Category: Opinion

On autism and being Jewish

My Jewish identity is something I have always grappled with. Attending Jewish day school, I felt not only like the outcast of my entire class, but of the entire school, and it took an enormous toll on my mental health.

My peers would always pose the question, “Why are you so weird?” or “Why are you so different?” and, at the time, I didn’t have the answers for them. When I bravely confronted them as adults, they wrote it off as “we were just kids” instead of sincerely apologizing.

As an adult, I still suffer from the effects that these words and actions had on my young, developing brain, though I realize that expecting those apologies is unrealistic. The ironic part of it all is that many of these people have gone into professions where they actively work with children. I sincerely hope that they have learned from their past and consider imparting the kindness and acceptance that I didn’t receive from them to the impressionable youth they are teaching.

Getting my autism diagnosis in 2018 was the catalyst for me to understand myself and make sense of my traumatic past and commit to creating the change I wished I had experienced when I was younger. I still hearken back to my youth, though – where, every single day, I was reminded of the biblical teachings that were supposed to impart good values. I didn’t experience that and that’s why I oftentimes grapple with my Jewish identity.

I identify as being a Jewish atheist, ethnically Jewish or a humanistic Jew. These terms prove challenging when I am attempting to express myself to other people and explain how being part of a minority group echoes a lot of the same sentiments and barriers that being openly autistic has had for me.

As part of the activism and outreach I have engaged in, I continually see harmful images being used. I also regularly experience how dismissive people – not just within the Jewish community, but everyone – are when I tell them these images remind me of the important work that still needs to be done.

For example, Autism Speaks is  a nonprofit organization that describes itself as being “dedicated to promoting solutions across the spectrum and along a life span for needs of people with autism spectrum disorder and their families.” It has, in collaboration with Google, a genome database called MSSNG. While their stated aim is to “speed the development of more effective and personalized interventions for autism and its associated health conditions,” there are many ethical issues with the collection of genetic material. And that a group like Autism Speaks (not to mention Google) is collecting these data concerns me, especially, because Autism Speaks has at least one video that personifies autism as an evil force – and only recently has the group stopped using the term “cure.” The change in language notwithstanding, their goal remains the same, and that is to eradicate autism. While this may seem laudable to some people, to me, the only way to reach that goal is to ensure that autistic people are not born. Autism should not be considered a disease, but rather as a neurotype.

A blue puzzle piece, with a little pink at the bottom, is part of the Autism Speaks logo. It is mostly blue because it was initially thought that only boys could be autistic, but a lot of women and gender-diverse individuals like myself are autistic. Colour aside, the puzzle piece symbolizes that something is broken or needs fixing, or that something is missing. I consider this narrative harmful, which is why I speak out against it.

I also find myself trying to correct those who attempt to dictate what is a “proper” way to communicate. To choose a communication style for someone else, when you don’t have the lived experience of being neurodiverse – and being frequently berated for the way you speak to others – is not acceptable. Unless you have experienced the hardships that come along with communication, then you should take the opportunity to learn before you speak. Knowing that not all disabilities are visible is an important thing to consider.

Within the autistic community, I have also had challenges when speaking my mind. For instance, I was accused of silencing the voices of Jewish people of colour when I expressed the opinion that being Jewish does not necessarily equate to being part of white privilege, a concept that is heavily debated in our community. I don’t profess to have all the answers, I am constantly learning and adapting to all the information that I am exposed to. But, to give an example of what I’m grappling with, I recently responded to an apology put forth by a prominent autistic activist, Lydia X.Y. Brown, who writes the Autistic Hoya Facebook page. They apologized for including “white Ashkenazi Jews” in a publication that was to centre on “racialized autism.” They specifically said, “We published a few people who are white Ashkenazi Jews and not Jews of colour or otherwise people of colour at all.”

I often wonder, as a Jew, where my place is, what I should be identifying as. For me, a big part of it is that I have faced antisemitism in my life and people have told me they can tell I am Jewish by my physical appearance. So, when someone makes a comment like Brown did – singling Jews out and making it seem like we are less than, while trying to simultaneously positively amplify the diversity of autistic people, it is hurtful.

