Connecting to my Past

Yesterday at work, during an initial visit for a client, we both got very excited when we realized that we had started life on a similar route;  same high school and same college.  Then I asked her for her birthday (for my records) and guess when she was born?  In 1991, the same year that I actually graduated from college. I felt mighty ancient and was hit with the scary realization that I am, in fact, a grown-up.  When the hell did that happen?!

Until Raphaela was born, if you had asked me what part of my life I would gladly repeat, I would have answered my college years, without hesitation.  18 years old, living on my own in a dormitory in the middle of Manhattan rather than under the supervision of my parents in boring Boston, choosing my class schedule and making new friends.  Essentially, figuring out for the first time who I wanted to be, and loving myself inside and out for the first time in my life.

Now that I am a mother to a beautiful, intelligent and stubborn four year old,  I would answer that question differently;  I would not miss a moment of the time I have with my daughter, though the joy and the happiness represent a completely different animal than my loveliest memories from my Barnard College years.

Spurred on by these thoughts, I posted a shout-out to my Columbia/Barnard Facebook friends, and was rewarded beyond expectation:  one of my contacts answered by posting a photo from our Freshperson* year, all of us bright eyed and oh so young, eating in Kosher Kitchen.

(Photo credit:  Cindy Kosowsky Mann, Columbia Class of 1991)

I kept returning to that photo all day in between patients, it was phenomenally distracting and brought so many smiles to my face, I could hardly contain myself.

Later that day at a play date, speaking to the mother of Raphaela's friend while the girls played;  Turns out we went to Eagle Day Camp together, THE Jewish Summer Day Camp for anyone who was anyone living in the Tri-State Megalopolis.  We sang the song of the head of the pool, Chief Takazees, and yes, he did walk around camp with a full complement of Native American feathers in his head;  I can still see myself in that blue and white Eagle Day Camp shirt and blue shorts, and I remember enjoying it from start to finish. 

This morning I received a special delivery from my Great Aunt, the youngest and only sister of my Bubby Z"L:  my aunt Ida sent me a copy of her short stories, a memoir she had written several years ago which includes accounts of my grandmother's difficult childhood spent in British Palestine and later in an orphanage.  At 86 years old, this woman so closely resembles my grandmother, she corresponds with me regularly via email, and seems to be living a fulfilling and active life, pthoo pthoo.  I nearly cried reading about my grandmother and her three siblings, finding it almost impossible to imagine her as a despondent serious child, because that is not the grandmother I knew and loved as a second mother.

Once an acupuncturist friend of mine told me that I could not fly until I had solid roots in the ground of Gaea, and now I understand her more than ever.  After spending two days rediscovering the child in me and learning about my family, I find myself bouncing around the house, smiling with wild abandon, and dreaming of a beautiful future.

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* "FreshMAN" is apparently misogynist, and so we called ourselves (in cynicism and mockery of Fascist Feminism) Freshpeople.  Someone on our floor crossed out the word "Women" from the bathroom door, and rewrote it as "Womyn," because G-d Forbid we want to imply that Woman is derived from Man, and therefore secondary in the evolutionary chain.  Seriously.  True Story.

Evolving Friendships

From the age of one to thirteen, I had a BFF named Beth.  We did everything together, and confided everything in each other.  When my parents were going through a divorce I practically lived in her house, and when her parents were having issues with Beth's older brother, issues that completely disrupted their family life, she practically lived in mine. 

We swore that we would never lose touch and that we would be, literally, best friends FOREVER.

Then we moved from New York to Boston, and Beth became Ultra-Orthodox. Our lives and our belief systems diverged, and after attempts to stay in contact via snail mail - remember that this was the pre-internet and social media generation - we drifted and she became a pleasant memory for me.

It took me until post college to understand that if a friendship changes or fades, it does not reflect badly on me as a person.  We as human beings evolve individually and as a peer group over time, and some connections that once made sense lose their focus and their purpose.  And that's OK, perfectly normal for most of the population of Gaea.

