My partner and I love films. We especially love Jewish films. At the end of the Pioneer Valley Jewish Film Festival, we breathe a contented sigh and then look at each other and complain: We have to wait a whole year for it to come around again? Well, here it comes. Starting March 14, for two weeks, we are going to be inundated with films. We have already chosen which 8 or 9 that we will attend. During the year, we keep connected by helping to preview films, so we have an idea of some of what is coming up, and we will volunteer at 8 of the films we are attending. It makes us feel useful, though all we are doing is standing there at the door, smiling welcomingly, and handing out evaluation cards. I like to feel useful.

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!!!

The librarian today was apologizing for the baby schmutz on her sweater (though I hadn’t noticed it). Her baby turned one yesterday and she was talking about weaning him. Is it time to wean when he does a self-serve routine in a nice restaurant? Is it time to wean when she says, “Mom, can I please have some now?”

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.

Look, it’s spring. And last year’s loose dust has turned into this soft willingness. The wind-flowers have come up trembling, slowly the brackens are up-lifting their curvaceous and pale bodies. The thrushes have come home, none less than filled with mystery, sorrow, happiness, music, ambition.

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.

“For My Father” is not an easy movie. It isn’t easy to watch. It elicits thoughts that aren’t easy to take in. Palestinian/Israel issues aren’t easy. Period. This homeland to many peoples is fraught with angst, on all sides. It is easier to not think about this, to not think about these people struggling to lead their lives there. I am a Jew and it thrills me that there even exists an Israeli state, but I do not support all Israeli policy. Far from it.

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.

OK, what does the PVJFF have in common with hosta nubs? They are signs of spring, of course. I couldn’t believe that I saw little rounded-over deep green nubs on the edge of the Big Y parking lot… hosta! Spring is coming! So is the film festival. You know how sometimes you go to some really special event, maybe an annual one, and before it is even over, you are planning to attend again the next year? That’s how I feel about the film festival. I get my fill of wonderful Jewish movies, from funny to heart-rending, but at the end, I am a wee bit sad that I have to wait a whole year for this to come around again. My partner and I have had the honor of helping to screen movies for this year, so some we have already seen, or have seen a few minutes of, and others will be a total surprise. It all starts next week!!! We are volunteering at several and have planned out to see, maybe, 8 or 9 movies in these few weeks. What a richness! My birthday always falls within the span of the festival, too, so guess what I am doing for my birthday! Actually, I have two to choose from for that night. Do I want to go to Greenfield for comedies or to Springfield for a serious one? I have decided on the comedies, and a Thai dinner before hand. Opening night, March 23, is an intense documentary called, “A Film Unfinished.” It is being shown at UMass at 4:00 with a reception at 6:00 at the new Institute for Holocaust, Genocide and Memory Studies, and then again at 7:30 at the School of Management. Check the website for more info: www.pvjff.org. See you there!

You know how you come across something, in this case, just a line in a book of fiction, and it sticks with you? You roll it around in your thoughts and wonder…. could it be true? Is it that way for everyone? Is this a basic truth and I have never noticed it before?

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?

There is a standard for the price of gold, but what is the personal value for me?

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?

A bit of a follow up on the “suffering is optional” idea. Personally, I think everyone needs a safe place to whine. Since no one I know has achieved sainthood [yet], I believe everyone needs to let down and indulge in misery from time to time.  In this instance, I am not talking about solitary suffering, the sort that eats at you and can become a festering sore. I am speaking of a healthy need to share a dark place with someone. I like to have the permission, so to speak, of the listener/recipient. If whining is a steady diet, no one benefits. I might preface my griping with a statement like, please excuse me but I need to say this out loud.

“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?

Let me first say that I do not mean this is a literal sense. I would love it if the bathroom scale read lighter all the time, but menopause seems to work in the opposite direction. Which isn’t very nice. The lightness I am referring to is of my being. I, in my core, feel like a burden has been lifted. Before now, if I told you I was feeling hopeful that  my back would heal, that was the kind of hope that you have to work at. It is manufactured through intention, it is grunt work. Grunting and hope don’t reside together well.

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.

Once in a while, I come upon someone who seems perfectly suited to the work that they do.  I am thinking of my niece, Kim, who is an at home mom, something she has dreamed about forever. I am thinking of my friend, Art, who went off to study the ministry and now is a UU minister. I am thinking of Maria, this fun and smart lady who works at GAP at the mall. When JoAnn and I ran a used clothing store, we were a wildly good team. We provided the service of offering second hand kids’ clothes but also snuck in a lot of casual parenting counseling. Those were good times.

