lifestyle

When new is also ancient

It turns out that a war and a worldwide increase in antisemitism may cause more Jewish people to return to Jewish spaces. Some Jewish atheists try out fasting for Yom Kippur. New faces appear at synagogue. Lectures and events that were sparsely attended in the past seem to have more takers. If you’re a regular in a Jewish community, you may have seen this already. There are many reasons, including a need to find community and avoid antisemitism, or to return to religious practice after dealing with so much death. For those who were already attending or even occasionally attending Jewish services or events, things have also changed.

My twins had their b’nai mitzvah in June. I’d long thought of how cool it would be if they could help fill out a minyan more often (a group of 10 needed for communal prayer). However, there have been obstacles. Our congregation’s building was under renovation. The temporary spot, while lovely and hospitable, required a car ride.

This fall, the congregation moved back to its building and we live in easy walking distance. My kids attend public school and didn’t have Sukkot off. Yet, when one kid asked to attend minyan on Hoshanah Rabbah, the last day of Sukkot, I immediately said yes. He would have “an appointment” that morning, according to the attendance sheet, and arrive a little late. We figured, no need to claim a religious holiday (antisemitism concerns, again), but that’s what it was, of course.

Hoshanah Rabbah was a new experience for us, though it’s an ancient ritual. It involves circling the pulpit (a stand-in for the Temple altar) seven times, with lulav and etrog in hand. Marking the end of the fall holidays, it’s a last chance to ask for forgiveness and a better year.

Traditions differ about what is said during this ritual, but our congregation read piyyut, which are traditional poems, a part of Jewish liturgy that often includes acrostics (poems that use the alphabet). Some of the piyyut are very old. I found myself praying that my fruit trees don’t get fungus or that my fields wouldn’t be cursed. It might seem funny to ask for some of these things, but my city backyard has young apple, apricot, plum and cherry trees. I don’t want fungus!

It was especially poignant to pray – in the “Foundation Stone (“Even Shetiyah”) poem – about “the goodness of Lebanon, beautiful place, joy of the world.” This came straight out of the Siddur Ashkenaz (the Ashkenazi prayerbook), with specific quotes from Isaiah, Psalms and Lamentations. Our historic relationship with Lebanon is a rich one. Many of us, Israelis and diaspora Jews, would love to visit Beirut, the “Paris of the Middle East.” Some of us have ancestors who lived there, and we would like to see where they grew up or spent time. This urge isn’t new; our desire to have a good connection to Lebanon as a neighbour is ancient.

Then, we all were handed bundles of willows. We beat these on the lectern with force while saying, “Save your people and bless your heritage, care for them and carry them forever.” It was primal, cathartic, and very messy. There were willow leaves everywhere.

My kid was only a little late to first period art class. I went home in wonder. Later, I joked with one of my professors from graduate school, Jack Sasson, who I respect deeply, about how, for me, this previously unknown Jewish ritual felt stirring and exotic. He suggested that paganism still has something to teach us. The beating of the willows is ancient indeed. It’s a namburbi ritual from Mesopotamia, he said. When I remarked that I could get into this paganism thing, his reply left me laughing. “Ishtar will welcome you.”

I was still reflecting on all this when watching some new friends with young kids dancing on the evening of Simchat Torah. To help everyone through the first yahrzeit of Oct. 7/Simchat Torah, our rabbi dedicated each hakkafah (circuit around the room with the Torahs) to a different group: first responders, those who had died in the past year, the unity of the People of Israel, etc. The next afternoon, the kids came over for snacks and to play. One of the parents asked me why there was so much reference to Israel stuff. I realized that here, too, was a confluence of old customs and new experience.

I explained that some of these prayers, for instance, the prayer for the hostages, weren’t new. The Talmud, codified in 500 CE, discusses the topic of hostages at length. The first instance of the prayer for the redemption of hostages that we use today was documented in the Mahzor Vitry, named for Simhah b. Samuel of Vitry, a French talmudist who died in 1105 CE.

I reminded them that many present at the synagogue were in mourning for people who had died. While celebrating old holidays, we need to acknowledge the current situation. These days, services usually include prayers for the state of Israel and the Israeli army, too. None of these are newly written prayers.

Of course, Sukkot itself, a harvest festival that required Israelites to go to the Temple in Jerusalem – last destroyed in 70 CE – is also all about Israel.

I drew a few conclusions from these social encounters. First, for those who may feel jaded and aware of Jewish yearly events, there’s always something new to learn. For me, it was the primal connection to Mesopotamia, namburbi ritual and, yes, Ishtar, the goddess herself. For those who hadn’t been at synagogue for some time, there were many questions, new encounters and experiences, too. What unites it all is a realization that, while our individual learning curve might be new to us, the rituals, the prayers, and the historic connections to Israel are ancient.

For all of us, in a time when political rhetoric seeks to disconnect diaspora Jews from the land of Israel, Sukkot and Simchat Torah were a powerful – and timely – reminder of our past and our future, together.

Joanne Seiff has written regularly for the Winnipeg Free Press and various Jewish publications. She is the author of three books, including From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. Check her out on Instagram @yrnspinner or at joanneseiff.blogspot.com.

Running in the human race

I am still running in this race. For those of us who are older, it seems to take much of our strength to show up every morning and run the course. It seemed easier when we were younger, full of the energy of youth. We have forgotten what it was like when we were discovering who we were, who we were going to be. Surely, that was a struggle, even if it was a different one than we face today as older people.

There are mysterious things about this race. Who are the winners? What does winning mean? The rewards don’t necessarily go to those who arrive soonest at the finish line. Maybe it is more like a relay race, in a family sense. Lots to think about.

I have a grandson, more than one, in fact. All of them are fully engaged in finding their way in the foot race in which all of us living on this planet are engaged. As are my granddaughters. Seeing the challenges they face, the stories they tell me about what they are doing and what they are planning, bring memories of my own beginnings. I see how competitive the world they are inhabiting is. I see how some of them are so conscious that their every move, every decision they make, everything they do, right or wrong, is recorded, and will affect their future possibilities. These children, in their mid-teens and early 20s, are struggling with perspectives we did not awake to until we were 10 or 15 years older. How about that kind of pressure!

