Dark and light come and go, sometimes in the same day, sometimes in the same minute. I am loving, generous, kind. I am envious, irritable, unforgiving. Nothing stays the same, especially when the forests are burning, the oceans are rising and whole populations are under siege. This is even more true during periods of transition.
On Sunday, the top of my head was peeling off like a fragrant orange. I felt the screws unwinding, the roots loosening, the hair falling out when I combed it. A family of insects was picnicking inside my brain. Transitioning from one space to another, from Minnesota to California, from the screaming of the great world to a quiet corner of it, I don’t sleep. When I don’t sleep, I feel it in my head and shoulders. I had not slept even though the king-sized bed at the airport Marriott in Minneapolis wasn’t half bad. No restaurant, it’s true, but bubbling frozen pepperoni pizza at the bar. No tub, but a shower the size of a tiny house. Two televisions, both featuring programming so insufferable that I settled for the Life channel. Something about a woman who wanted to help a bankrupt but ruggedly good-looking rancher hold on to his spread. Still the room was quiet and dense with outlets in case you were left to your own devices. I was stunned to discover when I woke up in the morning and rolled out of the hotel to board the shuttle to Terminal 1 that I was still in Minneapolis. Quite near the Mall of America, in fact. Then up in the air and on to Sacramento. I ate those Delta gingerbread cookies I’m partial to and pretended to be asleep like the guy in the window seat who didn’t blink for two hours. I don’t have that gift. I’m good at finding words when they go into witness protection and I’m good at gin rummy and honeymoon bridge, a game played by two people, often in a Marriott. But sleep has never been my long suit. I learn a lot of what I need to know under duress in the middle of the night.
The next challenge was the adjustment to the new time zone. I slept deeply but woke up at 5:15 thinking I was in Minnesota where the winter light was working overtime to grace the new day. Here in the Sierra foothills, it is bright and cold, but somehow still fall. All red and gold trees, blue above and green below in December. Why didn’t I think of that color scheme? We spent the morning finding places to put our stuff, working on creating a less provisional feng shui. It’s starting to look more like us. By this I mean art on the walls and rugs and heirlooms like the hexagonal glass box that held my yellowing baby teeth in my ancestral home on 83rd street. I explained this to my great-grandson who had recently had his first encounter with the tooth fairy. I announced in advance that I was going to tell him something creepy, but it didn’t faze him in the least. Creep is in the eye of the beholder. I’m more creeped out by the tooth fairy herself, not to mention her pot-bellied friend, Santa. I was raised in the complete absence of make-believe and folk culture which makes December a challenging time. I have no intermediaries, no cozy memories. Just other people’s traditions.
Yesterday, we went out looking for chanukah gelt in the Gold Rush town of Placerville. After a half dozen failed attempts, the little net bags of chocolate coins wrapped in gold paper finally sprouted in the forest of candy canes. This was a relief. I was starting to feel dizzied by the coincidence of 24/7 coverage of the slaughter in Gaza, the wrestling match between antisemitism and free speech in Cambridge and Philadelphia and the everyday reality of no chanukah gelt when you need it. This is a glimpse of the surreal nature of what it is to be Jewish these days. It’s either all about you all the time or it’s never about you ever.
In the light of all that and the light of the menorah, I am trying to decelerate. I’m trying to sink into my life like it’s a very soft overstuffed armchair with lots of pillows, to practice kenosis, self-emptying. Notice that I’m alive. Nothing slows me down and brings me comfort more reliably than noticing I’m alive, every part of me, the good, the bad, and the ugly. Tomorrow, we will be grating five pounds of potatoes to make latkes for the California family. Blood will trickle off the box grater and hot oil will splatter all over the kitchen. Tradition is both sustaining and violent at its core. Think of the Maccabees. Think of the Christmas story. Think of the pain of the world and the love that we can bring to it right here right now.
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Many Voices will appear on the last Sunday of each month and will feature contributions from the community of paid subscribers. In December, we look forward to a contribution from Carmen Victoria Rossi. Carmen, originally from Puerto Rico, now happily lives in Minneapolis, MN with her rescue dog Reyi. She does not consider herself a writer but loves the solitude, deep reflection and insights that writing offers, same applies to her long walks with Reyi. All subscribers are now welcome to read Many Voices posts. Please consider upgrading to a paid subscription to support seventysomething, have access to the archives, and become a contributor to Many Voices. Your ideas are always welcome.
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Copies of my 2019 essay collection, Twilight Time: Aging in Amazement, are available directly from me (signed) or from Amazon or your local bookseller.
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It helped me to center myself and feel at peace to make latkes from the potatoes in my garden recently. I had to borrow a food processor from my non-Jewish neighbors, which, somehow seem to add a special touch to the final product. I even baked half of them rather than fry, for slightly healthier results. amidst all the chaos, welcome to California! Of course, I’m in Oregon, so I consider you a neighbor.
"It's either all about you all the time or it's never about you ever." Wow! You nailed it! Thanks.