"Ex" marks the tender spot -Deconstructing Divorce

I have a friend who is considering divorcing her husband. Something big is missing for her - connection. She's heard and swallowed all reasons why she should stay: He is a great dad; he treats her well; He doesn't beat her or come home drunk; Men are different from women. You are asking for too much; Divorce is immoral; The kids will be devastated;

Frankly, the relationship's shelf life has expired. She learned, like most women, to put her needs last. She married him out of obligation. She didn't want to hurt him. She didn't want to hurt all those that wanted them together. She didn't even put herself in the equation. Her mother did the same thing and my friend learned well how to take care of everyone else first.

I am not the type of person who advocates that people leave when life challenges them. I am not the type to side with one partner or the other. I do believe we ALL are doing the best that we can with the tools that we have. Some of us don't have many tools.I am the kind of person who believes that it's easy to blame the other person and that it's hard to take a look at our own stuff. I encourage friends and demand of myself to do the work we were meant to do and stop blaming others. I figure whether I do the work with one partner or another, it doesn't matter. My work will still be there, no matter who I try to blame and who is there to receive it on the other hand.

But I am also a huge advocate of taking care of one's self first and believe that each one of us has a right to happiness and to a full life on our terms. I don't think it's selfish. I believe it's self-full. I believe that when I take care of my mental, emotional, physical and spiritual self, I don't come from desperation to my other relationships. I believe that when I put myself first, then and only then, can I offer the best of me and take in the best of you. I truly believe that if kids see dependence, instead of interdependence, and interactions based on desperate financial or emotional needs, rather than the coming together of wants and willingness, they will continue to propagate that kind of a relationship.

Unfortunately, people get so obfuscated when the big "D" comes up. They think about their own relationships and some feel threatened. Some would ask the same questions, but are afraid to ask, because of possible outcomes. Some have asked the same questions, but have chosen or were coerced, by their fears or community, to stay, so their judgment may be harsh and swift. Some people have divorced and long for what could have been. Others divorced and were met by hostile family and community reactions, appalling behaviors from their "exes" or themselves. And often the loss of family, legally and emotionally, the loss of friends who felt they had to choose sides. My friend is petrified of all of the reactions above.

Somehow, it is still rare to find "amicable" in front of divorce. It is even rarer to find familial terms when introducing a former partner. It is as if it is required that a big "X" mark the spot of where all was lost and buried. Maybe that is why we call them "Exes".

However, if "X" or "EX" marks the spot, then there may be a possibility of a real treasure there. The treasure of raising kids to see and believe that relationships may end, but can also grow differently. The gems of being able to celebrate life together within a rich, extended family, inclusive of those with whom we have chosen to change the nature of our relationships. The radical notion of being able to expand our hearts and minds to embrace our former in-laws, so they become current in-loves. The Golden opportunity to trust that our current partners don't need or want to go back to their former partners, but that we, ourselves, are good and plenty and that they have chosen to be with us in a certain way AND that there's still room for the former administration in a different, safe, loving way.

I try to work on that last one all the time...

So to all the women who have settled for less than absolutely everything and to all the men who felt badly at not being able to get close and get "It", and to all the kids who felt that the ending of their parents' relationship meant the ending of civility and compassion and the beginning of the unbearable choosing of sides, and to all the family members and friends who didn't know how to feel or examine their own losses as a result of a divorce; here's a prayer:
May you find the "Exes" in your life and dig for the treasure that awaits all of us.

Economy Slump? Ecology Dump? Move your Rump!

My girl and I have a reason to celebrate. In this crazy economy, while my work has dwindled to a few hours a week, and gas prices have climbed like an aggressive, invasive ivy, we are about to finish paying off our cumulative debt. How is that possible? We did not rob a bank, though we are so grateful to a government program that has allowed us to keep our home sweet home from falling into foreclosure; We haven't won the lottery, though we have been rich within our means.So, how do 2 moms, working part time, living in the expensive Bay Area feel so abundant these days?

Well, we've gotten very creative:

We BARTER anything we can. I use my photography skills, my ability to cook gourmet, low-cost, international meals, and my organizational and coaching skills to help people who are stuck in clutter, procrastination or general confusion.

