What “living the life you’ve always wanted” really means

I say that I’m about helping people to live the life they’ve always wanted, the life that they were taught they couldn’t have or didn’t deserve.

Let’s talk about what that means. And what it doesn’t.

It doesn’t mean that all your wishes will come true or that your guides operate as genies or that your life will magically become easy, and you’ll never want for anything again.

Here’s the thing—well, three things—which I’ll be talking about again:

1.       We don’t create our lives in a vacuum.

2.       Everyone does not have equal access and resources.

3.       Guides are not a quick fix.

 

We don’t create our lives in a vacuum

Despite what many Law of Attraction teachers say, manifestation doesn’t occur solely because you really want something and visualize it and think happy thoughts about it all the time. And not having what you desire doesn’t mean that it’s your fault and you just didn’t want it badly enough.

The truth is that we co-create this physical world. And we have free will. And all choices come with consequences, some of which are pleasant and some of which are unpleasantly unpleasant. Further, some of those consequences can last for generations or centuries. We live, to some degree or another, with the consequences not only of our own choices but also the choices of others.

And that leads me to…

 

Everyone does not have equal access and resources

Everyone has access to guides and their resources, yes. Not everyone is comfortable with that, for any number of reasons. But I’m talking specifically about access to and resources for the life you’ve always wanted but were taught you couldn’t have or didn’t deserve.

You can have some form of the life you’ve always wanted. And you do deserve it, simply for existing in the world. But how you get there may be easier or more difficult than it is for others, depending on what obstacles are in your way. What obstacles, you ask? Those same obstacles that are the consequences of others’ free will choices, which includes (but is not limited to) racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, xenophobia, inequalities in employment, housing, education, medicine, and law, food insecurity, and disability.

If you face one or more of these obstacles, it does not mean you can’t have the life you’ve always wanted. It does not mean there’s no point in trying. It means that it might not look like others’ lives, it might not even look like how you think it should look, but it will give you the experiences you want in your life. And your guides can help you.

Which brings me to…

 

Guides are not a quick fix

Quick fixes are popular. What’s not to like? Do something that requires minimal effort, minimal time, preferably minimal cost, and get what you want. Sounds awesome, right? Whether it’s in the form of something you ingest, something you apply, something you wear, something you keep nearby, or something you use in another way, these quick fixes can make our lives easier, more comfortable, more convenient. But they don’t always (or even often) create lasting, permanent change.

Some people do teach connection with guidance as a quick fix. They have you listen to a meditation, meet your guides, and then—voila!—you can ask them anything you want and get answers. I saw one promotion for an inexpensive, self-guided, online class where you’d allegedly learn to connect with your guides and then life would become easy. Rainbows and unicorns.

Guides do not dispense vending machine advice. What they offer is a partnership with you. What they offer is a relationship. And that takes some time and effort.

 

What “living the life you’ve always wanted” really means

Living the life you've longed for means learning to trust yourself and your guidance to discern what is for you to do yourself, what is for you to do in community, and what is for others to do (or stop doing). It means learning that you are not broken or unlovable, that there is nothing wrong with you, and that you have permission to have the life you’ve always wanted. It means asking for help and support. It means showing up and taking action to make that life a physical reality.

It is not our guides' job to intervene to make life more fair, or to even the playing field, or even to ensure that all human beings are treated with dignity. It's not their job to intervene in our free will at all.

What they can do is remind us of the truth of our divine essence, help us experience what we came here to the planet to experience, and guide us to truly know authentic, messy, tear-stained love of self and others along the way.

On Confession, Denial, and White Privilege

Image by Betty Martin

I’m white. I’m Jewish. I’m an abuse survivor. And I’m a former mental health counselor and current soul guides coach with a specialty in adult survivors of trauma. This collection of experiences and perspectives comes together and leads me to invite my fellow white people to be with me here in the pain and grief and rage and powerlessness in this week following the murder of George Floyd by Minneapolis police.

I invite you, fellow white people, to be here with me and to consider another perspective.

