T’shuvah

(In my vague and limited Jewish knowledge) T’shuvah refers to the time in the Jewish calendar between Rosh Hashanah—the Jewish New Year—and Yom Kippur—when our names are sealed in the “Book of Life” by G-d for the next year.

T’shuvah literally means to return, but most interpretations take it to mean a time of repentance. A time of atoning for our “sins,” and to acknowledge where we’ve “missed the mark” of our own moral target.

I’m not one for “sins,” or for “atoning,” or for asking forgiveness from a spiritual entity. In my own spiritual practice, there is a habit of taking note of where we’ve been wrong and amending that behavior, whether through direct conversation with someone we’ve harmed or through choosing to act differently in the future.

But, the idea of asking a “higher power” to forgive me for anything at all has never sat well with me. I simply don’t think that anything that has the power to create life and death and change and love would need my asking. I believe that whatever “G-d” is, “it” is much too loving or non-personified to ever require me to ask it to forgive my behavior.

As I said, I still think the process of taking stock of my behavior and righting my own wrongs is very important to my emotional wellbeing and my personal relationships. But on the spiritual plane, G-d would never need me to ask for forgiveness. There’s nothing to forgive – there’s only love, acceptance, and a desire for me to be my best self.

That said, I have been reflecting that this week of t’shuvah has certainly been one of returning. I feel that my actions are those of a woman returning to herself and her values; returning to my true nature, and returning to ideas and hopes that were feared or abandoned.

I am in a musical. I’ve returned to that dream of acting and singing, despite the fears and self-judgments it still brings up in me.

I have officially announced this week that I am moving on from my office job. Again, a return to my true desires, my internal compass. I have stopped hitting the Snooze button on my instincts and drives.

No matter what comes of it, disaster or “success,” I am trying something brand new for me. And that is certainly a return to curiosity, innocence, hope, and creation.

I told my coworker that I boycott Yom Kippur these days. The fasting and the communal atoning of sins. I shun this day and its activities because the idea is that by atoning for our sins, we will be “inscribed in the Book of Life” for another year.

According to the Jewish calendar, in 2012 the evening closing Yom Kippur was the moment of my Leukemia diagnosis. I spent the day of Yom Kippur in an ER. And closed the chapter of that day with cancer. I was 30 years old.

I have done a lot of work around turning that diagnosis into the seeds of a new life. But I will never deny that I have a few wheelbarrows full of anger and grief that still need … sorting or composting or alleviation. Or simply time to feel them, and then to let them go, perhaps, if that’s what happens.

But for me, the idea that on one of the most holy days of the Jewish year, on the day when a person is either granted another year of life or is not, I cannot hold the tragedy of being told half my blood was cancer on that same day. 

And, I imagine, my feelings toward all of this will transform, lessen, or evolve. But, for now, I boycott Yom Kippur.

I have used this week of T’shuvah to take stock of where I am desirous to return to and acknowledge and rejoice in the truth of my soul, and to note where I already am. I have used this week to affirm that life can be new and different and fulfilling.

I will never need the forgiveness of an entity that is either made of benevolence or simply is the indifferent force of Life itself.

My week of T’shuvah is and has returned me to a place of excitement and possibility. I don’t need a communal atonement to reward me for how exceptional that is. 

That said. Shanah Tovah u'Metukah -- May you have a good (tovah) and sweet (metukah) year, friends. And may we write our own Books of Life. 

Bossypants

“You look like you’re leading something,” she said.

We met for an info interview. My former boss and I. I wanted to run past her my career ideas, my flailing, my desires, my questions. And what can happen in an hour (I should know by now), is phenomenal.

We caught up briefly, I heard about the cross-Bay move, the house hunt that fell magically into place after a year of city-looking, about the semi-adult kids, and about the current work.

I met her in 2008. I had a fever of 103 that weekend and had to cancel our initial interview, so we had to meet on a Sunday, fever or no fever -- I had a drastically depleting bank account, no safety net, and did what it took. What it took was meeting her in a Starbucks, rabid coffee addiction being the first thing we aligned on. We sat talking for over an hour, about the job, sure, but about lots of other things, too.

I didn’t even apply for that job. I’d applied for a different position in the organization, and having been passed up for that one, they handed my soon-to-be new boss my resume, and said, Here, she might work well for you.

I was blonde at the moment. I’d quit my job at the property management company with no net and no prospects. No plan and no direction. I’d simply had enough of crying in my car at lunch because I felt so stuck and lost over my “career.” I’d been there almost 2 years. They were great. But it wasn’t “me,” and I didn’t know what “me” was anyway, so I stayed.

Until I didn’t. Until my coworker there went out to lunch with me, and I can’t even remember exactly what she must have asked me, or exactly what I must have said. But it triggered action, for better or worse.

I called a friend of mine after that lunch, and he asked me two important questions: Why would you stay? “Financial security.” Why would you leave? “Love. Self-love.”

I’d never said those words before. I never knew I’d had such an impulse or a drive such as that. “love” or “self-love.”

What I didn’t have was a plan, a back-up, a safety net. And for all that people say about “leap and the net will appear”… well, I should do a leeetle bit of my part in assuring a safe landing, too.

So, that weekend, I gave my notice, hosted a my now-annual "Pre-Val Hearts & Stars" party, dyed my hair blonde. And then scoured the interwebs for hope. Which, FYI, is not where hope lives.

With a fever, a toilet paper shortage, and lots of “I want to do something 'creative,' but I don’t know what that is” spinning, one morning I woke up, and asked myself, What do I like to do?

Strangely, the answer was, “Well, I like being Jewish.” Ha.

So, onto the interwebs I went, and typed into google: Jewish, San Francisco.

I applied to everything there was. And I got called in for the first job at that organization. And then I got called in by my soon-to-be boss.

I was tired, desperate, and blond. I was feverish, scared, and brain-addled.

I got the job.

(Here, I could insert the same style story that got me the job at the property management company, under very similar circumstances including toilet-paper and food shortage, but I’ll leave that for now – except to say, perhaps you now can understand why it is that “Stability First” is my current motto and touchstone. – No, It’s not “fun,” it’s not zany, or “creative,” but – guess what, to paraphrase a friend I heard last week, It gives me the table upon which to build the puzzle of my life. Stability first gives me the freedom and the ease and the breathing room to … buy toilet paper.)

And here my now-former boss and I sat yesterday, at another coffee shop, so full circle it makes me smile, and here were are again, talking of Jewish, talking of organizations, of helping, of building, of changing. It’s 6 years later, now, almost to the date, that she and I have sat across tables sipping our addictions and exchanging our personal and professional lives.

She showed up for me during cancer. She brought me gift cards to Trader Joe’s so I wouldn’t go hungry or worry about doing so. She brought me a travel Shabbat kit with candles and a prayer that my mom and I would use once when she was here. She brought with her to Israel a prayer, a plea, I'd written during cancer that I'd asked her to take with her there, and she did, under a lemon tree in her parents' backyard, dug, burned and buried my prayer with her small niece and nephew. She told me how incredible I was and how inspiring I am.

And yesterday, she told me the same. She gave me hard answers, great ideas, helped me think through my own. This woman is a mentor and a friend, and lost or not lost, I have allies like her, unique as she is, all over this planet. 

That 20/20 Thing.

I guess I should tell you about the miracle-y things that have been happening during this time. There are two major ones, and here they are:

One: My Job

(It’s funny, when I was home sick with strep prior to going to the hospital, I emailed my boss about my home-sick-from-work status with the title of the email “I thought Job was a later chapter” – little did I know!) ;P

So, as some of you have been reading, I’d been unemployed since graduating with my Master’s in May. I’d been actively looking, thinking about moving back home, applying to anything and everything, with no luck for months. Then, I got the job I now have at the synagogue in Berkeley.

When I got this job, I was resentful. I was thrilled to increase my bank balance from $3.98, but I felt ashamed that I had worked so hard and arrived at what I considered to be an entry level position in the front office – somewhere I’d been many times before. You heard me gripe about it, be the opposite of humble about it, and generally kinda be a dick about having finally gotten a job when I so desperately needed one.

