Rebellious Thoughts of a Woman

I was warned that my new hometown in the Pacific Northwest is not very Jewish. This was not just in comparison to New York City or Israel or southern Florida, the very Jewish places where I have lived, but in comparison to northern Virginia, where I also lived, which is not very Jewish.

On the first day of school, just weeks after we moved from Israel to Virginia, I introduced myself to the mothers at the bus stop, as my daughters shyly looked at their potential new friends. Upon hearing that we moved from Israel, one woman pointed to another mother and daughters coming towards us and said, “Look, there’s Leslie, she’s Jewish, too!” Which was a welcome, and a warning that things would be different from what I was used to.

Growing up Jewish in Queens in the ‘60s and ‘70s was to feel like any other group; we were in enough numbers to be an integral part of the city, and there were enough bagel places and delis to back that up! Our holidays were school holidays. New York was (is?) a salad bowl, but prepared by someone who doesn’t like their vegetables to touch, yet each of the different veggies were needed to make it delicious.

In Virginia, I understood what it meant to be a minority during the December “Holiday” party in the high school where I taught. There were years that I didn’t go, not wanting to be a Debbie Downer with my sour expression at the Christmas stuff, abundantly aware that this is not my holiday. Other years I went, following up the festivities with an email to the principal protesting the “our Lord was born” song that the school choir sang beautifully. Some years I let the dreidel song appease me. Not that anyone did anything wrong; it was an annual unable-to-ignore acknowledgement of what it feels like to be a minority.

When my daughters were in high school, I had to argue against their fear of missing a day of school and my insistence that honoring our holidays (Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur!) was more important. (Even teachers understand priorities.)

Which all goes to say that it’s not easy being a minority, and that a person who is a minority, but doesn’t necessarily look it, continually perceives how much she is or wants to be separate or integrated into the larger society. At this point in my personal history (where I see myself as a woman who is Jewish, American, and Israeli) and history itself with the rise in antisemitism, I have no intention of hiding my identity or only being it in my home or specific public spaces, like my synagogue or at multi-faith meetings in churches, or my writers’ group where I always talk about the latest Jewish-themed blog post I’m writing.

Since October 7^th, the feeling of being fully accepted and part of this country has been severely damaged. There is no way to watch what Jewish students are facing on their campuses and the excuses that are made for the violators, and not know this. It is heart-wrenching. It motivates me. It is to realize some responsibility for them and their plight, and to want to help them fight what has been wrought by previous generations, including my own.

On a recent Thursday afternoon, I was in the local pharmacy, wearing my new Jewish star (made by an artisan in Israel). The clerk said to me, “Good Shabbos.” I instinctively reached to touch my necklace, my statement, and looked at him and saw his name plate said Jonah. Jewish? I wondered. I said, “Thank you. Shabbat Shalom to you.” At that moment, I realized that, while this is not a very Jewish town, there are enough Jews around to not feel alone. It also made me realize that wearing my necklace was not just to proclaim my Jewish identity and pride, but to show other Jewish people that they are not alone. We are here.

In a grocery store the next day, I saw a man wearing a kippah (yarmulke). “Chag Sameach” (Happy Holiday) I said to him since it was Purim (a Jewish holiday). He looked at me, nodded, and said “Chag Sameach.” Another simple exchange. I am not alone.

Since October 7^th, when I wear either a Jewish star or Chai (חי) necklace, people often say that they like my necklace. To me this is code: I’m Jewish too. Or, I see you, you are not alone in the negative whirlwind that has descended.

But there is also this.

Before I brought my laptop for service last week, I pulled off the Jewish & Proud sticker that I got at the recent BBYO convention. A small part of me feared that an antisemite would be assigned to repair my computer, and, seeing the sticker, would infect it with a virus. I’m not pleased with myself, but I don’t know if I would do anything different going forward. I put it back on my laptop as soon as I got home—and it is here, back on my laptop. This, too, is what it means to be part of the Jewish minority, especially since October 7^th.

Perhaps the take-away point is that we are part of the continuum of Jewish history, not separate from it—there is never separate from it—this is how it has always been, unfortunately. This perspective may help each of us figure out what that means to us, and how we can ensure that our history continues (or help it to continue if you are not Jewish), still hoping, though, for shorter downturns and decreasing in intensity.

Naivete is no longer an option. Neither is ignorance.

What does it mean to be Jewish? This is the question. How has this changed and how will I change going forward?  

I’m branching out! I just started a Substack called Sharing Insights . This will be another home where I plan on sharing insights, as well as providing support, empathy, consolation, and lighthearted moments that show our hearts are made of/for compassion and love.

I plan to continue posting here, generally the same posts because there’s just so much that I can do and think and feel and write.

So please, either continue subscribing here or, if you’ve gotten comfy on Substack, I invite you to subscribe to my newsletter, Sharing Insights, there.  

Thank you thank you thank you for being a reader. Thinking of you helps me write.

The main topics that will continue to write about include: being a woman, a mother, and soon! to be a grandmother, retirement, single living, caregiving, elder care, Judaism, and Israel.

“Move up. Don’t sit alone.”

That was not me whispering to myself when I got to temple on Friday night, the night after the Bibas boys returned dead, murdered in Gaza, and the day that their mother, Shiri, finally, returned, murdered as well. That was the rabbi, gesturing to me, encouraging me to join the congregation.

I moved up one row.

She came over to me, and asked me to move even closer to the front, to where people were sitting. “You look like you could use fellowship tonight.”

I moved up some more, to behind a new friend. Rather than staying on my own, pretending I hadn’t noticed her, I moved to sit next to her. When I turned around, I saw a man I met a few days earlier at a temple event and encouraged him to sit next to us. So, instead of being by myself in the back, I was now in the second row between two new friends.

At the beginning of the service, the rabbi tearfully called everyone to join her on the bima (raised part of the synagogue). She said that many of us were there that night because we were devastated by the deaths of the Bibas family, and that trans people and those who love them were fearful for the future, and there were researchers whose funding had just been cut off. Then she stopped, as if overwhelmed by the sheer amount of pain in and around her. So many of us were in tears, barely holding it together. After the introductory prayers, there was hugging.

Returning to my seat, I could feel that something within had moved. My sadness was still immense, but it wasn’t a solitary burden. Now, it felt like being within a communal pot of pain and compassion.

I have attended synagogues where intellectual discussions were the way to connect to and be inspired by Judaism. Sometimes the singing and music were how I engaged and rose above quotidian thoughts. Occasionally, the words of the prayers themselves made the connection between past and present. Rarely, though, do I feel G!d or the Divine Presence or the Spirit that connects me to beyond me—but that night I got what I needed without words and analysis. Perhaps I needed it so much, perhaps I pushed myself to feel beyond thinking, perhaps it is about wanting something and not preventing it from occurring.

A religious gathering that brought together people in pain, in fear, in solitude—needing to discover/uncover sustenance for the soul. To find that which aches and to realize it can be lessened, that there can be moments of entry of the connecting tissue. To acknowledge that I need more, whatever that may be, is to accept a level of unknown and unknowingness. It is not to make demands. I am one vessel. It is to keep being who I am and not close off myself. Knowing that to be open, to not seal myself off, mentally or physically, is the way into what may be.

This phrase from Psalm 92 is ringing in my ears: It is good to give thanks to the Lord, and to sing to Your name, O Most High. To declare in the morning Your kindness and Your faith at night.

https://www.jpost.com/israel-news/article-843061

Maybe We Can Smile Tomorrow, as an Act of Resilience and Affirmation

“Smile,” the woman said to me when I told her that no, she can’t take a chair from the table where I was sitting in this busy coffee shop. I had already given one of my tables to them and told a few people in her group that they can’t take any chairs from around my table, which I needed for my own group that would be meeting soon.

