Passover commemorates the liberation of the Jewish people from slavery in Egypt. Jews around the world start this holiday with an at-home Passover service that is called a Seder, and a book called the Haggadah contains the ceremony's liturgy. Throughout the ensuing week, Jews refrain from eating bread and other grains that have been permitted to rise. Bread is replaced by matzo, a mixture of flour and water that is cooked into a cracker in no more than 18 minutes. Eating matzo reminds us that our ancestors had to get out so quickly, that they didn't have time to let their bread rise. The Haggadah instructs each Jew to undertake the journey as if he or she had been present at the exodus from Egypt.
I am Jewish and, with my family, I celebrate Passover. I have been celebrating this holiday my entire life. In adulthood, I have found a slightly different lesson in this holiday every single year. This amazes me. This year, "the journey" has occupied my thoughts.
The journey undertaken by those ancient Jews with Moses required both collective and individual change. Exodus required reformation of the collective, lower than subservient self-image. That collective negativity remains a plague. Our collective remains threatened and afraid - perhaps with good cause. For centuries, Jews have tried to "pass" and our modern artists have explored this phenomenon. Philip Roth, in "The Human Stain" explores this desire to be one with white culture through the ironic vehicle of a black protagonist who spends his life passing as Jewish. Anne Roiphe's magnificent portrayal of her family in "1185 Park Avenue," contains illustrations of classic, modern-day identity conflict. Pointedly describing her perception of Episcopalian non-Jews in her youth, Roiphe states in the first chapter of her book:
"If society is a pyramid in which the top comes to a point, they were the point. They did not so much cast a shadow over the rest as provide a source of constant anxiety for the others. That is the place where you weren't wanted. That is the restricted hotel on this block. That is the hospital that doesn't allow Jewish doctors to admit patients. That is the school you won't bother to apply to. "Them" was the word spoken with a touch of awe and a spark of anger. Who are "they" really to think they own the world and are so much better than "us"? The big businesses, the big banks, the big fortunes, the big givers to charity, the big owners of boxes at the opera: all of them were "them." They didn't want "us." Who cared. In America who cared. And besides one could imitate them or at least try."
In my individual journey, I have tried to shed shame about my identity. I am not the only modern Jew following a road away from self-hate and towards embracing a wonderful tradition. Self-acceptance takes fortitude, but self-acceptance offers the gift of release. Judgment of choices that other people make for their journeys is not necessary. I can choose my path, and other people can choose theirs. A broader acceptance is also being experienced by society at large - with both negative and positive consequences. Isn't it interesting that we all are still in the midst of an Exodus?
May you all have engaging spiritual journeys in the coming week, no matter what holiday you celebrate!
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
The Chocolate Lady
The little beach town of Oyster Bay, on the far north shore of Long Island, is home to a most unique chocolate artisan. In her shoe-box sized store on Audrey Avenue, across from Canterbury Ales and Buckram's Variety Store, The Chocolate Lady, Lee Perrotta, works her magic. Perrotta creates her own base chocolate primarily from vanilla, spices and cacao beans that she personally selects on annual trips to the Caribean at harvest time. There are actually 15 different chocolates involved in formation of the base, and that includes some French and belgian bases. The resulting chocolate is crafted into the confections that are made at the store in Oyster Bay. Passion, creativity and connection to the history of the art of chocolate making sets The Chocolate Lady apart from other local chocolatiers, and you can taste the difference.
Being health conscious, I am partial to dark chocolate. In this area, the Chocolate Lady excels. Chocolate covered caramels are smooth and rich, especially when accompanied by a hint of grey salt. Chocolate covered marshmallows are another favorite. Well, so is the chocolate covered orange peel, chocolate covered nuts and any truffle that Lee and The Chocolate Lady collective create. Other chocolatiers have approached non-traditional spice and chocolate combinations, but the "Maya Maya, So Spicy We Named it Twice" truffle is a stand out. With its secret ingredient that gives the truffle a special kick, the Maya Maya truffle is not for gulping. Savored slowly in small bites, however, this truffle reveals layers of sweet, savory and spicy.
The Chocolate Lady is a family affair. The store's logo features a sepia picture of Lee's great aunt, who was a chocolatier in the early 1900's, astride her chocolate making table. That same table now resides in the Oyster Bay store. Husband Paul is generally around and son Brandon, though not a chocolate aficionado, makes an ocassional appearances and came up with the idea for a cookie dough truffle. Paul Jr., the couple's elder son, is serving our country in the Armed Forces. So, patronizing The Chocolate Lady is not only supportive of the local economy, but also an act of patriotism. What's more,
The Chocolate Lady chocolate, in particular, has been shown to have positive health benefits.
