983. #BlogElul 2015 4: Understand

I'm in a book group where we're reading the wonderful and complex Bewilderments by Aviva Zornberg, a study of the biblical book of Bemidbar (Numbers; literally, "in the wilderness"). When the spies return from their survey mission of the Land, she writes, and offer an ambiguous message—it's all milk and honey, but populated by fearsome giants—the Israelites face a paradox: is it good or evil? Do we stay or do we go? They're stuck in a place where they have no choice but to "acknowledge life and death as inextricably interwoven [p.139]." This confusion and disruption forces them to confront "questions about themselves, the world, and God [p.146]." Their existential agony, in a way, teaches them to be better people, which gives them the strength to continue on their desert journey.

Almost exactly three years ago, a friend since childhood stopped talking to me. We were like family; we were sisters. We had an argument of the big, whopping, nasty variety, and she refused to sit down and discuss what happened. And then she simply cut me off. Complete silence. At first I tried to make contact. Then I reached out to mutual friends, and learned they'd been instructed not to talk to me, either. She was facing a serious health crisis, and I wasn't supposed to know if she was dead or alive.

Her birthday came. I didn't send a card. The next day I received an undeniably hostile message from her, just one word. I wrote back with many more words, saying that I didn't understand why she wanted to hurt me, why we couldn't just talk, and so this was goodbye. I would stop reaching out, but would always love her.

I tied myself into knots and then tore myself apart. What did I do to her? I identified a million little sins; surely it was all my fault. I also spoke to many wise people, who pointed out that her behavior over the years had been extremely and obviously dysfunctional. I knew this, of course, but it's easy to make excuses for someone you love: "She's going through a hard time." "She'll realize tomorrow how much that hurt." But it was always the same, and worse. But if course it would get better. We were special, and none of that other stuff applied.

Now I understand that mental illness can strike anyone, and there was nothing special about us at all. I mourn the person she once was and embrace who I am now, with the ability to seek out friends who have space in their lives for my life, and who make me feel good about myself. I'm still sad, sometimes. I forgive her, although can't imagine ever being able to trust her, should she return. (See this wonderful essay on that topic.) I'll send her a New Year's card like I did last year, wishing her all goodness, and will not hear back. It's OK. I'm now on the other side of the wilderness paradox, done with the worst parts of wrestling good and bad, love and not-love, and I really do understand.

982. #BlogElul 2015 3: Search

(Forgive me for another 9/11-related post, but I'm still thinking about my visit to the Memorial.) My mother, z"ll, a bookkeeper by profession, was an aspiring interior designer and architect by dream and imagination. She loved when new skyscrapers sprouted in Manhattan, and would plan excursions to visit and gawk. I remember, in particular, field trips to Citibank (with the slice missing) and AT&T (with the Chippendale top), but the World Trade Center was her favorite by far. We counted down the days to the opening, and then made multiple trips to the very top and a view that seemed to embrace the universe. On July 4, 1976, when tall ships from all over the world gathered in New York Harbor, we managed to squeeze into an elevator—security? what's that?—that landed on the top floor where TV cameras were transmitting the spectacle to the entire world. It was actually a little disappointing, because from almost a mile up the ships looked like matchstick toys. But just being there was enough to make me feel like I was helping to make history in some small way.

The towers falling—being murdered—was an assault on those memories. It was no longer possible to look up at the buildings and re-live those trips. Photos evoked only anger and sadness. I could find no space in the drawers and crevices of recall to place the good times I spent on top of the towers with my mother, and best friends, and my first boyfriend as we chastely held hands and scanned the horizon for the speck of the street where I lived in Queens. For the past fifteen years those memories have been adrift, seeking a spot to land.

When I saw the two pools yesterday that rest in the footprints of the North and South Towers, I knew I could stop searching. My mother would have loved them. I can see her leaning over the perimeter and tracing the names with her fingers, and then listening to the waterfall and smiling.

