L'Shanah Tovah

Yesterday I was working with a high school student when his mother mentioned something about someone who was "half Jewish." My student immediately shot back, "There's no such thing, Mom. You either are or you aren't." Technically, he's right. Although some reform Jews will recognize those whose mothers aren't Jewish as Jews, traditional Jewish law requires matrilineal Judaism, and my mother is not a Jew.

But one of the best things about Judaism, which marks it as distinctive from so many other faiths, is that it encourages questioning, and as a proud half-Jew with a father who was raised Orthodox, I would like to respectfully disagree with my young charge.

Because my last name is Jewish, people almost always assume I am Jewish. This has been true for as long as I can remember. And when people make inclusive comments, as happens frequently, I never correct them. If asked outright, which rarely happens, I explain that I was born to parents of different religious backgrounds and sent to a liberal Unitarian church for religious education and spirituality--and then, when their eyes glaze over--I stop. Half-Jewish is a better answer. People either think it's bologna, so to speak, and let it drop, or are also half-Jewish and take it as an opportunity for a high five (this is generally when the asker is male).

Where am I going with this? I wish I knew. But when I read the email I received today from my dad's cousin, the former Gloria Schrager of Philadelphia (long story), which read, in part: "To my long lost cousins, some of whom I have never met, my daughter, and other members of the tribe, wherever you are geographically, I wish all of you a HAPPY NEW YEAR. Six degrees of separation, genes, and blood, we are all connected," I felt connected. Not half-connected but fully connected, to a long line of people as far back as people go, who look like me, sound like me, smile like me are related to me, genetically and yes, as Jews.

Rosh Hashanah may be my favorite Jewish holiday. I like new beginnings, fresh starts, second chances. I like autumn, much better than January, and have always thought September a far more fitting month in which to celebrate the ending of one cycle and the launching of another.

So from this half-Jew to ye of all faiths, or none: L'Shanah Tovah. A very good year for us all.

Friendship

Nicole, whom I have written about before, is here with her husband and daughter for the week because she has finished her dissertation. From the first time I met Nicole, literally in the first few minutes--when she appeared in my dorm room asking for clothes because her trunk had not arrived from San Francisco--her presence has made me feel as though a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. She is relaxed, cheerful, unflappable, responsible, impervious to pettiness or jealousy, congenitally uncomplaining and the least neurotic person I have ever met. In short, she is nothing like me.

The stark differences in temperament make every adventure a heightened study in contrasts, although somehow we are preternaturally compatible. There was the cross-country road trip on which I forced us to eat every meal and snack at a carefully researched, Chowhound-endorsed, Saveur-featured out-of-the-way spot featuring regional specialties. By the time we hit the East Coast, she was begging me to let her eat a sandwich, just one sandwich. There was the episode in Mexico when I was, as I was each time I visited her in Mexico, taken violently ill and the side-of-the-road "medicine woman" told her she had to give me a shot. As I lay moaning in agony on the floor, she ran around the hotel begging strangers to come with her so she wouldn't have to insert the needle herself. There was the time I lent her my car in college to get to a soccer tournament although my parents had forbidden me to let anyone else drive it for insurance reasons. When, inevitably, it was wrecked, their response was: We are angry with you, not Nicole. She is much more responsible than you, and you are the one who disobeyed us. There was the series of attractive, athletic, if mildly mentally incapacitated boyfriends I was forced to make idle small talk with at dinner after dinner, but I digress. As well as grow fearful of possible retaliation in person if not in print.

