One of the reasons I haven't written much these past few weeks is, quite simply, social media overload. It had begun to feel like a big anvil hanging over my head. It takes an inordinate amount of time and energy to read all those blogs, Tweets, Facebook status reports, and constant musings of the interesting people on the bulletin board where I've been a member since the beginning of time—not to mention adding some of my own deathless prose to the mix. Oh, and in the middle of it all, earning a living and interacting with people in the actual flesh. (And having time left over to learn to chant some Torah, as well.) But I'm not one of those who can walk away from the noise and become a modified Luddite; it's all much too interesting and, besides, my job depends on knowing about this alternate dimension we now must inhabit.
So I'm trying a different solution: Socialite, a Mac-native (hurrah!) application that consolidates my Twitter, Facebook, and Google Reader feeds into on small, elegant interface. (Goodbye, Bloglines; you were great all these years, but Socialite doesn't support you.) I've read warnings about its tendency to crash and hog memory, but so far it's been working just great. I know it doesn't take much time to open a few different sites, but something about having every single word gathered in one place makes the whole experience much less daunting, and faster.
Who knows, maybe I'll change my song after living with Socialite for a few more weeks. But for now—well, I'm here, and and glad to be writing and reading.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
910. Dark and swirling
Written in my writing class a few weeks ago:
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The day after graduating from college, I got on a plane with 62 other members of the choir and flew to Europe for the very first time. I was in a state of constant amazement, photos in books suddenly concrete, strange food and languages everywhere. I barely slept or ate as we sat on a bus for hours in between singing Bach or football songs in great cathedrals or quaint Italian town squares. But even though we were 22 years old and indomitable, we were still human—and finally, one day, an evil flu crept through the double-decker bus and attacked us one by one. It hit me in Venice, around which I stumbled in a dreamy 102° fog.
Our next stop was Zurich. My desire to photograph every monument and painting in Europe with my little Instamatic camera was quickly fading. One afternoon, burning with fever, I got some communal petty cash from the tour leader, told no one where I was going, and asked around on the street in halting German where I might find a doctor. I was directed to the emergency room of a hospital just a few blocks away. I walked in, filled out some forms, and took a seat in the waiting room.
But just as they got up to me, chaos—a dozen gurneys rolled in covered with bleeding, crying people, until the ER looked, through my fever haze, liked one of the circles of Hell. A plane had crashed; another made an emergency landing. One by one they passed by, as I sat for hours.
Finally it was my turn. By then, just by virtue of sitting still, I was starting to feel much better. I was led into a cubicle, and the doctor began to speak in Swiss-German; I didn't understand a word. Finally he resorted to pantomime. He started pulling off his sweater, pointing to mine.
"Take yourself apart," he said, in halting English. I was suddenly very relieved, and very glad to take myself apart.
----
(These ten-minute in-class writing exercises are incredibly hard, and invaluable. I hadn't thought about this experience in about 25 years until‚ after a discussion of "bein has'mashot," the in-between places, in the story of Jonah, the teacher gave us a list of writing prompts including the "the dark and swirling world around me.")
----
The day after graduating from college, I got on a plane with 62 other members of the choir and flew to Europe for the very first time. I was in a state of constant amazement, photos in books suddenly concrete, strange food and languages everywhere. I barely slept or ate as we sat on a bus for hours in between singing Bach or football songs in great cathedrals or quaint Italian town squares. But even though we were 22 years old and indomitable, we were still human—and finally, one day, an evil flu crept through the double-decker bus and attacked us one by one. It hit me in Venice, around which I stumbled in a dreamy 102° fog.
Our next stop was Zurich. My desire to photograph every monument and painting in Europe with my little Instamatic camera was quickly fading. One afternoon, burning with fever, I got some communal petty cash from the tour leader, told no one where I was going, and asked around on the street in halting German where I might find a doctor. I was directed to the emergency room of a hospital just a few blocks away. I walked in, filled out some forms, and took a seat in the waiting room.
