Joanne Seiff – Page 5

Allowing for joyful holidays

My house smells like chicken soup. That is one of the surefire ways to tell that holidays are on the horizon. It’s a cooler summer day. I have two slow cookers “working” to make that all important broth for autumn days to come. Chicken soup is a little thing but it’s one of those small details that I do in advance to make our family holidays special.

I recently read an introduction to a page of Talmud on My Jewish Learning by Dr. Sara Ronis. It examines Bava Batra 60. This page of the Babylonian Talmud resonates with what many of us are wrestling with during this past year of war. To summarize, Rabbi Yehoshua comes upon Jewish people, who, after the destruction of the Second Temple, in 70 CE, chose to become ascetics. They give up eating meat and drinking wine, because these things could no longer be offered in sacrifice at the Temple in Jerusalem. The ascetics suggested that, given the loss of the Temple, life could no longer be as spiritually rich or as physically nourishing.

Rabbi Yehoshua tries to reason with them, asking if they should stop eating bread, since the meal offerings at the Temple have also stopped. The ascetics suggested they could subsist on produce.

Rabbi Yehoshua asked if they would give up eating the seven species of produce offered at the Temple. They said they could eat other produce.

So, Rabbi Yehoshua says, I’m paraphrasing here: “We’ll give up drinking water, since the water libation has ceased.” To that, the ascetics responded with silence – of course. You can’t give up drinking water and stay alive.

Rabbi Yehoshua encourages the people to make space for mourning but to avoid extremes; he suggests that choosing to be an extremist is dangerous. Making space in our life for other things like daily pleasures and regular foods is important. Devoting all our energies to mourning will rob us of life, too.

This story came to mind when I saw the celebratory photos of Noa Argamani, a rescued hostage. She wore a yellow bikini and danced with her father atop others’ shoulders at a party. In addition to having been a hostage, her mother had passed away from brain cancer, only three weeks after Noa’s rescue on June 8. The pure, almost ecstatic joy of the images clashed in a difficult way with the ongoing war, the hostages still in Gaza, and all those suffering in the conflict. Some immediately sought to criticize this behaviour. There are those who said, “if only Jewish women were more modest, the hostages would be returned.” On the other side, some said, “Look at these Israelis celebrating even while Gazans suffer.”

I remember being told at a long ago Simchat Torah celebration that mourners, after a death of a family, shouldn’t dance or sing. Yet, maybe 10 years ago, when my twin preschoolers asked a Moroccan Jewish family in mourning for their mother, to sing with them Mipi El (a Jewish acrostic song, a piyyot, with a traditional Sephardi tune loved by my sons), these older men held up my kids, danced and sang with the Torah. It was a meaningful moment. It was full of emotion. Maybe one can dance with the Torah and celebrate a little – even while mourning. I almost felt their mother, who I never knew, who raised them to be committed and involved Jewish adults, would approve.

Rabbi Yehoshua’s logical argument and suggestion that we hold onto joy even while mourning is important. Making space for all these feelings in our lives is both powerful and hard. Smelling the chicken broth aroma filling my house makes me anticipate the New Year and holidays to come. Also, like many others, I will never be able to celebrate Simchat Torah the same way again. Yet, nothing made me happier than seeing Noa Argamani and her father make the most of every moment they have together. They deserve every happiness.

In this past year, finding ways to be grateful, to anticipate rituals, holidays and joy has felt really heavy at times. Twice in recent weeks, my family has returned home from a fun summer outing to see antisemitic graffiti in our neighbourhood. There is nothing like having to take photographs of a hate crime, call the police to make a report, and send off the photos to B’nai Brith and CIJA as well to turn a sunny family adventure into a downer. I struggle with processing all this and going on with daily life.

So, when someone I follow on Instagram showed off her Instant Pot chicken soup process, I started up my serious chicken broth production. Here’s to getting new batches of chicken soup, that liquid gold, into the freezer, ready to make new positive memories and associations for the fall holidays to come.

Joanne Seiff has written regularly for the Winnipeg Free Press and various Jewish publications. She is the author of three books, including From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. Check her out on Instagram @yrnspinner or at joanneseiff.blogspot.com.

Haiku signs in the bathroom

This summer, our main event was a road trip. My husband had a conference at Cornell University in Ithaca, NY. Since we met at Cornell as undergrads 30 years ago, we thought it might be worthwhile to make this a family trip. We hadn’t been back in 20 years.

When you go back to old haunts, they might not be what you expect. There were so many new campus buildings. I took our twins on a campus tour where a 19-year-old guide talked about economics (her major), business and start-ups. When she asked the alumni in the group about their majors, I told her I was a double major: comparative literature and Near Eastern studies. She said, “So interesting!” in a tone that made it clear she thought I was ancient and bizarre.

I didn’t feel at home in Ithaca, which I used to feel was “my place.” My kids found holes in Cornell’s sustainability mantras that I used to deeply respect. While trying to dry clothing by draping it in the back of the car, for example, they pointed out there were no clothes lines in the dorms where we stayed or outdoors. When we went to buy the obligatory university sweatshirts, they couldn’t believe the campus store stocked tons of branded items made entirely of synthetics – manufactured from petroleum and likely made in poor working conditions.

When we visited a renovated cafeteria, where I had eaten with my husband when we first met, we had to go to the washroom. Each stall had a short message posted. It explained what not to throw down the toilet. It also explained what had happened to require the message to be posted. It was the soul of brevity, a haiku of sorts, but it answered every question that a smart-mouthed adolescent student might ask.

With a smirk, I commented that this was still my kind of place – it offers the full explanation. As an adult, I’ve lived in places without the full explanation. Here’s an example: when an event is announced in Winnipeg, there is a start time, usually with a vague location, and the announcement just assumes everyone knows where it is. There’s also an assumption that you’ll know that, if food will be served, what kind of food, and what else is likely to happen. If there is a contact number at the end, it’s a postscript that reads, “If you are dumb enough to not understand this, call this person – but, guess what, they won’t know either.” Admittedly, I’m paraphrasing a little here, but, inevitably, if I call that number, the person is completely stymied by my questions. They wonder about why anyone would need to know what I am asking. They aren’t used to newcomers who might not know what to expect or who need all the details.

