Baby's Breath

Zinnia likes to give kisses. She's a great kisser.  I took them personally at first--Oh, look how much she loves me--until I saw her kissing the cat, her stuffed bear, the mirror, and story book characters. Why, just yesterday she even blew our old, watchdog neighbor, John, a smooch. Is she too young to be called a hussy?

Her kisses are one of the sweetest things I have ever experienced. She doesn't quite have the physical coordination down, so when she leans in to plant one, she presses her lips against mine (or the cat ... or the cereal box) without moving or pursing them, and then when she breaks contact and starts to pull back, only then does she makes the actual kissing sound. The lag time between kiss and "mwah" reminds me of one of those old Bruce Lee films where the sound effects were always a half-second behind the action.

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Yesterday I experienced one of my proudest moments as a father. I would like to preface this by saying that until I met Jenn, I had never been terribly comfortable expressing myself in a flatulent manner in front of a girlfriend. In fact, if anything, I would go way out of my way not to share any gaseous expressions with whomever I was dating.

I'm not sure who did it first in our relationship, but my earliest memory of sharing my poly-tonal harmonies with Jenn was when were sitting on my bed in McMinnville shortly before we moved in together.

"Hey, pull my toe," I said to her out the blue.

Jenn, thinking I had some sort of cramp, pulled, and I let go with what Jack Black called "The Wind of the Lion." (El Viento de Leon!!!)

"Oh!" she exclaimed, her face reflecting that that wasn't at all what she had expected. I laughed until tears rolled down my face. No doubt my mirth was fueled in part by years of repressed (and literal) anal retentiveness. After this, anything became fair game. When Jenn started to refuse to release the Lion's Wind with a strategic finger pull, I began to do it myself by pulling my own finger, Jenn's ear, the cat's tail--it really didn't matter--and each time I tooted, I would laugh like a fifth grader at camp.*

Since Zinnia was born, I have tried it both ways--either pulling her ear or mine, but until recently she failed to fully comprehend the sophisticated humor I was attempting to convey. In fact, I started to wonder if we shouldn't get Zinnia tested to see if something wasn't a little, you know, off, cognitively speaking.

Then it happened: several weeks ago, I pulled Z's ear and tooted. Zinnia giggled. My little girl had grown up, and in that moment I couldn't have been prouder. But my joy was short lived. As time marched on, I realized there was still something missing. It was one thing for me to do the ol' "pull-and-fart" routine, but quite another for her to be an active participant.

Last night--a breakthrough. Z. and I were playing on the bed, when I pulled my own ear and tooted. She offered a wry smile. A few minutes later--oops--another short toot. This time my darling, brilliant daughter grabbed her own ear and pulled, delayed like her kisses, but perfectly acceptable.

"Jenn, quick!" I shouted out to the kitchen. "You won't believe what just happened."

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Cholla in Full Bloom

Porous section of dried cholla

Jenn and I have set up a "Holiday Cholla" skeleton on top the bookshelf in our living room. Two years ago, around this time, I returned home from work to see that in my absence, Jenn had brought home and decorated a small Christmas tree. It was tasteful without being gaudy, and elegantly done. 

I wouldn't say I was furious, but I was pissed. Our cultural differences are one of the things that we haven't talked a lot about--the fact that, despite outward appearances, Jenn and I are indeed a mixed couple. I felt a Christmas tree was one of those things that--being married to a Jewish man--she should have run by me before setting up. Upon seeing my reaction, she went from having the beaming smile of anticipation to a look of crushed spirit, as if the bluebird of happiness had just shat on her forehead. 

This year, Zinnia's presence has been a bit of a deal breaker. Every time we walk into a store or around the neighborhood and Z. sees a strings of lights or decorations, she takes on a look of wonder, as if looking at--if not the most beautiful thing she has ever seen--then clearly something in the top three.

After the tree argument, Jenn and I agreed to alternate every-other-year between No-Decorations- Whatsoever and having what we (but more often, I) euphimistically refer to as a Holiday Cactus. In true New Mexican fashion,  we decided to weave two strings of lights around the branches of a cholla cadaver, and while I was somewhat naively unaware that Jenn wanted to hang ornaments on it, the effect is not entirely unpleasing.

