tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-104948272024-03-18T05:49:09.971-04:00on chantingIn which I talk about chanting Torah, singing, life, you name it. This blog is a writing exercise to help me organize my thoughts. alto artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07101176587462737940noreply@blogger.comBlogger1025125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10494827.post-83536079566124479422023-12-10T10:42:00.007-05:002023-12-10T10:45:06.435-05:001023. Back again<p> <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">This old blog is about chanting, which I haven’t written about in… years and y</span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">ears. So a few words to catch up, if just for my own amusement and writing practice (a muscle has been unused for way too long). (And if I want to actually WRITE and maybe publish something before I’m 103 I need to, like, write.) Due to dispiriting circumstances beyond my control, the High Holy Days service-leading journey is over. For a brief while I then flirted with leaving the community, but my friends, the deeply spiritual and music style of prayer, and the overall mission of this great group of people convinced me to stay. And, of course, the opportunity to chant Torah. I’m still learning—I still have so much to learn. I continue to get better at it (I think), and feel more confident and less stage fright-hobbled as a result, and it becomes even more fun.</span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"> </span> <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">For the last two months I’ve read almost every week, not a whole lot at a time, mostly the same stuff as when this 2nd year of the triennial last came around in the cursed year of 2020 when I was often one of 10 people in an empty, freezing sanctuary, a large camera in my face and the gabbaim on the other side, which seemed to be same distance as</span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"> </span> <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">across the Red Sea, yelling out corrections as needed and unable to help if I got lost, as once happened to my great distress (I lived to tell the tale).</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 27.2px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">Although my brain seems to have mostly erased the memory of those actual verses, it’s comforting to see my old markings on the printout and realize that the words and tunes are somewhere in there and helping me re-learn without too much trouble. </span><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"></span></p>alto artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12309499932561325931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10494827.post-74959781053450153842023-07-22T22:58:00.002-04:002023-07-22T22:59:39.211-04:001022. Covid and chanting<p><span> <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">I finally got it last December, a mild case. It was almost a relief, no more waiting to see where on the Wheel of Ill Fortune I might land. The Pandemic Era for me consisted of three years in a fever dream, time not really time and normal activities, like going to the store, pixelated and in saturated color.</span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">It was awful, every moment.</span></span></p><p><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><span>My synagogue moved immediately to Zoom for services, now three times a day like the most traditional of congregations. I joined every one (because: what else was there to do?). I grew to love the little community of praying faces in squares, and the unique privilege of seeing, rather than backs of heads, the beauty of faces focused in prayer. (It was almost too intimate to watch; sometimes I turned away from the screen.) For months the only people I saw in actual person were the terrific barista down the block each morning for about a minute, a vital part of maintaining my sanity, and a friend that I walked with on Sundays along with her dog, always keeping a sensible few feet apart.</span></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><span>Since my synagogue straddles the border between progressive and traditional, we refrained on Zoom from the parts of the service that required a minyan. So Torah wasn’t chanted from a scroll during all those awful first months, just read from a chumash. I soon figured out a new Shabbat morning ritual for myself in the courtyard of my building, which is equipped with Adirondack chairs with and occasionally reliable WiFi. I’d get dressed in just a slightly fancier T-shirt than usual to mark the day and head downstairs with my laptop, siddur, and headphones. Through the gap between buildings I’d watch the sun dance around clouds as two rabbis and a <u>h</u>azzan prayed at each other, and the invisible rest of us, from opposite ends of a sanctuary that seats 800.</span></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><span><br /></span></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><span>After nine months of this weirdness, our medical advisory board said it was safe to have a few more people in the sanctuary so that we could make a minyan and read from the actual sefer Torah. I volunteered. I missed chanting, and what else did I have to do, really?</span></span></p>alto artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12309499932561325931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10494827.post-32567756177573899212023-07-21T23:32:00.008-04:002023-07-21T23:44:34.215-04:001021. Three MORE years later<p> <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">aaaand… it’s been another 3 years.