seders

For the past few years it seems like Seders are not real.  They are more of an attempt to step into a memory.  Now I know that that is actually the point of a seder, but come on.   We are not reliving the Exodus here.  We are not really trying to.  No one is.  We should probably just finally get rid of that part.

Instead we are trying to step back into the time when Seders were real.  Before everyone died. The seders that we attended the most frequently in our lives.  We don't do a very good job though of recreating those seders.  We are in different homes with different people around us.  We, who were the kids, have found ourselves to be the people we had no idea we could ever become.  The Parents!  There is one generation above us now, only one.

I used to feel like I had to have at least one blood relative with me at every Seder to make it real.   One person who knew the same tunes that I did.  Last year though I realized that at least for the foreseeable future I will always have two.  Now that they are more people than ideas I am struck by the fact the Eli and Mira are my relatives.  They don't know my tunes but I know theirs.   We are building this whole this up anew.

We are good at creating traditions in our house, but I worry that we are not so good at holding on to old ones.  Mostly this is my fault.  My tendency is to throw everything away. To cast away the nuggets of beauty with the garbage.   And mostly this is okay.  But at a Seder you need a little dirty water to wade in. 

 

Pesach

"Uh oh" I thought when I saw her browsing through the Kosher for Passover section of Albertsons. Marjorie Schneider. One of the nicest parents at Shir Tikvah.

I had run away from that job completely. I tried to take only my books, my friendship with Jennifer, and our babysitter Ilana when I left but you don't always get to choose. Especially in Portland. Especially around Passover if you go to Albertsons. Everyone at Shir Tikvah was nice and tried to be supportive when I decided to leave. It is a congregation of nice people. Marjorie was possibly the nicest.

She gave me a hug when she saw me. "We miss you!" she proclaimed her blond curls bouncing. Marjorie is young and pretty. "We are fine but we still miss you. On the first day of Sunday School we were told that from now on the kids should bring their own snack from home. This is when I knew you were really gone. You nurtured all of us, you were our mom."

"This is why you miss me?" I thought incredulously. "I was their mom?!"
I knew what she was saying though, and this is why I left that job. I couldn't be their collective Jewish mother. They loved the tidbits of Judaism that I fed them on teeny spoons. They gobbled them like the sugar coated goodies that they were. But this is neither the way that I teach nor the way that I feel about Judaism. My Judaism is more maror than charoset. It is the bitter herbs that I crave. It is also, by the way, not the way that I parent. In running away from that job I was running towards a more authentic version of myself.

As I usually do, when I run into someone that I think I don't want to see, I began to relax into the conversation. I remembered how much I truly like Marjorie and inquired about her family. We began to seem like allies trying to maneuver our way through the pre-Passover chaos at Albertsons and through life. In a different setting we would be friends.

Passover does this to me. More so than the High Holidays it seems to me a season for taking stock. Clearing out what you can no longer stomach to make room for freedom. I am surely not meant to be the Director of Congregational Learning at Shir Tikvah. Leaving that job was a modest Exodus for me. The bigger ones have yet to take place. But, slowly, the waters are gathering.

It is so much easier to see what doesn't fit than what does. Leaving for me is not hard. But my sense of direction is so easily muddled. Both in metaphor and in my real life. journeys are the hardest part. I know where I don't want to be but getting to the place that I am going feels next to impossible. Maps don't help. Clear written instructions are better but no one is offering them. Yet now there is a quiet song in my head, a raking away of old leaves that is revealing a small clearing. And maybe this is Passover.

life, interrupted

I have always hated coming home.

How mom must have dreaded those return trips of mine! Most of my school vacations were spent with my dad. He lived, at various times, in Washington DC, Texas, LA, San Francisco, Ohio, Israel, and Chicago. Before each trip mom would help me pack. She would do my laundry several days before and urge me not to wear anything I might need for thr trip on the days leading up to it. She would drive me to the airport, help me get checked in, and leave me with the flight attendant who was in charge of "children traveling alone". She would kiss me goodbye and drive home by herself. I usually had a brand new book to read and a pack of gum. I loved this part of the trip. I could imagine the clothes tucked neatly in my suitcase waiting under the plane. Dad calling the airline and checking to see if my flight would arrive on time. I pictured what he would look like when he picked me up, his scratchy hug, his utter delight to have me back. I let mom drive away without a thought.