We Jews don’t do individual confession the way Catholics (and perhaps other Christians) do. On Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, we recite—five times—the Viddui, a prayer for the confession of sins. And what makes this different and unique is that we recite it communally. We all confess to the same failures, whether we know we are guilty of them or not. We do this for a few reasons:

1. As a communal people, a tribe, what one of us does, it affects our entire community;
2. We are creating a sacred space for those who know they need to confess, but don’t want to admit it;
3. We are acknowledging that even if we don’t think we’ve failed in this particular way, we know we could have unknowingly, and that we have the capacity to do so.

In the Viddui, we confess to failures such as being self-destructive, betraying ourselves and our families, stealing from others (including time, energy, attention), being impulsive, stubborn, ignorant, and this one, especially now: we have diminished the importance of others.

We Jews have historically always been on the side of the underdog. We’ve been the underdog. In some places in the world, we still are. And we are all, Jewish or not, much better at empathizing with the victim than the perpetrator. We can’t help but imagine what Mr. Floyd’s last few agonizing minutes were like, we see the injustices and feel angry and called to protest them in some form, and we place our solidarity with those who have been wronged.

Most, if not all of us, know what it feels like to not be able to breathe.

My invitation for you today is to step away from that perspective for a few minutes. Make sure you’re in a safe space, as you do this, and if you also have trauma in your background, that you have support people nearby, physically or virtually. Begin to take deep, easy, rhythmic breaths. Any distracting thoughts can be let go for now. They’ll return when you need them. Feel the support beneath your body and allow your muscles to relax. Then, focus on your heart, on the love you have for others, the love you have for yourself, the love others have for you.

Remember that we as human beings are all connected energetically. On one level, we are all George Floyd. And that means we are also, on one level, all Derek Chauvin.

Saying that we are all George Floyd gives us a sense of righteous fury, of fighting for equality and justice. And for all of us who are white, it means being less likely to be shot down (literally or figuratively) for that. Because like it or not, believe it or not, the reality is that we have white privilege.

Saying that we are all Derek Chauvin? That has an entirely different feeling to it. And I would submit to you that almost no one wants to say that and mean it. But that’s precisely what I’m asking you to do right now for this exercise.

In the same way that we confess in the Viddui that we have caused pain to others, say silently or aloud, “We are all Derek Chauvin.”

What feelings come up? Denial? Anger? Disgust that I’d even suggest this? For many, the immediate reaction is, “No way, I am nothing like him.” But that’s not the point. The point is not whether you, an individual, have acted (or even thought) like another individual. The point is that we are part of a community that has, and that continues to, treat Black, indigenous, and other people of color as less-than. We are part of a community that has discriminated in housing, employment, social services, policing, law, and education, among others.

That’s the discomfort I invite you to be with. The discomfort of knowing that we are part of a community that has caused pain, betrayal, that has stolen futures and lives.

Am I suggesting that you are equally guilty of murder? As an individual, no. As a community, yes, we are. And here’s why: The people we vote for, the people we trust, the people we defend, the people we elect to lead us, the people we give our money to—these are the people who have written the laws and policies and contracts and rules that have led to where we are today.

When we as white people elect a racist person to lead any part of our community because that racist person values businesses and profit and property over the quality of life—and the lives themselves—of Black, indigenous, and other people of color, then we are part of the problem. When we as white people make excuses for police brutality because “the people they arrested shouldn’t have done what they did,” we are part of the problem. When we as white people use racist language and excuse it by saying we mean it as a joke, we are part of the problem. When we give money—in donations or by using our purchasing power—to racist and white supremacist business owners, we are part of the problem.

In myriad ways, we are part of the problem that has led to where we are today. And we are part of the solution. But we can only be a part of the solution by acknowledging and owning our collective responsibility, our communal sin, and how the decisions we and those who came before us made, how the way we have bought into even subtle systemic racism, have created the Derek Chauvins of this world.

Be with the discomfort, the anger, the denial, the disgust. And recognize that those feelings are there to point you in a direction toward healing. None of us want to be Derek Chauvin. So, what are you going to do to atone for our communal responsibility? Whose voices will you amplify? Who will you invite to speak at your organization? Who will you vote for? What petitions will you sign? Where will you donate? What will you repost? What words will you choose? How will you show up in your life, in your family, in the world?