She reminded me of men in NYC whose lewd hoots and howls would often include demands to smile. It is not a positive connection. Her comment was annoying; though, I know it was not meant that way. My basic suggestion is if you don’t know someone, don’t tell them to smile. And my next suggestion is that if you do know someone, don’t tell them to smile—unless it’s for a picture.

Sorry, not sorry, lady, but I’m not in a smiling mood. I’m wearing a bright orange sweater today for, what I fear is in memory of, Shiri, Ariel, and Kfir Bibas. I chose to envelop myself in this pain and to declare it; though, I assume that I’m the only one here who knows what it represents.

It’s hard to be alone in your specific awareness of the world. This is a time when it is especially hard to live outside of Israel, where the Bibas babies are at the forefront of people’s minds today. But it shouldn’t be. This should be everyone’s awareness. How are we enabling such monsters to continue terrorizing Jews and the non-them world?

Yesterday morning, I was at a social event at temple when I received a text from a friend confirming (we now have final, forensic confirmation that Ariel and Kfir were returned in coffins, their mother is still unaccounted for) that they had been killed. I went to the bathroom to cry in a stall. I didn’t share the news with anyone. Even in Jewish circles, my focus on Israel makes me an outlier. This is not a regret; in fact, I’m proud of this. It pushes me from what could be self-centeredness. But, still, it is always to be aware of a separation.

What do I live for? What do you live for? What would make you wear your broken heart publicly?

Today, I craved a sufganiyah (jelly donut). As I walked to Voodoo donuts, I realized that Kfir Bibas was too young to have ever had one, which is such a staple of Israeli childhood—and adulthood, too. This is for Kfir and his brother Ariel, who won’t be able to compare whose donut had more jelly in it.

******

And to those who continue to support and encourage the monsters who kidnapped and killed entire families, and young people from a peace festival, and today—today!—planted bombs on buses in the Tel Aviv area (thankfully they exploded when no people were on them—were they planted by newly released terrorists in this deal, ready to resume trying to kill Jews?)—you are monsters, too. This is not about politics or policies or politicians. This is about humanity. Find yours!

The former Emmanuel Shearith Israel Synagogue in Denver

For 501 days and nights (which is 43,286,400 seconds, each of which the hostages feel intensely; and we, empathetic humans are still counting, tearfully) the Israeli hostages have been held by savages in Gaza.

For 501 days, I have consumed and been consumed by news of seemingly non-stop attacks against Israel and vile acts of antisemites around the world.

Since this ceasefire started a few weeks ago and hostages have been released—with visible signs of having been tortured for being Jews—the horror has seeped even deeper into my moral being and my Jewish soul.

October 7 should have been the day on which the evil that erupted was promptly stopped. The outrage that should have reverberated should have ripped off the mask of false resistance and should have brought forth a reckoning with terrorism and its attempt to deny Jewish rights in Israel and around the world. But it didn’t.

What did happen is that too many people (in universities, the media, international “human rights” organizations, the UN, in governments) doubled-down on hate and support of a terrorist regime: one that is genocidal, apartheid, and colonialist.

For 501 days I have seen darkness in the guise of indifference: darkness that is accompanied by morally bankrupt words.

But for a few days last week I took a break from thinking of dank, hollow, twisted cavities within seemingly human bodies for whom life is about death.

I spent time at the BBYO conference where thousands of Jewish teens from around the world gathered in joy where their Jewish identity was a sign of friendship, purpose, connection, and continuity—and that has entered my heart.

My Israeli colleagues/friends, for whom this was a break from the constant pressure of war, and news, and demonstrations, and lack of confidence in leadership that constantly test their inner strength, could, for a few days, breathe air that is not infused with pain, fear, worry, sorrow, and anger. Their momentary relief, perhaps, gives them space to remember what normal life looks like, and to wonder—hope!—that it is possible again.

With one Jewish friend, we always talk about the eruption and infestation of antisemitism, pinpointing and then circling around how we have lost our naivete that the world had moved on from its own history, its allegiance to antisemitism. But now, talking to these teens I feel a strengthening in my core, in my DNA. To be Jewish is not just to experience the violence of antisemitism, it is to be defiant and proud of our Jewish identity.

Recently, I heard a rabbi say that Jews are not victims, meaning that we don’t wallow in our victimhood, but move on with life. (On a personal level, I believe in the need for some wallowing and self-pity, but I get what he means.) One teen seemed to exemplify this. She said that the antisemitism in Montreal wasn’t as bad as it has been. A realistic lioness.

Over our history, Jews have been victims of repeated violence and expulsions. Not everyone wants to deal with that. Apparently, historically, only 20% of Jews have remained Jews, going all the way back to the slaves who left Egypt with Moses. The others, for whatever reason—usually because they were forced to or made the calculation for themselves and their families—took the “let’s join the majority” route. This explains why so many people in Europe, the Middle East, and North Africa have Jewish DNA.

But those of use whose families stayed the course, didn’t lean on their victimhood, as painful as it was, because to be Jewish is to live, to move forward even when your heart is leaden, to try to be better—in whatever situation life brings your way. It feels like we are at a moment like this now where the world has erupted against us. It’s so clear that this is not the time for appeasement. For what? For whom? For those who think killing Jews is a cleanse?

In a conversation with two Jewish friends the day before flying to the conference, we talked whether we wear our Jewish identity in public. One woman puts the tape with the number of days the hostages have been held on her phone. I said that I generally wear my Jewish star. But now I commit to making it even more of a habit. Showing that I am a proud Jewish person will be my base-line. Writing here is another. Now I need to think about what else I will do.

What are you doing or will you do to not be a bystander or witness who lets evil against the Jewish people happen unchallenged?

The difference was stark: the best of humanity and the worst of humanity on a stage in the middle of Gaza. Four young women, Israeli hostages held by terrorists for 477 days in darkness and deprivation, overcoming whatever new fears arose as they were finally out in the open, but now surrounded by hundreds of masked, armed terrorists still chanting for their destruction, smiling, supporting each other, giving a thumbs up—which seemed to me to be a glorious middle finger—to the assembled horde. 

Humanity vs. inhumanity. Love vs. hate. Hope vs. destruction. Light vs darkness. Good vs. evil.

How does “the world” give validation to these terrorists, all men, in new uniforms, faces completely covered, standing shoulder to shoulder, lacking in individuality or signs of humanity for whom intimidation and brutality—in displays and actions—are their essence and existence. The scene felt like a thin veneer covering the flames of hatred bred from birth. Not a drop of remorse for what they made these women endure. An entire society raised to hate with their putrid intentions aimed at Israelis and Jews, for now. These women survived that. What will they see when they close their eyes, trying/crying for sleep, for the rest of their lives? My heart continues to ache for them.

So much light coming from the four young women who survived hell and were about to return to the heaven that is home: family, friends, and a community that cares for their well-being. They seemed to reflect the light that hearts have been sending to them for 11,448 hours of prayers.

Watching them on that stage, alive!, in pain and joy, is to know what it means to love someone you will never know. A pure love. One soul, somehow, connecting to another. This is what it means to be part of the Jewish people. It must be an essential part of the Jewish survival instinct.

קול ישראל ערבים זה לזה

Kol Yisrael arevim zeh la-zeh.

All Jews are responsible for one another.

(I thought I should talk about the masked men brandishing their weapons, directing the red cross and these four young women, and last week the three young women who were transferred in the middle of a mob that was barely tempered by civility, coming out of tunnels to chant for death, proclaiming that this is victory. But I decided that I don’t have to think about them or the people who think they are heroes. No. This is all they get. Perhaps the next generation (of both), or the one after it, can be saved from barbarity?)

“What three words describe how you feel now?” was the prompt in an online Havdalah service for women that I attended Saturday night.

“Relief. Anger. Hope.” My response. I wasn’t surprised to see that many of us included “anger” in our trio.

Relief for the hostages who have already been released (exchanged for terrorists, murderers, but that is another discussion).

