Like Coming Home

When I can't sleep, I compose. Usually this entails a body too exhausted to move and a brain too active to shut up before getting all of its thoughts, emotions, and plans down in some unwritten vault of my brain, never to be written in any tangible form. I've written papers, book intros, you name it -- my brain has processed it brilliantly. But will you ever see the genius? Nah. I've always been too tired to put pen to paper. However, tonight I thought maybe if I write it all down, my brain will shut down and go to sleep, and maybe, just maybe, my stomach (which is upset from a cleanse-gone-wrong) will be satisfied and the two can agree peacefully to leave me alone.

So, on to the meat and potatoes of the post. After all, that was about all one could eat over Passover, right?

The last two days of Passover, Tuvia and I were in West Hartford staying with our most favorite Israeli transplants who, unfortunately, are re-transplanting to Israel in a few months. These are the amazing people that I stayed with for much of my time in West Hartford, bunking in a guest room and being woken up by the cutest little girl named after a body of water in Israel one can imagine. (That's Kinneret.) The great thing about this family is that they lived about two doors down from the shul, so my knees remained in tact and my soul got a lot of love.

Family, after all, is more than the people whose blood runs through our bodies and whose character traits we have unwillingly adopted.

Going to West Hartford, then, was like coming home. (Roll DirtyDittyMoney's "Coming Home.)

I didn't sleep much the last two days of the chag, for one reason or another. The sugar consumption of Passover was catching up to me, and the heat was obnoxiously keeping my cool-style sleep schedule off balance. So I didn't go to shul the first night, or the next morning, or the evening after that. Everyone knew I was there, because Tuvia was at shul, and the joke was that I was so frum I wasn't going to shul anymore. As. If. I was almost anxious to go to synagogue, the place where I really fell into my Orthodox pattern of life, where I learned to love and judge (yes, you read that right) other Jews and their practices, where I watched Tuvia grow in his Judaism, and where, eventually, I finalized my Orthodox conversion process.

We left that family nearly a year ago. After our May 31, 2010, wedding, we practically disappeared. Friends came to our wedding, and poof -- just like that, we were gone, caught up in the whirlwind of married life, moving, changing jobs and communities, and starting a new life. It's been great, too.

But sometimes, you just miss your friends. The people who know you best. The people who listened to your concerns, your fears, your life story in all of its detail and still chose to love you. Those people, Baruch haShem, I got to spend some time with over the last days of the chag. 


It was an amazing meal with two couples who are on a plan to move back to Israel when life gets easier. It was bonding with a wee lad named Asher (the name I've chosen for a future son of my own), who somehow gravitated toward me, staring at me deeply in the eyes looking at something that I can only imagine he saw in me. It was talking about the haggadah and the command to return to Israel. Then it was meals with our hosts, the casual and friendly way that I love it. The kids moving from couch to table and the littlest one patiently noshing tuna salad without a care in the world, smiling and giggling the whole time. It was being heard by our hosts in discussions about some of the hardest aspects of life and them being devoted to helping us along the way. It was schlepping a long way for a meal at the Brenner Bed & Breakfast (ha, ha) with some visitors from London, and learning about how the neighborhood has changed since we left and, of course, how lives have continued to move forward.

And seeing all of the regular kids in shul, grown up ... towering over each other and moving at the speed of life toward adolescence? It shook me.

The last time we were in West Hartford wasn't that long ago. Maybe six months? But in those six months, new couples have come, marriages have occurred, babies have been born, children have sprouted like well-watered plants, and people have continued living. Without us.

But walking into that synagogue, into the homes of our friends, and sitting down at the tables and chairs of people who know us all-to-well, well, that was more than I could have asked for during the last days of Passover. Being liberated from Egypt is one thing, but being liberated from the fear that the people who once knew you have forgotten who you were or stopped caring about you?

Priceless.

Friends Forever: The Long Road of Memory

Driving down a Nebraska road, circa July 2006.