But just as they got up to me, chaos—a dozen gurneys rolled in covered with bleeding, crying people, until the ER looked, through my fever haze, liked one of the circles of Hell. A plane had crashed; another made an emergency landing. One by one they passed by, as I sat for hours.
Finally it was my turn. By then, just by virtue of sitting still, I was starting to feel much better. I was led into a cubicle, and the doctor began to speak in Swiss-German; I didn't understand a word. Finally he resorted to pantomime. He started pulling off his sweater, pointing to mine.
"Take yourself apart," he said, in halting English. I was suddenly very relieved, and very glad to take myself apart.
----
(These ten-minute in-class writing exercises are incredibly hard, and invaluable. I hadn't thought about this experience in about 25 years until‚ after a discussion of "bein has'mashot," the in-between places, in the story of Jonah, the teacher gave us a list of writing prompts including the "the dark and swirling world around me.")
909. Cats, jaded
I love Verlyn Klinkenborg. In addition to loving his name, and the very fact that there are people in the world with great names like his, I admire his ability to capture moments and scenes with the precision of a camera and expression of a painting, but in words. I want to write like him. His adventures are completely unlike mine—I'm a city person with no experience of the exotic life among trees or nature—but do know cats very well, and so particularly appreciated this piece:
Behind the House
An excerpt:
"I stand back from the windows, hoping to remain undetected, but at least one of the cats — a gray and white — has found me out. It sits watching me as though it has never seen a writer in its habitat before. Then it walks away, jaded."
Behind the House
An excerpt:
"I stand back from the windows, hoping to remain undetected, but at least one of the cats — a gray and white — has found me out. It sits watching me as though it has never seen a writer in its habitat before. Then it walks away, jaded."
908. I'm back, and more minyans
Yes, it's been awhile. I think I exhausted myself in January, between all that blogging and writing for my class (to paraphrase Barbie, writing is hard!), but hope to resume at a saner pace.
There were an awful lot of deaths in my synagogue community these past few weeks, which always seems to happen during the cold winter months. Someone suggested that it's also because people nearing the ends of their lives try to hold on until the new year. I like to believe this is true, and that we can influence our fate, and God's will, in that way. In either case, it means I've been very busy as a volunteer shiva minyan leader. One night I led for a member of my havurah who lost her father after a long illness, an evening of funny, moving stories and the warmth of a room filled with people who knew and loved one another. We were friends, relaxed, and so I could breathe while immersed in the sadness.
Last week, a very different scenario. The apartment was packed, a father, mother, 40 or 50 other shell-shocked, smiling people: the young man, their son, brother, friend, had committed suicide. I knew neither the family nor circumstances and spent the day very nervous about walking into this house of shiva, afraid I'd say the wrong thing or respond inappropriately to a completely unimaginable kind of grief. In an attempt to quantify a wholly incomprehensible situation, I envisioned some kind of black pit of swirling despair. Then I thought about the wise and eloquent words of Gannett Girl following her son's death, as well as how my infinitely sensitive and compassionate rabbis might react, and realized that I needed to say very little, and just be as present as possible.
It was fine. They were people just like the rest of us, broken on the inside but still standing. The son and father wept during the prayers; the mother stood frozen. They shared stories about a caring, smart man with many friends; the mother asked if people could send photos and web pages they knew were out there, but never needed to find before. We sang "Esa Einai," Psalm 121 ("From where does my help come?") at the end; I watched the father close his eyes and sway gently, and was relieved that I correctly judged that music would be bearable.
Afterwards I came home and collapsed into an unconscious sleep, utterly exhausted. I'm in awe of how rabbis and others who provide this kind of support during impossible situations can do it on a regular basis without losing their minds.
There were an awful lot of deaths in my synagogue community these past few weeks, which always seems to happen during the cold winter months. Someone suggested that it's also because people nearing the ends of their lives try to hold on until the new year. I like to believe this is true, and that we can influence our fate, and God's will, in that way. In either case, it means I've been very busy as a volunteer shiva minyan leader. One night I led for a member of my havurah who lost her father after a long illness, an evening of funny, moving stories and the warmth of a room filled with people who knew and loved one another. We were friends, relaxed, and so I could breathe while immersed in the sadness.