Our communal responsibility is not a sentence of punishment. It’s an opportunity to do better, to be better. Will you take it?

To Fight or Not to Fight #AKF

Everyone goes through depression differently. There's no one cause, no one experience, and no one solution. But there are some commonalities.

Aside from the typical symptoms of depression (lack of interest in usual activities, sleep disturbances, feelings of hopelessness or that one has let others down, changes in appetite, thoughts of self-harm or worse, etc.), there are some other commonalities:

• Worsening of self-esteem
• Tendency to always see self in a negative way
• Feeling at fault for everything
• Belief that one deserves this depression as punishment for being at fault for everything
• Certainty that one is a burden on friends and family
• Belief that others will be happier if one is not there to drag them down 
• Thinking that one is only ever taking from others and never giving
• Feeling ugly, unloved, unwanted, alone

These are clearly untrue beliefs and thoughts, and I know that with every cell in my being. When I'm not depressed, that is.

Somehow, the depression shifts even "provable fact" and twists it to its own end, which seems to be solely to hurt the one afflicted. It's a kind of mental invasion. And what do we do with invaders?

We fight back. Of course we do.

Back in 2007, when I was blogging anonymously as Rivka through a severe depression, I likened the depression to my own personal, internal adversary (unlike the more hopeful metaphor of wing molt from earlier today).

In that adversary post, I wrote:

• it breaks me down and consumes me and spits out what's left, and
• I have this black cloud over my head or in my head and I can't see (both from here)
• [it] takes that and twists it all around, that I don't deserve success, that my faults are too many, that I'm simply not good enough (from here)
• I'm ... under the influence of my unstable emotions (from here)
• It left me questioning my contribution to my marriage, my contribution to anyone, my value to the world (from here)
• It's that I just feel less. Less everything that is meaningful to me, and
• It diminishes everything important. It corrodes what makes my life meaningful and powerful and profound. It eats away at what makes me me (both from here)

And yeah, I want to fight that. Fight it and win. Fight it and hope it never comes back, and if it does, fight it again. And again.

There's an online campaign (initially launched as a t-shirt campaign for charity in 2015) started by Jared Padalecki, one of the stars of the long-running sci-fi show Supernatural, with the hashtag #AKF, standing for Always Keep Fighting. The t-shirt campaign raised money for three charities that all helped people dealing with mental illness (especially depression), self-harm, and suicide. Mr. Padalecki, who also shared his own bout with depression, stated the following on his personal interest in the cause:

"On New Years Eve, my dear friend lost his battle with depression. This, unfortunately, wasn’t the first time i lost a personal friend to suicide, and it hurt me deeply, in a way that only a personal experience with suicide can. Though he wasn't the first friend I’ve lost to suicide, I sure hope he’s the last. I wish i had the chance to go back and tell them what they meant to me. I wish I had the chance to beg them to seek help, to keep fighting. I wish they knew that they were surrounded by countless others who struggle on a daily basis.

I hope that this campaign, while raising money for a wonderful charity, can also raise awareness about issues that affect more people than we know. I hope it inspires people battling depression, addiction, mental illness and suicidal thoughts to be vocal about their struggles. I hope it helps people realize that they shouldn’t be ashamed of what they are going through, and I hope it helps people meet and find new friends that they can relate to. I hope it helps people take pride in the fight that they have been fighting, and gives them a push to never give up or give in. I hope it helps inspire people to keep fighting. no matter how hard it is.

For people who deal with mental illness, depression, addiction or suicidal thoughts, every day can bring about new struggles. Every hour and every minute can seem to bring insurmountable odds of happiness. I hope that the simple message of “always keep fighting” can help to bolster somebody through a tough time. I also hope this campaign can help alleviate some of the stigma that the terms “mental illness” and “depression” sometimes evokes.

Everybody has either dealt with these issues themselves, or had a loved one who deal with them. It’s time for us to put these issues front and center and not be ashamed of the path we are walking. If you’re out there and need help, please seek it. Be proud of your valiant day-to-day struggle. There is no shame in needing support. I hope this campaign will help you be vocal about your own struggles, or vocal in your support of those who might need a helping hand. Most of all, when life seems to want to beat you down, I hope you Always Keep Fighting."