</span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">I barely see the point in noting that the world has changed. It would be like putting up a billboard proclaiming that the sky is blue. I’m still here, healthy, sometimes happy, always grateful, distinctly older, and still often praying.</span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">But not, as of the last two years, like I used to write about in this blog. It’s been a source of sadness for me, and big disappointment in some people I loved—still love—and respect—still do, but with a little less of my heart. But the situation is what it is (how I hate that phrase, but it fits). I want to be happy, not sad, and learn to place this thing in the small box where it belongs, rather than the big dump truck in the middle of the road of my life, cars honking “Get out of the way!” Sometimes the thing is so small that I barely see it. But other times it looms larger than the eyes of my cat when they’re 12 millimeters from mine as he wakes me with a paw on my cheek for food at 5AM.</span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">I’ve been trying to write about what happened to help me understand, and feel better. Now that I’ve finally recovered the login info to this blog, don’t ask, and was also inspired <a href="https://maryoliverchallenge.com/author/basscarole/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">by this beautifully introspective blog</a>, it occurred to me that some kind of audience—probably no one, but even a </span><span class="s2" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleItalicBody; font-style: italic;">theoretical</span><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"> audience—might motivate me to craft a few sentences to help me work out my issues. Recommitting here might also jumpstart another writing project that I’m determined to finish before I depart this earth at age 120 (or older).</span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">So, a start. Maybe, maybe I’m occasionally back.</span></p>alto artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12309499932561325931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10494827.post-77394418510750928342021-09-16T07:13:00.003-04:002021-09-16T07:26:18.987-04:001020. Three years later<div>To paraphrase Leonard Cohen (I only steal from the best): </div><div><br />There is a crack in the universe--as there’s supposed to be, on some level. And I will find the light in it. </div><div><br /></div><div>It feels like forever since I was here. It seems almost ridiculous to note that the world has changed an awful lot lately. I'm lucky. I'm healthy, loved, safe. My challenge is to remember this. I continue to navigate the different and attempt to steer clear of the waves up there in my head. I fear (extrapolating from those waves at least) that over the past 19 months we humans became conditioned to expect that change is always bad, Well, it has been. But it isn't always. Maybe the beach were the waves wash up.</div><div><br /></div><div>Wishing tzom kal (an easy fast) to any human reading this who observes the holiday. This year during the Vidui section I've chosen to gently tap and caress my heart instead of beating (gently, but still) with my fist. It's helped. We've already been beaten, It's time to stop that, even while acknowledging where we all missed the mark. </div>alto artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07101176587462737940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10494827.post-28790514897770133762018-09-09T09:05:00.004-04:002018-09-09T09:16:39.687-04:001019. Breath<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">It’s been almost a year since I wrote anything here, and it feels like long-overdue time to pay a visit. All has been well,</span><span style="font-size: 13px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13px;">considering the current bizarre state of this country. Still doing everything I’ve written about, and much more. I</span><span style="font-size: 13px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13px;">continue to blessed to be able to volunteer as a </span><span style="font-size: 13px;"><u>h</u></span><span style="font-size: 13px;">azzanit at High Holy Days services. Since I started doing so—15</span><span style="font-size: 13px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13px;">years ago, ack!—the cast of characters has changed only a little, pretty amazing. But, as Epictetus said,</span><span style="font-size: 13px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13px;">“Nothing endures but change,” and this year at my synagogue has been proof of his wisdom. The are fewer services</span><span style="font-size: 13px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13px;">where singing is needed; a number of musicians and longtime volunteers won’t be back; an intern with a beautiful</span><span style="font-size: 13px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13px;">voice has been added to the mix. All this, all at once, initially felt like great upheaval. (It is not, really.) Then my</span><span style="font-size: 13px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13px;">usual duties were reduced just a bit, and it was like being back in middle school: They don’t like me! (Why is it so</span><span style="font-size: 13px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13px;">hard, at times, to remember that I really did graduate 8th grade a very long time ago?)</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">Just as I was coming back to my senses, and remembering to actually see the reality of the situation vs.