Last Week: Ups and Downs

Transitions are hard on all of us. Plus, the continuing war deepens our despair and rage.

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Dear fam,

Here I am, again, writing to you on a Monday morning instead of a Friday. Well, I say morning, but really it’s mid-afternoon. Things have been… extra chaotic at the Chaos Palace.

Last week was Big Kid’s last week at the school he’ll no longer be attending and his first week at his new afternoon inclusion-class school (I wrote about why this is happening here). So, he was a hot mess, emotionally speaking. Simultaneously, I am in the process of switching out one ADHD medication for another; as a result, my brain is like a bowl of jello on fire. I’m not sure what that means, but it feels accurate. Baby has suddenly begun demanding more attention as well, screeching like a dinosaur and insisting she be held at all (or most) times.

Plus, you know, the news is all heartbreak these days. My wife and I have to wait for the evenings to cry about the ongoing violence and death. During the day, we have to keep it together for the kids, a task that is increasingly difficult as the stories get worse and the war wears on.

If I’m honest, though, the shambles of our home life is only part of the reason I didn’t write to you on Friday. I also didn’t know what to say. I try to come to this newsletter with some kind of cohesive thought, some worthwhile sentiment for whomever receives it. I do, after all, aim not to waste anyone’s time. Try as I did, though, I kept coming up with contradictions and angry rants in my head. You all certainly have enough of those without me adding any more to the mix.

Instead of one full thought, then, I will share three short-ish ones with you this week. I think they complement one another nicely, maybe even make sense together. It’s a way of sharing where I’m at, even if I can’t totally make sense of it myself yet.

Physics lesson: Building a catapult with Big Kid

Part I: Word-Bits and Crazy Ideas

Are we homeschooling now? Maybe. A year ago, the first time our preschooler was asked not to return to his school, my wife and I panicked. To be fair, she’d given birth to Baby less than a week before he was unceremoniously sent home. We had no idea what in the heck we’d do without childcare.

This time around, we’re basically professionals at pulling educational activities out of thin air. Last week and this (and next week, frankly) he’ll have spotty school hours, but we still want him to have the opportunity to be creative and curious, to practice fine and gross motor skills, to learn new words and concepts. So, we improvise.

The last week felt like a series of snapshots, loosely connected, all held together by the thread of Big Kid’s endless wack-a-doodle ideas and the words I read in between them.

*flash* The couch cushions are a race car. *flash* The houseplants are a jungle. *flash* Let’s save the dolls from a volcano *flash* We’re building a catapult for cheddar cheese *flash* We’re making carrot cake. *flash* Why are all these grapes here? *flash* practicing writing letters *flash* how many is two Ritz crackers and two Ritz crackers?

Somehow, the days pass and we manage to do all these activities and more, while ferrying him and Baby back and forth to the tiny windows in which they’re in school. Well, Baby’s in daycare all day, actually. It’s just Big Kid who has the patchwork schedule.

In between, the driving and playing and teaching and holding space for Big Feelings we read the news: Nail-biter negotiations to free hostages from underground hovels. Some return, telling of psychological and physical torture at the hands of their captors in Gaza. Beaten, starved, left in solitary confinement. Forced to watch footage of their families being slaughtered. When they cry, the torturers wave rifles and scream to shut up. They don’t speak anymore, these children, after over a month in anguish.

We read about Gazan children in collapsed buildings, about 10 year-olds tasked with identifying the mutilated bodies of relatives. We hear the voice of a mother crying her daughters name. In Arabic, she wails that he daughter would have been five next week. We read about Palestinian parents searching for water to clean their children from the dust of the rubble. Our hearts break and break.

We read poems. We read essays. We read messages from friends who ask how we can possibly have posted that thing? Said that thing? Believed that thing? As if anyone can be anything but an evolving consciousness. As if understanding what the hell is going on is a static point of being. As if there is a thing called loyalty when the loyalty of the leadership is to something other than humanity.

What’s left? Word-bits and crazy ideas. Like a tomato pie with whipped cream. Or a pom-pom car wash. Or a compassionate peace plan. Or a vision of a future where we all are liberated and live in dignity and security. Who could believe any of that is possible?

Part II: Prayer for Peace

I’ve been driving to Connecticut to teach prayers and spirituality to grade-schoolers, at the Temple where I work as a part-time Cantor. We’re learning some of the most common melodies and prayers so we can co-lead a Kabalat Shabbat service on some of the upcoming Friday evenings.

