I am so messed up about identity these days.

I know that saying something like that out loud is risky in today’s climate.

But to be honest, I also don’t feel like I have as much at stake within the Jewish community as many of my friends and colleagues.

Living a life mostly on the Jewish margins has given me a different view of things. I understand, after getting to know other Jews, that many of my friends grew up in the comfortable center of Jewish life, with synagogue membership, religious school, Jewish summer camp and homes located on neighborhoods that were predominantly Jewish. Who wouldn’t feel clearer and more secure about their Jewish identity, and their place in the world, as a result of all that?

Growing up as I did in working class neighborhoods, in schools were I was often the only Jewish kid and, for a year in middle school, was bullied specifically for being Jewish, even as I felt removed from Jewish communal life and had little knowledge of Jewish history and no sense of Jewish connection. My parents did nothing to instill Jewish “pride” in me and my sister — indeed, the emotion of pride was reserved for one’s accomplishments, not for identity. There was some vague vibe connected to Zionism where my mother was concerned, but the only time I ever got a glimpse of it was when terrorists invaded the 1972 Munich Olympics and murdered Israeli athletes. Mom sat in front of our TV set and cried. She could not explain her tears to me, nor did she expect me to feel as she did. I was horrified that anyone would sully the Olympics that way, regardless of whom was a harmed or killed. I saw it universally. I would have been horrified no matter who had died. She took it personally, Jewishly, in a way I could not understand or claim for myself.

At age nine, I did not stop to ponder that she might feel lonely in her Jewish grief. We were, after all, uninvolved in Jewish community at the time.

It’s strange to find myself in a similar space, but on the opposite end of things.

I do not feel specifically Jewish grief. Growing up as I did, left to my own devices emotionally and philosophically by hands-off parents, how could I? I see this as a universal tragedy, as horrible as when the  Tutsis and Hutus were at war in Rwanda. My parents didn’t drill the Holocaust into me as some “special” kind of suffering or hardship; while it was specifically Jewish and horrible, it would have been worse for many more people, Jewish or not, if Hitler had won. 

I know that this sounds crazy to anyone who was raised Jewish, or who chose Judaism and embraced a love of Israel with the fervor of a convert. I get that. But I continue to feel a detachment from the whole thing, an overwhelming desire NOT to embrace this too personally. I was bullied for all sorts of reasons growing up and very often my Judaism had nothing to do with it. (Kids can smell weird a mile off, and they’ve always been able to.)

I feel weird, more than anything else.

Right now, I am equally repelled by the pro-Palestine crowd and the pro-Israel crowd. I feel I have no place among either. I feel repelled by the vehemence of the emotions at play, the violence of feeling, evident in the crowds on both sides. And I am not a violent human being. Having been bullied, I shy away from aggression.

So when I read, and reread, Frederick Foer’s cover article in the April issue of The Atlantic a couple of days ago about the decline of Jewish safety in America, I felt myself at something of a remove again. I understand the importance of Israel’s existence intellectually, but I do not feel strong emotions of connection and love for Israel on a personal level. 

I have held too many uncomfortable questions in my head about the origins of Israel statehood, and the displacement that was sadly necessary for it to come about. Was it really necessary? Did the world’s Jews have any other options, in a world where other nations did not want to take them in? 

At the same time, I can only shake my head at the repeated refusals of the Arab states that controlled the Palestinians to discuss sharing the land. Neither side has wanted to talk for a very long time, and far too many who are really invested in this endless conflict seem to want it to go on. 

All I know is that, when Jews in the United States stand together to sing “Hatikvah,” I am uncomfortable in my heart of hearts and almost always have been. Israel is someone’s, but it is not mine and has never been. If America is also not mine (for another set of reasons), it may well resonate with my discomfort at nationalism in general. It is hard enough to stand tall for a country that treats women like second-class citizens — still! — and came up with “don’t ask, don’t tell” as a workaround for queer equality. I can barely handle being tribal, let alone nationalist. The total stuff of who I am — my history, my brain, my orientation and my sex — have long pointed me towards another way. And while it has been a lonely way, at least it’s honest. I’m not sure how willing I am to trade that honesty for a community in which to belong, especially if the stakes for belonging are so fraught with assumptions on what makes a good this or that.

After reading this article, I feel like I’m lousy at being all sorts of individual, specific identities these days. I feel the separation that comes with clinging to an identity at the expense of being able to live in the whole world. I have loved living a Jewishly oriented life, but I also chafe at the constraints that it places on my ability to be fully in the rest of the world. I can pick and choose, like people often do. The result has been that I still don’t fully belong in — or fully relate with — any of them. 

Perhaps that’s normal for all human beings and I just feel it much more deeply. Perhaps my peripatetic youth laid the groundwork for a life where I would always question so much about the way we conduct ourselves in the world. In the end, it may not matter. I simply don’t know right now.

Vaguebook

It is hard to know how I’ll move forward without being able to work. It’s hard to know who I will be.

A good friend called me out of the blue to say hi and see how I’ve been doing. It was lovely talking with him. And it inspired me to take stock online of who my friends actually are.

I went to my Facebook account, and looked at all my “friends “ there. Now, I do understand that there are algorithms involved, and those control what I see from my Facebook friends. But I also know that if a FB friend wants to contact me, there’s nothing preventing them from doing so. 

So I took a long, hard look at my “friends” list. I noted the names of people on that list who were there for professional reasons, but whom had never interacted with me on the platform. And I deleted — “un-friended” — nearly all of those names. 

This removed over 150 names from my “friends “ list. People who may have been professional contacts, but who were never actually my friends. 

Deleting these names brought me no real sadness. Instead, I was surprised at the relief I felt. Just as I’ve been letting go of professional goals I will now not realize, I’m letting go of names that have been, largely, only that.

I’m still sad about not being able to play guitar, of course, and I probably will be for quite some time. 

But I understand that I cannot sustain the energy, the hustle or the professional persona needed to do this work anymore. So letting go of these names is a part of the bigger letting go, the time of making space for whatever is meant to come in next.

So I remain in the bardo for awhile longer. 

To be awkward is to be authentic.

Passover is a little crazy for me this year.

I’m struggling for meaning.

I’m struggling for relevance.

Everything feels up for question right now, for many personal and global reasons.

I’m grateful for my beloveds, who are holding me in ths moment when I lack clarity.

I’m grateful for the beautiful green world, the a sweet affection of our cats, and the calm blessing of living on a quiet street.

I’m blessed to be able to spin my legs on a bicycle, to bask in the sounds of music and to rest when I am tired.

And I am grateful for a message I’d scrawled in my notebook a few years ago when still in the deep dark of the pandemic, which has come back to remind me now that I can only be where I am:

To be awkward is to be authentic.

So I am sitting in my awkwardness ths Passover, missing pieces and skipping over that which I cannot find relevant and paying attention to my body and heart a lot more deeply. I am sitting with the cognitive dissonance that comes from being tribal, and clinging to the hope that comes from being human, and if this is all I can do, it will be enough.

Wishng all my friends who celebrate a zissen Pesach — a sweet Passover.

In the bardo

I read something today that suggests I’m in the bardo, a place between phases of life, a waiting place.

It’s scary. It’s full of unknown. 

And I don’t know how to live with the unknown.

I am losing so much right now — my most of my music making, my ability earn a living, my physical vitality, and really a strong sense of myself. I don’t know who the fuck I AM right now, and it’s terrifying.

I’m living in this void while the world around me continues to move along with the functions and rituals I used to look forward to with delight. Today, they feel empty and pointless. I am SO filled with sadness and loneliness and disorientation that all I want to do is sleep or cry, with moments of functionality (like cleaning house or doing laundry) in between.

I know that I’m not being a great partner to my Sweetie right now, and I’m sure it’s no fun for her while she is working so hard to support us both. 

I’ve tried going back to things that I used to enjoy greatly, like bicycle-oriented socializing, but they don’t fill me nearly as deeply now. I know that physical activity has s good for my moods, but I cannot do it consistently when my hands hurt so much and so often. I don’t understand what is going on and I don’t know how to deal with it.

I’m in the bardo, a place where, according to Wikipedia:

“ Metaphorically, bardo can be used to describe times when the usual way of life becomes suspended, as, for example, during a period of illness or during a meditation retreat. Such times can prove fruitful for spiritual progress because external constraints diminish. However, they can also present challenges because our less skillful impulses may come to the foreground, just as in the sidpa bardo.”

