Tashlich

Every year since we met, Bruno has joined me at Rosh Hashanah time for the Jewish tradition of tashlich. The word, tashlich, means: "casting away", and the tradition is to take the lint out of your pockets, the crumbs from the corner of your house, and let them represent your sins from the past year. You cast them into a moving body of water and watch as they are taken away.

Since I have more sins than I have lint in my pockets or crumbs in the corners (lack of cleanliness isn't one of my sins), I have always used bread. This year, Bruno and I took our bread out to Foster City, and stood on rocks by the Bay, and named our sins outloud to each other and the Universe before casting them into the flowing current. As an added benefit, we attracted quite a number of birds, and were able to see certain sins get instantly consumed. It was quite satisfying, although we were worried that we might be as instantly punished for said sins by these same overhead flying friends. Luckily, the Universe was gracious and forgiving, and we remained poop-free.

As we stood on the rocks, we named certain sins that we have named year after year: neglecting and causing pain to our respective families, not doing enough to give back to the world, failing to forgive easily. This year we added some new ones: giving in to jealousy and resentment, not remaining grateful for the things that are working, failing to be happy for others on their paths while we struggle on ours. Together, we cast a crumb for anything we may have done that precipitated our loss of our sons. Ironically, this crumb landed on the rocks, not in the water, and we had to cast it off again: apparently it's a hard one to let go of. I cast a crumb for failing to communicate with Bruno's non-English speaking relatives. Bruno cast one for not being a big enough part of the lives of all his nieces and nephews. And we ended by together casting a crumb for any sins we have committed of which we are not aware, and asked to be made aware of them, so we could work on them.

As we walked away, talking about what kind of volunteer work we'd like to do, and where we'd like to donate money, and commenting on the group of sins we toss out each and every year, continually unremedied, I was reminded of why I like this holiday so much. The chance to reset one's compass, to name, again, with hope, the way one wants to be in the world, despite failures, despite years of failures...well, let's just say it is particularly meaningful this year, if not down right metaphorical.

So readers, please be my running water as I cast out one more crumb: the sin of not noticing how thin the line is between resigning oneself to the way things are and resetting one's compass, the sin of forgetting to hope.

May the New Year be a sweet year for all of us. Amen.

Happy New Year

Yes, I made a Challah. I still don't know my relationship to the holidays or my higher power right now, but I've always been clear on my relationship to food.

It is an all day project. You sprinkle yeast on top of warm water and sugar and let it activate, you add oil, more water and sugar, eggs and flour and beat it well. You turn it out onto a floured board and knead it for ten minutes, adding flour when it becomes too sticky, water when it becomes too dry. You round it up in a greased bowl, cover it and let it rest in a warm place until it doubles in size (usually two hours). You punch it back down, and let it double again. Next you work the twice risen dough into a snake, coil it around itself to make the circular Challah, and let it rise one more time. Paint it with egg yolk, sprinkle it with poppy seeds, bake it for 25 minutes and you have your very own Challah. It gave me great comfort to make it this year, as it does each year, to take the time and care to do it and to connect with my mother who taught me how, and her mother who taught her how. Ritual.

I wasn't brave enough to return to synagogue yet. Bruno and I sat outside in the Tiki Room and ate the holiday meal (I also made Brisket), and talked about the events of this past year, and how we'd like to find the strength to remain open and unjaded as we continue to walk this path and pursue our dream. Actually, I talked about all that, and Bruno put up with me. Good man

Happy Part II

Today my agent called to say I booked an episode of NBC's Trauma. I shoot a week from today, a small small part, but a part on a network TV show none-the-less.

As I am walking through the day, I keep finding myself skipping and squeaking out, "Whee!"

Well, will you look at that. Happy.

Happy

I think, when I was fifteen, I was really happy. I had made it through three years at a new school and had made a small but tight set of friends there who understood and loved me for the quirky little weirdo I was. I had found my way to dance and theatre. That year I played Judah in Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat, one of the best theatrical experiences I have had to date. I finally convinced Mom and Dad to send me to arts camp and spent a blissful, independent summer singing and dancing and acting my little heart out at Carnegie Mellon pre-college program. And that same summer I finally grew my hair out, and discovered, By George, I actually had the kind of hair I was coveting in others. I was far enough away from college not to worry about it yet, far enough away from childhood to start to call my own shots. I felt pretty and powerful and, well, happy.

I think I may have also been very happy when I was 22 or so. I had launched out of college, finally given in to my artistic soul and moved to NYC to pursue a life of debauchery and sin. I had made a deal with my parents: I give them a major in something other than theatre and they would give me a year of "grad school" in NYC. I had done my research, picked my voice teachers, dance classes, acting studios, clowning and Peking Opera workshops (can't you just feel my parents rolling their eyes), and was in the middle of my funded year, living with three thirty-something roommates in their railroad style apartment on the Upper West Side. I was a terrible roommate: I left my dishes in the sink and had loud visitors, and I don't even think I knew where they kept the broom or mop. And I didn't care. I joined an improv troupe and got paid to make things up in front of live audiences twice a week, and I was beginning to pick up a nasty tutoring habit that I still haven't kicked to this day. Happy.

I mention these times, because they stand in stark contrast to my life right now. It is not that I am miserable all the time, but I live with the constant weight of unfulfilled yearning and of failure. Even on vacation, Bruno and I felt the heaviness of our missing sons and our failure to continue our family. We watch people all around us, with varying degrees of ease, get pregnant, have children. And we carry, all the time, the pain of not knowing whether that grace will ever be bestowed on us again. We exist with the buzz of that worry and our loss always in the background, like a computer doing some task behind the scenes and making everything else happen more slowly, with more glitches. Hobbled, drained of power. Unhappy.

My guess is that the trick of life is finding happiness, or at least peace, in the in betweens. I am terribly weak at this. I am an achiever. So is Bruno. We are beside ourselves trying to figure out how to go on in this arena in which we have no control whatsoever. I have no answers here, no solutions, but it does feel nice to remember times in my life when I was really happy, and try to imagine that there will be times like that again.