Be Sure to Wear a Flower in Your Hair, or Ten Things I Learned on My Summer Vacation

Shalom, hello, boom-shan-ka (young ones fans will get that reference) - I'm back from vacation and probably more relaxed than I've been for the past fifteen, twenty years. This is, of course, thanks to my dear friend Ellen, best buddy since 1978 and the person to whom I owe surviving the years between eight and sixteen relatively unscathed.

Nothern California, specifically Marin County, where we were headquartered, is beautiful - surrounded by mountains and close to the ocean and everything that someone who desperately needed to reconnect with nature could have wanted. So what did we do on our summer vacation? Hung out, watched The Young Ones, listened to the Beatles, looked for shells on a pretty beach by the Pacific Ocean, drank sugar-free lattes, cooked lots of yummy vegetarian dishes, and went to the place I've been waiting to see for thirty-eight years: the most famous streetcorner in the world:



Of course, I'd been to SF before, but my parents (with whom I traveled both times) didn't really feel like indulging my late 20th century hippie sensibility, so we skipped the Haight last time. But we didn't skip it this time, and it was great. Touristy, sure, and certainly there isn't much left over from the summer of love. But the vibe was there, and so was the contact high, for sure.

The main thing, however, is knowing that I was in pretty desperate need of a perspective change, it actually happened. I wasn't expecting it, but luckily, just being in a different place, with a much more mellow attitude and away from all of the limits and barriers and stupid stuff that shrinks your world down to the size of your desk and your dashboard and your cell phone - I was really able to forget about much of the stupidity going on at home, and feel less stressed about the need to change everything right this second.

So without further ado, here are the ten things I learned on my summer vacation. As a tribute to my friendship with Ellen, titles, in all cases, are taken from Beatles songs:

10. I was alone, I took a ride, I didn't know what I would find there: But what I did find was that first and foremost, I am wound WAY too tight. (Ellen: "You're just realizing this?") But it's true. Whether this has been caused by the crapalicious events of the past three years just isn't relevant. What I found out I need is to relax, to laugh, to remember who I am, to be happy - by whatever means necessary.

9. Well, well, well, you're feeling fine: My doctors are not always right. Laying awake one night, very late, after watching Vyv and Neil battle it out on University Challenge, I realized how long it had been since I'd really laughed, really felt like things were going to be OK. And that perhaps the RA and the diabetes and all the other crap I've been dealing with were just symptoms of a broken heart. Not that it would be surprising - there's been a lot of heartbreak in the past few years. But I don't have to keep testing the cracks to see if it's still broken - maybe it's time to let it heal.

8. And I'm not what I appear to be: My doctors are not always wrong. I've got more to deal with than the average bear, and even if the root cause of it all is a broken heart, the symptoms of the other stuff are still there and need to be dealt with in a healthy and constructive way. For the past few years I've been using a lot of energy to cover over when I'm not feeling well, and doing a lot of pretending that I'm not in pain a good deal of the time. It takes more energy and strength than I realized to pretend. Maybe I'd feel stronger if I didn't spend so much time lying about it - who's it really helping, anyway?

7. There are places I remember, all my life, though some have changed: Bowling alleys may come and go (and there aren't any in Marin County, just like there aren't any in Eastchester anymore) but some friendships are forever. Long, long ago, Ellen and I were publishing hand-drawn copies of the Eastchester Times - our newspaper chronicling the annals of guido culture in our hometown - including the destruction of guido hangout Waverly Lanes, replaced with a CVS in 1985. Though so much stuff is lost in time, there is nothing like a friend who can help you make sense of the past, who shares memories of people and things that aren't here anymore. I only realized a few short weeks ago that carrying around grief keeps people and things alive, but now I know friends do too. And laughter is much lighter.

6. Turn off your mind, relax and float downstream: Ideas and activities once indulged in as a teenager are still good for a heck of a laugh now. Thanks, George.

5. No one I think is in my tree, I mean it must be high or low: I never saw more beautiful trees than in CA, especially Ellen's most gorgeous Tree of Life pendant - how wonderful is it to have friends with talent? But while I was out there I was kind of able to renew my sense that in spite of recent events, my call to Judaism is just fine. In my head as I was traveling I was comparing NY trees to CA trees and then realized it doesn't matter - people are going to disagree that their tree is the one, but as a leader I only have to remember one thing; it is a tree of life to those who hold it fast and all who cling to it find happiness. Its ways are ways of pleasantness and all its paths are peace.

