Jewels 2022

Dear Friends, Shana Tova, Happy New Year and thank you for being a part of this year’s 20th edition of Jewels of Elul. We hope you found the introspections from the past 29 days to be mind and heart opening. This year’s theme “On Their Shoulders,” led to some wonderfully intimate stories that were read by people around the world. If you have any feedback or suggestions, please send your comments to info@picounionproject.org – We’d love to hear from you. Jewels of Elul is an initiative of the Pico Union Project, a non-profit dedicated to building and uplifting community. If

I was a junior cantor. Not to flex, but I was a junior cantor! I grew up going to a Reform synagogue, Temple Judea in West L.A., and I became very close with my cantor. I’m still very close to him, Cantor Yonah Kliger. And he has always been a beautiful mentor in my life. Obviously, I love to sing. I grew up singing, so he quickly kind of roped me into doing a lot of singing with him at shul. We used to sing before I went away to college [at Wesleyan University]. We used to sing “Sim Shalom”

I am a 59-year-old stand-up comedian. I am female. I am Jewish. I am a mother. I don’t have a vast selection of shoulders to stand on when it comes to my livelihood, but all you need is one set. And that set belongs to Joan Rivers. Joan was the funniest. She broke down barriers. She advocated for free speech. She spoke truth to power. She never said no to anything. And perhaps, most importantly, she NEVER gave up – even at her nadir. In a Vanity Fair interview about her documentary A Piece of Work when asked about how

A few years ago, I was stood up on a date. Depressed, I wandered the crowded streets until I found myself walking into a storefront psychic. I don’t believe in these things, but neither am I antagonistic. I sat on the sofa and she told me about myself, but it was mostly wrong. She could see I was unimpressed. Listen, she said, this doesn’t work if you’re not open to it. I shrugged. I’d guess, she said, you have a hard time letting yourself be taught. I said that was probably true. She asked if I’d ever had a mentor.

Back in the 90’s, most of the shows that were on the air had white people in them. Most of the crews were primarily white. Most of the writers as well. Friends was one of those shows. Fast forward 25 years or so to George Floyd and Black Lives Matter. I was, not so gently, forced to face the ways I had internalized systemic racism, my show being a symptom of my ignorance. I look back at Friends and see the lack of black and brown faces both on screen and off. How could I not have noticed that even

I stand on the shoulders of my most beloved professor in college, Tessa Hicks Peterson. Tessa introduced me to the concepts of healing justice, anti-racism and decolonization. As a white woman, this marked the first time I learned about white privilege, saviorism, and altruism. Despite my discomfort, I knew that I needed to lean in and learn more. I showed up to college with the intention of majoring in Psychology, but after a few months I began to question whether a traditional major would be sufficient. With guidance, I created a major called Community Based Mental Health that trusted communities had

We are a result of our experiences. The people, places and events all contribute to who and what we are. “I stand on the shoulders” of the late great Rev Cleophus Robinson, who said to me, “I’m 52 years old and you don’t have to be 52 to learn what I know, if I share with you now!” He showed me the business side of the church and gave me insight that you could “Do Good and Do Well.” This premise touched me as a young man and set me on a path of integrating community empowerment through business. His

As a Hindu, I was raised with the concept of paramapa, a Sanskrit word which translates as “succession” or “continuation,” and which traditionally referred to a lineage of gurus or spiritual teachers. But as immigrants to the United States, we were disconnected from a traditional guru/disciple paramapa and so I began to think about my lineage in terms of my family. Every family has a defining story or foundational myth that they live by. For my family, that story is of our matriarch, Saraswati Soni, my great-grandmother on my father’s side. Saraswati was a young widow in British India and

It’s a misnomer that the key to a great marriage is balance. The key to a great marriage is not falling off the teeter totter. Some days one partner flies high with the other supporting their adventures and other times, the opposite partner is holding strong, watching their loved one soar. As two rabbis married to each other, we have fallen plenty of times. But we are crafting a dance in which we learn to hold each other. The secret is honoring each other’s dreams. A partnership falls short when someone’s dreams obscure the other’s. We strive to dream with

I have always had a great relationship with my parents since before I can remember. When I started my journey in music at the age of five up, and even today, I feel that it has been my parents’ shoulders that I’ve been standing on. They’ve taught me to always be consistent, patient, kind, and to have fun in everything I do. This has translated directly into my journey in music and life. My dad Julius Schultz, is the person who was the critical inspiration in my life that ignited my passion for music. He is a jazz guitarist; therefore,

Jordan had a motorcycle. And a black leather jacket. And a girlfriend. I was astounded. I didn’t yet have a driver’s license. Perhaps this is another story of a nerdy kid befriended by a cool kid. I’d rather this be a tribute to a friend who would never know how much I stand on his shoulders. I was a year younger than most in my grade. I “skipped” fifth grade. The honor of skipping a grade was a full-frontal assault on the ego of a prepubescent boy. I was too immature to be integrated with twelve-year-olds who had mustache hairs

