Screen Time: Dayenu!

Even swastika-toting punks hacking into one of our Zoom’s did not outweigh the transcendent power of connection — love, grief, prayer — felt through virtual gatherings over this past week.

I discovered my Zoom playlist: Monday morning blessings; songs with my preschooler’s beloved music teacher; happy-hour with the moms; and while reading TS Eliot’s The Waste Land aloud with a dozen others over a poetry Zoom, there was about an hour where I forgot that we were in the midst of a pandemic.

I’m not going to dwell too much on the swastika-toting punks who are busting into synagogue Zoom gatherings. It’s awful, and wrong, and a federal crime. I wrote that on a piece of paper which I offered to hold up during yesterday’s morning blessings, but the online security measures had already been beefed-up and it wasn’t necessary. (Besides, as I’ve learned, it would have appeared in mirror-image)

I’m going to focus, instead, on the Zoom funeral that took place last Friday. It was this gathering that served as my greatest consolation over the past week.

Watching Dan and the nine other mourners (only a minyan was allowed entry into the barricaded cemetery) use their hands - instead of shovels which they were no longer permitted to share with the gravediggers because of Covid 19 - reach into the dirt and, one at a time, place handfuls of earth over the grave, was a sight that I will carry with me for the rest of my life.

Some mourners in masks and gloves, others bare-handed. No one touching.

And, still, I felt so much while watching this - in real time - over my computer screen with about twenty-other people - all over the world - watching this too.

It was a connection that was strong and real, and even without physical contact with anyone else - I held my own hand to my own heart - and felt that we all were holding one another up with our shared love, and grief and prayers.

I suspect we may need to fashion new prayers for such a moment.

For now, Dayenu.

Wishing you all health, strength, love and connection.

And a meaningful Passover to All.

Chag Sameach.

Driving in Circles

We’ve arrived at week three of sheltering, where driving in circles qualifies as my happy place.

And it can be your happy place too!

I had big plans for this week: I’d wake up on Monday morning and do a deep-dive into Passover with the kids, heavy on art projects and games. This was my first attempt at planning actual “curriculum” for them, and I even sent links to other parents of the fun and substantive activities I had in store.

But I didn’t get much sleep on Sunday night; I read too many news-feeds before bed, and in the morning I was interrupted by a leaky sink and a faltering fence - which both needed immediate-temporary fixes.

This on top of the general clutter - that after three weeks of togetherness - we are all being crushed under.

“Change of plans,” I told the kids and sat them in front of YouTube to watch Mayim Bialik cook Passover food while I attempted triage of the most pressing chores.

By the time I checked on them, Mayim had cycled through all of the Passover videos and the kids were now watching her make potato latkes on a Hanukkah segment.

“Can we make latkes?” they asked.

“We can make tater-tots,” I told them, and pulled a bag out of the freezer.

The kids are fine. Creative and adaptable. They gobbled down their tater-tots with pure delight.

The grown-ups are struggling.

“Let’s take a drive,” I suggested.

“But there’s nowhere to go,” my five-year-old son said.

“And no one to see,” my eight-year-old daughter added.

“Let’s go anyway,” I said.

I drove towards the ocean, with the windows down. And then I circled and drove in the other direction, and circled again. I drove in circles until both kids had fallen asleep in the backseat, the fresh air and motion lulling them the way it had when they were babies.

When my daughter opened her eyes and realized that I was driving aimlessly around our neighborhood, she asked if we could pass by her school.

“Look, the mural’s still there,” she said pointing to the cheerful painting on the side of the empty school building.

“Of course it is!” I replied.

I was trying to reassure her and remain upbeat, but I stopped myself.

I paused and looked back at her.

I acknowledged that this situation was sad.

What is going on right now is really sad.

It wasn’t the day that I had planned, and I’m sure today won’t be either, but driving in circles gave us a space to hold our sadness. And that was a real consolation.

Also, my kids know how to make Mayim Bialik’s Hanukkah latkes, and I bet we can adapt them for Passover.

The Zoom Scene You Choreograph & The Zoom Scene You Get

It looks like something a commenter on Tripadvisor would post: “The hotel room we were promised on the website, and the dump when we arrived!”

That’s what comes to mind when I look at the scene I had carefully set-up for our first zoom call with members of our community, and the shot I watched back after the recorded call (the camera had shifted - last minute - unbeknownst to me).

Look, I know some of you are wearing sweatpants under your dress shirts (or no pants at all)!

We’re all joking about such things, as we navigate our current reality.

So, of course, I thought I was safe setting up something beautiful: white tablecloth, fresh flowers, challah, candlesticks, while the messy, unfinished thing I keep meaning to get to: the bookshelf with the shelves inserted on a slant so that nothing stands straight, crooked so long that I’d given up trying to stand books at all, and instead piled in my kids schoolwork and games (and apparently, also, a yoga brick and sand-timer and ritual essence mister) remained out of frame.

But suddenly it was in focus.

On all of us: the untamed chaos of our lives, broadcast-live from our living rooms.

And it doesn’t matter, really, because there are infinitely more important things going on.

That wasn’t my first reaction, though.

My first reaction was shame. The kind that I’ve listened to enough Brene Brown audiobooks to know required calling a friend.

And my oldest childhood friend gently asked if there was some way to edit this mess out of the scene, but then quickly reassured me that it was the funniest sight she’d seen in a long time, that it was real and relatable, and that she loved me and was grateful for our friendship.

I watched the recording back, after talking to her, and heard myself — not realizing that everyone else also heard me— explaining to Dan that our ‘Please Stand By’ sign was backwards because he needed to write it in mirror image: “like Encyclopedia Brown,” I told him.

It’s the type of banter and teamwork that I’m thankful characterizes our relationship, and I laughed hearing it back this time; I laughed until tears began streaming down my face.

That was ten days ago.

We’re much deeper into it now.

Yesterday, I asked a friend - in complete sincerity - if it was better for me not to join my son’s preschool zoom because he refused to join, or to keep showing up with a giant stuffed penguin next to me in his absence.

We’re all figuring this out.

I need to repair the bookshelf.

But, right now, my consolation is knowing that it doesn’t matter, because there are much more important things going on.