Faithful Journeys

Matisyahu made big news in the Jewish world when he decided to shave off his beard a couple of weeks ago. People questioned his association with Chabad and Orthodoxy and even his Judaism.

In the video above, he talks about his dramatic entry into Orthodoxy.

"When I grew my beard I was, like, just getting into Judaism. ...I like the way it felt. I liked representing myself as Jew because I felt something inside of me, Jewish, that was coming alive

Then at a certain point I found out...the group that I was heavily into said that you can't cut it, even if you want to. It's against the law, and besides it's a representation of God's mercy...so I bought into that for a long time."

He goes on to describe how there were moments he loved the beard and moment he felt very uncomfortable. He felt like people were looking at him funny.

And he liked the restriction against cutting it. He couldn't cut it even if he wanted to. And he was afraid -- he was afraid of what everyone would say, that he sold out. And he was afraid of the religious consequences, until he learned to trust himself.

Turns out that Matisyahu was right to be worried about what people would think. He broke the news with a tweet and a picture that showed him, for the first time in his public life, beard-free.

matisyahu At the break of day I look for you at sunrise When the tide comes in I lose my disguise yfrog.com/mng3ocj yfrog.com/mgj7ezhj

And following the uproar, he sent another tweet, indicating that all was OK. Nothing had changed. Going to shul and mikveh like always -- it's just a beard.

matisyahu For those who are confused today I went to mikveh and shul just like yesterday

So in the end, it’s just a beard.

In and Out of Love

I have seen many people come in and out of Judaism in recent years. Many come into the religion quietly and without fanfare. Often these are people joining Judaism because they are joining a Jewish family.

The other group are those who have experiences like Matisyahu's. The epiphany. The extremist moments. Hearing about how a beard is God' mercy one day and throwing out your razor the next. Donning tzitzit and making sure the tails hang out so everyone can see: I'm a Jew.

Matisyahu was 19 when he officially join the Lubavitch movement. Before that he was most Jewish kids I know. Brought up in a liberal steam of Judaism and rebelling against it as an adolescent. He went a little further than most -- dropping out of school, dropping lots of drugs and following Phish around the country. It's not really a surprise, is it, that a kid who would go to such an extreme would pick an extreme form of Judaism to come back to.

These kinds of stories often have a similar turn to Matisyahu's. The enthusiasm wears off and the 'high' of finding an answer for your life is trumped by living everyday life. I can't count how many people have walked through the doors of our synagogue thinking they had finally found the answer who walk right out again a few years later, leaving our community and Judaism forever.

I'm glad Matisyahu has decided to stick around, to not leave Judaism completely because the more extreme version of it doesn't suit him any more. In some ways, I wish I had his footsteps to follow in.

When you have doubts about liberal Judaism, where the rules are so few and far between and the substance of the thing is wispy anyway, where do you go? Where do we go now?

Vampire Hipster, or Why I Hate Twilight

Vampire legends and lore have been around for thousands of years, but the vampire really took hold in American popular culture with the stage, radio and film adaptations of Bram Stoker's novel of 1897. Movies were made starting in the 1920s and Bela Lugosi (left) owned the role of Dracula for generations of moviegoers. Not exactly tops on the sexy list, is he?

There is always a sexual component to being bit on the neck -- it's where the lifeblood is, and it's one hell of an erogenous zone, and even being bitten by the less-than-sexy Lugosi was an ecstatic experience. "I vant to suck your blood," was Bela's best pickup line.

I've never seen the 1950s versions where LOTR star Christopher Lee played the count, but the sex appeal quotient was even lower than Lugosi's. He wasn't a vampire out to seduce women as much as he was to feast on them.

In 1992, Francis Ford Coppola made the version of Dracula that is probably most faithful to Stoker's book. Gary Oldman played Dracula and Winona Ryder was Mina Harker. Anthony Hopkins was Ven Helsing and, whoah dude, Keanu Reeves was Jonathan Harker. I was in college and saw the film at least twice in theatres.

Claudia and Louis and Lestat

But me real love of Vampires was born in my childhood home in Littleton, Colorado. My parents had an extensive book collection, including a small white paperback with a cover that still haunts me -- a 1st edition of Anne Rice's "Interview with a Vampire." It was pulblished in 1976, when I was 4, and the cover featured a little girl in a frilly pink and white dress, flanked by two Louis and Lestat, resplendent in pure white. I'd stared at the cover for years before I dared to dive between the covers and explore the world of Anne Rice's vampires. I was probably 11 when I first read Interview, and as soon as I finished I turned right back to the first page and read it again. I became obsessive about the sequels.

The Vampire Lestat was released in 1985 - I was 12. Queen of the Damned came out in 1988. The highly sensual books were damn near pornographic to a pimply-faced book nerd like me. I read the first three over and over again, spending time in between with Stoker, Stephen King and compendia of short story collections.

I got into trouble in high school for reading Anne Rice in AP English in lieu of my assignment. I was n college by the time The Tale of the Body Thief came in 1992.

The movie adaptation of Interview was released in 1994, and by that time I was lukewarm about seeing it. Had the casting director who made Tom Cruise into Lestat even read the books?

The Vampire Armand was released in 1998. Quite honestly, I can't remember if I read Armand. I certainly don't own a copy. Interest had waned.

The Dead Years

There may have been some vampire culture between the late 90s and the Twilight craze, but I was far removed from it. If Goth kids were into vampire lore, which you might guess from their dress, I wasn't connected to it. I was married in 1998 and had my first child in 2001 and another in 2003.

Doomsday: Twilight

I admit that I read the Twilight series in full. All four books had been released and someone sent me PDF copies of them. I read them once and quickly, skimming parts that dragged -- so don't blame me if I get some things wrong. But what I noticed most was this -- Twilight was not the vampires' story. Twilight was the story of a thoroughly sullen teenage girl who turns down all reasonable offers of friendship and romance to choose the guy who rejects her thoroughly before stalking her. Make no mistake, dear reader, a manpire who breaks into your bedroom at night to watch you sleep is a creeper and not boyfriend material.

