Susan's Musings

Cleaning and Loving It

I have a friend who gets little pleasure from cooking. It is a reality of life for her rather than a tactile, sensual experience. That is, unless she is cooking for the Sabbath. When she does that, the activity is infused with meaning and importance and changes from an annoying necessity into a higher calling. 

I feel somewhat the same about cleaning. While I like having a tidy and well-ordered house, I can’t say that I enjoy the process of scrubbing and polishing. The exception is when I am cleaning in preparation for Passover. 

I don’t really have a way to explain Passover preparations to anyone who has not been involved in them. Picture getting ready for Thanksgiving except before you can start your cooking you need to get rid of all the existing food you have in the house as well as put away all your dishes and kitchen utensils, and bring in all “special for Thanksgiving” items that are only used once a year. There are lists of ingredients and products that you ordinarily rely on that can’t be used. Plus, the house needs to be cleaned from top to bottom to ensure that no forbidden items are hiding away. That’s for starters. Oh yes, and there will be eight days of eating rather than one, with five of them requiring festive meals twice a day.

Passover is daunting. It is also my favorite holiday of the year. And while we have occasionally spent the holiday at the home of friends or family and sometimes even at a hotel, I only truly fully feel the holiday spirit when we are home. On all the holidays, recipes and traditions connect me strongly to my mother, grandmother and all the women in my family who preceded them, but the connection is magnified with Passover. 

My husband does not understand. His mantra over these weeks is, “You really don’t have to do that,” meaning that we can have a kosher Passover without my going over the light switches with a toothbrush and toothpick. He does not have, as I do, the vision of my grandmother in her eighties, wearing her one and only pair of jeans, purchased and used for only one occasion in the entire year – getting down on the floor to scrub under the cupboards before Passover. I can’t explain it myself. I only know that, in my mind, while cleaning is usually a chore that interferes with “more important things,” during the weeks preceding Passover it gives me a great thrill. Not only am I cleaning for a higher purpose, but the activity itself has meaning. 

And quite frankly, I am pretty uninterested in what the rabbis (even my own beloved one) say as to what is unnecessary. My question to them always is, “But, what did your mother do?” Invariably, the answer is that they went way overboard. Passover belongs to the Jewish people, but Passover cleaning belongs to Jewish women. 

Reprinted from March 2009

Would you like to look more deeply into Passover?
What if it can serve as a personal template for redemption as well as a national one? 

Let Me Go: How to Overcome Life's Challenges and Escape Your Own Egypt

Chanuka, Take 2, Take 3...

Celebrating Chanuka is fun. Living at the times of the Maccabees was not. Similarly, Purim, the Feast of Esther, is a joyous celebration. Living in Persia with a death sentence over your head, in the days before Queen Esther revealed her identity, was frightening. Leaving Egypt after ten amazing plagues and the splitting of the Red Sea was awesome. Two-hundred and ten years of slavery was miserable. 

A popular joke sums up Jewish holidays in this way, “They tried to kill us. God saved us. Let’s eat.” But, of course, they did kill many of us. Those who survived went through scary and wretched times. Centuries later, knowing how things turned out, it is easier to channel into the joy than to feel the suffering. 

American history has its parallels. The Fourth of July, with its parades and fireworks, is a grand time. Life in Revolutionary War times was grim. When our Founding Fathers issued the Declaration of Independence saying, “And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor,” they did not know how things would turn out. Indeed, many of them and their families did lose their fortunes and lives.

My husband and I celebrated the first four days of Chanuka at a gorgeous resort in Puerto Vallarta, as the guests of a financial conference where he was the keynote speaker. It is a long way, in every meaning of the phrase, from the original clash between Jerusalem and Athens. We look forward to celebrating the final four days back home with family. That is also far removed from the original conflict. We can celebrate both the military victory and the miracle of the oil without having lived with the fear of those days. Yet, the underlying recurring theme of purity vs. depravity, good vs. evil, light vs. darkness, few vs. the  many is not far removed from us at all. 

