Amy Hirshberg Lederman

Exactly 10 years ago this month, I wrote my first column for the Arizona Jewish Post. “Running to Catch Up with Myself” was an attempt to address the confusion, pain and fear I felt after 9/11. I had no idea a decade ago that writing would become such an important part of my life. And I never imagined how much I would come to value the opportunity to explore issues, concerns and topics that captured my heart and imagination and the chance to share my thoughts with others.

Putting ideas into words and offering them to the world is a bit like parenting. You “give birth” to a story knowing you must let it go — hoping that the world will receive it kindly. You feel excited, hopeful, vulnerable and scared, all at the same time. But most of all, you come to understand how important it is to share the truths that lie within you, even when you are afraid or know that the responses you receive may challenge or hurt you.

And that has led me to understand another truth. So much of what we want to say, or wish we had said when we had the chance, remains unspoken. I’ve heard it many times, from friends, my readers, my mother, my rabbi. The biggest regret most people have is not because of what they did say, but because of what they did not.

In a few weeks we will celebrate Rosh Hashanah. In Hebrew, it means “head” of the year, but I think of it as the “heart” of the year. On Rosh Hashanah we are asked to look into our hearts, not our heads, for the answers to the questions we must ask ourselves. Am I on the right path? Have I done as much as I could this year to be loving and compassionate, a good listener, parent or friend? How do I want to be different next year and what can I do to change?

The beauty of Rosh Hashanah is in its implicit message: We have the capacity at every age and stage of life to change for the better. At the core of this holiday is the absolute belief that the power of personal transformation is not outside us but within us.

This year, when you are sitting in synagogue or nibbling on apples and honey, why not consider making this Jewish new year of 5772 the year when you make the effort to say to others what you haven’t said in years past. This will be the year when you turn to your spouse or partner and ask: “Do you know how much I love you?” Or to a friend you know you have hurt and say: “I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?”

This is the year when you finally decide that being right is overrated. It’s the year for acknowledging: “You know, I guess I was wrong about that.”

And for all of us who have held on to thoughts, good and bad, or secrets that seem too awful to utter, it’s the year when you open your heart and say: “There’s something I need to tell you…”

And to you, my readers, I would like to share a personal transformation and change that I intend to make in this new year. Over the past 10 years, I have written my heart out, exploring issues that were personal, spiritual, familial and political. But now it is time to try my hand at other things, which hopefully will include finishing the novel about my greatgrandmother Jamilla that I started years ago. So this is the year that I will say farewell (although I hope not goodbye as I will still be in Tucson) as this will be my last column, for now. To all of you who have been supportive of my “Reflections,” I can’t tell you how much your ideas, comments and encouragement inspired me. In trying to find the right words to thank you, I borrow from the great Jewish scientist, Albert Schweit­zer:

“At times our own light goes out and is rekindled by a spark from others. Each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us.”

Thank you for being that light for me. I am forever grateful.

L’Shana Tova Tikatevu. May this year be a year of blessing, good health and peace for you and those you love.

Amy Hirshberg Lederman is an author, Jewish educator, public speaker and attorney who lives in Tucson. Her columns in the AJP have won awards from the American Jewish Press Association, the Arizona Newspapers Association and the Arizona Press Club for excellence in commentary. Visit her website at amyhirshberglederman.com.

Amy Hirshberg Lederman

As a child, I grew up listening to music on my father’s prized possession, our stereo system, which consisted of a record player nestled deep within a richly oiled mahogany cabinet and two huge speakers that dominated the living room. Sunday mornings were dedicated to classical music, the afternoons were filled with Broadway musicals and the evenings were a potpourri ranging from classical guitar and folk to calypso and big band. It was during these wonderful forays that Rex Harrison and Julie Andrews taught me that “the rain in Spain stays mainly on the plane” and John Gary wooed my heart with “This Is All I Ask.”

But one of my all-time favorite songs was sung by Burl Ives, with a sugary voice that elicited images of delight in my 7-year-old heart. The song was originally recorded by Harry McClintock in 1928, and described an imaginary hobo’s paradise. (Ives sanitized the version and substituted peppermint trees for cigarette trees and deleted all references to alcohol.) The chorus in Ives’ children’s version of “Big Rock Candy Mountain” went like this:

“Oh the buzzin’ of the bees in the peppermint trees near the soda water fountain, At the lemonade springs where the blue bird sings on the Big Rock Candy Mountain.”

