As a lifelong New Yorker, I take for granted that no one cares that I'm a liberal Jewish woman who chants Torah and leads services. Any kind of religious practice is tolerated in this city, as long as it doesn't involve murder or riding the subway completely naked (partially naked would be OK).
So events like these, below, make me not just angry, but incredulous. I love Israel, and respect her right to have a Church-managed State, but that's no excuse to turn religious principles into a parody of themselves. What halakha justifies pushing a woman down a flight of stairs at our holiest site? Or forcibly wrestling a sefer Torah out of the arms of a peaceful, praying Jew because you don't approve of her style of prayer?
Anat Hoffman Arrested for Carrying Torah
Or giving a small and provably corrupt group of Israeli rabbis the power to legislate who can be called a Jew, instantly alienating most of those throughout the world who have, both spiritually and financially, supported Israel for decades? (My mother would have called it "cutting off your nose to spite your face.")
The Diaspora Need Not Apply
Hillel said "That which is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow. That is the whole Torah; the rest is the explanation; go and learn." (Shabbat 31a). I guess the rabbis at the Kotel would disagree. On second thought, Hillel was clearly misguided. Writes Alana Newhouse:
"It will do little good, too, to point out that it is well outside the consensus established by Hillel — arguably the greatest rabbi in all of rabbinic Judaism and whom, as Joseph Telushkin argues in a forthcoming book, was willing to convert a pagan on the spot, simply because he’d asked."
What was he thinking?
As we approach Tisha be-Av this evening, I pray that all the genuine goodness in the world, and there is an awful lot of it, may be a stronger force than the sinat hinam, the baseless hatred.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Sunday, July 18, 2010
931. Is nisht
For some reason today I thought about a phrase that permeated my youth--I can't recall exactly who said, it, or when, but probably everyone, all the time: "So, is nisht." I never learned to speak Yiddish, but when I was a child most of the people taller than me did, so I'm left with a sort of sense memory of many words. Perhaps it was a shortened version of "nisht gerferlach", "not so bad". I remember it meaning something like today's "Whatever...", a sigh of resignation acknowledging that life isn't perfect, but it's time to close the last chapter with a resilient thwack of the pages and move on. Or, in the words of my cousin Bunny z"l, "You do what you do."
It's very hot. It's been very hot for weeks, turning most New Yorkers, including myself, into boiling, inert, annoyed people. So, is nisht. Yesterday at services the rabbi reflected on his longstanding curiosity about why far more people come to services on Tisha be-Av*, the saddest day of the Jewish calendar, than Yom Ha'atzma'ut, one of the most joyous. Why does mourning come easier than celebrating our greatest modern miracle? He quoted from Aviva Zornberg's latest book, The Murmuring Deep, and (I am simplifying radically) her observations on the psychological aftermath of being "the chosen people." Why us? Are we worthy? Did we really deserve to survive all the unspeakable tragedies that befell us? And what of the ones not chosen--where do our responsibilities to those others begin and end? Biblical characters grappled with these questions (i.e., were neurotic) long before Freud put names to the problems, and we continue to do so. One way is by seeking out opportunities, such as Tisha be-Av, to relive our pain, which is more familiar to us than our triumphs. In doing so, we remind our still-incredulous selves that we really did survive.
As he spoke, I thought of my more immediate struggle with a similar concept, my postponed stem cell donation. Why was I chosen? No reason at all, most likely. It just happened, one of many great random acts of the universe. But if that's how God works,maybe the same is true of the Jewish people--there is no great plan, and we were chosen just because. We are bound to do our job as good Jews nevertheless. It is a baffling and unsatisfying answer, usually the case when trying to apply logic to theology. What really counts is how we react to this knowledge. This unknown woman has already taught me about patience, and living in the moment (and enhanced the coffers of JDate, eHarmony, and a couple of local coffee shops and bars in the process). I hope I may one day return the favor, and can only pray that knowing I remain in the wings will help her find hope and strength.
(Bracha bat Sarah has also helped me gain the smallest bit of insight into the suffering of families of those at war. How to ever relax, or stay sane, when you don't know if your loved one will return? I've never even met this woman, but whether she will live or die is always in my consciousness.)
So, is nisht, it remains above 90 degrees everywhere in the U.S. (except, I hope and pray, Alaska), and I continue to work too hard and take a few breaks during the day to practice my upcoming trope triple play (chapter 4 of Eikha tomorrow night; the Torah reading on Tuesday morning; haftarah at Tuesday Minha). I didn't set out to be such an active participant in Tisha be-Av, but it just sort of happened after a few years of saying yes whenever the cantor needed someone to chant. Maybe there's a greater reason behind it, who knows, and I am learning something that I will one day understand.
-----
* Which I grew up pronouncing "Tish Above"--maybe that's the Yiddish way--only to learn in the last few years that it's properly called "Teesh-ah-bay-Av." Which feels a little too modern on my tongue, and elicits stares from Jewish friends who don't go to my synagogue, so I usually compromise somewhere in between the two.
It's very hot. It's been very hot for weeks, turning most New Yorkers, including myself, into boiling, inert, annoyed people. So, is nisht. Yesterday at services the rabbi reflected on his longstanding curiosity about why far more people come to services on Tisha be-Av*, the saddest day of the Jewish calendar, than Yom Ha'atzma'ut, one of the most joyous. Why does mourning come easier than celebrating our greatest modern miracle? He quoted from Aviva Zornberg's latest book, The Murmuring Deep, and (I am simplifying radically) her observations on the psychological aftermath of being "the chosen people." Why us? Are we worthy? Did we really deserve to survive all the unspeakable tragedies that befell us? And what of the ones not chosen--where do our responsibilities to those others begin and end? Biblical characters grappled with these questions (i.e., were neurotic) long before Freud put names to the problems, and we continue to do so. One way is by seeking out opportunities, such as Tisha be-Av, to relive our pain, which is more familiar to us than our triumphs. In doing so, we remind our still-incredulous selves that we really did survive.
As he spoke, I thought of my more immediate struggle with a similar concept, my postponed stem cell donation. Why was I chosen? No reason at all, most likely. It just happened, one of many great random acts of the universe. But if that's how God works,maybe the same is true of the Jewish people--there is no great plan, and we were chosen just because. We are bound to do our job as good Jews nevertheless. It is a baffling and unsatisfying answer, usually the case when trying to apply logic to theology. What really counts is how we react to this knowledge. This unknown woman has already taught me about patience, and living in the moment (and enhanced the coffers of JDate, eHarmony, and a couple of local coffee shops and bars in the process). I hope I may one day return the favor, and can only pray that knowing I remain in the wings will help her find hope and strength.
(Bracha bat Sarah has also helped me gain the smallest bit of insight into the suffering of families of those at war. How to ever relax, or stay sane, when you don't know if your loved one will return? I've never even met this woman, but whether she will live or die is always in my consciousness.)
So, is nisht, it remains above 90 degrees everywhere in the U.S. (except, I hope and pray, Alaska), and I continue to work too hard and take a few breaks during the day to practice my upcoming trope triple play (chapter 4 of Eikha tomorrow night; the Torah reading on Tuesday morning; haftarah at Tuesday Minha). I didn't set out to be such an active participant in Tisha be-Av, but it just sort of happened after a few years of saying yes whenever the cantor needed someone to chant. Maybe there's a greater reason behind it, who knows, and I am learning something that I will one day understand.