</span><span style="font-size: 13px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13px;">the stories stuck in my head from decades ago, I was offered the opportunity to work with a professional singer who</span><span style="font-size: 13px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13px;">was coaching all the rabbis, too. Free voice lessons, what did I have to lose? </span><span style="font-size: 13px;">They were amazing. Among other</span><span style="font-size: 13px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13px;">things, I learned that you can think you know how to do a thing the right way because you’re doing it exactly they</span><span style="font-size: 13px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13px;">way you learned, but in fact that way is no longer the right way FOR YOU. I re-learned—re-remembered?—the</span><span style="font-size: 13px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13px;">correct way to breathe, and that one’s diaphragm is in charge of the whole show. (Well, almost; one’s mouth and</span><span style="font-size: 13px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13px;">tongue help, too.) Net result: I hope and pray that singing will be easier and more fun than ever, and that I'll feel more confident about the sound coming out of my mouth. </span><span style="font-size: 13px;">So the lesson for me</span><span style="font-size: 13px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13px;">this Elul, this month of reflection: <i>breathe</i>. Breath, I knew, was the magical elixir when facing doubt or worry; these past few weeks reminded me that it's just as magical when trying to</span><span style="font-size: 13px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13px;">translate God’s words into God’s music. “Nishmat” means both soul AND breath. How lucky I am to be a human</span><span style="font-size: 13px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13px;">that breathes!</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">Wishing all who read this a new year to come filled with unending air in our lungs, expansive sky beneath our feet,</span><span style="font-size: 13px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13px;">and boundless breath within the sweetness of the chambers of our hearts.</span><span style="font-size: 13px;"> </span></span>alto artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07101176587462737940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10494827.post-53106238796932603032017-10-09T08:37:00.001-04:002017-10-09T08:37:20.568-04:001018. #BlogElul 28: Give(Written two weeks ago, before Yom Kippur.)<br /><br /><div>
This prompt brings up two two ideas: what I’ve been given, and what I can give. That my body never forgot the ability to swim, even after decades away, continues to be one of the most amazing and mystifying gifts I’ve received this year. Each time I go to the pool I feel my body stretching, getting stronger, rising to the challenge. I never imagined such a thing would be possible, especially at my age and relative lack of athletic skill. Best of all, it’s like flying. When I look through the clear blue and glide to the wall buttressed by water, safe and free, I remember that I can do this in life, too—if only I remember to open my eyes and look for friends and family waiting on the other side.</div>
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I can give this gift, too, with the help of God to remind me. I hope that the coming 25 hours will give me greater strength and understanding of how to reach this goal.</div>
alto artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07101176587462737940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10494827.post-5125931748452914482017-10-09T08:34:00.001-04:002017-10-09T08:34:35.525-04:001017. #BlogElul 27: BlessAs I write this, we’re just a few hours away from Kol Nidre. I’m lucky to get to listen, imbibe, and absorb those notes, and hear a voice beyond description—and even luckier to be singing two services, tomorrow morning and afternoon. I hope and pray that my voice will fully express my heart. I hope that God will bless me to do my best, and that I will feel those blessings magnified through the kahal and be able to reflect some of them back, as well.alto artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07101176587462737940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10494827.post-10989833233693359952017-10-09T08:32:00.000-04:002017-10-09T08:32:46.397-04:001016. #BlogElul 26: Create(Written two weeks ago, before Yom Kippur.)<div>
<br />I used to think—why? It makes no sense—that creativity dissipated with age. This year has been one of my most creative in a long time. I decided to make tallitot, an idea that came to me one day during services but that had been brewing and bubbling for a few years. I learned and taught myself to sew. I’m getting ready for the next creative challenge, executing and marketing my ideas. I hope and pray for the continued ability to create, and for the strength to not give up when inevitable obstacles appear. I need to remember to be constantly and fully grateful for this and so many other gifts.</div>
