In my Jewish Overthinking Course, self-taught for the past, oh, 61 years, but who's counting, I've spent many hours reviewing the topic of luck, the bounty of it, or the lack thereof, in this bumper sticker called Life. On this top o' the morning to ya, everybody's Irish kind of day, a discussion of luck seems appropriate, don't you agree? Of course you do. Or as we used to say as kids, "Do, too!"
Somewhere on my journey toward who-knows-what, but if you figure it out, please send me a text, I replaced "luck" with "mazel." Mazel is a nice Jewish way of saying luck. For example, "When a man has mazel, even his ox calves." I have no idea what that means; we had no ox in my humble town of Westwood, but we certainly had lox, and plenty of it. And the only calves I ever worried about were the ones located at the back of my legs, which at this point, given all the horas, the jumping, the twirling and spinning, are pretty, pretty strong. Is that mazel, DNA, or the result of endless aerobic endeavors? You tell me. I'll wait.
Either way, luck or mazel, what role has it played in my existence? Give me a minute. Okay, here's the answer, courtesy of my agnostic and hilarious daddy, who drummed it into his children that you make your own mazel. You don't sit around and wait for things to fall into your lap. You make up your mind and do it, whatever "it" is. Case in point: You wanna make it rain so your squadron doesn't have to fly dangerous missions over Nazi Germany? Well then, you just announce, "I'm going to make it rain. Stand back and watch." You do a crazy dance, you make a series of lunatic hand gestures, and then it rains. Is that luck? Or my dad's special brand of magical thinking? Maybe a combination of both. But in his agile brain, he just said it would be, and so it was. He wanted to meet a nice girl. He told his buddy. His buddy and his buddy's girlfriend said, "Let's find Ben a nice girl." And so they did. Her name was Gloria. They met on a blind date and six months later, they got married. A major mazel tov. But something he set in motion himself, and Mom played along and voila. They got 50 years (shy a few months) of marriage.
I guess I've taken on the same belief system. You meet a guy in eighth grade, not exactly husband material at that stage, but who's thinking about marriage in eighth grade? A few years later, you get together, then you break up, then you get back together, then you break up, then... eventually, you marry him and fast forward, it's 38-plus years later. A major mazel tov. The whole "being at the right place at the right time" hasn't been a big factor in my personal life or career. I don't put much credence in that. You just keep putting it out there, and hoping for the best. You see what happens. Sometimes it works. Sometimes, not so much. In any event, you give it your best shot. It takes practice. It takes a lot of air balls. Not everything's a slam dunk.
So, whether you stumble upon a pot o' gold at the end of the rainbow, chase a leprechaun, or make your own kind of luck, the SJG wishes you...
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