Category: Making Friends

Culture, Family, Kibbutz, Letting Go, Living in Community, Love, Making Friends, Parenting, Spirituality, Uncategorized

Unwound

Jen

A friend of mine moved from NJ to Guam with her husband and two boys a few months before we decided to make Aliyah. On Facebook, I followed her move and her family’s transition with interest, particularly once we decided we were moving to Israel.

Despite what I assume must be vast differences in culture and landscape between Guam and Israel, I often find myself nodding in agreement and understanding when I read Shelley’s posts. (This could also have much to do with our common interests in holistic parenting and healthy eating, as well.)

There is, I’ve realized, companionship in leaving the busy American suburbs, the busy American life, for the “outskirts.”

Today Shelley wrote, “There are times when I miss living in the States with all of its modern conveniences, but then there are days like yesterday when I never want to leave our little bubble in Guam.”

I know exactly what she means.

Except our bubble is not Israel, per say, as Israel is no island paradise: She possesses as much hassle, aggravation, and overstimulation as any developed country.

My bubble is Kibbutz Hannaton, the small 120-or-so family Lower Galilee community in which we live. And a sub-bubble of Hannaton is my little red house with green shutters.  And yet another sub-bubble is my little work enclave of former Americans whom allow me eight hours a day to pretend I still live and work in the U.S.

But the true sub-bubble is the one I created for myself with intention last December when I  chose not just to live somewhere different, but to live differently.

I often tell people (in fact, I did so just yesterday during lunch) that our successful “absorption” here is due in large part to the community in which we chose to live: one made up of young, growing families like our own. One where friendships are only now being formed…because the community is still new and finding itself. So, despite being different, we still somehow fit in.

But I also credit our successful transition to the conscious lifestyle changes we, as a family unit, decided to make in conjunction with our move.

In addition to many of the comforts we gave up — the modern conveniences Shelley mentions in her post — we also gave up our attachments to what we knew up until then as the “right way to live” in the hopes that we might find happiness living another way.

One modern convenience I gave up was information overload.

I was (and still am in many ways) an information addict. My understanding up until recently was that with more information comes more control…over my own life…over what happens to me and to my kids. My understanding was that information made me safer; made my life easier. This is why I easily fell in love with the Internet, email, blogs, Facebook. And, to some extent all those modern conveniences have improved my life. But what I’ve discovered, retroactively, was how much they also controlled my life.

I had a really good excuse for feeding my addiction; addicts always do. I was a business owner. A writer. A blogger. My success depended on my communication with the outside world. I needed to check check check…all the time. Who knew when the next big opportunity, client or connection would land in my inbox? At the height of my addiction, I had six different email addresses, four blogs, two Facebook profiles, three Fan Pages, a LinkedIn and two Twitter accounts to manage. Not to mention those I managed for my clients. 

I also had kids with asthma and allergies. I had unexplained chronic illness of my own. I had an acute awareness that with more information about the world around me, the greater chance I had of healing myself and healing them. Information provided answers. Tools. Connections to the right people. How could I give up information? 

I also consciously understood that my information interface, so to speak, was possibly unhealthy.  Which made for a bit of a contradiction.

Despite my awareness that my commitment to my online personas (and to my business and clients) was likely impacting my real-life relationships with my husband and my kids, I persisted.  Despite the fact that my comments on your “feed” may have been keeping me from experiencing real, waking, daily pleasures, I couldn’t shut down. I couldn’t give it up. I couldn’t walk away from it.

Until I started walking away from it. Taking baby steps. That started once my feet touched ground in Israel.

As I said, my information withdrawal began first with an intention. But I followed through with an action: I purposefully did not register my Blackberry here in Israel. I got myself a regular old cellphone with a regular old phone call plan. No emails, no SMS packages. My husband did not register his IPhone either which was a HUGE shocker for me because my husband loves his IPhone more than I love information. Or, at least, equally as much.

Just this simple choice, along with the decision not to purchase Cable TV made a great impact on the quality of our lives in the first few months we lived here.  We quickly adjusted to checking emails only on our computer (remember when you used to do that?) and our kids spent more time outside and not in front of the TV than they had ever in their lives.

And that was nice for a while. I’d like to say that we remained unplugged, but we didn’t. A few months in, we used Hebrew immersion as an excuse to sign up for basic cable. The kids still only watch a portion of what they used to. (I haven’t watched an episode of the evening news or any sitcom, save for Israel’s Ramzor.)

A few months after that, my husband bought a new IPhone, much to my dismay, and I often find him face down fingering the thing with pleasure. That said, it only takes one semi- dirty look from me for him to put the thing down when the kids are asking him a question (repeatedly) and his finger keeps methodically sliding across the little touchpad as if it’s in a trance. He also gave up TV and for the first time in many years I can now find him in bed in the evenings reading e-books on the Nook. 

Once I got a full-time job, they handed me a Smartphone with my work email configured, but amazingly, without the unspoken expectation that I be attached to it 24-7. And I like that. I like that a lot.

Despite the reintroduction of information overload devices, my information withdrawal continues. I didn’t configure my personal email into to my new phone. I never check my work email after I leave the office or on the weekend. And I have found as the months pass, I check my personal email less and less often: Sometimes going as much as 2-3 days without checking. People who were used to hearing from me immediately would write back after only hours asking me, “Where are you? Did you get my email?”

Sure, I am still on Facebook. It’s my lifeline to friends and family who didn’t follow me to Israel. But I’m hardly on Twitter; have no interest in this new thing called Google Plus. Sometimes, I even find it difficult to motivate myself to blog. I find that at the end of the day, after working and spending time with my family, I prefer to walk and then to read. And then to sleep.