-----
* Which I grew up pronouncing "Tish Above"--maybe that's the Yiddish way--only to learn in the last few years that it's properly called "Teesh-ah-bay-Av." Which feels a little too modern on my tongue, and elicits stares from Jewish friends who don't go to my synagogue, so I usually compromise somewhere in between the two.
Monday, July 05, 2010
930. On belief and deception
The nebulous place known as the JBlogosphere (i.e., Jews with blogs) has been abuzz about The Orthoprax Rabbi, who just started writing a few weeks ago. He's the rabbi of a Modern Orthodox synagogue somewhere in the world who admits to being an atheist who doesn't follow much of Jewish law. That said, his congregation is very happy (they just renewed his contract). They think he's a regular halakhic, God-fearing rabbi just like any other. He's proud to be a good speaker and pastor, expert at the mechanics of leading. But clearly there is some stress in living a lie, hence this anonymous blog of admission.
Not surprisingly, vast torrents of comments on the blog span the gamut from accusations of heresy to praise for his honesty in revealing a frequently hidden truth about rabbinic souls. It's a fascinating and intelligent conversation, with just a few crazies. It is, in short, Judaism—a messy debate that hopefully results in some kind of new insight when all is said and done.
And this definition of Judaism is why I greatly respect The Orthoprax Rabbi, even though I don't agree with him. In physics, every action has an equal reaction; in Bereshit, God created in opposites (heaven and earth, etc.). Whether one believes in religion or science, it seems fair to assume that the seeds of all things contain their antithesis. So perfect faith, as some of the blog's commenters profess to have, must also embrace the shadow of doubt in order to be as God engineered. (See this link posted to one of the hundreds of blog comments.)
From this angle, R. Orthoprax is very good Jew. His life, like the debate about him and the nature of Judaism itself, is a struggle between opposites just as we all encounter on a daily basis. I can imagine how this would make him a very good rabbi. Unlike many religious leaders who pretend to be evolved beyond the need for doubt, R. Orthoprax leads from the ground, in solidarity with his flock. I'm sure they sense it, and appreciate him for this reason.
But on the other hand: I don't think he's a very good rabbi. He's lying to his congregation, a kind of fraud. Yes, the job description never said he had to believe in God. But I am pretty certain the vast majority of Jews who look to their rabbis as role models do think their rabbis believe and (according to the standards of whatever the stream of Judaism) observe halakha. It's implied in our shared understanding of the role. It is a violation of the trust of his congregants to pretend that he believes when he doesn't—to deceive them and be something other than the kind of rabbi they thought they hired.
And I can't imagine his congregants don't somehow sense this dishonesty, just as they silently empathize with his struggles. I have no idea if my own rabbis believe in God; I've never asked, and they've never told. But I assume they do, because when talking about the subject every single word they share, every bit of advice, joke, condolence, is deeply felt and from their hearts, and rings true. (They talk about God often. We rarely did at my stuffy childhood synagogue, which I think is more the norm. The concept of belief is still a little too touchy-feely for many Americans.) I trust my rabbis not because they believe in God, but because I can tell that they are being honest.
A rabbi's role is to teach about spiritual life, of which struggling with faith is an important part. What if R. Orthoprax admitted the truth to his congregants? He might get fired—or he might feel like a weight was lifted from his chest. And his congregants might respect him more than ever before before, because he is even more like them.
I have no sense of what it's like to grow up in a totalitarian state, as Orthodox streams of many religions seem to be, only one opinion allowed and all others a quick ticket to Hell. (Or would be, if Jews had Hell.) I can't imagine how this kind of childhood colors one's reactions as an adult. It's like commenting on someone's bad marriage; what looks loveless to one is safe and comfortable to another. I understand that particular kinds of lies might work just fine for all parties involved, as might be the case with this rabbi and his congregants. I am nevertheless sad that he can't breathe easy or be true to his own beliefs. (Another rabbi expressed this same thought much better than I.) Having hidden big parts of my true self, as well, when caught in a troubled relationship, I feel this rabbi's pain, and hope he can one day find a place of comfort and freedom.
Not surprisingly, vast torrents of comments on the blog span the gamut from accusations of heresy to praise for his honesty in revealing a frequently hidden truth about rabbinic souls. It's a fascinating and intelligent conversation, with just a few crazies. It is, in short, Judaism—a messy debate that hopefully results in some kind of new insight when all is said and done.
And this definition of Judaism is why I greatly respect The Orthoprax Rabbi, even though I don't agree with him. In physics, every action has an equal reaction; in Bereshit, God created in opposites (heaven and earth, etc.). Whether one believes in religion or science, it seems fair to assume that the seeds of all things contain their antithesis. So perfect faith, as some of the blog's commenters profess to have, must also embrace the shadow of doubt in order to be as God engineered. (See this link posted to one of the hundreds of blog comments.)
From this angle, R. Orthoprax is very good Jew. His life, like the debate about him and the nature of Judaism itself, is a struggle between opposites just as we all encounter on a daily basis. I can imagine how this would make him a very good rabbi. Unlike many religious leaders who pretend to be evolved beyond the need for doubt, R. Orthoprax leads from the ground, in solidarity with his flock. I'm sure they sense it, and appreciate him for this reason.
But on the other hand: I don't think he's a very good rabbi. He's lying to his congregation, a kind of fraud. Yes, the job description never said he had to believe in God. But I am pretty certain the vast majority of Jews who look to their rabbis as role models do think their rabbis believe and (according to the standards of whatever the stream of Judaism) observe halakha. It's implied in our shared understanding of the role. It is a violation of the trust of his congregants to pretend that he believes when he doesn't—to deceive them and be something other than the kind of rabbi they thought they hired.
And I can't imagine his congregants don't somehow sense this dishonesty, just as they silently empathize with his struggles. I have no idea if my own rabbis believe in God; I've never asked, and they've never told. But I assume they do, because when talking about the subject every single word they share, every bit of advice, joke, condolence, is deeply felt and from their hearts, and rings true. (They talk about God often. We rarely did at my stuffy childhood synagogue, which I think is more the norm. The concept of belief is still a little too touchy-feely for many Americans.) I trust my rabbis not because they believe in God, but because I can tell that they are being honest.
A rabbi's role is to teach about spiritual life, of which struggling with faith is an important part. What if R. Orthoprax admitted the truth to his congregants? He might get fired—or he might feel like a weight was lifted from his chest. And his congregants might respect him more than ever before before, because he is even more like them.
I have no sense of what it's like to grow up in a totalitarian state, as Orthodox streams of many religions seem to be, only one opinion allowed and all others a quick ticket to Hell. (Or would be, if Jews had Hell.) I can't imagine how this kind of childhood colors one's reactions as an adult. It's like commenting on someone's bad marriage; what looks loveless to one is safe and comfortable to another. I understand that particular kinds of lies might work just fine for all parties involved, as might be the case with this rabbi and his congregants. I am nevertheless sad that he can't breathe easy or be true to his own beliefs. (Another rabbi expressed this same thought much better than I.) Having hidden big parts of my true self, as well, when caught in a troubled relationship, I feel this rabbi's pain, and hope he can one day find a place of comfort and freedom.
