Category: Personal

Expat Thanksgiving: God Save the King (and a Drumstick)

Another (American) Thanksgiving is here, and this one feels less bittersweet than the last seven I’ve celebrated in Canada.  Sure, I’d love a five-day weekend at home, filled with family, football, and feasting.  Yes, it’s strange to treat this Thursday like any other school day while my inbox alternates between Thanksgiving wishes and Black Friday deals.  But this year, there’s something different.

Becoming a Canadian citizen earlier this year has reframed how I see this moment.  On what felt like an ordinary day, I joined a Zoom ceremony, where others celebrated with flags, decorations, and loved ones in tow. What struck me was how monumental this was for them.  For me, adding a second citizenship was more practical at first, but as the ceremony unfolded, I felt the significance.  Canada has given my family so much—safety, stability, and opportunity—and I’m deeply grateful.

This feeling was reinforced just yesterday when I met a family considering a move from the U.S. to Ottawa for the sake of their child’s safety.  I love America, flaws and all, but I don’t miss writing about gun violence.  I loved my U.S. college years but appreciate the affordability of Canadian universities.  I value choosing my own doctors but am relieved to avoid the risk of medical bankruptcy.

Of course, no country is perfect.  I remain proud to be an American, and I’m equally grateful to call Canada home.  On this American Thanksgiving, I’m reflecting on the blessings that both countries—and others—have given me.

What I’m grateful for this (American) Thanksgiving:

  • The gifts of growing up, learning, and working in the United States, and the privilege of raising my daughters in Canada.
  • The safety and security provided by the men and women defending Israel, our Holy Homeland.  We pray for the safe return of all hostages and for peace.  Am Yisrael Chai.
  • Living in a society that values work-life balance, even if I’m not always great at embracing it. I hope my daughters will do better as they grow.
  • A Jewish community here in Ottawa that is generous, capable, and deeply committed to Jewish day school education.
  • The hardworking, dedicated teachers who make our school an extraordinary place for students to grow.  A school is only as good as its teachers, and ours are exceptional.

Finally, I’m grateful to you, readers.  Writing over 500 blog posts can sometimes feel like shouting into the void, but every comment, share, or acknowledgment reminds me that someone out there is listening.  That still means a lot after all these years.

For my friends in the U.S.—enjoy Thanksgiving!  For my friends in Canada—have a great Thursday!

Stories for Shemini Atzeret & Simchat Torah

When I was 23 years-old, I packed everything up and headed south towards Los Angeles to begin my program towards an MAED and MBA at the-then University of Judaism (now American Jewish University).  How I, with my Bay Area Reform Jewish background, wound up choosing the UJ is a (great) story in its own right, but suffice it to say, I made a choice to put myself in an environment where Judaism was going to live very differently than how I was used to or even knew to be possible.  Nothing is more emblematic of the culture shift (shock) than this little anecdote that I am reminded of each year at this time…

Like a lot of rabbinic and education students (at that time), I lived on campus and the day began with breakfast in the cafeteria.  One my strongest memories from that time is when I got up early for school and, as per normal, headed down the hill for breakfast just to find the cafeteria empty of students.  I remember asking a (non-Jewish) cafeteria employee what was going on, where was everybody?  Oh, I was informed, there is no school today.  Why is that?  It is Shemini Atzeret.

“It is Shemini Atzeret.” – that was the first time I had ever heard those words before, let alone, knew them to be the name of a Jewish Holiday.  And, so, back to bed (and not to shul), I went.

Whenever, I write a blog post about Jewish Holiday observance, or Jewish observance at all; whenever I engage in any conversation with or about adult education, this is the first thing that pops into my mind.  I went half my life not even knowing the names of all the Jewish Holidays; who am I to judge the background knowledge or experiences of other Jews?  I know how it feels not to know things you assume others do – or worse, to not know things you assume others assume you do know – and it doesn’t feel great.

Here’s another example from that time.  We used to shul-hop all the time to soak up different experiences.  We wound up in a large Conservative synagogue in the Valley and, as is common for newcomers, we are given honours.  I am given the honour of hagbah which, like Shemini Atzeret, was a word I learned for the first time at that moment.  I did not know what it meant (to lift and display the Torah after reading) or that it is done in any particular way.  Which is why, in the moment, I flubbed it and needed some emergency assistance to prevent a fast-able situation.  And that is why, almost thirty years later, I have not and will not do hagbah.

