating it was time for me to recite the Four Questions. I was not the youngest, but I was the only one of the four cousins who was confident in her Hebrew (imagine!) and even more confident about showing off. Later, searching for and selling back the afikomen was the annual highlight of the holiday, since we four girls knew that my dad AND their dad AND our grandfather had come prepared and we’d end up with lots of gelt.

Passover remains my favorite holiday of the entire year. The Seder is a time when my Jewish roots and my socialist roots intertwine beautifully. Singing Zog Nit Ken Mol, Go Down Moses, and Hallel in the same evening reminds me of how rich my traditions are, and I’ve loved passing them on to my children, who are now adults leading their own lives.

This year, I will welcome an intimate group of beloved family and friends. I will be leading a Seder for the first time in many years, after shopping and cleaning and cooking all week. Even though I often proclaim that I am not a perfectionist, I have found myself fretting much of the week about this and that, about what could go wrong and worrying about what I was forgetting or neglecting.

This afternoon, as we relaxed over lunch after a morning of cooking, my friend and I shared our intentions of how to be good to ourselves in the next couple of days. We each talked about letting go of expectations, and committed to simply enjoying the seder and welcoming Shabbat together. A few hours later, I was delighted to read a piece from our Rabbi in which he reminds us to turn away from plagues (often self-imposed) and towards blessings.

No, Mr. T.S. Eliot, April is not the cruelest month, especially now that I am learning that very good is good enough.

 

 

 

Back in February I wrote about wanting to become a better listener.

The last few weeks I’ve found myself thinking a lot about the different ways in which, after listening carefully, I respond to what people say to me.

There is often a relationship between careful listening and careful speaking, but I am learning that one does not automatically guarantee the other.

When instead of listening attentively, I am already formulating my response in my head, I suspect I am being reflexive.

When I hear myself being defensive, I am almost certainly being reflexive.

When I find myself offering up the same, unchanged beliefs I’ve held for a long time, I am most definitely being reflexive.

I much prefer to be reflective, to think carefully, turning the possibilities upside down in my head, examining new ways of approaching an issue. I am learning that no matter how much I have thought about a problem in the past, there is generally another way to ponder it.

As I clean my house in preparation for Passover this year, I am mindful of the renewed opportunity to also rid my mind of chametz and change my behavior accordingly. The first to go, I hope, will be reflexive listening, creating room for some liberating reflection.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

About an hour before I turned on the television for ESPN’s Opening Night edition of Sunday Night Baseball, I felt an all too familiar tightness in my stomach. My Metsies were about to face their latest demons, aka Eric Hosmer and the rest of the Kansas City Royals, who had defeated the Mets in five games during the World Series last fall. Not that I had expected the Mets to win; no one had picked the Mets to win the NL Pennant for 2015, and most fans didn’t imagine they would even have a winning season (90-72, thanks in large part to the late season acquisition of Yoenis Céspedes and his colorful rallykeet).

But I am nothing if not faithful, and I love my team. I love the SNY broadcasters (Gary Cohen, Ron Darling, and Keith Hernandez) , and I love Howie Rose, who calls for WWOR. Thanks to modern technology and my financial priorities, I barely miss an inning since my MLB.TV subscription delivers almost every game on TV, as well as all of my devices.

My son and I developed a passion for baseball at the same time. In 1986, we moved from New York to Massachusetts, just in time for the World Series between the Mets and the Red Sox (think Bill Buckner, Game 6). I had watched very little baseball prior to this, but as a teacher in a large, public, blue-collar high school, I had to get into it. Two-year-old Misha became enamored of #18 (what child wouldn’t love someone named Strawberry?) and I quickly began what would become a decades’ long fascination with Keith Hernandez (with mustache, thank you very much).

My father, now of blessed memory, was ecstatic. Having unsuccessfully (anti-Semitism?) tried out as a pitcher for five major league teams, he became a furrier by day and dreamed, night after night, about tossing a perfecto. One of my sweetest memories is of going to Shea with my dad and Misha, arriving a couple of hours early so that we could watch the Mets players arrive. I flagged down John Franco, who had attended the same high school (Lafayette) as my parents, albeit decades later. As he rolled down his car window and heard that my dad was a passionate fan, the leftie relief pitcher graciously and patiently took some time to chat with my father.

Last spring, as I battled fear, anxiety, and darkness after Peter (z”l) died, baseball arrived in my living room with a flourish and fanfare like never before. I watched 150+ regular season Mets games, and cheered on the Giants and Athletics as well. The postseason run for the Mets helped me keep up my spirits as the light diminished and the days grew unbearably shorter. Friends and family joined me for many playoff games (I watched every single one, some even twice!)  and optimism for my team renewed my capacity for hopefulness in general.

Despite the Mets’ loss in the World Series, I felt proud of my team and was delighted with their accomplishments in 2015. And of course, like all true fans, I went to bed, after the final out in Game 5, thinking, “There’s always next year.”

Play ball!

 

As I prepared  to visit my mom for a couple of days, with our Erev Shabbat brisket braising in my oven and filling  the house with its fragrance,  I found myself reflecting on life in a retirement community.

My parents decided to relocate from New York to Arizona 16 years ago. The dry climate, the snow-free winters, and the proximity to my children and me provided the initial impetus for their migration. They moved into a large, beautiful house and quickly turned it into a home. They joined the local synagogue, found and frequented the nearby tennis courts, and proceeded to win and lose the same $2.00 every week at the mah jongg (mom) and pinochle (dad) tables. Life was good, and my mother often happily remarked that she felt as if she were attending a full time summer camp.

When my father (z”l) died in 2011, my parents’ friends rallied around my mom and they’ve stayed close to her. She’s made some new friends, too, and has made the best of life without her partner of almost 60 years. I take comfort in knowing that she lives in a home she loves, with routines and friends that give meaning to her days. I am glad she lives in a community where most of her health care professionals, and a hospital, are minutes away.

When I turned 50, my father began to nudge me to consider retiring and joining them in Sun City West, touted on its website as “Arizona’s Finest Golf Retirement Community.” I don’t play golf, or even tennis. Mah jongg and pinochle are not among my repertoire of diversions, although I do have many fond childhood memories of listening to my mother and her buddies move the tiles around the table while they noshed on bridge mix and other chazzery.

Leisure activities aside, the main reason I have no desire to move to Sun City West, or any other such community is probably the same reason many people who live there wouldn’t live anywhere else: there are no children there! The little ones in my life bring me much joy, and I am blessed with opportunities to watch them grow and flourish, even if I haven’t played as much of a role as I’d like to in their daily lives.

So while eternal summer camp sounds enticing on some levels, I think I will stick with short visits to my mom, and enjoy my own community for as long as I can.