I had an odd experience yesterday.  I was looking up some information for a curriculum guide I'm writing for an upcoming theater performance about the almost-march by Nazis in Skokie 40 years ago, and in the course of doing the research, I googled my father.  My dad was the prosecuting attorney and assistant Corporation Counsel for the village at the time.  Skokie is my home-town, and his job used to be sort of boring….until the Nazis tried to march there.  I wondered what collected wisdom was out there on my dad. 

There wasn't much new information on my father that I didn't already know, but on "his" search results, my mother's name popped up.  Curious, I clicked on it, and started reading a dossier on my mother.  Interesting.  They got all sorts of things right…and all sorts of things wrong.

So many questions came into my head:  how do you know about my mother?  She's led a very non-public life.  Where did you get this information?  And, who are "you" anyway?   And then, I had an irrational desire to correct the incorrect data!  Whatever's out there should be accurate, at least!

It's an old saw that the internet knows more about us than we could ever imagine.  We keep telling our kids that they should be careful about what they put out there, because it never dies, and it's almost impossible to edit wrong information.  But how does that stuff get up there if we don't put it there?

I know you'll probably give me many ways that happens, but it astounds me.  I'm left with the basic question:  Who is in charge of our information?  Who owns our stuff?  Who is out there telling our stories?

The question of who owns one's stories gets raised in some pretty sensitive areas.  Who gets to share information about a friend's illness?  A break up?  An adoption?  A lost job?  Where's the line between commiserating about a friend and gossip? 

If we're being generous, we'll say that our friends have the right to tell their stories on their own terms, when and how much is to be divulged.  If we're being honest, most of us would probably say that sharing that information, no matter how well-meaning, is our first impulse. 

It's no surprise that we want to control our own stories. Our stories come from our memories, selective though they may be.   In his book, The Man Who Mistook His Wife For a Hat, Oliver Sacks writes that each of us is a biography.  Our own narrative is constantly being developed by us, and inextricably tied up with our recollections, our memories.    He continues, "To be ourselves, we must have ourselves - possess, if need be re-possess, our life-stories.  We must 'recollect' ourselves, recollect the inner drama, the narrative, of ourselves.  A man needs such a narrative, a continuous inner narrative, to maintain his identity, his self." (London: Picador, 1986, pp 106)

We are our collected memories, and those are our stories to tell, and ideally, we set the boundaries as to who knows what about us.   Every parent knows the pull of wanting to share those wonderful couple of stories about our kids, when they were cute or clever or witty or horrid.  And mostly, with friends and family, we don't think much about it.  But writers' families know that at any given point, everything they do is fodder for the next book or column, song or poem.  Those of us who write must be extra careful about respecting our loved ones' boundaries, knowing what to share, what not to share, and when to ask permission.  

I  ended up leaving my mother's misinformation alone on that internet search.  Anyone who knows her, knows it's wrong.  Anyone who doesn't, doesn't need to know it in the first place.  So there.

(that's a euphemism for "signature", by the way, and please tell me you Generation Whatevers knew that)

I was in a third grade class the other day, and saw that the teacher had started the year by having the kids list their classroom goals.  At least a third of the kids noted that they wanted to learn cursive writing this year.  First I smiled at the memories of those Palmer Method primers we used back when phones had coiled cords attached to the wall.  There's a conversation going on in schools lately as to why kids need to learn to write cursive.

And then I remembered why: everything from family communication to the very status of contract law is at stake.

I developed fairly "adult" looking handwriting early in high school.  In fact, because of this skill, a friend of mine who consistently "came late" (read: skipped first period) had me write excuses "from her mother"  because my signature looked like a parent's signature. Over our high school careers, when she actually had a note from her mom, she would rip it up and have me re-write it, because mine was the handwriting on file at the office.  To my knowledge, this is the only extended act of disobedience in which I have ever engaged.  