I have deep empathy for the many adults whose children become the catalyst for Jewish journeys.  I have deep empathy for the many adults who feel uncomfortable in synagogue.  No one likes to feel foolish and no one invites anxiety.  For all the people who continue to live within the exact same faith tradition they were raised, there are many people who do not.  And it is explicitly to those folk that I reach out to through these posts and through opportunities for adult learning…

My first Simchat Torah that year was also one of my first “a-ha moments”.  Growing up, Simchat Torah was essentially Jewish Halloween.  At my little Reform synagogue (and I am not trying to generalize my experience in the 80s at one synagogue to all of “Reform Judaism”), we literally would go outside and collect candy.  I have no memory of us even reading the Torah, let alone dancing with it.  So, when I attended Simchat Torah services that first fall, I did not know how to process what I was seeing.  It was a room full of adults, including very esteemed professors and rabbis, drinking and dancing with the Torah – there likely were children in the room, but they were not the focal point.  The focus was on joy, adult Jewish joy.  Who knew?

That is what I am aiming for in these posts…and in my professional life.  Give yourself permission to step out from behind the children and seize the joy of Jewish living.  Don’t let not-knowing or not-knowing-how steal your joy – we would never let our children get away with being afraid to make a mistake as an excuse for trying new things, let’s not let ourselves as well.  What is Shemini Atzeret?  Find out on Thursday.  Do you think dancing with the Torah is only for children or those observant or knowledgable families?  Show up on Thursday night and Friday morning and seize the spotlight.

Yes, it is easier said than done.  And yes, it is a little uncomfortable that this plea coincides with the Hebrew anniversary of “October 7th”.  And, yet, we are taught that in Ecclesiastes 3:4 that there is…

A time for weeping and a time for laughing,
A time for wailing and a time for dancing;
Let’s make room for both this week.  Chag sameach.

Leaning Into Forgiveness 5785

We are near the finish line of the עשרת ימי תשובה  (Aseret Yemei Teshuvah) —the Ten Days of Repentance between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Each year, I look forward to choosing a personal growth goal, something general enough to guide my interactions with students, teachers, parents, colleagues, and the broader community. By sharing this publicly, I hope it inspires others to reflect on their own growth and adds a layer of public accountability to keep me honest.

At least once a week, I compose the perfect social media post in my head. Sometimes it’s funny. Sometimes it’s biting. Sometimes it’s provocative. It’s always about a topic I care deeply about, something with real-world impact and significance. But each time, after writing it, I delete it.

I am jealous of people who live in outward philosophical purity. These people tend to fall into two categories. Some are rabbis serving in pulpits who have managed to align their personal beliefs with their communal roles so seamlessly that they are able to be their truest selves, both personally and professionally, without compromise.

Jealous.

Then, there are those who prioritize their philosophical purity above all else. They either carve out professional spaces that align with their values, or they are unafraid of facing the consequences when their values conflict with their roles.

Jealous.

This may seem like an odd choice for teshuvah—repentance for not being more provocative or polarizing. But I worry that in trying to balance discretion and authenticity, I end up standing for nothing. Silence is not neutrality. As Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel famously said, “In a free society, some are guilty, but all are responsible.” Remaining silent, especially when something needs to be said, isn’t neutrality—it’s complicity.

Here’s an example:

In 2016, we were living in Florida during the election, and my older daughter wanted us to put out a lawn sign for our preferred candidate. (Notice how I’m still hedging?) I had to consider carefully whether it was wise, as someone running a school in a divided community, to do something so public. In the end, we put out the sign. But even then, I said nothing in person or online. Why? I didn’t want to create unnecessary tension in a divided workplace and culture. And yet, I’m 99% sure that anyone who’s ever met me, or spent five minutes researching me, could easily guess my political views. And still, I said nothing.

There’s nothing wrong with not wanting to insert personal politics into a professional setting where it’s not welcome. The question I wrestle with is whether, as a private individual who holds a communal role, it’s wrong to express personal views. Is there a meaningful distinction between what I espouse as “head of school” and what I espouse as “Jon Mitzmacher”? My heart says there should be; my head says that’s wishful thinking.

Pirkei Avot reminds us, “If I am not for myself, who will be for me? And when I am only for myself, what am I? And if not now, when?” (Pirkei Avot 1:14). I cannot reconcile the way I am raising my daughters with my own silence. I cannot advocate for students to be civically active while avoiding the same. I cannot run a school based on deeply held principles and then be afraid to live those values beyond the school walls.

So, my goal for this year is to take a step—to dip a toe into the waters of personal expression. Nothing dramatic is on the horizon, and it’s possible that whatever I do say will yield no ripple or echo. But I’ll take a whistle in the wind over silence. As Rav Kook once said, “I don’t speak because I have the power to speak; I speak because I don’t have the power to remain silent.”

I don’t want to look back and wonder why I chose to say nothing when I had so much to say.

Additionally, during this time of introspection, let me take this opportunity to ask forgiveness for anything I have done – purposely or unknowingly – to cause offense or upset during the last year.  I am sincerely sorry and ask for your forgiveness.  As you ponder the purpose of this season for you and your family, I hope you find the time for introspection and the inspiration for the teshuvah you are seeking.  From my family to yours, wishing you a tzom kal (easy fast) and a day of meaning.

G’mar chatimah tovah.

