Rebellious Thoughts of a Woman

From the summit of a butte I didn't think I could hike up

As people swirl around their cesspools of antisemitism, pretending that concern for one group of people isn’t hate for another, I realize that I’d rather think about what being Jewish means to me. Thinking about the light that motivates me is a better shield for the moment and guide into the next. It helps me, too, to think about helping you on your way, pushing past darkness and negativity into the place from which you can receive nurturing thoughts and hear/heed/absorb the wisdom that emerges from our sources. Whether or not you are Jewish, I hope that my exploration and learning can help you, too, grow into your higher/deeper self as I seek to do the same.

Being Jewish is an essential part of my identity, as basic as being a woman with curly hair and green eyes. To be Jewish is not to be defined by haters, because what can they possibly know when they’re blocked by blind bigotry. And why should I let them distract me from continuing to find the beauty in this eternal path of discovery, compassion, and learning with roots so deep, coming from and sustained by the generations before me. This is what I need to be me.  

How much of my Jewishness is about Judaism, the religion itself: remembering and experiencing Shabbat blessings over candles, challah, and wine at home; and preparing for and celebrating holidays as a family or alone; and services in synagogue, often sitting beside a friend, our friendship expanded through shared ritual; and saying prayers that are sometimes inspiring though often words to read and recite and, perhaps, create meaning through repetition; and mourning my father by saying Kaddish (the mourner’s prayer) on the anniversary of his death and on certain holy days—a powerful practice that keeps loved ones within the fabric of our lives; and learning Torah stories as an adult that brings more questions, connections, and insights than the way they were explained then to create common touchstones of identity in Hebrew School; and contemplating G!d, HaShem (the Name), HaMakom (the Place), the Divine Spirit, and how this eternal meaning is a part of my life; and why it’s important to know that I’m not just me—I have never been even if I thought I was—adrift in this world.

And how much of being Jewish for me is about Israel and my connection to the land and the people who live there; and how much is about my connection to Jews here, in the Diaspora, even those who live in such different worlds of Judaism; and how much is about continuity—being a link in a very long chain of resilient, inspiring men and women; and how much is about a zeal to learn from our texts so that my life fulfills its purpose—one that is internal and unfolding. And how much is the shared pain when people are murdered for being Jewish, and the pain of hearing those murders justified by the antisemites for whom hate is inspiration.

There are myriad ways to learn how to be a good and righteous person, and what that even means—this way has been and will continue to be my guide. Yes, this is the path I was born into and the way to which my soul clings—the seeking is within my expansive tradition. This is not about superiority of one vision over another: it is about fully living my life and being my purpose and seeking the best way to do that. By not acquiescing I bring honor to the past, commitment to the present, and sustain the future.

In a pause in my writing, I read a psalm, which I aim to do once a day. Today I read Psalm 25; such a powerful psalm with lines that are as relevant today as when they were written by King David 3,000 years ago.

1 Of David. O ETERNAL One, I set my hope on You; 2 my God, in You I trust; may I not be disappointed, may my enemies not exult over me. 3 O let no one who looks to You be disappointed; let the faithless be disappointed, empty-handed. 4 Let me know Your paths, O ETERNAL One; teach me Your ways; 5 guide me in Your true way and teach me, for You are God, my deliverer; it is You I look to at all times. 6 O ETERNAL One, be mindful of Your compassion and Your faithfulness; they are old as time. 7 Be not mindful of my youthful sins and transgressions; in keeping with Your faithfulness consider what is in my favor, as befits Your goodness, O ETERNAL One. 8 Good and upright is GOD, who shows sinners the way. 9 [God] guides the lowly in the right path, and teaches the lowly the godly way. 10 All GOD’s paths are steadfast love for those who keep the decrees of the covenant. 11 As befits Your name, O ETERNAL One, pardon my iniquity though it be great. 12 Whoever fears GOD will be shown what path to choose. 13 They shall live a happy life, and their children shall inherit the land. 14 GOD’s counsel is for those who show reverence; to them the covenant is made known. 15 My eyes are ever toward GOD, who will loose my feet from the net. 16 Turn to me, have mercy on me, for I am alone and afflicted. 17 My deep distress increases; deliver me from my straits. 18 Look at my affliction and suffering, and forgive all my sins. 19 See how numerous my enemies are, and how unjustly they hate me! 20 Protect me and save me; let me not be disappointed, for I have sought refuge in You. 21 May integrity and uprightness watch over me, for I look to You. 22 O God, redeem Israel from all its distress.