So I will end with one of my favorite Amy and Nicole stories which gives, I think, a taste of our dynamic and will put me in a good mood for the rest of the day, remembering. It was the end of the summer, and Nicole had flown to Boston to head to college with me. The aforementioned car, before its demise, was packed full of our stuff, and when we were ready, we said good-bye to my parents and got on the road. Not ten minutes into the trip we had our first argument, about directions, my bete noire and a particular strength of Nicole's. As I was driving, another bete noire of mine, I was feeling defensive, and Nicole was likely feeling on edge, which is another way of saying "concerned about her personal safety." Although it is a rule of thumb among those who know me well to completely disregard anything I have to say on the subject of navigation, and although I usually acquiesce quickly if anyone offers up so much as a hunch, this time I would not back down, and Nicole--who is stubborn and likes the idea of punishing me with my own stubbornness and did not have the advantage of being behind the wheel, had no choice but to sit and seethe as I drove in the direction I felt was the right one...for about a hundred and fifty miles.

By this point, I was starting to get a little nervous. Nothing looked familiar, and Nicole was exuding irritation, and all I wanted was to be pulling up to the Main Gate where we could unload the car and make sure we got the best two rooms in our five-bedroom student house. Finally, Nicole spoke. Do you smell anything? she asked. I shook my head no, but there was a smell in the air, hard to place but distinctive. Do you see anything unusual by the side of the road? she asked. I looked. Sand. Grass, set back from the sand. My stomach was starting to feel a little bit funny. At the next possible opportunity, I pulled into a lot and turned around. We were at the beach. Cape Cod. It was indisputable.

Which would have been fine. But we went to school in Poughkeepsie.

Gratitude

John McCain-like, I refused to acknowledge you on Friday and Saturday, after a few very lame pseudo-entries last week. And in surreal fashion, I'm not even sure whom I'm addressing right now: The blog itself? My readers? My own conscience? All of the above?

I think I'm back now, though, and there are a few very concrete reasons why. They are the same reasons that have made this the only successful experiment in discipline and continuity--or the only one that has brought me such happiness--in my life thus far.

I'll be honest. There have been many, many days when I have forced myself to write here because of my pledge to myself and signed off convinced that this was, indeed, an exercise in futility. Not futile in that I was actually writing, but futile in its grim march onward in spite of lack of inspiration. It is counter to my personality, my belief system, to make myself do things for the sake of doing them. And there have been weeks at a time when I was writing so fluidly, so productively, that it never occurred to me to compare this blog to a diet or a gym regimen. But then there have been the dark days, or rather nights, when I have waited--in my old familiar style--until the very last possible minute and then forced myself to type, not write, something--just so I could say that I had done it.

I started this blog as an experiment, as a framework for me in which to find my voice and stride again. I didn't tell many people about it, but the ones I did tell were people whose opinion, whose feedback, matters most profoundly to me, in so many different ways. Some of you are writers, and I crave your feedback on the writing itself. Others of you are people who know me very well and love me anyway, and I crave your support and encouragement. Some of you are both.

Some people, to my surprise, have come to read this blog thanks to a friend or relative of mine, or because they saw a link on Facebook and have known me at some point over the course of my life and found themselves mildly curious. Your responses--the fact I know you are reading, too--has also kept me going. I find myself daily marveling at the fact that the circumstances of my life have led to me form some kind of a connection with so many fascinating, brilliant, thoughtful, insightful people doing so many wonderful things. The very occasional nasty comments tend to elicit an immediate outraged response by someone feeling protective of me, which so totally more than negates the momentary pang at the nastiness.

I am not actually writing this for you, at heart, however. I am still doing it for me, in spite of my increasingly appreciative relationship to your feedback. But your comments--gracious, reassuring, wondering, defensive on my behalf, and yes, praising--make the enterprise worthwhile. You are why I keep going, why I am reminded every single morning that writing is a conversation and that I need to be worthy of the dialogue, that attention of the right kind is why we wake up and push through every day, that I am fortunate beyond compare in friends and family regardless of anything else that is happening in my life or in the world.

I won't do this again. Or maybe I will--one unequivocal aspect of the blog is that it is uncharted territory. But I kind of think I won't. So just this once, as I ease back in from my quicksand episode, I will say what I have wanted to say to so many of you for 248 days now.

Thank you.

