blind insight

Renewal.

Last year, Rosh Hashana services left me cold. I'm not much for religious services in general and the whole God thing is pretty much lost on me, but most years, I groove on the intensity and the powerful feelings of community, heritage, and spirituality that seem to permeate High Holidays services. But in 2003, I just wasn't feeling it. Perhaps it was because my nephew made his early appearance just a few days before Rosh Hashana, distracting all of us (joyously) with the trip to Atlanta for his bris and resulting in the first cancellation in 20-some-odd years of my parents' Rosh Hashana open house. Whatever the reason, the holidays left me feeling disconnected and a little sad.

When the new year rolled around again, barely 24 hours after I returned from Greece, I had no real expectations of it. Yet almost in spite of myself, I came away from Rosh Hashana filled with a sense of spiritual renewal and connectedness. My grandmother made her annual pilgrimage westward, bringing her indomitable spirit and razor-sharp wit; the rabbi's sermon was, if a bit long, relevant and thought-provoking; Steve attended his first Jewish service and survived, even asking intelligent and discussion-generating questions afterwards; the Open House was as crowded, food-filled, and entertaining as ever despite the one-year hiatus. And although the English readings at services were as lost on me as always, the prayers and songs and chanting in Hebrew spun a silvery thread in my heart and bound me tighter to the fabric of tradition.

L'shana Tova.

The post that may very well result in my being disinherited.

I am now the proud (?!) owner of an official Justice Sandra Day O’Connor bobblehead doll, courtesy of The Green Bag (to which I subscribe only for the articles, of course). While I’m not necessarily a fan of Sandy and her (case) swinging ways, she does have the distinction of being the very first Supreme Court Justice of whom I was aware in any tangible way.

Back in 1986, the Supreme Court decided Bowers v. Hardwick, which held that Georgia constitutionally could outlaw gay sex (and which - in case you've been living in a cave with Osama bin Laden - was overrulled last year in Lawrence v. Texas). Later that year, my mother wrote and performed a show-stopping number at the Boulder County Bar Association show. The song, to the tune of Sweet Georgia Brown, lambasted the Bowers decision in brilliantly rhyming fashion. But the best part of the act was my mother herself as Justice O, prancing around the stage sporting a black judicial robe, white puffy collar, blonde wig, and (oh yes) a green foam Miss Liberty tiara.

And people wonder why I wanted to become a lawyer.

More entertaining than the Coke museum.

There is a reason why Atlanta is not among the Top Ten Best Summer Vacation Destinations. Several reasons, actually, including the thick, steamy sludge that passes for air, the oppressive heat, and the substantial absence of fun (even tolerable) things to do other than watch movies, visit shopping malls, or sit in an air-conditioned room and attempt to move as little as possible.

There is, however, one excellent reason to visit Atlanta in June:

Lucky for me, this exceptionally cute, cuddly, and precocious reason was happy to spend the weekend rolling around on the floor with his silly Auntie Mad, leaving me no great need to go outside or to bother with movies, shopping malls, or other diversions. In fact, by the end of the weekend I'd managed to lure him into a pretty good imitation of a crawl.

This accomplishment was motivated by the burning need to knock over any stack of objects within his sight line. Apparently, towers of blocks are highly repugnant to the sensibilities of nine-month-old boys, and MUST BE KNOCKED DOWN AT ALL COSTS. For several hours, the toppling of the offending structures was accomplished by awkward, side-legged butt-scootching followed by a prone, full-body-extension (which would have inspired envy in the most devoted yoga addict), culminating in the desperate, but ultimately successful extreme-one-finger-reach move. Little by little, though, fueled by adrenaline and auntly cheers and showers of tickles and kisses, the frog leg found its way under the butt, the scootching turned into a relatively smooth one-knee-after-another motion, and soon there was no safe haven in Nathandom for a blockity tower.

I'm so proud. Still, I think I'll wait until maybe October or so to visit next.

Hey la, hey la, my best friend's back!

I'm still way too busy, though the brief is off my desk (and good, I think), but I'm in a state of sheer and total joy. You see, after FOURTEEN long (for me) months of globe-trotting and gallivanting about, my best friend is home at last!

We're talking about my very best friend in the whole wide world. This is the woman I would marry if I was gay and we lived in Massachusetts or Toronto and she wasn't already hitched. The woman who helped me celebrate the taking of the LSATs by streaking along the Boulder Creek Path to the Justice Center at 2:00 in the morning, the woman who once traded Halloween costumes with our male neighbor (hers: sexy genie, his: something dorky involving a white lab outfit) in the bathroom of a bar. The woman whose house keys I once forgot to return before I left for the airport in Paris, nearly forcing me to cause an international incident at DeGaulle, and the woman who agreed, on the spur of the moment, to go to Milan with me (from Denver) just for the weekend. This woman and I once shared an apartment decorated entirely in early parental basement punctuated by strategically placed plastic bulls from bottles of $5 Sangre de Toro. And this is the woman who once helped me finish 2/3 of a bottle of tequila, a flask or two of sake, and an enormous amount of sushi, then pulled me head-first into a bench on the Pearl Street Mall moments before leaving all of the above-mentioned libations in a puddle on the ground.