Maybe I’m just that annoying person who likes to know what I’m getting into, but when I hang out with relatives from bigger cities, their event schedule is full of the pertinent details. When I look at my sister-in-law’s fridge, in the DC suburbs, every single school event flyer or invitation has all the information. Maybe it’s a Type A thing? Even if they’re uptight, those are my people.

Recently, we had a visit with a local teacher here in Winnipeg and she mentioned a place run by two nice Jewish guys, called Friend Bakery and Pizzeria, which has delicious cinnamon buns. The bakery’s not near our usual activities. Out on an errand, we stopped in. We were greeted by the owners. They were welcoming, and open to our family deliberations. While we eyed the big $11 challahs, I said it was too bad that we’d already started ours in the bread machine – because it’s summer and I’m so not turning on the oven. The man nodded with understanding. We wished each other Shabbat Shalom. I got a little teary driving home. I had found more of my people.

Finding one’s “people” isn’t easy or without contention. Wandering around Ithaca on our trip, I encountered a Gaza war propaganda sticker with real venom to it. I was upset. For the first time ever, I unpeeled that sticker and threw it away. They might be free to spread misinformation, but I was just as free to see its harmful hate and throw it out.

Summer is for rest, reflection and productivity. I felt physically rested after spending many days in the car. Yet summer is also a time for growing things, embracing learning out of school and in the world. My kids saw lakes, gorges and waterfalls, ate lots of ice cream and watched Ferris Bueller’s Day Off for the first time. (The movie is still funny.) The grandeur of steep craggy landscapes and huge lakes is still awe-inspiring.

My world has narrowed some since Oct. 7. I actively avoid encounters where I suspect my household might face hate or harassment. A friend and ally suggested that it must be even more upsetting when it happens in a place where I’m relaxed and least suspect it. The places where I used to feel safe are painful to be in.

Even so, I’ve felt love, support and outreach from unexpected places. Two close non-Jewish mom friends, who consistently wish me Shabbat Shalom, encourage me to vent and they listen with love. A few of my husband’s colleagues and friends’ parents just contacted us out of the blue to say they care and are thinking of us.

I don’t know “where we go from here” in the middle of a war, and the hate it’s stirred up. I think about the bathroom sign haiku with a weird fondness. It said everything that needed saying. I wish bigger, scarier times allowed for that kind of precise explanation and brevity, but I know it isn’t possible. Smart people disagree, struggle and work to find meaning. This is what Torah and Jewish rabbinic tradition models for us. The key is to keep it up, not lose hope, and to avoid the paralysis that comes with irrational fear.

When we find “our people,” they don’t always agree with us, and things are always changing. A long road trip can remind us that we’ve been stuck in ruts. But, sometimes, the GPS directions are wrong. We need our brains, a hard copy map and common sense to get out of tricky situations; autopilot doesn’t always suffice. However, our personal and historic experiences offer a roadmap of what has gone before and what might lie ahead. With that context, we can go forward: towards a new school year, a new Jewish year, new learning and better times.

We must keep asking “why?”

Our short Canadian summer is full of wonder. We try to spend lots of time outdoors, finding things to marvel at on dog walks and even on errands. While we might not be out in the bush too often, we still can spot foxes, deer, woodpeckers, butterflies and moths, as well as magnificent gardens, in our neighbourhood in Winnipeg’s city core. As toddlers and preschoolers, children go through a “why?” phase. Everything is a question. Parents must come up with meaningful but short answers every time. However, as our tweens transition to teens, I have been pleasantly surprised to discover there are still a lot of “whys” being asked.

On a practical level, sometimes I end up saying “that’s a Google question” because I cannot remember every detail of European history. If our resident biology professor dad isn’t home, we’re trying to figure out flora and fauna on our own. (Hint: there’s an app for everything now.) Most of all, I am thrilled that intellectual curiosity is still a thing. Our household still finds space to wonder about how things work, what things are called and why events evolved in one way or another.

Just the other evening, I admonished our kid about being gracious about gifts. He didn’t know what I meant. We stopped to discuss the phrase “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth” and take apart what it means. This kind of daily learning is an exciting part of life, and especially in summer, when we have hours at a stretch to talk and think about things, as well as seeing natural wonders, going to museums, meeting new people, reading and listening together. Pursuing this kind of informal learning makes a well-rounded education.

I continue to study Daf Yomi, a page of Talmud a day, and right now we’re studying the tractate of Bava Batra, one of the three Bavas (translated as “gates”) that deal in civil law. I find nuggets of wisdom in these tractates, even as some of them seem dry to other students. If you’re wondering, for instance, who pays for a fence, or making the decisions about erecting a fence across a shared courtyard? The beginning of Bava Batra will help you figure out whether this is possible, and how to get along with your neighbour in the process. Each issue is examined with a “why?” lens.

How does one decide where you’re from? If you’ve lived in many places (I have), this is a real question. Do you define home as where you were born? Where you lived the most years? Which kitchen or garden you liked best? This is examined on Bava Batra 11, which suggests that, if you’ve lived in a city for 12 months, you can be considered a resident. However, if you buy a house earlier than that, or even, according to Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel, land that would be suitable for building a house, you’re immediately considered a resident. This bit of ancient law discussion struck me as useful in an age where so many decisions are made based on where one lives: where one votes, gets health care, sends kids to school and other bureaucratic needs. Establishing residency is still often up for discussion.

There is an advantage to maintaining intellectual curiosity and nurturing critical thinking when it comes to negotiating the world. As recently as a year or two ago, I would have been upset to think that one should be getting news from social media or email newsletters. Now, however, I find access to multiple reports about the Israel-Gaza war in English and Hebrew, through Instagram and X (formerly Twitter). I then end up satiating my curiosity by clicking through to read from multiple other news sources, finding out about elections in Europe, antisemitism worldwide, or even locating (and avoiding) possibly violent protests in my own city. Asking “why? why? why?” becomes a daily necessity in trying to decipher both what’s happening and the political angle of those who write the articles, blogs or tweets.