As a young adolescent I would have loved these books. I would have wanted an Edward of my own. Lestat was dangerous. Gorgeous with a Rock Star swaggar, but completely unwilling to bury his vampire nature in pursuit of a human partner. He never denied his nature as a predator and saw his proper place in Rice's world: top of the food chain. People belonged to the big, wide category of "food". You couldn't be Lestat's girlfriend -- you could only be his pet.

Meyer's Edward, on the other hand, is practically neutered. He and his entire clan refuse to feed on human blood, setting themselves on the moral high ground of the vampire world. Vampires are supposed to be amoral at best and immoral at worst, but Edward is the hero -- the best of the good guys. Hell, he shines like glitter in sunlight, which, inexplicably, he tried to use to scare Bella at one point during the first book. You have no idea what I really am, Bella! And then he sparkles. Scary.

My real problem with Edward and the other Twilight vampires is the lack of a truly dark nature and the ease with which it can be defeated. The most powerful stories are about people who have something wild and deep and dark inside them that they must struggle against. By the time he meets Bella, Edward has apparently conquered his inner nature. Bella is in danger in the novel, but she is never in danger from Edward.

Did anyone buy it when Edward said he couldn't control himself around Bella? That he might hurt her? By staring too hard? Gazing too long? He seems to have no deeper nature, no real struggle with his dark side. If he had lost control just once in the entire series and killed a person, then had to struggle with the consequences, I might have been sold. Instead, when Edward reaches even close to the edge of his personal control, he runs away. Brave, brave vampire Edward.

Vampires You Can Really Sink Your Teeth Into

Twilight aside, where it belongs, I am still a fan of vampires.

Like all annoying trends, there are bright spots that emerge from the drek.

For every Edward there is a Mitchell -- the lead vampire in the BBC's "Being Human." (Go for the BBC version on this one; there is a SyFy version, but it doesn't live up to is inspiration, and Aidan Turner personifies the role of a vampire on the edge.)

For every Bella there is a Sookie Stackhouse, heroine of HBO's "True Blood," a complicated and entertaining show that doesn't shy away from the dark side of not only vampires but humanity as well.

For every Stephanie Meyer there is an Alan Ball, the writer behind "Six Feet Under"a nd True Blood," who says this about Twilight.

“To me, vampires are sex. I don’t get a vampire story about abstinence. I’m 53. I don’t care about high school students. I find them irritating and uninformed.”

And for every hack blogger trying to sum up her dislike to Twilight in 1,500 words or less, there is Stephen King, who uses only 30.

"Harry Potter is about confronting fears, finding inner strength and doing what is right in the face of adversity. Twilight is about how important it is to have a boyfriend."

Beautiful Fotos 5: Ocean Sunset

Sometimes a Car is Just a Car...and Sometimes it's Not

I can remember when I first thought about being 40. My mother turned 40 in 1983, when I was 11, and on the advice of Hallmark I bought her a card that read, "39 and holding!" -- 40 just wasn't somewhere you wanted to go.

Sometime in my 20s or 30s I decided that I had one goal to achieve before I turned 40. I wanted to be the owner of a 1967 Camaro. All of the other achievements of being 40 were assumed: health, fitness, husband, children, house, job, money..and never warranted specific goal-making. Unfortunately, that means I can't tick those goals off the list. Nope. There's just one item on my list, and the check box is blank.

It's a Family Thing

My love affair with muscle cars comes from early childhood. When I was born, my parents were the proud owners of a 1967 Mustang and a Triumph Spitfire. The Mustang had been painted Panther Pink and my mother toted me around (unsecured in the front seat, natch) to nursery school, grocery shopping, Friendly's, and her hair appointments, after which I always got a stick of rock candy. I even have a recurring dream about that car. My childhood friend David and are waiting in it outside of the hair salon. Our mothers are inside. We play-drive and accidentally start rolling it down the hill. End.

My father would stuff me into the tiny back "seat" area of the Triumph with his flight case, and remember loving that tight-fit place and front-row the view of the shiftier as he maneuvered it through the gears.

My very first car was a muscle car of sorts -- a 1979 Monte Carlo with a 350 under the hood. (The one in the pic isn't mine, but except for the color is an exact match. Ours was yellow.) It was rear-wheel drive and my dad taught me how to do donuts in a snowy Greeley, Colorado parking lot when I was 15. I drove it for my driving test on a snowy December 16, 1987 and walked out of the DMV with my license. Dad let me do skids on the way home. The speedometer topped out at 95, but it pegged slightly over.

My list of cars owned since then in severely lacking in coolness:

Plymouth Reliant K wagon

Chevy Citation

Geo Spectrum

Chrysler Town & Country minivan (current)

1988 Toyota 4Runner (current, but Evan's)

Mid-Life?

My parents still have cooler cars than I do. When he lived in Florida, Dad drove a convertible, and how he has a sport Chevy Cobalt. Mom drives a Saturn -- one with the instruments in the middle dash. It's not a Mustang, but it's not a white minivan either, which is what I park in my driveway each night. (Yes, our 4Runner is cool, but that's really Evan's baby.) My parents even made their Chevy Corsica feel sporty next to my rides. I mean, have you seen a Chevy Citation? Behold:

But is it Materialism?

As the countdown to 40 keeps ticking and the reality of a Camaro-less 40s sinks in, I am not surprised that many people scoff at my mourning. Very few of my friends, it turns out, are "car people". They drive completely Colorado-ish, utilitarian vehicles. Toyota 4Runners. Minivans. Priuses (or Prii). When the new Camaro was introduced I was hunting the streets to get a glimpse of one person. I even stopped and flipped a u-turn to take a picture with my camera phone. My husband thought it was cool; other friends played along but mostly had no idea what I was talking about or understood why I cared. It's just a car.

