Q. Rabbi, is fasting on Yom Kippur a good weight-loss plan?
A. No. Well, maybe, but only if there is no kugel at the break-fast.
Q. How does Yom Kippur fit in with your exercise plan?
A. Well, there is a lot of standing, and relatively little sitting (at least for me.) Also, a fair amount of swaying, some of it back and forth, but mainly side-to-side. Plus, there were four occasions when I prostrated myself and then (thank you, God!) managed to get back up again. Does singing count as exercise? What about gesticulating while preaching?
Q. How did you feel at the end of the day?
A. I had a touch of bronchitis going in, but made some chicken soup on Sunday morning and was able to swig enough of it down before Kol Nidrei to cure myself.
Q. Really?
A. I do make a great soup. It was definitely that. Plus, the drugs.
Q. Rabbi, how did you actually survive, given that you were so sick?
A. The support of my congregation, the skills of the others on the bimah, the love of my family and... adrenaline! The human body is an amazing creation. A person who's in a stressful enough situation is able to perform incredible feats of strength. Like lifting up a car. Or being a rabbi on Yom Kippur.
Q. Adrenaline sounds great. Any down sides?
A. Um, well, it's almost 2:00am and I'm still up.
Q. Is that a problem? Haven't you been going to bed at about this time for the past couple of weeks?
A. True. But I'm actually exhausted.
Q. So what are your plans for tomorrow? Going back to the WiiFit?
A. Maybe in the afternoon. I have a migraine pencilled in for the morning.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
There's tzuris ("trouble.")
And then there's gebrutteneh tzuris (literally "roasted trouble.")
My father, Louis Cantor, of blessed memory, grew up in a Yiddish-speaking household, and he taught me the difference between the two. Tzuris, of course, is a general term, which can be - and is! - applied to everything from a traffic ticket to trouble with kids to taxes. But gebrutteneh tzuris - well, that's the really serious stuff. The latter makes the former pale in comparison, puts it into perspective. I offer this linguistic tidbit as a away of explaining why the Ravenous Rabbi has been absent for nearly two weeks. There was lots of tzuris around home and shul, and that was followed by the roasted sort. And all of this in the week and a half before Rosh Hashanah! Of course, this is life as usual, isn't it? As I wrote in my sermon for the First Day of the New Year (luckily, I had written it before all hell broke loose):
"Our lives don’t follow a straight and unswerving path. Of course, most of us grow up thinking otherwise. We expect that our lives will unfold according to plan – our plan. But as the Yiddish saying goes: Men tracht und Gott lacht. “Man plans and God laughs,” or in the current vernacular: Life happens."
Later on I noted:
"In teaching about the Jewish life cycle, there’s a particular exercise which I’ve often done with adults. I ask people to take pencil and paper and draw a picture of their own life’s journey. They can use words. They can use shapes or lines or figures. Or not.
The results are as varied as the lives of the participants. But, believe me, there are very few straight lines. Symbols and spirals and scribbles, yes. But very few straight lines. Our lives are filled with detours, with stops and starts and surprises along the way. Men tracht und Gott lacht. We make plans, but God has other ideas. "
Yup, life happens. The challenge is to take it with some equanimity, to realize that the power to fix everything is mostly not in our hands and to just learn, grow and do some mitzvahs (good deeds) along the way. We're only human, after all.
Actually, that's the main message of Rosh Hashanah: that God is in charge and we are not. I confess that I have a problem with this idea. Not intellectually, but deep down, in my heart of hearts. I'm a fixer, after all. I don't like to throw in the towel. I don't like to give up control. I don't accept anything with equanimity! Still, I preach this line all the time. Mostly to myself.
Now the question is: what lesson do I need to hear on Yom Kippur?
And then there's gebrutteneh tzuris (literally "roasted trouble.")
My father, Louis Cantor, of blessed memory, grew up in a Yiddish-speaking household, and he taught me the difference between the two. Tzuris, of course, is a general term, which can be - and is! - applied to everything from a traffic ticket to trouble with kids to taxes. But gebrutteneh tzuris - well, that's the really serious stuff. The latter makes the former pale in comparison, puts it into perspective. I offer this linguistic tidbit as a away of explaining why the Ravenous Rabbi has been absent for nearly two weeks. There was lots of tzuris around home and shul, and that was followed by the roasted sort. And all of this in the week and a half before Rosh Hashanah! Of course, this is life as usual, isn't it? As I wrote in my sermon for the First Day of the New Year (luckily, I had written it before all hell broke loose):
"Our lives don’t follow a straight and unswerving path. Of course, most of us grow up thinking otherwise. We expect that our lives will unfold according to plan – our plan. But as the Yiddish saying goes: Men tracht und Gott lacht. “Man plans and God laughs,” or in the current vernacular: Life happens."
Later on I noted:
"In teaching about the Jewish life cycle, there’s a particular exercise which I’ve often done with adults. I ask people to take pencil and paper and draw a picture of their own life’s journey. They can use words. They can use shapes or lines or figures. Or not.
The results are as varied as the lives of the participants. But, believe me, there are very few straight lines. Symbols and spirals and scribbles, yes. But very few straight lines. Our lives are filled with detours, with stops and starts and surprises along the way. Men tracht und Gott lacht. We make plans, but God has other ideas. "
Yup, life happens. The challenge is to take it with some equanimity, to realize that the power to fix everything is mostly not in our hands and to just learn, grow and do some mitzvahs (good deeds) along the way. We're only human, after all.