I feel like I went into the bardo during the Covid lockdown, fighting like hell on the way down, and have only recently sunk all the way into it. I can’t fight anymore, but I don’t know how to be still. I don’t know how to be still and receive whatever I’m meant to receive and all can do is flail.

How much of this is waiting for the new meds to take effect? How much of this is the unmasked ADHD? How much is depression which isn’t responding to whatever drugs I’m on? How much of this is autoimmune illnesses overlapping and compounding each other? I keep thinking that if I knew the sources of all this, the intersections and everything, I could pick one thing and start there. But all I keep coming up with is sadness, depression and occasionally wishing I could just die already. Because living like this, sick and slow and unable to physically work my shit out because everything hurts, unable to work it out through music because I can’t fucking play instruments without hurting, and honestly I don't know what my life is FOR right now. And I don’t know how much longer I can live this way.

Why?

I’m quick-cleaning the house for guests, to gather and celebrate a festival of freedom in which I don’t feel especially free.

What am I even doing this for?

I and the world feel so broken these days.

There is no one to give me the kind of comfort and reassurance I need so badly right now, and I cannot self-hug and self-love my way to finding it.

I feel useless to my Sweetie, who is working so hard to keep us housed and together and who is herself exhausted by it all, and surely by me as well.

Everything feels so hard right now.

Why would I want to make it harder by observing Passover?

And yet, here I am.

I have no more responses about Israel right now. Because fuck.

Iran fired missiles on Israel last night, supposedly as retaliation for Israel firing on the Iranian embassy in Syria, which may have been in retaliation for support Iran has lent to Hamas and Hezbollah against Israel.
Nearly all the missiles were intercepted by Israel, the US or Jordan.

It's new because it's the first time Iran has ever fired on Israel directly.
It's old because Iran has funded other anti-Israel groups for years, and will continue to do so going forward.
It's really, really old because Israel was established in the midst of an otherwise hostile, Arab Middle East.
I know it probably had to be at the time. A third of the world's Jews had been murdered in WW2, and almost no other country wanted the remaining Jews to settle within their borders, so they had to go somewhere. Why not the land of Jewish biblical history? It made sense. A lot more sense than, say, Uganda. (Really, Herzl? Uganda?)

Unless you already lived there, and had to be moved aside to make room for so many refugees.

And this conundrum, this unbreakable Gordian knot, is why there will never be peace in the Middle East. Not in my lifetime, or in yours, or in your children's.

Sorry.

Forgive me while I struggle to find the purpose of praying for something that will never come about.

Forgive me for a lifetime of detachment that has effectively prevented me from buying into the whole story.

Forgive me for going small and inward just now. I am one of zillions who is fully aware of just how fucked we are, and how little any of us little people can realistically change the outcome.

All I can do is right here in my little corner of the world.

And God? What, even?
God didn't save the six million.
I am not convinced that God can save us now.
Is that because God isn't real, or because we didn't live up to the image of Godliness we've sold ourselves for millennia?
I don't know.
But right now, all I can really trust is other people close to me.
And whether or not that will be enough may not matter in the end.
It just has to be enough to keep me sane, that's all.
So I will love my people, my beloveds.
Not all of them are Jewish, and in the end that doesn't matter.

Love your people. Do it.

It won't save any of us from death, and it won't make the world more peaceful in the long run; but it will make our lives more tolerable in the times of despair and more beautiful in the moments of grace.

And at this point, that will have to be enough.

Because WTF, even.

This is just how crazy things can be in the world today, in any ten-minute span of time.

5:20 pm — nice lady whom I don’t know knocks on the door, smiles and hands me a nicely boxed piece of special matzoh, made in Israel and courtesy of the local Chabad house. She wishes me a happy Passover. I thank her, and wish her a sweet Shabbat.

5:25 pm — a FB contact that I know through the drumming world sends me a message. A few years ago, I mistakenly sent this guy a message meant for another of my friends who is Jewish. I apologized for the goof and he said it was all good.

I hadn’t heard from this guy since, and we’re not FB friends. 

The unsolicited message is a video that contains disturbing, graphic images of the suffering in Gaza, with a voiceover by Democracy Now! Host Amy Goodman.

**Both of these things came unsolicited.**

One was someone offering me a joyous gift and friendly greeting.

The other was someone who thought sending me graphic images of violence — timed just before Shabbat — was a good idea.

After my head stopped spinning, I blocked the guy who sent the video. 

Because WTF, even.

What IS Judaism to me in this moment? What is IDENTITY?

Why am I Jewish? 

What IS Judaism to me in this moment?

What am I here for right now?

I wish I knew.

Hamas attacked Israel and I got my ADHD diagnosis the same day, last October 7.

And everything — I mean absolutely EVERYTHING — has been called into question ever since.

Is Israel “my” place, any more than New York supposedly once was? Do I have a soul, or is that something humans made up because dying scares us shitless? Is there actually a God, or is that made up too? Do Jewish people have a special “task” or “mission” in this life, or is that part and parcel of the exceptionalist myth that’s been used to prop up Jewish life, perhaps beyond the point of common sense? Is everything Jewish that I’ve done in my life colored by a layer of fear and marginalization that renders it all less than fully authentic now? 

Should the State of Israel have been established when, where and how it was? Could it have come about any other way, or were we backed into a corner, forced to choose between survival and destruction? What about the people who were already living there? Why couldn’t they have stayed, either in a state of their own or in a new shared state of coexistence? Was it ever going to be possible to crawl out from under the thumbs of control on both sides? Should Israel exist where and how it does today? Is there any alternative?

We’re all going to die someday. Does being Jewish just mean I risk dying sooner and more violently? If we’re all going to die anyway, does it even matter? And if we’re all going to die anyway, why should any of us see ourselves as exceptional? Does that make us somehow more worthy of consideration, of favor, of saving? Saving from what? And who gets to be saved? Only the ones with the means to travel and the passports to go where they want to go? And should it matter when the whole world feels like it’s on fire anyway?

I honestly don’t know anymore. 

Learning that I have not just a different brain chemistry, but a different brain construction, a different brain design, has forced me to reexamine almost everything I’ve held dear. It has compelled me to wonder how legitimate everything I’ve done up to now has really been. And it forces me to ask, what am I here for?

One thing that I have learned is that our exceptionalism won’t save us. And I fear that we cling to that exceptionalism at the expense of our humanity. 

And if all of that doesn’t mess a human being up, nothing else will.

I have largely avoided getting too deep into the fray, the pointed argument of who deserves to exist more. I made some missteps early on, then realized my error and basically extricated myself from the argument. Because on the one hand, I’m a pacifist, committed to doing as little harm to others and to the earth as I possibly can. And on the other hand, I have no control over how the argument will be resolved. And on the other hand after that, humans are still animals, with a compulsion toward strife and an impulse toward survival that will never be fully bred out of us. 

Along with the rest of the natural world, we human possess tooth and claw; and what sets us apart from other animals is our willingness to get carried away with using those weapons. 

The best anyone can do is to reduce one’s own compulsion to a more neutral level, and in so doing harm fewer people and other animals along the way.

Fighting for the survival of a specific identity seems to miss the point. Evolution takes care of a lot of that survival without my help. 

So in the end. I am left wondering what my life is for. And before anyone offers words of comfort or a persuasion that I’m already doing what I’m here to do, a great deal of what I’ve been done has been halted by my current medical conditions. I cannot do most of what I’ve been doing up til now. So, while I watch so many quarters of humanity scream and claw and kill each other to prolong their own survival, I’m left wondering what my task is now. And if I can figure it out, how do I implement it with the tools available to me?

I honestly don’t know. And while I am still deep in my time of grief, grief over all that has transpired in my life without sufficient self-knowledge to cushion the blows, it will be quite some time before I can arrive at an answer.

For now, all I can do is feel my feelings whenever they arise, and give myself time and space while I do it.

When you love your friends but can’t stand the rules (this is a long one).

I “married into” my synagogue community in late 2002 because my partner was a longtime member, and because we’d made some really beautiful friends there. And for quite a long time, maybe a decade, it worked well. The community was small enough to be agile and spontaneous, while still having a system of leadership that made room for questions and opposing points of view to be held at the same time.

The rabbi was a thoughtful, compassionate human being who loved learning, loved music and fought for justice.

The community did not have a cantor or music director, and that was a conscious choice on the part of the founding families, sustained by leadership over the years. They wanted the musicians to be members who volunteered their time to select music and lead services for the community, because the community was founded upon the ideals of collectivism and volunteerism. At the time, only the rabbi and the education director were paid. Leadership was shared between a Steering committee and the rabbi.

