My new diet

I confess; I have no idea what to eat.
This is not new. I have now endured four decades of dieting madness and confusion, and I am not alone. Look back with me, on diet wisdom through the ages, circa 1970 to the present.

My first diet memory is of skim milk. This must have been an invention of the 60s, since the doctor recommended to my mother that I be switched from formula to skim milk as an infant. That was in 1963. I don't ever remember seeing whole milk in our house growing up. We also did not eat butter, only margarine. We ate chicken and fish, vegetables and fruit, lean meats, eggs, milk and cereal, pretty normal stuff. We had some junk food, some ice cream, some cookies, and of course, the rare but revered TV dinner.

When in 1972 it was determined on my behalf that I needed to lose weight, I remember the diet plans going into effect: the first was Weight Watchers. WW and I have been in a love-hate relationship ever since. Seriously, it's complicated. Weight Watchers is based on an ever-changing plan that results in the same platitude; eat less. Calorie deprivation is the backbone, though it has grown to reflect current diet wisdom to some extent. At the time, however, it was based on the revolutionary concept of low fat, low calorie, near-starvation living. If you're trying to lose weight, this works. But fast-forward a few weeks/months/years and we know that 95% of those losers will gain the weight back, and then some.

My next childhood diet memory is avoiding sweets. I was not allowed soda, or cookies, or chocolate pudding, or any of the treats my thin sibs (I hate you all) were allowed. This method did not affect my weight, however, so more drastic measures were necessary. It did seem to affect my mood. But that did not seem to be as important as my jeans.

The 70s gave birth to the liquid protein diets. By now I was a teenager and well-versed in deprivation dieting. I don't remember losing weight on those diets, but I do remember they were GROSS.
I spent half my teen years eating almost nothing but salad. Some chicken with no skin, some white, tasteless fish, lots of bean sprouts. Again, there was some concept of "diet food," meaning potatoes were fattening, as were butter and beer, but the overall wisdom was that calorie deprivation was the road to weight loss.

The other staple of my teen years was diet soda. Tab, to be precise. In the pursuit of thinness, there was not a lot of talk about health. Thin was healthy, fat was unhealthy. Tab and other toxic substances that supposedly contributed to thinness were good.

Now, welcome to the 80s. Goobye low carb and hello high carb! Low fat, high carb. That's right, folks: the brown rice diet and the grapefruit diet and more liquid stuff. My mom went off to Pritikin and came back with the Absolutely Nothing diet. Now we're on low protein as well. Oh, and vegetarianism. In 1985 I went to northern California for my graduate degree. News flash! Vegans! So, now I'm eating no meat, no fish, no dairy, no white rice or flour or sugar. My cholesterol tested on the high side, so that meant being more extreme: no fat, no eggs. Cereal boxes started printing "no cholesterol!" on the package. Gee, wouldn't have guessed that.

In 1989 I spent a number of months in third world countries. Didn't eat much of anything other than rice, bananas and tea. There wasn't much food but everyone seemed pretty happy. I seem to remember  losing weight on that diet. I should keep that in mind.

 In the 90s I had three babies, and a fourth in 2001. My priorities shifted from my diet to theirs, so I amped up my calories and nutrition to keep the milk flowing, and you know what? That worked! I wasn't thin, but my babies were well-fed and healthy. At one doctor's appointment I complained about not being able to lose my pregnancy weight, and he actually said, "if you were in a concentration camp, you wouldn't be fat." So that made perfect sense. I was, according to the doctor, to try consuming under 500 calories a day. That seemed reasonable. And sensitive, too.

The years rolled on and still the diet crazes kept coming. By the first decade of the millenium I had tried Atkins (hey, I remember this one!) and South Beach (gained weight on both of those, and nearly lost my gall bladder), more liquid stuff like Herbalife (has anyone noticed it tastes like snot? Oh, and I'm starving) and about five more tries at WW.

I've recently been getting a fitness blog in my email box every week, and the hot, buff trainer who writes it says I should be eating grass-fed meat and whole fat dairy products and whole eggs and his outrageously expensive supplements. Did this guy miss the 80s? Oh, right, he was a toddler.