Actually, that's the main message of Rosh Hashanah: that God is in charge and we are not. I confess that I have a problem with this idea. Not intellectually, but deep down, in my heart of hearts. I'm a fixer, after all. I don't like to throw in the towel. I don't like to give up control. I don't accept anything with equanimity! Still, I preach this line all the time. Mostly to myself.
Now the question is: what lesson do I need to hear on Yom Kippur?
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
My dear friend and colleague, Rabbi Barbara Penzner, sent me a gift today: a wonderful column she wrote for her shul's website about why we need to look after our souls AND our bodies at this season, and how these two are so intimately intertwined. Toward the end of the piece she writes:
I find special joy in the words of the Shaharit (morning) service: "The limbs you gave us, the spirit you breathed into our nostrils, and the tongue you placed in our mouths-surely they shall acknowledge and bless, praise and glorify, exalt, venerate, sanctify and crown your Name....." As Rabbi Art Green explains, "It is the whole self that calls out the praises of God, not just the lips or the mind. The act of prayer is one that calls upon the entire person." To pray is to dance; to exercise is to pray.
Like so many people, I live largely in my head. There's a lot of sitting in my line of work. Exercise opportunities need to be planned; they aren't automatically built into my daily life. But this time of year, the physical demands increase for rabbis (and cantors).
There is the stress as we prepare (often involving too little sleep or unhealthful food.) And this pressure takes its toll physically. Then there are the High Holidays themselves. We stand for hours on end during services (or stand and sit, stand and sit); we prostrate ourselves; we orchestrate the experience for the congregation even as our back muscles tighten and our feet start to ache. On Yom Kippur, we fast along with the congregation, but we also sing and stand and speak all during Kol Nidrei night and throughout the long day which follows.
I'm not complaining, mind you. In many ways, I look forward to these Days of Awe, and to the joyous holiday of Sukkot which follows. And I know that my Muslim friends, who are even now observing the holy month of Ramadan, fast each day this month from sunup to sundown, and are accustomed to falling on their faces in prayer five times a day, all year round. My own High Holiday physical challenges no doubt pale in comparison.
But challenges they are. Many of my colleagues describe both Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur as "marathons." Often, that's exactly what they feel like. I usually survive just fine. But I will admit that, when I touch my forehead to the floor at certain dramatic moments in the High Holiday liturgy, I do sometimes pray I'll be able to get up again (without too much help). And, at those moments, I vow that I'll be in better shape the following year.
Not simply in order to avoid publicly embarrassing myself (though the threat of humiliation is a great motivator for me), and not just so it will be easier for me to make it through the "marathon." But mainly because, as my friend Barbara points out: "Our bodies are are a gift and we are meant to use them."
All I can say is: Amen.
I find special joy in the words of the Shaharit (morning) service: "The limbs you gave us, the spirit you breathed into our nostrils, and the tongue you placed in our mouths-surely they shall acknowledge and bless, praise and glorify, exalt, venerate, sanctify and crown your Name....." As Rabbi Art Green explains, "It is the whole self that calls out the praises of God, not just the lips or the mind. The act of prayer is one that calls upon the entire person." To pray is to dance; to exercise is to pray.
Like so many people, I live largely in my head. There's a lot of sitting in my line of work. Exercise opportunities need to be planned; they aren't automatically built into my daily life. But this time of year, the physical demands increase for rabbis (and cantors).
There is the stress as we prepare (often involving too little sleep or unhealthful food.) And this pressure takes its toll physically. Then there are the High Holidays themselves. We stand for hours on end during services (or stand and sit, stand and sit); we prostrate ourselves; we orchestrate the experience for the congregation even as our back muscles tighten and our feet start to ache. On Yom Kippur, we fast along with the congregation, but we also sing and stand and speak all during Kol Nidrei night and throughout the long day which follows.
I'm not complaining, mind you. In many ways, I look forward to these Days of Awe, and to the joyous holiday of Sukkot which follows. And I know that my Muslim friends, who are even now observing the holy month of Ramadan, fast each day this month from sunup to sundown, and are accustomed to falling on their faces in prayer five times a day, all year round. My own High Holiday physical challenges no doubt pale in comparison.
But challenges they are. Many of my colleagues describe both Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur as "marathons." Often, that's exactly what they feel like. I usually survive just fine. But I will admit that, when I touch my forehead to the floor at certain dramatic moments in the High Holiday liturgy, I do sometimes pray I'll be able to get up again (without too much help). And, at those moments, I vow that I'll be in better shape the following year.
Not simply in order to avoid publicly embarrassing myself (though the threat of humiliation is a great motivator for me), and not just so it will be easier for me to make it through the "marathon." But mainly because, as my friend Barbara points out: "Our bodies are are a gift and we are meant to use them."
All I can say is: Amen.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
My day in haiku
Another nightmare
I awaken, drenched in sweat
Reality looms.
A huge list of calls
Pray for answering machine
to pick up the phone.
Should I go shower
or fry up a cheese omelelet
with buttery toast?
Late for appointment
Does worry burn calories?
Alas, it does not.
At the computer
Staring, transfixed by the screen
No time for WiiFit.