Yesterday, I discovered my main personal email account was down. I had forgotten to pay the web host for a month or two and they shut my account down temporarily. People reached out to me via Facebook or SMS asking me what happened to my email. Why were mails being bounced back?

At first I panicked that my email was down, “What if someone is trying to reach me??” But my panic lasted only a minute. Soon after, the feeling transformed into freedom.

I realized I had passed over the hurdle of my information addiction. I was now able to say no. To be without. To let go. In particular, I wasn’t worried about what I had missed or would miss over the day or so the email account would be down. I wasn’t worried about what people might think when they received their emails returned, unread.  In fact, I decided right then and there to pare down all my email accounts, returning only to one. One that I may or may not check during the day.

This is not to say I’m unplugging completely. Or that I will ever really be able to fully walk away from easy access information. There is no guarantee that this represents a permanent recovery from information addiction. But it certainly indicates a big step in the right direction.

I think I’ve developed a taste for something new.

Being here. Being present. Absorbing today. Still with an eye on tomorrow, but with a good solid foot planted in today.

Culture, Kibbutz, Learning Hebrew, Letting Go, Living in Community, Love, Making Friends, Parenting

Ties that bind

Jen

Last night, underneath a full moon, within the sacred space of our kibbutz mikveh, ten women gathered to acknowledge our friend who will be bringing a new life into our community in a few short weeks.

Debbie’s due at the end of August and it’s become somewhat of a tradition on Hannaton to create a “birth circle” for pregnant women. We sculpt the pregnant mother-to-be’s belly into a keepsake “mask;” we drink tea, and last night, we shared our birth stories.

It’s taken me some time to feel comfortable in a circle like the one I participated in last night. I blame it on the fact that I grew up without sisters.

Others, like me, who grew up with only brothers, or those with no siblings at all can back me up: What might be seamless and normal for women who grew up alongside sisters often takes a lot longer for us.  When you grow up with sisters, you have years to learn the ins and outs of interacting with other women, of being comfortable in the girl group dynamic. Even if you aren’t close with your sister, you’ve likely figured out the subtleties and intricacies of female conversation.  You know how to fight fair and eventually make up. You’ve shared beds and clothes; you’ve taken your bras off in front of each other.

The rest of us arrive at summer camp or at college completely clueless – and it takes us most of our adult lives to figure it out.

Fortunately, as I’ve discovered, giving birth speeds up the sense of sisterhood. There’s nothing like the aches of pregnancy and pains of childbirth to bond you with other women. And, in all seriousness, there’s nothing that creates kinship like sharing birth stories…even when, like me, you consider your birth experiences to have been less than ideal.

Last night, I smiled when we were invited to share our birth stories with each other.  Having already experienced the intimacy that comes with sharing birth stories in a circle of women, I was really excited to be part of this exercise with this group of women…my friends in the making.  I saw this as the perfect opportunity to learn more about each other, to open up, to move past the everyday niceties, to connect.  

Until it hit me…again.

It would all be in Hebrew. I felt my smile fade and my stomach turn.

You would think that by now it would take less time to compute – the Hebrew element. But it doesn’t. There is still a time lapse during which it occurs to me that my understanding of how an experience might be is not how it will be in actuality. Meaning: Hebrew makes it harder.  Tiresome. And eventually, mind-numbing. When it’s in Hebrew, I find it hard to engage; frustrating to participate; challenging to connect.

So I disengage. And the moments that might have moved me instead become tests…not just of language comprehension, but of pure will.

I did my best to keep up. But then, as it often does in these situations, my mind started to wander. First to that insecure place that masquerades as boredom…checking my watch and checking out; wishing I could leave and go home to watch reruns of The Office (in English).

And then the transition to the outsider’s feeling of sadness and longing…The inner thoughts of “I bet I would have laughed too if I had understood the joke” or the inner shame of “I wonder if they know I’m just nodding along.”

And then to the place where fear and desperation lives: Fear that I will never learn Hebrew well enough to blend in; to feel a “part” of anything meaningful here. That my relationships will always be surface-based; that my interactions in Hebrew will always be met with challenges and confusions; that I will never be able to fully participate. That no one will really know me and I won’t really know them.

Which might not be a big deal for you, but is for me. Because meaningful connections are what moves me. And without them, my life suffers.

Despite my discomfort, I didn’t leave the birth circle. Instead, I stayed and shifted my focus. I ate watermelon. I observed instead of listened. And at some point, I realized I could follow the stories without understanding the words. I could hear the subtle differences in the stories coming from the veteran moms of three versus the new mothers. I could catch the different expressions on my friends’ faces…of wonder…of embarrassment…of confidence…and of pride.  And each was moving and telling.

At some point, I realized too that just being a part of this circle, no matter how little I comprehended or contributed to the conversation, indeed connected me to the women sitting there. I realized that these women weren’t strangers to me anymore. That at least half in the room were women I had already confided in on some level and the other half were women I would want to.

While not quickly enough for my taste, I am moving from outsider to insider. And it’s simply because I’ve chosen to show up, and be as “me” as I can be in spite of the language barrier, in spite of my insecurities, and in spite of my fears.

Much like giving birth. Much like becoming a mother. There’s only so much you can know and absorb from sharing information…the rest comes with time and experience…and the courage to simply show up.

(This post originally appeared as “Israeli in Progress” on The Jerusalem Post blog.)