My neighbor gave me a book this week that says essentially the whole history of cardiology got it all wrong. Not low fat, high fat. Carbs are bad, protein and fat are good. Sugar is very bad. Eat butter.
And what about soy? Is it good or bad? I hear wine is on the chopping block now. Two weeks ago it prevented heart disease. But yes, I know, alcohol is a carb. Damn. How about coffee? Good? Bad? And chocolate? Yes? No?

Are you as confused as I am?
If so, try this; I've invented my own diet regimen; joy. I'm going to eat food that I like. Food that tastes good, has as few ingredients as possible and remembers where it came from. I'm going to eat food that makes me happy, because I think happiness makes us healthy. Mae West once said, "Irish coffee has all the food groups: fat, alcohol, sugar and caffeine." I'm thinking of making that my next diet.

Missing Benjy

My childhood sweetheart is fighting for his life. While it is true that we have not spoken in many years, I have thought of him countless times, silently and sincerely wishing him success, love and joy in his life. Benjy and I were once in love... at age 12. For those of you who may not have been lucky enough to experience a young love such as this, let me tell you, there is nothing that compares to it. The innocence of that love, the intensity of feeling and the absolute absence of a future rarely survives the transition into adulthood, even into adolescence. And though we did date a bit on and off in high school and college, our relationship never lost the foothold that was firmly rooted in childhood.

Fast forward about 37 years, I have my life in Jerusalem and four children, he has his in Florida and three children. I learned a few days ago that he, like his sisters and mother, suffers from a genetic immunosuppressive disease that makes him vulnerable to infection and certain cancers. Benjy will turn 50 in December. He has already outlived his mother and sisters.

I feel a great deal of sadness and grief for this family I grew up with. When I contemplate the likelihood that the world will lose this great man, scientist, teacher, and damn good tennis player it is no less than tragic. But here, in this city on the edge I call my home, I live in a world where eternity is a given.

I learned from friends and parents of victims of terror that the loss of a child can result in the healing of thousands, and that the world of the spirit is a hair's breadth away. I learned from a trip to Poland that the modern state of Israel is a phoenix, born out of ashes to live again in splendor. I learn every day that death is not a choice, but fear - that is a choice. 

Two weeks ago I stumbled upon a magnificent book, "Many Lives, Many Masters," by Dr. Brian Weiss. Published in 1988, this was a groundbreaking work by a reputable psychiatrist who, while treating a patient for an anxiety disorder with hypnosis, accidentally regressed her to a past life. The book relates Weiss's treatment spanning several months and about 12 of the 86 lifetimes Catherine had lived. Unbeknownst to Dr. Weiss, the transmigration of souls is actually a mainstream Jewish belief; we are, after all, the only religion based on national, not individual revelation. The Kabbalistic notion that we were all at Mount Sinai has become so mainstream that there is a popular dating site called sawyouatsinai.com. So, do I believe that souls are eternal? Absolutely. Do I believe that every lifetime provides us with myriad opportunities for spiritual lessons and growth? Yes. I also have come to understand that death is not final, but temporary; by allowing ourselves to have an ongoing relationship with the spiritual dimension, we gain access to limitless tools for managing loss and grief.

I am also certain that, just as "Catherine" recognized people from her current lifetime in every other life she revisited, so too are those I have connected to most deeply the souls I have cycled with before.

So, Benjy, do not be afraid. Those of us who have loved you in this lifetime, those of us who have benefited from your kindness and wisdom and still have so much more to learn from you, we will see you again very soon.  I will pray for you that the next time be a little easier.

I think I am, therefore I am

There is a thread going around Facebook today commenting that, in a drop-down menu showing a list of countries, Facebook excludes Israel but includes Palestine. I've certainly encountered the conspicuous absence of Israel on lists such as this one, but I've never actually seen this combination. While the deletion of Israel, my current country of residence is indeed disturbing for many obvious reasons, I am no less disturbed by the commentary this post generated.

The theme? "Palestine does not exist!"

Says who?

If I'm not mistaken, Palestine in fact existed only a half a century ago. It was then, in the UN vote to partition, divided into Israel and Transjordan. Obviously the proponants of the "Palestine does not exist" campaign do not mean exactly that. In fact I believe they mean something far more disturbing; that a people does not have the right to self-determination.

Now, hold your horses. Let me say this clearly: no one has the right to ask ME to self-destruct on their way to selfhood. I am not going to give away my homeland, not going to compromise the security of my borders, not going to knowingly arm my enemies against me. I do not believe this is an "us" or "them" situation. You may say that's exactly what "they" believe. Well, maybe so. But that can not affect my core belief system.