 On the one hand, the warrior in me—the one who's been fighting for my life and identity since I was a child—loves this. Because it absolutely feels like a war, sometimes every minute.

And on the other hand, I don't want to fight anymore. Not that I want to give in—that's not where I'm going at all. But I've absolutely seen the effects of the adage, "What you focus on, you get more of" over the last 15 years, and I'd rather focus on hope and love and compassion and freedom and strength and beauty than on war and battles and being on the defensive and casualties and injuries and knowing that the next battle is just around the corner.

So I use the hashtag AKF because it connects me to others who find strength and hope in fighting their own personal demons, and at the same time, I look forward to a change in perspective when I can retire from fighting and wait for my feathers to grow in.

Bitter Herbs

I haven't written a blog post in over six months for a very good reason: I couldn't. I couldn't find the right words and when I thought I might have a few of them, I couldn't stop grieving. Yet somehow, once again Pesach (Passover) has given me tools with which to describe my leaving the most recent narrow place.

It's interesting to note that when I write books, they're always in response to some Big Question. Destined to Choose was an answer I could live with to the question "Why is there evil in the world?" Strength to Stand was an answer to "How much intolerance must we tolerate? And if the answer is 'none,' aren't we also being intolerant?" But I've never been able to write my way through traumatic experiences. My third novel, No One to Fear, due out in 2017, is the first post-9/11 book in the Rabbi David Cohen series. It's the first time I've been able to write about 9/11. I haven't yet been able to write about my parents' deaths, and it's been twelve years and seven years, respectively. Last December brought another kind of trauma and I'm only now able to write about it without bursting into tears.

September 2015 was filled with joy and book events. To my utter amazement, I found myself on TV, radio, in several newspapers, and around the Internet. For an introverted author, this was both exciting and terrifying. I flew to North Carolina (back when anyone could still use the bathroom most appropriate for them) for Bouchercon, the world's largest mystery/suspense/thriller convention for authors and fans. I met wonderful booksellers and readers and fellow authors through November.

In early December I had another book event, one that I'd dreamed about for years: being the December spotlight author for the local JCC's Jewish Book Series. It was, in many ways, a dream come true. And it was sponsored by my home synagogue. The rabbi seemed excited, and at one point said, "We have an opportunity to celebrate one of our own." Except it didn't turn out that way. At all.

I'm not going to go into details, because that isn't the point of this post. I'm also not going to name names, because that also isn't the point. (I ask that any commenters please not name names in the comments either. If you know me in person and want more details than this post gives, please contact me by email or through Facebook.)

What that event did do, however, was open my eyes to a problem that I'd been avoiding and choosing not to see for years: the shul had let members of my family (and me) down repeatedly over 20+ years. I'm not talking about the occasional human oversight. I'm talking about an ongoing failure of communication, of actions not matching words. Of talking the talk but not walking the walk.

My kids (now both teens) had no ties to the shul. No friends, no future there. My husband, save for a couple of individual friends, felt no sense of community. I was convinced that the problem was with me: if I just tried harder, I would be valued.

But December's event made me realize that all this time that I thought I was eating a savory, substantial brisket, I was really eating bitter herbs, washed down with the salt water of my own tears.

In an email I sent to the rabbi the day after that December event, I wrote, "The fastest way to drive someone away from Judaism is to make them feel like they have no value." I stand by that comment. We as human beings are hard-wired to belong. We need community (even us introverts).

Since joining that congregation some 20+ years ago, I had often wondered—and worried—what if I really, really needed my Jewish community, and they weren't there for me? While they sometimes were there for me, there were far more times when they weren't, including (but not limited to) my father's unexpected death, an extremely difficult pregnancy, and a life-threatening crisis involving my youngest son. During all of these times, I reached out for support. I didn't hide or expect anyone to read my mind. I heard the words I needed to hear ("We care very much") but no action followed. No minyan after my father's death. No support while I was under doctor's orders to remain in bed during pregnancy. No support or even resources during my son's crisis. I couldn't rely on their support. I couldn't trust that I actually had a community.