As the community grew over the years, Steering approved the addition of a paid office manager, and some years later a Program Director (which in other synagogues would be called an Executive Director, but this community felt language was important and did not want to give too much administrative power away, so Program Director it was, and is).

It was also decided that lead musicians, who were being asked to do more with planning and leading music on Shabbat and holidays, ought to be paid a little something for that extra work; and that the community had grown large enough that some kind of music leadership was called for. So the Steering Committee created an art time position called the Music Coordinator. They posted a job description online, and. I was approached personally and asked to apply. 

I went ahead and applied, even though my music career as a touring artist was just getting off the ground. Who knew? Maybe this job would pay enough that I could reduce my touring greatly in favor of more local work. I was quickly disabused of such notions at the interview. The hiring committee admitted, when pressed, that it had not written a job description. (“We hope you would write it for us as you went along,” one committee member told me, “but we can only pay you for ten hours a month so you’d have to do everything needed within that amount of time.”) Further, when I asked for the chain of communication — an important thing in a cooperative organization — none of the hiring committee could answer me. Finally, when I asked how much musical autonomy the Music Coordinator would have, they got annoyed.

I left the interview hoping desperately that they’d choose someone else, which they eventually did.

If I had to summarize how things went after the Music Coordinator was hired, I’d have to say that music at the shul floundered under her leadership because she was being required to do the job with one hand tied behind her back; and she was not the type to make waves, which I suspect is exactly what the Steering Committee was looking for in the first place. 

During her tenure of seven years, several things happened:

— the community grew by leaps and bounds, one of only two synagogues in Portland to show such growth while others were shrinking. 

— some musicians were getting older and no longer as interested or available to commit to leading service music on a regular basis. I asked Steering committee members repeatedly if we could talk about how we might recruit younger members to learn how to lead, so that the remaining handful of aging music leaders would feel as burdened, but no one was interested in having those discussions with me. I also asked about bringing more music into the religious school, a parent-taught model with an Education Director who was not keen on having more music during the limited religious school time. 

— I was touring more, and therefore less available to make music at home. My name and my music were slowly becoming more recognized as I landed artist residencies across the country, even while I could not find Jewish gigs near home.

— the stipend that music leaders had been paid for coordinating the monthly Shabbat service was suspended by Steering, because half of the Steering Committee apparently hadn’t known we were being paid. (It was a hundred bucks a month, not a fortune but for someone living close to the ground it helped a lot.) 

— the rabbi felt that lead musicians ought to be paid, so he began paying them from his discretionary fund instead, until Steering found out and ordered him to stop. Since the rabbi had already announced his intention to retire, he didn’t make a fuss.

— the community hired a new rabbi. It took multiple postings of the job in order to attract enough resumes, because few rabbis wanted to have to share so much of their leadership with a committee. In the end, we got three resumes. One candidate pulled out before her visit, another had his visit and everything was okay until we discovered that he couldn’t read Hebrew fluently, and the third candidate had his visit fall during a bad winter storm that kept a significant number of members away that weekend. 

The third candidate also leaned heavily into Jewish Renewal practices like meditation, chanting and contemplation, which made him a hit with the older generation of former hippies who constituted the majority of members at the time — and who possessed the most social capital in the community. The third candidate was chosen by the Steering Committee and confirmed by a vote of the congregation, a vote which required members to be physically present to participate in. Since I was out of town at a Shabbaton that weekend and no one could vote electronically, I did not participate in the vote. And it wouldn't have made a difference. 

— the outgoing rabbi was given a wonderful, loving sendoff that I was happily able to participate in. The new rabbi, a lovely human fellow with a gentle demeanor, was warmly welcomed into the community. 

— the Steering committee sent out an announcement that, going forward, everyone would be expected to donate their gifts and skills as part of their expected participation in the synagogue community. They also sent a few longtime musicians out to interview all the other musicians individually, to find out how the synagogue could best support their efforts. When they came to talk with me, I restated my ideas about more actively recruiting among younger members, offering trainings for new music leaders, and bringing more music into the religious school so that kids could be invited to consider taking on musical roles in the community as they got older. I also said that I thought we needed professional music leadership to coordinate all of this, and that this person needed to be empowered to make musical decisions and they needed to be paid appropriately for their expertise and for their work. My concerns fell, predictably, on deaf ears.

— during this time, I met a few times with one of the co-Presidents of the congregation to discuss my music ideas and concerns. In response, she said that she loved my music, and saw my giving of my music as no different than a lawyer who might donate pro bono work to the community. I gently explained to her that a lawyer who earns a salary and benefits can well afford to donate an hour or two of his time, while a musician only gets paid when they play, and the difference in compensation was so great that such a comparison simply couldn’t be made. She politely disagreed, saying it would “all come out in the wash.”

I was quietly incensed at her show of ignorance and classism, and we never spoke of it again.

— during this time, the congregation had grown to well over 400 families. In response to this growth, the community leadership unveiled a new system of governance that relied heavily on an expanded number of committees, subcommittees and umbrella groups that would coordinate everything and report to Steering. There had been perhaps eight or ten committees when I joined in 2003. By 2017, there were easily almost thirty. Early in my membership, it was still possible to come up with an idea and just do it, Ad hoc. With the new system of governance, there was no longer room for such spontaneity. All ideas needed to be considered in committee and, where necessary, approved by Steering before they could be implemented.

— In response to this new reality, and deeply frustrated by where things stood with music making, I pivoted and thought up a simple gathering of Adult Coloring, basically a time when folks could gather in one of the rooms at the shul and color in adult coloring books while soft music played. It would be a nice way to grab an hour of relaxation and enjoy the company of other members in a gentle, mellow space.

I contacted the office to schedule a room, and was told by the volunteer on duty that there was no longer any room for ad hoc planning. I was referred to the appropriate committee chair. I called her and shared my idea, expecting a simple yes or no. Instead, I was told I’d need to write up a proposal and bring it in person to the Spiritual Life committee, who would consider it and then in turn send it up the ladder for final approval by an umbrella group, or by Steering, or however it worked now. At that point, already wounded by the way music leadership had been handled and by how my concerns had been dismissed, I gave up. I told the committee chair she could keep the idea as hers and do what she wished with it. 

Not long after that, the Program Director, a friend, asked to meet me over coffee. The purpose was so that she could relay a message from Steering: stop trying to change the culture. It’s not going to change, this is the way forward and either you’re on board with it or you’re not. 

My friend was uncomfortable having to relay the message this way, and I felt badly for her. I thanked her and asked if we could change the subject and enjoy our coffee. We were both glad to. She remains a friend and I am very glad for that.

— by early 2019, I was still leading Shabbat music an average of three to four times a year as a way of maintaining some connection with my friends in the shul. I was also trying to raise money to attend a Jewish musical leadership conference in the Midwest. I didn’t have enough money, so I approached someone on Steering to ask what the process was for applying for some help. I was told there was no money for such a purpose, that the synagogue did not assist members with professional development and I was on my own. I went ahead and hustled on my own, selling off musical instruments and taking in bicycle repair work to come up with the additional funding, and I was able to come up with most of it. I asked the conference organizers for a partial scholarship and they quietly helped me out, while saying that such scholarships were not the norm and that I should brainstorm on how to get my synagogue community to help with funding for next year.

— I announced on my social media that I was heading to the conference. While dropping something off at the shul a week before my departure, another member of the Steering Committee and I bumped into each other. She congratulated me on being able to go to the conference after all, and then said she hoped I’d find some great materials to bring back to share with the community.

I was immediately stunned, and then deeply hurt. 

This was a community filled with white-collar professionals, university faculty and others with a steadier, far greater income than mine, and was tired of being admired for my music but always having to beg for scraps of support to keep making it. So I responded, “well, since the shul’s leadership refused to discuss the possibility of assistance with my attending this conference, I’ve decided that I am going for ME, and for my own personal and professional development. If I bring home anything that ends up being useful here, it will be incidental to my having attended, and not the reason for my going.” And I walked out of the shul.