I think of the path I have followed, growing up in Winnipeg, moving away to make my fortune, seeking to put my own personal mark on the journey I was taking. I was so determined that I had to be the only architect of the life I was building. Was I foolish not to be a seeker of advice? I threw myself recklessly into that life, confident that, come what may, I could overcome any obstacle to my desires that might appear in my path.

I never worried about missteps. I never worried about making wrong decisions. My life was a tabula rasa, a blank slate to be shaped as I wished. Of course, my grandchildren probably think that whatever they are doing is right, too. Many of the decisions we make in the days of our beginnings have a dramatic impact on our future.

I am not complaining. I have had a glorious life. I may not have realized all the potentialities – I have not conquered like an Alexander, created language like a Shakespeare, envisaged shapes like a Moore, painted visions like a Picasso. But, like most of us, I have delivered some blessings for my fellow human beings, and I am content.

I have seen the mountains of America, Europe and Africa, and their valleys. The waters of Canada and Brazil have roared before my eyes, and in my ears. I have had a good share of the delightful places and times the world has to offer. And I had the chance to spend some of my life with the woman of my dreams.

On my travels, during the race I have run, I have learned how fortunate we are, and what real misery is. I know what the view from Dublin is like, and have witnessed the views from New York, Washington, London, Paris, Rome, Johannesburg, Cape Town, Hong Kong, Singapore, Sydney, Khartoum, Cairo, Vientiane, Bangkok, Dakar, Ougadougou, Buenos Aires and Rio de Janeiro. These were some of the places I lived in and visited.

Like many of us, I did not make the most of my potentialities as a consequence of my decisions. One day, I heard Neil Young say, in a television interview with Charlie Rose, that our pasts are like an overcoat. When we put the coat on, it tells the world who we are. Or the world chooses to see us as we appear wearing the overcoat of our past.

Sometimes, we wish we could shed our past and take a new direction. I’ll tell you a secret. We don’t need to do that. We can be new people any day we choose. The past we wear like an overcoat, that we have the choice of shedding, can inform the choices we want to make, but it doesn’t have to limit who we are today, and will be tomorrow.

I am not the economist that I was, the manager of people that I was, the public relations speaker and writer that I was, the researcher and marketing consultant that I was, the real estate broker, the financial advisor, the whatever I had to be. Now, in beautiful Vancouver, I write stories and poetry. I have played with clay until the faces jumped out at me. I meddle in the stock market. I try to talk to my kids often. I try to be present for my Bride. We try to make our home a friendly place.

Today, I try to be a better husband, a better friend, a better parent; some things, perhaps, that were lacking quality in my past. I am still running the race. It is sometimes a little tiring, and I have to exercise to build my stamina – but I hope to run it well, right to the end.

Max Roytenberg is a Vancouver-based poet, writer and blogger. His book Hero in My Own Eyes: Tripping a Life Fantastic is available from Amazon and other online booksellers.

The search for a new home

A crane lifts a tunnel boring machine part out of the excavated Arbutus Station. With all the changes the Broadway Subway Project is bringing, the Accidental Balabusta and her husband are looking for a new condo – going from renters to owners. (photo from broadwaysubway.ca)

Growing up in the 1960s and ’70s in the then-Jewish neighbourhood of Oakridge, I was certain my future would include a beautiful house and a large yard. And, of course, a husband. Only part of that dream came to fruition, in 2009, when I got married at age 53. Before Harvey came along, I was a single woman making a decent but not extravagant living, and a house was way out of reach for me. So, I rented apartments. For decades. Welcome to my bad-news, good-news story.

As I got older, the importance of attaching myself to the Jewish community became stronger and, as luck would have it, I ended up renting a place a mere seven-minute walk from a shul. And I stayed put for 37 years. Now, faced with expulsion from our apartment because of the Broadway Subway Project, I am struck not by anger or nostalgia, but by gratitude. And maybe a touch of anxiety about having to move at this stage of my life. At 68 years old, I have never owned anything in my life, except a car.

Having a deep-seated faith, I try, I really try to remember that everything that comes from G-d is good. I try, also, to take the mindset of “I don’t understand why this is happening to me, but I know in my bones that it’s good for me in some way.” This imposes a much-needed positive outlook. One that will propel me forward, rather than keep me stuck in a negative “Why me?” loop.

As renters in this situation, we are entitled to compensation by law. However, it’s cold comfort when confronted with the stark reality of having to find a new home. Politicians talk blithely about “affordable, below-market rental housing,” but, in reality, no such thing exists for those who are retired and on a fixed income. In short, living in Vancouver has become an absurd luxury.

As luck would have it, I am a thrifty kind of gal and, over the decades, I have saved a respectable amount of money. So, along with my husband, we have finally decided to buy a condo – in Vancouver. One of the most expensive cities to live in.

Having spent the past while looking for a condo to purchase, I am bombarded by conflicting emotions:

excitement, fear and trepidation. But mostly gratitude. Waking up at 3 a.m. for a full week while battling insomnia, I got to the point where, instead of trying to think of five foods starting with each letter of the alphabet (a trick to induce boredom and sleep), I started to think of everything I am thankful for. I’m happy to report that the list is very long. This is just a sampling.

I am grateful that I can choose between carpeting and hardwood.

I am grateful that I will finally have in-suite laundry.

I am grateful that I will have a bigger kitchen, where I can bake challah regularly and cook luscious Shabbat meals in a space that is larger than a Smart Car.

I am grateful that I can, within reason, afford a condo in Vancouver.

I am grateful that I have friends who are guiding me through this process.

I am grateful that I have the energy to run around looking at prospective homes.

In short, I am grateful that I have choices. Plenty of choices.