It was just a car, once. My first love in high school was dual: A high school senior with long black hair and his 1967 Camaro, which looked much like the one pictured below. It probably wasn't quite a show car, but it lives in my memory that way. (Also, it was an SS, not an RS, but I'm willing to bet no one reading this aside from Evan knows how that makes the photo inaccurate.)

That boy did not reciprocate my love, but I did get a few rides in the car.

Any New Car is a Luxury

Most of my friends and family have an ethic about cars -- they don't buy new ones until it's absolutely necessary, and they make their buying decisions based on need, not desire. Our last vehicle purchase was the minivan -- we needed it because we had a new baby and Evan needed to fit at least three giant coolers of salsa in the back. It was 5 years old at purchase and had a cool factor of Absolute Zero.

Ten years later we still own it. The a/c hasn't worked for 5 summers, there's a CD stuck in the player that won't play (we lost track of which CD it is); the side door doesn't lock; the wipers come on randomly; 3/5 stereo buttons don't work; the driver's seat is ripped; and every once in a while we have to manually disconnect the battery to reset the computer and avoid complete system shutdown.

So I scoff at charges of automotive materialism on my part.

A Car or a Symbol?

Some people, including me, have argued that not having the Camaro at 40 isn't a big deal. This is true. If I make a list of all the things I do own, my needs are most certainly met, including my transportation needs. So the Camaro isn't and never was a necessity. But if the Camaro is just a symbol, than not having one is actually worse than if it were just a materialistic acquisition. The Camaro is my personal symbol for having "made it". It's a stand-in for youth, power, financial security.

Six days away from turning 40 I have not earned the freedom or power to buy that symbol, and that's what stings, regardless of what is sitting n the driveway. I know some people will never get it. Maybe if the physical representation of the goal were one that more of my friends could empathize with, it would click.

For now, I will flip the calendar soon from December 16 to December 17 without a new vehicle purchase. Maybe I'll even give my Camaro Matchbox and Hot Wheels to the kids as an example of letting go of the covetous impulse.

There comes a time, after all to set aside childish things in favor of 401Ks, college funds, braces and retirement savings.

The minivan can still do a nice skid around icy corners, though. At least there's that.

Words to Live By

		"The Wisdom of the Heart" from the 14th Dalai Lama Nobel Peace Prize Laureate (1989)
		Be kind whenever possible. It is always possible. Open your arms to change, but don't let go of your values. Sleep is the best meditation. Spend some time alone every day. We can never obtain peace in the outer world until we make peace with ourselves. Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck. We can live without religion and meditation, but we cannot survive without human affection. Happiness is not something ready made. It comes from your own actions. If you can, help others; if you cannot do that, at least do not harm them. The ultimate authority must always rest with the individual's own reason and critical analysis.

Starting Fresh - A Housekeeper's Tale of Woe

Some wishes you don't want to come true. Every once in a while I'd like for my house and all of the stuff -- the clutter I can't control; the papers that pile higher and higher -- to just disappear. It's not that I'm a terrible housekeeper. I won't be up for a starring role in "Hoarders" any time soon, thankyouverymuch. But I'm not a talented housekeeper and it gets away from me way too often.

Of course, it doesn't help that there is a constant influx of stuff from two very short people who seem to shed articles of clothing at every doorway and have more books andLego and Hot Wheels cars and stuffed animals than anyone needs. (OK. I will not rag too hard on the children for their books...they're just copying their mum.)

But we all survived for 8 full days and nights on one suitcase plus one backpack-full each. I had 90% of what I needed for work in my personal entertainment in my laptop, phone, And now, of course, those suitcases and backpacks and their contents are now spread around the living room, waiting the Cleaning Genie to put them in their rightful places.

So I am on a mission -- before that fateful day of my 40th birthday -- to reduce, let someone else reuse and recycle our bounty to those who might need it more.

Trouble is, the woman who built this cluttered and messy house over the past 10 years has no idea where to start to undo it. If you've got some ideas, I'd love to hear them.

Of course, my first instinct is to...buy a book!

Anyone got a match?

Beautiful Fotos 5: A fairy tale park in Croatia

The Power of Parenting, or Not

How much influence do parents have in the lives of their children? If you browse the bookstore shelves or Amazon.com you'll think that parents are the be-all and end-all of how we all turn out. There are parenting books for every possible quirk in children and how to parent it to accentuate it or parent it away. However, if you listen to behavioral geneticists, you hear a different tune. Kids are mostly a product of their genetics and parents, aside from being the source of these genes, don't matter as much as we think we do.

Did you raise a responsible kid? You didn't teach responsibility -- you passed on "responsibility-friendly" genes. Is your kid intelligent? No, that expensive preschool had nothing to do with it. She's got some smarts-producing genes.

Nature vs Nurture

When scientists try to answer the nature vs. nature debate, they turn to two kinds of children: twins who were raised apart and adopted children. In some fascinating studies, including hundreds of twins who were raised apart, identical twins turn out to be much more alive in intelligence and happiness than fraternal twins who were raised apart. (See the source article here.) In other words, genetics trumps parenting every time.

As an adopted child who feels very much like her parents in many ways this research never sat well with me. If I was more a product of my genetics, I was a product of a string of people I didn't know. So I focused on the ways in which me and my parents were alike and ignored some of the crucial ways in which we are different.

Powerlessness of Parenting

Now, as a parent, I find the behavioral genetics argument compelling and liberating. I am the mother of two children, and coming to know them over the past decade, I see how much their innate nature and genetic traits are the true rulers of their lives. I often joke about how "they just came out that way," but that statement is no joke. It is true on a profound level.