I think many of us worry that life in the next few years might be darker and more dangerous. During the past few years, many have already willingly sacrificed their lives for truth or been victims of evil. This has been the pattern of history. Chanuka calls on us to take heart and channel the courage of our ancestors to do our part while relying on Divine Providence to guide and protect us. We know how it ends; our job is to do what we can to hasten that end. 

Make sure to grab a Genesis Journeys Set while it is on this amazing Chanuka sale. 
Regularly $79.95 - right now only $65

 

 

Guest Musing: A Word from Our President

This Musing may not be what you expect. Abraham Lincoln is my guest, but I am not reprinting his proclamation setting the precedent for a national observance of Thanksgiving. That proclamation is well worth reading, with its call, “...to set apart and observe the last Thursday of November next, as a day of Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in the Heavens...,” especially if your children have been taught that the day is meant to thank the Indians. However, that is not the guest Musing I have in mind for this Thanksgiving. 

Instead, this year, our family is planning to read a different proclamation of President Lincoln. Let’s face it: Thanksgiving is fun, with its huge meal, football game and preparation for shopping. Maybe we would be better off as a nation if in addition to Thanksgiving, another day that President Lincoln (and other American presidents) called for entered our national consciousness on an annual basis. I am speaking of his call for a day  for ‘National Prayer and Humiliation.’ While I think that the meaning of the word ‘humiliation’ has probably evolved to  ‘humility’ in our day, the call should ring stridently in our ears. 

By the President of the United States of America.

A Proclamation.

Whereas, the Senate of the United States, devoutly recognizing the Supreme Authority and just Government of Almighty God, in all the affairs of men and of nations, has, by a resolution, requested the President to designate and set apart a day for National prayer and humiliation.

And whereas it is the duty of nations as well as of men, to own their dependence upon the overruling power of God, to confess their sins and transgressions, in humble sorrow, yet with assured hope that genuine repentance will lead to mercy and pardon; and to recognize the sublime truth, announced in the Holy Scriptures and proven by all history, that those nations only are blessed whose God is the Lord.

And, insomuch as we know that, by His divine law, nations like individuals are subjected to punishments and chastisements in this world, may we not justly fear that the awful calamity of civil war, which now desolates the land, may be but a punishment, inflicted upon us, for our presumptuous sins, to the needful end of our national reformation as a whole People? We have been the recipients of the choicest bounties of Heaven. We have been preserved, these many years, in peace and prosperity. We have grown in numbers, wealth and power, as no other nation has ever grown. But we have forgotten God. We have forgotten the gracious hand which preserved us in peace, and multiplied and enriched and strengthened us; and we have vainly imagined, in the deceitfulness of our hearts, that all these blessings were produced by some superior wisdom and virtue of our own. Intoxicated with unbroken success, we have become too self-sufficient to feel the necessity of redeeming and preserving grace, too proud to pray to the God that made us!

It behooves us then, to humble ourselves before the offended Power, to confess our national sins, and to pray for clemency and forgiveness.

Now, therefore, in compliance with the request, and fully concurring in the views of the Senate, I do, by this my proclamation, designate and set apart Thursday, the 30th. day of April, 1863, as a day of national humiliation, fasting and prayer. And I do hereby request all the People to abstain, on that day, from their ordinary secular pursuits, and to unite, at their several places of public worship and their respective homes, in keeping the day holy to the Lord, and devoted to the humble discharge of the religious duties proper to that solemn occasion.

All this being done, in sincerity and truth, let us then rest humbly in the hope authorized by the Divine teachings, that the united cry of the Nation will be heard on high, and answered with blessings, no less than the pardon of our national sins, and the restoration of our now divided and suffering Country, to its former happy condition of unity and peace.

In witness whereof, I have hereunto set my hand and caused the seal of the United States to be affixed.

