End-of-the-Holidays: A Look Ahead

So what might the new year bring? "What changes can I effect to improve myself and the world I live in?" That's one of the key questions of the Fall Holiday liturgy.

In early September, I went to see my internist for a long-overdue general physical (about 3 years overdue). As we reviewed my general health and he began to order some tests and referrals (also long overdue), it dawned on me that I'd spent the last decade focusing on other family members' health and other concerns, and continuously deferred my own. (Except for the gall bladder surgery - and the sleep apnea diagnosis).

My doctor is very direct - and doesn't believe in spreading guilt or mincing words. How he is able to accomplish those two things at the same time, I will never know. But I admire him immensely for his ability to do so and am a grateful recipient of his expertise. He's also an excellent diagnostician, has a superb group of specialists he refers out to, and does a great job of serving as "case manager."

So when he looks me in the eye and says, "You've got some things to pay attention to," I sit up straight and listen.

BP - very high; LDL cholesterol is high; HDL is too low; blood sugar numbers are in the "glucose intolerance" range. He also gives me a referral to a gastroenterologist for a colonoscopy, and to a radiologist for a mammogram (long overdue, especially with my history). He prescribes a BP med, vitamin D, recommends the Mediterranean Diet, exercising, and we schedule several follow-up visits in order to monitor progress.

My dentist tells me I need dental work done.

My ophthalmologist has me scheduled for my second cataract surgery and toric implant surgery on October 14th.

I leave their offices feeling vulnerable. A little angry. Guilty for letting things get to this point.

I cling to two thoughts: my dad's favorite saying: You can't control the cards you're dealt, you can only control how you play 'em. And my internist's final comment: Change what you can - diet, exercise - but realize that part of your health and these numbers are determined by genetics. You can't control genetics.

Both are helpful - they have become my mantra.

So, changes I can make:

• We've joined a CSA (Consumer Supported Agriculture group) for the fall season and will get a share of fresh vegetables each Monday to use in building our meals around.
• I picked up a couple of cook books and have scanned the internet for recipes that are both kosher and fit the Mediterranean Diet.
• I've begun to do a little walking - got thrown off base by Yom Kippur but will get back to it.
• I'm using my CPAP machine for my sleep apnea a little more consistently - my goal is to use it 5 nights out of 7.
• I've determined to pick up my knitting needles again.
• Before I leave a doctor's office, I schedule my next appointment.
• I had my colonoscopy - even if it was my first child's 28th birthday!
• I've decided to jetison the "guilt" thing - I was busy with other people's health issues these past 10 years - and that's okay. It's done. Now it's time to take care of my own - and that's also okay.

Other changes the new year offers:

I'm teaching a course (training madrichim) at the very first synagogue I ever attended services at - where I converted with Rabbi Gene Lipman, z'l, and where my husband and I joined. Many warm and wonderful memories - it's interesting to be "on staff" there. So far, I'm loving it!

I'm also doing a series of madrichim workshops at a synagogue where I had taught for 8 years and directed for 2 years. Our "classroom" is the library, where we used to have senior staff meetings. I was surprised that there were parents who still remembered me - I left there almost eight years ago - a lifetime in a supplemental school setting!

[Note: my husband's taken to calling this year "The year that Mary revisits her roots"!]

I'm part of a planning committee that's working on our regional training in November. We're drastically changing the way we'll do things. More about that later, as things evolve.

I'm leading two Torah study sessions in the next two months: Shabbat Noach at Tikvat Israel and Shabbat Vayeshev at Oseh Shalom.

Next weekend, we celebrate the 70th birthday of a dear friend - someone who's been a mentor and helped sustain me through many of the challenges the last decade presented. Without her loving and caring, it would have been much more difficult than it was.

"To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven" (Eccl 3:1)

End-of-the-Holidays: Reflections on the Past

For many of us, this time of year is filled with introspection, reviewing the past year and looking forward to the coming year. Some years, moreso than others. This has been one of those seasons for me.

I realized as some point in the middle of the holiday liturgy that this last decade has been a most difficult one for us. Beginning in January 2000, here's an abbreviated chronology:

• January 2000 - a dear aunt died after heart surgery
• February 2000 - my mother-in-law died unexpectedly in her sleep
• Spring 2000 - trying to help one child find the "right" college, all while
  grieving his grandmother
• Spring 2000 - one child is grappling with clinical depression
• September 2001 - one child leaves for college
• September 2001 - September 11th - particularly close to home for those of us in the greater Washington DC area. Almost every family I worked with at that time was impacted directly - or had a co-worker who was.
• September 2002 - our second child leaves for college; I began a new job
• October 2002 - the Washington area sniper struck - six victims were killed within five miles of our house
• January 2003 - I was "let go" from my job (first time ever! Two weeks before my 50th birthday)
• June 2003 - began a job as interim religious school director
• May 2004 - one child graduates from college; is unable to find a job
• July 2004 - gall bladder surgery
• July 2004 - my mother's health continues to decline; she becomes a recluse
• Spring 2005 - one child developes a health condition, which results in a 10-day period of hospitalization
• May 2005 - second child "walked" across the stage; graduation pending completion of several credits
• November 2006 - auto accident: hit head on, car totaled; walked away with "only" a broken toe and some mobility issues
• November 2006 - second child returns home, needing to complete some coursework by January
• Winter-Spring 2007 - child's health problems increase
• June 2007 - leave job and open my consulting business
• Winter 2007-08 - child hospitalized twice
• September 07 - my father has emergency surgery; does not go well; hospitalized for almost 2 weeks
• Summer 08 - mom's dementia is constant; losing weight; my father struggles
• Winter 08-09 - my father-in-law meets a new health challenge; we feel helpless to assist
• December 09 - mom goes into home hospice care
• February 09 - mom goes into a nursing home for hospice care
• April 09 - spend a week with my dad and mother - dementia is total; there's no time but "right this instant" - the strain on my father is worrisome
• June 09 - my mother dies - her death a release for all
• August 09 - I have cataract surgery on one eye (second eye scheduled for 10/14)
• September 09 - a friend of my son's from college days dies unexpectedly - from an infection picked up in the hospital. We are shell-shocked.

There have been some blessings along the way: children both graduated from college, both currently gainfully employed in jobs they like and which allow them to contribute to the communal weal; I find that my consulting business is doing well - I'm grateful for the colleagues who support me; my husband and I have celebrated 31 years of marriage - and we're still going strong! My mother's death has provided a release for many of us. It was good to spend time with my brothers and sisters-in-law when we were home for the funeral. I've been involved in starting a non-profit tzedakah organization; and currently sit on the board of another (educational) nonprofit. My child's health appears to have stabilized - and we're all rejoicing about that! Cousins' children get married - it's nice to gather for something other than funerals! We've found a place we dream about retiring to... and anticipate that the best is yet to come. We traveled to Israel.... and are determined to return. Our finances, which took a hit because of high medical costs and job changes, are beginning to stabilize and improve. Perhaps most importantly, all four of us are working -- the three of them full-time and me part-time.

In the listing of our challenges (above), I am struck by two things: 1) how truly my husband and I fit the profile as members of the "sandwich" generation; and 2) that the feelings of being overwhelmed and/or sad that I sometimes have stem from reasonable causes.

Some thoughts on looking ahead tomorrow.

It WAS a Busy Week

Wow!

What a week...

I finished and submitted an article for publication....

My colleague and I finished over-arching school goals, individual grade goals (accompanied by some strategies for implementation), and a Scope and Sequence for the coming year. Still many pieces to pull together, but the framework appears to be solid. I'll put it aside for a couple of days and then look at it with fresh eyes.

Our kitchen, dining area and adjacent hallway were painted this past week. Alison of Alacrity Consulting and Design did a superb job. Here's her description of what the job entailed. I'm still trying to find new "stashing" places for the stuff we need (which is actually a lot less than the stuff we had). And as you'll see from her to do list at the bottom of her posting, we've still got some finishing touches to add. But it's a clean, warm look and the space has become much more restful than it was previously.

And did I mention that we're leaving for Israel in less than 3 days? I haven't really begun to pack yet (although I've given it lots and lots of thought!)...

It's the first trip for both my husband and me - both of our adult kids also took their first trips (individually) within the last two years.

We decided not to do a tour - neither of us likes to be told to "hurry up and let's go." Since it's a short trip, we decided to spend four days in Jerusalem and four in Tel Aviv. We've had a lot of fun planning our trip - my husband does a superb job of tracking details and researching options.

Here are some of the highlights:

• Arrive Wednesday evening
• Mitzvah Heroes work Thursday
• Ben Yehuda market and shops on Friday
• Shabbat dinner with a friend
• Shabbat morning with other friends - maybe services with the Reconstructionist minyan
• A walking tour of the Old City
• Tel Aviv on Sunday
• Some museums - Independence Hall, the Palmach
• Maybe a day trip
• Some beach time
• Some shopping and wandering

Sounds like fun, doesn't it? I purchased a new netbook and plan to take it along with us to blog, email, and perhaps watch a movie on the flight over or back. With my knitting needles and some yarn, I'll be ready to go!

Stay tuned!

Schools That Work: Personal Reaction

My first reaction to Wertheimer’s Schools That Work was a delighted “YES” (accompanied by a pumped fist). “Finally,” I told a colleague, “SOMEone thinks that we’re not all failing.”

I had become thoroughly sick and tired of articles about supplemental schools being awful and behind the times; of discussions in which the main theme was “Everyone knows that religious schools are a dismal failure;” and of matter-of-fact statements to the tune of, “Well of course my kid hates religious school: all kids do.”

I first discovered this “of-course-all-kids-hate-religious-school” when our now-27 year old son entered fourth grade at our local synagogue school. He had been an eager participant until that time. He'd get into the car eagerly and come home to enthusiastically share stories about what they had learned and classroom antics. He liked playing soccer and climbing on the geodesic dome in the back yard better, but then recess was his favorite part of his secular school day, too.