929. Time travel
Haven't written very much lately, but I've been busy--with life, and chanting as well. This morning at the minyan I read a short section from the beginning of Mas'ei, all that going forward from place to place. On Shabbat Pinhas I chanted about sacrifices from Pesah through Yom Kippur, mostly all the same except for an extra "and" and inexplicably changed trope now and then. I guess the Masoretes wanted to make sure we didn't fall asleep when reading it for the 5,000th year in a row. I was worried I'd screw up my old friend the Pesah maftir, which became much trickier when paired with similar but slightly different other sections, but everything went well until the end of Rosh Hashahah and I made up a bunch of trope. I ended in the right place, however, so all was well. I'm very glad these hiccups no longer give me heart attacks.
The summer is officially here--98 degrees as I sit in Starbucks typing into Evernote on my iPhone with the ancient, collapsable Bluetooth keyboard that never quite worked years ago with my Treo (it does now, perfectly) and Yo-Yo Ma in my earphones drowning out generic 40s jazz--and it will be short one. The holidays start right after Labor Day, so rehearsals will need to be sometime in August. This logistically annoying earliness is probably why the cantor asked myself and the other hazzanim just last week if we wanted to sing again this year. (Duh.) The subject line of his email was "High Holy Days 5761," leading me to wonder if time travel was among his many talents (since we're about to enter the year 5771). Details, details. The early notice was welcome, even though I've finally stopped angsting (much) about whether I'll be asked back each year.
The email also reminded me that I need to finish writing about last year's High Holy Days, which were lovely but not without drama. I will do that before something else eventful happens that's worth chronicling (donating bone marrow, for example; still on hold.)
The summer is officially here--98 degrees as I sit in Starbucks typing into Evernote on my iPhone with the ancient, collapsable Bluetooth keyboard that never quite worked years ago with my Treo (it does now, perfectly) and Yo-Yo Ma in my earphones drowning out generic 40s jazz--and it will be short one. The holidays start right after Labor Day, so rehearsals will need to be sometime in August. This logistically annoying earliness is probably why the cantor asked myself and the other hazzanim just last week if we wanted to sing again this year. (Duh.) The subject line of his email was "High Holy Days 5761," leading me to wonder if time travel was among his many talents (since we're about to enter the year 5771). Details, details. The early notice was welcome, even though I've finally stopped angsting (much) about whether I'll be asked back each year.
The email also reminded me that I need to finish writing about last year's High Holy Days, which were lovely but not without drama. I will do that before something else eventful happens that's worth chronicling (donating bone marrow, for example; still on hold.)
Sunday, June 27, 2010
928. Chocolate
The other week a friend referred to chocolate as "the Great Unifier," with which I heartily agree. I would love to get the leaders of the Middle East in a room together and feed them some Ben and Jerry's; since I doubt this will happen, I guess we're stuck with diplomacy. In my own life, there is no other dessert option when feeding groups of people. (Since my invited guests generally like one another, I haven't been able to test its peace-making qualities.)
I came close to leading a life bereft of this ambrosia, however. I was allergic to chocolate as a young child. A single M&M would cause my entire body to break out in hives, followed by forced slathering-on of Calamine lotion or a soak in an Epsom salts-filled tub until I turned into a prune. It wasn't fun, but did insure that I wouldn't scratch myself to death. My mother and I fought a constant battle of wills over chocolate, a precocious stand-in for the cute but dangerous motorcycle-riding boyfriend. I knew it was bad for me, but just couldn't keep away. My mother gave up the battle after awhile, just sighed and slathered on the Calamine whenever I came home from school covered in welts. She felt my pain, even though she didn't have a sweet tooth; growing up in the bakery business with unlimited access to cake and cookies cured her of that craving. But she remembered what it felt like, and knew that I would never retreat. And she wanted more than anything else to see me smile.
So she spent countless hours in search of a loophole. To keep up with the Catholic Joneses, I'd get an Easter basket every year (sometimes smack in the middle of Passover, filled with leaven-fee sugar). My father didn't mind; if all other American kids merited egg-shaped candies, then I did as well. The search for a non-allergenic, non-chocolate bunny would begin early each spring, my mother scouring stores all over Queens and keeping me abreast of her progress. If they could send a man to the moon, then this Holy Grail of confectionery must exist somewhere.
And one year I unwrapped the basket and there it was, a red ribbon around its cellophaned neck: Peter Cottontail, big, hollow and white. I was a little afraid to tear off a chunk, but my mother was optimistic. White chocolate tastes different, she observed. So maybe you can eat this. I was bursting with anticipation; never in my life had I felt so hopeful. I swallowed a paw, and then another. Ten minutes passed--nothing. My skin remained as pale as the summer sky over Jones Beach. We were in ecstasy over our sneaky and brilliant scientific breakthrough.
Then, suddenly, big red hills and valleys began to erupt up and down my arms and legs. My mother shook her head and drew the bath water, as close to crying as I'd ever seen her. We spoke no more of white chocolate, and I finally began to ask for vanilla at birthday parties. Making my mother sad was even worse than itching.
But addiction never really goes away, and at some point in my eighth year the pull became too strong. I traded a plum for a chocolate chip cookie at lunch one day, and took a bite. I waited for the inevitable, all through recess and later that afternoon at Hebrew School. And I was fine. I casually mentioned this to my mother when I got back home, and she pretended to casually acknowledge the change. We were both afraid to get excited, in case the effect was temporary. But it lasted--it seems I had grown out of the allergy--and after that my mother never even suggested any other flavor. Cake and cookies were still carefully measured, but when they did appear were always Double Fudge Chunk or Devil's Food or whatever else marketers decided to call Death by Chocolate before Ben and Jerry's patented the name.
I still will not consider any other flavor when it comes to desserts of the non-fruit variety. What does this have to do with Judaism and the usual subjects of this blog? Maybe just a reminder that food is not religion, and a fervent wish that people everywhere could limit their disdaining to kinds of candy.
I came close to leading a life bereft of this ambrosia, however. I was allergic to chocolate as a young child. A single M&M would cause my entire body to break out in hives, followed by forced slathering-on of Calamine lotion or a soak in an Epsom salts-filled tub until I turned into a prune. It wasn't fun, but did insure that I wouldn't scratch myself to death. My mother and I fought a constant battle of wills over chocolate, a precocious stand-in for the cute but dangerous motorcycle-riding boyfriend. I knew it was bad for me, but just couldn't keep away. My mother gave up the battle after awhile, just sighed and slathered on the Calamine whenever I came home from school covered in welts. She felt my pain, even though she didn't have a sweet tooth; growing up in the bakery business with unlimited access to cake and cookies cured her of that craving. But she remembered what it felt like, and knew that I would never retreat. And she wanted more than anything else to see me smile.
So she spent countless hours in search of a loophole. To keep up with the Catholic Joneses, I'd get an Easter basket every year (sometimes smack in the middle of Passover, filled with leaven-fee sugar). My father didn't mind; if all other American kids merited egg-shaped candies, then I did as well. The search for a non-allergenic, non-chocolate bunny would begin early each spring, my mother scouring stores all over Queens and keeping me abreast of her progress. If they could send a man to the moon, then this Holy Grail of confectionery must exist somewhere.
And one year I unwrapped the basket and there it was, a red ribbon around its cellophaned neck: Peter Cottontail, big, hollow and white. I was a little afraid to tear off a chunk, but my mother was optimistic. White chocolate tastes different, she observed. So maybe you can eat this. I was bursting with anticipation; never in my life had I felt so hopeful. I swallowed a paw, and then another. Ten minutes passed--nothing. My skin remained as pale as the summer sky over Jones Beach. We were in ecstasy over our sneaky and brilliant scientific breakthrough.
