Eve of Yom Kippur A note to my parents.
After I wrote my story of "Mom's" introduction to my new pagan identity of decades ago -- a wave of sadness came over me (so go the Days of Awe (and Repentance).
A piece of incomplete repentance due my Mom.
I was a challenge to her as the new bride of my father. And, ever after I'm sure.
This I've known, it seems, forever.
But now with more understanding and compassion than previously. I hadn't -- though -- until this moment felt the remorse of seeing in part -- how much sorrow it must have brought her.
And, the other elders of my family.
To see their next generation being so changed by the American way of life.
To havc seen people being tortured and murdered for a way of life -- their own -- and a heritage that the next generation -- mine -- could toss aside, as if almost a joke.
My pagan altar must have cut deeply into that place in my mom's mind, body and soul that remembered needing to hide the practices of Jewish traditions in a Shanghai, Jewish refugee camp (1939 -- 1945).
For my disregard, disrespect and insensitivity to that reality, up against my struggles to find me, I am sorry, Mom. Very sorry!
Somewhere there is a quiet resting place where the journey of immigrant Americans and assimilated Americans find healing and peace.
Maybe we are already there -- in "awe," Mom.
It was what you did with me my whole life after you came into it -- talk, have endless conversations.
That's what both you and Dad taught me! Conversations!
Now I teach that to others, Mom.
Talk things out!
Everything!
For always!
And, hold to your dignity and principles with it.
Simple, but not so easy.
Thanks Mom and Dad!
Only when and where we failed to take this action did things ever go awry.
I'll keep passing it on.
You taught me well; the secret to building "zones of peace," even if it takes a long, long time.
I'm just sorry it took me so long to learn.
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