From Crying To Dancing: Living Through History on Yom HaZikaron and Yom HaAtzmaut

[NOTE: This blog post comes from my daughter, Maytal Mitzmacher, near the end of her Grade 10 spring semester abroad in Tichon Ramah Yerushalayim or TRY, a program operated by Ramah Israel.]

On Yom HaZikaron we went to the Tekkes run by Masa in the evening. It was a very crowded place, and we saw a lot of people we knew. It felt a bit strange because we were excited to see people but the mood was meant to be more somber. It didn’t click for a lot of us until the Tekkes began. For some, it was our first time experiencing this in Israel. There were a lot of meaningful stories from October 7th and other incidents and it was emotional to hear the stories through song and dance and testimonials so that everyone could find a way to connect. The Masa Tekkes helped us prepare for the following day.

On Monday, we joined the Tekkes on the Chava planned by students living here. It honored those who lived here who we lost from past generations. Even though it was in Hebrew, we were still able to connect because it’s the place we’ve been living for the past four months. There was so much emotion in each speaker, that we felt intensely the pain of this year. They also prepared poems, the orchestra played and students sang. Later that day, we went to Har Herzl. Though we had been there once before, it was very different. This time, it was shoulder to shoulder and we visited the same graves, many of which had people sitting beside them mourning their losses. It was overwhelming how many people were there, and though some graves had nobody beside them, all had flowers. We also saw a huge group of people praying around a brand-new grave. It was powerful to be a part of this and experience this with the people of Israel.

Yom HaAtzmaut comes right after Yom HaZikaron. The switch happened in the evening, and we were getting excited to be able to celebrate. We had to switch our mood instantly, thinking of two things so different from one another. To go from thinking of those we’ve lost to celebrating our state is really hard. The immediate switch is hard to process and some people needed more time without feeling the rush. I feel that a day in between would be helpful so that people can be in a proper state of mind to celebrate Israel and enjoy the day. This year, everything was toned down and Yom Haaztmaut was not as celebratory as there are losses that are very recent. We still celebrated but it was hard to go from seeing pictures of hostages to singing upbeat songs. I needed more time to think and switch moods. The mood this year made celebrating more complicated. Even though we are trying to mourn properly, we still have our state and it’s still something we should want to celebrate. Even though there are still horrible things happening, we’re continuing to mourn and pray while appreciating all that we still have and move into another, better year for Israel.

Coming to Israel, knowing there’s a war with everything happening, the 14 of us still chose to come this semester. People thought we were crazy for coming, or they were super proud and impressed with us. We’ve been told countless times that we’re the best of the best for being here right now. Even though we haven’t been able to do everything, it hasn’t changed the way we feel about Israel. We’ve had an experience unlike any other, we lived through this and are able to see firsthand what real life and experiences that we can continue to tell others. We got to live through history and being here is also part of our story and our relationship with Israel. We’ve connected MORE, and our love for Israel has grown immensely. We belong here.

If Not Now: My Daughter in Israel

One of my concerns about October 7th once the security concerns began to be addressed wasn’t about the weeks in front of us, but the months.  For a good stretch of time, the focus on Israel was overwhelming in every sense of that word.  We had a fundamental imperative to both be and feel safe.  There was education to provide our students.  There were displaced Israeli children to absorb and to welcome.  There were rallies for solidarity and rallies for advocacy.  There were media requests and a need for thought-leadership.  And yet, we knew that there was inevitably going to come a time when people’s natural attention spans and bandwidth for crisis was going to yield to a shift and perhaps create a fracture.  And perhaps we are at, or nearing that time…

It isn’t to suggest that our (the school‘s) attention is waning or certainly not that our eye has moved off the ball of security even an iota.  It is, however, to suggest that people have begun to walk down different paths of engagement depending on their personal connections and experiences.  At our school, we still have teachers and families who are awaiting news of hostages and serving on the front lines of Gaza.  We still have siblings and friends experiencing anti-Semitism in their public schools, workplaces and neighborhoods.  We are still teaching “current events”, praying, raising money and engaging in acts of social justice.  But as time inches forward, I think it is fair to say that it simply isn’t top of mind for each and every person as it was…and I state that as a fact of human nature, not a judgement.

I am experiencing the way the heartstrings can be strung and restrung through my parenting.  When we made the decision as a family to stay here in Ottawa for our daughters’ high school years, in a place without a true Jewish high school, we committed to a variety of educational experiences that would build a bridge from their rigorous Jewish day school foundation to their studies in university.  One of those experiences was to spend a semester of Grade 10 studying in Israel.  And that decision got a lot more complicated since Maytal was scheduled to leave for Jerusalem in January.