And as King David called out, so do I: asking to be protected—all Jews—and saved and returned—the hostages—and for our world to transform from enemies filled with hate to be a place of refuge for us all to live lives of integrity and compassion watched over by the force of creation.

It’s not that I expected everyone in the “Antisemitism, Islamophobia, and Christian Nationalism” group at the multi-faith potluck to agree with me, but I didn’t expect to be confronted with an antisemite and a keffiyeh-wearer whose presence were—now I get the term—triggering!

Where’s my silo?!

A friend, who lives in Israel and is 19 months into living in a war zone, suggested that I leave the group, that sometimes there really is too much for a person to handle.

A friend in New York suggested that IF I stay in the group, I would need to develop a thicker skin. She also commented that perhaps I was put there by HaShem (The Name, G!d) for a purpose.

A third, very new, friend, who was there, tried to convince me that the way forward is to have a Muslim speaker at the next event. That was too much. I’ve read and learned enough to know that appeasement and ceding to the other is not the way forward. Why step aside and give the stage to someone who doesn’t respect you? Why not have them hear Jews speak or have a conversation as is the stated intention at a dialogue group? While they were at this meeting and in this group (at a different table from me), which is positive, their very aggressive stance (why wear the keffiyeh?; why say “Zionism is the problem”) I did not feel that I need to be gracious, but rather that I need to graciously take a stand.

To listen and be heard. To learn and understand. To share and connect. To not be strange strangers. To me these are the goals of interfaith dialogue. I wonder if I can do it now.

*****

After we moved to the States from Israel in 2000, I tried to establish a dialogue group with a Palestinian woman. We didn’t get anywhere, beyond the not inconsequential realization that our ex-husbands, my Israeli and her Palestinian, were very similar in the ways they were verbally abusive and aggressive, and we were similar in having pushed against convention and the “he’s a good provider” thoughts to divorce them.

Before Covid, I was a member of a local chapter of the Sisterhood of Salaam-Shalom, a group for building connections between Jewish and Muslim women. We had been meeting for about a year, becoming friends, uncovering similarities and differences between our religions (and sometimes learning more about our own religions) and the home countries of most of the Muslim women, and, of course, eating delicious foods. We were just starting to think about what to do for the betterment of our community when Covid put an end to everything, and then I moved.

Through that experience, though, I saw the value in going out of my way to meet people I wouldn’t normally meet, to work on correcting inaccuracies in how I and my people are perceived, and in how I perceive others. It’s not necessarily that knowledge is power, it’s that knowledge may lead to compassion.

*****

Now that I’m a retired, middle-aged woman who has never done any moving and shaking, what is it that will not let me rest (or nap), will not let me accept my past ineffectiveness? What am I looking for in these groups? What do I want to happen?

I wonder if I should accept that the talking—the exchange of experiences and time spent together—is the essence? Should I stop diminishing in importance what I do because it’s not what I deem to be important work (that others are doing—stop the comparing!)?

In our small group conversations at the multi-faith meeting, I talked to a woman who is Baha’i, who extolled her religion and its basic tenet of acceptance, and a Christian woman who talked about her work in El Salvador helping physically improve lives. I spoke of the negative way Islam views Jews and how harmful it has been—is. We each shared our hearts, using this opportunity to say what moved us, things that we don’t get to share in our everyday interactions.

*****

At last night’s potluck, there was a speaker from Our Children’s Trust which “represents young people in global legal efforts to secure their binding and enforceable legal rights to a healthy atmosphere and stable climate.” After that, we got into small groups and talked about our faith traditions’ teachings on the environment. We all care. We all see ourselves as stewards of the earth, whatever being or entity breathed it into being. That connection felt like a strengthening: we are not alone in caring and wanting to protect the earth.

After that the “Antisemitism and Islamophobia” group got together to talk about when to meet again. Walking out of the meeting, I was deflated (and not just because hardly anyone took my pasta dish), until I saw my friend who is trying to keep the group together. Her insistence that I need to care about Islamophobia may be correct, but at this moment, I can’t take it on as my concern. When antisemitism and anti-Zionism are so immediate, critical, dangerous, resurgent, and when Israel is attacked and Judaism maligned, I want to stay focused. So while this group may offer some worthwhile interactions, it will not replace the work I need to do.