alto artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07101176587462737940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10494827.post-84548631212296655892017-10-09T08:30:00.000-04:002017-10-09T08:30:56.147-04:001015. #BlogElul 25: Change(Written two weeks ago, before Yom Kippur.)<br /><br />This prompt brings to mind a different meaning of the word than I think was intended: those silver and copper pieces that roll and clink in our pockets. As I write this, we’re on the other side of Rosh Hashanah, the final marathon just a day away. I’ve spent this past week ping-ponging between great happiness, great insecurity, renewed self-awareness, frustration, gratitude, exhaustion, and boundless energy. Life, in other words, but somewhat compressed and magnified to fit within a few days of deep reckoning. I reached no conclusions, but perhaps a little more understanding of myself and my weaknesses.<br /><br />One thing I observed: I rarely carry change any more. Most of the time I pay for coffee, groceries, whatever, with a debit card, which makes it easier to track my expenses. All fine and good, but I never have anything to offer those who ask for money on the street. I will admit that I’ve rarely given that money—nor considered it as requirement for being a good person—but now there’s never an option. I’ve been doing my best to respond to those requests so with a smile and an apology. <br /><br />This awareness will not change my habits. I will continue to give tzedakah in other ways, and try to exceed what I think is my limit. What I have been thinking about, more and more, is how grateful I am to not need to be in the street asking for change. At times I’ve felt financially stretched, but I still always had a roof over my head. I am very, very lucky in so many ways, and must never forget that.alto artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07101176587462737940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10494827.post-63749072717710354372017-09-20T14:59:00.001-04:002017-09-20T14:59:39.942-04:001019. #BlogElul 29: ReturnI know I'm skipping ahead—I still have to finish 25 through 28 (all begun, or at least considered!). But since I've actually written and posted more of these this year than ever before, I want to officially conclude, for now, with the last one. The other four will appear before Yom Kippur, a fine time to continue to be circumspect. As Pirkei Avot says, starting the task is the most important part. <br />
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By #BloggingElul, I've fulfilled my goal of returning to writing after some time away. I stopped blogging because other creative pursuits took up too much of that kind of energy, and they will continue to do so. But I'm glad to have proven to myself that I didn't forget how to string words together, and still have a great deal to say. A metaphor for my life, in general: I need to to not be timid or afraid to use my voice. Oh my goodness, that lesson applies to so many different thing right now.<br />
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Whomever may be reading this, I wish you and the entire Internet a good, sweet, happy, and healthy year ahead. May our our country return to some semblance of sanity very soon, and may the world be filled with peace even sooner.alto artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07101176587462737940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10494827.post-8842607214529201792017-09-19T08:02:00.002-04:002017-09-19T08:02:27.133-04:001014. #BlogElul 24: HopeThere's just too much to hope for at this particular moment in the world, and in our country. Writing these hopes, in some ways, feels like writing a bad science fiction story.<br /><br /><div>
I hope we all don't annihilate each other any time soon. North Korea, please chill out and put away those nuclear warheads.<br /></div>
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I hope our "president" doesn't manage to degrade the character of the presidency to a degree from which we can't recover.<br /><br />I hope our Constitution, and the lawmakers sworn too uphold it, can remain strong. <br /></div>
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I hope that the relentless tide of natural and social disasters won't claim so many lives and hearts as to wear us all down beyond repair.<br /><br />I hope that this entire country doesn't get so depressed about all the above that we never want to leave our homes ever again.<br /></div>
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I hope that the refrain so often invoked these surreal days, "We've been through this before, and we survived," really is the case. Every time is unique, but this time more so. I know I have the narrow perspective of having lived in only one time—but humanity has never before been so easily able to destroy the world with a misguided push of a button.<br /></div>
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I hope 5778 brings us hope, and a great deal of wisdom.</div>
alto artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07101176587462737940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10494827.post-22271188088136892942017-09-19T07:50:00.002-04:002017-09-19T07:50:16.309-04:001013. #BlogElul 23: BeginAs I write this, I'm drinking wonderful coffee and hoping it does its magic so I can wake up after a late night of Seli<u>h</u>ot. This is the beginning. We studied prayers, we sang beautiful piyutim, we listened, for the first time this season, to the melody that will bookmark each service and help set this time apart from ordinary time. I sang loudly and with complete abandon some songs that I will be singing into a mic over the coming days, a very different experience—equally intense and meaningful, but by necessity more measured.<br />
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High Holy Days rehearsals have been completed. The beginning is really here.</div>
alto artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07101176587462737940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10494827.post-18375078993168986332017-09-18T14:06:00.000-04:002017-09-18T14:06:34.679-04:001012. #BlogElul 22: EndThe first thing this prompt brings to mind is that what may seen to be the end can also be the beginning. The challenge is to reframe and try to see the situation from a radically different point of view, which can yield amazing discoveries. I think this is the hardest thing to do in life, period.<br /><br /><div>