Anger that the Jewish people are again/still suffering from antisemitism, and that there are those who see Jews as less than.

Hope, Tikvah, תִּקְוָה. The sentiment that binds us, that the Torah inspires in us, that our history demands of us.

My fourth word: community. I am not alone. You are not alone. We are. We are here for each other. We will be.

Fiddler on the Roof on Christmas Day. Great idea. Connecting to my traditions on a day when everything closes for other people’s traditions. I bought tickets as soon as possible.

When I taught Hebrew school, I showed the movie to my students, explaining that it depicts what life was like for most of our ancestors before coming to America (most of us were Ashkenazi Jews). Often, they had no idea that their roots traced back beyond Virginia (where we lived) or New York (where so many grandparents lived).

The movie theater was full, with people (me!) ready to sing-along. But as soon as the fiddler’s soul sounded, so achingly mournful, I teared up. Then, when Tevye ruminated about Tradition (see below) as images from around the shtetl appeared, silent tears fell. If I hadn’t been in a crowded movie theatre with my mother next to me, I might have bawled.

In the past, I saw this movie as an homage to our ancestors, honoring a way of life they lived for generations, amidst economic and physical challenges simply for being Jews. It recreated the life that the Holocaust destroyed. Images of the wooden shul, a sacred place, made me anxiously sentimental, imagining it going up in flames a few decades later.

Now, in the aftermath of October 7, with surging antisemitism (Jew-hatred, Israeli-hatred, Israel-hatred) it feels too real. Less story and history, more future possibility.

The state-sanctioned pogrom that drives the Jews from their homes in Anatevka is frightening in a new way. I’m more aware of the process by which pogroms prepared the ground for the Holocaust, when six million Jews were killed, and millions more were displaced and haunted, living with pain even as most managed to overcome and live new lives in new places. It is also to remember the neighbors who watched or participated.

Hatred of Jews—for whatever imagined, scapegoating reason—is a stain on humanity, generation after generation. It never went away, as we, I ! , had thought / hoped it had / would in this era of universal human rights. This failure of humanity is another source of anguished tears.

This movie is not only a glimpse into life before the Holocaust incinerated it, it is a warning shadow cast long into the future. I didn’t pay attention to that before.

In that art house cinema, I felt no joy, even as I sang familiar songs and reconnected with the past embedded within me.

Why did our ancestors have to leave the Land of Israel, most to live in the diaspora for thousands of years? Why did they have to flee their homes in Jerusalem, Tiberias, Tzfat, Hebron, Gaza, to then live in and be expelled from Italy, France, Germany, Russia, Poland? Why did they have to seek protection and do jobs no one else wanted to do, as they rebuilt their lives? Survival would not be denied.

Watching that movie filled me with sadness and anger, mixing with determination, commitment, and love. Traditions give strength despite having been punished for holding onto them, believing in them, continuing them. They are what sustains us—and we deserve sustaining.

Tonight is the 8^th night of Hanukkah. I will light the candles with my mother, younger daughter, and her boyfriend. We will eat latkes (traditional and vegan), brisket, vegan cholent, and vegan sufganiyot (jelly donuts). Old and new. Adapting traditions to keep us and strengthen us.

What drama or musical will come from the experiences of this past year and two months, and the continued torture of the hostages?

There are the rips to the fabric of our daily lives. But there will be—there must be—a new version of “Tradition” to sing, as painful as the memories it summons.

Stairway in Vizcaya Museum

“They all want to kill us.”

They: The most obvious of them are in marauding mobs of violent young men and the pundits, academics, leaders—people—whose mouths and pens expel contorted words, encased in hate, racism, and ego. Bullets in disguise. They barely see through their blinders. Just because they think they are otherwise does not mean that they are. (Do they see that Israel continues to be bombed daily? Do they see that Jews are people? Alas, does it matter to them?)

A caring person—Jew, non-Jew—wonders who those people would be without the Jew to condemn. Living life as a negation of life is neither a fulfilling nor a good life. How does it feel to be contorted with hate for the other—an other who you may never have met? What would it feel like to live motivated by love and compassion, by being kind?

Us: Israelis. Jews. People. A family. A tribe. A nation. We have a 4,000+ year history in the Land of Israel. For half that time most of our ancestors have lived in the diaspora: forced from our homeland and prohibited from returning. Still, what a glorious thing it is to be a people connected to and guided by our ancient religion, language, and customs, while also committing to the places where we live, accepting their customs within our own. Adaptable. To be part and apart. But always cautious, fearing, that the time will come when they will turn on us. (My generation has been so very naïve: our naivete a gift that has been snatched from us.)

Scapegoated. Oppressed. Faulted. Robbed.

Their antisemitism against us. What is with the constant condemnation? Will we ever break free from the longest hatred? The ill-logic of those who are unable to accept an other while preaching for human rights.

Once again, they are trying to draw a shroud over us. Their twisted, twisting words that lie and mislead. Shouldn’t creativity be used for good?

Jews are stuck in a cyclone into which we were picked up and held within for more than 2,000 years. Speak of generational trauma. And yet, we move forward, always trying to improve, to better the places we live, the societies in which we participate, the world as it functions. 

How would you feel if this was you? How would you react to only being seen as negative?

Our answer is to keep working on bringing light, improving the world, and protecting our people.

October 7^th and its aftermath have become a new part of Jewish identity. This event seems to be within the canon of the stories of our honey-and-horseradish history. Will it join the “They tried to kill us, we survived, let’s eat” events of our past? I wonder how long it took for our ancestors to transition from a tragedy to a holiday for which we now use the word “celebrate”? It’s hard to imagine this loss being anything other than painful. But it also seems necessary to ensure commemoration of lives lost, injuries endured, trauma experienced, breaks on so many levels, and the uncompromising perseverance to overcome—together.

Meanwhile, we’re still fighting to live in peace in our homeland (and not be threatened by antisemites in the lands of our homes); and we’re figuring out how to experience the fall Jewish holidays when there are STILL 101 HOSTAGES being terrorized in Gaza, and Israel is being attacked from seven entities, and far too many Israeli citizens are spending more time on battlefields than playing fields or in the fields (literal and figurative) in which they live and work. While those left at home (and for far too many these are temporary homes), and these are mainly women, who are burdened with so much: it is as if they have become the national Stress Absorbers so that their partners can focus on their role as protectors and defenders. It means that the “I’m spent” that a friend recently expressed is part of the national mood. It also means that those of us not living there, especially Jews and Israelis—me—constantly feel our connection because, to rephrase Hillel, Who am I if I am not for my people? And if not now, when?

And while this painful situation—this war—results in more deaths in Israel, and Gaza, and Lebanon because hate is so powerful, it has also made the backbone of Jewish history upright and defiant. What do we need to move forward toward acceptance and empathy, leading to peace and not another round of war? We are determined.

One wish is for the morally deprived mouthpieces around the world to stop distorting reality and to start caring about living Jews. I know that this is a rhetorical question, though it shouldn’t be: How hard is it to care about everyone when that is precisely what you claim?

It occurs to me that this must be what it felt like to live within a bible story, wondering about the Light and from where it will come—and sometimes, in the darkest of nights, if it will come. Belief, emunah, as I am starting to realize, is something that you do, that you commit to, because you can’t bear the unfathomable pain that life can bring if it is only the finiteness of each of our lives. Existence—purpose and love and loss—must contribute to a unifying crescendo.

At a reading of the names of the victims of October 7^th at a memorial service, I noticed that so many Hebrew names relate to light. We, as a people, as a religion—as parents imagining our children—are always looking to create the light, to bring the light, to share the light. This as our intention: it could be a start if you let yourself see it.

