Learning from my mother-in-law

For a couple of years now, my 87-year-old mother-in-law has been living with Alzheimer’s. Over the past six months, the decline has been steep—steep enough that she’s had to move into assisted living, and soon likely into a facility that offers a higher level of care.

We had her over for brunch yesterday with family—our daughter and her boyfriend, a daughter-in-law visiting from Vancouver with her son, and her other granddaughter who’s studying at McGill. It had been a while since the Vancouver cousins had seen her.

She didn’t know who they were. Her own grandchildren. Of course, they were heartbroken.

The truth is, she doesn’t recognize my children or me either. My daughter, who visits her every week, has to reintroduce herself each time.

There’s something deeply sad about knowing someone your whole life and no longer being known by them.

And yet—this is only part of the story.

My mother-in-law is not unhappy. Each encounter feels, to her, like a first meeting. And she seems to genuinely enjoy it.

My daughter’s boyfriend had never met her before. Sitting beside them on the couch, I watched him engage her with a kind of effortless warmth. He asked questions the way you would when meeting someone new, and she answered as best she could—sometimes in fragments, sometimes drifting, sometimes not making sense at all.

And he just… went with it.

No correction. No discomfort. No need to anchor her to reality.

He met her where she was.

Watching them together, I realized something: this “first meeting” is now the reality for all of us. And somehow, he understood instinctively what the rest of us are still learning—that connection doesn’t depend on shared memory. It depends on presence.

In her own way, my mother-in-law is teaching us something profound: how to accept her on her terms, with patience and love.

To let go of who she was to us, and be fully with who she is now.

At one point, I told her something I’ve always carried with me. When I first joined the family, she said to me: "You’re not my son-in-law—you’re no different from my own children."

That openness—that generosity—defined both her and my father-in-law. It wasn’t something I was used to, having grown up in a more rigid and judgmental household.

My mother-in-law chose to be that way, in part, because she hadn’t been fully accepted by her own in-laws. They treated her differently from their daughter. She made a quiet vow to do better—to treat the spouses of her children as her own.

And she did.

When I told her this, something flickered. Recognition, maybe. Her eyes lit up. She nodded. And she recalled fragments of memory, and pieced together how her in-laws had favoured their daughter.

And it struck me then: Now it’s our turn, to meet her where she is.

To offer her the same open, generous, non-judgmental love she gave so freely to us. It doesn't matter if she she knows who we are. What matters is the moment we are sharing together.

I'm Very Nervous

Back to publicly venting my anxiety.

I’m nervous.

I haven’t felt this nervous since October 7th, 2023—and this time it feels like it could get much worse.

It started a couple of weeks ago, when U.S. Secretary of State Marco Rubio appeared to throw Israel (and, by extension, Jews more broadly) under the bus by suggesting Israel forced the U.S.'s hand to preemptively attack Iran.

Then this week came the very public resignation of the Director of Counterterrorism, Joe Kent. He echoed that framing, saying there was no imminent threat to the United States from Iran, and explicitly blamed Israel and its American lobby for pressuring the U.S. into war.

Yesterday, Netanyahu made an unusual public statement about the war—something that, in itself, signals how serious the situation has become. It read as damage control. When asked about the Israeli attack on the South Pars gas field, he claimed Israel acted alone. That directly contradicted earlier statements from Israeli officials, who said the operation had been coordinated with the U.S. No one seems to believe him.

When asked whether Israel had “dragged” the U.S. into the war, Netanyahu deflected: “Does anyone really think someone can tell President Trump what to do? Come on.”

My answer: the most transparently transactional president in modern U.S. history? Ugh—Yeah, of course.

Iran responded to the South Pars attack by striking Qatar’s Ras Laffan Industrial City—the world’s largest LNG facility.

According to Michael Wolff, it’s no coincidence that trump quickly claimed he had no prior knowledge of the South Pars attack and urged Israel to stop targeting energy infrastructure. Wolff said trump got a call from Jared Kushner who warned that his Qatari patrons were extremely unhappy.

