I began bending the rules last night, showing up at my house while some potential buyers were taking a third look at my house. The broker struck up a conversation with me. He wanted to know what my older children were up to, and he lit up when I told him my son was in Japan. Ah, the Asia connection. He is from Shanghai, as are his clients, the young family still kicking all the tires in my house. Though he has never been to Japan and I have never been to Shanghai, we managed to find some common ground. Neither one of us speaks Japanese, and we both agree that Tokyo is very expensive. I feel very close to him now. Maybe he will put in a good word for my house.
Temple is not on my agenda this year, but I'm okay with that. As long as I connect, somehow, with being Jewish, I feel as if I am celebrating the holidays. We all need to connect with our heritage, even on ordinary days. The young mom from Shanghai looked hopeful last night when she asked me if my neighbors were Asian. She explained she thought they might be because they seem to enjoy gardening. They are not Asian. Her disappointment was obvious.
I spent this morning making deep spiritual connections with the handful of Jews who had snuck into Starbucks while the others are putting on dark suits for temple. We talked of blintzes and tsimmes and cholent and gribenes and schmaltz and our grandmothers' homemade chopped liver. Beats the crap out of listening to a long winded sermon. The other day, I found myself elbow deep in sticky challah dough, helping my friend whip up a few loaves. You haven't lived until you've tasted homemade challah. (You also gain an appreciation for the upper body strength of an old fashioned bubbe.) My daughter and I polished off half of it last night before we went to a restaurant for dinner. We felt satisfied that we had connected with our Jewishness. At the restaurant, she had capellini, I had tilapia, but the folks at the next table were eating matzoh ball soup. Again, we felt satisfied. We had connected with Jews. The holiday spirit was intact.
Some traditions remain unbroken. Tonight, I will have dinner at the home of good friends who, for years, have adopted my family for the holidays. I know exactly what I will eat, from the gefilte fish through dessert. As always, some of the usual guests will be absent. This year, my children are dispersed to various continents, but they'll all be with me at dinner, at least in spirit. They always are.
Hey, it wouldn't be a holiday without some breaks with tradition. As long as nobody takes away the brisket, I'll be all right.
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