I am liberated by the ability to shove off the guilt and the shame that comes with raising children. Yes, I've made mistakes -- we all have -- but there is much more at play than my successes and stumbles. I may agonize over whether we should have started Ben in public school one year later, when we was 6, not 5, but how much of a difference would it have made to his core being, the inside Ben he will carry throughout the rest of his life. Not much, I now believe.

Ellie has started and stopped numerous activities in her short life, flitting from one thing to another as her interest wanes. Gymnastics, dance, piano and guitar have all fallen by the wayside. She's on violin now, and I have little doubt that this pursuit will be as short-lived as the rest, but what value is there in pushing her and fighting with her if she decides to quit? Not much.

Again, from the Brian Caplan article cited earlier:

"If you enjoy reading with your children, wonderful. But if you skip the nightly book, you're not stunting their intelligence, ruining their chances for college or dooming them to a dead-end job. The same goes for the other dilemmas that weigh on parents' consciences. Watching television, playing sports, eating vegetables, living in the right neighborhood: Your choices have little effect on your kids' development, so it's OK to relax. In fact, relaxing is better for the whole family. Riding your kids "for their own good" rarely pays off, and it may hurt how your children feel about you."

(One important point it feels necessary to raise now. Abusive child-rearing is obviously outside of these parenting "choices". We're talking about run-of-the-mill parenting here.)

So yes, it's "not my fault," but the powerful specter of genetics also makes me feel helpless in the face of some of my kids' tougher challenges.

I've been mulling all of this over again and again as we work toward a critical decision for Ben -- choosing his middle school. On the one hand, I could be making a decision that has a powerful effect on the rest of his life. It could be a great success or a dismal failure, and we're charged with making that choice. On the other hand, this decision will have little effect on the ultimate happiness he experiences in his life or his level of intelligence. Apparently, even though parents might have some effect in the short term, it wears off over time. (Again, read the article.)

My Unique Genetic Perspective

I only know two people on the planet who I am related two genetically -- my children. In them I see some wonderful and disturbing representations of myself that I know have been passed on through genetics and not parenting. I claim all responsibility for their love of Red hot Chili Peppers and Dark Side of the Moon, but those basic character traits? Not much.

When I was younger I was fascinated with the prospect of there being people in the world who looked like me. But I always focused on the superficial genetic relationship -- the shape of a nose; where a woman carries here weight; eye color. Now that I have that kind of relationship (my children resemble me very much) I am not so interested in those commonalities with my genetic relations.

What I must conclude now is that there are, or were, people in the world who are like me in much more significant ways. Interests, character, disposition, intelligence, happiness, etc. I'm not sure if I'd want to meet those people -- sometimes it's best not to look too closely at the reflection.

Relax. No one cares, and that's a good thing.

I've been obsessed with stumbleupon, the website which takes you to random pages around the 'net that match a list of interests and subjects you compile. I listed about 65 topics, so I'm not overwhelmed by the repetitiveness of it all. One of those interests in psychology.

Today a gem of an articled called, "It's Not All About You" stumbled its way into my browser. The title might make it seem like it's an article for narcissists, or people who are obsessed with being the center of attention. It's not. It's for those of us who can absolutely loathe being the center of attention. Those of us who obsess about that one "social error" at that party a year ago. Those of us who worry about what other people think of us. In other words, most of us.

"A growing body of research shows that far fewer people notice our gaffes than we believe as we pace the floor in private, going over and over the faux pas. And those who do notice judge us less harshly than we imagine. In a series of groundbreaking studies over the last two years, psychologists have shown that the "spotlight effect," as they call it, is a universal experience that distorts our egocentric notion about the degree to which people in groups, like parties and work gatherings, pay attention to us ... our self-absorption not only creates a false spotlight, it also results in an exaggeration about how we are judged."

1. Fewer people notice our gaffes than we think.

2. People don't judge us nearly as harshly as we imagine.

3. We are all self-absorbed.

The flip side of the coin is also true. People don't notice our clever arguments and witticisms as much as we think they do either. Damn.

We are good at moderating our judgments about each other. When a friend has an embarrassing moment at a party we feel empathy and sympathy. If we're at the same event, we'll work hard to smooth things over, if necessary.

If we're the one who makes the mistake -- and that's all it is, a mistake -- let the rambling self-criticism begin.

How do we turn this into a win? Simple. You've already done it.

"In a report due out this year, psychologists find for the first time that simple awareness of this native oversensitivity can improve how people do when they actually are in the spotlight."

Party season is coming up. Go forth, be merry and dance like there's nobody watching.

There isn't.

(Of course, the above only applies in real life. If you happen to be a celebrity, or dumb enough to go on a reality show, beware. All empathy and sympathy is gone. You are signing up to be made fun of for a living by the least generous of us. TV watchers.)

What's Your Worldview?

Double-click on the graphic below to make it big enough to read. if you're brave enough, post your "label" in the comments. Me? Apparently I'm a humanist/existentialist. Choosing just one path is so...doctrinal.

Beautiful Fotos 4: Red Roses

Squinting down 40

My 40th birthday this year is on a Friday evening, and if you live anywhere close to Fort Collins you are invited to the yet-to-be-planned-by-my-husband party. It will be a blast, and the actual act of turning 40 is going to be all smiles.

And I'm sure once the day has passed, being 40 will settle in just like every other milestone has.

But things are not looking good, pardon the pun.

I've taken to wearing reading glasses. I bought a pair early in the year when I was doing lots of cratfy needlework and sewing.

But now I'm wearing them for everyday reading. Books, magazines, and especially the stack of printouts I have to look through and proof every day at work.

Lots of people wear glasses, but only old people wear glasses.

Hello, old.

