Today was grey and cloudy, and I felt like I was suffocating while sitting in my apartment doing important apartment-type things. It seemed like a good time to go to the gym, but that was indoors as well. So I went running instead, in the rain. It had been quite awhile since I ran outside (although I've logged many miles on the elliptical machine, safe from the elements).
The bare trees against the sky above Riverside Park looked like black lace; it wasn't too cold at all. I chose Beethoven to blast through my earphones, the Appassionata, and when I reached Grant's Tomb suddenly understood that this music was about struggling with a decision—calm, at first, then frenzied, a tug of war that threatens to be melodramatic but is actually restrained and even mathematically precise, especially under Daniel Barenboim's fingers. It's obsessive music, but not so self-involved that joy and passion don't break through like the sudden breath you draw upon seeing the sun emerge from behind a big cloud. The sun didn't come out at all during my run, but the silver light of rain was just as bright as it bounced off puddles on Riverside Drive. I don't think a decision is reached at the end of the sonata, but rather acceptance of an unresolved world where beauty and turbulence vie for space, and finally agree to coexist.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
888. Gospel
So I was at a meeting with a bunch of people last week at the office of my synagogue. Suddenly one of the rabbis walked in.
"Are any of you going to be at services this Shabbat?" he asked.
I raised my hand, and looked around. No one else had their hands up.
"Are you sure?" asked the rabbi. "Are you reading [Torah]?"
"Yes," I answered, "so I'll definitely be there."
"Great," he said. "I have something for you to do. Come find me later." And then he left.
Very mysterious. We all shrugged and continued the meeting, and afterwards I knocked on his office door.
"Come in, come in. This is very important, and you can't tell anyone." And he proceeded to fill me in on the top-secret plan, in honor of Martin Luther King, Jr. Day: a 40-voice gospel choir from a Harlem church was going to end the service with spirituals. (Kind of like in "Keeping the Faith," but without the Hebrew lyrics.) Not a soul would know about this until the choir actually got up in their seats and started singing—and my job (by virtue of being in the wrong place at the wrong time), should I choose to accept it, was to help sneak them in.
Not accepting it wasn't an option—I'm not good at saying no to rabbis. Besides, it was cool. He gave me the instructions, and then gave them to me again later—and again and again, many more times over the next couple of days. He was a bit nervous, which I could understand. Unfortunately, he made me nervous, too. I didn't even want to imagine the guilt level that might result after screwing up a rabbi-imposed task. One unexpected side benefit, however, was that I didn't get at all nervous during my Torah reading about boils and cattle disease, which seemed easy compared to what I had to do immediately after grabbing my yad from the scroll.
(Although it wasn't as immediate as planned. The next reader came up to the bima when I finished, and she wasn't wearing a tallit. The gabbai, aghast and not wanting to halt the proceedings, turned to me and said, "Give her your tallit." Another situation where I didn't really have a choice; I gave it to her, but pulled F. over to the side and explained that I needed to leave for awhile, and asked him to get it back for me. When I asked him for it later, he told me he sold it. Very funny.)
The choir arrived and tiptoed into the back of sanctuary, and I told the director when they were supposed to stand and make their way to the front—and the coreography was perfect. "Trust in the Lord!" they sang, running up to the bima. I suddenly understood the meaning of the phrase "raise the roof"—I half expected the honest, passionate, heartfelt force of their sound to blow it into the heavens. The kids from the children's service crowded around the bima as well, the littlest ones dancing to some of the loudest gospel ever. The couple at the end of the row, guests of the Bat Mitzvah girl, turned to me in complete confusion. "Who are these people?" I was tempted to say, "Oh, we do this every week," but was too busy holding back tears. There was really no difference between their music and ours aside from the way it sounded. Chanting Torah, singing Hallel, singing a spiritual—it's all for the exact same purpose.
"Are any of you going to be at services this Shabbat?" he asked.
I raised my hand, and looked around. No one else had their hands up.
"Are you sure?" asked the rabbi. "Are you reading [Torah]?"
"Yes," I answered, "so I'll definitely be there."
"Great," he said. "I have something for you to do. Come find me later." And then he left.
Very mysterious. We all shrugged and continued the meeting, and afterwards I knocked on his office door.
"Come in, come in. This is very important, and you can't tell anyone." And he proceeded to fill me in on the top-secret plan, in honor of Martin Luther King, Jr. Day: a 40-voice gospel choir from a Harlem church was going to end the service with spirituals. (Kind of like in "Keeping the Faith," but without the Hebrew lyrics.) Not a soul would know about this until the choir actually got up in their seats and started singing—and my job (by virtue of being in the wrong place at the wrong time), should I choose to accept it, was to help sneak them in.
Not accepting it wasn't an option—I'm not good at saying no to rabbis. Besides, it was cool. He gave me the instructions, and then gave them to me again later—and again and again, many more times over the next couple of days. He was a bit nervous, which I could understand. Unfortunately, he made me nervous, too. I didn't even want to imagine the guilt level that might result after screwing up a rabbi-imposed task. One unexpected side benefit, however, was that I didn't get at all nervous during my Torah reading about boils and cattle disease, which seemed easy compared to what I had to do immediately after grabbing my yad from the scroll.