For the above we have received a deck, midwifery services, haircuts and frequent flyer miles; coffee beans and tickets to a myriad of events; Even stays at vacation homes.

Don't tell me you have nothing to BARTER Can you play with kids? Parents are in desperate need for a night off. Can you pull weeds and rake some leaves? Gardening help for those of us who love our gardens but have no time to maintain them, may yield some fruit, literally, for the weed whacker. Can you drive? shop for food? walk the dog? Clean a house? If you have the time, there is a need for your services.

We SWAP! books and clothes, toys and homes. I hate clutter and I love giving stuff away. If I don't use something for 6 months and it takes up emotional and physical precious space, it gets listed on the internet at swapping sites and ousted. I refuse to buy new and consume more of our already fragile world's resources. There are tons of sites where I get my books for my book club for free; Speakers for my Ipod, enormous plants for my home; pokemon sheets for my boys; frames and vases; chairs and cushions; bikes and bulbs all for free. I am seriously thinking of starting a business finding free and cheap stuff for people. I think this is what Obama would call a Green Job opportunity.

We've started driving our tiny, boxy Honda that gets as good a gas mileage as the Hybrids! It has no radio and no heat, but it rides like a race car and costs only $20 to fill per week, unlike our cherished, but beastly soccer team toting minivan. My partner started walking to work and I accompany her often for the FREE exercise, communing in nature and getting time to talk!

We've started incorporating more VEGGIE AND VEGAN MEALS into our weekly menu. For one thing, it's cheaper. Did you know that it takes 16 lbs. of rice to feed a 1 lb. of beef? Well a Pound of beef doesn't eat, but 16 lbs. of rice feeds a ton of people, whereas 1 lbs. of beef feeds, well, just me. The toxins that are created from raising and shipping meat are greater than all the pollution cause by cars, planes and trains combined. I am not kidding. Our arteries surely appreciate our weekly efforts and so does the ozone layer. How can we go wrong?

We insist on REUSING our plastic bags and take canvass bags whenever we shop. We even have a tiny stuff-able bag, called a Chico bag that I keep in my purse, which expands to a nice, large and sturdy one whenever and wherever I need it. Forget your Visa, you'll only be getting into more debt, don't leave home with this!

We COMPOST! We had so much garbage, we decided to dig a hole in our yard and put in our unused veggies and fruit in there. The worms love us. We love them turning this stuff into good dirt for our newly built Raised BEDS. Our garbage can debris was halved.

We created a BUDGET that allows us the freedom from the insanity of constantly worrying about living beyond our means. We don't get resentful because we have chosen not to buy a Wii, or get a new car, or go out to new fandangled restaurants. We are grateful that we are coming out of debt and haven't had to declare bankruptcy. We believe our kids will be better off not getting the newest Video system and that we will not heap debt on them because we will aggressively pursue saving for their future when our debts are paid off.

We hold POTLUCKS and SINGALONGS and go out for HIKES with our friends. We share our resources and find amusements in connecting with others.

There are so many ways we are figuring out on how to live more responsibly on this planet and we do it together,as a family, and that's worth a whole bunch. And these values that we teach our kids are, you got it, free and recyclable.

Miracle, anyone?