How Doctors Treat Us (Video at the End)

I've had a lot of contact with physicians recently. It's been about a month since my mountain biking accident, where I broke 5 ribs. I saw a nurse at the Winter Park Resort clinic; two different doctors and twice as many nurses at Harmony Urgent Care, numerous X-ray techs, and, yesterday, a doctor at my normal family doctor's office -- though not my regular doctor. I made the appointment on short notice; you get whoever is available.

This is how I would rate them all, on a scale of 1-10:

Winter Park Nurse - 8

Urgent Care Doc, round 1 - 8

Urgent Care nurses, round 1 - 9

Urgent Care X-ray tech, round 1 - 7

Urgent Care Doc, round 2 - 9

Urgent Care Nurses, round 2 - 10

Urgent Care X-ray tech, round 2 - 9

Doctor's Office Doc - 3

Doctor's Office Nurse - 7

X-Ray Tech, Round 3 - 7

All pretty average, non-notable encounters with health care professionals, except where I've highlighted those who were on the opposite ends of the scale. All of these appointments have me thinking a lot about what makes a good doctor. What's good doctoring? We go to health care professionals for care -- how do they care for us? How do we know that they care about us?

Let's review out highest and lowest scorers in an attempt to answer this question.

When Docs Get It Right - Our High-Scorers

The two doctors at the urgent care were very much alike. They were both male, in their 60s, and grey-haired. If I were asked to tell them apart from each other in a line-up today, I'm not sure I could. They wore the traditional doctor's costume -- white lab coats with their names embroidered over the breast pocket. Old School. I imagine that they could have easily been jaded about their profession and certainly about the people who come into their clinic. I imagine they've seen all of Fort Collins' hypochondriac's and drug-seekers on a regular basis.

But they were kind, understanding, and compassionate. They took the time to listen to my descriptions of my accident and symptoms, and they didn't interrupt too often. Unusual for this day and age, neither of them carried laptop computers. or even pens and paper. Just stethoscopes slung around their necks. They weren't there to take notes -- they were there to take care of their patient.

The process at the urgent care enabled this doctor/patient interaction. A nurses' assistant first took me back to the exam space and took all of my vital signs. Then a Physician's Assistant came in and took my history, went over the medical records on file. He took pen and paper notes and had printouts to refer to. I assume that the doctors received all of this information to review before he saw me. Even more important, they didn't have to spend their time with me on these details. They could devote themselves to patient care. Their examinations were hands-on and thorough.

When Doctoring Goes Wrong

My recovery has been an up and down progress, but I've been feeling a bit better recently. Until a few nights ago when things went downhill and stayed down. So I called my regular doc's office and asked for an appointment. Seeing my regular doc on such short notice is out of the question, so I took whatever was available. I like this practice. I've been there for a few years and have never had a bad experience, until yesterday.

Much like the urgent care, the nurse who escorted me to the exam room took all of my vitals and asked for the basics of why I was there. The doc arrived a few minutes later. We sat in chairs at first. She had a laptop, which I've come to expect, even gotten used to -- every doctor at this practice carries one into appointments.

What was different this time was how much attention the doctor paid to the laptop and how little she paid to me. I went through the full history of my injury, from accident to the moment the pain again turned severe. I gestured. I used my hands to point specifically to where the pain was -- and where it had moved to -- and the entire time I was talking she was looking at her laptop screen.

Not typing and glancing occasionally at her laptop screen.

Not making eye contact with me when she asked questions and then looking down as she typed.

She almost never looked up at all.

I became acutely aware of her behavior because it seemed to unusual.

She was transcribing, not listening.

I made more eye contact with the man who accompanied her -- a guy going medical coding -- than I did with her. I was hoping her was observing her to grade her. He seemed to notice her lack of attention to me as well.

Her physical examination was cursory and impersonal. her stethoscope never touched my skin, and she never actually felt my rips. Even though I had told her, more than once, that lying on my back caused the most pain and that my breathing felt different and even sounded different in that position. A few cursory presses on my abdomen and she was done. I didn't even get a good helping hand for the very painful process of sitting up.

I left angry, disappointed and most of all, feeling quite ignored.

The Answer?

Te doctor-patient relationship is just that -- a relationship, and how a doctor relates to a patient sets the tone for everything that follows.

This doctor, I believe, does have the answer, and I wish my physician yesterday had seen this video or at least been taught some critical people skills. Take 18 minutes to watch:

Living in Jewish Time

There's an inside joke at our synagogue. Whenever we have an interfaith event with one of the local churches, the Christians show up 5-10 minutes before the announced start time; the Jews show up 5-10 minutes (or more) later. This is because we operate on "Jewish Standard Time." The bar mitzvah begins at 9:00? Show up at 10:00 -- they won't even be at the Torah service yet. Synagogues fill up as the events go on, and empty out as they wane.

But there is another kind of Jewish time -- living your life by the Jewish calendar.

For the past five years I have been keenly aware of Jewish time. On any given day I could tell you what the date on the Hebrew calendar was, how many days until the next holiday and the corresponding Torah portion for the week. My life was structured around these ebbs and flows. Lesson plans had to be made, programs designed, supplies ordered. No Jewish holiday could sneak up on the religious school director.

The holiday of Sukkot began at sundown tonight and I was a complete non-participant. We have not put up a sukkah. We did not go to the synagogue opening night celebration. I did not purchase a lulav and etrog, and I have no real plans to celebrate the holiday in any way. Now, i have good excuses for all of these lapses. The broken ribs (kvetch, kvetch); my son being away for the last two days and wanting to skip Hebrew School; being swamped at work, etc. But they are not reasons; they are indeed excuses.

It's quite the conundrum. I want to be more motivated. I actually want to want to be more motivated. Jewish time can be really fun. I love Sukkot. Ever since I was introduced to the pomegranate during my Hebrew School days, it's been near the top of my list. We build a hut. In our yard. And look at the stars!

