The Making of a Middle American

On Tuesday, I got up before dawn and took a plane to Cleveland.

By 7:30pm, I was at the airport for my flight home.  Yes, work day with a really bad commute.

I was exhausted and starving.  After I got through security and found my gate, I looked for the nearest “pub”.  You know the place, it is in every airport, right past the Hudson News Store and just before you can get to the nuts and gummy bear vendor.

I sat at the bar and ordered a “vegetarian-style” house salad.  It arrived and there was lettuce covered by pepperoni, salami, and provolone, all tossed in Italian Dressing.

My server mistook my shock at the lack of vegetables in this carnivorous extravaganza.  So she asked if I wanted “Ranchwiththat”.  It took me a minute.  Ah, did I want Ranching Dressing with that?  Really?  I am trying to reconcile the name and contents of the salad and she wants to introduce another foreign substance.

I was hungry so I dug into the hunks of salami.  But it wasn’t enough.  I know it is hard to believe that I was still hungry after eating about a pound of meat by-products.  So, I ordered chicken wings.  My server asked if I wanted “Ranchwiththat”.   This time I understood.  Nope.

The order came with legs and wings, so I wondered why the menu didn’t say “Buffalo Chicken Parts”.  This was not a very accurate menu.  But — G-d forgive me for saying this — the food was good — for what it was.

Someone came up to the bar and ordered a cup of chili.  It smelled really good.

Now that I had finished my meat-filled “vegetarian style” house salad, and 6 fire-hot Buffalo Chicken Parts, I asked for some chili, no onions and no cheese.

“Cup or crock?” my server asked.

Crock,” I said.

“Jalapeño peppers?”

Yep.

“Ranchwiththat?”

No hesitation.  “Sure.  And by the way the house red is really good!

Thank G-d I was headed home.  Another minute, I might have lost my New York citizenship.

 

Sometimes a lollipop is just a lollipop

Our son, our source of sanity (SOS) is not a candy freak.  He prefers ice cream (vanilla, only) and french fries.

He still has Halloween candy left over.  Every few days he asks to have a piece of that candy as a treat.  Everything in moderation is our mantra.

DOB (father of blogger) is a retired dentist.  Growing up, we were not allowed to have candy at all.  Imagine what it is like to have to hand over your Halloween candy in exchange for raisins.  No wonder I hate Halloween.

Tonight was family dinner.  DOB came over at his usual 4:30pm and he and SOS watched Life of Birds, while SOS explained some of the finer points of the species they were viewing.  DOB was amazed at his grandson’s knowledge.  POB (partner of blogger) made a fabulous meal.  SOS was engaged and engaging at dinner and DOB was again amazed at his grandchild.  DOB was surrounded by family.  A great night for all of us, especially DOB. 

That is, UNTIL . . .

SOS asked for a piece of Halloween candy and picked a Tootsie Pop.  Then he came back to the dinner table with it.  I glimpse DOB:

HORROR

followed by

DISAPPOINTMENT (in me)

followed by the deep breath that means impending

LECTURE

“This is very bad.  You are introducing a corrosive agent into [SOS’s] mouth.  If a child has one of these every day, there will be damage to the gums, enamel, the placement of the teeth in the mouth . . .”

I stopped listening but I imagine that soon the fact that my son is sucking on a lollipop will inevitably lead — through perfectly reasoned logic — to nuclear confrontation with Iran.  So, I wanted to ratchet back the hysteria a little.

“It’s only a lollipop, Dad.”

SOS (sister of blogger) gave me a look that said, whaaaat were you thinking saying that?  How long have you been alive?  Will you never be able to converse with Dad without me as referee?”

Only a lollipop?  [said in a slightly outraged toned] Well, as you remember, you did not have any candy when you were young and aren’t you glad?”

SOS is right; I need her always as referee.  I could have ended the conversation right there by agreeing.  But no, no, no, I had to dig in deeper . . .

“Well, actually, no.  For years, I couldn’t stuff enough Snickers Bars in my mouth because, because, because  —- ” “the Forbidden Fruit?” (Cousin Birder offered helpfully) — “yes, EXACTLY.”