Six years ago, in the summer of 2004, in an effort to occupy ourselves and keep each other on friendly terms while out of school, I took a roadtrip into the country of Nebraska (okay, so it's mostly country) with my good friends of the time Andrew, John, and Anthony. There was a mix CD involved (think: Bob Dylan), and it was that summer that I roamed around freely with my friends, exploring the city and exploring the state. Those summers, when I was in college for my undergraduate degree, were some of the best years of my life. I'm not that far from them (2002-2006), but I look back on them nostalgically because I had a sort of careless fancy that makes me smile when something reminds me of those days. Pictures of country roads, memories of figure-8 races out at the county fair, and watching some country boys watch some very uncomfortable indie flicks that made them cringe and leave. There was cheap beer, coffee, long drives, silent moments, and complete happiness.

My first two years of college were surrounded by men, as I found myself most comfortable around my male counterparts. Andrew, Anthony, John, Caleb, Jordan, Ryan, Greg. These were the guys who, when I think of college (the early years), I think of. To be honest, I'm only still speaking semi-regularly to two of them (one made it to my wedding and another who couldn't, but I still love him). I check in on the others on Facebook, several of them married and others enjoying bachelorhood for all its worth.

I took a drive today from our place in the Poconos to Hawley, PA, a mere 20 minute or so schlep, in order to track down a little coffee shop called Cocoon Coffee House. I didn't think there'd be an actual "coffee shop" out in the middle of nowhere like this, but amid antique stores and general stores, here I am, at a coffee shop with some darn good iced coffee (purchased, kindly, by a local who felt bad that I'd waited so long for my coffee). The drive was on long, quiet winding roads overgrown with trees and old houses with quirky mailboxes. I often wonder what kind of people live in villages or towns like this, where you have to drive a half-hour for groceries and hours further for a Target (I'm hooked, what can I say).

Those, of course, are the moments I think back to the people who lived in middle-of-nowhere Nebraska, where figure-8 races were the highlight of the year, cheap beer was like champagne, and mentalities are slow, easy, and mostly kind.

Sometimes, as Morgan Freeman quipped in "Shawshank Redemption," I just miss my friends. The people who helped me find myself and who took me on the adventure of a lifetime, even if it was just eating Thanksgiving dinner at the table of a family in small-ville, Nebraska, or walking around an Omaha art gallery, or watching movies over cheap beer. Making mixed drinks in a dorm room, watching "A Clockwork Orange" with a complete stranger who would become a best friend, and watching late-night MTV just for the music videos. Those were moments that many people in my Orthodox Jewish shoes never got to experience, let alone understand. I'm privileged to have come from where I came from.

I just wish those people, those boys who turned into men before my eyes, were still active participants in my life and I in their's. When we're back together -- at least with the two I speak two off and on somewhat regularly -- it's like old times. Like I'm still me and they're still them. And in reality, I think we are. I might have changed my clothes and my religion and my hair style (as in, well, it's under a hat now), but I'm still me. I still enjoy cheap beer and Woody Allen and the simple things in life. My friends, my men, I think they're also the same.

Because people don't really change, we just grow up, grow apart, and remember, nostalgically, those long drives down Nebraska highways.

Note: I could devote about 30 blog posts or more to my female friends. It took me a little while to make good female friends in college, and I think the firsts were probably Beth and Melanie, followed by Heather and Ananda. I miss them all oodles, and I get to see Heather fairly regularly. She's my fashionista, design diva BFF. College was a funny time for me and friends. I lost a lot of my high school friends as I made more college-side friends. Luckily, two of my closest friends from high school -- Christina and Maryl -- are still good friends to this day. In the photo below you'll see Heather on the left side of the photo (with her hubby), then me and my man, followed by Andrew (mentioned above), and Maryl (with her hubby). Seriously though -- all of my close female friends have basically been 10 feet taller than me. What gives!? So, see, friends can be continuity. Maryl was my oldest friend there; we got our friendship rolling circa 1998. Twelve long years later, I was so happy she could come to my wedding!

If it looks like my dress looks weird, it's because the bussel broke and Tuvia is holding it up in the back :)