Give Us More to See

One of the silver linings to all of this is that the Broadway performers I've grown to love, but who I've only been able to see in person is less than a handful, have made themselves very accessible in order to raise funds for a variety of causes. This past weekend was a tribute concert for Stephen Sondheim's 90th birthday, an event that I might have known of in passing, maybe seen a couple of clips in the haze of normal life. Instead I've had time to watch it in its entirety and to revisit several portions of it in the last 48 hours.

My favorite Sondheim show is "Sunday in the Park with George," based on Seurat's painting, and his imagined legacy. Somewhere during high school, the 1984 production was shown on PBS, and I remember watching it on the little TV we had next to our kitchen table. I'd recorded it on our VCR, watching it on (low) volume setting 12, because others were around and I couldn't bother them (probably my father working at the dining room table one room away). I knew "Putting it Together" from Streisand and my mother, a song I think I sang for some audition that I probably didn't get. But the rest of the show was new to me, and I remember feeling like it was some precious gift to have all for myself. No one else I knew would have cared to watch it with me. Which was fine. I was fine treasuring it on my own.

And so I was extremely moved by Jake Gyllenhaal and Annaleigh Ashford's rendition of "Move On" during the tribute concert (around 2:03:00). As I've experienced seeing RENT some twenty-odd years later too, I see it now from an adult's point of view. The character is struggling with what to say, how to stay relevant, and it's something I've struggled with in this space for a long time now, letting it lie dormant for the most part. He is urged by his partner that even though things may have already been said, they have not been said by him, and not to worry if they're new. She suggests that he move on.

"Anything you do
Let it come from you
Then it will be new
Give us more to see"

Give us more to see. It's been ringing in my ears. How lucky to have that kind of encouragement, and precise insight into what needed to be said and heard (how lucky to have the benefit of scripted words in such a moment).

Something about this moment we're in has made a crack in me, and it's made me want to write again. I could analyze the reasons why, but I think there are many. Instead, I will just try to keep moving on, and give you more to see.

What We Have Lost

On March 7, one of the last days before everything here in Massachusetts shut down, Hannah and I attended the funeral of a recent graduate from her high school, a part of her theater community. She didn't know him well, and I've only met the mother a handful of times, but her choir was asked to sing and we both thought it was important to be there. I was already concerned about the virus, being packed in to a small chapel in what would surely be an overwhelming crowd. But going was the absolute right thing to do. Being part of that community, showing up. That's what you do, even when it's hard.

And then my own mother died unexpectedly, on March 22. A Sunday. We'd been home a little more than a week. I'd had a board meeting that morning. The four of us rushed to Ohio for what would be an eight person graveside service. My dad didn't want to hug us when we arrived. My aunt, who I hadn't seen in 15 years, wouldn't hug us either. My brother and his family watched over FaceTime, unable to travel across the country. We were lucky; I heard a few days after our ceremony that a friend had to bring her own shovel to help bury her father-in-law (a Jewish custom). At least we could all use the same shovel. My friends and family, my community, showed up in texts and emails and phone calls and food deliveries. That's what you do, even when it's hard.

Which brings me to today. Today, Hannah and I were supposed to be seeing back-to-back Broadway shows, even sitting in front row seats that I splurged in buying for tonight. This would have been our fourth annual trip to do our favorite thing. Instead, we will be at home, and *logging on* to a memorial service for an 18 year old that our community has lost, one of Hannah's friend's brothers, a frequent sight for us at temple. Heart-breaking. We showed up to pray for him. We will show up to honor him, to support his family and friends. That's what you do.

But, damn it, this is hard. So much loss, from plans to people. Just a hard, hard season. I know that we're not alone in all of this. And that even though it is hard, we will keep showing up where we can. But I am tired. Losses accrue. I am tired.

Interesting Times

Yesterday was the 13th anniversary of my first blog post, titled "It's About Time." Today's post title didn't elude me at all, which they often do, but trying to keep a more positive spin, I, along with many others, are referring to these days as "interesting times." And yet, it's really not a positive statement at all. But here we are.