(Although it wasn't as immediate as planned. The next reader came up to the bima when I finished, and she wasn't wearing a tallit. The gabbai, aghast and not wanting to halt the proceedings, turned to me and said, "Give her your tallit." Another situation where I didn't really have a choice; I gave it to her, but pulled F. over to the side and explained that I needed to leave for awhile, and asked him to get it back for me. When I asked him for it later, he told me he sold it. Very funny.)
The choir arrived and tiptoed into the back of sanctuary, and I told the director when they were supposed to stand and make their way to the front—and the coreography was perfect. "Trust in the Lord!" they sang, running up to the bima. I suddenly understood the meaning of the phrase "raise the roof"—I half expected the honest, passionate, heartfelt force of their sound to blow it into the heavens. The kids from the children's service crowded around the bima as well, the littlest ones dancing to some of the loudest gospel ever. The couple at the end of the row, guests of the Bat Mitzvah girl, turned to me in complete confusion. "Who are these people?" I was tempted to say, "Oh, we do this every week," but was too busy holding back tears. There was really no difference between their music and ours aside from the way it sounded. Chanting Torah, singing Hallel, singing a spiritual—it's all for the exact same purpose.
887. Dolls
When I was a little girl, I had a collection of dolls—the small kind meant to be displayed on a shelf—given to me by friends and family who went to more interesting places on vacation than we did. On an old black Smith-Corona, the one my mother used on weekends to type letters for my uncle's whiskey importing business, I made careful labels in all caps listing countries of origin to paste in thin, white strips on the dolls' dresses. There was "MEXICO," woven from straw and holding holding a basket of multi-colored papier-mâché, and "CHINA," two delicate porcelain figurines in a tiny case. And many more—but my favorite was "HAITI," made of coal-black fabric packed tightly with cotton. Her face was capped with a brightly patterned scarf, and she wore little gold hoop earrings. She didn't have a mouth, but her painted-on eyes looked like they were smiling. "Haiti" was more approachable than the other dolls, who were clearly for display; we had tea parties, and I perched her on the side of my dresser at night for company. Even before I knew where Haiti was, who lived there, or what language they spoke, I felt as if I had seen those smiling eyes for real. She was just a doll from an unknown friend of the family who thought to pick up a gift in an airport shop, but she made a child feel connected to a place and people that would otherwise be foreign, unknown, too distant for concern.
That feeling never left. To write that the devastation in Haiti is impossible to comprehend, unbearable to hear about a thousand times a day on the news, is just to repeat what everyone has said. There aren't any more words left, just action. Please give money. I wish I had more money to give. I do have an unlimited supply of prayers; I don't know if they make a difference, but they can't hurt. I hate that human beings are engineered so that other peoples' tragedies remind us to be grateful to be alive, safe, with food in our bellies, but we are and I am, more so than ever.
That feeling never left. To write that the devastation in Haiti is impossible to comprehend, unbearable to hear about a thousand times a day on the news, is just to repeat what everyone has said. There aren't any more words left, just action. Please give money. I wish I had more money to give. I do have an unlimited supply of prayers; I don't know if they make a difference, but they can't hurt. I hate that human beings are engineered so that other peoples' tragedies remind us to be grateful to be alive, safe, with food in our bellies, but we are and I am, more so than ever.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
886. Nonsense
I stumbled across this interesting article last week:
How Nonsense Sharpens the Intellect
Exposure to uncanny, meaningless experiences strengthens our ability to recognize patterns and improves our ability to learn, suggest researchers:
"When those patterns break down — as when a hiker stumbles across an easy chair sitting deep in the woods, as if dropped from the sky — the brain gropes for something, anything that makes sense. It may retreat to a familiar ritual, like checking equipment. But it may also turn its attention outward, the researchers argue, and notice, say, a pattern in animal tracks that was previously hidden. The urge to find a coherent pattern makes it more likely that the brain will find one."
The article recounts experiments where subjects read a weird story by Kafka and, immediately afterwards, were tested on their ability to find patterns in meaningless strings of letters. The Kafka group did much better than a control group who didn't hear the story.
I read this and immediately thought about my experience chanting Torah. When I first learned eight years ago, it essentially was nonsense; I understood very little. The words, attached to random melodies, were just sounds. But I soon discovered that the best time to practice was first thing in the morning; it was better than coffee at waking me up and getting me ready to face the work day. The creative puzzles of business and design always seemed a little easier, more fluid, when I tackled them right after chanting. Was it just that singing helped more oxygen than usual get to my brain? Who knows—but it makes sense that the task of navigating through gibberish would be like running your grey matter on a treadmill to gain strength and agility.
The best part of this article, however, was the correction note at the very end, dated a month after the story was published:
"The Mind column on Oct. 6, about the ability of nonsense to sharpen the mind, reported findings from a flawed statistical analysis. ... . After a reader questioned the analysis, the researchers repeated the experiment and found no significant difference between the groups. (A similar experiment reported in the same paper, in the journal Psychological Science, did hold up to re-analysis.)"
So the theory many not hold water at all. The article itself may be nonsense; maybe we're all part of the experiment to see if it's true ...