I saw my father’s face and I immediately promised him that SOS would always have very little amounts candy, drink copious amounts of fluoridated water, and hold hands crossing the street, and . . . ., all the while knowing that DOB will be re-hashing this episode with SOB over the coming days fearful for SOS’s future and our parenting skills.

I start chanting in my head: “Sometimes a lollipop is just a lollipop, Dad.” Sometimes a lollipop is just a lollipop, Dad.”Sometimes a lollipop is just a lollipop, Dad.”

Sigmund Freud said something similar about a cigar; that sometimes, a cigar is just cigar.  Sigmund added a caveat: “, but rarely.

What would you do?

POB (partner of blogger) came to our relationship with a housekeeper.  Before POB would move in with me, I had to fire Marta, my existing housekeeper.

But, Marta was cleaning the apartment even before I lived there.

New Yorkers will understand this:  I took over my friend’s lease and her spot in Marta’s cleaning schedule.  Although I met her once, I wouldn’t know Marta if I fell over her.  Every Friday, I used to wake up super-early and take the stairs and the back door out of the apartment building.   I just didn’t want to fail to recognize her as we passed in the lobby or by the elevators and then realize that she was turning the key to my apartment.  Yes, I would rather climb over garbage than risking not recognizing the woman who cleaned my underwear and dyed all my whites blue (ooops).

Since I never saw her (by design) and her English wasn’t so great, I had to fire her by leaving a note, saying I was moving out of state and offering to give her a reference even though she ruined my clothes and I didn’t know her last name.  I left a large severance.  She wrote a note back thanking me and sending me blessings in my new home and life.  Ok, not one of my finer moments.

Enough back story.

POB’s housekeeper, Lucy, was wonderful.  She took such good care of us.  And, we in turn took good care of her.  This summer, she and her husband moved back to Poland.  She recommended someone to take her place and we offered the person the job because Lucy trusted her.  If Lucy trusted her that was good enough for us.

Well, she is trustworthy.  But we are not loving the situation.  We try not to do the mental comparisons, “Lucy did it this way. . . .”  Still, it isn’t really working out.  And, yet, in these tough economic times, we are not going to look for someone else just because we don’t feel some sort of kismet with our new housekeeper-who-is-not-Lucy.  Besides, Lucy would hear about it (through the Polish community) and then she would be mortified that she recommended someone who didn’t work out.  So, it is really out of the question.

Add that this woman also cleans POB’s father’s house.  Think, “No exit.”

“So, what do we do?”  POB asks me tonight.

“Move,” I say.

Move?

“Yeah, move to California.  People move for a lot less than to avoid confrontation with a housekeeper.”

Really?  Really?  You are going to stick with that plan?”

No, of course not.  Because we aren’t firing our new housekeeper. Ever.  She inherited this position from someone we respect.  And I am not going to “Marta” her.

It is what it is: the home edition of The New Normal.

 

Apple Picking

POB is SOS’s school class parent.  Which means I have to show up to events.   Not so terrible if these events are in the city.

But today, oy, today, we had to schlep to Warwick, New York to pick apples. We could have just gone to the supermarket and got apples.  No, we had to go where THEY live and then kill them ourselves by picking them off the trees that are their life blood.  Just what I wanted to do on a Sunday — go apple-killing with my son.

More to the point, going apple-killing meant that we had to drive (read, get lost) through the great, yet incomprehensible, state of New Jersey.  The Neverlost Lady didn’t even try.  We crossed the George Washington Bridge and she just rebooted and said, “Destination?”  Really, Never-Lost Lady, can’t you even feel bad about leaving us to figure out how to get to Route 4 while we are driving at 60 mph?  No hesitation or guilt in your voice?  Even a “recalculating route” would have been gentler.

So, almost immediately inside the border of New Jersey, we were not only abandoned by Never-Lost Lady, but we were left with POB’s directions-from-hell coupled with her fierce determination to be right.  SOS kept asking, “are we lost?” or sighing, “we should have never rented a car; we should have asked someone from the class to take us.”  SOS was becoming the source of my INsanity.  I say to SOS, “we are a team, Buddy!! And a team member never abandons the team when things don’t go as planned!” The smart-aleck that he is, he says, “what if you didn’t get to choose your team?”  OK, KILL ME NOW.  IT IS NOT EVEN 10:30AM.