In fourth grade, things began to change: classroom demographics changed; his teacher had difficulty with classroom management issues (kids were allowed to tease each other, because “that’s how kids are”); and he was beginning to struggle with some significant but-as-yet unidentified learning disabilities. In less than a year, he went from an eager Judaics and Hebrew student to one who tried to run away when it was time for religious school. He’d scream, “You can’t make me go.” I could and I did – but it was a painful experience.

I spoke to relatives, friends, other parents, the principal. All of them assured me that “Of course, he hates religious school – all kids do.” Other parents said, “I suffered through it and was miserable. Now it’s my kid’s turn to be miserable.”

As a convert to Judaism, I was appalled. The more answers I tried to find, the more frustrated I became. The situation, which was already intolerable for my son, rapidly became unacceptable for me. And so we began to look for alternatives.

We tried first to work with the school…. And were met with a shrug of the shoulders and the implication that perhaps I was ambivalent about or deficient in my attitude towards Jewish education. If I “got with the program,” my son’s problems would probably go away.

Things were complicated by the fact that my husband had found a community in which he was comfortable and we decided that we were unwilling to leave the congregation. I ultimately met with our rabbi and asked him what alternatives were available. By that time, we had pulled both of our children out of the religious school and I was homeschooling them in Hebrew and Judaics while we searched for viable options. My request was simple: I wanted a solution that would be a better match for my kids and fulfill our synagogue’s requirements for bar and bat mitzvah.

There was a community school nearby that fit the bill. I met with the Education Director, and shared our experiences, concerns, and hopes. We made a plan to integrate both children into their program the following year. I continued to homeschool our kids for the remainder of that academic year as we planned for that transition.

It was a much better fit for our son – and not a bad fit for our daughter.

End of the story? Not quite.

A year or so later, the kids began to complain vociferously about the commute to religious school. I’d drive them to school three times a week, listening to moaning and complaining the whole trip (30 minutes, now, instead of 10 minutes the year before). My stomach would be in knots the entire time they were in school, and I’d dread their return home. Finally, they’d walk in with their dad – laughing and giggling and practically bouncing in excitement. “What’s for dinner, Mom?” they’d shout.

One day, I couldn’t stand it any longer. “What gives?” I demanded. “I get the tsoris/grief and Dad gets the nachas/joy. Not fair.”

My kids grinned at me. “Oh,” they admitted, “We don’t like GOING to religious school, but once we’re there, we don’t mind BEING there.” An important distinction – and one that I later used when I began to teach OPK – Other People’s Kids.

Next up - more personal reflections about my teaching and directing experiences.

Ahavat Olam

The following is an interpretative version of the ahavat olam prayer, found in the Kol Haneshamah siddur (published by the Jewish Reconstructionist Federation). It’s been echoing in my mind since my mother died earlier this month:

We are loved by an unending love.
We are embraced by arms that fund us
even when we are hidden from ourselves.

We are touched by fingers that soothe us
even when we are too proud for soothing.
We are counseled by voices that guide us
even when we are too embittered to hear.
We are loved by an unending love.

We are supported by hands that uplift us
even in the midst of a fall.
We are urged on by eyes that meet us
even when we are too weak for meeting.
We are loved by an unending love.

Embraced, touched, soothed, and counseled…
ours are the arms, the fingers, the voices;
ours are the hands, the eyes, the smiles;
We are loved by an unending love.

Blessed are you, BELOVED ONE, who loves your people Israel

(Rami M. Shapiro, adapted)

It has been your arms, hands, voices, eyes and smiles that have comforted and sustained us during this period.

We are deeply grateful to be part of our communities.

Shabbat Shalom.

Baruch Dayan HaEmet

I had planned to spend the next couple of postings reacting to and reflecting upon the information in Schools That Work (Wertheimer). However, my mother has died: after a long illness, her death has been a release we are grateful for.

Funeral tomorrow - shiva through Tuesday evening.

Postings will resume the week of June 22nd.

The Four Generations

An Adaptation of "The Four Children"

This was the interpretive reading we used the Passover that was the last one we had with my mother-in-law. I wish I could remember where I got it, but I don't. I hope you find it as thought-provoking as I do.

The Torah commands parents to tell the Passover story to their children. The traditional Haggadah talks about the four types of children, with different questions and attitudes about Passover and Judaism.

Tonight, as we share our table and our tradition with generations of our family, we have adapted the questions for four generations.

The future generation asks, “What will I inherit?” While each future generation will have to make its own commitments, if we could speak to them, we would say, we will preserve the Order of the Seder and the wisdom of our fathers and mothers for you. We would say to this generation, “We will keep alive the message of the Haggadah about the nature of freedom and justice, and about the need to act to make the world a better place for generations to come.”

The children’s generation asks, “What does all of this mean to me? What of myself will I bring to the Seder? How shall I maintain and add to my tradition?” In doing so, this child commits himself or herself to our community. Say to this child, “We are thankful that you are fully here. Be assured, because you sing and read and drink and eat with us, you will know and you will add to the meaning of the Seder. Take confidence from your presence here.”