It's the reason couples get divorced, they become different people and if they don't work at it, they fall out of love.

I met one of my current closest friends at the pregnancy and birth preparation class at Hadassah Hospital.  Our daughters were conceived on the same day through fertility treatments, and they were born a week apart.  For the first several years of their lives, we four girls hung out together, and I imagined that these friendships would last FOREVER.

In the last year or so, because the girls attend different school program and because we see each other less, that aspect of our connection has fallen apart, and for a while it made me sad.  I resolved however that it should not affect my adult friendship, and last night the two Mommies got sitters and met for dinner; the first time in a long time.

The food was yummy, the restaurant warm and cozy, and the conversations wonderful.  It is the kind of relationship that is quite simply familiar and comfortable, where you immediately slip into patterns of trust; my own little Field of Dreams.

We even joked at one point that we will still be friends at the age of 90...

Chanukah in the Old City 2013

Since Raphaela has never been to the Old City in Jerusalem in a cognitive conscious way, I had decided that on one of the days of Chanukah I would take her on a walk through the Old City and to the Kotel [Wailing Wall].  The weather report for the next three days is threatening rain (finally!) for the next three days,  so we set off today.

My expectations of her ability to traverse the rocky paths and the long walk were low, and Raphaela far exceeded them, walking almost four hours on the steep and broken streets, pushing through the massive crowds without fear.  When we concluded our tour and were on our way to the bus stop, Raphaela said, "Mommy, why bother taking the bus?  We can walk home from here, it's not that far from here!"  Well, she might have had excess energy but Mommy felt pretty exhausted.

While it is less advisable to give charity money to random people wandering around the Old City, I wanted to teach Raphaela the joy of giving with a full heart, so I set aside a bunch of loose change, gave it to her and told her that she could give it to whomever she felt fit.  Raphaela distributed the change to many people, including a random mother walking with her children;  the woman laughed, understanding the meaning behind the gesture, and suggested Raphaela give the coins to someone more worthy and more needy than herself.

As we walked through the alleys, I explained to Raphaela that the ridges in the stones were part of an ancient sewage and drainage system, and that the Jews in the time of Chanukah did not have a modern plumbing system or bathtubs like we have today.  Raphaela seemed even more concerned when I told her that in the time of the Macabees, there was no such thing as television or the Internet.

"What did they do with their time, Mommy?" (Very valid question for this generation...)

We lost count of the number of menorahs we saw, large small and very large.

At the Kotel, I explained to Raphaela that although G-d listens to us everywhere, this place, a remnant of the Temple, G-d listens very well, and that she could make a special wish.

 

 

I submitted my regular Christmas list IE health, good friends and supportive relationships, professional success, the end of this war of terror and World Peace etc.  When I asked Raphaela what she had discussed with G-d, she answered that she had requested Love.

Mazal Tov Jesse and Mark!

Last night I attended the wedding of a friend, a woman who married "older" IE in her mid 30's.  Those of us in the age range of 35-45 represented the youngsters in the hall, and there were several tables of  us:  men and women, married and single, with and without children.  More importantly, we could all reference the same movies and television shows while simultaneously talking about more 'mature' topics, like family life.  We are that generation of children who grew up in the 1970's, and we quickly found common ground.

Turns out our generation turned out pretty cool and accomplished, and I must say, that is the most fun I have had at a wedding in a very long time.  Inconceivable!

Only downside?  Of course we were seated next to the band, so I came home with a splitting headache that follows me even this morning.

Last Call

The furniture has been moved around, the walls re-painted, some of the toys have gone AWOL from the shelves, and the names of the children have been removed from their cubbies. 

When I saw Raphaela's teacher today, the one woman who has been more responsible all year for my daughter than the other two on staff, she told me that today was her last before the end of the school year next week.  She then told me that I have a "wonderful and special kid," and that she felt so proud yesterday as she watched Raphaela play with a large group of her classmates, confident and vocal.  Quite a change from the beginning of the year, when her inner world full of imaginary friends was more appealing to her than human company, and when English dominated Hebrew in her speech.