981. #BlogElul 2015 2: Act

Today a dear friend from college and her family came to visit, and I joined them on a tour of the Sept. 11 Memorial. Even though, thank God, I didn't lose anyone personally, that day was one of the worst in my life. In anticipation of this visit, I've tried to figure out exactly why. Yes, of course, it was horrible and terrible on so many levels, but the thought of that day has always made me feel like running and screaming, despairing and leaving—like punching my fist into a wall and declaring that it never happened. Like never looking down 6th Ave. to see the lack of two buildings (now replaced by one, which I also never looked at). Like avoiding all of downtown whenever possible. I've been aware that, at some point, I needed to stop running away from the memory of that day. Eventually. Not now.

I'm glad that my friend's visit forced me to act, because today was the now. It was unbearably sad, and at first I could barely look at the crushed firetruck, the slurry wall, the last column, pieces of holy things that were once ordinary. I skipped the hour-by-hour exhibits; the day's chronology is already burned into my soul. But then there was the wall of blue squares, a color that had come to signify ugliness now transformed back into its beautiful self. And the reminder of flight 93 and how they sacrificed themselves to save us all. And also the video that began with that awful, awful sound, and all the paper and a mist of almost-breathing dust, and ended with new growth, new hope, and a place for memory to rest. 

981. #BlogElul 2015 1: Prepare

Deja vu... I was here last year at this time, no? Life has continued in the usual way—some good, some (but not too much) bad, some (mostly all) in between, and here we are again. Right now: mostly good! It's a nice way to start the new year.

Today at services the rabbi invited all those who had a goal for the month of Elul to come up to the bimah for an aliyah. He gave us a minute to think about that goal, and I closed my eyes and saw a carousel of intentions, all dancing and vying to be chosen. I opened my eyes and realized I wasn't quite ready to choose, and instead offered a little prayer that Elul itself would lead me to the answer. I happened to be at the bimah already, since I was chanting, which I think was God's way of accepting a compromise. I'm preparing to prepare. It's a start, like this first day of the journey of Elul.

980. #BlogElul 7: Be

(Just a little behind.)

When I think of "be," what first comes to mind is the question that travelled with me throughout childhood:

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

I considered many possibilities over the years. In first grade I became fascinated with bugs--excuse me, insects, with six legs and a proper thorax. My mother didn't appreciate the ant farm on our fire escape, but I managed to keep it going until they succumbed to the New York City winter. Uglier species were soon displaced by butterflies; I became Monarch-crazed and saved up for and practically memorized Lutz's Field Book, even though scant few pretty flying things ever appeared in Flushing. 

Then I started wearing glasses and, no pun intended, focused my scientific interests on myself. In 3rd grade I fashioned a clay and hand-painted model of an eye, compete with veins, and planned a career in ophthalmology. That lasted until I began to read the comics in the Long Island Press, and instead chose a future as the next Charles Schultz. I drew Snoopy all over my notebooks (the human characters didn't interest me at all). This direction kind of stuck, and by high school comics had turned into drawing and painting, and then in college more painting and graphic design, which is where I remain today (with a side order of painting, digital version).

But that answers only part of the question of what I ended up being. Some of me is an artist. Another big part is a singer (i.e. "alto artist"). Filling the gaps in between is a writer, friend, aunt, caretaker of cats, and person still trying to figure out what to do next, and if I am, in fact, grown up. I hope the coming Yamim Nora'im will help me answer some part of those questions.

979. #BlogElul 6: Search

"... Rebbe Nachman teaches: 'At times, when people are joyful and dance, they will seize one who sits apart in his sorrow. They drag him into their dancing round and compel him to be happy with them. This is also what happens in the heart of a person who is joyful. Sadness and sorrow withdraw on the sidelines, but it is reckoned as a special virtue to round them up boldly and to bring sadness along into joy, so that all the power of sorrow be changed to joy.' (Likutei Mohoran II 23)

Rebbe Nachman knew that for most people, most of the time, joy is an effort and a choice. Sorrow is always available, and we can transform it or let it govern us. There is nobody who does not know sorrow, and yet still Rebbe Nachman said, 'it is a great mitzvah to be happy always.' ..."