Which brings me back to the underlying dynamic. According to Wolff’s sources, many inside trump’s orbit believe Israel pushed him into this war.

Meanwhile, in the MAGA conspiracy ecosystem, the narrative is hardening: that Jews are pulling the strings—Kushner and Netanyahu are controlling trump.

The movement itself is splitting. On one side, a pro-Israel, pro-war faction, led by Jewish commentators Ben Shapiro, Mark Levin and Laura Loomer. On the other side, an anti-Israel, anti-war faction led by popular (Gentile) podcasters Tucker Carlsen, Megyn Kelly and Nick Fuentes that often frames the situation in openly antisemitic terms.

All of this is compounded by the lack of a clear, convincing justification for the war, and the absence of any real effort to rally international allies, and diffuse responsibility.

Add in the Epstein cover-up. Add the risk of pro-Iranian terrorism. Add the lingering global anger over Gaza.

It feels like all the ingredients are there, from both the far right and the far left, for antisemitism at a level we haven't seen in generations.

And that’s making me very nervous.

In the Miklat

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for Kelp

I'm not in the miklat;

but I imagine

if I were in Jerusalem

with you,

I'd have my guitar

and you'd have yours.

Or if there was no time

because the alert

went off again at 3am,

and we dragged ourselves

down in pjs and slippers,

we'd at least

have our blues harps.

While we waited

for the all clear

we'd fill the silence

with Dylan and Cohen,

between tunes

debate

who was the better songwriter.

I'd tell you Dylan was a poser,

always wearing

someone else's costume,

while Cohen dug deep

into the darkness

of his own

emotional rubble.

When we got tired of that

I'd pull out

my bilingual copy

of Shirei Ahava

and we'd read aloud —

you first in Hebrew,

me next,

from the facing page

in English —

all the biblical allusions

lost in translation,

(hiding inside the words,

as it were),

milot miklat,

you'd joke alliteratively—

words of shelter

from the storm.

We'd listen

for the boom of a strike

above our heads

the crash of collapse,

and wonder

if ZAKA

had already been 

dispatched.

The Big Picture

What you see always depends on what you are looking at.

Me, I'm a big picture guy, not someone who focuses on details.

Sometimes that's a good thing, sometimes it's not.

It's good because I tend not to sweat the small stuff.

It's bad for detail-oriented work, like writing or art-making, where getting the details just right matters so much.

Even before trump was first voted into office, from my big-picture perch I saw the potential for disaster.

Disaster because he was so obviously inexperienced, and so clearly temperamentally unfit to wield so much power.

Disaster because he had no appreciation for institutions or the international alliances he was inheriting.

Worse than indifference, his instinct seemed destructive. He appeared to want to tear down the foundations of American democracy and dismantle the network of alliances and organizations that had maintained global stability since the end of WWII.

The fact that he was new to the job — and not particularly competent or disciplined — limited the damage he could do in his first term.

Having experienced trump version 1.0, I never imagined Americans would choose him a second time. Especially after January 6th.

I was wrong.

It turns out Americans have very short memories.

The second term has confirmed my worst fears. This time, with a compliant and subservient Congress, he is largely unleashed to use the powers of the presidency according to his whims.

My sense was that his first priority in a second term — now that he understood the levers of power — would be to enrich himself, his family, and his friends.

And Americans would pay for it in spades.

The tariffs fit under that heading. So do the lawsuits against corporations, law firms, and universities aimed at extracting settlements. The “gifts” from foreign leaders. The cryptocurrency ventures. The project-fundraising grifts. The selling of pardons. And most recently, the war profiteering — seizing Venezuela’s oil and the kids launching a drone business.

The second priority would be the only other thing he truly craves: attention, fame, legacy.

Hence the constant television appearances, sometimes twice a day. Dominating headlines. Putting his name and face on prominent government buildings. Erecting monuments to himself — the ballroom, the victory arch. His obsessive pursuit of the Nobel Peace Prize.