At the very center of my existence as an Israeli Jew is this very act of self-determination. One may present a series of proofs for Israel's right to exist, including Biblical ownership, the age-old right of conquer, political consensus, blah blah blah. Ultimately what makes me Israeli is my decision to be one. As a Jew, it's apparently my birthright. Says who? Says me. My people carry with us a narrative describing our arrival to and settlement of this Land. We've been banished, we've returned, a few times over. We have not always had a sovereign government. We have not always had a population majority. We have not always had a foothold. And yet, the longing to return has never budged from our liturgy, the soundtrack of our historical and cultural narrative.

So, when another people, albeit living not-so-peacefully beside me have a similar narrative, who are we to deny it? They can call themselves whatever they like. They can call their land whatever they want to. They can write their own narrative on their way to self-determination. The only issue that concerns me at all is that NONE OF THIS CAN BE AT MY EXPENSE. And this is where Facebook and I have a problem. "Israel" and "Palestine" should BOTH be on the list. The Palestinian narrative can not include my destruction, just as my narrative can not be predicated on denying another's right to self-determination. I know how I feel when I see "Israel" deleted from the map or excluded from a list of countries. Anyone who advocates for that exact behavior toward another people can only have one name: hypocrite.

What is the IMPACT?

This post may be a little overdue, but in the year and a half since I completed an "IMPACT" self-defense course for women, there have been some interesting developments. IMPACT is a phenomenon in itself; developed in the US in the 1970s, this short and intensive rape-prevention course is designed to teach women the basic skills they need to fend off sexual assault. There are many things that make the method unique, the most obvious of which is the presence of real live attackers in the classroom. Of course, they aren't real rapists, they are burly young men dressed up in protective gear, men who believe in teaching women to help prevent rape. Women learn to yell "NO!" kick the groin, gouge the eyes, disable the attacker and call for help. The attackers let the women know if they have hit hard enough. If not, try again. The attacker won't fall until the impact is forceful enough.
And there we have it, folks, the metaphor I've been reaching for.
This week, El Halev martial arts' center, IMPACT's only provider in Israel opened a new course in Wadi Joz, one of Jerusalem's Arab neighborhoods. This is not the first course El Halev has provided to Wadi Joz, but it is the first IMPACT course in Wadi Joz in which my daughter, writer and blogger Liora Sophie is assisting.
After I completed IMPACT, both of my daughters signed up for courses. One has gone on to become an assistant and is on her way to becoming an instructor. The other daughter has sent many of her friends to take the course. I can see how it has affected them; they have a clearer sense of boundaries, more body awareness, are more sensitive to language or situations in which they feel uncomfortable or threatened. And of course, they feel they have more tools to deal with these situations.
At the mall buying rain boots, we saw a man, woman and child having a public scene. It was not immediately obvious what the relationship was among them, but all the onlookers, store employees and customers alike were uncomfortable. My daughter was all over it, ready to intervene. She had the words "Is this man bothering you?" on her lips when the situation was diffused.
This is an example of the extended reach of IMPACT; not only is she, a young, single woman empowered with tools to defend herself, she is also a vigilant, aware and powerful tool for the defense of others. The more women we empower, the safer the larger society becomes until rape and sexual harrassment become impossible.
According to Jill Baker Shames, director of IMPACT in Israel, this is what we are doing in Wadi Joz and other Arab communities:
"Granted, the statistics are vague due to lack of reporting, but, what we have heard from service providers inside these communities, sexual harrassment and rape are serious issues affecting a large percentage of women in the Arab world."
So I am proud of my daughter and the rest of the IMPACT staff who go to Wadi Joz and other Arab neighborhoods for the sole purpose of strengthening a society. I have no doubt that when the impact is forceful enough, the attacker will fall.
Oh, and one more thing. When a van full of Israeli men and women arrived in Wadi Joz to teach Arab women self-defense, WHERE WAS CNN?

On Disappointment and Miracles

Five days from now my Jerusalem theater company is opening one of the best plays of all time, "The Miracle Worker" by William Gibson. I admit I have been brooding all day about the fact that we have sold NO tickets for opening night. There are several groups of high school students booked for later performances, and one night is even sold out, but still, the cast has worked too hard to open to an empty theater. I imagine most people don't think about how important it is to the actors to have a friendly opening night audience, they are likely just waiting for the play to improve later in the run.