Last week, a very different scenario. The apartment was packed, a father, mother, 40 or 50 other shell-shocked, smiling people: the young man, their son, brother, friend, had committed suicide. I knew neither the family nor circumstances and spent the day very nervous about walking into this house of shiva, afraid I'd say the wrong thing or respond inappropriately to a completely unimaginable kind of grief. In an attempt to quantify a wholly incomprehensible situation, I envisioned some kind of black pit of swirling despair. Then I thought about the wise and eloquent words of Gannett Girl following her son's death, as well as how my infinitely sensitive and compassionate rabbis might react, and realized that I needed to say very little, and just be as present as possible.
It was fine. They were people just like the rest of us, broken on the inside but still standing. The son and father wept during the prayers; the mother stood frozen. They shared stories about a caring, smart man with many friends; the mother asked if people could send photos and web pages they knew were out there, but never needed to find before. We sang "Esa Einai," Psalm 121 ("From where does my help come?") at the end; I watched the father close his eyes and sway gently, and was relieved that I correctly judged that music would be bearable.
Afterwards I came home and collapsed into an unconscious sleep, utterly exhausted. I'm in awe of how rabbis and others who provide this kind of support during impossible situations can do it on a regular basis without losing their minds.
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
907. Wanted: One Golem
Alas, the original post has been flagged for removal (maybe they found what they were looking for), but hat tip to both Chaviva and Memoirs of a Jewminicana for pointing out this brilliant Craigslist ad:
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Looking for Rabbi Versed in DARK TALMUDIC ARTS to create GOLEM. (Astoria, NY)
WANTED:
One Rabbi versed in the Dark Talmudic Arts to create one Golem for household of three. Golem will perform rudimentary household chores such as dishes & sweeping, basic Math Tutoring for our daughter in 3rd grade and basic household security. Golem must be obedient and fairly unobtrusive on our every-day lives.
We will supply all materials needed (clay, twigs, calfskin parchment, etc) needed to create the Golem. All you need to do is use your magical ancient Rabbinic skills to animate said Golem!
Please note! We are looking for a Rabbi to create a Golem: an anthropomorphic being created from intimate matter from Jewish folk-lore, NOT Gollum: a former Hobbit turned into monster and looking for "precious". This is important! We have no interest in living with Gollum. We want a Golem. Please respond, serious inquiry only.
Location: Astoria, NY
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
Compensation: no pay
------
I could use one of these, if only to help with the vaccuming. I hate to vacuum.
----
Looking for Rabbi Versed in DARK TALMUDIC ARTS to create GOLEM. (Astoria, NY)
WANTED:
One Rabbi versed in the Dark Talmudic Arts to create one Golem for household of three. Golem will perform rudimentary household chores such as dishes & sweeping, basic Math Tutoring for our daughter in 3rd grade and basic household security. Golem must be obedient and fairly unobtrusive on our every-day lives.
We will supply all materials needed (clay, twigs, calfskin parchment, etc) needed to create the Golem. All you need to do is use your magical ancient Rabbinic skills to animate said Golem!
Please note! We are looking for a Rabbi to create a Golem: an anthropomorphic being created from intimate matter from Jewish folk-lore, NOT Gollum: a former Hobbit turned into monster and looking for "precious". This is important! We have no interest in living with Gollum. We want a Golem. Please respond, serious inquiry only.
Location: Astoria, NY
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
Compensation: no pay
------
I could use one of these, if only to help with the vaccuming. I hate to vacuum.
Monday, February 01, 2010
906. Queens
Two paragraphs from a piece I just wrote for my writing class (not really about chanting or religion, but I hope God is in the details, even the unsavory ones):
---
... We lived in similar six-story red brick apartment buildings, separated by five blocks of sari stores with incongruously Caucasian mannequins in their windows dressed in flowing crimson and gold silks; 24-karat gold jewelry emporia wedged into the alleyways between discount electronics outlets; and a Halal butcher shop with upside-down goat carcasses and a sign that read: "Fax: 426-MEAT."