—Rabbi Brent Chaim Spodek, 

from B'nai Jeshurun's "Gates of Reflection" daily posts for the month of Elul

There's a lot of joy in my life, although usually not the woo hoo, let's run around with a bunch of balloons! kind. It's more often the quieter type: moments of love and friendship, small hurdles overcome, the light through leaves of a tree in the park in the morning, colors and textures of paint, a purring cat, a song, a prayer. Like the miracle of the air that surrounds us, these instances of joy can be so closely woven into the background that that they seem to disappear. But they're just waiting for me search for and notice them, and then grab on and dance.

978. Attempting to #BlogElul. 5: Know.

Every year at this time I try to prepare for the month ahead. Sometimes it works, sometimes not. So jumping into the fray this time around, belatedly, with a few sentences:

What I know:

That art has taken the place of writing for me this year, which is just fine.

That I still, maybe, feel the need to write, so here I am again.

That I work too hard, and so it's really OK when I procrastinate. A little.

That I'm learning how to stand up for myself.

That I'm learning about the kinds of people with whom I need to surround myself.

That I'm blessed for having so many of those people in my life right now.

That I'm really, really lucky.

That living, especially in New York City, is a long, roiling, wavy line.

That if you examine that line closely, it still does contain small, smooth moments of tranquility.

That I'm learning to discover more of those moments.

That I'm learning.

977. Glow

A lovely essay by the Coffee Shop Rabbi--please read the whole thing:

"Chanting My Way into Torah"

Excerpt:

Then I begin to notice how the melody comments upon the text: emphasize this word, that phrase.  Make a sort of soprano hiccup (geresh!) on one little preposition.  Gradually the text warms up, or I warm up to it. The little incense table begins to take shape, and glow.

976. Presence

Thanks to a link in this op-ed by David Brooks, "The Art of Presence," I found this interesting piece about how to respond and react when someone you know experiences a trauma:

A New Normal: Ten Things I've Learned About Trauma

The author, Catherine Woodiwiss, is recovering from a serious accident. She writes, among other wise words:

2.  Presence is always better than distance.

There is a curious illusion that in times of crisis people “need space.” I don’t know where this assumption originated, but in my experience it is almost always false. Trauma is a disfiguring, lonely time even when surrounded in love; to suffer through trauma alone is unbearable. Do not assume others are reaching out, showing up, or covering all the bases.
It is a much lighter burden to say, “Thanks for your love, but please go away,” than to say, “I was hurting and no one cared for me.” If someone says they need space, respect that. Otherwise, err on the side of presence.

I've learned this past year that some people seem to prefer the "unbearable," suffering alone, to its alternative: allowing others in at a time when you're most vulnerable. Allowing them to see you at your worse and weakest, and trusting that they'll love you no matter what. But if you don't love yourself, then it's very hard to accept that others do. Pushing them away becomes a survival tactic to help maintain the status quo—but  ignores the fact that in times of trauma, the old status quo generally flies out the window.

I don't know what Judaism says about this, but I keep coming back to Pirkei Avot: "Find yourself a teacher." In my experience, when I've been at my weakest it's helped immeasurably to imagine everyone around me, from the guy who sells me coffee in the morning, to my clients, to my friends and rabbis, as a teacher, and remember that at my emptiest I can't possibly have any idea of what they might offer to fill that space. So I try to let them in.

975. Expansion

"Spread over us your shelter of peace," we ask God every Friday night in the Hashkivenu prayer. We can interpret this to mean that peace requires expansion, observed the rabbi at services this week, since God needs to create something wide for the shelter to be able to cover us.

But what if only God expands in this scenario? What if we remain closed--will peace reach those places within us that stay hidden? The question made me think of the times I've walked down the street with a friend and it started to rain. If my friend has an umbrella and I don't, then I'll try to squeeze under hers. Invariably I'll wrap my arms around myself in an attempt to become as small as possible, but that usually backfires; it creates an awkward, uneven gait, and I end up bumping into shoulders and elbows and getting soaked. The only way I can stay dry is to relax and synchronize my steps with the shelter-bearer.

