So— What’s a Blessing Anyway?

Stay Tuned to the End for an Announcement.

As an awkward, gawky, beyond-shy thirteen-year-old, a stutterer, a born–lesbian-who-wouldn’t-know-the-word-for-ten+-more-years, each day was filled with excruciating moments.  Having to talk—in public, in private, I was breaking my family’s silent contract that nothing was wrong.  

Every word I had to say was a threat to our collective denial.  

Wanting to kiss girls?  It was a secret, held in the depths of my being, so far away I could hardly know it myself.  

Don’t look at me—don’t see me.  Don’t love me.  No, just kidding, love me.  No, never mind.

I was a hider.  It made sense.  I hid well.

I’m not really here.  

So, my Confirmation in 1961 which culminated my already challenging Jewish education was a dreaded event, a day I prayed fervently would never come.    Thirteen of us Reform Jews would study all year with the Rabbi and then graduate, becoming members of the community upon Confirmation.

We would be seen, and we would be heard.  I would be seen, and I would be heard.

The only brass ring in this terrifying experience was the blessing.  Word had it, the Rabbi would call each student to him, after we gave our speech, a terrifying, death-defying affair.  The rabbi would offer his blessing.  Specific to that person, a personalized blessing.

OH, how I wanted and needed a blessing.  I was so lonely, so scared.  

Suffice to say, the trauma leading up to this June night, on that dread night, the intensity of walking down the aisle, the trauma of giving my speech, being both seen and heard, built over the months.

My speech!  Its opening words were, The rabbi is our friend…, which I practiced 900000 times, although I couldn’t count on that damn TH sound, that bugger, snagged me every time; it was horrific.

I was certain he wasn’t my friend, anyway.

But I kept my eye on the prize—the blessing.  At least I would get MY blessing, right?  At least God would be there for me, right?

Here are my words I wrote in 2010, describing what happened next, after just surviving the speech-giving before a packed congregation:

…”The moment I had lived for now arrived.  I would be offered my secret, perfect-for-me, blessing.

The rabbi put his hands on my head.  They appeared extraordinarily white and small and dry, and strangely warm, denting the helmet of my sprayed plastic pageboy.  OH, the blessing was coming.  I was trembling with relief, with possibility, almost faint with it all.  I could have fallen over from the dance in my body between exhausted terror and hopefulness.

His voice was a staged, hushed whisper, surrounding me—

“Nan,” he dramatically began.  “Stay—as— beautiful—as—you—are—in—this moment.”

WHAT?  

Stay as beautiful as what?  I was fully and positively certain I was not beautiful: that my hair was cardboard, my face pimply, my stomach too big, those white spots on my nails too noticeable.  I was both outraged and profoundly disappointed.

STAY AS BEAUTIFUL…It was bullshit.  There was no blessing here.  He didn’t know what else to say, he made it up.

I could have collapsed in a pile of disappointment at his feet.  But I did not…

God didn’t come to me that night.  God did not bless me, nor did he welcome me into his people.  God was nowhere in sight, as much as I could tell.  God wouldn’t lie to me like that.

He just didn’t show up.

I would have to continue along alone.”.