— when I came back from the conference, I was refreshed and renewed by the experience. And out of nowhere, the Education Director invited me to come and lead music at the end of a religious school class, a sort of song session for all the families. The religious school had grown along with the congregation, which was by now almost 475 families. Although the religious school met on Saturdays and I did not really like giving up my Shabbat, I agreed to do this, and led the religious school families in a fun, rousing song session that was enjoyed by everyone. Afterwords, while we noshed on snacks and made small talk, four parents approached me and asked, “What would it take to have you come every week?” I smiled and, knowing that the Education Director was standing behind me, I answered, “well, I think a commitment of every week on Shabbat would probably require a contract.” The Education Director glared at me and then silently walked away.

— in August of the same year, I went to services so I could say Kaddish for my mother. When I walked in, I was met at the door by not her member who asked me if I could lead the largest part of the service. “The person who signed up isn’t here and we don’t know if he’s coming or not. We’d like to have it covered, just in case. Would you?” I responded that I was there to say Kaddish for my mom on her yahrtzeit, and that I wasn’t in the right headspace to lead that morning. The fellow pressed me, and then another member came and asked me too. “Please. We don’t have anyone else lined up and you do it so well.” I said no again, and went to take a seat in the back row.

When we got to that portion of the service, the person who’d signed up to lead had not shown up, and the two members who had asked me turned around in their seats and looked at me with an expression of both urgency and expectation. I shook my head, and they stared harder. So I did the only thing I could do in that moment: I got up, gathered my things, and left the shul. I walked to a nearby park and, without putting my tallit back on, stood under a tree and silent said the mourner’s Kaddish for my mom. I did not return.

— because I was partnered with a longtime member of the shul who remained happily connected, I chose to simply keep my head down and focus on growing my musical career. If I was less available for my home shul, so be it, During this time, I also got hired to be. Cantorial soloist for a community up north, who would end up hiring me back every year for High Holy Days. I was concerned at first about not celebrating the New Year with my partner, but she assured me it was totally fine and that I should take advantage of this opportunity to grow and work. So I did, and was welcomed by a small community who respected me as a music professional and welcomed me for my musical soul.

In hindsight, staying a member for so long did me a lot of internal damage, to my emotional and mental health. And colleagues I ran into at conferences or on turn noticed my sorrow. More than one ask me what was wrong. When I gave a very short version of events, one friend advised me, “this isn’t working for you. You are carrying a burden of sorrow that will color everything you love about your Judaism if you don’t put it down and walk away.” 

That was in 2019. 

Then came Covid, and everything that went along with it. 

During the loackdown, the leadership decided to hire a Music Director, someone who would be slightly more empowered to make musical decisions, working more,hours and earning some kind of salary. Although I didn’t want to,I applied for the position because we needed the money and I was not traveling for work. I knew I would not be chosen but I applied anyway. In the end, a talented young woman from Chicago was hired to work remotely, on zoom, with the idea that eventually she would move to Portland to begin in-person work when it was possible. I liked her, and we hit it off. When things began to open up in 2021, she did visit Portland with her partner, to look for housing and meet people in person. We had a lovely afternoon playing music together on our lawn, and I felt hopeful that at long last things might work out musically for the shul after all. But it was not to be. She and I worked together on a Zoom service for teens, bd getting teens to be involved was like pulling teeth. The service felt flat and difficult, even though we both tried our best to be encouraging. Later that summer, shortly before High Holy Days, it was announced to the congregation that she had resigned. I asked her later what had happened. She admitted that (a) it had been nearly impossible to find affordable housing on the salary she was earning, and that (b) she felt it didn’t make sense to leave the life she’d built in Chicago for so many unknowns. It was a shame, but understandable.

While I was really sick with Long Covid, my Sweetie asked the synagogue’s Helping Hands group for some help with meals for a couple of weeks, so she could have a break from cooking while she looked after me. Some of our friends responded with simple soups, salads, a vegetarian stew. I got get-well cards from the rabbi and a couple other folks, and I was so glad that Sweeite was able to ask for and receive the help she needed..

When I got better from the Long Covid and the shul opened up again, I went to a midweek minyan with Sweetie (she was leading) and sat and prayer quietly. People were very glad to see me. But something had changed, and although I couldn’t describe it in words, I felt it. Deeply. Later, I understood that what had felt was a lot of things still left unresolved, and a way forward that I still couldn’t feel comfortable with because of everything that had happened, and the fact that some of the same people remained in leadership. So I had no faith that anything would feel different enough for me to go back.

That was maybe a year ago. I haven’t been back since. In the end, after wrestling with it for so long, I decided to follow my colleague’s advice and resign my membership. I adjust couldn’t make it work anymore and I was tired of waiting for things to change, in me or with the leadership. Nothing was changing, I didn’t feel like engaging with the same leaders again for issues that would not be resolved. I guess I got tired of waiting for something that wouldn’t happen, an apology or anything else that might make me feel like wanting to keep trying. I was exhausted with trying, and I was done.  I shared with sweetie my desire to end my membership and just be unaffiliated, at least for awhile. She told me she understood, and that she supported my decision. We did not discuss exactly what it might look like when she wanted to go and I stayed home, though I certainly had that on my mind. I simply had to trust that she was really okay with it, and do what I needed to do for my own mental and spiritual health.

I emailed the rabbi and the office manager that I intended to resign. The rabbi, whom I’d worked with musical several times but never really got to know responded with his concerns and asked if there was anything he could do to help. I thanked him and said no. It was fine. None of this was his doing, he hadn’t been here for a lot of it, and I felt I was making the best decision I could under the circumstances. I thanked him and wished him well.

Ths morning, Sweetie drove into town to take her turn leading the midweek minyan. When she returned, she told me that lots of people said hello and sent best wishes, and I admit that I felt a pant of sadness and anxiety in my chest. I had a moment of doubting myself and my choices. I missed The Way Things Used To Be. And I felt sad that ths was something Sweetie and I could not share anymore. I wondered what it would look like going forward, if we found that we could share lower and fewer parts of our Jewish lives together because of how things had gone and my decision to leave. 

I know that my absence. Has changed almost nothing about how the shul continues to operate. It’s still a cooperative sort of structure, and since I’ve unmasked so much I’ve come to understand that I cannot function well there, except as a silent, nonparticipating sort of member. And if that’s the case, why bother? Especially when the pain will remain unacknowledged and unresolved in a helpful way.

I know that, even though it brings up discomfort, I made the right decision. Being who I am and being what the shul is, I couldn’t have made any other. Still, I admit that it brings up some hard feelings, and I am still figuring out how to live with those.

Now that I am in this highly transitory time in my life, I am doing my best to stay in touch with my family and closest friends. I don’t have a ton of energy for the folks that I’m not as close with right now. I don’t know when or how — or even if — enough of that energy will return. I truly hope that all of my friends will understand and know that I still love knowing them and having them in my life, even if can’t throw a lot of energy in that direction right now. I’m doing the best I can.

A new way to look at comparisons?

Teaching at a Jewish conference, 2018

One of the things that I’ve known about myself since childhood is that, while I enjoy testing and bettering myself through the things I do — drumming, bicycle racing and other pursuits — I have never been a huge fan of competing against others in most things.

I’ve never known why, and most of the time it hasn’t felt important to know why. It was always enough to know that this was how I felt and feel guided by it in my various pursuits. 

When I found myself involved in or supporting team pursuits, such as playing in the pep band at sporting events or participating in a marching band competition, I seldom internalized the pressure of competing on a personal level, and instead simply did my best and enjoyed the experience of performing.

During my years of mountain bike racing, I was seldom bothered by the delusion that I might actually beat anyone else, being so old and slow when I began and having to ride through the challenges of seasonal asthma and Crohn’s disease. My goals were always to finish strong and to avoid crashing, and enjoy the excitement along the way. I was lucky to find myself in a time and place where my efforts were welcomed and celebrated along with those of the elite-level racers and I feel happy that I ahead the opportunity to race when and where I did.

But competition doesn’t go away, and in a competitive marketplace, neither does comparison.

Throughout my Jewish music career, I’ve struggled to abide by the popular ideals offed so blithely by those in our circle who worked hard and enjoyed musical and professional success:

“Comparison is the thief of joy.”

“Compare and despair.”

“Don’t worry about them, you do you.”

Today, as I pondered more questions and answers about my Jewish music career, which is admittedly winding down these days, I must also admit that, while I was still working in the field, I followed the “stars” of our little scene on social media. I tried to emulate their methods of putting themselves out there, to the extent that my budget, my digital comfort — and now, I understand, my brain — allowed, even when it caused distress inside me. It was distress I could literally feel in my chest, and it felt like equal parts fear, jealousy and despair. I watched as folks who, at the handful of Jewish conferences I was able to attend with them over the years, positioned themselves as “one of us” and at the same time carried dreams of advancing in more gigs, higher pay and professional and artistic recognition by the peers, and also by the people who ran the conferences and could open doors for you if they liked what you did.

