lifestyle – Page 2

That which no one else can do

Listening to an online class by a Chassidic rabbi, I heard this: “We’re each put on this earth to do something unique, something which no one else can do. No one before you, and no one after you.”

A little pressure? No kidding.

He went on to say: “Fulfil your true and essential purpose. That’s where you will see and experience your ultimate blessings.”

High expectations? Heck, yeah.

I hear these words time and again. Why? Because they’re one of the countless mantras of Chassidim. What’s more, they’re encouraging, positive and impressive, so who wouldn’t be curious? Until you find yourself asking: “But what is my purpose in this world?”

I ask myself that regularly. There are days when maybe I do a good deed for someone and see that person benefit and I think, “There it is.” Maybe I call an elderly friend and wish them good Shabbos. Perhaps I bake a bunch of challah to give away and I think, “There it is. That’s my purpose. Or is it?”

The $64,000 questions are, How do we identify our purpose? And can we have more than one purpose in life? I think the answer to the second question is a resounding yes.

According to a wise rabbi I know, “Every element of our lives is an integral part of our purpose. It’s multi-faceted at every moment.” Sometimes, our purpose can be doing something that makes us happy. Sometimes, it’s the exact opposite – it’s something we struggle with that, in the end, serves a higher purpose and maybe even has a holy outcome. It’s certainly not random though.

As for identifying our purpose, that can be a bit trickier. My guess is that often we don’t even recognize it in the moment, but it’s there, nonetheless. If you have the privilege of recognizing G-d’s purpose for you, consider yourself lucky.

Some people are blessed to have one, humongous, overarching talent, like being an inspirational public speaker. Or a devoted caregiver. Or whatever. Most of us though – we fumble along searching for what resonates, not only with us, but with others. Because, in the end, we are a collective. What we do is never in isolation. Never. We always impact others. Even if it’s not immediately apparent.

We are not single humans floating around this world, alone, or islands unto ourselves. We’re an integral part of relationships – with G-d, with our loved ones, with our co-workers, with our friends. Even with strangers. What purpose we have in life only comes to life when it impacts others. We don’t exist in a vacuum, thank goodness, because those are filled with shmutz.

The thing is, the details of each individual’s purpose look different. Your purpose is something that no one else on earth can do. However, it all converges at the same point, which is to make the world a holier, more light-filled, compassionate place where G-d’s presence is revealed. Whoa, that’s some heaviosity! I dare you to unpack that.

Constantly dipping my amateur toes in the ocean of Judaism – Chassidism, to be specific – I am struck by how often I hear those words: revealing G-d’s presence in this world. Don’t ask me to explain it. I’m just a rookie, trying to understand it a tiny bit more every day. I have miles to go. But I’m certainly up for the challenge.

All I know is this: sometimes we seek out our purpose, sometimes it seeks us out; sometimes gently, sometimes it whacks us upside the head. It doesn’t matter how it happens. It only matters that it does happen. Sooner rather than later. Because sooner gives us an opportunity to do something great, even if it seems small or insignificant. Purpose is all relative. But to what? To the precise moment when that specific purpose finds its way into the world and affects another human being. That’s all it takes. Simple. Like neuroscience. Or astrophysics.

I don’t profess to have any answers or even suggestions, or insights. I just have my own experiences to share. For most of my life, it never crossed my mind that each of us has a purpose that we’re put on this earth to fulfil, except maybe for the obvious ones: teachers help kids learn, doctors heal people, mechanics fix cars. But what was my purpose?

I spent my working life as a librarian and communications officer at a public library. I mostly helped people find things and do research. For a short period, I was a children’s librarian, so I shared the love of literacy, reading stories, singing songs and teaching rhymes to little ones and their parents. Is that purpose? I’m not sure. Certainly it was fun. But it wasn’t what I would call meaningful, in the spiritual realm. Maybe I impacted a few people in some way, who knows. But did I change lives? It didn’t feel like it.

As a communications officer, I spent a good part of each day writing: annual reports, speeches, press releases, book reviews, brochures. Anything and everything. Was that my purpose in life? I doubt it. Maybe I touched a few people with the annual article I wrote in memory of my father’s yahrzeit. But did that give me purpose? Only momentarily.

Then I retired. And started volunteering.

First, I started baking challah buns, as part of the Light of Shabbat meals that Chabad Richmond delivers to homebound seniors on a regular basis, and delivering some of those meals. Now, I know it sounds kind of flimsy and trivial, but baking challah gave my life more meaning. I wasn’t just mixing ingredients, forming them into buns and baking them. As I learned from some rebbetzins, making challah is an auspicious time to give tzedakah and pray for what you want or need for yourself, for your family and for others. I knew that the people who’d be receiving my challah buns might not otherwise have challah for Shabbat. And, even if it wasn’t meaningful to them, it was to me. Oddly enough, that simple act of baking challah gave me a sense of purpose. Delivering it and shmoozing with the seniors was an extra bonus.

As my volunteer activities increased, so did my sense of purpose. When I began tutoring English to Israeli high school students via video chat through the Israel Connect program, I was terrified, but willing to try. After all, what did I know about teaching? Exactly bupkis. Little did I realize that the curriculum was only the supporting cast. The main actors were my student and me. While the goal of the program is for Israeli teens to become proficient in English vocabulary, comprehension and conversation – and they do – the meaningful stuff happens in our connection to one another. When you parse it, life is all about building relationships. About finding ways to connect. It’s about trust and compassion, learning and discovery. It’s about impact. Traveling both ways.

All that to say that having a sense of purpose in life doesn’t require monumental acts. It simply requires meaningful acts. Acts of giving.