My parents, Jerry and Sylvia Atkins, told countless stories about my relatives. Although my mother’s beloved parents died when I was very young, they were alive to me through numerous photographs, conversations, choices, and decisions that were shared with me. My relatives were remembered through laughter and tears, with pride, delight and sometimes confusion, (Why didn’t Uncle J’s branch of the family ever show up for family events?) Stories revealed their values, temperament and character. I was told “You have your grandma’s green eyes,” “walk with a hint of a skip, just like your grandpa,” and have a big laugh like

Seeking to understand my Near-Death Experience, I met mystic scholar Rabbi Jonathan Omer-man, who, after listening to my intense journey, told me: “Meditate on a feather.” Meditate on a feather?! OK, feathers are strong, flexible, light weight, ancient (dinosaurs had them) and they are, of course, the source of flight. Birds fly because they are full of joy. You can’t soar burdened by sadness. Feathers are actually a dead substance like our fingernails and half of them is space. And quills from feathers were writing instruments for Shakespeare, and the Torah. The rabbi could see I was still struggling, and

I inherited my father’s prayer shawl on the first day of Shiva, a few hours after we buried his body in Jerusalem. There it was, orphaned on the shelf in the living room, in its familiar blue velvet bag with his initials embroidered in faded gold Hebrew letters. I took out the woolen fabric, blue stripes, worn fringes and when I wrapped it around my face, I inhaled his smell. Sometimes I still can. From that day on I’ve been beginning each day with wrapping it around my shoulders just as he had done each morning until his last. A

Dr. Eugene Borowitz, z”l was our dignified, well-regarded and well-loved professor of Theology. He was known for his rigor, his writing, and his formidable presence. He had a towering authority and didn’t put up with any fluff. He was in his seventies when I was in his classroom and I remembered how he pushed us, how he always sat in the same seat in the sanctuary, and how the room changed whenever he walked in. One day, one of the rabbinic students was railing against the world’s injustices and the tragedies, illnesses and natural disasters that regularly occur. The student

When bewildered colleagues ask me what Shabbat is like, I say that it’s like preparing multiple Thanksgiving meals every week. I never feel like we’re going to get it all done. Every Friday could use just a couple more hours. But, I always marvel that the stress of preparation, rushing, working, lifts as Shabbat starts. Shabbat allows me to recuperate from the week and reconnect with family and friends. It allows me to enter the new week refreshed. Shabbat has not always looked the same throughout my life; it hasn’t even looked the same during this past year. Growing up,

I learned my theology from rabbis and professors. But I learned more from my children. When my daughter was small, we had a bedtime routine. Each night I tucked her in, sang prayers, shared a hug, and attempted to sneak out of the room. In a moment, she began to scream: “Abba! There’s an alligator under my bed! A monster in the closet! A giant spider on the ceiling!” I walked back to her room, and looked under the bed. “No alligator.” I checked the closet. “No monsters.” I surveyed the ceiling. “No spiders. “Now go to sleep. Tomorrow is

I was raised a Conservative Jew. We were expected to be knowledgeable about Torah, text, and religious observance. “Knowledgeable” implied integrating Judaism into our everyday behavior, our relationships with family and friends, and our interactions with strangers. The values of Torah, reinforced by our rituals and holidays, were taught with the intention that we would “live our Judaism” and that these values would help shape our character, build our conscience and lead us to find our purpose and place in the world. My earliest recollection of “living our Judaism” came from a story my grandmother told me when I was

Everyone. A countless everyone that allows this delicate thing I call my life to keep on spinning and boiling my tea water. In Japanese Buddhism it’s called, Namu Amida Butsu – it translates to a refuge in or, a thank you for. A thank you for the effort of others. My life is the result of the effort of others. This is not poetry but fact. Right now, we stand on sacred and holy ground. When I drive to the mountains, it was their hands that built these roads. When I walk to the ocean, it was their hands and labor that paved the way. I believe in the

My Grandpa Mike never complained, even though he could have if he wanted to. First, a catastrophic medical misdiagnosis that left his youngest son permanently disabled, and then a stint at Camp Lejeune, a U.S. army base that supplied its troops with contaminated water—which gave him the cancer that killed him last year. It was enough to make anyone angry at the world, but he never was. Quite the contrary, he saw the silver lining in anything. He was so good-natured that we made a game of it—I’d sit in the backseat and describe elaborate horror situations, and he’d find

Sometimes we feel like imposters. Whether in business, school, or with family or friends, there are times when our accomplishments feel like they don’t measure up. Some of us feel this way because our forebearers stamped an image of greatness on our souls that we struggle to match. “They were so wonderful. How can I ever compare?” This is imposter syndrome. Once, I used to think that there are no good syndromes, but is feeling overwhelmed by success so bad? Shouldn’t we worry more about those who define themselves by their success than those who are wary of it? To

My parents had mighty shoulders. Their greatest strength was their remarkable courage. Elizabeth (Suzie) and Joseph Wilf z’’l, pushed with determined spirits and a commitment to life against Polish antisemitism. Holocaust survivors, they came to America and, like so many of their generation, started again. It is more than any of us can imagine, more than I can imagine and yet it was only one generation ago. I stand in awe of them. Tikkun Olam was not a slogan for Suzie and Joseph Wilf, it was their north star. The birth of the modern state of Israel made their dream