Yet, the last time my son had to sign his name for something, I was astounded.  He couldn't do it.   At the same age I was forging excuse notes, his signature still looks like those third graders' attempts.  I started thinking about signatures.  When do our signatures become "set"?  When had my daughters' signatures settled into their adult forms?  Actually, when had I even last seen my daughters' signatures?  College applications?  It certainly wasn't check-signing, because they hardly ever use a check.  I broke my arm in college and actually had to go to the bank and sign a piece of paper for them that would show them what my short term, left-handed signature would look like, so they'd accept my checks.  There has been a lot written about our new Treasury Secretary Jack Lew's completely illegible signature; when did he settle on that?  (And why didn't anyone stop him?)  Is it because he never really learned to write cursive well?  Or is it because he did it as a joke once, and then had to keep it so his official signatures all looked the same? 

Which brings us to contracts and the whole legal system as we know it.  Hyperbole?  I think not.

Buying a house, signing a marriage certificate, starting a business, opening a bank account…all those "adult" things one needs to document will soon be enshrined all over our country with the signatures of 9 year olds.  There will be no distinction between what's written on the line "Print name here" and "Sign name here."   For heaven's sake, there's no personality to your name in print.

It's more than just being able to write your signature; there's a decreasing ability in those young'uns to read handwriting, too. When I have to leave a note for my family, I first have to think of who is supposed to be reading it.  Ok, really, the first thing is to find a piece of scratch paper, because why use a whole  new sheet of printer paper, when the back of an envelope would do, and where did I put that nice pad of note paper someone gave me last year, and…but I digress).    If the teenager has to read the note, I have to print it, and it isn't only because my handwriting has deteriorated over too many years of computer use.  I've had several high schoolers tell me they simply can't read cursive. 

So, third graders, I say learn that cursive.  Develop your own style and let it shine through your signatures as you grow up.  Protect the precious few ways we still have to express our individuality with our own hands, every single day.

As I write this, I'm watching the Super Bowl.  I don't really care about football, and I certainly don't have a preference in this match up. I do like watching the ads, just like everyone else.   I try to make note of when the Super Bowl is, ever since I  cluelessly booked a gig back in my singer/songwriter days on Super Bowl Sunday and didn't know why only four people showed up to the concert.

So why watch? More than touchdowns, I believe in touchstones.  Cultural touchstones.  Those moments or topics or names that actually dissolve differences and bring people together for even one brief shining minute.   Before being able to record TV shows, we had to plan to watch a show, and we knew that others were sitting down just like we were, to watch the Beatles, the lift-offs, the premieres.  "Where were you when….?"  Or, whistling the theme from Andy Griffith.  Or watching someone deftly jump around an ottoman, ala Dick Van Dyke.  Or saying, "My name is Ishmael." Cultural touchstones are getting harder and harder to identify or share; we're not all experiencing something at similar moments in time, because we are far more in control of our time than we ever were. 

There are Jewish-culture touchstones, those words or references to which the other person immediately connects, or at least we assume they should, causing a bond within a mutually identified community.  If I say "gribenes," I know there's a segment of the Jewish world, of a certain age, that will know exactly what I mean, and (if they're being honest) their mouths will start to water.  But my Mizrahi friends will have no idea what I'm talking about. 

So what are the truly communal cultural touchstones?  There are some, I think….things like "Sinai" or "Egypt" or perhaps making the motion of putting  ten drops of wine from a glass onto a plate.  Perhaps someone saying "tekiyah" when a train whistle has a certain tone to it, and everyone smiles.  Or beating one's chest in a certain way, reminiscent of Yom Kippur's confessions.

However, these references only make sense to those members of the Jewish community who have a synagogue/liturgy context to draw upon.  They mean nothing to anyone else. 

If there are different Jewish-culture touchstones for different generations, different ethnic origins, different practices, then how do we ever find the ones that truly cross these divides?  Is it Israel? Is it Passover?  Is it Shabbat (or is it even called "Shabbat" as opposed to "Shabbes" or "Sabbath")?  What really binds us anymore?

By the time you read this, the post-game friendly bets and less-than-friendly critics will have run their course, and the ones who didn't watch the game will feel just a little less left out.  Some may not feel left out at all. It's one thing to feel left out about a football game, though, and quite another to feel left out of an entire faith-tradition.  We have to find those Jewish touchstones, find those moments that transcend distinctions of practice, gender, geography, and more….find those moments that bring us together, nodding, understanding each other's shorthand, solidifying our communal identity. 