As I sit here brooding, I can't help but think I'm to blame. After all, things could have gone differently. The theater could have been full of my friends. But it won't be. Now, the truth is, all modesty aside, I'm a friendly person. I've always had a lot of friends, and I try to be a good and attentive one. I have lived in a small suburban community for the last 12 years. Yes, I'm a bit fringy for such a conservative place, but I like it here well enough, at least I did until I separated from my husband. When my parents were divorced in 1971 my mother told me she lost all of her friends. I find that horrifying and shameful. Today, I find it something else as well; familiar.

Now, before I start my rant, I want to gratefully acknowledge those friends who have stuck by me, you know who you are. In fact one just called to say she's excited to see the play, one of her favorites. But still, as I count on one hand the friends who have even called, written, Facebooked, etc in the last six months, it's pathetically few.

I know a marriage on the rocks can be threatening. I know the specific circumstances are painful and confusing. I know people are people and most can't help judging. But really, folks. This is the year 2011. Have we not evolved in 40 years? In a time when the majority, yes, the majority of marriages will end in divorce, I'm still confused as to why we call it tragic. Shouldn't we just be calling it "normal," as it is clearly the NORM??? There are certainly issues to deal with, children to protect, logistics to work out, overwhelming feelings of sadness, grief, anger, disappointment, hopelessness, the list could go on. But these can also exist in the context of an intact marriage. There are many things to consider, yes, but one thing a separation is not, and that is contagious.

Hence my disappointment in my community. I have heard the gossip, and some kids have been forbidden to play at my house. It makes me sick. What would they prefer? That I stay in unbearable conditions so they will feel less threatened? Sorry, no can do.

The fact is, I doubt most of my real friends feel that way. I am willing to bet most of them simply have not thought about it. I'm fairly certain most people are just busy with their own lives and don't have time or energy to spare, let alone reach out to a friend who is suffering. I'm sure they don't even know I'm suffering. If they did, being decent people, they would not behave this way.

And herein lies the problem. I'm an eternal optimist. I am hard-wired to see the best in everyone. I never give up hope. I never stop believing that people are capable of so much more than they know, more compassion, more insight, more love, more openness, more acceptance, more humanness. I just never stop believing this.

Like someone else I know, and her name was Annie Sullivan. Annie Sullivan (1866-1936) came to live with the Keller family when she was 20 years old. Orphaned as a child, she was raised in a state Almshouse, not a pretty picture. She was blinded by untreated trachoma, but her sight was restored after a number of surgeries. When she arrived at the Keller plantation, Helen, then 7 years old had been blind and deaf for five years. Sullivan dedicated her life to teaching Helen to navigate the world. In the two weeks depicted in the play, when everyone else has all but given up reaching Helen, Annie never gives up hope. She asks Helen and her family to "see" her in a different light, and in the end, she succeeds in unlocking the brilliant mind trapped within the child. It is an astounding story of courage and hope. And in my own way, I feel a great deal like Annie. I also ask people around me to "see" with different eyes, to look beyond the world they know, to see through the darkness of judgement and into the light of acceptance and unconditional love.

Becoming Responsible

My son, Avishai celebrated his bar mitzvah this past week. He is a pretty serious kid and approached this whole process with characteristic seriousness. I couldn't help feeling incredibly proud of him as he performed a series of "firsts," tefillin, leading prayer services, reading from the Torah, etc. In the scheme of things, though these rituals require a great deal of discipline and skill, they are only building blocks in the real essence of bar mitzvah, becoming a responsible adult member of society. This act of becoming responsible is somewhat abstract. While our sages have handed down extensive and detailed discussion on the care of slaves, beasts of burden, lost and found items and even dead bodies, there isn't much guidance for a boy in the seventh grade to go on.

This is where things get mysterious. Parenting is a bit like planting grass. You scatter the seeds, and you hope for the best. The seedlings are exposed to many influences, most of which are beyond our control. How do we know what our kids take in? We don't. Particularly during the ever-annoying dance called "adolescence," we are showered with a great deal of attitude and, if we are lucky, blessed with an occasional glimpse of greatness.

