So when does it become important?

It's summer, it's Provincetown on Cape  Cod, the locals are testy, and political meanness is everywhere. We can only be thankful that the undercurrent of political bickering doesn't seem apparent to the visitors who keep our economy humming. We can also be thankful that there are so many who are moving away from the fray and ignoring the silly lines drawn in the sand over issues that, in reality, are not earthshaking.

I was part of it once; a local elected official who liked the give and take as well as the opportunity to "make a difference."  Local politics is always a full contact sport and I played the game. Hate mail (one piece actually included anti-Semitic language along with the regular homophobic drivel; twofer), people intruding on my privacy, unavoidable conversations about trash and traffic....all of this was part of it. It was time to walk away. Looking on from the outside, my sense of place and love of community is eroding, much like the erosion of the cliffs on the Atlantic side of Cape Cod.

But life here is good if you avoid the internecine foolishness of bickering over power and control. That public recognition so important to so many saddens me in that it leads to posturing and bad feelings. Fortunate enough to have a job that I am happy to go to each day, I know something is still missing. The recurring thought was "when does life become important?"  When does it matter and what is it that matters?  At 65, these thoughts gently open a door to what gives meaning to what is left of life. Here or there, risks or no risks? It is not easy to be disillusioned about a place you love, but that may no longer be right for the end game.

My tradition tells me that we are here for only one purpose...to serve G-d and to leave the world a better place, in whatever small way, than we found it. But I am thinking there's more. There's a connection to what came before and what will come after. The luck of the draw and genetic mingling led me to be born in Rhode Island, rather than in Russia where life would have been different for a Jew. In the American half-Jewish life that I have led, this sense of purpose was always present, but not manifested in a way that was truly Jewish.

I have always been envious of those who were so sure and secure in their faith that they would sacrifice for it. The rhythm and rituals of the week set by the sabbath makes so much sense to me. At the same time, I thought whether this was the wisest way to live these precious days, with rules that were sometimes archaic and hard to follow. And, most importantly, not really understanding what it was that could draw someone into a life of faith that requires a daily schedule that, at the minimum, is inconvenient and, at the maximum, just downright difficult.

Keep kosher, honor the Sabbath, say the prayers each morning and evening, and sometimes requiring compromise on issues in a way that seem inherently unfair. Women can't do this, can't sit here, can't touch this, etc.    Never mind what some religious people think of gay folks. Judaism is filled with options, however. The challenge is to not denigrate those who believe that faith is expressed in a different manner than you believe.  And that's where I used to get stuck. The glue of rigid judgements on others is loosening through experiences that I could not have had without having experienced Israel.

In Tsfat in 2009, I met an artist named Yaacov Kaszemacher. One of his photographs hangs on my wall at home in Provincetown. Yaacov was raised in Paris and moved to New York City as a young man. We spoke and realized that in the 60s we would spend time in the same places including a restaurant in the Village called the Cauldron. We laughed about what a nutty time it was  for our generation. He told me that the previous owner of the Cauldron could be found daily at the kotel praying, sometimes for hours at a time. Yaacov took a path different than I did. A haredi man who lived in the holy city of Tsfat, made art, and raised his beloved family had also had a connection to the past when our generation pushed boundaries. We spoke about how some people did not survive, destroyed by drugs and bad decisions.  When I returned a couple of years later, I learned that he had passed away the year after my visit. The short conversation with him will always be part of my memory of Tsfat and also reminds me that the direction of our lives can veer at any time. And that those of us who practice our faith in different ways have more in common then we think. Yaacov seemed to know what was important. Faith, family, art, and life in a place that exemplifies Jewish faith.

So when does life become important?   What matters? Right now and everything. The absolute pull towards the only place on the planet where I believe Jews are meant to be is strong.