The parents’ generation says, “Where have we come from?” We have merged from the ashes of the Holocaust, seen the birth of Israel, the release of Jews from Russia and Ethiopia, the shattering of the Communist empire, the re-emergence of hate and bigotry in a hundred forms. We have struggled with our own concepts of Judaism.” Tell this generation, “You are celebrating and learning because you are now free. Because you have struggled with your tradition and have enriched it with your selves, it will last as a gift to your children and your children’s children.”

And what about the grandparents, whose question is almost too difficult to ask? “What have we accomplished?” To the grandparents, you shall say, “Look around the table. All of this…. and more.”

“And the old shall dream dreams and the youth shall see visions
And our hopes will rise to the sky
We must live for today, we must build for tomorrow
Give us time, give us strength, give us life”
~Debbie Friedman

Pesach is Coming!

Update: Since this was written, in 2004, both children have graduated from college. Our Seder table is filled with friends we’ve had seder with for almost 20 years – and their grown children; with cousins who live in town; and adult friends of our kids’ who come to learn and to share. In re-reading this one more time, I’m struck again by my in-laws’ generosity in welcoming me in to their family, in sharing their rituals and customs so lovingly, and in supporting and sustaining us through the difficulties we’ve faced. We’ve been blessed.

Pesach is coming! Pesach is coming! The mantra in my mind begins shortly after Tu B'shevat, when I walk into grocery stores and see the first boxes of matzah stacked in the aisle. "Oh, no," I think, "Pesach is coming. I've got to get ready."

When I began to explore Judaism, Pesach was the most overwhelming of all of the rituals or practices. My husband-to-be took me home to his parents' in '78 before we got married. I'd been there often enough to recognize the pervasive changes in his mother’s kitchen. I panicked -- I knew I could never "keep Pesach" the way she did.... I suspected you had to be "born Jewish" in order to know all the rules... I had no intention of converting at that point. We had decided to raise our children as Jews and maintain a Jewish home -- and it would be my husband’s responsibility to pull those pieces together.

We continued to "go home for Seder" for the next couple of years, when we could. The holiday became more familiar, but no less overwhelming. By this time, I was studying with Rabbi Gene Lipman, z'l, and (although I had not yet decided to convert) knew that to "do Pesach" would take more than just my husband’s efforts -- it would have to be a family affair. I asked my mother-in-law how she ever managed to remember everything. She shared with me her “secret for remembering details" when she showed me her manila folder labeled "Pesach." Huh! I realized that meant we wouldn't have to remember everything -- just where we put the folder. Maybe this was possible after all.

In 1982, the emotional content attached to Pesach struck me with full force. That year, my mother-in-law greeted us at the door with outstretched arms as she took her grandson from me. "Pesach is coming," she crooned, "Pesach is here!"

Our son had been born 8 weeks prematurely the preceding fall. His English names remembered three out of his four great-grandfathers. But when it came to the name he would be called to Torah, I flat-out refused to name him "Fishel." "No son of mine is going to be called Little Fish," I sniffed to Rabbi Lipman. Gene grinned, as only Gene could when he knew he'd stirred up a storm, and suggested that we consider a name beginning with the "pey" sound. He made some suggestions. Finally, I settled on "Pesach" thinking, how appropriate it was for this child who had been so at-risk. My husband concurred: our son became Pesach.

That year, my father-in-law read from the haggadah (Maxell House, of course -- was there any other?) the mandate to tell the story as if we ourselves had been saved. I watched that little baby being passed around the table from person to person and the full impact began to sink in. For the first time since his birth six months earlier, I paused in my busy-ness. My son -- by the grace of God and modern medicine -- had been saved. The Angel of Death didn't stop by his crib in the Neonatal ICU. No sooner had I begun to grasp that reality than another one struck. By our decision, he would be Jewish -- no, that wasn't exactly accurate: by my decision he would be Jewish.

I could have said, "no," you see -- I could have said to my husband when we were courting: "Gee, I can't agree to raise our kids Jewish." Or "Gee, if that's what you want, I can't marry you." But I had agreed -- and the emotional import of that decision was beginning to make itself felt. By agreeing to raise our children as Jews in a Jewish household, I had also agreed not to raise them with the meaningful traditions I had grown up with. The holiday rituals, the life cycle rituals, the ebb and flow of the annual calendar, the sense of spirituality and the Divine -- all would be from his tradition and none from mine.

So along with the sense of redemption came a sense of loss. And I was struck again by how "in sync" I felt with how I imagined the Israelites must have felt -- leaving the familiar (even if, in their case, it was so bad) for the unknown must have involved a sense of loss as well as excitement, relief and liberation. How could it be otherwise?

When we went home that year, I bought a manila folder and inserted in it my mother-in-law’s recipe for chicken soup with matzah balls and my father-in-law’s recipe for matzah brei. It was a beginning.

Over the next few years, we made many decisions: when to clean and how much; who to ask to seder; what haggadah; separate dishes or not -- and did that mean pots & pans, too?; which foods to serve; who gets the afikoman prize; to sing or not (traditionally, my husband’s family didn't -- we do, but not a lot!). There was the year that Pesach only ate Cheerios (before the Kosher for Passover substitute) -- that was the year I declared Cheerios were "kosher-for-Passover-but-only-in-the-kitchen." My orthodoxly-raised mother-in-law rose to the occasion: she kept a spare box in the laundry room! Pesach was coming, you see.