Grateful for this year, I have begun to prepare Raphaela for the changes ahead.  She knows that once Gan closes for the year she will attend camp, and after a minor vacation she will transfer to a new school with mostly new friends.

I find that children this age have a good grasp on certain linear time concepts: "Now," "Soon," "Later," "Tomorrow," and even "In a few days."  And yet now that Raphaela understands the long term plan, she asks me every morning when she will go to her new Gan.  Here's hoping that her enthusiasm takes us through the entire month of August.

I was thinking that humanity might be better off if we ditched linear time.  Not only would we cease rushing from place to place and constantly checking our watches, but it would also afford us the opportunity to see Past-Present-Future as a true continuum.  If we could understand even on the smallest level how our actions and thoughts today ripple backward and forward in time, we would stop worrying, because we would know that it all turns out OK, according to the Divine Plan.

Journey to the Old City

On the actual Jerusalem Day I had planned to go to the Old City but did not, opting to perform vital house errands (post office, bank, supermarket) instead.  This morning I took off two hours and walked - rather limped, because of my sprained calf muscle - from my house to the Old City, following a path so ingrained in my mind that I could do it with my eyes closed.

I went to the Western Wall and had a very serious chat with G-d.  With my recent rising level of stress, and feeling somewhat abandoned by those who should be supportive of me, to whom else can I turn other than the Ultimate Being, the "Man (or Woman) with the Plan" so to speak.  It can be argued that the concept of a powerful all-knowing Deity is a man-made construct, imagined to help us feel better when our world goes to Hell. 

I personally believe in a greater pattern to the Universe, I know that I and my daughter must have some role and purpose, and I am sure that I am not privy to the larger picture.  I have a much better relationship with G-d than I do with organized religion, and I admit, it felt comforting to touch the stones of the wall and insert my little note in the cracks between the rocks. 

Once I start thinking that no one is listening and nothing can help, I will lose hold of my hope.  As Bruce Lee said, "No one is ever defeated until defeat has been accepted as a reality."

The last time I had such an intense spiritual experience at the Western Wall was the week before the fertility treatment that resulted in the birth of Raphaela.

As long as I had the time blocked off in my schedule, I also took the opportunity to revisit the spots I had not seen in years.  Wading through the extreme tourist groups, so much had changed, so many revitalized buildings and yet I felt like the Old City exists out of time and space, a patch of country unrelated to any other neighborhood in Jerusalem, or in Israel for that matter.

I stood in my hallowed spot, an area in which four or five stones dating back to the Second Temple sit undisturbed in the newer sidewalk, among the modernity of the cafes, pizza shops, tourist traps and money changing stores.  A place where ancient meets modern, where history meets The Now.  I recalled my naive enthusiasm and unfiltered Zionism, all the motivation I had to move to Israel 16 years ago and build my life here.

What did I pray for today?  Some of that is personal, but mostly I asked for Love and Abundance and Health, and for a sign that I will have that chance to fulfill my dreams of being happy and raising my daughter here in Israel.

Prelude to Pessach II

Every morning as we walk to Gan, Raphaela and I pass by our neighbors beautifully manicured garden, and we look at the colorful array of flowers:  snap dragons, pansies and daisies.  Particularly on Friday, when the Shabbat flower seller sets up at the corner of our house, Raphaela marvels at all the choice of flowers, and carefully chooses what shall adorn our house for the week.

Usually it is lilies or roses, last week it was violets and today she chose daisies.  It was my grandmother who carefully tended her garden, her bird feeders and her squirrel feeders, she taught me the name of all those flowers while I helped her pull weeds and trim the rose bushes.

