Letting Go Takes Love

I lean over to kiss my son and he pulls away. My eyes well and my heart constricts. He’s a day shy of his thirteenth birthday. He’s been avoiding physical affection for a year now, but it doesn’t get easier for this momma, who just wants to hug and kiss her little boy. Little boy. Wouldn’t he like to hear me say this, my boy-man...

It’s hard for me to believe he’s turning thirteen. Wasn’t it yesterday that I was tripping over lego and matchbox cars and now four of my sons wear black hats. My husband and sons make half a minyan. I get a little emotional about these milestones. Just a little? I become a weepy mess.

My oldest son turned eighteen this past spring. I spent his entire birthday crying. My friend was hosting a bar mitzva party that night and it took an hour of laying in bed with cucumbers on my eyes for the swelling to come down enough for me to apply some eye makeup. What’s so hard about eighteen? Some people celebrate their children’s eighteenth birthday.

I can’t believe they’re all grown up. It’s what we pray for, that our children grow up happy and healthy. We wait for these milestones and somehow they come and I  feel like they hit me, really hard, out of left field. Whack. It feels so final, this growing up. I want a retake. I didn’t do it all the way I wanted to. I wanted to do better. They deserved better. I haven’t always exercised all the patience I possess. I haven’t always listened completely. But wait. Look at these kids. They’re great. They turned out fine. More than fine. They are finding their way in their journey of life. Discovering their true selves. Without me.

I’ve been entrusted with these precious souls and they are wholly dependent on me for the first part of their lives and as they grow up and move away from me, slowly, so slowly, I don’t realize it’s happening, but then suddenly, a milestone, and I reflect on their lives and realize that they don’t belong to me. That they never did. A part of me lives in them but they belong to themselves. They have no idea what a stronghold they have on my heart.  

So a makeup artist will come and I’ll ask her to waterproof my face. My friends and relatives will join us to celebrate, and sure, I’ll be happy and proud, but that won’t stop me from crying, my heart from breaking, or from feeling like an essential part of me is slowly slipping away, out of my grasp.

In the meantime, I’ll be grateful for a four year old that climbs all over me, plants hundreds of kisses all over my body and says “I love you” with such intensity. I will allow myself this sweet denial and refuse to believe that one day she too will be a teenager. I am still tripping over things, but now I'm tripping over dolls and shoes and ipod wires and other electronic accessories. And I know that my bar mitzva boy will come around. It may take a few months, or a little longer, but I'm pretty confident that within the next year he'll find that it's not so bad to give your mother a hug and kiss or at least tolerate her affection.

I will continuously thank G-d for entrusting me with this gift, with these cherished souls. I will persevere as I embrace this exquisite pain of motherhood, in which I do my best to hand my beautiful children the keys to my heart and the tools they need to leave me.

Chana

PS This poem brings me great comfort. Me friend Elana shared it with me. I would love to find the author and share my personal gratitude.

Letting Go Takes Love

To let go does not mean to stop caring,
it means I can't ...do it for someone else.
To let go is not to cut myself off,
it's the realization I can't control another.
To let go is not to enable,
but allow learning from natural consequences.
To let go is to admit powerlessness, which means
the outcome is not in my hands.
To let go is not to try to change or blame another,
it's to make the most of myself.
To let go is not to care for,
but to care about.
To let go is not to fix,
but to be supportive.
To let go is not to judge,
but to allow another to be a human being.
To let go is not to be in the middle arranging all the outcomes,
but to allow others to affect their destinies.
To let go is not to be protective,
it's to permit another to face reality.
To let go is not to deny,
but to accept.
To let go is not to nag, scold or argue,
but instead to search out my own shortcomings and correct them.
To let go is not to adjust everything to my desires,
but to take each day as it comes and cherish myself in it.
To let go is not to criticize or regulate anybody,
but to try to become what I dream I can be.
To let go is not to regret the past,
but to grow and live for the future.

To let go is to fear less and love more
Remember: The time to love is short

~ Author Unknown

Chanuka Teaser

My kids made these a few years ago. Developed the recipe and all. Back in the day before our super duper canon 60d. Maybe if I'm good they'll make them again. These are dangerous donuts. Maybe if I'm really good they'll share their recipe too.

Accepting What Is

A number of fair weather friends that find themselves transplanted to the Northeast have been lamenting the inevitable winter. I relate.  While I’ve been raised in this climate, I am inherently summer. I crave the sun, the sand, the water - you’ve heard me carry on about this. When I hear the story of Avrohom’s search I understand why he thought of the sun.