I have a dear friend who was the victim of a horrific crime. The physical aftermath of the assault altered her life completely, with challenges she never imagined having to confront. And she scaled those unexpected mountains—not without painful stumbles, but also with a great deal of love both given and received. Her life now, many years afterward, is good, full, challenging, rewarding, and truly happy. She's my hero and teacher in so many ways, the best example of finding new paths even when the end of the road is all you think you can see.</div>
alto artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07101176587462737940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10494827.post-60651436502168217582017-09-18T13:58:00.002-04:002017-09-18T13:58:55.016-04:001011. #BlogElul 21: LoveMy Hebrew name, I was always told, is Ahuva, "beloved." I love my Hebrew name even more than my somewhat archaic English one, which I'm fine with now but was an uncool burden as a kid. Ahuva begins with the same letter, aleph, as my grandfather's Hebrew name, Asher; there's no one better after whom to be named. I grew up hearing so many stories about him that sometimes he seemed to be just hiding around the corner, waiting for the right moment to jump out and say hello. No one ever uttered a bad word about Pops; he was kind, sweet, smart, and ethical, the one you'd always go to for advice and a smile. "Asher" means "happy," and in photos his face is gentle and welcoming, and (within the technological constraints of the era, when you had to sit as still as a stone) clearly, calmly joyful.<br /><br /><div>
But last week I finally had time to looked at a CD of photos and scanned documents from my father's side of the family, painstakingly compiled by a relative. Included were images of yellowed, creased pieces of paper with family records in both my parents' handwriting. I found my paternal grandparents' yahrzeits, the dates they died, which I had never before known. And on another was the record of my birth, with the date and my name written in careful caps in my mother's distinctive slanted hand. Above it was my Hebrew name, in my father's scrawl. But, wait: there were 2 names, Ahuva Ra<u>h</u>el, in both Hebrew and English. Ra<u>h</u>el? Who?</div>
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No one ever told me I had a Hebrew middle name. I stared at it, and read it over and over. I vaguely recalled my mother telling me I was almost named Rachel, and getting a little angry at the time that I was denied such a beautiful name. Maybe this was a compromise? I don't know of any past Rachels among my ancestors, but there are few existing records on either side. My father's grandmother, perhaps?</div>
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So my Hebrew name is now bigger and better than ever before, and I will be using it whenever I'm lucky enough to be called to the Torah for an aliyah. (I consulted with my rabbi, who agreed that this discovery is quite legit.) What better time of year to stumble upon such a bounty? I think it means that my task ahead is to try to understand this unexpected gift, this cryptic dispatch from my parents' souls, and live the life that Rachel z"l (zikhroná liv'rakhá, may her memory be for a blessing,) as well as my grandfather z'l, might want me to lead.</div>
alto artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07101176587462737940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10494827.post-6669028152964218132017-09-18T13:21:00.001-04:002017-09-18T13:21:47.032-04:001010. #BlogElul 20: Fill (in remembrance of 9/11)Last Monday was the 16th anniversary, which much of this country seems to have overlooked. I did, too, to some degree—there's so much else to worry about right now.<br /><br />When I think of important dates in my life, birth, graduation, and so forth, and then count back 16 years, the distance feels like another era. Things that happened even a year or two before I was born are firmly entombed in my mind's history. But 9/11, in many ways, still seems like yesterday. What helps fill the gaping chasm in my soul is to look at this installation at the<a href="http://0.0.0.9/11%20museum" target="_blank"> 9/11 Museum</a>:<div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif7bLEjdIGFKepyOW881VFxv76dNSiVlutl7H39CtvhqsVEh6EcotB0fVh9M2b7MKxsL_J_-_jEOkmVh2U6SORqPHBMEehoYhvAYkDnORiHMHDMnh4XxHLjmZzdm5WOJKs-kkq/s1600/911_Museum_Blue_Wall_Tiles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="770" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif7bLEjdIGFKepyOW881VFxv76dNSiVlutl7H39CtvhqsVEh6EcotB0fVh9M2b7MKxsL_J_-_jEOkmVh2U6SORqPHBMEehoYhvAYkDnORiHMHDMnh4XxHLjmZzdm5WOJKs-kkq/s320/911_Museum_Blue_Wall_Tiles.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>"Trying to Remember the Color of the Sky on That September Morning" by Spencer Finch</i></div>
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Somewhat reluctantly, I visited the museum two years ago at the invitation of a visiting friend who wanted her children to experience it. I'd done my best to avoid even having to go to that part of the city. Although I had to skip the graphic exhibits that were too close to my nightmares, others—photos of first responders, salvaged steel posts covered with marker scrawls of love and hope—were good to see, and reminded me that we humans can be great at times. The tour guide was calm and respectful, as if we were at a memorial service. <br /><br />And then we reached this artwork, in front of a wall behind which unidentified remains still sleep. I thought of earlier that morning, when I went running in the park and marveled at the impossible color of the sky. Keeping that blue in my mind's eye, to retrieve when blackness was all I could imagine, filled me with strength and hope throughout the day and unreal weeks and followed. It still does.</div>