I would fall asleep dreaming of the Big Rock Candy Mountain, imagining where I would live. My house was made of chocolate chip ice cream that you could eat as fast as it would melt, only to be replaced by another house in strawberry or chocolate. I swam in a swimming pool filled with ginger ale, picked gum drop flowers and talked to squirrels named Squeaky, Squoogy and Scrumpy.

Fast forward to the summer of 2011. My husband, Ray, and I were returning from a month-long stay in Montana, driving to Tucson on the back-road of Highway 89. As we followed a winding turn, a magnificent golden peak loomed large, taking us totally by surprise. And when I read the sign, I literally screamed with delight.

“Wait, pull over, right now!” I squealed.

“What?” Ray answered, road-weary after seven straight hours of driving.

“Look where we are!” I repeated as if it was obvious.

It was then that he noticed the sign. The Big Rock Candy Mountain was staring us in the face.

It’s not often that one arrives at her childhood paradise, so of course we had to stay the night. It was a bit disappointing, however, to learn that our hotel room was made of stone and wood and no squirrels answered to the name of Scrumpy.

Paradise is a complex and intriguing idea that has been a part of the human experience since the beginning of time. In many cultures and religions, paradise was imagined as a garden, a place of extreme beauty and perfection like the Garden of Eden. (The word paradise in Hebrew comes from the same root word as pardes, which means orchard.) Paradise has most often been identified in world religions as the physical place where righteous souls ascend after death to dwell with God.

But it’s not as clear in the Jewish tradition, where ideas about the afterlife are varied and somewhat difficult to define. There is no mention of Heaven or the afterlife in the Torah, although there is reference to a place called Gehinnom or Sheol (Hell). The Talmud, the Zohar and later rabbinic teachings refer to an afterlife and Olam Ha Bah, or the World to Come. This is viewed as both a place in time and a physical place; an era in history heralded by the coming of the Messiah as well as the place where righteous souls will be rewarded after death to “feast on the brightness of the Divine Presence.”

I was only 7 when I first began to imagine my own personal paradise as a rock candy mountain, where I could feast on an ice cream house and talk to animals. But as my needs and desires have changed, as my age and health and family makeup have evolved, my concept of paradise has too. In my earlier years, it was related to what I didn’t have, to what I hoped to achieve, to what I wanted to see in my future. At this point in my life, paradise is more about what I do have – the blessings of good health, family and friends, a community that I value and work that is meaningful. Paradise is here and now.

Each one of us may have our Big Rock Candy Mountain and not even realize it. Perhaps that’s why we took the longer route through Utah, so that I could find mine once again.

Amy Hirshberg Lederman is an author, Jewish educator, public speaker and attorney who lives in Tucson. Her columns in the AJP have won awards from the American Jewish Press Association, the Arizona Newspapers Association and the Arizona Press Club for excellence in commentary. Visit her website at amyhirshberglederman.com.

Amy Hirshberg Lederman

The route from Arizona to Mon­­­tana was mapped out, the car packed with a week’s worth of clothes and gear, and the cooler filled with snacks and water bottles. As we buckled up for the first leg of our trip, I felt the kind of excitement I had known in college, a footloose freedom that promised abandonment from the demands of work, schedules and answering machines. And for the next week, I loved the idea that we would have no real “forwarding address” other than the national parks we planned to visit.

Our first stop was Zion National Park, a true gem in the national park system and one of Utah’s most beloved tourist destinations. The park is located in the far southwestern corner of Utah, where the Colorado Plateau meets the mountains and valleys of the Great Basin. Pictures, at least mine, don’t really capture the enormity and breathtaking beauty of the sculptured cliffs and striated landscapes that we saw as we hiked to Angels Landing, where the last half-mile required holding on to chains drilled into the face of the mountain. The best part of the park however, is its accessibility to all. Free shuttle buses all day offer tourists the opportunity, regardless of age, fitness or ability, to view its colorful canyons, emerald pools and desert wildlife.

We left Zion and drove past Bryce Canyon, promising to visit it on our return when we hoped the temperature might be a bit cooler than the 100-plus degrees we encountered. A two-day drive northeast led us to Jackson, Wyo., the gateway to Grand Teton National Park. Rising abruptly from the valley floor, the park is testimony to the power and complexity of nature. From the alpine meadows to the gushing waterfalls and glacier lakes that reflect the snow-capped peaks towering over them, the Tetons overwhelmed us with their rustic beauty. It was here that I came to appreciate not only the park’s majesty but the wisdom, insight and dedication of the men and women who created, more than 100 years ago, the National Park Service that promotes and protects the most cherished parts of our country.