How Nonsense Sharpens the Intellect
Exposure to uncanny, meaningless experiences strengthens our ability to recognize patterns and improves our ability to learn, suggest researchers:
"When those patterns break down — as when a hiker stumbles across an easy chair sitting deep in the woods, as if dropped from the sky — the brain gropes for something, anything that makes sense. It may retreat to a familiar ritual, like checking equipment. But it may also turn its attention outward, the researchers argue, and notice, say, a pattern in animal tracks that was previously hidden. The urge to find a coherent pattern makes it more likely that the brain will find one."
The article recounts experiments where subjects read a weird story by Kafka and, immediately afterwards, were tested on their ability to find patterns in meaningless strings of letters. The Kafka group did much better than a control group who didn't hear the story.
I read this and immediately thought about my experience chanting Torah. When I first learned eight years ago, it essentially was nonsense; I understood very little. The words, attached to random melodies, were just sounds. But I soon discovered that the best time to practice was first thing in the morning; it was better than coffee at waking me up and getting me ready to face the work day. The creative puzzles of business and design always seemed a little easier, more fluid, when I tackled them right after chanting. Was it just that singing helped more oxygen than usual get to my brain? Who knows—but it makes sense that the task of navigating through gibberish would be like running your grey matter on a treadmill to gain strength and agility.
The best part of this article, however, was the correction note at the very end, dated a month after the story was published:
"The Mind column on Oct. 6, about the ability of nonsense to sharpen the mind, reported findings from a flawed statistical analysis. ... . After a reader questioned the analysis, the researchers repeated the experiment and found no significant difference between the groups. (A similar experiment reported in the same paper, in the journal Psychological Science, did hold up to re-analysis.)"
So the theory many not hold water at all. The article itself may be nonsense; maybe we're all part of the experiment to see if it's true ...
885. Talking
Here's a link I've been meaning to post since last September:
Streisand's Fine Instrument and Classic Instinct
I'm not a huge Streisand fan, but appreciate that she's an astonishingly gifted musician. I am in awe of anyone who can admit this:
"Did Ms. Streisand, like an opera singer, think incessantly about breathing deeply from the diaphragm, about using the diaphragm as a natural support for her voice?
'Never,' she said, sitting up straight on a couch in the living room of a friend’s Upper West Side apartment, looking elegant in a dark dress and lacy shoulder wrap. Everything about singing came to her naturally, she explained, adding, a little sheepishly, that she hardly ever does vocal exercises. "
But I was struck by these lines in particular:
"During the lesson [referring to her early voice training--just one lesson] Ms. Streisand got as far as the first line: “When a bee lies sleepin’ in the palm of your hand.” The teacher stopped her. “She said, ‘No, no, you have to say bee-e-e-,’ ” Ms. Streisand recounted, prolonging the word and singing it with a rounded, quasi-operatic tone. “I thought that was unnatural so I told her, ‘No, I have to sing the word as an extension of my speaking.’ ”
I think that that sums up all of singing, whether opera, rock, or chanting Torah, in a nutshell. It's musical talking. The sounds are not just there to be pretty, or to create an entertaining performance, but to say something to whomever is listening. The cantor gave me the same advice when I was first learning how to lead services. Like so many other ideas that seem obvious (i.e., do unto others, etc.) it's remarkably difficult to achieve, and takes a genius like Streisand to make it seem easy.
Streisand's Fine Instrument and Classic Instinct
I'm not a huge Streisand fan, but appreciate that she's an astonishingly gifted musician. I am in awe of anyone who can admit this:
"Did Ms. Streisand, like an opera singer, think incessantly about breathing deeply from the diaphragm, about using the diaphragm as a natural support for her voice?
'Never,' she said, sitting up straight on a couch in the living room of a friend’s Upper West Side apartment, looking elegant in a dark dress and lacy shoulder wrap. Everything about singing came to her naturally, she explained, adding, a little sheepishly, that she hardly ever does vocal exercises. "
But I was struck by these lines in particular:
"During the lesson [referring to her early voice training--just one lesson] Ms. Streisand got as far as the first line: “When a bee lies sleepin’ in the palm of your hand.” The teacher stopped her. “She said, ‘No, no, you have to say bee-e-e-,’ ” Ms. Streisand recounted, prolonging the word and singing it with a rounded, quasi-operatic tone. “I thought that was unnatural so I told her, ‘No, I have to sing the word as an extension of my speaking.’ ”
I think that that sums up all of singing, whether opera, rock, or chanting Torah, in a nutshell. It's musical talking. The sounds are not just there to be pretty, or to create an entertaining performance, but to say something to whomever is listening. The cantor gave me the same advice when I was first learning how to lead services. Like so many other ideas that seem obvious (i.e., do unto others, etc.) it's remarkably difficult to achieve, and takes a genius like Streisand to make it seem easy.
884. Procrastination
The six verses I chanted at services last Shabbat (Parashat Shemot) included these mysterious ones:
4:24 At a night encampment on the way, the Lord encountered him and sought to kill him. 25 So Zipporah took a flint and cut off her son's foreskin, and touched his legs with it, saying, "You are truly a bridegroom of blood to me!" 26 And when He let him alone, she added, "A bridegroom of blood because of the circumcision."