On my way home, I passed a pickup truck with a Palestinian flag and a life-size replica of a missile in its truck bed. Doesn’t seem like Islamophobia is the problem.

It is Day 576: there are still hostages suffering in Gaza. We are each our brother's keeper. I'm focusing on my hurting family first.

I have taken to hiding a small ceramic bowl that I use for most of my meals on the top shelf of a kitchen cabinet. This is so my mother’s aide doesn’t use it for my mother’s meals. This is silly. It’s a bowl, though it’s special because a friend’s daughter made it and gifted it to me for helping her with her writing. I’m being petty. For goodness’ sake, I wasn’t using it at the time—I wasn’t even home. I only know that it is being used because sometimes it’s on the drainboard when I come home and my mother says, yes, May served her meal in it.

I will let this go, after I have dealt with it.

Being petty, as we know, can feel consequential, because little things are often big things in not-so-great disguise.

When I taught my students about symbolism, there was always the explanation of an object in all its physical reality and the myriad ways that very same object could be understood, felt, or related to.

This bowl is a wonderful vessel for salads, stews, and pasta, since its small size enables for (practically) guilt-free refills. It also represents me as separate from my mother. It represents the person who is living a share-free existence in some alternative reality.

But is that really the universe where I want to be living?

I ask this as I sit around the table with my Monday morning writing group. We are in this coffee shop using this quiet hour to write without the distractions that come when we are home, and with the tacit support that comes from others who also spend their time putting ideas to paper for the glory, the fame, the riches—HA!—no, the need to express what is inside. Space is shared. I’m here because sometimes I don’t want to be physically alone when I’m writing.

In the past two years, my mother has become a little old lady. I am her support; she depends on me. That is the reality. Keeping a bowl for just me neither changes that nor does it trick me into thinking that I live alone. Nor do I want it to be living alone, at least now, when it’s more important to share my life. Sitting with these other writers, I’m experiencing the benefit of being together. It’s not always necessary to move aside to be separate from others; it could be to breath fully alongside others who are also trying to breath fully.

This is why writing is important to me. Having worked through my thoughts in this essay, I now feel ready to stop hiding the bowl. I won’t even talk to the aide and tell her never, ever, ever use it. Although, I will not, ever, serve my mother anything in it. When I’m home, it’s still mine.

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.

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.

A defensive person creates community by changing. That’s the facile answer, though one with lots of truth.

Both the change and the community may take time to develop, and the shape they take is influenced by the other, but time and need can do magic.

Recently, I participated in a community event at my synagogue where we practiced having conversations on divisive topics with no talking over, no disruptions, and lots of “I hear that you’re saying’s.”

Me, with my master’s degree in Conflict Analysis and Resolution and mediation certificate, should have done so well. Yet, I got upset when a woman in my conversation triad said to me, “I hear that you’re saying you want more control over immigration [the topic we were discussing].” If I was a porcupine, my bristles would have been up! A red button was pressed. I was about to turn her off, not listening to her rephrasing of my points and then her own points. But I wasn’t just there for the potluck, I was there to grow in my interactions, to be a better practitioner in my daily life of the skills I had studied (clearly, the learning was still in-progress), and to grow in applying them, as well as learn some new ones.

Control. A trigger word for me.

A few years after my divorce, I briefly lived with a boyfriend. In one of our first conversations, we talked about what we needed from the other that we hadn’t gotten in our marriages (he was twice divorced). For him, it was not to be walked out on during an argument. For me, it was control: not to feel that he is telling me what to do. I had enough of that in my marriage, which was a key reason why I’m no longer married.

So, one day, when he said, “I’d like you to wear dresses when we go out,” I didn’t feel his appreciation of how I look when I get dressed up. No, I heard “Do this.”

Had he been paying attention? This was telling me, even if through a compliment, what to do. Also, I rarely wore dresses. Between having to wear them when I was growing up (parental control and a bit of rebellion when I could get out of wearing the dreaded dress and torturous stockings) and feeling that I look like a barrel in a dress. It didn’t matter how I looked: I was uncomfortable. Why did it matter to him?

Sometimes defensiveness protected me, helped me stick to my decisions. At other times it closed me off from realizing what was bothering me or how I was being a bother.