I know it’s difficult sometimes to believe in miracles. It’s cool to be jaded and cynical. It’s much more comfortable and familiar to not expect anything, lest disappointment creeps. There are all kinds of atrocities happening all around us, how could we possibly allow ourselves to indulge in something that seems childish, naive, uncertain?
I believe that sharing the miracles that happen in our lives is precisely the antidote to such confusion and disenchantment.
At the risk of sounding like a cheer leading holy-roller, let me offer my thoughts on divinely inspired transformations, in hopes that you will get a glimpse of how it works for me.
I am a down and dirty, lying, professional compulsive over eater. It’s true. I have been in radical pursuit of sugar and carbs ever since a magnificent breast landed in my mouth and shut the scary world out. I have elevated the art of concealed eating to a masterpiece. I was the one who cooked and ate a meal, while tasting my dishes. Second and third helpings never filled the empty hole in my belly. God just wasn’t in the fridge after all. I loved cleaning the leftovers directly into my mouth. The rule that no food be allowed to remain in pots was etched on my heart. And the Absolute Truth was the more one piled my plate, the more they loved and accepted my almost 300 lbs. body. Anything less would result in an insurgent rebellion.
Food was my lover, when the human lovers left for another. Food was my protector before and after acts of violence against my body. Food was my God in reverse, transforming life into oblivion, health into decay, relationships into isolation.
I lost homes, partners, career opportunities and myself to a ruthless, cunning disease that is still doing push-ups in the other room.
But one day I got desperate. Mine is a progressive disease. It won’t stay in remission. It expands and widens without relenting. Oh sure. I could diet and then gain all the weight back and more, feeling more lost, ashamed and out of control each time as my self-loathing grows exponentially. I could ban diets, raise my fist in a big ”fuck you” to all the fat bashers, while still getting bigger and madder.
The Universe had another option. A solution. One which continues to amaze me, because somehow it chose me and somehow I was willing more than anything to comply.
It gave me the Cambridge Greysheet. A tiny piece of paper attached to a human being that would help me build a Technicolor world, with a scope I couldn't have imagined.
It gave me parameters instead of the freedom of running wild in oncoming traffic. It gave me a mysterious one-of-a-kind relationship that I get to practice being involved with every single day. It gave me a code of honor and ethics of how to live my life amongst others in harmony. And a way to find my way back should I get lost. It is an all-for one and one-for-all myriad of musketeers doing what I do.
It defies color, gender and age differences. It is welcoming of all class, ability and mobility. It allows a belief in a god or many or none. It only requires that you be willing to put yourself first. It insists that the only desire you must possess is to stop the insanity of eating compulsively.
This way of the loving warrior has kicked my ass. Whatever I thought I knew about myself and others, it has made me question. It has ripped the weedy relationships with my loved and not-so-loved ones and helped me work the soil with lots of composted internal manure so that my garden will bloom.
I see the abundance of life and beauty and closeness that my garden is bringing forth when I look at my partner’s tear streaked face as she feels so close to me. As I pluck my child, wrestling and laughing, I am granted a meal of concentrated love fuller than any plate I have previously piled. When I encounter a challenge between me and a friend, I scrutinize my field for trash and invasive old and unnecessary weedy patterns.
These are just some of the daily miracles I get to notice now that I no longer overeat.

Aren’t you curious about what life holds for you?

A Walk in the Woods

The fog enshrouding the mountain was thick, like a wet woolen blanket. It dripped, stalagmite-like, from the scrub oaks. I crossed the small bridge and smelled the early morning waking around me. The musky dirt squishing under my sneakers. A Red-Winged Blackbird called for community or a possible mate. A scrub Jay’s cacophonous call pierced the wind. I headed towards the dark, gnarly outstretched canopy of limbs that stood, watching. The tall Horsetail, their reeds encircled like snakes, swayed on my left, concealing whatever lay. I reminded myself that I have been on this trail so often. There were no Mountain Lions. Probably. I looked for a substantial weapon. Just in case. I was aware, again, as serenity and panic played musical chairs, co-existing in my heart and mind.

I loved the mornings in this Northern California sanctuary. I knew that eventually, like all matters, the occluding fog would lift. I knew, without a doubt, that somewhere beyond this heavy envelopment, the sky was cloudless, the sun, will make me drip. But not yet. Slowly, as I climbed up the trail, worlds would open before and behind and above and within.

But that didn’t seem to ease my jagged breath, as I heard a noise. Around the bend was not a mountain lion. Or a malevolent man. It was something just as fierce. A mother turkey. Her three chicks plucking at their breakfast plate, crunchy bugs and spaghetti worms, their breakfast of champions. I waited, thanking the universe that I was not on the menu, figuring how to maneuver around the fowl. I asked them to kindly step off the trail. They did not. I softly explained that I didn’t want to hurt or eat them; I just wanted to pass and share the earth harmoniously. They ignored me, until I took a step. Their mother, a rising phoenix, warned me, looming larger, with such vehemence. I stopped. They stepped off the trail, half-heartedly – I could hear them – oppressive humans upon us once more! I realized, yes, I am, now let me through and stepped up the mountain. I passed them and then the unthinkable. The mother was chasing me, pecking at the air, only because I scrambled. She did not let up until, in that split second, I remembered I had my eyes in front, theirs on the sides. I was the predator, now get before I make an early Thanksgiving! We called a truce, each with our hide and ruffled feathers intact.