I spent most of my time on these trips with Jean. She wold take me with her on her errands and tell me stories about her family. Her mother was psychic and communicated with the dead. The first trip I took after Hadara was born Jean let me hold her right away. I helped change her diaper and stared at her for hours along with Jean. I felt fiercely protective of her. At night Dad would lie down with us on their bed and tickle Hadara and me. We ate pineapple and watched James Bond movies while Hadara slept. Jean and I would take her to gym class and sometimes meet Dad for lunch where we ordered grilled cheese or fish and chips. They never wanted anyone from the synagogue to see us eating hamburgers which is what mom and I always ordered when we out for lunch.

At various times Phil or Beth would live in the same city as dad. They would come over when I was visiting and take me to the movies or the beach. Phil and I tried one day to drive from the beach to the mountains. Beth would always claim at least one of my nights for a sleepover where we eat ice-cream and potato chips and talk about General Hospital or the books we were reading. On Friday nights Jean would make chicken, and brisket, and dessert. The food she cooked tasted spicier and fancier than moms. Mom only ever cooked one main course, although usually I liked hers better although she rarely made dessert. Everyone would drink their own can of soda and after dinner we would watch a movie.

The other thing that happened on these trips is that Dad or Jean would buy me anything that I wanted. New books, both popcorn and soda at the movies, when I was younger stickers galore, and really big life- sized stuffed animals. As I got older they bought me (in the same visit!) my first swatch watch and first pair of guess jeans. Life with Dad and Jean was paradise. They treated me like a princess. They made me feel beautiful, smart, funny, rich and positively adored. And then, no matter what, it would be time to go home.

I would start to dread leaving towards the end of each visit. I would sit in the back of the car and imagine that I could turn the clock back. Turn it back so it was the day that I was arriving rather than leaving. Dad always drove me to the airport by himself. He would try mightily to talk to me. We would talk about mom and how much still he loved her and respected her as a mother. He would tell me his fears and hopes for Phil and Beth. He reminded me that I was smart and talented and could would conquer the world. He tried so hard not to make me cry. When it was time to leave he would kiss me goodbye just like mom had. By then I would be crying for real. He would hand me to the flight attendant in charge and drive home alone just as mom had. His eyes were glassy his chin quivering when he turned away. I'm sure mom cried too. She must have saved her tears though for the car when she was alone.

I cried for most of the flight home. The flight attendants and other passengers would try to cheer me up with gum and chocolate. Eventually I would escape into the new book Jean would buy me on the last day of the visit. When I saw mom at the airport I would start to cry again. She hugged me but could offer me no comfort. She would suggest we go out for dinner, or shopping, but I didn't want those things from her. I wanted my dad. It took me a long time after each trip to stop mourning. I never wanted to go back to school or see any of my friends. I spent a lot of time in bed or on the couch watching tv or reading. Mom tried so hard but there was nothing she could do. After each one of those trips I had to come to grips again with the fact that my parents were divorced. I would never, never have what I most wanted which was both of them. I can't imagine how devastating all of this was for mom. She never showed me. Every ounce of the self that she showed me was her trying to cheer me up. Her concern was what would do it each time. As surely as it would come the depression would lift and mom and I would go back to our lives together.

It is still hard for me to return from vacations. I can't help but obsess about what I lose when I return home. I will never be the kind of person who can say "oh yeah the trip was great but I was ready to come home". I am never ready to come home. Even now. I am thrilled to be back with Jeff and Mira and Eli but a part of me is crying inside for the week in Mexico. The part of me that is still eight, and twelve, and fifteen is deathly afraid that real life can never be as good as vacation. That what we lose when we leave is so much greater that what we have at home. In this case I know with every fiber of my being that this is not the case. I have the best life in the whole world and for this I am truly, eternally grateful. But today is hard.