Another Sigh

Oh, for just one day writing day like the days of me, ten, with a yellow legal pad and a #2 pencil. That's how I used to write, all the way through high school: longhand, on a pad, often prone on the floor, or in a hammock, or in bed. And you know what? I would fill pages and pages at a time, forgetting where I was, or what I was supposed to be doing, and never once did I think to myself: Why am I doing this? What is the point of this? Not once.

Sigh.

Blog suspended one day on account of exhaustion. In spite of my disappointment in myself I think this is preferable than making you read whatever I could write right now.

A demain.

Absorption

It's late, and I'm tired, and my day tomorrow starts at about 5:30 and will go until 11 or so with not more than five or ten minutes for a break, let alone lunch. I know, I know. You are playing your tiny violin. Or at least one of you is. You know who you are.

Anyway. But I am making myself push through this rough patch, in which I feel I have nothing to write about of any interest (my god, yesterday I told you about my dream), because I have faith (sometimes) that there is something worthwhile on the other side of it, and I won't find out unless I persevere.

An anecdote:

Lily had a long day today, and I hadn't seen her, and when I got home from work I asked her to tell me something special about her day, and as always she didn't want to. The information has to come from her. If I solicit it, she clams up; I know this, but day after day I try in spite of myself. Sometimes, on a good day, something juicy leaks through.

While I was cooking dinner she came into the kitchen to get herself a glass of water. "We played a fun game on the roof today, Mama," she said. I tried not to appear overly interested.

"Oh?" I said, keeping my cool.

"Yes. Luke and Calvin got bikes, and Isabel and I decided that they would be our taxi drivers, so they picked us up and took us to work, and then they waited outside while we were at our jobs, and then they drove us home after work."

"That sounds...fun," I said, choking back laughter and, I must confess, a little bit of pride.

"It was," she said. And over her shoulder as she walked out with her water, "But I'm not talking about anything else."

Okay. That was enough.

Perspective, Ad Infinitum

I figure everyone is allowed one opportunity to share the dream they had the night before. Just one, mind you. Just one. You're probably thinking I've already had mine, but the truth is, I rarely remember my dreams. And when I do, they are so prosaic as to be virtually indistinguishable from my actual life. For example, I will fall asleep reading a book, will dream I am in bed reading a book, and when I wake up in the morning will realize for a fleeting moment: I dreamed I was reading a book. Seriously.

But for a few flirtations with standard anxiety dreams--being chased, falling, etc.--during times of duress, this has been the situation. Last night, however, I had an unusual dream, or for me an unusual dream, in that it did not echo in some way an actual experience, and I am going to take my one opportunity to share it here.

I was somewhere out in the country. It was green and beautiful. The day was sunny and clear. There was a pool, or a pond, or a natural pool made to look like a pond, and at some point I noticed that there was a reddish golden retriever swimming around its perimeter. There were other people around, my children, for example, and it may have been some kind of party, but there were no people swimming in the pool, just the dog. And in my dream I thought: That dog looks so happy, swimming around in the pool. It must feel great to be swimming in that cool, clean water. And hours later, I was back by the pool, and I noticed the dog was still swimming, around and around in slow circles. And I thought: That's a long time for that dog to be swimming. He must be tired. But he really must love to swim. What a happy dog. Some dogs just love water. And at some point, hours later again, I suddenly had a flash of terror and ran to the pool as fast as I could. The dog had been swimming around the edge of the pool all day by this point, and it had hit me out of nowhere that the dog DID NOT KNOW HOW TO GET OUT OF THE POOL. He's going to drown! I screamed, not out loud but in my head, and I jumped in the water fully clothed. Somehow, in my dream, I managed to get the dog's front paws up on the rocks and grass around the pool. He was heavier than I could have imagined, and sodden, but I did it. And then, by myself, I pushed his lower body out to follow, and the dog collapsed, exhausted but alive, on the grass, as I watched from the edge of the pool.

Can you see why I wanted to share it? Hmmmm.

Out of my system. No more dreams.