Okay, that statement is not based on a scientific study, but eating The Chocolate Lady chocolate has made me and my daughters very happy. My husband bought me two diamond bracelets for a landmark birthday. They were okay and I eked out a form of thanks, but the gift of The Chocolate Lady chocolates this past Valetine's Day elicited a FAR more exuberant response. The bracelets were returned; the chocolates were joyfully devoured. Also, I sent a box to my cousin after brain surgery. She wrote," The chocolates were terrific, and they definitely made me feel better!" What other proof is required?
Visiting The Chocolate Lady, alone, is excuse enough for a trip to Oyster Bay. The Chocolate Lady products can be ordered on line at www.chocolateladyboutique.com, too. Ms. Perrotta also makes educational presentations about chocolate the history of chocolate and loves to prepare favors for any type of party. What an excuse to have a party! Visit the shop at 49 Audrey Avenue in Oyster Bay or call (516)922-2002.
By the way, this is an unsolicited review. I haven't been paid AT ALL. However, I have been influenced by the chocolate and the affable atmosphere created in the shop by its owner and her family.
Being health conscious, I am partial to dark chocolate. In this area, the Chocolate Lady excels. Chocolate covered caramels are smooth and rich, especially when accompanied by a hint of grey salt. Chocolate covered marshmallows are another favorite. Well, so is the chocolate covered orange peel, chocolate covered nuts and any truffle that Lee and The Chocolate Lady collective create. Other chocolatiers have approached non-traditional spice and chocolate combinations, but the "Maya Maya, So Spicy We Named it Twice" truffle is a stand out. With its secret ingredient that gives the truffle a special kick, the Maya Maya truffle is not for gulping. Savored slowly in small bites, however, this truffle reveals layers of sweet, savory and spicy.
The Chocolate Lady is a family affair. The store's logo features a sepia picture of Lee's great aunt, who was a chocolatier in the early 1900's, astride her chocolate making table. That same table now resides in the Oyster Bay store. Husband Paul is generally around and son Brandon, though not a chocolate aficionado, makes an ocassional appearances and came up with the idea for a cookie dough truffle. Paul Jr., the couple's elder son, is serving our country in the Armed Forces. So, patronizing The Chocolate Lady is not only supportive of the local economy, but also an act of patriotism. What's more,
The Chocolate Lady chocolate, in particular, has been shown to have positive health benefits.
Okay, that statement is not based on a scientific study, but eating The Chocolate Lady chocolate has made me and my daughters very happy. My husband bought me two diamond bracelets for a landmark birthday. They were okay and I eked out a form of thanks, but the gift of The Chocolate Lady chocolates this past Valetine's Day elicited a FAR more exuberant response. The bracelets were returned; the chocolates were joyfully devoured. Also, I sent a box to my cousin after brain surgery. She wrote," The chocolates were terrific, and they definitely made me feel better!" What other proof is required?
Visiting The Chocolate Lady, alone, is excuse enough for a trip to Oyster Bay. The Chocolate Lady products can be ordered on line at www.chocolateladyboutique.com, too. Ms. Perrotta also makes educational presentations about chocolate the history of chocolate and loves to prepare favors for any type of party. What an excuse to have a party! Visit the shop at 49 Audrey Avenue in Oyster Bay or call (516)922-2002.
By the way, this is an unsolicited review. I haven't been paid AT ALL. However, I have been influenced by the chocolate and the affable atmosphere created in the shop by its owner and her family.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Recovery
I take the most amazing spin classes at Equinox Fitness Club in Woodbury, New York with Kristen Gagne. Interval training -raising the heart rate through short bursts of effort followed by recovery - is part of the program. Kristen explains that the uncomfortable feeling will always feel uncomfortable. It is the threshold for tolerance of the discomfort that changes. Kristen also emphasizes the importance of recovery. With a room full of cardio junkies who are constantly on the go, Kristen demands that we stop pedaling our bikes at warp speed and take it easy for a few seconds before the next bout. The recovery phase, she explains, is work and the ability to recover quickly is the hallmark of an athlete.