A recent piece covering humanitarian aid distribution in Gaza on the CBC, for instance, used the word “Hamas” only once, when mentioning “Hamas-led militants” on Oct. 7. The word “Israel” could be found on the page 18 times. While 18 is a lucky number, in this case, it sounds like an uncritical reader could lay blame on one side simply through repetition. One might completely lose sight of why Gazans are in this mess in the first place. If, perhaps, Hamas chose to stop firing rockets into Israel? It might be easier to distribute supplies and return to normality. Also, the journalist mentioned Egypt only twice. Egypt also shares a border with Gaza. Egypt could choose to facilitate humanitarian aid. Whose responsibility is this? The article’s slant, and the journalist’s bio, made me suspect a bias. When examining the journalist’s X posts online, I saw only one side of this conflict emphasized. It didn’t reference anything about Oct. 7 or Israel’s experience.

It can be hard right now to maintain an even keel while facing the barrage of information about the Gaza war, Russia’s war on Ukraine, politics in Canada, the United States and Europe, and the famines and violent conflicts elsewhere in the world. Unplugging and getting out to see and do things with family, taking a vacation, exploring wild places, helps us recalibrate. It can also boost our “why?” skills so we can return refreshed, with energy to analyze all the new craziness as it erupts.

I’ve just begun Bava Batra, but one topic hit early on is where and how to donate charity to do the most good. Bava Batra 8b reminds us that money donated towards “saving captives” is a great mitzvah, the biggest commandment/good deed that one can do. Sometimes, an ancient text can remind us to readjust our priorities. Reading critically and asking “why?” are essential to Talmud and rabbinic discourse. It’s also essential for us. We must keep helping our children ask “why?” We ourselves must maintain the wonder that enables us to stay curiously critical thinkers.

Joanne Seiff has written regularly for the Winnipeg Free Press and various Jewish publications. She is the author of three books, including From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. Check her out on Instagram @yrnspinner or at joanneseiff.blogspot.com.

Criticism is hard but vital

A year ago, for an important birthday, we bought a mature lemon tree. This perhaps sounds absurd because we live in Winnipeg, which has extremely cold winter temperatures. However, our home has a heated sunroom and the lemon tree, in its pot, blossomed and bore fruit. When warm weather came, we moved it outside to enjoy the summer. The outdoor location, against a wall, sheltered the tree and two lemons ripened.

My kibbutz year came back as I picked that first lemon. The lemon blossoms perfumed the indoor air as they came and went. Off-the-tree citrus, just like any other fresh produce, tastes so much better than anything bought at a grocery store. While lemons offer a sharp, puckery sour taste, their zest and juice absolutely make food sparkle.

I posted about our “crop” of two lemons on social media. Immediately, I had a friend from Israel commenting on how lemons were her favourite fruit. Two other North Americans asked how we managed to grow them. I sensed their excitement through their onscreen responses.

This experience recalled another scenario, which plays out regularly in Jewish life – that of feedback, or constructive criticism. I was a blunt kid, accused of being not just assertive but aggressive at times. Instead of cloaking things in demure, “ladylike” manners, I said what I thought. I took to heart the idea that everyone can improve and that we should have high expectations. Yes, criticism can be difficult, and it’s sometimes unwarranted, but, without it, we sometimes can’t grow and improve as individuals or communities.

I recently took part in a Jewish business fair for newcomers at our Jewish community centre. Sponsored by Jewish Child and Family Services, it uplifted many who had moved from elsewhere. I loved the opportunity. I smiled and chatted with everyone who came to my writing and editing booth. One community member recognized me and took the time to let me know she was sorry nothing was good enough for me here. Her view of my work, written over many years for both Jewish and non-Jewish publications, was overwhelmingly negative. I responded cheerfully, suggesting that there were many good things about Winnipeg’s Jewish community, but that it was also a good thing to learn about other possibilities from elsewhere, reflect and improve. She sniffed disapprovingly and walked away.

This interaction reflected other times when I’ve been asked for suggestions or advice. The responses often included some version of “That’s not how we do things here” with a sneer, grumble or angry tone. Even when the feedback includes a lot of praise and support, including data or anecdotal evidence from other communities, some people are defensive and aren’t ready to hear it.

In some cases, I’ve heard “since I didn’t land that gig/volunteer position/award, I was just offering sour grapes.” Sour grapes are that metaphor for saucy words we offer when we’ve been rejected and react with impulsive hurt, though sour grapes make good wine. That pucker-up taste, just like with lemons, can do wonders, with time, to improve food and drink.

A wise friend, a Holocaust survivor in her mid-80s, asked for feedback after our family’s lifecycle event at our congregation. Akin to an exit interview, it’s important to have congregants’ thoughts on how the synagogue is doing, what went well and what could be done better. I took the time to respond. I sent the information to the people in responsible positions who should see it. I also wrote a separate gushing, positive note about the livestreaming feed, which is so inclusive for us when we cannot be in the building. I got a response from someone about the livestreaming feed email. I’ve received nothing so far about the constructive criticism.

It’s normal to feel defensive about criticism, especially if it hits hard or close to the bone. Yet, a professional should be able to respond. Feedback helps us grow, whether as a customer service-oriented synagogue or a business. I have struggled with this. Rejection and negative feedback are part of being a writer.

I used to joke that a swift, rude rejection didn’t reflect on my work. Instead, I imagined a grouchy editor who ate a burrito for lunch. He had bad indigestion and took it out on me. Then the rejection wasn’t such a big deal. The guy’s stomach trouble and bad manners became funny, rather than a reflection of my efforts.

In time, I’ve embraced the notion that a rejection, including a frankly critical one, offers positive opportunities. An editor’s simple “No, thank you” can result in a quick sale when I resubmit the piece elsewhere. Helpful feedback means I can improve my skills. Complete silence doesn’t mean anything – it doesn’t indicate that my work is awful or it’s still being considered.

