Resolutions

It's that time of year. Time for pressure to start penning goals and setting down aspirations.  Time for to-do lists of grandeur and bucket lists for the upcoming year. Why we do this for an arbitrary date and feel pressure to uphold our plans, I'm not really sure. Regardless, it's that time of year when my fellow humans join me in the list-making profession and resolutions are unearthed from the back of the closet.  

I'm actually not big on new years resolutions.  Sadly, there’s nothing new to aim for, nothing different from last year’s problems that still need fixing.  Or from the year before that, or the year before that.  And that’s just too depressing.  Plus, to have a goal it would seem that one actually has to believe that goal can be achieved. Or have a smidgen of hope that by Dec. 31, 2014 they’ll be at least closer to the finish line.  I don’t know what happened, but my smidgen of hope has obviously gotten misplaced, perhaps in one of the moving boxes tucked high away.
 
I could resolve to be healthier, be more open-minded, be more flexible or more relaxed.  I could resolve to meditate daily, start the day off with a swim, volunteer or go back to school.  I could vow to treat myself as kindly as I do others, or to be a better friend, sister, daughter, cousin, niece.  I could. And yet, I don’t dare write them down on paper. 

It’s too real, too binding, too final.  Written down, I have to admit failure if I don’t succeed, hanging my head for yet another year gone by.  It’s not just run of the mill fear of failure, although I’m sure in a 50-minute hour, some psychologist could twist it that way.  It’s the cumulative spiral of decades of struggle, too many nights vowing never again and too many mornings woken in regret.  It’s the lack of faith that this year really will be any different, can be any different. 

I wish I were different.  I wish to be more “normal” and whip out the tired list of resolutions to go to the gym more or eat more salad or read more books.  I wish that I could ignore the past inertia and instead believe that despite it all, 2014 is going to be the year of change, the year of life, a great year…I’d settle for even just an okay non-crisis mode year.  I wish that January 1^st felt like some kind of new beginning, a fresh slate available for carving out joy.  I wish.

Instead, I have to remind myself that Wednesday is New Years Day, and I can’t pick up my library books.  I have to make an alarm in my phone to watch the ball drop on Tuesday night at midnight.  Forget about the pressure to make big New Year’s plans.  I’m just aiming to remember the correct date when I sign a check.

I seem to have lost my hope, misplaced my faith, and let my goals slip out of my pockets.  As much as I hate clichés, perhaps this is one of those times to “fake it til you make it.”

So, pretending that I did believe, pretending I’m more normal, pretending I’m someone else,
what would I dream for in 2014?

1.     Treat myself and those around me gently, kindly, softly and with love.

2.    Nourish my soul’s only vehicle

3.    Feed my heart and my spirit with meditation, meaning, classes, and inspiring pages

4.    Leave my corner of the world a little better than I found it on December 31, 2013

5.    Make a bathing suit my morning attire and glide through the water with the purpose of strength and relaxation rather than achieving a certain distance.

6.    Show up to be a better sister, daughter, friend, cousin, and niece.

7.    Learn what living feels like rather than merely existing.

8.    Choose life.

9.    And actually Live.

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The Case for Fasting

I used to argue my case for fasting, fervently citing ritual and tractate, claiming spirituality as my motivation rather than an excuse to have a calorie-free day.  It wasn’t all a life.  I wanted to be a member of my tribe, beat my chest remorsefully along with my community and share the hunger pains of late Yom Kippur afternoon. I believed that fasting could be holy, a setting apart, a focusing on the holy rather than the mundane.  But for me, the larger truth was that I wanted an anorexic’s freebie day.