The National Park Service grew out of the inspiration and dedication of government leaders, artists, naturalists and philanthropists like Teddy Roosevelt, Charlie Russell, Ansel Adams, John Muir and John D. Rockefeller. In 1916, Congress created the federal agency that manages all of our national parks and monuments and is responsible for the administration, protection and use of its 394 designated sites, of which 58 are national parks. The mission of the NPS is to promote and regulate the use of these lands, conserve the scenery and wildlife, provide for their current enjoyment and leave them unimpaired for the enjoyment of future generations. But the tension between maintaining these lands and enjoying them is an ongoing one that requires continuing vigilance, financial resources and commitment.

Judaism has a lot to say about establishing a balance between using the resources we have and over-using and destroying them. The Torah begins by telling us the two purposes for which man was created. In Genesis 1:28 we learn that man was put on the earth to “fill it and conquer/subdue it.” In Genesis 2:15, our divine purpose is “to work it (the Garden of Eden) and to guard it.” From the beginning of time, we have faced the challenge of managing these two opposing ideas: the obligation to use our environment for our own needs while preserving and protecting it.

The Talmud refines this challenge by teaching us an important principle: We can use the earth for our needs but we cannot use any resource needlessly. That maxim is helpful in analyzing environmental issues today because it demands that we ask ourselves this question: Are there alternatives to using, altering and developing our land and resources that will minimize the impact on our environment so that we don’t destroy resources unnecessarily in accomplishing our goals? Can we, as individuals, make decisions that reduce the impact on the environment in the ways we eat, drive, work, live and acquire goods and services?

The National Park Service is evidence of our commitment, as Americans, to protect hundreds of thousands of acres of national beauty and historic and cultural sites. We should be incredibly proud of what we have created and motivated to visit the many wonderful parks and monuments that exist throughout the country. But the balance between safeguarding these lands and using them for our enjoyment is one that requires our continuing dedication and support so that our children and grandchildren will be able to sing the praises of “America, the Beautiful” for generations to come.

Amy Hirshberg Lederman is an author, Jewish educator, public speaker and attorney who lives in Tucson. Her columns in the AJP have won awards from the American Jewish Press Association, the Arizona Newspapers Association and the Arizona Press Club for excellence in commentary. Visit her website at amyhirshberglederman.com.

Amy Hirshberg Lederman

Recently, my husband and I went to a Beatles musical revue and had a wonderful time singing and dancing in the aisles with other middle-aged ex-hippies to tunes like “Yellow Submarine,” “I Want to Hold Your Hand” and “Michelle.” In the car on the way home, we sang some of our favorites and one song, in particular, struck me as fairly profound. Over 40 years ago the Fab Four wrote about what psychologists and scientists have come to understand and what Judaism has taught since the beginning of time.

That is, “Money Can’t Buy You Love.”

But it sure can do a lot of other things. Money is a powerful force — influencing everything from global politics to how we think about ourselves and perceive others. The topic of money fills shelves at Barnes & Noble and is discussed on television and radio daily. But the “money conversation” — really talking about how we feel about money — is hard and often uncomfortable, especially among family members and friends.

Get a group of women friends together and we can talk about the most intimate things, from female medical problems to the private details of relationships. But when it comes to the size of our bank accounts or credit card debt, we avoid it like the plague. Why?

Are we ashamed, guilty, afraid to disclose what our parents told us is “not to be discussed in public?” Or, do we fear that if others know how much money we have or how we spend it they will judge us?

Scientific research suggests that in a limited way, having money makes us happier because providing for our basic needs makes us feel more secure and satisfied. When we have more than enough to meet our basic needs, it frees us to be able to develop in different ways, to experience pleasure and leisure, to use our time in ways not just related to survival.

When I was growing up, money meant authority. My Dad made the money so he also made the decisions. In our home the Golden Rule meant he who has the gold, rules.

But one thing Dad didn’t tell me is something I have learned over time: that money can be a good servant, but it is a terrible master.

Our American culture is deeply consumer-oriented and consequently, a large measure of our identity is derived from what we earn, own, wear, buy and drive. But when material worth is the primary tool by which we assess our own value, we will rarely, if ever, be happy. Why?

As humans, we compare ourselves to others and make assumptions and judgments (that they are happier, more successful, have more friends) based on what we think they have that we don’t. And then we long for what they have. Keeping up with the “Goldbergs” is a lose-lose proposition: it only serves to increase our dissatisfaction and decrease happiness.