Jewish tradition grows from a long rabbinic tradition of debate, discussion, criticism and reproof. It’s part of who we are. It’s sharp and puckery like that fresh lemon bite or the tannic pucker of sour grapes. It’s not easy to hear. Yet, when offered in good faith, thoughtful analysis only shows how much the respondent cares. Hearing nothing from a congregant, colleague or friend doesn’t mean everything is good. It may mean that they don’t care enough to respond. Or perhaps they say nothing because they can’t stand the rude response, defensiveness or silence that might follow.

It’s important, as part of a community, to offer effusive praise and support for one another whenever we can. It’s also key to our future to reflect, reevaluate and offer ways to improve. We often make a good salad spectacular with a squeeze of tangy lemon. Sometimes, we need to pucker up to improve things, so we may experience the huge flavour that can follow.

Community and relationships

Recently, I came across a LinkedIn post. It suggested that people could evaluate their work by asking if it “made money, saved money or saved time.” One of the responses suggested that nurses, for instance, would not fit into this model. Neither would teachers, therapists or social workers, for that matter. While education or therapy do eventually probably save money and time for society, their worth isn’t measured by these markers. As a writer, my work is also worthless in this evaluation, as it doesn’t earn lots of money or save time. But caring/thinking professions are still meaningful. I did a silent revision to the post. I added: Does your work create meaning? Is your work creating value? Meaning and value aren’t always measured in monetary terms.

I didn’t respond to this piece I read online. I don’t know who posted it originally, but priorities are different than mine. It isn’t a bad thing to save money, make money or save time, but I was left wondering – if these are a person’s top priorities, what will they do with the money or time saved? I wonder where “making meaning” comes into this person’s life.

My household is just recovering from our twins’ b’nai mitzvah. Out-of-town relatives and friends were here for several days before and after. I managed many details and events, multiple meals, a tent, chair and table rental, games and more. The synagogue service my children led was very meaningful, and looking out at the congregation was amazing. I felt so supported by family, friends and community.

For days afterwards, Jewish community members wished us mazal tov and non-Jewish neighbours and friends continued to congratulate us. My twins got gifts from places we didn’t expect. Both kids were truly flummoxed by the love and generosity showered on them.

I won’t lie: I’m exhausted after this lifecycle experience. I was the main organizer for everything other than services. Everything went smoothly, far better than I’d expected, especially given that our synagogue is under renovation.

When guests suggested a future as an event planner, I said no! I couldn’t wait to get back to my freelance writer/editor day job. Perhaps what I have learned is that, while I’m good at organizing and details, I don’t find meaning in doing those things. For me, it’s only the relationships and community that makes meaning.

A snippet of learning I did this week made that clear. I was studying the Babylonian Talmud tractate of Bava Metzia 109 when I read this story:

“Rav Yosef had a certain planter, a contractor whose job was to plant trees. He died and left behind five sons-in-law. Rav Yosef said: Until now I had to deal with only one person; now there are five. Until now, they did not rely on each other to plant the trees and did not cause me a loss, as the responsibility was their father-in-law’s, but, now that they are five, they will rely on each other to plant the trees and cause me a loss. Rav Yosef decided to discontinue the agreement with them. Rav Yosef said to them: If you take the value of your enhancement that you brought to the field and remove yourselves, all is well, but, if not, I will remove you without giving you the value of the enhancement.”

The rabbis then debate if Rav Yosef’s behaviour as a businessman was acceptable. Their conclusion is that canceling the agreement was acceptable, but sending the sons-in-law off his land without compensation wouldn’t be right. When I read Rav Yosef’s choices here, as a person in business, I saw why he made his choices. Rav Yosef had a business relationship with a contractor. When that ended due to death, he didn’t have the same agreement or support from the five sons-in-law, all of whom might have left the job to someone else. He wanted to pay them for what had been done and cut his losses.

I worried about the contractual commitments I’d made for our family event. Would the tent, tables, chairs, catering, servers, games, six-person bike, fancy vegan popsicle cart all arrive as scheduled? In the end, it all worked out. However, if I’d been faced with an issue like Rav Yosef’s – the death of someone I trusted and a time-sensitive need to get something done – I too might have wanted to pay for the work done so far and cut my losses.

Sometimes, we recognize that, without the original helper, chaos might erupt. Our synagogue caterer provided food for 75 people as take-out for us, but had no servers, due to the building closure and renovations. I worried about what to do. Luckily, through Jewish community connections, I found someone who used to work at the synagogue, and three others who worked at a different Jewish congregation. My brother (former manager of a fine-dining restaurant) stepped in to help. My neighbour volunteered her oven as a backup to warm up food, though we did not need it in the end.

This experience helped me realize that, although we moved to Canada in 2009, we had built community over time. People volunteered to support us and connections with businesspeople made the event happen. A “team” of loving people, both from far away and close by, pulled together to make meaning for us as a family.

Long before I had kids, I loved attending Shabbat services that celebrated a new baby, an upcoming wedding, a birthday or bar or bat mitzvah. Now I see that, as part of the extended community, I too created meaningful connections. The congratulations, singing “Simon Tov U’Mazel Tov,” and warm smiles matter. Being a witness and a celebrating participant are valuable.

For some, our twins’ b’nai mitzvah helped people make money. Months of work as the “organizer/Mom/event planner” saved money. If recent world events, or Rav Yosef’s contractor agreement, have taught anything, it’s that our lives could be short – time matters. It matters that we do straightforward, moral business with others. So many things can go wrong. There is absolutely nothing like a few days of love, support and meaningful interactions with people who care about us. We can also always use more love and community support.

So many choices to be made

The late afternoon, right after school or summer camp, is go time for many parents. These are the moments where my twins have every kind of need, from taking off their outside gear and emptying lunch bags to signing permission forms, getting help on projects, and more. It is a period of chaos, usually with a desperate need for snacks as well as dinner preparation, all rolled up. There are days when things are calm, sure, but there are other times when I savour my last moments of quiet at 3:25 because from 3:35 until 6:30 or so, after dinner, I am a whirlwind doing Marathon Mom work.