4. Hey, you've got to hide your love away: Really wasn't such good advice.

3. Keeping an eye on the world going by my window: After seven years (almost to the day) of being very fearful, and even though I'm not sure of being really safe even with taking off shoes in the security line, I'm happy to report that I'm no longer afraid to fly.

2. Show me that I'm everywhere and get me home for tea: A couple of weeks ago, I was at the Stage Deli in NYC, gazing across the street at a dive bar called the Irish Pub. Why? Because eleven years ago, on that very corner, I was laughing with someone I loved at the time. And walking along the streets of the Haight, I hoped that somehow, I'd leave a happy memory there that I would be able to come back and visit someday. I hope that somehow it works out, and that maybe even no matter where you are, somewhere in time, you're still there.



1. You can learn how to be you in time; it's easy - all you need is love: (Ellen: "You knew that already.") Yes, I do know this already, but as I'm sure many people would agree, it's easy to forget. But maybe now it will be easier to be grateful for the love and laughter already in my life, and hopefully having rediscovered it on the west coast, I can hold on to it here, back east.

Having come back home, I'm hoping to hold on to some of these lessons. What struck me the most about the trip, and especially about the photos we took, is how happy and healthy I look - for the first time in years. I don't think that's something that NY can take away (at least I hope not) but I think the narrowness of life, how easily one can let it shrink down to emails and daily demands and expectations, can quickly erode inner peace.

But as the song says: the willow turns his back on inclement weather. And if he can do it, we can do it...with a little luck.

Happy Fever-sary!

It's official: as of today, I've had a fever for two years. After a battery of tests, having drunk gallons of radioactive crap (to see if any naughty cells light up under the MRI), and after consulting with at least seven physicians, the conclusion is that the fevers are "rheumatoid in nature." As in rheumatic fever, a 19th century, Jacob Riis meets Jane Austen type of disease. I don't even have a chaise longue to go with it, nor am I inclined to take the cure at the seaside. I suppose the vapors are next. Or possibly some scurvy?

Strangely enough, I've got this weird urge to celebrate this nonsense - I mean, hell, if you've gotta be sick, you may as well have fun with it. So this morning, I took it upon myself to look at that quaint old list of anniversary presents. Number two (heh heh, you said, "number two") doesn't get you anything too glam. Research tells me that the traditional gift for a second anniversary is cotton (?); the modern gift is china (supposing, I guess, that you've managed to break some of the china that you received as a present the first time around). But cotton? Not sure what to do with this.

So...tomorrow I am off to California for a few days of relaxation, ocean-gazing and Young Ones videos with my dear friend Ellen and her family. The car service will be arriving at some insane hour tomorrow morning (yes, it'll still be dark out), so there's much to do today to get ready. Being ridiculously organized (it's a curse, believe me) I made a list, checked it twice, and I'm already sitting here stressing about the decision to check my wheelie bag or not. And of course, stressing about whether said car service will even be able to find my apartment, given my mystery address. If my friends have trouble finding me, I don't have a whole lot of faith in a stranger in a Town Car.

And of course there's the garden-variety flight anxiety that afflicts me every time I board one of these winged creatures. The iPod is queued up, the xanax is in my purse, but I can't shake the scary realization that I booked: A nonstop flight. To California. On a Tuesday morning. On what is supposed to be a beautiful sunny day. I realize very few people remember those details, but sometimes it's the little things you can't shake that come back to haunt you.

I'm going to comfort myself with a toasted bialy now. Tell me I'm being paranoid.

love, love, love...ALR

Counting Down

My apologies, again, it's been a while; my head just has not been clear enough or relaxed enough to get an idea down on virtual paper. Between the swampitude at work (haven't been this busy in some time) and the NBC-sponsored, Phelpsian fog of worship that has clouded my at-home hours for the past ten days or so, my fingers haven't exactly been on speaking terms with the keyboard lately.

Hopefully, that is all about to change. Realizing I am in desperate need of a perspective shift, some calmness that is neither vicodin-induced nor pedicure-inspired, and just a general need to get the hell out of Dodge before the annual September 11th Memorial Week to Ten Days of Severe Panic Attacks sets in, I am headed to California, (aching in heart, optional.)