My son starts to wail,
"Hey Mom, when will you finish
using your laptop?"
I give in at last
For it's way past my bedtime.
No late night snacking!
Another nightmare
I awaken, drenched in sweat
Reality looms.
A huge list of calls
Pray for answering machine
to pick up the phone.
Should I go shower
or fry up a cheese omelelet
with buttery toast?
Late for appointment
Does worry burn calories?
Alas, it does not.
At the computer
Staring, transfixed by the screen
No time for WiiFit.
My son starts to wail,
"Hey Mom, when will you finish
using your laptop?"
I give in at last
For it's way past my bedtime.
No late night snacking!
Sunday, September 6, 2009
So where are you going with this, Deb?" my sister asked me last night.
"Huh? What are you talking about?" (I was distracted and only half-listening.)
"With your blog," she said. "Where are you going with your blog?"
"Um...well, I started it and I'm working on the goal of getting healthier. You should see how quickly I walked home from services today!" (The quicker to take my Shabbos nap, as she well knows.)
"Okay, but you still need a more specific goal," she insisted. "Exactly where are you headed in, say, the coming year?"
My God, I thought, that's a sermon! Indeed, where exactly am I - are we all - headed? This is not simply a question about the direction of a blog, folks. The challenge of orienting ourselves and choosing a destination - why that's the task of this season! To think that my sister never went to rabbinical school, yet is still filled with so many homiletical insights!
Then my husband walked into the room. "Where's the key to the car?" he asked me. "I can't leave until I find the key." Another sermon! We need to search for the key, for the ikkar, for what is most essential, in order to move forward!
My daughter shouted from the kitchen: "Mom, I forgot to tell you that Bubbie called. You left your cell phone at her house." Hmmm, I thought, my mother had found what I had been searching for all along. What was lost can be located again. Another sermon!
"Huh? What are you talking about?" (I was distracted and only half-listening.)
"With your blog," she said. "Where are you going with your blog?"
"Um...well, I started it and I'm working on the goal of getting healthier. You should see how quickly I walked home from services today!" (The quicker to take my Shabbos nap, as she well knows.)
"Okay, but you still need a more specific goal," she insisted. "Exactly where are you headed in, say, the coming year?"
My God, I thought, that's a sermon! Indeed, where exactly am I - are we all - headed? This is not simply a question about the direction of a blog, folks. The challenge of orienting ourselves and choosing a destination - why that's the task of this season! To think that my sister never went to rabbinical school, yet is still filled with so many homiletical insights!
Then my husband walked into the room. "Where's the key to the car?" he asked me. "I can't leave until I find the key." Another sermon! We need to search for the key, for the ikkar, for what is most essential, in order to move forward!
My daughter shouted from the kitchen: "Mom, I forgot to tell you that Bubbie called. You left your cell phone at her house." Hmmm, I thought, my mother had found what I had been searching for all along. What was lost can be located again. Another sermon!
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Thin thighs may pose a risk to heart health. Really. I just heard it on the BBC, when I was washing dishes. At first, I couldn't believe my ears. Then, they repeated it. I ran to the computer to check it out. Indeed, there it was:
"Large thighs 'may protect heart'
Men and women with thighs over 60cm (23.6in) in circumference have a lower risk of heart disease and early death, a study of 3,000 people suggests... Those with narrow thighs may not have enough muscle mass to deal with insulin properly, raising the risk of diabetes and, in turn, heart disease, they say."
The BBC based its report on 10-year Danish study published in the British Medical Journal. The article continued with some caveats: "Experts cautioned that the research needed corroborating" and warned that it was "too early to change current advice on eating and exercise for heart health."
Still.
This is great news for so many of us.
Thin thighs may pose a risk.
Suddenly all things are possible.
Have a Shabbat Shalom!
"Large thighs 'may protect heart'
Men and women with thighs over 60cm (23.6in) in circumference have a lower risk of heart disease and early death, a study of 3,000 people suggests... Those with narrow thighs may not have enough muscle mass to deal with insulin properly, raising the risk of diabetes and, in turn, heart disease, they say."
The BBC based its report on 10-year Danish study published in the British Medical Journal. The article continued with some caveats: "Experts cautioned that the research needed corroborating" and warned that it was "too early to change current advice on eating and exercise for heart health."
Still.
This is great news for so many of us.
Thin thighs may pose a risk.
Suddenly all things are possible.
Have a Shabbat Shalom!
Have you looked up lately? Tonight, by any chance? Then you've seen the full moon, shining in the night sky. For my Muslim friends, the full moon marks the halfway point through the holy month of Ramadan. For Jews, it's the the halfway point of Elul. For rabbis, it's the beginning of panic time.
Tonight, at around 10:30pm, I found myself "picking up a few things for Shabbat." (This is what I told my daughter, who was waiting in the car. Just a few things, honest!) In the supermarket, I ran into several rabbinic colleagues. We all greeted each another the same way. Not with an early "Shabbat Shalom" or an even earlier "Shanah Tovah." No, our greeting was: "Please don't tell me you're all set for the holidays!" Evidently, panic loves company.
Of course, it's not serious panic (or not yet, at least.) But halfway through Elul, there is a sense of increased urgency. Halfway through Elul, it's time to get serious. Time to make some decisions (beyond brisket or turkey); time to get some words on paper (or onto a hard drive); time to make those calls (the hard ones you've been avoiding); time to make each day count.