Our public junior high this year presented us with Mega Options activities for the last few days of school. While the various options were hyped to students in advance, only whispers of this made it home. So, on an average Monday afternoon in June, my kids told me to be sure to open the special Mega email fast, as all the best activities would fill up. At 4:30 on the button, my inbox told me about the many Mega Options I would need to hurry to fill out to meet my twins’ expectations.

There were so many choices: Métis sash-weaving and historic cemetery trips, Inuit printmaking and Indigenous storytelling, Euro-style soccer tournaments, Pickleball, phone photography, kinesiology and nutrition lab field trips to a university, and more. There were bike treks, orienteering, the list went on. The selection was huge. Not every outing had a description or information. Some choices came with big fees. Others were free.

It was a huge rush to decide. We watched some activities fill up even as we tried to sign up – and, with twins, we had to sign up twice. In the end, my more social kid called one of his close friends. On the other end of the phone line, I heard his mom, a teacher I am friendly with, coaching him through. It was a great solace to know I was not alone in sorting through this!

Within moments, both my twins were signed up, with their friend, for one day of board games, outside games, and baking bannock and eating together. The other day was reserved for going to Assiniboine Park, Winnipeg’s version of New York City’s Central Park, and always a fan favourite. I emailed the other mom afterwards. “Sheesh!” she replied. “That was stressful – lol.” It was. She was completely right. The Mega Options format left me strung out and worried. Did we make the right choices? What does “A day at Assiniboine Park” mean? There was no description. What do we parents need to provide? Lunch? Money? Rides?

After the decisions were made and the activities secured, I was relieved. The fun warm weather choices our boys made were free, easy and uncomplicated. Sure, it wasn’t going to be a big learning experience, but the decisions were made. We no longer had to dwell on the choices themselves.

After stepping back, I realized that these late afternoon blitzes are so hard because they can be unpredictable and disorderly. There are multiple tasks thrown at parents at once, when we’re not necessarily at our best energy-wise. Both flexibility and preparedness are necessary. There’s no telling if today I’ll have to be a math whiz, an event planner, or a custodian, cleaning up after a kid is sick in the hallway. (Hey, it happens.)

The skills required to manage the late afternoon rush aren’t just relevant to kids. As adults, and as Jewish people, we are often offered “Mega Options” when it comes to making choices. We don’t have one specific menu item at restaurants, nor do we have a single kind of Jewish ritual, religious life or home observance. We face tons of choices every day. Further, while the pandemic narrowed some options, the post-pandemic world has vastly increased them. When our usual routines are disrupted, we’re forced to evaluate what we’ve done all along. Is streaming a religious service easiest? Are we healthy enough to attend in person? What is the COVID protocol (or non-protocol) these days, even as the virus still circulates? Sometimes, we crave situations where the decisions are just made for us, even as we know it would be better to make up our own minds instead.

This was our world before Oct. 7. Afterwards, the choices became even larger. Now, questions of safety and freedom from harassment also come into play. We choose whether to wear anything identifiably Jewish when out on the street. We question if we’ll feel safe attending this Jewish venue. Is attending this graduation/parade/campus/event going to force us to deal with protesters or hate speech? Then there’s: Are we still safe, wherever we live? Should we be considering a move to someplace safer? Is there somewhere safer?

We could pretend that all these choices are a part of the modern age, but we know from Torah study, the many debates of the Talmud and Jewish history that the act of making choices is an essential part of what it means to be Jewish. From the first, we were shown hard choices and real consequences: from Leviticus 10’s Nadav and Abihu, who chose to sacrifice “strange fire” and were struck down for it (a bad choice, apparently), to Deuteronomy 30:19, which summarizes a long list of choices we can make, concluding, “I have put before you life and death, blessing and curse. Choose life….”

The Mega Options presented to celebrate the end of school is nothing when compared to big decisions in life. One could just shrug it off as no big deal – but life is a series of little choices, one after another, that can affect everything. Survivors of major disasters often explain how they “just missed” the accident because they felt sick, woke up late or forgot to make their lunch. Historically, Jewish refugees described how they left at a moment’s notice, with only a suitcase, or just the clothes on their backs.

We don’t always know which choices are the big ones, or the good ones. Some of the best choices result in happy, long-lasting results, like meeting one’s life partner, discovering a passion or skill, or experiencing an amazing natural event like a meteor shower or the Northern Lights. Here’s to hoping our choices are easy and small ones, and that these options lead to all positive things. Here’s to celebrations, miracles and good deeds this summer – may we all have more “mega” pleasant choices ahead.

The making of a milestone

By the time you read this, I’ll be working on the last days of preparation before my twins’ b’nai mitzvah. This, as many have said, is a big simcha (happy party), a once-in-a-lifetime event, a milestone and an achievement in our lives. It won’t surprise those who know me that this also puts a lot of pressure on us! Don’t get me wrong, my household is excited. We’re also nervous, apprehensive and stressed by all the details.

It helps to put this into context. We’re a family who has been going to services on Saturdays regularly since long before these children appeared on the scene. My kids are familiar with what’s expected of them and want to do a good job. We’re from a family with diverse approaches to Jewish life, so we’ve gone to all sorts of services, as well as different kinds of Shabbat dinners, family outings on Saturdays, and more. Our kids have experienced many more different ways of observing holidays and Jewish life than I did growing up. This was one of my goals for raising well-informed Jewish kids. For a small ethno-religion, we have so many varied traditions.

This came to mind when I chatted with some of my husband’s young cousins long ago. They told something to the effect that there was only one way to sing a particular part of the Shabbat service. When I explained that there were many melodies and ways to recite the same Shabbat prayers, they looked at me with disbelief. Their experiences with only one congregation in a specific ethnic group and religious movement meant they hadn’t been exposed to multiple melodies or the rich musical traditions of other Jewish communities.