alto artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07101176587462737940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10494827.post-89496577980187936462017-09-15T12:53:00.002-04:002017-09-18T13:07:56.899-04:001009. #BlogElul 19: SpeakNothing came to mind for this one, which tells me a lot. I'm not so great at speaking my mind. I have many strong opinions, and often do act on them, but am more likely to do so in private. The downside of this approach is that my actions usually don't beget more action, nor energize me to continue to act. Stoking a fire in one's belly requires a community to fan the flames. It's all well and good to volunteer quietly, but every once in awhile a loud announcement is required to demonstrate that we all have the power to prod along change. Volume is not my strong suit. I hope I can figure out a better way to raise my voice this year, and speak what needs to be said, without going too far beyond my comfort zone. (A little beyond, though, is just fine.)alto artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07101176587462737940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10494827.post-23500991758825227062017-09-15T12:48:00.000-04:002017-09-15T12:48:02.969-04:001008. #BlogElul 18: AskWhat dare I ask God for at this time of year? My heart wants so much, so much of which is too petty to voice. I need to remember that God knows this, and so my job is to prioritize and push the really important questions to the fore so that God (meaning, the part of God mirrored in me) can try to make them come true.alto artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07101176587462737940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10494827.post-31683169125520789802017-09-15T12:44:00.000-04:002017-09-15T12:44:10.129-04:00 1007. #BlogElul 17: AwakenSince I mostly work for myself, there are days when I have to sit in front of the computer for hours on end. Unless I go out of my way to make it happen, on those days I may well not see another human being. Luckily, a wonderful little coffee shop opened in the lobby of my building, practically in my living room. I stumble in almost every morning as soon as they open, along with an equally ragged crew of regulars: The prim and proper young woman who works for a non-profit, always typing intently on her laptop. The garrulous, friendly man in his 60s of unknown profession, who pays for his cappuccino from a massive wad of bills. (I don't want to know.) The German musician, whose friendship with the other German-speaking guy with the dog I watched blossom. The cable TV producer who occasionally talks about her famous boss. A few impossibly fit trainers on the way to early appointments, who sometimes stay for awhile and have deep conversations about working out. We all smile and acknowledge each other's presence, and unlike the usual custom, make room at our tiny tables. Sometimes there are animated conversations; mostly we remain in our own little worlds and fulfill early-morning obligations (like writing in this blog) over the best coffee in the city.<br /><br />I love waking up in the company of this eclectic group, who help me feel connected to all those other New Yorkers I don't really know. No matter what, we're in this together. And caffeine really helps.alto artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07101176587462737940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10494827.post-12398273941841370472017-09-15T12:32:00.001-04:002017-09-15T12:32:22.179-04:001006. #BlogElul 16: PrayI really do love to pray. As a kid, as I've written somewhere before in this blog, I never understood what the whole business was about. Adults murmured words to themselves in a strange language; then they sat down, mumbled some more, and did it all over again for a few hours. My father (and, I assumed, all men) engaged in this exercise at home before work, a tallit-draped silhouette standing by the window in my parents' Wedgwood-blue bedroom.<br /><br /><div>
Whenever I tried the mumbling, or followed along with the English thees and thous, they were just words. God didn't answer. When I needed to talk to God, I did so in my heart and soul, with no hoary paragraphs getting in the way. I concluded that praying was an ability that people acquired as they became adults, like how to pay taxes or know when the eggs were about to run out.<br /></div>
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Then I became an actual adult, and still couldn't do it. Singling in a choir felt like I was getting close, but the God I was addressing in the words of Bach and Brahms was, most of the time, a Christian one, which was very, very confusing.<br /><br />When I stumbled upon my synagogue, and learned that my own tradition also had music and beautiful poetic translations that made a great deal of sense, prayer began to work. I hope and pray that I never stop learning.</div>
alto artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07101176587462737940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10494827.post-43575073423015471392017-09-15T12:24:00.002-04:002017-09-15T12:24:38.128-04:001005. #BlogElul 15: IntendRosh Hashanah is in less than a week; the sleepy summer really is over. Last week I began teaching a design classes at a local college, tackling very many more work deadlines and meetings, and going to High Holy Days rehearsals. This is also the week when I traditionally start praying that no one sneezes on me in the subway.<br /><br /><div>
From now until Sept. 20, I intend:<br /><ul>
<li>to get a lot of sleep (or at least more than usual)</li>
<li>to remember, every single day, how lucky I am</li>