Because salaries are historically seldom discussed openly in our little scene, I almost never knew what my colleagues were charging for their Artist residencies, songwriting commissions and all the rest. I got a tiny glimpse of the difference between where I found myself and where the better-known folks were on the scale t a conference where artists were given an afternoon to set up tables and sell their CDs and merch. I’d performed at this conference and was invited to sell my CDs, so I did, making handmade signs with the prices on them and laying out my three CDs in neat stacks. One of the core faculty at this conference came by my table, noted my prices, and asked if we could step away for a moment.

“This is your first time selling here, so maybe you haven’t yet been informed. But we’ve all agreed to sell our CDs for a minimum of $15 each. So you need to raise your price, please.”

“Why?” I asked. “There’s a lot of young people here and I dunno, maybe they can’t all afford a $15 CD. I don’t see the problem.”

My colleague took a breath and then said, “Look. This is a Jewish conference. These kids can well afford to spend at least that much on a CD, and on several of them. A lot of us here spent many thousands of dollars to make one CD and we have to recoup our costs. And if you don’t raise your prices then you’re undercutting the rest of us, and that’s not cool.”

I was stunned. We’re practicing collusion at a Jewish music conference? Really? 

I held my ground. “I will politely disagree. My album didn’t cost thirty thousand dollars to make, it cost two thousand, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t pass the savings on to the buyer. I see no problem here, and I’m leaving my prices alone.”

My colleague walked off, quite annoyed, and I sat back down and sold some few CDs.  

Wait till she finds out what I’ve been charging for my residency weekends. Apparently I’ve been undercutting everyone else all along. Um, oops. (Shrugs)

Over the years, I’ve watched as some of my colleagues who in the past had been “one of us” have been elevated into core faculty positions at conferences. And that’s great for them! They’re being rewarded for their work, their tenacity and their talent, and that’s the way it ought to be. The part that the general public doesn’t see is that the gatekeepers in the scene still get to choose, and to invite. I’ve taught workshops at a few conferences, always after I’ve paid to attend the conference and never for compensation. This is simply how things are done at these conferences, and have been done for a long time. One conference gatekeeper asked me if I was planning to return and if so, would I teach a particular workshop again, I had to admit that I couldn’t afford to return to said conference. Last time I taught this workshop, so many people wanted to take it that they had to ask me to teach it twice so they could open up a second session later in the day. So clearly my workshop was useful and appreciated. To be fair, I was scholarshipped a reduce rate to attend the conference, because I asked. But I had to ask. And I still had to cover my transportation costs and organize somewhere to sleep. (Thankfully, a friend who lived near the venue gave me her couch and drove me to and from conference each day.)

I dared to ask on the conference’s private FB group about how people get assistance with attending conferences, and how they grow what they do so they can do it more. And while several people thanked me for raising these questions, almost no one wanted to answer them, even in private. So I will never know how one grows in this career except by my own experiences. 

According to those experiences, having synagogue support (practical, musical and professional) helps a lot. Having an advocate, like a rabbi or cantor in your home shul, helps even more, because they also act as gatekeepers of a sort where they are. So does living a Jewishly dense place — because more Jews and Jewish spaces mean more connections and more gigs — and so does having a spouse who has a steady, decent-paying job so you can do this work and earn far less.

Lately, in the wake of the end of my full-time Jewish Music career, I’ve found myself unfollowing several contemporary Jewish artists with a strong presence on social media. I’ve done this because at this moment in time, struggling with these comparisons is no longer useful for me. And it has probably never been healthy.

I was on the verge of a big break in early 2020. I had clawed my way back from a mental health crisis and rebuilt myself and my career. It had taken several years, and support from a rabbi and educator out of state who loved my music and believed in me. It happened without support from my home shul or rabbi (and that is a blog post all its own for another time). I kept my head down, got the help I could find, wrote a lot of music and self-produced two more albums along the way. Covid happened, and I lost momentum, and then I got sick, and that was that. I went another way, one that took me farther away from the center of the little scene I’d been trying to move closer towards.

I feel very far away from that scene these days. There is still some grief to process around what Covid took away from me. There is still grief to process around the ten years of time I wasted, waiting for my home shul to stop seeing me less as a human resource and more as a soul. There is still a lot of grief to process about ending up where and how I did.

And there’s something else, too, something that is still in formation and isn’t yet clear. Something about how I reclaim my Jewish identity in a new way, in a more honest and more useful way for someone who doesn’t feel like competing anymore, doesn’t really feel like being taken advantage of anymore, someone who just wants to do Jewish on her own terms and create something that will sustain her as she enters her later years.

I don’t know what that will look like yet.

I do know that it cannot cost a much money, because I’m not working much anymore and haven’t got it to spend.

I know that it needs to take into account all that I have learned from my journey and utilize the most welcoming, gentle and useful parts without the political and social baggage.

And I know it needs to take into account the way I see and move through the world now, as someone gifted this whole time with a different brain, so I can begin to heal all the damage done by living without knowledge or support for that, when I really could have used both.

I’m unfollowing a LOT of folks these days who used to be my colleagues. It does not offer me any benefit to watch their continued trajectories when mine has been brought up so short and hard, and I need to take that space for myself to rest, and to grieve and to heal.

I’ve also informed the gatekeepers at the two conferences I still tried to attend even after my career began to falter that I’m completely done with one and will probably only attend the other if it’s ever on the West Coast. I can’t afford interstate travel except by Greyhound bus now, and if I’m not working regularly at a synagogue then I have no local support to help me get there. It makes sense. 

I will likely leave the larger conference’s FB group very soon, wishing them well and Godspeed. The other, I remain devoted to and have a lot of friends in, and will stay a member as long as I can afford the annual dues, if only to support what they do.

I am so grateful for the clarity that is coming to me during this time, even if it sometimes hurts so much. I thrive on clarity and always have. Now I know that I am that way in large part because of how my brain is wired. ADHD folks thrive on clarity. We don’t do well with behind-the-scenes politicking or subterfuge, and such things can positively wreck us because we simply aren’t well-equipped to navigate that landscape. So it feels really calming to let go of some of this stuff, to let go of the pursuit of the cushy center. I’m happy for the folks who want to inhabit that space, and who are finding their way into that space by their hard work and talents (and, to be brutally honest, how well they manage their socials and also by who they know). And I must acknowledge that my continued pursuit of that is no longer serving my best interests. 

I am grieving, resting, making space for whatever needs to come in next, and taking my time.

I am waiting for the Wellbutrin to kick in and for the space to become empty enough that I’ll begin to know what I want to put there. And I am not entering any more contests to achieve it.

(Bonus Content: today all Easter candy goes on sale. Get your dopamine Peeps while you can.)

ROUGH morning. SO rough.

It was a VERY rough morning.

Just another day of feeling super-big feelings, after I upped my Wellbutrin dose (as directed) and the thoughts came flooding through my head, punctuated by a LOT of Fuck You’s.

A bicycle ride in the sunshine helped immensely to clear my head. 

And since I no longer have much to lose, I’m enjoying my hard-won clarity and giving out fucks freely today.

— to my third grade math teacher Mrs. Merriweather (relax. She was already in her fifties when she was my teacher and is long dead by now), for not caring about my struggles with math and for mocking me loudly and repeatedly in front of the class, Fuck you. You sucked as a teacher. I should know, because I became one and it’s possible to teach without destroying kids.

— all the bullies in grade school, middle school and high school, for deciding it was easier to bully me physically and emotionally than to leave me alone and just get on with your pathetic lives. Fuck your parents for raising you to be so damned cruel and unfeeling. I hope you survived and got some help.

— The healthcare industry that has compelled doctors to no longer take Medicaid patients because you and the State of Oregon can’t work well together. And for discouraging doctors from being curious enough to offer more than stock diagnoses and de rigeur meds to women whose ADHD was constantly misdiagnosed as depression or anxiety, and for not funding research that might actually help women instead of sending them down the cattle chute of medical apathy. And as a result the doctors threw your stock drugs at them which did not serve them much or at all. Drugs that you wanted to produce because they were easy and profitable, regardless of who got them or why. All you did was make doctors throw spaghetti at the wall to see what would stick, and then limit their treatment choices to your menu of meds. As a result I took SSRIs that were inappropriate and unhelpful for ten years. It is no small wonder that there’s so much burnout among healthcare professionals today. Healthcare corporate leaders don’t trust doctors enough to respect their knowledge and skills. Fuck you and the corporate practices that made you rich. And fuck the governments that you’ve bought along the way. If I could commit tax fraud to cheat you all I would. But I couldn’t earn enough for it to make a difference, even when I worked full time. So fuck you super bigtime.