Exploring these choices has made my kids’ lessons and preparations more difficult. If they only knew one tune, well, that’s the one they would sing. However, offering learners many choices means it can be harder to narrow down and practise one melody to make it shine.

Staying true to our family’s particular needs and choices when it comes to the celebration itself has been its own adventure. If one is used to a specific type of bar/bat mitzvah party, with loud music, dancing, catered “rubber chicken,” a photo slide show or a candlelighting ceremony, anything different can seem peculiar. At age 12, I attended one classmate’s bat mitzvah party that was (gasp) held at the family’s home rather than at the synagogue or at a party venue. Rather than graciously modeling that people are different, I thought this was weird. No one reprimanded me for saying this. In retrospect, it was a lovely, heimisch (homey) party held by a family who celebrated the way that they felt most comfortable. I wish I’d had the maturity to see that then.

Holding a Jewish event on a June Shabbat in Winnipeg means that it will be light until late at night, so we’re having a seudah shlishit (a third Shabbat meal or supper). Our congregation’s building is under renovation so the meal will be at home, without the loud music or DJ, to align with those who observe more traditionally. We’ve made numerous choices that my tween self would call “weird.” As an adult, I see it as providing the celebration that fits our family the best.

We’re mostly introverts. Three of the four of us don’t usually like noisy, crowded events. An entire weekend of socialization will be a lot of people time for us. Since many of our relatives are coming from far away, it may be more like a week of company. One of us jokingly said he would announce, “Hey! The party’s over! Please leave!” so he could go back to reading quietly in a corner. We’ve encouraged him not to voice this aloud to any of our relatives or guests.

Although some people hire event planners to manage this, for many households, the burden falls on the mom to arrange everything. This seems to be yet another gendered responsibility. I’ve been told that 50-some years ago, women in the community cooked all the food as well, and there was no catering on offer. I’ve had kind supportive offers from older women friends who remember those days. However, even if one wants to hire serving staff, it can be hard to do in these post-COVID days. There’s just nobody out there who seems to want to do it.

Making so many decisions, from catering to dishes to compost bins and yard games for kids, feels overwhelming. In some moments, I find myself excited about when it will be over and I can stop worrying. Yet, I know that, for many people, this event is a lifelong memory. I just want to make it a meaningful one for all of us. With twins, we only get one chance at it, too, so … no pressure?

Often, I have Jewish texts to lean on to help me understand and guide me. Although it’s not my family’s tradition to recite Eishet Chayil (Proverbs 31:10-31), the tribute to a “woman of valour,” it strikes me that the woman in this important narrative knew how to throw a perfect Jewish family event. I hope I can do something that is half as acceptable, where everyone feels welcome, comfortable and full of good food at the end.

In my head, I’m hearing phrases offered by the older people in my husband’s family at the end of every family party: “May we only meet at happy occasions,” for example. After such a difficult and sad time, I cannot forget those messages. While I worry over the details, please take the opportunity, when it is offered to you, to celebrate at these once-in-a-lifetime happenings. Bring your joy and light to make them special for everyone. “May we only meet at weddings (and not funerals). May we only meet at happy occasions,” these aunts would say as they hugged us. It’s about time to find space for some happy moments, too.

Expectations for behaviour

Our neighbourhood has narrow sidewalks lined by hedges. When my dog and I take our daily walks, we step to the side at a driveway or front walk so that another pedestrian can pass. My dog sits patiently, sometimes even when I don’t prompt her. Over the years, through the lives of several dogs, we (the dogs and I) have received compliments because of how well behaved the dogs are. I say thank you. The next question is, “How did you do it? I can’t get my dog to do that!” My response is always the same. We’ve been taking these walks every day for years. We practise! Usually, the passerby shakes their head, as if I am just not letting on my secret – but I have. Consistency is everything in reinforcing behaviour.

In the Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Bava Metzia 60a, the rabbis discuss sales practices. While Rabbi Yehudah disagrees, the rabbis conclude that a shopkeeper is allowed to offer children toasted grains and nuts for free. By doing so, he accustoms the children to see him for their shopping, rather than going to other shopkeepers. Also, the rabbis suggest, it is OK to offer things for sale at a “below market” price, that is, on sale, in order to attract customers. These are, in effect, ancient – and approved – business marketing guidelines that reinforce desired behaviours. In this text, there are also suggestions for what is not acceptable and why.

Festive holiday meals sometimes give us time to think about what’s acceptable in our homes, too. One invites friends and family over, or goes to other homes, and that’s when you can see all sorts of different families, with different guidelines about what’s acceptable. I find myself observing all this with interest. This is one way we learn about other ways of doing things. It’s also a chance to reevaluate how we run our homes. What could we do better? What isn’t acceptable in one home may be fair game in another.

As an adult, I observe all this but my children, just like those attracted by toasted nuts in Bava Metzia, react fast when they see things that are tempting or considered “out of bounds.” For instance, my kids love additional opportunities to eat treats. However, kids also notice when things go awry.

More than once, we’ve had a young holiday guest have a colossal meltdown. We all know that kids can lose it, especially during atypical situations, in others’ houses, later in the evening, etc. However, my kids feel strongly about times when the kid (or family) shows disrespect to us. After all, it’s our house. Having a child fall apart due to exhaustion or overstimulation happens. Having a kid yell at us is different, and my kids are rightfully upset when another child snaps or is rude when I express concern or want to keep them from getting hurt. My family pointed out that I, as a grown-up, am responsible for everybody’s safety in my house – of course, I have to say something when a situation looks dangerous.

Earlier this year, our household was unsettled not only due to an extended outburst, but because no one apologized for it. Some parents apparently think that we, as holiday meal hosts, should tolerate and absorb a tantrum. For days afterwards, I fielded my kids’ comments as I stung with frustration. We spend many hours cleaning, setting the table and making multi-course celebratory meals. We take great care. Why go to all this effort for guests who don’t model basic respect for their kids in another person’s home?