Our older daughter’s experience was curtailed and compromised by COVID, but she did go.  Our girls are Ramahniks through and through, and although there are other programs, Tichon Ramah Yerushalayim (TRY), was our only choice.  Normally there are upwards of 60-80 teens with a healthy Canadian cohort.  We were looking forward to Maytal getting to have the “full TRY” and then October 7th…

After months of wondering about whether the trip would go, and then worrying about whether sending her was the right choice, we made the family decision – with Maytal as its fiercest champion – that despite the number of students barely in the teens, and without a single other Canadian participating, that now really was the time.  (It very much felt like a true, “If not now, when” moment.)  And so we found ourselves a couple of weeks ago gathering with other families at Newark Airport to send our children to a very different Israel than the one we knew months ago.

Let me pause to state something obvious.  Maytal is in a bubble of privileged North American teens in Jerusalem.  She will only travel to the safest of places under the safest of conditions.   She is not living in a city near the border and we are not comparing our concerns for her wellbeing to those who are truly living in harm’s way.  Not for a moment.  That doesn’t mean, however, that we don’t think she is brave for choosing this time to be in Israel.  (It also won’t stop my mother from worrying herself sleepless until she returns in May.)

Each ping of the WhatsApp brings news of the next adventure or a picture from the most recent one.  She has bonded with her group and has started the experience in full.  She is going to have the time of her life and being in Israel – now – will be extraordinarily impactful on her in ways we could guess and ways we cannot imagine.  We are blessed to be able to provide her with this opportunity (and grateful to the many people and institutions who helped us make it possible).

But each ping of the WhatsApp also brings anxiety.  Each news update on the state of the crisis lands differently than it did a few weeks ago.  I don’t feel like I should say this, but I don’t know how to say it differently – obviously as a member of the Jewish People, I always have skin in the game when it comes to Israel.  But now, for a short while, I also have flesh and blood.  And whether it should or not…it feels different.

I share all of this in the spirit of wanting to ensure that we continue to ask ourselves what is the right amount of space the situation in Israel should continue to occupy – for our school, for our families and for ourselves.  I know there is no “right answer” but I guess I hope that whatever newfound insight or empathy (again, I don’t think that is exactly the best word) or perspective having a child of my own living in Israel provides me, that it helps guide me to the right place.  And invite you to reflect for what the right amount of space you believe it should occupy as well.  Are we doing too much or too little as a community?  As a school?  (As a family?)

Let me know what you think.  Let’s make sure Israel remains in our thoughts and our prayers and our actions even as life inevitably encroaches.

It only gets harder and more complicated the longer it goes.

#StandWithIsrael

#AmYisraelChai

ExPat Files: American Thanksgiving In Canada Comes With a Side of Gratitude

To all my friends and family in the States, I wish you a “Happy Thanksgiving”.  And to all my friends in Canada, I wish you a “Happy Thursday”.

Sigh.

I know, truly, all the things about Thanksgiving in America.  And I know, truly, all the things about Thanksgiving in Canada.  [If you don’t believe me, I wrote a post about it a few years ago.]  And yet this time of year brings such strong feelings that “body memory” has to be real.  It actually starts on the weekend prior where you just know that Thanksgiving Week is coming…it is the shortest of school/work weeks…children are coming home from college (that’s American for “university”), relatives are gathering, food is being cooked, football is coming on, a four or five-day weekend is ahead, and it just goes on and on.  The whole week is filled with such anticipatory joy.

I fully acknowledge that if it has not been your experience, it may not make sense; but if it has, then it is the only thing that makes sense.  [Ask an American.]  The fomo really starts on Wednesday when you realize that you should be starting to relax and it is just another school night.  And now, today, when the only emails and social media posts you get are full of Thanksgiving, the games are starting up, and you are just…at school or work…that’s some next-level fomo.

Whatever your position on Thanksgiving (either of them) are, I would hope that we can all agree that the giving-of-the-thanks part is a net positive.  We could and should be grateful more than once a year and at a Jewish school, we have multiple opportunities each day to express our gratitude.  But since I am feeling all the Thanksgiving feels as I write my weekly blog post, I figured if I can’t watch the game, or see the family, or eat the food, the one thing I can do is express a little gratitude.

What I am grateful for this (American) Thanksgiving:

  • I am grateful for the soon-to-be gift of dual American and Canadian citizenship.  (Spoiler Alert!  Jaimee and I passed our citizenship tests and are waiting for the call to God Save the King!  We are looking forward to sharing the ceremony with our local community.)  Seven years a Canadian has been a blessing for our family and we remain proud Americans.  Doubly-blessed are we.
  • I am grateful for the men and women who defend the Land, State and People of Israel, our Holy Homeland.  We pray for the return of all the hostages and a peaceful resolution to this current conflict.  We are so hopeful that the world calms down enough for our younger daughter, Maytal, to have her semester-in-Israel experience this January, but regardless, the safety and security of Israel is never to be taken for granted and always to be grateful for.  Now more than ever.  Am Yisrael Chai.
  • I grateful for the technology that keeps me connected to friends and family.  COVID or no COVID, it is miracle that FaceTime, Zoom and Google Meet allow us to “see” parents, grandparents and friends across borders and thousands of miles.
  • I am eternally grateful to have a wife, Jaimee, whose Type A/perfectionist mothering and wife-ing creates so much space for me to dedicate my time and energy to my work and my passion.
  • I am thankful to have landed in a Jewish community that is extraordinarily capable and generous; a community that is committed to its future by its support for Jewish day school.
  • I am grateful to have landed in a Jewish day school that is full of committed, talented, caring, innovating and hardworking teachers.  A school is only as good as its teachers and we have a pretty great school!