The person I am thinking of now is Dr. Dennis Oh. He is a neurosurgeon at Baystate Medical Center, near me. I have hardly had a break from cervical back pain in three years. I have done rounds of PT, of acupuncture, of massage, of chiropractic. I had consulted an orthopedic surgeon who very kindly said that there wasn’t anything he could offer me. Plugging on in my quest for relief from pain, I brought the idea of seeing a neurosurgeon to my primary care. We had both just been hearing about Dr. Oh, not a name that one easily forgets, and decided I would try to see him. I figured it would be a couple of months before I would get an appointment. Surprise #1 was to get an appointment a couple of weeks hence.

June 6, I went to meet Dr. Oh. Oh my. I love thinking about  that visit. He walks in the room and brings sunshine. This may sound trite but it is simply true. He is an attractive Asian man, maybe late 30’s though it is very hard to tell. He listened carefully, showed my friend and me my MRI’s. Here’s from the front; here’s the cross section. He explained just what we were seeing, where it was healthy in there and where it wasn’t. Then we came to the moment of truth. I was fully prepared for him to kindly say, as others have (for my back but I also used to hear this regularly with my knee), “I am so sorry but there is nothing I can do.”  HA. That is NOT what he said. He said he could operate and most likely, it would be a big improvement. WHAT? Was he for real? I nearly burst into tears, the relief kind of tears. We talked about the risks, the benefits, what he would do in there. Then he said I could go home and think about it. What’s to think about? Let’s do it!!!!

So we have covered Surprise #1 (fast appointment), Surprise #2 (he can fix me) and now, for Surprise #3. I got a call the next day from his scheduler/nurse. How about May 17? WHAT? That is 9 or 10 days away. Really? That soon? YAHOO. Let’s do this thing.

I am now 9 days post op. This has definitely been the easiest surgery I have ever had. My 4 knee surgeries were nightmares, for many reasons, including the fact that after the surgery, I was on crutches, feeling helpless, and alone. And in pain. Don’t forget the pain. For this, I stayed one night in the hospital and came home 24 hours after I had arrived. I have been walking a mile or two (or 4, but that wasn’t a great idea) every day since. I nap, read, putz on the computer, cook. My girlfriends have been great in coming by to walk with me or take me for errands. I am not driving for the first 2 weeks. The pain has always been reasonable. The question that everyone asks, which I can’t yet answer, is, “Did it work?” Check back with me in a few weeks. Considering that Dr. Oh mucked around in there, just where the nerves and muscle have been in spasm for 3 years, there is a lot of healing that has to occur, just from the surgery. So I try to be very peaceful in my waiting  and not knowing.

I have to backtrack to when I first saw Dr. Oh on the day of surgery. I was in one of those little cubicles in the pre op area. I had just changed into a hospital johnny. Dr. Oh excitedly yanks back the curtain and there stands this man, looking like a  little boy about to open his birthday presents.  It was that busting-happy kind of look. He had his fingers crossed on both hands. Words burst out of him: I have a great feeling about this, Katie. I really think this is going to work. I am so happy to be able to do this for you. This is going to be great!

This, from my surgeon. There is so much light in this man. All of the nurses I have met speak of him with something barely short of adoration. I learned from a doc at my health center that Dr. Oh will call the primary care physicians, just to get information or keep them in the loop. This is rare, a surgeon doing his own calling. In my life, I have figured that your first priority in a doctor is skill, which he has in spades. He is a highly respected surgeon, primarily working in the brain and spinal chord, I believe. AND he is, in my tradition, a mensch. He is a good man. His bedside manner makes you feel special. His attention, in that moment, is wholey on you. When he came to see me the next morning, again, he wore this delight and excitement on his face. This is the right man doing the right work, combining medical skill with kindess and  a delight in treating each patient as a unique and special individual. I truly feel honored to have had him as my doctor. Dennis Oh, you are the best.

I think what often links these people doing the right work, their calling, perhaps, is that they know how to focus on their work AND the individual person. Maria may be a store clerk, but she makes each person feel welcome and valued. Wait till my Juliana starts teaching Bikram yoga. This is most certainly her calling and she will offer clarity, intelligence and personal attention through her classes. She will be a rock star of Bikram yoga. She will spread around a lot of light.

Let there be light!