... We grew up in the boroughs of the 70s, he in Brooklyn and me just left of Shea Stadium, an era when sunset meant that you had to clasp your purse to your chest and race the block home from the bus stop. Our parents' generation began to retire to Florida, and soon various unsavory types moved in who discovered that the holdouts who couldn't afford to leave were easy marks. By the time I finished high school, I had been relieved of my allowance at the public library, my leather jacket in the elevator of our heavily-alarmed apartment building and, just like my mother, my wallet on the bus. She earned a back eye in the process; all I got was some creepy guy who found my address book, called our home, and threatened to hurt all my friends. I didn't go to school for a few days after that, then shrugged and rejoined life.
---
... We lived in similar six-story red brick apartment buildings, separated by five blocks of sari stores with incongruously Caucasian mannequins in their windows dressed in flowing crimson and gold silks; 24-karat gold jewelry emporia wedged into the alleyways between discount electronics outlets; and a Halal butcher shop with upside-down goat carcasses and a sign that read: "Fax: 426-MEAT."
... We grew up in the boroughs of the 70s, he in Brooklyn and me just left of Shea Stadium, an era when sunset meant that you had to clasp your purse to your chest and race the block home from the bus stop. Our parents' generation began to retire to Florida, and soon various unsavory types moved in who discovered that the holdouts who couldn't afford to leave were easy marks. By the time I finished high school, I had been relieved of my allowance at the public library, my leather jacket in the elevator of our heavily-alarmed apartment building and, just like my mother, my wallet on the bus. She earned a back eye in the process; all I got was some creepy guy who found my address book, called our home, and threatened to hurt all my friends. I didn't go to school for a few days after that, then shrugged and rejoined life.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
905. Quest
Next week I'm starting to take a class about a most amazing book: Abraham Joshua Heschel's Man's Quest for God. (Between that and my writing class, who knows how I'll find time to write here. But I will, even if I have to cram like I did today in order to achieve my pointless but satisfying goal of one post in honor of every day of January. Which I doubt I'll do again in February. Still, it's a good kind of cramming.) I've had the book for awhile, and have read a few pages here and there, most notably following a suggestion of one of my rabbis. I'm taking the class because I need to figure out prayer a little better. I love to do it, and want to do more of it, but I'm not sure why—and this is confusing to me. If anyone can shed light on the question, it's Heschel.
Even though I haven't yet finished the whole book, I know this passage will remain my favorite, just as it was in 2005:
"To pray is to regain a sense of the mystery that animates all beings, the divine margin in all attainments. Prayer is our humble answer to the inconceivable surprise of living. It is all we can offer in return for the mystery by which we live. Who is worthy to be present at the constant unfolding of time? Amidst the meditation of mountains, the humility of flowers--wiser than all alphabets--clouds that die constantly for the sake of God's glory, we are hating, hunting, hurting. Suddenly we feel ashamed of our clashes and complaints in the face of the tacit glory in nature. It is so embarrassing to live! Only one response can maintain us: gratefulness for witnessing the wonder, for the gift of our unearned right to serve, to adore, and to fulfill. It is gratefulness which makes the soul great."
Even though I haven't yet finished the whole book, I know this passage will remain my favorite, just as it was in 2005:
"To pray is to regain a sense of the mystery that animates all beings, the divine margin in all attainments. Prayer is our humble answer to the inconceivable surprise of living. It is all we can offer in return for the mystery by which we live. Who is worthy to be present at the constant unfolding of time? Amidst the meditation of mountains, the humility of flowers--wiser than all alphabets--clouds that die constantly for the sake of God's glory, we are hating, hunting, hurting. Suddenly we feel ashamed of our clashes and complaints in the face of the tacit glory in nature. It is so embarrassing to live! Only one response can maintain us: gratefulness for witnessing the wonder, for the gift of our unearned right to serve, to adore, and to fulfill. It is gratefulness which makes the soul great."