I could go on, of course, but let me just say that I am also grateful to anyone and everyone who has ever read, shared, or commented on one of my 450+ blog posts over the years.  You often wonder/worry that you are speaking into the wind, but every now and again someone takes the time to let you know that they are, in fact, paying attention.  And that always feels great.

For my friends in the States…enjoy Thanksgiving!  For my friends in Canada…enjoy Thursday!

This is being planned with all due haste, and I do have a seat at the table, so please know that all the details of the program and our school’s participation are coming out just as soon as humanly possible.

Ten Years Without A Father

[NOTE: It remains true that the concentric circles for this blog’s audience centers on my local school community, and then zooms out to Jewish day school, education and the universe.  I do, like here, occasionally publish on topics that are deeply personal.  For those posts, I calibrate the web of social media leading to the blog, but the blog remains the same.]

“Yizkor?!  I don’t even know her!”

Because there can be no reminiscence of my father of blessed memory without at least one awful pun and, although timely, that is simply awful.

Although yizkor comes four times a year, for me, this one, this year – at Shemini Atzeret – feels like yizkor with a capital “Y”.  I don’t know why.  Maybe the emotions at the time of his yahrzeit (20 Av) weren’t process-able at the time, and maybe the Yizkor of Yom Kippur was too wrapped up in the High Holidays.  But now, headed into the comparatively quiet of this Yizkor, I am finally both struck and somewhat capable of wrestling with the enormity of what it means to have lived a full decade since my father, Michael Mitzmacher, passed away on July 27, 2013, weeks after having suffered a massive stroke.

Grief makes me think in fractions.

I have now spent almost 1/5 of my life without my father.  I have almost spent half my married life without my father.  Eliana has now spent 5/9 and Maytal 2/3 of their lives without my father.  The fractions explain and describe the enormity of the time taken, the experiences missed and the pain caused by a life taken too soon.  They explain and they describe.  They don’t heal and they don’t comfort and they don’t provide closure.  Time is supposed to be the author of those feelings, but in my experience time dulls and distances.  I’m not sure how the rest is achieved.

The need for my children to remember things they cannot be reasonably expected to remember is the fuel on the fire of my loss.  Pictures, videos, catchphrases and memories are all I have to tilt at the windmill of time.  As it inexorably goes by, my greatest fear is that all my children will have to remember him by is his absence.  He was the grandparent who wasn’t at the Bat Mitzvah or the Graduation.  He was the grandparent who we spoke about because he wasn’t there; not the grandparent we speak to because he is there.  But focusing my mourning on my children’s loss is as much a dodge as it is true, because focusing on what it means for them not to have a grandfather is a helpful distraction from focusing on what it means for me not to have a father.

With all the other things that it means, the one I am thinking about most this year is how remarkable nature and nurture truly are.  I see it through my own children.  There are traits and habits and personality quirks that are clearly present in my children because they are present in me.  Silly things and not-so-silly things.  Not having a father, or better said, for me, not having my father, means that the person who most saw the world the way I did is not here to share it.  There are moments, all the time, where I know exactly what my father would have thought, felt, said and done, but that knowledge is equal parts comforting (it reminds me of my Dad!) and gutting (it reminds me of my Dad’s absence).

That’s the loss.  Of course, I miss the wisdom he could have provided.  Obviously, I mourn the experiences he should have had.  But, this year, ten years into grieving, I feel the absence of being in the world with the one person who experienced it most like I did.  I feel it when I watch TV.  I feel it when I watch sports.  I feel it when we are with family.  I feel it scrolling through my phone.  And the only thing worse than feeling it, is the fear that one day I won’t feel it all.

I can pledge tzedakah in his name (and do).  I can volunteer my time in his name (and do).  I can create family rituals designed to keep his stories alive  for my children to own and to pass down (and I have).  I light candles and go to synagogue at the appropriate times.  I do all these things to make up for what I do not have.   I am both grateful for what I had and angry for what I don’t.

And somehow it means everything and accomplishes nothing at the same time because ten years ago my father died too soon.

I have sat with this blog post for a few days trying to figure out how to wrap it up.  What big lesson have I learned that I want to pass along?  What new insights have I to offer upon reaching this milestone of grief?  How do I tie this up and move forward?

I have no idea.

