This I Believe

Today is my 44th birthday, and assuming that I live into my late-80s, I've reached mid-life, but I find myself, surprisingly, not in crisis. Instead, I've reached an age of competence, confidence, and if one can say it about herself, courage.

I believe the secret to my success has been lowering my expectations and giving up on some goals and dreams. 

I know what you're thinking.

Let me explain.

For years I set goals and made promises to myself (and others) I had absolutely no chance of keeping. 

• "I will lose 40 lbs in the next 3 months and ride the entire Slick Rock Trail in Moab!"
• "I will start a blog and publish it every single day!"
• "I'm going to own a mint condition 1967 Camaro by the time I'm 40!"
• "I will keep a diary and write in it every day, without fail. My handwriting will be beautiful and I will fill every page with brilliant, poignant thoughts. I will finish each blank book before even thinking about starting a new one."
• "I'm will set a beautiful Shabbat table and bake challah from scratch every Friday."
• "I'm will  study the Torah portion and the Haftarah every week and never get bored and skip verses, even the "begats".
• "I'm going to be more social and host dinners and game nights at my house and have people over spontaneously to just hang out."
• "I'm going to quit Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter and only read literary fiction and never binge-watch stupid Netflix shows again."

It doesn't take an expert life coach like Yoda to see that I was setting myself up for failure over and over again. I didn't allow for progressive success, and it's almost as if I were setting goals for the person I wanted to be, not the person I am at my core. That list up there isn't really a set of goals and aspirations, it's a checklist of what I thought made a successful, ideal person: athletic, musical, social, cool, diligent, studious, accomplished... perfect. I am some of those things, but I am not and will not ever be all of them.

That recognition and acknowledgment has had some huge side-effects.

I do not envy.

Every single person out there has a quality I don't, an ability I don't, money I don't, or a talent I will not develop. So what?  I've stopped making self-centered, self-focused comparisons in which I always come out the loser. I try not to say: I'll never be able to do that like her and feel like a failure. Instead, I've learned to say: I'll never be able to do that as well as she does, but I am so damn lucky to be in the presence of someone who has those talents, and Wow! Let's celebrate this together!

I give myself breaks. 

I let myself do things that are not goal-oriented or even purposeful. Confession: I love staying in bed until mid-day on weekends and reading, listening to NPR, snuggling with my cat, and reorganizing my shelves. I no longer feel guilty that I'm not on a hike or at the gym or grocery shopping. I sink in, recharge myself, and feel no shame.

I give other people breaks. 

Especially my kids. They're the biggest teachers I've had in this journey to "Okayness." Watching them crash and push and sink into their own natural talents and abilities has made me much more generous with myself. I know that my son, for example, shares my introvertedness and needs time alone to recharge himself and deal with the world. As he has grown old enough to say, "Mom, I want to be alone!" I've grown wise enough not to push too hard against that boundary. 

I ask for help. 

This is a work in progress, but one thing about not having all the talents yourself is that you can ask people with those talents to help you out. Just being able to say, "You're good at this and I suck at this, can you help me?" is a great accomplishment for me. It recognizes the talent in others (easy), reveals my own lack of a skill (difficult), and gets the goal accomplished. Asking a friend to help me make phone calls and plan a social gathering, for example, has always been painful because I'd never want anyone to ask me to do that. But that's not how this work. Me asking a friend to make some phone calls is like him asking me to edit a resume. I'm happy to do it. 

Some people are happy making calls... who knew?

I like what I like, without apologies.

Earlier this year I had a conversation with a friend that went like this.

Me: I really like Ms. So-and-So. She's one of my favorite people.

Friend: Yeah, I don't much care for her.

Me: Hmm. Yeah, um, maybe you're right...

Friend: You can still like her, you know.

Since that conversation I've taken the time to ask myself, "Do I like this because I like it, or because someone else likes it and I want them to think I'm cool and want to fit in?" If it's the latter, it's time to reconsider. 

I forgive.

What I almost wrote to end this piece: "You'd think I would have figured all of this out much earlier in life."

But I'm going to be more generous with myself and end this way instead:

It's OK that I didn't figure all of this out before the age of 44. Life only goes forward, and I'm ready to kick some ass in the second half.

Supporting our Local Islamic Community, One Bored Teenager at a Time

Last night in Fort Collins, Colorado, a few hundred people gathered outside our local Islamic Center for a candlelight vigil of support and solidarity. Our entire family attended -- me, my husband, our 12 year old daughter and our 14 year old son -- three of us willingly.