I think that's the big problem with achieving peace--we're afraid that expansion will reveal those parts of us we don't want to see. It's one thing to pray that God, or the other country or person, will become wide and open to reveal new shelters and pathways. It's not so easy to reciprocate, however.

974. Happy 2014, and here I am again

It sure has been a long time, well over a year. I'm still here, and doing fine. I've been very busy with a new business on top of my old business; both are fun and complicated, and take up too much time. Not a whole lot of creative juice has been left over for writing, though, which has been OK; the new stuff has mostly filled that need, and more.

But I'm still trying to make sense of one of those bullet points from way back at the end of '12:

• ended a long friendship that had become toxic; as sad as a death, and I will be mourning this loss for a long time

Mostly, in my experience, time really does heal all wounds, but not always. Sometimes time creates scars weaker and far uglier than the original thin skin. It's taken me over a year to understand that there will be no closure to this particular pain and I need to learn to live with it, move past it, and change its story into one of comfort and compassion. I need to stop imagining that the clock will magically turn back and all will be well. I've tried to heal in many different ways; maybe reviving this blog and watching myself think in public, so to speak, will help.

Aside from all that: yes, I continue to chant and sing! And I'm still thinking about how the meaning of all those words and notes (and, in my art, their shapes and colors) fits into the larger story of Torah and life. Maybe I'll write about that, or maybe not. Either way, I hope to again be able to make time and space to write something, anything, every once in awhile.

973. #BlogElul 11: Change

I'm on "stay-cation" this week, and so am trying to change my habits just a little to make the usual seem new and different. This morning I got up at 5AM and walked exactly 3.4 mles to a breakfast meeting (OK, I'm not entirely faux-away, but enough to tell the difference). It felt great, a reminder that leaving my comfort zone can be (almost) as rewarding as staying in bed an extra hour.

As I stumbled out of the apartment in near darkness, I passed and read the calligraphy print by the door just as I do every day:

"Nothing endures but change." --Epictetus

972. #BlogElul 10: Memory

I subscribe to a daily Google alert for the word "Judaism," which delivers some interesting (in the broadest meaning of the word) articles to my emailbox. This morning's batch included a critique of a recent Washington Post interview with Zeke Emmanuel, Obama bioethics advisor, brother of Rahm and Ari, and self-described atheist and follower of kashrut. The Post story focuses on the difference, in Judaism, between belief and practice. I won't link to or quote from the other article, which fits squarely into the Fox News mode and already has enough readers, I'm sure. I will say that it calls Dr. Emmanuel a hypocrite for keeping kosher and yet not believing in God, because the Old Testament says to be kosher and Jews follow the Old Testament. There you have it, end of story. (He then applies the same logic to the issues of abortion and gay marriage, and you can guess his conclusions.)

I mention all this in the context of today's Elul prompt, "Memory," because it reminded me of being 8 years old and asking my Hebrew School teacher what I was supposed to feed my goldfish during Passover. "Matzah meal," replied the rabbi, stroking his long, grey beard (he looked very much like Santa Claus). That night I informed my mother that we had to get some matzah meal for Goldie. I remember her looking very concerned as she answered, and kneeling down so we could speak eye-to-eye. "Oh, I'm so sorry, we can't do that," she said. "Goldie has to eat fish food or she'll die."

I burst into tears. Why did my rabbi want to kill my goldfish? I didn't want to be a bad Jew, and he had taught us that everyone, including pets, was supposed to eat kosher for Passover food during Passover or we'd be bad Jews. But wasn't killing even worse than that? My mother said something or other to calm me down, but I'd already concluded that the rabbi wasn't as smart as he seemed to be, since this made no sense. I also learned, at that moment, to follow no words blindly, not even God's, because "right" and "wrong" must be judged in context.