My response to the post was a suggestion as to how the apology could have been worded more respectfully: “We included ethnic groups that some folks did not feel were appropriate for our publication. Moving forward, we will be more perceptive to the suggestions of others and pivot to be more inclusive and considerate to those we have overlooked.” This would have been more appropriate, rather than focusing on an ethnic group that already faces enough discrimination. I believe that singling out a marginalized group, no matter what the perceived colour of one’s skin, is inherently wrong.

In another situation, because of the controversy surrounding Judaism and whiteness, I felt I had to sever ties with an organization and some individuals who, instead of accepting my voice and agreeing to disagree with me, pointed out the hardships I had created due to my own personal struggles and attempt to grapple with my identity.

Being autistic is hard. Being Jewish is hard. Being both is even more difficult, and trying to navigate this world while being both is honestly not something I’d wish on my worst enemy. But, what I can do is use my voice and do as much good as possible with the cards I have been dealt.

I have been the recipient of two arts grants through the B.C. Arts Council and I actively create art, run an Etsy store (retrophiliac.etsy.com), have a website (navigatingjourney.com) and am all over social media. I strive to create a very open dialogue and provide a lot of free emotional labour, trying to have the conversation about being autistic. Parents of autistic children and those who purport to be our advocates need to support autistic adults, instead of co-opting our voices and acting like they know better. As far as autism is concerned, acceptance is more important than awareness, because the acceptance narrative is not one over which autistic people have control.

Margaux Wosk is a small business owner, content creator and artist living in the Greater Vancouver area. April was Autism Acceptance Month.

The magic behind kaytana

While Camp Miriam won’t be able to offer overnight camping sessions, it will once again be offering day camp experiences this summer. (photo from Camp Miriam)

I will never forget waking up in a puddle in the middle of the night, feeling water slowly dripping into my sleeping bag as I shivered and clenched my muscles, trying to maintain the tiniest shred of heat.

It was 2011, I was 14, and my kvutza (cabin group) was on a three-day hike that would take us through steep inclines and 30 kilometres of terrain. It poured every day and night, leaving us without a dry item of clothing by the first morning. We were wet, cold, blistered and exhausted. It was a miserable trip.

And we loved it.

On the final day, we emerged from the forest chanting a marching song and smiling with glee at what we had accomplished. To this day, I reminisce about this trip with that same giddy excitement.

And yet, I’ve always wondered, what allowed us to not only persevere, but to create a lifelong positive memory. Anyone who has spent time at Machaneh Miriam – the overnight Jewish summer camp on Gabriola Island – can attest to the magic each new summer conjures. The thing about magic is that we may not know how it works, but we know what it does. It’s what drove us forward, step by step through the mud with smiles and songs that summer. Everywhere you go at Miriam, you can feel the magic – from the building walls decorated with generations of camper art and poetry, to the dining hall filled with chanting and singing voices every lunch.

It’s the same magic that, last summer, propelled Miriam’s youth leadership to accomplish the seemingly impossible.

When the pandemic hit, these young leaders were several months into planning a six-week overnight summer camp on Gabriola. Not only did the pandemic erase months of hard work and preparation, it also posed a serious question: could camp’s magic exist outside of the island?

To most campers and staff, Miriam and Gabriola are inseparable. As the rosh (camp director), Marina Levy, said, “At Camp Miriam, we are connected to our community, to Gabriola and to our traditions.”

Envisioning a summer away from Gabriola was a daunting task. But, the tzevet (staff) rose to the occasion, creating not one, but three kaytanot (day camps) – one each in Vancouver, Victoria and Portland. By summer’s end, more than 200 campers, 60 staff and a whole bunch of parents resoundingly affirmed that camp’s magic can exist off of Gabriola.

To understand the importance of the kaytana, it is necessary to consider the context. At a time when campers had been confined to their homes and separated from their friends for months, the news that overnight camp was not happening came as a severe blow.

The immediate effect of the pandemic on kids’ mental health was profound. Research by SickKids hospital in Toronto showed that, in just the first three months of the lockdown, a majority of children showed a serious deterioration in their mental health.

According to Camp Miriam parents, the kaytana helped their kids overcome some of that stress. One parent said, “Last June, our daughter was really struggling with the impact of COVID on her life, it was significant. Camp Miriam’s summer camp in Vancouver brought her back to herself again. A combination of the social component, the programming and empowerment she felt, and the sense of purpose in her life helped her rediscover herself and revive herself.”