So does another human tendency that psychologists call hedonic adaptation. This means that when we get something new, we may love it for a while but then get used to it. The new car or bedroom set becomes our “new norm.” It’s just a matter of time until we want a bigger car or a larger home. That’s when the vicious cycle of “not-enough” and “if only” thinking takes over.

We all do this to some degree or another. We look at our living room and think, “If only we had a nicer home, we’d entertain more.” Or we book our summer vacation to spend a week at the beach and think, “If only we made more money, we could go for two weeks.”

How can we change this type of toxic relationship to money to one that helps us grow and feel good about ourselves, regardless of how much or how little we have?

The issue of being unhappy with what we have and always wanting more has been around since the beginning of time. Adam and Eve are a great example: God tells them they can eat from any tree in the entire Garden of Eden but the Tree of Knowledge and bingo, Eve goes for the apple from that tree.

Over 2,000 years ago, the rabbis dealt with this problem when they gave us this bit of wisdom: “Who is rich? One who is happy with his lot.”

How do we become happy with our lot?

For that answer I’d need a book, but in a nutshell it’s this: When we use our money for things that represent values that are important to us, we will feel good about ourselves and the money we have.

As Jews we are guided by the Torah, which gives us the blueprint for Jewish living. One of the key values in the Torah is tzedakah — using our money and resources to help those in need.

You want to know an amazing fact? In a recent scientific study, readings from MRIs indicated that giving money to charity stimulates brain activity in the regions of the brain where we experience feelings of pleasure and reward.

Giving of ourselves, in time and money, enhances the biochemistry in our brains and makes us happier!

The beauty of the concept of tzedakah is in its absolute equality. No matter how much or how little we possess, each one of us has the potential to consciously become a better person, a happier person, when we use the money we have for the betterment of the world.

That’s why our sages assure us: “To the one who is eager to give, God provides the means.”

The Beatles may have been right when they sang “Money can’t buy you love!” but it can buy happiness, when we choose to use the money we have to support the values and experiences that give our life meaning.

Amy Hirshberg Lederman is an author, Jewish educator, public speaker and attorney who lives in Tucson. Her columns in the AJP have won awards from the American Jewish Press Association, the Arizona Newspapers Association and the Arizona Press Club for excellence in commentary. Visit her website at amyhirshberglederman.com.

Amy Hirshberg Lederman

I recently returned from a fantastic trip to Israel — an interfaith business and leadership delegation sponsored by the America-Israel Friendship League. Our group consisted of 29 dynamic Tucsonans — a vibrant mix of faiths, ethnicities and professional backgrounds.

Together we explored the religious, archeological, business and cultural sites that make Israel so unique. Toward the end of the trip, each participant had the opportunity to experience a day-long “counterpart exchange” with Israelis in their fields of interest, sharing expertise and innovations in medicine, art, technology, education and venture capitalism.

I lived in Israel in 1974-5 when I was a junior in college and Israel was only 26 years old. It’s hard to reconcile the Israel of today with the one I knew back when my apartment had no hot water or heat and in order to call home, I had to take a bus to the central post office in downtown Jerusalem where a row of public phones lined the wall.

Over the past 37 years, I have watched Israel develop from a Third World adolescent country to a robust, maturing, high-tech nation. At 63, Israel is the most innovative and entrepreneurially successful country in the world. According to journalists Dan Senor and Saul Singer, authors of “Start-Up Nation,” Israel has the highest per capita density of start-ups in the world and has more companies listed on NASDAQ than all the companies from the European continent combined. In 2008, per capita venture capital investments in Israel were 2.5 times greater than those in the U.S., 30 times greater than in Europe, 80 times greater than in China and 350 times greater than in India.

What are some of the secrets to Israel’s success? Why, despite all of the hardships she faces daily while struggling to remain a genuine democracy, is Israel able to outshine all other countries in the development of innovative business practices and enterprising entrepreneurial efforts?

There are three significant reasons Israel is number one on the hit parade of entrepreneurs today: attitude, relationships and the failure factor.

Israelis develop an attitude about authority in the Israeli Defense Forces that transfers beautifully into the business world. Since most Israelis serve in the military immediately following high school (men for three years, women for two), a common culture is established among Israeli youth that binds them together, literally for life. Soldiers are taught to work together as a team; it is imperative for their safety, the nation’s security and the success of their mission. But unlike many other military models, the Israeli army has an informal quality among its ranks that has been described as “anti-hierarchical.”