Then, suddenly, big red hills and valleys began to erupt up and down my arms and legs. My mother shook her head and drew the bath water, as close to crying as I'd ever seen her. We spoke no more of white chocolate, and I finally began to ask for vanilla at birthday parties. Making my mother sad was even worse than itching.
But addiction never really goes away, and at some point in my eighth year the pull became too strong. I traded a plum for a chocolate chip cookie at lunch one day, and took a bite. I waited for the inevitable, all through recess and later that afternoon at Hebrew School. And I was fine. I casually mentioned this to my mother when I got back home, and she pretended to casually acknowledge the change. We were both afraid to get excited, in case the effect was temporary. But it lasted--it seems I had grown out of the allergy--and after that my mother never even suggested any other flavor. Cake and cookies were still carefully measured, but when they did appear were always Double Fudge Chunk or Devil's Food or whatever else marketers decided to call Death by Chocolate before Ben and Jerry's patented the name.
I still will not consider any other flavor when it comes to desserts of the non-fruit variety. What does this have to do with Judaism and the usual subjects of this blog? Maybe just a reminder that food is not religion, and a fervent wish that people everywhere could limit their disdaining to kinds of candy.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
927. Geek
I'm one of these. Typing right now on a small folding Bluetooth keyboard I bought about three years ago for my late, great Treo, now retired to whatever part of heaven is reserved for ancient technology. And the keyboard is paired with the phone that will stop traffic in about seven hours, and is right this minute responsible for a big swath of Broadway turning into a concrete campground as fellow geeks (slightly more nuts than I) salivate until the Apple Store opens at 7AM. Fate smiled on me two weeks ago via the online ordering process, so my iPhone4 came via FedEx this morning in a box tiny enough to camouflage its ability to create world peace or plug the oil spill in the Gulf, as you might assume it could do if you were from Mars and read the breathless forum posts on Mac blogs this week.
I went to the gym this evening and disguised it in my old, beaten-up 3G case lest some crazed fanboy notice and, well, salivate. But I was nervous just the same.
Postscript: Wrote this last night on the phone and am editing and posting this morning on my computer thanks to Evernote, a very cool app that can create, share, and update documents between either place. There are other ways to do this, but none so easy and seamless.
I went to the gym this evening and disguised it in my old, beaten-up 3G case lest some crazed fanboy notice and, well, salivate. But I was nervous just the same.
Postscript: Wrote this last night on the phone and am editing and posting this morning on my computer thanks to Evernote, a very cool app that can create, share, and update documents between either place. There are other ways to do this, but none so easy and seamless.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
926. Over my head
Last week I discovered a Google group:
leining
Yes, it's all about leining (aka chanting Torah). But this time I wasn't barred for being female; times have changed. Or maybe just in this little corner of Google, where experts are humble enough to type the word with a lower-case "l". Discussions about the minutiae of trope, how exciting! So I began to read...
... and understood about 1/10th of what they were talking about. No, that's generous. Perhaps 1/100th. Who knew there could be such minutiae about munachs, and I do own the Jacobson book; this group leaves it in the dust. All participants (just men so far, because few women have yet been able to spend lifetimes amassing this kind of knowledge) seem to have favorite rabbis or sages who know the definitive way to sing a pazer and everything else. It's fascinating, and kind of exciting to be in over my head, and I will continue to read in hopes that 1/10th, or even 1/100th of the information shared will seep into some small corner of my brain.
leining
Yes, it's all about leining (aka chanting Torah). But this time I wasn't barred for being female; times have changed. Or maybe just in this little corner of Google, where experts are humble enough to type the word with a lower-case "l". Discussions about the minutiae of trope, how exciting! So I began to read...
... and understood about 1/10th of what they were talking about. No, that's generous. Perhaps 1/100th. Who knew there could be such minutiae about munachs, and I do own the Jacobson book; this group leaves it in the dust. All participants (just men so far, because few women have yet been able to spend lifetimes amassing this kind of knowledge) seem to have favorite rabbis or sages who know the definitive way to sing a pazer and everything else. It's fascinating, and kind of exciting to be in over my head, and I will continue to read in hopes that 1/10th, or even 1/100th of the information shared will seep into some small corner of my brain.
925. Names
Once again, a phone call in the middle of the day as I sit at my desk. I recognize the number; my stomach drops. This can't be good. Two weeks ago, unable to wait a second longer for an update, I emailed the donor center. "We have no news about a delay in collection," they answered. So I began to count down the days, imagining what DVDs I'd watch during those hours when I wouldn't have use of my hands, and who could sub at my networking group. I began to smile all the time. Suddenly it didn't matter what else happened in the world; life was certifiably good.
I pick up the phone: a familiar neutral but cheery voice. "I'm so sorry, but your recipient had a relapse." Catch-22: the illness has to be grave enough to require a transplant, but not so bad that the process will kill her. It's not cancelled, however, just postponed to some unknown time. Am I still interested in donating? Of course. Thank you, we'll keep you posted.
I knew this might happen—the possibility was mentioned on every sheet of donor literature I received—but I still feel horrible. I want her to be OK. I want to fix her. I have no idea who or where this woman is, whether she has a family, kids, is nice or mean, hopeful or desperate. All I do know is that God is being very annoying. I have something she needs—but now, all of a sudden, she can't receive it. I guess life often works this way; we love someone but they're not ready to reciprocate, or we possess talent but not means. But in most cases we can find tools to help us change and discover how to accept those gifts. In this instance, the recipient and I are both powerless. All we can do—all I can do—is be grateful that science and circumstance brought us this far, and that the story is not yet over.
When I first matched, I wondered what I might learn from the experience. It's been a lot, so far: that it's not about me, and humility is a virtue I need to work on. Patience, too; things progress in due time according to a hidden schedule, and there's no point in delaying life until we figure it out. (I had been afraid to make vacation plans, just in case—what if something bad happened before I could donate? But something bad could happen while crossing the street. I now have plans, and know that my stem cells will be happier as a result.) The most unexpected thing I've learned, however, is about names. I wanted to include this unknown woman in my prayers, yet was uncomfortable doing so. I didn't want to feel too attached, and set myself up for unnecessary pain—what if she died? Or survived, but never wanted to meet?
But I couldn't remain detached. Like it or not, we're connected; I can't pretend otherwise. But just as I had been unable to articulate my awe and joy at the start of this process and lacked a "container" for the experience, I also was unable to formulate a prayer on her behalf. Here was my chance to escape from powerlessness, but each sentence I tried to whisper seemed to lose its glue and scatter into random words.
Friday night in the middle of services, I suddenly knew what was missing: a name. I might never learn it, but she has one, and it's hers alone. It gives her dignity, and proves that she's a person and not just a collection of symptoms. I understand why, for legal and psychological reasons, the bone marrow people can't tell me what it is, but I can no more ignore its existence than the profound connection we already have.
Names in Judaism are mystical and powerful, and many people assume a new one one during illness in order to trick the Angel of Death. They're like scaffolding to support and identify our uniqueness to the rest of the world. Praying for this woman without using her name felt like trying to grow ivy without the wall, nowhere solid for the the leaves to climb.
It came to me a little later in the service: Bracha (blessing) bat (daughter of) Sarah. That's all I need God to hear: please send blessings. Also, a reminder of the blessings that her existence has already brought me. "bat Sarah" because I assume she's Jewish, since we share ancestors somewhere down the line. If not, I trust that God will insert the proper appellation. I guess it's pretty chutzpadik for me to name a total stranger, but we all have alternates for different situations: nicknames, "mom," "dad." This one is for talking about her to God, nothing else.