As winter comes in around us, and the snow finally comes down, it forms the backdrop for changes in our lives.  We slow down.  We nest a little more.  My rural-living sister always said the winter seasonal fruits of apples and pears are less juicy than summer fruits, like berries and peaches, because we are less active and frankly,  perspire less, needing less hydration.  

Summer time  buzzes.  Winter is quiet.   The sounds of the world are muffled under the snow-quilt.  The whole season is a metaphor:  life is seems dormant, held in limbo, until the sun's warmth makes things grow again.  The dormancy is an illusion, because much is happening under the surface.

There is a personal silence that is just as powerful, especially if it's imposed upon you.   Years ago, I wrote a lyric, "Sometimes I feel like cotton's got me wrapped around….I tiptoe through this world and never make a sound."  That lyric came from a time when I was silent.  Not just less talkative, but a doctor-imposed total silence. I felt like no one noticed me.   Choosing to get off the treadmill can be a great idea.  It's a chance to look inward and recharge.  When there is no choice, however, silence is an isolating, muffled existence. 

I am a singer, and at those times, my vocal cords failed me.  Twice in college, I had nodules, and was in forced voice rest for weeks at a time.  I didn't know it was my speaking, not my singing, that was doing damage.   I had to learn to talk again.  It happened again about ten years ago, and for those who know me, make all the jokes you want right now, I've heard them all.   Yes, there were amusing parts of the experience.  For example, I went out with a guy twice before he ever heard my voice; it wasn't a deal-breaker, we continued to date for a short while after.  And remember those plastic Mickey Mouse cardboard things where the writing disappears when you lift the plastic sheet up?  I had one , and took it with me wherever I went.    During one of these episodes, I was a mom and the kids loved the idea that I couldn't speak to, much less yell at them.  

Odd things happen when you're silent.  First of all, you become conscious  of how loud the world is when you're not adding to the cacophony.  When people realize you're not speaking, for some reason, they talk louder to you .  My ears worked. My voice didn't.  Go figure.  Silence focuses your thinking - you thoughts get pretty concise when you have to write down everything you want to communicate. 

But silence meant sickness to me.  Silence meant I had to heal.  Silence meant "she" was back, the sick one, the person who would rather sit alone instead of being with friends.  She wasn't me;  she was an alien.  She had to be endured and then left behind, especially after she kept coming back.   Silence meant the one thing I thought I could count on, my voice, was as fickle as the rest of the things I loved in the world.  Silence meant disappointment and sadness. 

I'm writing this because someone I love very much is going through exactly what I went through, and I understand so deeply, it almost hurts, because it takes me back to that muffled and isolating place. So here's what I learned:   I came out the other side, stronger.  I can count on my voice again, because I know exactly how to avoid "her", she who doesn't rule me anymore.  She hasn't been back since.

Just like winter, good things are happening below the surface.  The healing is happening every minute, and soon, we will all be warmed by the sounds you can make again. You don't have to retreat.   You don't have to be someone else.  You're still you, just on a different setting.  And just like a mother waiting for her child's first words, I wait for yours. 

Sometimes we get sick, and it's really ok.  I'm not talking about really, really sick. I wouldn't wish that on anyone.  And I don't relish hospital-level sick, either. I'm thinking more like just enough under the weather to justify staying in bed all day, watching sitcoms and movies on your laptop, and having someone in your household responsible for bringing you things when you ring a little bell that you got from your mother's house and it makes you feel good because you used it when you were little.  You don't have one?  So sad.

This kind of not-so-bad ailing is something to embrace, give into, even enjoy, because you're not sick enough to be really miserable. Maybe it's the undefined "outpatient procedure"….no one will really ask you for details, but they'll be suitably empathetic to your healing, and no one will question your indulgence for a day. 