So, go out and find your purpose. Or let it find you. Just get out of your own way.

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.

Comfort food and COVID

There’s been an uptick in the eating of comfort food in our house since the pandemic began. Cooking and eating are a big deal during stressful times.

Now, we were “into” food pre-pandemic. I cook a lot. However, everything went up a notch when our focus turned inwards, particularly for holidays like Passover, Rosh Hashanah, Sukkot and Thanksgiving. When our neighbourhood bakery closed down in the spring, I went from making only challah to making all our bread. My kids, surprised, said, “Mommy, you made this? It’s really good!” – as they gobbled up the crusty spelt bread I turned out. Over these months, it’s gone from bread production to canning. Once the shelves filled up with jams, pickles and applesauce, autumn became baking and roasting season.

We’ve eaten too much: apple pie and crisp, sweet potato pie, cherry pies, and more. I tried for moderation – and then my husband bought Halloween candy. He started doling out two snack-sized chocolates a day. I couldn’t resist.

In the summer, I combated all this “extra” with dog walks and playing outside, but now it’s cold out again. It’s harder to take long walks. Fall virus numbers have soared, so swim lessons, gym visits and other kinds of exercise are off the table for now.

Imagine my surprise when Daf Yomi, the practice of reading a page of Talmud a day, came to the rescue! I found good advice while reading Eruvin 82b and 83b. After all, it’s not the first time in Jewish history that we’ve gone through periods of stress. When feeling out of control, it might only be natural to struggle with basics like “how much is enough to eat?”

In Eruvin 82b, a discussion emerges. To extend the eruv, the boundary of how far you can go on Shabbat, you can place food in a location, usually cooperatively, with your neighbours, so that you all “share” the space. When you establish this with your neighbours, it’s communal space, like in your house. You can carry things within a larger area. Imagine a block party potluck, and you’re understanding this.

How much food is enough? It’s supposed to be enough when each neighbour puts in enough for two meals. However, that amount must be defined. Is that food enough for two “work day” meals, when people might be doing hard labour? On Shabbat, we eat more, so do we put more out to designate the eruv? How much should it weigh? Does it need to be expensive or fancy food?

The rabbis then do math, which is always a bit dodgy, to be honest. Why? Measurements in the ancient world varied from one geographic location to another. Food staples varied, too – for instance, some places had better access to one kind of grain as compared to others. Rice bread is acceptable, for example, but millet bread can’t be used, because the rabbis say it’s hard to make edible millet bread.

Different communities couldn’t afford the same things and, even if they could afford them, in some cases, the bread they produced was simply not edible. In Eruvin 81a, there’s a discussion about a kind of mixed grain lentil bread, a concoction of wheat, barley, beans, lentil, millet and spelt as spelled out in Ezekiel 4:9. “Rav Hiyya bar Avin said that Rav said: One may establish an eruv with lentil bread.” The Gemara determines that there was a bread made like this in the days of Mar Shmuel, and even his dog wouldn’t eat it. So, the food put out for the eruv must be edible to humans (and dogs) and taste good!

The rabbis refer to the Torah and decide that the manna the Jewish people received while wandering in the desert was about an omer (two litres) each. There’s some dubious calculating to determine how much food is “enough.” The most helpful information I found was repeated by multiple sages over more than a thousand years.

In Sue Parker Gerson’s introduction of Eruvin 83 on myjewishlearning.com, she offers some context for understanding the talmudic text. The sages say, “One who eats roughly this amount [an omer] each day is healthy, as he is able to eat a proper meal; and he is also blessed, as he is not a glutton who requires more. One who eats more than this is a glutton, while one who eats less than this has damaged bowels and must see to his health.”

Maimonides, a physician and a Torah scholar more than 800 years ago, wrote a lot on healthful eating. In Gerson’s article, she includes eating tips from him, as well as from Rashi and Adin Steinsaltz. Regarding Maimonides, he said, “One should not eat until his stomach is full. Rather, he should stop eating when he has eaten close to three-quarters of his full satisfaction.… Overeating is like poison to anyone’s body.”

It’s only natural to use food to celebrate, to comfort and to cope during this crazy time of upheaval. How can we combat this temptation? The rabbis advise: remember not to overeat, eat only what is edible and healthy, and practise moderation.

This is hard. We live in a world of plenty, possibly even including leftover Halloween chocolates. But there are Jewish teachings, over generations, about avoiding overeating. Weight gain could make us more susceptible to complications from COVID-19, and so many other illnesses. It’s not good for us, but, knowing how much food is “enough” isn’t a new issue and, like everything else, it’s a Jewish one. The rabbis probably didn’t have leftover candy or sweet potato pie, but they knew the temptations we might feel to make, or eat, too much of them.

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.

COVID’s impact on new year

(photo by Shelley Civkin)

Not only did I never imagine that I wouldn’t be able to hug and kiss my family during Rosh Hashanah dinner; I didn’t even get to see them this year. Everyone is still hunkering down, keeping out of COVID’s way and staying close to home. At least most people are.

In case you’re one of those people waiting for things to “get back to normal,” I hate to be the one to deliver the bad news, but there is no going back. Normal is a setting on a dryer. Once the world claws its way out of this pandemic, we will be forever changed. Like grief and loss over time, we may not feel worse, but I guarantee we’ll feel different.

What will come out of this topsy-turvy pandemic is something much better. I’m hopeful that everything we’ve lost and sacrificed will be not only rectified, but made even more hopeful, soul-sustaining and life-affirming. I struggle to say these words, because it sounds downright arrogant, considering the losses people have suffered in the last many months, physically, financially and emotionally. But, if I choose to take the other fork in the road, it’s a dark and scary path, and I just don’t want to go there.

