994. #BlogElul 4: Choose

Last year, after a few decades of being too self-conscious to even put on a bathing suit, I mustered my courage and went swimming at a magnificent, Olympic-sized public pool just 15 minutes away. It's been there forever, and I never had a clue; amazing what hidden riches are often right under our noses. At first I could barely make it a few strokes, since I'd pretty much forgotten how to do a few strokes. With the generous help of YouTube videos, my body eventually remembered. I started going twice a week over the summer and by last August could, to my surprise, limp through one length of all 50 meters without getting out of breath. This summer, now, I can swim ten lengths with just a few breaks in between. I never imagined I'd be able to do such a thing. The feeling of gliding in rhythm, free and unencumbered, in a quiet, contained blue universe, is one of the best sensations I've ever known.

But: In order to get to the pool I have to actually get out of bed, get dressed, ride the subway (for just a few minutes, but still), load my stuff in the locker, and then reverse the process when I'm done. I  trek successfully to far less pleasant places all fall and winter, many also at that hour of day. But on so many beautiful swimming mornings the alarm goes off and I lay in bed and think: gah, I don't want to move. I imagine all the stages of travel; what seemed, the night before, like a quick, fun jaunt is now, suddenly, a formidable and onerous task. More times than not I do chose to get out of bed, and for hours afterwards my body and mind feel light and filled with breath. But other times, I roll over and am annoyed with myself all day long.

Why can I be so resistant to something that's fun and good for me? I've come up with a million reasons, and almost as many solutions. But swimming is just one example of this habit, and I know I'm not alone. One of my tasks during this month of Elul is to examine those kinds of decisions, and figure out how to find the strength to choose goodness instead of fear or laziness.

993. #BlogElul 3: Prepare

This is a short kavannah (intention) that I wrote for my synagogue about being prepared, or not.

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For much of my life, the afternoon of Yom Kippur was a time to burrow into the couch and count the minutes until dinner. But after I came to [my synagogue], I discovered in those few hours a most intense and meaningful part of the day.

At all other services, we reach the Torah reading after a peaceful ascent though psalms and prayers. We have time to take a deep breath and prepare for the pageantry and complexity that follows. At Minha on Yom Kippur, however, we dispense with those preliminaries. Whether we’ve returned to services after a nap or meditation, or just hanging out, the holy day—like the Senate during a summer break—despite having paused, is still in session. So now there’s no warm-up. The Ark opens—“Vayehi binsoa ha'aron vayomer Moshe!”—and like metal filings to a magnet we rush to the scrolls, cradled in tired arms as they make their way around the sanctuary.

When I’ve had the privilege of helping lead Minha as a hazzanit, this sudden moment is also when I start to sing. I’m never quite sure what will come out: will I sound exhausted and tentative, betraying questions not yet resolved? Or strong, reflecting answers just discovered? It's usually a combination, as I find my bearings. That abrupt initiation of prayer and voice, even when I don't feel ready for either—and then discovering I'm just fine, no matter what—always seems like a metaphor for the year to come. Minha may be the beginning of the conclusion of Yom Kippur, but it’s also first step of the unexpected journey that follows.

 

991. #BlogElul 2: Search

During 2016, also know as the Year of Having To Get Rid Of Lots of Stuff Very Quickly That I Did Not Want To Get Rid Of, I went through the following stages—not so different from the stages of grief:

1. Denial. In a week or two I'll calmly remove everything I own from these plastic bags, no worries. How 'bout those Mets?

2. Guilt. This is the universe paying me back for never finishing cleaning out my closets. I deserve it.

3. Anger & Bargaining. Why can other people live their entire lives as disgusting hoarders, but I—owner of a completely average amount of stuff—get forced into a state of extreme Marie Kondo? I am really tired of examining every piece of lint stuck to every scarf. Hey, God, if you stop treating me like Pharaoh I swear to be good In every way, forever and ever. Really truly.

4. Depression. Maybe no one will notice if I crawl into one of these extra-large garbage bags.

5. Reconstruction. This wall looks kind of cool in bright blue. 

6. Acceptance. I miss my stuff, but it's nice to have more space—physically and emotionally. I have so few possessions now that I won't have to search for anything ever again. Vacuuming is a snap, since there's nothing left to clean.

