Dedication: June 25, 1964

She is the first I protected, the first who I loved, the first who rejected me.

I woke her up each morning and I knocked on her door every night to see if there was a way inside.

There was a wall between us and I was listening from inside of it. Slowly. Steadily. Unwavering.

Fifty some odd years later, here I am.

Loving you from here. 

The walls you erected were yours to build and although I sometimes wonder and sit and wait, I know that they are yours. They are strong. Too strong for me to peer through. 

I see you down the street laughing when a young person has clothes on that you might disapprove of. And I shake. And pray and love her along the way.

I see you when my hair falls a certain way and for a moment I don’t know where I am.

I see you laughing at me and even though it hurts, I see you. Hurting.

I see my neighbor, in the hospital, donating her bone marrow to her sister, the only perfect match in her large Italian family. I see the family. Watching. Waiting. Praying. Unwavering. In their love. In their presence. In their hope. In their definition of family.

I see myself in them, alone, in them, knowing I am in isolation, behind a wall, in my donation. Giving something that could never be given me. But knowing myself. Always knowing where it comes from. Always knowing where it is going. 

This. 

*

I don’t know where you are in the world any longer. You’ve shown me that you no longer wish for me to know.

But the borders around my heart are made of a great tapestry. Of grace. Of gentleness. And of untamed definitions of a word given to me at birth. I hold it in my heart as mantra. As prayer.

Sister. Sister. (I am) My sister. 

Tap softly. 

June 25, 2022

Jill Bacharach

Soberversary

Some things I learned this year:

If I want to show up, I need to find my footing.

“Strong back, soft front.”

Compassion is a hard earned practice. 

You can save your own life by putting the time in.

Save your body. Save your heart. Save your energy. And love even deeper. Love yourself and love others. 

Loving yourself is where it’s at. It is a roadmap to healing. To recovery. To your vulnerabilities and to your non-negotiable places. 

Much of this being human is accepting life on life’s terms. Like the weather. You can prepare all you want, but when the storm comes, it’s about how and who you are during the storm that counts.

You can try to fight, but the storm is going to come when it comes and it will leave when it leaves. 

It’s also about how long you stay with what has already moved away.

*

Prayer is medicine.

My favorite prayers come in whispers.

May I meet this moment fully.

May I meet this moment with love.

May I meet this moment as a friend.

I brought this to many situations that came my way.

When met with challenging individuals, I began to shift from “fuck you” to “bless you.” In my moments of blessing, I began to see and say, “I am you.” “Thank you.” And through those blessings, I was blessing myself with love. And ultimately, I began thanking each person for helping me grow. 

In doing so repeatedly, and with practice, I felt my heart soften and open and help me remember more and more about what I valued as important. 

I asked myself where I was resistant to love. Where I was resistant to forgiveness. Where I was resistant to opening… and I stayed curious in those places… and those things began to shift again and again. 

I worked on my amends. I worked on them steadily fiercely and ferociously. 

My life was forever changed. My heart grew exponentially. 

In working on the steps, I excavated a lot of trauma, no question. However, I also built within me, a greater capacity for resilience and steadiness and compassion. And even when I would feel a new hurt or harm, I would no longer carry that hurt or harm forward.

There are two areas, however, that I still must account for which need ongoing love, and practice: 

abandonment and trust

These two places still lay naked and tender inside of me and have many walks ahead of them before they can properly rest. 

One thing I see clearly is that I have not abandoned myself and that I trust myself deeply. 

Another is that I have begun to place my faith and trust in god and believe that god loves me exactly as I am which is a profoundly healing elixir. 

Just as I was forever changed by my amends, that shift began even before it began. The reason for that was that it began on a soul level. It is the same with god. A tectonic shift is happening in my soul where the ego has no say. There is no place for the ego to get jammed up.

A soul healing has begun and I have peace.

Peace.

Forgiveness.

And love in places that melt me honor me hold me guide me strengthen me 

Carry me.

May it be so.

Happy Soberversary to me.

March 27, 2021

Jill Bacharach

Safekeeping

For a long time, I didn’t have any items given to me from my father.

I didn’t long for them and I was aware of that. 

Perhaps I was defended against that longing due to his leave-taking when I was so young. A toddler of two.

