Atonement. Ithaca Style.

Cornell United Religious Work*

We are trying Jewish lite this year. Almost 20 years of observing Yom Kippur with my husband has ranged from getting all dressed up for services like we were running for the presidency to me sending him to synagogue alone because I had to go in to my office for fear of losing my job working for Nazis.

Yom Kippur is the holiest day of the Jewish year and so you are supposed to refrain from work and fast from sundown to sundown. "Yom Kippur" means "Day of Atonement" and the idea is to free yourself up so you can spend the day atoning for your sins of the past year.

The good news is that I don’t have to share my sins with anyone but me, myself and I. God was right there with me when I was committing the sins so it’s no big news as I go through my list today.

Here in Ithaca, we are taking it easy--just a bunch of us carving out time for ourselves and our families. The best part of the day, for me, is almost here--when the sun sets and you clink your champagne glass and kiss your loved ones and know that you have a perfectly clean slate with the big guy.

*Cornell United Religious Work (CURW) is comprised of twenty-nine affiliated communities, offers programs of worship, study, and social life, as well as opportunities for students to engage in interfaith dialogue.

Each weekend Catholic Masses, Protestant worship services, Jewish Services, and Muslim prayers are held.

Are you ready boots? Start walkin'!

University of California at Santa Barbara

Cornell University

It’s a long walk from the sandy beaches of UCSB to the ivy-covered bricks at Cornell. 19 years, 4 cities, 3,000 miles, 2 kids, 1 husband, 3 cats, 8 jobs, and, looking at my two Student ID cards, a hair color and change of wardrobe.

I have traded in more than just my blond hair and flip flops. I am learning to give up over-scheduling, hangovers, worrying about the shape of my ass, and saying “yes” when I mean “Hell, no!”

So, as I pull on my boots and brush my brown hair, I will welcome time for contemplation, healthier habits, self-acceptance, and the ability to set boundaries in a firm, yet polite manner.

I would say that I am giving up sinister thoughts and paper waste, but I am also working on being truthful and real in my writing. I need to kill off Pollyanna and resurrect Chatty Cathy. It’s hard work for anyone trying to make big changes, but you’re not going to get anywhere without taking that first step.

Animal Instinct

Hey! Those three large deer are the same doe and fawns that have been hanging around our house since the beginning of summer! The babies are now as tall as their mother, but I know they are her young offspring because they do things like charge into the middle of the street when grumpy neighbor man starts honking his horn to “scare them away” so he doesn’t accidentally hit one of them. Only a psychopath or youngster would run into an oncoming dented Subaru.

The doe knows my voice. I sing out things like, “Hello sweetie…pretty girl…please get your fat haunches off of my delphiniums.” She usually looks at me, flicks her golden brown ears back, takes another bite of the velvety deep-purple flowers, sniffs the air, and then ever so slowly scans the yard until she locks in on her two charges. I know better than to get between a mother and her babies, no matter how big they are.

So, the spring babies are grown...summer is officially over...fall is peaceful here in Ithaca. Except for the squirrels. They seem to be getting downright nasty. Chasing each other, grabbing at everything the other one may or may not have. When I first saw them shaking tree branches and acting like they were pantomiming that the end of the world was coming, I thought they were trying to mate, but, no, even male squirrels know that the way on top of a female is not by whacking her on the head with an acorn…

Beast of Burden

When a young school age child wakes up his mom at six in the morning saying, “I think I’m sick”, two thoughts rip through her head: “Dear God, please don’t let it be anything serious” and “Shit, there goes my day.”

Yesterday it was my youngest. We had already missed Monday (out of town in NYC for a special family celebration), so I was really counting on Tuesday to play catch up. I had homework and housework, and, damn, a hair appointment! But, I mustered up all of my June Cleaver, got out the thermometer, and started making a fuss. I wanted him to have fond memories of being sick as a child. How does one become hell-bent on being the perfect mother?