Each time during the Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur services and during the memorial service, when we sang the Acheinu* (Our brothers and sisters) prayer/plea, I was overcome with emotion. I wasn’t remembering a specific person I had loved, rather it was a profound moment of loss surrounded by others in similar pain, and being comforted by the energy and emotion emanating from each of us. A powerful moment of connection, making me realize that I am never truly alone.

Perhaps, at this moment when my religion and my people are being maligned, it is when I find most meaning and support within them. Not just in the traditions, observances, and learning, but in the people who connect now and in time and space for millennia.

I am not alone. I am not broken. I am strengthened.

* Acheinu: Our brothers, our sisters, the entire family of Israel, the entire world, all who are in distress or taken into captivity, whether on the sea or on dry land, may the Ever-present One have mercy upon them and bring them out from narrowness to expanse, from darkness to light, from subjugation to redemption, now, speedily, and soon, and let us say, Amen.

An Israeli town: people want to live peaceful lives.

It is relentless.

It is not new.

It is always shameful.

Century after century, there are those who want to kill Jews. Too many succeed. That is not a reason to forfeit anything, especially one’s identity. And for what alternative? To become one of the haters, one of those with no capacity for tolerance and compassion. Being Jewish teaches you many things, but it especially teaches you about other people and their capacity for self-centeredness, closemindedness, intolerance, and evil.

We are here. Hineni. I am here.

How absurd it is that our haven, Israel, the one place where we can live without facing the impositions of a majority culture, is so dangerous for that very reason. Why are acceptance and acknowledgement so hard?

How absurd that we cannot be allowed to live in our sliver of land uninterrupted by rockets and unending attacks that counter our flourishing life with noxious hatred. Which is preferable?

How absurd that the world cannot let this minority (15 million people, a mere 0.2% of the world’s population) live in peace, a people amidst people. Perhaps if we could be called a critically endangered species we would be protected.

How absurd that we face the old, repeatedly debunked libels because antisemitism still festers like an epidemic that is never fully defeated. Again, this says more about the antisemites than the Jews who have tried to adhere to whatever rules have been imposed upon us only to be used, repeatedly, as scapegoats and checkbooks, and then thrown out.

How absurd that compassion has been perverted to demonize one group while lionizing another? If you only seem to care about one group, is it compassion or hatred that is truly guiding you?

And, of course, there are those who see this happening, century after century, standing by, letting it happen. Are they afraid to be seen as different, to think for themselves, to care for the other? Does it matter? Complicity is still guilt.

There are pictures of people cheering on these deadly attacks on Israel—the deaths of people—calling for more.

Jews are being attacked for being Jewish, maligned for standing up for their lives, their people, their homeland. A barrage of all 3 Ds of antisemitism (as formulated by Natan Sharansky) daily in the media: demonization, de-legitimization and double standards pertaining to Jews. The media and politicians blame Israel for fighting back, telling Jews that their lives don’t matter. Why should anyone listen to their voices? Certainly not us.

There are far worse humanitarian crises happening. And the world, as always, is silent about them. They only have the capacity to focus on one group. How intellectually and morally starved. A starvation that leads to real starvation around the globe—and in terror tunnels.

Why does our mettle, our commitment, need to be constantly tested? Those of us who are Jewish know that our ancestors resisted attempts at forced conversions throughout our history. Who are we—who am I—to give up now, and to barbarous regimes that are antithetical to everything we believe in. 

Perhaps you could ask us how we feel—and then care about the answer. I keep explaining how I feel because I need to be heard, because my soul craves connection to my people—and your people. My identity is a source of strength that I want you to see, not to overcome or challenge, but to accept and welcome.

These are the six murdered Israelis.

Another morning of waking up to news of murdered Israelis. This time, six of the hostages held by h-m-s, who were recently executed, were found by the IDF in a tunnel in Gaza. These are the faces of people who were simply living their lives 330 days ago, which is 10 months and 25 days, which is autumn, to winter, to spring, to summer, which is the time a baby could be conceived and born, which is the time joy can turn to the bitterest and saddest of emotions, which is more than enough time for the world to care about dead, injured, and captured Jews.

These are two articles about them: Times of Israel and Ynetnews.

At this time, Jews recite the Jewish prayer for mourners, Kaddish. It is usually recited for family members, but these are all our family members now.

https://reformjudaism.org/beliefs-practices/prayers-blessings/mourners-kaddish

Since October 7^th, Jews have been singing and reciting the ancient prayer for those held captive, Acheinu (Our Brothers and Sisters). Each time I sing it in temple or listen to it, there are tears. This version, created by the Hostages and Missing Families Forum includes an English translation and is especially poignant. May the rest of the hostages return alive to their families and loved ones soon!

https://opensiddur.org/prayers/collective-welfare/trouble/captivity/aheinu/

When learning of someone's death, Jews say, “Blessed is the true judge"; "Baruch dayan ha-emet,"

The entire blessing:

• Blessed are You, Lord our God, Eternal one, the True Judge.
• Bah-rookh ah-tah ah-doh-noi eh-loh-hay-noo meh-lekh hah-oh-lahm dah-yahn hah-eh-met
• בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה אֲ-דֹנָי אֱ-לֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם דַּיָּן הָאֱמֶת

I have been quiet lately. I was/am disappointed that my voice is barely heard. But today, after hearing the news of the murders of these hostages, I decided that even if one person reads my thoughts, then I have created a connection—and I will be pleased with that. There is so much to be bitter about, so much Jew-hatred and institutionalized acceptance of Jew-hatred and anti-Zionism, and so much turmoil to be seen, that I cannot let it seem that I have accepted this current state of hatred and stereotyping to continue. I will join my voice to those calling out for real peace, acceptance of Jews and Israelis as people among people, for the return of the hostages, for the cessation of attacks against Israel, for acceptance of Israel as a country, as basic a statement as that.

I am proud to be a Jew, a Zionist, and an Israeli; and I am a grateful to be an American and a native of New York City.  

It shouldn’t be hard to care about each other and see each human as deserving of a free life. So simple. Have a heart for each other. Which gives me hope that the future can be better than the present.

The voices of good must be heard above the voices of hate. 

Walking along towering trees

Today is Day 241 that the Israeli hostages are in captivity. Bring them home now!

It’s nice to be nice. It might not seem to be a powerful message, but it’s one worth taking to heart—and action. To me, it’s up there, for self and society, to be among the most important and aspirational.

In a recent daily video, the rabbi of the Palm Beach Synagogue talked about kindness, proclaiming that it’s “the foundation of the world.” The book of Numbers (called Bamidbar in Hebrew, which means in the Wilderness or Desert) he said “is about kindness. God’s kindness to the Jewish people, the Jewish people’s kindness to future generations.” Then, he said that “the foundation of the world is built on kindness. Kindness is the foundation of our lives.”

Kindness is not generally thought of as a religious attribute or character trait of note. It’s basic and it should be easy. It’s not asking you to consider that you may have hurt people (intentionally or inadvertently) and then ask for forgiveness of yourself or anyone else. It’s not asking you to work on your anger-management issues or your patience, so that you don’t make yourself and the people around you uncomfortable. Can you imagine what the world would be like if people were kind to each other, both as individuals and as groups?

What does it mean for kindness to be foundational? It seems worthwhile to contemplate this on an individual basis, helping assess and learn from one’s own actions, always striving to be better—kinder. Why? Think about how we feel when someone is kind to us? My new neighbors brought freshly-baked cookies when they introduced themselves to me. A new acquaintance walked me partly home from an event at the temple that I will soon refer to as “my temple,” to show me a way to go that is not up and down a steep hill. That warm and fuzzy feeling, and desire to return the kindness to those people and others is tangible.