The winter brings me down. I feel crippled by the frost. The cold, dry air burns my lungs and I feel as though there is not enough oxygen in the world. I layer and bundle up but there is a core part of me that can’t get warm enough. I come in from the outside and stand in a hot shower and cry. The water is so hot, it’s burning my skin, but deep inside I’m still cold. It’s long and miserable, this winter. It feels like it never ends. I cannot get comfortable in this cold. I am handicapped by this season.

I have spent the last year working on accepting what is. It’s been a trip, this journey of life, recognizing that I am not in control. Accepting people, situations, myself. Why is it so hard to accept the weather?

ac·cept·ance/akˈseptəns/

Noun. The action of consenting to receive or undertake something offered.

In his book The Happiness Trap, Dr Russ Harris writes:
“Acceptance does not mean ‘putting up with’ or resigning yourself to anything. Acceptance is about embracing life, not merely tolerating it. Acceptance literally means ‘taking what is offered’. It doesn’t mean giving up or admitting defeat; it doesn’t mean just gritting your teeth and bearing it. It means fully opening yourself to your present reality – acknowledging how it is, right here and now and letting go of the struggle with life as it is in this moment”

This paragraph really speaks to me. Acceptance, for me, has become breathing into a moment. Acceptance is recognizing that life happens, that G-d has a plan for us all, that we are mere puppets in the master plan. Accepting is acknowledging that what’s meant to be happens, every time. Even when I cannot fathom. Even when I am uncomfortable, sad, angry, or frustrated.

I make a decision to accept or resist. When I am being honest, I can accept and acknowledge the truth. Even if I dislike it. I accept what is because it’s my reality. When I struggle or deny the truth, I shut myself out. This denial, this struggle, this resistance, it’s me preventing myself from moving forward.

FYI, It’s not just the obviously difficult things that I resist, like winter and traffic and arrogance and stench. I resist good things too. It’s hard for me to accept help, compliments, my talents and abilities. But they are also reality. I have forgone many a good thing in this spirit of resistance. It does not serve me well.

I am trying to feel and process. To learn from these experiences, from these realities. I accept that I have not treated myself as best as I could. I resolve to do better. I am learning to recognize feelings of resentment and resistance. I notice that when I feel resentful or resistant, I tighten up inside, my head hurts and I want to avoid everything. I am crippling myself.

I liberate myself when I accept myself, another or a situation that I don’t like.

This winter I am determined to accept the reality. The cold will come and I will not fight it. I will not handicap myself. I may not yet embrace it, and I don’t have to, but I will choose to accept it, because that is what is real.

To keeping warm and accepting what is,

Chana

PS.  Some exercises that help me get past resistance and into acceptance:

1. Sitting back in a chair with my feet firmly on the ground, I put my hand onto my chest and breathe.  I inhale kindness and compassion and I exhale denial, resistance and anything I don’t need. It’s hard to maintain resentment while inhaling compassion.

When I practice this regularly I am able to envision this being grounded, even if I’m running or engaged in another activity. Doing the physical activity is always more beneficial but the imagery works - provided that I’m in practice.

2. Utilizing the Serenity Prayer - G-d, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference.

3. When all else fails, or I can’t seem to get it together, I reach out for help. That’s a big step for me and one that I’m especially proud of.

4. Byron Katie - TheWork.com. Many inspirations available there.

Sweet Potatoes. Sweet.

japanese sweet potatoes - photo compliments of google images

If I had to name my favorite root vegetable, it would have to be the sweet potato. They're, well, sweet. Dense. Satisfying. Then there's the Japanese sweet potato. A little less sweet. More dense. More satisfying. Plus a chestnut-like flavor. This oriental variety has a reddish skin and a creamy white color on the inside.

There are many creative things people do with sweet potatoes. I'm frequently inspired by beautiful sweet potato recipes, but mostly I prefer them simply roasted. A sweet potato, in its jacket, straight out of the oven on a cold winter day... comfort.

 I usually peel & chop a variety of sweet potatoes (japanese & garnet are my favorite), and ask them how they'd like to be seasoned.

Just checking if you're still reading. I might be weird, but I don't talk to my sweet potatoes.
Sometimes I add chopped garlic and rosemary.

my super duper canon 60d hard at work

 Drizzle with olive oil, sprinkle with sea salt, and lay them flat on a baking sheet.