I *am* trying to remain positive. As I said on Facebook, my life is normally so super scheduled that I'm enjoying the flexibility to take naps and sleep a bit later, to not rush around as I do most evenings to this meeting or that one, to have a break from scheduling carpools. But when I think about all that we've lost and may still lose, it's heartbreaking. Of course I'd rather follow all of the protocols (and as one of the more vulnerable in the population, I really have to), but long-awaited and worked for plans just going poof like this is something no one is really accustomed to coping with. I feel traumatized by not getting to see The Lion King 10 years ago when I had trouble with my back, which is such a ridiculous statement when I type it out, but it's still how I feel. And I'm afraid I'm not very good at helping others I love through their complex feelings on all this either.

There's no easy way to end a post like this. You don't (shouldn't?) need me to tell you what to do to be decent human beings, so I won't make you read what you've already read elsewhere. Good luck, and be well.

20 Observations on 20 Years of Work

This month I'm marking the milestone of 20 years of full-time corporate work (and entering my 15th year with my current employer). I recognize that I've been very lucky to have continuous, white collar employment, and that this piece is written with a great deal of privilege. But it is my experience, and I hope it's worth sharing. Here are 20 things I've learned about the world of work after 20 years in it.

1. Technology can change A LOT in 20 years. I used to have to dial in to a network through a noisy modem at a certain time each day and then a many-hundred page report would automatically print, and I would need just one number from it to do my job. I then had to file away all of that paper. I bet there are still boxes of that paper in a storage facility somewhere. People who do that function today can probably look up that one number on their iPhones if they even need it at all.
2. Regardless of modern software's capabilities, I'm really lucky that I was taught to do some things "by hand" in Excel. We didn't know all the formulas to make our lives easier, or have programs that did the calculations automatically, but we did have a sense of what was throwing the numbers in one direction or another. It's very hard to have that sense without having plugged in the numbers yourself.
3. Commuting is the worst. The only people I've met who don't find it completely soul-crushing have apartments within walking distance to our office. No matter what strategy you try to figure out to make it better (stop telling me about your podcasts), I'd rather just be home already.
4. Flexible working arrangements are the best. I *cherish* my work from home days. It's still only one day a week, but that one day makes my life so much better.
5. Responsiveness counts for a lot. I don't need you to know the answer right away, but if you tell me you're working on it, I will be very grateful.
6. Kindness goes a long way too. Please and thank you are still the better route to take.
7. That said, if you reply all with only the words "thank you," well, watch your back.
8. Nobody knows what business casual means. Especially in the summer. Especially if you're a woman. We're all just trying to do our best - and it would be a lot better if it didn't matter so much.
9. The interns get younger every year (it can't possibly be that I'm getting older!).
10. Everyone is replaceable. Everyone, even you. It might hurt for a while, it might never be the same, but things keep going.
11. If you're fortunate enough to work in an office with a door that closes, know when to close it. And then keep it open as often as you can.
12. Meet in person when you can, but keep it brief.
13. Pay attention to the diversity in every room. Work on it explicitly. I'm often the only woman in many rooms I'm in, and it stinks.
14. My job now is a lot more about thinking than it is about doing. It's hard to not fall back into doing mode sometimes, because doing can be so satisfying. It's much more challenging to sit mired in the thinking.
15. Flat organizational titles are great, but it's unnerving to stop having to strive for that next level. I was always taught to be striving, thinking about what that next accomplishment should be, and that you'll just keep moving up. When that's not true, it's hard to find that same motivation.
16. Being involved in outside organizations that don't use the identical skills you bring to work can help you bring new skills back to work. I've seen that through blogging as well as the nonprofits that I've been involved with.
17. Business travel is generally not as glamorous as it sounds. There are occasionally nice meals and nice hotels, and sometimes you can connect with friends or family along the way. But most of the time it's really lonely.
18. I really thought I'd have a "regular" order somewhere as an adult, where I went to lunch and they'd know me and anticipate my needs. That has not happened, and it's because I'm too irregular for it to occur.
19. I still love inbox zero. I don't see it as often as I'd like, but it's such a good feeling.
20. Twenty years is a long time. Considering I was barely sentient for twenty years when I began my career at 22, it's astounding to think that 20 years have passed. I couldn't have anticipated where I'd be now back then, and I feel pretty lucky to have the experiences I've had.