Enter: Avishai. A few weeks ago he came home from school and asked if we could talk a little. I poured a cup of coffee and prepared to sit with him in the kitchen. "I mean, in your office."

Avishai: "There is a boy in my class who is, well, kind of awkward, and other kids pick on him. I was hoping you could give me some ideas, ways I could, you know, reach out to him."

Me: "Hunh?"

Ok, so I didn't exactly say "hunh," but that is pretty much what I was thinking for a solid 30 seconds. Then I regained my composure and came up with a few strategies he might try. The next day he came home and reported that he had done what we talked about and it all went very well. This boy has been to our home since and seems to be responding to Avishai's outreach.

Now, you could say my kids come by this kind of thing naturally. I'm something of a collector of people who need extra love, as is my mother. When we were teenagers it was not unusual for us to come home from school to find some stray sleeping in one of our beds. Following in this great tradition, I have tried to establish a home which is open and welcoming to everyone, and some of them look pretty weird. I have been taken to task for exposing my young children to weirdos, like the pierced and tattooed teens, some of whom are followed by a cloud of marijuana smoke like the "Pigpen" guy from Peanuts. But people are people and love is love and there's no way around the responsibility to also love those who may seem less lovable at first glance.

Back to the bar mitzvah boy. We had a great party in his honor last night. My husband spoke about Avishai's effort to reach out to this kid who had been picked on. The kid was present, as were a number of the perpetrators. It was a little tense there for a few moments, then it passed and we had music and margaritas well into the morning hours.

Tonight, Avishai finally told us what happened. After the speech, the picked-on kid took Avishai aside and said, "you changed my life." If that wasn't enough, one of the bullies also took him aside and said, "you were right. I was wrong to pick on this kid."

I was speechless. And for me, that's saying something. Sometimes we get lucky in the guessing-game of parenting, sometimes we get to enjoy the fruit of our labor. For me, this was a quintessential parenting moment. So, as much as my heart swells when I see my son, now taller than me, performing an ancient ritual with passion and joy, I am moved beyond words when he takes responsibility for another human soul.

Mazal tov, Avishai. I am so proud to be your mother.

The Shoes Pull the Whole Thing Together

My world has recently been divided into three parts: Those who like the shoes, those who hate the shoes, and those who hate the shoes but are polite enough not to tell me. I respect all three categories, but I'm telling you now, the shoes are here to stay.

Now, a word about the shoes; they are a bit, well, wild. They are hand-made Italian clogs covered in a pastel flowery design. They are a great deal like me, colorful, complex, a little outrageous, comfortable, constantly evoking a strong reaction. As much as I am not materialistic by nature, not interested in fashion at all and rarely moved by a pair of shoes, I fell instantly in love with these. My sister, Amy, however, was not in love. She is a very sharp dresser with excellent, albeit conservative taste. She took in my unbridled enthusiasm for the shoes and gave me a deadpan, "really."

It was an important moment in my life. I didn't care what she thought, I had to have those shoes! I grew up in a large family. We are five children in as many years. That may not sound like a lot now, but back then we were only one less than the Brady Bunch. We also had a single mother and no live-in maid. We essentially raised each other, and for better or worse, spent a great deal of time and energy in each other's business. As adults, while we have gone in many directions and no longer share one bathroom (!), we still care what our siblings think.

So the shoes, my love for the shoes and my sister's poorly concealed disapproval of the shoes caused a major psychological shift for me. I don't just love these shoes, I AM these shoes! As I walked out of the shoe store I realized that my life was forever changed. This is the beginning of a new era for me. As a woman in my 40s I have nothing to lose by embracing my unique qualities, not only loving and accepting my total self, but "wearing" my essence proudly. I realize that this might offend some people. I understand that being comfortable with zaftig body, embracing my femininity, accepting my shortcomings and wearing these ridiculous shoes might embarrass some of you out there, but to me there is no alternative. I will no sooner let the whimsy of fashion dictate my footwear than the fears of others dictate my choices. The shoes may fit comfortably in a box, but I do not. There is no paradigm forgiving or spacious enough to contain all of what I believe, think or feel.

I wake up every day, put a smile on my face and slide my feet into the shoes. As I look down I feel a great sense of inner peace descend. Brace yourselves, I am an empowered being.