I see it as a nod to the fact that I am married to someone who, though not Christian, has a lifelong family connection to the holiday of Christmas. I know having little-to-nothing by way of decorations last year was quite the stretch for her and almost felt to me like lying by omission. Even so, I remained doggedly determined to follow through with our "No Decorations" agreement.

A number of years ago, I wrote a novelette about my first full-on experience of X-mas with Jenn's family. I culled an excerpt from the 75 page essay, culled it some more, and sent it in to Albuquerque's free entertainment rag, The Weekly Alibi, who published it the week leading up to Christmas. I had a number of responses (mainly positive), but one religious Jew wrote me a letter with much vitriolic fervor, accusing me of being a self-hating Jew and asked me who I thought I was writing such a piece of dog doo-doo.

I considered not responding ... for about three minutes, then wrote him back and told him that I was fine with my Jewish identity, loved it as a matter of fact, but by the hatred in his tone--slung at someone he didn't even know--I suggested that he himself was insecure in his own Jewishness. I politely suggested that if that is what all his studying and praying has gotten him, he may want to consider seeing a therapist to help him discover the vein of compassion that lies within all of us.
He did not write back, and I felt a little disappointed.

Of late, however,  I've been feeling the complicated-albeit-subtle effect that can occur when a Jew marries a non-Jew. This point is all the more salient due to the fact that since Jenn--Zinnia's mother--is not Jewish, barring conversion, Zinnia herself will never be considered a Jew.

Jenn has done her best to honor our differences. She has picked up a surprising amount of Yiddish sayings and respects my desire to stay connected--even on the periphery--to my heritage. However, there are limits. Jenn doesn't like Woody Allen,** has no connection with Shabbos, and needed an explanation as to why I was laughing so hard when John Goodman's Jewish convert character in The Big Lebowski declared that he was "as Jewish as fucking Tevye."***

I have no idea how this is going to play out in the future and cringe a little at the mere thought of Zinnia sitting on Santa's lap or singing Christmas carols in school. I also know what it's like to be Jewish in a largely Christian society where I grew up envying all my friends who had the beautiful trees, the colored lights, the cookies, the family closeness.

In three days, I will do something I haven't done since I was a kid--light the menorah. We purchased a lovely faux stained glass chanukkiyah at Target. I have even begun to pick up my siddur (prayerbook) to recite the evening prayers.

Quick story behind this siddur: In the early nineties I was depressed, alone and living in Portland. My therapist told me about a woman who channels angels. I called her, and continued to call her every month or so, and we would talk for maybe a half hour. She was delightful and quite sane, and heard the angels so clearly that when she was on the road They would even warn her about speed traps ahead.

So, I was sitting at my desk one night speaking to this woman (or more accurately, them), when she interrupted the flow of my health complaints.

"They (the angels) are saying there is something on your desk that is quite holy."

I looked around. There was an array of clutter.

"These beads?" I said picking up a strand.

"No, that's not it."

"Hmmm...I know, my tarot cards."

"They're saying no."

I mentioned one or two other items.

"No, not those."

Things had been sitting on my desk so long as to render some of the items virtually invisible. Then my eyes lit on this same siddur. As I touched it, but before I could say a word ...

"Oh, that's it! They're bowing. Their bowing to you and to it. They say it's very holy."

I recently saw a You Tube clip of a now deceased rabbi (whose name escapes me). He said that we don't pray to G-d to ask for things for ourselves, but more to make ourselves worthy to be in His presence.

I had thought with some sadness that I had lost this little silver-covered prayer book a few years ago, but then it turned up out of the blue a couple months ago. At the time it felt like a minor miracle, but perhaps like that evening back in Portland, it had been under my nose the whole time waiting to be rediscovered.

It feels good to be praying again.

To you, all 10 of my loyal readers (and to all beings), may your lives in the upcoming year be peaceful and at ease, may you be happy and free from suffering. May your hearts be filled with countless blessings, and may these blessings extend not only to everyone you know and care about,  but to everyone you struggle with. May you be gifted with a deeper understanding of compassion and forgiveness, and may you laugh all of your laughter and weep all of your tears.****

*Hi, Andy

**Not a huge deal as I find half his stuff crap and half masterful.

***The Dude had questioned Goodman's not wanting to drive on the Sabbath when he had only converted so he could marry his now- ex-wife. Tevye is the beloved lead character from Fiddler on the Roof.

****Thank you, Gibran.