This odd interlude takes place right after Moshe begins the trip to Egypt in response to God's order:
4:22 Then you shall say to Pharaoh, 'Thus says the Lord: Israel is My first-born son. 23 I have said to you, "Let My son go, that he may worship Me," yet you refuse to let him go. Now I will slay your first-born son.'"
Why interrupt the story to talk about circumcision? wondered the rabbi at services. Who is the "him" that God tries to kill (Moshe? the son?)? And what in the world is a "bridegroom of blood"? I was very grateful for this d'var Torah, because I had no idea what I was talking about when I chanted. The rabbi admitted that no one else really knew (our humash, Etz Hayim, says that it might be a fragment of an ancient myth whose meaning is lost) but offered a few suggestions. You'd think that Moshe and family would be in a hurry to begin the trip; why, then, did they stop to rest? Drawing a parallel between the blood of brit milah and the ritual of blood on doorposts that saved the lives of the Israelite firstborn, maybe it's commentary on the need to take action--keep going, don't make camp. (Along these lines, Aviva Zornberg noted the similarity between the word for night encampment [malon] and circumcision [milah].) The story of the Jewish people, over and over again, is one of motion and response.
I'm losing a lot in the retelling (and I was busy studying what I was about to chant as the rabbi spoke, so paid less attention that I should have), but the message I came away with was as in Lekh Lekha: Don't wait. Do something. Last week I was thinking about the contemplative orders of other religions, like monks and nuns. Judaism has nothing like that, and Jewish meditation (at least in my limited experience) even frames itself as a way to create focus to help repair the world--to take better action.
So why did God create beings who so love to procrastinate? (I guess God really does have a sense of humor.)
4:24 At a night encampment on the way, the Lord encountered him and sought to kill him. 25 So Zipporah took a flint and cut off her son's foreskin, and touched his legs with it, saying, "You are truly a bridegroom of blood to me!" 26 And when He let him alone, she added, "A bridegroom of blood because of the circumcision."
This odd interlude takes place right after Moshe begins the trip to Egypt in response to God's order:
4:22 Then you shall say to Pharaoh, 'Thus says the Lord: Israel is My first-born son. 23 I have said to you, "Let My son go, that he may worship Me," yet you refuse to let him go. Now I will slay your first-born son.'"
Why interrupt the story to talk about circumcision? wondered the rabbi at services. Who is the "him" that God tries to kill (Moshe? the son?)? And what in the world is a "bridegroom of blood"? I was very grateful for this d'var Torah, because I had no idea what I was talking about when I chanted. The rabbi admitted that no one else really knew (our humash, Etz Hayim, says that it might be a fragment of an ancient myth whose meaning is lost) but offered a few suggestions. You'd think that Moshe and family would be in a hurry to begin the trip; why, then, did they stop to rest? Drawing a parallel between the blood of brit milah and the ritual of blood on doorposts that saved the lives of the Israelite firstborn, maybe it's commentary on the need to take action--keep going, don't make camp. (Along these lines, Aviva Zornberg noted the similarity between the word for night encampment [malon] and circumcision [milah].) The story of the Jewish people, over and over again, is one of motion and response.
I'm losing a lot in the retelling (and I was busy studying what I was about to chant as the rabbi spoke, so paid less attention that I should have), but the message I came away with was as in Lekh Lekha: Don't wait. Do something. Last week I was thinking about the contemplative orders of other religions, like monks and nuns. Judaism has nothing like that, and Jewish meditation (at least in my limited experience) even frames itself as a way to create focus to help repair the world--to take better action.
So why did God create beings who so love to procrastinate? (I guess God really does have a sense of humor.)
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
883. Upside-down cattle disease
One of the reasons I love chanting Torah is because it allows me to write sentences like this:
Today I woke up early and spent an hour singing about boils and cattle disease.
(This coming Shabbat I'm reading part of Parashat Va-era. Of course, these are nowhere near the most graphic verses in the Torah. The worst I've personally intoned were a few years ago in Parashat Metzora.)
(About that dever: I've always thought of it as "upside-down cattle disease," because the illustration in the haggadah I used a child was of a cow on its back with its feet sticking up in the air.)
I can't believe we're nearing Sinai once again; Bereshit and the creation of the universe doesn't seem far enough away. Every year the cycle of Jewish holidays feels more and more like a roller coaster, a slow ride up after Simhat Torah that reaches a pinnacle on Shavuot, when we receive the Torah as free people and enjoy the scenery as we make our way back down.
It's always a little odd, though, that we read this portion a few months before Pesah. Maybe the ancient rabbis scheduled it to allow us ample time to ponder our fate and get in the mood for matzah. Whatever the reason, I get to to sing—not just once, but twice this Shabbat—"Let My people go that they may worship Me!"
Today I woke up early and spent an hour singing about boils and cattle disease.
(This coming Shabbat I'm reading part of Parashat Va-era. Of course, these are nowhere near the most graphic verses in the Torah. The worst I've personally intoned were a few years ago in Parashat Metzora.)
(About that dever: I've always thought of it as "upside-down cattle disease," because the illustration in the haggadah I used a child was of a cow on its back with its feet sticking up in the air.)