This Rosh Hashanah, like every Rosh Hashanah, we celebrated. Just differently. There was no fanfare. There was no cooking. There were no guests. Not even family. Being cautious by nature has stood me in good stead so far this year, and there was no way I was risking it all after such a long haul. So, we scaled down the physical celebration and revved up the spiritual one. We read more about the High Holiday rituals and their significance this year than ever before; we recited the blessings more powerfully than in the past; and, from our very core, my husband and I sincerely wished each other a healthy, sweet and good new year. And we meant it like never before.

In past years, I would fuss and bother and cook and bake. This year, I didn’t have the emotional or physical koach (strength) for it all. Preoccupied with health challenges, I decided to take the easy way out and have our meals catered from Chef Menajem. Not only was the food spectacular, but it made things (read: pandemic isolation) a bit easier to accept. I set an elegant (if empty) table, got out my silver candlesticks, draped the sweet challah with my homemade Yom Tov challah cover, and we proceeded to eat Rosh Hashanah dinner alone. Just the two of us. It was slightly eerie, but, at the same time, absolutely perfect. And, yes, that’s an acorn squash adorning the table. I didn’t even have the wherewithal to track down a pomegranate. And, while an acorn squash isn’t a first fruit, it was my first squash of the year. I’m sure G-d will understand.

A feeling of tremendous blessing came over me as I realized just how lucky we are to have each other, my husband Harvey and I. Thinking of our single, divorced and widowed friends, and the loneliness and isolation they’re feeling right now, my heart breaks. How I would have loved to invite those friends to our home to join our modest New Year’s celebration. A little wine, a lot of food, some brachot, some honey cake. But COVID-19 was having none of it.

Turns out, COVID-19 is a big, huge bully. It doesn’t care one iota about anyone’s feelings; it doesn’t want to know from suffering or depression or desperation. But, we know, and we’re fighting back. With joy. As many of you know, lots of local Jews took to the parks and beaches to hear the shofar on Rosh Hashanah this year and I, for one, infused much more meaning into the holiday than I can ever remember. Because I could. And it was a very conscious choice. Not only is Rosh Hashanah part of our heritage, it’s our right. And we sure as heck weren’t going to let COVID take that away from us, too. Everything just seemed to magnify this year – the holiness, the urgency, the depth of feeling. And, while it may have seemed a bit lonely from the long view, it was nothing short of superb close up.

Stepping in to fill the spiritual void so many of us are experiencing this year, there are dozens (if not hundreds) of rabbis and synagogues around the world offering online Jewish learning. I want to say a personal thank you to all of you. You are a lifeline, literally. Because of you, I am studying and learning more about my Judaism, and participating in its mitzvot to an extent that’s surprising even me. Never before has finding meaning and purpose taken on such enormous importance. Our mission isn’t just to stay alive; it’s to thrive, even in the face of this brutal pandemic. We, as a people, are stronger than that. Unfathomably stronger.

The pandemic has, for the most part, brought out the best in humanity, and certainly within our Jewish community. People are helping strangers, feeding strangers, doing errands for strangers and wanting to do more. And it’s not just Jews helping Jews. It’s Jews helping everybody. Truly, the world has become one people. When we climb out of our little hidey holes and show up for life in the most positive, compassionate ways we can, each of us makes the world a bit better. And the light grows.

Not a single one of us will come out of this pandemic the same person. We do have the choice to become a better version of ourselves though. Stretched beyond our comfort zone, tired from doing too little for too long, we do have the ability (and the desire) to puff ourselves up and accept the challenges facing us. Or even go beyond. If that’s all that’s within our control right now, that’s enough.

No one is asking us to perform miracles – that’s not in our job description anyway. All we’re being asked to do is help one another through this challenging time. Even just a kind word can get the job done. Do something. Do anything.

Shelley Civkin, aka the Accidental Balabusta, 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.

Consider soul maintenance

In a recent article, I learned that Gal Gadot, the famous Israeli actor, says the prayer Modeh Ani (“I give thanks”) when she wakes up. Even famous people can be grateful for “getting their souls back” each morning.

In ancient times, sleep was considered analogous to death in some ways. As a study in contrast, the Christian response for children was: “If I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” The Jewish response is “Hey! Thanks so much for keeping me alive each morning!”

I have always been a morning person (annoying, I know). Although my household is busy every day, we always manage an unconventional communal Modeh Ani as we go out the door. Maybe it was before catching the school bus in those pre-COVID days or, now, just before we take a walk with the dog. In any case, by the time my kids are lining up for their pandemic screening checks and hand sanitizer, we’ve sung this happy and grateful prayer.

Once something is a part of our routine, Jewish or not, we often don’t reflect on it again – but it’s worth remembering. Reading that Gadot, also a mom, embraced a similar routine was sort of heartening. Then, I happened to be studying Daf Yomi, a page a day of Talmud, and an interesting question arose in Eruvin 70a. What if one made an arrangement with someone so that there would be an eruv, a symbolic communal space, that allowed for carrying on Shabbat, and that person died? What happens then?

Almost immediately, the Talmud discusses the person’s heir. There’s no elaboration on the details, the heir was apparently known to everyone. There’s no mention of the executor or the lawyer the family must hire. There’s none of that. I imagined what it would be like if somebody near to me died suddenly on Friday afternoon, and what might happen next.

Thousands of years ago, people didn’t live as long. They lacked the kind of warnings we usually have now, through medical diagnoses and tests and surgeries. Mortality in general was higher, although everyone still dies. Rather, without modern medication and medical interventions, one expected a fair number of infants, children and adults to die before their time.