So, here’s the “oo ee oo” part. I got sick. I got really sick. I will be in and out of the hospital for the next 5 months or so, mostly in. So, I can’t work, obviously.

My boss’s son had cancer when he was a child, and his son is alive well, and just had a kid of his own. My boss has had empathy for my situation from the beginning, and as this started to go down, he said to me that they would have a temp in until I came back – that they would hold my job for me. …

At the time this was said, I still didn’t really know what all this cancer treatment would look like – how long it would be. So a few weeks later, when I now knew it was going to be 5 months, not one, and my boss came to visit me in the hospital, I hemmed and hawed – would they still keep my job for me, knowing how long it would be ‘til I came back? Should I tell him? Should I not and just hope for the best?

Well, I ended up telling him. And you know what he said? “I know how important job security is at a time like this, and your job will be here for you when you’re ready.” WHAT THE HELL? How are people so nice?

And here’s the miracle part – IF I had gotten a job with any other company, I can’t imagine that they would be a tenth the amount of understanding. I mean, a bottom line, deadlines, emails, someone needs to be ON IT. If I had gotten any other job, I can’t imagine that they’d hold my job for me ‘til I was healthy, let alone come visit me in the hospital as several of my BRAND NEW coworkers have, and the others who are planning to.

I couldn’t have planned this at all – and I was so pissed! So, hindsight is 20/20 and all that, right?

Although, there’s the part of me that’s like, um, hey G-d, you OBVIOUSLY saw this cancer thing coming, having set me up like a champ here, couldn’t we have gone a different route … but, it is what it is.

Two: My Apartment

I used to work for the property management company that manages my apartment building here in Oakland. When I worked for them in SF, they helped me get my apartment in SF, and when I moved to Oakland, they were equally as generous in helping me with my apartment here (which, by the way, is a 5 minute walk from the hospital at which I’m being treated…).

I left that job under not the most admirable circumstances, and earlier this year, I emailed my former boss to say as much and to apologize for not having been the worker I could have been. He emailed me back to say, yes actually, I could have handled that better, but that he “had my back” if I needed a reference or anything.

Later this summer, however, I emailed him when I was in my mania of “do i move back to New Jersey right now??” and I asked if I could give two-weeks’ notice on the apartment if needed, instead of a month. He emailed one word. “No.” And his assistant emailed me a form for the 30-day notice format ;)

So, I had no idea where I stood in his shit books or not when my mom called him early in October and said, basically, my daughter has leukemia and isn’t working, what can we do here?

Cue the “oo ee oo” once more. My former boss said … he himself had leukemia two years before. He asked if I’d applied for disability (if I’d have any income at all), my mom said yes. And he said, Don’t worry about it. Just keep me informed, and we’ll work it out.

…

What? In SF Bay Area? Rent is a “we’ll work it out”?? Miracle. He told my mom that I’d helped him out when he’d needed it, and true, I drove his dad to dialysis three days a week for a period while I worked there (although, I think I got more out of that one – I learned a lot in those conversations with that man).

My friend said recently to me that we get what we put into the world, and all the goodness that’s coming back to me is simply that. I’m just getting back what I’ve put into it.

It’s a little weird to think like that though, because my immediate thoughts are, it’s not like I am nice on purpose, it’s not like I’m keeping score of how great a person I am as I go out into the world. I just am how I am. So it feels weird to feel like, in a way, I’m being rewarded for that “just the way I am”ness.

However, I was contemplating that ridiculousness the other day, and I thought to myself, Molly, I don’t think cancer is a reward. :P

The bottom line of the above two amazing stories is the generosity of the human soul. It doesn’t really have anything to do with me.

I was talking with my current boss the other day about how many people are wanting to help and do things for me, but there’s often not much to do. I mean, I don’t really need much, except for some cards, and visits, and on occasion a ride to the doctor or a grocery run. But only one person at a time needs to do that. So there’s not a lot for people to do, and I feel that desire they have – to want to do something. To want to take some aspect of my own burdens away from me, because there are going to be many things that only I can and will go through by myself in this process.

So, I’m going to try to think on what people can do that’s concrete, that gives an opportunity to help and feel useful. Because this is what I said to my boss – these days, we rarely get the chance to help each other anymore. We’re all so independent, and I can do it on my own, that as a society and a people, that no one seems to need help anymore.

In a way, my being sick gives others the opportunity to help – to allow them to feel that good nachas (Yiddish) from doing something for someone else, just out of the kindness of their heart. Not for gain, or to check that score card I talked about. But just to help, because you can, and because you want to.

The capacity for human kindness shines very much in this portion of my story. Which, really, isn’t Job, because I’ve got a lot more support than he ever did. And I never owned any goats. 

Normal Functioning Levels

In an effort to “put my needs first,” I’ve decided to change this to a weekly, instead of a daily, blog. So, Sunday will be our day together, folks. Two buses and an 8:30am clock-in time will make weekday blogging a little bit like killing a wildebeest before breakfast – highly unnecessary.

So, I have a job. ! This past week, starting on Wednesday, I began working in the front office of a synagogue in Berkeley. This, will be an adjustment. Honestly, my commute was easier when I was crossing the bridge! But, I have a job. I needed one, and now, finally, I have one. I’m still not clear on wtf it took so long to find one. It certainly does fall into the "underearning" category of a job “below my education and skill level,” but, then again, the first bit of advice in the How to get out of debt… book is **Get A Job, ANY Job** So, I have a job.

It’s not going to be that bad either. There are a lot of systems in place that are way wonky, i.e. ten-step processes, when they could be 3, but that’s sort of why I’m there. In the rest of life, usually when I want to help others streamline things in their lives or make them better, it’s usually none of my damn business and I get to practice holding my tongue and trusting they're on their own path. But, luckily, here, it very literally is my business, and so, I’m going to get to organize and streamline, and “correct” what’s really silly.

That’s part of the advantage of coming in to a new place, you see things that other people haven’t noticed, really, in years. Why do you click these three things instead of this one? Oh, I don’t know, it’s just how I was trained, so that’s how I do it. Why is there an old, dusty dead Foreman grill in the kitchen – does anyone use it? I don’t know, it’s just always been there. WHY do you print off paper calendars of the entire year for the weekly staff meeting that barely get glanced at, and then thrown away?… So, I do get to come in, with fresh eyes, and be like, whoa, uh, this is stupid.

That said, there are going to be a lot of advantages to this job that are not monetary. There’s a pre-school, and this week, the little kids were getting their intro week, so I got to see all these two and three year olds come in the front door, all nervous or excited. I got to encourage them. There’s a very sweet, wise-ass kid studying for his Bar Mitzvah who comes to hang out almost daily with the youth group advisor, so we get to wise-ass at each other. There’s a piano in the chapel off the main sanctuary that once I get keys, I was told absolutely, I could come in there and play during lunch.

It’s not a bank. That’s an advantage. It’s a synagogue. This means people coming in looking to volunteer; retirees looking at the gift shop for cards or mezuzahs. Kids coming for Hebrew school; adults coming for Torah study. It’s a community that I’m getting to become a part of. And that’s not something every job has at all.

Even though, I’ll tell you, I was highly disappointed that I didn’t get the Marketing job I wanted, (and I got a letter from the IRS this week saying that I owe them money from 2010, likely because I didn’t report my student loan money properly), this isn’t going to be that bad. Am I still going to be living a bit meagerly? Likely. It’s not a high paying position in the slightest. Is it more than minimum wage? Yes. Am I waiting tables? No. Am I making sales calls all day, like one of the jobs I interviewed for? No.

It could be worse. And, it can only get better, I suppose.

Mostly, I am glad that my stress hormones are in retreat. Returning to normal, without the barely contained underground river of how am I going to pay my bills??? I slept almost the whole day yesterday. It’s like, with the stress in retreat, the whole system floods with a great big PAUSE, system shutting down now, crisis averted. Yesterday I woke up, ate breakfast, thought about going to the farmer’s market, and climbed back into bed, waking up 4 hours later. Took another mini nap after trips to the library and grocery store, cooked dinner, watched a dvd, and went to bed at a decent time.