Done at the City of Washington, this thirtieth day of March, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and sixty-three, and of the Independence of the United States the eighty seventh.

By the President: Abraham Lincoln

William H. Seward, Secretary of State.

Wishing you all a wonderful Thanksgiving filled with gratitude, prayer, humility, family, friends, and yes, great food.

Have you seen our newest addition?

       Also available as part of the Thought Tools Set 

                  

At Home Away from Home—Israel

Once again, we have the blessing of being in Israel for the fall holydays. While we love America and feel endless gratitude towards her, as Jews, we are a minority within her culture. (Personally, we wish we felt like more of a minority and would like to see a reawakening of America’s Christian nature.) Not so in Israel, where a holiday atmosphere reigns in September, not December, and where the secular looking taxi driver regales us with stories of his Yom Kipur/Day of Atonement fast.  

One of our favorite activities in Israel is taking the bus. Sometimes, we take a roundabout route so that we can see different neighborhoods. Israeli bus drivers are fearless cowboys. They drive aggressively and quickly through narrow streets and around sharp curves. We refrain from bursting into applause, though their performance frequently deserves it. 

Israeli buses host a cacophony of different languages, and people from almost every country on earth.  Their external dress reveals a gamut of geographical origins and religious affiliation. Nonetheless, the resonant feeling is of being on a road trip with extended family. This can be sometimes annoying but is also comforting. An elderly Yemenite grandmother with her grandchild in a stroller will tell (not ask) a Russian teenager to hold onto the stroller while she goes to check with the driver about where to disembark. A mother boarding with an infant will plop the infant onto an Israeli-Ethiopian soldier’s lap while she rummages for her bus card in her purse. 

Once off the bus, the inter-relationships among people persists. To the sometimes discomfort of many American immigrants, children are seen as a national treasure and responsibility. Mothers are assaulted by strangers telling them that their babies are dressed too warmly or not warmly enough.  It is not unusual to stand at a corner, getting ready to cross a major intersection, and find a young five or six-year-old tuck her hand into yours, confident that you will help her cross safely. No words are exchanged as she lets go of your hand at the other side, continuing on her way to her destination. Helicopter parenting is not an Israeli affliction. 

While America is moving in the direction of being a country based on fear in general and fear of lawsuits in particular, Israel, for both good and bad, is a country of adventure and bravado. Consequently, it suffers from a high rate of car accidents, causing great sorrow, but it also assumes the people should bear responsibility for themselves. While Americans can’t market a balloon without warning that it can cause harm if swallowed (and if swallowed, there still will be a lawsuit) Jerusalem runs its light rail down a busy pedestrian street, with no guardrails, warning signs, or irritating announcement that a train is coming so you should move to the side. Instead the driver beeps a slightly louder horn than the one you had on your childhood bicycle as he doesn’t slow down a whit, expecting people to move out of his way in time not to get hit. They do.

When we are in Israel, Yom Kipur, the Day of Atonement, is one of my favorite holy days. While I have only prayed in a few synagogues in America on that fast day, I always found the day draining, if meaningful. I certainly cast more than one look at my watch through the day counting down the hours until I could eat and drink (25 hours fast in total). My Israel experiences have been entirely different. It starts, as in America, with the solemn Kol Nidrei prayer at night. Yet, the next day, as the day moves along from morning to afternoon to sunset, a joyous festive mood captures the congregation. One senses a feeling that having undergone the process of atonement for the past forty days, as the day moves along people are confident in God’s mercy and forgiveness. The closing prayers are joyous as hands clap and feet dance. If someone ran in and said that the clocks were all wrong and there was another hour to go, I might be thirsty and hungry, but I would be grateful for the extra time. 

