Israel

Walking through the streets of Safed during Shabbat recently, with friends with whom we traveled to Israel, we passed an older Orthodox man strolling our way.

"Shabbat Shalom!" we called.

"Shabbat Shalom! Where are you from?"

"Dallas, Texas," we told him.

"Dallas," he repeated. "When are you coming home?"

Before I left Dallas, I never expected to feel such a deep connection to this land, to the people there, but I was utterly transformed throughout the nine days I spent in Israel. For instance, on Shabbat, the places we stayed were mostly quiet. Few if any cars disturbed our peace. Stores were closed and lavish buffets, included in our tour, kept our bellies full. It's a Jewish land and for the first time in our lives, we walked through a city where most shared our respect and love for this day - and for many other values and rituals in our lives.

Mezzuzahs greeted us everywhere - on the hotel doors, on restaurant entrances, on gates entering holy places. Hundreds of Hasidim danced vigorously in the streets. As vegetarians, Joe and I never once worried or had to ask if there was meat, or pork, in the food we ate. Restaurants are either meat or dairy, never both. Non-Jews (and non-Muslims, who don't eat pork, either), may obtain a license to raise pigs, but the pigs must be kept on a platform and not touch the land. Some people may find this strange. I love it.

In one restaurant, an Orthodox rabbi sat at a table scrutinizing the grain, separating one tiny pile after another, to discard insects. Hand basins sat outside of many restaurants and other places for ritual handwashing. And the shopping!! Malls of Judaica drove us wild.

One evening we stopped for dinner in the homes of fellow Jews who live in Occo, the dinner having been pre-arranged by our rabbi and tour guide. Joe and I, along with one other couple from our group, dined with a family who was so excited about our arrival, they simply sat and watched us eat, asking repeatedly if we were happy and liked the meal. She had spent the entire morning cleaning house and the entire afternoon baking and cooking. "I prepared for you as if I had a king coming," she said. Throughout the meal, she touched my face, held my hand, and before we left, we exchanged kisses that, she said, "make me sad to lose my new family."

In my blood family, I have those I'm bonded to in unique and special ways. Others, not so much. Others in my life are as close or closer than blood.

That latter feeling is what I experienced in Israel. Yes, of course, I feel that with my religious community in Dallas and in other parts of the country, but it coursed through my veins in Israel. I am part of these people in a way I'm not sure I've ever been a part of another people.

"When are you coming home?" the old man asked.

And I knew it will never matter if I live there or not. It will always, in a real sense, be my home.

Check back for lots more about my feeling about my trip to Israel.

Shabbat Shalom!
Mary

Leaving Home

Leaving Home

In a couple of months I'll be leaving the home I've lived in for 25 years, the only home, in fact, that I've lived in as an adult.

So today I spent all the time I needed walking through each room, evoking memories, and leaving a blessing in every part of this home for the people who will soon move in.

As I sat in the music room, I felt so much joy. The art from all my travels fills the walls, and the same piano I learned to play on in junior high sits alongside my guitars. I felt the presence of hundreds of friends who once curled up on the daybed, the floor and the piano bench to talk and play musical instruments and sing.

Just outside the music room I stood in the foyer. Gratefulness flooded me as I breathed in the presence of the neighbors, friends and family who have walked through that door. I blessed the day that Mike (my ex-husband) and I walked through it for the first time in 1985, and I verbally forgave him for walking out for the last time five years ago, ending our 30-year marriage. I blessed the day Joe showed up on my doorstep with a dozen roses and the day he walked through that door to stay.

Although I was initially reluctant to sit in the living room because I thought it would be filled with too many empty moments and/or arguments, that wasn't the feeling that pulsed through me as I sat there. It was utterly, surprisingly, filled with tranquility. The intimate conversations far outweighed the arguments, and the voices of hundreds of friends broke through the drabness. It was a sweet room. A happy room. I blessed it for the people who would soon be sitting there with their friends.