I needed it. Obviously. I’ve been stressed, man.

In that/this period, though, I’ve also started to do some other things. I’ve begun to soak my own chickpeas to make hummus from scratch. I’ve begun to marinate tofu so that I can bake it. I bought quinoa from the bulk section at a way cheaper price than anything packaged. All of these organic, all of them cheaper than buying ready packed or ready made.

I’ve really enjoyed doing this. Experimenting with different flavors in the hummus, roasted red pepper (jarred, but one day, maybe my own), garlic, pine nuts, lemon. Using the tofu marinade to pour onto veggies I’ve steamed to go with them. I’m getting healthier in my eating habits. More interested, and more creative. Part of that creativity was borne of necessity, the need to buy things cheaper as money has run out during these months of unemployment.

Coffee is no longer in my cabinets. This makes me awfully sad. But, it’s not good for me, so I’ve been reading, so it’s going the way of the dodo. That, I will miss. But it’s not like coffee’s moved to England, and I’ll never see it again. I did, indeed, get some decaf with some caf this week. There’s just nothing quite like the texture of coffee.

One place I had coffee was at the poetry reading on Thursday, at which I read my rather explicit new poems. I didn’t preface them by saying the experiences described were mostly not current, which I sort of wish I’d said, as what will people THINK of me??, but it all went well. I got good feedback on my work. The words “bold,” “brave,” and “funny” were thrown around. I’m glad I read the work, even though I was nervous about it. Every time I perform, it makes me want to do it more, and again.

I wasn’t able to “get it together” to make broadsides of the poem I wanted to, but there will be time for that. I had a few other things on my mind this week!

All in all, it was a highly emotional week. The anticipation of whether I was going to get the job I wanted. Interviewing for it at 9:30pm Sunday night via Skype and finding out at 11pm that I hadn’t gotten it (the other girl had more “proven experience”). Waking up Monday morning, knowing I was about to accept a job that has the same title and pay rate as a job I accepted 5 years ago. Calling a friend to ask if I could ask them for more money. Crying, mourning the loss of where I think I ought to be, and what I ought to be doing. The loss of my ability to save on any significant level so that I might move back East some time this century.

And then calling to ask for more money, not getting what I asked, but a token amount more than what they offered. The new chaos of commuting to a new job. The first few days of a job when everyone is still evaluating you. The knowledge dump into my brain from the girl whose job I’m taking and training with. The highly anticipated poetry reading where I was bold and brave and scared as fuck. And the crash, like air let out of a balloon, a deflating of all the energy, worry, and stress as I crashed out yesterday.

There are still going to be challenges, of course. This is a new job. There’s a lot to continue to learn, and the girl I’m replacing leaves on Thursday. I still do have some financial issues to contend with like the IRS letter, and the fact that I don’t get paid till the 15^th. But, by the way, I did sell my electric guitar and the amp for the price I never thought I would get (thank g-d for asking for help). So, it will be ok. But, I still feel deflated. I’m going to need time to bulk back up and refuel to normal functioning levels.

Til then, and in order to get there, I will TRY to be kind to myself. Get out of my head, and my own problems. And be grateful, if even for a moment, that I am finally employed at a job that is far from atrocious. 

Progress, Not Perfection.

So, I did not sleep with my okJew on the second date. We did however come back to my place, and have a rather heated make-out session.

It was lovely. But. I feel today no better. I realize today that even though we didn’t sleep together, which was something I didn’t want to do, knowing him so briefly, that I still feel a sense of sadness around it. And in writing some about it, I realize that it’s sad because I still don’t fully believe in my own inherent worth – that I’m more than my body.

Even when we were making out, however fun it was – and it was, and I’m sure that if we ever do have sex, there will be no problem in that regard – but I felt not fully present. I felt a little disconnected – and, really, I was. I was disconnected from the emotions that can come when you are making out with someone you know, like, and maybe even more than like. I was only acting from one part of myself, not all of me.

And, knowing that, I notice the desire to pack “Beauty” back up behind her glass terarrium, and say, see, you can’t be trusted. But really, it’s not her fault. I didn’t have to come back to my place – it could have been a short date. I didn’t have to have the extended make-out session – I could have ended it earlier. But, I did. And this is where “progress, not perfection” comes in. Because I really could beat myself up here, and retreat back into isolation, and a position of “See, you really don’t know how to hold intimacy and sexuality, so you better pack it in.”

Yes, I could do that, but I don’t think that’s the point here. The point is that I realize that heavy teenage-like petting is a little more than I want to do on a second date. I realize that I still want to feel known more than that, and have more of a connection before getting so physical. I have so much f’ing evidence of how much sex before emotional intimacy is the cart before the horse, and so, yes, I can beat myself up for not having learned that “well enough,” or I can be glad that I didn’t have sex when I didn’t really want to, and be glad that I let him know it was time to go, and didn’t interpret his erection as an obligation, as I wrote yesterday. (But, … Whoo-ee! … anyway…) ;)

So, there’s that. Of course, I begin to go all the way to, now I better let him know what I’m looking for before there’s a third date, and another round of, okay thanks, bye! That I need to explain what I’m available for, and to ask if that’s what he’s available for.

Some of this sounds valid, some of it sounds unnecessary. I tend to be an oversharer. I don’t think I need to do that, or at least, I don’t need to do that today. I won’t see him again, likely, for another week or so, as he’s busy during the week, and I’m camping this weekend, so I have time to let some of this dust settle and ask some women, and see what happens.

We did have a good date, overall. In fact, it was a great date. But I feel overshadowed by my remorse.

Again, it comes back to choice. I can choose to see this as a failure, and head down to self-flagellation, and I’ll never get it, and how come you don’t get that you’re worth it – that makes you so not worth it. (A lovely circle of reasoning, that one.) Or. Or I can choose to see this as an opportunity, as I spoke so much of yesterday. An opportunity to notice my growth and change, and also to be happy (or at least contented) that I do notice how I’m feeling, and how I was feeling last night. I wasn’t feeling present, and that I wasn’t feeling present is a good thing. That I noticed it. Noticing it is the first step, I think. Then I can work on doing something about it.

I’ve written a lot of poetry about not feeling present during sex. Now, I know that that can extend to making out if I’m not properly known by someone, and they’re not known by me. This person is nearly an entirely unknown entity – of course I don’t feel intimate.

So, I can choose to take this as information for next time – whether that’s with this person, or someone down the line. I can choose to allow myself a little bit of affirmation over keeping my pants on. I can choose to acknowledge that I’ve come a long way to be so present with myself to notice these even slightly off-kilter parts of me.

Forgive the reference… but, in the final Twilight book (spoiler alert?), the main character, Bella, throws an invisible defensive bubble out around herself and her family during the cumulative battle. Imagine it almost like a Bio-Dome, to mix pop-culture metaphors. In the book, Bella can feel as one of the opponents pokes into the various places of her bubble, looking for a weak spot – testing the defenses, and seeing how strong it is. I feel very similarly about this work with dating/physicality. I feel that my bubble is being poked and prodded, and I’m getting to see where I still have spots of weakness, or places that can be firmed up.

I am sad that I don’t yet feel that I’m worth more than my body, or that I could be wanted or acknowledged or “seen” for more than my physical self. But, this is simply a place of “weakness,” a place where I could use more care and strength and affirmation, and behavior that will support the idea that I am more than that. So, I am glad for the opportunity. I’ve been shown where there’s work to do – and if that’s not what relationships are for, then I’ve got the wrong game. 

Mind your own music stand.

Several years ago, about 5 or so, I was dating a wonderful man. I was also in therapy. These things were and were not related ;)

One day, my therapist and I stumbled across a metaphor that I’m reminded of today – when I get into relationships, it’s as if I’ve been the conductor of my own orchestra, and ultimately, the highest ideal and intention is that my partner, boyfriend in this case, have his own orchestra, and that the two sounds mix and meld in a way that increases the beauty of both, without losing the integrity of either.