Another parent observed a change in her son after just one day. “I  almost cried hearing him talk about it,” she said. “I think it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to say it was a transformative experience.”

Counselor Rakeea Gordis said that, during the weekly Shabbat tradition where campers sit together and reflect on their week, “At least one, but usually up to five kids would say that they were devastated that today, Friday, was the last day of the kaytana for the week.”

So, how did the staff manifest the magic of overnight camp in day camps far from the quiet comfort of Gabriola? A huge amount of credit goes to the youth leadership who worked long days and then late into the night throughout the summer creating kishutim (decorations) for special days, planning peulot (educational activities) and even burying items for a treasure hunt the following day.

Financially, none of this would have been possible without the support of the camp’s community and the Jewish Federation of Greater Vancouver, who stepped up at a time of extreme need, as well as the Grinspoon Foundation and the Heller Memorial Fund, who provided matching grants. It cost nearly three times as much to run the kaytana as to run the overnight camp.

So, perhaps, camp’s magic is not a complete mystery after all. As technical director Inbar Avrahami Saraf said, “[The kaytana] was an experiment, a proof of concept of the magic of machaneh, and how the magic is not in the physical space but in the chanichm [campers] and the tzevet and just the community that makes it so incredible.”

So, credit must be given to the force of will that the youth leaders and the wider Jewish community bring – the relentless push to build and dream; to create community and unforgettable experiences, whether they be on Gabriola Island, on a three-day hike in the pouring rain or in the midst of a pandemic.

“The magic of machaneh doesn’t just exist far away on an island, it exists where we choose to create it,” said Levy.

Unfortunately, once again Camp Miriam has had to cancel its overnight camp due to COVID-19, but, once again, the young staff are ready to create amazing kaytana experiences. To register for Miriam’s 2021 summer programs or to support the camp as it faces another challenging season, go to campmiriam.org.

Sasa Popovich is a writer and former Camp Miriam camper, counselor and technical director.

Holy jab a moving experience

We’re celebrating at our house. I’ve gotten my first AstraZeneca vaccination “jab.” I’ve got a sore arm and felt droopy afterwards, but I’m thrilled to have finally gotten access.

As a pragmatic, 40-something Gen X-er, I had to wait my turn. Then I rushed to get an appointment. In the Manitoba social media world, we heard others complain that the system was difficult to navigate. The deadpan reply from our cohort was something like, “Guess you’ve never had to get up early to try to register your kids for swim lessons.” In a place where resources like, say, vaccination or indoor pool swim lesson spots, are very limited, we’ve learned to negotiate systems that were not designed for our needs or to be welcoming.

This big event for 40-somethings in several Canadian provinces happened to coincide with the Torah portion of Acharei Mot-Kedoshim, Leviticus 16:1-20:27. This big double parashah (portion) covers a lot, including what it means to be holy. In some cases, it might mean “to be prepared.”

It’s also the portion that encourages us to “Love your neighbour as yourself” and Leviticus 19:34 reads, “The stranger who resides with you shall be to you as one of your citizens; you shall love him as yourself, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt: I the Lord am your God.”

The Torah is, sort of, a holiness how-to guide of its time, and some of the issues may no longer be everyday things for many. However, the pandemic forces us to be prepared for simple things like wearing a mask during a shopping outing. Add in more complex things, like obtaining access to that coveted vaccination, too. It’s interesting that the weekly parashah topics like preparation, holiness, loving neighbours and caring for strangers all came up at once.

The nurse who gave me my jab had worked in the COVID wards. She exuded calm as she went through her vaccine script. She made the moment feel monumental and holy while preparing me. When I thanked her, she said how great it was to be part of this effort to keep so many others healthy and safe after experiencing the suffering in the hospitals.

As I sat in the doctor’s waiting room for my 15 minutes after the jab, I thought about this. Masking up, getting vaccinated and social distancing are all ways that we show love for one another right now. Those actions are so powerful that I’m affronted and sad whenever someone demonstrates as an anti-masker, doesn’t wear a mask or even spits in public. Indeed, that means he doesn’t love his neighbour enough.

