Telling Stories

Flashback:

It is March, 1958, and my father is taking my picture outside.  I am wearing my blue dress coat and my Purim costume.  As always, I am dressed as Queen Esther, the beautiful heroine of the Purim story.  Queen Esther saved the Jewish people of Shushan, Persia, when she foiled the plot of the evil Haman, adivsor to King Ahasuerus.  She did so by becoming the wife of  the King and then revealing to him that she was Jewish.  When the King realized that Haman's plans to kill all the Jews would result in the death of his  beloved Esther, he put a stop to the plans, and executed Haman instead.

Purim is a joyous holiday.  It is celebrated with costumes, a carnival, and hamentaschen, a triangular filled cookie, said to be shaped like Haman's hat. Best of all, when the Purim story is read in the synagogue, the children are encouraged to make as much noise as possible, booing and shaking groggers (noisemakers) to drown out the name of the evil Haman, whenever it is mentioned.

The Purim story is captivating, but it is a fairy tale.  There are other stories that captivate me more.  These stories transport me to another time and place.

There are the stories my grandmother tells, of life in the Ukraine in the early 1900's, gathering berries in her pinafore in the Spring, and staying inside for months through the long cold winter.  She tells of the relatives she left behind, of how they were never heard from again after one pogrom or another.  She tells of her life as a teenager on the lower East Side of New York.  She talks with pride of her work as a seamstress, and laughs that her parents thought she was an old maid because she didn't marry until she was 23.

There are the stories my Mother tells about growing up in Depression Era Hartford.  She talks of their tiny apartment, where she lacked privacy because she slept in the living room.  She talks about owning two outfits, when one was being washed she wore the other, and about  walking to girl scouts in shoes that were too tight.  But she also talks of playing with the other kids in the apartment building when it rained, and that  she was chosen to play Goldilocks in the school play because of her beautiful strawberry blond hair.

I love these stories because they are larger than the facts they convey.  They tell of finding the strength to go on, of finding happiness in unexpected places, of the simultaneous difficulty and joy of living.  I know that one day my story will be a part of these stories, part of our family history, and I feel proud.

Flashforward:

It is March 7, 2012, and once again, it is Purim.  I consider going to the synagogue to hear the Purim story.  Although it is a holiday with large appeal to children, I have often gone to hear the story since my children have been fully grown.  At times, I had been motivated to go because I gave a ride to a disabled adult in our community, who had become a friend, but she passed on several years ago.  At times, my husband and I drove up to Newton, Mass, to attend the service with our grandchildren, but John's work schedule does not allow that this year.  I consider going just to enjoy the joyous atmosphere, and to hear the story once again.  This year however, I have an opportunity to hear other stories, stories that will captivate me more.  I choose to take advantage of that opportunity, and get ready to attend our monthly writer's group meeting at the Town and County Club.

The Town and County Club provides a unique opportunity for cultural enrichment for women in the Hartford area.  It's activities include luncheon and dinner speakers, musical presentations, discussion groups on books and current events,  foreign language conversation groups, and trips to museums and historical sites.  It's members come from many backgrounds, and articulately express a wide range of views on any subject.

Of all of these activities, I especially look forward to the writer's group, and to the stories that the women will tell.  These stories transport me to other times and places.

On this night, I hear the story of a young couple in Depression Era Nebraska, gamely trying to start a new business.  I hear the story of a widow in Virginia during the Civil War, and her struggle to keep her farm going and to keep her children alive.  I am transported to a town in England, where a young American boy tries to fit into a new culture, and to the home of an aging couple, trying to adjust to retirement.  On this night I am given a window into personal stories: the story of a woman who reaches out to help others by bringing her dog on visits to a nursing home, and the story of a mature woman recalling family gatherings of her childhood.  I tell the story of one Passover, when many of the guests made an effort to attend, despite suffering from assorted maladies at the time.

The stories are endless, stories of lives well lived, of struggles to get by, and struggles to understand, of triumphs large and small.  The stories reflect the simultaneous difficulty and joy of living.  I know that my stories are now a part of these stories, part of the history of these diverse American women, and I  feel proud.