Surely, you may have your own metaphor for this, as there are many, but that’s what came to me then.

The “problem,” as it were, is that I was noticing my tendency to want to begin to conduct his orchestra. That if his oboe were a little more resonant, or his triangle more tingy, we’d sound better together. The result of this peeking over onto his side, was that I began to neglect my own. In beginning to mind someone else’s business, I forgot to mind my own.

When this happens, things like self-care, integrity, and reason begin to go out the window. I become more interested in making sure you’re doing things “right,” and that we “sound good together,” that my whole balance of living gets thrown off.

That was then. This is now. Will it be the same?

When, before I began dating that man, I asked a trusted friend if she thought I were ready to date – as he would become the first person I’d date while sober – she said that if I was ready to handle the emotional twists of a relationship without drinking, then go for it.

And so I did. I learned a lot, and ultimately, it didn’t work out, but I learned so fucking much. I learned how to try to love, how to try to be loved. I learned how to be honest with another person. I learned to look at the clouds and see shapes and animals again. I learned how to relax a little.

Yes, these are things I can learn “on my own,” they are. And I get more of that now than I did then. But, too, there are some things that can only be learned in communion with someone else.

I notice that that big hunk of manic-depressive wild-haired meat that I call my inner manifestation of Love is “up” right now. As when I met her on one of my shamanic journeys, and she threw herself on me after I gave her one bit of kindness, she is not yet one who knows balance. When I pushed her off of me, she got rageful and went Neanderthal.

This is part of my pattern. Show me some kindness, and suddenly, I light up like Times Square and drape myself on you, my needs, expectations. Show me that you can’t possibly meet those demands, and I will turn to ice quicker than an eskimo’s piss.

There’s more to this. As there usually is. If you’re not meeting my demands, and I’ve turned cold, you won’t really know it. It’s subtle closing off and shutting down, this Elvis leaving the building. We’ll have sex, but I won’t be present. I’ll still try to use it as a way, the main way, to connect, but it doesn’t really work when I’m not there.

Also, as I recognized last night on my surprise-last-minute okJewpid date, before I know more or better or have a peg on the situation, sure I’ll be outwardly as gregarious and charming as always, but... I felt it – I felt my shell.

Perhaps this is “normal.” You’re meeting someone for the first time – you of course have some guards, maybe. But, I’m just so much more acutely aware of how scared I am. How scared I am to allow that shell to melt, because inevitably, in my past, it has meant a descent right into that enormous sigh of relief that you are here, that I can now relax, depend on you – and make a few adjustments to you while we’re at it.

When I let go of this shell, I start a pattern that leaves me alone, sad, and feeling pretty childlike. Not womanly. Not adult.

So, I keep the shell. I’ve kept it for years now. Better to avoid the whole game than to try to play it differently, acknowledging and using the new skills for living and being that I have. I could have garnered a whole fleet of new tools and attitudes, but fuck if I let them out of the gate. They’re like a trained – well, I was going to write “army,” but I’d rather leave the military out of my love life, thank you – they’re like a well-trained dance company. Having rehearsed for years, perfected, practiced, fallen, and learned – but … me, their manager, I will never and have never let them perform. They are a lost art. They are a lost gift, because I’m too scared of how they’ll be received, or of if they’re really ready for the big show.

I think I’ve mentioned this before, but with the Cousin, I said at one point (not to him) that I felt like I wanted to put him up on a shelf, and “fix” myself, or get better, and then, only then, when I were better, then I could take him down, and we could have a wonderful life together. Life.Does.Not.Work.In.Darkness. It does not work in absence, and it does not work without my active participation.

I may be the world’s best anything, but I’d never know it.

And so, it’s time to see if my conductor skills, my dance company, my emotions have learned things that I may not know they’ve learned.

Because my date was awesome. And, likely, I may want to date again. 

Melting Boxes and Falling Cards

I may or may not have a date this weekend with a jew I met on okCupid. We had made tentative plans for Sunday, but I had double booked and asked to meet up on Saturday instead, and haven’t heard back yet. We’ll see. I’m talking with another CupidJew; jdate, I have a coffee date aligned for next Friday, but I’m not entirely enthused on this one – and let another thread fall when I realized I wasn’t really interested in meeting this other dude. 

Who knows. It’s like the job applications. Send stuff out – see what sticks. I do feel like I’d like to apply to more teaching jobs though. It’s really funny. Maybe 6 or so months ago, I met with a girl friend who works with Expressive Arts Therapy, and she asked how "teaching" felt in my body – to make a motion or movement – that would express what being “a teacher” would mean to me. Then, I contracted and constricted my body, on the tack that teaching is a sedentary, stoic, geographically uninspired profession.

Surprisingly or not, I don’t think I feel that way anymore. Maybe I’d express it a little more wiggly now – maybe because it is a little more (or a lot more) wiggly than I’ve previously boxed it in. I also would like to apply outside of the Bay a little more. I know that moving costs a lot, and yadda yadda, but, in the spirit of “what do I know about Fate,” I’m willing to throw my net wider, and my seeds farther, and see what sprouts, … or is caught. … You get the idea.

What a concept – pushing my ideas out of the proscribed boxes in which I’ve held them.

Interestingly, my mom comes to mind. “Mother,” lord, what a “concept.” What huge, enormous expectations and qualities we – or I – hurl upon such a word. My ideas were formed way back when – she’s crazy, unavailable, manic-depressive, and dying of her own neuroses – and these have kept pretty calcified over the years. She’s better now (G-d bless medication), but it’s hard for me to allow that. If she’s not crazy, if I don’t mistrust her, where are we? How do we engage? Obviously, similar questions can be brought about my dad, and even my brother. … and more broadly, myself, you, the world, etc. Boxes. Boxes with a label, Discard After 1987, or maybe after 1996. Certainly, way past their due date by 2012.

I think of this about my mom today in again reflecting on the agingness of my parents – having seen them both two weeks ago for my graduation. They’re getting older. They’re not going to be able to do or go or share or be what they had been. And so, I wrote my mom an email yesterday I titled “If you build it, they will come,” and in it I simply wrote, “Sometime in the not too distant future, you and I should go to Paris. That is all. Love, Molly.”

My mom has never been, nor have I. I’ve been clicking on this contest prize for a trip for two to Italy for a few weeks now – because, you gotta buy a ticket if you want to win the lottery, right – and I realize that there are some things that if I want to do with my mom, I better start to do them now. Sure, I have no idea if something like a trip to Paris or Italy, or anywhere, will take place, but the time is getting shorter when they’d, she’d, be able to really traipse about. Traipsing is a young people’s – or younger people’s – pastime.

I am glad that the boxes in which I’ve held my parents are disintegrating like so much wet cardboard. It’s a little scary. But, rather, it’s not scary, as much as new.

I wish I could let the boxes around myself melt as much. One of the dudes I’m talking with on the dating site is very encouraging and interested in my bass playing, though I keep on telling him it’s really a lack of bass playing, and a lot of me being silly and denying myself (although, surely, I didn’t put it quite that way – impressions, you know!) ;)

But, it’s another box. My girl friend I was supposed to speak with about her bass playing, our phone call didn’t happen, and I haven’t rescheduled. Although I am having two info interviews around theater next week. One in person with a friend of mine who is an active actor (but has a “real” job, too), and the other by phone with my former acting teacher at school, who is the casting director at a local renowned theater company. So, there’s that.

There’s a lot. And as I was telling someone yesterday, a house of cards must be taken down very slowly and carefully. Not all at once. I don’t think I’d much like being shaken all the way down to my bonsai tree nubs. Or pruned, I suppose would fit that metaphor better! But point being, that dismantling old beliefs and behaviors takes patience, practice, and an ability to leave it alone for a while.

It’s not some jenga game I have to finish in a proscribed period of time. (I’m ripe with metaphors today! ha! enjoy or apologies, either way!) There are time-sensitive matters – my parents’ aging, obtaining employment so I can feed and house myself, but even that one is a little fluid right now, although surely top of my mind - I do have this temp work I’m doing, which I’ll be doing for likely another 2 weeks. I’ve been applying, and we’ll see. I’d like to apply to different avenues, and we’ll see. I plugged “jewish” into my searches on the dating site, and we’ll see.