While I waited, it was a quiet. Yo-Yo Ma wasn’t serenading others on his cello in the clinic or anything like that. Instead, I turned and congratulated a stranger, a man who had also just gotten his shot. It was an oddly affirming moment. He had a spouse with an immune condition. Like me, he had kids learning at home. At first glance, I might have felt apprehensive chatting – he was heavily inked with tattoos and intimidating. Still, the love we both felt towards the universe for this opportunity and to those who also cared so much that we’d rushed to get vaccinated, was tender and transformative.

While I’d been able to get my shot, alas, Manitoba, and other parts of Canada seem to be quickly losing their battle to outrun the third wave. Vaccines can’t get into arms fast enough. Yet, as I read the news, there are also multiple reports of moments where people are taking care of strangers. In North Dakota, there’s now a pop-up Moderna vaccination site at a rest stop. They managed to vaccinate 62 truck drivers from Manitoba the first day. This was such a gift to our province, which hasn’t chosen to prioritize these essential workers.

In Montana, the Blackfeet Nation has invited Albertans to cross the border (with permission) to get vaccinated on their reservation. They were able to use up expiring vaccines on both strangers and Indigenous relatives who lived across the international border.

Many Jewish people have reported on social media that they recited the Shehecheyanu or the slightly more complicated “bathroom prayer,” which thanks G-d for the miraculous workings of our bodies. I uttered a silent prayer of my own, too.

It was also a chance to appreciate the kindness of strangers who looked after me. The doctor stuck his head in to ask if I had any questions. The nurse and I had a deep conversation – about illness, death, birth and our struggles as parents – in our few minutes together before and after the vaccine. Like so many who’ve been mostly social distancing and staying at home, these nurturing interactions have been few and far between this year.

I must admit, when we stream services on Shabbat at home, I’m not standing up much. I’m not on my tiptoes as we would in synagogue when we sing the Kedusha – the part where we say, “Holy, Holy,” and try to ease ourselves up closer to heaven and to the angels. Preparing oneself and trying to be holy is, for all of us, a process, but I felt just a little more prepared after what I experienced this week.

If you’re anxious about needles, don’t worry. My kids looked at my arm and I don’t have a “hole” there!

I feel like my vaccination experience captured a snapshot of how we can all strive to be more prepared. It’s an opportunity to love our neighbours, care for the stranger and, maybe, in the process, become a bit closer to heaven and more holy.

Joanne Seiff has written regularly for CBC Manitoba 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.

Where I’ve been this year

After listening to Dr. Betsy Stone during a community workshop called A Year of Upheaval: What has Trauma Done to our Bodies and our Brains?, I decided to take her advice and tell my story. According to Stone, “Healing requires storytelling … we tell our stories so we’ll understand our experience differently.”

The past 15 months have been a journey for all of us. Some more than others, but no one has not “traveled” during the pandemic. And, by travel, I mean change. Whether we’re brave enough (honest enough?) to admit it or not, we have all been transformed. Call it trauma, call it what you like. It’s all a matter of semantics. Not everyone is as vocal as I am, or as filled with anxiety about COVID, but no one comes out of this horrible shindig unscathed.

Whether your resilience lies in emotional strength or a feeling of invincibility, or whether you’re firmly entrenched in that big river in Egypt (denial), we all cope in our own ways. There is no one right way through this. You can’t go over it, you can’t go under it – you can only go through it. Putting our experience into words brings new life to it, new insights. Speaking it makes it even more real and, maybe, just maybe, easier to cope with.

So, where have I been this year? I wish I could answer that with geographic precision. What comes to mind is: home. And, occasionally, the pharmacy and grocery store, as well as walks close to home. While I hate to say that the pandemic has been my world, it’s hard to escape the reality of that pronouncement. I fully admit my obsession with the pandemic, my fear and my single-minded focus on how to stay healthy. I won’t apologize for it, or feel less-than. It is what it is.

That doesn’t mean to say that my fear has prevented me from seeing silver linings during this unparalleled time. There has definitely been more than one “there-must-be-a-pony” moment. The most important one being that my nephew and his wife had a baby boy near the start of the pandemic. It doesn’t get any better than that. In random order after that, I have thrown myself into the deep end of the pool with Torah classes and other religious learning. Next on my list is that I started on a life-changing medical treatment that makes my life much easier. I have made new friends and acquaintances through the numerous Zoom classes I attend nearly every day. I am exercising 100% more than I did pre-pandemic. I might sleep less, but my brain has expanded. In the good way. And that’s just the beginning.