And so I did, for a long, long time.
~~~

I wrote about this in a story called, Heaven, Hell, and Hebrew School, for my book, Already Home.  As I read the story today—omg.  Why didn’t I call it?  Why didn’t I say: THIS IS TOO HARD. I CAN’T DO THIS.

 And where were my parents?  

Surviving, getting through, we were all managing as best we were able, following the great cultural advice of the 50’s and 60’s: if you don’t pay attention to it, it doesn’t exist.

Now—here is a blessing, written and read by the beloved John O’Donohue, priest, poet, philosopher. 

The Blessing:

To Sonia–Memories

Richmond Pond Sunrise

This blog post is also available on my Facebook page to make sharing it with friends and family easy for you to do.

As a child I shyly adored her.  She was a dear and a wonderful grandmother who loved me in the fullest and simplest and quietest of ways.  But once I left home, the real gifts came–Gram as listener, Gram as friend, as confident, as deep unconditional witness of my struggling young adult journey.

Together we were the best hand-holders.  We would hold hands for a long time—our hands were about the same size and shape, tiny.  When marked against the other, a matching set of four.  We would sit on her couch and talk and talk, holding hands the entire time.  No sweaty palms, no fidgety movements, absolutely no self-consciousness at all.  Quiet hand-holding.  Unconditional hand-holding.  I have never in my 74 years found a hand to hold that fits better in mine than that of my Grandma Sonia’s.

I would come home from NYC to Scranton as often as I could.  Monthly?  Who knows?  It never felt enough.  I would spend Saturdays with her.  Eventually she would always say the same thing:

“Nan, I have nothing to feed you for lunch.”  At the time, I was a finicky, ridiculously over-committed, somewhat ungrounded vegetarian.

Inevitably, Gram would whip together a magical combination of things: a little soup broth, some kasha, a hard-boiled egg.  A feast of fabulous Gram-food.  All the while, talking and listening, smoozing and gabbing.  The food that she offered me was beyond-delicious, a gift of her kind, gentle heart.

Then, for no particular reason, inevitably, INEVITABLY, I would get swept by a wave of total exhaustion.  I would find my way to her couch, sit down and rest.  She would insist, “Lay down, rest, it’s okay.”

I never wanted to “waste” time with her by sleeping.  Nevertheless, I would almost against my will, every single time, fall into the deepest, most restful and warmed sleep, arising later to the click of her crochet needles, feeling fully and wholly renewed.  

I would joke about her magic couch.  

It is not a joke.

I know today that the profound safety of my Grandmother’s love warmed my healing sleep, as she sat, so close, forever, by my side.

(Written in 1988 after her death)

From Darkness to Light…

And Back Again

One-hundred-and-fifteen-years ago, in 1972, I was sitting in a darkened movie theater with P., my supposed-to-be-boyfriend and soon-to-be-husband.

That would be another story.  

The movie was MaCabe and Mrs. Miller.  I adored it then.  I adore it now.

The music.  The music.  The music.

It touched into and through me, surrounding me and softening my defended, frightened heart.  Okay, I was probably stoned.  But nevertheless, this music was like nothing else—it spoke to parts of me I had not yet touched, not yet known

That was the first time I heard the music of Leonard Cohen.

The years passed.  His music was my music.  His angst, mine.  His struggling and searching seemed to be my struggling, my searching.

What parts of me were opened by Leonard Cohen’s music?  The neurotic Jew?  The brazen survivor?  The seeker?  

Even then, all I ever wanted was something beside myself—something bigger, something more reliable, something filled with light.  

Cohen’s music is not exactly filled with light, but certainly, his music is filled with life.  

Time passed.

No shit.  It did.

You Want It Darker, his 14th and final album, came out in October 12, 2016, 17 days before his death.

(Side note: Leonard died November 2016, one day before Donald Trump was elected president. Commendable timing, Leonard.)

I was excited to hear the album, You Want It Darker.

I listened to the title song.  It confused me.  Leonard-like, with so many images and religious implications—I mean, it was the end of the guy’s life, for goodness sakes. 

I listened again.  I put it aside.

I didn’t want life to be darker.

I put it aside for a long time.

I hear it now.

OH.

I hear it now.

Please listen—until the end…

Sometimes It Just Sucks

This blog post is also available on my Facebook page to make sharing it with friends and family easy for you to do.

I’m a child of the ‘60’s.  In looking backward, way before, I can see pieces of me emerging, readying me for this moment.

I knew from early-on that life was I wasn’t okay, didn’t belong, that I didn’t feel safe.  The things that separated me from others, my stuttering, my wanting to kiss Leslie (the girl) Garber in the 6th grade, my obsession with  becoming a Royal Canadian Mountie and saving women in distress— were too scary.

They had to be hidden.  

I had to be hidden.

So, I hid.

I got on board the Choo-Choo-Train for Nice Jewish Girls.  I went to college.  I got a teaching degree.  I married a nice Jewish boy.  I did my best to make it look okay.

But I knew it wasn’t.  Not for me.  Not for a lot of people.

Somehow—the suffering of my separation made me acutely aware of other people’s suffering and separation.  Or maybe I just came into this world knowing that.  Maybe I’m one of those.

What to do?

I smoked a lot of pot in college.  Oh, wait, actually for several decades afterward, come to think of it.

I went to the Peace Corps after college, to my parents’ horrified terror.  Much happened—but did it help?  Did it matter?  Did it change things?

I taught in an inner-city high school for 16 years.  Again, much happened—but did it help?  Did it matter?  Did it change anything?

Thanking all lucky stars, I got sober.  And began to investigate myself.  Then, and only then did things begin to change.

Kripalu Center found me.  Taking a few programs over a year or so became a summer stay, which unfolded into a year’s residency.  That was 34 years ago.

I know it matters.  

Choosing to be a part of the solution matters.  

Choosing kindness matters.

Witnessing matters.

And sometimes it sucks.

The world!  Our glorious and beautiful world.  What the f?

Friends, what the f?

The normalizing of the absurdities around us—

The brutalizing of people without access to power—

The danger to children sitting at their desks at school—

The absurdities of this current political moment—

The abuse of people that are different—

Sometimes it sucks-beyond-sucks.

Oh, our collective and individual hearts.