I was 20 the last Yom Kippur I fasted, already a veteran patient at eating disorder treatment centers and hospitals.  I was 20 and home from college for the High Holidays, arguing with parents who feared for my life on a daily basis.  As I pled my case, they rebutted with worries that fasting would in fact keep me out of the book of life, that not eating was choosing a slow death rather than opting for another year of life.  I knew the allowances for the sick, elderly and children, that fasting didn’t apply if health was an issue.  My parents were right.  If fasting symbolized a sacrifice, a step away from the norm in the direction of holiness, then for me, eating was more meaningful than fasting.  But at the age of 20, I was to starved and stubborn to concede their points or admit the reasons behind my staunch desire to fast.  I held my self-destructive ground and spent the day light-headed in shul, bowing and remorseful, chanting communal sins while beating my bony chest. 

And so, aside from the services, it was no different from any other day.

My light-bulb moment wasn’t at the blast of the shofar or the closing Nehila prayers.  It wasn’t the sermon that moved me to tears but rather the break-fast later among family and friend.  It had been a bitter day for me, knowing the insane hypocrisy of begging for another year of life while having spent the past 365 days actively tossing aside that very precious gift.  I was afraid to pray for healing, too ashamed to make vows of recovery as I stood on too many years of broken promises and identical Yom Kippur reflections.  But as I stood from the sidelines and watched my family fill plates with warm kugel, bagels and lox, and all the Jewish comfort foods I loved, a small light flickered within.  My personal fast never ended.  There was no break-fast celebration for me.  There was no end date where my inner calculator shut off and my starving dictator was muted.  There was no meal where I freely filled my plate and rejoined the land of the living.  I listened to the laughter and praises to the chef as I cried out my first true prayer of the day.

Please Hashem, help me choose life.  Guide me toward healing and end this perpetual fast that keeps me far away from you, locked in a tiny life. With gratitude for the million second chances, please grant me this moment, this chance to taste freedom, this opportunity to take a bite of my mother’s kugel as a step toward life.

This year I’ll be at services with my community, making my amends and atoning for my sins.  This year I’ll beat my chest and desperately plead for my name to be sealed in the book of life. This year I still need to do better, take bigger bites and farther steps. 

This year I’ll find my holiness in a full belly and experience as much spirituality in the sounding of the shofar as in the taste of my lunch. 

I'll Be Right Back, I Promise

I hand over her leash and whisper promises to be back soon, so soon, just a few hours, really, I promise.  But she doesn’t believe me, instead peering at me with mournful puppy eyes, pleading to avoid the impending abandonment.  I can’t explain that it’s for her own good, that she’ll be cooler in the summer sun after her haircut.  I can’t explain that I’m not leaving, that I’m still here, just a few blocks away, waiting for the call that summons me back to her side.  I can’t explain as she twists to watch me walk out the door, believing that now she is left behind, forgotten.

I could chalk it up to her being a dog, and shake off my guilt while I know the end result.  But it doesn’t change the facts.  She can’t see me and therefore thinks I don’t care.  But we’re not so different, my puppy and I.  How easy is it to question G-d in times of darkness, demanding answers to His absence, believing that tear laden moments found me sitting alone.  And yet, I also can’t understand the greater picture.  I don’t know the justifications for struggle or the glory of the finished masterpiece.  And just like her, I trip into the belief that what I can’t see has ceased to exist. 

In a review of the past year, I am quick to acknowledge human hugs and kind shoulders that soothed.  I list family as my blessings and teachers of all kinds who splash color upon my symphony.  But it’s easy for me to credit the concrete, and dismiss G-d as absent, uncaring, having bigger issues to deal with.  It’s easy to forget that even when I feel the most alone, He might just be waiting outside the door, weeping in tandem, and waiting for my call to return.  I know the things that I balk at are usually the very things that offer the greatest gifts.  I know that my most feared deliver the largest rewards.  I know when my instinct is to politely decline, to opt for my status quo, to swim only within my comfort zone, the path to a bigger life means doing the opposite.  I know that climbing the challenge is for my own good, and yet I still linger at the bottom, wanting proof of the mountaintop prize before I begin my ascend.  