“…and action is its key word.” Amen. 

The Kotzker Rebbi

According to legend, and history, Menachem Mendel Morgenstern of Kotzk, Poland was an eccentric and influential rabbi, teaching and forming one of the early branches of Hasidism, creating a more austere sect of Judaism.

According to legend, and history, The Kotzker Rebbi, as he was known, locked himself in his room for the last 20 years of his life. He never left it. He received his food through a hole in the wall, and apparently opened the door of his home once a year, revealing himself and his new teachings/learnings to his disciples.

According to genetics, I am his great great great granddaughter. His grandson is my grandfather's father… I think. I have a family tree at home somewhere. Either he’s my grandfather’s grandfather, or my grandfather’s great grandfather. I haven't done the math. 

Point being, and why it occurs to me today, I have no idea – but the point being that I have some whacked out crazy, and powerful, Jews in my lineage, living in my blood and DNA.

I’ve always found this fascinating. Firstly, it sort of points to the understandability that mental illness runs in my family(!), and secondly, it just sort of makes sense that Judaism continues to be this thread in my life. I can’t sever it, ignore it, dismiss it – it is me.

When I began teaching at the Sunday School last year in Berkeley, I said that I felt it was both my duty and my privilege to do so. There is a line from some text that if any of us knows even one word of Hebrew he is bound to teach it to someone else.

Again, I don’t really know why this occurs to me today. I suppose as I begin to think about the direction my life is taking, or may take, or I want it to take, I begin to think about this thread. Part of my consideration in where I will move next, if I move, and eventually I will (whenever “eventually” is), is if there are Jews there. For example, I’ve been enamored of Asheville, North Carolina, ever since I heard of it through a friend of mine who lives there. Young, hip, mountainous, liberal, artsy, cultured … with one Jewish temple, of Conservative affiliation – aka, more religious than I am, or want to be.

I don’t want to be more religious, I simply want to have more connection to the community. More connection to those who share a history, random Yiddish words, and a very eye-rolly understanding of the complexities of a Jewish family.

So, Asheville may not be it. I have this crude crayon drawing I made after a group meditation about 6 or more months ago. It’s a couple, a man and a woman, holding hands, walking up a street to a t-intersection. At the head of this intersection is a house – with a wrap-around porch, huge trees, and a stream in the back, nested by a forest behind it. To the right of this couple on the main street is a building with a symbol for recovery on its façade. To the left of them, is a building with a Jewish star above the door.

This is my vision. This, I believe, is how I become the woman I want to be. Buoyed by my communities of faith, I’m able to stand in partnership with another human being, and take part in what the world has to offer.

I am grateful to have the quirky lineage that I have. It makes sense to me, and makes me smile. (On my other side, my dad’s side, I’m descended from Bohemians, literally.) Somehow I feel that I’m preparing to take up a mantle that belongs to me, which includes all of these histories and as well as all of the modern and current advantages I’ve inherited as a 20^th century woman with good health and education. And I’ll be curious when I find that crayon drawing in 20 or 30 years to see how close I’ve come. 

Jew: Part II

Sorry for the brief interruption of the daily blog, folks. It was part intentional, part not. I’m not sure if I’m going to declare Saturdays a non-internet day – at least throughout the day, before night. It’s partly as a result of having spent some time with Jews on Friday, who take Saturday off from electronics, and partly, just because I have a hard time moderating my internet use – I’m sure you can’t relate ;)

It was also unintentional in that I was up and out till late on Friday night, with said Jews, and slept in till my Sat morn commitment and was off and running – more like galumphing – for the day.

Friday night was the first night of the Jewish holiday of Passover. The first night, Jews all over the world come together for a ritual meal called a seder, at which we retell the story of the Jewish slaves’ liberation from Egypt. You may remember this from such movies as “The Ten Commandments,” or Disney’s “The Prince of Egypt.” ;)

I have heard, and don’t quote me, that if you do nothing else Jewish for the whole year, if you participate in nothing else, do a seder, and all-ish is forgiven. Basically, it’s another way of saying that the most important holiday and event of all, is the seder. The retelling of the escape from slavery to liberation.

I was invited this year to a friend’s not-a-seder seder, which was to focus on social justice themes related to items on the seder plate – i.e. there’d be a stand with an egg, and then all kinds of social and food justice issues that currently surround egg production. There would be a focus on how are we today slaves to things, and talk about liberation from them. Where are people in the world actually in conditions of slavery, and what could we do. Etc. The room would host the elements of the seder, but there wouldn’t, in fact, be a seder – the telling of the story.

I was surprised to find myself telling my friend that, actually, I sort of wanted to go to a seder.

There are very few ways in which I still feel connected to the Jewish community. I had worked at a Jewish non-profit for a little while before school; then I’d taught at a synagogue Sunday school last year. But this year, save the one time I went with my friend Barb to a “Young Adult” Friday night service, and then was invited to her house for Rosh Hashana (New Year's) dinner … well, I’ve been pretty a-religious.

I am not religious. Haven’t ever been religious, and don’t have a hankering to be religious. What I do have a hankering for is the community. The stories, the mishpucha – family.

On Friday night, at this table of probably 40 people, even though the majority of us didn’t know one another, we were family. There was a moment when a particular part of the story was recited by 5 “extra” languages around the table – English and Hebrew, of course, then Yiddish, Russian, Spanish, French, and Japanese. It was the melting pot of Jews. The family next to me was in town on holiday from Argentina. This gorgeous couple and 3 gorgeous children, and we all sang the songs the same. We read the Hebrew the same. We banged on the table along with the songs, the same. That’s a hard thing to get in most circles of life -- that feeling of connection, belonging, and connectedness to a shared history.

I recently registered for the online Jewish dating site, JDate. I’d really rather drink piss than a) admit that, or b) do it. But about 2 weeks ago, following a few more conversations with friends of mine, I signed up, and actually paid. I’d been registered on this site for about 2 years, apparently as it told me when I logged in this time, but I’d never paid for it, and so I could see when people had emailed me, but I couldn’t read the emails or reply. I was very unwilling then.

Problem is, I’m still unwilling now. But, I think it’s causing me to see the absurdity of registering and demanding that the person I date be Jewish when I have such a tenuous and almost laughable connection with my own Judaism and my own community. What does it matter if the dude is Jewish if I’m not participating in Jewish stuff anyway? Who cares, then, if it doesn’t actually impact or change my life in any way. You’re Jewish, great, so am I – let’s go get a cheeseburger. …

Not to say that I have an intention to go kosher, but just to notice that I’m looking for a Jewish mate, but not looking for a Jewish community. This seems counterproductive, or somehow just doesn’t make sense to me.

If I want Judaism in my life, personally and romantically, I ought to get out there and go participate in Jewish things. There are fun things to do – I know there are – I mean Jews are comedians – there’s gotta be something to that.

I am not sure what I’ll do with my JDate account for now – it’s rather depressing and makes me feel like there’s scarcity in this world, or that if I were wittier, I’d get more replies, or lied about my height, or something. If I want to be my authentic self, then I ought to start with being authentic to my desire to participate in a community that I love – and whatever happens from that will happen.

For me, Judaism becomes something that when I’m there is part of my blood - And when I'm not, I forget how important it is to me. When I'm there, listening to the “long time ago, Rabbi so and so was talking to Rabbi other so and so, and they were arguing about chickens.” I want to hear that. I want to hear that this thing here represents this about the earth, but this about the spirit. I want to hear the ironic laughter and the punchlines of moral tales passed down through ages. I want to learn and I want to be a part of. I don’t and can’t do that online,

But I can make an effort to do it in person. 

Standards

Yesterday as I was walking to catch my bus to the movies with friends, a young man walked out of a nearby store and was walking just a few paces next to me in the same direction. It was obvious we were going to be going the same way for a while, so I asked him what he’d bought at the store – it’s a little Italian food and cheese shop.