For rabbis, for all of us, it's a challenge to balance the outer obligations with the essential, inner work of this season. Yet, the two are not entirely unconnected. Actions can and should be interwoven with intentions; reflection can and should fill our deeds, however, prosaic, with meaning. So yes, making your Bubbie's honey cake can be a "spiritual" Elul experience. And your resolve to become a kinder person in the coming year can be concretized with a visit, a donation, a phone call, a hug. Teshuvah/repentance/renewal can't take place entirely in one's head.
So what will I do with my next two weeks? Well, I have a long list. (Starting with the WiiFit tomorrow morning, because sitting at the computer for hours on end isn't the healthiest thing.) I'm not too panicked. Just please don't tell me you're set for the holidays already!
Tonight, at around 10:30pm, I found myself "picking up a few things for Shabbat." (This is what I told my daughter, who was waiting in the car. Just a few things, honest!) In the supermarket, I ran into several rabbinic colleagues. We all greeted each another the same way. Not with an early "Shabbat Shalom" or an even earlier "Shanah Tovah." No, our greeting was: "Please don't tell me you're all set for the holidays!" Evidently, panic loves company.
Of course, it's not serious panic (or not yet, at least.) But halfway through Elul, there is a sense of increased urgency. Halfway through Elul, it's time to get serious. Time to make some decisions (beyond brisket or turkey); time to get some words on paper (or onto a hard drive); time to make those calls (the hard ones you've been avoiding); time to make each day count.
For rabbis, for all of us, it's a challenge to balance the outer obligations with the essential, inner work of this season. Yet, the two are not entirely unconnected. Actions can and should be interwoven with intentions; reflection can and should fill our deeds, however, prosaic, with meaning. So yes, making your Bubbie's honey cake can be a "spiritual" Elul experience. And your resolve to become a kinder person in the coming year can be concretized with a visit, a donation, a phone call, a hug. Teshuvah/repentance/renewal can't take place entirely in one's head.
So what will I do with my next two weeks? Well, I have a long list. (Starting with the WiiFit tomorrow morning, because sitting at the computer for hours on end isn't the healthiest thing.) I'm not too panicked. Just please don't tell me you're set for the holidays already!
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
I am ravenous. Or, anyway, I was. I came home late and was so hungry. Had I ever really eaten dinner? (Um, yes, but a long time ago and not at home.) I nuked some frozen vegetables and then sat down to check my e-mail. An old, dear friend of mine who lives far away had sent something which made me smile. It was a diet plan:
Breakfast
1 grapefruit
1 slice whole wheat toast
1 cup skim milk
Lunch
1 small portion lean, steamed chicken
1 cup spinach
1 cup herbal tea
1 Hershey's kiss
Afternoon Tea
1 The rest of the Hershey Kisses in the bag
1 tub of Hagen-Daaz ice cream with chocolate chips
The dinner and late night snack were, as you can imagine, increasingly outrageous. Why is this so funny? Because it strikes a chord in all of us. This is not just a joke about dieting; it reflects a truth about how our best intentions go awry.
We may begin the day (the project, the school year, the job) with rigor and discipline. But we find that this is not enough to get us through. Inevitably, we feel deprived and so we say to hell with it and inhale the bag of barbeque flavor chips (baked, not fried, but still...)and all six 100-calorie packets of whatever. We give up because we can't figure out how to follow through with our goals, and still feed/nurture ourselves.
So here are the questions for tonight:
What are we hungry for?
What will (or won't) satisfy that hunger?
And must it involve Hagen-Daaz?
Breakfast
1 grapefruit
1 slice whole wheat toast
1 cup skim milk
Lunch
1 small portion lean, steamed chicken
1 cup spinach
1 cup herbal tea
1 Hershey's kiss
Afternoon Tea
1 The rest of the Hershey Kisses in the bag
1 tub of Hagen-Daaz ice cream with chocolate chips
The dinner and late night snack were, as you can imagine, increasingly outrageous. Why is this so funny? Because it strikes a chord in all of us. This is not just a joke about dieting; it reflects a truth about how our best intentions go awry.
We may begin the day (the project, the school year, the job) with rigor and discipline. But we find that this is not enough to get us through. Inevitably, we feel deprived and so we say to hell with it and inhale the bag of barbeque flavor chips (baked, not fried, but still...)and all six 100-calorie packets of whatever. We give up because we can't figure out how to follow through with our goals, and still feed/nurture ourselves.
So here are the questions for tonight:
What are we hungry for?
What will (or won't) satisfy that hunger?
And must it involve Hagen-Daaz?
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Instant feedback. Constant encouragement. Praise for even the tiniest accomplishment. That's what I need and that's what I love about the WiiFit. I know there are folks out there with far greater inner resources than I, people who don't require someone else to cheer them on every single minute, who are nourished by a voice within. Not me. I need a WiiFit coach not only for workouts, but for my life.
"Don't worry, Deb!" "Great job - keep it up!" "You're almost there!"
Of course, there are people who do this professionally. They call themselves "life coaches." Or "therapists." Or "spiritual directors." Or even "rabbis."
I need something more. I want someone who stays with me after the 50-minte hour is over, after the service has ended. Someone who whispers that word of encouragement or correction or comfort when I am "walking by the way, when I lie down and when I rise up." Whenever.
