Packing Away the Losses and Looking Forward

All roads have led us here. 

I've always been a big believer in the "no regrets" philosophy on life. I like to think that everything happens for a reason (cliche), that the big dude upstairs never gives us more than we can handle (Jewish cliche), and that no matter how craptastic everything in life seems, gam zu l'tovah (religious Jewish cliche).

On this point, a friend sent me a video of Oprah talking about how there are no mistakes, that all paths and decisions lead to the same point, a greater destiny in time that we can't always see or envision or understand, but that all of our choices, good and bad, land us at that same destination. I'm not an Oprah-holic, but she has a very good point appropriate for both a new year and my life right now:

"There is a supreme moment of destiny calling on your life. Your job is to feel that, hear that, and know that. And sometimes when you're not listening you get taken off track. ... but it's all leading to the same path. There are no wrong paths. There are none. There is no such thing as failure, really. Failure is just that thing trying to move you in another direction, so you get as much from your losses as you do from your victories. Because the losses are there to wake you up."

The other day the local afternoon radio show was doing a segment where they were asking callers what, if anything, they would hop in a time machine and go back and change. There were all sorts of stories, from people cheating with their best friend's significant others to not taking amazing job opportunities and losing out on millions and millions of dollars. I started racking my brain about the choices I've made in life and trying to decide what I would go back and change.

I thought about the moment I decided to stop working for The Washington Post. A dream job, my friends said. People would have killed for my job at The Washington Post. Should I have stayed? Should I have found a way to make the hours and loneliness work? Where would I be now had I stuck it out? My dream was always to live in New York City and work at The New York Times, and maybe that dream would have become a reality. I had connections, I had the skill.

I thought about the moment I decided to really end things with a long-term boyfriend, a boyfriend with whom I held an epic love story of distance and years and drama. What if I had stuck around in Chicago instead of leaving to go to graduate school, what if I had made a commitment to be there for the one-millionith incarnation of our relationship? I had loved him, I knew him, I'd committed years to us.

Oddly enough, those are the only two moments in my life that popped up as possible "go back and change it" moments. And in that same instance of momentary thoughts I considered my son, my husband, my Judaism, who I am now.

Had either of those moments in my life not occurred precisely as they were meant to, no matter how much heartache, pain, and fleeting regret I have about them, I would not be where I am today. I would  probably not be an Orthodox Jewish mother to a beautiful little dreamboat of a boy or a committed wife to a husband a million miles away doing everything in my power to keep our world afloat.

I've had a lot of losses this year. I could enumerate them month by month for you, but that would be a labor of looking back, not forward.

I want to focus on waking up, not the losses. This year's wake-up call is propelling me into 2015 with a sense of commitment to my marriage and my son, to knowing that my father is in the right place for him, to solidifying a plan to return to the land where I feel so at ease even when I understand nothing I read or hear, and to feeling more alive and trusting in my Judaism.

After five years of doing Jewish (I finalized my Orthodox conversion on January 1, 2010), I think I can handle this.

Here's to 2015, everyone!

Mr. T and Me: A Year Later

The man who changed it all. 

One year ago (on the Jewish calendar, that is), I met Mr. T at the top of Ben Yehuda for our very first date. It was the first night of Chanukah, a Saturday night. I lit my chanukiyah, made sure I looked awesome, and set off to meet a complete stranger with whom I'd only had a few email chats.

We schlepped around Ben Yehuda, Agrippas, and through Nachlaot in the chilly Jerusalem air, the both of us sniffling along the way. We talked about our past marriages, in a no-nonsense "this is what I can put up with, and this is what I need" way. We discussed how we got to where we are, our own unique paths that led us to being "religious" Jews. We talked about our travels, our talents, music, and everything else that came up organically, naturally throughout the night. It was a marathon date, the kind that lasts for hours.

It was incredibly late (or early) when we said our goodbyes. He had to work in a few hours, and I had, well, sleep to tackle.

What happened next was a whirlwind. Roughly 10 days later we worked out a chance for me to meet his son, iBoy. It was my requirement -- no "yes" to a proposal until I meet your son, which didn't stop Mr. T from proposing after our first date, our second date, and every date thereafter. He knew I'd say yes, I knew I'd say yes, but when you're bringing a child from the first marriage into the mix, it's a necessary formality.

Just a few days after our first date, I sent a picture of Mr. T to a friend, saying,

... he's perfectly imperfect and I think he's amazing.

I'd spent my whole life being chased by suitors. I was a tough one to wrangle, always independent and career-driven and destined for big things in New York City. I was pretty sure I was going to be single -- or at least unmarried -- for the rest of my life. Kids were not even a conversation. After getting married the first time around because it was time (I was 27 after all) and having one of the most confusing, depressing, and out-of-body experiences of my life, I was convinced the dream of singledom and a carefree baby-less life was back on, but this time in Denver. When I decided to make aliyah, I was open to the option of marriage, children ... happiness ... again. But I wasn't expecting a magical, miracle pill. 

I wasn't expecting this, I was definitely not expecting Mr. T. One date. Proposal. Ten Days later, engaged. Two months later, married. One month later, pregnant. 

After everything that has happened over the past month -- the ups, the downs, the twists and turns -- I can't say I would have wanted any other way. The financial and emotional challenges we've faced since meeting and getting married have, if anything, helped us figure out who we are as a couple, as a zivug. If my zivug sheni was granted from my merits, then boy oh boy I must have done something amazing so far to deserve such a life as this. 

I can't believe it's been a year since we first met. Looking back at everything that has happened baffles me, amazes me, makes me smile. No matter how bad things have gotten, the battle has always been worth fighting with Mr. T. And it all started with the longest date ever surrounded by the lights of the chanukiyah. 

Next up? Mr. T + C = Little Z

A Day in the Life

Maybe some of you are curious what a normal day in my life looks like, and maybe some of you couldn't care less, but today was particularly stressful, and I can't seem to figure out why. Let us look back.