We actually arrive on time.  And then I am SOS’s hero.  Almost everyone is late because of traffic or getting lost in New Jersey.  (Really, I didn’t know New Jersey driving was so tricky?)

After everyone gathers, we go to pick Fujis and Macouns (which I kept calling Acuna Matata, from the Lion King).  SOS is in charge of yelling and screaming and running around.  POB is in charge of chit chat.  I am in charge of picking the apples.  Oh, cruel life.

AND, I have to carry that sack of apples all over the orchard.  Just sayin’.

After the kids had screamed (I would like to think it was a joyful noise, but the ringing in my head thinks otherwise), we sat at picnic tables for lunch.  One father, the uber-WASP who heretofore had shown no emotion, said in a relieved tone, “It is so good to see that other kids are just like mine!”  Oh, dear man (with names that, but for the absence of “Cabot” or “Lodge”, are OLD LINE and formidable in that one can forget the order of the names, since no one name stands out as a first name), you can emote with us.  We’re Jews.  We emote over anything or at least tell you to stop complaining.  But I digress.

I was soooooooo finished with the day that at 2:30pm.  When POB said we could finally leave the picnic table where non-driving spouses were sucking down whatever fermented liquids were available, I ran to the car.  “Hold it in!! We can find a restroom on the highway!!!!”  I yelled helpfully.  We were taking back one of SOS’s classmates and her mother.  The only traffic?  When we passed our house to drive to theirs.  Of course.  But it was sort of a captive play date.  I learned about the appeal of Zac Efron to young girls.  I learned that SOS is quite gallant; he told his friend to look away from the signs for the Hustler Club on 12th Avenue in the 40s.

When we got home, I remembered what one of the mothers whispered in my ear, knowing it was my first time at an apple picking outing, “make sure you have a full bottle of wine at home.  At least.”

 

 

The Albino Peacock

On Yom Kippur day, POB (partner of blogger) took sick and I was recovering from my contagion and we were clearly not going back to synagogue. I rallied SOS (our son, source of sanity) to take a walk with me, but first he had to have a meltdown about not be able to take his scooter with us.  I had to draw a line, such as it was, since it WAS the holiest of holy days after all.

We ambled up Broadway.  In fact I dragged SOS up Broadway.  “Penance,” I whispered quietly, “for the sin that I have sinned against G-d by . . . .”

No, dear SOS, we weren’t going to browse in Bank Street Bookstore. Nope, no ice cream either. We are just walking.  Now imagine the response:  silent treatment from hell interspersed by whiny demands for better parents.  Obviously, I didn’t self-flagellate enough during these Holy Days.  I obviously needed this for true atonement.  I had thought to look around for broken glass and hot coals so I could walk on them.  But, no need, I had my child to torture me.

SOS’s mood did brighten considerably when I said that we would cut through the Columbia campus to Amsterdam and then walk home.  You could see in his eyes that he knew liberation from the cruel bondage (of walking ten blocks) was within reach.  “E-mom, is the DVR recording on Yom Kippur?”  I looked at him.  “I withdraw the question.”  Wow, that gene replacement therapy is working.

As we walked through the Columbia quad, I felt like we stepped outside Manhattan and onto any non-urban campus. I don’t think I have been around that many 17-22 year-olds since I left college.  My initial thought was that I could just naturally blend into the scene.

Then reality hit:  I see me when I look at them and they see a middle age women when they look at me.

[For those of you who know Fiddler on the Roof, join me:   When did I stop looking so youthful? When did I start to act so old?  Wasn’t it yesterday when we were at the mall? Sunrise, sunset.]

Back to reality (after a fashion).

As we were walking down Amsterdam, SOS interrupted my self-pity about wasted youth and asked if we were permitted to go to St John the Divine on Yom Tov.

Really? I panicked because I was so sure that, on this clear day, lightning was about to strike.

SOS interpreted my panic as disapproval. “It’s ok, E-Mom, we don’t have to go into a church. I just wanted to see the albino peacock.”

“The whaaaat?”