The kitchen. For Joe and me, it was a place where we always shared a leisurely meal, let go of the day's stress, played games and lit Shabbat candles. It was the only room we remodeled together and one of the few rooms that I felt looked really good - bright and a little funky. I stood at the doorway and looked out at the gorgeous yard that I'll miss the most, recalling the day I walked through the house without looking at a single room, spotted the yard, and decided this was definitely where I'd be living.

Each room received the same deeply-felt blessing. My office where I spent so much time crying after my divorce surprised me by presenting itself as one of the happiest places in my life. I wrote my books here. I wrote for around 100 magazines here. My personality most exerted itself in this room, and the view always both calmed and elated me. The bathroom exuded the feeling of the nightly warm baths that always ended my day. The pool room-turned-Joe's office - once a place of loud music and games, is now a place of sweetness and art, and both feelings lifted my spirit. The bedroom, the place of intimacy, the place where perhaps the deepest and most heartfelt conversations took place. I recalled that every single morning of the 25 years I've lived here, I've woke and looked out the window and welled up with amazement and gratefulness at what has to be the prettiest back yard anywhere, full of big trees and privacy and serenity. I never got over the thrill of being in it.

As I stood there, I heard a loud crash and knew that my two new puppies had broken down the gate that confines them to the kitchen. More crashes followed as they careened through the house. My blessings turned to anger as I raced after them, unable to catch them or get them back into the kitchen.

In their race towards the bedroom, they outran me five times, but I kept chasing them, certain I'd corner them at last and drag them back into the kitchen. Bad boys! But when I walked into the room, the only part of Plotinus visible was his tail peeking out from the comforter, and Damasio stood beside him with a peacock feather in his mouth.

I burst out laughing.

I blessed the fun they've brought into my life.

I will miss this place, but I leave thousands, maybe millions, of blessings here and I know that all that sweet energy will permeate the lives of the next family who calls this place their home.

Mary

Not Growing Apart

Today after prayer services at my synagogue, I headed to a church for a graduation ceremony for one of my best friends. My friend Samira had earned her masters in divinity. Samira grew up in Iran, a Muslim, had once tried to convert to Judaism, felt a deep connection to Sufism, converted to Christianity, became a devoted Baptist, and is now about to be ordained as an Episcopalian priest. When Samira and I met, I was a devoted Baptist, had become involved with Sufism, and five years ago, I converted to Judaism, which had come to meet the deepest calling of my heart.

Samira's and my paths have diverged wildly as we've searched for our spiritual homes, yet we remain very close friends. A couple of months ago, her mom was visiting from Iran, and the three of us had lunch, Samira translating so we could all enjoy each other's company. The two of us meet for lunch or dinner, chat on the phone, say "I love you" before we hang up, and attend each other's life-changing events. Next month, I'll be at her ordination when she becomes an Episcopalian priest, and I'm so intensely happy for her.

So many recent events, including my friendship with Samira, have me thinking about relationships. I have friends from high school, grade school, even from church nursery! Several friends from junior high are like sisters to me. There is little I wouldn't do for them.

I've been to two graduations and parties for one of my nieces in the past few months. Technically, she's my ex-husband's niece, but outside of this blog, she's simply my niece - and one of my closest ones. We text, meet regularly for lunches and dinners, remember each other's birthdays, and love each other with an affection and devotion that we don't feel for everyone.

When I divorced and remarried, my husband Joe's family became my own, deeply and sincerely. I loved my stepchildren and grandchildren immediately and completely. In fact, every person in Joe's family has found a special place in my heart. They didn't replace anyone, and I didn't have to shove anyone out of my heart to let them in. The heart is expandable like that.

The vast majority of the time my love is returned, even if people are sometimes initially wary because I might come on a little strong. But it typically doesn't take someone long to discover how much joy I find in embracing and loving, in letting others into my heart, and in trying to bring joy to theirs.