— The rabbi I’d worked for a decade ago who was cold, distant and formal, who admitted to me “we’ve watched you struggle for some time, so your outburst comes as no surprise,” when I’d had my nervous breakdown and behaved badly in a moment of terrible pain and rage. In the moment you told me that you had watched me struggle for some time, but didn’t say a word until after my struggling erupted into a mental health crisis and then you sat there looking superior while you knew it was coming. In that moment you chose to remain silent and watch me collapse, you utterly failed as a helping professional, and you failed abysmally as a rabbi. And you weren’t interested in any form of teshuvah — making amends on a personal and spiritual level — that I spent the year offering you. Instead, you tacitly encouraged my shame rather than reach out to work with me to understand what might be going on, and it took me the better part of those ten years to begin healing from it. A Little League coach with a slumping batter handles it better than this. So yeah, fuck you too.

— A society and  values system based on cold, hard capitalism that favors men, that favors the young until it works them nearly to death and then tosses them aside when they get too old and infirm. And which has fucked women and girls over since infinity. To everyone who doesn’t stop to ask themselves why they benefit from their male privilege and doesn’t care about the women who get left behind, fuck you.

I am done educating all of you. I am done making excuses for myself, and I am done feeling shame for being weird and different for sixty years and not knowing why, or even if it was okay to trust myself. I’m in the midst of a seismic shift so profound that I can’t predict how it’s going to play out. But I can predict that I will get a lot better about accepting myself as I am and ignoring the people and institutions that treat me like a failure. And if I see something that’s completely wrong I will gladly hand out more fucks where appropriate.

I did not fail. I lived, and I’m still here, and I am so grateful for everything I have learned and am learning.

And I’m beyond grateful for my people who are reaching out to remind me they love me, in spite of all my fucks. SO grateful.

If the Book of Job was a cartoon

This is why it’s so hard right now. 

I’ll do my best to keep the chronology clear.

I was on the verge of a potential Big Break in early 2020, when I released my fourth album, performed at a national Jewish conference, and was generating some buzz that was getting me inquiries about future work. I felt pretty healthy (for someone with autoimmune issues, anyway), felt secure in who I was and what I was doing and why, I was in a long term, loving and committed relationship and it was a good time in my life.

Then, three weeks after I released my fourth album, the world closed down and I could not tour and promote the new album, could not perform or teach anywhere except my living room, and everything dried up. We were shut up in our very little house, unable to do much of anything. 

When things began to inch open a little in early 2021, I took a gig and promptly caught Covid. I did not fully recover. I became dizzy whenever I changed positions or rolled over in bed, had shortness of breath and severe brain fog and fatigue, and could not work at all. Eventually, and only by making a lot of noise, my doctor was able to get me into the city’s only Long Covid clinic, where my Long Covid diagnosis was confirmed and a modicum of “treatment” was offered, coordinated by someone I could only see online because she was working from home while fighting cancer. Haltingly, slowly, my symptoms began to fade after eighteen months, and I was able to return to gigging in earnest in 2022. But the gigs just weren’t there to the same extent as before; Covid had  forced a few synagogues to close and others to merge, and far fewer could afford to hire even someone as affordable as me to be  visiting artist.

I was tired, depressed and out of shape, and if I caught a mild cold, the Long Covid symptoms would return in a milder form. Things had been difficult for the both of us, but Sweetie was returning to work as an annotator when concert venues reopened and orchestras began welcoming live audiences again.

Meanwhile, I took the few out of town gigs I could, and while I was still recovering from the last vestiges of Long Covid I made a fifth album at home, using the simplest computer program I could find. Friends mixed and mastered it and I released it in January of 2023. But things weren’t progressing very well. I was beginning to struggle emotionally again, in a way hadn’t since I had stared perimenopause in my late 40s. 

I was also struggling physically. Recovery from Long Covid was slow and frustrating. I’d begun playing out at local mics in an effort to get my music in front of a new, more local audience and hopefully land some gigs. I was able to land a very part-time job at a local synagogue, playing service music twice a month for an appreciative congregation and working with a very kind, thoughtful rabbi. I was also able to schedule an out of town gig for December and I looked forward to traveling again.

Then, in early September, I returned to Washington State to fulfill my duties as cantorial soloist during the High Holy Days, for a small community I’d been serving for six years. But I was having difficulty with my hands, which began to hurt painfully if played guitar for too long. I muscled through the services, gritting my teeth and popping Tylenol like candy. I went for multiple X-rays, tests and examinations and waited for an answer and possible treatment. I gritted my teeth through the early December Artist residency, came home and got the news that, in addition to advancing arthritis I also had a severe case of tendinitis in both hands, exacerbated by playing guitar. I was advised to stop playing completely for a minimum of four months, and warned that, while it might be possible to return to playing guitar for pleasure on an occasional basis, my days of daily, high-octane practicing and performing were likely at an end.

So I decided, after talking with Sweetie, to file for disability. At my age, with the multiple health issues I was dealing with, I was hard-pressed to find an employer who’d accommodate them all, and I was too old to qualify for subsidized retraining programs available to younger workers. So filing for disability made sense.

While dealing with all the physical issues and waiting for a diagnosis about my hands, I found in my files a discharge letter from a counselor I’d seen in 2018-19. The letter had stated a diagnosis of depression, which I’d been diagnosed with in 2014, and it also stated a diagnosis of ADHD, which I had not noticed at the time. 

That’s right.

I’d been diagnosed with ADHD in 2019, but did not know it, nor had it been discussed at all in my sessions with that counselor because Medicaid only covered so many sessions with her and I was running out of paid sessions. (In retrospect, I recall that all I did at our sessions was talk and she responded only occasionally with a question of her own. She was probably a poor fit for me, but what did I know? And what could I hope to accomplish in only fifteen sessions anyway?)  So the diagnosis of ADHD didn’t actually reach my brain until 2023, after the Covid lockdown and my failure to restart my music career afterwards.

When I began researching what ADHD  was and how it played out in women (differently than in men), it all began to make sense. It rocked my world, causing me to look back and question so much about myself. Who was I really? What was I meant to do with my life, and had a gotten all that wrong? I’ve been reeling since October when the diagnosis finally sank in. My doctor referred me to an ADHD clinic with a nine-month wait list, so I went looking for counseling on my own, and eventually found someone who accepted Medicaid patients. We began working together in November. 

There’s a fair amount of overlap to all these things, so as you can imagine, every time I got more information about my health it was mostly bad, and emotionally cumulative.

Here I am in late March 2024. I feel a little bit like a cartoon version of the Book of Job, in that it’s been one thing after another and every time I think I can get up I trip again. I really hope I can stop tripping for awhile.

My rabbi and I have agreed that I can lead services without guitar and everyone would be fine with that. So at least I still have that to look forward to each month. 

But unpacking the ADHD diagnosis has been far more difficult. It has invited a host of questions, as I’ve wondered about the path of my life and how much of it was based on choices inappropriate to who I was and how I’ve moved through the world. I am doing this work with some help, as I am in counseling and have started taking medication to help with mood regulation that is a challenge for people with ADHD. I’ve come to understand that my lifelong pursuit of “interestingness” and my decision to work with my hands for most of my adult life were probably extensions of the ADHD search for dopamine. (People with ADHD have brains that are wired differently, and which do not produce nearly as much dopamine as neurotypical brains. So we chase dopamine by doing all sorts of different things, often jumping from one to another because the interestingness is what’s required for our brains to make dopamine.)

Related to this, people with ADHD also take more risks than the average neurotypical human, because they’re chasing dopamine. When we can’t get it by pursuing interestingness actively, we will often do so stupidly by eating crap filled with salt and sugar, shopping (because shopping is simply another form of pursuit). We struggle with math, with money management (bad math and shopping!), and with self-discipline (Risk taking! Interestingness!).

We also struggle with executive function — doing something that needs getting done when it doesn’t interest us will take an agonizingly long time — while at the very same time we can devote ourselves to something of interest indefinitely because if we’re interested we can hyper-focus on it and accomplish all sorts of knowledge and skill. 