Education, Kibbutz, Learning Hebrew, Letting Go, Living in Community, Making Friends

The Blooper Reel

Jen

In the movie that is my life, this period in time will be filled with perfect material for the end of film outtakes. The bloopers and practical jokes that roll after the credits; that end up on disc 2 of the DVD set.

Hopefully, by the time such a movie is made I, too, will be able to laugh at the time when I was a  consistent perpatrator of the Hebrew version of “Who’s on First?”

Let me explain by example.

Here is a loose transcript of the cellphone conversation I just had with an Israeli parent of a friend of my son’s:

Me (“my” Hebrew translated into English for your convenience): Hello [parent’s name]. Speaking is Jen. The mom of Oliver.

Other Mom ( in 100 mph garbled cellphone Hebrew): Yes?

Me: You call me?

Other Mom: Yes.

Me: Yes?

Other Mom: No, I was talking to Tal blah blah blah my laundry.

Me: Um. Ok. Did you call me?

Other Mom: blah blah sent a message blah blah blah

Me: You sent me what?

Other Mom: No. I didn’t send.

Me: What you no send?

Other Mom: No, you sent me a message.

Me: Yes, yes, I send SMS with new cellphone number.

Other Mom: Oh, ok. I wanted to talk to you.

Me: Ok. About what?

Other Mom: No, no. I don’t want to speak to you. I was speaking to my son.

Me: Oh, excuse me. I am so sorry.

Other Mom: (laughs and says in English). No, we will speak soon. Goodbye.

[END OF CALL. BEGIN SELF-DEPRECATION.]

Every single day of my life in Israel is an exercise in embarassment and humility.

It sounds a lot worse than it is. Daily humiliation by no means leads to unhappiness.  I think, in fact, my willingness to speak Hebrew at all to these people is indicative of the fact that I am starting to let down my guard. However, as I continue to become more confident in speaking Hebrew to my friends, colleagues, and neighbors, I also continue to make lots and lots of mistakes. Something, generally speaking, I work hard at not doing.

Veteran immigrants to Israel, the folks who learned Hebrew 20 years ago in an ulpan, as opposed to “Jen Style” (ie. figuratively flat on her face with a dictionary in her hand) all recommend “making mistakes.”

“Don’t be afraid to speak Hebrew,” they tell me. “This is the way you will learn.”

The only problem with this advice is that most Israelis don’t have the patience for my learning curve.

When they speak to me in Hebrew (usually very fast), and I respond by saying, “What did you say?” they usually will do one of two things:

1. Tell me again, but this time in English

2. Repeat what they said the first time, just as quickly, if not more quickly, but louder

What I really need them to do is repeat it in Hebrew, but at the pace of a person who has just regained her use of speech after being in a coma for nine months.

Very…

Very…

Slowly.

On the other hand, when I try to speak Hebrew (and I deserve an A for effort these days), I find myself five words into my attempt and either:

a. I don’t know the word for…let’s say…”repulsive” in Hebrew and then I have to go about trying to describe what “repulsive” means using the limited Hebrew I do have. By the time I am finished with that task, I forget what was so repulsive to begin with. Or,

b. The person I am talking to looks absolutely and completely bewildered, though still hanging on to my every word hoping that by the end of my discombobulated, grammatically incorrect sentence she will be able to piece together something comprehensible from what just exited my mouth.

At the very least, thanks to a good job at a company in the hi-tech industry, I think I’ve managed to establish myself as a reasonably intelligent person…despite the fact that I walk around in fool’s clothing most days.

And considering that it must require a lot of patience for non-English speakers to interact with me, I suppose I should take it as a good sign, then, that some people continue to do so.

Hopefully, within time, we’ll understand each other, too.

Kibbutz, Learning Hebrew, Letting Go, Making Friends, Parenting, Work

Kadima!

Jen

Spring is often used as a metaphor for rebirth. Combine this with the Jewish tradition of cleaning house before Passover and you’ve got yourself a good season for change here in Israel.

And so it is for our family.  Changes abound that are already impacting our immigrant experience…and more so mine than anyone else’s.

I blogged recently (in my regular Patch.com column, “That Mindful Mama”) about our family’s “team trade.” More specifically, how I recently accepted a full-time position as a marcom specialist for a hi-tech incubator here in Israel, and will be leaving my position of the last five years: part-time primary caretaker and work-at-home freelancer. In addition, my husband will consult part-time (he’s a grant-writer and fundraiser, work that may be done from home), but will take over responsibility of caring for our kids and maintaining our home needs. 

This is a huge shift for us as a family, and for me as a new olah.

First of all, it means I need to leave my bubble. My safe little kibbutz cocoon. It means I need to get in my new car, figure out the different mechanisms (like how to work the windshield wipers), and brave Israel’s roads. Worse than navigating the hilly, foggy roads in the morning is navigating psychotic Israeli drivers who are either constantly riding up my rear or trying to run me off the road as they pass me.

Most of all, getting a job means I need to interact with a lot more people who might want to speak Hebrew with me. However, I have a feeling, that just like an enema, this decision might make me momentarily uncomfortable, but is likely exactly what I need to get things moving in the right direction.

My new job is at a mainly English-speaking company with many Anglos on staff. It’s also primarily an English-speaking position.  While a high level of Hebrew is not required for the position, the office is not a Hebrew-free zone. Mostly everyone except for me speaks a fluent Hebrew and when an Israeli is in the conversation, the language quickly converts over to Hebrew. Therefore, I’m required to listen and understand or, at the very least, nod as if I do.