It’s common knowledge that Jewish family values begin at home, and that’s what I’d like to continue nourishing and cultivating. From a real home. My home. For now, I am focusing on having faith and trust that Harvey and I will find a comfortable forever home. I have accepted that we may or may not still be a seven-minute walk from a shul. Thankfully, faith isn’t tied to geography. We can practise our Judaism anywhere.

As for the nuts and bolts, the experience of condo-hunting is an eye-opener for me. Little by little, condo by condo, I’m readjusting my priorities, figuring out what I can and can’t live without. Our realtor, thank goodness, has the patience of a saint and the temperament of a golden retriever.

Pragmatists that we are, we’ve started the search for a new home early, long before we are forced to move out of our rental apartment. But, as I’m learning, our property owner seems loathe to put money into a building that will be torn down within two years. So, we are living with stained hallway carpets, communal washers and dryers that rarely work, and balconies that haven’t been power-washed since before COVID. Am I enjoying this? Not even a scintilla. But still, I practise gratitude.

My constant refrain these days is: “It’s not the Vancouver I grew up in!” There are cranes everywhere on the horizon and there’s no telling what will be torn down next. It’s very unsettling. But at least we are fortunate enough to have options.

My periodic anger (which I am trying valiantly to contain) stems from the fact that I’ve lived and worked in Vancouver nearly my entire life and, while I was single until 15 years ago, I could never afford to buy a home. Thank G-d, my situation has changed, circumstances have opened up choices that never existed before, and the planets have aligned, allowing us to finally buy a home.

Now, we just have to find one that meets my simple needs: in-suite laundry, hardwood floors, a good-sized kitchen and not south-facing. I say “my needs” because we can all agree on the universal truth: “happy wife, happy life.” It’s a buyer’s market at the moment, so yippee for us. This whole roller-coaster journey offers a new chapter in our lives; one filled with hopefulness, possibilities and joy. I look forward with gratitude to a beautiful mezuzah on a new door to bless our new home. All I can say is l’chaim!

Shelley Civkin, aka the Accidental Balabusta, is a happily retired librarian and communications officer. For 17 years, she wrote a weekly book review column for the Richmond Review. She’s currently a freelance writer and volunteer.

Allowing for joyful holidays

My house smells like chicken soup. That is one of the surefire ways to tell that holidays are on the horizon. It’s a cooler summer day. I have two slow cookers “working” to make that all important broth for autumn days to come. Chicken soup is a little thing but it’s one of those small details that I do in advance to make our family holidays special.

I recently read an introduction to a page of Talmud on My Jewish Learning by Dr. Sara Ronis. It examines Bava Batra 60. This page of the Babylonian Talmud resonates with what many of us are wrestling with during this past year of war. To summarize, Rabbi Yehoshua comes upon Jewish people, who, after the destruction of the Second Temple, in 70 CE, chose to become ascetics. They give up eating meat and drinking wine, because these things could no longer be offered in sacrifice at the Temple in Jerusalem. The ascetics suggested that, given the loss of the Temple, life could no longer be as spiritually rich or as physically nourishing.

Rabbi Yehoshua tries to reason with them, asking if they should stop eating bread, since the meal offerings at the Temple have also stopped. The ascetics suggested they could subsist on produce.

Rabbi Yehoshua asked if they would give up eating the seven species of produce offered at the Temple. They said they could eat other produce.

So, Rabbi Yehoshua says, I’m paraphrasing here: “We’ll give up drinking water, since the water libation has ceased.” To that, the ascetics responded with silence – of course. You can’t give up drinking water and stay alive.

Rabbi Yehoshua encourages the people to make space for mourning but to avoid extremes; he suggests that choosing to be an extremist is dangerous. Making space in our life for other things like daily pleasures and regular foods is important. Devoting all our energies to mourning will rob us of life, too.

This story came to mind when I saw the celebratory photos of Noa Argamani, a rescued hostage. She wore a yellow bikini and danced with her father atop others’ shoulders at a party. In addition to having been a hostage, her mother had passed away from brain cancer, only three weeks after Noa’s rescue on June 8. The pure, almost ecstatic joy of the images clashed in a difficult way with the ongoing war, the hostages still in Gaza, and all those suffering in the conflict. Some immediately sought to criticize this behaviour. There are those who said, “if only Jewish women were more modest, the hostages would be returned.” On the other side, some said, “Look at these Israelis celebrating even while Gazans suffer.”

I remember being told at a long ago Simchat Torah celebration that mourners, after a death of a family, shouldn’t dance or sing. Yet, maybe 10 years ago, when my twin preschoolers asked a Moroccan Jewish family in mourning for their mother, to sing with them Mipi El (a Jewish acrostic song, a piyyot, with a traditional Sephardi tune loved by my sons), these older men held up my kids, danced and sang with the Torah. It was a meaningful moment. It was full of emotion. Maybe one can dance with the Torah and celebrate a little – even while mourning. I almost felt their mother, who I never knew, who raised them to be committed and involved Jewish adults, would approve.

Rabbi Yehoshua’s logical argument and suggestion that we hold onto joy even while mourning is important. Making space for all these feelings in our lives is both powerful and hard. Smelling the chicken broth aroma filling my house makes me anticipate the New Year and holidays to come. Also, like many others, I will never be able to celebrate Simchat Torah the same way again. Yet, nothing made me happier than seeing Noa Argamani and her father make the most of every moment they have together. They deserve every happiness.

In this past year, finding ways to be grateful, to anticipate rituals, holidays and joy has felt really heavy at times. Twice in recent weeks, my family has returned home from a fun summer outing to see antisemitic graffiti in our neighbourhood. There is nothing like having to take photographs of a hate crime, call the police to make a report, and send off the photos to B’nai Brith and CIJA as well to turn a sunny family adventure into a downer. I struggle with processing all this and going on with daily life.

So, when someone I follow on Instagram showed off her Instant Pot chicken soup process, I started up my serious chicken broth production. Here’s to getting new batches of chicken soup, that liquid gold, into the freezer, ready to make new positive memories and associations for the fall holidays to come.