And I know that a weaker G-d could carry me, saving me from my pain.  But it wouldn’t be kind.  Instead I would reach the peak with backpacks of tears, never learning how to sprinkle them by my side like wildflowers.  I would never experience the thrill of independence or the rush of struggle followed by success.  I would remain lame, dependent, blind to my own power and potential.  But I also bet that were a ray of sunshine to illuminate my darkest moments, if I glanced around the corner, I’d find Holiness silently cheering me on, itching for the moment to rejoin my side. 

I don’t walk through my days floating on air, or carry with me the constant knowledge that G-d is by my side.  I often believe I have to handle it alone, deal with it myself, and gather up my broken parts to pick myself up by my bootstraps.  I forget that I can ask for help.  I forget that holiness shines through the eyes of loved ones.  I forget that I am only truly alone if I turn my back on life.  I forget that sight doesn’t prove existence, and I forget that I don’t always know what’s best for me. 

So as I glance at the clock and wait to pick up my puppy, hoping to prove to her, “see? I came back.  It wasn’t so bad.  Aren’t you glad you went? See? I promised I’d be back and here I am.” But she’s a dog, and we’ll go through the same routine the next time I walk out the door and leave her at home. 

And I hope that I remember to trust in the invisible, rely on my inner knowing, and have faith that tears might hold blessings.  I hope I remember that just because I can’t see G-d, doesn’t mean that He’s not waiting around the corner, hurting for me but focused on the grander of the finished masterpiece. 

THE CIRCLE GAME

Yesterday a child came out to wonder. Caught a dragonfly inside a jar.

Fearful when the sky was full of thunder, And tearful at the falling of a star

Then the child moved ten times round the seasons, Skated over ten clear frozen streams

Words like, when you’re older, must appease him, and promises of someday make his dreams.

And the seasons they go round and round, and the painted ponies go up and down

We’re captive on the carousel of time. We can’t return we can only look behind

From where we came, and go round and round and round on the circle game.

We sang with arms intertwined, mesmerized by the campfire flames, childish voices rising with smoke as our pleas.  Memorized words encapsulating a grief that we didn’t recognize.  I loved the song.  “The Circle Game” meant summer camp, guitars and campfires, smoky t-shirts and hands to hold.  And yet, I sang without comprehension, absent of a panic that set in years later.

“We can’t return, we can only look behind from where we came, and go round and round and round in the circle game.”

But as I read the lyrics today, I search for the missing verse.  The lines that detail getting off of the merry-go-round, an escape from repeated lessons and circular living.  I picture the slow spinning and realize that I could stand here forever, and watch the same pink pony return again and again.  The ride does return, doomed to revisit the same path eternally.  I understand the message, and the mourning of spent childhoods, passed adolescence, and approaching gray hairs.  I understand the theme of wishing for a pause button, and how seasons seem to accelerate the older I get.

 But the ride has lost its thrill; after so many circles, I’m ready to try something new.  No longer content to simply wave at beauty and watch the world pass me by, I itch for new lessons, new adventure, and new scenery.  I could sit upon my pony, passively toeing the line, but it seems there are better things ahead.  I’d rather not miss the swing ride, the log flume, or the sticky cotton candy as the side dish for the magician’s act. 

I know I can’t go home again.  I realize that years pass by and it’s shockingly easy to wake up having missed the past decade.  I have learned the same lessons over and over, my stubbornness tripping over my future as I trace the familiar walls of the same hole.  But it’s time to move on.  My painted pony is getting uncomfortable, as I stay rooted on its dizzying spin.

 It’s time for new dreams.  It’s time to wave goodbye at history and mourn lost chances.  It’s time to make peace with old doubts and leave behind healed scars.  It’s time to appreciate the simplicity of the merry-go-round as I head off to new risks, new opportunities, and new chances, learning new tunes as I walk. 

The melody still moves me, wistful for old friends and childhood laughter.  I still pause, aching as my pony returns again and loved ones have walked on, tired of the same scene for decades.  I might miss my familiar ride, and the gently safety of its routine. 

