My Not-So-Funhouse Mirror

When I was young I used to love the funhouse mirrors. You know the ones; you stand in front of them and your body’s reflection becomes completely distorted. Some mirrors make your hands look huge while your head is the size of a marble. Other times you might get lucky enough to find the mirror that gives you the TINIEST of waists with the only ill affect being a nose the size of your entire face (but really, who cares about your nose when your waist is that tiny?!?!?!) There were all sorts of funhouse mirrors, each with their own unique way of distorting reality.

As I have grown older my love of funhouse mirrors has diminished considerably, perhaps it is because I know that the image I see before me is not real, or maybe it’s because I realize that those looking in the mirror as I stand before it aren’t seeing the real me. Either way, I have grown to dislike the funhouse mirrors. Ironically of course, as I grew to hate them more and more they became more and more a part of my life.

For those who don’t know, some 8 years ago I was diagnosed with a disease called Mixed Connective Tissue Disease (but let’s call it MCTD – shortening it makes it sound so much cooler… dontcha think?) MCTD is a rheumatic/autoimmune disease that affects the many different soft tissues of the body, including the usual suspects (cartilage, tendons and ligaments, etc.) and some not so usual suspects (the eyes, blood, kidneys, hair, etc.) It is a disease wherein my body attacks itself. It recognizes my own tissue as a foreign body and goes into attack mode. Essentially… I am allergic to myself. Yeah – bizarre… I know!

Yes, in the world of rheumatic disease there are some bigger and flashier celebrities, such as Scleroderma, Rheumatoid Arthritis and Lupus. So, in order to better understand MCTD, just picture the cover of the National Inquirer doing an expose on the scandalous love affair between Lupus and RA wherein they parented a secret love child… that love child is none other than MCTD! Yes, I get the best of both worlds. I have the blood of a Lupus patient (I don’t care what you say Dr. House… sometimes IT IS Lupus!) and the joints of an RA patient. Some package, huh?

Having MCTD has certainly not been a walk in the park. During the past 8 years I have developed a serious hate-hate-hate relationship with this bastard love child. It has taken a lot from me, thereby forcing me to hate-hate-HATE it! It has taken away months of my life as I recuperated from surgeries, illnesses and injuries. It has taken away my ability to easily do certain mundane tasks that my joints used to do almost reflexively on a regular basis. It had even stolen my hair for a few years there. Still though, the one thing that it hasn’t been able to get its grubby little cells on is my sense of self, my sense of the REAL me.

It is difficult, I won’t lie. MCTD has turned into my own little no-so-funhouse mirror. I carry it with me everywhere I go and try to keep it out of view of curious onlookers as best I can. Try as I might though there are times when my MCTD mirror is on display for all to see. Sometimes, my MCTD mirror makes things seem as though I am weak… I certainly am not! Sometimes it makes me look broken… wrong again. Your standard onlooker would probably take one glance at me through my horrible looking glass and think that they understand the reality… that they understand who I am… that they see the real me. But as anyone who has stood before a funhouse mirror knows, what they are seeing is not the REAL me… it is just a distorted reflection of who I truly am.

My MCTD mirror somehow always emphasizes the wrong parts of what makes me… me! (Yeah, that awesome skinny waisted mirror? No such luck, I didn’t even come close!! And I TOTALLY would have settled for a cantaloupe-sized nose too!) No, my mirror reflects the parts of me that scare me the most. The parts that I detest the most. The parts that hurt the most. Someone looking in my mirror might mistakenly see weakness, vulnerability and limitations, because in my mirror they seem to inflate a thousand times over.

But what about the real me? Yes, my MCTD mirror would have you believe that I am weak, because my MRIs and X-rays say so. But if you take a good look at me… the REAL me, you will see that I am stronger in so many more ways than the mirror can reflect. My mirror might have you believe that MCTD has given me tremendous limitations, but if you walk away and look at the REAL me, you’d see that for every limitation, I find a way to get around it. Most of all, and WORST of all, some onlookers passing by, taking a quick glance at my reflection might think that this disease must have taken away my passion for life and my sense of humor, the essence of who I truly am. This is, I believe, the most terrible illusion of all. Because if you look at me, through knowing eyes, you would know that it is those very things that give me the strength to take my mirror and throw it in the corner, free from prying-yet-sympathetic eyes, and allow me to grow each day and surpass each challenge as it comes.

