I’m not a practicing Jew, as in, I don’t belong to a congregation these days nor do I go to a place of worship for holidays, nor do I even observe holidays in any way you could deem the least bit traditional. That is to say, to the extent we bring Judaism into our lives we’ve taken liberties, like Seder brunches. At the last Seder we held—it was supper—we abandoned the Haggadahs entirely and ended up in a discussion about what the holiday was about, what freedom meant to each of us, and what we might learn from the story told and retold.
Our Rosh Hashanah ritual is similarly simple (some might say oversimplified): we gather our closest friends, the ones we treat as family, along with my mother-in-law (the local Grandma, and this year an aunt and her friend, visiting from Maine) for apples and honey. Before we mix crisp sweet with nectar sweet, we go around and offer what we hope for in the New Year, for the world and for ourselves.
Now, while I am not religious, I will say that here in the middle of my life I actively grapple with many themes Judaism addresses. I have good friends much more engaged in Judaism, ones I connect with in real life and in writing life (or both).
One person last year offered the notion (I don’t have a link; this was an actual conversation) that atonement—the theme for this most somber holiday of Yom Kippur—really isn’t about penance; it’s more about a grappling with how to accept responsibility for your actions. Before anyone rushes in here with corrections, this is how I received my friend’s interpretation.
Essentially, rather than seeing atone as somehow negative, she suggested a reframing. For whatever reason, here’s where that idea has led me: I’ve been thinking a lot about how we are constantly working to calibrate ourselves, and our expectations. For example, on the one hand, we parents might want to keep our children little—cuddling or mispronouncing words, later lisping through gapped-tooth filled mouths or taking the idea of a sharing day at school seriously—and yet… we might be glad for middle of the night feedings to end or the car seat’s rotation forward or sturdy legs able to walk up the stairs or into town, or even off to school or a friend’s house all on their own steam. We don’t want just one thing, not really.
I’ve also been thinking about how when we do want something—really want it—that’s when we get most impatient, most disappointed if it’s imperfect—and of course, basically everything is imperfect. All perfection comes in accepting things as they really are. So, I’ve been sitting with this notion that when I most want something, I’m hardest on the process. And certainly, I’m hardest on myself.
Amidst so much transition, so much newness, the cooler air, the New Year—everything being shaken, like the leaves in the increasingly strong breezes—is a call to still ourselves, to reflect. Reflection both goes part and parcel with all that transition and flies in the face of so much busy.
While I reflect—most often as I’m walking from some school or another—I return to this tension of how hard I am on myself and the process when I really want something and how the real learning—and the real satisfaction—will come when I can become more compassionate and patient with myself and whatever process I’m experiencing.
Here’s an example so mundane and stupid I’m almost embarrassed to admit to it: I’m writing this on my bed because it’s loud downstairs. I’m looking at the bureau where the television sits, which has been crammed with junk—barrettes, pencils, a dusty battery, a pack of chewing gum—like, forever. Yesterday, as part of my reclaim-my-house endeavor, I cleared every single thing off (tossing most of it in the trash can). I see a water bottle by the television, one that will likely stay there until it gathers dust unless I move it. My impulse? I want to scream at my dear husband.
The reality? I could just move it. I should not yell. Reclaiming the surfaces is a process I’ve committed to and by example, I hope (really, truly) that the rest of my family follows suit. Earlier this morning when the high school guy left the house early (school starts at 7:30, which pains us all on his and our behalf) of course, but of course, he left a trail of lights blazing (driving the mama who lives with Al Gore on her shoulder nuts). What did I tell myself? These days, almost without my notice, he actually has finally begun to put his dirty clothes in the laundry hamper. He does dishes. He has become much more helpful. Imperfect? Sure. We are all bumping along. We are all supposed to be bumping along.
More importantly, I am reminding myself of the supposed to be bumping along aspect of things that matter still more: the fact that those encouraging signs of laundry in hamper and helping out are about becoming an independent person others will get along with and they outweigh a light or two or a gazillion left on. The process has plenty of frustration along the way. The task is really about seeing those glimmers.
The more glimmers you notice, the happier you are. And the more glimmers you see, the more likely it is that you’ll naturally stick to the tasks at hand, trust the process, go with the flow and find what makes you happy. Those kids—messy like their parents, full of ideas and laughter—they really make me happy. Somewhere in the somberness and upheaval and celebration, this idea recurs: feel grateful. Look at all that’s working, all that feeds you and makes you smile and pushes you to grow. Look at how you much you hold in your arms and your heart. Let it sink in. Let it sink in.