I can't believe we're nearing Sinai once again; Bereshit and the creation of the universe doesn't seem far enough away. Every year the cycle of Jewish holidays feels more and more like a roller coaster, a slow ride up after Simhat Torah that reaches a pinnacle on Shavuot, when we receive the Torah as free people and enjoy the scenery as we make our way back down.
It's always a little odd, though, that we read this portion a few months before Pesah. Maybe the ancient rabbis scheduled it to allow us ample time to ponder our fate and get in the mood for matzah. Whatever the reason, I get to to sing—not just once, but twice this Shabbat—"Let My people go that they may worship Me!"
Friday, January 08, 2010
882. Nourishment
Shamelessly stealing from Chevrutablogger, here are some of the wisest words about Shabbat I've ever heard. I hope I can heed them as I rush now to do laundry, vaccuum, and catch my breath before I get to exhale... Wishing everyone a very spiritually nourishing 25 hours.
881. Uncool
I've been meaning to share a bunch of links that caught my eye. Here's one, from November:
The Death of Uncool
"There are so many cultural trends today that the distinction between cool and uncool doesn’t matter anymore, says Brian Eno. We’re all hipsters now."
It really is true. The world is now like my very unusual high school, where there were a few of every kind of stereotype (Goth, jock, nerd, etc.), but no critical mass of any particular one. So there weren't "in" or "out" crowds, because no one faction could claim to be bigger and better than another. (I loved high school; the real world came as a shock.)
One of my rabbis often says that Judaism is counter-cultural. We rest one day of the week; most people never stop moving. We concentrate on repairing the world; far too many others seem bent on destroying it. But, as Brian Eno wrote, majority cultural opinions are splitting into smaller ones with different points of view—and the core ideas of Judaism seem to be much cooler these days as a result. The concept of Shabbat is less unfamiliar, for example, with other names ("staycations"). Everyone is now "green" and at least pretends to care about global warming. It's a start. In a universe of subgroups, it's harder to convince the masses that one opinion is better or cooler than another—and there's more space, in a world without a mainstream, for the formerly uncool to thrive and grow.
The Death of Uncool
"There are so many cultural trends today that the distinction between cool and uncool doesn’t matter anymore, says Brian Eno. We’re all hipsters now."
It really is true. The world is now like my very unusual high school, where there were a few of every kind of stereotype (Goth, jock, nerd, etc.), but no critical mass of any particular one. So there weren't "in" or "out" crowds, because no one faction could claim to be bigger and better than another. (I loved high school; the real world came as a shock.)
One of my rabbis often says that Judaism is counter-cultural. We rest one day of the week; most people never stop moving. We concentrate on repairing the world; far too many others seem bent on destroying it. But, as Brian Eno wrote, majority cultural opinions are splitting into smaller ones with different points of view—and the core ideas of Judaism seem to be much cooler these days as a result. The concept of Shabbat is less unfamiliar, for example, with other names ("staycations"). Everyone is now "green" and at least pretends to care about global warming. It's a start. In a universe of subgroups, it's harder to convince the masses that one opinion is better or cooler than another—and there's more space, in a world without a mainstream, for the formerly uncool to thrive and grow.
880. Characters
I attended just about the worst Hebrew School in North America, where I learned to read Hebrew, barely, and write—sort of. In the reverse scenario of most afternoon Hebrew School victims, we were taught script but not print. I graduated able to read any style of letter, but write only half of them. This never posed a problem until I took private Hebrew lessons a few years ago. The tutor was aghast at my semi-illiteracy, and sent me home with elementary school homework: a page full of printed alephs, a page of zayins, etc. I did learn, awkwardly, but had few opportunities to practice; I reverted back to script when I took Hebrew grammar classes later on.
I'm a graphic designer and type geek who spent four years in a pre-desktop publishing-era job tracing fonts with a #6H pencil, so know the printed Roman alphabet intimately as a result. Typefaces have personality; they're not called "characters" for nothing. The gentle serif on the ascender of a "d" or the height of the top of a two-story lowercase "g" can mean the difference between a word that entices you to read it, or one that chases you away with cold disdain.
So last week when I sat down to draw and paint some Hebrew letters, just for fun, I assumed they would be as familiar as my friends in the Roman alphabet. I forgot that my previous attempts to reproduce printed Hebrew were as awkward as making out with your very first boyfriend. After a short, frustrating while the paper was smudged and covered with bits of eraser, but I didn't give up—and eventually the process did begin to feel like a first date. That long line in the middle of an aleph could be jaunty or mellow based on the angle and swell of a serif. A khaf was bold or retiring, depending upon how far down the descender ventured below the baseline. The more I got to know these letters, the better I could hear their individual voices—kind of like the melodies of Torah tropes, but silent—and change the sound entirely with the slightest stroke of my pencil.
I'm a graphic designer and type geek who spent four years in a pre-desktop publishing-era job tracing fonts with a #6H pencil, so know the printed Roman alphabet intimately as a result. Typefaces have personality; they're not called "characters" for nothing. The gentle serif on the ascender of a "d" or the height of the top of a two-story lowercase "g" can mean the difference between a word that entices you to read it, or one that chases you away with cold disdain.