Isn't that someone supposed to be God? If only I could hear God's voice the way I hear the voice of the WiiFit! An instant feedback loop for the spirit:
"Extend that hand a bit more - that's it, Deb!"
"Try hearing not just with your ears, but with your heart. Yes, like that."
"Be patient. Show more love. Yes, even to that nudnik in your office."
"You can't fix it. It's OK. You did what you could."
"Open your eyes! Pause. Be grateful. Good for you!"
This month of Elul, it seems to me, is about learning to listen for the voices in our lives which move us forward and keep us going. The voices without and within.
Oh, and I've lost three pounds.
"Don't worry, Deb!" "Great job - keep it up!" "You're almost there!"
Of course, there are people who do this professionally. They call themselves "life coaches." Or "therapists." Or "spiritual directors." Or even "rabbis."
I need something more. I want someone who stays with me after the 50-minte hour is over, after the service has ended. Someone who whispers that word of encouragement or correction or comfort when I am "walking by the way, when I lie down and when I rise up." Whenever.
Isn't that someone supposed to be God? If only I could hear God's voice the way I hear the voice of the WiiFit! An instant feedback loop for the spirit:
"Extend that hand a bit more - that's it, Deb!"
"Try hearing not just with your ears, but with your heart. Yes, like that."
"Be patient. Show more love. Yes, even to that nudnik in your office."
"You can't fix it. It's OK. You did what you could."
"Open your eyes! Pause. Be grateful. Good for you!"
This month of Elul, it seems to me, is about learning to listen for the voices in our lives which move us forward and keep us going. The voices without and within.
Oh, and I've lost three pounds.
Monday, August 31, 2009
So much for my commitment to daily practice, spiritual or otherwise! Forgive me; it's been a week since I blogged. Why is it so difficult to adhere to a commitment like this? Is it the "daily" part of it? And then the sense that if I miss one entry and then another, my subsequent entries have to be that much longer or impressive or funny or profound? So that ups the ante even more. "The perfect is the enemy of the good." Voltaire said that (I looked it up on the Internet), and it's true. Our quest for perfection doesn't necessarily move us forward; it often stops us (miserably) in our tracks.
Last night in the car, as I drove home with my kids from a USY (youth group) meeting, I was bemoaning my failure to blog. "Don't be so hard on yourself, Mom" my children told me. "Life just got in the way." They're right. Life did get in the way this past week. Big time. So many crises and calls and meetings and errands and chores and school starting and the holidays coming and then, to top it off, moths in the cabinets.
Yes, moths in the cabinets. Not harmful or poisonous (I looked that one up too!), but disturbing nonetheless. School was about to start (and hence the need to pack school lunches),so I had gone shopping with my daughter to restock the house with healthy, appealing snacks and ingredients.
And then I opened the pantry cabinet, only to find tiny moths flying out at us. These aren't the first moths we've seen, of course. But here they were, settled down comfortably in the pantry, just as I was about to put away all the back-to-school lunch food. It was more than I could bear. The sight of them sent me over the edge. Thus began my battle with the moths. It had become urgent. And personal.
Meanwhile, of course, more serious issues claimed my attention: sick congregants and financial pressures and family stuff and shul renovations ("Oh no, the crew packed up all the prayerbooks and talleisim! Which box are they in?") But most of those challenges had no easy resolutions (except the packed-up prayerbooks; we found those.) With the moths, on the other hand, I could fight and likely emerge victorious. Even if it meant losing sleep. Or not keeping up with my blog.
Last night, even though it was late, I logged onto the WiiFit. I had lost weight since a week ago! Despite my lousy week, my missteps, my moth obsession. The WiiFit, like my kids, was encouraging. "Good work," it told me. Not perfect, surely, but good enough.
Last night in the car, as I drove home with my kids from a USY (youth group) meeting, I was bemoaning my failure to blog. "Don't be so hard on yourself, Mom" my children told me. "Life just got in the way." They're right. Life did get in the way this past week. Big time. So many crises and calls and meetings and errands and chores and school starting and the holidays coming and then, to top it off, moths in the cabinets.
Yes, moths in the cabinets. Not harmful or poisonous (I looked that one up too!), but disturbing nonetheless. School was about to start (and hence the need to pack school lunches),so I had gone shopping with my daughter to restock the house with healthy, appealing snacks and ingredients.
And then I opened the pantry cabinet, only to find tiny moths flying out at us. These aren't the first moths we've seen, of course. But here they were, settled down comfortably in the pantry, just as I was about to put away all the back-to-school lunch food. It was more than I could bear. The sight of them sent me over the edge. Thus began my battle with the moths. It had become urgent. And personal.
Meanwhile, of course, more serious issues claimed my attention: sick congregants and financial pressures and family stuff and shul renovations ("Oh no, the crew packed up all the prayerbooks and talleisim! Which box are they in?") But most of those challenges had no easy resolutions (except the packed-up prayerbooks; we found those.) With the moths, on the other hand, I could fight and likely emerge victorious. Even if it meant losing sleep. Or not keeping up with my blog.