The recent rise in COVID cases in my home province of Manitoba and the rising mortality numbers have brought all this back into focus. In the last little while, two men in their 40s have died here. My husband and I are in our 40s. We have kids in grade school. We have a dog. And a house. And….

Based on recent experiences with the deaths of relatives and friends, we often had an idea ahead of time that the person was ill or that things weren’t looking good. Yet it isn’t unusual to hear of family members still tying up the deceased person’s affairs for many months (or years) later.

This pandemic is a sobering wake-up call. A hundred years ago, during the flu pandemic, young parents died very suddenly and left orphans. There were children, spouses, siblings and parents who remained. We’re facing something similar in 2020.

On the one hand, we’re lucky because Judaism offers us very sturdy mourning practices. We’ve continued to innovate, too, relying on technology to mourn together. The last few days, I have joined a rabbi online as she says Kaddish. She waits, patiently, until she sees 10 people pop up, viewing her Twitter or Instagram live feed, thanks everyone for helping her, announces her mother’s name, and begins Kaddish. Given the pandemic’s enormous effects, this has been an intimate and surprisingly moving way to support someone in need, virtually.

On the other hand, we’re out of practise with the notion that somebody can just “up and die.” Most of us don’t have immediate plans in place, but we should. Parents all over the world are scared by the notion that they might fall ill, die and leave their kids and spouse alone. This goes way beyond how one will have an eruv on Shabbat if someone dies on a Friday afternoon or on Shabbat.

Do we have up-to-date wills in place? Emergency plans for our immediate families and long-term ideas of how to get support for those left behind? There are a lot of questions and they are scary. What’s worse, though, is that the panic caused by thinking about this can cause us to turn irrational and erratic. Fear can make us hard to be around. We become the people who can’t manage basic, polite social encounters, such as social distancing at the grocery store.

What’s the antidote? Well, while careful estate planning helps, nothing really prepares us for sudden illness. No amount of religious rituals can make us immortal. However, many circle back to countering the fear. Some of us say Modeh Ani, to be grateful – for each morning, a ray of sunshine, a toddler learning to count or an older kid triumphant after a hard test at school. It’s a taste of really good sweet potato pie or an unexpected hug.

In other words, take the win when you can get it, wherever you find it. Sometimes, it’s whimsy, like knitting a pair of mittens with lots of colours, polka dots and a thumb ring. It’s remembering why we say a prayer, even if we rush it or say it at the wrong time.

We can wears masks and social distance and wash our hands, but, right now, our souls also need positive, meaningful time and spiritual support. The next time your car needs an oil change? Consider routine soul maintenance, too.

Continuing to give it a whirl

A whirligig is a top, or spinning device, something constantly changing. I don’t know about you, but I sometimes feel my head spinning. Whether we are talking about the internal – the radical changes many of us experience in our lives – or the external, the remarkable way the world around us has changed, I think I have got it right, in describing life as a whirligig.

Sometimes, I feel a churning in my insides, as I try to decide whether to laugh or cry. Isn’t it incredible that we start out as these wee things, helpless as puppies? We are even worse – we don’t, as newborns, have the survival instincts of other animals. Then, we grow up as creatures capable of organizing events that can shake the world, at least events that can shake the world around us, metamorphose the people and environment around us. I find that an astounding reality, don’t you?

Creating a new life, as some of us have been blessed with the chance to do, potentially alters all of human history every time it happens. Some humans have done that, and they were born of man and woman. Now, we are seven going on eight billion. What amazing potential lies in human hands! Who knows what intelligences currently lying outside our ken we are yet to master.

I grew up as one of the nonentities and, yet, I have affected the lives of millions who don’t even know my name. No guarantees. We could arrive here just to be another creature consuming resources. But, when I consider the trajectory of my all-too-common life, I shake and twirl, like a spinning top. What about those around us whose names we all know? They also started out on this planet as being more helpless than puppies, but became forces of nature that thrust themselves into our consciousness.

Maybe that is not the most important model. What about those unseen and unknown to us who led a life that yielded offspring, providing the continuity necessary to ensure the survival of humanity’s way of life? All of us started out as an idea that was born into flesh and blood, presenting the option of acting for good or evil. That it works out for the good so many times is astounding, when there are multiple things that can go wrong. We know about those, too. I am letting it all wash over me, making me happy and sad.

Can I talk about some of the ways in which the nature of my external world has changed? I was challenged by the existence of the computer when I was in my 50s. Before that, I remember going into a computer centre in the business I worked in. It occupied a vast air-conditioned space, tended by individuals who were regarded as acolytes of a mysterious priesthood. Today, I have more computing power in the machine I am typing this tale on than was contained in the whole of that metaphoric temple. All that data stuff held for the world’s business has vanished from their physical premises; it’s now in the “cloud,” held electronically in an obscure corner of the United States.

Nowadays, in an instant, I can be present at an event occurring in real time in a place I have never heard of that is 6,000 miles away. If I have the number, I can talk face-to-face with a person halfway around the world!

I can remember shivering in fear as the radio announced what our losses were on land and sea during the Second World War. How immediate would those things be today? We have seen it depicted on TV. Star Trek, with its once-only-imaginable technology, is coming into our living rooms and lives, in living colour. Our appliances are becoming smarter than we are. Is it any wonder that my head begins to spin when I think about it? Our grandkids take this all for granted. They stare at us in disbelief and laugh.

We don’t understand the half of what is going on. But we try to cope with all of this. I have not yet thrown up my hands. I take courses and try to learn new things. I watch webinars. I blunder about expecting failure, and experience it. Bit by bit, I learn a minimum, and I gratefully accept any help offered. I am grateful for the patience of others and try to be patient myself. I revel in small victories of understanding. I resist computer updates that may change the things I know how to work, putting off improvements that leave me at a loss. I accept that I will not learn to know it all.