All this is by way of saying that, while I wouldn’t award COVID first place in a popularity contest, it has had its bright spots. It has impacted my perspective on all things, in a way that nothing else has, to that degree. When I think about what’s important now, my pre-COVID list is almost laughable. I, like many others, have embraced the basics: health and safety, family, faith and trust.

When I think of the trajectory of this past 15 months, it’s hard to articulate. Or, more to the point, what our reactions have been. Have I learned to be more trusting, or more suspicious? Have I expanded my capacity for compassion, or have I become more selfish? Have I anchored my experiences in religious belief, or have I trusted in science? Have I given in to my fears, or have I conquered them? While I’ve always tended to lean towards the black and white, there really are no absolutes right now. There are, however, firm yeses and hard no’s. I am reconsidering everything I once was certain about. The $64,000 question is whether I will be able to integrate what I’ve learned and turn it into something positive when all this is over. Or, better yet, before all this is over. The jury is still out. But I’m hopeful.

I have become exponentially more grateful for the simple things: my devoted husband who is my perfect companion in life; that I have a loving and lovely family; that I have never had to worry about where my next meal will come from; that I live in a part of the world that has great doctors, easy access to medical care and all the outdoor green spaces you could ever ask for; and that I have mentors and friends. I could go on ad infinitum.

Too often, I see the clouds instead of the blue sky that’s right behind it. I see impediments where there don’t have to be any. Positivity is a steep learning curve for me. It’s funny that I used to consider myself an optimist. Since the pandemic, I’ve come to see how maybe-not-true that is. Not that I’m proud of it, it’s just the current reality. But I’m trying pointedly to turn that around. There are days where I see hope staring me in the face everywhere. Literally everywhere. Other days, it’s just fog and darkness. I know I’m hardly unique in this.

So, in truth, I have been lots of places this year. Mostly in my head. But some real places, too. Like a certain street in Shaughnessy that’s filled with huge trees, beautiful homes and no people walking about. A place where it’s safe for me to take off my face mask for a block or two. Until I see someone. I have also been to a place of sheer, unnamable joy, seeing my tiny great-nephew on WhatsApp video. I have discovered flowers I never knew existed, in areas I’d never walked before (despite being a native Vancouverite). I have traveled via Zoom to other countries, for learning and sometimes for pleasure. But pleasures that don’t involve a beach or a buffet. And I travel constantly in my dreams.

Every day of this pandemic, I have learned something. About myself, about others, about faith. That’s got to count for something, right? When we all heal from what Stone calls this “trauma,” we’re definitely going to come out of it changed. Whether that change is positive or negative, or a combination of both, is up to us entirely. My commitment to myself is that I’m going to try and lay the groundwork for an improved Shelley. A less anxious, more trusting, deliberately positive Shelley.

I guarantee you’ll still recognize me, though. I’ll be the one still wearing a facemask a year from now. Or maybe not.

Shelley Civkin is a happily retired librarian and communications officer. For 17 years, she wrote a weekly book review column for the Richmond Review. She’s currently a freelance writer and volunteer.

Blessing of love

I must make the disclaimer that none of the letters after my name qualify me to opine on matters of this kind but, as I have done too often in the past, I “rush in where angels fear to tread.” I just feel it is so important for our well-being to have a little bit of this in our make-up. I believe we have to be lucky enough that someone has loved us unconditionally, whether that be a parent, God or a partner. It can arrive from siblings, but siblings are more often competitive than fully loving.

But why is this so important? Because a person who loves us unconditionally is one who is naturally inclined to forgive us for our transgressions. We are hardly likely to get through life without making mistakes. If others we respect are ready to forgive us our trespasses, we are much more likely to forgive ourselves as well. And that, I believe, is a very big deal.

If we can’t forgive ourselves for our mistakes, for our misbehaviours, then we probably don’t like ourselves very much. Indeed, we are probably angry with ourselves most of the time. If it’s true, it shows. Everybody knows the saying, “love thy neighbour as thyself.” If you don’t like yourself, well, look out below!