Last night, even though it was late, I logged onto the WiiFit. I had lost weight since a week ago! Despite my lousy week, my missteps, my moth obsession. The WiiFit, like my kids, was encouraging. "Good work," it told me. Not perfect, surely, but good enough.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Halleluyah! I learned how to work the WiiFit. I had to. Having announced on the blog that I was going to try it, I felt compelled to follow through. Also, I had encouragement from my teen-aged son, Max. Partly, I think, he was just eager to see me wield the Wii controls. I am not a video game player. Mostly what I do is work. In the kitchen. At shul. At meetings. Driving in the car. On the phone. In front of the computer. I am always working.
I remember when Max was little, around two and a half, and we were preparing for Passover (the presence of a toddler does not make this easier!) I wanted to convey to him something about the meaning of the holiday, so I described what it was like to be a slave. "What if you could never play?" I asked him. "What if all you could do was work, work, work all the time? In the morning, all day long, until late at night?" He thought for a moment. "You mean like you, Mommy?"
It was funny, of course. Part of me was appalled. Is that really how my baby saw me? As a drudge? What kind of a role model was I for him? And how would my actions affect his view of mothers in particular and women in general? The feminist in me recoiled. Big time.
But another part of me was secretly pleased. Because he had recognized my self-sacrifice and hard work. I wasn't playing the martyr, God forbid. But he had touched a chord and the echo of that remains with me. Endless work as a female badge of honor. An assuaging of guilt. A perverse kind of self-satisfaction.
I'm ready to move away from that. I don't believe that's what God demands of us. Of women. Of me.
So tonight, Max and I played on the WiiFit. It was hard, but he cheered me on. I did pretty badly on the balance exercises. (The Wii trainer asked me if I trip a lot when I walk! As if!) But I broke a sweat. And I made a start. I played with Max. And I had fun.
I remember when Max was little, around two and a half, and we were preparing for Passover (the presence of a toddler does not make this easier!) I wanted to convey to him something about the meaning of the holiday, so I described what it was like to be a slave. "What if you could never play?" I asked him. "What if all you could do was work, work, work all the time? In the morning, all day long, until late at night?" He thought for a moment. "You mean like you, Mommy?"
It was funny, of course. Part of me was appalled. Is that really how my baby saw me? As a drudge? What kind of a role model was I for him? And how would my actions affect his view of mothers in particular and women in general? The feminist in me recoiled. Big time.
But another part of me was secretly pleased. Because he had recognized my self-sacrifice and hard work. I wasn't playing the martyr, God forbid. But he had touched a chord and the echo of that remains with me. Endless work as a female badge of honor. An assuaging of guilt. A perverse kind of self-satisfaction.
I'm ready to move away from that. I don't believe that's what God demands of us. Of women. Of me.
So tonight, Max and I played on the WiiFit. It was hard, but he cheered me on. I did pretty badly on the balance exercises. (The Wii trainer asked me if I trip a lot when I walk! As if!) But I broke a sweat. And I made a start. I played with Max. And I had fun.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
I'm tired. Not frazzled or worried tired, but bone tired. Today my husband and I did some heavy work in the house, moving and cleaning and lifting. The kids were coming home and I wanted to get some things done before they came back. It was hot and humid and I didn't want to pause; I wanted to finish and then shower off.
Now, of course, the house looks chaotic. The living room is strewn with sleeping bags, pillows and suitcases. The kitchen is filled with the detritus of dinner. And the dining room with the stuff that needs to be thrown out as a result of today's sweaty labors.
So no, I didn't learn how to work the WiiFit tonight. My kids were exhausted; they wouldn't have had the patience and forbearance I require when learning new technical skills. Besides, I cleaned so much today! That's like a workout, isn't it? (Although if cleaning made a person lose weight, I'd be thin as a rail.)
No matter. I wasn't up for jumping around in front of the TV screen tonight anyway. Instead, my husband and I left our tired, crabby teenagers at home and saw a movie. And no popcorn!
Now, of course, the house looks chaotic. The living room is strewn with sleeping bags, pillows and suitcases. The kitchen is filled with the detritus of dinner. And the dining room with the stuff that needs to be thrown out as a result of today's sweaty labors.
So no, I didn't learn how to work the WiiFit tonight. My kids were exhausted; they wouldn't have had the patience and forbearance I require when learning new technical skills. Besides, I cleaned so much today! That's like a workout, isn't it? (Although if cleaning made a person lose weight, I'd be thin as a rail.)
No matter. I wasn't up for jumping around in front of the TV screen tonight anyway. Instead, my husband and I left our tired, crabby teenagers at home and saw a movie. And no popcorn!
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Men tracht und Gott lacht is Yiddish for "Human beings plan and God laughs," or in the current idiom: Life happens.
Here was my plan for Thursday, the first day of the month of Elul: Spend the morning with meetings and appointments, swim, work at the computer and then walk in the later afternoon. I had an unexpectedly free evening, both my kids were away all week at camp and my husband (a nurse who works second shift) had the night off, so I (uncharacteristically) made reservations to go out to dinner and see a play with him.
Just as I was about to put my exercise plan into gear (i.e., change into my bathing suit), the phone rang. It was the camp nurse. My son was feeling miserably sick and she advised us to pick him up and get him home into some air conditioning. I hung up the telephone and cried. Not for myself, I explained to my husband later. For my son. (My husband thought at least a few of the tears could have been shed for our dashed plans.)