For many years, I was a teacher. I learned that if I didn’t quiet the part of me that was annoyed or frustrated at a student or students, the annoyance continued, and with it the uncomfortable feeling in the room. And lackluster teaching and learning continued. But when I focused on them—not knowing what a child was going through or how they were feeling or why they were acting in the way they were at that moment—I simply tried to be my best person. Remembering, too, that in addition to teaching content, I was there to be an example of how to act even when annoyed (perhaps purposely triggered by astonishingly loud purposeful pen-clicking), I could feel myself calm and my voice find a softer, brusqueless, tone, certainly better for teaching and mentoring.

My interactions with my ex-husband showed me how unkind I could be, and that was hard to acknowledge. Though it also showed me that I never want to relate to any one again when I was guided by anger, hurt, and tit-for-tat self-preservation.

Which brings me to watching the seething anti-Israel, anti-Zionist, Jew-hating, West-hating, Democracy-hating protestors. They show what it means to not have a shred of kindness directing one’s actions. No explanation can excuse or explain someone calling for the death of another person or people. Or for using rape to achieve anything. What is at the core of their interior world? Where has the kindness fled, if it was ever there?

I have read and heard plenty of insightful analyses of what is happening in our world right now and why, but I can’t stop focusing on the brutal visuals. The burning north of Israel that seems invisible to the world because Israelis are suffering. The pictures of the hostages before they were kidnapped, fearing what they look like now (those who are still alive), after 241 days in hell. And then across the world, the mob mentality that seems to suppress individual thinking and compassion (kindness on a higher scale). And the invisible bystanders, whose timidity belies their own thoughts of their goodness, unwittingly enabling the mob to fester and grow.

While there may not be a simple solution to any conflict between different peoples and religions and ways of life and claims to land, it does seem to come back to people not being kind to each other. But perhaps it’s more basic even than that. Can you be kind to yourself when you harbor hatred? What good can you share with the world if you condemn others to a life of fear?

In researching the butterfly effect, I read what Alessandro Filazzola, a community ecologist and data scientist, said about the impact that one’s individual actions can have; “The items I buy, the people I interact with, the things I say, I believe can each have their cascading effects that ripple through society. That is why it is important to try and be a good person, to create a positive influence. One thing I also think about is how these indirect effects are often not as small and removed as I believe many would think.”

This is my cry, my plea to each of us: to see each other as a good person—I am good and you are good—and act accordingly. I want to tamp down the animus I feel toward those who call for my murder because I am a Jew and an Israeli, and even an American. I cannot force anyone to see me assuming goodness, but I can be a butterfly flapping my wings, living my life with kindness as its foundation.  

A group of butterflies can be called a flight, flirtation, flock, flutter, kaleidoscope, rabble, swarm, or wing of butterflies. Pick the imagery that works for you. Then, imagine your goodness joining with others, fluttering in goodness together. This image will help me remember that my actions are not isolated, that they are part of a larger entity, working to create positive change for us all.

Baking dozens of bagels

Discovering paths near my new home in Oregon

Today is Day 236 that the Israeli hostages are in captivity.

Bring them home!

Life is beautiful, banal, and cruel. We have all experienced moments of each since they broadly cover the human condition. It’s the balance that makes life unfair.

This weekend, I watched the interview with four mothers of the five young Israeli women in the recently-aired video as they were kidnapped and brutalized by H-m-s. Another opportunity for more cracks to the heart because of casual evil, and an overwhelming sense of injustice and helplessness. Empathy for these women and their daughters is too hard to experience because how can I, a mother of daughters who are safe, who are living their undisturbed lives, even purport to comprehend what these mothers—and their daughters—are going through? But they are in me, which feels like a duty I have committed to.

A few hours later, my daughter and her boyfriend came over for dinner. It was early evening on a beautiful spring day in Oregon. We sat in the backyard around a big table, enjoying the food that I cooked over two days, eating and talking about our week, planning for the next week. During pauses we watched the occasional hummingbird feed on the flowering bushes in the back of the garden. Later, I realized that this was the first time that I had anyone over for a meal since before Covid. The last time was brunch with my Sisterhood of Salaam Shalom group. (SOSS is an organization for Jewish and Muslim women to meet as friends, learn from each other, and work toward acceptance and understanding.) I still have hope in connections made around plates of food, though right now that feels like a band-aid when heart surgery is needed.

With all the videos I’ve watched, and articles I’ve read, and essays I’ve written about antisemitism, Jew hatred, and anti-Zionism over the years, after October 7^th I decided that I need to do more—to be more. Learning and awareness are important, but I need to figure out how to stop feeling like an observer.

Almost eight months after that apocalyptic event, I’m acting in a new way: focusing less on me as an isolated individual, and more on me within a Jewish journey. In this space, I plan on sharing some of the lessons and ideas that I learn that resonate with me. To learn from a tradition, a people, a religion that has survived and thrived, in often intolerable conditions, is to honor those who came before, and to learn from the richest, soul-touching, thought-provoking ideas that can inspire me to be a light—to keep me focused on what is essential to continually work on myself to, as I recently read and am absorbing, “show that I am deserving of the Divine Presence.” This seems to be the worthwhile goal.

Trust the Divine Presence and do good; dwell in the land, and be nourished by faith. (Psalm 37:3)

I will miss the sights at the Wakodahatchee Wetlands

Today Is Day 212: Free the Hostages

I was supposed to fly to Israel on Saturday night, April 13. As I finished packing my bags, I heard that large gatherings were being cancelled and schools closed until further notice. Then, that the air space would be closing. Finally (substantiating the reason for the closures), that the Islamic Regime of Iran had sent a barrage of ballistic missiles and attack drones that would arrive sometime while my flight was enroute. Not surprisingly, I cancelled my flight.

That trip had meant so much to me. On a personal level, it was to be with friends in Israel and get a break from the aloneness of being in Florida. On the level of being a proud Jewish woman, one who used to live in Israel, it was essential to connect with Israelis—and the physicalness of Israel—at this moment. I wanted to be there, adding another pained soul calling out for the release of the hostages; to be there supporting those who continue to risk their lives for the safety and security of all Israelis; to be there absorbing some of the sense of loss that exists in the very air; to be there, too, as part of the power that is the Jewish people coming together for the continued strength and survival of our people in the face of yet another maniacal group of haters.

After the initial shock and fear, then relief that the attack was not destructive, I decided to change the order of my plans: move to Oregon first, then visit Israel. Not letting myself seep into wallowing or inertia, I quickly found a house to rent in the city where younger daughter lives. I move this week.

Which means that instead of being within the life and loss of Israel at war, I’m in the shock and horror of watching antisemitism in its ugliest forms on college campuses, spouting from the mouths and bodies of students, professors, staff, agitators, supposed intellectuals, and journalists.

A few days ago, I tried to work on the translation of a Holocaust survivor’s testimony as I have been doing for almost five years. It was too hard, and not just her Hungarian-accented Hebrew, but the fact that at this moment there are people dehumanizing Jews, calling for the mass murder of Jews, claiming that all the ills in the world are the fault of Jews—again.

After a few days, I was back at it. The mob of hate will not stop me.

Watching these hordes and then being told that they are peaceful is stunning, shameful. But more than that, to know that what they have been taught, what has swayed and twisted their minds to say “don’t kill these people, kill those people” as if that’s the greatest expression of human rights, is scary. There is no need for adherence to reality when it comes to hating Jews and Israelis and Israel.

But, listening to young Jewish leaders speak up and push back against the tsunami of lies and distortions from their classmates and instructors is inspirational. Their eloquence and clarity of thought is impressive. It makes me realize why we Jews are still here, after all these onslaughts. Though in each generation there are those who “drop out” and decide to not be Jewish, or to be so against all semblance of what a Jew is that they don’t count, some call these “as a Jew” Jews. The rest of us are going on with learning and studying, figuring out how to stand up in pride, improving each day as an individual, as well as a member of a people who pursue justice for others—though now seems to be a good time to get some help back—but if not, we will do what we need to for ourselves—and still look out for the other. Each of us needs to take on a bit of the burden: the fulfilling burden that is to be part of a people who, though maligned, continues to believe in being a light, for seeing the humanity in each of us for it is foundational to know that each person is created in the image of God; and to “Love your neighbor as yourself.” Now, it seems essential for those neighbors to see us this way, too.