Roast them at 400 until I see some brown edges - usually about 1/2 hour.

Try not to eat them all by myself.

Do you ever find yourself talking to your vegetables?
Would you like to see some other sweet potato recipes?
What are your favorite things to do with sweet potatoes?

To good health,

Chana

Roasted with olive oil, salt and just a smidgen of paprika

DIY Olives - Part 1 of a series

Virgin America had this great sale over the summer that came right at the same time as a few dollars in our bank account. We jumped on that and booked tickets  to spend Sukkos in Rancho Mirage, California with family out there. There were many benefits to spending time in Cali at the end of October. Extending the summer, for one. Spending time with relatives on their turf. If I may add, relatives who have olive trees in their backyard.

I envisioned a blog post with videos and pictures of my sun-kissed kids filling buckets of olives. I planned a blog mini-series of the olive curing process. Nice planning. We arrived in California to find bare trees. Lots of sun, no clouds and no olives. Plan A, out the window.

Comes Plan B, I googled olive picking in the surrounding area and found an Olive and Wine Fair in Cherry Valley - on the very last day of our trip. It sounded great. They offered olive picking, olive oil products, a farmers market (you know how obsessed I am with farmers markets....) live music, and other options that didn't include us like wine and food.  We looked at a map, found it to be on the way to the airport, and planned to leave early enough to take olives home with us.

Whew, olives out of the way. We had a lovely sukkos, enjoyed the very hot weather, good company and food, a resort quality pool at a friend's house, and overall a great getaway.

On leaving day we packed up, left early enough to fill up on olives and headed out. We arrived at a festival that was high spirited and lively. We walked around from booth to booth and searched, in vain, for olive picking. There were some lovely olive trees, but alas, they were bare. At the olive press booth, they were selling olive presses for $998, but no fresh, raw olives. Plan B, out the window.


We ordered olives online.
They arrived on Friday. The bell rang and USPS unceremoniously dropped the box at the door and disappeared before I got there. A little anti climactic, wouldn't you think?

- Opening the door and finding one lone box of olives, sitting there. But olives we have. And the process has begun. And I am sharing it with you.

The olives have arrived, the olives have arrived
(think "the Russians are coming, the Russians are coming).

Arrived indeed. It's Friday afternoon and there are now 10 pounds of olives in a box that need to be processed. With Shabbos starting at 4:24, dare I put these away till after Shabbos? I don't think the choice is actually mine.

  Note the great cutting knife we use.

now if I could only get my hands on some olives.....

 The olive process is long and tedious. It involves months of patience, something that is hard to come by in this day and age. Raw olives are very bitter. Olives are soaked in water and the bitterness leaches out. The water needs to be changed very frequently. It takes months until the olives are no longer bitter and ready for seasoning.

Step 1: Get your olives into a bowl.

I actually have 42 pictures of this process. My super duper canon 60d allows me to do that and oh so much more.
Aren't you glad I chose 6?

Step 2:
Pick through and rinse.

Step 3: Fill jars/containers that you can spare for the next many months.

It's an hour left to Shabbos, "the day is young...."
Can I go off on a little tangent here?
Pinny (of  the Über-Talented, of Pinny's Perfect Pickles, of Falafel experiments,  of sourdough bread, of father to my children, of husband extraordinaire who keeps me on my toes) has this great habit of doing things on Friday afternoons that have nothing to do with Shabbos.

For example: Back in the day when we used to have a fish tank, Friday was the day he chose for cleaning the fish tank.

A few years later he was growing a veggie garden, and yes, Friday was the day he spent the most time in the garden. If I may add, Friday afternoon, after the floor was mopped and the bathroom cleaned, he would come in muddy and sweaty and happy.

It's the first Friday back on Standard Time, which I love.
I would not have chosen this day/time as olive processing, but who asked me?

Step 4: Leave jars on the counter, near the sink, in the way of everything, for the next 6 months.

What comes after this is rinse, soak and repeat, many times over.

I'm thinking to have a monthly olive post until they're ready, but if anything exciting happens in between, I'll be sure to update you first.

Would like to give a shout out to Chanale Fellig Harrel, of 'Chanale' for sharing some blog photo tips, and for inspiring me to get this post out of my head and into a blog.  I'm hoping your drive is contagious.



To good health and an abundance of patience,

Chana


PS. Part 2 of D.I.Y. Olives here.