The camp was four hours away. It was a beautiful, scenic drive, but still...
The next afternoon, after spending the night with our son in an air-conditioned motel, and assuring ourselves that he was on the mend, we returned him to camp. He wasn't in tip-top shape, but then again, neither were we.
I'll spare you the details of our long drive back through lashing rain, tornado warnings ("Anyone driving in a car through this listening area is advised to exit the car, lie down in a ditch and cover your head"), traffic jams, accidents, and road work. Forget the scenery: we needed to get back before Shabbat, which begins 18 minutes before sunset. Well, we made it, but just barely. Our four-hour trip had stetched to nearly six.
Luckily, we had food. Pointing out to my husband that we had prepared no food for Shabbat (when we don't cook), I had looked at the map and suggested that we stop off in Monticello (a largely Hasidic religious enclave in the Catskills) to look for Kosher take-out.
Success! We found a place called Coby's Corner; on Thursday nights and Fridays, they turn their large back banquet hall into a self-service Shabbat take-out extravaganza. There, arrayed on long tables covered in white plastic, were: chickens prepared in a variety of ways, kugels, rice and barley dishes, gefilte fish and whitefish and herring and salmon, meatballs and stuffed cabbage, roasted potatoes and vegetables, fried Morroccan cigars, kishka, knishes, franks in blankets, cole slaw and potato salad, pickled red cabbage, spiced chickpeas, chopped liver and chicken soup (noodles and matzo balls extra.)
I was at once thrilled and alarmed. Is it any wonder Jews have issues with food? Before me, I saw the evidence. Shabbat, holidays, family, celebration, love and loss - for us, it's all connected with food. Lots of it. Not all of it so healthy, either.
I filled plastic containers and tins, shoved a couple of chickens into a foil-lined bag, and began making my way to the register. Just then, my husband came in. His eyes widened. "It's just the two of us, you know," he reminded me "the kids are both at camp." I pointed out that we could have one feast on Friday night and then eat completely different food on Saturday (instead of the usual leftovers from the night before.) He could take some of the food to work and we would have some more for when the kids came home. Or I could freeze it.
To summarize: On Thursday, I sat in a car instead of swimming and walking. On Friday, I bought food for a small army. Tomorrow, the kids come home. I'll make them show me how to use WiiFit!
Here was my plan for Thursday, the first day of the month of Elul: Spend the morning with meetings and appointments, swim, work at the computer and then walk in the later afternoon. I had an unexpectedly free evening, both my kids were away all week at camp and my husband (a nurse who works second shift) had the night off, so I (uncharacteristically) made reservations to go out to dinner and see a play with him.
Just as I was about to put my exercise plan into gear (i.e., change into my bathing suit), the phone rang. It was the camp nurse. My son was feeling miserably sick and she advised us to pick him up and get him home into some air conditioning. I hung up the telephone and cried. Not for myself, I explained to my husband later. For my son. (My husband thought at least a few of the tears could have been shed for our dashed plans.)
The camp was four hours away. It was a beautiful, scenic drive, but still...
The next afternoon, after spending the night with our son in an air-conditioned motel, and assuring ourselves that he was on the mend, we returned him to camp. He wasn't in tip-top shape, but then again, neither were we.
I'll spare you the details of our long drive back through lashing rain, tornado warnings ("Anyone driving in a car through this listening area is advised to exit the car, lie down in a ditch and cover your head"), traffic jams, accidents, and road work. Forget the scenery: we needed to get back before Shabbat, which begins 18 minutes before sunset. Well, we made it, but just barely. Our four-hour trip had stetched to nearly six.
Luckily, we had food. Pointing out to my husband that we had prepared no food for Shabbat (when we don't cook), I had looked at the map and suggested that we stop off in Monticello (a largely Hasidic religious enclave in the Catskills) to look for Kosher take-out.
Success! We found a place called Coby's Corner; on Thursday nights and Fridays, they turn their large back banquet hall into a self-service Shabbat take-out extravaganza. There, arrayed on long tables covered in white plastic, were: chickens prepared in a variety of ways, kugels, rice and barley dishes, gefilte fish and whitefish and herring and salmon, meatballs and stuffed cabbage, roasted potatoes and vegetables, fried Morroccan cigars, kishka, knishes, franks in blankets, cole slaw and potato salad, pickled red cabbage, spiced chickpeas, chopped liver and chicken soup (noodles and matzo balls extra.)
I was at once thrilled and alarmed. Is it any wonder Jews have issues with food? Before me, I saw the evidence. Shabbat, holidays, family, celebration, love and loss - for us, it's all connected with food. Lots of it. Not all of it so healthy, either.
I filled plastic containers and tins, shoved a couple of chickens into a foil-lined bag, and began making my way to the register. Just then, my husband came in. His eyes widened. "It's just the two of us, you know," he reminded me "the kids are both at camp." I pointed out that we could have one feast on Friday night and then eat completely different food on Saturday (instead of the usual leftovers from the night before.) He could take some of the food to work and we would have some more for when the kids came home. Or I could freeze it.
To summarize: On Thursday, I sat in a car instead of swimming and walking. On Friday, I bought food for a small army. Tomorrow, the kids come home. I'll make them show me how to use WiiFit!