So, my head is spinning on the turntable of my life, which is also spinning. I make an effort to keep in contact with others of my ilk who are in the same place. We can compare notes and share news of gains and losses. So far, my younger near and dear speak to me in languages I still understand. They make allowances for my decrepitude and hide their amusement at my distresses. I hug my Bride and friends close and closer to ensure I retain human contact. We continue full speed into an evolving future that may be even more beyond my understanding.

I know that, at some time or another, I will have to get off the turntable and hand in my IDs and passwords. Until then, I continue to give it a whirl!

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.

Fences and walls can be good

My household is facing a lot of upheaval. The 100-year-old house next door was recently demolished, as the new owners wanted to live in an “old house neighbourhood” but in a new house. Their choice has been hard for us. It doesn’t preserve history and it’s not environmentally sustainable. The demolition and excavation are loud, and the shaking and vibrating has damaged our house and the neighbours’ homes, too. It’s a hard situation and we’ve got nowhere else to go, especially during a pandemic.

Years ago, when our twins were toddlers, we built a sturdy wooden fence around our front yard, to match the taller fence in the backyard. This fence has been a blessing. It’s kept kids and dogs safe, not to mention balls, badminton shuttlecocks, and more. Anything that strayed over the fence in any way – like, say, squash and cucumber vines – were completely trashed during this construction, which left a bare, muddy cavern on the other side. It’s been unsettling.

This physical boundary reminds me of other ones with which we’re all reckoning. As the pandemic continues, mask wearing and physically distancing from others has to be absolutely ingrained in us. Yet, articles online mention parents who hate having to enforce mask wearing with their kids, or how friends must make difficult decisions about whether to hang out with others who won’t wear masks. Our public health officials warn against mask shaming but these boundaries, these masks, are part of what keeps us safer.

This goes further, when considering how people manage remote school, work and public interactions where, frankly, all the rules have changed. Every family home, workplace and even transportation has changed. We set up boundaries – we build both physical and imaginary fences, through Plexiglass partitions and dots on the ground, to keep ourselves safe.

As Jews, none of this should be new to us, because the rabbis loved a good boundary! Whether it’s deciding what can or can’t be done on Shabbat, or how to manage keeping kosher, there are rules everywhere in Torah and rabbinic teachings. The rules, however, aren’t always clear or easy to follow. It requires both study and thought to decide what will work – and it isn’t always obvious how a Jewish person should interpret those rules or what’s important to follow.

Lately, I’ve been reading about how an eruv can work, because I’m studying Daf Yomi (a page of Talmud a day) and have been working through tractate Eruvin. What’s an eruv? Well, a simple definition (straight from the internet) is: “An urban area enclosed by a wire boundary which symbolically extends the private domain of Jewish households into public areas, permitting activities within it that are normally forbidden in public on the Sabbath.”

If you’ve wondered why it’s OK, in some traditional Jewish neighbourhoods, for people to push strollers or carry food over to a friend’s house on Shabbat, well, it’s because they’ve created this special ritual space. This creates a single “private space” that connects a whole community of homes. The eruv is so important in some places that it causes housing prices to go up within its borders.

Many times, I’ve heard complaints from people about how “there are too many rules” in some context or other. Whether it’s “fences cut up the landscape in our neighbourhood,” “Why can’t we eat in this room in the community centre?” or, from parents, “It’s so hard to make kids wear masks or stick to this rigid schedule.” However, for many, creating routine, structure and boundaries, physical or psychological, helps us in so many ways.

The example of the Shabbat and festival eruv is a way to see rules in a positive light. If the “rules” state that we cannot do something in the public sphere on Shabbat, look at how we can get around this by using an eruv, the rabbis say – we create a huge private “home” out of all of our homes. What a rich way to build community, belonging and togetherness!

Even if we’re not Shabbat observant or using an eruv, this is a reminder of why fences and boundaries can be used for good. Without our sturdy wooden fence, I suspect our kids and dog might fall into the enormous excavation hole and construction site next door. Without those masks or social distancing rules, we’d have to stay home completely during the pandemic.

It takes all of us to make boundaries work effectively. As Robert Frost writes in “Mending Walls,” there is a lot of resistance to walls. From hunters to animals to elves – “Something there is that doesn’t love a wall.”

However, Frost’s neighbour reminds us, “Good fences make good neighbours.” A boundary can keep us inside a rich and loving community. It can also keep us physically safe from harm or psychologically safe, by creating structure and limits to our days.

For now, we all need to embrace these boundaries. We must use these fences and walls to bolster us onwards, as we shelter through the winter and pandemic, even beyond the temporary walls of Sukkot.

Need to value what we have

Every fall, we go apple picking. For my husband and me, it was one of our first dates, apple picking together in upstate New York. Over time, it has become a family outing, with each kid eating lots of fresh apples with the promise of applesauce and pie on the horizon. The timing is often perfect for the fall holidays, too.

This year, though, the pandemic has drastically increased unemployment. Many people are hungry. All around our (relatively well-off) neighbourhood, there are apple trees heavy with fruit. Here in Manitoba, frost is on the horizon. I have felt a huge pressure to put up food to share, and to pick more apples. This could be a long winter.

The first apple tree we helped pick was that of an elderly neighbour. She just lost her adult son, who was disabled. She was in mourning, terribly sad and frail looking, but also isolated by the pandemic. We all masked up immediately as she came out to greet us. Her smile was meaningful. Watching my kids cleaning up the fallen apples was important. She told us a visiting relative had made her pie. I got the sense she enjoyed that, as she is overwhelmed by the quantity of apples on the tree and the effort required to make anything from them for herself, these days.