This is my partner in crime. My bud. The girl I co-chaired all sorts of clubs with in high school, positions we played off one another in order to maximize our ability to ditch school and drink coffee. The chick I played hooky with to go skiing, the craziest mogul-chomping hotdogger in town, and the most fearless adrenaline seeker I know.

We've shared living quarters, piles of books, writing projects, crazed adventures, ridiculous nicknames, endless conversations, a lifetime of laughter, more than our share of tears, and one man (at different times, though with similarly disappointing results).

Her absence has been an omnipresent hole in my world, though her postcards and e-mails and even occasional surprise packages have kept us close and allowed me to share vicariously in her journeys. And now she's back, and all is right in the world again.

Family matters.

I suppose that when your significant other is a kind and sweet and honest and smart and interesting and liberal and open-minded and grounded and funny person, it should come as no suprise that his parents and sister also possess all of those good and important qualities. And it should be no great shocker when your own (equally-good-quality-possessing) parents hit it off famously with his clan, and manage to carry a delightful dinner conversation with no assistance from your background-noise-challenged self. Nor should it be cause for astonishment when his family turns out to be as rabid and competitive a bunch of card-players as your own, or that they are equally fond of food, wine, and witty repartee.

Sure feels good, though.

And I even like the gefilte fish.

I love my family's Passover seder. During my college years, I could never manage to come home for seder, and instead suffered through various subpar iterations (the exception being the year I lived in France, when my parents' visit coincided with Pesach and we experienced one of the most wonderful seder meals of all time at the home of some French friends). But for the past twelve years, I haven't missed a single seder en famille.

Perhaps someday I'll have enough space to host a seder of my own, and my mother will see fit to relinquish the honors of hosting. But until then, I will be content to sit in my place at the corner of the long table, just to my mother's left and with easy access to the kitchen door. I will utter my requisite moans and groans at the dog-eared state of our yet-to-be-updated family Haggadah, complete with the cover my brother and I created on our Apple II in 1987. I will dissolve into giggles when we sing my father's special Boulder Action for Soviet Jewry spiritual, in which we "tell old Gorbachev/to let my people go." My mother and I will delight ourselves -- if no one else -- with our annual medley of Passover parody songs. And we will make my mother's night by attempting to sing all the verses of Echod Mi Yodeah in the melody only our family seems to know.

The table will be too crowded, the mazoh balls will be too dense (just the way I like them), and the chrain will be eye-wateringly bitter. My mother will insist that we drink at least one cup of "the good stuff" before we gratefully turn our glasses over to the more tolerable kosher Merlot. We will be ravenously hungry by the time we eat our first bite of mazoh, because my father will require that we not only read the entire (customized, lengthy) Haggadah but discuss it, too. And then there will be more food than we could possibly eat and enough laughter and silliness to erase any memory of slavery, plagues, and desert wandering.

We will search endlessly for the afikomen, marveling once again at my father's ability to baffle us despite the jam-packed room and his seemingly permanent presence at the table. And when we finally find it, he will force me to bargain with him for its return, though I know we'll (again) be getting a $1 coin (and, on occasion, a little extra treat).

We will tell the same stories, ask the same questions, and laugh at the same jokes. There will always be a stray Jew or two to bring fresh blood to the table, but for the most part, the faces will remain the same (if a bit older).

I suppose that one of these years the prayed-for will come to pass, and we will celebrate in Jerusalem. But until then, my own seder-closing wish is simply this: Next year, in Boulder again.

Teach your children well.

I will be happy to see the tail end of March, as this month has brought one death after another within the six degrees of separation that delineate my world. Just in the past ten days, the grim reaper has claimed my father's cousin (leukemia), a colleague's brother (tragic accident), a friend's mother (MS), and my grandfather's sister (age, a broken hip, and assorted other ailments). Enough already.

Although my great aunt was old and her death expected, perhaps even merciful, her absence raises a serious question: What will her son do now? Or, more accurately, what will her son do after his father (who must be close to 90 years old now) also dies? Because my great aunt's son (my mother's cousin, and my first cousin once removed) has Usher Syndrome.