We must keep asking “why?”

Our short Canadian summer is full of wonder. We try to spend lots of time outdoors, finding things to marvel at on dog walks and even on errands. While we might not be out in the bush too often, we still can spot foxes, deer, woodpeckers, butterflies and moths, as well as magnificent gardens, in our neighbourhood in Winnipeg’s city core. As toddlers and preschoolers, children go through a “why?” phase. Everything is a question. Parents must come up with meaningful but short answers every time. However, as our tweens transition to teens, I have been pleasantly surprised to discover there are still a lot of “whys” being asked.

On a practical level, sometimes I end up saying “that’s a Google question” because I cannot remember every detail of European history. If our resident biology professor dad isn’t home, we’re trying to figure out flora and fauna on our own. (Hint: there’s an app for everything now.) Most of all, I am thrilled that intellectual curiosity is still a thing. Our household still finds space to wonder about how things work, what things are called and why events evolved in one way or another.

Just the other evening, I admonished our kid about being gracious about gifts. He didn’t know what I meant. We stopped to discuss the phrase “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth” and take apart what it means. This kind of daily learning is an exciting part of life, and especially in summer, when we have hours at a stretch to talk and think about things, as well as seeing natural wonders, going to museums, meeting new people, reading and listening together. Pursuing this kind of informal learning makes a well-rounded education.

I continue to study Daf Yomi, a page of Talmud a day, and right now we’re studying the tractate of Bava Batra, one of the three Bavas (translated as “gates”) that deal in civil law. I find nuggets of wisdom in these tractates, even as some of them seem dry to other students. If you’re wondering, for instance, who pays for a fence, or making the decisions about erecting a fence across a shared courtyard? The beginning of Bava Batra will help you figure out whether this is possible, and how to get along with your neighbour in the process. Each issue is examined with a “why?” lens.

How does one decide where you’re from? If you’ve lived in many places (I have), this is a real question. Do you define home as where you were born? Where you lived the most years? Which kitchen or garden you liked best? This is examined on Bava Batra 11, which suggests that, if you’ve lived in a city for 12 months, you can be considered a resident. However, if you buy a house earlier than that, or even, according to Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel, land that would be suitable for building a house, you’re immediately considered a resident. This bit of ancient law discussion struck me as useful in an age where so many decisions are made based on where one lives: where one votes, gets health care, sends kids to school and other bureaucratic needs. Establishing residency is still often up for discussion.

There is an advantage to maintaining intellectual curiosity and nurturing critical thinking when it comes to negotiating the world. As recently as a year or two ago, I would have been upset to think that one should be getting news from social media or email newsletters. Now, however, I find access to multiple reports about the Israel-Gaza war in English and Hebrew, through Instagram and X (formerly Twitter). I then end up satiating my curiosity by clicking through to read from multiple other news sources, finding out about elections in Europe, antisemitism worldwide, or even locating (and avoiding) possibly violent protests in my own city. Asking “why? why? why?” becomes a daily necessity in trying to decipher both what’s happening and the political angle of those who write the articles, blogs or tweets.

A recent piece covering humanitarian aid distribution in Gaza on the CBC, for instance, used the word “Hamas” only once, when mentioning “Hamas-led militants” on Oct. 7. The word “Israel” could be found on the page 18 times. While 18 is a lucky number, in this case, it sounds like an uncritical reader could lay blame on one side simply through repetition. One might completely lose sight of why Gazans are in this mess in the first place. If, perhaps, Hamas chose to stop firing rockets into Israel? It might be easier to distribute supplies and return to normality. Also, the journalist mentioned Egypt only twice. Egypt also shares a border with Gaza. Egypt could choose to facilitate humanitarian aid. Whose responsibility is this? The article’s slant, and the journalist’s bio, made me suspect a bias. When examining the journalist’s X posts online, I saw only one side of this conflict emphasized. It didn’t reference anything about Oct. 7 or Israel’s experience.

It can be hard right now to maintain an even keel while facing the barrage of information about the Gaza war, Russia’s war on Ukraine, politics in Canada, the United States and Europe, and the famines and violent conflicts elsewhere in the world. Unplugging and getting out to see and do things with family, taking a vacation, exploring wild places, helps us recalibrate. It can also boost our “why?” skills so we can return refreshed, with energy to analyze all the new craziness as it erupts.

I’ve just begun Bava Batra, but one topic hit early on is where and how to donate charity to do the most good. Bava Batra 8b reminds us that money donated towards “saving captives” is a great mitzvah, the biggest commandment/good deed that one can do. Sometimes, an ancient text can remind us to readjust our priorities. Reading critically and asking “why?” are essential to Talmud and rabbinic discourse. It’s also essential for us. We must keep helping our children ask “why?” We ourselves must maintain the wonder that enables us to stay curiously critical thinkers.

Joanne Seiff has written regularly for the Winnipeg Free Press and various Jewish publications. She is the author of three books, including From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. Check her out on Instagram @yrnspinner or at joanneseiff.blogspot.com.

Criticism is hard but vital

A year ago, for an important birthday, we bought a mature lemon tree. This perhaps sounds absurd because we live in Winnipeg, which has extremely cold winter temperatures. However, our home has a heated sunroom and the lemon tree, in its pot, blossomed and bore fruit. When warm weather came, we moved it outside to enjoy the summer. The outdoor location, against a wall, sheltered the tree and two lemons ripened.

My kibbutz year came back as I picked that first lemon. The lemon blossoms perfumed the indoor air as they came and went. Off-the-tree citrus, just like any other fresh produce, tastes so much better than anything bought at a grocery store. While lemons offer a sharp, puckery sour taste, their zest and juice absolutely make food sparkle.

I posted about our “crop” of two lemons on social media. Immediately, I had a friend from Israel commenting on how lemons were her favourite fruit. Two other North Americans asked how we managed to grow them. I sensed their excitement through their onscreen responses.

