The Golden Key of Thoughts

The last few roller coaster months have shown me a gloomy view of my ability to handle difficult situations. I lack resilience, I’ve decided, and I set out to find how this important quality could be learned. Resilience is defined in the dictionary as the “ability to recover readily from illness, depression or adversity.” But resilience allows us to do more than just bounce back to a normal state of functioning: it enables us to use the experience to become stronger. Remember my blog about falling in the hole? I tend to fall in the same hole again and again, and worse, once inside, I sit there and bewail my bad luck rather than work to find the way out.

I was enthralled, therefore, when I encountered words of wisdom in the somewhat bizarre new Alon Hilu novel, As Far As It Gets. The novel tells the story of an uncle and a nephew, Michael and Nadav. Michael inherits $70,000 and leaves Israel to travel around the world, spending the money on giving other people joy. Almost on the same day as his uncle leaves, Nadav enlists in the IDF and is having a hard time fitting in. In one of his letters to Nadav, Michael attempts to cheer him up: “You have freedom, true freedom which is not just another truth but the ultimate truth for all humanity, the freedom to awaken in you -- always, in every situation, even in the midst of despair, sorrow and anger, and despite all the pain and suffering you endure -- good thoughts and wonderful feelings like love! Hope! Mercy!” And in the next paragraph Michael continues: “Your strength is in your thoughts, in your imagination, and they are with you wherever you go.”

Thoughts, Michael implies, are the source of resilience! They are the rope for escaping the hole! Finding that optimistic, grateful thread of thoughts is the way out of wallowing in a bad situation. I wonder if this is always true. Is the power of my thoughts the ultimate solution to falling in holes? And I think: how amazing! If I could master this golden key, I would no longer need to fear making mistakes, and I could choose to walk in any street I want, whether well-paved or not.

The rope of good thoughts

Of course, it is easier said than done. Sometimes when I feel sad I cannot find in myself the energy to create joy out of sorrow or thankfulness out of pain. I make the choice to stay in my trouble hole and roll around in the dirt of my self pity. And even though my first thought is one of disgust at choosing to thus waste my time, I could perhaps give myself permission to feel suffering, at least for a while. Because after that wallowing in the dirt at the bottom of the hole, the outside is so much more beautiful and grand. And remember, I now own the magic key for getting out.

Independence and the Absent Mother

Yesterday afternoon I sat by the kitchen table and cried as I finished reading Sharon Creech’s middle-grade novel Walk Two moons. I had picked it up the week before in a used bookstore. On the back cover, a quote from the School Library Journal promised “A richly layered novel about real and metaphorical journeys.” I started reading the novel wondering what it will be like.

Sal, the narrator, tells of the trip she took with her grandparents to Lewiston, Idaho to see her mother who had left on a bus trip a few months before. She promised to return but hadn’t. Sal hopes to arrive on or before her mother’s birthday and to convince her mother to come back home.

As they drive, Sal tells her grandparents the story of her friend Phoebe and her family who are all “thumpingly tidy and  respectable.” Sal describes Phoebe’s mother as “ Mrs. Supreme Housewife” and her father as “Father with a capital F.” But Phoebe also notices that underneath her enthusiastic baking and cleaning, Phoebe’s mother is unhappy. When Phoebe’s mother disappears with merely a note promising to return in a few days and a freezer filled with prepared meals for her family, Sal has a bad feeling. It is her experience that mothers promise to return but don’t.

Another friend, Ben, lives with his uncle and aunt, with no mention made of where his family is. Three absent mothers: Sal’s mother, Phoebe’s mother, Ben’s mother. And questions abide. Why did Sal’s mother stop writing to her? Why did she leave? How could she leave? And as a mother, I could not help but feel upset. Why all these absent mothers? How could Sal’s mother, who so clearly loved her, leave her? What is this story teaching children? I asked myself. That mothers are not to be trusted? That they can leave any moment? That mothers are inherently unhappy being just mothers? That if the child does not notice the mother’s unhappiness, does not appreciate her, then the mother might leave?