But it also extends to more ominous gestures: the abduction of a government leader in Venezuela, the war with Iran, and talk of taking over Cuba or even Greenland.

Trump cares above all about appearing strong. His worldview is simple: might makes right.

And the more easily he can deploy the military, the easier it becomes to use it again.

Trashing international law, alliances, and global institutions is not really the goal.

It’s simply collateral damage in his pursuit of self-aggrandizement.

Most of the political arguments I end up having with people come down to a difference between looking at the big picture or the small picture.

People who focus only on Israel’s immediate security, for example, are happy with the war with Iran. They see weapons depots destroyed, military infrastructure damaged, leaders assassinated — and they count those as victories.

But that’s the small picture.

They’re looking at the battles, not the war.

They aren’t thinking about the broader ramifications for regional stability, for international alliances, or even for Jews living in the diaspora.

Big picture, bombs are replaceable. Leaders are replaceable. Even armies are replaceable.

What isn’t easily replaced is stability.

Or trust.

Or credibility.

Once those are gone, they take generations to rebuild.

Actual Community

I want to share a word about my experience yesterday — a breather from political commentary, which will probably come as a relief to many of you.

Suddenly I feel like I’m part of a community. A real one.

This comes thanks to my wife.

For the last couple of years she’s been building a small hobby-business called Montreal Vintage Kitchenware. Check it out. She sources vintage dishware, glassware, cookware, and other beautiful household items, cleans them up, and resells them online. She has a great eye for value and style. And the wonderful thing about dishware and glassware is that they don’t really wear out. It’s amazing how often you find older pieces in pristine condition.

Over time she’s built a nice following on Instagram and her sales and inventory have grown steadily. But she’s kept the business deliberately small and manageable. She sources locally, sells locally, and fits the work around her regular routine — including caring for the affairs of her ailing mother.

Other vintage sellers have been encouraging her for a while to participate in public vintage markets, which have become very popular recently. Vintage style is having a moment, it’s eco-friendly, and it’s often far cheaper than buying new — which helps in uncertain economic times.

She resisted for a long time. Not least because selling glassware and dishes means hauling heavy boxes of fragile merchandise. It’s not quite the same as selling clothes or jewelry.

But this week she finally agreed to try one market — on the condition that I would act as her assistant (read: shlepper). Which I happily did.

The venue was beautiful: a former suburban church with vaulted ceilings, heavy wooden beams, and painted glass windows, now converted into a community events hall. There were about twenty-five vendors selling mostly vintage clothing, jewelry, craftwork, and small tchotchkes.

My wife was the sole vendor selling only housewares.

This turned out to be both good and bad. Good because there was no competition. Bad because there’s a reason no one else was selling it.

Housewares aren’t really impulse purchases. People usually buy them when they’re looking for something specific — to complete a set, replace a missing glass, or find a particular piece of cookware. Market shoppers, on the other hand, tend to want something they can wear home immediately. And most come expecting to spend somewhere between $10 and $25.

My wife often sells sets — dishes, glasses, teapots, serving trays — typically priced between $25 and $60. Still a great deal, but not quite the market sweet spot.

Still, we did fine. More than enough to cover the costs and put a few extra dollars in our pocket. And it was a valuable learning experience. We’re already thinking about what might work better next time: fewer full sets, more individual pieces, and more items priced closer to that impulse-buy range.

But what I enjoyed most had nothing to do with the sales.

It was the atmosphere.

The organizer — herself a vintage seller — was energetic, welcoming, and clearly delighted by the little community she’s building with these events. The music playlist was so good it had me humming along most of the day.

The vendors were friendly and supportive. Of course there were moments of quiet jealousy — glancing over at the next table wondering why they had five customers while we had one — but the overall feeling was that everyone genuinely wanted everyone else to do well.

What struck me most, though, was simply being around strangers. Friendly strangers.

They weren’t from my cultural, religious, or socio-economic milieu. They probably didn’t share many of my political views — and for once that didn’t matter in the slightest.