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Rosh Hodesh Elul. The second posting of my blog. This morning, I participated in a conference call with Barack Obama about healthcare. Me and a thousand other rabbis. Still, it was pretty thrilling. The President, and the rabbinic speakers who followed, made reference to Unetaneh Tokef, that dramatic (if rather chilling) prayer we recite on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. You know, the one that asks "Who shall live and who shall die? Who by fire and who by water?" and includes a long list of possible calamities. Scary, sobering stuff. Listening to that prayer, we imagine our future hanging in the balance, our fate decreed, signed and sealed on those Days of Awe.
Except.
The crescendo of the prayer/poem is the declaration that teshuvah, tefillah and tzedakah - repentance, prayer/reflection and righteous/charitable acts - can soften the harshness of the decree.
God doesn't decide it all for us. Of course, life happens. And we all get sick and die. But we have a role to play as well. We are God's partners.
I didn't get so unhealthy overnight. And I didn't just suddenly start neglecting myself. It happened little by little, in response to pressures and crises. And in response to some good impulses, too. The desire to help and support others, to be a good mother, wife, daughter, rabbi, teacher. Now I want to be another kind of role model, though. One who pays attention to her own precious life. Who doesn't squander the blessings of health. Who attempts to soften the harshness of the decree.
Except.
The crescendo of the prayer/poem is the declaration that teshuvah, tefillah and tzedakah - repentance, prayer/reflection and righteous/charitable acts - can soften the harshness of the decree.
God doesn't decide it all for us. Of course, life happens. And we all get sick and die. But we have a role to play as well. We are God's partners.
I didn't get so unhealthy overnight. And I didn't just suddenly start neglecting myself. It happened little by little, in response to pressures and crises. And in response to some good impulses, too. The desire to help and support others, to be a good mother, wife, daughter, rabbi, teacher. Now I want to be another kind of role model, though. One who pays attention to her own precious life. Who doesn't squander the blessings of health. Who attempts to soften the harshness of the decree.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Starting a blog was my sister's idea. "Remember this day," she told me. "It's the day you decided to write a blog and change your life." This is not the first idea she's had for me. Last year, she tried to convince me to go on "The Biggest Loser," that reality show where people engage in a very strict, intense regimen of diet and exercise, lose tons of weight and get fit and healthy. I don't know what she was thinking. I have a family: a husband, two teenagers and a little dog who live with me. And a mother and mother-in-law who live nearby. And a congregation. And they all depend on me. I can't leave them for months on end. I can barely leave them for hours on end.
And, of course, that's part of the problem. Like many women, like many rabbis (and other clergy), I'm too busy helping other people to take very good care of myself. And my sister worries about me. Hence the blog idea.
Start a blog about losing weight., she told me. A blog about getting fit. About learning to set limits and having a more balanced life. Make it a discipline. (A spiritual discipline?) Do it late at night, when your meetings are over and the kids are in bed (has she met my kids?) and it's too late to make any more phone calls and you're done cleaning and cooking and you're up anyway. (I am. I'm a night person.)
At first I dismissed the idea entirely. After all, I'm not a fan of blogs. Bloggers strike me as completely self-involved. They assume other people are interested in everything they do, in all their random musings. Plus, I don't like the idea of people knowing so much about me. Strangers, people I don't know, might read my blog. (Or, even worse, people I do know.)
But my sister's timing was impeccable. The summer was drawing to a close. Yet another summer during which I had not lost weight, or gotten enough exercise, hadn't felt relaxed or renewed by the end. And now it was going to be too late. Because facing me all too soon were back-to-school and Rosh Hashanah and programs and sermons and deadlines and responsibilities.
My sister told me to start a blog and I realized that the Hebrew month of Elul was about to start. The month before the new year. The month for introspection and resolution and taking stock. The month when we focus on all the ways we can change the world for the better, beginning with ourselves. The month when we acknowledge that we are created in God's image and ponder what that demands of us. My sister was right. It was the perfect time to begin to blog.
And, of course, that's part of the problem. Like many women, like many rabbis (and other clergy), I'm too busy helping other people to take very good care of myself. And my sister worries about me. Hence the blog idea.
Start a blog about losing weight., she told me. A blog about getting fit. About learning to set limits and having a more balanced life. Make it a discipline. (A spiritual discipline?) Do it late at night, when your meetings are over and the kids are in bed (has she met my kids?) and it's too late to make any more phone calls and you're done cleaning and cooking and you're up anyway. (I am. I'm a night person.)
At first I dismissed the idea entirely. After all, I'm not a fan of blogs. Bloggers strike me as completely self-involved. They assume other people are interested in everything they do, in all their random musings. Plus, I don't like the idea of people knowing so much about me. Strangers, people I don't know, might read my blog. (Or, even worse, people I do know.)
But my sister's timing was impeccable. The summer was drawing to a close. Yet another summer during which I had not lost weight, or gotten enough exercise, hadn't felt relaxed or renewed by the end. And now it was going to be too late. Because facing me all too soon were back-to-school and Rosh Hashanah and programs and sermons and deadlines and responsibilities.
My sister told me to start a blog and I realized that the Hebrew month of Elul was about to start. The month before the new year. The month for introspection and resolution and taking stock. The month when we focus on all the ways we can change the world for the better, beginning with ourselves. The month when we acknowledge that we are created in God's image and ponder what that demands of us. My sister was right. It was the perfect time to begin to blog.
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