In children’s literature, parents are often missing: dead, or emotionally unavailable. This allows the main character to solve problems on his or her own. Thus Harry Potter is an orphan and his adult helpers either die or are incapable of helping him. Taran, of Lloyd Alexander’s Prydain series, is an orphan. The children going to Narnia live apart from their parents (and Aslan either is not present or is presumed dead). In the novels, these characters move from youthful dependence to independence. But at what cost? 

Sal’s story takes her on a journey halfway through the United States and inside her own heart, through anger, guilt, denial, fantasy, and finally acceptance. I cried at the end, and I forgave Sharon Creech for the missing mothers. And yet my question remains: could we as writers find a way to allow our young characters to grow with the support of a family behind them?

What do you think?

If You Wish, It Is Not a Fairytale

In Germany, 1902, Theodor Herzl published his novel Altneuland, the Old New Land. On the front cover was inscribed the phrase: “Wenn ihr wollt, ist es kein Märchen” -- unprofessionaly translated as: “If you wish it, it is not a fairy tale.” I grew up with this saying and have always believed it, just as I have always loved and trusted Walt Disney’s version: “If you can dream it, you can do it.” And yet I am eternally amazed whenever I finish a project or succeed in an enterprise that I set out to do. How’s that for self belief?

Me, crying on Mt. Rainier

Four years ago, the sun rose as I marched up the last stretch of steep terrain to the crater on Mount Rainier. I plodded along, like a sheep following her herd on the narrow path, with one thought careening in my head: “I finally have an achievement in life.” At 14,220 or so feet, the tears choking my throat did not help my lungs’ desperate attempts to get enough oxygen into my blood. I stumbled. I wanted to sit down. Instead, I followed everyone else around the crater and up the little summit rocks where I stood, tears running down my red nose, as the guide took my picture holding up my ice ax (yes, my own ice ax!) up to the sky in a weak gesture of “I’m finally here!”

Four years later my list of successes has grown in reverse proportion to my list of failures and unfinished projects. My belief in “If you can dream it you can do it” has remained the same: a slightly hypocritical piece of advice that I can give to others in a display of “Do as I say and not as I do.” I believe it, but I won’t try to check if it can come true.

But hey, this is a little corner of joy, not a little puddle of pity wallowing. And I do, in fact, have a point with my sad sob story. And it is not going to be a moralistic point, but very very wise. Here goes:

I enjoy the little things in life much more than my big, life-shaking achievements. Making the memory books in kindergarten. I loved that. A short, half mile hike at Coe with the children, the ranger’s wife, and my mother and father in which we saw hundreds of wildflowers. I loved that. My son standing straight with the violin under one arm, listening to the teacher. My daughter’s sweet-smelling breath on my cheek as she hugs me. The smell of morning outside when I wake up. The spaghetti and mushroom sauce Dar made for us on our last camping trip. Hearing my friend Ronit’s melodious voice on the phone this morning. Illustrating the Siddur Program for the school. A hug. A kiss.

Little moments of life, seemingly fleeting, giving everlasting joy.

What about you? What moments of joy do you remember?

Good Mornings

This morning was perfect. I woke up before my alarm rang and took the dogs for a brisk walk up and down the hills near my house. Breakfast, prepared by Dar, included fresh-squeezed orange juice, eggs, waffles and fruit. I cuddled with Eden through the school’s  T’filla, the morning prayers, and now I am sitting at a nice cafe, writing to you. Perfect!

Sunrise from Bear Mountain at Coe

Mornings are my favorite time of day. I love the lightness of the air before the sun rays strike. I love the slight chill, left over from the night. I feel alive in the morning, vibrant, energetic, calm. The children, sadly, disagree. They like to go to sleep late and wake up even later. Especially on weekdays.

Lately I have taken to waking Eden with a song. “Little rhinoceros,” I sing to her sleep-puffed cheeks and determinedly shut eyes, “Wake up, little one. The sun is shining! The deer are running! Wake up little rhinoceros, wake up!” So far my songs have failed to convince her to awaken. From deep in her blankets, Eden commands me to hug her and tries to convince me that it is best for her to sleep for a few more hours. I remind her to wake up till finally, grumpy and cross, she rolls out of bed, all memories of our hugs and my song gone.