But this year it's just not enticing enough, and a completely new real life has intruded upon my Jewish Time. Incorporating Jewish life into my home was a piece of cake compared to the work I had to do for the school and community celebrations. Now it's work on top of work, even if all I have to do is show up.

I feel much more empathy for the Religious School families who didn't attend my well-planned events over the years. I am sure tonight's celebration was a ton of fun for parents and kids alike, but it just didn't fit into our Non-Jewish Time.

The Jewish calendar is a combination of calendars. It is based on the lunar cycle, but the rabbis added elements of the solar calendar as well, to keep the holidays in the right seasons. Intercalation.

Maybe it's time to intercalate our calendars: Schaibly, HP, Abraxis, Laurel, Cub Scouts, Girl Scouts, Music Lessons, Parents...and Jewish.

Chag sameach Sukkot!

Beautiful Fotos 3: Rainbow clouds over Everest

Yom Kippur without Synagogue

I don't believe I have ever missed a Kol Nidre service. I have even gone so far as to search out an Orthodox shul while away from home on a business trip. But tonight I will be at home, resting. I'm not writing this to kvetch about my injury, but my broken ribs are healing slowly and I've managed to catch a cough. Ouchie. That's my reason.

From year to year my affinity for synagogue services has waxed and waned, seemingly without explanation. I'm a bit disappointed in myself that missing Kol Nidre this year doesn't feel like that big of a deal when stacked up against everything else. On the other hand it feels like a failure. What, I can't even be a successful High Holiday Jew?

Pros and Cons of Services

What will go on in those services that I will miss out on? The music, which is pretty much unmatched the rest of the year. The majesty of all the Torahs being taken from the Ark at once and held before the congregation. Seeing friends old and new. Learning something new from a rabbi's talk. Praying in community, which Judaism has taught me my whole life is more important than praying alone.

But I have also found in recent years that there are things I always expect to get from Kol Nidre that I rarely if ever do. Majesty. Divine connection, in short supply these days anyway. Guilt, regret, and the need to apologize. Higher purpose and consequence.

Years and years of big expectations have been overlaid on every Yom Kippur since I was a kid in religious school. Holiest day of the year. Shabbat Shabbaton -- the Shabbat of all Shabbats. Even Jews who don't do anything else Jewish all year will probably go to synagogue for Yom Kippur. Or nominally fast. Or at least think about Sandy Koufax sitting out that game.

Fasting is so Slow

Our fast is meant to simulate our death -- dead people don't eat -- and bring us to a higher spiritual plane. Fasting isn't unique to Jews. Lots of different religious use fasting as a way to reach spiritual enlightenment. Honestly, though, all it ever did for me was make me hungry and give me a headache.* I was so distracted by the physical affects of hunger that the spiritual effects were unreachable.

My Real Inspiration

My favorite all-time portrayal of Yom Kippur was on the TV show "Northern Exposure" (Season 6, episode 3, which you can watch here.) Dr. Fleishmann goes through a Dickensian, Christmas Carol Yom Kippur, and at the end he is racing toward the closing gates as the rabbi is blowing the final shofar. You'll have to watch to see if he makes it, but I'll spoil the last minute or so of the show.

Since there is no synagogue nearby. No Nei'lah service to attend, Joel breaks his fast alone. He sits on a mountain vista, meditates for a few moments, and then pulls an orange from his pocket, peels it slowly and takes a bite. (You can fast-forward the video to about 44:00 to see the end.)

This is the Yom Kippur experience I aim for. And I have reached it a few times. One rabbi's version of that final service gives me shivers just thinking about it.

I was a religious school teacher for seven years. I know all the reasons ways to talk someone into going to services. Believe me, I've gone over them repeatedly today. I remain unswayed, and I am a little more sympathetic toward my students now. Although, to be fair, I've put in my time in the pews.

New Inspiration

I will be fasting this year, and in the middle of writing this post a friend wrote eloquently about the fast on Facebook. I am re-inspired by her words:

"May our fast on Yom Kippur be an uncomfortable, difficult and motivating reminder that the oppressed are still oppressed and the hungry remain hungry in my own community.

We don't wish for an EASY fast.

Instead, we wish to feel in these 24 hours what some people, including far too many children, feel every minute of every day."

Amen.

Higher Powers and Hubris

In a recent conversation about atheism with my rabbi, he made the assertion that atheism breeds hubris. It was dangerous for human beings to see ourselves as the pinnacle of the evolutionary process. There must be something bigger than us or we will become egomaniacal and arrogant; immoral and uncaring. [I'm probably stretching what was actually said, but it seems to be a logical conclusion.]

One of my favorite Jewish teachings is the advice of one of our sages that in our pockets we should carry a piece of paper. On one side we write: "The world was created for my sake alone." On the other: "I am but dust." When you are feeling low, read the first side. When your ego is inflated, read the second.

For years I had such a card in my wallet. It became worn and tattered, but I didn't use it with much intention. It was a good reminder to ponder bigger thoughts when paying for groceries or digging for change for the kids. Somewhere between one wallet and the next the card disappeared, and I've never felt the inclination to replace it.

I will replace it now, but instead of those two quotes, I am going to reproduce the photo at the top of this post. It is the first ever picture of the Earth taken from Mars. We are here. And there, on the red planet, is a remote-controlled roverbot wandering a barren landscape picking up soil samples, rumbling over bumps and berms, and looking toward home. Pixel by pixel, over 46 million miles, it sends us a picture of ourselves.

If there was ever an argument against human hubris it is astronomy and cosmology. In a universe so vast that it can contain Sagan's billions and billions, where is there a place for my self-importance? My ego? No, the cosmos does not offer itself as a higher moral authority than humanity, but it does offer perspective on just how speck-like we are, the entire 6.8 billion of us.