By comparison, another set of family friends stayed over during a holiday. They were having breakfast in our kitchen with my kids when I came into the room. Their teenager had raspberries topping each finger (something I don’t allow my kids to do) but also, hadn’t washed their fruit. I rushed to wash the fruit, while the teenager said she was “immune” to whatever was on it. Her mom immediately jumped in. This mom insisted the teenager thank me for washing the fruit and correcting the possibly unsafe situation.

In this interaction, my kids saw the parent modeling an expected behaviour. They looked relieved. Those daily dog walks, often with kids, offer plenty of time to reflect on what we see. My twins, at the cusp of teenagerhood, now have firm ideas of how boundaries work, what respect and kindness mean, even in difficult situations. They know when parents correct things or when things go off the rails.

Watching the student encampments unfold at universities has been a chance to review those boundaries. When is it OK to protest? Why? It’s important to learn how one’s behaviours affect others and how they have lifelong ramifications. We’re seeing these issues play out in real time.

In our house, we’ve discovered new growth. Reinforcing consistent upright, respectful and kind interactions is annoying sometimes. Saying “careful!” every day because I worry about someone’s safety can be a drag. Yet, just like the dog sitting at the street corner, my household has reinforced certain behaviours. We say thank you when someone works hard to take care of us. We worry about others’ safety. We apologize when things go wrong.

Recognizing how we should behave with others is a crucial part of living in a functional community. Watching the university encampments from afar and their conflicting messages of hate towards the Jewish community and Israel makes me worry about how we will proceed in the future. The media coverage of these protests makes me question what the protesters’ parents modeled. What are these parents thinking now? The chants by some of the students make me wonder if their version of community considers Jews or Israelis eligible for membership.

I’m heartened to see when my hard work pays off as a parent, holiday meal host or dog owner. Yet, I’m worried about what it means when our boundaries or expectations aren’t respected, too. Being yelled at in my own home at a holiday meal wasn’t a good harbinger of the future. Our tradition sets some expectations for behaviour in the marketplace and at home. Even as we interpret these traditions differently, how we consistently model behaviour will determine our children’s and our society’s future. Consistently reminding one another of how to behave as responsible community members may result in a better, safer future for all of us.

What matters on a birthday?

As I stepped out my front door for an afternoon walk, I met an older dad taking a walk with a 15-month-old baby girl in a carrier on his chest. She was wiggly. The dad leaned over so the baby could pet my (sizeable) Gordon Setter mix dog. She babbled and waved and touched. She was in on all the action.

While my kids are now 12, I was transported immediately back to the days of naps and screaming tantrum wake-ups. I remembered the power of nature walks and time in a baby wrap, which often calmed both. To this dad, I just looked like an older woman with a big dog, but, by the end of the walk, he had the picture and we’d even figured out that our spouses worked at the same university.

Before this, I’d been concentrating on work, writing an opinion piece about a Winnipeg swimming pool that faces closure and potential demolition. Its name, Happyland, felt poignant and sad. To some, demolishing an aging outdoor facility that serves our winter city for only a couple months a year seems obvious, in terms of its financial worth. Yet, for us, or anyone who has had a chance to play in the shallow end with splashing kids, eager to try out their swimming skills on a sunny day, it’s a hard loss.

These random moments make up the stories of our families, our daily lives, and maybe our bigger communities. They are small and insignificant as they happen, but, at the same time, contain so much. As the dad in his 40s talked to me about being with his partner for 21 years before having a kid, and about “this magnificently overwhelming” experience, I imagined how spectacularly their lives had changed with the birth of this child.

My daily Jewish text study is not always something relatable, but things will pop back into mind at later times. Sometimes, I study my Daf Yomi, my page of Babylonian Talmud a day, and I struggle. Each day, I get an email, an essay, from My Jewish Learning that helps me stay on track and focused on one issue on a page. For Bava Metzia 46, there’s a discussion around how we define acquiring something. Does it happen when we exchange money for the physical object? Does it happen when we “pull,” or physically take, the object? The text goes further into what amounts to an ancient currency exchange counter.

Imagine traveling from Country A to another country, Country B, and you needed some cash. Your money from Country A is no longer good in B. Does it have value? If you exchange it, are you technically buying B’s currency with invalid currency from A? Is the money invalid because it’s no longer in use as your empire disintegrates, or because Country B doesn’t recognize it? Can these currencies, if invalid, still be used privately? (Like cryptocurrency, perhaps?) These are complicated ideas, but the rabbis saw that governments – kingdoms, provinces, countries, etc. – come and go. What is meaningful in one place might be worthless in another.

I layered this on top of Bava Metzia 39, a page that just ripped me up as I studied it. It was about who can be in charge and how to manage the assets and property of a captive when they might still be alive, and how to reassess these practical matters if word arrives that the captives have died. The page explored the details: if minor children were involved, and how to supervise a woman’s property when her mother or sister died in captivity. It was heartbreaking to read this text, codified more than 1,500 years ago, with hostages still in Gaza.

As the date of Israel’s 76th Independence Day approaches, I’m left juggling two concepts. There’s the physical reality of the state – its currency, its government and its infrastructure. Then there’s the enormous emotional, up-and-down response many Jews around the world are experiencing as we struggle as a big extended family through the current war and the antisemitism worldwide. The only thing I can liken the emotions to is that of parenthood. That gut-wrenching, desperate crying from your baby, or the shrieks of joy from your tween as he splashes towards you in a pool. The emotion is overpowering, even while you juggle the practical notions of how governments behave. My parallel universe in Winnipeg: how much municipal money it costs to repair city infrastructure and whether your money (in whatever currency) is enough to pay for ice cream after the swim. The emotional joy of an ice cream after a good splash … that’s something to dream of doing again.

About 35 years ago, I was a teenager living on a kibbutz, splashing in an outdoor swimming pool on a sunny day. When I got out, I might share a slightly melted chocolate bar with my roommate as we changed for dinner. The truth is I have no idea if that kibbutz pool still exists. I haven’t been there since I was 17, but just like Happyland in Winnipeg, it isn’t the concrete that matters, it is those powerful memories of play with my friends.