We are now moving into the next set of holy days, known as Sukot or Tabernacles, but also as ‘The Time of Our Rejoicing’. Sukot (booths used for the holydays) are popping up on every porch and corner. I pray that this coming year brings rejoicing to all of us and also brings God’s rejoicing in His children as everyone alive today has the opportunity to reject the false gods so prevalent among us and embrace Him.

 

With holy days popping up, our offices and store are open/shut, open/shut. We're trying to make this less irritating by offering specials while we're open. This week:

Business Secrets from the Bible:
Spiritual Success Strategies for Financial Abundance

is 50% off - only $14.50

Grandma Camp

There may be exciting/depressing/timely things happening in the world this week. I am not going to be writing about them. This week, I am focusing on the future, in the form of five little girls between the ages of four-and-a-half and seven.  (This Musing is actually being written and scheduled in advance.)

If I was marketing my Grandma Camp, I would label it as retro. I am not teaching computer skills, we aren’t playing electronic versions of games, and the books I will be reading aloud are wholesome, beloved classics, many over a hundred years old. I’ve taken CD’s from the library with songs from my children’s childhood like Hap Palmer’s, “This Is the Story about Sammy,” and Raffi’s “Baby Beluga.” I may even throw in some ditties from my childhood like “The Hokey Pokey.” None of the songs call for hip-thrusting, pelvic gyrations.  

 

 

There are some differences between activities I did with my own children and those I have planned. Instead of remaining focused on my budget, I have been spending rather recklessly. I’m not talking Tiffany bracelets, but I did buy some art supplies at Michael’s that were neither on sale nor eligible for my 40% off coupon. Should we be beset by a week of rain, I might splurge $2.99 to rent Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang since it isn’t in my library’s system. After all, since my husband and I are not responsible for the girls’ clothing or educational needs, or for future orthodonture, we have a little more wiggle room. 

 

Similarly, while we will snack on peppers and carrots, we won’t be doing so exclusively. Their mothers can counter-balance any nutritional faux-pas I make. I have even acquired some messy art materials that I would have been reluctant to allow into my own children’s hands and hope that the weather will allow us to make and throw exploding paint balloons. 

 For one week, I hope to put my concerns about the fate of this nation and the world aside. Business matters will need to wait. Even my husband is willingly moving into second place, not necessarily enjoying, but at least tolerating a return to macaroni and cheese for dinner. (I am positive that his own work week will be interrupted as I can’t imagine him resisting frequently joining in our activities.) My voice may be a small one when it comes to grand affairs, but it is an oversized one where these girls are concerned. As I know from my own experience, grandparents have a crucial role to play, unique to them.  I may or may not be able to influence ‘the course of human events,’ but I will do my best to love my granddaughters and grandsons, at the same time hopefully building their inner compasses and moral lodestones so that they will make the right choices no matter what false values the world preaches to them.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One Personal Thanks to Give

I try to be grateful every day, but Thanksgiving offers the opportunity to take a step back and focus on some things that are worth a second ‘thank you.’ Last April, my husband and I moved from the house where we lived for twenty-two years and into a new geographic location and home. The impetus for the move was being closer to our children and while we won’t have everyone with us around the Thanksgiving table, we joyously expect sixteen family members with no one having to set foot in an airport.

Deciding to make a huge move, as we did, is daunting. There were many reasons to maintain the status quo, among them good friends, a gorgeous neighborhood and thousands of books that would need culling. As it turned out, God’s Hand became so evident that we never actually decided to move; somehow, we were just doing it.

One guided step along the way took place when we began exploring what to do with the over three decades of married acquisitions.  Added to that was mountains of stuff accumulated during the years we raised and homeschooled seven children. While most of our belongings were well loved and not so gently used, we hoped to sell some of them with the rest forming donation and garbage piles. For this task, we placed an ad to see if we could find someone to take charge of that process for us.

After our first interviewee bailed, in walked a young man whose knowledge of furniture and electronics belied his youthful appearance. For two hours, I showed Justin around the house while he took copious notes. As we were saying goodbye, for some reason that I can’t explain, I remembered a piece of art that we had received as a wedding gift and that had remained in a closet since that time.