Yes, MCTD, has tried mightily to take me down. Certainly there have been times where it has been close; and there are even days when I too have a hard time discerning between the reflection in the mirror and the woman who stands before it. Yet with each difficulty I have miraculously found the ability to forge on, move ahead and to keep on laughing while I do it. Sometimes it took more strength than I alone could muster, but I am blessed with many people in my life; doctor’s, family members and friends, who when my own strength fails me, have been and always will be there to lend me some of their own. Sometimes I need their shoulders to lean on and other times I just need them to cry on, but between my “people” and myself, I always seem to find a way to take that mirror and hide it away, even if only for a little while.

No, MCTD isn’t the sexiest disease out there; for G-d’s sake, it doesn’t even have a cool name! But it is mine, and I’m stuck with it. My mission now is to get over the fact that I am carrying around a mirror, and instead focus on the real me. Focus on who I am, what I want out of life and how I am going to go about getting there. One day I will have the strength to smash my MCTD mirror for good and walk around without a care in the world as to what other people think. For now though, I will just keep my custom-made-pretty-little-European cane by my side and walk with it as proudly as I can (and if I catch you staring at me for too long... I'll just take that custom-made-pretty-little-European cane and whack you with it!)

Now how’s THAT for weak, vulnerable and limited!

Eat, Pray, Love... Indeed!

Well, it is holiday time once again! Meals are being planned, clothes are being pressed and the house is being cleaned; all in preparation for the upcoming holiday, the Jewish New Year, Rosh Hashana. It seems like the lists of chores and errands that must be completed before the quickly-approaching holiday arrives is endless. I, for one, take particular satisfaction in creating intricately detailed spreadsheets in order to organize our menus for the endless stream of meals that we must prepare. It takes many many hours of work to go through my previous years’ menus and library of cookbooks in order to decide what exactly gets a place of honor on this year’s menu. Then I take meticulous care in organizing what dish will go with what meal, and the ingredients required for each recipe. Finally, I create a shopping list replete with quantities needed for each item and organize them by supermarket isle. This way our shopping is stream lined and we never need to go back to the supermarket for another round of shopping. (OK, so perhaps this part doesn’t quite pan out the way would like it… there’s always that rouge instant pudding mix or extra dozen eggs that we SWORE we bought but is nowhere to be found!!) Regardless though, by the time the week of Rosh Hashana rolls around our menus take their place of honor upon our refrigerator, hanging in all of their color coded glory!

Yes, planning our many appetizers, entrées, side dishes, vegetables and desserts is certainly a massive job. Still though, it doesn’t hold a candle to the actual cooking that is always soon to follow. Cooking in the Goldsammler household is nothing short of fantastic. Together, my mother and I become an unbeatable tag team; roasting, baking, sautéing and boiling our way through the menacing menus that stand before us. Together we have developed a sort of rhythm; an ebb and flow, as natural as the tide itself. My mother dices onions as I peel the carrots; my mother prepares the turkey as I mix up batters. Rarely do tempers flare or moods falter. When my mother and I are preparing for yontif it is as if we are in our own warm little cocoon. In that cocoon the worries of the day seems to fade into the background and we enjoy each other so deeply that I almost wish for the cooking to never end. The memories created and the family stories that are shared in our cozy kitchen are the moments that I cherish year-long. Each utensil, pot and dish carries with it it’s own history. I am so blessed to come from a long line of Jewish women who also found love and laughter in the kitchen, and even though they have long since passed, I can still feel their love and laughter as I stir my own pots with the spoons they themselves once lovingly prepared holiday meals with.

As I approach the holidays this year I hope to try and remember this joy, this warmth and these moments, as I stand before G-d. I hope to remind myself of the happiness that permeates my life and of my enormous fortune in being blessed with a family that is not afraid to laugh loudly and to love deeply. Yes, my life is at times very difficult, but perhaps this year I will be able to remember that while I cry out to G-d to take away my pain, I must also shout out in gratitude to Him for the supportive and loving family that He has given me, without which my suffering would be far greater.

I will try my best this year to remind myself to be grateful for all that I have and whatever G-d chooses to give me beyond that… well that’s just gravy! (Which, by the way, we have a GREAT recipe for… :-) )

Family Ties

In recent weeks I have had the distinct pleasure of spending some true quality time with my family. From a 60th birthday party to a Bar Mitzvah, a trip to Disney World and a special weekend visit, each event has left me feeling especially lucky and proud.

We are a family that is composed of very unique individuals and certainly NONE among us is particularly timid, but at the end of the day there is never a doubt that we are one very loud, loving and quirky clan. Attempting to list and detail the specific individuals in my family would take a novel (not a blog) to complete. But certainly I can give you a feeling for what their united presence in my life means to me.

