These are things

There are things, when you grow up Jewish. Like moving from the north to the south when you’re 7. And it takes time but eventually you start to understand the Jew jokes. And it may take getting through 3rd grade but you realize they’re about you and your mom and cousins and grandma. So you learn to hide your Jewishness and you drop out of Sunday school. And you don’t get bat-mitzvah’d. Which is OK because you weren’t really sure about God in that way anyway.

Later you learn that the reason you could hide was because of this thing about privilege. And you can taste it and see it all around so you rarely talk about your Jewishness. Also the world doesn’t call on you to bring it up much. And since you’re not really sure about God in that way, it’s fine. 

So you do your work to center folks who are really marginalized. People who don't hide or pass. People with brown skin or black skin and people who need abortions and people without jobs and people who work 3 jobs but still can’t support their families. And sometimes passing annoys you because you have a knowing of things. But knowing is insignificant when it's hidden. So you do the work. That is what’s important. These are things. 

And then oops also your mom is a lesbian. And oops so are you. And oops your spouse is genderqueer. And oops. Oops. Oops. But all the love! Oops is good! Life is a gift! Rejoice! 

And you are at heart, a joyful person. This has stayed with you. And you are grateful. 

And then there is a new president. And the stories of your great aunts and uncles that “didn’t make it” come up in your guts and sleep and the knowing grows. And one day you cry hard but you don’t tell anyone because it didn’t happen to you and so. And you wonder about your great-grandma’s sisters and how they lived and how they died, even though you forget their names. And you hear your grandmother’s voice telling you small things and you realize she was planting seeds. And you remember your great-grandfather’s hands warming yours when you were small. His hands were not born here. And you feel comfort and discomfort all at once. 

You remember this thing you heard about ancestral trauma. And it’s not yours. But. It’s as if on this day someone handed you a membership card. And you want to show your new shiny Jew card and tell people about your discovery but your ancestor whispers in your ear “Shhhh” so you don't. But. You can feel it in your blood. Like when you type words on a computer, how it’s there in your fingertips. Or when your purse your lips your grandmother is there. 

And then one day there’s a hate rally in Virginia. And in the past you would have turned your cheek because “Whatever dumbasses.” But today is different and you can't say why. And you think of your privilege. And your membership card. And you get back to work. 

The president says it turned violent because of people on both sides. That “your side” was at fault too. For a moment you believe him. Because yes we did go there and show up at that place. But then you also remember when you were raped and people asked “Why didn’t she press charges” and the answer is because things were so blurry and you didn’t know what to do. And you imagine that people in Charlottesville must have just thought “Well I can’t stay home.” And so they went. Because who else would show up for them and say “Hey I am a person” except themselves. But the president says getting harmed was their fault. And then you think of your great-grandmother’s sisters. And you wonder if there was a rally before they were killed and what their president said. And you wonder if anyone went to that rally to say “Hey these are people.” And you wonder what victims are supposed to do when people would like to see the earth wiped clean of them or rape them or both. 

And really all you want is to keep your family safe. To not feel relieved that your last name is not Jewish. To not have secret anxiety when your spouse travels without you. To imagine that brown people will stop being killed for sport. To imagine that victims are allowed to speak their pain. All you want is for all of us to be better at sharing and general niceties. These are kindergarten things but we didn’t do a good job teaching them so we never learned. 

I am not scared. My privilege has shielded me from so much. And yet. There is a knowing in my bones. 

Thank you, 2015

Thank you for an abundance of food, clean water and a roof over my head. Thank you for keeping me safe.

Thank you for hopes and intentions turned wildest dreams fulfilled. For work and passion intertwining into what truly is a purpose driven life.

I laugh until my belly aches and tears roll down my cheeks nearly everyday with someone I’m madly in love with. Thank you.

Thank you mamas and babies, for inviting me into your most earthly and cosmic of journeys. You are, hands down, the bad-asses of the universe.

Thank you for the fear, sadness and lessons even when I resisted. Thank you for the wisdom.

Thank you to the artists, dreamers, local lovers. Thanks to this flavorful, colorful city I call home.

Thank you feminists, queers, racial justice activists, socialists, abortion providers and brave ones.

Thank you for sparkles, color, dancing, hula hoops, music, games, fun and limitless joy and gratitude.

Thank you earth, for your gardens, oceans, dirt, fire, rain. Thank you to the mountains, for always reminding me that I am small.

Thank you for this body where I exist, play, rest, receive hugs and experience comfort and connection.

Thank you meditation, goddesses, yogis, wise women, gurus, midwives and spiritualists, for a faith connection free of dogma, yet overflowing with hope, love and trust.

Thank you for the reminders that intuition and empathy are tools on which I can always rely.

Thank you family, friends, animals, loved ones, students, co-workers and neighbors for being a part of my village. 

Thank you for all this and more. 

Happy New Year!

When You Know Everything

My life has been blessed with options. From where to eat and what to wear to which job to work and who to hang with. Choices galore. Oh the places I’ll go! 

Blessings as curses anyone? 

Over. Whelmed! 

My plate looks like an all-you-can-eat Vegas buffet, and I don’t know where to start.  And yet that’s not true, because of course, I do. Somewhere, in the pit of my guts, there is a knowing. There are answers. But my brain—the place where feeling and knowing collides with logic and action—is so blinded by tasks and thinking and what-ifs that I can’t see a thing. 

I think we sometimes get so caught up that we become paralyzed with how to proceed, so we either a) don’t or b) freak out until something forces us into submission. 

Al always says, “How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time.” 

  

I have no interest in eating elephants (i.e., I am not interested in making decisions, so I often choose option b. Except for when I opt for a). 

There’s a lesson here. I think it’s something like: Stop thinking and freaking out for a second and sit still. Listen to the inner knowing because it's always there. 

If this is true (it is) ... 

The question isn’t: What if I choose the wrong thing? 

...

The questions are: Am I willing to take responsibility for what I want? Am I brave enough to go for it? What happens if my choices hurt people I love? Do I dare to shine and show myself? 

I think that as we grow up, we turn the volume down on what we know. And I don’t mean about things like algebra or chemistry (OK, bad examples), but the real knowing, the inner gut wisdom. Quieting this isn’t necessarily a bad thing—it’s a survival skill—we silence our innate wisdom in favor of assimilation, cultural connection and being a part of a tribe. We learn the rules to play the games to stay alive. It’s called socialization. Or psychology. Or anthropology. Or whatever academic discipline you majored in and feel inclined to name it. 

It’s ironic that our intuitive nature has us silence our inner wisdom for purposes of survival. But intuition was never logical—it’s a far more dynamic. We’re not meant to understand it. It’s nonsensical. That’s the point. 

Can you imagine that you always have the answers? That you know everything? That there is a direct line to exorcising the drama? 

Imagine how vulnerable you’d be in asking for what you want. 

Imagine the courage it takes to be exactly who you are.
Imagine the responsibility that comes from saying you’re going to go for it. 

But. If you’re willing to dare: Get honest and know what you know. We always know. We know what we want to eat and what we don’t, we know who we love and when we’re done. We know what jobs we want and when it’s time to quit. We know when we want to see a friend and when we’d rather stay home. The problem is that we’ve spent 30, 40, 50 or more years muffling our inner knowing in order to play the game, make the money, love the person and go the places. We have so much at stake. So much to lose. So many to disappoint. 

But. 

What if we had so much to receive? So much to win? So many to inspire?

Opening into honesty isn’t easy, and I can’t promise you that it’ll keep you alive—though it will force you to live.  We make a hundred thousand choices on any given day. What if we chose more from a more honest place? What if we listened more? What if we released guilt or fear or anxiety or [your baggage here] in favor of embracing what we know to already be true?

Maybe if we all did that, we could make a whole new tribe. 

The next time you’re caught making a tough decision, see if you can connect with what’s already there. Drop your pros and cons list. Don’t look around. Just sit still and tap in. What do you know?

Receive your answers, not because you should, but because you can. They're already yours.