We will never know all a person’s triggers, or even our own, which is why it’s so important to learn how to do a better job at having conversations. Bitterness and defensiveness aren’t building blocks. How to transform them? The why is clear to me, because I have come to value interactions as much as solitude.

Thinking of the “how,” I realize that I need to stand still within myself, noticing my reactions to what other people say, and their reactions to what I say. We all react through the filter of our experiences. Which means that I need to not expect more understanding from anyone than the moment gives. They don’t see into me and I don’t see into them. We may be creating a relationship, but that could only happen if walls aren’t up, and ears and hearts aren’t blocked with histories. I need to want this moment to exist, to breathe, to not let triggers overtake me.

“For me, ‘control,’ is a trigger word,” I said, willing myself to speak up, not to embed anger or frustration into the moment. And with that, we talked about how a conversation could be diverted so easily. Underlying every conversation is the connection itself, because without it, topical conversations can’t move forward.

For those 40 minutes of honesty, the three of us created community. I went home humbled, disappointed in myself, but also a slightly better version of myself. Community is not simply created by individuals meeting; it is created by individuals overlapping with purpose and respect.

The other night, in preparation for my study session with my Mussar partner, I read about the soul trait of zerizut (zeal, enthusiasm, promptness, engagement), which is “our capacity to bring our choices into action.” Before I could think about where I am on the scale (from procrastinator to serial project-completer), my mind, as usual, went to my interactions with my mother.

Looking out into the early autumn darkness, before my reflection in the window became clearer than the scraggly winter garden, I started to cry. Not a sad cry. An angry cry. This living arrangement is impacting me—the inner me, not just the spending-so-much-time-organizing-her-life me—more than I realize. Can’t I just be me?

When I moved out here in May, I knew that I would bring her, but now that she’s here, I feel what I’ve lost, not what I’ve gained. I miss my independence and solitude. I miss thinking of myself as a good person, not one constantly confronted with shortcomings: impatient, annoyed, selfish. I know that we don’t get to choose the challenges we face, but the degree to which they can force us to redefine ourselves is annoying, to put it lightly.

While I refuse to sacrifice myself to her, it’s not easy when confronted with degrees of her helplessness and dependence; and my pity and sorrow for her coupled with my, still, lack of privacy, even though I have my own physical space.

Knowing that assisted living is a viable option, peeking and tempting, helps keep me from completely losing it.

Her stubborn (yet understandable) desire to think that she doesn’t need any help makes her assert that we’re just two women living together and that “I’m fine on my own, don’t worry about me, I can manage.” This from a woman who finds pants increasingly complicated, as is taking a container out of the refrigerator and putting it on the kitchen table. Moreover, her lack of acknowledging what I do for her feels like it diminishes my actions and is a bit of a betrayal. It’s not that I need a constant “thank you,” but an understanding of what I do for her feels necessary for a better home atmosphere (read: my mood).

Now, calling up my zerizut, I need to figure out how I can adjust my perspective to be less impacted by her. This is my life and I need to stop feeling that I’ve been “invaded.”

In talking to my Mussar partners from a previous course, they suggested that I focus on the soul trait of equanimity (menuchat hanefesh) or inner calm, to re-balance myself. The idea here is that you should be a surfer riding the waves of life, not letting the waves overpower you or disrupt your inner peace and presence. By working on this, too, perhaps I can figure out how to protect myself—the person I am outside of being daughter and caregiver—so that I don’t let resentment become a huge wave crashing down on me.

In a recent conversation with my 90-year-old mother, she said, “Someone asked me what’s my last name and I couldn’t remember.”

“Did you eventually remember?” I asked, stunned.

“Yes,” she said, before moving onto telling me what she had for lunch, which she had already told me.

When we spoke, I was in my relatively new home in Oregon, where she is to join me, and she was in the assisted living community in Florida where I brought her a few weeks ago. The distance was tangible.

Have I been delusional about her mental acuity, I wondered. I had noticed that she was forgetting things (thankfully, this was after she stopped cooking for herself, so we skipped the burning the toast, the kettle, and the house phase) and repeating stories, which I had (mostly) stopped calling her out on because what’s the harm in her telling a story again (and again and again) when the telling gives her so much pleasure (and, surely, I can survive a little boredom for her to feel that she’s having a wonderful conversation with her delightful daughter). But this does seem to be another step in her cognitive decline. On the plus side, it’s an opportunity for me to work on the character trait of patience.