This experience recalled another scenario, which plays out regularly in Jewish life – that of feedback, or constructive criticism. I was a blunt kid, accused of being not just assertive but aggressive at times. Instead of cloaking things in demure, “ladylike” manners, I said what I thought. I took to heart the idea that everyone can improve and that we should have high expectations. Yes, criticism can be difficult, and it’s sometimes unwarranted, but, without it, we sometimes can’t grow and improve as individuals or communities.

I recently took part in a Jewish business fair for newcomers at our Jewish community centre. Sponsored by Jewish Child and Family Services, it uplifted many who had moved from elsewhere. I loved the opportunity. I smiled and chatted with everyone who came to my writing and editing booth. One community member recognized me and took the time to let me know she was sorry nothing was good enough for me here. Her view of my work, written over many years for both Jewish and non-Jewish publications, was overwhelmingly negative. I responded cheerfully, suggesting that there were many good things about Winnipeg’s Jewish community, but that it was also a good thing to learn about other possibilities from elsewhere, reflect and improve. She sniffed disapprovingly and walked away.

This interaction reflected other times when I’ve been asked for suggestions or advice. The responses often included some version of “That’s not how we do things here” with a sneer, grumble or angry tone. Even when the feedback includes a lot of praise and support, including data or anecdotal evidence from other communities, some people are defensive and aren’t ready to hear it.

In some cases, I’ve heard “since I didn’t land that gig/volunteer position/award, I was just offering sour grapes.” Sour grapes are that metaphor for saucy words we offer when we’ve been rejected and react with impulsive hurt, though sour grapes make good wine. That pucker-up taste, just like with lemons, can do wonders, with time, to improve food and drink.

A wise friend, a Holocaust survivor in her mid-80s, asked for feedback after our family’s lifecycle event at our congregation. Akin to an exit interview, it’s important to have congregants’ thoughts on how the synagogue is doing, what went well and what could be done better. I took the time to respond. I sent the information to the people in responsible positions who should see it. I also wrote a separate gushing, positive note about the livestreaming feed, which is so inclusive for us when we cannot be in the building. I got a response from someone about the livestreaming feed email. I’ve received nothing so far about the constructive criticism.

It’s normal to feel defensive about criticism, especially if it hits hard or close to the bone. Yet, a professional should be able to respond. Feedback helps us grow, whether as a customer service-oriented synagogue or a business. I have struggled with this. Rejection and negative feedback are part of being a writer.

I used to joke that a swift, rude rejection didn’t reflect on my work. Instead, I imagined a grouchy editor who ate a burrito for lunch. He had bad indigestion and took it out on me. Then the rejection wasn’t such a big deal. The guy’s stomach trouble and bad manners became funny, rather than a reflection of my efforts.

In time, I’ve embraced the notion that a rejection, including a frankly critical one, offers positive opportunities. An editor’s simple “No, thank you” can result in a quick sale when I resubmit the piece elsewhere. Helpful feedback means I can improve my skills. Complete silence doesn’t mean anything – it doesn’t indicate that my work is awful or it’s still being considered.

Jewish tradition grows from a long rabbinic tradition of debate, discussion, criticism and reproof. It’s part of who we are. It’s sharp and puckery like that fresh lemon bite or the tannic pucker of sour grapes. It’s not easy to hear. Yet, when offered in good faith, thoughtful analysis only shows how much the respondent cares. Hearing nothing from a congregant, colleague or friend doesn’t mean everything is good. It may mean that they don’t care enough to respond. Or perhaps they say nothing because they can’t stand the rude response, defensiveness or silence that might follow.

It’s important, as part of a community, to offer effusive praise and support for one another whenever we can. It’s also key to our future to reflect, reevaluate and offer ways to improve. We often make a good salad spectacular with a squeeze of tangy lemon. Sometimes, we need to pucker up to improve things, so we may experience the huge flavour that can follow.

Community and relationships

Recently, I came across a LinkedIn post. It suggested that people could evaluate their work by asking if it “made money, saved money or saved time.” One of the responses suggested that nurses, for instance, would not fit into this model. Neither would teachers, therapists or social workers, for that matter. While education or therapy do eventually probably save money and time for society, their worth isn’t measured by these markers. As a writer, my work is also worthless in this evaluation, as it doesn’t earn lots of money or save time. But caring/thinking professions are still meaningful. I did a silent revision to the post. I added: Does your work create meaning? Is your work creating value? Meaning and value aren’t always measured in monetary terms.

I didn’t respond to this piece I read online. I don’t know who posted it originally, but priorities are different than mine. It isn’t a bad thing to save money, make money or save time, but I was left wondering – if these are a person’s top priorities, what will they do with the money or time saved? I wonder where “making meaning” comes into this person’s life.

My household is just recovering from our twins’ b’nai mitzvah. Out-of-town relatives and friends were here for several days before and after. I managed many details and events, multiple meals, a tent, chair and table rental, games and more. The synagogue service my children led was very meaningful, and looking out at the congregation was amazing. I felt so supported by family, friends and community.

For days afterwards, Jewish community members wished us mazal tov and non-Jewish neighbours and friends continued to congratulate us. My twins got gifts from places we didn’t expect. Both kids were truly flummoxed by the love and generosity showered on them.

I won’t lie: I’m exhausted after this lifecycle experience. I was the main organizer for everything other than services. Everything went smoothly, far better than I’d expected, especially given that our synagogue is under renovation.

When guests suggested a future as an event planner, I said no! I couldn’t wait to get back to my freelance writer/editor day job. Perhaps what I have learned is that, while I’m good at organizing and details, I don’t find meaning in doing those things. For me, it’s only the relationships and community that makes meaning.

A snippet of learning I did this week made that clear. I was studying the Babylonian Talmud tractate of Bava Metzia 109 when I read this story:

“Rav Yosef had a certain planter, a contractor whose job was to plant trees. He died and left behind five sons-in-law. Rav Yosef said: Until now I had to deal with only one person; now there are five. Until now, they did not rely on each other to plant the trees and did not cause me a loss, as the responsibility was their father-in-law’s, but, now that they are five, they will rely on each other to plant the trees and cause me a loss. Rav Yosef decided to discontinue the agreement with them. Rav Yosef said to them: If you take the value of your enhancement that you brought to the field and remove yourselves, all is well, but, if not, I will remove you without giving you the value of the enhancement.”