Thank G-d I didn't feel the need to leave Judaism as a result of this. I can't even imagine doing that. But with my family's input, I did come to the conclusion that this was not a healthy environment for me or my family. We had to leave our spiritual home and find a new one.

Psychology teaches about behavior change through rewards. Nearly everyone has heard about Pavlov's dog. That's an example of classical conditioning. Anyone who uses clicker training with a dog or cat is also using classical conditioning. But another type of behavior modification is called variable ratio. Slot machines work on a variable ratio reward system. You keep inserting a nickel or quarter or dollar into the machine and while you lose most of the time, you win just often enough to keep inserting those coins, ever hopeful that the big win is just around the corner.

Synagogues (and churches and mosques and other faith communities) should not work on a variable ratio reward system. For many people, these communities are their primary support network. It is true that no single group can meet all the needs of their members, or even all the needs of one member. But if it's actually practicing what it preaches, so to speak, it can do much better than 50%.

Since January, I've been going through a grieving process. While my kids and husband have been able to move on to the new synagogue without regrets, I feel like I've been through a divorce — or what I imagine a divorce would feel like. Thoughts like "I thought you cared," and "I thought we had something" and "Was it all a lie?" continually flit through my mind.

I emailed a handful of people from the congregation with whom I felt close, to let them know we were leaving, but outside of a few of those people, no one — including clergy — has reached out to us. There was no contact when we ended our membership. No contact when I gave an exit interview to a committee chair a few weeks later — and the committee chair only knew because she was one of the recipients of my email. It feels like the 20+ years we put into that community meant nothing, has no value. It's as if our family never mattered.

But I refuse to be defined by others' indifference. I've learned and grown enough to know that what we experienced in this congregation is not a reflection of us but rather a reflection of them. I didn't see the signs before December but I do now. I recognize now that leaving was an act of health, of taking care of myself and my family.

I'm still navigating the grief. It's too soon for me to go back to visit. Aside from a simcha next fall, I'm not sure it's appropriate to go back at all. My family sees no need to visit. In fact, my youngest, who was about to call it quits on Judaism all together, based on his experiences with our old congregation and the local Jewish school, has blossomed and begun to thrive at the new synagogue.

It is hard to let go. It's hard to give up on a relationship of more than 20 years, even when that relationship caused pain. It's hard to give up on what could have been, and that's what I'm really grieving. But it's also what I have to look forward to with the new synagogue: what can be.

Here's to life, and second chances, and the journey toward a new and fulfilling relationship.

Squeaky Wheel or Lashon Hara?

“The wheel that squeaks the loudest

Is the one that gets the grease.”

Josh Billings, ca. 1870

I don’t like being a squeaky wheel. Don’t like it, don’t want to do it. There’s a reason (actually there are several) why I play a rabbi on paper instead of taking it to the next level. There’s a reason why I write instead of speaking publicly. (For the record, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed the couple of divrei Torah I’ve given, but both were well-researched and written long before being delivered.) I’ve never been one to loudly “toot my own horn.”

This puts me in a very difficult situation as an author and a publisher. It’s my biggest challenge to date. Because horn-tooting and modest behavior just don’t seem to go hand in hand, and if they do, I haven’t figured out how to do it yet. (Any suggestions?)

Consequently, I thought long and hard about posting my support crises of last week. What were my real motivations? What did I want to accomplish with those posts? How was I going to try to accomplish my goal without hurting anyone in the process? Who else, if anyone, was going to benefit from this? Ultimately, how do I become the squeaky wheel without crossing the line into lashon hara?

Opinions may differ, but here’s what I did:

• Before writing anything, I asked for the opinion of someone qualified whom I respect, who also is objective and completely separate from my community.
• I determined that there was no point at all in just venting on the blog; something good (aside from my personal feelings) had to come of it that benefited more than me.
• I had already tried to resolve the various yet related issues on the telephone or in person with the people involved, without much success.
• I did everything I could to generalize, obscure, or otherwise conceal the identities of those involved, short of not writing about it at all.
• I wrote only about things I had personally said, heard, or experienced.
• I verified that there are others who are in similar positions, not feeling particularly supported within their local Jewish community, even when they’ve asked for said support directly.
• I thought that writing was worth the risk if it alerted communities that supporting each other within our local communities is an unmet need (may I be so bold), and/or let others who felt unsupported know they they’re not alone.