Of course, love isn't always returned. Sometimes people I love the most simply don't love me back.

But does that hurt me?

Oh yeah. Badly. And it has a domino effect. It hurts other people, too, and those hurts can last a lifetime.

When that happens, I'm tempted to close my heart, even if it's just a tad, because I don't understand and I really don't want to subject myself to more pain. But I know if I do that, it will close a little more the next time someone hurts me, and a little more the time after that. And that just isn't worth it, to me or to the people who might be affected by my withdrawal.

So if you're in my life, know that I love you. It doesn't matter to me how widely divergent our spiritual paths might be. It doesn't matter that years might separate our visits (as happens with some of my childhood friends), and it doesn't matter if we don't talk every day, or even every week. I'd like to say that it doesn't matter, either, if you don't love me back, but that wouldn't be true. It does matter. Because my heart is open. And in spite of what others do to that open heart, I'll choose to keep it that way.

Mary

Miriam's Seder

I just arrived home from my first Miriam's seder. In the past I've hesitated to attend religious "feminist" functions not because I'm not a feminist - I am - but because often, religious feminism glosses over the pain and ignorance of the past (and the present) regarding women's roles and rights and attempts to make circumstances appear less horrific than they were, or are.

One example is the ritual in the Jewish Bible in which a man, if he suspects, merely suspects, that his wife has been unfaithful, could bring her before the high priest where she'd be forced to drink some concoction that, were she guilty, would inflict a great deal of harm on her. Although no one I know defends this ancient practice, I've often heard commentaries that soften the ritual and make it appear less horrendous than it was.

Maybe some of the explanations and excuses are true.

Whatever.

I'm still pissed that a single woman had to endure this humiliating ritual and for me, there's no excuse.

At Miriam's seder, however, I experienced an entirely different approach. There were lots of things I loved about the afternoon: spending a few hours with precious friends sharing a meal that holds symbolic meaning. The music, definitely! I danced and shook my tambourine until all but two of the cymbals fell off and the base actually cracked. I made two trips to the chocolate fountain, and I think I polished off half the bottle of wine on our table.

What I loved most, though, was the haggadah we used. For me, it was an authentic celebration of women's accomplishments, sacrifices and power, but without the omission of the pain and unfairness women have faced, and continue to face today.

One passage in the haggadah relates the story of a group of Jewish women who, facing the curses and violence of ultra-Orthodox men at the Kotel (the remaining wall of the ancient Temple), formed a human shield around the Torah and sang, prayed and read from the scroll.

Oddly, though, the commentary that evoked my deepest emotion was this: "Why didn't the Torah count women among the '600,000 men...who came out of Egypt? And why did Moses say at Sinai, 'Go not near a woman...' " Why am I still emotional over this, hours after the seder has ended? Because the answer from the haggadah doesn't attempt to provide an empty, easy answer. It merely states, "If Torah did not name and number women, it is up to her to fill the empty spaces of our holy texts." Wow! A painful question that didn't attempt to soften the blow with some trite answer!

Sweet!

Yet while there are no excuses given here, there's also little anger. The haggadah simply insinuate this: we have no good answers for the past, but we can create a different future.

Some months back, during one of our bnai mitzvah classes, I mentioned how deeply it bothers me to use the male pronoun for God and for humankind. Often when I share this thought with others, I get reactions that baffle and anger me. One man insinuated that somehow, male pronouns are sacred if they're used in a sacred text. Huh? Pronouns are sacred?

Another, whom I've seen become livid and contentious over minuscule topics never hesitates to roll his eyes when I bring up the "women's issue".

Yet that night, at the bnai mitzvah class, my friend Rusty Dworkin said, "You know, Mary, during services last week, I substituted the feminine pronoun during prayer. And you're right, it really does affect you psychologically."