IDF commanders are given nicknames by their units; they make coffee for their troops and hang out with them, telling jokes and stories. Soldiers are encouraged to assert themselves, to voice their opinions and ideas, in a respectful way that fosters debate and the rethinking of strategies. We might see this as arrogant or insubordinate, as totally unacceptable in the U.S. military, but Israelis view this type of chutzpah (“nerve” in Yiddish) as positive. A soldier with chutzpah, who respectfully disagrees with his commander, is not punished, but applauded.

Israelis take this attitude into the work force where it serves to promote original thinking, encourage respectful debate between employees and their superiors and challenge old paradigms that are no longer working.

The Israeli attitude inspires less formal and more trusting relationships between employers and employees. Because of the informality that is accepted and the chutzpah that is expected, people at every level of business are more willing to debate and disagree with one another without fear of recrimination. This reduces the amount of back-      biting, gossip and negative competition because disagreements are aired openly and freely. Relationships at work are built on the same principle as those in the army: group members must work together and trust one another in order to accomplish the end goal.

What is most impressive, however, is the Israeli reaction to failure. In many countries, including our own, there is a tendency to view failure as negative.

But in Israel, when a drug trial fails or an idea falls short, the failure is seen as value neutral if it is grounded in intelligent, well-reasoned assumptions. If the risk taken is rational and not reckless, the failure will be seen as valuable information that can become the springboard for the next generation of assumptions. The question is not “What did we do wrong?” but “What have we learned and what do we need to know to take this idea to the next level?”

Israel has made many mistakes and has much to learn in its trajectory from Third World country to start-up nation. But we stand to gain much, as individuals and as a country, if we consider the attitudes that have served her so well in her success as frontrunner in the entrepreneurship race.

Amy Hirshberg Lederman is an author, Jewish educator, public speaker and attorney who lives in Tucson. Her columns in the AJP have won awards from the American Jewish Press Association, the Arizona Newspapers Association and the Arizona Press Club for excellence in commentary. Visit her website at amyhirshberglederman.com.

Our cruise began in open waters as we sailed past towering peaks adorned by glacier-fed waterfalls. On deck I hugged my jacket close as we navigated into the hidden waterways of the sound, narrow passages between rainforest-clad islands that look like fingers on the map. In this remote wilderness area, we watched fur seals lounge on the rocks and swim in the water as their pups valiantly tried to dive and twist like the adults.

Before dinner, the skies opened up and a warm rain pelted down on those of us who were brave enough to kayak off the boat. I soon learned that four kilometers doesn’t sound like a big distance when you are warm and dry. But the joy of watching my husband, Ray, paddle into hidden coves like Captain Cook kept me afloat and happy until we returned to the boat for a hot shower and a glass of New Zealand’s sauvignon blanc. I said a blessing, not just over the wine because it was Friday night and the beginning of Shabbat, but for being so fortunate to be in this wondrous place at this time in my life.

The next morning we awoke to a totally different waterway. It had rained all night and the boat was engulfed in a sultry mist. You could barely see the canyon walls through the ribbons of clouds that enveloped us and the constant sound of rushing water affirmed what our captain had told us at breakfast: that hundreds of waterfalls had emerged as a result of the rains.

Shabbat morning, 9 a.m. and not a minyan in sight. But what we had that morning, although not a synagogue experience, was an opportunity to experience Shabbat in a way I will never forget.

The captain came on the intercom and asked for our attention. “For the next five minutes, I would like to ask you a favor: Be totally still and silent. Stay where you are, don’t walk around or open doors or take photos or drink coffee. Just stand quietly and listen. I will turn off the boat’s engines and generators and we will drift at sea in silence. Thank you.”

And with that, we were given a three-bell warning so that each of us could find a place on board in which to take in the majesty of our surroundings. Twenty-four guests, one captain and a crew of six all stopped and listened. There, hundreds of miles from any town or settlement in the most remote wilderness I have ever been to, we listened to the sounds of the world. The gentle tapping of rain as it hit the deck, water lapping against the bow of the boat, birds calling out in song, and water — flowing, gushing, pouring down over boulders and bush — presented to us as a gift. It was a timeless moment and we were both witness to and part of it.

Being totally present and fully appreciating creation and the Creator is what the Jewish Sabbath is all about. Shabbat is a day of rest, a day when we are commanded not to interfere with or try to control the physical world in which we live. We are given an opportunity to be free from the tyranny of the daily demands of work and life that often obscure our ability to really see, hear and appreciate the beauty around us. In this way, Sabbath rest is really a state of peace within us as well as peace between us and the natural world.