I don’t know if there’s more I could have done, while still getting the message out. I don’t know if it will spark changes on a broader scale. I tried hard not to cross that line.

What I do know is that there are people who are active in their synagogues, active in their communities, who feel slighted, isolated, unappreciated or worse, because few people – if anyone at all – have told them that they and their contributions are valued. The message they get is that no one cares, or no one can be bothered to take the time.

What I want to say is that I care. I care because I know how that feels. And I care because I believe we have a responsibility to each other, not only in times of trouble and distress but also in times of joy.

When the community is in trouble let not a man say, “I will go to my house and I will eat and drink and all will be well with me.” . . . But rather a man should share in the distress of the community, for so we find that Moses, our teacher, shared in the distress of the community, as it is said, “But Moses’ hands were heavy; and they took a stone, and put it under him, and he sat thereon” [Exodus 17:12]. Did not then Moses have a bolster or a cushion to sit on? This is then what Moses meant [to convey], “As Israel are in distress I too will share with them. He who shares in the distress of the community will merit to behold its consolation.” (Babylonian Talmud, Taanit 11a)

If we are obligated to come together as a community in distress, how much worse is it then if we turn away during times of joy and, as a direct result, cause distress?

And based on Rashi’s interpretation of kol yisrael arevim zeh lazeh (all Jews are responsible for one another) that all are held responsible even for the sins of a few, it seems to me that if our actions can bring each other down, so too our actions can elevate each other.

I’m still learning this, and I’m by no means innocent. Still, I think of the good we can do by encouraging each other. And not just our friends and family and people we know well, but also the marginalized, the passed over, the ignored, the forgotten.

We have the ability to impact lives in a positive way, and sometimes all it takes is a “mazal tov.”

Thanks, Rabbi.

A Question of Support

I've been thinking about that last post a lot today. And it prompted me to think about how we, as a Jewish community, support each other. And how we don't.

I've generally considered my rabbi to be supportive of my writing and publishing endeavors, though possibly held back from expressing that support formally within the shul (see Case 3 in the post below). Or maybe I'm deluding myself, but for now I choose to believe the former.

Anyway, I asked him a while ago why the lack of support within the local Jewish community, and even within the shul community - with some notable exceptions (thanks to those who wrote Amazon reviews, bought books, told others about Destined to Choose, and were emotionally supportive by asking me about the book and my writing and publishing life!).

I asked him if I'd crossed some invisible line, offended rabbis near and far, or if I'd said or done or written something that caused the lack of support and response. Because if it was something I'd done, I could maybe fix it.

We can blog about control issues some other time.

His response (paraphrased): "No, I don't think so. It's been a few years since I read it, but I don't remember anything offensive or that could be seen as offensive. I certainly wasn't offended."

He then continued, regarding what I'd termed the "tepid, at best" response from the community. Our community, he said, gave preference to those who had already established a following elsewhere. It would help, he said, for me to, as an example, "do a book tour in cities that are within driving distance but still 'distant' like Milwaukee, Chicago, Des Moines. Get good feedback there, and when you come back here, people will be much more receptive."

At the time, I thought, well if that's what I have to do, then that's what I have to do. Good to know for the second book's release.

And now, while I think the rabbi identified (one of) the problem(s) accurately, it bothers me.

Really bothers me. And here's why:

My shul community is the closest thing I have to family here. I consider them family in more ways than one. My biological family and my husband's biological family are (unfortunately) far away. Shouldn't my shul community/family be the first ones to support me, cheer me on, be in my corner? Why do I have to get validation from somewhere else before my local community even recognizes me?

Let's take the family analogy one small step further. Especially for those of you who are parents or teachers, would you ever say, "I'd be happy to show my confidence and pride in my children, but only after their teachers give them good feedback"? (Okay, Jack-who's-good-at-pressing-buttons, maybe you would ;-) , but...)