904. Liturgy online
An article about some excellent sites out there to help us learn liturgy (and the author's hopes and plans for one grander than all of these combined):
Niggun Please: Jewish Liturgical Music Database
Niggun Please: Jewish Liturgical Music Database
903. Ready
This past Shabbat the Israelites finally crossed the Sea of Reeds, as I mentioned a few days ago, and at services the rabbi wondered why God made them take the long way around. Forty years is an awfully long detour. Commentators say it's because God wanted us to learn patience—there's a right time for everything, and we can't rush it. We do what we need to do when we're ready to do it, and must grow in order to get there. God knew the Israelites needed forty years before they'd stop kvetching and be ready for a new life.
I'm in the midst of trying to stop procrastinating about a few big things, and so found the rabbi's words comforting. I really want to do those things, and know I will, but sometimes get angry at myself for taking so long. That doesn't help one bit. I need to take a deep breath, remember to like myself, and concentrate on how good I'll feel when I achieve my goal.
But there will come a point when I need to say, this is it: go. Parashat Beshalah teaches us that lesson, as well:
Our sages point to an interesting fact. The miracle didn't happen until the first person jumped into the water. Why didn't G-d perform the miracle before he jumped in? To teach us that at times G-d waits for us to do our part; to take that leap of faith and then G-d does His part.
— From TorahFax
I'm in the midst of trying to stop procrastinating about a few big things, and so found the rabbi's words comforting. I really want to do those things, and know I will, but sometimes get angry at myself for taking so long. That doesn't help one bit. I need to take a deep breath, remember to like myself, and concentrate on how good I'll feel when I achieve my goal.
But there will come a point when I need to say, this is it: go. Parashat Beshalah teaches us that lesson, as well:
Our sages point to an interesting fact. The miracle didn't happen until the first person jumped into the water. Why didn't G-d perform the miracle before he jumped in? To teach us that at times G-d waits for us to do our part; to take that leap of faith and then G-d does His part.
— From TorahFax
902. Cold January
I walked through Times Square and onto a side street lined with old walkups, trendy Asian restaurants, and some street people with overstuffed shopping bags who looked like costumed extras. A white brick apartment building with a nondescript lobby stood at the end of the block, its lack of character in stark contrast to the garishly lit theaters just a few minutes away. Upstairs the small apartment was packed with loud, laughing people; at first I thought I had the wrong address, and this couldn't possibly be a house of shiva. There were knickknacks from world travels lining the shelves of a big breakfront, and photos of exotic locales on the walls. Even before I met the person who lived here, I could tell that she knew how to have a good life. On the corner of the dining room table sat a photo in a silver frame of a woman with grey, upswept 50s-style hair wearing a smile that at once looked satisfied, patrician, and very kind.
I didn't know the woman who lived here—the knickknack collector and daughter of the smile in the photo—but she recognized me, and we sat down to talk for few minutes before I began the minyan. I lead services occasionally but certainly do not have, or ever pretend to have, the skills of someone in a pastoral role. But although mourners at a minyan know I am not even one ten-thousandth of a rabbi, the fact that I am about to stand in front seems to make me very approachable. I take this inadvertent responsibility seriously; when, right before we begin the service, I ask the son or daughter how she's doing, and the answer comes in waves with silent tears as everyone else is shmoozing and waiting to start, I listen with all my soul for as long as needed. This evening the daughter told me, in the space of just a few minutes, how her mother was "one of the last heroes," a rescued child of the Holocaust who survived even as hundreds of others in the transport did not. How, her family's wealth decimated, her appearance and actions resonated with elegance and refinement even as they struggled in poverty. And how her mother demanded the highest standards from those around her, but always with love and a warm smile. There were no other siblings; the daughter explained that her friends filled this role, and that she wouldn't have survived the ordeal of her mother's illness but for their support. I suddenly thought of myself, and all the losses I experienced at a young age, and realized how fortunate I was to have so many relationships as deep and enduring as the ones this woman described.