In fact, he's the only other relative whom we know has Usher. Through a research study in which my family participated, the gene that causes Usher in Ashkenazi Jewish families has been identified, and we know it must come from both parents to produce a child with the disease. But we know of no forbear on my father's side who landed this lucky genetic prize, and only this cousin, G., on my mother's.

I hardly know G., but from the time I was diagnosed with Usher over 20 years ago, he's served as a gut check for me -- sort of an anti-lodestar -- whenever I've slipped into self-pity. G. is older than my parents, perhaps in his mid-60s, but still lives in his parents' apartment. To my knowledge, he doesn't work, and I don't even know whether he went to college. At family events he keeps to himself or clings to his parents' side, and he appears to have no ability to function in a social setting.

My mother thinks his hearing is better than mine, though his vision may be worse. But whether he can see or hear more or less than I, he is far more disabled. G. was brought up to be handicapped. Perhaps his parents needed him to depend upon them, in that clinging, desperate way that parents of only children sometimes do. Maybe they were too afraid of what evils the world might inflict upon a young man with clouded vision and muffled hearing. G., after all, grew up before technology opened myriad new doors for people with all sorts of impairments. Or maybe the fear was his, and his parents were unwilling or unable to push him out of the nest so he could learn to fly on his own.

The family grapevine suggests that G.'s parents have made some "arrangement" for his care after his father's death, whenever that may be. I suppose he will live the remainder of his days in some type of institutional or group home. There's a part of me that hopes these new surroundings will force (or at least encourage) him to discover his abilities and to achieve some semblance of an independent life, though I have no reason to believe he desires such an existence.

But whenever I think about G., I feel an incredible rush of gratitude towards my parents, who raised me to know that neither hearing impairment nor vision loss could prevent me from making my own way in the world. I wonder, sometimes, who and what and how and where I would be, had I not hit the jackpot in the parental lottery. While I might not have wound up with the same genetic hand, I would surely have been dealt some kind of bupkes, as we all are. But with another set of parents, I might have grown up to see my limitations as brick walls in my path, instead of rickety hurdles that I can leap over with a little training and perseverance (or at least knock down trying).

This year in Jerusalem.

My parents left for Israel this morning. This means that for the next two weeks, while they gallivant around with their wonderful guide, meeting with interesting people and seeing fascinating sights and eating eggplant for breakfast, lunch, dinner and even (my mother swears) dessert, I will be on heightened alert, and will find myself deeply aware of the perils that would be involved in my day-to-day goings about if those goings about were happening in Israel.

I know this because it happened to me last January, when they visited Israel for the first time since my bat mitzvah trip 20 years before (I went again on a teen tour in 1987, but haven't been since). They jetted off armed with GSM cell phones, promising to steer clear of buses and hotels and leaving behind a long list of "things to do if we don't come back." Needless to say, this is not the way to reassure your child that your trip to a country ripped by terrorist attacks will be perfectly delightful.

While they were away, I found myself boarding the bus in the morning, thinking about what it might feel like to have to board a bus in Jerusalem knowing that it could explode at any moment. As I waited for my coffee in the morning, I would imagine the decision-making process an Israeli must make before stopping into a neighborhood cafe. And I clearly recall going to a party and wondering what it would feel like to attend such a gathering knowing that simply by joining a large group of friends for a celebration you became a target for terrorism.

In a way, this heightened awareness is good, because it forces me to pull my head out of the insular American sand in which I often hide it. But the reality is that I cannot possibly comprehend what it is to be Israeli, and to live day-to-day with the reality of terrorism. My Israeli friends tell me that they do not consciously assess the risks of boarding busses, dining out, and visiting friends. Those risks are simply part of life in Israel, and you cannot live in Israel without becoming a raving, housebound lunatic unless you accept them and proceed to live your life.

And of course my parents had a wonderful time, and came back bursting with excitement and satisfaction and wonderful gifts.

This year, they are traveling with several friends from their synagogue, and much of their trip will be spent with friends in Zichron Yaakov, a community near Haifa whose Reform synagogue has become the sister congregation to my parents' shul in Boulder. It is no easy proposition to sustain a Reform congregation in Israel, where a small Orthodox minority controls religious life, and the majority is completely secular. So my parents and their friends have developed a cooperative relationship with Zichron Yaakov, and members have been traveling in both directions over the past few years to build relationships and discuss how the partnership should proceed.

That they are in Israel for a purposeful visit and are not simply running around with cameras around their neck taking pictures of the cute little soldiers with their cute little Uzis does not alleviate my anxiety. I cringe in horror and sadness whenever I read of terrorist attacks in Israel. And I believe fervently that American Jews need to travel to Israel now, to support the economy and to let Israel know that we have not abandoned her. But, selfish child that I am, I just want my mommy and daddy to come home safe.