I attended a Hadassah focus group last year, in which we "younger women" were asked what we wanted to see in Hadassah, especially our local chapter. Several of us were involved in the arts: literary arts, visual arts, theatre arts. Every single one of us had experienced the same non-reseponse and lack of support from the local Jewish community. What I learned from that group is that this is not a common reaction. Other cities, other communities, were quite supportive and celebrated local talent rather than ignoring them. There were Hadassah arts programs that celebrated local members' works, some of which were purely social and others that doubled as fundraisers for causes that Hadassah supports. We have nothing of the sort out here.

And it all begs the larger, more global question that applies to every community, Jewish or not, that has the same attitude toward local artists that mine does:

If you do not support your own, your family, your local community members, what does that say about you?

And what does it say about a Jewish community that puts Image or Status before Community?

Why I’m angry and ashamed to be Jewish

When I started this blog, I thought I ought to present a kind of public face. Positive, informative, engaging. Maybe that’s worked for me and maybe it hasn’t. But it also means that there’s another side (at least one) that I never show.

Until now.

Because while I’ve been neck-deep in work, promoting Like a Maccabee and doing lots of publishing-y things, I’ve been getting increasingly pissed off at certain parts of the Jewish community, including parts of my local community.

I’ve been holding a lot of these feelings back for a long time, since Destined to Choose came out, and I’m really good at rationalizing it. Maybe it’s PMS or maybe I misunderstood or maybe my expectations were too high.

Now I’m convinced that I’m not the one to blame.

Some of my recent experiences even leave me ashamed to be Jewish.

Case 1: A small Jewish wholesaler contacted publisher-me to order copies of Like a Maccabee to distribute to her customers, which include Jewish bookstores, Jewish book fairs, Jewish schools, synagogues, JCCs and the like. We tried to negotiate a mutually acceptable discount. She was unwilling to accept the best I could offer. She (we’ll call her CJ - not her real initials) did not care that she would be supporting Jewish publishing and Jewish authors and Jewish books. I finally offered to send five copies at cost with free shipping (which translates into my losing money on this deal), and CJ agreed to see what the response would be.

I later found out that her terms for some of CJ’s customers – including Jewish book fairs – were exactly what I had originally offered her, the offer she turned down as “not enough of a discount.” Then I felt used. I felt like she took advantage of me.

I sent the books I’d agreed to sell CJ at cost, and I coughed up shipping costs. I sent an invoice, payable upon receipt. It is now a month later and CJ still has not paid. When I had my assistant call to find out what was going on and when we could expect payment, CJ was rude and then she hung up on him.

Case 2: A local synagogue where the editor of Like a Maccabee is actively involved has a huge Chanukah fair each year. I contacted the woman who organizes the fair and makes all the buying decisions, and asked her about carrying Like a Maccabee. It’s locally illustrated, locally edited, locally published, was just released, and takes place during Chanukah. Perfect fit, wouldn’t you think? She grumbled about it being too expensive from her wholesaler. (Guess who her wholesaler is? See Case 1 above.) So I offered to give her the quantity synagogue discount for 5 or more copies, eliminating the wholesaler’s cut out of her profits, and since she’s local, I offered to personally bring the copies to her, also eliminating shipping costs. She was unenthused. She was anything but supportive of this book. And then I found out later, she bought one copy. This Chanukah fair is HUGE. She has multiples of nearly everything she sells. And she bought one #%@& copy. Way to go to show support of the local Jewish community.

Case 3: Another local synagogue, with significant ties to several people involved in the production of Like a Maccabee, hasn’t even bothered to return my e-mails and phone calls. Ordinarily, I’d let this one go, because I know they’re busy and I’m really gifted at making excuses for them. But – okay, truth time – this is MY synagogue. I’d hoped for at least some response, but I was half-expecting to be disappointed again.