My family, well, it consists of parents, children both young and old, aunts and uncles, cousins and in-laws. There are people of all sorts of religious affiliations and certainly very varied political views. We live throughout the country, from North to South and East to West. We have foreign born members stemming from a variety of countries throughout the world and of course some pure bred “Yankees” amongst us as well. We have children and grandchildren of both Holocaust survivors and American soldiers alike. I have “Aunts” that were never truly mine, but are absolutely mine all the same. I have cousins that are my "Uncles" (and would have it no other way) and I have in-laws of cousins that are as much mine as the blood lines themselves.

We are each very distinctive personalities in our own right, but ultimately we are united by a bond even greater and more unique than the individuals themselves. In a family with such a panoply of unique personalities and character types, there are sure to be times when these personalities collide, and collide mightily at that! We are, for the most part, quite a loud bunch; few amongst us willing to allow our frustrations and disappointments with one another to go unrecognized. But even when there is strife amongst us, and it is difficult to deal with one another, we somehow stick it out and allow the bonds of family to pull us back together. I often like to say, “Thank G-d we love each other enough to fight.” I have noted many other families who are quite cordial at all times with one another. There is never any arguing or anger of any sort and it all seems very pleasant. However while those families lack the passionate discord that can sometimes be experienced in my own, they also miss out on the fiery love that we share as well. It has been said that the opposite of love is not hate, rather it is apathy. Amongst our wonderful clan, apathy is the last thing you will ever find.

Family get-togethers in my home are nothing short of hilarious. We each participate in our own way, never allowing any one member to go unrecognized, or for that matter, unscathed! We absolutely love to poke fun at one another and revel in our long standing family jokes. Somehow, they just never seem to get old. We laugh heartily as we intensely enjoy being together, and as in any “Good Jewish Family” there is always plenty of good food and drink to go around.

We laugh and we cry, we hold each other up when the weight of the world comes crushing down on any one of us. If there is any one absolute that can be relied upon with Swiss-watch-precision, it is that when you are a member of our clan you are never alone. We have been there for one another in the worst of times and have rejoiced at the best of times. We are deeply committed to and protective of one another and are able to truly appreciate the good times that we share. Holidays, of every variety are celebrated with tremendous joy and unmatched enthusiasm. Little gives the “elders” in our clan more joy than to watch the traditions and values of our family being passed on to the youngest amongst us. Some of us (ehem) are often driven to tears as we delight in it all. I am truly blessed to be a member of this incredible family, and never feel as loved as I do when I am with them.

As I grow older I appreciate more and more, not only the good times that we currently share, but the many years of shared family times that were unknowingly gifted to me in years past. I am, very much, a product of my family. Generations of Goldsammlers, Duboffs, Katzs, and Cohens are the foundation on which my entire self is built upon. This does not define me; rather it gives me the strength to allow myself to seek out the true me. I am a woman with the strength of survivors pumping through my veins and the joy of tradition and song flowing through my heart. I am, what I am, because I know from where I come.

Basically, I would define my family as extraordinary, loving, supportive, unique, and yes... maybe even a little loud; but so what? It's who we are! Why?... YOU GOT A PROBLEM WIT DAT?!?!

Aaaaaand, we're back!

Hello everyone! I am sorry that it has been so long since I last posted. I could apologize and try to excuse myself by telling you that life has just been too busy for me to find the time to post, or perhaps that “nothing especially thought provoking” has given me pause for thought in recent weeks. But, as we all know, if I really truly wanted to post, I could certainly free up some time somewhere! (For example, by simply restricting my Facebook usage to “only” one or two hours a day I could likely gain enough time to write in my blog or maybe, oh, I dunno… earn a PhD?) And as far as not having anything especially thought provoking to write about… well, I can say with near-complete certainty that the only days that leave me with absolutely no food for thought are those where I flatly refuse to allow myself to consciously examine or analyze the events of the day. I think that we can all agree that there are some days that are just better off being left behind us, without too much emotional exploration being attached to it.

Therefore, in the case of my missing postings I am not going to try to make up any excuses (though, “the dog ate my computer” did cross my mind a number of times.) I will simply tell you that the reason I have not been posting regularly is because I needed to come to terms with the fact that there is no one “right” way to write. There is no single style that makes a piece interesting and there is no individual emotion that must be conveyed in each and every piece that I write. I needed to learn that it is OK to show people the many different shades of Beth, from the sun-shiny yellow to the murky gray… each of them is equally a part of what makes me who I am, and makes my tapestry so intricate and colorful.