I don't know what moved me today, watching Raphaela embrace her life with such joy and simplicity, preparing for Pessach, or simply enjoying a cup of coffee and a piece of cake at the bakery on Palmach on a sunny Jerusalem morning.  I think maybe it was me, taking stock of my life and realizing how lucky I am, how blessed.  I think it also started with memories of childhood Pessach seder at my grandparents' house, the whole family (almost 25 people and one bathroom!) crowding into their New England colonial to celebrate together;  the boy grandchildren in the basement, arranged like a dormitory, the girls in the den upstairs, all our family and guests at the seder.  My grandmother's fantastic cooking, with baked goods so delicious that you could not imagine it was allowed on the holiday.

I know that it is me remembering my grandmother, my surrogate mother during many difficult periods in my life, and me missing my grandmother that made me all of a sudden start crying as I carried my groceries home.  Her presence has been overwhelming me all day.

I miss my Bubby, I am sad that Raphaela will never have the chance to know her and read with her the way I did. I think they would have gotten along like long lost sisters, cooking together in the kitchen or gardening or discussing art and music;  my Bubby even managed to make banal errands like the post office or the supermarket an adventure.  I am sad that Raphaela will not have the opportunity to bond with her family in cramped quarters over the Pessach seder.

I wonder what she would think of my life, and the child who amazes me and brings me joy every day.

 I regret that I never fulfilled a secret dream, to send my grandmother tickets to Italy and to take her on vacation; she worked so hard in life, barely slept, and suffered so much as a child, and she deserved to be treated like a princess if only for a short while.

Chag Sameach Bubby, I know that you are happy where ever your soul may be, and I know that you are free.

Through a Child's Eyes

We went away to Tekoa, to Savta Shira's family, for the final days of Succot.  I had no intention of attending the dancing Sunday night;  I thought that I would dress Raphaela, send her off with friends and get in that nap I so desperately needed.

Instead, Savta Shira insisted that I join them, and thus found myself in their synagogue, on Simchat Torah.  As the Universe would have it, I was also the first women to get the Torah from the men's side and dance at the center of the circle, one hand on the precious symbol of Judaism, the other hand holding Raphaela's.  The choice baffled many of the women in the room, and several of them came over to me during the event and introduced themselves, with the implicit question "Who the hell are you and how did you get to be the first one?", behind the niceties and the curiosity.  But I actually became emotional at that honor, and got caught up in the singing and the dancing, more than I have in years.

I also completely underestimated Raphaela's response to the evening.  A child who generally dislikes large crowds and noise, she sobbed in grief (with a stream of 'real tears') when I suggested at a certain point that we had to leave the dancing and go home for dinner.  In all her three years of life, I have never seen her so adamantly insist upon anything, and the thought of breaking her heart made me change my mind.

(Her resistance to leaving, crossing the threshold of the doorway, reminded me of one my favorite scenes from the movie, "Field of Dreams," with Doc and the hot dog and the white line on the base ball field...if you don't get my reference it's OK, it means something to me.)

The Jewish communal experience only got sweeter today, when she braved the men's section all by herself and discovered The Candy Man, who gave her a lollipop, a treat she never gets from me at home.  "I'm happy now, Mommy."  After the joyous aliyah to the Torah for the mass of children in the community, the synagogue had arranged for each child to receive a goody bag, similar and perhaps even nicer than one she might anticipate from a friend's birthday party.  Bamba, soft drink, chocolate wafers, hard candy; as a parent and as a Chiropractor, I can't say that I was thrilled with her 'lunch,' but as another woman said to me, "It's the holidays, just let it go."

After two friend birthday parties during Succot, her own mini birthday celebration at Savta Shira's house, and her upcoming party at Gan,  I have reached my tolerance for junk food, and had a hard time accepting that our primary protein the last few days has been chocolate cake.  (What?!  It has eggs, grains, possibly healthy oil and chocolate, which has been credited with many curative properties...)

Most of all, I learned from this weekend that Raphaela craves a warm and welcoming sense of community, and that I as the adult in the house must seek out that place that will grant her that gift.