In hindsight, it’s possible that some of my choices made perfect sense for who I was and would come to be. I got so good at music because I really enjoyed playing musical instruments and playing daily was likely a way to chase dopamine while I was also getting better at them. In fact, I spent a great deal of my life using my hands. I disassembled and rebuilt a mechanical alarm clock when I was a kid, and later graduated to learning how to repair bicycles, which led to a thirty-year career as a professional bicycle mechanic. The bike career overlapped with the music career, and I spent nearly all of my adult life using my hands.

When I was diagnosed with tendinitis and had to stop playing guitar, and could only play drums in moderation, it was like being handcuffed, physically, mentally and emotionally. And it came at a time when my ADHD diagnosis was still new and I didn’t know how to live with it.

So I have been very hard to live with. 

I am fortunate that my Sweetie still loves me, and I am sorry for whatever stress I am creating right now.

I hope that my disability claim will be accepted, because it will help make material things easier.

As for trying to figure out what I’m meant to do with my life going forward, I still have no idea. And that unknowing has been incredibly difficult to live with. I find myself in a time when my emotions are all over the map, when I feel intensely vulnerable and uncertain of so many things. And my emotions are swirling every day, sometimes by the hour. This is, I’m sure, making me even harder to live with.

To my beloveds: I am really sorry for this time. I think that under the circumstances it’s unavoidable. So thank you for being patient with me while I go through this. It will take more time while I figure out how to live with my unasked self and what I’ll do going forward.

To everyone else: it’s a very interesting time, even as it’s also really frustrating and scary. My friends will be patient and anyone who can’t be will let me know by their absence. In this moment I’m okay with that possibility.

In a couple of hours I might feel some other way. I just don’t know.

..::sigh::..

Fuck it. I’m going for a bike ride.

Happy Friday.

The adult ADHD support group scheduled to begin next week has been postponed until the fall due to low enrollment.

As you can imagine I feel disappointed and a little angry at this outcome.

Searches for other adult-focused ADHD groups are proving challenging. So far, they do not take Medicaid patients, or they’re in the suburbs far away and not transit adjacent, or they focus on kids and their parents.

The more I look, the more isolated I feel, mostly because of how old I am and how what I’m finding so far seems geared towards much younger adults with their careers and health still ahead of them.

Fuck it.

I’m going for a bike ride.

Have a nice weekend.

Today's Bonus Content: A medical report card, 2020-2024

I live in Oregon.
I have been on Medicaid since before the Affordable Care Act, back when the Oregon health Plan first started.
And in the past I seldom felt angry at my doctors or at the healthcare system.
I figured I should be glad to have healthcare I could afford on next to nothing.
But since unmasking my ADHD, since lining up all the medical stuff I have personally experienced since 2020, and dealing with the changes in my doctor's office over this time, well, I have begun to feel angry.

Some of this is simply the bad luck of my last four years; a foiled album release followed by Covid lockdown, getting Covid and then Long Covid, followed by relatively little meaningful Long Covid coordination due to massive understaffing; ; and now living with the results of all of that foced inactivity and watching my body age and slow down so badly; and finally the ADHD diagnosis and all of that. The last four years have checked off a host of boxes for me with increasingly negative results all around.

I know I need to walk in gratitude, and I make a heroic effort at that every day for so many reasons. But I find that with every medical disappointment or setback, I am now feeling angry, too.
Angry, older and forgotten -- by my government, by healthcare agencies who tell me to stay where I am because it wont be better at any other practice taking Medicaid patients (and it may well be worse), by all the people and organizations that have the power to do better, and which haven't been.

So tonight I am not feeling especially grateful for the dregs which have constituted a great deal of my healthcare since 1985.

(Note: I have to say that the only doctor who has been there for me consistently this whole time has been my gastrointerologist, who has fought for me to get the meds and procedures I need because he knows how challenging a life with Crohn's can be.
He's a freaking rockstar and I am truly grateful for him.)

But what do I do with my anger when I am too exhausted to take to the streets, and when I feel pretty certain that my efforts to reach out to my elected officials will be meaningless because the world is too big and the means to make it better are too small?

Finding the others

Many years ago, there was a television show about an adolescent boy who was feeling shunned at school; he was bright, nerdy and definitely not one of the "cool" kids. He was best friends with a girl at school who liked him for who he was, and shared some interests with him (like theater, comic book art, hiking out in the countryside and other things the cool kids weren't generally drawn to). The two were each other's supports at school where both were thought of was weird and outcast, and there was a vague hint of something other than friendship out there in the future.

One day, the boy came home to find his parents in a frenzy of packing. "We have to leave tonight," his mother told him. "Go gather some things and pack your suitcase. I'll explain everything when your father gets home." The explanation was that the boy and his parents weren't humans at all, but another species who'd been sent to Earth to quietly live among humans and learn about them. His father had worked on earth as a scientist, but he was actually an explorer, and there was a fully functioning spaceship buried in a silo under the family's barn; this family was one of the go-to families for when the time came to return to their home planet.

The boy was shocked. His parents had come to Earth before he was born, so this human life was all he'd ever known. He asked his mother what life on the home planet was like, and his mother reassured him. "It's really beautiful there. You know how you like to go hiking n the hills around our town? Well, there are plenty of amazing, beautiful places you can hike there, too." The boy listened as his mother went on: "And we have our own language. It's beautiful. I'll help you learn it when we return."

"Tell me something in your language," the boy said. His mother obliged by saying she loves him, and he said, "It is beautiful. It sounds like a flowing water."

But the boy is also sad. Because the girl is his best friend in the whole world and he doesn't want to leave her. When he thinks of this he gets very upset, runs off to his room and locks the door.

The family gathered inside the spaceship with other families, all talking excitedly with each other. The boy sat glumly in a corner, still sad about leaving his best friend and the only life he'd ever known. It wasn't an easy life, especially among kids his age, but it was still a life, and he had no idea what he'd find on this other world where he'd have to start all over. He was scared and angry and very sad.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees his best friend walking towards him.
"I knew it!" she exclaimed. I just knew you had to be one of us too!"
They embraced and laughed and talked all night, looking forward to their new adventures. together.

(and fade)

*******

The more people I share my ADHD diagnosis with, the more I have found that a surprising number of them are also neurospicy, either with ADHD or some form of autism, or both.
And I suddenly remembered that old TV program, and realized that, even with a lifetime of masking, I had still found quite a few other neurospicy folks along the way, even if I or we hadn't known it at the time.

So I guess it is true that you and your people find each other, given enough time and honesty.

And in the midst of a momentary feeling of sadness and/or self-doubt tonight, I remembered that story and immediately felt better.

You will find your people, and they will find you.
Just have a little faith.

She’s a whole mood.

A whole mood.

Later while I napped, she settled in and curled hard against my ankles. Sometimes she does it at night while I’m falling asleep.

I love it when she does this. She’s like a little furry anchor.

#cleo

#kittylove

#purr

#unconditional

Finding wholeness while we're broken

I had lunch today with Gary, my Portland Rebbe.
He's a lovely human being and I really like working with him.
He's also become a friend.

Our conversation began with me holding back tears while I tried to let him know where I was at and all that I was struggling with. I worried that if I couldn't play guitar I would not be as useful in our monthly Friday evening gatherings at his shul.

He assured me that nothing could be further from the truth.
"So you'll sing what you can, and maybe play a little drum when you can, and you may feel broken right now but you'll still bring your whole self every month and N (the other fellow with whom we've been working this year, more grounded in tradition than I am) will be quite thrileld to see the guitar go for awhile. Nothing else has to change."

I admitted to him that when I led the tefilah service with the religious school kids, I felt so lost in my own faith right now that teaching them made me feel like a fraud.

"You're not a fraud," he said. "You're one of the most authentic Jews I've met. You're so honest about where your head and heart are and what that's like. You admit when you're struggling in a world where we are constantly told not to show our weaknesses. But our vulnerability is what makes us authentic. You have nothing to worry about."

I could have cried again. But I didn't.

And then, the Rabbi told me he'd been diagnosed with ADHD in his early forties, and his youngest child had been diagnosed at age seven. I was surprised. He said, "I don't know what it must be like to find this out in your sixties, but know that you're still you and you are loved by your people and that is really all you need to remind yourself of. The rest will become clear whenever it becomes clear. Do the counseling and the meds and the naps and everything else and keep being you."