Never underestimate how meaningful a small act can be. For me, it’s offering a piece of toast. As a child, I had trouble sleeping. I’d come crying to my mother and she’d hug me and make me a piece of toasted bread with a little bit of butter. Then she’d walk me back to my bedroom, and I’d fall asleep. As an adult, I’d fly across the country to see her, and no matter how late I arrived, she’d ask if I’d like a piece of toast. I never refused. My mother, now passed, lives in my memory. I miss

I am a ceramicist, creating vessels out of earth, water, fire. In the studio of my teacher Kashio, a Japanese national treasure, was a ledge that circled the room with ceramic pieces, some millennia old. He learned from these masters, his teachers. Being part of a tradition, an inheritance from centuries past, is at the core of great ceramic work. This is so similar to the Rabbinic traditions of engaging in Jewish conversations over time. It is a cardinal rule that one cites the learning gained from one’s teachers, b’shem omro, in the name of the one who taught you.

“Are you happy?” A nurse hovering over me was asking what I deemed an entirely inappropriate question given the timing. It was now two in the morning, post heart surgery. I had tubes coming out of both arms, my body was strangely sore, and I was exhausted. “Happy?” I thought about how I was rarely asked that question intentionally as a child. My mother believed happiness was a by-product of living a life of meaning. She asked if I was helping others to create purpose, overcome obstacles, and understand loss. She wanted to know if I was living with hope

Walter Alonzo Frazier, z”l, is my father and my buddy. He had an amazing smile and a sweet presence. When he was gathered up to join the ancestors in December, I was devastated. One of the many things I loved about him was that, despite the obstacles that were thrown at this Black child born in an all-Black midwestern town in the midst of the Depression, he was determined to thrive, make a family and experience joy. One of Dad’s most important lessons was for me to not get stuck in whatever was happening because, ”this too shall pass.” Not

“A woman of valor who can find? For her worth is far beyond rubies.” Slow your roll there, Proverbs! This isn’t “Where’s Waldo.” An Eishes Chayil, a woman of valor? In Jewish history, ya can’t miss ‘em! See? There’s the prophet Miriam, a drum in her hand. She’s singing a song of freedom that echoes across time so loudly that we can still hear it. Look, there’s Judith. She’s defeating our enemy Holofernes…with his own sword! Heroic. Pop over to Babylonia. Yalta is destroying 400 barrels of wine, as an act of radical protest against the patriarchy. Iconic. Peek into

My father was good at boxing. He was a fighter in the old country and legend has it that at some point he went to jail in the army for knocking out a sergeant. His father, my Saba Shimon, was arrested for a debacle with a missing tire. Once they found out he was innocent, they let him go, but they kept him locked up for the tire before they figured it out. When I got arrested, on the other hand, it was for knocking myself out. The main difference was that my father helped me stand on his shoulders.

My ancestors are Vikings and starving Hasidic Jews. My ancestors braved the North Sea and the Ocean of Torah. My ancestors taught me insane bravery and the unrelenting pursuit of wisdom. My ancestors left me the gift of courage in the face of impossible odds. My ancestors left me with impossible examples to follow. Standing on the shoulders of my Viking father and my Hasidic grandfather, I straddle two worlds. I am forever bifurcated. Forever striving to live up to the bravery and the wisdom, forever trying to reconcile my grandfather’s shtetl with my father’s long boat; the Yeshiva with

I was blessed, throughout my childhood, with wonderful teachers. I was a little oddball with a big (often antiquated) vocabulary and even bigger, very pink eyeglasses. Teachers taught me, saw me, lifted me, shielded me on occasion, and pushed me. In second grade, a bigger boy, a ringleader and a mischief-maker, pushed me off the bench I was sitting on, while reading. He laughed at me and threw my book into the scratch bushes. I pushed him back and, to my surprise, he hit the ground. He jumped up, red-faced, fists flying. A teacher separated us. I was sent to

In the mid-1960’s, the renowned sociologist Robert Merton decided to find the origin of the phrase attributed to Sir Isaac Newton: “If I have seen farther, it is by standing On the shoulders of giants.” The search in his book, On the Shoulders of Giants, takes him through many lands, many fields of learning and many languages (including Hebrew and Jewish scholarship), centuries before Newton lived. Merton reminds us that people have always understood that we build on the achievements of those who came before us. Each of us stands on the shoulders of many people throughout time, but especially,

Shoulders come in all shapes and sizes. Some shoulders can be used as a ladder up, some a safe place to lean on. Some people have a “good head on their shoulders” and others “feel the weight of the world on their shoulders.” I have powerful memories of shoulders. I stand on the shoulders of David Elcott, who urged me to write my first song, and Shelly Dorph, who underwrote my first album and David Wolpe who pushed me to create Friday Night Live with him. I even stand on the shoulders of a relative who told me, “You’ll never