Bittersweet - Looking at life through the Chanukah lights

There are about three months between Yom Kippur, the last day of the Jewish High Holy Days, and Chanukah. we are celebrating Chanukah as I write this  Yom Kippur is an intensely introspective day, in which we pledge to do our best in the coming year, and pray for a good year. It is followed in quick succession by two holidays in which we turn our attention outward.  The first is Sukkot, a harvest festival, in which we thank God for the physical bounty of the earth.  The second is Simchat Torah, in which we thank God for the Torah, which is our spiritual bounty. After that, the New Year is truly underway, and with it, our struggle to maintain the spiritual strength we have felt during the holidays begins.  Then comes Chanukah, a celebration of a military victory over oppression, a celebration of joy and light.

During this past high holy days season, I had thought a lot about how I could behave in a way that would make me a better person.  I congratulated myself on writing an interesting, and some have told me, inspiring blog post on this subject. But, in a way, my musings were selfish.  I had looked for a way to use the teachings of the Torah to not only make me a better person, but also to provide a quick fix to make me a happier person.  But neither being a good person, or a happy person, is all that easy.

I realized after a while, that I was trying to  fix my life with a kind of "mind over matter" magic.  I thought I could simply think happy, and I would be happy.  I would find life's blessings, make them the focus of my attention, and feel the blessings so intensely that I would simply forget all of life's difficulties.

This effort became so difficult, that for a while I contemplated avoiding any contact with people or places that reminded me of anything unpleasant.  I thought that perhaps I could retreat into my own world, where my life would be the standard for normal life, for the best life.  I tried to make myself believe that people with excess energy, who worked every day, who walked fast, and thought fast, and thought they were happy, were really missing out on the peace and patience of a slower life.  I worked at this with such intensity that, for a while, I believed that I did feel happier than I had in a long time.  I thought I was pushing all of my unhappiness away, and that it was leaving me entirely.

In reality,  my unhappiness had only gone as far as the back of my mind.  I began to be disturbed by a new demon -- nightmares.  When night fell, the unhappiness would find its way out of the back of my mind and into my thoughts.  It taunted me in my sleep.  I began having nightmares, one after another, every night.  I started to dread bed time.  I started to awaken startled and afraid, staying up during the hours after midnight, watching television,  afraid to go back to sleep.  I grew tired and resentful, but I tried not to show it, and above all, not to feel it.

One Saturday morning,  a few weeks ago, I felt that the little happy world I was trying to make for myself was cracking around me.  It started when my husband, my energetic husband, was home, rather than at work as he was during the week.  Nor had he gone off to the Temple, as he usually did on Saturday mornings.   Instead, he was bustling about the house.  The sound of it, of his energy, his footsteps, the light and dark of the room as his shadow bounded in and out, intruded on my tired and strained little world.  I started to want what he had: the energy, and, even more, the  choices.  I wanted the choice of whether to work or retire, where to drive off to on a weekend day, whether to go out in the evening, whether or not to go on a hike or a bike ride or stay out all day.  The choices I used to have.  Then suddenly, I screamed out loud the very thought I had been working so hard to keep from myself.  "I hate having Parkinson's Disease!" I screamed. And I meant it.

I felt a little ashamed.  I had not stayed with the program.  I had failed in my appreciation of life.  I knew I should be grateful, and in most ways, I still was.  Plenty of people were a lot worse off than me, struggling through life in one way or another.  Of course, many were sicker. Even many healthy people, however,  had problems much more serious than mine: loss, loneliness, poverty, war, persecution, repression.  What right did I have to complain? And yet, and yet...even though I knew, and in fact I truly felt, that my life was wonderful in so many ways, even though, ... I could not conquer my distress.

Although I felt ashamed, I slept peacefully that night, and every night after that. As the days went on,  I felt less tired, more energetic, and even, to my surprise, happier.  I needed to think about this.  How had I inadvertently stumbled on a secret that had made me happier by feeling sorry for myself.  How had allowing myself to give in to my lowest feelings actually improved my mood?  I had to contemplate this for a while, before the answer, as so often happens, became so obvious that I felt foolish for missing it.