There are days where I think of my father and it brings me great joy.  There are days where I think of my father and it brings me great sadness.  And there are days – despite all the safeguards I have put into play – where I don’t think of my father at all.  That’s what is true.  Yizkors and yahrtzeits are valuable waystations on grief’s journey, but it is a journey that has no ending.  The work – work that I will lean into on Saturday – is to try to make the journey one of meaning and purpose.  Even when the meaning and the purpose aren’t so clear…

The 49ers play the Cowboys on Sunday.  If one takes the liberty to imagine a heavenly broadcast, one can – and I will – update the puns that animated so many childhood Sundays.  Yes, Jerry Rice and his brother Fried, remains an undisputed champion.  But what about Brock Purdy?  Deebo Samuel?  One can only imagine…

Leaning Into Forgiveness 5784

We are right now near the finish line of the עשרת ימי תשובה‎ – the ten days of repentance between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.  Each year, I look forward to the opportunity to pick a personal growth goal general enough to my work with students, teachers, parents, colleagues, community, etc.  By doing this publicly, I hope, it will inspire others to think about how they wish to grow, and provide me with a little public accountability to keep me honest.

This past Rosh Hashanah presented me with the strangest and strongest sense memory – or, perhaps, palpable wave of nostalgia that I can ever remember.  (Forgive this American for making a Thanksgiving reference, choose the memory that works for you.)  I can smell, taste and even feel that sense of “coming home” that only comes from having left home first.  For me, the strongest such memories come from returning home from university for Thanksgiving or Passover, or as I got older, coming home with a friend (girlfriend or otherwise) to spend a holiday at the home I grew up in with my parents.  At some point, what was once routine – the same house with the same people – totally transforms.  If I was to make a Jewish analogy, it takes something that was khol (weekday/mundane) into something kadosh (holy).  And I had almost forgotten how that felt until my older daughter Eliana came home from Queens University for Rosh Hashanah…

Sure, she had only been gone for two weeks and, yes, she’s been away from home for much longer stretches before.  And, yes, who knows what her future post-university holds.  But the feeling of anticipation for her arrival and the giddiness of having her home transformed what a month earlier had been the same four people in the same house from the regular to the special – its fleeting nature made our time together feel like a holiday.

Isn’t all time fleeting?  Don’t we all look back on our family journeys and wonder how it could be that we are at this stage when just a minute ago we were at that stage?  Wasn’t she just born?  Learned how to walk and talk?  Start Kindergarten?  Become a Bat Mitzvah?  Graduate High School?  How can she be that old when I’m not?

Each moment cannot be a holiday, of course, otherwise it would lose its meaning.  But that doesn’t mean we couldn’t or shouldn’t try to elevate the everyday miracles we take for granted into moments of liminality.  And so when I think about teshuvah and seeking “forgiveness” during this time of year, I’m sorry that I have not taken the time or the energy to appreciate what is right in front of me – a wife to treasure, daughters to savor, friends to enjoy, a job which brings me deep fulfillment, and more.  As someone who lost his father too young (as if there is any other way), I should already know better.  But I’m human and, thus, prone to error.

Let this be the year that I spend ten less minutes returning emails and ten more minutes in classrooms with children.  Let this be the year that I spend one less hour drowning in administrivia and one more hour building genuine relationship with a teacher.  Let this be the year that I send more proactive expressions of gratitude to parents than reactive responses to inevitable issues.  Let this be the year that I give myself permission to leave work while the sun still shines to take time to be with friends.  Let this be the year that “work-life balance” moves from cliché to creed.

In the end, let me be sorry now for all the ways in which I have failed to appreciate the opportunity to transform the everyday into moments of meaning so that my sorrow later not become a regret too late to remedy.

Additionally, during this time of introspection, let me take this opportunity to ask forgiveness for anything I have done – purposely or unknowingly – to cause offense or upset during the last year.  I am sincerely sorry and ask for your forgiveness.  As you ponder the purpose of this season for you and your family, I hope you find the time for introspection and the inspiration for the teshuvah you are seeking.  From my family to yours, wishing you a tzom kal (easy fast) and a day of meaning.

G’mar chatimah tovah.

Eight Joyous Nights to Celebrate Eight Inspirational Lights

It is sometimes difficult to find new ground to tread – especially when it comes to the Jewish Holidays.  There are some holidays (like Sukkot and Passover) where I kinda recycle/upgrade the same basic idea each year.  [Like this and this.]  There are some holidays (like Yom Kippur) where I take a basic premise or prompt and respond differently each year.  [Like this.]  And then there are those holidays, like Chanukah, where I kinda do a bit both, and perhaps not so artfully.  Like this.