We ended up chatting and laughing a good bit on the way, and as my bus came into sight, and he was going to continue on his way, I introduced myself and held out my hand. He did the same, and then he asked, Do you want to get together some time?

I smiled, and said, Actually I’m not dating right now, but thank you. And he looked a little quizzical, but accepted it, and as we crossed the street, I said maybe I’ll see you around. And I got on my bus, with a grin on my face.

This young man, about my age, attractive, and I picked up a Jewish vibe (my Jew-dar is pretty good with men). But, he was about 5 inches shorter than me. (I'm close to 6feet tall, if you didn't know.)

I told my friend about the interaction later, and she said, "he wasn’t up to my standards, no pun intended…" But, unfortunately or not, it’s true. I’ve tried to make good enough good enough, and it just doesn’t work for me. I’ve tried to make almost the right fit into the right fit, but it’s like Cinderella’s sisters’ bleeding toes. Eventually, the truth will out.

I felt glad that I was approachable and attractive. I felt bummed that it wasn’t the right fit. But, I suppose it’s progress that I’m approachable.

I still think about the Catholic and our incredible first date in January – like something out of Before Sunrise. I've been noticing I really do have a type, a physical type, at least. Blond and blue eyed. So, a blond blue eyed, tall Jew. Right… But, as someone once told me, the Universe will either fulfill your desire, or take it away. Or, as I've also heard, G-d has three answers: Yes, Not Now, and I have something better in mind.

For my reluctance to write this in an open forum, before I met my last boyfriend, I felt like and said that I felt ready for “the one before ‘The One,’” that I wasn’t quite ready for white-picket fence land, or to be fully emotionally available – but that I was ready to try for the almost.

And believe it or not, I believe that’s exactly what happened. It was almost right. It was in many ways also very not right. But I got to practice being in a relationship; noticing my patterns, my alternation between a desire to control and be approved of, and a desire to reject. I got to see that I wasn’t a half-bad girlfriend, which was good, considering my self-esteem's attachment to my sordid promiscuous past. And, ultimately, I got to see that the difference between “almost” and “yes,” though small, is also a canyon. Not easily crossed or bridged by any amount of force or desire.

I’ve had a few approaches by “almosts” in the last six months or so. And I’ve gotten to play the tape – the recent tape of trying with an almost. It included tears, pain, “breaks,” coercion, frustration, despair. (Of course, it also included joy, humor, contentment, and creativity.) It was not enough. And so, I’ve had to practice saying no.

I’m not sure that I like using the phrase “I’m not dating right now,” which had been true for the last few months, not being emotionally available to date. But I feel that that’s changing. So, we’ll see. Maybe I will get the opportunity to say Yes sometime soon.

(And, by the way, part of the reason for today’s blog is all a ‘note to self’ about the inappropriate dude-I-feel-like-a-13-year-old-lost-in-my-gawky-body-when-I-talk-to-you crush I have on an blue-eyed acquaintance, who is non-jewish, short, taken, but oh so … yummy.) ;)

Saturn Returns.

Every twenty-eight years, the planet Saturn returns in its orbit around the sun to place it had been when we were born. Every 28 to approximately 30 years, there is a window of time which some people call “Saturn Returns.” According to some, this period of time is ripe with change and opportunity. Usually there are major life changes in this period, either positive or negative, and according to legend, the lessons that we do not learn during this first period of Saturn Returns around our 30^th birthday, we have the opportunity to learn again as we approach 60; and if we’re lucky enough to be healthy for it, again around our mid to late 80s.

In what is proving to be one of the most uncomfortable changes I’m making in this, my period of Saturn Returns, I cancelled my date with the Catholic for tonight, and am finally, after many f’ing years of debate, accepting that a Jewish partner is not only important to me, but necessary.

What makes this choice hard? Or this admittance? Well, it feels like I’m closing a very large shiny door behind which are many large shiny non-Jews. I also have debated whether this is “self-will,” me attempting to shoe-horn myself into a belief that isn’t true or fair, one that says I’ll only date Jews. How closed off is that?

But, the truth, the very hard truth of it is, that it’s the only thing for me to do. I have been down the relationship path with men who are not Jewish (in fact, no serious relationship I’ve ever had has been with someone Jewish). What inevitably happens is that I spend a very large amount of time while in the relationship debating whether it is a “deal-breaker,” until my brain feels like an out of shape yoga participant. Achy, cranky, tired.

Ironically enough, on my date with this Catholic gentleman on Monday, we’d been talking briefly about tattoos, and I said how I’d been delaying my next one, as it’d be a large commitment. That I carry a quote from a Starbucks coffee cup in my wallet which says something like, To commit to something, in work, or in play, is to remove our brain as a barrier to our life.

To commit to this decision, to set down this whirling dervish of questioning … could be a relief. I have never dated women – do I lament that I’ve “cut off” an entire portion of the population? No. I’ve finally come to admit that dating someone taller than me is actually really important to me. And that’s felt like a sacrifice too. But, it’s funny, I’ve been noticing a lot more cute tall men over the last two months...

Because what it all comes down to isn’t about religion or self-will, it’s about abundance. Can I actually let myself believe that if I really do, in my heart of hearts, want to spend a romantic life with someone Jewish, can I believe that there is a tall, attractive, employed, happy, funny, Jewish man out there? Seems like a tall order! (uh, no pun intended.) But, is it? I mean, when I think about the kinds of miracles that I’ve witnessed in my life and in the lives of others, am I still willing to debate the power of what’s possible in this world? When I look at the majority of the community I know as people who have been pulled back from the gates of insanity and death to become working members of society with entirely incredible things to contribute – am I still unwilling to allow myself to believe?

The painful answer is no. I am not unwilling anymore. I have been beaten into a state of reasonableness, I have suffered under the pain of my manic debating society, and I have resigned from that committee. I am willing to commit to the belief that my needs are important. Haven’t I been saying that here for a while? Haven’t I run into places in my professional life where I’ve agreed to things I don’t want, only to have to back out? Haven’t I made a conscious and kind-to-myself decision to not do that anymore?

Isn’t this the same thing? Isn’t this the same cosmic lesson? To listen to myself. To allow my needs to be heard. To be responsible to myself with care, not dismissal. Yes. It is.

And so, here I sit, willing to allow the same consideration to my romantic life that I am newly showing myself in the areas of my professional and creative life, to allow that faith, that sense of fun, and play, and direction, and the firm belief that wherever these bits in the cement are coming from, I can trust that I am being led to a life worth living.

It feels so uncomfortable. Which sort of points out to me that it’s the “right” thing. I’ve resigned before to the "easy" route of accepting whatever’s in front of me, only to end up in pain. This is making a resolute decision to groove a new path. 

A good girl friend reminded me yesterday that crazy things happen when people are supposed to be together, so if this particular gentleman or another non-Jew is actually supposed to be it, he will be. “If it’s meant to be, you can’t fuck it up; if it’s not meant to be, you can’t fix it.”

But ultimately, she also said that she sees this decision as me letting go of the rock in the middle of the river, and allowing myself to float. 

So, here’s to learning the lessons this orbit around. Bring on the miracles.

Jew

For me, living without a connection to Judaism in my life is like living without sunshine. You get really used to it, and begin to forget what it was like to have the sun on your face; you forget how your internal organs relax when you bathe in it; and simply get used to walking with a degree of closure in your heart and body.

I am not a religious Jew. Never was; my family never was. But, I went to Hebrew school and Sunday school growing up, while my school pals were going to CCD (Catholic something something – which we also referred to as Central City Dump). I had my Bat Mizvah, and learned by rote the things I was supposed to learn to get up in front of people and ascend into “adulthood.” But those aren’t the sunshine inducing aspects for me.

When I stand in a sanctuary with other Jews, and we begin to sing, I am transcended.