I knew, finally, that what had been missing from my formula for successful living, was acceptance.  I had not accepted my actual life.  Life, the real life that we live, intrudes upon our dreams, both figuratively and literally.  Life, the real life that is around us, is not completely within our control.  We can be lucky in a lot of ways, we can be grateful about a lot of things, but we may feel deeply sad sometimes.  I had forgotten what my wise father had told me many years ago when I was a teenager: that is is a natural part of life to feel sad from time to time.  Even the luckiest among us cannot escape that ultimate truth.

I had to look at my life more realistically.  People are, after all, made up of a body and a mind.  As human beings, it is our nature to cherish and to try to protect those elements of ourselves.  The slow, but perpetual, loss of the ability to control one's body, and to use one's mind, with no hope of recovery, is bound to make a person feel sad, on some fundamental human level.  On some fundamental human level that can't be wished away, or thought away, no matter how great the intellectual effort.

The lights of Chanukah remind us of the importance of the freedom to practice our own religion, to be able to live as our true selves in peace.  This year, the lights also reminded the that spiritually, we are most free and most at peace when we are true to ourselves.  Now, during these darkest days of winter, as I enjoy the sweet small glow of the Chanukah lights, I feel the glow of peace and acceptance. Now, as I continue my efforts for good acts and appreciation of life's blessings, I am a little humbled.   I am savoring, however, maybe for the first time in a long time, the bittersweet, but truly rich, flavor of life.

The People I Never Thanked - The Red Headed Girl

Flashback: It is April of 1957, and I am in second grade in East Hartford Connecticut, seated at the lunch table in the school cafeteria. Each lunch table is long enough for the whole class, with benches on each side, like a long picnic table. We are free to arrange ourselves along the table in any order we choose, and we are usually able to sit near a friend. On this particular day, I am sitting next to my new friend. She is fair skinned, with freckles, and bright red hair. She wears bangs, but her hair looks untended, shoulder length, and a little scraggly. To my eye, her clothes seem a little shabby. She, however, doesn't seem to notice. She is always smiling, she is confident, she is fun to be with, and I am glad she is my friend.

Although I sometimes buy my lunch, on this particular day, I have brought lunch. In fact, I am bringing my lunch for the entire week, because it is Passover. As usual, my lunch consists of a sandwich, but during this week, my sandwich is made of Matzah. Matzah, or unleavened bread, is like a large cracker. It is eaten during Passover to represent the unleavened bread that the Israelites ate when they hastily fled Egypt to gain their freedom, without having time for their bread to rise. During this week, the eating of bread, or any product made directly from flour, is forbidden, although the Matzah itself may be crushed into a meal and used for baking.

For lunches, my Mother makes a sort of roll from Matzah Meal and eggs, but I find it indigestible. I prefer to have my sandwiches on Matzah. This is a little problematic for my mother, because a Matzah sandwich needs to be made from something that will stick to the Matzah, not the bologna or tuna fish that my mother usually used for my sandwiches. Although peanut butter and jelly would be the perfect combination, I am allergic to peanut butter. Thus, on this particular day, I am happily eating a Matzah and jelly sandwich for my lunch. I am happy because it is Passover (a joyous holiday which I love), because I am sitting with my friend, and because my friend has taken an interest in my special sandwich.

This happiness, however, is abruptly interrupted, as the principal walks by, stops at our table, and harshly says to me, "Why are you eating your dessert before your lunch?" I am stricken with fear and embarrassment. What can I say? He clearly does not know about Matzah, Passover, or the 5,000 years of Jewish history that have led me, a seven year old, to be eating a Matzah sandwich in an East Hartford school in 1957.

In an instant, I picture myself in trouble, in the principal's office, waiting for my parents to come and give the explanation. In an instant, I know that I am in the right, that he is wrong and ignorant, but I am tongue-tied, afraid of this large and powerful man. I am aware that he is tall, with olive skin and dark hair, and I am small and pale. My very blondness makes me feel more frail. I feel no hatred for this man. Having grown up in East Hartford, where the Jewish population is small, I have no expectation that the people around me will be familiar with Judaism. In an instant, however, I feel frustration at a system that would allow a foolish and ignorant man to become the principal. Too much is going through my mind for me to speak, but, in an instant, my friend speaks for me. With her confident smile, she looks at the principal and says, simply, "It's not dessert, it's Matzah." "Oh", he replies, and walks away.