The path meandered, sherpa-like, zigzagging the mountain. The air was lifting, being sucked back into the great San Franciscan Bay. I was climbing, my muscles adjusting to the slippery terrain. My breath swirling, like Pete’s Dragon, friendly and wispy., just another being traversing where others have, lest I feel separate, unique, lonely or alone.

As it so happens, so frequently, when I am on this or any other part of the divine, a thought, a directive, an inspiration catalysts in my brain. You must write You must. You are a writer. Take back who you are. Just like you are taking back the trails on which you were violated. One trail at a time. Take back your words, your stories. Tell your memories. You have permission to make them up. Just write. What? Okay. What should I write? You’ll know. Okay. How about from the beginning? How far back? You know. Oh, right. In uterus. Now you are getting somewhere.

And so it begins. Like so many spiritual dialogues. A command from the universe, often surrounded by brambles or bushes, to act in an unexpected way, at least to one’s self. Then, it rumbles in my mind, it flitters and twists in my heart, it digs its roots in my belly, until I spew lava language that was just as expected as the season’s first purple lupine I spot.

Witnessing Wonders

I love seeing grown men cry. Something extraordinarily monumental is happening when, in our society, male strangers break down and weep with joy. I am honored, elated and grateful to be alive today and witness the humanness of it all.

At 7AM, my partner and I went to our local movie theater that was showing the Inauguration speech on 2 screens and providing free breakfast. The line encircled the block and was chock full of white folks. They'd been there since 5AM. We hightailed it to a friend's home who was hosting a viewing of the ceremony.

As Barack Hussein Obama, the first African America to become this country's President, began to speak, I started to cry along with the other guests. I cried at the possibilities that pulled at my heart and debated with the cynicism of my mind. Each tear carried a prayer for unity between gays and Christians; each drop cleansing bloodshed between Israelis and Palestinians, Iraqis and Americans, and every place and massacre kept stealthily hidden from the American public.

The enormity of the challenges that have been heaped on our collective plate is staggering. The difference is that we have a leader that admits and speaks of our mistakes, that calls all of us to work together and take responsibility for our past and future actions and who reminds us that not only are we in the midst of an abysmal economic, ecologic and spiritual maelstrom, we are a pertinent part of the solution.

When Bumpy Things Happen Between Good People

Sometimes when you least expect it, life just suckers you in the jaw. At such a time, you get to see if you've learned anything at all, during the abundant times. If you've filled up your bucket with enough confidence, enough trust, enough remembrance of goodness and connection, a poking in the bucket, shouldn't drain it of all the previous things.

I have a little issue you see. I am a spawn of the Incredible hulk and the Green-Eyed monster. Whenever I feel like my partner, as any previous ones can attest, wants to spend a significant amount of time with a special, single, unattached and looking, queer friend, my ears go back, like a threatened feline. I am ready to pounce. It can get pretty darn ugly. I am not proud of this fact. I did come by it honestly.

I could say that it was my ex's fault, the one who took off with our couples' therapist. I could say it was a different ex who had an affair with a man while we were together. I could even say it was my mother's fault for choosing to meet her own needs instead of her children's. But that really won't help anything. It won't transform it. It would be the easy way out. It would be a way to continue to feel not chosen. To feel abandoned. To feel badly. I've done that for years. At this point, I feel it's very passe.

The more honest thing is to take a look at what my part in that is or was. The more enlightened stance would be to realize that people don't always act in the most fair or trustworthy way, but that they really are just trying to navigate their own journey as best as they can. The most revolutionary act, on my part, would be to choose to see every instance as a new one, rather than build an ammunition of doubt, distrust and fear.

It would be quite a different scenario at the corral, if I showed up not with a loaded gun in my left full of "I told you so", and another one in my right brimming with "You are just like everybody else" bullets.