Or the year that both my kids were eating only peanut butter. I was *not* going to spend 8 days in food wars -- that's not my definition of freedom. So peanut butter (a new jar untainted by bread crumbs) was declared "kosher l'pesach" by Rabbi Mom. (It was interesting to note that the Conservative Rabbis followed suit four years later!)

There was the year my daughter begged me to buy extra boxes of sugared fruit slices because all her friends kept snitching hers. And the year, my father-in-law and his brother-in-law grated horseradish root in the kitchen -- and the fumes were so intense their tears flowed freely -- and the rest of us were in gales of laughter for hours. (My father-in-law got a horseradish dish for Chanukah the following year -- and the laughter began all over). Or the year that I put symbols of the plagues on the table and challenged the kids to figure out which symbols represented which plague -- my kids were disdainful: they were too old for such nonsense. But next year, they searched until they found where I’d stashed the toys and insisted that they be on the table.

Or the year -- the one that ended up being our last all together -- when against familial protests, I inserted an adaptation of "The Four Children" entitled "The Four Generations." That reading ends: "And what about the grandparents, whose question is almost too difficult to ask? To the grandparents you shall say, "Look around the table. All of this and more." That was the year my in-laws schlepped chicken soup and pot roast on the plane from Florida – and my father-in-law again commandeered my kitchen to make matzah brei. The following year, we cried our way through seder: my mother-in-law had died unexpectedly right before Purim.

This year, Pesach is coming home early (spring break doesn't coincide), but he's asked to take Grandpa's matzah brei recipe back for his dorm mates. It will be our last Passover with our daughter home. I'll dig out my folders (they've grown to four), find my recipe for Passover granola, and decide that closets don't have to be cleaned, since we don't normally eat there and what would chametz being doing in the closet any way...

Tears and laughter; laughter and tears. Over time as the journey unfolded, the rituals have become as familiar as a favorite sweatshirt. Truth be told -- I find the preparations for Passover still almost overwhelming. But there is familiarity in the overwhelming-ness. I enjoy the Seder, and take comfort that it's finally become familiar -- but it's not my favorite part.

My favorite part of Passover? When I sit at the kitchen table on the first morning of Pesach -- crunching my matzah, watching the birds, rediscovering all my favorite Passover accoutrements. My house is clean, my menus planned for the next eight days, the office is closed. I pause. And remember. And feel connected to the generations of Jews who have gone before us. And I thank the Eternal for both life and freedom -- and the gift of being able to choose and recommit.

Pesach is coming! Pesach is coming! Excuse me, I've got to get ready!

Pearls from Pain

a drash

Several weeks ago, our congregation had its annual “Disability Awareness Shabbat.” Instead of a specific d’var torah/”words on the torah” (aka “sermon”), a congregant gave a drash/teaching on her experience as the parent of a child with multiple disabilities. Her children are about the same age as ours (mid- to late-twenties) and I’ve known her “somewhat” since we were much younger parents.

She spoke about the journey that she and her husband have been on since her child which diagnosed within a couple of weeks after birth with viral encephalitis – and the changes resulting from it: cognitively and physically.

She spoke eloquently about the grieving process that she and her husband went through:

The inevitable questions of how and why this could have happened as well as the anger and sadness took time to work through. Any person who has ever experienced a loss understands these emotions and can appreciate what it takes to deal with these feelings. Fortunately, we had a strong relationship and we understood the importance of finding something positive in dealing with this life altering experience. We also understood that our attitude towards our child would influence our [other] children’s attitude as well.

She spoke about the caring people along their journey who supported them; people who cared for their child and chose to establish their own relationship with him.

Even though there have been many caring people and her child – now an adult – has been able to have a quality of life surpassing that which was originally projected, my friend admitted:

All this being said, having a child like ours does not diminish the challenge and sometimes isolation we feel as parents. We have developed some wonderful friendships with other families who parent a child with special needs. It is within this community that we can share our experiences and know that we are not alone and can help one another.

She ends her drash by quoting from My Grandfather’s Blessings by Dr Naomi Reden.

In her book, she describes an oyster as being soft, tender, and vulnerable. Without the sanctuary of its shell it could not survive. But oysters must open their shells in order to “breathe” water. Sometimes while an oyster is breathing, a grain of sand will enter its shell and become a part of its life from then on.

Such grains of sand cause pain, but an oyster does not alter its soft nature because of this. It does not become hard and leathery in order not to feel. It continues to entrust itself to the ocean, to open and breathe in order to live. But it does respond. Slowly and patiently, the oyster wraps the grain of sand in thin translucent layers until, over time, it has created something of great value in the place where it is most vulnerable to its pain. A pearl might be thought of as an oyster’s response to its suffering. Not every oyster can do this. Oysters that do are more valuable to people than oysters that do not.

Sand is a way of life for an oyster. If you are soft and tender and must live on the sandy floor of the ocean, making pearls becomes a necessity if you are to live well.