Alarm goes off at 6:30 a.m., Tuvia gets up.
Alarm goes off at 9 a.m., I hit snooze -- or so I think, and start to nod back off, feeling hazy.
Alarm goes off at 9:05 a.m., I angrily turn it off and set it for 10 a.m.
I doze back off (shockingly).
Alarm goes off at 10 a.m. I turn it off.
Lawnmowers start running outside my window. I groan.
I check my email, hoping for an email from a friend who was flying in who I wanted to meet for coffee -- nothing.
I doze back off, cellphone in hand.
Finally, around 11:30 I throw the covers off, flip my legs around, sit up, say Modah Ani, groan. Head toward the bathroom.
I shower, get dressed, make a smoothie, pack a sad excuse for a lunch/dinner in my Laptop Lunchbox, grab my bags, head for the door.
Commute into Secaucus where I grab the #320 into the city, arriving at Port Authority a lot quicker than I'd anticipated.
Walk from Port Authority over to 39th and Broadway to the Coffee Bean because I have a few hours to kill before a 2:45 appointment near Union Square.
Wait in a long line to get an iced coffee after which I hear "Chavi!" being called out.
Sit down for some chillaxing time with some e-friends.
Hop the Q Train to Union Square and walk over to my therapy appointment (yes, I said therapy; yes, I'm nuts and need help)
Spend an hour crying, questioning, talking out loud to myself, having mini-lightbulbs go off and then shattering just as quickly as they arise)
Walk toward campus, only to realize I left my ID in the car.
Walk to the campus security office for a temporary ID to get into one building.
Walk over to the library, get a temporary ID to access the library for the day.
Go to the computer to print out some papers to read, only to realize while standing in line to print the papers that I don't have my ID and thus can't pay for the copies.
Spend 80 cents of my only $5 to buy a temporary copy card and print only half the documents I need.
Go to Starbucks, wait in line, and pick up a Starbucks Double-shot.
While waiting in line I hear, "You know, he looks like you -- really Jewy, you know?" making me giggle.
Grab my coffee and head over to 246 Greene for 4:55 class, and I finally eat something, which makes me feel sick. Oh, and I realize I'm dehydrated.
Sit in class until 6:35, debate the logistics of going to visit Hadassah in the hospital.
Go to Bobst Library and pick up an English translation of Midrash Rabbah.
Head toward Port Authority.
Arrive at Port Authority to discover lines all the way back to the entrance of Port Authority.
Sweat like nobody's business, hear people say "I can't use my phone! Only emergency calls! What's happening!?" sending a scary vibe over the crowd.
Finally get moving and arrive back at Secaucus around 7:45 p.m.
Excited that my day is over, I -- emotionally exhausted -- begin to drive. Over an orange parking cone.
I back up, go forward, back up, go forward, back up ... and the cone is lodged underneath my car.
I pull over to the office, where -- lucky me! -- there happens to be two police officers dealing with a drunk guy.
I walk over to the cops, "Um, there's a cone stuck under my car ..."
The cop -- Alex was his name -- proceeds to spend 10 minutes dislodging the cone from the underside of my car.
I drive away, feeling stupid, hit up Whole Foods so I can actually eat this week, arrive home, and ... end the day.

Except not. I have a ton of reading to do, a restless hamster, and ... that's that. Poor Alex, though. Seriously. People like me probably drive him to drink.

I think my day felt more stressful than it actually was. The question is: Why?

Where Were You on 9/11?

Everyone's doing it -- the obligatory "Where Were You on 9/11?" blog post. What were you thinking, feeling, eating, saying. Were you asleep? Standing up? Waiting in line at the grocery store? Maybe you were taking your kids to school or in the hospital mourning a passing relative. Were you burying someone? Were you giving birth? What were you doing? Who were you? Ten years have passed, and the defining moment of my generation is September 11, 2001. The moments when we found out are clear, and the rest of the day is a blur.

Essex County (NJ) 9/11 Memorial (My Photo)

I was in Citizenship Issues course -- the bane of all of our existences, it was a required course for all seniors to discuss and learn about our country and its branches of government, policies, and procedures. I can't remember how we found out, but the school immediately shut down academic operations and turned on emotional operations. TVs and radios were on in every classroom. We stopped learning and started watching, breathing, doing whatever was necessary to swallow reality without spitting it back up.

Then I went on to Calculus, where I grabbed the hand of my then-boyfriend Kevin and just stared at the TV screen, watching everything unfold. Kevin and I broke up less than a month later, shortly before my 18th birthday. I entered adulthood with images of falling bodies and ash.

In choir class, all we could say was, "We were just there." And we had been. My junior year, Concert Choir took a big trip to New York. It was my first time out of the midwest, my first time to a city bigger than Kansas City or Tulsa. We soaked everything up -- the food, the music, Broadway, the buildings. The buildings. In our pictures, there they are! Just months before, the Twin Towers, standing tall behind us. Did we know what they were? Did we care? Or did we just miss them when they were gone, a hole in the skyline, a gap in time.

The rest of the day was a blur. I don't remember classes or going home or what our parents must have tried to say to us to calm us down. My little brother was just a kid, I was almost an adult. We were so far away from it in Nebraska, but what most of this country doesn't know is that Middle America is called the Heartland for a reason -- we feel everything that happens in this country, and we feel it harder and louder. When any part of the U.S. bleeds, Middle America dies a little more.

The past 10 years have seen much in my life change.

• I have two degrees and am working on two more.
• I have lived in Nebraska, Colorado, Washington (D.C.), Illinois, Connecticut, and New Jersey.
• I have dated countless folk, become engaged, and married. 
• I have visited Israel four times.
• I have learned a new language (Hebrew).
• I have converted, twice, within Judaism.
• I have legally changed my name from Amanda Jo Edwards to Chaviva Jo Galatz.
• I have watched friends come and go and come and go.
• I have become the proud aunt of four boys.
• I have grown up.

Ten years has flown by. Just like August -- zip, and it's gone. Will we continue to remember? It's embedded in my early adulthood, it colored my senior year of high school in more ways than one. I won't forget, will you?