Just like physical intervals, emotional pain and stress will always be painful and stressful. The ability to persevere in the face of emotional discomfort and stress, as well as the ability to recover, are crucial to overall well-being. Isn't is just like life to toss into our paths seemingly insurmountable obstacles, emergencies or crises? Some crises are like long, challenging intervals with no recovery in sight, as when a child is fighting cancer or living with a permanent disability. In those situations, a new threshold for tolerance of stress is developed purely as a matter of survival. Having lived through that type of long-term pain, I learned to create short a breaks in the interval simply to catch my emotional breath.
Functioning in the wake of a painful situation isn't easy. In many ways, it is easier to remain paralyzed by stress, frustration and pain. Entrapment by those emotions provides a convenient excuse to not move forward. They are the food of depression. But despair never helped anybody. Just as intervals don't last forever, neither does emotional stress. Someday, the opportunity for recovery will come - sooner in some instances and later in others. The form of recovery is different for different situations, but recovery is essential. Forever sustaining stress at the rough equivalent an anaerobic level is simply impossible.
Moving on is difficult. We hold on to our wounds, we replay arguments in our heads, we maintain grudges over matters long extinguished and are thus prevented from living in the moment. Once an interval is over, it is essential to leave that stress level behind. Recognizing the futility of holding on to stress and letting go is not simple. It requires surrender. It requires slowing the pedals down and letting that heart rate fall. Indeed recovery is the hardest work of all.
Just like physical intervals, emotional pain and stress will always be painful and stressful. The ability to persevere in the face of emotional discomfort and stress, as well as the ability to recover, are crucial to overall well-being. Isn't is just like life to toss into our paths seemingly insurmountable obstacles, emergencies or crises? Some crises are like long, challenging intervals with no recovery in sight, as when a child is fighting cancer or living with a permanent disability. In those situations, a new threshold for tolerance of stress is developed purely as a matter of survival. Having lived through that type of long-term pain, I learned to create short a breaks in the interval simply to catch my emotional breath.
Functioning in the wake of a painful situation isn't easy. In many ways, it is easier to remain paralyzed by stress, frustration and pain. Entrapment by those emotions provides a convenient excuse to not move forward. They are the food of depression. But despair never helped anybody. Just as intervals don't last forever, neither does emotional stress. Someday, the opportunity for recovery will come - sooner in some instances and later in others. The form of recovery is different for different situations, but recovery is essential. Forever sustaining stress at the rough equivalent an anaerobic level is simply impossible.
Moving on is difficult. We hold on to our wounds, we replay arguments in our heads, we maintain grudges over matters long extinguished and are thus prevented from living in the moment. Once an interval is over, it is essential to leave that stress level behind. Recognizing the futility of holding on to stress and letting go is not simple. It requires surrender. It requires slowing the pedals down and letting that heart rate fall. Indeed recovery is the hardest work of all.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
The Glass Castle - a review
I took some time off this afternoon to finish The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls (Scribner, 2005). The Glass Castle recounts Walls' surprising childhood. Her parents were brilliant eccentrics. Providing basic necessities for their children - like food and adequate shelter - was not a priority. Instead, the four Walls children lived in hair raising conditions. Their survival was nothing short of miraculous.
Rex Walls, Jeanette's father, was an alchoholic. Her mother, Mary, suffered from an unspecified psychiatric disorder. Neither parent could hold down a job or manage money. Rarely did the Walls family live in one place for very long. Money would run out, Rex would get into arguments or scrapes with law enforcement. The Walls children regularly were imperiled by their parents' judgment. While living in Phoenix, Arizona, Rex and Mary insisted on leaving the front door, the back door and windows open at night. Vagrants would wander in and fall asleep in the house and, on one occasion, one tried to molest Jeannette. The family picked up stakes to move back to Welch, West Virginia Rex's childhood home. The Walls relatives in Welch fulfilled every stereotype of Appalachia imaginable. Grandma Erma tried to molest her grandson and, on another occasion, Uncle Stanley attempted to fondle Jeannette. LIving conditions frequently were perilous.
Both parents eschewed responsibility. Each decision they made, even those endangering their children, was excused. They never felt guilty about exposing their children to bitter cold, hunger, physical pain and humiliation. Walls' mother was certified to be a teacher. Her mental illness manifested in a refusal to go to work, complaining that her children were a burden. She showed no concern for the comfort of her children and didn't know or care that they frequently scrounged in garbage for food. Rex disappeared for days at a time, spend every dime to drink, even steal from his children to buy alchohol, yet would challenge the children to tell him whether he had ever let them down. Mary's response to any hint of criticism would be some retort - luxuries would make the children weak and soft, others had it worse and the like.