So last week when I sat down to draw and paint some Hebrew letters, just for fun, I assumed they would be as familiar as my friends in the Roman alphabet. I forgot that my previous attempts to reproduce printed Hebrew were as awkward as making out with your very first boyfriend. After a short, frustrating while the paper was smudged and covered with bits of eraser, but I didn't give up—and eventually the process did begin to feel like a first date. That long line in the middle of an aleph could be jaunty or mellow based on the angle and swell of a serif. A khaf was bold or retiring, depending upon how far down the descender ventured below the baseline. The more I got to know these letters, the better I could hear their individual voices—kind of like the melodies of Torah tropes, but silent—and change the sound entirely with the slightest stroke of my pencil.
Tuesday, January 05, 2010
879. Safe
I'm learning a fairly short (six verses) section to chant this coming Shabbat. Actually, I learned it already; the cantor emailed yesterday asking if could read, I looked at it for 15 minutes last night and another 20 early this morning, and—I knew it. Not that I won't practice a hundred more times over the next few days, nor escape sweaty palms on Saturday morning, but it's already firmly lodged in the short-term folds of my brain. Even after working on this skill for almost eight years (a tie with the longest job I've ever held), I still don't always believe I can do it. A track record of success has not yet convinced me. Although I understand the gist of what I chant, comprehension happens only while I study. Up at the bima, the combination of nerves and a complete lack of fluency turn the words into a string of comfortable, essentially meaningless syllables punctuated by a few checkpoints—aha, blood! (or "heart," "death," or any of those other concepts that require extra emphasis). How can I memorize this gibberish, I wonder? But when I start to sing, the words take on meaning beyond grammar, pulling me along even when I'm unsure of their direction or intent.
I think that's part of what makes it fun, my doubt that it can happen at all and a constant, irrational, threat of failure. I've never rock-climbed or hang-glided; chanting Torah is my equivalent of living on the edge. As long as I don't poke my eye out with the yad, I think I'm safe.
I think that's part of what makes it fun, my doubt that it can happen at all and a constant, irrational, threat of failure. I've never rock-climbed or hang-glided; chanting Torah is my equivalent of living on the edge. As long as I don't poke my eye out with the yad, I think I'm safe.
Monday, January 04, 2010
878. Drawers
When my mother was young, she volunteered at a local hospital and grew close to a man who was seriously ill with a grim prognosis, but always in great spirits. How do you stay so positive? my mother asked him. What do you think about when you're lying in bed, unable to move, cut off from everything that gave you pleasure?
The places, people, and events of my life are like a series of drawers, he answered. Every day I open a new drawer, look inside, and enjoy the contents. Some are good, some bad, but I open them just the same. Then I close and save them for another time.
My mother told this story often, and kept a photo of the man in one of our family albums—thin, pale, with a goofy smile, propped up in bed surrounded by an army of nurses and volunteers. I got that it was an important lesson to learn, but never understood why. Was it about not forgetting? Or more like havdalah—separation—appreciating each thing on its own, in its time?
Last week I decided to paint, which used to take up countless hours but fell by the wayside years ago for many different reasons. I dove in, after some fits and starts; it felt great, although was a bit of a struggle. But soon I could sense my brain responding in old, familiar ways, a tether between eyes and hands that had fallen slack since college. Even the light and air around me began to look like it did decades ago, an odd déjà vu. Had nothing really changed since then? I wondered. For a moment it was incredibly depressing—I didn't want to feel the same. I'm a very different person now.
But then I looked at what I painted and saw pieces of other images that came from different drawers. I chose one color because I chant Torah; the curved line was a relationship that ended in my 30s. White space at the top: walking alongside El Malecón, Cuba, 2002. The sensations of painting were the same as always, but my brush automatically outlined snapshots of a life I had not yet lived when I was 22. I finally understood that the drawers don't have to open one at a time; it doesn't even matter if you misfile and mingle the socks with the T-shirts. The best creative jolt comes from allowing yourself to open each, good and bad, and savor what's inside.
The places, people, and events of my life are like a series of drawers, he answered. Every day I open a new drawer, look inside, and enjoy the contents. Some are good, some bad, but I open them just the same. Then I close and save them for another time.
My mother told this story often, and kept a photo of the man in one of our family albums—thin, pale, with a goofy smile, propped up in bed surrounded by an army of nurses and volunteers. I got that it was an important lesson to learn, but never understood why. Was it about not forgetting? Or more like havdalah—separation—appreciating each thing on its own, in its time?
Last week I decided to paint, which used to take up countless hours but fell by the wayside years ago for many different reasons. I dove in, after some fits and starts; it felt great, although was a bit of a struggle. But soon I could sense my brain responding in old, familiar ways, a tether between eyes and hands that had fallen slack since college. Even the light and air around me began to look like it did decades ago, an odd déjà vu. Had nothing really changed since then? I wondered. For a moment it was incredibly depressing—I didn't want to feel the same. I'm a very different person now.