From the Just Call Me Chaviva archives on 9/11:

• Mentions of 9/11 (of which there are quite a few, actually)
• 2006: On this day in History
• 2003 (from my retired LiveJournal): "Two years ago right now, I was done with lunch and sitting in CI, if I remember correctly. Or maybe I was in Science. I was at school. And regardless of where I was, every TV was on in Northeast High School with the station tuned in to the news showing the planes crashing, and crashing, and it was like a tape on repeat. And that, is where I was. Now, it's raining. I don't have a television to watch what's going on. I can't see what the news has to say in rememberance. I just know it's sunny in New York City, and it's cloudy here. And I don't mind. Give them all the sunshine they need. I had mine."

Who Am I?: Part II

Up until 1992, things were moving along smoothly in my life. It was my mom, dad, my older brother John, and me. We lived in Joplin, Missouri, and for all intents and purposes life was good.

So. So. So. Cute.

And then, mom got preggo with my little brother Joseph, and he entered the world on March 18, 1992. His arrival necessitated a lot of things, like a new minivan (that would proceed to catch fire about three times over the next ten years) and a huge choice: little brother or the dog. My older brother and I had lived our entire lives with a dog, Precious, but once the little brother was coming, my parents insisted that the dog needed to go. Precious had only snipped at one person, and that was my grandmother, and she was probably asking for it, but the dog went and the little brother arrived. John and I came home from school to find a neighbor from across the street (who doubled as a babysitter) at our place waiting for us. She whisked us off to the hospital where we met the little bundle of joy, who was named after the same grandfather from which my middle name comes. I was immediately in love with the kid, probably a result of that little girls like babies mentality. My older brother wasn't as stoked and attempted fratricide. I'm only half kidding, really. When I was a kid and we lived in Iowa, my brother shoved me down some steps in one of those rolling, bouncy things that are no longer made, and when Joe came along, John just happened to let him roll off the bed while we were watching him. From the beginning, I took on a very protective role with my little brother. Being 9 years old when he was born, I felt a duty to be a big sister like the other big sisters I knew around me who had siblings closer in age -- but better.

I have more pictures of Joe than anyone in my family in all of my old albums. Remember: I started taking photos when I was in kindergarten, thanks to parents who understood that I was uber into photography. I have pictures of Joe on his favorite little red stool, laying on my day bed, playing video games, sitting in his car seat, and just posing in general. I was in love with this kid. He changed my life, my purpose, my everything. But he also was really annoying. I mean, he destroyed my Barbie Dream House on a daily basis while I was at school and he was constantly in my room for no reason. I loved him, but he was the typical annoying younger sibling for whom I felt more than responsible.

We are geeks. Like my mushroom 'do? | Fifth Grade

When I was in elementary school, I ran around with a very specific group of friends, so specific, in fact, that the teachers and even the principal of Stapleton Elementary School in Joplin had a name for us: The Magnificent Seven. There was Jessica, Jennifer, Allison, Kendall, Annie, Chelsea, and me. We were peas in a pod and we did everything together. We bought BFF necklaces, we had sleep overs, we swooned over the same boys in class, and by fifth grade our friendship was so solidified that we managed to start our own little newspaper/zine that we sold. The zine had lists of all the hot boys and profiles about each of us, and with the money we made we ... embarassingly ... purchased a plaque and balloons as a fifth-grade graduation gift for our teacher, Mr. Eaves. We were ridiculous, it's true, but we were besties, for life. We had plans, big plans, to be friends forever. We were in charge of the fifth-grade class aviary, for pete's sake!

During fourth and fifth grade, I left Stapleton to go to one of the other elementary schools for what was called the Enrichment Program. In fourth grade, it was a relief because Mr. Smith, our teacher, was a little loopy, what with making us watch Little House on the Prairie and having "parties" so frequently that I got sick of eating cheese and crackers. (Pretty sure he was later arrested for indecent acts with a child.) At Enrichment, we learned how to program computers, dissect a frog, and do gigantic projects that culminated in an end-of-year project presentation at Joplin High School (z"l). Fourth grade was wombats, and fifth grade was origami. I was such a nerd. But from what I remember about elementary school, it wasn't incredibly challenging. I was in a special reading group in the early grades because my advancement left me bored in class and, well, I was loquacious, as one teacher noted. I needed constant stimulation. Thinking back, I probably would have been given ritalin or something had they not known what to do with me.

Sixth Grade | That shirt? It's from the Sears
womens' section. Beginning of the end for me.

But then middle school arrived. Sixth grade. A bigger school, more people, and some of my friends were going off to different schools, private schools. But Joplin wasn't big. I remember it being about 80,000 when we lived there, so I wasn't worried about losing friends. Thus, in 1995, I started at South Middle School, not knowing what my parents were cooking up for the family at that point. I was still in the Enrichment Program, but this time around it wasn't so much challenging as it was entertaining. We visited a Taxidermy Shop and went to this small donut hut for Coke in glass bottles (what a novelty!). The rest of school was frustrating and kind of a bore. My friends were making new friends and I was dressing in all black. The only class I really enjoyed was art class, and my mom still has some of my works up on the wall at home. Sixth grade was hard for me for many reasons, most of which I can't pinpoint today. I remember being more overweight than I had been in the past -- or, at least, for the firs time it bothered me. I was taller than all the other kids my age (for the first and only time in my life), too. And then?

My parents told us we were moving to Nebraska. Nebraska? What is in Nebraska? My friends aren't there, our house isn't there, our town isn't there. What about Benito's (my favorite Mexican restaurant of all time)? Dad got a promotion, they told us, and he would be a regional auditor based in Lincoln, Nebraska, and we were moving on August 1, 1996. In the midst of middle school, in the midst of an image crisis that left me eating nothing but a Kool-Aid burst at lunch for an entire year, I was angry, but naive. I imagined my friends would come visit and that I'd visit them and everything would stay the same. That was partially true, but only for a few years. Of all of The Mag Seven, only one friend has kept in touch with me regularly over the years, and that's Jessica -- but not in the way we once were friends. Only 350 miles away, a six-hour drive, one would think that things wouldn't change that much, but they did.

Chloe's on the left, Joe on the right. 