Eventually, as he was nearing his ending, I began to accumulate items of great meaning.

His letters to me which his attorneys eventually gave me and which to this day, remain my most powerful connection to him, in addition to two items.

The first was a symbolic gift he bought for me when I graduated college (and I had a difficult time receiving it because he was not in attendance).

The next, I had a little difficulty receiving, but then I didn’t. At first, I resisted him a great deal, we argued… it was a long dance… 

But here’s what happened:

When I knew my father was dying, he finally left New York and moved to Naples, Florida with my step-mother. I was so proud of him. It was a crazy bold move. 

Reflecting on it now, it brings great solace to my heart. The sheer and utter bravery.

I have so much respect for him for knowing this would be his final resting place, knowing he had a longing that rumbled so loud inside of him- to surround himself with beauty and splendor and that he manifested it. 

I feel that coming through now. I honor it. I see it. 

*

During that time, I knew the time he had left would be very brief and I hopped on connecting flights many times in order to prepare both of us as we continued our work to say goodbye to each other. Of course, the last time, was the hardest. The one when he asked me to come for our final farewell. 

On one of the trips, I forgot my sunglasses. To sunny Florida. Imagine that. It was one of the earlier trips in his ending, meaning, he was still driving a 10 min drive, still walking, still capable many simple tasks. And even though I had always rented a car to go see him, he insisted upon taking me to get some sunglasses.

That’s when our dance began.

I did something which wasn’t easy for me. But eventually, I surrendered. I allowed him to buy me a pair of sunglasses. This had to have been back in 1995.

This was a gift I absolutely cherished. I cherished the sweetness of the giving. The gift of our time together. The fears he shared with me about dying. The beauty he kept showing me through the pain and ugliness of all that he was losing and most importantly, that shook him into wakefulness from his fear of losing. 

This gift was him offering me another stamp of remembrance.

I honored it.

When I arrived back in California, I tucked the sunglasses deliberately in my glove compartment.

Flash forward: my girlfriend occasionally would borrow my car and take clients out for appointments.

On one of these occasions, she borrowed my car and she also popped open the glove compartment and borrowed the sunglasses. When she returned my car that day, the sunglasses were not in the case.

It was one of the first times that I can remember being utterly devastated by the loss of an object. 

My father had not been gone more than 6 or 8 months, but it wrecked me. Inside of me, I knew it was just an object and I could call back the visit, I could call back his smile, I could call back his offering, but I knew I had to let this go and I that was going to require letting another piece of him go. 

*

About 15 years later, my life was now on the East coast, several relationships later, perhaps I was even single at the time, I had the idea to go on eBay and search for a pair of the same sunglasses. I checked periodically, and over the course of a year, I found a pair and bought them for myself in order to bring healing and repair to my own heart. To honor to my father. Honor to his memory. And to all of the space that lives and grows through and between us. 

This one action, though quite simple, helps me remember. Helps me feel that dance. Feel the surrender. Feel all that we repaired inside of me. 

And it serves as a symbol to carry that forward with courage. No matter how much time is left.

And…  like most things, they are tucked in a very safe space. 

7.23.20

Jill Bacharach

Nothing Left Unsaid

More love. More grace. More forgiveness.

More.

When I heard her words I asked myself, “Who are you now? Who would you be in that situation? How can you do better?”

And then I answered: “Just keep showing up.”

*

No matter death, loss, fragmentation, estrangement, anger, betrayal, rejection, abandonment…

Your sister is the relationship that you are inextricably tied to. Your blood bound, genetic material. You see each other’s expressions in the mirror. 

Sometimes it’s as simple as the way someone else catches her breath. The way she used to. Or those words linked together in that precise way. Or… well, of course, that song. 

Yes.

You may be as different as oil and vinegar, but you would probably still show up under extraordinary circumstances if that phone call came and you did not know what to do.

Yes.

*

So many years have gone by. Years lost. Years of not knowing each other. Years possibly wasted not knowing each other.

I know I always pushed for more.

From the time I was a small child.

I would push.

Her door was so often shut and I was the one who wanted to enter.

To enter places I was not invited into.

To enter places which were so carefully guarded. 

Already determined closed.

I would knock. 

I would ask. 

I would ask again. 

I pushed. 