I didn’t meet many Jews in New Zealand nor did I expect to. But I celebrated a moment in time that was the perfect Sabbath. As Abraham Joshua Heschel wrote so beautifully in his book “The Sabbath,” “The meaning of the Sabbath is to celebrate time rather than space. Six days a week we live under the tyranny of things of space; on the Sabbath we try to become attuned to holiness in time. It is a day on which we are called to share in what is eternal in time, to turn from the results of creation to the mystery of creation; from the world of creation to the creation of the world.”

As we sailed back to port, the sun broke through the mist and the sky turned from grey to deep blue, marshmallow clouds generously topping the mountain peaks. I smiled to think that on a Kiwi cruise in the middle of nowhere, I had been given such a wonderful opportunity to truly experience Shabbat.

Amy Hirshberg Lederman is an author, Jewish educator, public speaker and attorney who lives in Tucson. Her columns in the AJP have won awards from the American Jewish Press Association, the Arizona Newspapers Association and the Arizona Press Club for excellence in commentary. Visit her website at amyhirshberglederman.com.

The consensus was that this question is not an easy one to answer because each of us views Judaism from personal and historical perspectives that differ based on the time period in which we grew up; our family traditions; our social, economic and cultural realities; and our genetic makeup. Yet of the themes that emerged, one was definite: there is a feeling deep inside, a spark that dwells within each Jew regardless of denomination, social background or education, which drives him or her to identify as Jewish.

Some may call this the pintele Yid (Yiddish for Jewish spark), others may think of it as the Yiddish neshamah (Jewish soul), while still others jokingly refer to it as being a Member of the Tribe (M.O.T.). It seems, however, that there is a unique, somewhat ineffable feeling of “being Jewish” that drives many of us to think, act and respond as Jews today.

Many readers identified the Torah, Jewish learning and the quest for knowledge as what binds Jews together in our struggle to survive. Jewish education consists of more than training the mind; it also requires training the heart. One reader eloquently wrote: “We are driven as a people by the knowledge that there is a power — for good, for right, for beauty, that is beyond our comprehension — that we strive to imitate and achieve. We are driven by this power, which is not random, and is intelligent beyond our grasp … the Torah is the earthly representation of this power we know as God.”

Other insights about what drives the Jews included a sense of community and feeling responsible for one another, the idea that the promotion of human freedom and dignity is essential to living a Jewish life, and that we are committed to the Jewish future because “we don’t want to be just the grandchildren of great men and women, we want to be the grandparents of an even greater generation!” Interestingly, each one of these ideas is articulated in traditional Judaism as Kol Israel arevim ze Lazeh, B’tzelem Elohim and L’dor v’dor, respectively.

One of the more controversial responses suggested that there is something “in our genes” that drives us — to leave a bad situation for a better one, to push ourselves to excel and succeed, to respond to the world’s problems with compassion and a sense of justice. While the genetic answer might be more applicable to the question, “Why have Jews achieved scientific, financial, artistic and cultural success to a greater extent than population statistics would indicate,” it opens the door to other arguments that are potentially dangerous to Jewish survival.

Judaism is and has always been a religion and a way of life but not a race. Contemporary scientific research on Jewish DNA concludes that while some genes may be more prevalent among modern Jews, Jews do not constitute a single group distinct from all others. Rather, modern Jews exhibit a diversity of genetic profiles, some reflective of Semitic/Mediterranean ancestry, and others suggesting an origin found in European and Central Asian groups.

The question of what drives the Jews can and should be discussed for years to come. Only in looking back at our past and examining our present can we hope to find inspiration, guidance and direction for how we want to live as Jews in the future. At a minimum, it gives us pause to recognize how remarkable we are as a people and feel grateful for the privileges and freedoms we have to live today as Jews.

Amy Hirshberg Lederman is an author, Jewish educator, public speaker and attorney who lives in Tucson. Her columns in the AJP have won awards from the American Jewish Press Association, the Arizona Newspapers Association and the Arizona Press Club for excellence in commentary. Visit her website at amyhirshberglederman.com.

But I’m not complaining. I absolutely loved the form and sound of words as they rolled around in my mouth. Gargantuan, entropy, neophyte, sophomoric. Each word offered worlds of possibilities, in phrases and sentences I could casually throw out like confetti at a parade.