As an aside, I have to mention the role of baseball in my childhood, because it's summertime and, well, summertime in my world in Joplin meant one thing: pickles. Okay, that sounds weird, I know, but let me explain. My father coached and played on his job's softball team, and my older brother started playing ball back when he was Tee-Ball aged. Every summer, we were at the field pretty much every single day, with either John or dad playing. I was lucky that Jessica's dad was a big baseball buff and so she also was always out there with us. As kids, we used to wander around during the game picking up trash and when the bag was full, we'd race back to the concession stand for a free treat. Sometimes it was a Chick-o-Stick, but usually, it was a gigantic pickle. Other kids got ring pops or the dip sticks that go into powdered sugar, but I stood by my two options. When Joe was born, he came to the field in a stroller and as he got to walking, he would run around the park, too. Oddly enough, one of the other kids his age was born the day after or before him (I forget) and her name was Chloe. Back in those days, we thought Joe and Chloe were going to grow up and get married, what with their summer baseball romance and all. After we moved to Nebraska, Joe and Chloe would send each other little letters (of course, our moms were the ones doing it), but that, too, stopped. But that was life for me in Joplin: Baseball, baseball, and more baseball.

In Nebraska that all would change. Football was the word of the day and my brother hopped on that bandwagon early. My friends would change, my ambitions would change, everything would change when we moved to Nebraska. I was a different person the moment we settled into our house in Lincoln and I started school in Fall 1996 at Goodrich Middle School.

But that's for another installment ... stay tuned for the move to Nebraska, in which I stop wearing black, get into Nirvana and the Spice Girls, fall in love with JTT, start over again with friends in high school and ... oh wait. I haven't even mentioned my religious upbringing in these posts. But that's okay, y'all can find that in other posts. 

Who Am I?: Part I

Some days I really realize how lucky I am. And then I wonder how I got here.

Driving down Route 6 from our place in the Poconos between Lord's Valley to Hawley, PA where one of my favorite coffee shops is, the road is mine. They're starting to build up in spots, with large houses with vinyl siding marking the landscape as changing. Wooded properties are for sale as commercial lots, and I wonder what everything will look like in 10 years. Right now, however, it's me and the road, my arm out the window moving up and down with the current -- just like when I was a kid. Except this time, I'm driving.

I was born Amanda Jo Edwards on September 30, 1983, at the Independence Sanitarium in Independence, Missouri. My mom probably didn't know it at the time, but that was Rosh HaShanah. She says it was a sunny day and that they hit every pot-hole on the way to the hospital. I was a normal-sized baby weighing a normal-sized amount. Without much fanfare, I entered the world. My middle name is meant to honor my dad's dad, Joseph Edwards, who died when my dad was a kid. The origin of Amanda is highly disputed (ha ha) -- one story says it came from a Reader's Digest story called "Amanda Miranda" while another says it was the name of a family friend with whom my parents bowled. At any rate, until I was about four, we lived in Overland Park (KS), then Cedar Rapids and then Des Moines, Iowa.

March 1987 | Des Moines, Iowa

My mom stayed home with us kids while dad worked for Wal-Mart in the early years and then took up a job working for the now-defunct building materials company Payless Cashways.  My earliest memories are from when we were living for two years in Des Moines in a blue four-plex with a giant field next to it where we ran around and flew kites. I also remember there being a big K-Mart way, way behind our four-plex near one of the main drags in town. My mom says that we once watched hot air balloons land in that field, too. I remember the snow there being so high sometimes that we could tunnel through it, and all of those times I've lied about never making a snowman were put down with this picture. The kid in the middle is named Steven, but I have no idea who he is. The kid in the red snowsuit is my older brother, John. I remember getting chicken pox while we were living in Iowa, and I have a distinct memory of a trip to Baskin Robbins that left me in the car -- ill with the pox -- while the family enjoyed some dessert inside.

I was a cute 7-year-old, right? My first day of first
grade. I'm pretty sure my mom made this dress,
and that barrett? Yeah, it's made out of balloons.

I think it was in 1987 that we moved to Joplin, Missouri, which is in the far, far south of the state. Most people know about Joplin now because of the tornadoes that ripped the town to shreds recently. What I remember about Joplin mostly revolves around my friends, my school, my seven years in ballet (that began while I was in Iowa), my art lessons, and monthly visits to Branson, Missouri, where my grandparents and aunt and uncle lived. We'd visit Silver Dollar City -- an old-time theme park with glass blowing and candle-making and cookie decorating -- regularly and my mom has the tin-type photos to prove we were there regularly. Most of my scent memories come from this period of time, especially smells of winter like burning wood and cider and fresh-baked pie. Those are the kinds of scents that launch me back to being a child.

We used to visit my dad regularly at his store on Rangeline Road in Joplin, which was near the Wal-Mart and not too far away from the Sonic we visited with shocking regularity. My dad had a normal-sized office with a fish tank in the corner, so we had to go there often to clean the tank. Us kids would play around with the stuff on my dad's desk and schmooze with the office staff. My favorite trips to dad's work were during Halloween and inventory. The latter because it was a late-night chance to hang out with his store crew, and the former because each of the departments would come up with creative ways to decorate pumpkins for an end-cap display. Plumbing was always the most creative, but they also had the easiest supplies to work with. My mom's albums at home are filled with those pumpkin pictures year after year. I also liked the familiarity that the employees had with me -- they knew I was Bob's daughter, and as such I had a sense of freedom and entitlement when I walked through the sliding doors. I was someone, and I was going somewhere!

We lived in a red, brick duplex at 1921 East 33rd Street -- an address I can't forget. Before we moved into the house, we went to visit and check the place out; that I remember. I recall my older brother and I playing Mousetrap with the tenant's daughter in the basement. We had a single tree outside in our front lawn that we'd decorate with hanging plastic Easter eggs in the spring and a yellow ribbon during the Gulf War. Below my window in the front of the house -- the big room -- was a line of those gigantic bushes that manage to live year-round. I got the big room in the front of the house out of pure luck, I think. The room had my gigantic multi-level Barbie Dream House, my white daybed, a walk-in closet that I remember being larger than life, and a three-tiered white shelf that matched my bed upon which rested a gum ball machine fish tank. By chance, my room also had a TV with the Nintendo hooked up to it, so the room was never truly mine. In fact, I have happened upon numerous photos of my mom or brother laying on the floor in my bedroom playing video games. Imagine!My parents' room was in the basement and my older brother's room was across the hall from mine next to the bathroom. We had a nice-sized dining room, a beautiful living room with a fireplace that had these huge wood shelves flanking it, and a kitchen that I also remember being huge, with a big, beautiful island and a skylight. In the back yard, mom sometimes grew vegetables in a corner garden that was blocked off by gigantic two-by-fours. Our neighbor, on the other side of the duplex, also was our landlord, and the houses that surrounded us I remember being much larger than ours. Our duplex seemed to be part of a different edition onto the neighborhood. When we were kids we always collected for the MDA Telethon, and I remember going to all of the gigantic houses in the neighborhood that were larger-than-life to ask for pennies and dimes for a cause I didn't really understand. But our duplex suited us fine, even after the horrible storm full of "wall winds" that destroyed our basketball hoop attached to the garage and sent us running to the basement.