There's always time during a shiva minyan to share stories of the deceased, but those friends chose to talk about the daughter instead—how lucky her mother had been to have such a child. Their pride filled the room like sunlight on this freezing January night, helping melt sorrow for a few minutes. The daughter thanked me profusely when it was over, and apologized for being in a hurry—she had to start packing for after shiva ended, when she planned to travel out west and to Europe to heal and continue to live the life of quirky knickknacks and vivid photos that her mother taught her to live.
I didn't know the woman who lived here—the knickknack collector and daughter of the smile in the photo—but she recognized me, and we sat down to talk for few minutes before I began the minyan. I lead services occasionally but certainly do not have, or ever pretend to have, the skills of someone in a pastoral role. But although mourners at a minyan know I am not even one ten-thousandth of a rabbi, the fact that I am about to stand in front seems to make me very approachable. I take this inadvertent responsibility seriously; when, right before we begin the service, I ask the son or daughter how she's doing, and the answer comes in waves with silent tears as everyone else is shmoozing and waiting to start, I listen with all my soul for as long as needed. This evening the daughter told me, in the space of just a few minutes, how her mother was "one of the last heroes," a rescued child of the Holocaust who survived even as hundreds of others in the transport did not. How, her family's wealth decimated, her appearance and actions resonated with elegance and refinement even as they struggled in poverty. And how her mother demanded the highest standards from those around her, but always with love and a warm smile. There were no other siblings; the daughter explained that her friends filled this role, and that she wouldn't have survived the ordeal of her mother's illness but for their support. I suddenly thought of myself, and all the losses I experienced at a young age, and realized how fortunate I was to have so many relationships as deep and enduring as the ones this woman described.
There's always time during a shiva minyan to share stories of the deceased, but those friends chose to talk about the daughter instead—how lucky her mother had been to have such a child. Their pride filled the room like sunlight on this freezing January night, helping melt sorrow for a few minutes. The daughter thanked me profusely when it was over, and apologized for being in a hurry—she had to start packing for after shiva ended, when she planned to travel out west and to Europe to heal and continue to live the life of quirky knickknacks and vivid photos that her mother taught her to live.
901. Trees
This weekend I attended not one, but two Tu Bishvat seders. I'd been to just one underwhelming one before this, where I got very bored discussing the mystical meaning of nuts and berries. It didn't make much more sense to me than drawing pictures of trees when I was in Hebrew school in an attempt to celebrate "Jewish Arbor Day." (I never understood the the American version of Arbor Day, either.) Recent additional rainforest- and global warming-related content only helped me feel guiltier.
This weekend I began to understand. While acknowledging that the holiday was extremely minor compared to others in the Jewish year, the rabbi pointed out how important trees were to our story. They're singled out in the story of creation, and figure prominently in the event that got us banished from Eden; we wouldn't be here (theologically speaking) if not for trees. We call the Torah "the Tree of Life" and, as this beautiful article on the Tel Shemesh site explains, they're a recurring motif in the Psalms.
But I'm a city person. There are little, skinny trees all over the streets of New York, and much bigger ones in the park where I love to run—great green umbrellas that completely disguise the fact that I live in the middle of concrete—and some individual trees have been sources of beauty and comfort in my life. I am angered and distressed at all of us and our governments for killing them slowly, and ourselves in the process. But they are not omnipresent for me; I can go days without seeing a tree. (Unlike one of my college roommates, an ornithologist specializing in birds of the Costa Rican rainforest. She spends months at a time living under the canopy, studying the inhabitants of each level of green.) Trees are on my mind but not so much, I am sad to say, in my heart.