I waited for the chance to put my expanding lexicon into action. When my brother relentlessly teased me, I’d retort with childish indignation: “What a gargantuan oral cavity you have!” His response — a silent slug in the arm — was predictable, but it was my father’s approving nod from behind the pages of the Wall Street Journal that made the sting worthwhile.

In “You Can’t Go Home Again,” Thomas Wolfe wrote these powerful words: “You can’t go back home to your family, back home to your childhood … back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing all the time — back home to the escapes of time and memory.” While it’s true that we can’t go back to the time and places of our childhood, we can recapture a part of our youth if we remember the words of wisdom our parents shared with us as we were growing up.

In my home, an abundance of wisdom was served along with the four food groups at the dinner table. When work was going well for my dad, when our family was happy and healthy, he would look at us wistfully and say: “If I could only stop the clock right now …” Those words remain with me as a reminder of the many blessings in my life.

When I came home from school crying because my glasses were stolen, or years later, when my luggage was lost on a trip overseas, he would calmly remark: “Just remember, if you have a problem that money can fix, it’s the best type of problem to have.”

My mother offered another type of wisdom that often sounded more like admonitions than aphorisms. Walking through Loehman’s she would counsel me quietly: “You can never be too rich, too thin or own too many silk blouses,” a maxim that was lost on a girl who rejected the establishment and loved tie-dyed t-shirts. But there were also insightful truisms that I think of to this day, such as the time my mom looked at me knowingly when I came home from college and said: “Everyone has a public life, a private life and a secret life. You will too.”

Jewish tradition is replete with wisdom teachings, the most famous of which is contained in Pirkei Avot, or Ethics of the Fathers. The sayings found in this final book of the Mishna offer moral advice and insights that are spiritual, practical and timeless. Over 2,000 years ago, people needed wise words to navigate the seas of uncertainty just as we do today, which is why Ben Zoma taught: “Who is wise? He who learns from every man … Who is a hero? He who controls his passions.” And why Rabbi Hillel cautioned: “Don’t judge your fellowman until you are in his place …” and reminded us, “Don’t say I will study when I have time, for you may never find the time.”

I love the wisdom of our sages that has expanded from generation to generation and been passed down to us. From Rashi to Maimonides to the Baal Shem Tov and Rav Kook, from Abraham Joshua Heschel to Rabbi Yitz Greenberg, wisdom teachings have informed Jewish living and enhanced our ability to see beyond the immediacy of our daily lives.

And whenever I feel upset or frustrated with what’s going on in my own life, I remember my father’s words and am comforted. “This too shall pass,” he would tell me with an assuring voice. And in time, it always does.

Amy Hirshberg Lederman is an author, Jewish educator, public speaker and attorney who lives in Tucson. Her columns in the AJP have won awards from the American Jewish Press Association, the Arizona Newspapers Association and the Arizona Press Club for excellence in commentary. Visit her website at amyhirshberglederman.com.

Amy Hirshberg Lederman

I am a closet card-aholic. It’s true. Some people eat when they get stressed. Others shop. Me? I head straight to the card aisle at Walgreens or CVS. If I’m really lucky and Hallmark has declared a holiday, like National Take Your Pet to Work Day, I can get lost for hours wondering if there is anyone I know, should know, or might know in the future for whom this type of card would be perfect.

And then, of course, there are the regulars, the ones I stockpile knowing they will be used in the coming months: birthdays, anniversaries, graduations, Bar and Bat Mitzvahs, get well, and my all-time favorite: fun and friendship cards. I buy them and stash them in secret places — in the kitchen behind the bills, in my nightstand under the list of movies I intend to rent, next to my computer in a file marked “Dates to Remember.” The problem is, I often forget where I put that special card for my brother until about two weeks after his birthday, so that many times it ends up with the word “belated” scratched into the greeting.

It should come as no surprise then, that I got the inspiration for writing this piece while card-surfing at Trader Joe’s. The card was enough — a picture of the horizon with a man in a boat sailing on the water. And in finely scripted letters under the picture was this question: “When was the last time you did something for the first time?”

Wow. That really hit me. When was the last time I did something for the very first time? I couldn’t remember, although I did make a new sweet potato recipe for Thanksgiving, which I remembered clearly because I had to go to the store three times for ingredients I forgot.

I have kept the card on my desk for the past few weeks, its message like a banner before me. And as we begin a new year, I have decided to answer the question by making 2011 a year of “firsts.”