On the other hand, Mary's attitude showed how one can view a challenge as a hardship or as an adventure. Rex did show he cared by making valiant attempts to dry out. The children did become resourceful and independent and, with the exception of the youngest child, became fully functioning adults within mainstream society. To an extent, Mary was correct that her children were stronger as a consequence of their experiences. It is clear that the author remains angry at her parents for
Our home is warm and cozy, with plentiful food and abounding in comfort. I like it that way. But maybe a thing or two could be learned about parenting from Mary; perhaps we 'typically functioning' people are a bit too cautious. Certainly, this book made me realize that, as a typically functioning, very mainstream adult, I have failed my emerging writer of a daughter by not providing her with material for a book.
Rex Walls, Jeanette's father, was an alchoholic. Her mother, Mary, suffered from an unspecified psychiatric disorder. Neither parent could hold down a job or manage money. Rarely did the Walls family live in one place for very long. Money would run out, Rex would get into arguments or scrapes with law enforcement. The Walls children regularly were imperiled by their parents' judgment. While living in Phoenix, Arizona, Rex and Mary insisted on leaving the front door, the back door and windows open at night. Vagrants would wander in and fall asleep in the house and, on one occasion, one tried to molest Jeannette. The family picked up stakes to move back to Welch, West Virginia Rex's childhood home. The Walls relatives in Welch fulfilled every stereotype of Appalachia imaginable. Grandma Erma tried to molest her grandson and, on another occasion, Uncle Stanley attempted to fondle Jeannette. LIving conditions frequently were perilous.
Both parents eschewed responsibility. Each decision they made, even those endangering their children, was excused. They never felt guilty about exposing their children to bitter cold, hunger, physical pain and humiliation. Walls' mother was certified to be a teacher. Her mental illness manifested in a refusal to go to work, complaining that her children were a burden. She showed no concern for the comfort of her children and didn't know or care that they frequently scrounged in garbage for food. Rex disappeared for days at a time, spend every dime to drink, even steal from his children to buy alchohol, yet would challenge the children to tell him whether he had ever let them down. Mary's response to any hint of criticism would be some retort - luxuries would make the children weak and soft, others had it worse and the like.
On the other hand, Mary's attitude showed how one can view a challenge as a hardship or as an adventure. Rex did show he cared by making valiant attempts to dry out. The children did become resourceful and independent and, with the exception of the youngest child, became fully functioning adults within mainstream society. To an extent, Mary was correct that her children were stronger as a consequence of their experiences. It is clear that the author remains angry at her parents for
Our home is warm and cozy, with plentiful food and abounding in comfort. I like it that way. But maybe a thing or two could be learned about parenting from Mary; perhaps we 'typically functioning' people are a bit too cautious. Certainly, this book made me realize that, as a typically functioning, very mainstream adult, I have failed my emerging writer of a daughter by not providing her with material for a book.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
What if? Reflections on a Visit to a Homeless Shelter
In t "The Inferno" of Dante Aleghieri's "Divine Comedy", the poet Virgil guides the author through hell. At one point, Dante and Virgil are climbing a steep, narrow path and Dante is so consumed with the view that he looses his balance and almost falls into the pit of hell. Well, last night glanced the precipice pit when we volunteered at the Ansche Chesed men's homeless shelter.
We didn't do much, really. Two rooms occupy the floor where the men stay. During the day, these rooms serve as a nursery school. They are at opposite ends of a long hallway. By the time we arrived at 7 p.m., the residents had already taken out their beds and sheets from storage and set up the television. I took out two microwaves from a closet that the residents use to heat up dinners provided by the shelter, logged in the men's names into the shelter's record book and called the two referring agencies to let them know that everyone had arrived safe and sound. The men ate their dinner and watched television. One man fastidiously washed out his clothing in a utility sink. Others made telephone calls on their cell phones. Were they calling family, I wondered. The men stayed in their room; my daughter and I stayed in the other, waiting for the overnight volunteer to arrive. No big deal. I made up the bed for the overnight volunteer and set the alarm clock for 5:25 a.m.; by 6 a.m., the residents must dismantle their beds, collect their belongings and leave.
An arctic front had moved into New York City by the time my daughter and I left the shelter. We headed toward Pennsylvania Station to catch the train back to Long Island. I noticed people milling around who looked as if they had nowhere else to go and thought of those eight fortunate men fortunate enough to be warm for a few hours.