A couple days later, I dropped off four 125-millilitre (four-ounce) canning jars of applesauce and a takeout container with two generous slices of apple pie. We canned pints of applesauce, made pie and apple chips for lunches. We still had way too many apples. We took a trip to the food bank and my husband donated 100 pounds (45 kilograms) of apples, more or less, at the self-serve donation bin. He also saw squash and other large amounts of produce from Winnipeg’s gardeners and I was relieved. It sounds like our mayor’s encouragement to citizens to grow more vegetables might have worked.

A couple weeks passed. We didn’t think we had more apple tree picking on our schedule as school approached. I continued studying Talmud as I had time. In Eruvin 29, there is a section that discusses what kinds of food should be given to the poor. The list is specific, including nuts, peaches, pomegranates and a citron. It stipulates that support for the poor should offer them dignity. In essence, poor people should have access to the same kinds of good foods as everyone else. Also, the food should be luxurious enough so that, if they were to sell it, it might be equivalent to two meals of something else. The food support should be dignified. It should offer poor people the same autonomy to choose, as anyone else might.

We received an email from another neighbour. Her apple tree had grown a lot of fruit this year. She still had a lot of apples left. Did we want to come?

We began to pick what looked like an untouched, heavily laden tree. It had so many low-hanging apples that my 9-year-old twins and I easily reached up to pick many with our hands. Again, we picked far more than we could use. The apples were so ripe though, that we had a lot of “drops.” These are the apples that fall when you jostle a branch even slightly – you just can’t catch them all.

We make the drops into applesauce or apple chips, but bruised apples have to be processed quickly. You don’t want to donate them to the food bank. I remembered this part of Eruvin, which reminds us that the best produce, not the bruised ones, should go to the hungry. Meanwhile, I tired of pleading with my boys to be careful, that they were wasting food. To them, it was just a bruised apple.

I tried to help them see it differently – to imagine it as the apple in a kid’s lunch. You’d be hungry without it. Days later, we are still processing bruised apples, but donated at least 100 more pounds of nice apples to the food bank. The tree’s owner asked us to come back again if we could manage it before the first frost.

At the end of Eruvin 29 and the beginning of the next page, Eruvin 30, there’s a reminder that we can’t allow the customary practices of the wealthy to be the ruling for everyone, including the poor. The way it’s explained is through the roasted meat that Persians eat (the wealthy are extravagant) and the fact that even a small scrap of fabric is valuable to the poor, so it matters if it should become impure or soiled.

During the pandemic, we’re all now wearing masks – small amounts of fabric that were previously considered waste. I made many kids’ masks from cotton shirting fabric I’d bought long ago, sold in small rectangles as discount samples. This experience is a reminder that is reinforced at this time of year – although we often live in a “land of plenty,” Yom Kippur helps us remember what it is to be hungry. Sukkot reminds us to value harvest. Scraps of fabric and apples make a difference. We can pick the apples before they fall, and offer others the same gorgeous produce that we take for granted.

In some ways, the Talmud seems ancient, but, thousands of years later, issues around disease, hunger and waste are still relevant. It’s great to have “roasted meat,” but even fabric scraps and bruised apples are important. It’s a Jewish thing to try to be grateful and value small things, even though we might have been tempted to waste them. We can use every fabric scrap and apple – and we should, because, as Rav Abaye notes, not everyone can afford lush roasted meat meals.

More positives than expected

We often use the High Holidays for self-reflection. Consider, we’re urged, the year that has passed and the future. For me, the pandemic and its uncertainty has made me less focused on the year to come. Instead, I’ve been taking a positive accounting of things I’ve experienced this year – and it’s actually quite a lot.

First, there’s been more time for our family to do Jewish learning and “attend” synagogue at home. It’s been easy to turn on Saturday morning services or a special lecture or a concert and expose the family to more Jewish content. The internet has made us feel welcome everywhere. This a huge leap ahead of what we often got out of “business as usual,” pre-pandemic.

Learning in general has changed. As someone who used to teach, I was wary of homeschooling. To be fair, I’ve met some very bright kids who’ve been homeschooled. I’ve also met some odd folks, so focused on their (often evangelical) religious views that it got in the way of making other connections. As but one example, once, I drove with my husband to visit a local farm that advertised sheep fleeces for sale. I’m a hand spinner, and we thought the drive would be fun. I met a large family living in a series of rundown buildings and trailers, wearing an interesting assortment of “traditional” clothing. These isolated, homeschooled evangelical kids led me into a trailer full of both wool and wasps, all eagerly telling me about their visions of the end-times. I left with some wool, but only because my husband and I couldn’t find any other way to politely extricate ourselves.

I’d been scared that, if I ever homeschooled my kids, it would become claustrophobic, bad for the kids and hard for me to catch a break. This was the case when remote schooling started in March. Getting the kids onto the online school meetings and keeping things afloat with a poor internet connection and somewhat spotty assignments from teachers was awful.

When school ended, we were relieved. I kept doing some learning with them each morning, though. Reading, math, cursive, Duolingo (online language learning for Hebrew), art, architecture and design, music and science/STEM learning have kept us busy, along with long walks, playing outside, swimming and more. Sure, I don’t have much alone time. Time for work (or even work to do!) has been limited, but that’s OK, in the circumstances.

Our kids are supposed to go back to school in person this fall, and we’ll see how long that lasts. I don’t dread homeschooling as much now. Setting our own agenda resulted in kids who may be more socially isolated, but they’ve learned a lot. They read better now in two languages, and their math has improved.