“Eeeeeee-Mom,” SOS said in that way that was accompanied by a you’re-so-stupid-how-do-you-manage-to-breathe eye roll, “albino means all white and the albino peacock lives in the garden. It’s sort of like a refuge for it.”

No joke:  http://www.flickr.com/photos/porto/128123180/

“Oh, ok, buddy, then it is ok if we go to church,” I said as I readied to throw my son out of the way of the thunderbolt or flood that will whisk me away to hell.

My grandmother used to kiss the mezzuzah and put money in the pushke (the charity box) to get around minor infractions of Jewish kosher laws so her children could drink milk before bed if bedtime was less than six hours after a meat dinner.  Would this work on the holiest of holy days?  My mind was going through all of the usual arguments for the KM/MP (kiss mezzuzah/money in pushke) panacea as we were getting closer to St. John the Divine.  Would we have to go in the church to get to the garden where the peacock lives?  Churches are beautiful but still . . . .

Luckily we didn’t have to go into the church to reach the garden.  Phew.

The garden where the peacock lives is set very far back from Amsterdam and so quiet and lovely.  SOS and I held hands and watched the peacock in the hushed quiet of this little garden that seemed miles away from the pulse of the City.  It is an extraordinary bird. http://www.flickr.com/photos/porto/128122920/in/set-72057594105452625/ I bet that there are swirls and patterns on the feathers but we can’t see them on the white-on-white feathers.  http://www.flickr.com/photos/porto/310756506/in/set-72057594105452625/

And those moments were exhilarating and transcendent.

Yes, Yom Kippur 5772, the day that two wandering Jews found beauty in a rare creature on the grounds of a church.  And it felt like a blessing.

And the Best Daughter Award Goes to . . .

SOB (sister of blogger)!!!!!!!!!

Yes, SOB wins for endurance beyond the mortal realm.

[POB (partner of blogger), SOS (our son, source of sanity) and I were in various states of contagion and nursing various infections and maladies, so we really couldn’t risk getting DOB (dad of blogger and SOB) sick.]

Yesterday, SOB sat with DOB in synagogue for the last 3 hours of Yom Kippur, enduring his endless commentary while trying to shoosh him because he no longer whispers and has old-person-yell-in-quiet-places syndrome.

SOB even sat with DOB through Yizkor (the service remembering dead loved ones) as DOB flipped through the prayer book and pronounced the service (using his old-person-yell-in-quiet-places voice) “a bunch of crap”.  (In truth, he mourns my mother every day and says Kaddish for his parents and brothers, so he doesn’t really need a special service to remember.)

I get DOB’s point.  I can’t sit through Yizkor because it doesn’t reach my abiding pain.  I am a little like DOB that way. Except I don’t go to the service and whisper at the top of my lungs.

After three hours of DOB containment, SOB, together with HOSOB (husband of SOB), took DOB out for Japanese food.  He complained about the food and the service.  In his later years, he has become even more impatient about service, and his previously polite manner has become rude when trying to get the attention of the waitstaff.  SOB is the picture of calm in these moments, as I have witnessed in the past.  I am not.

I know, I know, he is 91.  But this is not his last glass of wine or piece of sushi.  I have faith that he will be at SOS’s Bar Mitzvah in 4 years.  And at the very least he will hang around for POB’s and my wedding in 2012.

How do I know all that happened yesterday?  Because SOB and I spill our guts to each other and give each excruciating play-by-plays so that we have a collective memory.

But the real reason that SOB gets the Best Daughter Award?  Even though she was pushed to the limit of sanity, she did not yell, “Ok, Dad, if you don’t like dinner or the service AT THE RESTAURANT YOU PICKED, either be quiet or stick a crow bar in your wallet and pay for it!”

And SOB had lunch with him today, too.

Yes, she is a saint.

 

Serenity and Renewal

My professional coach (not CAFOB) had sent me a New Year’s greeting card which I finally got around to opening at a computer (as opposed to a blackberry).  It was warm and wonderful and direct.  Wishing me the usual for the new year, but also renewal and serenity.

Eureka!!!  (My coach is awesome, but not as awesome as CAFOB who is my friend for 30 years.  If you need a coach, I can give you two people who are amazing.)