We are all Jews in our house, but we are not all faith-filled Jews. We celebrate the holidays, we usually light Shabbat candles and set aside Friday night for a family dinner, and we have lots of conversations about what it means to live a Jewish life without faith, to practice Judaism without God.


When children are young, the holidays don't have much meaning beyond a few parties, craft projects, and the many variations of Jewish holiday foods. They dress up in costume on Purim, open presents on Chanukkah, miss school on Yom Kippur, and choke down matzah during Passover. Living a Jewish life is a series of Sunday School, Hebrew School, and hopping from one holiday to the next, trying each year to guess when they'll fall on the "regular" calendar.

In the darkest days of winter we retell the story of the Maccabees and their fight for religious freedom. We fry up some latkes and talk about the miracle of the oil and play dreidel and tell our children that it was used by Jews to secretly satudy Torah when the government tried to prohibit it.

How awful it must have been, we say, to live in times like that.

Pass the applesauce.





Why is This Year Different from All Other Years?

Donald Trump invaded our Chanukkah this year, and I'm betting a lot of other Jewish families took the time to talk about him around their menorahs. What it means to be a Jew and what it means to celebrate Chanukkah were struck in stark relief this year.

We are all subjected to the rhetoric of Trump and those like him, but it is the Jews who must respond with the most force, the loudest voices of condemnation, boots on the ground.

I thought my kids were feeling the righteous indignation right along with me and felt the obligation to stand up and speak out. I thought they were ready and eager to jump into the fray with me, until the day of the march arrived.

Our 14-year-old wasn't into going.
At.
All.

• I'll be bored. 
• It doesn't matter. 
• What difference does it make if I go or don't go?
• No. I am not going.

I was disappointed, and surprised. He'd been interested in our political discussions over the past weeks, and I knew he agreed that the anti-Muslim chatter was worrisome. "Jews stand up," we had all agreed, and now was the time to do it. But when a 14-year-old gets it into his head that he does not want to do something, the parents have two choices: Fight or Flight. Pick the battle and fight until someone surrenders, or let it go and live to fight another day.


There was never any question in my mind: The was the hill I was willing to die on. He was going to the vigil. Period.

So we fought, and there were the usual threats, and eventually he capitulated. He may have been mumbling, grumbling, and stomping his feet, but he got into the car when it was time to go.

The Islamic Center of Fort Collins, completed in 2013.

The Moment 

We arrived late to the vigil -- there were no parking places anywhere near the Islamic Center, and even when we drove blocks away, all we saw were people bundled up and walking toward the Center.


We stood at the back of the crowd and listened to the speeches and sang along to a couple of songs about peace/salaam/shalom. It was dark, and cold, but there was warmth to be found in the crowd.

The Islamic Center of Fort Collins was completed in 2013 and is a large, two-story structure. We stood in the courtyard bathed in the light from the Mosque's curtain-less windows. There was a crowd inside as well, watching a simulcast on large TVs.

The view from above -- what the children saw.

Silhouettes in the second-story windows caught my eye, and I saw a group of children -- young boys and girls of elementary age -- looking down on the crowd. Some of the girls were wearing traditional head coverings, and one or two would occasionally raise a smartphone and take a picture of the crowd, of us.

What did it feel like to them to look down on this gathering of mostly non-Muslims, standing in their courtyard, the place where they probably escaped to play when they were restless or bored or had been dragged to the mosque by their own parents.

If this were our synagogue, those would be my children looking down from the window, looking out. What would I want them to see?

I pulled my son close to my side and pointed up to the window.

"Look. Look at those kids. Imagine how scared they might have felt recently. How they might have wondered what people like us thought about them. How do you think they feel now?"

"Safer?"

"If you weren't here," I told him, "this crowd would be just a little smaller. But they can see you. You made a difference."

He threw his arm over my shoulder and gave me a squeeze.

"Yeah," he said. One voice in a chorus.
 



(Want to know more about Chanukkah? Read here. The main themes are religious freedom, re-dedication of sacred spaces, and celebrating God's (limited) miracle of providing oil for the eternal light in the temple while the people took the required time (8 days) to make more.)

Multiplying the Chanukkah Lights against Trump's Hatred

Tonight, we silenced the Hitleresque, hateful rhetoric of Donald Trump and brought the light of Chanukkah - - the holiday of religious freedom - - into our home and our neighborhood.

We teach our children that, as Jews, it is our obligation and our moral responsibility to be the torch bearers and speak first. When they said, "But there's nothing we can do," we brainstormed some ideas.

And now I want yours. How can our kids (and us) live Chanukkah out loud and bring light to the world?