Last Week: Shifting with the Tide
Thank you for your grace. And some links.
Dear fam,
Normally, this would be an update about my often bumpy ride as a parent in the world. There’ll be some of that here, but first I’d like to talk housekeeping.
In the last few weeks, I’ve seen some new subscribers join the list and, well, it’s always nicer to help folks get oriented when they enter a space, isn’t it? Plus, some things have been changing and I want to address them.
As I wrote in my very first ever post, “At our house, we make rainbow pasta and get covered in food dye. We yodel at cherry trees. We have wild meltdowns. One or more of us is on the verge of a sensory overwhelm every few days. We run down the sidewalks of Brooklyn like a colony of bats outta hell screaming “let’s gooooo!” in capes and sunglasses. We like it that way.” All of these examples are 100% true.
Almost a year ago, I began this Substack in the hopes of cultivating a place where messiness could be explored and celebrated. The idea behind everything I write here is that life is inherently chaotic and, more importantly, by accepting the messiness of the world as an opportunity, we unlock new realms of creativity and innovation.
Chaos Palace subscribers get:
A weekly update on how I’m thinking about parenting my neurodivergent kid as a neurodivergent parent, usually inspired by Jewish thought and my own queerness. Plus links to recommended reading and music.
Interviews with all kinds of folks about how they navigate the chaos in their work. I try to make this as diverse a cohort as possible.
Reported essays about lesser researched ADHD symptoms, because ADHD has been a defining factor of my life — both a source of tough chaos and of endless creativity.
Since October, personal essays and links to resources for thinking about Israel and Palestine.
All of these things may seem disconnected. I’ve definitely gotten some feedback about how I should probably choose a niche if I want to grow a distinct audience. The thing is, though, that all of these are connected because they are me. I am a parent with ADHD. I am queer. I am deeply Jewish. I am Israeli. I am American. I am a writer and a dreamer and a person endlessly fascinated by people’s capacity for difference and creativity.
I hope you accept this invitation into the messy space that is my mind. It doesn’t always make sense in the moment, but that’s ok. I’m more interested in the process of making sense together.
Lately, things have taken on a different cadence. This is largely part of my new integration into the experience of having a 9-5 job. I’ve never been a full-timer before. So, here’s how I think we’re going to do things for the next little while:
Monday, you’ll get a weekly newsletter. I love the idea of these going out before Shabbat, but I’ve realized that the only time I have a chance to actually figure out what I’m thinking on Shabbat. So… yeah, it has to be Monday.
Wednesdays you’ll get an additional something. Sometimes, that’ll be an interview. Sometimes an essay. I don’t totally know which it’ll be. Think of it as a fun surprise.
I’ve been feeling guilty about changing things up, but then I realized that rigidity is exactly what I’m advocating against in this newsletter. Everything changes — circumstances, needs, mental health, physical health, capacity. The important thing is to recognize when I’m fighting against the grain and to try and flow a little more honestly with my real life situation.
Thank you in advance for your grace as I navigate the shifting tides.
And now, on to the newsletter.
Yesterday I went back to Brooklyn for the second time since we moved in July. In my mind, I thought we’d be back much more often. Maybe not all the time, but certainly more than twice in ten months. My wife is probably shaking her head as she reads this and thinking about what an incurable optimist I am. She’s right. I always overestimate how well things will turn out, how much I’ll get done, how fun something will be.
Nonetheless, yesterday the whole family piled into the car and drove through the Lincoln Tunnel, across the Manhattan Bridge and into Bed-Stuy, where we had a delightful afternoon with our good friends and their kid. It was the perfect day to be in Brooklyn — sunny but not sweltering, a soft breeze keeping us cool in the sun-dappled playground . Kids swinging and playing basketball. A car drove by playing music, families meandered down brownstone-lined streets.
Just as we were about to leave, we decided to stop at the corner bodega and get some ice cream for the kids. So we picked out some flavors, paid, ended up buying some kinder eggs, too, and headed for the door — where we ran headlong into the person who was Big Kid’s babysitter for the duration of the pandemic.
They were besties, you guys. I mean, every day they hung out while my wife and I worked. She was his person for the better part of a year.
Fam, he didn’t remember her at all. Which makes sense — he was only two years old at the time. Still, it felt weird. Later, he told me that “it was a long time ago,” which is true, “and I’m four-and-a-half now” which also true. Sometimes, my kid understands the world better than I do.
The day before, I had officiated a bar mitzvah service for the youngest of three brothers. It was a truly lovely day. This is a beautiful family, and the bar mitzvah boy spoke with depth and understanding about his portion. He stood under the tallit his great-grandfather had worn at his bar mitzvah, surrounded by family, as I sang the tripartite priestly blessing. We all got teary.