My older brother, John, in front of our garage with the Taurus.

I was a normal kid doing normal things. Ballet. Art. No sports, no camp. We took trips to Tulsa to the zoo and Celebration Station and to Springfield. Sometimes we drove up to Kansas City to visit family there. We never took any big vacations to anywhere interesting. In fact, we didn't really depart from the environs of Kansas, Oklahoma, Arkansas, and Missouri. But as a kid, I didn't know there was anything outside of that world. I had my friends, my family, and a dog named Precious.

Stay tuned for Part II ... in which my little brother is born, we get rid of our dog, move to Lincoln, Nebraska, and I am hit with the reality that my friends aren't still my friends. 

A Light: My Tisha B'av Timeline

Photo taken and graphic made July 26, 2004.

Once upon a time, in 2004, I properly observed the no-food, no-drink fast of Tisha B'av that starts Monday night for the first time. The fast, in a nutshell, commemorates a variety of tragedies that have befallen the Jewish people, most notably the destruction of the Second Temple in Jerusalem in 70 C.E.

So what did I have to say on July 26, 2004?

Tonight begins Tisha B'av. If you don't know what that is, feel free to click here: Learn about Tisha B'av! It's a day of fasting, low-key activities, and reflecting on the destruction of the Second Temple. It's the first holy day of the yearlong cycle for me. I'm kind of excited to participate in my first fast of my path to Judaism. It sounds ridiculous, but I feel a part of something.

I'll admit that I did edit that a bit -- but only for the sake of capitalization and compound modifiers. Later, on July 27, 2004, around 6:30 p.m. I wrote this:

Ok, so fasting is hard. Especially when you promise to meet someone at THE COFFEE HOUSE and then remember you can't drink/eat in respect of the day. So I slept in as late as possible in order to not have to be awake and then went to the coffee house around 3 p.m. and there was Gregory. We sat for about 2-1/2 hours doing our respective tasks and talking in between about the holy grail, Christianity, Atlantis, people, Oasis, music, and everything else you can imagine. I absolutely love my time with Greg because he makes me laugh, a lot. Which I shouldn't have been doing on a day such as today, but I couldn't help but laugh. And now, now I'm here at the DN doing my normal thing. I'm starving though. For pancakes. Chicken tacos. Anything. Everything. Aghhh! Especially coffee. 

I found this quote from MARK TWAIN, which appeared in HARPER'S in SEPTEMBER 1899: "All things are mortal but the Jew; all other forces pass, but he remains." 

It made me brilliantly happy, it did. It makes sense, as well. It seems that although numbers of Jews have decreased, the continuity of the people is what stands and stands tall, might I add.

Ahh. I need to occupy myself for the next several hours. Agh. The sunset is scheduled for 8:47 p.m. folks. It will be a long two hours. Help? Maybe I'll go use my free ticket to see Cat Woman?

Did I go see Cat Woman? No way to tell. But I clearly wasn't doing anything remotely related to Tisha B'av other than fast. (Later that night, while watching the Democratic National Convention, I predicted that Barack Obama would someday be president -- albeit the prediction was for 2016.)

Tisha B'av in 2005 is a void -- I have no record, and I can't recall what I did or didn't do. Did I fast? Did I even get what fasting involved? I was in Denver, CO, interning at The Denver Post, so chances are I was busy sleeping and then working, and chances are I broke my fast by going to Subway for the Teriyaki Chicken sandwich. But that's just a prediction. Who knows what really happened. 

Then, in 2006, I wrote about my experience fasting on Tisha B'av and my frustration with one Jews approach to Tisha B'av for Secular Jews. I think I was the most reflective then. I was frustrated with the idea that Secular Jews don't need Tisha B'av because there's no need for a Temple, so why mourn something that was destroyed when it doesn't impact us today? Of course, at that time, I was a Reform Jew. And it still bothered me. Now, as an Orthodox Jew, it still bothers me. Back then, I wrote the following about the fast and day of observance:

It isn't just about religion, it's about the people and the history and the furthering of the existence of Jewishness.

I suggested that if everyone in the world spent a single day fasting and reflecting on destruction, drought, disease, war, famine, oppression, abuse, and inequality, perhaps we'd all be startled into action. But maybe it's a naive hope. After all, as I said then and I say now, What do I know? I'm just a Jew from Nebraska who grew up in the Ozarks.

In 2007 I wrote about my frustration with the sentiment that on this day we "mourn for a life we no longer want." I was wondering -- and still am -- whether if/when the Temple is rebuilt (G-d willing), will we still observe sacrifices in the same way? Or will the messiah come with some ethically evolved plan for sacrifice that is inline with how we observe things today. Finally, in 2008 (and last year) I wrote about how I felt distant from Tisha B'av, as if I were just going through the motions.

Will I sleep all day and wake up to check blog posts and see everyone else's meaningful and positive declarations of Tisha B'av observance on Tuesday? I don't know. What I do know is that I plan to read -- and read a lot -- on Sunday night and Monday in hopes of properly preparing myself for Tisha B'av. 

And, as the saddest day on the Jewish calendar, I think it's only proper to consider what it means to bring light into the world. To mourn a loss of light in our time, but to imagine a restored light. I suppose by emptying ourselves, literally, of food and drink, we have a chance to fill that place inside with light -- a light that can move outward through a fight for justice and peace. 