“Do you by any chance know anything about art work?” I asked.

“Actually, I do. My grandfather, William Cassius Goodloe, was an artist and I learned a great deal from him.”

At that point, I literally started shaking. William Cassius Goodloe, who passed away years ago, was indeed an artist. However, he was better known as a Washington State Supreme Court Justice. In our house, he was best known as one of my husband’s closest friends and as a deeply beloved poetry and art mentor to our young brood.

I quickly ran and retrieved an item I hadn’t shown the young man because I wouldn’t dream of selling it. It was Justice Goodloe’s leather art bag, with his hand painted Northwest scene on the side.  He had given it to our children for their supplies. When Justin saw it, he became visibly emotional.

A few minutes later, Justin was the proud recipient of his grandfather’s bag (the next week he reciprocated, presenting us with one of the Judge’s paintings) and we not only placed the disposal of our unwanted belongings in his hands but he also organized our entire move, loading, driving the truck and unloading with his own crew.

This serendipitous meeting was only one in a string of “coincidences” that led to our move, making it a truly blessed one. This year, it is one of the many kindnesses for which we give thanks.

Through the weekend, get free shipping in the U.S. on any online order over $75

Use promo code SHIP at checkout and next year add growth in ancient Jewish wisdom to your personal thanks-giving list.

Five Star Cooking

To the uninitiated, the scene would have looked strange. I presented first one and then another daughter with a gift for the upcoming holidays, causing their eyes to light up with joy. The gift came in a plastic container rather than a velvet lined jewelry box. It was ‘one size fits all,’ clearly not a new dress or sweater.

Here is what it looked like before its presentation:

             
As you see, the pieces were rather plain looking, and truthfully, they will not win any cooking awards, even when they emerge from the oven, crispy and brown. Neither my family nor I can actually tell you how tasty they objectively are, though we eat them with relish. The enjoyment is completely entwined with our emotional history. These mandlen mean Rosh HaShana is coming and evoke memories of generations of women baking and celebrating the holiday.

 

I inherited the recipe I use and a bite transports me to my grandmother’s teensy Brooklyn kitchen, where love was an ingredient in every morsel. When my mother-in-law shared her favorite recipes with me, the same recipe was in that treasure trove as well. So, rather than tackle some of the myriad chores on my to-do list, this past Friday I took time to make this labor intensive food, dividing the finished product into packages for each of my children.

My younger grandchildren did not understand the sparkle in their mother’s eyes. I pray for years of peace and health so that they will have time to absorb this small element of family history, prepared to take their place in transmitting it forward.

Merry Christmas, Hobby Lobby

I like people of principle; in fact, I aspire to be one. David Green, founder of Hobby Lobby, is one such person. He is battling the government to uphold my right to freedom of religion, for which I am grateful. This week, he was accused of anti-Semitism, which, if true, suggests that he doesn’t like me as much as I like him. Except, of course, that truth had little to do with the entire kerfuffle. It used to be that, “the squeaky wheel got the grease.” Today, the lone blogger who uses certain incendiary words (anti-Semitism, homophobia, racism…) gets the headlines.

The entire brouhaha was a tornado in a thimble. Assuming correct reporting, when a blogger inquired if Green’s chain, Hobby Lobby, carried items for Hanuka, he was told, “We don’t cater to you people here.” Chalk one up for a low on the totem pole employee speaking foolishly. The provable reality is that Hobby Lobby, for whatever reason, doesn’t carry Hanuka items. To their credit, even many liberal Jewish spokespeople were uncomfortable with the claim that a store could be forced to carry certain objects under threat of being accused of bigotry.