I pushed for what was not mine to have and what was the only thing there to ask for. 

* * *

I’ve tried to tell you what you could not really hear.

That this heartbeat of mine extended far and wide and could always hear your own: whether yours was hurting or lonely or wanted to harm me, or toss me away. It held you. It held space for yours to keep beating without shame or fear. Without turning away. Without silencing you. 

This heartbeat of mine held you.

In sorrow. In hope. In hopelessness. In dignity. 

*

My heart still beats steadily and fully, even though you have needed it to beat on in spite of yours.

*

I am.

I am your sister.

I have always been on the other side of the door.

*

Here is what I learned:

I love.

I love it here. 

I am not someone who disappears. 

There is no reason to push.

For anything.

Hearts are resilient. 

I know love. 

* * *

Jill Bacharach

7.13.20

Belonging to Myself

Don’t be afraid to stand alone.

Don’t be afraid to belong to yourself.

Tell the truth. Tell the truth. Tell the truth. 

*

I was given an assignment from a program I was part of 35 years ago because we are celebrating 40 years of thriving. We were each asked what moment during our time in the program stands out as having changed us the most.

At first, I thought about how I was changed by a few of the other students. And what I saw through them. The alchemy of their growth.

But then I said, “Dig deeper, Jill. What transformed you, truly? What shook you?” 

I kept giving up on the question. It was too long ago. I kept telling myself I couldn’t remember. Then I recalled a tender moment of movement in my body when I was asked to do something that really scared me and I wasn’t afraid of it. 

Still, this left me cold. I knew this wasn’t it.

*

Don’t be afraid to stand alone.

Don’t be afraid to belong to yourself.

Tell the truth. Tell the truth. Tell the truth. 

*

These are the words I told my nieces today as I sat with them. I told them that this is life lesson that they will have to work with again and again but to do their very best to stick with it. To not be concerned with what others are thinking, saying, doing… 

*

Slowly, the answer came.

I was only 14 years old and I was so afraid to have the conversation I was about to have. But I knew I had to have it.

Ron expected greatness from all of us. And that was both inspiring and terrifying. It forged a sacred world inside of you that was a holy place always filled with the unexpected, with expectation, and promise delivered. 

He pulled out our own vision, a collective vision and he embraced the fullness of explosive creativity, setting boundaries where they were deeply necessary and offering doorways when we needed room to grow.

I never allowed myself to get too close to him for fear that I would lose him, always grappling personally with historical loss and doing what I could to “manage it” or keep it at bay. This was a particularly volatile year in my personal world, and I had a deep knowing: I needed to talk to him. 

*

Don’t be afraid to stand alone.

Don’t be afraid to belong to yourself.

Tell the truth. Tell the truth. Tell the truth. 

*

The image embedded in my memory is a little foggy, but its felt deeply in my body. I stood 4’9” tall and he seemed to tower over me. I don’t remember if we were standing or sitting, but I remember the towering.  

I told Ron that I needed to leave the program. 

This was a huge risk to take because it was an audition-only program and if I wanted to come back, I would have to audition again, (if he would permit it). 

I knew I had to leave. Inside me, no one knew, but I would break, if I didn’t leave. 

And that is what I did.

*

Two years later, I re-auditioned for entry in preparation for my senior year. 

I was called back. I did the call back. And I was accepted back into the program.

*

I often wondered if Ron was hurt when I left, but what I held far more important was that what he saw in front of him was a young girl taking a huge risk to follow what she knew was right. What was unselfish. What was true and courageous. And the truth is, he saw her. 

*

That was the moment of real alchemy. No part of me wanted to let this man down. But somehow, every part of me knew that it was far more important to listen to the voice inside of me that was calling out to be heard through pain no matter the cost.

This moment of knowing I belong to myself has risen up at highly inconvenient times and has taught me the value of my own integrity, my principles, and how I have come to know my own worthiness. 

*

Lately, I have been visited by a Blue Heron where I live which is along a river with a waterfall. He and I must be becoming “friends” because the other day he stayed close and let me watch him have his breakfast. It was astonishing. 

I looked for him on my next walk and found him way down in the heart of the falls. This is where I have found him every few days. It’s a powerful image and an even more potent metaphor. There he is, standing with legs as skinny as twigs amidst a waterfall that is raging through and past in his midst. And there he stands. 