I am humbled by the mere process of contemplating the universe, and yet grateful for the amazing and miraculous coming together of billions of factors that has led to me -- as truly unique as you. To the universe we may be as insignificant as quarks and neutrinos, that is true. But each of us is a completely unique entity, a one-off never produced before and never to be repeated.

This is the true paradox of our existence. In the big scheme of things our existence is insignificant, yet we have developed the intellect to ponder this insignificance.

If we do not see something as higher than ourselves, the rabbi said, we develop hubris. We are selfish. We look out for ourselves.

Maybe he is right, but I see no reason for that thing which is "higher than ourselves" to be an entity, a benevolent force, an intelligence.

That which is greater than me is me + another human, ad infinitum.

My family -- a husband and two children -- is something higher than myself alone.

My community -- friends, a congregation, coworkers, my neighborhood -- is something higher than myself alone.

My city. My nation. My continent. My planet.

All of these collectives are my "higher powers," my checks and balances against hubris. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the one, as the great philosopher Spock said. From this attitude springs morality -- morality without deity.

Hubris isn't the result of the lack of a deity. We are much more likely to become self-centered and self-important when we believe that a deity took special care and effort to create us. We are its precious. God Himself placed us in a position of specialness; how much more so for us Jews. We are favored and chosen. Hubris is built into the system. His and ours.

No. I would much rather be the result of a billion happy accidents. Humble and appreciative, and in awe. Floating around on this tiny blue dot:

Beautiful Fotos: 2

This is a photograph. That is all.

The Pain Factor

I have a unique point of view on the High Holidays this year. I am viewing everything through the haze of pain. A little more than a week ago I broke 5 ribs in a mountain bike crash. As anyone who has broken ribs will tell you, it's tremendously painful. Even now, post-crash, I can hiccough, burp, reach too far with my arm, twist in my seat or any number of other seemingly innocuous actions and be in agony.

Rosh Hashanah services are a social affair. I am almost universally known in my community -- I held a position of leadership for 5 years and I interacted with every subgroup of the synagogue.

Pain tends to make one anti-social, however. I had no interest in the traditional Rosh Hashanah hug -- especially a surprise hug or a friendly arm around the shoulder. So I wore a sling, which I don't really need, but I figured I needed the visual signal: Don't Touch Me.

Unfortunately, the sling also sends another message: I'm Hurt and You Need to Know What Happened. I tried to keep the explanation short and sweet every time. Broke some ribs mountain biking. Yup, it hurts a lot. Oh, about 4-6 weeks. Yes, definitely, good drugs.

And since the time for conversation during and around services is limited, the above interaction was 90% of my social interaction for the day. I had very little time to catch up on what my friends were doing, and I found myself the constant object of sympathy, which I would have expected to enjoy more than I did. Who doesn't want to be fussed over?

Me.

Being fussed over is like receiving a constant stream of compliments. It's nice for a while, but responding to each and every instance is exhausting.

I was also distracted by pain during the service. My attention wandered to the physical rather than the spiritual. My chair had no arm rests, so balancing myself while standing and sitting was difficult and painful. The sitting and standing itself had its own complications, and eventually I found a place in the back to stand. Sitting pushes the rib cage down into the abdomen. Owwie.

Half of the prayers flew by me. Partially because I was in pain, but also because I was not able to participate in the singing and reciting of the prayers. There just wasn't enough breath available. Listening to prayer is not the same as praying.

Pain also makes you grumpy. My patience with the rabbi's 45-minute sermon was nil. When my children dragged their feet about leaving, neither of them wanting to part with friends, I was snappish. In short, I didn't feel very spiritual at all.

The irony of Rosh Hashanah is that it is all about renewal and second chances, but there is only one chance per year to be part of the kehilah, the community that only comes together for High Holidays. I feel as if I was distracted and absent.

Most of all, I am saddened by the missed opportunity I had to share with my community. I was originally slated to speak from the bimah today about the Akedah, the Near-Sacrifice of Isaac by his father, Abraham. I have been thinking about it for weeks and working through idea after idea. After all, it's quite possibly the most-discussed story in all of Judaism, and it's so important that we read it every year on Rosh Hashanah. I was excited to write it (made impossible by the drugs) and deliver it (made impossible by the lack of stamina and breath). I miss being a teacher, and this was a way back in. Perhaps I will post it here. It is still asking to be written.

So I am poised to move on through the 10 Days of Awe to Yom Kippur in a continuing haze, one which I can only hope will lift occasionally. I am at once too distracted to partake in self-reflection and so isolated and alone that self-reflection is the only option some days.

Cut Apart

Beautiful Fotos: 1

Shall we dance?

I am no Tony Romo

The rumor mill has it that Dallas Cowboys' QB Tony Romo will play Monday night despite a broken rib that punctured his lung. His doctor has apparently pronounced him "healed". What is this quack, a revival faith healer?

This morning at 4:45 a.m. I woke up in a sudden crush of pain and restriction in my chest. I could barely breathe, I could not move, and I made a desperate flail for my husband, to wake him up. We very nearly called 911.

Earlier in the week I had been enjoying the mountain bike ride of a lifetime. Swooping back and forth on a gorgeous trail up at Winter Park, Colorado's Ski Resort. In the summer, they haul your bike, and you, up the mountain and you ride down. Evan and I first did this together about 15 years ago. It can be fast and furious and the scenery is unbeatable. On Sunday, I had split off from my family to take on Long Trail, an intermediate-level descent. There were trestles to cross, lots of lightning-fast berms and switchbacks, and gorgeous natural surroundings of the high country.

Just minutes before my crash I had stopped mid-trail to just look around. Up at the sky, over to the next range of mountains, down the perfect;y carved trail. I was happy, I was riding extremely well,and I was up for so much more that day.

