Personal – A Floor, But No Ceiling

Walking the Commons

The frameworks gave us a shared language. The relationships taught us how to speak it. Ideas became habits because they were practiced together. Leadership frameworks became leadership instincts because they were reinforced in community.

Last month my daughter, Eliana, turned twenty-one.

She was born during Week Three of my first summer at the Day School Leadership Training Institute (DSLTI), when I was a brand-new Head of School in Cohort 4. Looking back now, it is impossible for me not to see those two stories unfolding together. Her entire life has run parallel to my own journey as a Jewish educational leader.

This summer, I made the familiar walk from hotel to workspace one last time as a DSLTI mentor. Somewhere over those twenty-one years – from nervous fellow to grandfathered alumnus – I realized that I had spent two decades participating in something I had only recently learned to name.

The Commons.

Over the past few years, my colleague Jane Taubenfeld Cohen and I tried to articulate what we believed had always been true about DSLTI. We described the Commons as the shared intellectual, relational, and spiritual space where leadership is formed; not through a single philosophy or framework, but through the interaction of enduring ideas, honest reflection, coaching, and community. We argued that each new cohort inherits the Commons and, in turn, becomes responsible for curating it for those who follow.

The language may be new.

The experience never was.

When I first arrived at DSLTI, I assumed I was there to learn how to become a better Head of School. Like every fellow, I eagerly collected frameworks: Bolman and Deal. Adaptive Leadership. Three Levels of Listening. Team One. Naming It. Storytelling. Leadership Presence. Every summer I left with another notebook full of ideas and another stack of books to read.

Those frameworks mattered.

They still do.

They gave us a shared language for leadership.

But after twenty-one years, I have come to believe that the most enduring lessons of DSLTI were never contained in the binders.

The binders mattered.

The people changed me.

At graduation this summer, I looked around the room and realized that nearly every chapter of my professional life was represented there. Some were my mentors. Some were my cohort. Some were fellows I had later mentored. Some had become colleagues. Some had become dear friends. Every one of them had played a starring role at a different moment in the story of my career.

That led me to say publicly something I had shared many times in private:

Your cohort is always your cohort.

Your mentors are always your mentors.

I have come to believe that this is one of DSLTI’s greatest promises.

Not that you will always agree.

Not that you will always work together.

But that these relationships become part of your leadership. They become the voices you hear when facing difficult decisions. The colleagues you call when the challenge is adaptive rather than technical. The people who know not simply what you have done, but who you were before you knew how to do it.

You know it’s true when a call, email, or WhatsApp from a fellow DSLTI-er automatically moves to the top of your list, not because it is necessarily urgent, but because you’ve learned that these are the people who will help you think, tell you the truth, and understand the weight of the work.

That kind of community cannot be manufactured.

It can only be cultivated.

I have come to think that this is what the Commons really is.

The frameworks gave us a shared language.

The relationships taught us how to speak it.

Ideas became habits because they were practiced together. Leadership frameworks became leadership instincts because they were reinforced in community. One generation quietly handed something to the next – not merely information, but wisdom.

The white paper Jane and I wrote concludes by suggesting that every cohort has the responsibility to curate the Commons. I love that word. We do not inherit leadership unchanged. We receive it, test it, enrich it, and then pass it forward.

If I could contribute one more thing to that Commons, it would not be another framework.

It would simply be this:

Leadership is formed in relationships before it is demonstrated in organizations.

The schools we lead matter enormously. The strategies matter. The governance models matter. The budgets, the crises, the plans, and the metrics all matter.

But long after I have forgotten which summer we first discussed a particular framework, I will remember who was sitting beside me when I finally understood it.

I remember the conversations after sessions.

The walks across the city.

The mentors who refused to answer my questions because they knew a better question to ask.

The fellows who became trusted colleagues.

The privilege of one day discovering that I had quietly crossed an invisible line; that I had become, for someone else, what others had once been for me.