How amazing! My friend is truly an amazing person! She is my champion, and the champion of Jews everywhere, even though she isn't Jewish! She was not even trying to be brave, she simply was brave. I marvel that despite her scraggly hair and shabby clothes, she is so confident with grown-ups. I vow at that instant never again to cower in fear and embarrassment at being Jewish, or at engaging in any Jewish practice. I vow that from that day forward, if anyone questions me on Jewish practice I will simply smile and explain it. I will do this for my entire life, and I will do it in honor of my brave friend.

Flashforward:

It is 2004, and for the last 15 years I have been working in a law firm with roots going back to the mid 1800's. The firm is sometimes referred to as a "white shoe" firm, meaning it has existed since the days, perhaps in the early 1900's, when men wore white shoes. By 2004, I am a partner in the firm. Before preparing the annual calendar for partner's meetings, the managing partner calls me to ask about the dates of Jewish holidays. I give him the information he requires, and any other explanations he may want. I am seen as the firm's resident expert in Judaism. Because of my red headed friend, I have never shied away from explaining what the holidays are about or when they take place. Thank you, my red headed friend, who, by example, gave me a voice that allowed me to be myself in all aspects of American life.

Parkinson's, Proud and Powerful - A Rosh Hashanah Reflection

The other day an old friend, with whom I was having dinner, told me approvingly that I didn't look like I had Parkinson's disease. She meant well, trying to give me a compliment, I guess, as many others have in the past. But the truth is, it struck me the wrong way. After all, what's wrong with having Parkinson's Disease? Often, if I'm having tremors, or difficulty moving, spilling my soup, or using my cane, I do look like I have Parkinson's disease, but who cares? Not me! And neither, I don't think, does God.

Which brings me to my Rosh Hashanah reflection. Rosh Hashanah is a communal holiday in that the community prays and celebrates together, but it is also a very personal holiday. It's personal in that it's incumbent on us all to reflect on the past year, on what we did wrong, on what we did right, on our blessings, on our sorrows, on how we can begin again, and do our best. In short, we all get a fresh start, a new beginning, a chance to do better. In Hebrew the word "t'shuvah" is used to mean that we can turn around, turn towards a better path. We also pray, metaphorically, for God to inscribe us for a good and a sweet year in the book of life. We recognize that it is up to God to decide who will live and who will die, who will prosper, and who will be poor, who will lie in a bed of pain, and who will get well from an illness. But however harsh God's decree, we acknowledge that it can be tempered by repentance, prayer and charity.

I needed to do a little research to apply these concepts to my current situation. After all, I wanted to know, how can I promise to do better, when I'm often too tired to do much of anything? How can I expect a good year, when my medical prognosis is that I'll get worse. How can I expect a sweet year, when I know I'll often be in pain. How can I repent, when I have an excuse for spending most of my energy on myself. What can I pray for, when the state of my health is a forgone conclusion. How can charity make a difference for me?

The Torah teaches us that God's law is within the reach of us all, not far away up in the heavens where we cannot reach. Sure enough, once I started looking, I found my answers right at my finger tips, on my I-phone. With the help of Google, the wisdom of many Rabbis and thinkers, the wisdom of the ages, was available to me in a few moments. There I found the answers to my questions.

First, as the prayer book says, God does not expect us all to be Moses, only to be the best person we are capable of being. I can do that. Even when I'm feeling stiff and out of sorts, I can try to be a better listener. I can be more loving to my family and friends who have been so wonderful in supporting me. I can try to be less judgmental, and more compassionate to

others. In short, there are lots of ways that I can try to do better that don't require me to move much, or be active, or to give up my afternoon naps.

Second, I can have a good and sweet year by opening my heart to the beauty and joy that surrounds us. Judaism teaches us to recite a blessing for every occurrence, even difficult ones. There are blessings for various times of day, for various types of food, for beholding natural beauty, and just for waking up in the morning. In fact, there is even a blessing to recite upon seeing a deformed or handicapped person, "Blessed art thou, Oh Lord our God, who creates diversity." So I guess its okay to see myself as just another of God's wonders, cane, tremors and all. (Or, as my husband says "Parkinson's, Proud and Powerful"). More importantly, it's important for me to open up my eyes and my heart to see the wonders all around me: our beautiful earth, the delicious and plentiful food we enjoy, the care and affection I receive from my beloved family and friends. That's an awful lot of goodness, and even sweetness, for me to enjoy, despite a few aches and pains and inconveniences.

