adventures in spinsterhood

Today I was asked if I had ever been married. When I replied that I haven’t, the next question was, “How the hell did that happen?”

That’s a question I’ve been asked more often than you’d think.

The simple answer is that it’s taken me a very long time to find the right person. I’d like to think I’m with that right person now, but we’ll see. The not-so-simple answer is longer and considerably more complex — and a great deal more personal in nature than I’m willing to divulge in a blog post right now.

A few weeks before I graduated college, one of my professors asked if I was worried that I was about to leave the “best prospective suitor pool” available to me, when I was still unattached. He pointed out that I was entering a world where I wouldn’t be surrounded daily by people my own age who were also more likely to share my values and sensibilities. I honestly hadn’t thought about it, and so shrugged off the question.

As I approached my 25th birthday, my grandmother sat me down and informed me that I was being inducted into “the Order of St. Catherine’s.” That was a nicer way of letting me know that I was now an old maid. My grandmother had been 25 when she married and felt that she’d really pushed the limits on holding onto singlehood.

When I turned 30 and was still unmarried, my family assumed I had just put my career first, and that I’d be settling down any minute. But that didn’t happen, and suspicions began to percolate.

I was 33 when my younger sister got married, and that raised more than a few eyebrows. When a friend of my stepmother’s learned that I was the “unmarried older sister of the bride,” she cooed “Ooooh, the older sister” in a conspiratorial tone, then smirked at me and said, “I did that to my older sister, too.”

The only thing that bothered me about my younger sister getting married first was that it bothered other people — who then felt they had not only the right but the duty to make what I guess were supposed to be insulting or scandalizing comments.

When I was 38 and was visiting this same grandmother back East, she asked me point blank:

“Do you like boys, or do you like girls?”

My family will be relieved to know that I’m not a lesbian. The fact that such a possibility would have worried anyone troubles me. I wish I lived in a world where sexual orientation was truly more of a non-issue, and where all human beings have a right to get married and love whom they choose. We’re getting there, in small steps.

Now, I’m sliding toward 40. Yes, it’s just a number, but there is a weighty psychological milestone attached to it. I’ll admit to a momentary, whiny panic when I first awoke on my 39th birthday — that I was very likely to be still unmarried and childless when birthday Number 40 rolled around. But it wasn’t worth my energy, and it passed.

Truth be told, I’m looking forward to my 40s, which I envision as a decade of savvy refinement of who I am and my role in this world — a decade of action. My 30s have been involved with necessary exploration, experimentation and healing, and I intend to continue reaping the benefits of this rather arduous work as I move forward.

I’d love to be married. I’d love to have a committed partner with whom to share and enjoy life, and I’ll never know whether I’d be any good at marriage until I give it a try. But I’m not your typical chick, and I’m not a good fit for just anybody. I’ve never been on the receiving end of a marriage proposal, and I’ve no idea if anyone has ever considered making me such an offer. I have a hard time imagining myself getting married just to get married, or because it’s what was expected of me.

So — at least for the time being — I am continuing my adventures in spinsterhood. I have a wonderful man in my life, whom I dearly love, so I’m not sure if I fully qualify as an old maid anymore, even though I remain unmarried. There are pros and cons to being single — just as there are pros and cons to being married, and to pretty much everything in life. I may never have a pat answer to the question of, “Why did you never get married?” And for now, I’m not too worried about it.

happy new(ish) jewish year

We’re into the first day of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. L’Shana Tova!

As we welcome the year 5769 in the Hebrew calendar, I readily admit I have no idea what I’m doing. Unfortunately, this means I’m defaulting to doing nothing.

I’m a New Jew — or so I’ve dubbed myself. I’m still in the midst of a lengthy process of conversion to Judaism, which is happening steadily in fits and starts (if such a thing is possible), and is full of enthusiasm, doubt, determination and a fair amount of wondering what the hell I’m doing and why.

Many of the Jews I know — and admittedly I don’t know all that many — are taking time off of work to attend services, be with their families and otherwise observe this time of reflection and introspection. Rosh Hashanah marks the creation of the world, and the birthday of Adam. Or so I’m told. I’m still learning.

This is the time for considering the wrongs we have committed against others, the days when the Book of Life and the Book of Death are opened, when we make amends to one another — and hopefully also to ourselves — so that by the time Yom Kippur rolls around, we’ve secured a place in the Book of Life for ourselves in the coming year.