The rabbis then debate if Rav Yosef’s behaviour as a businessman was acceptable. Their conclusion is that canceling the agreement was acceptable, but sending the sons-in-law off his land without compensation wouldn’t be right. When I read Rav Yosef’s choices here, as a person in business, I saw why he made his choices. Rav Yosef had a business relationship with a contractor. When that ended due to death, he didn’t have the same agreement or support from the five sons-in-law, all of whom might have left the job to someone else. He wanted to pay them for what had been done and cut his losses.

I worried about the contractual commitments I’d made for our family event. Would the tent, tables, chairs, catering, servers, games, six-person bike, fancy vegan popsicle cart all arrive as scheduled? In the end, it all worked out. However, if I’d been faced with an issue like Rav Yosef’s – the death of someone I trusted and a time-sensitive need to get something done – I too might have wanted to pay for the work done so far and cut my losses.

Sometimes, we recognize that, without the original helper, chaos might erupt. Our synagogue caterer provided food for 75 people as take-out for us, but had no servers, due to the building closure and renovations. I worried about what to do. Luckily, through Jewish community connections, I found someone who used to work at the synagogue, and three others who worked at a different Jewish congregation. My brother (former manager of a fine-dining restaurant) stepped in to help. My neighbour volunteered her oven as a backup to warm up food, though we did not need it in the end.

This experience helped me realize that, although we moved to Canada in 2009, we had built community over time. People volunteered to support us and connections with businesspeople made the event happen. A “team” of loving people, both from far away and close by, pulled together to make meaning for us as a family.

Long before I had kids, I loved attending Shabbat services that celebrated a new baby, an upcoming wedding, a birthday or bar or bat mitzvah. Now I see that, as part of the extended community, I too created meaningful connections. The congratulations, singing “Simon Tov U’Mazel Tov,” and warm smiles matter. Being a witness and a celebrating participant are valuable.

For some, our twins’ b’nai mitzvah helped people make money. Months of work as the “organizer/Mom/event planner” saved money. If recent world events, or Rav Yosef’s contractor agreement, have taught anything, it’s that our lives could be short – time matters. It matters that we do straightforward, moral business with others. So many things can go wrong. There is absolutely nothing like a few days of love, support and meaningful interactions with people who care about us. We can also always use more love and community support.

So many choices to be made

The late afternoon, right after school or summer camp, is go time for many parents. These are the moments where my twins have every kind of need, from taking off their outside gear and emptying lunch bags to signing permission forms, getting help on projects, and more. It is a period of chaos, usually with a desperate need for snacks as well as dinner preparation, all rolled up. There are days when things are calm, sure, but there are other times when I savour my last moments of quiet at 3:25 because from 3:35 until 6:30 or so, after dinner, I am a whirlwind doing Marathon Mom work.

Our public junior high this year presented us with Mega Options activities for the last few days of school. While the various options were hyped to students in advance, only whispers of this made it home. So, on an average Monday afternoon in June, my kids told me to be sure to open the special Mega email fast, as all the best activities would fill up. At 4:30 on the button, my inbox told me about the many Mega Options I would need to hurry to fill out to meet my twins’ expectations.

There were so many choices: Métis sash-weaving and historic cemetery trips, Inuit printmaking and Indigenous storytelling, Euro-style soccer tournaments, Pickleball, phone photography, kinesiology and nutrition lab field trips to a university, and more. There were bike treks, orienteering, the list went on. The selection was huge. Not every outing had a description or information. Some choices came with big fees. Others were free.

It was a huge rush to decide. We watched some activities fill up even as we tried to sign up – and, with twins, we had to sign up twice. In the end, my more social kid called one of his close friends. On the other end of the phone line, I heard his mom, a teacher I am friendly with, coaching him through. It was a great solace to know I was not alone in sorting through this!

Within moments, both my twins were signed up, with their friend, for one day of board games, outside games, and baking bannock and eating together. The other day was reserved for going to Assiniboine Park, Winnipeg’s version of New York City’s Central Park, and always a fan favourite. I emailed the other mom afterwards. “Sheesh!” she replied. “That was stressful – lol.” It was. She was completely right. The Mega Options format left me strung out and worried. Did we make the right choices? What does “A day at Assiniboine Park” mean? There was no description. What do we parents need to provide? Lunch? Money? Rides?

After the decisions were made and the activities secured, I was relieved. The fun warm weather choices our boys made were free, easy and uncomplicated. Sure, it wasn’t going to be a big learning experience, but the decisions were made. We no longer had to dwell on the choices themselves.

After stepping back, I realized that these late afternoon blitzes are so hard because they can be unpredictable and disorderly. There are multiple tasks thrown at parents at once, when we’re not necessarily at our best energy-wise. Both flexibility and preparedness are necessary. There’s no telling if today I’ll have to be a math whiz, an event planner, or a custodian, cleaning up after a kid is sick in the hallway. (Hey, it happens.)

The skills required to manage the late afternoon rush aren’t just relevant to kids. As adults, and as Jewish people, we are often offered “Mega Options” when it comes to making choices. We don’t have one specific menu item at restaurants, nor do we have a single kind of Jewish ritual, religious life or home observance. We face tons of choices every day. Further, while the pandemic narrowed some options, the post-pandemic world has vastly increased them. When our usual routines are disrupted, we’re forced to evaluate what we’ve done all along. Is streaming a religious service easiest? Are we healthy enough to attend in person? What is the COVID protocol (or non-protocol) these days, even as the virus still circulates? Sometimes, we crave situations where the decisions are just made for us, even as we know it would be better to make up our own minds instead.