The moment I discovered this name, I felt like a physical weight had been lifted from my chest. I can focus once again, after two days of sadness and a whole month of being self-absorbed. Her name will remind me that everything good, bad, and ordinary, is also a miracle. Until the good part of that miracle takes place, please include Bracha bat Sarah, whomever she may be, in your prayers for healing.
I pick up the phone: a familiar neutral but cheery voice. "I'm so sorry, but your recipient had a relapse." Catch-22: the illness has to be grave enough to require a transplant, but not so bad that the process will kill her. It's not cancelled, however, just postponed to some unknown time. Am I still interested in donating? Of course. Thank you, we'll keep you posted.
I knew this might happen—the possibility was mentioned on every sheet of donor literature I received—but I still feel horrible. I want her to be OK. I want to fix her. I have no idea who or where this woman is, whether she has a family, kids, is nice or mean, hopeful or desperate. All I do know is that God is being very annoying. I have something she needs—but now, all of a sudden, she can't receive it. I guess life often works this way; we love someone but they're not ready to reciprocate, or we possess talent but not means. But in most cases we can find tools to help us change and discover how to accept those gifts. In this instance, the recipient and I are both powerless. All we can do—all I can do—is be grateful that science and circumstance brought us this far, and that the story is not yet over.
When I first matched, I wondered what I might learn from the experience. It's been a lot, so far: that it's not about me, and humility is a virtue I need to work on. Patience, too; things progress in due time according to a hidden schedule, and there's no point in delaying life until we figure it out. (I had been afraid to make vacation plans, just in case—what if something bad happened before I could donate? But something bad could happen while crossing the street. I now have plans, and know that my stem cells will be happier as a result.) The most unexpected thing I've learned, however, is about names. I wanted to include this unknown woman in my prayers, yet was uncomfortable doing so. I didn't want to feel too attached, and set myself up for unnecessary pain—what if she died? Or survived, but never wanted to meet?
But I couldn't remain detached. Like it or not, we're connected; I can't pretend otherwise. But just as I had been unable to articulate my awe and joy at the start of this process and lacked a "container" for the experience, I also was unable to formulate a prayer on her behalf. Here was my chance to escape from powerlessness, but each sentence I tried to whisper seemed to lose its glue and scatter into random words.
Friday night in the middle of services, I suddenly knew what was missing: a name. I might never learn it, but she has one, and it's hers alone. It gives her dignity, and proves that she's a person and not just a collection of symptoms. I understand why, for legal and psychological reasons, the bone marrow people can't tell me what it is, but I can no more ignore its existence than the profound connection we already have.
Names in Judaism are mystical and powerful, and many people assume a new one one during illness in order to trick the Angel of Death. They're like scaffolding to support and identify our uniqueness to the rest of the world. Praying for this woman without using her name felt like trying to grow ivy without the wall, nowhere solid for the the leaves to climb.
It came to me a little later in the service: Bracha (blessing) bat (daughter of) Sarah. That's all I need God to hear: please send blessings. Also, a reminder of the blessings that her existence has already brought me. "bat Sarah" because I assume she's Jewish, since we share ancestors somewhere down the line. If not, I trust that God will insert the proper appellation. I guess it's pretty chutzpadik for me to name a total stranger, but we all have alternates for different situations: nicknames, "mom," "dad." This one is for talking about her to God, nothing else.
The moment I discovered this name, I felt like a physical weight had been lifted from my chest. I can focus once again, after two days of sadness and a whole month of being self-absorbed. Her name will remind me that everything good, bad, and ordinary, is also a miracle. Until the good part of that miracle takes place, please include Bracha bat Sarah, whomever she may be, in your prayers for healing.
Friday, June 04, 2010
924. Z'chut
Last week I heard someone use the word "z'chut" in a context I didn't quite understand. I had thought it meant "merit," as in something one deserves based upon an earned right. But it's really closer to privilege, an honor not necessarily predicated on action or position. In that sense it seems a word particularly suited to the Jewish experience. Do we merit survival, despite the odds, because of good deeds? Or are we still here thanks to divine intervention, or just luck? Google isn't the best place for answers to major existential questions, but it did lead me to this observation on the Chabad site:
----
There is a common misconception that life is about being in the right place at the right time. In truth, how you experience life has more to do with what is happening inside you as with what is happening outside.
Like riding a roller coaster without being prepared, if you are not well-tuned to the channel of life, a symphony of miracles could come across as cacophony from the boiler room.
This is what the sages call z'chut--sometimes translated as merit. It means a refinement of the soul, so that it will be precisely on the right frequency and static-clean.
----
So maybe the answer is: it doesn't matter why we've triumphed or suffered. What counts is being open to learn from these experiences; therein lies the honor, the z'chut.
----
There is a common misconception that life is about being in the right place at the right time. In truth, how you experience life has more to do with what is happening inside you as with what is happening outside.
Like riding a roller coaster without being prepared, if you are not well-tuned to the channel of life, a symphony of miracles could come across as cacophony from the boiler room.
This is what the sages call z'chut--sometimes translated as merit. It means a refinement of the soul, so that it will be precisely on the right frequency and static-clean.
----
So maybe the answer is: it doesn't matter why we've triumphed or suffered. What counts is being open to learn from these experiences; therein lies the honor, the z'chut.
923. Rest
A few weeks ago at Friday night services, the rabbi considered the meaning of Shabbat rest. On Shabbat we refrain from creation, enjoying the gift of living in the present for a day. We prepare eagerly for a taste of eternity, cooking, cleaning, inviting friends to join us--and suddenly it's sunset.
That's when we have to lay aside our expectations. Because if we enter Friday evening still anticipating what those 25 hours might bring, we're not truly observing Shabbat. We need to let go of our hopes and wishes, whether for the quality of the soup we just made, the aliyah we're been practicing over and over again, or of our lives in coming weeks, and simply be with what we have, what we and God have made in partnership. There are six other days in the week to fix what is not yet perfect. Shabbat is for sitting back and reminding ourselves that what already does exist, flaws and all, is pretty amazing.
It's not easy. (For adults, anyway; I think back to when I was a kid, and finishing my homework meant perfect freedom. Then one day when I was about ten, I had a flash of insight—I remember the exact moment, sitting at the kitchen table eating a peanut butter sandwich—when I realized that growing up meant reaching a tipping point where responsibilities could never be put aside. There would always be something, someone, latched on and wanting more. I couldn't decide if I liked or feared this fate, but knew I had to continue having fun and acting like a child until its inevitable descent.) We drive ourselves crazy trying to reclaim a time before the noise began. It's a paradox of being Jewish; we're people of action. Study isn't complete until we put knowledge into use and help make the world a better place. But one day a week we're directed to refrain from the most important part of our jobs as human beings and act like we're boss, resting in the image of God and allowing what has already been created to flow like a stream over and within us.
A child might walk around in her father's big shoes and imagine what it it's like to be all grown up. Shabbat is for the first part of that experience only; the imagining follows later on. Shabbat is for the senses, so that during the week we can filter those tastes, sounds, and images into imagination and, ultimately, action.
Shabbat Shalom!