I’ve got a great essay I want to write about this. I’ve been thinking about it for a good six weeks now, but I’ve not yet done it. It may well be too late, though technically I suppose I’ve got a few more days if I’m looking to submit something to a newspaper in time for Yom Kippur.

But this just emphasizes to me that I’m not really doing anything out of my normal routine to mark the turning of the year. I’m still working. I’m here at my desk as I type this, with a story deadline tomorrow, and a few others I need to get a jump on. It’s uncertain as to whether this qualifies me for stoning.

I’m not at temple, and honestly even if I were, I’d have no idea what I was doing. I don’t know what to expect, having never celebrated or observed the High Holy Days, even from a distance — other than my obligatory fast last year at Yom Kippur, even though I spent most of the day either napping or reading at Borders. I did wear light colored clothing — I don’t own much in the way of white garments — and was careful not to wear leather shoes, but I wasn’t praying and I wasn’t spending time in Jewish community. At some point, I think I did slice up some apples for myself and drizzle them with honey, for what it’s worth.

If I did head downtown for services, I imagine I’d feel uncomfortable and lost, and probably bored and fidgety as, historically, any service of any kind that goes on for more than about 20 minutes leaves me feeling like I’ve got some kind of rash or stinging insect infestation on the inside of my skin. Yet I’m still disappointed with myself for not even giving it a try.

So I sit here at my desk, ostensibly working on these article deadlines, and feeling conflicted about the onset of the Days of Awe. I want to find my own path within Judaism, something that brings who I am to these centuries-old traditions, and vice versa. I feel very much on my own with this. I was not born Jewish. I’m not especially close to anyone who is Jewish. I live alone and don’t have a family framework for observing holidays, much less Shabbat. I will blaze my own trail, and there will no doubt be mistakes made and pitfalls encountered along the way.

I just hope that not too many more cycles of holidays will pass me by in the meantime.

11 September 2008

I’m hesitant to post my thoughts on this anniversary, given how much “remembrances” are filling the news media today — and how far too many outlets are capitalizing on grief. A Twitter acquaintance of mine has referred to this as “emotional pornography,” and I don’t think he’s too far off the mark.

But what I’m remembering here this morning is the total disconnect I saw in my community on 11 September 2001 and in the days that followed.

I was working that morning, sitting at my computer in my home office, with NPR’s morning coverage on the radio in the background. First there was a report of a single airplane crashing into one of the World Trade Center towers. Either they weren’t giving details — or I wasn’t listening too closely — because I thought they were talking about a small aircraft like a Cessna or something. I thought it sounded tragic, and assumed it was some kind of pilot error. I kept working.

When reports came in about a second plane crashing into the towers, it still didn’t occur to me that something more deliberate was at work. Again, I assumed they were talking about small aircraft. I started wondering if there might be some magnetic or electrical interference with the planes’ instruments.

NPR cut away from New York to a reporter who was at the Pentagon, covering some meeting or military initiative. Something like that. I don’t remember. I do remember that during the man’s report, sirens sounded in the background. The NPR host asked what was going on, and the reporter responded that the Pentagon was on fire. Both men laughed nervously, as if they were thinking, “Great. What next?” It was such a crazy morning, with so much going wrong, and the pieces weren’t being put together yet.

By the time I flipped on the television, it was obvious that the United States was under terrorist attack.

Like so many other Americans, I was glued to the television and radio, trying to make sense of what was happening. There were frantic calls between me and my mother as we tried to reach my sister, living in New York City. I heard military jets screaming through the skies overhead, scrambling out of Langley and headed north.

When I finally reached my sister, she described the surreal experience she was having. Standing in her office’s conference room, she could look out one window and see smoke billowing from the World Trade Center area, and then glance out another window to watch runners and families in Central Park, going about their business as though nothing extraordinary was happening.

After several hours of panicked television coverage — and endless replays of footage of the second plane slamming into the tower, and of the towers collapsing — I knew I had to get out of the house. I turned off the television and the radio, and I sat outside for a while. But the military jets were still streaking overhead every so often, so I went to the grocery store in search of comfort food. I drove to my local Ukrops, parked my car, and stepped inside.

The place was absolutely silent. It was full of people, shopping in a kind of haze, on automatic pilot. There was some small talk here and there, forced laughter. But no one was talking about what was happening. No one mentioned the attacks, the planes, the towers, the deaths, the fear.