But I’m done being captive.  The seasons will go round and round regardless.  It’s time to stop merely “looking back from where we came”.  It’s time for new horizons. 

The Contest

We have a running contest, born in days of tears and loss. He’d come to visit and during stolen minutes escaped from the crowd of relatives, we’d compare lives.  The winner? Whoever was the most miserable. We ranked divorce and addiction, sickness and depression.  We matched up sorrow and hopelessness, measuring the weight of each before the final winner was declared.  We fed each other bites of black humor, along with solid hugs and warm hands to survive the bitter wind. 

It was a new pairing for me.  His face couldn’t be more familiar, and yet, I was used to catching his eye on the periphery, while I linked arms with his daughters and filled hours chattering about dreams and future plans.  He was my father’s partner, matching wit for wit, and drink for drink.  They were the fun ones, the life of the party, complete with napkins on their heads and boisterous laughs that garnered envy from strangers.  My relationship with my mother’s brother was limited to his role as dad to my cousins and entertaining uncle. 

And then we all grew up.

And the chattering stopped, napkins disappeared, and family vacations got stowed away with old pictures and dusty hiking boots.  Life set in, complete with milestones and sadness, celebrations and new beginnings.  We all shifted and stretched, searching for each other across distances of miles and lost words.  We fumbled in our efforts at connection and marked months between shared meals.

So the contest was born.  I, an adult daughter living at home once again, and he, the visiting uncle traveling the divorcee path with timid steps. We found each other beneath the blanket of family dinners stuffed with valiant efforts to recreate old times.  We shared glances of pain, knowing that you can’t go home again, that tears leave scars and loss breeds loneliness.  We saw common souls across the table, and clasped hands while we measured out our struggles.  It was a sweet bonding, this tall bearded uncle and I, rooted by years of beach vacations and the little boy insecurity I always saw beneath his humorous persona.  Troubles strip us of our masks and he and I met, while bare faced, in a world of disguises.

One of the blessings of family shows up in genuine joy for others good fortune.  Should I take home the gold medal this time, I couldn’t mask my happiness for his success.  And he celebrated my small steps even when he was tripping over old history and sharp edged relationships.  We met on the dark side, and championed the other in the quest for the light.

And we continue to grow up. 

Today we each find more smiles than tears, sure footed once again in a life that’s worth living.  He discovered love and a bliss that lights up the eyes I recognize from long ago.  I discovered a spot in the world to call my own and the daily gifts that bring laughter into my home.  The contest now exists only as a point of reference – an inside joke of times best left behind. But we hold hands that span the coasts, and trade pep talks as reminders of forever family.  Today we both lose the contest, happy to hand over our medals, and relax into hopeful futures.

I stand on the sidelines of his life, sips of updates and emails tinged with the humor that I’ve missed.  Only my uncle, dropping hints of topics and wit, sends me article proposals just in case I am inspired. In today’s email, following a story about a lost earring due to camera timer hassles, I get this:

So, there must be a life lesson there somewhere.

1) Ask for help. Don't trust the camera timer.

2) Don’t buy earrings. They are just meant to adorn someone who already knows you love her.

3) Always have metal detector handy. You never know when you will need to find something hidden in your life. Preferably one that doesn't require a long cord!

There. What a great article!!! And so profound!!

Yes, so profound. Profound in the unearthing of brimming laughter, profound in the sharing of love.  Profound for the re-emergence of a man filled with life, and profound for the kindness in spreading happiness.  There is no other word to capture the beauty of a man escaped from old pressures and past despair. Yes, profound as an example of how to pick up the pieces and fit together new life, new dreams, while gripping the hands of those you adore, those who love you.

I think we’ll let someone else win the contest and enjoy our sunshine for today.

