Can We Talk?
Featured on the Jewish Women's Archive Podcast
I recently shared a stream of thoughts I wrote in the middle of the night while my child struggled to sleep (find it here). There aren’t many disrupted nights anymore because our family recently left the city and bought a farmhouse further up the coast of Maine. Moving from our one-bed, one-bath condo to a two-floor house has been a bittersweet change for all. But, the dog and cat have found their sunspots and the little one now has his own bedroom. And there is no doubt that giving E his own space was an important step in him starting to sleep through the night.
As a memoirist, I’m intentional about caring for the line that turns a piece of writing from an invitation into one’s life to that which feels navel gazing. I always ask myself the question: Should what I wrote just be my own? And usually the answer is yes. But because I deeply believe in the power of personal storytelling, plenty of my words pass through that filter. The last piece I shared was right on the edge.
There is a season for all stories and new motherhood is one where the line of what to share feels less clear. Writing publicly about grief after I was widowed felt obvious. And that choice was the right one; it built so much community around me. But like many, I’m more comfortable sharing grief than joy even within the privacy of close friendships. It’s easier to call a friend to vent or seek advice than to confess accomplishment or happiness. And right now, even if my sleep is disrupted and I have to push away scary thoughts at night, it feels like joy. To be here, alive and awake, with my sweet baby boy in his own room as my husband and pets sleep soundly, is joy. But, maybe that is the grief talking.
Just as there is a season to what I write, there is also a season to what I read. It turns out that once babies learn to crawl (which our son decided to do early at 5.5 months), reading as a hobby should be thrown out the window. My eyes are on E at all times. But even before my time felt like a slinky falling down the stairs, I was having a shift in heart about what stories surrounded me. I’ve stored away stacks of books about the Holocaust and instead have swapped in poetry from the beloved Mary Oliver, books about spirituality like Rabbi Sharon Brous’ The Amen Effect, plenty of parenting books (my favorite being Matrescence by Lucy Jones) and even some fiction. And to be clear, this is not my attempt to reject or replace the harder stories, but rather it’s my deep need to raise my next generation (and myself) with as many different ways to the relate to this world as possible.
Recently I was invited to talk about this shift of heart and mind on the Jewish Women’s Archive podcast, Can We Talk. I’m not sure if this topic was the intention when their producer and host, Jen Richler, asked me to join her for Holocaust Remembrance Day in April, but I’m grateful she welcomed a conversation about how motherhood has been reframing my relationship to memory. I invite you to listen wherever you get your podcasts (or right here) and hope to continue the conversation with friends, colleagues and fellow descendants.
And as always, thank you dear reader, for spending time with the stories that this season of life inspires me to share.
For those interested in personal storytelling and working with family archives:
I am taking a *short* break from hosting my online workshops to develop some multi-part offerings. But, if you are interested in private coaching to work on a nonfiction storytelling project, tend to your family archive or need a listening ear as you navigate your relationship with inherited memory, please reach out.