Elul High Holy Day preparation, this time around, is a bit different for me than in the past. Although I'm the least seasoned leader of the bunch, it's still the sixth year I've led Shaharit (amazing)—none of us need very many rehearsals. One of the service locations is different than last year—but we sang there a long time ago, me from the first row of the balcony in the choir as we hovered above the rabbis on the stage directly below. As Kohelet observed, there's nothing new under the sun. My first rehearsal is the week before Rosh Hashanah. Until then, unlike those summers when I began humming Uvekhen in July, getting ready is up to me and me alone.
This is the way it should be. I think I've relied too much on circumstance to get in an Elul frame of mind; motivation should come from within. And this year, lacking preamble, it's either be ready or be shocked by the sudden arrival of the holiday, and miss the whole point. So I finally got my act together and bought the 60 Days book, by the same wonderful rabbi who wrote the daily Omer counting manual that helped me feel like a slightly different person at the end of those 49 days for the first time ever this year. 60 Days suggests little bits of kavannah, spiritual intention, and exercises and ideas for action for each day of this month and the event-filled one to follow—not a lot of work, but just enough to get a person thinking. (Already I feel guilty, not a bad start.) I may be singing the same melody as in 5768, but want to make sure it's also a shir hadasha, a new song, as befits the birthday of the world.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
834. Marathon
Elul, to date, has been a marathon. Since last I wrote, I chanted Torah on Monday and again on Shabbat (featuring a whole new set of mistakes not revealed on Mon., but it went well just the same). The mother of a good friend passed away on Tues., and so I stood out in the 95 degree heat for many hours on Thurs. at the funeral. (Not complaining. Life and death do not pay attention to the availability of shade.) This morning, led minyan for the first time ever since everyone on the long list of usual leaders, plus a large number of rabbis, were all on vacation. Singing in front of a thousand people while standing next to a rabbi is a lot easier than leading the entire service for seventeen all by myself, complete with those short ending and beginning parts, which is why I never did it before. (And I'm still unable to read anything quickly in Hebrew without practicing for a bit, even after all these years, but have learned how to fake as needed.) The cantor, as always, judged my abilities better than I could. After a few moments of initial panic at the request, I realized he wouldn't have asked me if I were comfortable leading unless he knew I would be--and, after a couple of hours of cramming and singing along with his ethereal voice on a CD, I was. And I had fun, too.
Came home, collapsed on the sofa, did some work, and then led Minha at the shiva minyan for my friend's mother, Now I have a Sinai-sized mountain of work to finish over the next two days, but will sleep for a couple of hours first--and no doubt dream of many different kinds of nusah, just as I did last night.
Came home, collapsed on the sofa, did some work, and then led Minha at the shiva minyan for my friend's mother, Now I have a Sinai-sized mountain of work to finish over the next two days, but will sleep for a couple of hours first--and no doubt dream of many different kinds of nusah, just as I did last night.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
833. Hello, world
It's been awhile, I know.
My brain was on vacation. I didn't realize this was the case until until a few weeks passed and I found myself doing things I'd put off for years--cleaning out closets (I'm pretty organized, but it was time to throw out those cancelled checks to the gas co. from 1985), writing long-overdue thank-you notes, thinking about creating art the old-fashioned, way, with my hands and paint. I love to write, but it's OK to take a rest every once in awhile.
Then yesterday I chanted the same whopping, tongue, tongue-twisty section as three years ago, but without the added drama of the cantor stopping me before the maftir to tell me he had given me the wrong verses... no interruptions this time around. (A little unintended excitement, however, that only two of us knew about: the wife of my long-ago ex- came back for a visit and was given an aliyah when I read. We eyed each other in wary, cordial shock, and I didn't miss a beat.) Parashat Re'eh always feels like the last hurrah, summer almost over and the next thing about to happen. The d'var Torah was about preparing to prepare--Elul, the month that ushers in the High Holy Days, is half a week away--and it occurred to me that writing would be a good way to get ready for whatever that next thing may be. Something is always coming, it's true; the new year is just a marker in that stream. But a good and useful one.
I also got some news on Friday that started my blood circulating again. I will in fact be helping to lead for the holidays, three services instead of four, because we're at two venues instead of three, but no complaints. The prospect of a morning of Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur without standing at the bima and singing Shaharit, after five years of doing so, had gotten me very depressed and holding my breath the same way I did for most of 2006 after losing my voice (feh, p'tooie, evil eye, begone) the year before. (And, yes, I now feel kind of silly for worrying.) The schedule is a feat of genius, spreadsheet gymnastics of fairness and sensitivity, all the laypeople who led in years past still doing the parts we love. I won't be leading Minha on Yom Kippur, at times the most spiritually intense part of the day for me--but I will gladly trade that for the experience of singing HaMelekh in a massive marvel of Gothic architecture while trying not to notice an 80-foot stained-glass window of Jesus and Mary. I was last in this place seven years ago, sitting in the front row of the balcony and marveling at the hazzanit's beautiful, honest voice, wondering what it would feel like to be in her shoes. Now I'll find out.
I think I'm finally ready to start to be ready.
My brain was on vacation. I didn't realize this was the case until until a few weeks passed and I found myself doing things I'd put off for years--cleaning out closets (I'm pretty organized, but it was time to throw out those cancelled checks to the gas co. from 1985), writing long-overdue thank-you notes, thinking about creating art the old-fashioned, way, with my hands and paint. I love to write, but it's OK to take a rest every once in awhile.
Then yesterday I chanted the same whopping, tongue, tongue-twisty section as three years ago, but without the added drama of the cantor stopping me before the maftir to tell me he had given me the wrong verses... no interruptions this time around. (A little unintended excitement, however, that only two of us knew about: the wife of my long-ago ex- came back for a visit and was given an aliyah when I read. We eyed each other in wary, cordial shock, and I didn't miss a beat.) Parashat Re'eh always feels like the last hurrah, summer almost over and the next thing about to happen. The d'var Torah was about preparing to prepare--Elul, the month that ushers in the High Holy Days, is half a week away--and it occurred to me that writing would be a good way to get ready for whatever that next thing may be. Something is always coming, it's true; the new year is just a marker in that stream. But a good and useful one.
I also got some news on Friday that started my blood circulating again. I will in fact be helping to lead for the holidays, three services instead of four, because we're at two venues instead of three, but no complaints. The prospect of a morning of Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur without standing at the bima and singing Shaharit, after five years of doing so, had gotten me very depressed and holding my breath the same way I did for most of 2006 after losing my voice (feh, p'tooie, evil eye, begone) the year before. (And, yes, I now feel kind of silly for worrying.) The schedule is a feat of genius, spreadsheet gymnastics of fairness and sensitivity, all the laypeople who led in years past still doing the parts we love. I won't be leading Minha on Yom Kippur, at times the most spiritually intense part of the day for me--but I will gladly trade that for the experience of singing HaMelekh in a massive marvel of Gothic architecture while trying not to notice an 80-foot stained-glass window of Jesus and Mary. I was last in this place seven years ago, sitting in the front row of the balcony and marveling at the hazzanit's beautiful, honest voice, wondering what it would feel like to be in her shoes. Now I'll find out.
I think I'm finally ready to start to be ready.
Friday, July 10, 2009
832. Rhythm
I'm back inside after a morning of looking at what I posted earlier. I wonder how it would feel to live a life always surrounded by that kind of quiet. There were birds and motorboats in the distance, and an occasional car on the road behind the boathouse, but mostly I heard water—crests of silver-blue bumping into each other as they swayed like little mounds of windswept jelly, and the occasional splash of a gull. One lit on the railing that stretched the length of the short pier and struck a few poses (beak preening back; one leg planted and the other who knows where; and finally, head under wing) until she fell asleep in perfect balance on the thin wooden bar. I walked to the near edge of the pier, a respectful distance from the gull, and practiced my Torah portion for next Shabbat. It's a long one I first chanted three years ago; although I don't consciously remember it, the words and tune are still embedded somewhere in the recesses of a few brain cells, and came quickly once I began to review. I stood on the pier and sang quietly for about an hour, filling my lungs with air drenched in sunlight as the sounds of water kept rhythm.
831. What I'm looking at right now
I spent the morning on the deck of this boathouse right across the road from the bed and breakfast where we're staying.
Thursday, July 09, 2009
830. Greyhound bus
Here's a post I began exactly one year ago, written on the way back home from a weekend visiting the same friend with whom I'm hanging out this week on Cape Cod:
-----
Written on the Greyhound bus coming back home from Boston:
There are many strange people in the world, and I think a disproportionate number of them travel by bus. (Maybe I'm one of that number, and the person in the row behind me is writing a post for her own blog.) In any case, I need to chronicle the woman in the front row, window seat, whose reflection I can see starting at the highway. Every few minutes she lifts up a big, heavy, professional-looking camera and takes a picture of the passing blur of a grassy median. Or maybe she's shooting the yellow-grey clouds above a landscape of trees as messy and sparse as the balding head of the man in the seat to my right. Or perhaps she's doing a study of the bus driver's elbow. I wonder what her seatmate is thinking, a dark-haired woman who stares resolutely forward. I would ask, if I were that seatmate. Some mysteries must be solved.
On the trip to Boston a few days ago, my neighbor was a very large woman who would occasionally cough as if trying to subdue a hurricane or uproot a primeval forest of phlegm. She spent much of the ride on the phone complaining to an unknown listener about her son or boyfriend, I couldn't figure out which, who never washed his clothes. I paid little attention to the volume of her voice, since all my concentration was focused on trying to huddle into a small ball and get as far away as possible from the germs, but the bus driver eventually turned around to announce that neither he nor those in any other row found the conversation interesting. She apologized, and for the rest of the trip I heard only whispered details of the state of the dirty underwear. But we did exchange a few pleasant words. She was visiting Boston for the first time in 20 years, to see her nephew (I hope he wasn't the one with poor hygiene). And right as we pulled out of Port Authority to leave New York, and the driver announced that our first stop was Newton, she turned to me and asked:
"Is that a state?"
Did she actually say, "Is it in a different state?" and maybe I mis-heard? Or perhaps she was from a foreign country and, despite perfecting an American accent, never had time to learn all fifty names?
"No, it's a town," I answered. We both then stared into space for the next hour, and I realized that I had only a vague idea of where we were going, as well. All stretches of highway look much the same between New York and Boston. Things change so fast in this world, I wouldn't put it past someone to slip in a new state when I wasn't looking and hadn't yet picked up the day's New York Times.
-----
Written on the Greyhound bus coming back home from Boston:
There are many strange people in the world, and I think a disproportionate number of them travel by bus. (Maybe I'm one of that number, and the person in the row behind me is writing a post for her own blog.) In any case, I need to chronicle the woman in the front row, window seat, whose reflection I can see starting at the highway. Every few minutes she lifts up a big, heavy, professional-looking camera and takes a picture of the passing blur of a grassy median. Or maybe she's shooting the yellow-grey clouds above a landscape of trees as messy and sparse as the balding head of the man in the seat to my right. Or perhaps she's doing a study of the bus driver's elbow. I wonder what her seatmate is thinking, a dark-haired woman who stares resolutely forward. I would ask, if I were that seatmate. Some mysteries must be solved.
On the trip to Boston a few days ago, my neighbor was a very large woman who would occasionally cough as if trying to subdue a hurricane or uproot a primeval forest of phlegm. She spent much of the ride on the phone complaining to an unknown listener about her son or boyfriend, I couldn't figure out which, who never washed his clothes. I paid little attention to the volume of her voice, since all my concentration was focused on trying to huddle into a small ball and get as far away as possible from the germs, but the bus driver eventually turned around to announce that neither he nor those in any other row found the conversation interesting. She apologized, and for the rest of the trip I heard only whispered details of the state of the dirty underwear. But we did exchange a few pleasant words. She was visiting Boston for the first time in 20 years, to see her nephew (I hope he wasn't the one with poor hygiene). And right as we pulled out of Port Authority to leave New York, and the driver announced that our first stop was Newton, she turned to me and asked:
"Is that a state?"
Did she actually say, "Is it in a different state?" and maybe I mis-heard? Or perhaps she was from a foreign country and, despite perfecting an American accent, never had time to learn all fifty names?
"No, it's a town," I answered. We both then stared into space for the next hour, and I realized that I had only a vague idea of where we were going, as well. All stretches of highway look much the same between New York and Boston. Things change so fast in this world, I wouldn't put it past someone to slip in a new state when I wasn't looking and hadn't yet picked up the day's New York Times.
829. Engaging
It's so nice to do nothing. Although I'm not exactly thinking of nothing (the curse of wireless, unlike the days when I went to summer singing workshops and was completely without phone, TV, or newspapers for a week), sitting with my laptop on a chaise lounge in a Victorian-style living room is about a stress-free as one can get indoors, without meditating. (It's a little too chilly for the beach, unfortunately.) If I had lots of money, I'd come up to Marsh Cottage for a few weeks and write a book. I don't know what about, but it almost doesn't matter; this lovely space is made for that purpose.
I'm looking at my notes about blog posts to write when I have time, which is now, and see that they're not very cheery. (Hoping this vacation will help change that.) One reads:
"My cousin wanting to pray all the time—is that really Jewish?"
I have a dear ba'al teshuva cousin who recently posted on Facebook that she doesn't follow the news or popular culture and chooses instead to spend her free time (what little that remains after raising three small children) praying or reading psalms. I would never think of asking if she believes this is what God wants—but will post the rhetorical question here, for myself to ponder while watching ocean birds fly and smooth stones shimmer under the mirror surface of a pond. I don't think God can "want" as we define the word, but do believe our role in the universe is to act, and not just wish, ponder or praise. I love prayer, but life needs balance—just like the symmetry of creation, day and night, good and evil, work and vacation. Our lives are mostly spent at the midpoint of those poles but sometimes, if we're lucky, they tip in the good direction and we get to experience the most beautiful parts of what God created. I believe the likelihood of those moments is in proportion to how much we engage with the world. I understand that my cousin does this in many different ways as part of her amazing role as a parent—but teaching her children, by example, about the world beyond their immediate community is just as important, and as Jewish.
I'm looking at my notes about blog posts to write when I have time, which is now, and see that they're not very cheery. (Hoping this vacation will help change that.) One reads:
"My cousin wanting to pray all the time—is that really Jewish?"
I have a dear ba'al teshuva cousin who recently posted on Facebook that she doesn't follow the news or popular culture and chooses instead to spend her free time (what little that remains after raising three small children) praying or reading psalms. I would never think of asking if she believes this is what God wants—but will post the rhetorical question here, for myself to ponder while watching ocean birds fly and smooth stones shimmer under the mirror surface of a pond. I don't think God can "want" as we define the word, but do believe our role in the universe is to act, and not just wish, ponder or praise. I love prayer, but life needs balance—just like the symmetry of creation, day and night, good and evil, work and vacation. Our lives are mostly spent at the midpoint of those poles but sometimes, if we're lucky, they tip in the good direction and we get to experience the most beautiful parts of what God created. I believe the likelihood of those moments is in proportion to how much we engage with the world. I understand that my cousin does this in many different ways as part of her amazing role as a parent—but teaching her children, by example, about the world beyond their immediate community is just as important, and as Jewish.
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
828. Sand
On the bay right outside my window, the breeze rolls small, silver-crested waves in and out as dark green oak tree leaves dance above. I'm fulfilling a tiny, lifelong dream this week: to see a body of water as soon as I open my eyes in the morning (There's a busy road in between me and the bay, but that only makes it more real.) The shapes of the grey waves make me think of the bumps and folds of my brain, now feeling smoother and much less turbulent than usual.
Yesterday we went on a tour of the Cape Cod sand dunes, which I never before knew existed. A dense forest covered this spot long ago, well before the European settlers arrived. The topsoil eroded over the years, leaving the fine sand that formed after the Ice Age; when tides threatened to wash away the sand, the Army Corps of Engineers came in and seeded the entire shoreline with grass to prevent further erosion. But the dunes continue to ebb and flow, and our guide wasn't convinced that the grass was a good idea—since it is, in a way, as forced as any other less organic, man-made intervention that prevents nature from taking its course.
In a big Chevy van, eight of us tumbled at alarmingly high speed over an unexpected, undulating landscape somewhere between a desert, the moon, and mountains of Shangri-La. I felt like I was on a different planet. It was more fun than a roller coaster, and we could have used Dramamine. We landed at the top of a big hill and saw a sliver of ocean surrounded by wide, rising swaths of tan and green. A grey wooden house that looked like an Edward Gorey drawing sat under distant pastel sky, one of the many artist shacks that pass on to new owners only after death or lottery.
I stuck my toes in the sand and said a Sheheheyanu as I looked out to the sea and tried to imagine what was on the other side.
Yesterday we went on a tour of the Cape Cod sand dunes, which I never before knew existed. A dense forest covered this spot long ago, well before the European settlers arrived. The topsoil eroded over the years, leaving the fine sand that formed after the Ice Age; when tides threatened to wash away the sand, the Army Corps of Engineers came in and seeded the entire shoreline with grass to prevent further erosion. But the dunes continue to ebb and flow, and our guide wasn't convinced that the grass was a good idea—since it is, in a way, as forced as any other less organic, man-made intervention that prevents nature from taking its course.
In a big Chevy van, eight of us tumbled at alarmingly high speed over an unexpected, undulating landscape somewhere between a desert, the moon, and mountains of Shangri-La. I felt like I was on a different planet. It was more fun than a roller coaster, and we could have used Dramamine. We landed at the top of a big hill and saw a sliver of ocean surrounded by wide, rising swaths of tan and green. A grey wooden house that looked like an Edward Gorey drawing sat under distant pastel sky, one of the many artist shacks that pass on to new owners only after death or lottery.
I stuck my toes in the sand and said a Sheheheyanu as I looked out to the sea and tried to imagine what was on the other side.
Monday, July 06, 2009
827. Vacation
I'm on vacation. It's been way, way too long.
My plans through Friday: nothing. Well, not exactly; my dear old childhood friend and I will visit a few beaches, ride bikes, take a tour of a sand dune, watch a baseball game, go to an art gallery or two, eat pancakes (we're staying at a B&B), eat fish (we're on Cape Cod; I don't love most fish, but it seems appropriate), and try our best to recapture that long-ago art of hanging out without agenda or deadline. I used to be so good at this as a kid; I've lost the knack, but my body and brain are already starting to slow down. It's nice. I am a little unnerved at being so connected to reality, though; there's wireless at the B&B (a better connection than at home, in fact) and I've already posted photos to Facebook and Twitter, and gotten comments back. Most other vacations were spent having no idea what was going in in the world, let alone announcing my every move to a vast network of mildly curious acquaintances. (Today's photo uploads were just a novel experiment; the rest of my vacation will be shared the old-fashioned way, foisted on polite friends one evening after dinner.)
There's a bay across the road, and in daylight I can see the blue-grey water from my window as it shimmers and ripples in the breeze. At night, right now, just the big, fat moon dripping a reflection over low waves.
My plans through Friday: nothing. Well, not exactly; my dear old childhood friend and I will visit a few beaches, ride bikes, take a tour of a sand dune, watch a baseball game, go to an art gallery or two, eat pancakes (we're staying at a B&B), eat fish (we're on Cape Cod; I don't love most fish, but it seems appropriate), and try our best to recapture that long-ago art of hanging out without agenda or deadline. I used to be so good at this as a kid; I've lost the knack, but my body and brain are already starting to slow down. It's nice. I am a little unnerved at being so connected to reality, though; there's wireless at the B&B (a better connection than at home, in fact) and I've already posted photos to Facebook and Twitter, and gotten comments back. Most other vacations were spent having no idea what was going in in the world, let alone announcing my every move to a vast network of mildly curious acquaintances. (Today's photo uploads were just a novel experiment; the rest of my vacation will be shared the old-fashioned way, foisted on polite friends one evening after dinner.)
There's a bay across the road, and in daylight I can see the blue-grey water from my window as it shimmers and ripples in the breeze. At night, right now, just the big, fat moon dripping a reflection over low waves.
Thursday, July 02, 2009
826. How to be a better singer, oy
I've collected a bunch of interesting links over the past month, including this food for thought:
Birds Under Stress Become Better Singers
An excerpt:
"A hostile environment and inconsistent weather may explain why some birds become better singers than others, and also likely have superior learning and mating skills, a study said Thursday."
Since I do believe in evolution as well as God, I have to wonder: does it work that way for people, too? Do I sound better now than a few years ago because of all the worrying? I think I fit the profile (although my mating skills could use some help). We already know that that suffering, kvetching, and losing sleep makes us great doctors and lawyers--but how cool if someone could prove that it gives us better voices, too.
Birds Under Stress Become Better Singers
An excerpt:
"A hostile environment and inconsistent weather may explain why some birds become better singers than others, and also likely have superior learning and mating skills, a study said Thursday."
Since I do believe in evolution as well as God, I have to wonder: does it work that way for people, too? Do I sound better now than a few years ago because of all the worrying? I think I fit the profile (although my mating skills could use some help). We already know that that suffering, kvetching, and losing sleep makes us great doctors and lawyers--but how cool if someone could prove that it gives us better voices, too.
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
825. A reason
I've had many great excuses for infrequent blogging over the past few months, but have thus far avoided--have been afraid--to voice the one that's most significant. I learned awhile back that because of the general state of economic near-catastrophe here in NYC, my synagogue will be having fewer High Holy Day services this year. Since I was asked to help out in 2004, we've held simultaneous sets of Shaharit, Musaf, and all those others, on each day of the holiday. As all two or three of you longtime readers might recall, the only reason I was asked to lead in the first place was because we lost our biggest venue, a church that sat 2,500, and had to divide everyone over three locations instead. (The Upper W. Side is light on venues that seat 4,000. Our actual synagogue fits about 800.)
With the addition of services for kids and families, the three locations turned into four. Two of those were Big, Fancy, Expensive theaters. It was a monumental production. In the years when my fellow congregants had jobs, we were doing very well with donations, thank you, and could easily cover the rental costs.
Everything changed this September. Half my friends are now unemployed. The few rich people I know are much less so. My synagogue--and most others in NYC--are in emergency mode, trying to figure out how to cut costs drastically while still proving the same the services and support. We also collectively realized, along with the rest of the American people, that we let money fly a little too freely. We are now, to frame it in a positive way, back to basics.
In a less positive way, it means that we can't afford all those theaters. We approached the original big old church and said pretty please, and they decided to be neighborly. So once again I will have the unique pleasure of praying the Amidah while staring at an artfully masked, 50-foot-tall stained-glass portrait of Jesus and Mary.
It's a beautiful church, and in the company of my community I can pray anywhere. That's not the depressing part. What makes me sad is that we'll need fewer service leaders for the fewer services. No one has spoken to me yet, but I have the least seniority of our small crew of hazzanim and hazzanit. I know that everything at my synagogue is done fairly--no favors. So I'm bracing myself for any outcome from not being needed at all, to leading one service, to leading a few. I strongly doubt I'll get to sing at every Shaharit and Minha on Yom Kippur, as in past years.
But I've become accustomed to, maybe even addicted to, the intense energy of giving and receiving from the bima on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. I can hardly remember any other way to spend those days; even before leading I sang in the choir for four years, where I had to do the same sort of thing. Now I'll need re-learn another way of praying, of sharing myself without acting as lens and focus. I've done so on a million Shabbatot, of course--but it won't be Shabbat. My only other experience of the holidays is before I came to my synagogue, when they were just a reason to sit and stare at the back of someone's head before going back home for lunch.
I always knew my role as a hazzanit would end--I'm just a volunteer, and that's how it goes. But I thought there would be a better, or at least more dramatic reason; this one is so unfair. As a citizen, I guess I'm as much to blame as anyone for helping perpetuate the economic and political mistakes that brought us to this strange season. Whatever. It is what it is, and sometime in the next month or two I'll find out my new role. I am trying to see this turn of events as a sorely needed learning experience, since I'm very bad at accepting change. And what's the point of angsting over something that's out of my control? I'm also great at over-dramatizing; I need to keep in mind that the holidays are just a small slice of my life, which remains so rich and filled with other marvels that I have no reason to blow these days out of proportion.
Finally--I need to remember who I am today, and where I was five years ago. From this experience of leading services I've learned more than I can begin to absorb about myself, life, Judaism, God--even writing. Cosi revaya, my cup runneth over.
But the not knowing has made me not want to write about singing, or even sing, at times. So I force myself to do both, and always feel better. It still makes me sad. I want everything to be the way it used to be.
With the addition of services for kids and families, the three locations turned into four. Two of those were Big, Fancy, Expensive theaters. It was a monumental production. In the years when my fellow congregants had jobs, we were doing very well with donations, thank you, and could easily cover the rental costs.
Everything changed this September. Half my friends are now unemployed. The few rich people I know are much less so. My synagogue--and most others in NYC--are in emergency mode, trying to figure out how to cut costs drastically while still proving the same the services and support. We also collectively realized, along with the rest of the American people, that we let money fly a little too freely. We are now, to frame it in a positive way, back to basics.
In a less positive way, it means that we can't afford all those theaters. We approached the original big old church and said pretty please, and they decided to be neighborly. So once again I will have the unique pleasure of praying the Amidah while staring at an artfully masked, 50-foot-tall stained-glass portrait of Jesus and Mary.
It's a beautiful church, and in the company of my community I can pray anywhere. That's not the depressing part. What makes me sad is that we'll need fewer service leaders for the fewer services. No one has spoken to me yet, but I have the least seniority of our small crew of hazzanim and hazzanit. I know that everything at my synagogue is done fairly--no favors. So I'm bracing myself for any outcome from not being needed at all, to leading one service, to leading a few. I strongly doubt I'll get to sing at every Shaharit and Minha on Yom Kippur, as in past years.
But I've become accustomed to, maybe even addicted to, the intense energy of giving and receiving from the bima on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. I can hardly remember any other way to spend those days; even before leading I sang in the choir for four years, where I had to do the same sort of thing. Now I'll need re-learn another way of praying, of sharing myself without acting as lens and focus. I've done so on a million Shabbatot, of course--but it won't be Shabbat. My only other experience of the holidays is before I came to my synagogue, when they were just a reason to sit and stare at the back of someone's head before going back home for lunch.
I always knew my role as a hazzanit would end--I'm just a volunteer, and that's how it goes. But I thought there would be a better, or at least more dramatic reason; this one is so unfair. As a citizen, I guess I'm as much to blame as anyone for helping perpetuate the economic and political mistakes that brought us to this strange season. Whatever. It is what it is, and sometime in the next month or two I'll find out my new role. I am trying to see this turn of events as a sorely needed learning experience, since I'm very bad at accepting change. And what's the point of angsting over something that's out of my control? I'm also great at over-dramatizing; I need to keep in mind that the holidays are just a small slice of my life, which remains so rich and filled with other marvels that I have no reason to blow these days out of proportion.
Finally--I need to remember who I am today, and where I was five years ago. From this experience of leading services I've learned more than I can begin to absorb about myself, life, Judaism, God--even writing. Cosi revaya, my cup runneth over.
But the not knowing has made me not want to write about singing, or even sing, at times. So I force myself to do both, and always feel better. It still makes me sad. I want everything to be the way it used to be.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
824. Michael Jackson and a perfect Shabbat
Since I'm on a music reminiscing roll, I need to mention Michael Jackson. I was surprised at how devastated I was by his death. His music was the soundtrack to the some of the most purely joyous parts of my college years, the Glee Club post-concert parties where we'd shift effortlessly from Brahms to Kool and the Gang's "Celebration" and, best of all, "Don't Stop 'til You Get Enough." We played those two songs over and over again until I wondered if the Officer in Charge of Parties owned any other records. I didn't care, though; there were no sounds more gleeful, especially when accompanied by strong blue punch (in the days before Connecticut's drinking age was raised to 21), or better captured those few moments when you're young and your only job is to try to stay a kid while growing up, and have fun. Michel Jackson and I--and, incidentally, a real live boy or two--danced for hours and hours at those parties and then slept in the next day, dragging ourselves to the library by noon to the echoes of that swirling violin intro.
Another memory is his pre-teen face on the cover of of a teenybopper magazine that was pinned to the wall of my friend Cindy's bedroom. She was convinced that Donny Osmond was the best. You're nuts, I insisted; The Jackson 5 are far cuter. We argued back and forth for an hour. My musical tastes were still unformed back then, somewhere between the "Für Elise" I had to practice over and over and whatever played on 77 WABC. I hadn't yet learned the difference between "I'll Be There" and Sonny and Cher--but once I did, a few years later, I knew my initial, clueless assessment was correct.
I wish he could have had a real childhood, so he could have grown into a real adult. The combination of genius and screwed-up parents seems too much for any human to bear. I'm also hitting myself on the forehead in frustration, having only discovered over the last few days those amazing YouTube clips of dancing that look like flying, a language of movement he concocted from the steps of many predecessors and made into something totally new. Even with the sound turned off, I want to leap up from the couch in response and pretend I'm still 19.
@holyweblog on Twitter shared this telling article from Beliefnet, written during the period where he was tight with Rabbi Shmuley Boteach, in which Michael Jackson talks about his idea of paradise, a world where he could be ordinary:
My Childhood, My Sabbath, My Freedom
An excerpt:
"When people see the television appearances I made when I was a little boy--8 or 9 years old and just starting off my lifelong music career--they see a little boy with a big smile. They assume that this little boy is smiling because he is joyous, that he is singing his heart out because he is happy, and that he is dancing with an energy that never quits because he is carefree.
But while singing and dancing were, and undoubtedly remain, some of my greatest joys, at that time what I wanted more than anything else were the two things that make childhood the most wondrous years of life, namely, playtime and a feeling of freedom. The public at large has yet to really understand the pressures of childhood celebrity, which, while exciting, always exacts a very heavy price."
Imaging what his singing and dancing might have been if not bound by these other chains. It's almost too beautiful to contemplate. But he really did understand Shabbat, a time when we're freed from the weights of earth and can simply be who we are, the purest essence of what God created.
Another memory is his pre-teen face on the cover of of a teenybopper magazine that was pinned to the wall of my friend Cindy's bedroom. She was convinced that Donny Osmond was the best. You're nuts, I insisted; The Jackson 5 are far cuter. We argued back and forth for an hour. My musical tastes were still unformed back then, somewhere between the "Für Elise" I had to practice over and over and whatever played on 77 WABC. I hadn't yet learned the difference between "I'll Be There" and Sonny and Cher--but once I did, a few years later, I knew my initial, clueless assessment was correct.
I wish he could have had a real childhood, so he could have grown into a real adult. The combination of genius and screwed-up parents seems too much for any human to bear. I'm also hitting myself on the forehead in frustration, having only discovered over the last few days those amazing YouTube clips of dancing that look like flying, a language of movement he concocted from the steps of many predecessors and made into something totally new. Even with the sound turned off, I want to leap up from the couch in response and pretend I'm still 19.
@holyweblog on Twitter shared this telling article from Beliefnet, written during the period where he was tight with Rabbi Shmuley Boteach, in which Michael Jackson talks about his idea of paradise, a world where he could be ordinary:
My Childhood, My Sabbath, My Freedom
An excerpt:
"When people see the television appearances I made when I was a little boy--8 or 9 years old and just starting off my lifelong music career--they see a little boy with a big smile. They assume that this little boy is smiling because he is joyous, that he is singing his heart out because he is happy, and that he is dancing with an energy that never quits because he is carefree.