Renaissance Man

It is a renaissance man, donning new masks and elaborate hats to disguise its thievery.  It will rob you of hope, of motivation, of a warm meal to soothe the ache.  It will steal your security and sense of safety, buried under soft blankets and clean clothes.  Ultimately, poverty will snatch your soul right in front of your eyes, trailing dignity in its wake. 

There is crisis poverty, the immediate lack of necessities, empty bank accounts that banish homes and empty pantries. This is the poverty that can extinguish dreams and harden spirits.  There is no debating politics or musing about life’s meaning.  Crisis poverty narrows the focus, listing the items as demands: Food, Water, Shelter, and Warmth. 

It’s easy to claim that we all experience poverty at some level. I could speak about the poverty of a soul, and a life lived in the red, lacking laughter and joy.  I could recollect the darkness and tears, the vanishing of light when my spirit was broke.  But there is a difference.  It might be the same ache, the same tears wept in silence, the same shame and yearning, but let’s not diminish the fear of homelessness or the desperation of days without dinner.  Let’s not wax poetic about finding meaning on the streets and the miracle stories of the few who catch a break and escape to glory. 

And yet, some of those who lived in crisis poverty are richer than I.  Some of those I met had resources of love and community and faith that I coveted.  I’ve met those pushing shopping carts that handed out blessings without expectations, and painted dreams that left me color-blind.  There can be a richness of the spirit, born from a need to survive.  It doesn’t make the hunger or the cold any easier.  It doesn’t pay the rent or allow for museum outings. I wouldn’t choose the panic of unpaid bills and children with outgrown clothes, but it seems that poverty can only steal your soul if you volunteer it.

And then there are those of us who are fluent in four-star restaurants and snuggle under fluffy comforters.  Those of us who reminisce about summer vacations and swap decorating tips.  Those who might fear financial poverty but are illiterate in the words of the truly hungry. It is among us that a rich man’s poverty lurks in the shadows, threatening our laughter and plotting for our joy. This spiritual poverty wields a sharp sword, inducing isolation, misery, aimless days and membership among the living dead.  This poverty robs the future of its color and the present of its bliss.  This poverty scans the rooms of plenty and sees only meaningless trinkets and unfulfilled hopes.  While less of a crisis, it is tough to treat, not responding to checks, steaming soup, or clean sheets. 

Whatever it’s mask, poverty touches us all.  It touches those who live in crisis, those who are bereft of grins, and those who love the ones who suffer.  Poverty strikes through our communities and begs us to take action, to speak up, to dance for change.  Poverty will not be ignored and should not be minimized.  Poverty will steal until abated and recruit members in the silence.  Poverty demands steel defense and courageous steps.  Poverty touches us all, and regardless of the type that sneaks into your home, we must point our fingers and reach out our hands, as we create our army of wealth, armed by kindness and innovation.

And in the meantime, lets make the choice to be rich in essence while we mute the destitute mindset undermining our smiles.  In the meantime, lets lean on each other and make lists of gratitude, as we tally our loved ones and work for a cure. Let’s brainstorm solutions and try new tactics, but let us clench our spirit and stop raising our hand to volunteer our souls. 

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

Would you look into the future if you had the chance? Would you want a crystal ball, even if you could do nothing to change the finale?

I used to think it was a stupid question.  I used to think I would want to know. I am all for planning and lists, organization and pre-emptive worrying.  I have to-do lists for my to-do lists, and ‘prepared’ flashes on my forehead.  I squirm in the ambiguous, and tap my toes while sitting in the questions.  I like to know the outcome before I take the action.  I want to be guaranteed a positive result as I anticipate the risk. I want to taste the promise of freedom prior to the struggle and sniff the glory of success in advance of leaving the shore. 

You would think I would choose the crystal ball – a future spelled out in surety, clear cut plot lines and endings marking the last page. But we don’t get to choose what we see in this crystal ball. We don’t get to sift through the tears and heartache as we zoom in on the laughter.  If we couldn’t change the last word or implement detours, would you want to know?  If you couldn’t use this vision as a method for change, motivation to eradicate bad habits, turn a bit more to the left, shift backwards to avoid the potholes, would you take a peek? I would have to pass.