I’m not sure if it’s possible to sort out all the actual infrastructure costs and damage that Israel, Gaza, the West Bank and Southern Lebanon face. The regional rebuild after this catastrophe will be enormous. The lives of people in the region are irrevocably changed. Meanwhile, if we can avoid numbness and hold onto powerful emotions like the clasping finger of a baby, and the laughter and that cool pool water on a hot day, maybe there’s the potential to regain our equilibrium.

I wish Israel good health on this birthday … good emotional and mental health even if, physically, things are still a hot mess. If Israel were a person? I’d be leaning in for a tearful hug over the cake, saying “You know I love you, right?”

Mitzvah to return lost items

During the winter and spring in Winnipeg, sometimes one sees a child’s toy or a colourful mitten attached to a tree or hedge along a sidewalk. These are lost items. The neighbourly thing to do when you see something in a snowbank or on the packed snowy sidewalk is to pick it up and prop it up at adult eye level. It helps others. Maybe it will stop toddlers’ tears.

Our household found somebody’s bike lock key last fall. This was harder to post. We took a piece of paper and wrote “Is this your key?” on it in large capital letters. Using clear tape, we attached the key and the sign to a powerline pole. A long time passed. One day, someone finally found their key. Relieved, we took down the sign.

I’ve been studying the Babylonian talmudic tractate of Baba Metzia, which covers civil law, including the rules around how to deal with lost items. It examines details that I often ponder. For instance, if a person finds an inanimate object, it has different obligations attached than if one finds an animal. We must return lost animals. If we don’t know how to return them, the finder must care for the animal, including feeding and watering the animal. If the animal’s upkeep is a burden, provisions exist for selling the animal and keeping the money to compensate the person who lost their animal. The particulars can be complex.

I became interested in a category that isn’t easy to describe – an object that isn’t alive or animate but still needs care. Things like books, which, in the days of the Talmud, were scrolls made of parchment made from animals. The finder had to rotate the scrolls occasionally to maintain them until they could return them. The finder couldn’t use the scrolls for study in a way that might cause undue wear on these hand-scribed texts.

Another thing in this category, in Bava Metzia 29b, says: “If one found a garment, he shakes it once in thirty days and he spreads it out for its sake, to ventilate it, but he may not use it as a decoration for his own prestige.” As someone who makes and cares for natural fibre textiles (handspun and knit sweaters, for instance), I understood this immediately. Clothing wasn’t mass produced then. There were no factories. Everyone used spindles and spun and wove clothing. It wasn’t fast fashion. Clothes took skill and a lot of time to make. So, if someone found a garment, he knew its value. It wasn’t disposable. He must keep it well-aired, to be sure it was clean and cared for, and not attracting destructive pests like moths. Since he didn’t own or make it, he also couldn’t use the garment himself.

Bava Metzia also explores when someone loses a garment and “despairs” of its return. That is, when one gives up entirely on getting it back.

For anyone who has seen images of the destroyed cars, homes and belongings left after Oct. 7 on the kibbutzim in southern Israel or from the Nova festival, these details hit hard. Some Israelis from these areas escaped with their lives but have “despaired” of ever getting back what they lost, they don’t want to return and try to reclaim things. Others asked for help or sifted through the remains of their homes to find precious items. Still others have managed to return home to their belongings and restart their lives.

This despair and reclamation reminded me of my in-laws and their stories of displacement after the Second World War. Their possessions, buried or left behind years earlier in Poland, were impossible to claim. Non-Jews had moved into their homes and taken their things. After four years in five different displaced persons’ camps, my father-in-law, his sisters and parents moved to the United States. Decades later, my husband’s grandmother would describe her family’s bakery in Mezritch and what they lost. Even in her despair, there was an acknowledgement that she worked daily to let go of that loss, and be grateful for a new, rich life for her family.

This family refugee story, of loss and rebuilding, contrasts sharply with the UNRWA concept of intergenerational Palestinian refugee status. As Jewish communities have been forced to move over thousands of years, we have, perhaps, been lucky to have these talmudic guidelines, now 1,500 to 2,000 years old, on how we can claim lost items and how we can accept loss and move on. As we tell the Passover story, we remind ourselves of the many times our people have had to leave everything behind and start again.

Teaching how to navigate lost items starts young. A PJ Library book sent to our children, called Sara Finds a Mitzva, helped us with this. Sara, the protagonist, follows through with the mitzvah (commandment) to return lost items when she finds a toy duck. She tours her Orthodox New York City neighbourhood to find the duck’s owner. My kids loved this book and its beautiful illustrations, which offered glimpses of my mother’s childhood, as well as taught a valuable lesson.

We also work with our children to help them understand that sometimes things go missing, and how to move on. After all, we say, it’s just a thing. People matter more than things. With war on our minds, we must focus on what counts most. I am praying for the safe return of the Israeli hostages. We cannot fall prey to despair – our tradition teaches that, when we despair, we have given up hope of an eventual return. Further, we must make sense of a situation where thousands of Israelis have lost their physical belongings but must now make a new life for themselves. Across the border, there are civilians in Gaza who must also rebuild their homes and lives after the war.

It’s one thing to study the rabbis’ ancient debates as an intellectual exercise. It’s another thing altogether to return pets and livestock, find belongings, and make new households amid this destruction. We have a history of past loss that offers guidance, as those affected by war are physically finding their way through this difficult experience.

We must work together to find new paths after loss. Even if it’s familiar territory, as Jews, it doesn’t mean it’s easy. Perhaps each of us, like Sara in the children’s book, can be lucky and find something – whether it’s physical or intangible. Then we, too, can do the mitzvah of returning lost things, and observe Passover, too. Creating a joyful holiday after trauma also offers a third mitzvah, that of tikkun olam, or “repairing the world” – bringing a bit of joy back to someone who needs it.

Joanne Seiff has written regularly for the Winnipeg Free Press and various Jewish publications. She is the author of three books, including From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. Check her out on Instagram @yrnspinner or at joanneseiff.blogspot.com.