Where Long Trail intersected the main road a hazard awaited. Another trail crosses the road here and a small group of young riders came bombing through the intersection with egos so big they probably couldn't even see me coming toward the trail at the same time. I stopped (too hard) and flew over the handlebars to land on my left shoulder. Shoulder hit road. Road pushed shoulder into ribs. Ribs cracked.

It's been a painful week, and this morning it got much worse. That middle-of-the-night attack prompted another trip to the urgent care and another set of X-rays. Only this time, I now have 5 fractures. Not cracks. Fractures.

All of the supposed healing that happened this week was for naught, and the pain was in vain. Now I have to re-walk that road from the beginning.

Who let the unicorn poop everywhere?

Can a candidate who endorses evolution be elected? Ask Woodrow Wilson.

I find it depressing that, 89 years after President Woodrow Wilson made this statement, men of education and intelligence reject evolution. No wonder Richard Dawkins is so militant.

GASP!

The sign-up sheet for after-school activities came home with both of my kids today. I’m very pleased that my schools even have enrichment programs – I know many around the country that don’t – but I am not all that pleased with the offerings:

• Chess Club
• Yoga
• Cheer & Dance
• Writing
• French
• Spanish
• GASP – Girls Accessing Science Program

The description for the GASP program: The Girls Accessing Science Program is a wonderful chance for young women to explore the world of math and science. Discover the importance of science, from day to day activities, to careers that can span a lifetime as you work with fellow students and positive role models from the local community.

I am not unaware of the issues in education over the past, oh, 300 years regarding girls and science. My very own mother was discouraged from pursuing a college degree in anything even though she had a keen interest and high marks in science in high school. She graduated high school in 1961.

And yes, there are still idiot marketing stunts like this one from JC Penney, which lets the wearer claim that she is "too pretty" to do homework. Oh, how I wish I had a boy brave enough to wear that shirt to school. Sorry, teachers, he's too pretty!

My concern as the mother of two children who have keen interests in science, is that the school system has made some sort of assumption about Ben -- that he has great "access" to science and is, because he is a boy, well served by the regular science curriculum. He doesn't need increased "access" to science or increased contact with male role models in science because they are readily available to him. Simply because he is a boy.

According to many, the gender gap in schools has swung the other way. Nicholas Kristoff cites these sobering statistics from the book, “Why Boys Fail,” by Richard Whitmire:

• ¶The average high school grade point average is 3.09 for girls and 2.86 for boys. Boys are almost twice as likely as girls to repeat a grade.
• ¶Boys are twice as likely to get suspended as girls, and three times as likely to be expelled. Estimates of dropouts vary, but it seems that about one-quarter more boys drop out than girls.
• ¶Among whites, women earn 57 percent of bachelor’s degrees and 62 percent of master’s degrees. Among blacks, the figures are 66 percent and 72 percent.
• ¶In federal writing tests, 32 percent of girls are considered “proficient” or better. For boys, the figure is 16 percent.
• There is one important exception: Boys still beat out girls at the very top of the curve, especially in math. [Author's note: It's this exception that seems to be making the rules.]

More girls are pursuing higher education than boys, and within a decade, colleges will graduate two young women for every young man. All of us girls who felt that we were shunned from pursuing math and science careers might ant to stand up and cheer, "You go, girls!" but at what cost?

Passing the Torch, For Reals

Even the smallest changes in life take some time to get used to. A new haircut. A new furniture arrangement in your living rom. A new pet. A different keyboard or mouse for your computer. We've all done it -- gone to plunk ourselves down on a couch that's moved; hunted for the open-apple key on a PC keyboard; looked at ourselves in a mirror and done a double-take.

The big changes in life, no matter how much advance notice we have for them, take much longer to become reality. In December of last year I decided that I was leaving my job as the religious school director for our synagogue's religious school. Since then it has been a long process of transition, from announcing my decision to friends, family and coworkers to letting the congregation in on the news to being celebrated numerous times as the school year drew to a close.

There were tears of sadness, regret, relief and joy.

I kept thinking of this iconic last scene, from the Mary Tyler Moore show: here

But the real moment where change sinks in just arrived a few minutes ago. It is the eve of the first year of Sunday School for which I am not the director. I have not spent the past month frantically preparing for school's opening day. I will not get up at the crack of dawn to buy snacks, make coffee, and check every classroom for readiness.

School begins at 9:00 a.m. and I am planning on arriving with my children in tow promptly at 8:59. I will then proceed to skillfully avoid getting trapped into conversation with other parents and quietly disappear to spend three uninterrupted hours with my husband. We will brunch. We will ride our bikes.

Change will be sealed.

Remembering 9/10

9/10/2001 was one of the happiest days of my life. We celebrated Ben's bris at home -- I feel honored to have witnessed my son being brought into the Jewish covenant with God and I felt the presence of my grandfathers as we gave Ben their Hebrew names. The rabbi gave a wonderful teaching about how it takes just one person to change the world, and each new soul brought into the world has an equal chance of being that one. I was filled with joy and hope for this new little life.

The next morning, 9/11/2001, I woke to what I thought was a fiction excerpt on NPR. The first tower had just fallen -- "It's just gone," the correspondent said. I spent they day cuddling my new baby in the back of our TV room, wondering what kind of world we had brought this precious life into.

But I still remembered what the rabbi said, and I whispered to Ben, "Maybe you're the one." Maybe he is...but just in case he's not, you and I should be "the one" too.

The Jewish New year is coming, and this is the time of year when Jews reflect on the past year and make plans for the next. Why not plan to try and be the soul that saves the world. What can you do in this next year to make a difference? What will you commit to?

May we all do our part to bring peace and wholeness (shalom and shalem) to ourselves, our family, our neighborhoods, our cities, our states, our country, our world.