Which brings me to a question I've been asking myself during this month of Elul: have I done a good enough job this year of examining and, as necessary, challenging the rules?

I thank you, Rabbi Santa Claus, wherever you are, for inadvertently teaching me a lesson much bigger than the laws of kashrut.

971. Hello again (and #BlogElul)

Hello again, world. It's Elul, so I thought I'd honor the month of preparation for something new by revisiting this blog and exploring the newness (including spiffier colors) within something old and good.

Let's see, since February, 2011, the date of my last post, I:

• chanted Torah A LOT, and loved every minute (even the nervous ones, much fewer these days)
• led High Holy Day services last September without being surprised by overly dramatic moments, an experience I look forward to repeating in a few weeks
• created art, in bits and pieces and way behind schedule, that I hope will be on a website very soon
• went to the gym more often than before
• wrote very little (and acknowledged that I can't do everything)
• said hello to my stem cell recipient, who's feeling great
• said goodbye to my dear cat, a beloved companion for 13 years
• ended a long friendship that had become toxic; as sad as a death, and I will be mourning this loss for a long time
• continued to be blessed with good health, an abundance of amazing, non-toxic, loving friends, unparalleled opportunities, and lots of luck.

In short, it was a year and half of life; a bit of a roller coaster, but not too much to complain about and an awful lot to celebrate.

I'm going to try to belatedly jump into #BlogElul, a terrific idea, and post throughout the month on the topic of the day. I'll also post links to the brand new @altoartist Twitter account. Today's topic, for the 9th of Elul, is "Blessings," so it seemed like an auspicious moment to count mine. A few weeks ago I also signed up for Grateful 160, which prompts you every day via email to list one thing for which you're grateful. Some mornings it's harder than others to find that blessing, but I always do—and then realize it was staring me right in the face.

970. 'Neath the elms

I'm still here! Spending much of my free time these days immersed in another project I hope will one day become part of my design business. It's starting slowly—but it's starting, the most important part. Alas, I have only so much extra creative energy to go around once the work day is over. I'm not taking my usual, wonderful writing class this winter, and haven't been blogging very much, either, both to make more time and space in my brain for the other venture. But "on chanting" and I haven't disappeared, and I hope to be back in full(er) force one day soon.

Meanwhile, a great deal of chanting going on. My casual remark to the cantor resulted in six weeks of aliyot of various lengths over the last eight, some sort of personal record. My nerves, still present, seem to have reached a peaceful if tentative detente with the rest of myself. One of my rabbis is teaching a wonderful class on prayer as seen through the writings of Heschel and Hassidic masters, and last week we studied these words of the Maggid of Mezeritch:

"... As the breath leaves you, it ascends to God and then it returns to you from above.
Thus that part of God which is within you is reunited with its source."

So, added the rabbi, sometimes it's good to just stop and breathe, and remind ourselves that we're constantly being recharged with (in the author's words) "that breath of heaven that is always flowing into you from above." We exhale and send the air in our lungs to God, who gives it right back. I remembered this as I chanted on Shabbat, when I placed my yad on the first word and took a deep breath. Please add a little more confidence to the mix when You return it, I thought.

I was too focused on trying to pronounce strange words for the names of jewels I could barely even recognize in English to notice if my prayer had been answered (but perhaps my concentration proved that it was). The section concluded with a description of the "Urim v'tummim," mysterious words on the high priest's breastplate meaning, maybe, "Light and perfection," although there are many other possible translations and mystical explanations. Coincidentally—or not—I had to rush out of services get to my college choir's 150th anniversary celebration, held on an enormous stage in front of a massive pipe organ crowned, at the very top, with the Yale seal emblazoned with those very words. I've written here before about the deep influence on my life of the Yale Glee Club, and especially its conductor. One of my first blog posts, almost exactly six years ago, was about my first time back on the campus in a decade. Back then, as yesterday, the place was alive with ghosts of my youth, of my mother, and of loss, joy, love.

(To be continued.)