Pink-tinted sunrise at Coe as I start hiking down

She sits at the table, a veritable volcano in her pink pajamas, waiting for me to say one more word so she can explode. But what can I do? She needs to eat, get dressed, brush her teeth, put her folder back in her backpack, put on her shoes, and tell me what she wants for snack. Trembling with trepidation, I attempt to steer the little rhinoceros, my Karnafon whose nickname so fits sometimes, to do what I want so that we can get to school on time, hoping against all hope that like Scheherazade I will live to tell the tale for another day.

Uri likes to sleep late too, but he wakes up right away, gets ready down to his shoes before he sits down to the table to eat the meal which he ordered the night before. He often puts his alarm on for a much earlier time than I like. He may not be happy about rising with the sun, but getting to school in a timely manner is important to him.

I try to create a morning routine, thinking that order and clear expectations will bring about an easier morning. But Eden is a creative type. If she’s already up and not too grumpy, she wants to draw, dance, sing, tell stories. But there’s no time on a school morning for all that.

I haven’t found a solution yet, if one even exists. Sometimes there’s too much prodding and scolding in the mornings at our house. But other times, like today, there’s mornings full of love. Ups and downs. Like the hills. Like life.

What’s your morning routine like?

Countering the Anxiety Wave

Mercer Mayer's loveable Nightmare

Last night as I got ready for bed, anxiety slunk into the room, a menacing shadow. I had had fun five days with the kids, enjoying Eden’s birthday, a beach outing, and a special day with Eden rock climbing at the gym. The kids were sleeping peacefully in their beds, and yet I felt overwhelmed by terror at their next-day impending departure to their father.

Every muscle in my body screamed to jump out of bed, go to the computer, read a book, watch a movie, anything so that my mind would not fester with paralyzing thoughts about my failure as a parent, irresponsibility about money matters, or my bogged-down writing. I tried to describe my feeling to Dar. “You should do something about it,” was his practical response. “You should try to spend less money.”

My first reaction: You’re judging me!?! Then I tried to understand my upset. In the last few years I’ve done much to become more financially responsible. Chris comes once a week for an hour, keeps records of my spending, and generates monthly reports. I realized that I actually feel good about how much my attitude to money has changed.

Parenthood is a more touchy topic. I try to cram 365 days’ worth of love into 182.5 days with activities, one-on-one time, moments of listening, and homework. I give emotional support and take care of the children’s physical needs. Is it any wonder that I hardly ever succeed in giving the children everything that I would like to give? I reminded myself of the Hand in Hand class I recently took, the parenting book I am reading, the special times the children and I shared, the fact that I’ve been more patient with them. I feel good about how much I’ve grown as a parent in the last few years.

My negative thoughts almost disappeared. But what about my writing? Am I not exactly where I was ten years ago when I began? I finished one novel and started several others. I received one full manuscript request (no answer yet). I attended several conferences and received encouraging critiques. I took writing classes and interacted with writers. I started my blog. Without doubt, I am in a different and better place than I was ten years ago.

The shadows, the terror, my anxiety, all melted away. I felt better able to breathe. I had just had a moment of enlightenment. Instead of judging myself, I had taken an appreciative look at what my achievements were and found pride in my work. I am not at the beginning of my way to become a writer, a parent, a financially responsible adult. I am well on my way and will continue throughout my life. I thanked Dar for listening to me and closed my eyes, feeling relief, gratitude, and contentment. I fell asleep, sleeping the sleep of the just.

What tricks do you have to relieve anxiety?

Faith Makes the Luck, By The Great Horn Spoon!

Last year, my son recommended that I read Sid Fleischman’s novel By the Great Horn Spoon. He had read it in class as part of the Gold Rush unit and enjoyed it. I agreed but did not immediately follow up on my promise. The picture on the cover showed a muscular bearded man battling a hairy giant. Wrestling is not my favorite topic, nor do I feel particularly enthralled by the gold rush (though I am a huge Jack London fan). After a lot of enthusiastic prodding by the young reader, I finally picked up the book last week and started to read. And I’m so glad I did!