Most of my new colleagues have been told that my Hebrew is still “a work in progress,” but that hasn’t kept all of them from trying. Which they should and which I reluctantly encourage. Reluctantly because it usually leads to some level of humiliation and discomfort for me.

At least twice during my first week here, I thought someone was speaking to me — they were looking straight at me, after all– but it turned out they weren’t.  I’ve also been spoken to without realizing it was me who was being spoken to. In those cases, I learned, a smile and nod only get you so far. If the statement ends in a period, there’s a 50-50 chance I can get away with a simple smile. If the statement ends with a question mark, however, I might be in trouble. “Ken” or “lo” only get you so far in the workplace.

Thankfully, I haven’t yet been made fun of or chided for my lack of Hebrew. So far, most people here seem to think my broken Hebrew is cute and endearing. However, I am fully aware the “olah hadasha” tag will only work its magic for so long.

The big question is: How long?

When are you no longer considered an new immigrant? When do you make the transition over to just plain old immigrant? Or “olah vatika?” (“Seasoned oleh”) How is my status measured? In “daylight, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee?” Is it when the sal klita ends? When my kids are fluent in Hebrew? When I make five Israeli friends?

I certainly hope getting a full-time job doesn’t prevent me from milking this status for as long as I can.

I need all the help…and breaks…I can get.

(This was previously published as part of my blog, “Israeli in Progress,” on The Jerusalem Post.)

Kibbutz, Living in Community, Making Friends

Were my kids always like this?

Jen

I have to admit to a secret notion I have been silently harboring since we moved here.

Israeli kids are a bad influence on mine.

I mean, how else do you explain the fact that my kids have become complete nut jobs since we moved here? How else can you explain the fact that my house has become a militarized zone; the weapons being my two-year-old’s stubby fingers and my four-year-old’s shrill voice?

I suppose you could blame it on the timing.

Perhaps each one of my kids were ripe for a “phase” and it’s just my rotten luck that all of their phases were timed perfectly together to take place three months into our move overseas.

Perhaps if we had stayed in the States, my sweet, non-violent four year old — who was loved and adored so much by both his preschool teachers and the kids in his class that they cried real tears when he left– would have still turned into a psychotic, schizophrenic drama queen.

Or maybe, my eight year old — who was voted “Student of the Month” at his elementary school right before we left and was considered one of the most mature kids in his class — would have tricked his American assistant principal instead of his new Israeli one into giving him a roll with chocolate spread for breakfast because he didn’t like the healthy sandwich his dad packed him.

And, maybe, just maybe, my sweet, gentle two-and-a-half year old little girl — who never hurt a fly — would have transformed into a pinching, pushing, screaming brute even if we hadn’t moved.

Maybe. But, I don’t know. It’s my inclination to blame Israel. (After all, she’s used to taking the blame.)

If you’re a Hannaton-nik and reading this, don’t ask me if it’s your kid in particular who I think is the bad influence. I’ll never tell you. Even if I think he is, I still want you to be my friend. And, let’s be honest here, you don’t really want to know.

Likewise, I don’t want to know if you think my kid is a bad influence on yours. So all around, it’s better if we all pretend nothing’s happening until someone loses an eye. (Or until my daughter hits your son with a garden mallet. Which she might. ‘Cause she already did. Today.)

Fortunately, no one seems to be too concerned about the dramatic behavioral changes in my children save for me and my husband. Everyone else thinks their “shtuyot” (nonsense) are normal — part of the “klita” (absorption.)  

Folks here on our kibbutz seem to really love and adore our kids. (At least, that’s what they say to our faces.) In fact, our oldest son is the local hero this week for his superb soccer performance against a neighbhoring community team.

Even still, I’m starting to get a little worried.

All the things I prided myself on as a mother are slowly slipping away: Fairly well-behaved, fairly polite children. Children who may occasionally hit or bite yours, but only on the level considered developmentally appropriate  by Brazelton, Spock, or Sears. Never enough to require major intervention or long-term action plans. Children who occasionally shout at me or each other, but never scream so loud their heads spin.

Now, my kids are so emotionally and physically unpredictable I have to wear protective gear. I’m refereeing living room throw-downs.

The two year old not only pinches her brothers, but puts them into choke holds. I kid you not, I’m starting to think they’re training her for the Golani Brigade in the Gan.

The four year old got so angry with me today (because I refused him a cookie) that he pulled down a picture he drew for me that was hanging on the fridge, took out the scissors, and cut the picture into a million pieces,  screaming maniacally, “A ha ha ha ha! A ha ha ha ha! Take THAT eema! I will never be sorry! NEVER!!! NEVER!!!”

I know the teachers are probably right. That the shift in my kids’ behavior patterns and personalities is normal; or at least directly related to the transition, the new language, the new rules (or lack therof) and expectations.  That like me, my kids are trying on new ways of being in this new way of living.

I hope so. Because I like it here too much to move away simply because my kids are picking up bad habits.

I’m crossing my fingers it’s a phase.

Kibbutz, Living in Community, Making Friends

What’s a little gossip?

Jen

You know when you’re having lunch with your friend in the local diner and even though you know you shouldn’t, you start gossiping about someone you both know? And all of a sudden you realize you’re in the local diner and the room just got really quiet, so you casually turn your head back to the left, then back to the right, and then back to face your friend? And then you continue the conversation, but this time in a hushed whisper, particularly hushed when mentioning names, and even more particularly hushed when you’re mentioning last names?