That's when we have to lay aside our expectations. Because if we enter Friday evening still anticipating what those 25 hours might bring, we're not truly observing Shabbat. We need to let go of our hopes and wishes, whether for the quality of the soup we just made, the aliyah we're been practicing over and over again, or of our lives in coming weeks, and simply be with what we have, what we and God have made in partnership. There are six other days in the week to fix what is not yet perfect. Shabbat is for sitting back and reminding ourselves that what already does exist, flaws and all, is pretty amazing.
It's not easy. (For adults, anyway; I think back to when I was a kid, and finishing my homework meant perfect freedom. Then one day when I was about ten, I had a flash of insight—I remember the exact moment, sitting at the kitchen table eating a peanut butter sandwich—when I realized that growing up meant reaching a tipping point where responsibilities could never be put aside. There would always be something, someone, latched on and wanting more. I couldn't decide if I liked or feared this fate, but knew I had to continue having fun and acting like a child until its inevitable descent.) We drive ourselves crazy trying to reclaim a time before the noise began. It's a paradox of being Jewish; we're people of action. Study isn't complete until we put knowledge into use and help make the world a better place. But one day a week we're directed to refrain from the most important part of our jobs as human beings and act like we're boss, resting in the image of God and allowing what has already been created to flow like a stream over and within us.
A child might walk around in her father's big shoes and imagine what it it's like to be all grown up. Shabbat is for the first part of that experience only; the imagining follows later on. Shabbat is for the senses, so that during the week we can filter those tastes, sounds, and images into imagination and, ultimately, action.
Shabbat Shalom!
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
922. Shavuot morning
Imagine a sapphire, bluer than the sea and clear as a loving gaze, mixed with milk, simple and opaque, mirror-smooth, and the color that might result. This was the sky on Shavuot morning as we stumbled upstairs after a night of learning. Sleeping cars parked on Broadway looked more deeply rooted than the skinny Manhattan sidewalk trees between them. I didn't want to go back inside; I wasn't sure my brain would function well enough to chant four aliyot. And I also wanted to watch the sun continue to seep into a flat and flowing sky.
But eventually we had to start the morning service. I made it through the reading just fine although shaking a bit, partly in anticipation of the text, and also because I forgot to take a nap the afternoon before and was dizzy with exhaustion. I did stumble once, on a passage I knew perfectly:
Vayomer Moshe el-ha'am al-tira'u ki leva'avur nasot etchem ba ha'Elohim uva'avur tiheyeh yir'ato al-pneychem levilti techeta'u.
"'Do not be afraid,' replied Moses to the people. 'God only came to raise you up. His fear will then be on your faces, and you will not sin.'"
—Exodus 20:17 (or 20:16, in some tikkunim)
Where I got confused: "al-tira'u," "do not be afraid." I made the same mistake last year, as well, and I think on at least one other occasion. The trope is similar, but not identical, to the melody a few lines later. I knew it might trip me up; I practiced it over and over beforehand, but it got the best of me once again. So I listed to the gabbai's correction, took a deep breath and went back a few words, and did it right. We can't help being afraid, but will always be OK once we remember that we're never alone.
But eventually we had to start the morning service. I made it through the reading just fine although shaking a bit, partly in anticipation of the text, and also because I forgot to take a nap the afternoon before and was dizzy with exhaustion. I did stumble once, on a passage I knew perfectly:
Vayomer Moshe el-ha'am al-tira'u ki leva'avur nasot etchem ba ha'Elohim uva'avur tiheyeh yir'ato al-pneychem levilti techeta'u.
"'Do not be afraid,' replied Moses to the people. 'God only came to raise you up. His fear will then be on your faces, and you will not sin.'"
—Exodus 20:17 (or 20:16, in some tikkunim)
Where I got confused: "al-tira'u," "do not be afraid." I made the same mistake last year, as well, and I think on at least one other occasion. The trope is similar, but not identical, to the melody a few lines later. I knew it might trip me up; I practiced it over and over beforehand, but it got the best of me once again. So I listed to the gabbai's correction, took a deep breath and went back a few words, and did it right. We can't help being afraid, but will always be OK once we remember that we're never alone.
Monday, May 31, 2010
921. Donation update
So I think it's really going to happen. I went for the physical, a long but not unpleasant experience: about 20 more vials of blood and other bodily fluids taken, interview with a doctor, hundreds of questions answered on a dozen forms (hey, do I look like someone who might have had sex with a prostitute?! but I know they have to ask), EKG, chest x-ray, no-nonsense nurse flicking her fingers repeatedly into the crooks of my arms to assess the state of my veins. It was actually almost a fun way to spend the afternoon because I was accompanied through these various trials by two staff members from the local marrow donor program: S., a young nurse on her way to getting a degree in public health, and C. a sweet and endearingly chivalrous man in his 30s who refused to call me by my first name because "it just wouldn't be right." He also opened doors and offered to bring me food and drink every ten minutes or so. It's been a long time since I went to the doctor with anyone but myself, and so was a nice and nurturing experience. And after the nurse pronounced my veins in good shape (very important, otherwise I'd need a central line for the donation and would have to stay in the hospital overnight), they both applauded. Never before has the state of my veins elicited a standing ovation, nor will it probably do so ever again.
Then I waited a week and tried not to think about it, an impossible task. The following Tuesday I received a phone call: we're so sorry, some of your blood samples got contaminated. So I rushed back to the hospital to give more, and C. offhandedly (and politely) mentioned that a few of my results had been "flagged." But no need to worry. Of course I did, so he said a doctor would call to explain. A sleepless night followed.
The next day C. himself called to say that it was a mistake, my results were fine (and the doctor scolded him for suggesting otherwise). And, with that, I was pronounced fit to donate.
So now I wait a month and a half. It doesn't seem quite real, and I alternate between being certain I'm blowing the whole thing out of proportion (it's just a few hours out of my life, and plenty of others have done it before; I'm nothing special), and being completely overwhelmed with awe. It's not a miracle, which is even more of a miracle. This is what God does; this is how life is. We're all part of one another. I become mute and immobilized if I think about it for too long, like staring into the sun.
Last week I met with one of my amazing rabbis to see if he could help me find a voice. As I learned this spring, Heschel wrote in Man's Quest for God that silence is the highest form of prayer. So when confronted with these uncountable heaps of of gratitude and amazement, I thought at first that it would be OK to be unable to express. I waited for my silence to take me to a greater place of understanding. But it didn't. Instead I was adrift, like a cloud in a beautiful but way too big sky. This event fits in no category I've ever known. It needs a "container," offered the rabbi, and suggested specific Psalms and part of the Book of Job as texts to help illuminate the sensation of feeling both infinitesimal in a vast universe, and more joyful than there are stars. So bit by bit, a little each day, I will look for answers in those words, one set of metaphors illuminating another. And continue to pray that an unknown, unnamed woman can hold on until the second week of July.
Then I waited a week and tried not to think about it, an impossible task. The following Tuesday I received a phone call: we're so sorry, some of your blood samples got contaminated. So I rushed back to the hospital to give more, and C. offhandedly (and politely) mentioned that a few of my results had been "flagged." But no need to worry. Of course I did, so he said a doctor would call to explain. A sleepless night followed.
The next day C. himself called to say that it was a mistake, my results were fine (and the doctor scolded him for suggesting otherwise). And, with that, I was pronounced fit to donate.
So now I wait a month and a half. It doesn't seem quite real, and I alternate between being certain I'm blowing the whole thing out of proportion (it's just a few hours out of my life, and plenty of others have done it before; I'm nothing special), and being completely overwhelmed with awe. It's not a miracle, which is even more of a miracle. This is what God does; this is how life is. We're all part of one another. I become mute and immobilized if I think about it for too long, like staring into the sun.