Here is what he is teaching me:

To remain steadfast no matter how hard the river rages. To remain committed amidst any perceived struggle. That I am truly unshakable in my soul. To recommit myself each time I want to give up on anything. To know the river will do what the river will do and that I have a right to stand, to be here, wholly and completely because no matter what, I will always belong to myself. 

35 years ago, I had a mentor who towered over me and gave me the opportunity to stand tall like the heron and claim my right to belong. 

To myself. To the world. 

To the truth.

May it always be so.

6.18.20

Jill Bacharach

Self-Love Warrior

Ten years ago, an old friend said: 

“You take care of yourself like THIS!” And then she put both of her fists up in a defensive fighting gesture.  

At the time, the statement came at me hard: a loud voice, no filter, no pretense, no warning. 

But the most important thing now is this: I knew it was true. And I knew it was my way of operating in and through the world. 

I also knew I needed and wanted to change that way of operating because that never, for one minute, constituted real self care, real self honoring, real softening, real love for myself or for others. 

Ten years later, I have learned to ask for a friend or even a random person who is firing at me to speak to me in a manner that is in right alignment with my heart’s values. I have learned to soften. 

Ten years later, this is no longer the photo emblematic of how I take care of myself, my soul, my life, my heartbeat. 

Ten years later, I have learned to course correct swiftly if I find myself in this old pattern. And when I do, I honor this person who needed to protect herself in all of these misguided ways. I learned to honor the person who believed she needed to armor up and barrel through to survive instead of soften. 

Instead of crack open and be known. 

I see her now. I welcome and usher her into the day every morning. I companion her through the lows and the highs with honor and grace and most importantly, with patience. 

She will always be a fighter. But that fight is her resilience. 

She is also my north star. 

Always always leading me back to the home inside myself.

This Precious Human Birth: A Living Yahrzeit

Life can be such a mystery.

As I have spent many of my adult years living with grief (come to think of it… many of my formative years as well), I see that it is a living and breathing entity.

Sometimes it shows up as a loving and old companion. And sometimes, it knocks on your door as highly dreaded company that you simply cannot dismiss. 

* 

I honor and celebrate those I love. And I have noticed something over the years: there is a thread of similarity around “birthdays.” How one came to be is something so magical and mysterious and I often feel that because I am sharing the karma to know that human soul in this lifetime, because I have shared a piece of time on this earth with them, because I have borne witness (short or long) to that person’s human birth, it is something to honor and celebrate in all of its humanity (flawed, beautiful, filled with grace, etc.). 

For those who have passed on and through, a birthday has become a joyous reminder for me, sometimes bittersweet, but it has mostly transformed into an experience that lives inside of me as happy and filled with love. The love shared, the love fought for. The love given freely. Earned. Ofttimes negotiated. Taught. Imprinted. And certainly, the love that endures. 

Such is the day of this precious human birth. 

*

The day of my beloved’s “home-going” is most often not an easy day for me. In the Jewish calendar, we call this day the Yahrzeit. 

The thing I recognize, however, as I celebrate and honor life and birth, is something very striking and indeed, may not sit well with non-secular Jews. Here it is:

Those whom I have lost who still walk this beautiful Earth, come at my heart when their birthdays approach like a “living Yahrzeit ” This is not to say in any way, that these beloveds are dead to me. I am trying to describe the emotion I feel when their birthdays approach.

A Yarzheit for me, is experienced with trepidation. With sadness. Loss. With pain that is frozen in time. Frozen inside of me. Memories that have taken years to integrate. Yet, somehow come rushing forward no matter how many years pass by. However, now that I know this old companion well, she is welcome. We have grown together side by side. 

But what is different about the living is that they are living. They are out there living and breathing and so I experience their precious human birth first with trepidation and loss never once forgetting the celebration of the preciousness of their lives. 

I honor their life. The beauty of their life. The life offered. Life shared. The grace that leapt between my heart and theirs for the time it did. The remembrance of that intimacy which only my heart can feel. 

Life is mysterious. None of us know how much time we will get to share with each other through living or through dying. 

So each day when I remember the living and those who have passed through, I find a way to honor the many ways love lives in me. 

3.20.19

Jill Bacharach