What about you? What would you add to a list like this?

Sixteen

Today, Hannah Ruth, you are turning sixteen.

I’m not sure how you keep doing it, but each year with you tops the last. I’m the luckiest Mom I know, because you share so much of your life with me. It is such a privilege to hear your thoughts on life as your world continues to expand.

You blew us all away singing with HaZamir at Lincoln Center. You had your first stage doors at Be More Chill and Dear Evan Hansen. You were a disco dancing flower vendor, a sentimental mother who believes in miracles, and a student director at your old middle school. You kept up with Prozdor and Rosh Hodesh, got a regular gig at Shabbat Alive, and added a position on the USY Chapter Board and manage the South Stage Instagram. And obviously, camp is life.

You comfort watch old episodes of “Victorious” when you need to feel just a bit younger than you are. You can most often be found on Instagram Explore, and you’re always up for an Instagram-able adventure, even if you’d prefer that I post it. You care so very deeply about so many people, I wish your friends really knew just how much. You started your first relationship, and it’s been such a joy to see how happy he makes you. Your kindness towards your brother knows no bounds, and you and Shira can side eye with the best of them.

My goodness, it’s going to be Kerem 2020! Your last official summer as a camper is going to be epic. And you are going to kill it (him?) in JCS (I couldn’t resist). And driving! - you’re already well on your way. Happy birthday, my Hanniebelle. I love you so. 

(You can also see letters for ages seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen and fifteen.)

Twelve

Today, Max Benjamin, you are turning twelve.

This is my tenth annual birthday letter to you, and as we discussed, you are *so* fucking old (you think it’s hilarious when I swear). How can this have happened to my baby? I don’t remember agreeing to this getting older thing. Of course, you’ve never been one to seek anyone’s approval for just being who you are.

This year saw elementary school left in the dust (“Congratulations!”) and the start of a much-needed step up to middle school and greater independence. You were a shtetl innkeeper, a king of the lions, and a crime boss in love. You’ve kept up with guitar and still enjoy being a Guy in a Tie and a Treble Singer. You had seven full weeks at camp, and your camp friends are becoming more important to you. You traveled to  NYC multiple times this year, and to Little Rock, and to Cleveland with just Hannah by your side.

You talk endlessly, and despite having straight A’s, two of your teachers actually noted your talking habit on your report card. You are still the best hugger I know, and always seem to know when I need one (you may think those hugs are mostly for you, but I know better). You binge watch “Glee” and far too much YouTube. You grew your hair long, and then too long, and ended the year with something in between. Your Chai necklace brings you luck. Middle school has given you a whole new crop of friends, but your sister is still your favorite person to harmonize with, and Shira is your favorite dog to impersonate.

Over the next year, we’ll prep for your bar mitzvah and continue to watch you on stage. I think you’ll soon have a social calendar that rivals Hannah’s (Lord help us). Whatever challenges the next year brings, I know you’re going to be served well by your easy-going personality and (often sarcastic) sense of humor about it all. Happy birthday, my buddy - I love you very much. 

(You can also see letters for ages three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten and eleven.)

Another NaBloPoMo Done

It’s November 30, and I’ve made it to the last day of NaBloPoMo somehow. I didn’t write something profound every day, but I wrote more than I’ve written in years. I’m supposed to feel something now, I guess. I thought I might feel better. 

Writing doesn’t magically fix you. But it feels good to have done it for a bit. Hopefully it won’t be as long in between next time.