Yeah, you do. Don’t pretend like you don’t. Even though the bible prohibits it, the fact of the matter is, you likely engage in gossip on occasion.  Studies show that a little bit of gossip (done “correctly,” whatever that means) is healthy and the reason it’s so addictive is not necessarily because you like to speak ill of others, but because gossiping apparently “helps build and cement connections with others.”

This study makes sense to me. I consider myself a fairly good person and I never (okay, hardly ever) gossip about anyone with the purpose of “causing the subject physical or monetary damage, or anguish or fear” as “Lashon Hara” is briefly defined at torah.org. If I were to analyze why I gossip, intentionally or unintentionally, it’s usually to learn more about the person I’m gossiping with or about. It’s more interrogative than vindictive or malicious.

When you live in a small community, gossip is inevitable. It may be outwardly or subtly discouraged. It may be frowned upon. It may be  practiced by some, and shunned by others. But, regardless, there’s a reason you get more than 5 1/2 million results when you google the words “small town gossip.”

On a kibbutz, take the diner example above, and multiply it by 100.

I kid you not, but on the (ahem) rare occasion when my husband, Avi, and I talk about one of our new neighbors, we make sure to turn our heads from left to right and back again, and carefully whisper — even when we are inside our own home. It doesn’t matter if we are saying something nice, or something not so nice. We don’t want to be known as those “gossipy new olim down the street.”

We look around. Are the windows open? Did someone just peek their head through the unlocked door? Are there any children in our home that don’t belong to us?

Today, my husband and I were returning home and drove down the main road of the kibbutz. The car windows were down a smidgen so I whispered to him when I asked, “Does Shlomo (names changed to protect the innocent) have a job?” Avi stared at me as he placed his pointer finger to his lips. “Shhh…”

In the States, I might have continued in broken Hebrew, but unfortunately, in Israel there’s no talking smack about people right in front of their faces unless I manage to teach my husband Gibberish.

As we approached Shlomo, he stared at me, as if he knew I had been asking about him seconds earlier. I’m sure I was just being paranoid. But maybe not.

What’s the big deal?, you might ask. Is it so wrong that I wondered, innocently enough, if Shlomo had a job? Perhaps not, but in a small town, or a kibbutz in this case, asking a question like this out loud is as dicey as playing “Whisper Down the Lane.” 

Your question, and your willingness to ask it, implies something about you. It implies whether you’re willing to let someone in or to be let in by someone else. It may be the make or break of a friendship. It may be the start of a rivalry or a resentment. As torah.org tells us, “Some statements are not outright Lashon Hara, but can imply Lashon Hara or cause others to speak it.” Meaning, much depends on who asks the question, in what context the question is asked, and who it’s asked of.

Therefore, wondering aloud if your new neighbor has a full-time job can be construed as gossip. Someone might think I’m implying Shlomo is a good-for-nothing, lazy bum because he doesn’t have a full time job. Someone might think I’m implying his wife thinks less of him or wears the pants in that family. Someone might think I’m sizing him up or down, and take it personally, even. Wondering, How do I measure up in her eyes?

It seems to me that the rules of Lashon Hara were created expressly for people living on a kibbutz. And if I want to play it safe as a newbie to this community, at least for a little while, I’d follow the Lashon Hara guidlines. (I’ve not yet read A.J. Jacobs, The Year of Living Biblically, but maybe it’s high time I should.)

Or at the very least, gossip like I do “It:”

Only with my husband and behind closed doors.

Kibbutz, Living in Community, Love, Making Friends

Jew like me

Jen

I find myself in an odd predicament now that I live in Israel.
 
To touch or not to touch.
 
I like to think I’m a fairly affectionate person; though some would argue I’m a cold, aloof, you-know-what that starts with a B and ends in an itch. Nevertheless, I enjoy the freedom of being able to give someone an enthusiastic “nice-to-meet-you” handshake; a compassionate stroke on the back should a friend feel sad; or a warm hug to express my excitement over his recent achievement.
 
I’m an equal opportunity touchy feeler. Meaning: In the communities in which I’ve lived up until now, doling out such loving kindness to both men and women has always been socially acceptable and appropriate.
 
Certainly, I knew there were cultures in which touching a married man in any way would have been inappropriate, but I hardly came into contact with anyone in such a culture, including observant Jewish men.

In New Jersey, where I spent most of my adult life, the Jews I frequently interacted with were a range of Conservative to Reform to non-practicing. Certainly, I might see or even talk to a Modern Orthodox Jew, for instance, but the closest I came to social interaction with a man who considered himself observant enough to avoid contact with a woman other than his wife happened to be a client of mine.
 
One day, the client came to an event I organized and I was so pleasantly surprised to see him there that I gave him a big appreciative hug. Mid-hug, I realized my error and was so mortified I frantically looked around for a hole to crawl into. No such luck. It was too late to take the hug back and there was nowhere to hide. I smiled what I hope was an apologetic smile, and ran away.
 
There is no place to run here in Israel, where you encounter Jews of every shape, size, color, and denomination. At the bank, the post office, the grocery store. Of course, there is little reason for me to embrace my local postal worker (except for when he’s delivering a care package from the United States), but there are certain occasions in which I’ve been forced to consider how I might greet the man in front of me.
 
For instance, last week I was called in for a job interview. In advance of my meeting, I was asked by a Nefesh B’Nefesh coordinator if I wanted some quick tips about interviewing in Israel. At first, I felt a bit insulted. After all, I am a consummate professional with more than 15 years in the workforce. I’ve been on numerous successful interviews. What do I really need to know about interviewing in Israel?
 