Renewal.  Not a theme of the Jewish new year (which has more of a return to G-d and atone theme).  More a Passover theme (spring time, rebirth and renewal of the covenant with G-d).  Nevertheless, I have been feeling the weight of creating business generating opportunities in a terrible economy.

I was so exhausted in August that when it came time for our family week in Montauk, I told the COB (colleague of blogger) that I would not be checking my blackberry and that all calls had to go through POB (partner of blogger).  Originally, POB told me there was no wifi where we were staying and only POB’s phone would work.  As it turned out, there was wifi and my blackberry worked.  If POB lied to me, well, then I love her more for realizing that I needed a blackberry-free zone.  Only twice did work intrude on the week.

When the world is in chaos, it is still navigable but it takes so much more energy that I often feel — well — spent.

My family re-charges me.  POB and SOS (our son, source of sanity) are my mainstays, but SOB (sister of blogger) and HOSOB (husband of SOB) and Cousin Gentle help hold me up.  They are daily miracles in my life.  Even DOB (father of blogger) with all his eccentricities grounds me.  And CB (Cousin Birder) links me to my mother’s family and he is such a wonderful guy. (I wish that CB only realized how awesome he is.  I lectured him about this on Rosh Ha-Shanah — of course I did.)

And there are my goddaughters.  They don’t have to love me because of family connection.  We created that connection together.  These relationships are among the most important in my life.

By their presence in my life, all of these people feed my soul, lessen my burden and give meaning to life.  They are my agents of emotional and psychological renewal.  I hope that I provide for them even a fraction of what they provide for me.

Serenity. Acceptance.  Roll-with-it.  What will be, will be.  Take it as it comes.  Don’t worry forward.  Be in the moment.

Discussion:  compare and contrast blogger’s personality with the above themes.  (Hint: no common ground, as in blogger is the antonym of each of these themes.  Don’t believe me?  Read Wikipedia (right after I send in my comments).)

Ok, clap your hands if you’ve heard this before:  someone has business in this economy, someone is figuring it out, someone is benefiting from all the problems!

Ok, if you have heard this, clap if you heard:  “An A minus?  What’s wrong with an A?  Did someone get an A?”

Whoa, I hear a round of applause throughout the blogo-sphere.

This serenity thing is a hard one.  But I did laugh these last two days when I looked at the wild ride of the stock market and how our retirement is now effectively pushed out to age 113.  I will be the dead, yet-propped up greeter at Walmart’s.  The company will love me because it won’t have to pay overtime (how will I know? I’ll be dead), and I won’t mind being in the freezer section.

At least I laughed.  Ok, gallows humor, but, hey, it IS a start.  I am trying to focus on the things that renew me because they also provide the building blocks of serenity — love, constancy and laughter.

*     *    *    *    *   *    *   *   *   *   *    *   *  *   *

But renewal and serenity are sooooooo much easier in a bull market and a roaring economy.  Just sayin’.

My coach knows me well.  This is the start of a journey for me — to allow time for renewal and to allow a sense of serenity in a chaotic world.

Really, email me if you want a lifeline (or two).

Rosh Ha-Shanah, 5772, Day One and Two

Too much contemplation Wednesday night left me with a pounding headache Thursday morning.  Since I am an adult, no one can force me to go to synagogue services.  And this, THIS, is the only advantage of adulthood.  The rest of the time I am desperately trying to reverse time and go back to my days at Camp Wingate.  But, being able to skip out on synagogue is a BIG advantage of adulthood and may even be worth having to earn a living.  I think that says more about my feeling about going to synagogue than anything else.

I stayed back as POB (partner of blogger) and SOS (our son, source of sanity) went off for morning services and prepared the house for our traditional family luncheon.  Attendees: FOPOB (father of POB), SOPOB (sister of POB), NOPOB (our nephew), DOB (Dad of Blogger), SOB (sister of blogger), HOSOB (husband of SOB), Cousin Gentle, CB (Cousin Birder), and Uncle Larry and Aunt Roz.