Then we talked about a friend of his who had lived in Japan for years and had learned the craft of Kintsugi, the art of repairing broken pottery with precious metals.
Gary showed me photos of his friend's work on his iPhone and we talked about brokenness and wholeness. Then we talked about eyeglasses for people with color-blindness. Gary is color-blind, Using an app on his iPhone, he showed me what he sees when he looks at a bowl of Guacamole: it was a little bowl that looked like it was filled with baby shit. Then he flipped on the app and the guac became a respectable green.

"Reds are amazing," he gushed. "They're mind-blowing."

He told me he's going to get a pair of glasses that will allow him to see color. They've come down in price and he has sixty days to decide if he likes them or send them back for a refund.
I was shocked. I hadn't known there were special glasses to help you see color. I imagined it was rather like a deaf person turning on their new cochlear implant for the first time. Wild.

I gave Gary some Jewish text study books I knew I would no longer need. He'll find someone who wants them. (I kept my book-bound Torah and my copy of Pirke Avot, because they've always been my favorites and who knows? Maybe I'll want to dip into them again at some point. I'm taking my Mussar books to Powell's to sell, because someone in my current emotional state probably doesn't need to keep a notebook of their character flaws just now. If I want to stydu Mussar it will wait for me.)

And when I got home, my head was stil "fwip"-ing like mad and I felt SO drained and exhausted, but also better. I still don't know where I am or where God is, but I knw where my people are and that is a good thing to remind myself of whenever I need to.

About the "fwip":

I've experienced this for over ten years, since before I began perimenopause. The "fwip" is a tiny sound inside my head that happens when I'm depleted, emotionally ragged, and it sounds and feels like a little "fwip" sensation that shows up inside my head, in my ears and behind my eyes. I sometimes feel dizzy along with the sound/sensation. I've asked multiple doctors about it and one of them guessed it was a kind of pain-free migraine.The others had no clue. I still get the "fwip" now and then, especially when I'm really depleted. So I'll try to get decent sleep tonoght and hope it clears up. It can be annoying if it keeps going all day, whenever I turn my head or just my eyes in another direction. And it can be accompanied by dizziness. But at least there's no physical pain.

Tomorrow, counseling and hopefully no more "fwip" so I can take a walk or a little bike ride.

And while we’re at it…

I think I just hit upon why “somatic” or body-based trauma healing feels slightly suspect to me at this moment in my life. 

First, it’s always offered by younger women who, despite their prior health challenges, have somehow managed to arrive at a place where they glow with vibrancy, are put together nicely, and are financially secure. Then, they have the nerve to tell me that EVERY woman’s body can heal and get to the same healthy glow, if you sign up for their exclusive coaching program. 

And then, they treat my stuff as if I have all the time in the world.

Let me understand: you want me to, when a painful memory triggers a difficult emotional response, to focus on where the trauma resides in my body? And then you want me to figure out how old I was when the initial trauma happened and then somehow “Re-parent” myself at that age in all the ways my parents failed to parent me originally? And you are sure that I’ll be able to heal myself in this manner? 

Really?

I have several chronic conditions, two of which have caused me to spend at least a quarter of my entire waking life in the bathroom. 

I have another which is forcing me to stop working at everything I know how to do.

I have another which came on during the Covid lockdown, rendered me completely disabled for two years during lockdown, and which resurfaces a little bit every time I catch a cold.

I have yet another which has required me to start sleeping with a CPAP machine every night.

And the combination of all of them forced me to file for disability at 60, an age when most my friends are still fully active and productive.

And you want me to FOCUS on my BODY? Because apparently I’m not doing that enough already?

You know what?

With a very recent diagnosis of ADHD and six months of unmasking, my head’s not a lot better. But it’s still more interesting than the rest of my body. So yeah, I’m gonna chase some dopamine and be more honest and hang out in my head for awhile. 

Fuck you AND your healthy, expensive glow.

Because life is short when you’re older.

Watching a video just now, from a woman dispensing advice on how we need to ditch the story, the story we’ve told repeatedly about a trauma, and process the emotion, the residue of that trauma that is left in our bodies.

She lays out an exercise that she says takes “all of ten or fifteen minutes, that’s all” to process the emotion and where and how it feels in the body. 

Yeah. 

Ow.

My counselor wants me to do a lot more of this. She calls this “re-parenting” and while it seems fine on paper, it’s a lot harder for me to tell my younger self that she’s fine.

Because she wasn’t fine.

She wasn’t reassured by her parents that she was fine, or would be fine.

She wasn’t reassured by her doctors that it’s possible some of her several chronic conditions may have been exacerbated by the trauma she experienced and which she was never comforted over at the time.

My younger, highly sensitive self was, in hindsight, positively crushed by a string of traumas that began at age four and continued in earnest until I was in my late twenties. And I spent a long time trying to deny how crushed I had been. But the truth showed up in my body, amplifying the various chronic conditions that were part of my medical and genetic heritage. I spent a very long time downplaying them, trying to power through them so I could live my life.

Getting the diagnosis of ADHD has forced me to acknowledge just how battered I’d been by all the traumas of my youth. And my body is letting me know just how much emotional and physical damage had been done.

I think that the older you are when you begin to get all the information about what is happening in your brain and body, the harder it is to imagine that you will ever be able to re-parent all the selves at their respective times of trauma. 

And while that makes sense, when I ponder trying to do that with every emotion from the multitude of traumas, a lifetime of little traumas that came from not fitting in, from being regularly uprooted throughout my youth, from realizing that in some ways I was never fully rooted in my own family, all of that adds up to a mountain of wrong and hurt and pain held in my body and it’s overwhelming. 

If you’re trying to do this in your twenties, you have a hope of dealing with most of it.

But when you begin doing this in your sixties, and you imagine being able to process even some of it, you quickly become confronted with the terrible truth that you’re getting rather a late start, and you will be lucky to process even a quarter of it before you die. When you start late, there will remain a lot of unprocessed, unresolved pain and grief.

So you make a deal with yourself.

You tell yourself you will try to do what you can, you understand that it will never all be healed because you got such a late start, and you try to give yourself a break for what you can’t do.

You do this because you live in a world that does not offer nearly societal support for people who recognize that they have been broken by all the reminders that they did not fit into this society neatly. You do this because in the end, the only people who will cut you the slack you need are people who have been through this kind of life themselves and have owned up to the truth of it.

You do this because, in a society where medical and therapeutic resources are scarce for people without means, you will not get all the help or support you need. The world has already proven that to you hundreds of times, over and over again. (For reference, please refer to Covid and the resulting medical shutdown of the last four years, from which we as a society have not recovered.)

You do this because life is short. Because you got rather a late start.

And because you got that late start and lacked resources, you know that you simply do not have the luxury of time and means to fix the larger part of what’s broken in you.

Life is short. And you know in your bones that you don’t want to spend whatever you have left of it feeling like a walking hospital zone all the time. So you give yourself permission to fix what you can, rest when you need to, and still try to squeeze a little joy out of your life if you can.

******

I’ll own that this is some of my anger talking right now.

But I’m not angry at me so much anymore.

I am angry at people who are dead, who I can’t go back and ask “what the FUCK” or tell them how I am now.

I am angry at a family tree and a history and a world that made my parents ill-equipped and unable to parent well, and cousins who want to explore our familial past with me so we can discover just how messed up our grandparents were.

No thanks.

Maybe if I were twenty, and had time and energy.

Maybe.

But I’m sixty-one and goddamn it, I need a break.

So when I can re-parent myself and feel the feelings, I will, and I know it will be beneficial for me. 

And at the times when I cannot re-parent myself, I am going to give myself a break. I’m going to chase a little dopamine and drink my coffee and wait for a positive outcome from the disability panel. Because there are just too many days when I don’t feel optimal, and not enough days left in my life to make up for all that.

So I’ll do what I can do, and learn how to be at peace with being imperfect in an imperfect world.

Because I just don’t have enough spoons to tackle this any other way.

This found me on a day when I was exhausted and trying to recover from a better day when I blew up a ton of spoons, I expended a lot of energy. So everything feels closer to the surface. And the tears come more easily at times like this. So I just cry. And I tell myself to cry all I need to, to make up for the times when I was ridiculed for crying or for the times in adulthood that I finally learned how to close off my tears in order to be less vulnerable. Now, I cry when I feel the tears come, and I do not apologize.

And if anyone tells me I’ve become such a downer or needy, well, I’ll be done with them.

Because I’m older now. And life is short.