There is an ancient movement in my body and heart which begins to stir, and is moved to tears on occasion of its loveliness and fullness. My first “spiritual experience,” I remember quite clearly. I attended a Jewish sleep-away camp in the Pocono Mountains in Pennsylvania for a few intermittent years in my youth, and this happened when I was either 11 or 14. Every Friday night, the entire camp would dress in white and walk up to The Chapel on the Hill. This was an open, outdoor arrangement of lots of benches facing outward over the soccer fields and dodgeball pits, out toward the very treed landscape. The chapel itself is sort of an AT-AT looking structure (yes, that’s a star wars reference), so you could see through it, and from above, it’s actually shaped like a Star of David, I once heard.

I was sitting on one of these benches, looking out over the landscape as the sun was setting, beginning Shabbat (the day of rest) and I was watching the trees. Forgive me if I’ve told you this story or used these words, but it’s the best I can do. The movement of the leaves, the undulation of the trees – I had a moment when I felt like there was more order to the shining glints and waves than there was chaos. But too that there was just enough chaos to make it live. Too ordered to be chaos, too chaotic to be strict – this was my first known experience that there must be something out there greater than myself – a G-d, an order, a “reason,” a constant.

For me, being Jewish has (perhaps ironically considering world history) helped to save my life. I’ve written here before and said before that for me, Judaism was a thread throughout my life, it was just always there. Something to touch base to, to hold on to, to get in touch with when everything else seems or feels unknown. When I was in high school, I was not the most popular or friend-having girl – shy, awkward, like many, I began making friends through the Jewish community outside of high school, and began to really form my personality, without the constraints or assumptions of people in school who had known me for years as shy & awkward. I began to be funny, more outgoing, social. In a lot of ways, I credit making those friendships, having met these other kids through a weekly Jewish high school program, for helping me to survive those terribly isolating years.

When I was living in South Korea, somehow I got hooked up with another Jew through friends who told me about a Passover seder that was happening on the American Army base, and I attended the seder there, with the booklet we read from in Hebrew, English, and Korean – it was very weird, but also, very very home.

When I arrived in San Francisco, through a series of coincidences, I found myself a good friend of an Orthodox Jewish rabbi and his family, who invited me to Shabbat lunches in their home, holiday services, and generally took me under their Jewish wing. Although their religious adherences are far more “observant” than I want to be, I love them, and they love me.

And finally, let’s not forget typing “Jewish San Francisco” into google when I was desperate for a job, and ended up working for a Jewish Educational non-profit recently. And last year, as I moved to Oakland, and wanted to keep my toe “in the Jewish waters”, I began to teach 5^th&6^th grade at a congregational school in Berkeley on Saturday mornings.

But, mostly, what reminds me of the unique strength of my connection to this history, community, path, and identity, is when I went with my friend Barb recently to a “young adult service” at a contemporary Reform synagogue in SF. As I was raised with my high school Jewish community with song leaders, and clapping, and laughing, and foot stomping, and singing in rounds, and levity, this is what was reminded in me at that service. There were guitars, and perhaps a tambourine - Jews love their acoustic guitars! And then, there were voices.

A congregant gave a little speech during the service, and he basically told my story. About how he is connected to this community through song – how he’d forgotten his voice, and remembers it here. And he cried a little with gratitude, and we all felt it. And my friend Barb and I commented afterward that there’s a spiritual community she and I have in common outside of Judaism, but then, there, here, we get to connect to, perhaps not something “else”, but something more, much much more. Deeper, as if through our outside community, we get to experience a spirituality that is skin deep, but through this Jewish connection, we get it in our bones. In the roots of our family trees. In the dirt of earth 6000 years old.

And as we sang that day a few months ago, I remembered the sunlight of Judaism. Of Jewish community. It’s not the laws, the rules, the Bible (which I have issues with, but it doesn’t really matter) --it’s that swept-away feeling. It’s the feeling of certainty and faith I had when looking out over the Pocono sunset.

Why mention this all? Firstly, because it’s good for me to remember that in some ways, I’ve been living without sun lately. And secondly, because it comes up always when I begin to date someone new – the first question out of two of my good girlfriend’s mouths when I said I was meeting someone new was “Is he Jewish?”. And he’s not. And like I said recently on here, I don’t yet know if it’s a dealbreaker. I never have. I know that it’s important to me. I know that if I have children, I want them to be raised in a similar way that I was, with the all knowledge that my experience may not be theirs, but I want them to know what bubbe’s matzoball soup tastes like.

Does it matter? Does it matter if your partner is the same religion as you? Does it matter that some of the strongest and most powerful experiences of my life occurred and continue to occur in a Jewish setting? Well, yes, that does matter, but it matters to me. Does it need to matter to the other person? Such is the conundrum of modern life. And not so modern. Questions of intermarriage are on the books, the old books, for millennia. But, I do want to be able to exchange bubbe’s matzoball soup-type memories. I want the shared history. I want the shared experience.

I discount it again and again. And ultimately am not ready to give up questioning it yet. Letting the guys I date not be Jewish (My dad’s family isn’t, and I love getting “both”).

So, for now, the answer is, I don’t know. The answer is also to re-engage myself in the community that I miss. And I’m going on a 2^nd date on Friday night, with a Catholic. 

Bless It or Block It

How many things can one person wholly commit to?

I went on a first date yesterday via a set-up. It was really fun. We got along great, and had a nice time. And so, now all the ‘What-if’s pop into my brain. Or, the questions, doubts. He’s not Jewish. Is that a Deal-breaker – I’ve never yet decided. He lives an hour&a half away. I don’t have a car – I’ve done that “medium-distance” relationship before. It looks like - or it did look like - attempting to shove all the things you would be able to do throughout a week into the weekend. Get all the fun and funny and adventure and rest and sexy time all in the 48 or so hours you have together. It was a lot of pressure to only be "happy", and sort of exhausting. Plus, at the time, I also had a car.

But, mostly what’s been on my mind since yesterday (besides the obvious knowledge that I actually don’t have to do anything right now, as I haven’t been asked out for a 2^nd date yet, so … slow the crazy train). … But, How many things can one person … or how many fledgling things can one person commit to?

By this, I am considering my new-found and very fledgling commitment to myself and my dreams. It’s ironic(?) that after going through the book Calling in The One, which helped to push me into the direction of performance, stage, music, following my dreams basically, that now, here I am faced with a potential opportunity for romance, and I’m hesitant. Is there enough of me to go around?

The next few weekends look like this: women’s new year’s retreat in Napa, audition, audition, audition. Yes. Three auditions in the two weekends following the retreat. And then there’s the rehearsal that will begin for The Vagina Monologues, which I’m in at school at the end of February.

So, … hence, “bless it or block it.” Were this gentleman Jewish, living in SF or Oakland, were I a private transportation owning female, would I, do I want a relationship right now? After doing all that “work” to make myself available for a relationship, have I simply cleared the space for a relationship with myself? Which, don’t get me wrong, is incredible. I’m entirely thrilled and proud of myself for heading, however haltingly, in the direction of something which incites joy in me just thinking about it. But, is there enough left over? Do I want there to be?

These are the questions that arise after one date! But, it’s not him, or the date – it’s me – what am I available for? Beginning to take the most delightful and frightening and nail biting steps in the direction of my heart’s desires for myself is a lot of work. It is a commitment. And when I began CITO, actually when I read the preview pages on Amazon before purchasing this dubiously titled book, I knew as soon as I read “If we’re finding an absence of a supportive, nurturing, committed relationship in our lives, we have to ask ourselves where are we not these things to ourselves?”, I knew then immediately where I wasn’t committed to myself, in this area of my “silly” nudges, dreams, aspirations, desires.

So, now here I am. Becoming more fully committed to myself and watching this tree bear the fruit. The fruit is joy, not the job, the part, the gig, it’s the joy of watching myself head there. It’s entirely new and rad and incredible to begin to remove the roadblocks I’ve arbitrarily placed in my own path. (I can’t be on stage because I’m too tall; I can’t play open mics because I can’t play guitar well enough.)