Last week I met with one of my amazing rabbis to see if he could help me find a voice. As I learned this spring, Heschel wrote in Man's Quest for God that silence is the highest form of prayer. So when confronted with these uncountable heaps of of gratitude and amazement, I thought at first that it would be OK to be unable to express. I waited for my silence to take me to a greater place of understanding. But it didn't. Instead I was adrift, like a cloud in a beautiful but way too big sky. This event fits in no category I've ever known. It needs a "container," offered the rabbi, and suggested specific Psalms and part of the Book of Job as texts to help illuminate the sensation of feeling both infinitesimal in a vast universe, and more joyful than there are stars. So bit by bit, a little each day, I will look for answers in those words, one set of metaphors illuminating another. And continue to pray that an unknown, unnamed woman can hold on until the second week of July.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
920. On teaching
Well ... it's been a while. Since last I wrote, an awful lot of life has happened around me; not to me, things are status quo, but this swirling activity of birth, death, grief, joy, has been exhausting. Not complaining. Better to be over one's head in the stuff of existence than bored and wearing blinders.
Yesterday was one of the amazingly joyful days. Three of my chanting students, with whom I'd been working since January (one via Skype from Brazil!), became B'not Torah at services. They are brilliant women, and so of course did perfect, beautiful jobs. (This didn't stop me from being irrationally nervous, however; I was definitely projecting my knee-jerk Torah reading butterflies on them. They, in turn, were cool as a cucumber.) I cried as I watched the woman who chanted haftarah smile as she sang "Rani v'simhi, bat-zion:" "Sing and rejoice, daughter of Zion."
I was given an aliyah, much to my surprise and reluctance, and the rabbi reflected on his earlier d'var Torah about the week's parasha, Beha'alotekha, and Robert Alter's comment about "radical spiritual egalitarianism." To the elders who gather to figure out how to contain the kvetching Israelite riffraff, God grants the gift of prophesy ("the spirit of God rested upon them"). God does not fix the problem God's self, or through an agent; the people do, themselves (with a litle help, of course). Our synagogue community follows in this tradition as well, observed the rabbi, as members extend the chain of learning directly from one to another--beginning with my teacher, who made it possible for so many people to sing these beautiful words--and now it can grow threefold, as these three women find others to teach.
As a kid, I had no clue about the value of teachers. I had some amazing ones, but never acknowledged that they did more than just a job--were anything other than the hired help. I think I felt entitled to those moments of revelation, and envisioned my teachers as mere conduits of someone else's knowledge. That teaching required mastery of the art and science of connecting to others in a unique and life-changing way never occurred to me. My mother and father were certainly grateful and admiring of my teachers, but never suggested I become one. This doesn't sound like a very Jewish parent-like directive--but parents, by nature, are not egalitarian. Teaching, they believed, would never serve my talents and and goals as an artist whose imagination was meant to lead to unknown and exciting worlds. Like my parents, a bookkeeper and grocery store produce manager, teachers provided a service. My future was as a creator, a far nobler goal.
So this discovery, over the last few years, that teaching is all about learning, changing, seeing the world through someone else's eyes and ears and adapting mine to help grow theirs, has been a bit intoxicating. It's one of the most creative things I've ever done, and I'm honored to become another link on the chain.
Yesterday was one of the amazingly joyful days. Three of my chanting students, with whom I'd been working since January (one via Skype from Brazil!), became B'not Torah at services. They are brilliant women, and so of course did perfect, beautiful jobs. (This didn't stop me from being irrationally nervous, however; I was definitely projecting my knee-jerk Torah reading butterflies on them. They, in turn, were cool as a cucumber.) I cried as I watched the woman who chanted haftarah smile as she sang "Rani v'simhi, bat-zion:" "Sing and rejoice, daughter of Zion."
I was given an aliyah, much to my surprise and reluctance, and the rabbi reflected on his earlier d'var Torah about the week's parasha, Beha'alotekha, and Robert Alter's comment about "radical spiritual egalitarianism." To the elders who gather to figure out how to contain the kvetching Israelite riffraff, God grants the gift of prophesy ("the spirit of God rested upon them"). God does not fix the problem God's self, or through an agent; the people do, themselves (with a litle help, of course). Our synagogue community follows in this tradition as well, observed the rabbi, as members extend the chain of learning directly from one to another--beginning with my teacher, who made it possible for so many people to sing these beautiful words--and now it can grow threefold, as these three women find others to teach.
As a kid, I had no clue about the value of teachers. I had some amazing ones, but never acknowledged that they did more than just a job--were anything other than the hired help. I think I felt entitled to those moments of revelation, and envisioned my teachers as mere conduits of someone else's knowledge. That teaching required mastery of the art and science of connecting to others in a unique and life-changing way never occurred to me. My mother and father were certainly grateful and admiring of my teachers, but never suggested I become one. This doesn't sound like a very Jewish parent-like directive--but parents, by nature, are not egalitarian. Teaching, they believed, would never serve my talents and and goals as an artist whose imagination was meant to lead to unknown and exciting worlds. Like my parents, a bookkeeper and grocery store produce manager, teachers provided a service. My future was as a creator, a far nobler goal.
So this discovery, over the last few years, that teaching is all about learning, changing, seeing the world through someone else's eyes and ears and adapting mine to help grow theirs, has been a bit intoxicating. It's one of the most creative things I've ever done, and I'm honored to become another link on the chain.
Sunday, May 02, 2010
919. Omer update
I haven't been very good at counting the Omer this year. One reason (not that this is an excuse) is that time is doing an usually strong job of marking itself. I haven't been inspired to help it along. The father of a friend died two weeks ago, suddenly—fifteen minutes after we spoke on the phone and his voice and spirits sounded stronger than ever—a kind, sweet man with a wonderful smile who gave myself and other friends the gift of feeling like family. The next day, one of my dearest teachers and role models gave birth to a son. Marking both kinds of passages so close to one another was a roller coaster of emotions, but also helped me see how these two people were perfect examples of that third week of Tiferet—a word that means "beauty" and describes a quality combining strength and compassion. If only I had a whole week to contemplate the fullness of those traits, as the Omer intended; one day between the coming and going of these particular souls was not enough. I'm still exhausted.
Thursday, the day I found out I might be a PBSC donor, was the 29th day of the Omer, Hesed of Hod, Lovingkindness in Humility:
... Hod or humility is modesty—it is acknowledgment (from the root of the Hebrew word 'hoda'ah'). It is saying "thank you" to G-d. It is clearly recognizing your qualities and strengths and acknowledging that they are not your own; they were given to you by G-d for a higher purpose than just satisfying your own needs. Humility is modesty; it is recognizing how small you are which allows you to realize how large you can become. And that makes humility so formidable....
... Does my humility cause me to be more loving and giving? More expansive? Or does it inhibit and constrain me?
— from meaningfullife.com
In other words (I think), if I do end up being a donor, I need to thank God for the ability to give but also remember to take credit for my own actions: joining the registry, saying yes, I'll do it. If I don't recognize myself, as well, I will be diminishing this gift.
(There are way too many lessons to learn! Sometimes it seems dangerous to even blink while in the vicinity of a holy book for fear of missing the one word that might change your life...)
Meanwhile, I'm discovering more collected wisdom from others who have donated marrow/PBSC and decided to share their experiences:
Kylie's Adventure with PBSC Donation
A Quick View of PBSC/Marrow Donation
PBSC Donation Writeup
How I Met My Match: A Donor Story
Thursday, the day I found out I might be a PBSC donor, was the 29th day of the Omer, Hesed of Hod, Lovingkindness in Humility:
... Hod or humility is modesty—it is acknowledgment (from the root of the Hebrew word 'hoda'ah'). It is saying "thank you" to G-d. It is clearly recognizing your qualities and strengths and acknowledging that they are not your own; they were given to you by G-d for a higher purpose than just satisfying your own needs. Humility is modesty; it is recognizing how small you are which allows you to realize how large you can become. And that makes humility so formidable....
... Does my humility cause me to be more loving and giving? More expansive? Or does it inhibit and constrain me?
— from meaningfullife.com
In other words (I think), if I do end up being a donor, I need to thank God for the ability to give but also remember to take credit for my own actions: joining the registry, saying yes, I'll do it. If I don't recognize myself, as well, I will be diminishing this gift.
(There are way too many lessons to learn! Sometimes it seems dangerous to even blink while in the vicinity of a holy book for fear of missing the one word that might change your life...)
Meanwhile, I'm discovering more collected wisdom from others who have donated marrow/PBSC and decided to share their experiences:
Kylie's Adventure with PBSC Donation
A Quick View of PBSC/Marrow Donation
PBSC Donation Writeup
How I Met My Match: A Donor Story
918. Perfection
We study Torah to understand Rashi, remarked the rabbi at services on Friday night, and not the other way around. We don't live in a black and white world; midrash helps us interpret daily life, and does indeed count as much as the original text. This week's parasha, Emor, for example, says that the high priest must be perfect in every way. Does this mean that those with disabilities are forever flawed, less than holy? What about the rest of us? So we can choose to interpret Emor as fundamentalists, text to be rejected wholly or observed blindly. Or we can see it as a challenge from God: look beyond the surface, discover how to connect words of Torah to the realities of here and now.
"What's the text of your life?" is an awfully heavy question, added the rabbi, and we can spend our entire lives searching for the answer. But "What's the midrash for today?"—that's a little more manageable. Think about the context and meaning of your actions, he suggested, and if they don't ring honest and true—discover a new midrash.
I sat speechless for a few seconds after he said that, as if cold water had been splashed in my face: wake up! We can try to steer and influence, but so much that happens in our lives—health, world events, love—is out of our control. And how we respond to these events is up to each one of us alone, and no one else.
On Thursday I learned that I am indeed a perfect match to be a bone marrow donor to a perfect stranger, a woman in her 50s. As proof that God really does have a sense of humor, and good timing, I got the news in a voicemail message left on my phone at the exact same instant as I was having blood drawn at my doctor's office during a routine checkup. (As the events at Sinai demonstrated, important pieces of information are most effectively delivered with special effects.) I heard the phone buzz and for a second thought—as I had every time over the past month and a half when seeing caller ID from this particular area code—is this it? "It," I already decided, was no. The odds were too high (about 1:20,000), and how chutzpadik to assume I was perfect? Besides, I didn't want to get all excited and then be disappointed.
But then I stood on a windy street corner and called back, and heard yes. I was both surprised and not; I guess a little part of me concluded all along that I'd be the one. On Friday I received a big FedEx box containing a million papers to read and sign and a DVD explaining the procedure, an oddly charming glorified filmstrip complete with earnest doctor lacking acting ability as narrator.
If all goes well and I pass the physical, I'll be donating PBSCs, peripheral blood stem cells. They carry the ability to generate new blood cells, and until recently could only be harvested from bone marrow, a surgical procedure involving pain and a hospital stay. A newer method, still experimental but now the most common way to donate, allows these cells to be extracted from circulating ("peripheral") blood. For five days the donor is injected with filgrastim, a drug to stimulate PBSC growth, and then undergoes a procedure where all the blood in one's body—at least twice over—is filtered to remove stem cells, and then returned. Out one arm and in the other.
Assuming I do pass the physical, the procedure won't take place until July or later because of a drug trial the recipient is on. In the meantime, she has to stay both sick and healthy enough to make a transplant appropriate, a scary balancing act.
So it still might not happen. What's my midrash for today, in that case? How can I understand this accident of my birth and tissue type that might allow me to save a life—or watch God dangle the possibility so closely but then take it away? What if I donate and the recipient still dies? (A little knowledge, especially gleaned from the Internet, is a dangerous thing; last night I read that transplants often fail for people with this woman's condition. But it wouldn't take place unless there was some chance of success, right?)
A friend pointed out that no matter what, whether or not the process goes any further, I've given someone hope. Maybe that's the best blood of life, and the real definition of perfection.
"What's the text of your life?" is an awfully heavy question, added the rabbi, and we can spend our entire lives searching for the answer. But "What's the midrash for today?"—that's a little more manageable. Think about the context and meaning of your actions, he suggested, and if they don't ring honest and true—discover a new midrash.
I sat speechless for a few seconds after he said that, as if cold water had been splashed in my face: wake up! We can try to steer and influence, but so much that happens in our lives—health, world events, love—is out of our control. And how we respond to these events is up to each one of us alone, and no one else.
On Thursday I learned that I am indeed a perfect match to be a bone marrow donor to a perfect stranger, a woman in her 50s. As proof that God really does have a sense of humor, and good timing, I got the news in a voicemail message left on my phone at the exact same instant as I was having blood drawn at my doctor's office during a routine checkup. (As the events at Sinai demonstrated, important pieces of information are most effectively delivered with special effects.) I heard the phone buzz and for a second thought—as I had every time over the past month and a half when seeing caller ID from this particular area code—is this it? "It," I already decided, was no. The odds were too high (about 1:20,000), and how chutzpadik to assume I was perfect? Besides, I didn't want to get all excited and then be disappointed.
But then I stood on a windy street corner and called back, and heard yes. I was both surprised and not; I guess a little part of me concluded all along that I'd be the one. On Friday I received a big FedEx box containing a million papers to read and sign and a DVD explaining the procedure, an oddly charming glorified filmstrip complete with earnest doctor lacking acting ability as narrator.
If all goes well and I pass the physical, I'll be donating PBSCs, peripheral blood stem cells. They carry the ability to generate new blood cells, and until recently could only be harvested from bone marrow, a surgical procedure involving pain and a hospital stay. A newer method, still experimental but now the most common way to donate, allows these cells to be extracted from circulating ("peripheral") blood. For five days the donor is injected with filgrastim, a drug to stimulate PBSC growth, and then undergoes a procedure where all the blood in one's body—at least twice over—is filtered to remove stem cells, and then returned. Out one arm and in the other.
Assuming I do pass the physical, the procedure won't take place until July or later because of a drug trial the recipient is on. In the meantime, she has to stay both sick and healthy enough to make a transplant appropriate, a scary balancing act.
So it still might not happen. What's my midrash for today, in that case? How can I understand this accident of my birth and tissue type that might allow me to save a life—or watch God dangle the possibility so closely but then take it away? What if I donate and the recipient still dies? (A little knowledge, especially gleaned from the Internet, is a dangerous thing; last night I read that transplants often fail for people with this woman's condition. But it wouldn't take place unless there was some chance of success, right?)
A friend pointed out that no matter what, whether or not the process goes any further, I've given someone hope. Maybe that's the best blood of life, and the real definition of perfection.
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