This year, I want to do something different.  It will be something borrowed and something new.  To the degree that Chanukah is a re(dedication); to the degree that the lights of the chanukiah are intended to serve as a public statement and an inspiration; and because the season tends to encourage a sense of gratitude, I am going to dedicate my annual Chanukah Blog Post to eight lights – either people, places or ideas – that have inspired me as a person and as a professional.  By doing so, I hope to shine a light of thankfulness upon them and to light a light under me to try harder and be better.  If the idea speaks to you, pick a night (or pick all eight) and identify those lights who have lit your path, and figure out a way that makes sense to you, to honor and celebrate those people and ideas who inspire you.

Night #1

I dedicate the first night to my father of blessed memory, Michael Mitzmacher.  It will be ten years this summer since he has passed and it only gets better and worse each year.  To learn more about my father and how his legacy has shaped and continues to shape me, please check out this blog post that I published in September of 2015 where I reflect with a little distance on his passing: Remembering My Dad.

Night #2

I dedicate the second night to my first professional mentor and role model in the field of Jewish Education, Dr. David Ackerman.  We have not been in touch for quite a while, but it doesn’t diminish the impact he made on my life and my career.  I don’t wear a bow-tie, but I do go by “Doc”.  To learn more about the original Doc, perhaps more than you (or he!) would want to know, you can revisit this blog post from April 2011: Mentor in a Speedo.

Night #3

This night I seek to remember the life and legacy of Esther Ohayon Z”l and to revel in the strength and courage of her daughter, Orly, who survived the car crash that claimed her mother.  Esther was Maytal’s teacher in Preschool and Orly is a graduate of the Martin J. Gottlieb Day School (MJGDS) where I served as Head from 2010-2014.  This was one of the hardest things to write about and one of the most meaningful.  I think about Orly often (not that I have told her) when I think about what it means to not only survive a tragedy, but to find a way to thrive in its aftermath.  I published A Sukkah for Orly in September 2013.

Night #4

I dedicate this night to the selfless and humble example of Samuel and Esther Galinsky, names you will not recognize unless you live in Jacksonville, Florida, but a story that I hope will stick.  Here is a brief snippet about them from a larger speech I gave at the celebration of the fiftieth anniversary of MJGDS:

“Samuel and Esther Galinsky were, by all accounts, modest and unassuming members of our synagogue.  They participated in synagogue life and were respected members of the congregation.  They cared about Jewish education, but had no children of their own.  They were, in many ways, like any other couple.  When they died, their friends mourned their passing.  And that should be the end of the story.  But it isn’t.  Because this ordinary couple did something extraordinary.  With no fanfare and no notice, Samuel and Esther Galinsky left the Jacksonville Jewish Center amongst the most significant gifts it has ever received – $3 million.  And it was given for one purpose – this childless couple gave their fortune to ensure that Jewish children would be able to have a Jewish education.  Has there ever been a more selfless gift?  Have any people ever more embodied the idea of L’dor V’dor?”

Let their memory serve as an example to us all…

Night #5

This is a night to celebrate the light that lights all our schools…our teachers.  A school is only as good as its teachers and good teachers feeling good about teaching is the best recipe.  I think for many parents, schooling during COVID opened up a lot of eyes to how amazing our teachers are and so, here, I’d like to revisit my plea to honor and celebrate those who dedicate their lives to the sacred and holy task of educating children by asking that you read If You Really Want to Appreciate Teachers, Give Them the Benefit of the Doubt, which was published in May of 2020.

Night #6

This one will be a bit of a leap, but on this night I want to think about Killer Mike.  I am a bit leery linking my January 2016 post called, Praying With Your Legs in 2016: What JDS Can Learn From Killer Mike, because re-reading it in 2022, I am not sure that I love everything that I had to say.  But the money quote, the thing that I want to remember on the Sixth Night of Chanukah is,

…the second takeaway – and the one that has more applicability to Jewish day school – is Killer Mike’s proscription for how to best support underserved communities.  He lays out a vision of empathy which can only be achieved through relationship.  This requires us to leave our comfort zones and engage with the wider world.  In Killer Mike’s context he is talking essentially about white, middle-class folk, but in it I heard echoes of a common concern families have about the ghettoization of Jewish day schools, their lack of racial diversity and the impact it has on children who will need to live, work and contribute to a multicultural world.

To make a difference in the world, I want to rededicate myself to the idea that I need to do more than engage in hashtag activism; I need to engage with people and communities outside my own.

Night #7

For night seven, I cast my eyes southward – not just south of the border, but to the actual South.  As we enter our sixth year in Ottawa, I am reminded that we will soon have lived longer in Ottawa than any other place we have ever lived.  It will beat out the seven years we lived in Jacksonville, Florida.  For this night, I want to reflect on what made living in that community so special and reflect back that light to build upon what makes living here special as well.  So there is salty taste of southern hospitality to be found in L’hitraot Y’all: A Farewell to Seven Years of SaltLife published in June of 2017.