In the front row, his parents and two brother sat and beamed. In 2018 or so, I’d also officiated the service for his eldest brother’s bar mitzvah. From the vantage point of my lectern, I couldn’t believe that the young man sitting there, home from college, was the same 13 year old I’d blessed six years prior.
I didn’t feel that much older. How could we all have changed so much?
Something about these two events happening one day after another made me hyperaware of the passage of time. My bestie in Israel reminded me last week that we have a precious few years during which our lives are shaped so completely by the lives of our children. Call it two decades — that’s still not even close to most of our or their lives. Most of the time, they’ll be living somewhere else, doing their own thing, living their own lives.
Big Kid is so different today than he was two years ago. Or even last month. So is Toddler. And, to be completely honest, so are my wife and I. I find myself wanting to freeze time, or slow it down, or let me somehow savor it. But the days are chock-a-block full of activities and to-do-lists and emotional happenings. Is there a way to savor these years and scarf them down at the same time?
As usual, I don’t have answers. I’m thinking about how I always complain that the Jewish calendar has holidays every time you blink. As someone working in the world of Judaism, this often feels like more of a hassle than it’s worth. I mean, come on do how can it already be time for Purim? We just had Tu B’Shvat and Passover is around the corner, too. Sheesh.
Perhaps, though, my heritage has wisdom to offer here. Call is a mile-marker system. Maybe by stopping time every week for Shabbat, and every month-or-so for a holiday, Judaism is inviting us to hold the chord for one beat longer. Like a fermata on life.
We can’t stop time, or even slow it down, but maybe we can make a point of being present for a hot minute.
Have you struggled with this? Or found something that works for you? I’d love to know.
Wishing you all a week of deep breathing.
Shavua tov,
Mikhal
Before you go…
If you’re in New York next week, please consider the fundraiser for the Standing Together Movement in Bushwick on March 24th at 6:30 pm. They’re a prominent civil rights organization in Israel, completely co-led by Jews and Palestinians. Their slogan is "where there is struggle there is hope" and I'm trying hard to really believe that. The evening will include live music from Israeli-Palestinian musicians and DJs, a conversation with Standing Together leaders, and a few spiritual thoughts from a local Rabbi and Sheikh. I think it's gonna be really special. Buy tickets here.
What I’m reading
The Dutch House is a novel by Ann Patchett that’s ruining my sleep because it’s so good and I can’t stop listening to the audiobook. Which is narrated by Tom Hanks. You’re welcome.
This excerpt from
’s book is called (Don’t) Act Your Age, all about living life the way you want to, expectations be damned. It was published in and is my new manifesto.My very wise cousin,
, wrote about internalizing the concept of Shekhina (Divine Presence) in this essay that I felt reverberate in my very bones. “by doing certain acts, we can become godly,” he wrote, “God caring for the poor and people caring for the poor are not two separate acts, but one and the same, and someone who brings their behaviour in line with what they understand as the behaviour of God, as described in the Torah for example, is manifesting the Shechina, God’s presence in the world.” Yes.- wrote about caring for her dying husband. She is so generous in her intimacy and vulnerability here, and I think this is a very important essay for anyone to read.
What I’m listening to
The folks at Unapologetic: The Third Narrative (a podcast by two Arab-Palestinian-Israelis who are seeking a way out of the current polarized paradigm) released a two-part episode in which they interview Ahmad Fouad Alkhatib, who was raised in Gaza, about his vision for a peaceful future in light of his life experience. To say it’s fascinating is a huge understatement. It should be required listening.
First part of the interview (Ahmad’s life and perspective on the Situation writ large)
Second part of the interview (Ahmad’s perspective on UNWRA and Hamas specifically)
Beautifully written. I have found lately t’s so hard for our children to see the passing of time in a way that we do now because it’s almost like we’re standing still, even though we are traveling in a car on a highway right next to a train track. They’re on a fast moving train going at the same speed, but full of so many people on there, changing trains and people, but we’re in the same car a lot of the time sitting watching them because we did all that along time ago, and got off the train to pick a car.
I look the same. I wear the same size clothes just my skin has lost a fair bit of collagen and my hair has turned grey. Meanwhile, they have grown, changed completely during that same time, and bloomed and are comparing petals and thoughts and dreams with the rest of the world, ready to let their self go in the wind.
Now, It’s strange to find one’s self in the passenger seat with them when they start driving the car.
I still have a few trains to get on but a different kind than they are on now, and soon they are looking at cars to pick. Sorry for such a long drawn out travel metaphor!