By the Great Horn Spoon is one of those rare books that encourages free thought, creative problem solving skills and faith in oneself. Jack, the main character is a young boy who leaves for California during the gold rush in order to find enough gold to allow his Aunt Arabella to keep her house in Boston. He is accompanied by his butler, Praiseworthy, who discovers Jack’s plot to run away to California and decides to help him.

Praiseworthy and Jack run into many adventures and twists of fate, but they always find resourceful ways to deal with obstacles, whether they are concealing themselves in potato barrels on the ship after their fare money is stolen, rescuing a pig from being butchered and eaten, searching for a treasure map, or digging a grave. And luck follows in their footsteps as though it already knows that resistance is futile: if one thing won’t work the partners will try another, till they strike it rich and rescue Aunt Arabella’s house and memories from being sold.

Jack is faithful to his friends and ever ready to try something new, even if it is bitter coffee mixed with ground acorn. He is a curious boy, hardworking, and brave. But it is Praiseworthy who I found to be a character to remember and learn from.

My favorite scene turned out to be the one illustrated on the cover. Praiseworthy has never wrestled anyone, but he has confidence in his abilities to beat the Mountain Ox who “had a neck like the stump of a tree” and whose chest looked “as big around as a flour barrel.” And why? Because “it stands to reason that the Mountain Ox never read a book in his life. He’s no doubt a mere brawler.” Praiseworthy, himself a great reader, had  back in Boston read a book about boxing, and he intends to use that knowledge to good purpose. As he explains: “since I’ve outread him, I see no reason why I can’t outwit and outbox him.”

To Praiseworthy, the knowledge acquired by reading is empowering. As a reader and a writer, I believe that is true. I love books that inspire me and lead me to trust in myself and my talents, and By the Great Horn Spoon sure does both.

Vignettes in Honor of Eden’s Birthday

Nine years ago on this day, Eden was born. She clearly wanted to arrive in this world. After sleeping through her first night, she then refused to sleep at night for the next year, waking up every forty minutes to stare at the darkness with big brown eyes. At eight months she spurned the food I made for her, finally splashing into her first soup (prepared by our friend Lior) at ten months. This brought about a laundry crisis in our family which caused me for a while to consider dressing her in single-use clothes.

Eden’s favorite activity once she learned to sit was to be driven around by her brother Uri. Uri would help her onto the bed of his little black truck, lift the tail door shut behind her making sure she was safely inside, and only then would he get into the driver’s seat and start pumping his little feet in a Flintstone-imitation run.

Uri: Do you want to sit in the truck and I will drive you with a big whoosh? And I will tie you.
Eden: Want! (It takes a long time till she sits).
Uri: I will tie you. You’re on the other side. Driving, driving, driving. Woosh! (he runs the car around the family room and kitchen). You want to eat?
Eden: Yes!
Uri: We will put it up here.
Eden: What?
Uri: We’re driving some more. Are you ready?
Eden: Yes.
Uri: One two three four five. We are starting! Digidigidigidigidan digidu digidigidigidu. Are you okay Digidigidu? Do you want to eat a banana? (They both eat a banana).
Uri: This banana is crazy. We have to eat it when we come back from the trip. Come on, Eden. Let’s go. Do you want to take the banana? (Makes a noise like an engine starting, runs around the room in the truck).

At age two Eden started attending preschool. She screamed for the entire first week, after which I moved her to Teacher Lana’s room, where she screamed for the rest of the year, but only after I picked her up. One time Teacher Michael had to help me dislodge her from the tire swing to which she held, screaming bloody murder, with a strength unbelievable for her two-year-old arms.

But Eden’s true love, from the moment of her birth, has always been and still is Saba Amos, my father. She calls him Sabi as an endearment and twirls him easily (and sometimes cruelly) around her little finger. She swims with Sabi in the pool, discusses important computer issues with him, and snuggles with him as often as she can.

Today Eden is nine, and I am amazed. Where have the last nine years gone? How could she already be done with third grade when I remember exactly what she looked like at age five? I love how she’s growing up (but why so fast?) into this wonderful, joyful human being.

Happy birthday Eden, sunshine of my life, and may we celebrate together many many more!