No, It would be a miracle if I showed up with a bucket of tears for the longings of what did or didn't happen in one hand, and the other, an outstretched open hand to hold yours or let it go.

It isn't an easy choice. I'd have to give up the familiar. I'd have to give up the need to blame anyone including myself. Then what would I feel? Then whom would I be?

Gifts of Gratitude

It's Shabbat. I hear the birds chirping through the door. I think they have Shabbat down. It's a daily meditation for them. They gather in communities, in nature. They don't get caught up in facebook, looking for a job, wondering what their purpose is on this planet. I am definitely not a bird. But I do have this amazing tool that brings me to a daily Shabbat, even if for a few minutes. It's my gratitude list. It is the antidote to resentment. It is one of the elixirs to a good life. It is a practiced reminder, because I am often forgetful of the truth, of the goodness that surrounds me, everyday.

This week was a very enriching, busy, full week. I went on a job interview and was offered another when the first interview was over. The miracle that I experienced was actually feeling that I had much to offer to whichever organization was interested in bringing me aboard. A year and a half a go I couldn't muster enough courage to write a cover letter, thought I had nothing to offer that was marketable and surpassed many jobs feeling highly under-qualified.

Truly, there has been an internal shift. This week I felt that I had insight, kindness, compassion hope and a myriad of skills that I could offer. I felt elated getting the chance to learn about the different kinds of opportunities that lay ahead and reminded myself that the universe has a plan already. I am just waiting for it to unfold.

I have also been blessed by a kinder, gentler Boot Camp program, or so I thought, until the day following the work out... It has been absolutely transformative and it is just the second week. It feels like I am actually inhabiting my body. I must, my neurons have been firing "You are in Pain" messages.

It's been fabulous to wake up before sunrise and get a chance to greet the day alongside a Great Blue Heron, a waddling skunk and a small community of zestful women.

Last night we started a Shabbat get together for a few friends. Thirty two people showed up and sang songs that ranged from Broadway to 1960's Israeli TV commercials. Some played Apples to Apples, the Jewish version, and some bounced on the trampoline until a child twisted her back the wrong way when someone bounced on her. The ambulance arrived shortly. It was definitely a most memorable coming together.

One of our non-Jewish friends asked what Shabbat is about. What a blessing it was to hear him and respond. We tend to forget, in a busy, multi-tasked life how to even consider the question. That's why we called our community together: To play and laugh, be silly and get close. To bounce and sing, feel connected and included. It is a contradiction to Jews who may feel even more isolated than usual these days.

My intention is to bring people together often. So we remember our blessings of the week as we take a break for 24 hours from work, from changing the world. We must refuel for another week of Tikkun Olam, the repairing of the world. So if you're in the neighborhood on the third Friday of the month, come by. The only requirement is the desire to connect, play and rest. That's Jewish enough. Dayenu.

Internal Catalyst Cartwheels

On my way to boot camp this morning,I watched the waning creamsicle moon sink at sunrise. The clouds dressed in magenta fire halted my breath. I felt lucky to be alive and kicking as I skipped across the pavement. It's a Monday. I had a hard time falling asleep last night. Who, after sleeping only 5 hours, skips at 7 am on a Monday?
Maybe it's the person who decided in the middle of the night to look at her own interpersonal wars. Maybe it's the inner child who saw two peregrine falcons catching thermal winds this morning, just because. Maybe it's the woman who decided to notice and hug closely any life-affirming, joyous images, happenings and interactions as a contradiction to the desecration to human life and dignity that spirals like a tornado around the globe.
I realized in the wee hours between night and dawn that I have contributed to feeling excluded, unwanted, foreign, unaccepted. Adamantly sustaining the need to feel badly, I have searched, found, plucked and gathered thorny bouquets of uninformed stereotypes, scathing words and actions and held them to my breast, all the while crying for all to stop the bloody trails landscaping across my body. I understand that Jews, immigrants and queers like me have had our share of fear, disappointment, ousting and rejection, to say the least. However, I am so familiar with those feelings that they often loom larger than kindness, generosity and graciousness. I hold those daggers so tightly and dearly that I ignore and discount the outstretched hands and heart offerings from imperfect folks.
On this past visit to my partner's Midwestern home, I was feeling isolated, a Jew in a sea of Gentiles. Maybe I was the only dark, curly-haired being for miles. And yes, the clerks thought I said Holiday Bread, when I asked for Challah bread. And yes, my mother-in-love does have four photos of my partner and her ex-husband on the walls and only one of our current family. But, every night my non-Jewish family lit up like a Chanukkiah when the candles cast warmth on their faces. Presents were given indiscriminately of faith, belief or legal relation. And cards offering love, inclusion and heart-felt acceptance were signed by Baptist born-again Christians wholeheartedly to me and to the child I brought into this family.
I do have a choice. I can focus on the things that keep us separate in order to continue the "us" vs. "them" that I condemn in the Middle East or I can take responsibility and shift the finger-pointing paradigm, extend the rest of my fingers out and offer my hand to hold. For today, for the long-term survival of my people, I choose to see acceptance.

15 Seconds at Sunset

I went for Shabbat dinner last night at an Israeli friend's house. She had recently returned from a month-long visit in Israel. She told of watching a magnificent sunset one evening with her two kids. They were within 10 miles of the zone. The zone that gets 100 missiles a day from Gaza. That's more than 4 every hour according to my math. As they were engrossed in the divinely inspired canvass, two fighter jets flew overhead. She and her family watched the bombs regurgitate from the steel mouths of the planes. Then the ground rumbled, like an earthquake. Consequently, they saw 2 missiles leaving Gaza towards Israel.

A friend of hers heard the sirens screaming over the loud speakers "Red Alert, Red Alert, Red Alert." Her friend knew she then had 15 seconds to get to the safe room. She grabbed her 2 year old child and ran to the "Safe room", their bathroom, with it's concrete walls and no windows. As she closed the doors, a missile hit, sucking out all the windows in the rest of the house.

This mother told me friend, "I couldn't take it anymore, so we hightailed it to a northern Kibbutz". Unfortunately, that kibbutz has been constantly bombed with the newer, further reaching missiles.
I asked my friend how she was able to not get confused in the mayhem? How could she continue to resist the actions that Israel is taking while being surrounded by so much devastation?
She told me that the continued bombing and killing on both sides have gotten the peace process no where. It has strenghtened the Hamas radicals. For the last three years, Israel's mission was to suffocate Gaza and weaken Hamas by placing an embargo on food and medicine and cutting off water and electricity. In their desperation, People have been more than willing to give their wasting away bodies to the cause that will grant them martyrdom.
What might be the solution to this massive spiritual, physical and emotional crisis? She said she didn't know. Maybe Israel should start flooding the area with financial assistance. It seems that when people are in better economic standing, when their families have sustenance and do not fear for their lives, they tend to be less willing to join radical factions.
What will it be then? A newer, better, far-reaching bomb or truckloads of food and medicine? Which would your child rather eat?

Backstab, Backlash and Back to Basics

I was ousted yesterday out of the Tribe of Israel. I apparently am no longer a Jew, not a good Jew anyway, but this is not the first time. I've been disowned before for other reasons. It was no fun then either. It was downright demoralizing.
My parents' vehement adherence to supporting Israel's actions at any cost has fractured the earth between us. Now there is a chasm widening exponentially as moral obligations are cast out the window, like six-pack holders in a sea of otters. I am at a loss as how to stop the Earth from splitting, as I look to a barren landscape for any material with which to build a bridge.
The sad thing is that I understand this mentality. It is the mentality of War. It is the mentality of a people who have suffered tremendously out of ignorance, greed, hate and exclusion and who have not yet, figured out how to heal from all those traumas in the face of more trauma. It is a life lived in a visceral contingency in which there is always an enemy lurking, waiting for the "weak" link in the fence in order to attack.
The odd thing is that I thought I came in peace. I truly believed that I was advocating for all people, and that this was the right thing to do. I prayed for everyone to stop fighting, insisted that all children be safe, begged that all blood to remain inside intact bodies and believed that all of us ought to have those basic human rights. For that, my own kin, unable to break from a divisive dual thinking, labeled me Anti-Semitic, Anti-Jewish and An Arab Lover. Haven't we been here before?
I look at history and think of other struggles between members of the same family and remember the discord and dissonance, the ripping of relationships, the battlegrounds soaked with loss from Florida to Maine. How did they ever come together? Did they? The Yanks vs. The confederates.
I still hear the scarred language pepper the Northerners' stereotypes of the Southern folk. I am certain the latter has a few misconceptions about the Yanks. Many of us still have some pretty confused ideas about the peoples that were here before we even landed on this continent. Are we bound in patterned chains that will continue to keep us from freeing ourselves from repeated injuries?
So what now? How do I reach to the baffled, appalled, angry family members who feel I am no longer one of their own? How does one stand for what one believes in when one's community is at stake? How far does one go in her convictions when the choice is not very choiceful? I take comfort that I am not the first or last in this dilemma.
Once again, I ask you all to take the hands of all whom you love, and all whom you feel that you don't (that's just confusion), and let us start with one thing we have in common- Let's begin with a single breath.

Gaza Cousin, You are my Kin!

This morning, once again, my heart is exploding, breaking, shards flying throughout my body and brain. Shrapnel has lodged itself in my head, another in my neck, a third in my back. Yet, many in this world cannot see the internal fragmentation of the spiritual collapse. I keep trying to dodge the bullets, the torrents of fear, the hate that is spewed on the email pages from people I love. My parents and friends, colleagues and the various organizations to which I belong, are sending a myriad of opines about Gaza. I am furious. I am appalled. I understand and I am confused. I ache spiritually, emotionally, physically and I am not, technically, in a war zone at all.

I make my Peet’s French Roast coffee, while my “cousin”, (as we Israelis refer to our brethren Arabs), on the other side of this imploding planet, eats the visions of carnage for her dinner.

I am a Jew, an Israeli who fights daily to remember that we are all human, in need of connection. I must choose minute by minute mantras that support love, compassion and trust - All those feelings and actions I have been taught to walk away from in order for my people to attempt to survive in a world that does often blame us for anything and everything.

That does not mean we, an oppressed people, are not culpable of wrongdoing at times.

Blame is passé. It’s futile and stunting. All of us are doing our best with the tools that we have. Some of us have very little tools. But, to me, it is unacceptable to point the finger at another, waiting for them to change, so that my own life can change.

What is my role as my cousin loses her home, her children or her desperate, trapped, Jew-hating brother? Do I wait for his hate to subside? Do I support the killing of his body spurring his spirit in a hundred others like him? Do I let understandable, yet inhumane, patterns of exclusion, fear and loathing be the swords of perceived justice in my name?

Absolutely not.

How can I bury my Palestinian cousin with a bloody hand and plant with the other an olive tree on her grave?

This is not a choice. We are all on the same side. The human side.

To call my cousins by any other name is to sign an endless war pact. It is short sighted. It is anti-human. It is an abomination.

I have been called naive. I have been told that I have been “Americanized”, an immigrant who has lived in the safety and ignorance of the American media sheltered from what Israelis face daily. It’s true. I left Israel when I was ten, but at the age of seven, I was in the bomb shelter, wondering if my parents would return from the front. Particular sirens heard today still make me hold my breath and feel as if an attack is imminent. The talons of war are deeply embedded and tear across the years, oceans and cultures.

I am confused often by the clashes of “information” from the left or the right. I experience anti-Semitism from the most loving of people and find allies in the most unlikely of communities. I may not be the most knowledgeable Israeli. I may be the most gullible of Jews. But for me, to live in the black or white, the “choose a side”, the “us “vs. “them”, the trust-no-one-because-they-will-knife-you-when-you-turn-around, is not only a way in which I choose not to live, it is detrimental to my hopes for all people. It is contradictory to my living fully as a human, not separated from any other. It is a way that I refuse to teach my children who would be bound to repeat this cycle of violence, apathy, terror and hopelessness.

No, I must reach, no matter what, to my grieving cousin. I must look in the mirror and ask myself: What will I do today to stop the destruction of the temples which we all inhabit?