I've recently experienced one of those undefined "outpatient procedures" and I have to tell you, never underestimate the power of a hot water bottle, placed just right, taking off the chill and warming up your whole being.   I'm not talking about a heating pad.  I'm talking about a good, old-fashioned red (they're always red) rubber hot water bottle.  They're crucial to any well-stocked first aid shelf in the home.  It makes a great college dorm or first apartment gift.   I'm not kidding.

Our family has a warm (pun intended) memory of hot water bottles.  Years ago, we visited our friends Neil and Eleanor for winter break.  They live in London, but Eleanor is from Wales, and we were invited to spend the holiday with her extended family there, in a town we never did master pronouncing.   Lots of sisters, brothers-in-law and about a dozen cousins of various ages welcomed us in.  Eleanor's parents lived in a beautiful stone cottage that was hundreds of years old; they had updated much of it, and added guest rooms.  I remember a sheltered walkway between the main house and the additions that held a small room with tables and shelves; it acted as a pantry for all the food for the week.  Each family took responsibility for one meal, brought the groceries for it, and stored it in that walkway pantry.  All of that fresh produce smelled great.

The older part of the house still had the thick stone walls, small (treacherous!) and winding stone staircases, and the requisite Welsh chill that came at night.  After each evening of decidedly un-electronic talent shows, card games and conversations, the kids went up the stairs to a room that had been cleared of its furniture, and replaced with rows of sleeping bags.  Each child found their bag, and the moms went up and down the line, kissing good night, and  handing out hot water bottles to put by their feet, inside their sleeping bags.  They were warm and toasty all night.  It was a wonderful week. 

So, even if you're not under the weather, consider the proud and constant hot water bottle.  As the winter season descends, maybe turn down the thermostat, build a fire, grab a beautifully knitted afghan that grandma made (you don't have one of those either?  Get one!), make some hot chocolate, have a talent show or card game, and then head off to sleep with a comfy, not-too-full, red rubber hot water bottle at your feet.  It might just be the snugliest night's sleep you ever have.

But before you panic, I'm not talking about using this space for political posturing. Those who know me, know whom and what I support.  And if you're not sure, check my Facebook and Twitter feed. 

Rather, it's the whole process that intrigues me. So much has changed since that first black-and-white national TV event. I actually saw that one; I remember sitting at my parents' feet in front of the couch.  I couldn't tell you much about it, but we sure gathered to watch.  My grandparents were probably there, too.  I've watched every debate since, and  I've just finished watching this last Presidential debate.  But this time I sat in front of the TV with my Twitter feed open and my Facebook tab ready to toggle. Tweets were flying back and forth; I was impressed with how quickly my fellow social-media-tors could type in a quote, respond, and still be listening to the two men speak.  But it sure meant people were engaged.

When I was growing up, my dad was the campaign manager for our local mayoral elections.  He held that position for years.  More than one birthday coincided with election night, and was spent at headquarters.  My mother was a precinct captain, and I used to go with her as she knocked on doors, talking to each and every housewife, getting the vote out. I must have listened pretty carefully to what she said, because I brought it all home.  We had kitchen wallpaper that had all sorts of little houses on it.  I had gone on so many of these canvasses, I remember sitting at the kitchen table, knocking on their little doors and "giving the pitch" to the imaginary people living inside. 

So, I was raised in a pretty political family, but not one that always voted the same way. That wouldn't be very interesting.  If you had an opinion, you were entitled to it as long as you could defend it, and my dad was the judge of that.  (Literally—later in his career, he became a judge, something he'd been doing in the family all along!)  Unlike other families, pretty much the only topics we talked about were religion and politics.  We did stay away from sex, true.  Poor Dad—it was hard enough on him with three daughters.   We learned to defend our positions, and not shy away from sharing it.  It got pretty noisy around our table, but we learned that we could love and respect people with whom we vehemently disagreed.

That's a lesson that more people need to learn.  So often, we surround ourselves with people who think just like us.   Where's the challenge in that?  How does one defend ideas, if there's no one to defend against?  My dad and I certainly disagreed on almost everything, but paraphrasing Proverbs, as iron sharpens iron, so are our minds sharpened when we go up against other sharp minds.   In fact, during the Robert Bork Supreme Court hearings, we found ourselves agreeing on something, at which point my father looked at me and said, "I think I'd better rethink my position!"  And we both laughed. I learned so much from those conversations, not that they changed my mind, but they gave me insight into why he thought the way he did.