Well…turns out I was wrong. “What are you going to do about shaking hands?” the coordinator asked me. “Um, shake with confidence, but not painfully hard?” I responded. “No,” she said. “If the person in front of you is a woman, go ahead and shake. However, if the person you are meeting with is a man, check to see if he’s wearing a kippah. If he is, let him extend his hand first to see if he is comfortable shaking yours.”
 
What? Since I was a young woman heading out for internship interviews in Washington, D.C., I was taught by my father that a woman should have a firm, confident handshake, especially when meeting a gentleman. What accompanies “it’s a pleasure to meet you” if not a handshake? (In the end, the individual who interviewed me was a woman.)
 
Back at home, on pluralistic Hannaton, I also need to tread carefully. Earlier this week, our neighbor gave birth. Her husband, who wears a kippah and whom I know to be from an observant background, came by to pick up his son who we were watching while his mother was in the hospital.

“So,” I asked him. “Is everything is ok?”
 
“Yes,” he responded. “We have a new baby girl.”
 
“Hooray! Mazal tov,” I shouted as I jumped up and down, leaning towards him for the hug. Mere seconds before touching him, I caught myself and asked. “Is it okay if I hug you?”
 
“Of course!” he responded, as if to say, “You silly American olah chadasha.” I was proud of myself for thinking quickly enough to ask permission before the embrace, instead of regretting it and obsessing about it with remorse and humiliation afterwards.
 
Pluralism is a hot button topic in Israel, I’m finding – The idea that religious and secular Jews can and should live in harmony together. It’s a dialogue we hardly ever have in the States. We’re too busy sticking together against the anti-Semites to worry much about embracing or rejecting our own intrafaith diversity.
 
The conversations on pluralism and acceptance are ones in which I’m interested in partaking. First, however, I need to figure out an authentic, yet appropriate way for a friendly Jewish girl to say, “Hello.”
 

(Originally posted by Jen Maidenberg on March 11, 2011 at  THE JERUSALEM POST BLOG CENTRAL)

Letting Go, Living in Community, Making Friends

This is Israel

Jen

This was originally posted on my blog “Israeli in Progress” on The Jerusalem Post Blog Central.

By Jen Maidenberg

“This is Israel.”
 
It started off as a joke between me and my husband’s first cousin, Jami (who is also a close friend of mine). Jami and I were lovingly making fun of my mother-in-law (also Jami’s aunt) whom, since retiring to Israel two years ago, would often say the phrase during a Skype session with one of us.
 
For instance, my mother-in-law would reach over to her kitchen counter, grab a grapefruit, and say, “See this grapefruit? It’s from my tree. Just outside in the yard. I picked it myself.” Sometimes she would peel a piece, too, just for effect and say, “This is Israel!” READ MORE…

Education, Food, Kibbutz, Learning Hebrew, Letting Go, Living in Community, Love, Making Friends, Middle East Conflict, Parenting, Politics, Religion, Work

Moving

Jen

Don’t worry.

We’re not moving anywhere.

But this blog is.

I’m happy to announce that The Jerusalem Post invited me over to blog about my Aliyah experience on The Jerusalem Post Blog Central. You can find my new blog there, “Israeli in Progress,” on the Blog home page in the Aliyah category.

Hope to see you join the conversation over there. And if you like what you read, please share with your friends on Facebook, Twitter, or via email.

Kibbutz, Living in Community, Making Friends, Parenting

Playground Etiquette

Jen

One of the most hair-raising experiences of my thirties has been trying to figure out how to parent kids while simultaneously attempting to make and keep friends.

It took me eight years of careful sociological study and experimentation to figure out how to do this with as much tact, and as little arrogant condemnation of  other people as I could muster. 

How to reprimand my children in public, for instance, while seeming neither a bully, nor a wimp. How to reprimand other people’s brats children so it seemed as if I cared about their behavior more than just how it impacted the present playdate.  How to locate that fine line between co-parenting with good friends… and complete and utter neglect.

The hard time I put in making mom friends in New Jersey was well worth the effort: After five years of dancing around playdates and preschool drop off trying to figure out who I liked and who liked me back, I had enough mom friends where I no longer needed to troll message boards or moms’ groups. Even better, I had a good solid book club and a small contact list of people I could call on short notice should I desperately need a shared drink or cup of tea the minute my husband walked in the front door.

Alas, due to the seven-hour time difference and technophobia, my Stateside mom friends have practically abandoned me.  I can’t blame them. I’m good for nothing at this point; not a drop off playdate, not even a drop off birthday party.

I am not friendless here, though. I have two friends (not counting my husband, which would be both cheesy and stupid, since one of the best parts of having a girlfriend is griping about your husband). Both of my girlfriends I knew before moving here. Yafit was actually one of my first mom friends. Each of us gave birth to our first child in Tucson, and since moved away. Two more kids later, she and her husband now live in Netanya, a suburb of Tel Aviv. With Yafit: There’s no friendly flirtations to partake in; no questioning of our commitment and loyalty to each other. We’re friends. It’s a done deal.

The other is my friend from high school, Shira, who I’m very grateful to have as my neighbor. It’s through Shira that we even knew about Hannaton and she’s been my de facto advisor since we decided to make Aliyah. She’s given us the heads up on potential bureacratic nightmares. She’s let me know where I can buy organic produce or local spices. But, most important, I don’t have to be “on” when I am around her. I can be me…or at least the me that’s still trying to figure out who I am here.