It was sudden. At 90. This need to go to assisted living, even if temporary. It was a before-after experience, where before she was out and about, driving herself to visit sick friends and shopping for new clothes, until she had an undiagnosed illness (with virus being the vague explanation) that resulted in a brief hospitalization at 89, and health issues every few months since then. Prior to that, she had been hospitalized in her 50s for women’s issues.

Which means that I’ve had many years of her good health during which I would see how other people’s parents have gotten cancer, or body parts replaced, or rapidly declined, or withered away. I expressed my concern for them and their parent (practicing the character traits of compassion and humility), giving them the opportunity to take all the space they needed to figure out their thoughts and, hoping—praying—that I would never have to deal with any of that myself. Now it’s my turn. And it is a lot. The switch from carefree retired adult to caretaker of parent (at any level of care) is not easy. On the bright side, I still respect her even after seeing her naked and being confronted with my extreme dismay at having to deal with someone else’s bodily functions, when that person is not an infant. There’s definitely a reason I never went into the medical field.

After a few weeks in rehab and then back in her apartment when I was visiting, she didn’t follow the plan and return to her old spry self. There were falls, because how does a woman who strode along the avenues of Manhattan ever get used to using a walker? And there was the confusion, not to be confused with her general lack of interest in anything other than her meals. Once I started cooking for her, I appreciated the “You know how to cook eggs” (stated daily), but not the “What’s for lunch?” while still eating breakfast.

Realizing that I couldn’t take care of her 24/7, as in couldn’t and wouldn’t, I decided (with the support of my brother and daughters) that she would need to go into assisted living until she’s strong enough for me to bring her to Oregon.

Next. Those visits and my insights gained from them. As well as the guilt-not guilt accompanied by my shuffling her off to assisted living.

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. 

Rabbi Zev Wolf, the Hasidic master of Zhitomir (where my maternal grandmother is from), taught:

Do not think that the words of prayer as you say them go up to God. It is not the words themselves that ascend; it is rather the burning desire of your heart that rises like smoke toward heaven. If your prayer consists only of words and letters, and does not contain your heart’s desire—how can it rise up to God?

Using words to think about prayer and praying makes me realize that words are clothes: covering up that which is within and revealing that which is to be shared. 

They are patterns on a page, even when written from the depths of my heart and read with heart, they will always represent a distance: the space between thought, expression, and reception.

On Passover this year, when my mother was about to light the Yizkor (memorial) candles in memory of her father, mother, sister, and husband, I asked if she wanted me to get the Kaddish (Jewish prayer for the dead) prayer for her to recite. “No, she said, “I’ll do it from my heart.” We stood silently, remembering.

It is not that I need to believe that God knows what is in my heart, it is that I need to understand what guides my thoughts and emotions without pinning them down with specific words. It is not about offering words to God; rather, it is for me to be aware of what motivates, demoralizes, energizes, and encapsulates me, and what it is that I yearn for.

Prayer: to feel my heart, to learn from shared insights, to be within my life force, and to acknowledge that this is within that which was, is, and will be.

The Israeli hostages are still in captivity. Bring them home now!

“What is the difference between prayer and study?” asked the late Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks, explaining the order of a Jewish prayer service and the importance of studying Torah and Jewish texts. “In prayer, we speak to God; while in study, God speaks to us.”

Then he added, perhaps as an admonishment, “Before we can ask God to listen to us, we have to show that we can listen to Him.”

Learn, then ask.

Listen, then speak.

A good reminder that my own words are not the most important ones. And that there is a source other than myself for what I know, and that to want should be an expression, not a demand.

An unfolding lesson, too, that there may be an intermediary force guiding my thoughts and expressions. I am a vessel, receiving and sharing nourishment.

What nourishes does not originate with me.

The vessel is temporary.

The balance is between who I am, what I receive, and what is given to others.

As I go deeper into retirement, shed of the necessity of achieving tasks and fulfilling expectations, I am learning to live as a reflection of what is within, which comes from learning and listening, seeking and connecting, praying and creating.

How does your life reflect what is within you?

The Israeli hostages are still in captivity. Bring them home now!

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.

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.