She ends with her own bit of wisdom:

Disappointment and loss are a part of every life. Many times we can put such things behind us and get on with the rest of our lives. But not everything is amendable to this approach. Some things are too big or too deep to do this, and we will have to leave important parts of ourselves behind if we treat them in this way. These are the places where wisdom begins to grow in us. It begins with suffering that we do not avoid or rationalize or put behind us. It starts with the realization that our loss, whatever it is, has become a part of us and has altered our lives so profoundly that we cannot go back to the way it was before.

Something in us can transform such suffering into wisdom. The process of turning pain into wisdom often looks like a sorting process. First we experience everything. Then one by one we let things go, the anger, the blame, the sense of injustice, and finally even the pain itself, until all we have left is a deeper sense of the value of life and a greater capacity to live it.

It is with this thought that I believe our child has become my pearl.

I learned a lot that morning, listening to my friend share her pearls of wisdom with all of us. I especially like the acknowledgement that it's not always possible to "put it behind me and move on."... that feelings need to be experienced honestly before one can begin to let them go. And yet, over time, it is possible to value and life life more deeply and completely.

Wow.

Busy, Busy, Busy

It's been a busy couple of weeks since I posted last. Here are some of the highlights:

• There was a brief flurry of responses to getting our (Mitzvah Heroes Fund, Inc.) IRS approval as a 501(c)(3)...... I still need to get donation acknowledgements mailed out!
• I did a workshop for a colleague on "Strategies for Teaching Students Who Learn Differently." It was great to be there with them, but our time was abridged and I didn't do such a great job of abbreviating my agenda, "while standing on one foot." I need to do some pre-emptive thinking for future workshops: What will I leave out if our time runs short?
• I'm preparing a teaching session for a local day school on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day to teach about individuals who found themselves in the unanticipated position of protesting behavior, and whose actions caused significant change. Jewish values: b'tzelem elohim (all are created in the image of God) and ometz lev (courage of the heart). Add those thoughts to Margaret Mead's Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has and perhaps you'll see where I'm going!
• I'm working on a workshop for this coming Sunday for a colleague on "Working with Parents." As I blogged earlier, Joel Lurie Grishaver's Working with Parents: A Teacher's Guide (Torah Aura, 1997) has been an invaluable resource for this type of workshop over the years. Carol Oseran Starin's Let Me Count the Ways, Vol 2 (again, Torah Aura, 2006) has some wonderful suggestions on how to deal with those particularly difficult parents we seem to encounter occasionally.
• I'm also working on a regional program for fifth graders on tzedakah, called "Lev B'Lev /Heart to Heart".... doing the research to come up with the lessons so the teachers can set the stage with their students before our March program.
• I'm planning a workshop with another colleague later this month on working with madrichim/teen aides....
• With the resumption of classes after winter break, I've resumed my role as on-site midweek administrator for a local school ... and found myself testing Hebrew decoding yesterday! (Those of you who know me know that Hebrew language is NOT necessarily my strongest skill!!) But I was able to do the testing.... and more importantly, identify the areas of weakness.... and even still more importantly, propose a course of study/review for the students that need it. WOW - who would've thought?
• I've begun to prep for a Family Tu B'shevat program in early February - we'll focus on bal tashchit (do not destroy) and shomrei adamah (guardianship of the earth).... I'm reading lots of blogs, doing lots of online research and beginning to map out a program that will be sufficiently substantive and engaging for kids and adults.
• And I'm continuing to pull research and ideas together for a school I'm working with that has some children who present rather unique challenges... this one is going a little more slowly than anticipated.

And, in the meantime.... my mother's health is deteriorating rapidly and we're beginning to face some end-of-life issues and feelings.... a friend's daughter's been in and out of the hospital for medical stuff they're having trouble identifying... and my daughter had a week to leave a month early on her BirthRight trip to Israel! Instead of leaving in early February, she left yesterday.... you should have seen the scurrying in this house the last seven days. "Shabbat in Jerusalem twice, Mom" was her mantra.

So, like everyone else, things have been busy.

But this weekend, I'm taking a break and spending Shabbat on retreat with friends from a congregation where I worked for several years. The weather forecast is for frigid weather, but I've been assured I don't have to leave the lodge at all.... so I'm game! Good friends, good conversation, some quality davening /prayer, set in a place where I'll have no cell phone reception -- what could be better??

Shabbat shalom.

Missing Ellie

Today would have been my sister Ellen's 48th birthday. She died one August day, twelve years ago, of Crohn's Disease.

According to Jewish custom, we're supposed to remember our loved ones on the anniversary of their death (their yahrzeit date). But we were on vacation when she died and I have trouble remembering the exact date. Besides, Ellie wasn't Jewish... so somehow remembering her on her birthday "works for me."

Ellie was seven years younger than I - in many ways, she was my "first child." I loved her, cared for her, changed her diaper, encouraged her to walk, taught her to say "Mama" and "Dada" -- and when the time came, took a deep breath and talked with her about the "facts of life." (One of the most awkward and uncomfortable discussions of my life! Poor Ellie, I'm sure I embarrassed her greatly!)

Her illness was a long and ugly one - we figured later she'd probably been sick for almost 20 years when she died. It deprived her of many experiences. But she was funny and clever and remarkably bright. The world is diminished by her absence.