One thing I will tell you however, is that my brief hiatus has allowed me to finally realize that this blog is about me; it’s about my thoughts, my feelings, my hopes and my fears. It is about my past, my present, my days and my nights. It is about my assessment of the events unfolding daily, around me; and gives the reader a sneak-peek of the world through “Beth-colored lenses”. In short, it is about me… and therefore I need not take direction or instruction on how best to proceed with my blogging. I will not be funny when I feel sad and I will not be angry when I feel joyful. I will be me. For better or for worse, this blog is mine and it’s my tapestry to document.

And so, welcome (again) to the mind of one “murkishy-yellow and shinyish-gray” young woman. It can get pretty chaotic in there… but I have to admit, it can be a whole lot of fun getting your hands messy in there too!!

A Granddaughter’s Reflections

From the depths of Europe my family has survived. I have been taught since I was a small child all about the inferno that took over Europe, and more importantly the lives of my grandparents. This raging conflagration left behind little but the charred remnants of memories of lives taken out by murderers and monsters. For as far back as I can remember I can recall my grandparents speak of their days penned up like animals in the Siberian work camps and prisons. Their eyes would well up with tears as they would recall the horrors that they lived through, and then those tears would spill over as they would remember those who never made it as far as they did. The years of the Holocaust were riddled with pain and agony. Those who survived are often called the lucky ones, but I secretly wonder if that is really true. Those who survived were left behind with the horrible memories of the pain and suffering, while those who died, mercifully found peace once death came. I believe that those who perished at the hands of the Nazis were escorted directly into the gates of eternal heaven with G-d as their escort. There were no questions asked, and no tribunals to be had. All of those who were murdered for being a Jew, in the eyes of G-d, perished for the most sacred reason of all. They died in His name, and in His honor. They were martyrs. Not because they chose to be… but because that is what the world had in store for them.

But what of the survivors? Where do they wear their badge of honor? For they too have certainly earned their place of honor in the annals of history. We so often look at pictures of the holocaust in horror as we see the piles of corpses and chimneys billowing with human ash. But the horrors did not end there. They continue on to this very day. For the survivors, life had to continue on. They could not stop living. Each day continued on at a steady clip…. fighting, just to keep up. Moving from DP camp to DP camp, and then on to more permanent homes in countries such as the United States and Israel. Never stop moving.

Even in her “golden years” we used to say to my grandmother, “Grandma, sit down, relax…sit with us and have a cup of tea.” But not my grandmother. She always sat at the edge of her seat. Poised for the next moment to come; for the next job to come up, for the next important second to occur, where she could jump up and manage it and take care of it. She was forever managing life. Working multiple jobs, taking care of the home, cooking, cleaning, sewing. Whatever needed to be done… Sara Goldsammler could do it… she was the manager… but not always with a smile. Her's was a smile dulled by war and tarnished through suffering. I think somewhere in Siberia there is an old Russian man boasting to his grandchildren all about his days guarding the Jewish vermin in the camps, and how he “stole even the smile” off of one beautiful little Jewess. I know that this must be true, because my grandmother lost her smile somewhere back then, and I don’t think she ever truly found it again.

My grandfather on the other hand was a man whose smile shone brightly. He was a man of the theater. He loved to tell his stories of the times before the war. My last time talking to him before he passed away was so wonderful. He told me a sweet little story of how he used to build radios out of old cigar boxes and would try to hear radio stations from France. His eyes twinkled as he spoke. He would pat me on the face and pinch my cheeks. But the Holocaust never left his mind. He would often tell of a time when the Goldsammler name conjured visions of great wealth. I would quickly remind him to look around at all that his son and daughter have accomplished and how beautiful their homes are and how beautiful his grandchildren’s homes are, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He spoke of a time when his immediate family consisted of 10 brothers and sisters, all but two married, and many with children of their own. When he would speak of the family in those numbers, I could not help but agree that, yes, we were perhaps wealthier back then.

So many people think of the Holocaust as a horrible atrocity that happened in Europe to a generation that is unfortunately fading away. Many people say “Learn about it now, so that it will never happen again”. Of course this is all true. However, the Holocaust is so much more. The Holocaust is not merely a piece of history that must be remembered so that it does not happen again. The Holocaust is something that continues to affect my own life still today. It affects the way I, and many like me, look at the world. The way we see the people around us, and the way we live our lives. A glass of water takes on new meaning. A potato takes on a life of its own, and G-d help you if you try to throw away a piece of bread! We are the children and grandchildren born to spite Hitler's killing machine but whose lives often drift among the shadows of his wreckage.