I don't know if Rusty will ever pray that way again, and I'm not even sure what his feelings were about it. What matters is that he was the only person who stepped outside of his world and entered mine. The only one who wanted to see what I was talking about; to try and understand why gender issues that may not bother others, bother me. I will always be grateful for that single gesture of kindness and empathy.

Today, I opened the monthly publication sent out by my synagogue, Congregation Beth Torah, and here's what I found from our ritual committee: "Our congregation is egalitarian. Women read Torah, carry Torah, lead all parts of the service... but we would like to add a woman's voice to the role of Gabbai."

I'm not sure if these men realize what amazing moments these are for me. These mean aren't "allowing" women to move into new roles, they're inviting us. It's moments like this, little moments, tiny steps, when I feel my world changing. When I begin to realize that our world is evolving.

In our seder today, there were four daughters, a twist on the traditional four sons. One asked, "Why didn't the Torah count us?" The second asked, "Why must you keep pushing your women's questions into every text?" "What is this?" asked the third, because she didn't even realize she had a place at the table. The fourth daughter, however, had no questions, but the haggadah speaks, perhaps most poignantly, to her: "Your questions will come," it says. "And when they do, you will help us leave Egypt farther behind."

May more of us come to the kind of awareness where we can ask difficult questions - and stop providing simplistic answers.

Mary

Snow in Dallas

I hated to leave Joe but I had to.

Snow in Dallas means I'm going to be hiking in the nature center, even though I had to leave my poor husband sick in bed.

At the nature center, the lone male adventurer warned me not to go in. The main trail was closed, he told me, and so many branches were down that you couldn't make it ten feet onto any trail.

Go home, sissy. I'm going IN.

And I did. I found out that my snow boots aren't waterproof but that was OK. I literally had to crawl on my hands and knees under the branches, veer off the trail to get through at some points, and I slid down more than one hill. I lost a glove at one spot and had to backtrack to find it. A couple of times I thought I had missed the trail and might be lost.

I'm still pumped. It's been awhile since I've had an adventure and I needed this!

As I left, three cars of teenagers were leaving the preserve. Since they hadn't been out of their cars, I assume they wanted to view the parking lot. On the way out, one of them got his car stuck and the other three got out to help push. Tires spinning, the rut just got bigger.

Get out of my way, sissies.

I told the young man to stop spinning his wheels, and I told the boys to help me push the car sideways. Two of them huffed back to their car, leaving myself and one kid to push the car out, but we did it. Then I instructed him on how to get his car back into the tracks, with two of us still pushing, and he finally got back on the road.

I'm back home now, staring out the window, wondering if I could manage a night hike, maybe at the state park near my home. Or should I turn on the outdoors hot tub and steam up while the snow falls on my hair?

I am woman.

I think I may settle for a bubblebath.

What Will We Remember?

This past year we took two of our grandkids to Disneyworld.

"I wish we were just in Texas," Gabe said. "I really like Texas."

"Gabe," I said, this is Disneyworld."

"Well, OK," he said, "but I wish Disneyworld was in Texas."

I get it. My family went on vacations every single year, sometimes twice in a year, but what I remember most was arriving at the hotel. The excitement of walking into that room, running to check out the view (could we see the ocean or the swimming pool from the balcony?) and, well, while there were other vivid memories, the hotel and swimming pool were WAY up there.

Here's how our grandkids (including another granddaughter we took on vacation) had the most fun:

Racing to get to the elevator to see who would get to punch the button first.

Choosing their "own" elevator door to stand in front of to win the "which door will open first" contest (Joe & I participated).

Standing really close to the elevator door and giggling hysterically when the doors opened and they startled the people inside (Joe & I participated, on both sides).

Deciding that the man with the briefcase on the second floor was a spy or a terrorist (Joe & I elaborated on those possibilities).

Piling the mattress from one bed onto the mattress of the other bed and making up an amazing number of games that required a really tall bed, like jumping on it without using your hands and racing to "worm" to the headboard (Joe & I didn't participate).

