Dafka

• Dafka/davfka/dafke (yiddish):
• -even; despite expectations to the contrary -- often with a slightly amused or ironic feeling of "wouldn't you know it?" or "of all things" ("of all people" ... etc.)
• -"definitely or exactly stated; specifically" (Weiser)
• -just to annoy, just to be contrary

A lovely woman in my family died earlier this month. Her name: Renate. She was my Grandfather's cousin, and died after struggling with cancer for many years. She was the epitome of "Dafka" - defying anyone who dared to suggest that she wasn't allowed somewhere or to do something. She had a twinkle in her eye, full of mischievousness and dirty jokes. Her life had not been easy, but plenty of it was fun. 

She was born in Berlin, in 1939 when the whole world was getting wiser about Hitler's true intentions. She grew up under the protection of her mother, a non-Jew who successfully hid the truth about Renate's Jewish father. Renate lost everything in the war: the steady presence of a father (who was taken to a camp), her home (bombed in raids on Berlin), and any sense of stability. She and her mother traveled to Italy to meet her father, who survived the war, and later they returned to Germany, despite her father's fears and trembling. Her father was my great-uncle. He had that same twinkle in his eye. Renate made a life in Berlin. When I met her for the first time, she told me to look for the woman who was "a little fat." She told me story after story of my family that I had never heard before. She was the keeper of the family stories, and I was so grateful to receive them. I will miss her.

On my second trip to see Renate in Berlin, she used this yiddish word in telling me a story. She was with a group of folks who were speaking English, not exactly wise to her level of understanding. They talked amongst themselves conspiratorially, wondering out loud how a Jewish woman could possibly live in Germany after everything she had been through, and after what Germany had done to her family. 

She glared at them, revealing she understood what they were saying, and said "DAFKA!" I'm here, because they didn't want me to be, because they tried to smash us under their thumb and I survived. Because they didn't want me here, I will stay in defiance. Dafka.

I absolutely love the shrewd hope involved here. It's not a Pollyanna hope but one that faces the challenge head on, and tells it to suck it. There are things in our lives that we need to say Dafka to. To speak it with a gleam in our eye, ready to take up space where we weren't supposed to be. To challenge adversity with a stubborn heaping of hope.

Shell in my pocket

I have a jacket that I wear regularly in the winter. One day I put a tiny shell in there, the kind that looks like a miniature conch. I just looked it up and it is called a nutmeg. I think that is precious. I have a small nutmeg in my red jacket pocket.

I put it there one day without thinking, I can't remember where I was or why only one shell remained (or made it) in my pocket. But I do remember every time I put on my jacket that it is there. I reach in and grasp it between my fingers, feeling the gentle pierce of the shell on my skin. I love doing this. Sometimes I am with someone, having a conversation, while also my hand is feeling the shell, a small secret in my pocket. I don't know why it gives me joy but it does.

So I put a small, flat stone in another jacket pocket. Now on colder days when I need to pull out my large blue jacket, I reach in for that same tactile secret. This time it is a smooth, barely rectangular stone with hardly any sharpness or roughness at all. It's soothing to run my fingers along the smoothness and turn it over and over in my hand. I can be walking to get the mail, and my flat stone is with me, offering a simple delight of the presence of the earth inside my pocket. I don't know why it gives me joy but it does.

I wonder if maybe there are other small things that might be joy-giving, ways to surprise myself like a note from a lover. Perhaps more shells and stones in more pockets. Perhaps the "I Voted" sticker I pressed on to my brand new washing machine. I defied the feeling that my vote didn't count by putting it there to see every time I do laundry. I defied the teaching of my mother that you should never put a bumper sticker on a car, write on your body, or likely she wouldn't think it a good idea to put stickers on appliances. A tiny rebellion, in good fun. I don't know why, but it gives me joy.

I wonder what tiny little things I might be able to do for others to give a little joy, it doesn't need to be a great sacrifice or a huge effort. My son likes to have his head scratched, much like a puppy. One night I scratched his head in desperate attempt to get him to fall asleep and remembered the love I felt when my mother or father rubbed my back on nights when I struggled to sleep. So I made a mental note to scratch his head every night that I could, just for a little bit, and maybe he will feel the love I felt. Maybe he and I will both have a little joy.

My oldest son gets the giggles if I try to scratch his head. He wants me to lie down next to him and talk to him. What he really wants is to unload his thoughts from his brain stream-of-consciousness to someone who will listen. I remember the feeling I have when someone actually fully listens to me, the gift and joy that is. So I lie down next to him, sometimes I'll rub his arm if he isn't too ticklish, and I'll listen to facts about wildlife pour out, mixed in with stories about school, a documentary, and friends. I can only stay for a little bit, but I hope when I kiss him goodnight, he feels that feeling of love and joy from being heard.

My husband wants me to read his sermons. I like it when I can read and tell him it was great, nothing to change. Sometimes though, I write comments throughout and there's a long night ahead. Tonight I'm sitting here awake, just so he knows that I'm here. That he's not alone. And that I care. I don't have to stay up, but maybe it gives him a little bit of joy, a feeling of being loved.

I will miss my shells in the summer when my jackets stay in the closet. But I'll find other things, small things, for a little joy.

That's my new life experiment: trying on joy so that it becomes comfortable and natural. Giving myself permission to feel it and freeing myself to have the space to offer it. It started with a shell in my pocket.