Here’s where I stand. If any of you are aspiring politicians, I have a proposal you might make that will guarantee that you are never elected. You might even need to go underground for a while to protect your safety. Nevertheless, I think it would be a positive step forward for America. The proposal? It is time to retire the civil rights legislation of the 1960’s. I’ll go further and say that just as Richard Nixon was able to open relationships with China and Bill Clinton was able to enact welfare reform, had Barack Obama made that proposal the signature of his administration, he would have gone down in history as a great president.

There are many times in our lives when an antidote is needed to solve a problem. None of us would argue that because antibiotics are useful for clearing up an infection, we should continue taking them forever. Yet we do the equivalent in politics all the time. Unions came into being because of serious and real problems in the labor force. As the pendulum swings, many of them now threaten the well-being of workers. Similarly, the civil rights legislation of the 1960’s was a necessary and proper response to inequalities and iniquities that plagued this country. However, the forces destroying the Black community are completely different today, and arguably are strengthened by falsely identifying race as the source of the problem. More seriously, the phrases, “civil rights,” “discrimination,” and “bigotry” are applied with a liberality that is undermining the Constitutional protections of religious freedom and freedom of association that allowed this country to be great.

I think it is time to allow organizations, businesses and private schools to discriminate as they wish. If they want to put up signs saying that they don’t admit or serve Jews, or people with an accent, or people carrying Bibles, or blondes, good luck to them. I have faith that, given free choice, the American people will overwhelmingly choose to embrace each other. However, the legal and holier-than-thou moral cudgels that destroy free enterprise and that pit citizens against each other will largely be silenced.  I couldn’t care less if Hobby Lobby carries Hanuka items or doesn’t, nor do I see any reason to jump to negative conclusions. I care greatly about a government that is replacing freedom of religion with freedom of sexual expression and the opportunity for creating wealth with the guarantee of national poverty. To that end, David Green is one of my heroes—and his stores don’t need to carry a single Hanuka item for me to acknowledge that he is helping to keep America a blessed haven for all.  

 

New Year Labor Pains

Childbirth is a routine occurrence —until it isn’t. Like marriage and birth; like illness and death, we intellectually know that thousands of people share these events o­n any particular day. Yet, when we are a principal participant, the world shrinks to encompass little more than ourselves. This week begins the year 5774 on the Jewish calendar. Ancient Jewish wisdom tells us that during this period, God decides the fate of mankind for the coming year. Which individuals will be born, which will die; which will have ample resources, which will endure poverty; which nations will face war, which will enjoy peace. While prayer, charity and repentance can always change a bad decree, it is easier to affect the coming year during this time of judgment, rather than to change an edict once it has been issued.

For Jews who are in tune with this reality, preparations for the start of the year begin a month earlier, with added reflection and self-analysis. I daresay that even for those of us who believe implicitly in the importance of this time of year, sustaining this serious attitude while dealing with everyday life is difficult. Summer vacations, earning a living, laundry and the myriad other items that make up our days push deeper contemplation to the edge of our internal radar screens. Even on the first two days of the New Year, the holyday of Rosh HaShana, with its special prayers, foods, and customs, concentration isn’t easy. I have the feeling I am not the only one whose mind strays to scanning the outfits of the women praying next to me and thinking of what is on the luncheon menu despite the penetrating sounds of the shofar issuing their clarion call. I worry that intensity of my praying is a faint echo of those of my grandmother and mother’s.

One year stands out in my mind as a time where I was more in tune than usual. Twenty-five years ago, I was nine months pregnant as the new year began. For me personally, little focuses my mind more than conception, pregnancy and birth. No matter how many statistics show the likelihood of a healthy delivery and a healthy baby, the transition from not being pregnant to being pregnant, and from being pregnant to holding a newborn is momentous. Up until the second of conception, a new baby is an idea. After that second, he or she is a real being with his or her own set of DNA, indelibly mapping out certain details of the new life. For the next nine months, particularly if you hold back from discovering the baby’s gender, the baby slowly becomes more real, yet it is still, “a baby,” rather than “this specific baby.” The blue-eyed, baby girl of your imagination can actually be a brown-eyed boy. The healthy baby one yearns for can be born needing urgent intervention or lifetime medical assistance. While all our lives can be upended at any time, awareness of that volatility hovers over pregnancy.