This is not to say that other folks here haven’t gone out of their way to get to know us or be friendly. They certainly have. What I am saying is that I am having a hard time figuring out the rules of engagement.

It’s a whole new ball game for me here in Israel — not just because I’m the new girl on the block or because of the cultural differences (read laissez faire approach to parenting) or even due to the language barrier, but moreso because I have to start from scratch. I need to figure out both who I am as a parent, and who I am as a person, here in this new country and this small, intentional community.

Even harder, I need to figure out how I can share that version of me with people who don’t necessarily speak or want to speak my native language. And, let me tell you, my brand of charm and wit doesn’t translate so easily into broken, present-tense Hebrew.  I almost wish I was pregnant. (God forbid, ptoo, ptoo, ptoo.) At least if I was pregnant, there would be an easy source of conversation; an obvious topic to study in my Hebrew language dictionary.  At least, I could come to gatherings prepared.

Instead, after pick up at the Gan or alongside other adults at the playground, I find myself facing discomforts I thought I left behind long ago. I wonder how appropriate it is for me to linger near, about or around the group of chatting grownups; how much of the conversation in Hebrew I should try to keep up with before resorting to a rhythmic bob of my head in feigned understanding; or how long I should wait to notify the parent of the child who is smacking my two-year-old across the head with a bag of Bisli.

The truth is…I’m getting there. Slower than I like, but I am getting there. I have enough of a playful repor with a few of my new “almost-friends” that I feel comfortable mentioning my interactions with them here. And they’re interested enough in me to take the time to read this blog.

Unless, of course, they’re not interested in me at all; they’re just narcissists. Which wouldn’t be so bad, really, as it would make for good conversation over that beer I’ve yet to be invited to (subtle hint, hint).

I suppose I could be a little more proactive than I’ve been, too. Give up the coy, shy persona that I will no way be able to pull off once someone spends one-on-one time with me for more than twenty minutes.  Or, perhaps I’ll use the oldest trick in the book: My kid as bait. I could encourage my two-year-old to smack their kid across the head with a stick or instruct her to “accidentally” pee on their front yard.

If nothing else, a peeing two-year-old is a great conversation piece — in both Hebrew and in English.

Letting Go, Living in Community, Making Friends

Camp Food

Jen

Earlier this week, we joined 10 or so other families in the Chader Ochel* on the kibbutz for a potluck communal dinner.  I got really excited when the invitation arrived in my inbox; for one, I understood the Hebrew flyer almost in its entirety without the assistance of my part-time translator (who also acts as my husband.) But also,  a communal dinner in the Chader Ochel reeked of summer camp, and this, my friends, is why I moved to a kibbutz.

When I think back to the most dramatic, intense, inspiring moments of my childhood, I’m transported back to camp. I split my adolescence between two overnight camps: Camp Wohelo, an all-girls camp in the Blue Ridge mountains of Pennsylvania; and when Wohelo closed, I joined Camp Wekeela, a co-ed camp in Maine. And perhaps it’s the intensity of once having been a part of those camp communities that has me continually seeking to replicate the experience.

I would come home from camp at the end of each summer and instead of hopping off the bus with utter joy at finally being reunited with my parents, I would weep in despair. I remember one summer my parents picked me up at the IKEA by the Plymouth Meeting Mall where the bus dropped us off, and we stopped at Pizza Hut for lunch before getting on the road to Cherry Hill. My parents tried to engage me: Asking me to share tales of my adventures or filling me in on the local gossip. But I just cried into my pan pizza, in between hiccups moaning, “I want to go back. I want to go back.”

The dinner in the Chader Ochel on Wednesday was only vaguely reminiscent of the camp dining hall. While there was plenty of noise and chaos, there were no twenty-year-old Scottish lads delivering big plates of steaming hot schnitzel to my table. Instead, I was doing the waitering, filling up my kids’ plates with homemade pizza and mac and cheese; while said kids ran around like wild maniacs. I have to admit, though, since running around like wild maniacs is a regular evening activity for my children, I’d rather it be in someone else’s noisy dining room than my own. 

I sat across the table from my new friend Anat, who arrived to Hannaton with her family only a few days before we did. Anat was explaining the traditional kibbutz movement to her 10-year-old daughter; particularly the part about the children living together in a house, only seeing their parents a few hours every day. Anat and I both shared with sparkles in our eyes that, as kids, we both thought the idea of living on a kibbutz was cool.

Anat’s daughter wasn’t sold on the idea. She thought that children would want to spend more time with their parents, and she might be right. There is an Israeli film (which I have not seen) called “The Children’s House and the Kibbutz” which supposedly emphasizes the “emotionally deficient childhood that [kibbutz members] experienced in the children’s house of their kibbutz.”

However, thanks to sleepaway camp and a library filled with young adult books set in boarding school, I’ve always had the impression that living with other children far away from your parents was the best way to live. In my mind, only in dormitory-style rooms or in the woods behind said dormitory style room did fun and exciting things happen.

And, perhaps, I still retain that notion today. Is it possible that my choice to live on a kibbutz is partly inspired by my unfulfilled dream of year-round summer camp?

Yes.

There are a lot of similarities, as I can tell so far. Seeing and interacting with the same people day-to-day; moving from activity to activity in groups; retreating to the quiet solitute of your cabin when you need some down time.

