Ahz mah (So what)

I knew that the self-imposed challenge of writing a blog post every day would mean facing the inner voices of judgement, doubt, shame. No different than any other daily practice. This week the voice of doubt has been whispering louder, deleting entire paragraphs soon after they are written. Yesterday it stopped me from posting anything, even though I was filled with thoughts and ideas. Why are you writing this? Ahz mah? Last month I read this quote from an interview with Zadie Smith about her essay writing, which felt so right to me at the time: “Talking to yourself can be useful. And writing means being overheard.” It’s the “being overheard” piece that is tripping me up right now. And it’s all okay. Grist for the mill, as Ram Dass would say.

A young Black man, who I admire for his activism but do not know personally, recently posted a classically anti-semitic statement on Facebook. When I say classic, I mean right out of the medieval Church playbook. No need for oblique dog whistling here – just slamming “The Jews” directly with language of Christ-killing and the “crucifying” of Black people who dare speak truth. Talking with white Jewish friends, I notice how many of us speak of anti-semitism in terms of personal prejudices, or “ignorance” that could be resolved through better education about cultural differences. That frame – locating the anti-semitism within the individual and the interpersonal realm – is valid, necessary, and insufficient; there’s another frame I find more compelling. Expressions of anti-semitism – especially coming from a young Black man, for example – need not be experienced as a personal attack by an individual or group whose moral character is in need of correction. Instead of focusing on problemat...

This is the time of year that I write sermons for the High Holidays. My summer ritual. And suddenly, it isn’t. I mean, it should be, but it’s not happening. Yet. Nothing is what it once was. Of course. Pandemics change everything. And now my writing practice is different, and the sermons are not happening. Yet. And our services will be on Zoom, which changes everything. The thought of sharing a carefully prepared sermon on Zoom is... unmotivating. To say the least. I feel like saying the least. I feel like not saying anything. But the Rabbi gives sermons on the High Holidays. Of course. It’s a ritual. But nothing is what it once was. And what could I possibly say in the face of all that has been happening? That Black lives matter? Of course. That love is all we have, really? Of course. Even if I have said these things before? Of course. Do not imagine that anyone remembers. Do not imagine that it sinks in. And imagine that every word sinks in, that this ritual has meaning and power. Im...

My mother wanted to buy me a gold heart locket, from Fortunoff’s. I was in my 30s, and a gold heart locket to me was the epitome of everything my mother wanted me to be that I was not. I often called it her “other” daughter, the one she wished she had. But I was not that other daughter; I was the actual daughter who chose not to share her valuing of material signs of social status. We fought a lot about things like this: gold jewelry, fine linen suits, Italian-made shoes... The more she pushed, the more I viciously ridiculed. And now it was a gold heart locket. I mentioned the conflict to Sandy, an older friend of mine. In response he told me the story of how his father, who had died recently, had once wanted to buy Sandy a “real” coat. At some point Sandy realized that for whatever reason, it meant a lot to his father; and that he could choose to say yes and accept the coat as a gift without being critical... and without feeling compelled to actually wear it if he didn’t want to. He s...

Imagine this: The pandemic has given each of us a customized, independent study curriculum. Part of our task is to discern what that curriculum is, although it’s still our personal curriculum even if we aren’t aware of it. What is it that we are learning, either explicitly or implicitly? What meaning are we finding in our experiences? Aware of the privilege I have to live safely at home during the pandemic, I feel obligated to make the most of the independent study curriculum I have been given. At first I thought that my independent study would be an extended mindfulness retreat, modeled after the retreats offered at meditation centers. But lately I am aware that my independent study is more like a mashup of mindfulness, compassionate communication, anti-racism, and challah baking. There is much to be learned.