My labor began during the period known as the “ten days of repentance” that start with Rosh HaShana and culminate with Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement.  It is a time to “walk the talk.” Having started a new year, we have a few days to incorporate our resolutions and prove our intentions before the Book of Life is sealed. As my contractions crested, I was exquisitely aware of needing God’s grace for life to continue, and His blessing for it to include health, peace and prosperity. Unlike my other deliveries, I found myself welcoming the associated pain, praying during each contraction that He would accept this healthy, fruitful pain in place of any other slated for myself or those I love.

My husband and I look forward, with gratitude, to spending this Rosh HaShana with the end product of that particular delivery as well as with her husband and child. I wish all my readers a year filled with abundant blessing and should there be pain, may it be brief and may we see its hidden blessing and link to joy with as much clarity as with the pains of childbirth.

 

If you would like to hear the sounds of the shofar here is a link.

If you are interested in finding out more about this time of the year,
I suggest listening to our audio CD, Day for Atonement.

As Simple As...Challah

I first baked challah (Shabbat bread) as a little girl helping my grandmother. She would give me a small piece of dough to knead, while she worked on the larger portion. Her mound would be shiny and smooth while mine was crumbly and dull looking. Grandma would send me on an errand to the living room and when I returned my piece of dough looked as good as hers. As my skills improved, the errands stopped.

As a young wife, I baked challah for my family and guests, a tradition I have kept up through the years. My challah is usually delicious, but only on occasion do I think it looks as good as it tastes. This means that I am a sucker for braiding techniques and tips (challah is traditionally a braided loaf).

                    *

YouTube has been a tremendous boon, since written or even illustrated instructions for 3, 4 or 6 strand braided loaves tend to be confusing.  With YouTube, I put my computer within sight and try to get an assistant (does my husband really have anything more important to do?)  to hit the pause button as needed so that I can keep pace with the video. I actually can do a pretty decent 6 braided creation at this point, but the quest for the most aesthetically pleasing challah continues.

When someone posted a link to this video (yes, I know that the dialogue is in Hebrew, but it is really more of a ‘show’ than a ‘tell’) presenting a woman producing amazing results with what looked like simple techniques, I was a goner. Sadly, my husband wasn’t available for ‘pause duty’, but I figured that I could watch the sequence four or five times and then copy. Not quite. Trying to follow steps that seemed simple produced some of the least attractive challahs I have ever made.

Isn’t that often true in life? When we do something truly well, whether it is braiding challah, running a business, playing tennis or raising children, people looking from the outside often assume that it is simple for us, possibly even effortless. Does the person telling me, “You’re so lucky that your children help in the kitchen,” truly think that my son and daughters’ skills and desire arose spontaneously? Does the person who resents his neighbor’s salary truly think that the compensation amount is random and unrelated to performance?

I don’t know the baker in the video but I am certain that she has logged many hours perfecting her technique. I think I am on solid ground assuming that she has invested a fair amount of money in basic supplies, sighed over failures and probably even sports a kitchen injury or two. She resisted the temptation of the local bakery, honestly earning her skill set.

When a person, family, business or country seems to function smoothly and naturally, it’s time for us to pay attention and ask what they did right, rather than belittling their persistence and perseverance by intoning luck. Truth be told, while I love baking challah, I am basically happy with my tasty, slightly unsymmetrical loaves.  I would rather devote the hours needed for mastery towards other activities and take pleasure in watching the above video to see the seemingly effortless results of hours of effort.

Is there something in your life for which you labored and struggled, that leads people to comment on how lucky you are?

    *Image copyright Bitsela, used courtesy of www.free-bitsela.com.