Making friends on a kibbutz is camp style, too. I almost feel like the camper who arrives for the second four-week session super excited to become part of what looks like an awesome scene, but hesitant to integrate herself into the groups and cliques that already organically formed earlier in the summer. My kids, thrust into school and Gan without a choice, are getting over the shy hump a lot faster than their parents. But kids have a lot less relationship baggage to keep them from sharing of themselves authentically and without hesitation, don’t they? 

Have no fear. Just as it’s impossible for me to be late to a party no matter how hard I try, I know that I won’t be able to maintain this level of shyness for much longer. It’s not in my nature.

My nature is to play, to laugh, and to make others laugh: And sooner or later I will need to leave the safe confines of “Ani lo m’daberet Ivrit” to get a much-needed fix.

==

GLOSSARY
Chader Ochel = Dining Hall
Ani lo m’daberet Ivrit = I don’t speak Hebrew

Living in Community, Making Friends, Parenting

The Why

Jen

By Jen Maidenberg

(Author’s Note: This is an edited version slightly different than the original )

There are a host of reasons why families decide to make Aliyah: I’m sure I don’t even know the half of them. Zionism. Religious devotion. Persecution. Patriotism. Asylum. Readily available falafel and hummus.

In fact, if you ask each member of my family why we moved here, you’d likely get a different answer from each of us. In addition to the excitement at the idea of exploring a new country and culture, I was looking for freedom (for my children), ease (for both me and my husband), and community.

Mostly, community, though. Because I think once you are part of a tight community, freedom and ease soon follow.

I spent the first half of my life insisting I could do it all on my own. And the second half trying to identify who was ready and willing to support me.

My parents will confirm that I was an ultra-independent kid – to a fault. Once I could figure out how to do something by myself, I wouldn’t let anyone help me or stop me. At some point, however, that confidence morphed into the idea that I was self-sufficient. That other people were not as dependable as I was, and certainly not as loyal, so why trust them with vital tasks…or more important, my needs and expectations?

This was an easy concept to hang on to through high school and college; though looking back, I think I would have enjoyed both experiences a little more had I been less judging of my friends, less judging of myself, and more willing to forgive and accept. Accept that human beings are works in progress, and that all most of us really want is to love and be loved. If I knew what it meant to have compassion for myself, back then, I would have asked for help – and listened to wise advice– every step of the way.

Once I got married and moved far away from my hometown and family, but especially after giving birth to my first child in that far-away-from-my-hometown town, I realized that doing it all yourself was nothing but a one way ticket to the insane asylum.

I needed help. I needed an extra pair (or two) of hands. I needed other crazy parent types to count on, to gripe to, and to confirm that my parenting style was just the right mix of firm and doting.  Living in a town without family nearby,  I urgently needed an emergency contact or two to put on the preschool forms.

I first heard the word “chavura” when we lived in Tucson. My friend Devora, also a transplant to Arizona from “back East,” had organized a group of 5 or 6 Jewish families whose children were all in the same synagogue preschool class. The families, most of whom did not have relatives nearby, got together on Jewish holidays, celebrated for each other during new simchas, and supported each other during difficult times. This came with the added benefit of an automatic invitation to a Superbowl party, as well as a few people you could count on to take your kids for playdates when you were feeling under the weather.

“I need me a chavura,” I thought at the time. “Really need.”

Soon after, though, we moved back to New Jersey where my husband and I are both from, mostly for this very reason. NJ, we understood at the time, wasn’t really the place we’d choose to live except for the fact that all of our family lived there.

Once back in NJ, we were fortunate to rebuild the close bonds with our family and develop a few extraordinary friendships. We lived in a great town with fantastic resources and really smart, interesting people.

But something was still missing.

Community.

This isn’t to say we were community-less. We had pockets of community here and there. Our synagogue preschool community. My book club community. My moms of kids with food allergies online support group community. But these communities all existed much like a Venn Diagram. They were stand-alone communities that intersected at me.

I needed – craved actually – something a little more intentional, a little more intense, and a little more … organized togetherness. More than that, I wanted my circles to connect in multiple places … not just at the intersection of me.

Which is why, when people ask me, I say I moved to a kibbutz in Northern Israel (through Nefesh B’Nefesh’s Go North program) in search of intentional community.

I wanted a place where people put people first. A neighborhood filled with neighbors who said hello to each other, and better yet were ready and able to hand over a cup of flour when needed. I wanted  a place where my kids could run around in packs and know other adults by first name and be influenced by them. I wanted potluck dinners, and impromptu meetups on the lawn. I wanted gardening committees and Shabbat sing-a-longs.

I wanted to live in a place where community trumped busy-ness. Where people made time for community because they committed to.

It’s not that Israel – or Hannaton, where I live — isn’t busy. Here in Israel and on Hannaton, most two-parent households are two-parent working households. Kibbutz kids have pretty full schedules, piled with after-school activities and homework. And yet, somehow there is time for community.

If I were to make a Venn diagram of community on Hannaton it would be where neighborhood intersects with intention intersects with commitment. Intention and commitment are what turns a neighborhood into “community.”

Community is intentional here on Hannaton. It’s desired (most of the time). It’s nurtured (as often as our tired, over-scheduled bodies will allow). It’s preserved.  In community, as opposed to a neighborhood, you open your doors and wave others in. Even when you don’t want to. You let down your guard, even if you’re really, really scared. You share of yourself. You give. You receive. You ask for help. You gracefully accept.

Living in community forces me – forces anyone, really — to go past my comfort zone, beyond my previously-established boundaries.  It’s scary, yet, potentially so rewarding.

You don’t need to move to Israel for intentional community, many people have said to me.

And they’re right. But I did. And I found it. Here.