Six more days, and I'll be off to San Francisco for a few days of relaxation, and hopefully some wine, since my dear friend Ellen lives in Marin, not far from a whole slew of wineries, vineyards, etc. I'd be happy with plain ol' grapes, (p'ri hagafen, baby!) but I could also be very happy bringing back a bottle (or case) given all the blessing we're going to be doing in late September and October.

My rheumatologist says that I shouldn't have any wine, but also acknowledges that I probably won't listen to her. Normally I am quite cheerful and obedient in these sorts of situations, then again, I was a very happy beaujolais drinker during my four days in Paris last year, so she's right: I'll probably do some damage out there.

I have only two requests, and those are 1) to go see Copia, the museum of food, wine and the arts and 2) to see the Pacific Ocean. If you've ever sailed in the Pacific, you already know it is totally misnamed. Eight years ago, I spent vacation on a 35 foot Catalina named Moonshadow, off the coast of Washington State tooling around the San Juan Islands.

My first day out showed that the Pacific is, shall we say, kind of demanding.

Imagine this: 40 foot swells leaving port, water coming up on deck, trying to raise the sails in gale force winds, and a mentally unbalanced, somewhat masculine sailing instructor yelling "Sailing is not for the WEAK!" over the wail of the wind and my fellow sailing students doing our best not to barf up a lung or two. Thus, I'd like to leave this time with a different take on my darling Atlantic's westerly sister. Like, not throwing up, or coming home more agitated and shaken up than I'd been before I left.

Hence the need for a more relaxing vacation, this time around.

I'll try to post again before I go.

RIP, Isaac Hayes

Yahrzeit

Sorry for the long hiatus, friends, and for those certain ones who have been emailing, concerned that I went down for the count again and was possibly hospitalized or seizuring or three-days-dead in my apartment, I really appreciate that you were looking for me. But it was a tumultuous week or two, and for a time, I couldn't even find the words to describe it.

It all started when I agreed to co-lead a Friday night Shabbat service on August 1. Yes, I know, many of you didn't realize this was happening, but I'll get to that in a moment. Normally, when I prep to lead a service, it takes a good month or so for me to get my thoughts in order, study the Torah portion with my co-leader, choose the music with some modicum of sensitivity to the larger Jewish calendar (i.e., if you're in a mourning period like we are now, don't pick the up-tempo stuff), and also, try to inject some semblance of creativity into the process - since summer is the time to play a little bit. Summer is great for this sort of thing - not only are you dealing with lay-leaders, but you have some latitude to be creative, try a new reading, or a poem, or a song that other people might not know, but might also come to appreciate.

Anyway...my co-leader was, shall we say, not exactly open to new ideas. And that's fine; I get it. She's a very smart, interesting, good person, but school has given her a strong sense that there are right and wrong ways of leading a service. And we've both been informed by habit: I'm used to the customs at my synagogue, and she's used to the customs she learned living in Israel and then being part of an intensive academic community where the students' ideas and innovations are always subject to judgement.

This combination of my free-spiritedness and her way-more-learnedness-than-me led to some pretty brutal conflict. Over a Shabbat service. Seriously. Not what I ever imagined myself fighting over. And let me tell you, the side effects were nasty.

All of this began because of the fact that we were due to co-lead an afternoon Shabbat service the same day in a local nursing home. She took offense at something I said, which was literally so innocuous that I still can't figure out what happened - but she perceived me as trying to "take over" and "push her out of the way" - at a nursing home??? What would that even mean? Why would anyone waste their time? It's not Emanu-El, people.

Luckily, the universe intervened and took me out of that scenario. But the damage was done for Friday night. Here's how it went down:

The week before the service, I suggested sending an evite for Fri night. Given that most of MY friends don't actually belong to our congregation, they had no other way of finding out about the service. This was dismissed as a cheesy marketing maneuver (sorry about my profession, but, whatever) - which was altogether tacky and inappropriate for a synagogue setting. Never mind that for every previous service I've done, I've sent one out. So, feeling stupid, I didn't send it. Which meant that I now didn't even feel comfortable sending an email to let my friends know it was coming up. I was hurt and embarrassed, so I invited no one.

Then I wanted to read a poem about peace in Israel that challenged the notion of G-d's role in the conflict between religions in the Holy Land. What I didn't expect was her reaction that was so completely offended that I would be called upon, in the middle of a workday, to defend my "faulty" theological viewpoint. On the phone. Before a meeting. Luckily, it was all summarily dismissed, since she decided that because I had never lived in Jerusalem, I didn't understand anything about G-d's presence there, and thus had no right to comment.