In both seders this weekend we focused on the Kabbalistic tradition of the seder that assigns to each ritual food—all fruits of trees—a contemporary interpretation of the "four worlds" (too complex to sum up in a few words, but basically steps in the path that takes us from intention through the physical world of action, and finally to the highest, holiest state where we can realize our potential). First we eat a nut with a hard shell, to symbolize the barriers we tend to place between our true nature and the face we show the world. Next, a food like the apricot with a hard center surrounded by softness, representing the ability to let down our guard and become vulnerable. And finally we eat figs and raisins, fruits that are naked and whole, a symbol of the most honest selves to which we aspire. We had lots to drink at these seders, too (especially on Friday, accompanied by loud and happy zemirot), white wine at first, with drops of red added throughout the evening until the color in the cup was solid and definite.
So maybe trees and I have a relationship like Judy Collins and clouds:
I've looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down and still somehow
It's cloud's illusions I recall
I really don't know clouds at all
—"Both Sides Now"
But Tu Bishvat this year help me understand the illusion a little better, and become aware of the mirror that trees and their fruit hold up to my own life.
This weekend I began to understand. While acknowledging that the holiday was extremely minor compared to others in the Jewish year, the rabbi pointed out how important trees were to our story. They're singled out in the story of creation, and figure prominently in the event that got us banished from Eden; we wouldn't be here (theologically speaking) if not for trees. We call the Torah "the Tree of Life" and, as this beautiful article on the Tel Shemesh site explains, they're a recurring motif in the Psalms.
But I'm a city person. There are little, skinny trees all over the streets of New York, and much bigger ones in the park where I love to run—great green umbrellas that completely disguise the fact that I live in the middle of concrete—and some individual trees have been sources of beauty and comfort in my life. I am angered and distressed at all of us and our governments for killing them slowly, and ourselves in the process. But they are not omnipresent for me; I can go days without seeing a tree. (Unlike one of my college roommates, an ornithologist specializing in birds of the Costa Rican rainforest. She spends months at a time living under the canopy, studying the inhabitants of each level of green.) Trees are on my mind but not so much, I am sad to say, in my heart.
In both seders this weekend we focused on the Kabbalistic tradition of the seder that assigns to each ritual food—all fruits of trees—a contemporary interpretation of the "four worlds" (too complex to sum up in a few words, but basically steps in the path that takes us from intention through the physical world of action, and finally to the highest, holiest state where we can realize our potential). First we eat a nut with a hard shell, to symbolize the barriers we tend to place between our true nature and the face we show the world. Next, a food like the apricot with a hard center surrounded by softness, representing the ability to let down our guard and become vulnerable. And finally we eat figs and raisins, fruits that are naked and whole, a symbol of the most honest selves to which we aspire. We had lots to drink at these seders, too (especially on Friday, accompanied by loud and happy zemirot), white wine at first, with drops of red added throughout the evening until the color in the cup was solid and definite.
So maybe trees and I have a relationship like Judy Collins and clouds:
I've looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down and still somehow
It's cloud's illusions I recall
I really don't know clouds at all
—"Both Sides Now"
But Tu Bishvat this year help me understand the illusion a little better, and become aware of the mirror that trees and their fruit hold up to my own life.
Friday, January 29, 2010
900. You don't look a day over four
Happy anniversary to me! Wow. When I wrote this first post on January 29, 2005, I never imagined I'd last five years, let alone 900 posts. My life isn't very different than it was back then—still waiting for the guy to call, still trying to pay the bills—but my voice is, in terms of writing as well as chanting. I'm slowing finding the courage to say and sing in new, more honest ways, and the seeds of that confidence began here, with some tentative words and no idea where they'd lead. And with the help of a small but steady bunch of readers who (much to my shock) actually want to hear what I have to say. Thank you, and (assuming the Internet still exists) onward to the next five.
And Shabbat Shalom!
And Shabbat Shalom!
Thursday, January 28, 2010
899. By hand
Oy, things are getting busy again, which is good (in terms of my bank account) and bad (in terms of staying sane). Until I have a few more seconds to write, here's a new kind of Torah for the 21st century—and an interesting interpretation of the mitzvah of participating in the writing of a Torah:
People's Torah
From the site:
"Every Torah has exactly 304,805 Hebrew letters, and it is said that each of these letters corresponds to a soul So, too, People's Torah will have 304,805 Hebrew letters. Each letter will correspond to an individual and be rendered from (and image of) that individual's hand."
