East vs. West

Rocky Mountain National Park

About three minutes after Tanya and I began our hike from the Deer Ridge Junction Trailhead in Rocky Mountain National Park, my breaths became labored.  My lungs recalled before I did that I had, over the course of two days, shifted about 9,500 feet in altitude.  The result was my requiring three hours to cover an easy five miles, my pace reminiscent of an elderly rehab patient.  Maybe with a walker I could have moved a bit more briskly.

That said, it was a glorious Shabbat:  the weather was beautiful, the scenery lovely.  When we took a rest and snack break, a majestic bird of iridescent blue (I've concluded, after a few minutes of Googling, that it was a Steller's Jay) was gracious enough to hang with us for a while and I fed it some sunflower seeds.  Another highlight from yesterday was sitting with Tanya at a rural, stream-side coffee shop, sipping our drinks in the sun.  

It was nice to be a Westerner again for a day - here in Boulder for CU Parents' weekend.  Not that living in the West means being able to live a life of leisure.  It's more of the outward focus - the value on the physical and the natural.  

My huffing and puffing along Deer Mountain trail served to remind me that this is no longer my element.  I have chosen, at least for now, to cast my lot with the heady and driven inner-focused culture that is the D.C. area.  My struggles for breath on the mountaintops of Western Colorado brought to mind the struggles I am having adapting myself to the mores of a more traditional, more structured, more detail-oriented East-coast Judaism.  Simply asking, "Is it meaningful?" is not sufficient in an environment that is more concerned with, "Is it correct?"  

I suppose my life is in line with all the Jewish world right now - metaphorically homeless and dwelling (or at least eating) in sukkahs:  temporary and fragile backyard huts, open wide to the elements.  We are all wanderers for this week of Sukkot -- all living uneasily between things, all teetering on the edges of established societies.  

We traditionally read on Sukkot from the book of Kohelet:  הֲבֵל הֲבָלִים הַכֹּל הָבֶל
"Breath of breaths, all is breath," is one way to translate.
It could mean that everything, being transient, is meaningless.  I can't and don't accept that particular interpretation.
Breath is transient and unseen and it's also the foundation of all life.  The oxygen we breathe so often goes ignored by us, but does that make it insubstantial?  At 10,000 feet, having been working on acclimating to sea level, I can feel Kohelet's meaning.  "All is breath," is about the unique significance of the transient, the dependence we build (wisely or unwisely) on a particular environment, and about how the totality of life can be seen as the stringing together of small and momentary triumphs, disappointments, adaptations, encounters and revelations. 

Keep on truckin' . . .

The Holy Days are nearly upon us and last year at this season I anticipated myself living an independent life by the start of 5773.  I keep thinking about what the Holy Days mean to me this year and the answer changes daily.  This morning my thought is that my chief prayer should be for strength and patience.  On self-pitying days, Psalm 13 seems very resonant.  On my better days I'm able to be with the exuberant hopefulness of Psalm 118 and rejoice in the holiness of the present moment.  There are definitely successes, joys and blessings within this tough, often depressing, situation.

Below is a piece I submitted to the Washington Post's "Apartment Hunter" column.  The column features individuals looking for rental space writing about their process, their expectations, their frustrations, the way they adapt dream to reality.  The Post wasn't interested but who needs them when I have you, my own massive blog readership?

I submit for your reading pleasure . . . 

If you were to glance at the desktop background on my laptop, you would take in the postcard-scenic view from my former balcony:  autumnally-colored trees, beautifully landscaped community grounds, a shimmering pond, all set off by the Boise foothills. I loved my light and airy townhouse (on the Boise River, 7 minutes from downtown/12 by bike trail, “never-lock-the-door” safe, 1100 square feet, attached 2-car garage).  I tried not to share the monthly rent with locals, as the $930 per month I was paying by the end of my tenure was considered shockingly exorbitant.  I loved the natural beauty and outdoor-orientation of Idaho, my home of 18 years.  I loved raising my daughters in a small, idyllic city, loved the down-to-earth people, loved the general ease of life.  But as it is with the human spirit, visions and dreams of what could be so often breed real-life dissatisfaction.  My days of intensive childrearing were about to reach an end and all this was simply not enough. 

I was a divorced rabbi living in an environment that couldn’t offer me key components of what my soul needed to thrive personally or professionally.  So in March, my baby poised to graduate from Boise High, I pulled my Subaru wagon out of the driveway, my dutiful younger brother following behind in a 17’ U-Haul crammed full of my possessions, and drove 2500 miles to Montgomery County, Maryland to become a statistic.

According to a Post article, “Between 2007 and 2010, the number of adult children who resided in their parents’ households increased by 1.2 million (Most of those, the Census notes, were between 25 and 34.).”  Message to parents: don’t get complacent just because your daughter/son has moved past the young adult demographic.  You still may join the ranks of those like my own mom and dad, their 51-year-old daughter now occupying their spare bedroom.

The particular details of my life may be somewhat unique (okay, very unique) but I believe I represent a larger phenomenon:  mid-life moms who, having sacrificed personal career ambitions for parenting responsibilities, now seek to use our energy and professional education and experience to take on the world.  So here I am, World, rearing to go!  Except that I'm still not even close to full employment.  Or to occupying my own living space.