I don’t necessarily mean firsts that would make my mother dial 911, like bungee jumping or sky diving. Nor am I referring to things that cost a fortune or would require me to update my passport. What I’m talking about is this: Making 2011 the year where each month I try something I’ve never tried before, like eating a new food, wearing a new color or style, or reading a book I wouldn’t normally choose to read.

Not only is this an exciting way to embrace the new year, but it affords a very significant Jewish opportunity as well — that of being grateful for the blessing of having new things in our life.

The Jewish tradition has a wonderful way of honoring firsts with a blessing called the Shehecheyanu, which in Hebrew means “who has kept us in life.” The Shehecheyanu gives thanks to God “Who has kept us alive, preserved us and brought us to this special time.” On its face, it gives us a way to thank God for new and unusual experiences, such as watching a baby take her first steps, beginning a new job, moving into a new house or tasting the first vegetables from a garden. On a deeper level, it directs our attention to our surroundings, so that we develop an ability to “see” and “feel” the spiritual significance of events in our life.

The Shehecheyanu is also recited at the start of Jewish holidays, such as the first night of Chanukah and Passover, and to celebrate any long-awaited special occasion, such as the birth of a child or the retirement from a career.

Making 2011 a year of firsts is a win-win deal. It gives us a chance to grow and learn by expanding our horizons while encouraging us to be grateful for having lived to see the moment. We can bless God and our lives in many ways, and the Shehecheyanu helps remind us of who we are, from where we have come and how wonderful it is witness the people and events around us.

Amy Hirshberg Lederman is an author, Jewish educator, public speaker and attorney who lives in Tucson. Her columns in the AJP have won awards from the American Jewish Press Association, the Arizona Newspapers Association and the Arizona Press Club for excellence in commentary. Visit her website at amyhirshberglederman.com.

Since grade school I have tried harder than most to curb my enthusiastic mouth. Sometimes I succeed but more often than not, I resort to little tricks like counting to 30 before I speak or using meditative mantras like “silence is the path to serenity.” Once I even went so far as to attend a retreat where we spent the better part of two days in total silence. At first, it almost killed me, so I kept swallowing loudly and whispering to myself. But after a while, I actually began to enjoy the act of not speaking. It opened my eyes, ears and heart to the sounds of the world around me that are otherwise lost in the chatter and noise of daily living.

One of the hallmarks of modern times is noise. The never-ending sounds of traffic and construction, the ringing and music from cell phones, radios and televisions, the incessant conversations in restaurants, offices and social gatherings, are indicative of our need to live out loud. Sadly, for many of us, silence has become all but extinct —the dinosaur of modern life.

Judaism has much to teach us about the idea of silence. At the heart of Jewish tradition is the statement of faith found in the Shema, which means “listen” or “hear.” The opening line of the Shema is translated as: “Hear! Israel, the Lord our God is One.” Only when we are quiet enough to listen, when we become silent within ourselves so that we can hear the wisdom within and around us, can we really understand the essence of the divine.

Silence offers us many opportunities to live with greater purpose, awareness and intention. When we minimize our need to respond verbally to the external world, we increase our ability to reflect meaningfully on our internal world. When we refrain from automatically responding, we make room for possibilities that might not otherwise emerge; insights and understanding about life, people and ourselves, that words and witticisms can distract us from comprehending.

Judaism views the ability to speak as the ultimate gift to humans. Speech separates us from other forms of life and enables us to fulfill God’s mission to be holy. But speech was given to us to be used purposefully, and only by balancing our speech with the ability to embrace silence do we gain wisdom.

A wonderful reminder of our need for silence in the weekly holiday of Shabbat. Shabbat is intended to help us turn down the volume of the world by freeing us from the din and chatter of electronics, traffic and the sounds of the work place. It can become the one day of the week when we intentionally seek silence as a means of restoring ourselves. Just as the body needs rest in order to be healthy, the soul needs silence in order to grow. As the Talmud says:”There is no better medicine than silence.”

Jewish sages valued silence as vital to living a meaningful life. This is beautifully described by Rabbi Gamliel who said: “All of my life I was privileged to be in the company of the wise men of Torah and I learned from them that nothing is more valuable to productive living than silence.”

And with that in mind, I have nothing more to say.

Amy Hirshberg Lederman is an author, Jewish educator, public speaker and attorney who lives in Tucson. Her columns in the AJP have won awards from the American Jewish Press Association, the Arizona Newspapers Association and the Arizona Press Club for excellence in commentary. Visit her website at amyhirshberglederman.com.