October 16, 2025 | Third Thursday Thoughts
Dawn LaRochelle, Executive Director
It started as a sweet summer ritual and quickly became a running household joke. Every other day, I boiled sugar water, cooled it, and dutifully cleaned and refilled our two hummingbird feeders. I did my research: bright red feeders (check — they love red), double ant moat (check — they hate ants), a fuchsia dangling nearby (check — they adore fuchsia). I even upped the sweetness to a 1:3 sugar-to-water ratio from the standard 1:4, mixing a nectar cocktail any self-respecting hummingbird would surely swoon over.
Then I waited. Early mornings, late evenings, lunch breaks stolen from work, all spent peering from my porch rocker for a flicker of wings. Nothing. My husband, Nick, started lamenting that at the rate we were going through sugar, we could open a candy shop. And I, too stubborn (or too foolish) to quit, kept boiling, cooling, scrubbing, refilling — an optimist running on hope and a little bit of insanity.
By the time the High Holidays approached, I’d nearly given up. Portland stayed warm through September and into October, so I left the feeders out longer than normal, but my faith was waning with the season. As the time to retire the feeders drew near, I no longer bothered with my usual stakeout. And then, out of nowhere, when we least expected it, a small miracle: as Nick and I were heading to the car, a tiny jeweled bird hovered at the feeders, darting between the two and pausing at the fuchsia. I gasped; Nick lunged for his phone to prove we weren’t imagining it. We whooped and high-fived like kids. Surely the hummingbird would return now! I refilled the feeders with renewed purpose.
Spoiler: it didn’t come back, and the feeders are now stowed away until next Spring. But for a perfect, shimmering moment, all those weeks of unseen effort had paid off, and that one sighting felt like enough.
I’ve been thinking about that lone hummingbird and the quiet, hidden work we do, not knowing if anything will come of it.
Long before feeders and fuchsia, someone did that quiet work for me. When I was in second grade, my teacher, Linda Smith, did something that changed me forever. I shyly handed her a spiral notebook containing my first “novel.” She didn’t pat me on the head and move on; she read it cover to cover and wrote me a note — a real, thoughtful card in looping cursive — telling me I had a gift for writing and must use it, no matter what career path I chose in what was then the faraway future. I still have that note, yellowed at the edges but no less luminous.
Years later, my high school cross-country coach, Bill Jahn, made our team run an unexpected extra quarter-mile after we’d already finished sixteen quarter-miles. I remember sobbing, cursing, swearing I would quit as I slogged through that last lap with burning calves. But I finished. And the truth lodged deep that we’re capable of so much more than we believe.
I often wonder: do Linda Smith or Bill Jahn know what they gave me? That a single act of belief, a single extra push, still shapes the way I see myself?
Because when I was a newly-minted teacher, standing in front of immigrant middle schoolers in an overcrowded, under-resourced school in the poorest square mile of Massachusetts, I tried to do the same. I told these kids I believed in them. I urged them to reach further, to see themselves as writers, scientists, dreamers. Did it land? Did any of them keep that spark? I’ll probably never know.
And yet, I keep putting the sugar water out. I keep believing the effort matters.
That’s at the heart of Delet, the program I’ve been running at the Maine Jewish Museum for the past four years. “Delet” is the Hebrew word for “door,” and our mission is to open a door to greater understanding of Jews and Judaism for diverse Maine middle- and high-school students. We bring the Museum to Maine schools and Maine schools to the Museum to share Jewish joy, combat antisemitism, and build bridges across cultures. We do it with the same hope that one small encounter, one story, one thoughtful conversation might stick — even if we never see the wings beating later.
This year, we’re especially excited about two Delet workshops for Maine youth. In March, we’ll host an interactive, intercultural concert with The Afro-Semitic Experience, the groundbreaking ensemble co-founded by African-American jazz pianist Warren Byrd and Jewish-American bassist David Chevan. This event is designed as a celebration of friendship, musical dialogue, and that timely refrain, Unity in the Community. And in May, Aimee Ginsburg Bikel, widow of the inimitable actor, singer, and performer Theo Bikel, will introduce students to the richness of Yiddish language and culture through a condensed 15-minute screening of Theodore Bikel: In the Shoes of Sholom Aleichem. The film will be followed by a conversation about Theo’s legendary career, his role as a cultural bridge, and his deep commitment to tikkun olam (repairing the world). Each visit includes a guided tour of MJM and Etz Chaim, illuminating the story of Maine’s Jewish community. Like all Delet programming, these workshops are free to eligible Maine schools, with transportation support and lunch on us, because the door only works if everyone can walk through it.
And while Delet is the “hummingbird” work — steady, hopeful, cumulative — the Museum is also buzzing with fall happenings you can enjoy right now:
Thursday, October 23, 5:30 pm – 7:00 pm.
Enjoy Prosecco, a signature cocktail, and fall-inspired bites while we unveil our refreshed look and cool new branded swag. Join us for sparkle and style.
Sunday, October 26, 10:00 am – 12:30 pm.
A special guided walk through the new Portland Jewish History Trail: everyday places, extraordinary stories. This will be our last guided PJHT tour of the year, and there are only a few spots left, so don’t wait to register!
Monday, October 27, 5:30 pm – 7:00 pm.
Rabbi Dr. David Freidenreich will unpack insights from the brand-new Maine Jewish Community Study. History with a chaser.
Here’s the through-line: hummingbirds, history lessons, classroom moments, and cocktail hours all start the same way, with someone putting something good into the world and trusting it will land. Sometimes, the payoff is immediate (a packed event, a great conversation on the trail). Sometimes, it flits by once and disappears (a quick encounter, a single sentence that hits home). Always, it’s worth it.
Put the sugar water out. Open the door. Watch what takes flight.
Warmly,
Dawn
Dawn LaRochelle
Executive Director
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