But then I looked at what I painted and saw pieces of other images that came from different drawers. I chose one color because I chant Torah; the curved line was a relationship that ended in my 30s. White space at the top: walking alongside El Malecón, Cuba, 2002. The sensations of painting were the same as always, but my brush automatically outlined snapshots of a life I had not yet lived when I was 22. I finally understood that the drawers don't have to open one at a time; it doesn't even matter if you misfile and mingle the socks with the T-shirts. The best creative jolt comes from allowing yourself to open each, good and bad, and savor what's inside.
Sunday, January 03, 2010
877. Obligation
Yesterday at services the rabbi posed the question of what God expects of us. Do we feel obligated to God? Do we even imagine God as an idea to which we can feel obligated? Potential converts, he noted, often ask if being Jewish requires belief in God. His answer: try it out for awhile and see if it fits. Being Jewish means wrestling with the idea, even if you conclude that you don't believe.
I thought of this last night when reading an interesting article about how more women than men believe in God, possibly because of a biological or cultural imperative to seek out community, to which ritual is often attached:
Why Do More Women Than Men Still Believe in God?
The article is subtitled "Especially considering how God treats them." I've been lucky; any marginalization I experienced (such as having a fake Bat Mitzvah because I went to an Orthodox Hebrew school) happened before I was aware of, or even cared about the concept. (And the savings bonds I got at my fake Bat Mitzvah paid for my first trip to Israel a few decades later, so I'm not complaining.) I do now, and did back then, even without being able to articulate it, feel that God makes some demands of me. I'm not sure what, why or how; I acknowledge that I might be conflating the imperative with an ethical or moral sense. Perhaps they're one and the same. (Not even all those angry atheist authors can say definitively.) A few years ago I was jogging in the park and suddenly recalled a commentary about our bodies being borrowed from God. We're given only one in this lifetime, and must return it when we're done, so it only makes sense to treat it with care. So, in a way, I'm obligated to God every time I exercise and attempt to keep God's creation in the best possible shape.
Is prayer the same kind of required borrowing? Perhaps; when I sing and become joyful, I'm keeping the soul that was lent to me in good shape, as well.
I thought of this last night when reading an interesting article about how more women than men believe in God, possibly because of a biological or cultural imperative to seek out community, to which ritual is often attached:
Why Do More Women Than Men Still Believe in God?
The article is subtitled "Especially considering how God treats them." I've been lucky; any marginalization I experienced (such as having a fake Bat Mitzvah because I went to an Orthodox Hebrew school) happened before I was aware of, or even cared about the concept. (And the savings bonds I got at my fake Bat Mitzvah paid for my first trip to Israel a few decades later, so I'm not complaining.) I do now, and did back then, even without being able to articulate it, feel that God makes some demands of me. I'm not sure what, why or how; I acknowledge that I might be conflating the imperative with an ethical or moral sense. Perhaps they're one and the same. (Not even all those angry atheist authors can say definitively.) A few years ago I was jogging in the park and suddenly recalled a commentary about our bodies being borrowed from God. We're given only one in this lifetime, and must return it when we're done, so it only makes sense to treat it with care. So, in a way, I'm obligated to God every time I exercise and attempt to keep God's creation in the best possible shape.
Is prayer the same kind of required borrowing? Perhaps; when I sing and become joyful, I'm keeping the soul that was lent to me in good shape, as well.
876. Kosher
This recent excellent post by Chevrutablogger got me thinking about kashrut. Like understanding which trains were IND and which IRT, I can't recall when I first became aware of the difference between meat, dairy, and pareve. I just always knew. Keeping kosher as a child was like breathing, something I never consciously learned but realized was essential. We weren't terribly strict; we didn't have two sets of dishes or even one set of glass ones, another custom. Ours were pink, contemporary china, and any mention of those other practices was disdained as archaic. Yet my mother still soaked and salted meat (although never lit Shabbat candles), and my father prayed three times a day (but worked on Saturdays), walking a careful and sometimes unsteady line between tradition and modernity.
I remember acutely the few times I slipped. Once, after singing a concert at fancy-shmancy club, I was served a delicious soup I only only later learned was lobster bisque. I was mortified to admit it was the most delicious thing I'd ever tasted. When I was 7 and visiting a friend after school, her mother gave me a bologna sandwich with a glass of milk. I knew I shouldn't eat it, but wasn't sure why. I did anyway, told no one, and forgot about it for years—until, one day, I recalled the moment and felt guilty. For a few months in college, I ate pizza with pepperoni because I thought pepperoni was a kind of vegetable (a green pepper that wasn't green). Yes, I wan't too swift back then. I stopped as soon as I figured out the truth, but did enjoy those months--as well as the ones when I ate chicken tettrazinni, not comprehending that the cheese-like substance surrounding the chicken was, in fact, cheese. I was an unaware eater, to say the least.
After my parents divorced, my mother relished BLTs in diners. (Never cheeseburgers or shrimp, however; that would be truly unthinkable. Bacon looked close enough to pastrami to seem OK.). I think it was her way of celebrating emancipation, and the fact that she never again had to serve my father borscht or kishkas. I'd order a tuna fish sandwich and she never suggested I do otherwise, understanding even before I did that kashrut represented a time in my childhood when things were good and stable.