The next day, she called to say that she had been rethinking the evite: since, in her words, it must be very hard for me because unlike her, I do not have a Jewish family to support me. Her husband and parents and children would be there for her, she said, so she felt sorry for me and understood if I felt I needed to invite people, you know, since nobody from my family would be there. So, as if I wasn't feeling bad enough...now it was in my face that since I am a convert, I was someone to be pitied. The sages say that born Jews should never make a convert feel uncomfortable, should never remind people who choose Judaism that they are different - those sages knew something about good taste and tact. And so, in my congregation, I had never felt like a shamed convert, until that moment.

(Actually, my mom WAS planning to come, but after I told her about that last comment, she was so angry that I thought it would be better if she stayed home - she shouldn't get herself all worked up just because someone made a snotty comment about our family. My mom's reaction? "I'll show her the REAL meaning of a Jewish mother."

I'm all for revenge, but not in the sanctuary. Talk about inappropriate.)

Things went downhill pretty rapidly at that point. We met for a rehearsal two nights before the service, and after being told that A) my closing song was, again, inappropriate; B) the new piece of liturgical song I wanted to do didn't sound "ready" and C) that I needed to learn the difference between what was appropriate for a synagogue and what wasn't -- I just freaking lost it. It was a meltdown of epic proportions. We had to stop the rehearsal - I literally could not go on. I haven't cried so much in that sanctuary since my dad's first yahrzeit.

Sadly, I still couldn't find the words to defend myself.

But all was not hopeless. Friends, alerted to the situation, helped with the music. Family rallied and offered support. And other friends called and listened and offered advice and consolation and pure love. It helped a lot. Because the other thing I didn't mention is that this was all happening at a splendid, perfect time. The night of the rehearsal - the night I was crying so much - was actually the anniversary - the yahrzeit - of my being date-raped, 21 years ago. So - essentially - it wasn't a good time to be made to feel even more vulnerable than I was feeling. And it certainly wasn't a time to go kicking at the tires of my identity (Judaism, family, future spiritual leadership) to see if there were any soft spots.

The clincher came on Thursday night. She called to say she had been really upset about the meltdown, and she thought she understood why I was crying. She said she knew how hard it must be for me to be single, to be viewed by the congregation as being somehow incomplete, defective, unlike everyone else. And how resentful I must be of everyone who has a Jewish family and a husband and a real life.

At this point: whatever. How much more can you cry before it becomes laughable? And how can you prove to someone who thinks like that that you are actually pretty much OK with the life choices you've made?

End result: the service went pretty well. We managed to pull it off, tried to resolve our differences, and realized that when all was said and done, our communications styles just weren't compatible. (To say the absolute least.) I still don't exactly know what happened; I'm still shaky and sad and a little freaked out that someone in my community had such a hard time with me, to the point that she had to challenge me, not only on my theology and ideas, but on my family, identity, and future as well.

For now, it feels like I need a break from temple; I need my Friday nights, my Shabbats, for myself - not for her, not for them, not for the community that I love - but now the community that I have to wonder about - if it perceives me the way she does. She now wants to get together to "process" what went wrong, but I'm not ready yet. I have a feeling I will end up feeling just as stupid and damaged and vulnerable as I did for all the years when I blamed myself for what happened 21 years ago. It's not a good feeling, and it's sadly familiar to me.

Even when I take a step back, and I realize that all this was, ultimately, was a single Friday night, a night when a ton of people were out of town, and that no one who was present will remember it, I'm not consoled. Perhaps it is because it all is part of that Friday night all those years ago, when someone's parents were out of town, and that no one else who was there, at that party, even remembers it - even though that is where the whole story of the end of my world began. It's still there, after all this time -- and this week, it was like someone pushed the buttons on the time machine and sent me back.

When the Twin Towers came down, I remember asking myself that day, I wonder if there will ever come a time when I will realize that this was only about two buildings that were destroyed. In the scheme of larger things, like the Holocaust, this is barely a single heartbeat. But for some people the world ended that day, and I understand why. Something about this service - this yahrzeit - feels like it ended a world for me as well. Or at the very least, it was like another little world that I never want to go back to, ever again.

And that brings into question the whole decision about going to rabbinical school. Because it makes me wonder if this is what it is going to be like - getting smacked down, told off, and made to feel like my Judaism is inauthentic.

But that, fortunately, is another post for another day.