I got angry. I don’t know why my reaction to other people’s silent shock and confusion would be anger and frustration, but it was. I very nearly broke out into the “Star Spangled Banner” in the middle of the produce section — one, to give some hope and to remind myself and everyone at Ukrops that we’re Americans, dammit. We’re resilient and strong and can come back from just about anything. But I also wanted to jolt people out of their disorientation, to wake them up from auto-pilot and get people to start talking to each other, to embrace and weep if they had to. To get them to come together and stop insulating themselves in their individual bubbles of fear.

But I didn’t start singing. Everyone deals with trauma in his or her own way. I had no right to force my process on anyone else. So I paid for my groceries — probably some green beans and Goldfish crackers — and went home.

On Friday, 14 September, a nationwide candlelight vigil had been organized — light a candle at 7 p.m. and keep it lit for one hour. All across the United States, Americans were lighting candles and putting them in their windows. They were lighting candles and sitting on their porches and gathering in front yards and on sidewalks and in community green spaces to come together as neighbors and support each other through anger, grief and grasping at understanding.

I lit a candle and carried it out to my front steps. I settled it down beside me and sat down on the bricks. And waited.

No one else in my neighborhood — at least no one within sight of my house — lit a single candle. A few cars went by. A few people made appearances at their doors to pay for pizza delivery. Other than that, my community was shut up tight. After an hour, I carried my candle back inside.

Over the next year, I noticed a lot of six- and eight-foot-high privacy fences going up in my neighborhood, where three-foot chain link fences had sufficed before. There were more bickering voices behind closed doors, more anger and apathy in the community at large.

With the relentless airing on television of footage of the attacks, we became an entire nation dealing with post-traumatic stress disorder. We retreated into our homes in fear, stocking up resources and supplies against possible future attacks. Our military bombed Afghanistan, lashing out in a mostly futile attempt to vent the anger and panic roiling inside us all. We were desperate for someone, something to blame, and we found and even invented scapegoats aplenty.

Our president led us into a holy war, drawing a line in the sand and challenging the rest of the world to declare their allegiance: “You’re either with us or against us.” Such an uncompromising stance doesn’t allow for healing, or for really anything other than more division, more fear, more suspicion…. Pretty much setting the stage for more violence.

As someone who’s dealt with her own trauma and victimization, I recognized what was happening. These were classic attitudes and behaviors in the aftermath of outrageous violation — similar to what survivors of rape and domestic abuse experience — but it was happening on a national scale.

And it still is. We’ve not given ourselves any real room or pathway for healing. As a nation, we’re still setting ourselves at odds with the rest of the world, when in reality it’s a relatively small (though powerful) fundamentalist organization that has targeted us. The United States’ response has been way over the top, and it has trickled down into communities across the country.

I moved from Virginia to Oregon in 2004, and I’ve seen evidence of this lingering PTSD on both coasts. We want to come together, but we’re still afraid. We want to rise up as one, to repair the damage to our hearts and souls, but we’re often too busy being self-righteous and miming confidence. And so we bicker amongst ourselves. Communities and neighborhoods that were already strong and tight before 11 September 2001 have come through this even stronger and tighter and often more optimistic and proactive than ever. But others are falling apart at the seams.

We’re disconnected as a nation, as communities, as neighbors and as human beings. And we’ll remain that way until we take the courageous step to heal, to take fearless inventory of our own shortcomings and contributions to the residual crisis, to make amends for our actions and behaviors and to make the choice to see the world differently, so that we can all together experience a world that is not fiercely pitted against us but which is a global community — with its own troubles, differences and strife — that is waiting to welcome us with open arms.

NaNoWriMo 10th Anniversary

Yep. 2008 marks the 10th anniversary of National Novel Writing Month.

They've got special t-shirts and everything.

What?! You've not yet participated? Why the bloody hell not?

You keep saying you want to write that story you've been mulling over for most of your adult life, but you never seem to get around to putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. Here's your opportunity, and it comes around every November. Imagine that.

50,000 words in 30 days. It sounds intimidating. Impossible even. But it can be done -- novelists all over the globe make it happen every year. Hell, I've done it every year since 2004. I've found it a challenge every time, but well worth it. You can write 1667 words per day, every day. Or you can write 12,500 words every weekend and take the weekdays off. Or you can procrastinate most of the month and not even start until November 23rd, and still get it done. Whatever floats your boat.

