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)

 

One morning in the pool, one of my bffs spoke about listening to music in a renewed way during a week-long jazz cruise. While listening to Niki Haris sing “Yesterday” and then “Killing me Softly,” both songs my friend had heard many, many times, she heard the lyrics differently. We talked about why this happened, and then I decided to pay more attention to the music in my life.

In recent months, I developed a routine of putting on “Closer to Fine” by the Indigo Girls when I got in the car every day. After speaking with my friend about her experience, I really focused on the song’s lyrics:

“The best thing you’ve ever done for me
is to help me take my life less seriously,
it’s only life after all.”

What????!!!!

All of a sudden, a few lines I had loved since first hearing them more than 20 years ago were neither comfortable nor comforting.

Had the lyrics changed on me?

.           .           .           .           .           .           .           .           .           .           .

So much of what and how we hear—songs, requests, complaints, or even our own inner voices—has to do with what we bring to the listening. My late husband, Peter (z”l), used to call all of this our “baggage.” I prefer to think of it as our “life experience.” Either way, it often prevents me from listening carefully.

Learning how to be a better listener means I have to really open up my ears (and heart and mind) and focus on the words I am hearing. Learning to listen quietly, to ponder more what I am hearing, to be mindful of what I bring to the moment, and to ask more questions instead of wanting to offer a quick comeback…these are all tools which will help me become a better listener, as I seek to continue to take my life more seriously.

It’s my life, after all. And I do want to move closer to fine.

 

 

This week I watched a new film, The Black Panthers: Vanguard of the Revolution, directed by Stanley Nelson, Jr. It is currently airing on PBS stations around the country. The film inspired me to re-read the Panthers’ Ten-Point Program (reproduced below), a manifesto for social justice that is as compelling today as it was when it was published 40 years ago. As a white ally, I know that my tasks include staying informed of current events, deepening my knowledge of Black history (and not just in February), and joining in the struggles to ensure that Black Lives Matter.

What We Want Now!

1. We want freedom. We want power to determine the destiny of our Black Community.
2. We want full employment for our people.
3. We want an end to the robbery by the white men of our Black Community.
4. We want decent housing, fit for shelter of human beings.
5. We want education for our people that exposes the true nature of this decadent American society. We want education that teaches us our true history and our role in the present day society.
6. We want all Black men to be exempt from military service.
7. We want an immediate end to POLICE BRUTALITY and MURDER of Black people.
8. We want freedom for all Black men held in federal, state, county and city prisons and jails.
9. We want all Black people when brought to trial to be tried in court by a jury of their peer group or people from their Black Communities, as defined by the Constitution of the United States.
10. We want land, bread, housing, education, clothing, justice and peace.

If you missed the film, you can watch it on the PBS website until March 18, 2016.

I also want to give a special shout out to the White Privilege Conference, an outstanding organization that I was involved with for several years. This year the WPC will meet in Philadelphia, April 14 – 17.

 

 

I hear lots of people say that they are “creatures of habit.” Some affirm this with great pride, and some with a touch of self-deprecation. Most have a habit of repeating it with a bit of both.

I, too, have my habits. Some are worth keeping (meeting my bffs in the pool for early morning exercise) and some could bear changing (drinking two double-shot lattes when I wake up).

What I am noticing these days is the growing role of more soulful habits in my life, habits that have become rituals.

One of my favorites has been going around the Shabbat table on Friday nights to share expressions of gratitude as well as an example of something from the past week we are each proud of. Having done this at the home of friends many times, I added it into the mix at my own table right after the High Holidays last fall.

Time and again, this ritual slows us down and invites us to linger over the blessings of the evening. As we let go of the stresses and challenges of the week, we pause, hold onto, and share a few things that hold meaning for us. My guests and I get to know each other better through this exercise, even if we already enjoy a close relationship. Sometimes the gratitude expressed is for ongoing blessings, like renewed health or the gift of Shabbat itself. At other times, it is simply for one another, for the relationship, for each doing our part to make Shabbat joy together.

Feeling and expressing gratitude come easily to me. On the other hand, saying what I am proud of can be a reach, as I strive to attain the healthiest amount of humility. Weekly practice has provided me with a ritualized growth opportunity, even though I still sometimes struggle with naming what I am proud of in myself.

Unlike habits, some of which I repeat without intention, this grateful for/proud of ritual has me reflecting hours before we even gather on Friday night. In doing so, my heart and home begin to fill with warmth and love, as I eagerly anticipate welcoming Shabbat with others.

 

There’s something about knowing I will turn 60 this year that has made me sit up and pay more attention to how I spend my time and energy. Perhaps it’s not about planning more, but rather being more mindful about what it is I am planning.

My husband Peter’s (z”l) sudden and unexpected death a little over a year ago provided a harsh reminder that none of us will live forever. Last year, during the Yamim Nora’im,[1] my prayers and supplications to be inscribed in the Book of Life reached an intensity I had not heard in myself before.

Here are some of the questions on my mind and from my heart:

How do I want to spend this last part of my life?

How do I want to be thought of now, and remembered later?

What do I want to experience?

What do I want to create?

Which parts of the younger me do I wish to reclaim?

How can I contribute to the struggles for justice that speak to me?

Who deserves my love?

Let’s see what this writing brings…and offers…

[1] The 10 day period between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur