(Continued from here).
I attribute the difference this Shavuot to two reasons. For the first time ever, I counted the entire omer (well, I missed one day, but tried to take the rest even more seriously to make up some extra kavannah), and thanks to this little but intense book, considered the meaning and intention of each number. Like a path of footsteps across the desert, the weeks after Pesah took on shape and distance, and became tangible markers of time. The second reason: I participated in a Twitter marathon of Torah right before the holiday, posting a bunch of mini-commentaries throughout the day. (Example: "Ex 20:13, do not steal: Not just objects, but also honor, dignity, freedom, joy. We rightly own those things, too.") So I was able to warm up before the real thing. Reading the whole, live stream of #Torah as it unfolded was like listening to the din in a beit midrash—a little overwhelming, not always intelligible, but with bits of wisdom that shone through like stars in a cloudy sky.
I couldn't help but remember my strange dream of a few months ago, now proven completely baseless. Torah study via Twitter may not be deep, but it's certainly wide—our scrappy virtual yeshiva spanned the country and few time zones. All Jews stood together at Sinai and I think we rehearsed, via Twitter, the spatial equivalent of that concept. Any tool for creating community and joining like-minded souls through ideas and language can't be all bad.
Monday, June 01, 2009
Sunday, May 31, 2009
819. Back from Sinai, part 1
I had an amazing Shavuot.
This holiday is always awesome for me, in the truest sense of the world—full of awe, especially at the moment right after dawn when we gather, exhausted and depleted, in the dark sanctuary to hear the ten utterances (each, incredibly, shorter than a Twitter post) that are blueprints for everything that followed and came before. And for the past few years I've chanted the part right after this, when Moshe calms the terrified people—al tira'u, don't be afraid—and is then gutsy enough to approach the cloud of mystery for more instructions.
I think those last sections touch me even more than the thunder, lightning, and commandments parts. Stay calm. Don't worry. Between Moses on Earth, and Me everywhere else, you're covered.
In past years I've anticipated these phrases long before we read them, getting antsy and starting to count down the hours in the middle of the night during study. So when the moment arrived, the buildup was too great—the words themselves became an anticlimax. I think I spent so much energy waiting that I had none left for the moment itself. But this year was different. The teaching burrowed through my sleep-deprived loopiness; I learned, deeply and consciously. I became infinitely more tired as the night wore on but also more energized, although I didn't have the strength to act on it. I can't quite describe this sense of feeling physically diminished but also overflowing with conviction about the of the rightness of my place at that moment. I knew that I stayed awake this Shavuot not just not to wait for something, but to absorb. We studied art about Sinai; the poet Bialik; mussar; and midrashim about water and dawn. As the sun rose, my brain and soul were full, like a big helium balloon about to fly somewhere new and exciting.
(Continued here.)
This holiday is always awesome for me, in the truest sense of the world—full of awe, especially at the moment right after dawn when we gather, exhausted and depleted, in the dark sanctuary to hear the ten utterances (each, incredibly, shorter than a Twitter post) that are blueprints for everything that followed and came before. And for the past few years I've chanted the part right after this, when Moshe calms the terrified people—al tira'u, don't be afraid—and is then gutsy enough to approach the cloud of mystery for more instructions.
I think those last sections touch me even more than the thunder, lightning, and commandments parts. Stay calm. Don't worry. Between Moses on Earth, and Me everywhere else, you're covered.
In past years I've anticipated these phrases long before we read them, getting antsy and starting to count down the hours in the middle of the night during study. So when the moment arrived, the buildup was too great—the words themselves became an anticlimax. I think I spent so much energy waiting that I had none left for the moment itself. But this year was different. The teaching burrowed through my sleep-deprived loopiness; I learned, deeply and consciously. I became infinitely more tired as the night wore on but also more energized, although I didn't have the strength to act on it. I can't quite describe this sense of feeling physically diminished but also overflowing with conviction about the of the rightness of my place at that moment. I knew that I stayed awake this Shavuot not just not to wait for something, but to absorb. We studied art about Sinai; the poet Bialik; mussar; and midrashim about water and dawn. As the sun rose, my brain and soul were full, like a big helium balloon about to fly somewhere new and exciting.
(Continued here.)
Thursday, May 28, 2009
818. On my way
Having Twittered mightily about it for the past 24 hours, I'm about to see and sing Sinai for the next 12. What a strange sentence to write, but every word is true. Be back Sunday with a travelogue... wishing everyone new, sweet Torah, and lots of cheesecake at the foot of the mountain, as well.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
817. New Torah
Shavuot is almost here, and I really want some new Torah. I always do, but the world today seems to need it more than ever. Not that there was anything wrong with the old Torah, but we haven't been paying attention. Maybe we need pyrotechnics, thunder and lighting on a mountain, or some still, small voices burrowing in our ears with the insistency of a cellphone set on vibrate, to make us sit up and notice. I can only hope. I'll be staying awake all night in study, as last year, and chanting at sunrise on Friday. I gladly anticipate, if not quite enjoy, that feeling of utter depletion after too many hours awake. Sounds become louder, colors brighter; all sensory input is overwhelming. And the sanctuary in half-darkness, as I try to make sense of letters that seem to fall off the edges of their columns while my eyes attempt to focus, feels like a cocoon, safe from the city just a few steps outside.
The comfort of community and that early-morning Torah reminded me of a short piece I wrote in my writer's beit midrash class class this past winter, about the time I almost, but not quite, fell between the cars of a moving train. The prompt was "With an outstretched hand."
----
The subway, right before lunchtime, crowded with hungry people late to work or escaping early from classes. I see half a seat, but instead squeeze over to stand against the door between the cars where it says "Do Not Lean." I am a New Yorker, and free to lean wherever I'd like. I open the book, trying to cram in concepts faster and tighter than the space next to the woman where I choose not to sit. I breathe in—and am no longer leaning. I watch the ground move quickly by. How is that possible, while I'm standing? I shake my shoulders in anger—I had so much more to do! Will I be able to breathe, walk? What parts of me will be gone? I turn over, feeling the pain in my ankle and watching the door overhead as it swings open. I look up and see five, no, ten arms far above, reaching out. They pull me up. I am whole. The conductor screams, but I notice only the hands of my fellow riders.
The comfort of community and that early-morning Torah reminded me of a short piece I wrote in my writer's beit midrash class class this past winter, about the time I almost, but not quite, fell between the cars of a moving train. The prompt was "With an outstretched hand."
----
The subway, right before lunchtime, crowded with hungry people late to work or escaping early from classes. I see half a seat, but instead squeeze over to stand against the door between the cars where it says "Do Not Lean." I am a New Yorker, and free to lean wherever I'd like. I open the book, trying to cram in concepts faster and tighter than the space next to the woman where I choose not to sit. I breathe in—and am no longer leaning. I watch the ground move quickly by. How is that possible, while I'm standing? I shake my shoulders in anger—I had so much more to do! Will I be able to breathe, walk? What parts of me will be gone? I turn over, feeling the pain in my ankle and watching the door overhead as it swings open. I look up and see five, no, ten arms far above, reaching out. They pull me up. I am whole. The conductor screams, but I notice only the hands of my fellow riders.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
816. Sitting shmira, part 2
(Continued from here.)
We were far underground, and it was very quiet. No sounds of the city or traffic could reach this place. But after a few moments I was jarred alert by a deep, mechanical rumbling: as my mother used to say, the refrigerator was running. (To where?) I was glad for the noise, which distracted me and made me work harder to concentrate. Noise, then quiet, then noise again, just like the rest of life. I read the psalms a few lines at a time, stopping often to think about what they meant, and then repeated each one aloud in Hebrew.
Time passed very slowly at first. I looked at my watch—only five minutes had gone by, then ten. But after awhile the minutes ran into each other, and I lost track.
The man with the beard and siddur came in, and took the chair perpendicular to mine. He began to speak (this is allowed, I wondered?—OK, I guess it's fine). He was the shomer of the funeral home, the staff member who sat with the deceased until interment, and also performed tahara on men. He had been there all night long, and would remain after I left.
He looked me up and down and then straight in the eye, and smiled and shook his head. "I've never seen anything like this," he said "Every hour, someone else is here. Who was she? Was she very important? Does everyone in your shul have to do this? How many members do you have?"
I was surprised by his questions—everyone doesn't do this? Or maybe he was shocked because we're not an Orthodox congregation? Either way, I was very proud of us. I told him a little about her life, and our community—that we were not required sit shmira, but our rabbis taught that it was our responsibility. And we all loved her, so were honored to help. He nodded again, and plucked another volume of Talmud from the shelf. We sat in silence for another twenty minutes, and then my hour was up. I said goodbye, and thanked him; he smiled. I went through a small door and climbed up a few narrow, winding flights, and suddenly found myself on the sidewalk, blinking in bright sunlight. I felt sad and calm, as if I had just been close to a different, softer kind of life, not death.
(Please also read the Velveteen Rabbi's beautiful musings about sitting shmira here.)
We were far underground, and it was very quiet. No sounds of the city or traffic could reach this place. But after a few moments I was jarred alert by a deep, mechanical rumbling: as my mother used to say, the refrigerator was running. (To where?) I was glad for the noise, which distracted me and made me work harder to concentrate. Noise, then quiet, then noise again, just like the rest of life. I read the psalms a few lines at a time, stopping often to think about what they meant, and then repeated each one aloud in Hebrew.
Time passed very slowly at first. I looked at my watch—only five minutes had gone by, then ten. But after awhile the minutes ran into each other, and I lost track.
The man with the beard and siddur came in, and took the chair perpendicular to mine. He began to speak (this is allowed, I wondered?—OK, I guess it's fine). He was the shomer of the funeral home, the staff member who sat with the deceased until interment, and also performed tahara on men. He had been there all night long, and would remain after I left.
He looked me up and down and then straight in the eye, and smiled and shook his head. "I've never seen anything like this," he said "Every hour, someone else is here. Who was she? Was she very important? Does everyone in your shul have to do this? How many members do you have?"
I was surprised by his questions—everyone doesn't do this? Or maybe he was shocked because we're not an Orthodox congregation? Either way, I was very proud of us. I told him a little about her life, and our community—that we were not required sit shmira, but our rabbis taught that it was our responsibility. And we all loved her, so were honored to help. He nodded again, and plucked another volume of Talmud from the shelf. We sat in silence for another twenty minutes, and then my hour was up. I said goodbye, and thanked him; he smiled. I went through a small door and climbed up a few narrow, winding flights, and suddenly found myself on the sidewalk, blinking in bright sunlight. I felt sad and calm, as if I had just been close to a different, softer kind of life, not death.
(Please also read the Velveteen Rabbi's beautiful musings about sitting shmira here.)
Monday, May 25, 2009
815. Sitting shmira, part 1
Last week a beloved member of my synagogue died. She was the epitome of quiet, graceful strength, a woman for whom every day was filled with hope and promise—in her 60s, she had just finished another degree and embarked on a new career. I have always felt powerless in the face of death and this time, even more so. God does what God does, death happens; questioning won't change a thing. But this loss seemed as wrong as that of a young person, or war. Why can't God fix it? So when offered the chance to sit shmira and keep vigil in the hours before the funeral so her body and soul would never be alone during that time, I volunteered. I wanted to take some kind of action, anything, to try and right the balance of the universe.
I had never done this before. I was always too chicken, but am less frightened by the prospect of coming near a dead body than I used to be. A few weeks ago I attended a fascinating study session about the texts recited during tahara, the ritual cleansing and purification of the body prior to burial, and thought... perhaps one day. Not yet, though. Sitting shmira felt less daunting, and a bridge to the other possibility. I chose the hour right before Shabbat morning services so that I could walk to the funeral home in early morning quiet and then leave knowing I could think about my experience during prayer, and in the company of friends.
The front door of the funeral home was was open, the lobby deserted. I made my way downstairs and looked for "the room with the caskets" through which I was supposed to walk. The large, dark space was empty, though, except for a few sofas that had seen better days. Seated on one was a man with a beard and siddur. He looked up, smiled, and pointed to a brightly-lit corridor, where I saw a member of my synagogue. I nodded in thanks and made my way across to the other side.
There was nothing more than a low-ceilinged space ringed with doors, some to elevators, some worn around the handles and adorned with complicated locks, and one that looked like a bank vault upon which hung a big biohazard sign. Below that was taped a sheet of loose-leaf paper containing three names, one familiar and with an asterisk. Below that, a sign in careful, heavy print: "All remains must have head block!!!" I didn't want to think about what that meant. But I also knew the space couldn't be holy without that sign, an important, if prosaic, admonition for everyone to show respect in all possible ways.
A short row of dingy, plastic folding chairs lined the wall across from the door, just a foot or two away. The man from my synagogue, a good friend of the woman's, looked tired but calm—not upset. I was a few minutes early so sat down next to him, not sure what to do. I took out my book of Tehllim, Psalms. I rubbed my eyes, not yet awake.
"Are you OK?" he asked. Maybe he thought I was crying. I smiled. "Just fine." And with that I opened to the first page, glad I had this copy and didn't need one of the books without an English translation that spilled off a crowded shelf to my right.
The man from my synagogue left after a few minutes and I moved into his chair, across from the vault door. I looked at the woman's name, imagining her asleep inside as her family traveled, in pain, right at that minute. I didn't understand how what was about to happen could comfort them, but hoped it would. I silently asked the woman to forgive me for anything I might do that was wrong, and began to read.
(Continued here.)
I had never done this before. I was always too chicken, but am less frightened by the prospect of coming near a dead body than I used to be. A few weeks ago I attended a fascinating study session about the texts recited during tahara, the ritual cleansing and purification of the body prior to burial, and thought... perhaps one day. Not yet, though. Sitting shmira felt less daunting, and a bridge to the other possibility. I chose the hour right before Shabbat morning services so that I could walk to the funeral home in early morning quiet and then leave knowing I could think about my experience during prayer, and in the company of friends.
The front door of the funeral home was was open, the lobby deserted. I made my way downstairs and looked for "the room with the caskets" through which I was supposed to walk. The large, dark space was empty, though, except for a few sofas that had seen better days. Seated on one was a man with a beard and siddur. He looked up, smiled, and pointed to a brightly-lit corridor, where I saw a member of my synagogue. I nodded in thanks and made my way across to the other side.
There was nothing more than a low-ceilinged space ringed with doors, some to elevators, some worn around the handles and adorned with complicated locks, and one that looked like a bank vault upon which hung a big biohazard sign. Below that was taped a sheet of loose-leaf paper containing three names, one familiar and with an asterisk. Below that, a sign in careful, heavy print: "All remains must have head block!!!" I didn't want to think about what that meant. But I also knew the space couldn't be holy without that sign, an important, if prosaic, admonition for everyone to show respect in all possible ways.
A short row of dingy, plastic folding chairs lined the wall across from the door, just a foot or two away. The man from my synagogue, a good friend of the woman's, looked tired but calm—not upset. I was a few minutes early so sat down next to him, not sure what to do. I took out my book of Tehllim, Psalms. I rubbed my eyes, not yet awake.
"Are you OK?" he asked. Maybe he thought I was crying. I smiled. "Just fine." And with that I opened to the first page, glad I had this copy and didn't need one of the books without an English translation that spilled off a crowded shelf to my right.
The man from my synagogue left after a few minutes and I moved into his chair, across from the vault door. I looked at the woman's name, imagining her asleep inside as her family traveled, in pain, right at that minute. I didn't understand how what was about to happen could comfort them, but hoped it would. I silently asked the woman to forgive me for anything I might do that was wrong, and began to read.
(Continued here.)
Sunday, May 24, 2009
814. You might think
A teacher of mine once remarked that Judaism operates on the principle of "You might think." You might think, by all outward appearances, that this text (holiday, ritual, mitzvah, etc.) is saying X. But, in fact, it says Y, or even Z. (Discuss.) So you might think, since I haven't written in about a month, that I am no longer blogging. Not so. I just got a little tired, and maybe even burnt out. It happens; all is well. Meanwhile, I Twittered (er, Tweeted, whatever) and was surprised at how much time and energy was required to compose those two or three or ten pithy, pointed lines, and for a month was dissuaded from trying to write any more.
But after reading many articles like this one about the dangers and benefits of being distracted by constant media input, I decided that the flow of new ideas, even in tiny, Twitter-like bites, was a great way to whet my creative appetite. I just need to remember to stop occasionally, take a deep breath, and reboot. I think that was the purpose of this past month of 140 characters at a time. I'm still singing, chanting, writing, pondering Torah (and #torah), and all those other important things that make up life--and will be blogging about them once again very soon.
But after reading many articles like this one about the dangers and benefits of being distracted by constant media input, I decided that the flow of new ideas, even in tiny, Twitter-like bites, was a great way to whet my creative appetite. I just need to remember to stop occasionally, take a deep breath, and reboot. I think that was the purpose of this past month of 140 characters at a time. I'm still singing, chanting, writing, pondering Torah (and #torah), and all those other important things that make up life--and will be blogging about them once again very soon.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
813. Yes, same topic as yesterday
10-minute writing exercise from my last writing class of the semester, prompt: "A time when a possibility opened to you through art (or music, dance, etc.)."
---
For the past 20 years I had seen them only at funerals--six in the last seven years, in fact--but my niece M. remained a stranger. I remember her as a scowling, angry child who didn't want me to play with her toys when we went to her parents' house--my much old brother and his wife--every other Sunday afternoon.
We sat in the restaurant, M. and I and a collection of cousins, eating pasta and marveling at how happy we were to discover that we really did like each other after so many years apart.
"Were you like sisters when you were kids?" asked R., recent girlfriend of L. I froze. I had no idea how to answer in a way that a newcomer to our complicated family constellation would understand.
"Well..." I began.
"Her father and mine didn't talk for a long time," M. interrupted before I could go any further. "You know, I think it was our fault. You were the prodigy and I was the black sheep... They argued about us all the time." She looked me squarely in the eye, blaming me, without words, for her years of estrangement.
But it wasn't my fault! I wanted to scream. I was just a kid. I smiled instead. "Well, maybe. Hey, how about this dessert?" I tuned around and stabbed a piece of R.'s pie with my fork.
Finally, after we all hugged and kissed goodbye and vowed to stay in touch, I walked down the block and tried to pick up my heart. It remained, mixed with tears, on the concrete beneath my feet. I walked quicker and quicker, and the rhythm of my steps reminded me of Hallel, the prayer of praise I had heard every day that Pesah week. The tune became louder as I reached Grand Central, and I suddenly realized I was speeding down the street as light as I had been weighed down just a minute before. "Betzeit Yisrael, mi Mitzrayim," I sang to myself, "the mountains skip like lambs, the hills like rams." This song of skipping, laughing hope, and not M.'s anger, was my reality, today and any other day I wanted it to be, and nothing could change that.
---
For the past 20 years I had seen them only at funerals--six in the last seven years, in fact--but my niece M. remained a stranger. I remember her as a scowling, angry child who didn't want me to play with her toys when we went to her parents' house--my much old brother and his wife--every other Sunday afternoon.
We sat in the restaurant, M. and I and a collection of cousins, eating pasta and marveling at how happy we were to discover that we really did like each other after so many years apart.
"Were you like sisters when you were kids?" asked R., recent girlfriend of L. I froze. I had no idea how to answer in a way that a newcomer to our complicated family constellation would understand.
"Well..." I began.
"Her father and mine didn't talk for a long time," M. interrupted before I could go any further. "You know, I think it was our fault. You were the prodigy and I was the black sheep... They argued about us all the time." She looked me squarely in the eye, blaming me, without words, for her years of estrangement.
But it wasn't my fault! I wanted to scream. I was just a kid. I smiled instead. "Well, maybe. Hey, how about this dessert?" I tuned around and stabbed a piece of R.'s pie with my fork.
Finally, after we all hugged and kissed goodbye and vowed to stay in touch, I walked down the block and tried to pick up my heart. It remained, mixed with tears, on the concrete beneath my feet. I walked quicker and quicker, and the rhythm of my steps reminded me of Hallel, the prayer of praise I had heard every day that Pesah week. The tune became louder as I reached Grand Central, and I suddenly realized I was speeding down the street as light as I had been weighed down just a minute before. "Betzeit Yisrael, mi Mitzrayim," I sang to myself, "the mountains skip like lambs, the hills like rams." This song of skipping, laughing hope, and not M.'s anger, was my reality, today and any other day I wanted it to be, and nothing could change that.
Monday, April 20, 2009
812. Dinner and Omer
I'm trying to count the Omer this year. I'm doing better than in the past; I missed just one day at the beginning, and have been reading and thinking about each day's kavannah, spiritual intention. Saturday night, the beginning of day 10, was "Tiferet of Gevurah," compassion in discipline:
-----
Underlying and driving discipline must not only be love, but also compassion. Compassion is unconditional love. It is love just for the sake of love, not considering the other's position. Tiferet is a result of total selflessness in the eyes of G-d. You love for no reason; you love because you are a reflection of G-d. Does my discipline have this element of compassion?
Exercise for the day: Be compassionate to someone you have reproached.
—From meaningfullife.com
----
How is it that we sometimes hear exactly what we need to hear? Hamakom hazeh: God is in this place, and it's easy to stumble past without noticing. I read this Omer paragraph after returning from dinner with some members of my family whom, over the past few years, I had seen only at funerals. We decided to change this habit, which arose not only because the entire generation of our parents had reached ages where death is an unfortunate inevitability, but also because we had stopped trying to do anything else. We were tired, complacent, not yet willing to take responsibility for making plans that had been the jobs of others for so long.
Not everyone made it to the dinner. But one important person did, and she and I were really happy to see one another. Then we started to talk, and I felt like I was falling into an abyss. I wanted to crawl out as fast as possible, and run away. We had lived through the same events, she and I, but had come away with different conclusions—and hers, in many ways, reflected answers I had chosen not to believe. I've learned to live with and find goodness and redemption in my interpretations. Neither of us can know the truth; all the original players are gone. But I realized on Saturday night that she still carried those ghosts with her on a daily basis, whereas I've put them where they belong: not out of my life, but away, safe, in a place that lets me change, grow, and forgive.
I know she wants to revisit the source of her pain, and I do not. I'm content to know that our small group can acknowledge that we've grown and changed since childhood, and can relate to one another in new ways. That's not enough for her, which makes me angry, because with acceptance of her presence in my life comes the inevitability of future pain. This makes me angry and resentful. Enough already.
So I came home and started to cry. Then read the above kavannah, and realized that although I had every right to be frustrated, I also needed to temper my feelings with compassion. We're all at different stages of our journeys, and she has a ways to go. Being a part of it will be challenging, and I'll need to tread carefully and with gevurah, be strong and disciplined, and protect myself along the way--but always in the company of tiferet. I can do this.
-----
Underlying and driving discipline must not only be love, but also compassion. Compassion is unconditional love. It is love just for the sake of love, not considering the other's position. Tiferet is a result of total selflessness in the eyes of G-d. You love for no reason; you love because you are a reflection of G-d. Does my discipline have this element of compassion?
Exercise for the day: Be compassionate to someone you have reproached.
—From meaningfullife.com
----
How is it that we sometimes hear exactly what we need to hear? Hamakom hazeh: God is in this place, and it's easy to stumble past without noticing. I read this Omer paragraph after returning from dinner with some members of my family whom, over the past few years, I had seen only at funerals. We decided to change this habit, which arose not only because the entire generation of our parents had reached ages where death is an unfortunate inevitability, but also because we had stopped trying to do anything else. We were tired, complacent, not yet willing to take responsibility for making plans that had been the jobs of others for so long.
Not everyone made it to the dinner. But one important person did, and she and I were really happy to see one another. Then we started to talk, and I felt like I was falling into an abyss. I wanted to crawl out as fast as possible, and run away. We had lived through the same events, she and I, but had come away with different conclusions—and hers, in many ways, reflected answers I had chosen not to believe. I've learned to live with and find goodness and redemption in my interpretations. Neither of us can know the truth; all the original players are gone. But I realized on Saturday night that she still carried those ghosts with her on a daily basis, whereas I've put them where they belong: not out of my life, but away, safe, in a place that lets me change, grow, and forgive.
I know she wants to revisit the source of her pain, and I do not. I'm content to know that our small group can acknowledge that we've grown and changed since childhood, and can relate to one another in new ways. That's not enough for her, which makes me angry, because with acceptance of her presence in my life comes the inevitability of future pain. This makes me angry and resentful. Enough already.
So I came home and started to cry. Then read the above kavannah, and realized that although I had every right to be frustrated, I also needed to temper my feelings with compassion. We're all at different stages of our journeys, and she has a ways to go. Being a part of it will be challenging, and I'll need to tread carefully and with gevurah, be strong and disciplined, and protect myself along the way--but always in the company of tiferet. I can do this.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
811. Connection
In case you were wondering, yes, I'm still a little obsessed with Twitter. But more than that, fascinated by what "social media" in general--all the new, high-tech ways we are discovering, as a society, to be connected--says about the basic human need to reach out to one another.
And I did not at all agree with this New York Times article:
Let Them Eat Tweets: Why Twitter is a Trap
To summarize, author Virginia Heffernan quotes cyberbunk writer Bruce Sterling at the tech conference SXSW who pronounced, essentially, that connectivity is poverty. "Poor folks love their cellphones." By "poor" he didn't mean just the economically disadvantaged, but also the emotionally lacking--those who have to reach out to everyone in the universe for "ambient awareness" because their "private gardens" are neither safe nor secure. "The vibe of Twitter seems to have changed: a surprising number of people now seem to tweet about how much they want to be free from encumbrances like Twitter," she writes.
This may be true (and sad: we are masters of the medium and our own time, not the other way around), but to me it doesn't say that the whole concept is wrong--just that its evolution is a work in progress. I was reminded of how exhausted, both physically and socially, I felt after attending five long mornings of services this Pesah (the first and last two, and one in between where I also read Torah). I wasn't the only one, as the rabbi noted on the last day of the holiday. But by making the choice to be a part of something larger, he said, and acknowledging that we want and need more than just our own company, we become stronger. Just because it's hard to get out of bed all those mornings, shlep to shul, and repeat the same prayers over and over again doesn't mean we shouldn't do it. In a religious context, this kind of connection is an expression of God's presence--but that's just one interpretation. Just as diversity was the reason why we evolved and survived as a species, so we also need to reach beyond our private gardens and form communities in order to continue to thrive and grow. And "community" today means not just the folks in one's neighborhood or house of worship, but also those on the other other side of the city, or world, who say, do, or think something we find interesting.
Right now, social media seems to be the expression of that original murky, primordial pool in which one amoeba decided to swim over to another, beginning life as we know it. We haven't yet found the right balance between living in real time and needing to announce electronically to the whole world what we ate for lunch, but we will. The last thing we should do is reject the whole idea before we can work out exactly how to use it.
And I did not at all agree with this New York Times article:
Let Them Eat Tweets: Why Twitter is a Trap
To summarize, author Virginia Heffernan quotes cyberbunk writer Bruce Sterling at the tech conference SXSW who pronounced, essentially, that connectivity is poverty. "Poor folks love their cellphones." By "poor" he didn't mean just the economically disadvantaged, but also the emotionally lacking--those who have to reach out to everyone in the universe for "ambient awareness" because their "private gardens" are neither safe nor secure. "The vibe of Twitter seems to have changed: a surprising number of people now seem to tweet about how much they want to be free from encumbrances like Twitter," she writes.
This may be true (and sad: we are masters of the medium and our own time, not the other way around), but to me it doesn't say that the whole concept is wrong--just that its evolution is a work in progress. I was reminded of how exhausted, both physically and socially, I felt after attending five long mornings of services this Pesah (the first and last two, and one in between where I also read Torah). I wasn't the only one, as the rabbi noted on the last day of the holiday. But by making the choice to be a part of something larger, he said, and acknowledging that we want and need more than just our own company, we become stronger. Just because it's hard to get out of bed all those mornings, shlep to shul, and repeat the same prayers over and over again doesn't mean we shouldn't do it. In a religious context, this kind of connection is an expression of God's presence--but that's just one interpretation. Just as diversity was the reason why we evolved and survived as a species, so we also need to reach beyond our private gardens and form communities in order to continue to thrive and grow. And "community" today means not just the folks in one's neighborhood or house of worship, but also those on the other other side of the city, or world, who say, do, or think something we find interesting.
Right now, social media seems to be the expression of that original murky, primordial pool in which one amoeba decided to swim over to another, beginning life as we know it. We haven't yet found the right balance between living in real time and needing to announce electronically to the whole world what we ate for lunch, but we will. The last thing we should do is reject the whole idea before we can work out exactly how to use it.
810. Time
On the second day of Pesah, the rabbi reminded us about time. Slaves can't control it but we, as free people, have that opportunity. We have mastery over time; we can choose when to work, and when to stop.
Well, somewhat. I tried to remind myself of this important truth these past few weeks whenever a deadline bumped into the beginning of parts of the hag, and the need to sleep collided with a deadline. It's been a little crazy, but much fun. I hope to resume semi-regular blogging and write about the seder I led, the new family members I got to know, the Torah I chanted (5 out of 8 days). I am a free person; the choice and power to control time lies in my hands. But freedom isn't easy.
Before I head off to brunch with friends (a true urban marker of freedom, as we all take a break from Sunday cramming of various sorts), I'll start at the end. Yesterday I once again chanted The Birds, Shemini version (they make another appearance over the summer). I knew it well, but my memory balked for fractions of second when I encountered some of the longer, stranger words in unfamiliar handwriting on the scroll. But I also sensed that the yad was trying to push my eyes across the line, egging me on to reach from one syllable to the next. I didn't lose my place; I ambled, instead, from word to word. The effect, for me, was that I got to really hear and listen to each sound, almost as if those birds were making their own music just for me.
Well, somewhat. I tried to remind myself of this important truth these past few weeks whenever a deadline bumped into the beginning of parts of the hag, and the need to sleep collided with a deadline. It's been a little crazy, but much fun. I hope to resume semi-regular blogging and write about the seder I led, the new family members I got to know, the Torah I chanted (5 out of 8 days). I am a free person; the choice and power to control time lies in my hands. But freedom isn't easy.
Before I head off to brunch with friends (a true urban marker of freedom, as we all take a break from Sunday cramming of various sorts), I'll start at the end. Yesterday I once again chanted The Birds, Shemini version (they make another appearance over the summer). I knew it well, but my memory balked for fractions of second when I encountered some of the longer, stranger words in unfamiliar handwriting on the scroll. But I also sensed that the yad was trying to push my eyes across the line, egging me on to reach from one syllable to the next. I didn't lose my place; I ambled, instead, from word to word. The effect, for me, was that I got to really hear and listen to each sound, almost as if those birds were making their own music just for me.
Thursday, April 09, 2009
809. Hag Sameah!
Just coming up for air after two weeks of work, cleaning, cooking (believe it or not--a relatively rare event for me), and a magnificent seder last night, about which I hope to write more very soon. For now, as I get ready to go to a second seder where all I have to do is eat, whew, here's the (sort of) story of (not really) Passover, the one we didn't tell last night, courtesy What I Like About Jew (no longer performing, but their brilliance lives on) and Sean Altman:
Monday, March 30, 2009
808. Mountaintop
And here's another one of those 10-minute exercises from a few weeks ago. Topic: "Covered by God."
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I was a little nervous—it had been over a year. That afternoon I practiced words I already knew in my sleep, just in case a bolt of lightning happened to strike right before services and made me forget them. But once I walked into the little room behind the bima and hugged the musicians "Shabbat Shalom," I knew they would surround me like a pile of pillows, absorbing my prayers and carrying them gently throughout the sanctuary just as they had on Yom Kippur. I heard my notes weave in and out of theirs as the rabbi's voice traded with mine and we held each other aloft. The sound seemed to be clasped in the hands of the congregation and then handed carefully back to us to make new notes and prayers. I forgot who I was.
The key was a little too high but I climbed up just the same, sure someone would catch me. I took a deep breath and reached the highest note, "Hagibor," the Mighty--and wanted to dance on top of the mountain, but came down, wistfully, as a sweet 12-year-old made kiddush while I rested on the sidelines from my journey.
--------
I was a little nervous—it had been over a year. That afternoon I practiced words I already knew in my sleep, just in case a bolt of lightning happened to strike right before services and made me forget them. But once I walked into the little room behind the bima and hugged the musicians "Shabbat Shalom," I knew they would surround me like a pile of pillows, absorbing my prayers and carrying them gently throughout the sanctuary just as they had on Yom Kippur. I heard my notes weave in and out of theirs as the rabbi's voice traded with mine and we held each other aloft. The sound seemed to be clasped in the hands of the congregation and then handed carefully back to us to make new notes and prayers. I forgot who I was.
The key was a little too high but I climbed up just the same, sure someone would catch me. I took a deep breath and reached the highest note, "Hagibor," the Mighty--and wanted to dance on top of the mountain, but came down, wistfully, as a sweet 12-year-old made kiddush while I rested on the sidelines from my journey.
807. Beckoning
Another crazy week. I've been working around the clock 24/6--but not complaining, because many of my friends aren't working at all. I'll have free time soon (probably more than I want).
Meanwhile, here's the 10-minute writing exercise from class last week, topic: "What is God's call, and what is the response?"
------
We belonged to a moribund synagogue in a stagnant neighborhood, where the sermon was the same every Yom Kippur: "Please make your Kol Nidre donation so we can pay the mortgage." The shul president pronounced it "muggage," and I waited every year in hopes that he would get enough money and wouldn't need to say that word. One year the man behind us, in his late 80s and one of the youngest members of the congregation, died of a heart attack during the Amidah. I dreaded the holidays more and more each year, their unpleasantness increasing over time at the the same rate as that of the relationship in which I was enmeshed.
One year they introduced a new cantor. His last name seemed to be "from Israel." He wore a funny cantor's hat, and I was not impressed. For a few hours I listened to him sing with usual cantor bombast although, unlike the previous hazzan, it was loud enough to keep me awake.
Then we got to the Hatzi Kaddish, a prayer of pause in between parts of the service. He sang a short melody just once, no repeats, but in that moment all his ice and artifice disappeared. His voice became soft and lyrical. It was one of the prettiest, gentlest melodies I'd ever heard. The service continued, but I kept hearing it in my head over and over again above the other mumbled words. I heard it in my sleep that night and again the next morning, to the surprise of my boyfriend--never before had I gotten to services so early. But I didn't know when he would sing it again, and didn't want to miss a second.
The service ended, and the relationship soon after. I joined a new synagogue with amazing melodies of its own. But that first one always echoed, beckoning to me to continue to listen carefully until I heard it again.
Meanwhile, here's the 10-minute writing exercise from class last week, topic: "What is God's call, and what is the response?"
------
We belonged to a moribund synagogue in a stagnant neighborhood, where the sermon was the same every Yom Kippur: "Please make your Kol Nidre donation so we can pay the mortgage." The shul president pronounced it "muggage," and I waited every year in hopes that he would get enough money and wouldn't need to say that word. One year the man behind us, in his late 80s and one of the youngest members of the congregation, died of a heart attack during the Amidah. I dreaded the holidays more and more each year, their unpleasantness increasing over time at the the same rate as that of the relationship in which I was enmeshed.
One year they introduced a new cantor. His last name seemed to be "from Israel." He wore a funny cantor's hat, and I was not impressed. For a few hours I listened to him sing with usual cantor bombast although, unlike the previous hazzan, it was loud enough to keep me awake.
Then we got to the Hatzi Kaddish, a prayer of pause in between parts of the service. He sang a short melody just once, no repeats, but in that moment all his ice and artifice disappeared. His voice became soft and lyrical. It was one of the prettiest, gentlest melodies I'd ever heard. The service continued, but I kept hearing it in my head over and over again above the other mumbled words. I heard it in my sleep that night and again the next morning, to the surprise of my boyfriend--never before had I gotten to services so early. But I didn't know when he would sing it again, and didn't want to miss a second.
The service ended, and the relationship soon after. I joined a new synagogue with amazing melodies of its own. But that first one always echoed, beckoning to me to continue to listen carefully until I heard it again.
Monday, March 23, 2009
806. What not to say to an Arab
HT to the excellent Memoir of a Jewminicana. (Sometimes, I think, Jews assume we're the only ones on the receiving end of similarly stupid comments--so not true.)
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