I hope that everyone who observes the fast to finds a unique meaning in it, and for those who don't observe the fast to still consider what it means to fill the darkness of the world with light. 

The Timeline Shifts: When Did I Know?

At the beginning of 2011, I started analyzing my journey to Judaism in this post, trying to figure out exactly when I knew. People ask me that all the time: How did you know? When did you know? As if you can pinpoint a moment in time when it suddenly arrived: My neshama is Jewish!

Alas, it isn't that easy. It's steady, gradual, and after years, it becomes a haze of memory. I always feel like it was Spring semester of 2003 that I began my foray into Judaism, with an Intro to Judaism course, but clearly it came before that. How do I know? I just found this in a journal from 2003:

Weird, right? Super weird. January 2, 2003, I knew something. Clearly, the talk I remember having with my friend that made me go out and buy Anita Diamant's "Choosing a Jewish Life" must have happened in Fall semester 2002.

Can you pinpoint the moment you knew?

A Yiddishe Kupf -- A Jewish Head

In the eternal struggle, at the age of 27, to know who I am, who I was, how I got here, and -- I hope -- where I'm going, I've been digging through an old LiveJournal, old poems, things that smatter my hard drive from years gone by, things I'd probably attempted to forget for one reason or another.

This is something I wrote on April 25, 2006, as part of a final paper for my Jewish-American Fictions course, which was one of my favorite courses of my undergraduate career. It was, also, the last class I attended as an undergraduate student at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. I wanted to create some poetry for the class, even though the course was on fiction, prose, not poetry. I am also trying to track down a sort of heart-wrenching poem I have about the Shoah and being a convert.

So, until then, here you are: A little piece of me, right around the time of my conversion to Judaism under Reform auspices.

Jewish-American fiction puts pen to paper, making an image of who 

we are and where we've been. It's Tova Mirvis making my heart bleed 

at the makings of a family figuring out when everything started changing 

and Jonathan Safran Foer making "small prayers to G-d" out of 

memory and religiosity. Jewish-American fiction places faces and makes 

a mosaic out of the grab bag of the things that mean "Jewish." Turning 

tradition into struggle, love and survival into the trappings of figuring out 

what modernity means to the tradition of remembering. Jewish-American 

fiction is a window to the outside world, as Jews and nonJews, and characters 

kept inside story forms make it possible to peek outside and see what we do to 

be Orthodox, Reform, lapsed, born again, a believer or dreamer, secular, 

sane, insane, in love and out of love, living, dying and surviving. 


But above all else, when we are bound to a book below lamplight,
 

it’s easiest to say that Jewish-American fiction is the definition of humanity.

I ended the paper with the following, If anything, [Bernard] Malamud is using Jews as the example: Humanity at its core is Jewish. It is survival, perseverance and remembering so as not to repeat. By saying “all men are Jews,” Malamud creates a most-powerful metaphor, and an example, for all religions, races and nations. He simply is saying “here is the beginning, here is who you are, don’t forget it."

In response to my final paper (which is much longer than these two excerpts), my professor gave me one of the greatest compliments I've probably ever received from someone, and this was just as I was converting the first time around! He said, "Jewishness, Jewish culture, is a matter of putting pen to paper – you’ve got that down, too. You have what my mother would have called a Yiddishe kupf – a Jewish head. You see the subtleties, the nuances in things. You see the humor that’s enveloped in tragedy, and the tears hidden inside the laughter." Here's one Jew who knew.

A sampling of some of the amazing things we read that semester, which I definitely need to revisit are:

• "Lady of the Lake" by Bernard Malamud
• Maus I and Maus II by Art Spiegelman
• Everything is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer
• Goodbye, Columbus by Philip Roth
• The Outside World by Tova Mirvis
• "Electricity" by ... I can't remember. This bums me out greatly.
• "When You're Excused, You're Excused" by Bruce Jay Friedman
• The Inn at Lake Devine by Elinor Lipman
• The Shawl by Cynthia Ozick

And, if you know what's good for you, you'll purchase Bad Jews and Other Stories by Gerald Shapiro. Would I lead you astray? 

When Did You "Know"?

It's 2011. It's still 5771, but welcome to 2011. It's a prime year, you know. Enjoy it while you can!

Taken August 18, 2004 in my old room at my parents' house. Yes, that's a Fiddler on the Roof shirt.

Feeling nostalgic and trying to really map out my Jewish journey, I turned to my LiveJournal. Yes, I had a LiveJournal. It started way back in 1997 or 1998, I forget, and had several different versions before it settled into its most recent embodiment, which was live from 2002-06 when I started this blog, although since 2006 it's had some odds and ends posts, and most recently is my depository of dreams. The important thing about this journal is that it (should) chronicles my journey into Judaism period. It was of the Reform variety by the time I converted in 2006, but was it always like that? It's funny how we remember our own histories in a very specific way, and how written, historic facts can sometimes change what we know.

The way I tell it -- and the way I remember it -- is that sometime in 2003 (even this is fuzzy), a friend and I were talking over religion in what I like to call the Great Gatsby Room of Neihardt Hall in Lincoln, Nebraska. It's the Honors Dorm, and conversations tended to roll around religion and politics and the typical geekwad stuff you'd suspect. That night, as it was a night, amid studying, it turned to religion. I had a lot of new friends who were very seriously religious Christians (as many of my high school friends had been), and many of them were more of the proselytizing bent than I was used to. Thus, we talked religion. For me, at that point, I'd already stepped out of the role of a Christian and had turned toward being agnostic with my own "subset" of beliefs about the world, religion, and G-d. Having explained all of this to this friend, he suggested I look into Judaism and the rest, as I tell people, is history.

But is that how it went? Well, I can't peg the moment, unfortunately, when the light of Judaism was turned on, but I can peg some other significant moments. I want to blog about these over the coming days, weeks, months, whatever, in order to piece together perhaps how I got to where I am and perhaps shed some light -- for you and me -- on how I ended up an "Orthodox Jew."