Ordering room service and not eating a single bite of the food (Joe & I ate).

Going to bed whenever you wanted and waking up whenever you wanted, then watching DVDs the entire day.

Going to the vending machine for chips, then oops, forgot a soft drink so really need to race to the elevator again to go back to the vending machine, then a third time for a candy bar, then lots more times just to look at what's in there.

The pool, the lobby, hallways that lead other places, the pool again.

Sitting underneath various coffee tables in the lobby.

Really, I get this and I'm utterly re-inspired by it. Kids today, just like adults, are overloaded with stuff, with technology, with busy-ness, and just to have a day in a new environment to create and play is the best kind of vacation. Kids possess the imagination to create more games than are in every department store combined. It's utterly amazing to watch them.

Today, thinking about this, I'm struck by two pertinent lessons.

One, that when the kids are older, they won't remember the gifts they received as much as they'll remember - forever - the joy of waking up and knowing that surprises awaited them, creating games with cousins they haven't seen in awhile and, best of all, having a whole day just to play.

For me, as a Jew, with long hours stretched ahead of me without all the trappings and gala of Christmas, and with Shabbat approaching, I can take a lesson from my grandkids and realize that I have an innate capacity to create. That as the regular flow of life and commerce stops, a day emerges filled with opportunities to explore, write, hang out with friends, and maybe manage to make a snowball with what's left of the snow in our yard.

Today pause to ask yourself what you remember in your past and make sure this day - and as many days as possible - will include some truly memorable moments. Then take another moment to reflect on what you think your kids will remember. It will startle you with its simplicity and it just may change your day - and your life.

Mary

100 Blessings

Yesterday during prayer service, my rabbi, Adam Raskin, reminded us of the Jewish tradition of saying 100 blessings a day. Numbers in Judaism are symbolic, not literal, and Rabbi Raskin's point was that if we pause to feel a sense of gratefulness for each aspect of life, we can also recapture our sense of wonder. Gratefulness and wonder go hand in hand.

On the way home, I decided to notice all the things in a single day for which I feel grateful. Not to make anything up, just to notice. To pause for a second when I encounter something good in my life, closing my eyes and feeling a rush of gratitude.

The sheer number of opportunities I had even before sundown amazed me. That morning, for instance, I had awoke feeling happy. How many people just wake up? I woke up happy! That is something to be grateful for! Rather than just making a mental list of blessings, I paused to feel the rush of joy that accompanies them: the many deeply spiritual moments of our prayer service that morning, the deep love I feel for the people I pray and sing and eat with every week, the quietness of our drive home and the physical beauty of the city I live just outside of, the nature I'm surrounded by in our suburb, the sentence in my book that grabbed me and changed my life in some little way, the physical and emotional closeness of my husband. And that was just the start of my day.

I didn't have to struggle to find any of that. I simply had to pause to soak up the joy and gratitude and wonder.

Jewish blessings begin with baruch ata Adonai... Blessed are you, Lord our God, Sovereign of the Universe, who sustains or restores or strengthens or guides or enables or... (fill in the blank). That form (with a poetic "translation" for Sovereign) resonates with me, and although I obviously can't use it all the time, I use it often. Why? Because while I'm grateful for so many things in my life, that rush of joy or sense of shalom (wholeness) I feel is, for me, synonymous with the Breath of God. In other words, I don't merely feel gratitude for an aspect of my life, I feel the Divine Presence in each blessing.

Do I believe God gave me, personally, some particular blessing and withheld it from someone else? Not in any way. Do I believe in a God that breathes life into and permeates all that exists? Oh Yes!

It only takes a few seconds to close my eyes and feel that sense of gratitude and wonder and if I did that only 30 times, I've taken only a few minutes out of my day. Yet those are minutes that can change the entire demeanor of that day. For this I have to say, Baruch ata Adonai Eloheynu, Melech haOlam.

Mary