Not a pity party

On my recent birthday, a friend asked what plans I had. I told her, breakfast at my favorite café (Aioli), lunch with my mother at a restaurant on the ocean (Latitudes), ending with a private pity party, perhaps paired with birthday cake. A realistic plan.

I haven’t done pity lately because of my preoccupation with Israel and the continuing brutal holding and who knows what horrors experienced by the 133 hostages; and the continued rocket attacks in Israel, especially in the north and feeling empathy for the stress that all Israelis are living with; and the parallel stress that Jews worldwide are experiencing because of the events in Israel, the resulting vile onslaught of antisemitism and the dangerous hypocrisy that it breeds. And the sadness at the tragedy in Gaza that a terrorist government, supported by another terrorist government, has caused and continues to cause, abetted by antisemites in high places.

The drive home from the restaurant was along the ocean on the A1A, with its occasional view of the ocean amidst luxury homes and lush tropical greenery. A true staycation feeling. For a moment, I forgot the human-created tragedies and noticed the beauty that there still is in this world.

When I got home, I listened to a new voicemail message. It was from my gynecologist. No, big deal, she said, but call before the end of the day to discuss the results of my annual exam.

The no big deal, turned out to be a slight chance of cancer. Ugh. Not the word you want to hear any day, especially on your birthday. But what surprised me was that the celebratory pity party I had planned was immediately replaced by thoughts of gratitude. Of course, I don’t want cancer, and I hope and pray that the follow-up test I took the next week shows that it’s nothing, but in that moment, and since then, I realized that I had no need to wallow in woe-is-me: I am immensely grateful for my life.

Sure, I’d like things to be different, and, yes, I’m working toward that, but all-in-all, my life is pretty darn good. No winter home along the A1A, or even a condo in Delray Beach, or a partner to make my birthday breakfast, but there are people who I care about and who care about me—and I’m retired! And there is purpose outside of myself.

It occurred to me, too, as I tamp down diagnosis anxiety, that the work I’ve been doing on myself, especially since October 7^th, probably has something to do with that. My focus has been more on the spiritual and religious, connecting to the wisdom and stories of Judaism and Jewish people: the long thread of life that has been at the core of my ancestors, and of wanting to be a better version of myself, growing from those traditions and accumulated wisdom.

A friend told me that children view people our age as old. We both laughed at the idea of being considered old in our 60s. But, now, sitting here, I kind of like that. Perhaps that explains where I am on my journey: this desire to focus on the transcendent, on being there for others and learning how to do that best, trying to elevate my soul (that which is essence), to keep being worthy of the trust people have placed in me as a person.

Praying for health and peace and compassion.

Follow-up: I'm thankful to say that the doctor said my test was negative. Breathing sighs of relief.

When people forget our shared humanity—and Israel becomes a pariah state and Jews are pariahed; and blood libels are once again all the rage; and when binary thinking condemns conversations and peaceful conduct—to whom do we turn for strength?

To the wisdom of the wise.

The following is an excerpt from a lecture that Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks, z”l, gave in 2011, titled, “A People that Dwells Alone.”

“In ancient times, Israel was a small nation surrounded by large empires. In the Middle Ages they were the most conspicuous minority in Christian Europe. Today in the Middle East, Israel is the most conspicuous country that is not Muslim. Jews are the archetypal other, we don’t fit into the dominant paradigm—the dominant faith, the prevailing culture—and that is what we’re there for. To remind ourselves [humanity] that there is such a thing as the dignity of dissent. That’s what we do in life. We challenge. We argue. We stand out against the crowd; we go against the trend. We are apart, but we are not destined to be alone.”

About the Tower of Babel, he noted that everyone was saying the same things. He quoted Naftali Zvi Yehuda Berlin who explained why the Tower of Babel needed to be destroyed: “If everyone thinks the same thing, there’s no dissent. That is not a free society.”

Rabbi Sacks continued, “We are there to be different, for the sake of everyone’s right to be different. We fight for the right to be, whether as a nation in its historic land or as a religious group in the diaspora, we fight for the right to be free to live as Jews, not just for our sake, but for the sake of every other minority in the world.… Everyone who seeks the right to challenge the prevailing culture or the dominant faith. That is why we are there.”

His words brought me the comfort of history. For a moment. It is discomforting to be in sync with history, and not beyond it—as we had hoped would one day happen. Why must we once again be a scapegoat for yet another angry group? Why must we be forced to stand, isolated to some extent, before the forces of evil that, unfathomably, seem so enticing? Why must our every action be scrutinized, manipulated, and twisted? Why must we always be seen as other, when our otherness is so very ordinary?

A few days later, I listened to the podcast Wondering Jews during their discussion of antisemitism. A key idea presented was that Jews represent whatever it is that the ruling or majority groups hate. So, “For today's anti-imperialists and anti-colonialists, Israel is the quintessence of imperialism, truth be damned.” Once again, Jews are being condemned by the antisemites for being what they don’t want to recognize in themselves.

Then, in an online lecture, the speaker said that the role of Jews is to crush evil.

And I thought to myself, that’s so much to put on one very small group of people. To be condemned for being different and to defend everyone’s right to be different. To be hated and to fight against hate for all. To be derided for something that they’re not, while the deriders feel stingily better about themselves as they try to oppress the other. To be accused of crimes that are done to us. To be the bulwark against the spread of evil that others think is still wise to appease.

Who are the Jews that so many other groups depend on them in such twisted ways?

It’s not as if we are born with super-human strength or intelligence or courage or wealth or any number of advantageous advantages.

We are a people held together by religion, faith, traditions, education, and values. We are also a people held together by our love, and their hateful actions.

Going back to what Rabbi Lord Sacks said about Jews being the archetypal other. It is ironic that in this era when we’re supposedly all about accepting everyone for who they are and what they believe, vile antisemitism is rampant.

While my voice is barely heard, it is still another voice calling out, standing up—dissenting. Proclaiming, too, that I am proud to be a Jew, as different and alone as we may be. I am also proud of those people (friends!) who are not blinded by the cacophony of twisted logic.

This battle is not new. It is as old as the Bible. A while ago, I told younger daughter that I didn’t want to study Torah, that I wanted to learn from new stories that I could relate to. Now, I see how wrong I was. Those stories, and the analyses of them that have been a part of our ongoing oral and written tradition, are the basis for understanding our world today. I see now that learning from history is understanding how a people reacted to unfolding events, over and over again, and what fortified them. This now gives me strength.

Since October 7^th, my heart and mind changed. Technically, my life hasn’t changed, but that just goes to show that life is not determined only by the actions one takes in a day. How can it not have changed when the mental and emotional landscapes that enable me to thrive have been altered, and when the world around which my thoughts often revolve has been so dramatically devastated. This is the reality of a Jew in the diaspora.

I speak often with a friend who has lived in Israel for a long time. She gives me her perspective on how life has changed there and I give her mine about how the relative ease of being a Jew in the US has changed. Even if I haven’t been directly impacted—what does “directly” even mean when you see people screaming for the killing of you, your relatives, and your people?—reading about and watching what is happening in far too many places, and realizing what is happening—and could happen—has a cumulative effect.

When I go to Israel in April, I will get a better understanding of how reality has changed for Israelis, and, I expect, I will be changed even more.

But this is not to say that this has weakened me, this hate from those murderers, rapists, kidnappers, and incinerators of lives, and their vile supporters who, unfathomably, support them and their acts by their actions and inactions, their spoken and unspoken words. No. As Israelis have come together to fight the genocidal intentions of its enemies, we, no, I am reordering my be-ing with anger, fear, and disgust, but more significantly with pride and determination, re-establishing my mindset. Who are they to, once again, determine the future for me and my people. Not only is Never Again a rallying cry, so is Enough Already!