Third, to the extent that I may be subject in the upcoming year to a little bit of harshness, I can make it better by repentance prayer and charity. I can make my life better by repenting in the true sense of "t'shuvah", by changing course, by being thankful for my many blessings instead of focusing on my problems. Prayer can remind me to do this. The Jewish prayer book is full of praise and blessings for God's many wonders. By praying, I can remind myself of the splendor of the universe and the joy one can get from a lovely day or a pretty flower, or the sweetness of a child's kiss. Charity can help me get my mind off myself, by reaching out to those with bigger problems than I have. Even with the problems I have reaching, I can still reach as far as my checkbook, and that can help a lot of people in need.

So I guess I've got my work cut out for me this High Holiday Season, as always, but with the same opportunities as everyone else to make this a meaningful time of reflection, and to make the next year better than the last.

Wishing all of you and your families a Good and Sweet Year, and may you all be be inscribed for blessing in the Book of Life.

Reflections on 40 Years of Marriage

I hated to let our fortieth anniversary pass without writing about it -- but I've had writer's block. Finally, I read through years of old journal entries, and I realized why.

The reason that I find it hard to write about forty years of marriage is that I don't have a lot to say. Our story is amazingly simple. We fell in love, we stayed in love. In short, we were lucky.

I have no secrets about how to have a happy marriage. If you asked the experts, we probably did everything wrong. Sometimes we yelled, got mad about stupid little things, took out our frustrations on each other.

We never stayed mad for an entire 24 hours, but that was not by design. It was just that neither of us could stand it when the other was angry. If we left the house angry in the morning, we would each go into our office, close the door, call the other and make up.

In fact, most of our fights centered around one of us acting angry or inattentive, taking the other for granted, or, God forbid, seeming not to need or want the other around. Maybe we were always a little immature, but we somehow believed that if we fought about it enough, we could make our love perfect. I could never accept being together just because we fell in love once a long time ago. I wanted us to fall in love again, and again, and again...and we did.

For no particular reason, John always made me happy. Don't get me wrong, John is a wonderful person, and many people have told me so. But there are a lot of other wonderful people in the world. There is no explanation for why John's particular voice, particular smile, particular touch, make me so happy. I have stopped looking for the reason.

Now that we're older, we actually get along better. We have enough money, no young children to raise, and we've finally each learned to trust our judgment that marrying each other was a good idea. We've gotten past the idea that just because we married young, it would never work out. That was our parents' idea -- I sometimes feel that they went to their graves still waiting for our marriage to fail.

We haven't actually ever accepted the fact that we aren't still young, and, as long as we are together, we never need to. We adore being grandparents, but have simply adjusted our perspective, believing that we are young, our children are barely grown, and our grandchildren are babies.

We fell in love in what was then a faraway place, Rouen, France, when we were studying abroad. We never had a chance to show anyone in the family where our budding romance occurred... until this year. We had hoped to return with our whole family, but our daughter Rachel, her husband Jon, and their twenty month old twins had just relocated to Arkansas and were happily settling in. Our son Marc, his wife Cheryl and their two children, Hannah (7) and Max (3), were, however, able to accompany us to Paris, with a day planned for a trip to Rouen.

When we got to Rouen, it was gray and rainy. The streets looked smaller than I remembered, the pedestrian mall was deserted. I was telling myself to accept the fact we could never really share the magic, when, walking down the street holding Hannah's hand, she asked me how Grandpa and I knew were were in love.

It was, in fact, the street John and I were walking on, discussing an F.Scott Fitzgerald book, when he first proposed. At the time, I was so excited, I considered myself a veritable Zelda while she was still full of life and excitement.