This was our world before Oct. 7. Afterwards, the choices became even larger. Now, questions of safety and freedom from harassment also come into play. We choose whether to wear anything identifiably Jewish when out on the street. We question if we’ll feel safe attending this Jewish venue. Is attending this graduation/parade/campus/event going to force us to deal with protesters or hate speech? Then there’s: Are we still safe, wherever we live? Should we be considering a move to someplace safer? Is there somewhere safer?

We could pretend that all these choices are a part of the modern age, but we know from Torah study, the many debates of the Talmud and Jewish history that the act of making choices is an essential part of what it means to be Jewish. From the first, we were shown hard choices and real consequences: from Leviticus 10’s Nadav and Abihu, who chose to sacrifice “strange fire” and were struck down for it (a bad choice, apparently), to Deuteronomy 30:19, which summarizes a long list of choices we can make, concluding, “I have put before you life and death, blessing and curse. Choose life….”

The Mega Options presented to celebrate the end of school is nothing when compared to big decisions in life. One could just shrug it off as no big deal – but life is a series of little choices, one after another, that can affect everything. Survivors of major disasters often explain how they “just missed” the accident because they felt sick, woke up late or forgot to make their lunch. Historically, Jewish refugees described how they left at a moment’s notice, with only a suitcase, or just the clothes on their backs.

We don’t always know which choices are the big ones, or the good ones. Some of the best choices result in happy, long-lasting results, like meeting one’s life partner, discovering a passion or skill, or experiencing an amazing natural event like a meteor shower or the Northern Lights. Here’s to hoping our choices are easy and small ones, and that these options lead to all positive things. Here’s to celebrations, miracles and good deeds this summer – may we all have more “mega” pleasant choices ahead.

Expectations for behaviour

Our neighbourhood has narrow sidewalks lined by hedges. When my dog and I take our daily walks, we step to the side at a driveway or front walk so that another pedestrian can pass. My dog sits patiently, sometimes even when I don’t prompt her. Over the years, through the lives of several dogs, we (the dogs and I) have received compliments because of how well behaved the dogs are. I say thank you. The next question is, “How did you do it? I can’t get my dog to do that!” My response is always the same. We’ve been taking these walks every day for years. We practise! Usually, the passerby shakes their head, as if I am just not letting on my secret – but I have. Consistency is everything in reinforcing behaviour.

In the Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Bava Metzia 60a, the rabbis discuss sales practices. While Rabbi Yehudah disagrees, the rabbis conclude that a shopkeeper is allowed to offer children toasted grains and nuts for free. By doing so, he accustoms the children to see him for their shopping, rather than going to other shopkeepers. Also, the rabbis suggest, it is OK to offer things for sale at a “below market” price, that is, on sale, in order to attract customers. These are, in effect, ancient – and approved – business marketing guidelines that reinforce desired behaviours. In this text, there are also suggestions for what is not acceptable and why.

Festive holiday meals sometimes give us time to think about what’s acceptable in our homes, too. One invites friends and family over, or goes to other homes, and that’s when you can see all sorts of different families, with different guidelines about what’s acceptable. I find myself observing all this with interest. This is one way we learn about other ways of doing things. It’s also a chance to reevaluate how we run our homes. What could we do better? What isn’t acceptable in one home may be fair game in another.

As an adult, I observe all this but my children, just like those attracted by toasted nuts in Bava Metzia, react fast when they see things that are tempting or considered “out of bounds.” For instance, my kids love additional opportunities to eat treats. However, kids also notice when things go awry.

More than once, we’ve had a young holiday guest have a colossal meltdown. We all know that kids can lose it, especially during atypical situations, in others’ houses, later in the evening, etc. However, my kids feel strongly about times when the kid (or family) shows disrespect to us. After all, it’s our house. Having a child fall apart due to exhaustion or overstimulation happens. Having a kid yell at us is different, and my kids are rightfully upset when another child snaps or is rude when I express concern or want to keep them from getting hurt. My family pointed out that I, as a grown-up, am responsible for everybody’s safety in my house – of course, I have to say something when a situation looks dangerous.

Earlier this year, our household was unsettled not only due to an extended outburst, but because no one apologized for it. Some parents apparently think that we, as holiday meal hosts, should tolerate and absorb a tantrum. For days afterwards, I fielded my kids’ comments as I stung with frustration. We spend many hours cleaning, setting the table and making multi-course celebratory meals. We take great care. Why go to all this effort for guests who don’t model basic respect for their kids in another person’s home?

By comparison, another set of family friends stayed over during a holiday. They were having breakfast in our kitchen with my kids when I came into the room. Their teenager had raspberries topping each finger (something I don’t allow my kids to do) but also, hadn’t washed their fruit. I rushed to wash the fruit, while the teenager said she was “immune” to whatever was on it. Her mom immediately jumped in. This mom insisted the teenager thank me for washing the fruit and correcting the possibly unsafe situation.

In this interaction, my kids saw the parent modeling an expected behaviour. They looked relieved. Those daily dog walks, often with kids, offer plenty of time to reflect on what we see. My twins, at the cusp of teenagerhood, now have firm ideas of how boundaries work, what respect and kindness mean, even in difficult situations. They know when parents correct things or when things go off the rails.

Watching the student encampments unfold at universities has been a chance to review those boundaries. When is it OK to protest? Why? It’s important to learn how one’s behaviours affect others and how they have lifelong ramifications. We’re seeing these issues play out in real time.

In our house, we’ve discovered new growth. Reinforcing consistent upright, respectful and kind interactions is annoying sometimes. Saying “careful!” every day because I worry about someone’s safety can be a drag. Yet, just like the dog sitting at the street corner, my household has reinforced certain behaviours. We say thank you when someone works hard to take care of us. We worry about others’ safety. We apologize when things go wrong.

Recognizing how we should behave with others is a crucial part of living in a functional community. Watching the university encampments from afar and their conflicting messages of hate towards the Jewish community and Israel makes me worry about how we will proceed in the future. The media coverage of these protests makes me question what the protesters’ parents modeled. What are these parents thinking now? The chants by some of the students make me wonder if their version of community considers Jews or Israelis eligible for membership.