The other day I heard a psychologist say that there is no basis to the idea of generational trauma. I don’t know, to me it seems that this is another layer being added to our stack of Jewish experiences that joins us—forging generational strength, resilience, and determination—and through the trauma that is passed down in stories, creating the ways we participate in the world.

Ahad Ha’am (a Hebrew essayist and thinker, 1856–1927) said: “More than Jews have kept Shabbat, Shabbat has kept the Jews.” Another part of that keeping seems to be antisemitism, since it keeps pushing us together, forcing us to focus on the Jewish part of our identity foremost, since that is all we are to others. But not as self-hating Jews who may refute their identity, but as proud matzoh-holders who refuse to see themselves through their haters’ eyes.

We had – thought / hoped / prayed / worked toward / educated about / committed to / built toward – a world in which there would be no more violence against us because we are Jews.

But we were wrong.

Once again there are actions against us and the world looks away, or, worse, stands by, tacitly supporting: not having the compassion to care and the clarity to condemn. It has been a harsh awakening.

Now I understand my ex-father-in-law, a Holocaust survivor who moved to Israel right after the war, who didn’t trust anyone outside of the family and especially not outside of the Jewish Israeli family. I get it. I wish I didn’t.

Living here in the States, the shock of seeing the physical attacks on October 7^th, their vileness and then the depravity of how the hostages have been treated and ignored, downplayed and blamed, has been tough. 

Add to that the trauma of seeing how we are not seen and that our pain is minimized at the very same moment that we are held accountable for anything bad that happens, seemingly anywhere.

Clearly, antisemitism is evidence of the world’s insanity. It should be their problem, this irrational, evil nonsense, and theirs to deal with. It is their addiction. Their warped way of making them feel, somehow, that they are better than they are, more than they are, and that we are less than we are.

While we would like to not have to deal with their problems, we must. What addictive need do we answer? The need to hate, the need to be better than, the need to not look inside, the need to not deal with their own lives, the need to ignore the consequences of what has come before and what they have or have not done?

This latest attack in the stack has forced us to recognize that this generation is not, alas, different from previous ones: we have not escaped unscathed the deadly impact of antisemitism. Terrorists, we see you. Another selfish, rampaging horde that shows its dark side more than it says anything about Jews.

And we (even if forced to cower in fear) are standing within our identity. We will not succumb to the perversity of the situation or of grotesque accusations. We will continue to be who we are destined to be. Light and love and compassion will not be defeated. As so many of us are finding ways to be strengthened within our Jewish identity, so are we hoping, still!, that we are not alone. Not just because it’s hard to be abandoned, but because we know that we shouldn’t be—that the world can’t be that dark and bitter and hypocritical. And if it is, it bodes ill for all of us—and we must push against that, together.

The interconnectedness of life in an Oregon forest

Before writing silently for 60 minutes, the participants in my Shut Up and Write! group talk about what they’re planning to write. This week, I explained that as my part in pushing against the rise of antisemitism and anti-Zionism—in addition to my aching howl to FREE THE HOSTAGES and my plea for people to stop being motivated by hate—I plan on sharing a Jewish learning.

It feels right to be Jewish publicly, showing that Judaism is a way of being that encourages the individual to constantly improve the self and the world around you, where empathy and concern for the other are motivating factors and that this religion, philosophy, culture, people—this way of being that has been around for over 3,000 years—is not something to chant against or accuse of horrors.

I was drawn back to a quote I heard in the Mussar class that I’m taking. (Mussar is a virtues-based approach to Jewish ethics and character development.) This quote by Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, z”l, from To Heal a Fractured World, focused my pre-writing musings.

“Each of us is here for a purpose. Discerning that purpose takes time and honesty, knowledge of ourselves and knowledge of the world, but it is there to be discovered. Each of us has a unique constellation of gifts, an unreplicated radius of influence, and within that radius, be it as small as a family or as large as a state, we can be a transformative presence. Where what we want to do meets what needs to be done, that is where God wants us to be. Even the smallest good deed can change someone’s life.” 

Not only does this conceptualize the idea that we’re always where we need to be, but it helps me perceive each moment—each circumstance—as an opportunity for growth, to be more fully me. The idea that we must continually work on ourselves, combined with understanding that we are always at our appointed place, means that there is never an excuse to not try to be my best or even to find fulfillment in the simplest of moments. This moment—each moment—is not a mistake: it is a stepping-stone within a life.

Contemplating that quote, I keep returning to, we are “where God wants us to be.”

What does that mean? Am I (this human, this spark), on my own, or is there a current upon which our lives—each of our lives—flows? Is this the concept of God that can help me understand the idea of God that has been so elusive?

Which reminds me of something else that I read recently. In Jewish with Feeling, Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi, says, “Think of God not as the subject of your sentence, who is or is not this or that, but as the is-ing, the very process of being itself.” He went on to talk about not using the word God but to think of how we each are enlivened or en-spirited to live our lives.

As I looked over my highlighting in his book, another idea stood out.

“Nothing we can say about God will survive the rigors of logical analysis. But that shouldn’t get in the way of our search for the presence we have felt in our most spiritually open—or spiritually hungry—moments. If there is a tension between what we know in our minds and what we feel in our hearts, then let’s stay with that tension. If there is a contradiction, let us take it upon ourselves. Only let us press on with our desire to experience the numinous and serve the patterns of the universe in a deeper, more meaningful way.”

And finally, “That part of us that always seeks to awaken even more, I call soul. Judaism speaks of the soul as a spark of God.”

The concept of an eternal, spiritual energy or force, stripped of the anthropomorphic man-in-the-sky imagery, appeals to me—speaks to the essence that is. The something within that wonders about the connections between people—the strings that seem to draw us together in coincidences and circumstances as we go about our lives—prefers to contemplate the “patterns of the universe” rather than that we are disconnected individuals stumbling around. It seems so much more correct, so much more of a way to consider our own purpose because in this case, purpose is not merely survival. It is to be, as Rabbi Sacks said, “a transformative presence.”

To be within the presence, the fertile soil, comforts me and challenges me. I do not want to wither. I want to use the nutrients that I am given to “serve the patterns of the universe in a deeper, more meaningful way.”

With this perception of God, this force, this is-ing, I can cry out for the pain that others experience and believe that there is a gathering of life forces that has an impact, has meaning. And to that I say, amen.

Recently, I attended an online lecture by a Chassidic rabbi titled, “The Future Is Feminine.” I’m not sure what I expected, but nowadays I want to hear thoughts that haven’t been floating around in my mind for years. I’m also in a religious and spiritual seeker mind-frame where my focus is on learning from the accumulated wisdom of the sages of my Jewish heritage. October 7th propelled me faster down a path that I was already meandering along. A motivating thought: Why should I accept your concepts if they end up leading to—and even encouraging—the dismissal, death, and destruction of my people?

What surprised me, when I listened to the rabbi and heard the direction he took, was that I remained attentive to ideas that, until recently, I would have been aghast at and probably mocked. Now, I’m willing to listen. It seems that when concepts that had seemed valid turn out to twist and distort reality, casting good as evil and evil as good, that becomes the time to be open to hearing other ideas.

As I explained the main points to younger daughter’s boyfriend later that day, he summed it up succinctly, “Oh, it’s about women staying home.” It horrified me to think that I had listened to and found worthwhile thoughts in that vein. But rather than rip up my notes and turn my back on the rabbi’s ideas, I decided to read through them and think about whether there may be something to what he said, while still firmly in my feminist perspective.

While the ideas he presented are simplistic and stereotyping, I still found them thought-provoking.

Women

• Women are motivated by how good the good is. Things can be so good, why not make them better. For women, achievements come from their identity, and contentment is their natural condition.
• Women are motivated to do something good, which leads to their doing more good deeds; for example, keep Shabbat, then start to eat kosher food.