It's eight o'clock on a Sunday morning. I am warm in my bed and it is the last day of vacation, and I really don't want to get up. The guys from the shelter have been out for two hours already. The wind howls outside. I can hear it. Last night, when we left the shelter, I didn't think the experience had touched me. I was so very wrong.
We didn't do much, really. Two rooms occupy the floor where the men stay. During the day, these rooms serve as a nursery school. They are at opposite ends of a long hallway. By the time we arrived at 7 p.m., the residents had already taken out their beds and sheets from storage and set up the television. I took out two microwaves from a closet that the residents use to heat up dinners provided by the shelter, logged in the men's names into the shelter's record book and called the two referring agencies to let them know that everyone had arrived safe and sound. The men ate their dinner and watched television. One man fastidiously washed out his clothing in a utility sink. Others made telephone calls on their cell phones. Were they calling family, I wondered. The men stayed in their room; my daughter and I stayed in the other, waiting for the overnight volunteer to arrive. No big deal. I made up the bed for the overnight volunteer and set the alarm clock for 5:25 a.m.; by 6 a.m., the residents must dismantle their beds, collect their belongings and leave.
An arctic front had moved into New York City by the time my daughter and I left the shelter. We headed toward Pennsylvania Station to catch the train back to Long Island. I noticed people milling around who looked as if they had nowhere else to go and thought of those eight fortunate men fortunate enough to be warm for a few hours.
It's eight o'clock on a Sunday morning. I am warm in my bed and it is the last day of vacation, and I really don't want to get up. The guys from the shelter have been out for two hours already. The wind howls outside. I can hear it. Last night, when we left the shelter, I didn't think the experience had touched me. I was so very wrong.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Warm Wishes
"Tis the season, finally. The only traveling my family does over the winter break is to ice hockey tournaments. I admit to being disappointed. Our plans are less than exciting, consisting of attending a tournament, completion of high school applications and a dentist appointment. Everyone else is traveling to more interesting climes, or so it seems. So, yesterday, I noticed an e-mail from the homeless shelter at Ansche Chesed saying they needed volunteers. I signed myself up for January 2nd and will help out with my eldest daughter. All of the sudden, chic vacation plans seemed so much less important than being grateful for the warmth of my home and the blessings of my family.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Character Counts
An historical exhibit at the Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland shows video clips of various leaders admonishing that this art form posed a threat to society. They were, of course, talking about sexuality, but has anyone noticed that the moral fiber of our society has been degrading since, let's say, Watergate? Who can be admired or respected anymore? Perhaps I am being romantic, but it seems that, once upon a time, there were shared expectations as to standards of behavior. Certainly, people behaved badly back in that mythically perfect once upon a time. Just because corruption, adultery, drug or alcohol were not discussed or publicized doesn't mean those problems didn't exist. Even mean girls pre-dated the 1970's; think of "The Children's Hour," written by Lillian Hellman in 1934 in which the lives of two teacher's lives are destroyed by a malicious rumor started by a student. And that play pre-dates facebook by light years. What if that hellion of a student had the capacity to go viral? Lack of a moral compass appears to be as severe a pandemic as the H1N1 virus.
A change is afoot. A few weeks ago, the headmaster of my daughter's school addressed his students and admonished them for their facebook comments. These students were told, in no uncertain terms, that they were being held to a high standard of honor and character. I was and am so pleased that my children have had the good fortune to be part of a unique community where character development remains paramount. We grownups need to examine our values. Certainly, we should not return to a time when women silently suffered domestic abuse and immoral behavior was merely swept under the rug. Rather, we need to lead by example and be our best selves - our kindest, most hard working, honest and generous selves. Our relationships with others need to be based on respect. We need to value everyone who contributes to our daily life and give thanks at the beginning and end of each day. However, our children need to see us recover from mistakes, acknowledge that we are less than perfect. An apology is an amazing teaching tool.
A change is afoot. A few weeks ago, the headmaster of my daughter's school addressed his students and admonished them for their facebook comments. These students were told, in no uncertain terms, that they were being held to a high standard of honor and character. I was and am so pleased that my children have had the good fortune to be part of a unique community where character development remains paramount. We grownups need to examine our values. Certainly, we should not return to a time when women silently suffered domestic abuse and immoral behavior was merely swept under the rug. Rather, we need to lead by example and be our best selves - our kindest, most hard working, honest and generous selves. Our relationships with others need to be based on respect. We need to value everyone who contributes to our daily life and give thanks at the beginning and end of each day. However, our children need to see us recover from mistakes, acknowledge that we are less than perfect. An apology is an amazing teaching tool.
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