We have been labeled "Third Generation." That is what they call us, the grandchildren of the survivors. The "First Generation" is of course the survivors themselves. The generation of the Holocaust. The generation that had the tenacity and audacity to survive against all odds. It was up to them to start it all over again. And start again they did. Then came the "Second Generation," the children of these mighty people. The children that history has dubbed "born from the ashes."

Now here I am, two generations later. Two generations wiser. Two generations removed from the horrors of the past. I am not, as the previous generation was, "born from the ashes." I am a woman born from the hope of a new day. I am a member of an exclusive group who will have been the last to hear, first-hand, of the Nazi's crimes against my people. But I am also a member of the elite generation to have witnessed first-hand what will undoubtedly come to be known as the Jewish people's ultimate return to their homeland.

I have been born to a generation of Jews that stands at the precipice of change. Behind us lies a barren wasteland of horror and before us lies the potential for unimaginable and infinite splendor. I am of a generation far enough removed from the tragedies of yesteryear to be able chase after the hope of tomorrow but still close enough to appreciate that it is nothing less than a miracle that I can do so.

Yes, my life is forever darkened by the horrors of the past but it is also illuminated by the promise of what lies ahead. I have stood on the land that my ancient ancestors walked on and touched the stones marking the very spot where innumerable prayers, thousands of years old, have been directed. I have flown in the skies above the Holy Land, taking in a prophetic "Eagle's eye view" and have marched through the holiest of cities in celebration of its return to Jewish hands.

Mine is not a generation without its problems and difficulties. We too have seen our share of tragedy and sadness. But for all of the sadness... hope remains alive. Perhaps THAT is the badge of honor that we can bestow upon the survivors of the Holocaust. Perhaps it is our ability to move on from sorrow and rebuild from tragedy that we can attribute to them. Perhaps it is our very being, our very existance that bears witness to their greatness and heroism.

As we prepare to celebrate Israel's Independence Day, Yom Ha'atzmaut, let us remember that we ARE the hope of yesterday and we should always strive to be the heroes of tomorrow.

Welcome to my brain

Hello everyone (or anyone)!
After many years of being encouraged by family, friends, coworkers, doctors, rabbis and complete strangers to write a book, I have finally decided to give in and try my hand at blogging. It seems like a fair first step into the world of "writing," and the best part is that it can evolve with me. Writing a book requires linear thinking and structuring. It follows a logical sequence and requires the writer to follow a certain storyline or format. Blogging, on the other hand allows for, and even requires, a certain level of informality and fluidity that ebbs and flows as life occurs. There are no rules to blogging. It is organic and ever evolving. It therefore seems the perfect medium for me!

I will confess that I am very unsure about this new venture. I wonder who will read my thoughts... and why! The thought of starting my blog was daunting to say the least. Off the bat I was assaulted with questions from my computer's "blogger wizard" that I had no idea how to answer! "What is the title of your blog?" it asked. "Well, I don't know! I hadn't thought that far ahead! All I wanted was to jot down some thoughts... and now you, Mr. Computer, want to give it a title and definition?" Sheesh. This wasn't quite as "organic" an experience as I had once hoped it would be now was it?

So, I sat down with my computer and started thinking about a title. I wondered what it was exactly that I intended to write about and how to relay that in a title of only a few short words. I thought back to the many suggestions I have received in the past regarding my writing. So much has been suggested. I have been told to write about illness, about teaching, about religion and about faith. I have been told to write seriously and to write with humor, to write about others and to write about myself. In essence, it seems, I have been told to write about life. And write I will!

I want to write about the ups, the downs and the upside downs. The good times, the sad times, the hard times, and the fun times. All of it is important and all of it makes me who I am... and THAT is what I want to write about. So you may wonder "where did she get the title from?" The answer is simple. There is a metaphor that I once heard which compares life to a tapestry. We humans are only able to see the back of the tapestry, replete with knots and hanging strings interwoven amongst sections of intricate beauty. To the naked eye it might seem that it is nothing more than a jumble of threads strewn together in a haphazard disconnected mess. It is our job to remember though that we are only looking at the back of the tapestry. There is a Master Tapestry-maker who can see the other side and is busy creating the most exquisite picture for all of mankind.

It is my intention to write all about life, but to always remind myself and whoever might read my words that through both the good and the bad we are never really seeing the whole picture. We must always remember that the good and the bad both come from the same source and that His handiwork is nothing less than perfect... always... knots and all!