I’m supposed to just sing with them, but I can’t help it, I talk about the meanings behind the words, too. The thing is, I believe what makes a prayer a prayer is the kavana (intention) in your heart and mind when you’re saying it. It’s like magic; when you’re visualizing a connection with the Divine as you sing or whisper or read in silence, that makes prayer. “Even at a Taylor Swift concert?” on fourth-grader asked me. “Heck, yeah,” I replied, “Taylor Swift is not a part of the traditional liturgy, of course, so her words don’t connect you to a long tradition of Jewish thought and practice. But if you feel a connection to something greater than yourself, and a deeper understanding of the universe, and an inspiration to spirituality when you’re singing with Tay-Tay, that could be conceived of as prayer.”

We sing Hineh Ma Tov (how good it is for brethren to sit together), and we sing Ma Tovu (how beautiful are your tents, O Israel). We sing Oseh Shalom. Before each one, we talk about intention and try to understand why we’re saying the words in the first place.

The Ashkenazi version of the Oseh Shalom (the one I was teaching) is short:

עושה שלום במרומיו הוא יעשה שלום עלינו ועל כל ישראל (ועל כל יושבי תבל) ואמרו אמן

Oseh shalom bimromav Hu ya’aseh shalom aleinu v’al kol Yisrael (v’al kol yoshvey tevel) v’imru amen.

[The] maker of peace will grant peace on us and all of the people of Israel [and on all people of the earth] and we shall say, amen.

Yesterday, I asked the kids why we there isn’t peace yet, seeing as we believe G-d is omnipotent. Why wouldn’t an all-powerful G-d have just fixed things already? If one had the power to stop these horrors, why wouldn’t one do that?

Big questions for little kids. I’m never sorry I ask kids for their opinions. “G-d can’t control our actions,” one kid said, “the people themselves have to make the choices.”

Even with all that power? Yes, she replied. Even with all that power.

So, why do we pray? They weren’t sure. Some days, I’m not either. As I’m writing this, a friend wrote to me that she’s hopeless there will ever be peace. She sees too much hate, too little openness to the pain of another. I get it.

On days I can muster the strength, I pray because I hope G-d will give me the strength to be a conduit for the Divine Love that, to me, is what G-d is about. I pray to connect with my own divinity, to remember that all beings are created in the image of the Holy one. To remember miracles. To stay the course.

We need to do as our elders said — “Be like the students of Aaron, loving peace and pursuing it.” In my mind, I tweak the words. Maker of peace in your horizons, make me strong enough to do your will in pursuing peace in my (our) realm.

I wonder what intention is in the hearts of religious zealots in my homeland as they pray to a G-d of their understanding? What do they meditate on, as they recite ancient words of divine inspiration¹?

Part III: We’re Walking (Sort of)

Baby is almost walking, and she is so proud of herself. She walks holding our hands, and cruises around the coffee table, and makes her way up the stairs one sweet knee at a time. She really wants to get going places, to be a part of things. She wants to play catch with the whole family of an evening. She wants to chat with us at dinner. She wants to choose books.

In five days, she’ll be a year old. What? A year?! I know, it’s crazy. I’m continuously amazed by how much sweetness is contained in her tiny (and somehow also giant?) body. She brings the best out in all of us, really. Makes us laugh. Makes us dance. Reminds us to slow down and stare at a wooden block or a spoon in wonder. I can’t imagine a life without Baby. It’s so strange to think that, a year ago, we lived without her sweet songs and toothless grins.

Baby choosing a story to read.

Birthdays always make me a little existential. What are we doing here? Who will she be as she grows? I watch her, searching for clues — maybe she’ll love to dance or to paint or (gasp!) to do math. What will she bring into the world?

And, naturally, what will the world bring her? These days I think constantly about the kind of world I’ve brought my children into. One day, Baby and Big Kid will learn that there is cruelty in the world. They will know the horrible things I know. They will understand that there are people in this world who would cause another person agony in the name of G-d, or land, or money.

I want it not to be true.

Almost walking is so precipitous. She’s about to begin exploring the world on her own, where she will discover, in the words of my guiding star, Ani DiFranco, “so much shouting, so much laughter.” Will we fix it in time? Probably not. But, Lord help me, I need to know I have tried.

—

Finally, not to quote Ani twice in one newsletter, but she has this great quote that keeps me going on hard days.

“I will look at everything and I will vow to bear in mind //
That all of this was just someone's idea, it could just as well be mine.”

With as much respect as the abhorrent excuse for leadership we see before us deserves, I propose that we say fuck this to hatred and vitriol. To one-sidedness. That we welcome the endless grief that makes way for endless love. There are still people who have compassion out there. I know it, ‘cause I’m reading them and listening to them and talking to them. All of this was just someone’s idea. Let’s make a different reality.

Love you all. Let me know your thoughts in the comments?

Shavua tov,

Mikhal

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Usually this is where the reading and listening recs go

But this week, I’m sending out a special edition of that tomorrow. It’s worth it, I promise. In the meanwhile, the rest of the Chaos Palace is here.

1. I’m not being facetious here, I literally wonder about this at least once a day.