Disconnecting from the school-extracurricular activities-synagogue cycle hasn’t been bad either. Those demands came with a lot of pressure. The need to keep up, fit in, afford it and get there on time is stressful. It is easier to practise piano, play soccer in the yard or turn on the services via Zoom than to get to everything in person. Further, there’s no weird social interaction with other families about what we’re wearing, or just how hip we are. (We’re so not hip.)

Making things ourselves has been a mostly good, too – lots of cooking and other activities. Last fall, I started using my sewing machine, after years off. I took sewing lessons as a kid but never gained confidence. Pre-pandemic, I’d sewn myself a few things and remembered how to do this. Returning to it has been a great gift. I’ve figured out making masks, fixing and making clothing. Better still, because of the pandemic, I’ve been able to shop for supplies online and support small businesses selling sustainable or deadstock fabrics. I didn’t have time to go shopping for this stuff in person before the pandemic. Now, most everything is online. I can make plans for kid pajama pants, and dresses and pants for myself, in the future.

We’ve enjoyed some amazing concerts, held outdoors on our block. A talented musician/producer neighbour with a big front porch invites guests to come set up chairs and blankets, social distance and enjoy. Musicians perform for donations, and we all benefit. We’ve heard baroque, classical, flamenco, jazz, old-time and folk. If we sometimes can’t get outside as a family to hear it, the music floats up into our second-storey windows when the wind blows the right way.

Art has blossomed, not only in our family’s projects, but at the “little free art box,” which is run by an artist in the area. Much like a Little Free Library, one can open the box, take art or put art inside for others. We’ve shared kid watercolours and my handspun yarn, and received gorgeous charcoal sketches, pen and ink, and other delights. We’ve traded and celebrated the skills of others nearby. Our diverse community is rich with talent.

None of these small positive things can compensate for the many deaths and illnesses of COVID-19, nor the economic devastation to so many businesses and workers. The downsides this year have been huge. However, last night, I watched as my kids created a caravan on the blanket spread on the grass. We were listening to live music, as my mind leapt to the text I’d been learning from Daf Yomi (a page of Talmud a day). The rabbis are trying to explain how to make a temporary boundary around a caravan as one traveled and camped on Shabbat. They mentioned using saddles and camels, and debated how much space each person might need.

The blanket caravan consisted of several toy trains and hard plastic rhinos and elephants, lined up nose to tail in a circle. The tractate Eruvin is about boundaries – what boundaries make it safe to carry on Shabbat? In the time of coronavirus, I was transported to a different kind of caravan and boundary. Our families have “circled the wagons.” We’ve been forced to stay put and look inwards – but also to be outdoors. What value can be found in these new enforced boundaries? What positive things can come from those necessary restrictions? In our house, we can say that art, music, handmade creations and learning can be celebrated as we finish 5780 and begin 5781. It’s been a valuable time, even as illness, hardship, fear and sadness danced at the edges of every day’s newscast.

From my (socially distanced) house to yours – may we all have a happy and sweet new year, full of creation, positivity and, most importantly, good health.

The danger in certainty

Like many of you, I approach the New Year and Yom Kippur with a heavy heart. Ashamnu. We have sinned. Much is not well, not as it should or can be. Our communities are filled with anger, fear, hatred, pain, and acrimony.

Our tradition placed a heavy burden on us. Atonement is only attainable when accompanied by a commitment to change one’s behaviour. The burden is doubly heavy, for we are not merely responsible for our individual failings, but for our societal ones. Ashamnu. We have sinned. Yom Kippur is not merely a day of prayer in search of Divine forgiveness, but a day of taking responsibility for the world that we have created.

There are so many places to start this process and, for those who don’t know where, the Jewish prayer book provides guidance. Ashamnu. Bagadnu. Gazalnu. Dibarnu dofi. We have sinned. We have betrayed. We have taken that which is not ours. We have spoken evil.

This year, I will begin with the sin of certainty. The certainty that I have the truth and others do not. The certainty that I am right and others wrong. The certainty that I am good and others bad. The certainty that I love my country and others do not.

“Our God and God of our ancestors, we are neither so insolent nor so obstinate as to claim in your presence that we are righteous, without sin; for we, like our ancestors who came before us, have sinned.” (Yom Kippur Machzor)

Inherent to every social structure is the reality of difference. Members, adherents, citizens, who join or are joined together by blood, race, gender, ideology, religion, culture or nationality, inevitably find themselves disagreeing over issues both minor and major. Differences are a permanent and inevitable reality of life. By themselves, they do not undermine social cohesion. What threatens unity is how we respond to the reality.

The three conceptual tools for reflecting on difference are pluralism, tolerance and deviance. When those who are different are classified as deviant, the possibility of a shared society with them comes to an end. It is here that the sin of certainty spreads its destructive poison. The hubris of certainty allows one to shun and shame those who do not share in the truth as you know it, and to move them to the margins of society, if not outside it. Armed with certainty, acts of blatant aggression are clothed with the garments of self-preservation and sanctioned as acts of group loyalty.

A certainty of a different form is played out in the category of pluralism. We are pluralistic toward those differences that we assume to be of equal value to our own positions – “These and these are the words of the living God.” With pluralism, we accommodate difference that we believe is equally authentic and that we can associate as being on par with our truth, our knowledge and our beliefs. These and these are the words of the living God, but not those and those. And the one who decides is us.

Why tolerate that which I believe to be wrong?

The danger that lies with the sin of certainty is that it attempts to create social life around the categories of pluralism and deviance alone. Difference to which I ascribe value is accommodated and welcomed as my friend. Difference that I do not, is rejected and ostracized as my enemy. I and my certainty are the ultimate arbiters of who is in and who is out, who is valued and who is not, who is to be cared for and who is not, who is to be respected and who vilified.