~~~
Maybe it’s not about changing.
Maybe it’s about witnessing.
Being present for.
Watching.

And from that place of presence,
Then
Taking right action.

Letting go of the outcome,
Being present with what is…

Hum.
Sounds
Familiar.

~~~
Maybe it’s about community, our shared humanity.
Maybe it’s about taking care of ourselves and of each other.

Maybe it is individual healing merging into 
Collective liberation.

Maybe.
~~~
I have so much respect for Playing for Change and their Foundation.  I have shared their music videos with you over the years.  Here is some information about them:

Playing For Change is a multimedia music project, featuring musicians and singers from across the globe, co-founded in 2002 by American Grammy award-winning music producer/engineer and award-winning film director Mark Johnson and film producer/philanthropist Whitney Kroenke. Playing For Change also created in 2007 a separate non-profit called the Playing For Change Foundation, which builds music and art schools for children around the world.

Please experience their work through this video—see the communities that have emerged from their work:

We Human Forgetters

View from Kripalu, 3/21

This blog post is also available on my Facebook page to make sharing it with friends and family easy for you to do.

It is so easy to forget.
It is so easy to get lost
In all of the stuff that is here,
Calling us,
Seducing us,
Magnetizing us
Into more.

More.

More work.
More fun.
More food.
More stuff.
More—money.
Of course.

It is so easy to forget.
What is truly true.
What is really real.

That we are spirit
Wrapped in bodies.

That our minds
Began as perfect allies
To our hearts.

And can return
To that balance.

That we are all truly one.
One breath.
One spirit.
Divided out
Into 
Zillions
Of shapes and sizes and colors and 
Expressions.

It is so easy to forget.
What is really important.

Kindness
And
Connection.

Maybe that’s it?
Maybe that’s all?
Maybe that’s
Everything…

Kindness
And
Connection.

~~~

What kindness can you offer yourself today?

And from yourself,
What kindness
Can you extend
To
Another?

~~~

What a cosmic joke, folks!

We already know.
We are already home.

We just forget,
Alas,
That pesky human dilemma.

There is nothing new here.
This journey of wholeness
Is
A
Returning
Back,

A remembering
Of
What
Is
Right
There—
All along.

~~~

Here’s a fantastic song for remembering.
From Beautiful Chorus.
Oh.  My.  Goodness.
Perfect.

Please see the lyrics (easier on computer than phone)

This is called Remember: