Last night, my partner and I were again greeting people and handing out evaluation cards, this time at Amherst College. Different setting, but some of the same people. And new ones! Hello! I am glad you are here! We were chatting about the previous night’s movie, “Restoration,” and reminiscing about movies from years past. Did you see…? Do you remember the one about… oh, what was the name of it…? What other movies are you going to see in the two weeks of this year’s festival? A little more connection. The faces are connecting to their voices.

“Saviors in the Night” was powerful. While it was “just” another Holocaust story, it was nothing like just.Based on a true story of a German family hidden and protected by their neighbors, simple farmers, it packed a wallop. Each person had a story to tell, as we got to see transformations, especially the teen aged girl, who shifted from rote Nazi supporter to a person moved by the horror facing these individual Jews if they were discovered. The impersonal becomes personal, and she matures before our eyes. I don’t know, but I don’t think there was a dry eye at the end of the movie. Then the real punch. After the movie itself had ended, we were introduced to two of the women, now very old ladies, who sat hand in hand with the actors milling around them on the set.  At that point, tissues were a must. The lights came on. I was fumbling in my coat pocket for a Kleenex. The elderly gentleman sitting next to me offered me a crumpled paper napkin from his pocket. It was clean, he said, but definitely was from a  Chinese dinner not long ago. Through tears, through paper napkins, a little connection. He said that this movie moved him more than the one from the night before, and I agreed. I like being touched like that.

About 20 people stayed afterwards for a discussion led by the lovely and warm Christian Rogowski, Amherst College professor of German. There were stories to tell. I didn’t get to hear much of it; I was busy in the lobby collecting the evaluation cards and saying good bye, asking people when I would see them again. Which movie next? The stories being shared with Christian, these I wish could have been collected and written down. Who had a family member who was hidden? Whose family had been destroyed, touched, maimed, restored, survived? Maybe we can get a function on the PVJFF web site for people to record their stories. Especially as the last of the survivors are dying of old age, I hope we can catch every story before it turns to dust.

When will I see you again? We are going to Greenfield tomorrow to see “Foreign Letters.” Are you coming to the “Fiddler on the Roof” sing along? This was the first movie that I knew was a definite for this year’s line up and I have had it on my calendar for months. Sure, I have seen it so many times, in the movies, on the stage in NYC as a child, and even  my daughter played a beautiful Tevye’s wife (hmmm, what is her name?) in a local production. But this time, in community, singing with my kin! I can’t wait. I have a little cold right now, and a sore throat. Definitely have to be better for the 24th so my singing voice is ready and able. My other personal favorite that is coming up is “Carrying the Light.” That is the subject of another blog entry. Just know it is a beauty and see it if you can.

I don’t expect that I am going to form any lasting friendships through this Jewish movie-going community, though you never know. In any case, I am enjoying your faces, your voices, a little bit of your stories and will be happy to see you over the weeks to come!

P.S. If the woman who was talking with me about “Sarah’s Key’ is reading this, the other book by Tatiana de Rosnay that I liked even better was “A Secret Kept.”

My partner and I were each married to gentiles for over 20 years. There has been something comforting, a coming-home feeling, of being in a loving relationship with a good Jewish boy. Neither of us are religious, but there is a power to this Jewish connection. Sure, a lot of it is felt in the foods (I make the best vegetarian matzo ball soup), the music (Klezmer goes straight to my soul, even some cantorial music resonates in my roots), the rituals, but mostly, it is about community. I like walking into the Jewish Film Festival halls and knowing I am sitting among Jews, and people who feel some curiosity or connection to Judaism, even if they aren’t Jewish themselves. It feels good. It feels like coming home. My partner grew up hearing his parents speak German. I heard Yiddish within my extended family. And of course the Hebrew we heard at synagogue. Whenever I hear a Yiddish accent, I think of my many aunts and uncles, my grandparents, and it is makes me feel good, in a noodle kugel kind of way. We have been watching a video of an interview with Jeff’s dad from a decade before he died, this German story teller who escaped, as many of his family didn’t. It is a Jewish story. One of millions of Jewish stories.

The PVJFF brings us Jewish stories. The sound of Yiddish, old stories, modern stories; funny stories and deeply moving stories. We come together as Jews, and friends of Jews, to share in these stories. Personally, I find it truly deeply moving. We have previewed two movies recently, and I will write about them on another day. I feel blessed to live in this community and look forward to seeing many of you in the weeks to come. Check out www.PVJFF.org!!!

This is a very personal and individual decision. Sure, some babies quit of their own accord and that’s that. Some mothers need to wean because of work or health or because they have just had enough. That’s all fine.

I just want to point out one thing. Maybe you haven’t considered this. You can’t know this until after the fact. There is nothing in the whole wide world that comforts your baby as easily, thoroughly, deliciously as nursing.  We bring children into the world with the understanding that while you hope for them to lead jeweled lives, they will fall and get hurt, literally and figuratively. My “children” are grown. I can talk to them on the phone and listen with understanding when they are in a miserable moment. I can text encouragement. I can carefully wrap home-baked cookies and mail them. But when I spoke about this with the librarian this afternoon, I found myself tearing up. I can’t comfort them in that make-it-all-right-again way that nursing could. Obviously this is so, but this is my cautionary story for women who are considering when the right time is to wean. If you enjoy nursing, and your baby thrives with nursing, don’t be in a hurry to stop. Hold her close, feed her of your body, comfort her as only a mother can (with apologies to the fathers), and breathe in the shared comfort.

And I am walking out into all of this with nowhere to go and no task undertaken but to turn the pages of this beautiful world over and over, in the world of my mind.

* * *
Therefore, dark past,
I’m about to do it.
I’m about to forgive you

for everything.

There are many stories that I have seen or read or heard about. Sticking to movies, there was “Budras” shown at Amherst Cinema and “Occupied Minds” at the Massachusetts Multicultural Film Festival held at UMass and Smith. These are documentaries about the quest for peace, non-violent protest, hope.  “For My Father” is one of these stories, a fictional one, but powerful. But not a non-violent one. It is about the quest for redemption, for understanding, for reaching across the abyss. It is one of the human stories, and isn’t what this is all about? About humans and human lives? It is a life-or-death struggle but the emphasis should be on the “life” part of that. It is how people live their lives. It is about human dignity, and lack thereof, and the search for peace, for the human side of peace, where people aren’t just tolerating each other but thriving together.

The Pioneer Valley Jewish Film Festival (www.pvjff.org) is offering quite a variety of movies over the next few weeks, from the silly to the deadly serious, as in “For My Father.” Opening the heart to stories, Jewish stories, Palestinian stories, human stories.

“For My Father,” in case you interested, is playing Thursday March 24, 7:30, at Amherst Cinema, and Saturday March 26, 8:15, at the Basketball Hall of Fame in Springfield.

This is from Jodi Picoult’s book, Mercy.

“Then you’re the one.”… “The one what?”…”The one who loves more….You know it’s never fifty-fifty in a marriage. It’s always seventy-thirty, or sixty-forty. Someone falls in love first. Someone puts someone else up on a pedestal. Someone works very hard to keep things rolling smoothly; someone else sails along for the ride…. I’m the one…who would do anything to keep it the way it was at the beginning.”

Is this true? Is there always an imbalance, always one person who goes the extra mile to make nice, to make sure things are ok, who apologizes first? Is one person more invested, loves more deeply, is more sure that this is good?

It’s funny, but this is oddly comforting to me. There is certainly an imbalance of the proclaimed amount of love in my own relationship, and this has always concerned me, concerned both of us. But what if this is normal? “Normal” is such a comforting word. I like it a lot. It takes the pressure off: It is normal to gain a little weight after menopause; it isn’t just me. It is normal to need to write down lists more as I get older and thoughts slip out of my brain as I walk from one room to the next. It’s normal, after divorce, to wonder if I could choose a partner more wisely this time round.

What is “normal?” What is it for you?

What is enough? What is the Gold Standard?

How do I know if I have enough friends? Is my relationship good enough? Do I love this person well enough? Do I receive enough love? Do I weigh enough? Or too much? Is my hair curly enough? Or straight enough? Do I have enough children?? Or do I feel like I should make more? (OK, personally, I am way past that question!!) Do I make enough money? Do I take enough vacations? Do I read enough books? Do I exercise enough? Do I email or call my mom enough? Do my children call enough? Are they smart enough, self-sufficient enough, kind enough? (OK, again personally, I know the answer to these: YES) Do I eat the right foods? Do I take enough vitamins? Is my home big enough? Do I recycle enough? Do I vacuum up cat hair enough? Do I donate to enough charities? Do I get enough sleep? Do I use sunscreen enough? Do I write on my blog often enough?

What is the Gold Standard? Obviously, there is none. This is all bullshit. This is all relative.

Here’s what matters: Am I grateful enough? Do I count my blessings? Do I appreciate what I have?

Is my cup over-flowing?

“The pain today is making me crazy.”

I hope for a simple sympathetic response and then I am able to walk away, feeling some relief. It’s funny how well that works for me. The act of putting my pain out there, naming it, whining about it, relieves me just enough to get back to my day. It had become too heavy to hold, as pains and fears can become. Let me say it. Put it on the line. Don’t make a big deal in your response. Just hear me, hold me, tell me I am heard. I am not alone.

That is the best of all things we can do for one another. Make the dark small.                                                                                                 Dean Koontz

I am grateful to to  my partner, my wonderful girlfriends, my mom, my therapist, once in a while, my daughters, whether than “hear” me in person or in an email or by phone, these are the people who help me lance the sores that have grown too big to carry around. I know I am not alone. Thank you for traveling with me. And how are you today?

It is now 5 weeks since back surgery. I saw the wonderful Dr. Oh on Tuesday. If he wasn’t forthcoming with words of encouragement, I was prepared to tell him exactly what I needed to hear. I needed him to tell me that everything I was experiencing was normal. Increased pain? Normal. Can try getting back to some usual activity but stop if it increases pain; don’t expect to be able to do much for a while. All normal. All good.

When I feel hopeful now, there is a reason for it. I don’t care how long it takes. I can be patient. My back is fixed and I am in healing mode. I can feel it. I know it. I glow from it. Someone said I looked younger. That isn’t because I am in less pain. It is because I am less afraid. The wise Juliana wrote the other day:

Discomfort is a reality but suffering is a choice.

I hurt. I hurt plenty. But I am not suffering. I am optimistic and I can see, in my mind’s eye, a time when I am without pain. Or close to it. I had nearly exhausted myself swimming up stream but I have reached that lovely gently swaying waters of the big lake, holding me while I float along. I will spend my summer days taking  early morning walks in the company of  friends, reading fat novels, accomplishing a little of this and a little of that, and punctuate my days with cat naps. Literally: I mean napping with cats. I lie on my back with an ice pack along my spine. Cleo lies across my belly. Gabby, who never actually lies on anyone, curls herself into the triangle behind my knees. Sometimes, against her better judgement, she is halfway lying on my leg. I don’t care how hot. I am soothed by kitty weight.

Hope is not a feeling, hope is a decision. Hope is a choice. Hope is believing despite the evidence, then watching the evidence change.         Jim Wallis

I am hopeful and happy and optimistic and in pain and with limitations.  It’s a package deal. It’s all me.