When precious little Hannah asked me that question, I knew at once that she was the right person for the job of eldest grandchild. She was naturally intuitive, and would be a wonderful keeper of the flame. Suddenly the rain was beautiful, perfect really, and I felt as happy as I had on the day John had proposed. Maybe happier. The dreams we had dreamed so long ago and so far away had come true. In fact, life had exceeded our dreams, for we had made our way back to this place not only with a child, as we had dreamed, but with grandchildren too.

It took me a moment to answer Hannah's question. Then, I knew the answer was clear. "I just wanted to be with him all the time, " I said. And you know what? I still do.

Top 10 Reasons its lucky to have a Chronic Degenerative Disease

10. You learn to be a good actor, telling people you "love retirement", and "never really wanted to go on that trip anyway"...

9. You improve your math and organizational skills sorting medications and keeping track of doctors' appointments.

8. You get to use a stylish cane (walker, wheelchair...).

7. You get a lot of nice views of the backs of your friends and relatives as they walk ahead of you, leave you resting on a bench...

6. You finally have a good excuse not to try out for the Olympics.

5. You have an opportunity to actually understand Medicare, so at least you know why your prescriptions aren't covered.

4. You have a chance to be on a first name basis with your pharmacist.

3. You have time to see all the reruns of "Golden Girls", "Gunsmoke", and "Leave it to Beaver".

2. You have hours every day to sing out loud, with no one around to complain.

1. You have plenty of time to sit around composing stupid top ten lists!

Finding Myself --- Again

Flashback: The year is 1981, it is evening, and I am walking on the streets of New York alone, on my was to see the movie, "The French Lieutenant's Woman". I have been sent by my new employer, the State of Connecticut Banking Department, to New York to attend a conference. In the evening between the two days of the conference I go to the movie. I am so excited. My new legal career has been launched, and I am managing as a working Mom. I love the movie beyond all proportion to how good it is.

Flashforward: It is December 8, 2010, the last night of Chanukah. I am sitting in my favorite lounge chair, surrounded by diet ginger ale, used kleenex, and empty pill containers. I have taken all my medications for the day, including my pre-bedtime dose of medication for my bronchitis and my middle of the night dose of Parkinson's Disease medicine. I've had a nice day, out with friends to a museum trip and luncheon, out with John for one last night of latkes, and a nice long chat with my sister. All this topped off with a phone call from my daughter Rachel saying that she and her husband Jon will accept my offer to accompany them on their move to Arkansas, and to stay for a week or so to help watch the kids while they settle in. John has said that maybe he can come on the weekend.

John went to bed a couple of hours ago, but I needed to unwind. Just for fun, I have just watched an old romantic movie from 1989 called "Chances Are". It's hard to watch without feeling a little sad about how good Robert Downey, Jr. used to be. During the movie, I am feeling excited, thinking about the trip to Arkansas, and our upcoming trip to Paris with Marc and Cheryl and their children. I am wondering if I can pull it all off, or will be felled by more bronchitis. But, reminding myself that both Paris and Arkansas are warmer in the winter than Connecticut, I feel optimistic. Besides, antibiotics are available both in Arkansas and Paris, just in case.

As I am about to go to bed, the television announcer states that the next movie is "The French Lieutenant's Woman". I make the motions of staying up to watch it, but knowing that I will fall asleep, I hit the DVR button so I can see the rest in the morning. I settle back in my lounge chair, and happily begin to watch the movie. I love the movie beyond all proportion to how good it is. It is a sign: my new career, as traveling Grandma, is being launched.

As life goes on, and things change, moving forward for me has not been so much a process of reinventing myself, but of finding myself again in the new surroundings. I realize now that it wasn't being a lawyer that defined me, it was being enthusiastic, and excited about what I was doing that defined me. In "The French Lieutenant's Woman" the characters are movie stars who glide back and forth between the roles they play as 19th century Londoners, and their real lives, but the story is eerily similar in both settings, and the ending uncertain. Perhaps that is why I have always loved that movie, it is a story of self transcending setting. It is also a reminder to me that there are times in life when joy happens, when difficulties only appear to be challenges, and when new doors open when we least expect it.

Do I love "The French Lieutenant's Woman" beyond proportion to how good it is? Do I love life beyond proportion to how good it is? Maybe -- or maybe sometimes, a movie, or a day, is really just that good.