But while singing and dancing were, and undoubtedly remain, some of my greatest joys, at that time what I wanted more than anything else were the two things that make childhood the most wondrous years of life, namely, playtime and a feeling of freedom. The public at large has yet to really understand the pressures of childhood celebrity, which, while exciting, always exacts a very heavy price."
Imaging what his singing and dancing might have been if not bound by these other chains. It's almost too beautiful to contemplate. But he really did understand Shabbat, a time when we're freed from the weights of earth and can simply be who we are, the purest essence of what God created.
Monday, June 29, 2009
823. Gospel music, part 2
(Continued from here.)
My class has stayed in touch, mostly because of the miracle of Facebook, and a few months ago someone got the idea of renting the old building up in Harlem and putting on a reunion concert of the gospel choir, who had their very own solo on the FAME soundtrack. An old friend emailed--come sing with us! But I was an art student, I answered; I'd feel like an interloper. You're still one of us, she wrote back. I waffled until the very last rehearsal, as did others. Maybe we all feared an anticlimactic coda to those great old memories. For me, it was simply about being chicken; I'd never before sung in a gospel choir.
But the rehearsal--conducted by the guy in our class who wrote that solo on the soundtrack when just a teenager--was electrifying, and felt not all that different from the music I sing at my synagogue. It sounded different, of course, and was much, much louder, at a volume geared to wake up anyone who might be on the fence about this God business, but that was the least of it. As at my services, we swayed back and forth, clapped, and were thrilled to proclaim praises in the company of people we didn't know very well, but loved just the same. I was astonished by the speed with which everyone (except me) picked up the music. Nothing was written down. The conductor sang a line, complete with complex rhythm and tricky tonal leaps; we repeated it once or twice; then we combined with the other parts and made glorious harmony. Our skills ranged from professional musicians to those who hadn't sung at all in a decade or two--but just about everyone (except me) had been immersed in this particular lexicon all their lives.
I muddled through the rehearsal, exhilarated to discover a whole new language of sound. At the concert I hid in the back row, which came in handy when we performed two completely unfamiliar songs--but I didn't panic, followed the conductor's carefully mouthed words, swayed when everyone else did, and had a blast. The concert started an hour late ("gospel time," someone said, which seems to be just like "Jewish time") and lasted until 1AM, when stage and audience joined in on, you guessed it, the theme song from FAME. It was corny and perfect. For one night we returned to a world that didn't really exist all those years ago, either, one in which friendships extending beyond lines of color, lifestyle, income, etc. were the rule rather than the exception. The rest of society is a little closer to where were were back then, but still has a lot to learn.
My class has stayed in touch, mostly because of the miracle of Facebook, and a few months ago someone got the idea of renting the old building up in Harlem and putting on a reunion concert of the gospel choir, who had their very own solo on the FAME soundtrack. An old friend emailed--come sing with us! But I was an art student, I answered; I'd feel like an interloper. You're still one of us, she wrote back. I waffled until the very last rehearsal, as did others. Maybe we all feared an anticlimactic coda to those great old memories. For me, it was simply about being chicken; I'd never before sung in a gospel choir.
But the rehearsal--conducted by the guy in our class who wrote that solo on the soundtrack when just a teenager--was electrifying, and felt not all that different from the music I sing at my synagogue. It sounded different, of course, and was much, much louder, at a volume geared to wake up anyone who might be on the fence about this God business, but that was the least of it. As at my services, we swayed back and forth, clapped, and were thrilled to proclaim praises in the company of people we didn't know very well, but loved just the same. I was astonished by the speed with which everyone (except me) picked up the music. Nothing was written down. The conductor sang a line, complete with complex rhythm and tricky tonal leaps; we repeated it once or twice; then we combined with the other parts and made glorious harmony. Our skills ranged from professional musicians to those who hadn't sung at all in a decade or two--but just about everyone (except me) had been immersed in this particular lexicon all their lives.
I muddled through the rehearsal, exhilarated to discover a whole new language of sound. At the concert I hid in the back row, which came in handy when we performed two completely unfamiliar songs--but I didn't panic, followed the conductor's carefully mouthed words, swayed when everyone else did, and had a blast. The concert started an hour late ("gospel time," someone said, which seems to be just like "Jewish time") and lasted until 1AM, when stage and audience joined in on, you guessed it, the theme song from FAME. It was corny and perfect. For one night we returned to a world that didn't really exist all those years ago, either, one in which friendships extending beyond lines of color, lifestyle, income, etc. were the rule rather than the exception. The rest of society is a little closer to where were were back then, but still has a lot to learn.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
822. Gospel music, part 1
(She doesn't write for weeks and then comes back with a post called "gospel music"??)
Don't worry, I didn't do anything major in the interim like switch religions. But I did have an incredible non-synagogue singing experience last week. I went to an amazing high school and we just had an, ahem, significantly-numbered reunion. The school--including its other half, about which the movie FAME was made--got a new name and building a few years after I left. FAME was shot the summer after I graduated and the last scene, the grand musical extravaganza, featured all my friends in the chorus and orchestra--but not me, since I was an art student and so wasn't allowed to sing at school, or audition to be an extra.