Consider this Phase 1. A note about this post below. This was well over six years ago, and probably more than a year after I'd discovered and fell in love with Judaism. It took me a long time to get to a synagogue because I had ZERO Jewish friends and no direction in which to go. It took me a long time to even realize we had a synagogue in town. What I don't remember about this time, however, is struggling about what type of conversion to have. Evidently, I was cognizant of this before I even started studying for conversion. I'm going to insert some comments as I go, so look out. Man, I wish I could go back and talk to 2004 me.

-------------------------------------------------

Date: August 14, 2004

Current mood: Grateful

Post title: First time at Synagogue!

OK. So Temple was amazing. I went last night to 7:45 service, hung around for the Oneg, chatted with many of the members, then got up this morning and went for the 9:30 service and stuck around for Torah Study which lasted till about 12. Then I went to lunch with J and D (a convert) at Open Harvest. Talk about a delicious meal with good Jew-related conversation.

The service began and I felt terribly relaxed. I had no problem reading the prayer book (as it went from back to front, you know) and sounding out the words was no problem. There was a lot of people there last night because Rabbi Stiel was in town, so tons of people came. There were children wandering around, and men had on their head attire. The songs were beautiful, and the Hebrew flowed so fine through the synagogue. The windows had beautiful, colored stained glass, and the ark with the Torah was a beautiful wood. The star of david was everywhere and the candles were lit. But the building was completely, and utterly simple. It was beautiful, but in the most simplistic of ways. During silent prayer, the building was echoing of thoughts, it was the strangest thing. Everyone was so still, so silent, but there was this constant echo. I felt so at ease reciting the verses and singing the songs. And I loved the old-world feel of the voices singing ... it was so ... historical and omnipresent.

Afterward was the Oneg. We ate challah and chatted over fruit and nuts and other things. B, this little 4 year old, was running around all over the place and his sister was chasing him. Their father introduced himself to me and shook my hand. He was VERY Jewish. [I wonder what I meant by this exactly. Then again, I'd encountered around 2 Jews at this point, so ...] There was an old man who had a button that said "Cancer Sucks" and lots of other children and families. Not as many as I was hoping though ... and not as many yarmulkas as I was hoping for either. But I reminded myself it was a Reform Synagogue. And this, is something I struggle with. [I wish I had elaborated here. I don't remember being frustrated -- at that time -- with the observance or numbers or anything. How bizarre.]

Last night I came home and went straight to bed at 11. I slept and was going to go to the Farmer's Market, but slept in instead. J picked me up 'round 9:20, so we were a little late for service. There wasn't enough for a minyan, which stunk, but it was a nice intimate service. Afterward LOTS of people showed up for Torah Study. There was 2 other people there who are in the conversion process, E and J. E had her husband J with her -- and he was a hoot. We were reading something from Deuteronomy today ... and I kept fairly quiet. Though I wanted to speak up when Rab. Stiel mentioned Maimonides and while we were talking about Orthodox Jews. But we had good laughs. [Wow. Huh? Orthodox Jews and what? Why laughs? Where were the details!? I'd slap me in the face if I could.]

After the study we went to lunch at Open Harvest for lunch. It's a grocery store/co-op/deli, and it was delicious. I bought some overpriced vegetables and fruits, but damn they looked good. I intend on going back to Open Harvest to buy produce when the farmer's market closes for the year. I'll probably become a member of the co-op ... 10 bucks a year isn't much for the good food. AND ... they sell a LOT of kosher items, which rocks.  ... [I don't remember kashrut even being on my radar at this point. I'm kind of proud, but upset I didn't embrace kashrut until nearly four years later.]

But one last thing ... I can't explain how connected I felt last night. It's amazing how at ease I was with the people, with the prayerbook, the words and the space. And this morning I made myself at home in the kitchen making coffee for everyone. I just felt ... like I belonged there. It wasn't a you and them thing, it was an "US" thing. And that is how I know this is for me. Now it just sucks because I have a whole week till services again ... but the problem is this: Friday night I said I'd help out at the stadium for this STUPID stadium walk they're doing. So I could go to Saturday service and torah study ... but I enjoy Friday night service. It's a nice culmination to the week.

So I think that the change in my priorities will be set now, changed and set. And I'm completely, COMPLETELY, happy with that. Now I just have to figure out ... do I want to convert Reform? Or do I want to convert Conservative/Orthodox where there is more halakic focus. Le sigh. This is a huge consideration, folks. [Hold the phone. What? I recall wanting to visit the Conservative shul to figure out whether that was a better route, but I don't remember *seriously* considering it. I also remember the huge turnoff the Conservative shul was for me. I guess the deal was sealed, but I'm happy to know that I was trying to educate myself on all avenues.]

OK. Time to walk ...

--------------------------

Looks like I'll have to go farther back in time. Clearly by August 2004 I was well on my way to converting. Heck, I was battling over what derech and thinking about kashrut and Shabbos observance as serious things. I give me some props for being aware. But "when" is the question here. So back to the annals ... 

Chaviva's PSA: GET HEALTHY! - PART 2

Shloms to my homes. That's my new lingo for "Shalom to my good blog readers." Get down with the Chavi lingo!

Anywho, I wanted to update everyone on my medical happenings, because I visited my sock-it-to-you doctor this morning. She was just as feisty as before, although luckily the test results came back, and she didn't have too much to be angry/worried/concerned about.

I'm happy to say that (almost) everything came back completely normal, if not excellent. My cholesterol and thyroid and blood count were great, with the doc commenting that she wished she had my cholesterol level. It also appears I need more Vitamin D, but she assured me that just about everyone in the U.S., especially in the Northeast in the winter, has low Vitamin D levels. The only downer was the results of the fasting/glucose test. Now, the results weren't horrible, but here's the deal. After you fast, they have you drink the gross soda, then make you sit for one hour, then another, testing your levels at both intervals. At the second hour, your level should be between 75 and 139 mg/dl. Mine, unfortunately, was at 141. This puts me on the very, very low end of "impaired glucose tolerance." To be a full-blown diabetic, those numbers would be greater than 200. So, let's just say I'm pleased that I'm only two mg/dl on the bad side of things. The doc said it isn't anything to be really worried about, that I'm not at death's door, but that I have one option: lose weight, eat better. So she's setting me up with an appointment with the "diabetes educator," whatever that is. My dad has diabetes, and I grew up with us going on and off the "diabetic diet" (picture mom scooping out green beans and everything else with measuring cups, super fun). The upside is I only have to see the educator once, and it's only to make sure I know what I'm doing and that I'm doing it right. Lose weight, eat right, and diabetes won't eat your body up and make you die from some horrible diabetes-related cause. My dad lost two aunts to diabetes-related complications, and countless other relatives on his side suffer from the craptastic glucose giant. I, however, will not be one of those people.