Auntie Mad goes to Boulder.

I am wearing my still-novel "Auntie Mad" hat for the next few days, and falling in love with my gorgeous baby nephew all over again! At five months old, he is full of smiles, coos, and curiosity. He seemed a bit unsettled upon arrival at my house last night, as my parents and I scrambled over one another in an effort to be the first to make googly eyes and funny faces at him. But after a little romp around the living room with his silly Auntie, to the tune of "You are my Sunshine" (the only song I can sing in the general vicinity of on-key and for some reason the first thing that pops into my head the second a small child is placed in my arms), he seemed to remember us, or at least acquiesce in our fawning.

Since his last visit to Colorado back in December, Nathan has become an expert toe-grabber and has almost mastered the art of rolling over. He also has developed a powerful grip, and he spent much of the evening twisting my fingers around in his tiny fists. I'm heading up to Boulder after work for a family dinner and to marvel some more at Nathan's giggles and tricks, then will spend the rest of the weekend skiing with my brother, his wife, and their friends.

When I reach Boulder this afternoon, I'm also going to spend a couple of hours doing something (at least if you'd asked me three weeks ago) entirely unexpected: looking at houses! Yes, that little "moving back to Boulder" notion about which I wrote on Monday has developed into a full-blown idea and is building towards obsession. After playing with the numbers and variables, I doubt I'll actually make this happen any time soon, but my parents' friend the kick-ass Boulder realtor is going to show me a few places today that fit my parameters and possibly my pocketbook. It's scary and exciting and disconcerting all at the same time, but I'm hoping it will give me something concrete to work with as I roll this thing around in my head a bit more.

You can't go home again. (Or can you?)

Since I moved back to Colorado in '97, I've expended considerable invective on Boulder-bashing. My once-beloved hometown, I felt, had become but a poor parody of its delightfully quirky former self. At the slightest provocation, particularly with the encouragement and participation of my best friend, fellow Boulderite, and current globe-circumnavigator Julie, I would launch into a rant against the rigid spandex-and-fleece dress code, the mandatory vegetarian diet, the recycling bins for recycling bins, the sub-10-percent body fat requirement, the glaring whiteness, and the overwhelming number of city residents to be found at Vic's or the Trident at 2:00 p.m. on any given weekday.

But over the past few months, I've felt a strange sensation creeping into my heart during my forays to Boulder. At first it felt like mild heartburn, or perhaps a slight case of altitude sickness. It waned slightly when the Buffs' recruiting scandal broke, but quickly wiggled its way back. Finally, this weekend, it dawned on me that I was not, in fact, suffering from indigestion brought on by too many Girl Scout cookies. Instead, I realized, I'd developed an acute case of Boulderitis. In other words, I was homesick.

The real clarity as to my condition came yesterday, as I gallivanted around Boulder with some friends. The day began at a yoga ashram in Eldorado Canyon, segued to lunch at the Boulder Dushanbe Tea House, continued at the Boulder Rock Club, and culminated with sushi on the Pearl Street Mall with my daddy. The first inkling that something odd might be stirring inside me came during yoga, when the surroundings of Tibetan thangkas, guru photographs, incense, buddha statues, and meditation music failed to annoy the crap out of me. Next, while heading downtown for lunch, I was struck by the beauty of Boulder Creek and the panoply of interesting shops and restaurants, and was hardly bothered by the crowds of skinny, tan, fit people swarming the streets. And at the climbing gym, I gazed in awe at the many incredible climbers around me, including some of the country's top pros, while chatting amiably with fellow climbers, who were far friendlier than the crowd at my usual hangout. Perhaps most important for non-driving me, I realized that all of these places (except perhaps the ashram) are easily accessed by bus and bike.

So when my dad asked me if I miss living in Boulder, for the first time in years I was forced to admit that I do. I miss being able to run up Boulder Canyon or Mount Sanitas and do a little bouldering right off the road. I miss being surrounded by climbers, triathletes, and tele skiers. I miss The Mall. I miss being able to ride my bike almost anywhere in town without having to leave the bike path. I miss being able to go to any bar in town and not come home reeking of smoke. And I miss being close enough to my parents' house that I can see them more than once a month, which is about all I've been able to manage these days.

The commute would be fine -- as my father pointed out, I could get loads of work done on the bus, and the Boulder/Denver service is fast and convenient. But the fly in the ointment of all this missing is that I'm really not in any position to move right now, and I certainly can't afford to live in the parts of Boulder that would work for me. Plus, Steve's not such a Boulder fan (although he's there four days a week this semester). So for now, I'll have to sit back and see whether the longing grows or fades, and then reflect further on what (if anything) I might do about it.