The movie, despite being loosely based on all of us, is definitely a work of fiction. I recall no wild lunchtime dancing in the street and doubt this ever happened at Performing Arts, either. (Cars in New York in the late 70s would have most likely run down crazy kids who tried to leap over traffic in the middle of Broadway.) But we loved the movie just the same. It captured the feeling of being immersed in the arts in a completely accepting environment, where it was cool if you liked Bach or Shakespeare, or was an artsy nerd who dressed in spike heels, vintage 50s skirts, and a bright green band jacket (like I did). We admired one another for our abilities rather than the amount of money we could afford on shoes. There were no bullies. Music and Art was the bridge that helped me grow from a child shy about using my talents into a young adult thirsty to develop them all, whether or not they were in style according to the rest of the world. It changed me from a follower into an individual, into myself.
( Continued here.)
Don't worry, I didn't do anything major in the interim like switch religions. But I did have an incredible non-synagogue singing experience last week. I went to an amazing high school and we just had an, ahem, significantly-numbered reunion. The school--including its other half, about which the movie FAME was made--got a new name and building a few years after I left. FAME was shot the summer after I graduated and the last scene, the grand musical extravaganza, featured all my friends in the chorus and orchestra--but not me, since I was an art student and so wasn't allowed to sing at school, or audition to be an extra.
The movie, despite being loosely based on all of us, is definitely a work of fiction. I recall no wild lunchtime dancing in the street and doubt this ever happened at Performing Arts, either. (Cars in New York in the late 70s would have most likely run down crazy kids who tried to leap over traffic in the middle of Broadway.) But we loved the movie just the same. It captured the feeling of being immersed in the arts in a completely accepting environment, where it was cool if you liked Bach or Shakespeare, or was an artsy nerd who dressed in spike heels, vintage 50s skirts, and a bright green band jacket (like I did). We admired one another for our abilities rather than the amount of money we could afford on shoes. There were no bullies. Music and Art was the bridge that helped me grow from a child shy about using my talents into a young adult thirsty to develop them all, whether or not they were in style according to the rest of the world. It changed me from a follower into an individual, into myself.
( Continued here.)
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
821. Fresh air
A few days ago I started a long post about why I hated Hebrew School, but ended up depressing myself so much that I never finished. I'll get to it one day. For now, instead, I'll write about my weekend, which was full of all the enrichment, expansion, and joy that Hebrew School never even came close to.
I was at my synagogue's community retreat, once an annual event but on a break for the past few years. I'm so glad it's back. There was no agenda other than to be with one another in a beautiful, green camp by a big lake, where a few fat ducks and many tiny caterpillars joined us on the grass for prayer, study, and barbecue. We were a mix of families, non-parent adults, and lots of little kids—populations whose paths don't often cross in our community. I loved watching the next few generations put on a little play about the whiny Israelites of Parashat Beha'alotekha, more fun even than the make-your-own sundaes we had after dinner on Saturday night. (Ice cream, hot dogs—no, not together, don't worry—foods I rarely touch these days in an attempt to be healthier. But my understanding is that they have no calories when eaten on picnic tables next to a field of daffodils on Shabbat.) I even did some Israeli dancing, a pastime I've avoided most of my life because I tend to trip over my own feet, and all the Israeli dancing teachers I've ever met were really dorky. But this weekend's teacher was cool.
The best part, though, was where we had Shabbat morning services—outdoors on a little wooden platform surrounded by air so fresh that you could practically see all the mosquitoes' tiny chests expanding in deep, nourishing breaths (right before they bit me, that is. But I'm not complaining.) I chanted Torah and listened as the trop flew up into the trees, probably returning to its origins. I had an aliyah for those of us who, like the Nazirites of last week's portion, had taken a vow—but who hadn't quite been able to make it work. So I tried to rededicate myself, with witnesses of leaves, sky, and friends, to many old and new promises.
I was at my synagogue's community retreat, once an annual event but on a break for the past few years. I'm so glad it's back. There was no agenda other than to be with one another in a beautiful, green camp by a big lake, where a few fat ducks and many tiny caterpillars joined us on the grass for prayer, study, and barbecue. We were a mix of families, non-parent adults, and lots of little kids—populations whose paths don't often cross in our community. I loved watching the next few generations put on a little play about the whiny Israelites of Parashat Beha'alotekha, more fun even than the make-your-own sundaes we had after dinner on Saturday night. (Ice cream, hot dogs—no, not together, don't worry—foods I rarely touch these days in an attempt to be healthier. But my understanding is that they have no calories when eaten on picnic tables next to a field of daffodils on Shabbat.) I even did some Israeli dancing, a pastime I've avoided most of my life because I tend to trip over my own feet, and all the Israeli dancing teachers I've ever met were really dorky. But this weekend's teacher was cool.
The best part, though, was where we had Shabbat morning services—outdoors on a little wooden platform surrounded by air so fresh that you could practically see all the mosquitoes' tiny chests expanding in deep, nourishing breaths (right before they bit me, that is. But I'm not complaining.) I chanted Torah and listened as the trop flew up into the trees, probably returning to its origins. I had an aliyah for those of us who, like the Nazirites of last week's portion, had taken a vow—but who hadn't quite been able to make it work. So I tried to rededicate myself, with witnesses of leaves, sky, and friends, to many old and new promises.
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