I’m heartened to see when my hard work pays off as a parent, holiday meal host or dog owner. Yet, I’m worried about what it means when our boundaries or expectations aren’t respected, too. Being yelled at in my own home at a holiday meal wasn’t a good harbinger of the future. Our tradition sets some expectations for behaviour in the marketplace and at home. Even as we interpret these traditions differently, how we consistently model behaviour will determine our children’s and our society’s future. Consistently reminding one another of how to behave as responsible community members may result in a better, safer future for all of us.

Knishes and relationships

My kids came home asking about knishes. Did I know how to make them? Where do we buy them? I thought this was weird. I asked for more information.

Their school resource teacher and International Baccalaureate coordinator, Ms. T, plays an important role in their lives. She does lunch time enrichment clubs, coaches sports, and her responsibilities include supporting kids with disabilities, and the IB program. When I say that I’m not sure how she does it all, one of my kids springs up out of his seat, showing how she crouches in front of a computer in one office, typing madly. Then he dashes across the kitchen to indicate her rush to the next office, to crouch at another desk. She is, simply, everywhere.

This is when I learned that Ms. T said knishes were not, in fact, everywhere. In Winnipeg, people buy these ethnic foods from synagogues who cater, a Jewish deli or bakery. Due to a strange confluence of events, two Winnipeg synagogues are under renovation currently and without their usual catering kitchens. Other sources for knishes apparently hadn’t worked out. As a result, one of our favourite teachers was bereft of knishes.

As a kid in Virginia, I experienced knishes in two ways: one involved a street cart vendor when visiting New York with family members. The other came from a frozen packet from a far away kosher grocery store in Maryland. I’d never made one at home. I’d never considered it. It wasn’t eaten frequently in my house. Winnipeggers eat them more often. Of course, since moving here, I have, too, but I don’t miss them when they aren’t around.

I was thinking about our relationships with knishes, teachers and community recently, when I took a class from My Jewish Learning on the Hadran prayer, taught by Rabbi Elliot Goldberg. What’s that? Funny you should ask. When a person finishes studying a tractate of Talmud, they recite this prayer. I’d never heard of it until I started studying Talmud daily. When we got to the end of the first tractate, I learned that, when one finishes this kind of thing, there is a siyyum, a celebration of one’s completion of study. I’d never heard of a siyyum as a kid at a Reform congregation. When I first attended one as an undergraduate, it seemed like something that I would never be involved in. I remember an awkward party at the Jewish Living Centre with stale cookies, juice and cheers about the gawky guy with glasses who had finished studying … I’m not sure what. In a siyyum, there’s food, there’s a public teaching of something you’ve learned, and the community cheers you on.

With the start of the pandemic, my own siyyum events have been online, usually through My Jewish Learning. There’s no food on Zoom, so that aspect of the celebration is muted, as is the cheering and crowd. Nonetheless, I have grown to love these events. It’s an hour that I pull out of my day at random, whenever it’s held online, and even during remote school or summer break or whatever, it’s “Mom’s siyyum time.” I’m learning with rabbis online via an iPad, even while making peanut butter sandwiches for lunch or hiding from the whole household to concentrate. It’s cerebral. It’s a shared learning community. It’s oddly emotional.

The first time I heard the Hadran prayer read, I cried. I found myself wondering what was wrong with me, but this class spelled out why it feels meaningful. The Hadran is usually said after studying a seder (order) of Mishnah or a tractate of the Babylonian Talmud, but sometimes it is said at a rabbinical school graduation, a Jewish high school graduation. It’s an acknowledgement. It starts with, “We will return to you, Tractate X (whatever tractate you’re studying), and you will return to us; our mind is on you, Tractate X, and your mind is on us; we will not forget you, Tractate X, and you will not forget us – not in this world and not in the next world.” The prayer goes on to talk about the blessing and value of studying Torah, and the hope that our descendants will have the same opportunities. It’s well worth a read. (Look up “Hadran” on sefaria.org.)

The entire text creates emotional ties and intellectual relationships. I’m connected to the mysterious 10 rabbis from long ago and to unknown great-grandchildren in this text. I’m connected to a cycle of learning and a return to sacred study. I’m grateful for the opportunity, and mindful that it takes work to study, even if it’s a holy endeavour. It’s a prayer that acknowledges that readers have relationships with texts, which mimics what I learned in graduate school about some literary theory, too. That long-ago English professor taught that, when we read novels or newspapers, our life experience, reading skills and emotions bring half of the meaning to the words in front of us. We’re in relationship with texts, just like we’re in relationships with our teachers and communities.

We had an afterschool Reach for the Top trivia tournament to attend with Ms. T. I knew what to do. I figured it out in advance. I made potato knishes. As we hopped out of our car, my twins recognized Ms. T’s bright blue Jeep. They rushed towards her, with carry-out containers full of potato knishes.

I joked, saying, “Who makes knishes?! They come from a cart in New York City!” With a sombre smile, she said, “My baba.” Her grandmother used to make her knishes. Oh. I gave a flip response, saying, “OK! I’ll be your baba now.” She put the knishes in the car and we went off to the three-hour tournament. Ms. T rushed out later. That night, she sent me an email of thanks, saying it made a delicious snack when she headed to her next meeting.

We’re in a cycle of relationships in life, with lots of connections. A siyyum is an opportunity for us to celebrate and acknowledge hard work with a closure ritual. The Hadran tells us that “we will return” to a beloved text or, perhaps, to a beloved teacher.

The trivia tournament might not be Talmud. The knishes aren’t always round, or even necessarily knishes, but the connections between text, teachers, generations of learning, eating and love are real and they’re part of making Jewish meaning, too. A siyyum’s ritual of completion is always linked to food and a sense that we’re part of a bigger family and cycle of life. We return to you – whether it’s a knish made with love or a tractate of Talmud.