Night #8

Chanukah is about miracles.  So I will close out this holiday by reflecting on The Disruptive Miracle of Silvia Tolisano, which I wrote – in shock and tears – in March of 2021.  I still cannot believe she’s gone.

Hopefully, your family is planning on joining our OJCS Family in this triumphant return to an actual, in-person Annual Chanukah Family Program on Tuesday, December 20th at 6:30 PM in the Gym!

Chag urim sameach from my family to yours!

The Text is Timeless; I am Not: Re-re-reading “The Sabbath”

Or “How I Spent My February Break”.

This past week marked my third required reading of Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel’s The Sabbath as part of my third seminary experience.  As much of a north star as this book has been for my twinned personal and professional Jewish journeys, I am struck by how different and how similar my responses have been from those different waypoints.  My first reading – as a single person studying for his first set of graduate degrees at the University of Judaism – along with other books, helped inspire me to take on a maximal Shabbat observance as it provided me, at that time, with what felt like a rational and modern justification for an otherwise irrational set of behaviors.  My second reading – as a married man with a pregnant wife studying for his doctorate at the Jewish Theological Seminary – provided us with inspiration and courage for making Shabbat the center of our not-yet-family with hope for what it would mean for us and our not-yet-children.  This third reading – as a nearly half-century-old man with teenage daughters studying to be a rabbi at the Academy for Jewish Religion – reaches me at a point in my life where the trickle of sand through the hourglass feels more like an avalanche and the desire to experience time as infinite is palpably more painful.  Shabbat as a “palace in time” in my twenties was a brilliant metaphor; in my thirties and forties it has been a family fortress; as I prepare to enter my fifties, I yearn to make it real.

Heschel’s “Shabbat” is decidedly non-Kabbalistic, but that doesn’t make it rational, however I may have read it in my twenties.  What jumped out at me during this reading of The Sabbath is that I would describe his view of Shabbat as “mythical” – his “palace in time” is not a metaphor advocating better work-life balance (to use a more modern valance), but an actual experience of transcendence.  For Heschel, the value of Shabbat is that it is not the other six days of the week – the goal is not to extend Shabbat’s transcendence into the week or even to devalue the this-worldly occupation of the work week.  Shabbat provides us with a taste of the “World to Come”  so that this life has added meaning.  Eastern philosophy wants us to use the tool of mindfulness to transcend the world through detachment; Judaism wants us to use the tool of Shabbat to experience God in this world through attachment – that’s where the imagery of weddings and couples bleed into reality and fuel transcendence.

In my first two readings of The Sabbath, I was more interested in what Shabbat wasn’t than what it was.  The “palace in time” was more about what I was keeping outside than what I could be experiencing inside.  Shabbat was an oasis of rest, of joy, and of family, precisely because that is not how the rest of the week was experienced.  This reading, perhaps influenced by my other rabbinic studies or by my own midlife ruminations, leaves me more interested in living beyond time than within it.  My understanding of the metaphor is such that it is halakhah which provides the frame and the construction – one can only build a palace in time through normative Jewish behaviors – and as I was coming to these behaviors in adulthood, I was much more interested in building the palace than dwelling in it.  As my children were born and have since transitioned into adolescence, my emphasis has shifted to dwelling in it, but more like a cottage or vacation home than a vehicle for God’s holiness (although there has always been a holiness in sacred family time), in that the reason for weekly visitation is at least as much, if not more, the opportunity it presents for togetherness, rather than transcendence.  Now, as the waystation of empty-nested-ness is within reach, I am forced to wonder who will dwell in this palace in the end?

On Friday evenings, sits a palace in time.  The famous piyut (poem) Lekhah Dodi is the midpoint of that palace’s drawbridge between Kabbalat Shabbat and Shabbat Maariv – coming literally after six psalms representing the six days who are not Shabbat and (just about) the beginning of the evening service.  It is the liminal moment when Shabbat transcendence becomes available – if the palace had a registration desk and a check-in time, they would both be Lekhah Dodi.  My hope is that the straight line of my temporal life continues to intersect with the sacred circle of weekly time each and every Shabbat, and that Lekhah Dodi serves as both entrance and exit.  And that if I am lucky, in addition to family and friends, meaning and mindfulness, peacefulness and rest; that my palace in time not only be visited by divinity, but that I be capable of recognizing and experiencing it – in my time, in this world.

Ken y’hi ratzon.  Let it be so…

Please know that as the situation continues to unfold in the Ukraine that we are, in grade-appropriate ways, providing our students with both information and opportunities for thinking about how we can respond.  Teachers have been provided with resources, including Jewish prayers for peace, and we are having conversations about a larger school response.

This feels like one of those moments that is bigger than the curriculum…we are a school that values student voice, leadership, global connectedness, social justice, mutual human and Jewish responsibility, etc.   We want to provide our students with all the information and support they need to be educated and active citizens in the world.  If you are looking for family resources, I recommend you start with this blog post from our amazing librarian, Brigitte Ruel.