People's Torah
From the site:
"Every Torah has exactly 304,805 Hebrew letters, and it is said that each of these letters corresponds to a soul So, too, People's Torah will have 304,805 Hebrew letters. Each letter will correspond to an individual and be rendered from (and image of) that individual's hand."
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
898. Moses
Speaking of Parashat Beshalah, Moses is coming down from the mountain tomorrow.
OK, not really. But according to Business Week, Steve Jobs' wildly anticipated announcement this coming Wednesday of a new kind of tablet computer (tablet, get it?) is prophetic and threatens to change life as we know it. Or something like that:
The Tablet as Totem: Is Steve Jobs Our Moses?
I am the world's biggest iPhone fan, and probably more people will be at the foot of our moden-day Sinai, aka the Internet, than at the original one* to hear this announcement, but I don't think we'll be adding a Sixth Book of Jobs any day soon. (And, despite any phenomenal numbers of tablet sales, the symbolism of the apple in the Torah will still be pretty negative. Sorry, Steve.)
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* That is, without adding in all those other Jews who ever existed or will exist, traditionally also at the mountain that day (a concept that terrified me as a child—even more crowded than the subway at rush hour!).
OK, not really. But according to Business Week, Steve Jobs' wildly anticipated announcement this coming Wednesday of a new kind of tablet computer (tablet, get it?) is prophetic and threatens to change life as we know it. Or something like that:
The Tablet as Totem: Is Steve Jobs Our Moses?
I am the world's biggest iPhone fan, and probably more people will be at the foot of our moden-day Sinai, aka the Internet, than at the original one* to hear this announcement, but I don't think we'll be adding a Sixth Book of Jobs any day soon. (And, despite any phenomenal numbers of tablet sales, the symbolism of the apple in the Torah will still be pretty negative. Sorry, Steve.)
------
* That is, without adding in all those other Jews who ever existed or will exist, traditionally also at the mountain that day (a concept that terrified me as a child—even more crowded than the subway at rush hour!).
897. Freedom
Every Shabbat, at the end of the Torah reading and before the chanting of the haftarah, there's a ritual called hagba (lifting). Someone (preferably someone strong) is given the honor of raising the scroll by its atzei hayim, the poles to which the parchment is attached, and holding it up as high as possible so all members of the congregation can see what's written. If he or she has any energy left (in my synagogue this person is sometimes a woman, of whom I'm in awe; the scroll weighs as much as a small person), she will also turn from side to side so that even those way off to the side can see it. The congregation, in response, lifts the edges of our tallitot to the scroll as we point at it with pinky fingers, a mysterious old tradition (see here).
The best part about hagba, though, is looking at those words. Even if I've just been up at the bima to read them, I'm always amazed by the sight of a whole army of columns waving in the air at perfect attention.
This past Shabbat I looked up at the scroll during the moment of hagba and saw something even better: the future. Next week during Parashat Beshalah we read Shirat Hayam, sung by the Israelites as the waters began to part. Written like bricks in a wall, it's unmistakable amidst the sea of letters in the Sefer Torah:
(From Navigating the Bible.)
Last Shabbat the Israelites were in Egypt. But here was proof, in the wide, unrolled scroll like a flag above our heads, that by next week—each word and person supported by the others—they would find freedom.
The best part about hagba, though, is looking at those words. Even if I've just been up at the bima to read them, I'm always amazed by the sight of a whole army of columns waving in the air at perfect attention.
This past Shabbat I looked up at the scroll during the moment of hagba and saw something even better: the future. Next week during Parashat Beshalah we read Shirat Hayam, sung by the Israelites as the waters began to part. Written like bricks in a wall, it's unmistakable amidst the sea of letters in the Sefer Torah:
Last Shabbat the Israelites were in Egypt. But here was proof, in the wide, unrolled scroll like a flag above our heads, that by next week—each word and person supported by the others—they would find freedom.
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