The same goes for my friends now who view politics and religion differently than I do.  How else can I understand the "other side" if I never discuss those issues?  Clearly, the underlying requirement here is respect and tolerance.  Without that, it's a shouting match.  With it, it's an opportunity to expand horizons and understanding, building foundations for working together and actually solving problems.

Being an active, engaged citizen takes a lot of energy, the kind of energy that most people don't feel like exerting.  So, we have a highly polarized, rigid country right now, and by all accounts, the election is going to be very, very close.  It comes down to voting,  exercising the precious and powerful privilege.  As heard on "West Wing", that great weekly civics lesson masquerading as a TV show, "Decisions are made by the people who show up."  Make sure you show up.

I live my life in music.  This is not a surprise to those of you who know me.  All of life is a lyric, all of life is one verse after another, and occasionally getting back to the chorus.  If I'm really lucky, others know the song I sing, and sing it with me.  Otherwise….well, it can get pretty cacophonous in my world.

This week I was even more aware of songs, or more specifically, melodies, as I prepared to lead Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur services at various services around town.  I'm a cantorial soloist "for hire", and this is the busy season, folks.  So, I'm in three different congregations, three different settings, three different musical requirements.  But the melodies, the "mode" of this time of year is the constant between the three.

It's more than just what key the liturgy is in, and more than being minor or major.  One of the things I love most about the musical cantillation for Torah is that it changes with the holiday. The same markings are sung differently depending on whether it's Shabbat Torah, Shabbat Haftorah, Purim, Tisha b'Av, or the High Holidays.  Each variation has a character to it, and the nusach (modal pattern) for this time of year is deep and solid.  I find it not too flourish-y, not too fancy, but easy to sing with true emotion.   In fact, it just doesn't flow if you sing it "dry."  It is memorable and a bit repetitive.  One hears the same musical phrases throughout.  It fits the prayers—heartfelt, repetitive, not too high in the register, but grounded, even for tenors and sopranos.

Practicing for the services really gets my head into the "space" of the Days of Awe, the Yamim Noraim.  It's odd—they bounce around my head and ears for weeks leading up to Rosh Hashanah, yet on any given day, I'm listening to the radio, singing while I cook or drive, and there are all sorts of other, "regular" tunes in my head.  Yet, as soon as I hum one phrase, one word even, I'm out of the daily world and back into the service.

I am as surprised as my father probably would be, to be standing in front of a room full of people, chanting Torah or singing Kol Nidre.  This will be the first year for that one, actually, and it's awe-some. Literally.  One doesn't take this stuff lightly, at least to my way of thinking.  Dad never got used to women chanting; he died before seeing two of his daughters take their places up on the bima,  (my sister is a rabbi/cantor), and frankly, I'm not sure if he'd have ever gotten used to it.  He was a Loop Synagogue kind-of-guy. Mom preferred that too, and for them, the key to the Gates from Selichot (the week before Rosh Hashanah),  to Neilah, as the gates closed on Yom Kippur night, the key (literally!) to their holiday experience was a chazan  with a little niggen in his voice.

There are lots of clichés about the power of music to transform and transport; they're clichés because they're true.  I'm only singing parts of the High Holiday liturgy, and  I have enormous respect and admiration for the chazzanim (cantors) who take on the entire thing.  I once had a girlfriend who was eight months pregnant on Yom Kippur and never missed a note;  now I know how astounding that feat  really is.  When I spoke to my sister earlier, before we both dove into the whirlwind, only to re-surface in about ten days, I could wish her the usual sweet new year.  But to her, I added, "May your voice be strong and solid, and may it never leave you."   

Whatever your entrance into the head-space of these Awe-some Days, may you find it in joy and meaning, and may your new year be filled with the song that speaks to your heart.  Wishing you a very sweet New Year, L'Shana Tovah.