But suppose you understand that we all make mistakes? Suppose you understand that mistakes are learning opportunities and the great thing is that you can learn to not make the same mistake again. Mistakes are a necessary way to get smarter about organizing your life. You don’t have to beat yourself up about them. Learn your lesson and move on. You are still a person worth loving. And, because you are getting so smart about things, why shouldn’t you appreciate and admire yourself? Your heritage of love gives you strength, self-confidence.

But what if your mistake is unredeemable? Ouch! Those, you just have to live with. And shouldn’t that make you kinder about the mistakes of others, more generous, more forgiving? If you could do such a thing, well, then, it could happen to anybody, couldn’t it? Sure it could! Forgive them as you forgive yourself.

A belief in your essential goodness will aid you when you are confronted with all those essential decisions one has to make in life. How will what I am thinking of doing impact the lives of those I care for? Can I square this action with the kind of person I want to be? Will I still be able to love myself if I do this thing? If not, then I must find another way to accomplish my ends. Loving yourself can mean having that kind of conversation with yourself.

In the past, I often assumed that what advanced my interests would obviously be in the interests of those I cared for, those whose welfare I was responsible for. It was only with the passage of time that I grew to appreciate that I often missed a step in making that calculation. Most decisions turned out well, but some bore costs paid for by others, costs of which I had not the slightest notion. It was only with time that I would appreciate that I had paid a price as well.

In the end, I believe that those of us who have been blessed with a heritage of love are better able to love ourselves and are better equipped to bestow that heritage on others. I think that is a wonderful thing.

Max Roytenberg is a Vancouver-based poet, writer and blogger. His book Hero in My Own Eyes: Tripping a Life Fantastic is available from Amazon and other online booksellers.

Working through emotions

The experiential feeling of shame is defined as a painful emotion caused by feeling like you have done something wrong or disgraceful. Shame is a popular trope and is associated with the concept of “Jewish guilt.” However, on the ground and in my practice with tweens, adolescents and adult women, shame carries with it strong painful emotions and regret(s). Shame is a common reaction to anxiety, depression and mental and emotional stress.

For the therapeutic clients who work with me, shame is expressed as all-consuming. In the context of emotional and mental stresses that are relational or situational, common expressions of shame arise of feeling broken, defective and disconnected. My general aim is to acknowledge the power of shame and their particular relationship to it by also normalizing the emotion and experiences with it. As a therapist, I use various creative-, expressive-, psychosocial-, embodied-, feminist-, narrative- and mindfulness-based psychotherapies to work a way inside, through and outside of the burdens my clients are holding. For the purpose of this article, I will focus on mindfulness psychotherapy.

Experiences of anxiety, depression, grief, relationship and family struggles often result in individuals being programmed and aware of the value of, or favouring of, one part of their experience over another – for some, it is intellectual or cognitive abilities; others are guided by emotions; others by physical signals. More and more we are realizing the importance of recognizing and listening to all of our responses as a way to heal and grow. A mindful approach to psychotherapy helps you identify and integrate all of these parts of yourself. Brain science validates this notion and suggests that, by attending to your thought patterns, emotional reactions and sensory experiences, you can change patterns of thinking, feeling and moving in the world. Even complicated mental and emotional health experiences paired with the weight of shame can be tackled using mindfulness as a key component in therapy and applying it in day-to-day life.

Mindfulness practice offers hope for changing unwanted or destructive reactions, belief systems and behaviours that seem fixed or difficult to mobilize. For example, if you have a negative self-view, by noticing the story you tell yourself and considering it a pattern of thinking versus a truth, there is room to reevaluate and create a more accurate description of yourself. And, when you have a more accurate and accepting view of yourself, you are more likely to trust yourself and live more freely. This work is not easy and it is important to proceed gently and in the care of a trusted mental health professional.

I will share a short mindfulness practice that you can do at home. Mindfulness connects one’s mind to one’s body and one’s breath. I like carrying out this mindfulness exercise with my individual therapeutic clients and in group therapy because it serves as a reminder to connect to one’s body and to breathe through it. Through this mindfulness practice, that I call “body scan,” one can gain both emotional and physical clarity and start a naming and eventual cleansing of emotions that do not serve including shame.