She lived with us while I was pregnant with our second child and on total bedrest. Our son, who was two and a half at that time, loved his Aunt Ellie as only a young child can - with every fiber of his body. When our daughter was born, Aunt Ellie delighted in holding this newborn on her lap and quickly figured out how to make the baby stop crying. She never quite mastered the trick of changing diapers, though!

Some years, the remembering has been more difficult than in other years. This year, it's been hard. My mother is not well. The current economic crisis reminds me of my family's economic crisis around the time that Ellie was born, shortly after my father had lost his job. And even the weather this past week has been more typical of mid-state Wisconsin weather in late October than typical Maryland weather this time of year.

There is a reading from the Yizkor service which has always been a comfort to me.

At the rising of the sun and at its going down,
we remember them.

At the blowing of the wind and in the chill of winter,
we remember them.

At the shining of the sun and in the warmth of summer,
we remember them.

At the rustling of the leaves and in the beauty of autumn,
we remember them.

At the beginning of the year and at its end,
we remember them.

As long as we live, they too will live;
for they are now a part of us,
as we remember them.

When we are weary and in need of strength,
we remember them.

When we are lost and sick at heart,
we remember them.

Where we have joy we crave to share,
we remember them.

When we have decisions that are difficult to make,
we remember them.

When we have achievements that are based on theirs,
we remember them.

At long as we live, they too will live;
for they are now a part of us,
as we remember them.

May her memory be for a blessing.

Change: Noun or Verb?

I'm taking a class, with a group of other Jewish communal workers - we meet monthly and discuss a variety of topics. It's an eclectic group and so we often get a variety of viewpoints.

One of the topics that arose last week was the subject of "change." The instructor asked, "How do you feel about change?" Being the forward-minded people we are, we all agreed that while others might have problems with change - we don't.

Pretty pat answer.

But the question's been echoing in my mind all week. Perhaps not surprisingly, given the start of the New Year (5769) this past Monday at sundown.

After a while of turning the question around and examining it from different perspectives, it occurred to me that what we'd done, as a group, was to treat "change" as one word - without distinguishing between the verb change (which refers to a process) and the noun change (which is the outcome or product).

I maintained in class that I don't necessarily have a problem with change-the-noun. After all, I'm all about change - my life is vastly different than I ever could have envisioned, growing up in a German-Catholic-Lutheran farming community of 5,000 people. I learned a long time ago that "5-year plans" weren't part of my makeup.... "Seize the moment" or "the road less traveled" was more typically my style.

And yet.... and yet, it's not quite that simple.

I hate change-the-verb.... I hate feeling disoriented... the unpredictability that occasionally catches me unaware and makes me scramble to regain my equilibrium. I hate having to be oh-so-very-mindful until new patterns become routines.

We did a lot of moving when I was growing up -- I always felt at a loss until our new house became a "home." And that generally seemed to happen around the time I would enter a dark room and automatically hit the light switch on the first time.

I like routines.... I like grabbing my briefcase and knowing that all the materials I'll need for a specific class are there: pencils, glue sticks, books, notes, stapler, markers, tzedakah box. Since I teach different classes in different settings, I have separate bags for each -- I can just "grab and go" and not think about all the discrete items I need.

I like routines.... when I get up each morning, I grab a cup of coffee and sit at the computer. I check my email accounts, log on to Facebook, read the comics, peruse the headlines, and follow some blogs (in the same order every morning). Only after that routine is completed, can I go on to something new.

Any yet, if I'm totally honest, despite my discomfort at the process, I look back over the intentional changes I've made - and I would make them all over again: moving East, leaving my career path, meeting my husband, converting to Judaism, having children, becoming a Jewish educator, engaging in volunteer work (Judaic and secular). How different my life would have been if I'd not been willing to engage in that process!

May the year ahead hold sweetness, good health, and sufficient challenges to keep life interesting - but not overwhelming. L'shanah tovah!

The Parent Piece

from a presentation I gave last fall....

As educators, we focus a lot on our students with special needs and our teachers. But there’s another piece that we need to focus on, too: the “parent piece.” I’d like to take off my educator’s hat now and speak to you as the parent of children with special needs.

As an educator, there are several comments I frequently hear from teachers: If they [parents of children with special needs] really cared about their child’s Jewish education they’d medicate their kids during religious school, too.

Medications can help with certain issues. They don’t make the situation go away, but they can make it better – “can” being the operative word. Not all meds work for all children. Every medication carries with it a cost, a side effect. Common side effects with stimulant medications are lack of appetite and difficulty sleeping. So parents of a child on this type of medication face difficult choices -- do they choose to medicate their children, so they have an increased ability to focus and control their behavior – or do they choose to have their growing children eat … and sleep? I have the most beautiful pictures of my daughter’s bat mitzvah that are almost too painful to look at. The pictures were taken after a summer on much-needed stimulant medications – she weighed less than 95 lbs then and looks emaciated..… Parents make the best decisions they can for the whole child.

Why don’t they tell us what’s going on? Why don’t they share information with us?