<li>to go running at least once or twice (the pool where I swim is closed for cleaning until the end of the month, which I know is necessary to do once a year, but I just wish it weren't this month)</li>
<li>to enjoy the practicing part as much as the real thing, which won't be hard</li>
<li>to be patient with myself and others, and remember that we are all flawed human beings, and are trying our best</li>
<li>to do whatever I can to fulfill these intentions during all the months after Tishrei, as well.</li>
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alto artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07101176587462737940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10494827.post-87179544982967707722017-09-15T12:20:00.000-04:002017-09-15T12:20:01.740-04:001004. #BlogElul 14: LearnThis summer, for a new creative idea that I hope will soon become an actual venture, I learned to sew. I started with a 2-hour class at a sewing school and then graduated to College of YouTube, which boasts approximately a million videos about everything from how to pin (not so simple) to how to make your own upholstery (definitely not what I'll be doing). Despite the sewing class I was forced to take in 7th grade, I had no idea of the kind of hand-eye-foot coordination involved. I'm a designer, and so haughtily assumed that picking up the skills of a craft would be a breeze.<br /><br /><div>
Nope. I guess over-confidence was good to get me started, but learning this hasn't been easy. I'm getting better, slowly but surely, but have far to go.<br /></div>
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One of my commitments for the month of Elul, and beyond: Every time I sit down at the sewing machine, I will try to remember to thank God for giving me the ability to learn, grow, be creative, and find joy in all those things.</div>
alto artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07101176587462737940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10494827.post-10628388367004121722017-09-15T12:17:00.000-04:002017-09-15T12:24:50.926-04:001003. #BlogElul 13: RememberA few years ago I was asked to sing Psalm 23 after Yizkor at Yom Kippur services. (Usually the more senior leaders or real cantorial students do this, but there were none around that particular day.) I was nervous—not because of the singing part, but the emotional. I have many people to think of at Yizkor. More of my family is no longer on this earth than are. The remembering part of Yizkor is what makes the prayer meaningful for me, and I didn't want to bypass that so I could focus completely on singing. But of course I didn't want to screw up the singing because I wasn't concentrating.<br />
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I decided to just let the moment happen, and trust that my brain and heart would find the right direction.<br />
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I had four uncles, my mother's four older brothers, who all died by the time I was 18. I have very strong memories of them all, even though two died before I was 6: Ruby, dark, quiet, and always smiling. Charlie, sandy-haired, a little louder, a font of funny malapropisms. Moe, proud businessman with a voice like Archie Bunker's, minus the politics, thank goodness ("my little goil!"). And last but not least, Ben, the oldest and quietest, who offered few words in his soft, gravelly voice, and loved me fiercely.<br />
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And for some reason, even though their existence has seemed almost mystical for many years—did they really exist, or did I dream them through my mother's stories?—I suddenly felt them next to me at the bima, two on each side. Memories became as close to flesh as possible, just at that moment when I needed someone to put a hand on my shoulder. They remained there throughout the song, making sure I wasn't alone.</div>
alto artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07101176587462737940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10494827.post-5907521138257087412017-09-15T12:10:00.002-04:002017-09-15T12:13:09.078-04:001002. #BlogElul 12: CountFor many years, whenever I didn't want to do whatever it was I had to do, I'd consult The List. Often it was an actual, written List, and sometimes just a long scrolling one in my head. I'd count the items, and figure out how crossing out some would organize my life--and by definition, solve all my problems—and also become a wonderful—logical!excuse for procrastinating. The List was mainly filled with things that needed weeding out: Boxes of old clothes. Pre-internet-era photos screaming to be in albums. Almost definitely viable art supplies dating back to the 80s. This stuff required careful examination before I could decide whether to discard it, or give it away to a worthy recipient. Then and only then would the earth balance on its axis. <br />
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I did not actually possess a whole lot of stuff. I was an average keeper of things, fairly neat. I made my bed every day. But I always yearned for the apartment version of In-box Zero.<br />
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As they say, be careful of what you ask for: you may get it. In Dec. 2015, I was gifted with bedbugs by my upper middle-class next-door neighbor in my lovely, upper middle-class building. She didn't mean to do it. OK, that's too kind: she didn't care, either way. Her only goal was to banish them, in shameful secrecy, from her own apartment, which drove them screaming through the walls to their next victims: me, and the neighbors above and below me. The bugs liked us better than her, and fought with their cold, little hearts to remain as long as possible.<br />