There is a protocol found among parents.  An underground network where parents can find others who share their struggles and are willing to act as tour guide for the newly exposed. They share with parents who shake with fear and stumble blindly into this new world of sickness or disability or troubles, all laced with powerlessness. They speak words of calming compassion; offer shoulders to lean on and tips for survival.  The idea is that these parents who have come out the other side can offer glimmers of life at the end of the tunnel. 

But what if you don’t have a happy ending to relay? What if you still wake with a racing heart and a mouth dry from fear? What if there are ups and downs, but the straight lined life has disappeared from view? What if the journey has left wounds still seeping and pockets of pain too sensitive to touch? What would you tell this new parent? Would you tell them what they ache to hear: that everything will be ok, that if you send her to this therapist or take this drug, she will be all better? Will you speak of simple steps to take in order to regain equilibrium, assurances of time marked in days rather than years for recovery? Or would you share your truth? Would you turn your crystal ball outward and offer a glimpse of a gray-lined future? Which is kinder? Which is true?

One person’s future isn’t contagious. Her outcome and life path doesn’t have to intermingle with his; her path might be uniquely tailored to fit.  One parent’s trauma doesn’t have to be served at the potluck, and the journey is painted by the individual’s hand and therefore not transferrable to new participants.

That’s the thing. Hope trumps the appeal of a crystal ball.  Hope balances out the worries and buoys us with salt while we paddle our challenging oceans. Hope can shade the gray with sunshine, and fill us with the promise of a better tomorrow.  And if tomorrow greets us with rain, there is always another tomorrow only a day away.  

If I could see what laid in store for me, I would have waved my white flag, burrowed beneath the covers and refused to emerge. If a crystal ball offers only plot, then the lessons learned would be absent.  The small joys and moments of bliss would fade amidst the setbacks, and I would be too caught up in the drama to recognize the supporting cast in the wings.  With too much future information, I would have dropped the course long ago.

But why am I assuming that my crystal ball would show only plot showcasing falls? Maybe it would depict waves jumped and tide pools discovered.  Maybe I would see birthday cakes and cards in the mail, graduation tassels and puppy kisses.  Perhaps my fortune would tell of apartments transformed into homes and visits greeted with bone-crushing hugs.  Maybe belly laughter is the soundtrack and the stage is set with supportive love.  Maybe gardenias bloom and hands are held, puddles to jump in as the side effect of rain.

Maybe it is only me who looks back over the past decades and lands on the bruises and failures, overlooking the warm grins and tears of joy. Maybe I would tell parents to ignore my life’s plot in favor of gearing up for their own journey.

 I would tell them to be patient and get educated, to find support of their own, and to love despite the walls thrown in their face.  I would tell them to look for the sprouts of life, the glimpses of truth, and to celebrate the small steps rather than waiting for the finish line.  I would tell them to expect stumbles and broken bones, days of fear stirred with anxiety.  I would tell them to search for the blessings, the lessons learned, the points of connection exposed.  I would tell them to cry, to scream, to lament and complain.  I would tell them to speak their truth and stop at nothing to save the ones they love.  I would tell them my finale doesn’t have to be theirs, and that the future isn’t set in stone.  I would tell them that hugs matter more than words, and hands to hold soothe more than pills. I would tell them that it’s a wordy book, but to pay attention, not only to the plot, but more to the spaces within. I would tell them that there is no crystal ball with sure results – not for me and not for them.  I would tell them my story and share my wisdom gleaned.

 I would tell them that should their plot twist where mine did, that they shouldn’t be fooled – it’s not about the storyline but rather the tally of blessings at the end.

I would tell them to ignore the crystal ball and to breathe in the living. I would tell them never to give up hope.