Wonder is a sudden surprise of the soul that brings it to focus on things that strike it as unusual and extraordinary… It involves curiosity about them and a desire to know more. [Wonder] gets us to learn and retain in our memory things that we previously didn’t know.
—René Descartes, The Passions of the Soul (1649)
This has been a most extraordinary year in my life. I saw my first book come out, our younger daughter start college, and our family home let go in favor of a smaller place compatible with the needs of two empty-nesters. The year is now nearing its end, leaving behind some golden nuggets of knowledge scattered below the layers of my lived experience.
First, gratitude. I owe much to the early endorsers of my book: writers, community activists, social work professionals and experts, whose opinions helped to launch AFM into the wider world. I reached out to many people, but these individuals, most of whom never met me, came through. I met more helpful souls during my 12-stop book tour and the media campaign which accompanied it – event organizers, bookstore staffers, program schedulers, and others who saw that the book was important enough to give it exposure in public spaces and discourse.
And I am truly grateful to the AFM readers: those who ordered it, came to the talks, or in some other way engaged with the book. My goal in writing it was to preserve anf share our story. I am lifted by your response. Thank you!
The combined power of not-knowing and bitachon (trust). This is where faith and mindfulness meet.
I believe that in His vast goodness, the Creator gave me unexpected chances to raise a family, write this book, and get it published. At each point of the journey, I felt I was moved by a power larger than me and had a choice whether to proceed with the given opportunity, the outcome of which was always uncertain, or not. Trusting Him, I chose to take each chance, knowing full well that nothing may come out of my endeavor, throwing all of myself into it, but not clinging to the outcome, leaving it in the hand that originated it.
I was a complete novice to book publishing and marketing. I entered it guided by the sense of wonder, humbled by my ignorance, and eager to learn a field entirely new to me.
Sometimes learning was unscripted. Getting up in time for a 4 am for a radio show which airs during the morning commute in New York and New Jersey? Sweating bullets on my first TV interview and then see it all magically come together? Giving one of my best talks with the moderator in an emergency room and my notes left at home? All these experiences taught me something new.
A creative work takes on a life of its own. Like an adult child, and I have two now, at some point, the book becomes independent of its writer, and it’s fascinating to watch!
I change, but the words in my book don’t. Different people read it differently, making their own connections in the story, evaluations of the characters’ motives and actions. I also found that people who do not share my politics may love my book because the social issues it brings up resonate with them, and vice versa. (I’ve seen both). Finally, the book, now independent of me, is wedging into arrays of similar books in a variety of genres it intersects. As I move on to other projects, the book will move on to meet new readers.
I set out with a hope of a big splash, but also a fear of sinking into total oblivion as so many new writers do. Neither happened. A Family, Maybe made a little splash. Its yotze la’or [“coming out into the light”] a Hebrew euphemism for publication, was meaningful and quite a bit of fun and learning. I feel fulfilled. . .
. . . and yet, it was also a year of guilt. The book came out several months after the October 7 massacre and coincided with the worldwide attack on Jewry siding with the murderous invaders who attempted to destroy the Jewish state.
I did all I could from afar: writing about it (including this newsletter), attending public events, speaking to non-Jews, praying, sending financial support, but I felt I wasn’t doing enough. I had to be there, and I wasn’t. I couldn’t abandon the project I’d worked on for 10 years just as it was reaching its fruition. This regret cast a lingering shadow over otherwise a very special and fulfilling year.
So maybe there is something there to be learned too. My joy is deep exactly because of the sadness it mirrored, like a candle light given more depth by the shadow it casts.
Enjoy your Hanukkah lights, and here is to another year of wonder,
-Lane
Lane Igoudin | Author, Professor, Dad 