Last month my daughter turned twenty-one.

This summer I completed my final year as a DSLTI mentor.

One story is just beginning.

Another chapter is closing.

And yet neither feels like an ending.

Because the Commons isn’t a place.

It isn’t a curriculum.

It isn’t even a program.

It is what remains after the sessions end, the binders are shelved, and the titles change.

It is the people who continue helping one another become wiser leaders, better colleagues, and truer versions of themselves.

The Commons was entrusted to us.

Now it belongs to those who will continue to shape it.

So here’s my final contribution:

Invest in the relationships as deeply as you invest in the ideas.

Twenty years from now, they will be the part you remember.

And may you never stop walking.

Many Floors, Still No Ceilings

As we approach Labour Day Weekend, schools that haven’t yet started (including one I know pretty well in my community) are primed to open next week. It’s a strange thing to watch the commercials, scroll past the social media postings, to feel the vibes of back to school—but not actually be going back to school.

For the first time in eight years, I’m not filled with excitement (or butterflies) about opening those doors to welcome parents and children into their classrooms. There’s a wistfulness in that—an ache, even—but also a curiosity about what it means to (re)experience September from a different vantage point.

I’ve toggled before between the micro and the macro. Two headships placed me squarely in the daily rhythms of children, teachers, and parents. My work at Schechter, then Prizmah, shifted me out a level, looking more at systems, networks, and strategy. A third headship allowed me to bring what I had learned from the macro back into the micro. And now, at Scott Goldberg Consulting (SGC), I find myself toggled again—back in the macro, but with the even-more-recent wisdom (and scars) of years in the micro.

Through each role I’ve been blessed to play in this field—head of school, executive director, grad student, DSLTI mentor, and now consultant—I’ve noticed that while my context changes, my north stars (yes, we’re sticking with “north stars.” Thanks, NoTosh!) don’t.

I believe in children’s boundless capacity to learn.

I believe leadership is about transparency, courage, and care.

I believe change is both necessary and possible, but only when it’s rooted in people and process.

Those convictions have evolved over time, but they remain foundational touchstones.

Which brings me back to blogging. For two months I’ve been sitting quietly, wondering: what is this space now? How can I write authentically when my job is not just to lead a single school, but to help others lead theirs? What stories are mine to tell, and which belong to my colleagues and clients?

At the same time, I find myself wrestling with new (old) provocations—questions that echo from my last toggle out of headship into the wider field:

How does a process-oriented person thrive in a product-oriented field?
How does someone who is naturally “quiet” (Susan Cain’s word, not mine) make enough noise to be heard in a crowded marketplace?
How do you grow new business without becoming a “look-at-me” person?

I don’t have tidy answers. Maybe (likely) this blog is where I’ll explore them. Maybe (probably) this is where I’ll test ideas about leadership, strategy, and change—always with an eye toward the Jewish future, always grounded in the north stars that have guided me since the beginning.

And so here I am, in September, watching schools open their doors from a different vantage point. I feel the tug of the micro—the hum of classrooms, the smell of new markers, the nervous energy of the first day—but I know my work now lives more in the macro. I’m toggling again, as I always have, between leading in one place and serving across many.

Through every toggle—SSDS-LV, MJGDS, Schechter, Prizmah, OJCS, and now SGC—the truth has been the same: the particulars evolve, but the purpose does not. My work has always been about helping schools and leaders discover what is most true for them, and to grow into their best selves on behalf of the children they serve.

Which is why I’ve long said—and still believe—that there is a floor, but no ceiling. I’ve stood on many floors, and now I get to visit even more. But the ceiling? When it comes to children, leaders, schools, organizations, and communities, there simply is none.

So call this a relaunch, a reset, or simply a return. The questions may shift, the vantage point may change, but the why endures: to serve Jewish children, through Jewish schools, for the Jewish future.

Many floors. Still no ceilings.

Let’s go.

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.

G’mar chatimah tovah.