I’m willing to remain open at this moment to whatever happens next. Maybe we’ll be friends. Maybe he won’t even contact me again. Maybe he’ll ask me out and I’ll say yes. But, none of that is happening at this very moment. What is happening now is that I need to get ready for work at my SF temp gig, and I have some lovely Little Star Pizza leftover to take for lunch.

That, and it’s time to print some more headshots. ;)

Effective but Wordless Chant

So I did look at one SF apartment ad today. It was through my old employer, a property management company, which is how I got my sweet deals on my SF and Oakland apartments. Granted, it wasn’t a handout-out, I worked well there – maybe not that hard, but it wasn’t that challenging or enticing, and eventually I found myself overcome by the Ugly Cries (maya's accurate term) in my car at lunch one Friday on the phone with a friend having another job existential crisis.

That day I gave my two weeks notice, that night I threw my 1st pre-Valentine’s party, the following day, I went blonde. This was almost 3 years ago now. My boss wasn’t pleased, but he knew I wasn’t happy – that I wanted to do something creative, anything.

So that began several months – two, to be exact – of job hunting. I remember I didn’t even tell my parents I’d quit my job and was looking for work cuz I just couldn’t face their “Are you kidding me, in this economy??” spiel. It was hard then – I had notes all over my SF apartment – "This is a world of grace and abundance and I am letting go."

A friend afterward told me to change to wording to “--and I allow myself to receive” – more “open.”

Two years before that, I’d been “downsized” from a corporate real estate firm, my first long term gig in SF, and was on unemployment for the full 6 months. The first month? Awesome - yay paid vacation. By the end of six months? I was desperate. I began to answer every ad. The very week my unemployment was going to run out, I had two job interviews one day, and I’m driving to one of them, out somewhere near Bayview, and I’m in my car and I have this mini-epiphany: I had every single thing I needed at that moment. I had eaten breakfast, I had coffee in me, I had gas in my car – I didn’t need anything else at that moment – no money in my hand, nothing. For that moment, I was completely taken care of.

I forget what it was now, but I even began this little chant while I was on my way to that interview. Something about being content and caffeinated, or something? That afternoon, I had my other interview – at the property management firm. And I got that job. The woman I was replacing happened to be out sick that day (she was going on maternity leave), and so I interviewed with the owner of the company – and we got along fabulously. (A big part of me feels that had I met the woman instead, I wouldn't have made it through the door.) The mug that I’m drinking out of now, he gave to me because he got tired of me using the one that had a photo of his kids printed on it for my coffee (it was the biggest mug!, What?). The one he bought has sort of colorful swirls on it, and he said it reminded him of the tattoo on my wrist.

So, yeah, he wasn’t pleased when I left my job with them, but, obviously still liked me enough to let me have parties in my SF apartment, and to move here into the Oakland one on a slight deal.  – actually, it’s a really good deal, i should be (and am!) really grateful – the rent isn’t that much cheaper, but I didn’t have to pay security deposit, or pet deposit, so that’s quite generous.

Reminds me the theme of today’s CITO is generosity …

But, back to grace and abundance, and letting go – or “receiving” rather.

I quit that job with the property management, and spent two months looking for creative work, again. And finally what happened was I woke up one morning and asked myself, still groggy from sleep and receptive to the universe, What else am I interested in?

The reply came, Well, I like being Jewish.  … So I typed "Jewish San Francisco" into Google, and applied to every position there was.

I got one of those positions. (Actually I applied to one I didn’t get, but my resume got passed along to someone else in this Jewish education non-profit, and I got that job – for which I was surely more well suited.) ... 

Then, on a not so whimish been-looking-at-the-college's-website-for-three-years whim, I apply to the MFA program, and get in. (Note, there: I actually intended to apply to the Master's in Literature Program, but didn't have a current academic paper, and am pretty sure none of my professors from college remember me ... but the admissions coordinator for the English Department told me that the MFA program, I just needed 15-20 recent poems. How many did I happen to have recently? 16.) Nudgey McNudgerson, you sly Universe, you.

I dunno. I guess I’m feeling reflective about all of this – about all of my “being taken care of” and steered into a more ... "Molly" direction -- because I have no clue what’s going to happen when school is over in May. I quite imagine that it will work out well – and I also imagine I’ll freak out a bit anyway.

But, if any of the above isn’t evidence that I’m being gently but firmly guided, I don’t know what is.

So, Universe, Let me be receptive to the strange and unusual nudges you have to give me. I sit here, in a heated apartment, with food in my belly, electricity running, December rent paid, and I’m chanting the tune to that chant whose words I no longer remember. Amen.

Pulling a Carmen

So, following in the footsteps of my friend Carmen, I've decided to post a blog a day, cuz why not. I thoroughly enjoy reading hers each day, or a few in a row, like catching up with a friend - and keeping up with people in this busy world.

So, can I admit that I just wikipedia'd adam levine - that maroon 5 singer, after watching some of charlie day on SNL (on hulu; no tv ~ not a california thing, just a ... don't have a tv thing). And lord, have, mercy. My god. That is one hot jewish man. And god save me, there are actually hot jewish men in this world.

Now I know you can't chose (particularly) who you fall in love with, but boy, would it be nice to find a tall, handsome, jewish man. ... and while we're at it, employed. It's been interesting - as a semi-result of reading Carmen's blog, I bought and started to do the exercises in this book "Calling in the One". Now, gag if you must, but I did a lot of browsing in the "preview" on amazon, and it seemed like it was up my alley - very Artist's Way-style exercises and readings, and hey, why the f. not.  Now interestingly enough, I'm asked to look at what ways are my relationships with men a reflection of my relationship with myself - She, the author, asks, if we're picking up this book, in what ways is are we not loving, nurturing, or committing to ourselves ... and I knew immediately that there are tons of ways in which I am not committed to myself - to my dreams/goals/little internal nudges. And that is certainly mirrored back to me in the real world.

So, I've been reading this book, and doing these exercises - and shit you not, the week I was home in NJ was the week on "Letting Go" ... I'm not doing it all precisely one-a-day, but reading, flagging, going back, doing the exercises on more than one situation like she suggests. And things are changing. Take a look at my apartment!!

But, also, I recently downloaded from the SF Public Library on eBook (yes you can do this now!), What Color is your Parachute? It's a book about careers, career advice, how to figure out what you want, what you're good at. And so I'm now doing the exercises in this as well. Because, no, I am not committed to my dreams. I am always embarrassed to tell people I sing. No one's heard me (well, except Carmen actually, who once told me [after I'd just sung with a band in front of an audience of a hundred people...] that I was really good, and when I said "Really??", she said, No I'm just trying to sleep with you) ;) But more than just sing, I want to perform. I want to act, be on stage, riddle you with emotion - I wrote a poem about it once. About throwing you off the edge of a cliff and gently reeling you back in - about steamrolling you with emotion - and the fucked up thing is that I really do think I can. I really do believe that I have it in me to possess myself so completely that I might possess you too.

What a powerful thing is that?

Now, the advanced portion of this exercise, is to let myself head there.

This blog, I suppose, is a part of that. Emptying out my childhood home is a part of that. Finally completing the art project I began in July is a part of it ~ and I'll tell you something, It Looks Amazing. Even I'm proud of myself.

I've been realizing I have a pattern of thought/behavior lately, which states that I can only have happiness when I have success. I can only have love when I have a job. I can only have a career when I ... when I let myself take the hideously frightening action steps - even the baby ones, like call these two working actors I know in SF and set up coffee dates/informational interviews. So, putting up my artwork yesterday was part of spitting in the face of that belief - the art doesn't have to be perfect for it to go up (that was actually the purpose of that project - was to let myself paint it, no matter how it came out - and when it was done - it was done, no finnicking with it). The art doesn't have to be perfect to make me happy. I don't have to be perfect to be happy, because let's face it - that would be never. So, I've set up for myself a system of belief where I can never have love or joy in my life. And, in realizing this, I'm realizing how ultimately retarded it is, and I'm beginning to take action in the opposite direction.

Because maybe there's another Adam Levine out there just waiting for an actress/writer/singer. ... bass player ;)

(source: huffington post via Cosmo UK)