It's hard work, and it's its own brand of literary insanity. It's tremendous fun, and at the end of the month, you've actually accomplished something -- even though this is a first draft, and all first drafts are crap. Really. It's true. Take my word for it.

One of the most popular features of the NaNo website is the online forums. They've got a discussion group for pretty much everything in there, and threads on topics you'd never dream up on your most colorful acid trip. Need an expert to tell you the how to test the age of primitive artifacts carved from igneous rock? Chances are there's another writer on the boards who is also a geologist or archaeologist. (I had this exact problem back in 2005, and I had no fewer than ten fellow writers jump in to help.)

Made a funny typo -- or just wrote something that makes absolutely no sense whatsoever -- and want to share it? There is a HUGE thread devoted to these "Nanoisms," and reading these postings often leaves me in tears, I'm laughing so hard. And surfing that thread is a great way to procrastinate doing actual writing.

Want to challenge your writing buddies? Make a pact that whoever gets to the 50,000-word goal last has to scrub everyone else's toilets. Or sit down together to write, after you've each drunk two liters of Mountain Dew, and whoever has to get up to use the bathroom first has to streak across the parking lot shouting, "I am a Greek God!" at the top of his/her lungs. Or find a funny character or phrase and challenge your buddies to include that in their plots. I successfully met Terri's challenge last year of including the word "gastronomically" in a story about vampires; I'm still waiting for her to throw a couple of were-monkeys into one of her tales.

Want to get together with fellow NaNo'ers in your area for a write-in at a local coffee shop? They've got these going on all month, all over the world. Portland, Oregon, has its own forum, and we historically have one of the largest writer contingents on the planet. If your city or town doesn't have its own forum, start one.

So, tell me again why you're not jumping in to do this? Afraid you might not make it? Well, of course you won't, not with that attitude. Plenty of writers try and fail each year with NaNoWriMo, and they're back again the next year, and the next. The point is committing to it and giving it an honest shot.

You won't be sorry.

You've got almost two months to prepare for this. Go find a copy of NaNo founder Chris Baty's "No Plot? No Problem!" -- a great guide for writers in general, but specifically geared toward NaNoWriMo.

And when you sign up on the NaNoWriMo website, let me know. I'd be happy to add you as one of my buddies.

breathing room

Around the middle of May, I was struck by the rather surprising realization that I want marriage and a family. More accurately, I was struck by anxiety and something approaching panic when I juxtaposed that realization with my age: I’m 38, and was half-way convinced that I was already out of time.

Turns out I’ve got quite a bit more “reproductive breathing room” than I’d anticipated.

Something I like to do — some nights when I’m feeling particularly wired and am not ready for bed, even as the late night of one day slides into the early morning of the next — is research family history and genealogy. That’s how I finally pieced together my Jewish ancestry last year.

I was caught up in one of these genealogy marathon sessions three or four weeks ago and started looking more closely at the reproductive histories of my ancestors — specifically, how old these women were when marrying and giving birth, and how their children fared. What I uncovered was surprising.

I grew up hearing how my great-great-great-grandfather had had twenty-one children by two wives. His first wife had a single child before she died, and he’d remarried and had twenty children by his second wife. I was curious about the details. That second wife, my great-great-great-grandmother, had her first child at the age of 17, and her last at the not-so-tender age of 45.

45 years old! In the first half of the nineteenth century, no less. Seventeen of her twenty children survived to adulthood — two died at birth (or were stillborn), and another died in infancy. She did not die in childbirth but lived into her 60s. Her sons were the soldiers of the Civil War.

But I was more interested in her daughters. Some married early, some later, some not at all. Those who did become mothers themselves also bore children into their 30s and 40s, in the mid-1800s.

I’d no idea women at that time were giving birth so late in their lives. I’d assumed that was more of a modern trend, but apparently it was a regular practice in my family.

So I’m not so worried, not anymore. When my great-great-great-grandmother was my age, she still had another seven years of childbearing in front of her. This is the stock that I come from. If they could do it — and do it rather successfully — then so can I. If I get to be 41 or 42 and am still in the same boat as I’m in now — single, with no real prospects (I’d rather be childless than be a single parent) — then maybe I’ll give myself permission to get a little nervous.

In the meantime, I’m much more relaxed.