There are many reasons why parents don’t share information. They may be unaware of their child’s behavior – after all, the parent doesn’t see the child in a school setting. They may think that with our smaller class sizes and shorter period of instruction, their kids can hold it together okay. They may have some of the same glitches their kids have – and find it difficult to advocate, explain or organize themselves in such a way as to be able to share information in a helpful way.

But there’s another factor, one that might be hard for many of us – with our love for school and learning situations – to understand. For many of our kids with special needs, school is not a good place to be. It is where they often feel most incompetent…. and a place where they have no friends. Parents spend a lot of time and energy fighting for their kids – trying to make their kids’ school experiences less negative. For many, they just don’t have the energy to expend in working with a supplement school – in addition to their child’s secular school.

What would we have you do? Listen….. just listen and suspend judgment. Help make your school a safe haven - or "sanctuary," if you will - where they can share their "stuff" without worrying about your response. That's the starting point. The details can be worked out afterwards.

Another Master Teacher

My eighty-seven year old father-in-law has begun to study Torah.

On a regular basis.

With Peter Pitzele.

As a member of an Explora-Torah group.

He’s so excited he can hardly wait to share his insights in our weekly phone conversations. His excitement is infectious - I can hardly wait to hear what he's learning!

He says: “Peter asks questions. That’s the difference. He doesn’t tell us the answers. He asks us what we would think or say or do if we were in that situation.”

And he says: “You begin to see how it can make sense.”

Then he says: “Not everyone sees it the same way, but that’s okay.”

And finally: "You have to listen. Even if it's not what you're expecting someone to say, you can't put them down."

Peter Pitzele is the developer of Bibliodrama, an approach to studying sacred text which involves biblical investigation, improve theatre, and fun! The author of Scripture Windows: Toward a Practice of Bibliodrama (Torah Aura, 1998), Peter helps bring text to life by encouraging participants to respond “as if” they were the character in the text. On his website, Peter describes what Bibliodrama has to offer:

Combining a close reading of biblical texts with searching, imaginative questions, Bibliodrama offers people of all ages and levels of knowledge an opportunity to experience of a method of creative study that, in the past twenty five years, has changed the way we read the Bible.

Peter is a master teacher.

And from my father-in-law I have learned (again) it is critical

• to meet the learner where s/he is;
• to engage them in the learning process;
• to allow them to “own” that which they are learning;
• to provide ways in which they can reflect on what they’ve learned.
  

Perhaps that makes my father-in-law a master teacher, too?

An Unveiling

This weekend, my husband’s extended family is gathering for an unveiling. In Jewish tradition, an “unveiling” is held approximately 11 months after someone has died. The tombstone is unveiled, the mourners gather again, and one more milestone in adapting to life without a loved one is reached.

This weekend’s unveiling is particularly difficult, because the loved one committed suicide at age 35 last summer. He was the same age when he died as my younger sister was when she died (of a chronic illness twelve years ago). Both he and my sister shared the same birth month, an interest in art and creative endeavors, and both struggled with mental health issues.

My sister’s death caught me unexpectedly – as did the suicide a year ago. Although she had been ill for well over ten years, she had seemed to be “doing better.” She was seven years younger than I; I did a lot of “motherly” things for her. We were closer than siblings – she felt like my first-born.

I am a convert to Judaism. My sister’s death was my first direct experience with Jewish mourning rituals.

It was strange – the funeral rituals I grew up with were more familiar than Jewish ones. As a member of a children’s choir over forty years ago, we had often been called on to sing at funerals. I knew the liturgy, music, customs, and things that people would say to us mourners. However, as familiar as they were, those practices no longer fit the person I had become.

Our Jewish practices allow for a “shutting down” period between death and the funeral – mourners are not expected to attend to the details of everyday life. I found it off-putting to help arrange for out-of-towners arriving for the funeral…. and downright weird to go to the grocery store.

I found myself resenting the well-intentioned “She’s in a better place right now.” I didn’t want her to be in a “better place:” I wanted her at the other end of the phone so I could talk with her. I didn’t want to be consoled – I wanted to express my grief and anger at a life cut too short.

It was hard to leave the cemetery before the casket was put into the ground. I felt we were leaving her body exposed, instead of tucking it in – as I used to tuck her into bed so many years ago.

But the hardest part was returning to my parents’ home after the funeral. We had only just begun to adjust to my sister’s absence – to begin to say aloud the unspeakable words – and suddenly there was no one there to listen, to mourn with us.

So I came home to a community that was willing to allow me to mourn in our Jewish way. We sat shiva for three days. I shared my grief and pain and silly memories with friends who were content to “just listen.” I went to minyan for 30 days to say Kaddish. When I visited her gravesite 11 months after she died, I searched for a pebble to put on the tombstone. I explained to the younger brother who accompanied me, that it was a Jewish custom, to mark that the person was remembered and the gravesite had been visited. The custom provided us both with a sense of comfort. He took to carrying a box of pebbles in his car, since it was so difficult to find them in this well-cared-for cemetery. It comforted me, knowing that he found comfort in one of my Jewish rituals.

This weekend, I’ll remember both: my husband’s relative and my sister, and think about lives cut too short. May their memories be for a blessing.