So that's what's new with my medical woes. I also had a EKG, for no apparent reason. I also might be visiting a cardiologist for a completely arbitrary and infrequent chest pain I've been getting since 9th grade social studies. It's funny how we can remember very specific moments in time like that. I was sitting next to Christina, or was it Russ? I stood up at the end of class at the bell, and for some reason, this really sharp pain struck the very center of my chest. It knocked the wind out of me and I plopped back down in my chair. I sat there for about 2 minutes, unable to move without feeling the horrible pain. I went to the doctor, thinking I was having some early-onset heart attack stuff, and the doctor just told me I probably pulled a muscle. Who'da thunk you could pull a muscle in your chest just by standing up? My current doctor doesn't buy it and because the pain persists once every three months or so at completely arbitrary points, she wants to make sure it isn't more serious. The EKG came back fine, so who knows.

Do I sound like a walking ball of disease and impending doom? I swear I'm not a hypochondriac. In fact, these are all things I've been dealing with for a long time; I'm just really stubborn and don't go to the doctor until they're all sort of bugging me at once. Then I sound like I'm one of those people who sits on WebMD researching all the various ailments they have. I'm not that person, I promise.

Anyway, let this be an even greater reminder to y'all to schedule appointments, get yourself checked out, and be as HEALTHY as YOU can be in 2010! Darn't! Or else. Don't make me come over there ...

I am a Secular Christmas Dropout!

Riding down in the elevator of the new Science Center, on my way for coffee while Tuvia finishes up his day at work, I read the sign: "Science Center closes at 3 p.m. today in honor of the holiday!" In my head, all I can think is, How weird that this has become just another day for me.

It's so weird, every time Christmas rolls around, to think that I used to be a huge fan of Christmas. I loved the songs, the trees, the lights, the celebration. I never really took the idea of it being the birthday of Jesus to heart, because I knew my history and I knew my religion. Regardless of this, in my parents house Christmas was the kind of day where everyone sat back and watched TV, played with the new gadgets and gizmos, and ate Christmas classics. Oh, and we also gorged on cookies. My mom was big on cookies during the holidays, and she usually sent my dad into work before and after Christmas with tins full of confectionery goodies: No Bakes, Chocolate Chip Cookies, Chinese Chews (now that I think about it, the name is kind of inappropriate), those cookies she made with the cookie gun that had all sorts of shapes, like Christmas trees and snowmen and snowflakes, as well as fudge and lemon cookies and every other kind of cookie her little hands could make. We'd chow on Chex Mix (homemade, of course), and watch whatever happened to be on television. New video games were torn open and inserted, played for hours. I remember one of my favorite gifts of all time was this nifty Crossword Puzzle thing, where you turned the knobs and you'd get a new game each time. I got my share of Barbie dolls and art supplies and books and definitely pajamas, too. But the aura of the day was beautiful. It was relaxed and casual and a day where we wouldn't do anything -- after all, you couldn't, because everything was closed. Sometimes we'd have to run out to Walgreens for batteries or milk or green beans, but really the only reason to go out was to look at the lights.

I still love the lights, of course. But only the white ones -- the colorful mess of wires and lights that ends up on some people's houses leaves me feeling queasy. There's something universal about the lights of the holidays (the white ones, anyway).

Now? Chanukah came and went, and each day was just another day, aside from the lighting of the Chanukiah and the opening of a few presents. It wasn't one day of extravagant present-opening or gorging on sweets. Chanukah just isn't set up for that, and it wasn't meant to be. In fact, I'm not sure that there *is* a holiday set up in the Jewish calendar that can compare to what we've turned Christmas into. And I'm okay with that. At the same time, the nostalgia that I feel for Christmas concerns me sometimes. It feels wrong or inappropriate. I bob my head to Christmas tunes in the store, and while sitting at the dentist yesterday (Christmas music blaring despite the fact that most of the dentists at this particular location are Jewish) my feet were tapping to the classic Christmas carols of my youth. At one point, I was busy singing those songs in choir and in class. What a different world I lived in!

I imagine if I lived in Israel, the feelings of Christmas would fade over time, and I probably wouldn't even long for the lazy days of mom's cookies and bulk gifts and cheesy, old Christmas ornaments. Did I mention the tree? My mom loves her tree -- it was her prized possession, always. Every year she struggled to get us to help her put it up, and begrudgingly we would always help her. Now? Mom doesn't have anyone to help her. She managed to get my little brother to help this year (with the help of his girlfriend). She sent me a photo of one of the ornaments, a very old one that she has put on the tree since the 1980s. It's a mirrored one, much like all of her early ones (the entire tree is white/silver with a few hints of color here and there), and her comment with it was "Did you know that one of the mirrors was a six pointed star....we must have know way back then that it would represent you :)." My mom, as always, has brilliant insight into these things.

At any rate, I just wanted to share some of my thoughts with you all. Very stream-of-consciousness here, so I apologize if it's unreadable. I'm just trying to figure out the emotions at this time of the year. It's impossible to wash them away, or to even wish them gone. In fact, I think the fact that I have positive memories of that time of my life is good -- Secret Santa, ornaments, mom's green bean casserole and Chex Mix, the constant gift of flannel pajamas -- they're all a part of who I was and inevitably will shape who I become. Plus, I think they give me particular insight into what it means to be a Secular American (Jesus never existed in our Christmas, period). Someday, when I have kids, I think I'll be able to explain things better because of my experiences. Let's just hope that they develop a sense of worldliness like I have, so that when Christmas time rolls around they will neither long for it nor disparage those who celebrate it.

If you're in the mood, read a very emotional Christmas Day post from 2007, or about Nittel Nacht, the traditional way Ashkenazi Jews spend (or don't) Christmas Eve!