As a side note, I’ve only once had my “biological clock” go off. That was ten years ago. Out of nowhere, I felt suddenly driven to have a baby. It made no rational sense, but I started looking into artificial insemination — I wasn’t seeing anyone at the time — and costs of childcare. I was on the fast-track in IT, had a stable career and was making more than enough money to support a family, so I started making plans. I even told my boss about it, and he was very supportive. After about two weeks or so, however, the reproductive drive vanished into thin air. It hasn’t resurfaced since.

shabbat in the park

When it comes to shabbat services, I’m more of a Friday evening gal. I enjoy the smaller gathering, the lighting of the candles and the more meditative feel of winding down the week and welcoming sacred time and space. It’s a peaceful and relaxing way to let go of whatever has been weighing on me and to make room for reflection and some degree of serenity. It also sets the stage for spending at least part of the weekend enjoying the outdoors — which is my true temple.

I was all set to head to the shul this past Friday evening, when I discovered that the Saturday morning service was to be celebrated in a local park. Perfect timing for the summer solstice. I made a quick call to Mom — who was going to be in town anyway — and brought her along to her first Jewish service ever.

We couldn’t have asked for a better day. There was a brief sprinkle of rain in the early morning, but the clouds quickly gave way to warm sunshine. A group of picnic tables under some trees had been reserved for us, and folks trickled in — on foot, on bikes, with strollers — as we set up camping chairs and picnic blankets.

Plenty of passerby stopped to watch us as we started singing — I guess a bunch of Jews in the park isn’t something you see every day — and I slipped off my shoes and pressed my bare feet into the grass. Children laughed and played throughout the service — one of the things I love about going to temple is that the kids aren’t commanded to sit still and be quiet, as we were always instructed in chapel growing up. It’s very family-friendly, and gathering in the park only emphasized that.

It was so freeing to be outside in spiritual community — and in the company of flowers and trees — to feel the sun on my skin and breathe the clean air, rather than being inside while following the same order of service. I prefer natural surroundings to man-made ones. The earth beneath my feet and the open sky overhead create the most sacred space I know of.

We weren’t the only people celebrating in the park that morning. Two different groups of Neo-Pagans set up their own circles within sight of our gathering to mark the midsummer holiday of Litha. The rabbi commented, “Well, we’re all pagans, aren’t we?”

Talking about the service later, Mom shared how much she had enjoyed the event and the people. I’m so glad her first visit with my shul was a positive one, and am grateful for those few hours spent with my spiritual community in natural surroundings. I held this experience up to Mom as a more tangible example of the “roots and wings” I’ve been yearning for.

I’m not sure I’ll join them for next month’s “Shabbat in the Pool”…. Perhaps I’ll instead head over solo to the grove of trees not far from my home, and mark my own observance there.

It’s the beginning of another work week, and I’m already looking forward to Friday evening — when I can sit outside, light candles and take time to enjoy and appreciate the ready-made sanctuary just outside my door.

dog fight update

I wanted to give a quick update on the dog fight from a week-and-a-half ago.

My neighbor has been released from the hospital, and I went to visit him and take him some soup. He had his family with him and seemed to be in good spirits, though he’ll require some recovery time. At the time that I saw him, he still had no memory of what had happened.

I gave him an overview of the details. He was glad to hear that Lakshmi is alright. Indeed, Lakshmi is healing nicely and finished her round of antibiotics this morning. I hope to get her back to the dog park some time this week, as she’s been anxious to get out and play again.

My neighbor’s daughter let me know that his dog, who had attacked Lakshmi, had been put down. She had apparently been showing signs of increasing aggression toward family members, and this incident with my dog was the last straw. I’m sad that this was the outcome for the dog — though it would have take some very special circumstances and a lot of time and energy to try to rehabilitate her — and am sorry for my neighbor to lose another companion.

In the aftermath of this canine altercation, and under the crunch of work and some other projects and turbulence, I’ve not been as personally active online as usual. If you’ve tried contacting me lately and you’re not an editor, you probably haven’t heard back from me for a week or more — other than quick-hit e-mail exchanges, I owe replies to most of my friends and family. I did take off some time last Friday afternoon and Saturday, to get away from the computer and catch up on some reading, but then was back at work Saturday night and into Sunday.

It’s still crunch time for my writing work, but I’m starting to catch up. I think Lakshmi and I both could use some time at the dog park.