Body scan

Find a place you can sit comfortably, quietly and undisturbed and set a gentle timer for five to 10 minutes. Be kind with yourself and start slowly, with five minutes. The more you practise, the easier a longer mindfulness practice will be.

During the body scan exercise, you will pay close attention to the physical sensations throughout your body. The goal is not to change or relax your body and mind, but instead to notice and become more aware of your body, your mind and your breath.

Begin by paying attention to the sensations in your feet. Notice any sensations such as warmth, coolness, pressure, pain or a breeze moving over your skin. Slowly move up your body – to your calves, thighs, pelvis, stomach, chest, back, shoulders, arms, hands, fingers, neck and, finally, your head. Spend some time on each of these body parts, just noticing the sensations. Remember to breathe as fully as you can, in through your mouth, exhaling through your nose. Your breaths are like gentle and ongoing waves.

After you travel your body, begin to move back down, through each part, until you reach your feet again. Remember to move slowly, and just pay attention, breathing and noticing.

Dr. Abby Wener Herlin holds a doctorate degree from the University of British Columbia. She is the founder of Threads Education and Counselling and works with tweens, adolescents and adults. She carries out themed social justice and creative arts and writing workshops for students, teachers and schools. She is available for therapeutic sessions and contemplative writing workshops. She can be reached at [email protected] or via threadseducation.com.

Model of resilience

As we have reveled in the summer-like weather of this extraordinary spring, we face, on the one hand, a looming overload of our health system as COVID variants lead to an especially worrisome wave, while, on the other hand, we enjoy a sense of huge optimism every time we see another friend’s vaccination selfie. There is a race between the spread of the virus and the distribution of the vaccine.

There will be time to reflect on the responses of governments around the world, but, for now, we thank again the medical professionals and other frontline workers, which in the circumstances includes retail and restaurant workers and anyone whose position puts them in front of the public so that the rest of us can live with comparative ease.

We are now in the second round of annual events held virtually. We have celebrated Passover with online seders two years in a row and likewise have marked simchas and solemn occasions through our devices. This is becoming something close to routine.

The past couple of weeks have been especially packed with virtual community events. It is remarkable how meaningful and moving ceremonies like Yom Hashoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day) and Yom Hazikaron (Israel’s Memorial Day) can be even when mediated through technology. Joyous occasions like Yom Ha’atzmaut (Israel’s Independence Day) were different but delightful.

On Sunday, Jewish Family Services held a virtual grand opening and tour of their new food hub, dubbed the Kitchen, a centre for sustainable food, education and community-building around this most central of human necessities. (See story next issue.)

What was inspiring about the JFS event, in addition to the project itself, is the resolve and optimism demonstrated by the very act of launching the facility in the midst of a pandemic. It is a bit of wonderful audacity, or chutzpah, to start a new initiative like the Kitchen and to see it through to a physical opening, despite the challenges thrown at the organization by COVID.

Of course, there are countless similar examples, in our community and others, of people doggedly pursuing great causes in the face of the crisis we are in. There is the small miracle that this pandemic hit us at a time when we have the technology to see and talk to people worldwide in real time. But the technology is only as good as the people operating it. On a dime, schools, synagogues, arts and cultural institutions, education and advocacy agencies, as well as families, adapted as best they could under sometimes nearly impossible circumstances. The quality of so many of these efforts has been remarkable.

What makes things like the Kitchen so significant is that it was not an existing program that went virtual, but a fresh concept in community well-being that was envisioned and created. Sunday’s Chanukat Habayit was the culmination of that foundational work and the beginning of what should be decades of programs and services.

If there were a model of behaviour to inspire clients of Jewish Family Services, and all of us, that demonstration of resilience and determination in times of difficulty is an ideal one.

Counting the Omer at home

For university students or professors, like my husband, the end of term is coming. Some universities call this winter term, others say spring term. Even though I haven’t been in school for a long while, I still remember the feeling at the end. Many of my classmates were elated after they sat their last exam. They’d yell loudly after they left the exam hall, or go drinking or do something celebratory and crazy. I often had an entirely different experience.