I think I still keep kosher for that reason more than any other. It connects me not only to my heritage and religion, but also to memories of being nourished unconditionally by the food of safety and love. Following the minhag of my parents, I'm not the strictest observer of kashrut. I mostly, but not always, avoid meat in restaurants; chicken never seems like meat. I do look for OUs and Ks on food packaging, most of the time. Aside from those few moments above, I've never knowingly eaten shellfish, pork, or milk and meat together, even during the years when I barely set foot in a synagogue, and have not the slightest desire to do so. I rarely yearn for forbidden fine cuisine. Keeping (sort of) kosher still feels like breathing, unconscious and necessary. At times I wish it didn't, and perhaps one day will move kashrut to the realm of a more mindful choice regarding God and heritage, as it should be.
I remember acutely the few times I slipped. Once, after singing a concert at fancy-shmancy club, I was served a delicious soup I only only later learned was lobster bisque. I was mortified to admit it was the most delicious thing I'd ever tasted. When I was 7 and visiting a friend after school, her mother gave me a bologna sandwich with a glass of milk. I knew I shouldn't eat it, but wasn't sure why. I did anyway, told no one, and forgot about it for years—until, one day, I recalled the moment and felt guilty. For a few months in college, I ate pizza with pepperoni because I thought pepperoni was a kind of vegetable (a green pepper that wasn't green). Yes, I wan't too swift back then. I stopped as soon as I figured out the truth, but did enjoy those months--as well as the ones when I ate chicken tettrazinni, not comprehending that the cheese-like substance surrounding the chicken was, in fact, cheese. I was an unaware eater, to say the least.
After my parents divorced, my mother relished BLTs in diners. (Never cheeseburgers or shrimp, however; that would be truly unthinkable. Bacon looked close enough to pastrami to seem OK.). I think it was her way of celebrating emancipation, and the fact that she never again had to serve my father borscht or kishkas. I'd order a tuna fish sandwich and she never suggested I do otherwise, understanding even before I did that kashrut represented a time in my childhood when things were good and stable.
I think I still keep kosher for that reason more than any other. It connects me not only to my heritage and religion, but also to memories of being nourished unconditionally by the food of safety and love. Following the minhag of my parents, I'm not the strictest observer of kashrut. I mostly, but not always, avoid meat in restaurants; chicken never seems like meat. I do look for OUs and Ks on food packaging, most of the time. Aside from those few moments above, I've never knowingly eaten shellfish, pork, or milk and meat together, even during the years when I barely set foot in a synagogue, and have not the slightest desire to do so. I rarely yearn for forbidden fine cuisine. Keeping (sort of) kosher still feels like breathing, unconscious and necessary. At times I wish it didn't, and perhaps one day will move kashrut to the realm of a more mindful choice regarding God and heritage, as it should be.
Friday, January 01, 2010
875. Run
Last night was not only New Year's Eve, but also a "blue moon"—the second full moon in a month. (This happens every few years, but won't occur again on New Year's Eve until 2028.) Judaism had a similar event last April 8 when we said the Birkat Hahama to mark the completion of the sun's 28-year solar cycle. (Hmm, 28 years... 2028... 28 = 4 x the 7 days of creation.) Whether or not these occasions and numbers have grand significance, I have no idea—but I think we put too much emphasis on the possibility.
We lead linear lives, and by custom and instinct mark the milestones on that line—New Year's, birthdays, s'mahot, yahrzeits. Like the word "milestone" implies, these signposts remind us how we've grown and changed, how far we've traveled from beginning to end. And we're limited by the laws of physics from skipping any step on that path. We have no choice but to take each one. Still, we often try to speed through like a race (climb the corporate ladder as fast as possible; get rich quick, etc.). This really makes no sense, since ultimately we want to extend the journey for as long as possible. But the fastest caveman caught the biggest large beast and therefore got the best dinner; we're also hard-wired, as a survival tactic, to run from milestone to milestone and ignore the scenery. Run vs. amble, an eternal struggle between two necessary compulsions.
So I try not to put too much stake in those portentous 28-year- or millennium markers (i.e, Y2K). All the preparation, pining, waiting for a few brief blue moon moments distracts from closer scenery, the daily goals and triumphs that keep us engaged as we travel from one end of the road to the other. Those are the real occasions that mark our slow, steady and (God willing) very long progress through life.
We lead linear lives, and by custom and instinct mark the milestones on that line—New Year's, birthdays, s'mahot, yahrzeits. Like the word "milestone" implies, these signposts remind us how we've grown and changed, how far we've traveled from beginning to end. And we're limited by the laws of physics from skipping any step on that path. We have no choice but to take each one. Still, we often try to speed through like a race (climb the corporate ladder as fast as possible; get rich quick, etc.). This really makes no sense, since ultimately we want to extend the journey for as long as possible. But the fastest caveman caught the biggest large beast and therefore got the best dinner; we're also hard-wired, as a survival tactic, to run from milestone to milestone and ignore the scenery. Run vs. amble, an eternal struggle between two necessary compulsions.
So I try not to put too much stake in those portentous 28-year- or millennium markers (i.e, Y2K). All the preparation, pining, waiting for a few brief blue moon moments distracts from closer scenery, the daily goals and triumphs that keep us engaged as we travel from one end of the road to the other. Those are the real occasions that mark our slow, steady and (God willing) very long progress through life.
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