Men

• Men are motivated to eliminate the bad. I must do something to get rid of the bad. They are anxious, then they become active to complete a task, upon completion there is a moment of contentment, then they return to anxiety, to begin the cycle again. Men identify with their achievements. They are motivated by anxiety, to make a change or to fix something, which is their natural condition.
• Men are motivated to stop doing something negative, which leads to doing something positive; for example: stop eating non-kosher food, then keep Shabbat.

The Desired Direction

• We all need to be more like women. Rather than focus on not sinning (the masculine approach), we need to focus on doing more mitzvahs/good deeds (the feminine approach).

I’m not necessarily thinking about what he said from the male/female dichotomy, though it may have some validity, though certainly not on a universal scale. Instead, I’m thinking about these two ways of moving through the world. It does seem more peaceful to go from the perspective that things need to be improved and to work at that, rather than that things need to be broken and then rebuilt. Not only is the latter way destructive, it’s also arrogant. It’s as if all the contributions of those before you are valueless and only yours are of worth. Each time re-creating, rather than growing a creation and maintaining its fruition.

The wars that were and those that are, could they have been prevented if the world had been more feminine, or acting from a place of improvement rather than destruction?

Since October 7^th, my thoughts keep returning to this moment: Israeli hostages still held in terror tunnels, Israel living through the drain and devastation of war; the reignition of the nasty flame of antisemitism; Gazans suffering from the impact of Islamic terrorism and, ironically, antisemitism; and supposedly caring people failing to see the humanity and worth of every human.

And I think about how the rabbi’s ideas could help me think forward, to a way out of the gloom. The rabbi may have been talking about men and women in personal relationships, but that is not where I take them.

These days I see women baking challah, reading psalms, writing, speaking, informing, and organizing as their way of prayer to the Eternal Spirit to protect their loved ones, to return the hostages, to protect the soldiers, to stop the deaths and harm to all civilians—to bring about lasting peace. And I think, too, of the people I know who remain devoted to bringing together Jews and Arabs—people are people—because they cannot abandon the idea that Things can be so good, why not make them better, because they want to make that the way forward rather than I must do something to get rid of the (perceived) bad.

Perhaps the way forward, using the rabbi’s insights, is for me—for each of us—to commit to improving the world—focusing on that which is good: using and sharing our sparks within as best we can so that there is more light, and not a diminishing. Perhaps each of us—man and woman—needs to see what we can contribute to making the world a better place and not letting others, or even ourselves, rip apart the good with the bad.

Before going to the airport to fly from Southern Florida to Oregon, I removed my car fob from my key chain. I wanted to keep with me the key chain with the hamsa (a symbol thought to thwart the Evil Eye) that has on it the Jewish Traveler’s prayer in Hebrew. I never did that before, but it felt important to have it with me.  

A few hours into waiting at the airport for my connecting flight, it was cancelled due to the weather and icy conditions at the destination airport. Rather than wait a couple of days until flights resumed and I could get a seat, I decided to take the bus—which was leaving in 40 minutes. As I was trying to find the bus stop (which, not surprisingly, is hard to find in an airport), my daughter’s anxiety (I wonder where she gets that from) about the road conditions was tempered by her boyfriend’s confidence that I-5 would be clear.

Since it was still only early afternoon and I didn’t want to sit around waiting in a hotel room for days, I got on the bus. The ride was supposed to take seven-hours instead of an hour’s flight.

The ride from Seattle to Portland was relaxing, since there was no evidence of snow or ice most of the way. I enjoyed being a passenger looking out the window watching the world go by instead of focusing on the road and the aggressive drivers down in Florida. I could see the view that we miss when we fly: the dusky shapes of hulking mountains and the dark green of a northern forest were a nice change from the flatness of the land and the bright greens of Florida’s greenery where palm trees are the only natural thing with height. Not that I’m complaining about living in the tropics, I just felt myself transition to appreciating the experience of being a detached passenger on a dimly lit bus and not a stressed, stranded traveler in the charged energy of an airport when delays abound. 

It was dark when we departed cold, snowy Portland, where we had to wait outside in the cold for our connecting bus. No one sat next to me, so I remained in my little mental bubble. As we pulled out and onto the snowy streets, I remembered my key chain and took it out. I tried to read the traveler’s prayer, but the lettering was too small and I wasn’t familiar with the Hebrew. I used my phone to read an English version of the prayer (see below). I read it over a few times, wanting to get a sense of what it said, the dangers that a traveler might expect, and what a traveler could ask of G-d as they embarked on a journey. I tried to absorb the prayer as a whole, and not necessarily think about the individual words.

A friend told me that she always recites this prayer before she goes on a trip, and raised her daughter to do the same thing.

I had never read it before. But it seemed right to think about G-d, or appeal to G-d, or consider other Jewish travelers (now and in the past) and what they needed to feel safe, or at least not completely alone on their journeys. And I wonder now, as I think about that moment of speaking and appealing to G-d, of wanting to connect to that spirit to protect me and look out for me—what will it take for a Jew of this generation to ever feel safe again on this journey. Is it possible? Is it something to desire?

When we arrived at my destination, I thanked the bus driver for his cautious driving and tightly hugged (and got tightly hugged back by) younger daughter and her boyfriend.

The next day, I ventured out to start discovering my new neighborhood, where I’ll live for a couple of months. It was icy and neither the streets nor the sidewalks were cleared. Not far along on my walk, I slipped and fell on my right arm. I took baby steps to make it back without falling again. It took 15 minutes to walk a square block (about 1,000 feet). Gratefully, nothing broke and it took a couple of days for my arm to be almost back to normal.

As I was recovering, I was thinking of the pain that injured Israeli soldiers are experiencing, and the pain that the recovered hostages are experiencing, and the pain that everyone impacted by the massacre on October 7 is experiencing, and, of course, the unimaginable pain of the hostages. I thought about how much my arm hurt just from falling on it, compared to what Hersh Goldberg-Polin might be experiencing after having his arm blown off.

This is not a time, I realize, to be alone in one’s thoughts—there is only how to use one’s thoughts and experiences to try, in whatever way possible—to connect with and help Israelis and Jews. This is a time to support each other in our pain and our (eventual) healing.

I wonder, as I’m trying to drop my skepticism and doubt, what impact all those prayers to G-d have. As I told my daughter the other day about a prayer session that I attend, “It can’t be a bad thing to send out positive thoughts into the atmosphere.”

The other day, this line in Psalm 54 stood out: “Behold, G-d is my helper; G-d is with those who support my soul.” It’s a line to linger with, to think about what it means to support my soul and to consider, too, that it is not just a job for myself.

How do our recitations and prayers and thoughts connect and build? How do they help us protect ourselves and each other? How are they heeded and what does it mean for a prayer to be manifested?

As a secular woman who has always seen my identity as a Jew as important, I think that perhaps I have missed the essence. I’m not sure where I’m going, but saying a prayer for a safe journey, and praying for the safety of those battling for Israel’s safety, and those traumatized by hate and terrorism, feels like the right direction. And knowing that there are others who are doing the same thing brings me the comfort of knowing that I am not alone.

May it be Your will, G‑d, our G‑d and the G‑d of our fathers, that You should lead us in peace and direct our steps in peace, and guide us in peace, and support us in peace, and cause us to reach our destination in life, joy, and peace (If one intends to return immediately, one adds: and return us in peace). Save us from every enemy and ambush, from robbers and wild beasts on the trip, and from all kinds of punishments that rage and come to the world. May You confer blessing upon the work of our hands and grant me grace, kindness, and mercy in Your eyes and in the eyes of all who see us, and bestow upon us abundant kindness and hearken to the voice of our prayer, for You hear the prayers of all. Blessed are You G‑d, who hearkens to prayer. (link)