I knew that the world was different that day because Uncle Larry and Aunt Roz came early and DOB came late.  Assuming that therefore DOB was dying in front of an ER somewhere in the city, I made SOB call DOB on his cell phone to make sure he was alive.  SOB reminded me that if DOB didn’t answer, it could just be that he didn’t hear it.  DOB has perfect hearing, he asserts, because his doctor hasn’t told him otherwise.  I posit that DOB just doesn’t HEAR the doctor telling him he is deaf.  You can see how this conversation continues in one of those endless loops that runs through every family gathering.

DOB arrived as SOB and I were having this crazy conversation, a sort of anxiety induced cocktail with a garnish of dark humor.  So, we established that he was alive but we could not have a verdict on his deafness.  Nevertheless, all were accounted for and we toasted each other and the world in all its wonder and goodness and hoped that these would triumph over the evil and despoliation. DOB liked the wine even though it was way more expensive than he would ever buy.  He won’t admit it, but I know he does like our wine more than the $3.50 Trader Joe’s rot gut that he thinks is suchabargain (Jews say that phrase like it is one word).

We ate, we drank, we opined, we nodded off, we relaxed.  NOPOB stayed over and I fell fast asleep in my clothes.  POB had to deal with two rambunctious boys.  The take-away is that the new year is one day old, I am already soooo in debt to POB.

Today we went to the Museum of Natural History because it was clear that our two young charges could not sit through a second day of services at synagogue.  Ok, I couldn’t either.  POB is strong, strong, and could do it.  Really, she can.  She could also crawl across a desert if necessary. But we have learned to decline certain invitations, including both Survivor: Sahara and Survivor: Synagogue.

I did feel guilty passing all the Yamikazes (pronounced like Kamikazes, the Japanese suicide pilots, except they are Jews who wear skull caps) — with their families on their way to synagogue, but I figured there were enough suffering Jews in the world and I didn’t need to be one of them, at least not today.

Still, the museum was no picnic.  We needed to stay interested when all we wanted to do was nap during a movie at the Planetarium.  But, nooooo, the boys wanted to see the permanent exhibits of the Planetarium, the Hall of Bio-Diversity, the Hall of the Ocean Life (with the ginormous whale), and the Gift Shop.  At any point, I could have lied on the floor and created the “snoozing mammal” exhibit.  They do need some modern soft sculpture there.  Did you ever notice that there is never enough space given to the sloths and their species?  Ok, sloths are boring, but they do nap in the craziest of places.

I nap in the craziest of places.  I do the least I can do.  And I move slowly (for a New Yorker).  Aha!! I am the missing link between human and sloth.  Rosh Ha-Shanah brings such break-throughs in personal growth and self-knowledge.

Wishing everyone a Yom Tov and — why not? — a Good Shabbas. . . .

~ Blogger

 

Erev Rosh Ha-Shanah 5772

SOS (our son, source of sanity) decided that he preferred his former blog “handle”, TLP (the little prince).  I am worried.

But I was immediately distracted by how adorable he was in his blue blazer, tan slacks, penny loafers, and bow-tie and my heart melted.  Just FYI: I keep suggesting “regular” ties, but SOS (or TLP) demurs.  I think because he knows the bow-tie makes him irresistible to many women (not only his moms).  He doesn’t want to chance missing out on the “boob crush” hugs he gets from all the lesbians in the synagogue (hey, breasts are breasts).  When he gets taller and there is no boob bonus in the hugs, he’ll probably switch to regular ties. Just a guess.

SOS lasted nearly the whole service, which is quite extraordinary for an adult, let alone a child.  “E-Mom, does every word end in “echa” in Hebrew?”  Almost, buddy.

The service was a mixture of celebration, remembrance, solemnity and a little irreverence (we are after all, a gay, lesbian, bi-sexual, transgender, queer and intersex congregation).

The Torah portion we read tomorrow the binding of Isaac by his father Abraham.  I have always hated this story.  A crazy father, a submissive son, and a psychopathic deity.  With a heritage like this, we should start therapy in utero.

What do we learn from that Biblical story, other than we shouldn’t read the Bible to our children, especially before bedtime?

 

I still don’t get why Abraham was so willing to kill Isaac that the angel twice had to tell Abraham to stop before Abraham put down the knife.