Again? Yes. Because I got the same sort of non-response when my book, Destined to Choose, came out. My shul has a history of publicly, within the shul community, supporting its members. I thought this was awesome. When one member had his excellent memoir-ish book about his career as a physician published, the shul encouraged the congregation to go to his book signings. He gave a d’var Torah and read from his book. The shul had copies for sale in its tiny gift shop. When another member had his Holocaust memoir published, he received a similar, if not more supportive, response. When yet another member publishes her research in academic journals most of us don’t read, she is lauded from the bima and is asked to teach classes for the congregation.

When my book was published, there was a “Yishar koach” notation in the monthly newsletter. I got a “Kiddush today is sponsored by Sheyna Galyan in honor of the publication of her book, Destined to Choose” but only because I donated money toward Kiddush. That was it. I donated a copy to the shul, where it sat in the program director’s office for a YEAR before the shul finally decided they’d come up with a plan to be supportive.

Their answer was an author’s panel, because quite frankly, they didn’t think anyone would come if I did a reading and Q&A after services on Shabbat or a signing and book sale on a Sunday morning after minyan. The panel was scheduled for Halloween day, a Sunday morning that year. It was not heavily promoted as many other shul programs are. There were precious few announcements. There were no mailings. I did my own promotions for it, but there’s only so much one person can do without support.

The shul said they wanted to do the panel because they were trying to protect me from being hurt by no one showing. With very little promotion by the shul for the panel, guess how many people came? About a dozen. Most were family members of other authors on the panel. I sold one book – to one of the other authors.

I asked if the book I’d donated to the shul could be placed in the shul library and I was told “Absolutely!” It never showed. I still have no idea what happened to it.

So what gives with the lack of response – even just a quick e-mail – with the publication of Like a Maccabee? Maybe the shul discriminates against fiction. Maybe Minnesota’s Jewish community has issues. Maybe it’s me (but I don’t think so). I don’t know what it is, but it’s been stuck in my craw since what I’d referred to in a conversation at the shul as a “tepid response, at best” to my book in 2003. Shul leadership didn’t agree, but I’m not sure what they would call it. It ain’t supportive in my book, especially given the support shown to others.

And that’s why this latest hurts so much more.

I’ll confess that it’s been bothering me so much that I’ve recently been uninterested in going to Shabbat services. How can I go and be grateful and social and full of blessing when so much around me seems to be screaming “You/your book/your work is not worth our attention”?

I live my life acutely aware of Jewish values. I treasure justice. I abhor seeing others marginalized, victimized, or otherwise treated unfairly. I believe that morals should outweigh greed, that supporting each other and helping each other to survive in a very non-Jewish world is more important than getting that extra 5% discount.

And there is one more factor, one that my rabbi and some others in the shul and community know details about. I have a disability, the specifics of which are not necessary to share with the world. What is important is that I cannot survive for long in the corporate environment. Working from home and combining my talents and skills in this field allow me to work around my disability and remain a productive member of society.

I am trying to supplement my family’s income, in part so we can continue to pay the high costs of living a Jewish life and having our child (perhaps next year, children) in a Jewish school. Yet, without the support of my community, support for me as an author and as a publisher, I’m fighting an uphill battle to do any of this.

I’m not asking for support in the form of everyone buying a book. I’m asking for support in the form of people publicly showing their enthusiasm and confidence in what I do, enthusiasm and confidence that can have a ripple effect around the community, the country, the world, so that those who do want to buy books have the opportunity to do so. All of which seems to me to be fully in synch with Jewish values.

I don’t know what it will take to heal the hurt. I do know that the perfunctory “I apologize for anything I might have done this year to offend you” often offered at Yom Kippur is just not good enough.

Especially when it happens again.

As for Case 1 and Case 2, I don't know what to think. Case 1 isn't even in Minnesota. I'm disappointed in certain parts of the Jewish community, and I'm angry that some few seem to be living up to what I'd hoped to G-d was an antisemitic stereotype of greedy, rude, spiteful, and self-serving.

The author of Like a Maccabee, Barbara Bietz, has had exactly the opposite reaction. Her (Jewish) community, friends, family, schools, bookstores, newspapers are all excited and thrilled with the book and its publication. She's done book signings where she's talked about how it takes a village to write a book, how so many have given their support from inception to publication and beyond.

I want my village. I'm not seeing it. And that makes me very sad.