I had a “working mom” so when we were sick, she left us with my father, who had more flexibility in his schedule. All a kid with a tummy ache wants is their mommy bringing them 7-Up, but instead I had my ex-Marine father who always acted like we were faking it. I think he liked when we had to stay home, though. By noon, he had me making tuna salad sandwiches and getting up to change the channel for him. Once he even tried to get me to ride my bike to the corner market for cigarettes!

I decided to split the difference with my little guy. I read books, played Lego, and built a race track for his remote control car, but then when 1:00pm rolled around, I dressed him, packed up his portable DVD player and dragged him to the hair salon. The ladies there were sweet and I don’t think he’ll need therapy. At least I didn’t have him fetching chardonnay for me!

D.I.Y.

Housework is a funny thing. I definitely have a love/hate relationship going on. I enjoy a day’s physical labor, music blasting, whipping everything into shape…just so three guys can tear it all apart again in 10 minutes when they get home. It is rough spending precious time away from other pursuits, just to be left at home, matching up socks—four different sizes that all sort of look the same.

When we moved to upstate NY, several people had warned me about the lack of household help. The owners of the house we are renting said they had an aging hippie couple they could refer us to--they sometimes showed up, sometimes didn’t. So then, what did a cardiac surgeon do? She cleaned her own house, folded her own clothes and changed her own damn cat litter. I couldn’t figure it out. Where did she and her husband find the time? Here were two fit, well-traveled, busy career people that did their own housework? What?

I have been here three months now, and while I did find someone to come in and help with the basics, I still am left with many, many domestic tasks. So how do I keep the house orderly without methamphetamines? I started dropping the extras. No time for manicures and pedicures. Who needs them anyway? No time for a trainer at the gym. I just throw on my running shoes and hit the trail right outside my front door. No more volunteering to raise $250,000 for a public school. NY has figured out how to fund their school system. No more weekly massage therapist. My husband can bust a move once in a while!

So, as I knock my life back down to the ground, I am discovering much of it oddly satisfying. I like making out a to-do list, running errands and blowing off therapy. I can just fight with my husband the old fashioned way—withhold sex until I get my way. I can pull my own weeds and polish my own silver and still find time to write, meet friends for a drink or go on a date with my husband. I might be plucking my own eyebrows, cracking my own back and designing my own yoga workout, but I feel strong, happy and a lot richer!

Temple & Tailgate

Jewish New Year starts at sundown. If one of my Episcopalian friends had scheduled her kid’s birthday party tomorrow, my husband would have been shocked at the insensitivity. It is the equivalent of a Catholic being invited to Chuck E. Cheese on Christmas. But since tomorrow is the first home game of the Cornell football season, well that’s another story!

We have a rigorous High Holy Day—9:00 Rosh Hashana services, followed by 11:00 tailgate party, let’s not forget the 12:30 game, and then top it off with a four-hour drive to NYC! Most Jewish mothers would frown on all of this but my mother-in-law is what my husband affectionately calls a Park Avenue Jew. Social and travel calendars reign supreme and no one needs to make a fuss about anything getting in the way.

As for me, my only dilemma: Do I wear red & white to the synagogue or Saturday’s finest to the football stadium? Doesn’t really matter, either way, I’ll have time for reflection and if we’re really, really good, lots of Big Red touchdowns…

Machete Master

Enrolling in university this fall felt like a military exercise. Filling out forms, getting approvals, and stalking the registrar’s office required deft maneuvering and truculent precision.

As an undergraduate I had convinced myself it was really all just a big test to see if we could deal with red tape. I actually thought the purpose of my education was to learn how to function properly in a bureaucracy. The pizza delivery boy that came to my dorm wearing a pin that read “Tip me with a ‘B’—Buck, Beer or Bong Hit” cemented my suspicions.

I now have a different perspective on the privilege of attending school, and am channeling my inner 7th grader who dutifully attended every class and completed every assignment. The only difference is that instead of going to lectures in a government-created school system made famous by Brenda Spencer and Jeff Spicoli, I am studying in a majestic three-story building built in 1893 by Ezra Cornell where Vladimir Nabokov had his office and Toni Morrison attended English classes.