It is tolerance, the often-derided category, that is most absent in much of contemporary social discourse. One does not tolerate that which one values, but rather that which one thinks is wrong. Tolerance can only take root in those places where we are able to relinquish our claim to certainty. Why tolerate that which I believe to be wrong? Because I know it is possible that my belief may also be wrong. Because I believe that truth, knowledge and enlightenment will only grow when I expose my certainty to the critique of others; when I am open to learn from others’ truths, knowledge and experience.

Why tolerate that which I believe to be wrong? Because I and those like me do not have a monopoly over the “true” identity of our society. It is theirs just as much as it is ours. We are destined to live with those who believe and do that which we hold to be intolerable. In some cases, judgment of deviance is both called for and necessary and, without boundaries, our societies will dissolve and lose any purpose, meaning and identity.

Which difference do we tolerate, and which do we not, is the question. The sin of certainty both blinds us to this question and renders us incapable of such discernment. The price? The price is the dysfunctional harmful social discourse and behaviour dominating our lives today.

“Our God and God of our ancestors, we are neither so insolent nor so obstinate as to claim in Your presence we are certain.”

Rabbi Dr. Donniel Hartman is president of the Shalom Hartman Institute and author of the 2016 book Putting God Second: How to Save Religion from Itself. Articles by Hartman and other institute scholars can be found at shalomhartman.org.

Rediscovering Judaism

Sarah Hurwitz will help launch Jewish Federation of Greater Vancouver’s annual campaign on Sept. 8. (photo from Jewish Federation)

Sarah Hurwitz, who for seven years served as head speechwriter for former first lady Michelle Obama, will be a featured speaker at the Jewish Federation of Greater Vancouver’s annual campaign opening on Sept. 8, which will be held virtually.

Hurwitz spoke to the Independent about her new book, Here All Along: Finding Meaning, Spirituality, and a Deeper Connection to Life – in Judaism (After Finally Choosing to Look There), and her upcoming Vancouver talk, which, before the pandemic, she had planned to deliver in person.

Here All Along traces Hurwitz’s personal journey back to her Jewish roots, a journey that began after an introduction to Judaism class in 2014. Before that time, she said, her main points of contact with the faith had been at “dull, incomprehensible” High Holiday events and a “lifeless” seder.

Her book delves into such areas as the Jewish traditions of questioning, debating and interpreting religious texts, “freeing God from his human-shaped cage,” and marking holidays and lifecycle events.

“What most surprised me (after taking the class) was the depth of spiritual and ethical wisdom Judaism had to offer,” she said. “I had always been proud to be Jewish and considered myself a ‘cultural Jew,’ but I knew almost nothing about Judaism. Once I started learning, I discovered thousands of years of profound wisdom about what it means to be human – how to live a worthy life, how to be a good person, how to find spiritual connection, and so much more.”

When asked how this discovery has affected her life, she explained: “My Judaism informs how I live every day of my life. It informs the ethical decisions I make each day about how to treat others, especially when it comes to the words I speak to and about them. It’s helped me develop an adult spirituality – beyond simplistic notions of the divine as a man in the sky who controls everything and punishes us when we’re naughty – which allows me to feel greater awe, wonder and gratitude each day. And it’s brought me into an amazing community of people, not just in the U.S., but across the globe – spiritual leaders, scholars and Jewish professionals who’ve become my dearest friends, mentors and teachers.”

Study, Hurwitz said, is a big part of her Jewish practice these days, though she would not label it an “intellectual pursuit.”

“Law school was an intellectual endeavour. Jewish study is deeply spiritual and emotional for me. I don’t study Jewish texts to gain information or facts, or to hone my analytical skills. I study them to glean the deepest wisdom of my ancestors about how to live my life,” she explained.

Currently, she is studying Psalms in chavruta (partnership) with a friend. Every week, they connect on Zoom and discuss the language and themes of the Psalmists. She also had a recent series of one-on-one study sessions with a rabbi that focused on Chassidic texts.

Selected last December by the Forward as one of the 50 most influential Jewish Americans, Hurwitz helped the former first lady put together many well-received speeches – including her 2016 Democratic National Convention address – and traveled with Obama around the world. She also worked on policy issues, as a senior advisor to the White House Council on Women and Girls.

Before working at the White House, Hurwitz was chief speechwriter for Hillary Clinton during Clinton’s 2008 presidential primary campaign. She then joined the Obama campaign, serving as a senior speechwriter for then-Senator Barack Obama and helping Michelle Obama draft her 2008 Democratic National Convention speech.

Prior to the Clinton and Obama campaigns, Hurwitz served as deputy chief speechwriter for Senator John Kerry’s 2004 presidential run and also worked as a deputy chief speechwriter for General Wesley Clark’s primary bid, as well as for Senator Tom Harkin. Earlier in her career, she was a lawyer at the Washington, D.C., office of WilmerHale. Presently, she is working on a proposal for another book and, while she does not write speeches at the moment, she does “help people out with remarks they’re giving, or offer edits.”

Hurwitz’s Vancouver talk will explore a wide range of subjects, such as working for Michelle Obama in the White House, spiritual and ethical insights in Judaism that have most transformed her life, and some thoughts on the future of Judaism. She will be joined at the virtual launch by fellow keynote speaker Nigel Savage, president and chief executive officer of Hazon (jewishindependent.ca/the-world-needs-us-to-change). To register for the Sept. 8 campaign opening, visit jewishvancouver.com/faco2020.

Sam Margolis has written for the Globe and Mail, the National Post, UPI and MSNBC.