For one afternoon I stepped out of my usual bubble and into a room full of people of different ages and backgrounds who had very little in common except that we were all there selling pre-loved stuff. And it felt surprisingly good.

I realized how rare that has become — to share a space with people you don’t know, don’t categorize, and don’t argue with.

I enjoyed people simply passing by our table perusing our wares, maybe picking up a plate or a teacup, chatting for a minute or two, and then saying thanks and leaving without even buying anything.

War, What Is It Good For?

War. What is it good for?

Absolutely nothing.

So sang Edwin Starr in the 1970 protest anthem War.

Starr was singing about the Vietnam War, a conflict that proved as senseless, misguided, and ideological as any war undertaken by the United States. Decades later, the lessons of Vietnam are still being learned.

Among them:

First, it was fundamentally an ideological conflict. While it had military objectives, its political goals were vague and shifting.

Second, ideological wars are notoriously difficult to win. Territory can be captured, armies defeated, and infrastructure destroyed. But beliefs cannot be bombed out of existence. More often they harden under pressure.

Third, Vietnam demonstrated the dangers of escalation. What began as a limited commitment gradually expanded into a full-scale war. The phenomenon would later be called “mission creep,” a term popularized during the United Nations Operation in Somalia.

Fourth, Vietnam showed the limits of overwhelming military superiority. The United States dominated the air and possessed vast technological advantages. Yet these advantages proved insufficient against a determined adversary employing asymmetric tactics.

Finally, it was a war of attrition. In such conflicts, the weaker side can prevail simply by outlasting the stronger one. Time, more than firepower, becomes the decisive factor.

The Prussian strategist Carl von Clausewitz famously wrote that war is “the continuation of politics by other means.” His insight was that war, at least in theory, is rational. It is a tool used by states to achieve political objectives when diplomacy fails.

But Clausewitz’s observation contains an implicit truth: wars end by agreement. Military victory only matters if it produces a political outcome accepted by the parties involved.

Which raises the question: is the war against Iran winnable?

The United States and Israel possess overwhelming military superiority. They can degrade Iran’s military capabilities, damage its infrastructure, and weaken its ability to defend itself. These are achievable objectives. But they are also temporary ones.

Only a political settlement—one accepted by Iran itself—could transform military defeat into a durable outcome. Yet the Iranian regime defines itself in ideological opposition to the United States and Israel. A regime that frames resistance as martyrdom cannot politically survive capitulation.

Washington and Jerusalem appear to have hoped that sustained military pressure would weaken the regime internally. Perhaps popular unrest would topple the government, or factions within the military might stage a coup.

So far, neither scenario has materialized, and there is no reason to believe it is likely.

Popular revolt is unlikely while the population is under bombardment. External attack tends to consolidate national unity, even among citizens who dislike the regime.

Nor has there been any visible fracturing within Iran’s security apparatus, including the powerful Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps.

If the past is any guide—from Vietnam to Iraq to Afghanistan—the most likely outcome is a familiar one. At some point the United States will declare its objectives achieved and bring the conflict to a close.

Iran, having survived, will declare victory as well.

And in doing so it will strengthen the very regime the war was meant to weaken, while deepening its determination to obtain the ultimate deterrent: a nuclear weapon.

Bad news for Washington.

Worse news for Israel.

War. What is it good for?

Absolutely nothing.

Say it again.

Please don't write

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Please don't write 

any more poems about death. 

I've read too many already, 

and let's admit it,

they come too easily. 

War. Grief. Sorrow. Loss: common 

as poppies in spring

when it's still chilly outside, 

the bright papery blooms 

fading quickly. 

Write the elusive  

difficult poems 

about love - 

ones you know by heart

when words 

fail; 

A poem that stands on a riverbank 

watching the flow— 

a poem that surprises,

like a fish leaping out 

from the turbulent darkness, 

with all its might, 

going upstream  

with vigour and purpose,

and you know,

only because it moves 

against the current,

it's alive.