Most of my coursework, in the humanities and social sciences, required writing papers instead. During the study week and the exam period that followed, I’d line up the due dates, create a calendar and plow through. Each paper would require its set of books, carefully piled up, with scraps of paper as bookmarks or long lists of online references. I’d check the professor’s requirements – five pages? 12? 20? – and sometimes crank out a paper every day or two.

In that era, the professors liked hard copies, so I’d print out my work, staple it, and trudge across campus, leaving it in a professor’s mailbox. Then, I’d walk home and, sometimes, I’d take a break from writing. Other times, I’d just start the next paper. When the last research paper was written and submitted, that was it. No fanfare. No yelling or parties or even shared experience with classmates. In some cases, by the time I finished writing, the dormitories would be emptying out. I’d feel hollow and exhausted, but, even while I was alone, I was triumphant. It was all finished. I could go home.

Real life isn’t a lot like the end of a semester. True, holidays end (buh-bye, Passover!! See ya next year!) and big work projects get turned in, but, many times, there’s no big completion marker, no hurrah. It’s a lot more like turning in those term papers. It’s a lot less like the group partying after exams.

Our triumphs and mile markers during the pandemic have been quieter, overall, for me – a lot like that feeling of turning in my research papers by myself. I cheer every time someone shows off their COVID vaccination information on social media. I’m in awe of what many have accomplished during this independent time in terms of learning new skills (sourdough, pottery, whatever) or in their career trajectory; again, mostly seen via social media. It’s sometimes hard to “see” oneself the same way, though, particularly when vaccinations are going so slowly.

Whlie I know, objectively, that many of us are accomplishing a ton, it’s also equally valid to do a reasonable job just staying afloat during such a crisis. Getting meals on the table, kids educated and – not to be forgotten – working are big accomplishments right now. As some are struggling with mental health, food or housing insecurity, it can be important to recognize how many of us are doing OK, and could potentially help someone else.

The Jewish calendar has really steered our household during this stay-home period. For instance, right now, we’re counting the Omer at home, for the first time ever. My kids did it in preschool, and I’ve been vaguely aware of it some years, but I certainly wasn’t raised with doing this at home.

What’s the Omer? It’s the verbal counting of the days between Passover and Shavuot. While we no longer bring a grain offering to the Temple in Jerusalem on Shavuot, we still measure this stretch between the holidays. The kabbalistic mystics added a level of meditative imagery, too, a way of preparing ourselves to mark the gift of the Torah to the Jewish people on Shavuot.

One of my twins is keen to cross days off the calendar. He and I are counting the Omer together. To remember, I’ve been writing the right number on a chalkboard and he and I turn to each other at some point and announce, “It’s the Xth day of the Omer!” Then we say, for instance, “NINE, NINE, NINE!” and laugh. But, in all seriousness, for us, it has become a way of keeping track of time. It’s an accomplishment, if not a divine mystical meditation.

I’m very much looking forward to being vaccinated – and I’m hoping to say the Shehecheyanu blessing (being grateful for having reached this moment and season). I can’t wait to feel, with the vaccination, that I’ve done all I can to cherish life, according to Jewish tradition, and be healthy for my family.

On the Jewish calendar, we’re looking forward to having a family barbeque on Lag b’Omer. Both 9-year-olds here are excited about their hot dogs and maybe getting to eat them outside.

It still feels like an absolutely uphill trudge in the snow, though. This is literal – we’re also in the midst of a big April snowstorm in Winnipeg. The plows are working outside my home as I write this. However, using this ancient system to count the days, or the Omer, both connects us to our past and helps us make incremental gains towards whatever is to come in our hopefully brighter, post-pandemic future.

Every year, we receive the Torah on Shavuot, and it’s something to celebrate, a milestone. Each moment, no matter how mundane, is something for which to feel grateful.

Many say that, when the pandemic is over, there will be a roaring ’20s feel, that people will party wildly in the streets. I suspect it’s going to be a lot more like the trickling sensation of writing and turning in one paper at a time, until I’d met all my undergraduate course load deadlines. Even so, I’m counting the days until I can feel relieved at the end, and celebrate with family, at home. Since no one knows when that end will be scheduled on any calendar, I’ll just keep counting the Omer, instead.

Joanne Seiff has written regularly for CBC Manitoba 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.