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Maybe one day I'll write a book about this, or a whole bunch of blog posts. Dorothy Parker's famous words (upon hearing her doorbell ring),"What fresh hell is this?", will summarize, for now, how I felt upon waking up each morning in my furniture-less bedroom in, successively, a sleeping bag surrounded by a moat of Vaseline; an Amazon rainforest-quality tent; and finally, curled up on a piano bench, wondering how my lovely middle-class life had come to such decrepitude. Finally, after three months of exhausting the talents of four exterminators and a beagle named Sophie, my building and I were bug-free<br />
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During this process, I also had to inspect every single item I owned. Everything: each piece of paper, sock, earring, pillow, book, photo. (Not the stuff in my kitchen, thank goodness; that was the sanctuary where I camped out amidst piles of clothing.) Remaining possessions were quarantined in plastic bags with horribly toxic bug strips, and then inspected again in an alley behind my building, just in case. I thought of the aria from Handel's "Messiah": "For He is like a refiner's fire." What remained, at the end, was what counted. I've now retired The List, since I no longer have anything to organize. There isn't enough left.<br />
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I still have plenty, though. More than enough. This state of essential spareness feels good. Maybe one day I'll thank God for the lesson. I'm not quite at that stage.alto artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07101176587462737940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10494827.post-5958724455259114822017-09-15T12:03:00.000-04:002017-09-15T13:05:21.729-04:001001. #BlogElul 11: TrustOnly as an adult, long after both my parents had left this world, did I understand the extent of their trust in me. When I was in college, in that long-ago era before helicopter parenting, I was embarrassed whenever they called, showed up, or did any of those keeping tabs kind of things that mortify young adults. Truth is, though, I loved it. I wanted my mother to know what happened each day; telling her seemed like the of love, as well as a necessary record-keeping part of life. I didn't share everything, of course—and so when my parents told me how proud they were, which was often, it made me feel guilty enough to not do so much of those things about which I knew they wouldn't be so proud.<br />
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In none of those calls did they tell me what decisions to make, or what to major in, even after I chose the most impractical major in the history of majors. They made it clear that whatever my decision, they were certain I was adult enough to have reached it honestly. I remember this gift of trust whenever I doubt my direction. Even when that direction turns out to be wrong, I try my best to believe in myself and understand that I got wherever I did with full intention and conviction.</div>
alto artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07101176587462737940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10494827.post-36334922782162458062017-09-03T11:12:00.000-04:002017-09-03T11:25:40.733-04:001000. #BlogElul 10: ForgiveThere's one person in my life I need to forgive. I've been trying to do this for the past 5 years; I have not yet succeeded. We grew up together, and she was like a sister to me. Throughout the years and the ordinary markers of life and loss—loved ones dying, boyfriends moving on (or vice versa), friends (or me) changing—I was certain, in the deepest part of my soul, that she'd always be there. I imagined us approaching 100, in rocking chairs on a porch somewhere in the woods (never mind that we were both city people to the core; fantasies are not rational), laughing hysterically at that thing we did at 15.<br />
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I was so invested in our permanence that I chose to ignore signs that, in any other friendship, would send me running. For years I made excuses: she's going through a rough patch; despite [fill in the blank], she really does have a big heart; as soon as she [fill in the blank], she'll start acting normal. When I brought up these issues, I'd be either dismissed or assured that everything was under control. She told me she hated emotions. We argued; I thought we made up, but wasn't sure. She talked a lot, but said nothing.<br />
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And then she got sick, and I was worried and offered to help, and she stopped talking to me. I understand the trauma of illness; I waited, and waited some more. I reached out. I learned from a mutual friend that she had instructed everyone not to tell me if she was dead or alive. I felt like I had been stabbed, and was on the way to being dead. I reached out again and again, gently, then forcefully. No response. I'd been unfriended, on Facebook and everywhere else, as if our past had simply ceased to exist.</div>
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I wallowed in anger, hurt, guilt, and grief for quite some time, but slowly came to understand the extent of her damage, and I that I'd known about it for quite some time. I just didn't want to see it. Even more slowly, I inched toward forgiveness. I'm not there yet, but every Elul brings me closer. I really want to remember how much I once loved her, and be able to recall those times with joy. Besides, the other, less pleasant emotions just take up too much energy, and I know that carrying their weight is a choice. I want to be able to take the other road, toward love and compassion.</div>
alto artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07101176587462737940noreply@blogger.com0