Although my entire extended family currently resides in Montgomery County, we all started our lives’ journeys in the greater New York area.  So at least I’m not sleeping in the same room where once hung my fuzzy blacklight posters and Playbills for The Forum and Pippin.  Somehow, returning to my childhood home would feel far more depressing.  Although I am (when not in my newly established rotation of local coffee shops) revising resumes and cover letters on the same desk in which I carved my initials during the Carter administration. 

Without an actual income, it might seem silly to be looking for a rental space.  I like to say that it’s for pragmatic reasons: when I am fully employed I won’t have sufficient time to search for an apartment.  But the process cuts far deeper than prudent time management.  Apartment hunting represents my personal leap of faith.  I look, prematurely, for my own space in order to convince myself that the world will indeed come to see me as relevant:  that even after five months of somewhat steady employment rejection, an organization or institution in this youth-oriented society will acknowledge that wisdom gleaned from decades of life experience and a varied work history is valuable.  For me, the hunt for a rental unit is all about hope.  

My dear friends:  a 5773 of hope, fulfillment and peace.

Love,

Laura

It is upon us

You never know what will happen in services.  


That's maybe an odd statement to make when you're only attending Shabbat worship in Conservative synagogues.  It seems to this Reform rabbi like the last time they introduced a new innovation was the wild 'n' crazy move to add a prayer for the state of Israel in 1948 (and -- to be fair -- some do mix it up by adding the foremothers into the Amidah).


But even when surrounded by the comfy security blanket that is a fixed traditional liturgy - and perhaps as a result of it - there are unpredictable moments of spiritual insight.  Such was the case this past Shabbat as I bent my knees to bow eastward for Aleynu.


Aleynu means, "it is upon us" - in this case: "It is upon us to praise the Lord of all."  In that moment of spiritual physicality - bending and bowing toward something beyond me, my needs, my wants - I experienced a sharp twinge of resentment.  I didn't want to bow.  I wanted to stand my ground with firm resolve.


Summer's a bit of a dead zone in the Jewish world.  Clergy are on Sabbatical, synagogue programming grinds to a halt, Jewish institutions take this time to plan Fall programs and ready themselves for the High Holy Days.  I feel like the networking/connection-forging momentum I was building has slowed to a snail's pace.  


I'm nervous about the upcoming year - the part-time pieces of work I've managed to cobble together will not enable me to live independently in this pricey part of the world and I continue to wonder and doubt.  Why?  When?  This isn't moving at a pace I like.  I don't know why I can't have what others have.  I don't understand why I'm not able to use my personal gifts and passions professionally.  Why isn't my life looking the way I want it to?


There was something revelatory in that Aleynu moment.  I don't want to praise - I don't want to accept - I don't want to accede to a greater reality that is the world that is.  But that's what this piece of liturgy is about, isn't it?  


It's not:  "We are thrilled to praise . . . " or "It's so easy for us to praise . . . "  Instead it's:  "It is upon us - it is a necessity - to praise."


These words are a spiritualization of the reality that we can't always get what we want.  I can spend my life mourning the "is" that "isn't."  I can focus on how things aren't measuring up to the ideal world in my imagination.  But instead my tradition makes me bow to something that is beyond my personal control.  My life has aspects that are subject to my influence but never will things go completely according to personal plan.  It is upon me to acknowledge this and to appreciate and praise what is:  to understand that it is good.  This is how life is unfolding.  It is upon me to find a way to live happily and well within the confines of this life only partly of my making.

In lieu of analysis, more pics from the city with a doggy spa and halal cart on every block.  

I saw a great show at the brand spankin' new Claire Tow Theater at Lincoln Center last night:  "Slowgirl."  I loved it.  And Victor Garber was among my fellow audience members -- known to all of us with teenage daughters as Professor Callahan from - what else - Legally Blonde.

Let me also add that Roger Rees and his partner were in front of me on line at a snack shop in the Theater District last weekend.  This is the tiny city where those of celebrity have no choice but to mix with those of my personal ilk.

I think my favorite element of this photo is the woman second from the right:
"Get out of my %*#-in' way," reads the practically visible thought bubble.

Some NY pics

I'm in my final days of a 2-1/2 week Hebrew ulpan program on the Upper West Side of NY and cramming in all the sights/neighborhoods/culture I can stand in the afternoons and evenings after class.  

No time to write, so here's today's photos from the Meatpacking District, the High Line (the newest, bestest NY thing) and Chelsea.

Enjoy!

Unfortunately I was in running shoes today.
All right, so I'm a dolt.

On the High Line:
note how the wooden lounge chairs roll along the former industrial track.

Where Marnie works --
For my fellow Lena Dunham/"Girls" fans

Am I too cool or what?

Behold:  my DC Metro Smartrip card AND my NYC MTA MetroCard
This Idaho girl's urban sophistication knows no bounds.

Signs of assimilation

Signs of my Idaho identity being chipped away:

My very own Metro Smartcard

"Famous Potatoes," where art thou?
At least my bumper stickers still proclaim Gem State ties.