I don’t understand why it is part of our liturgy except for us to be horrified by it.  Our rabbi noted that the story seems to defy the requirements elsewhere in Torah for us, as a community, to teach, love and shelter all of our children.  Abraham, the parent generation, is so invested in his belief that he is willing to kill Isaac, the child generation, regardless of whether Isaac has the same commitment.

I never thought of it quite that way — we say we love our children but we send them to battle the wars we decide to wage.  It is as true then and it is today in Iraq and Afghanistan, and in countless other places where wars have been waged so long that no one remembers peace.  We are horrified at the ghastly stories of child abuse here and yet we barely remember that we have sent thousands of other people’s children to war this year alone.

 

Love your children.

Protect your children.

Teach your children.

Remember peace.

 

Days of Awe, 5772

Jews have a strange way of celebrating holidays.  Take the New Year, for example.  Most of the world celebrates a new year with parties, presents or hangovers.  Not Jews.  It’s all about death and destruction.

Our new year 5772 begins Wednesday at sunset with Rosh Ha-Shanah, the birthday of the world.  (I always forget to ask if that is based on the first day or sixth day of creation).

Every new year, we begin by fighting for our mortal lives.

On Rosh Ha-Shanah, our ancient rabbis taught that our fates for the coming year are “penciled-in” and, ten days later, on Yom Kippur, they are sealed – for life or death, for health or sickness, happiness or sorrow, wealth or not-so-much wealth. And because Jews can be lugubrious at times, we go through the recitation of how many ways we could die — water, fire, disease, famine, war, etc.  (The list goes on and on.  Who knew that there were so many ways to die prior to modern warfare?)

During the 10 days, one can sway G-d from the harshest of punishments by our good acts, repentance and atonement for our sins committed during the prior year (here, 5771) and return to the principles of our faith.  Nevertheless, it all pretty much puts a damper on any thoughts of parties with confetti, funny hats and noise makers.

We don’t even sing happy birthday to the world.  If I were the maker of the world, there would be hell to pay (no scare tactics, there) if some massive number of earthly beings, sea creatures and plants didn’t start a rousing round of “G-d’s a jolly good fellow — um — non-corporal entity”.

Living year-to-year like this makes a person wonder why a Jew takes out a 30-year mortgage, or eats vegetables instead of ice cream.  I guess I understand the 30-year mortgage — why buy something with cash if your fate the next Yom Kippur is shall-we-say “tentative”?  Better to borrow money and leave more liquid assets to your heirs, should the fate have a negative prognosis.  But vegetables?  Well, I guess on a day-to-day, they are important to digestion, the specific details of which are somewhat of a preoccupation of our people.

It isn’t all sack cloth and ashes.  We do gather for a meal together but we are focused on not talking about the tragic outfits at synagogue or the odd recombination of couples from last year, because it is not settled law whether for atonement purposes, these sins are included in last year’s sins or next year’s sins.  And we act so sure that we will live another year, that we don’t start with dessert.  The sheer hubris should get us deeper in trouble, even if we don’t have to account for it until 5773.

And then there are people like me, who think that G-d (if G-d even listens to the rituals we ascribed to Heavenly declaration) has billions of creatures to judge, so that’s why some of the good get caught up with bad and the some of the bad seem to get rewarded.  Also, what a downer to have to note everyone’s sins 24/7 (ok, G-d rested on the Sabbath, so 24/6), and then have to remember all of them to give an initial prognosis on Rosh Ha-Shanah and then listen to 9 days of whining about why it wasn’t really stealing, gossip, adultery, pork or whatever.  On the 10th day, I would flood the earth and start again.  Wait, G-d did that once.  (And by the looks of global warming, it is happening again.)

Still, I am looking forward to these ten days of awe.  It is a religiously mandated time-out of the usual rhythms of life.   At different times during these ten days, there is time for quiet, for chanting, for meditation, for family and for solitude.

Something in me needs space to think about my family and the world and my place in both.  I have a visceral need to course-correct some aspects of my life and to resolve to do some things differently and do other things better.   I think this need comes from my fears about the future of the world, our country, our economy and our humanity and their effects on my ability to provide for my family.  And I need these Days of Awe to figure out how I can transform my fears into hope and action.

May this be a year of peace and other blessings for all of us, all over the world.