990. #BlogElul 1: Act (aka Hello Again)

The other day I was running in the park and listening to an audiobook of the brilliant and hysterical Born a Crime, by Trevor Noah. He was musing about his childhood craving for books, and those perfect days when his mother brought home a stash of all kinds: children's books, picture books, encyclopedias, mostly from church basement rummage sales. And he imbibed them like water to a parched boy, which he was.

I, thank goodness, grew up in much safer and economically secure conditions than Noah, but shared that same desperate book hunger. New ones were out of our budget, although I didn't know this at the time. I just assumed that everyone's reading material was worn, dog-eared, and passed down through time immemorial. Our synagogue, like Noah's church, hosted many rummage sales, which went by the grander name of bazaars. On bazaar day, the 60s faux-modern sanctuary was emptied of chairs and old men and instead populated by long, brown folding tables and deep cardboard boxes piled high with treasures: scratched leather pocketbooks with little golden clasps, scarves of unknown provenance, gently worn kitchen utensils, doll clothing, and the motherlode, remaindered paperbacks with back covers only. I'd cobble together whatever was left of my monthly allowance and buy as many books as I could carry. I particularly remember the science and science fiction titles, genres that took over my waking hours starting at age 10, and some other odd finds: We Reach The Moon, by John Noble Wilford. Flowers for Algernon, Daniel Keyes. Isaac Asimov. Something about exploring ocean life in a submarine. I Was the Nuremberg Jailer, Burton Andrus. I would start reading the minute I paid the blue-haired lady with the cigar box, and make my way four blocks home by instinct, since my eyes never left the page.

In 2016 I had a roof over my head, friends, and more than enough to eat; by relative standards, compared to the rest of the world, it was a fine year. But by absolute standards, compared to the rest of my life, it really sucked. I won't count the ways right now (maybe in a future post), but take my word for it. A year and a half later, everything is copacetic—but my books were a major casualty. All those cardboard box discoveries live on in memory only. This is, on the one hand, just fine: I know I can re-read them any time I want, thanks to the internet. But on the other, sometimes I miss looking at those crumbling back covers. I want to rummage through my shelves and be surprised by their existence, just like Trevor Noah when his mother came back from the church basement.

(Yes, after a long drought of words, since all of my creative energy was happily directed towards art, I'm trying to blog once again. I'm hoping for inspiration from the month of Elul, four weeks of preparation for a newly examined, revitalized, and repaired soul. Maybe I can write every day—maybe I can Act, as today's prompt suggests—or maybe not. As Pirkei Avot says, starting is a good thing! So, to be continued.)

989. #Blog Elul 2016 1: Prepare

So it's been quite a Year, the kind that requires a capital "Y". Last year at this time I attempted to Blog Elul, and made it to 9 days; perhaps I'll get that far again, or not. I have no expectations. If there's one thing I've learned during the intervening 12 months, it's that you never know what the passage of time might bring. Planning is a nice diversion, but honestly--the universe is in charge of all that. (Spoiler alert: I'm fine! But the journey has been interesting in the ancient Chinese curse sense of the word.)

Elul 1: Prepare. Here's a list of apparently random words you might encounter as prompts in a creative writing class. Contemplate them, and then prepare to write something interesting and cogent that incorporates each in an equally important way:

sugar
Salman Rushdie
surgery
bedbugs
plastic bags
swimming pool
Benjamin Moore's "Daisy Blue"
chanting (still, and always!)

The successful essay will perfectly describe my year, and perhaps help me prepare for the one ahead. More to come as this awesome month unfolds.

988. #BlogElul 2015 9: See

Seen yesterday morning from my roof. My favorite part, which took me awhile to notice, is the calm, clear sky at the very center, almost hidden by the little agitated clouds around it.

987. #BlogElul 2015 8: Hear

I currently live with two wonderful young cats, who were preceded a few years ago by two magnificent very old cats. D. was a macho alpha except when confronted by thunder or loud noises, at which time he'd run away as fast as his enormous, jiggling belly would allow. He reminded me a little of Ernest Borgnine in "Marty." He was the strong, silent type, choosing to meow only when something was really, really annoying.

Right before he died, I waited in a little exam room at the vet's office after they took him away to insert the needle that would deliver the drugs to stop his pain and suffering. I prayed that they would keep him back there forever, because it would mean he was still alive.

Then I heard it--not quite a yowl, far from a cry, but loud enough to wake the neighbors. Had I not known it emanated from a sick, frail cat, I might have thought that a crabby old man had wondered in while yelling at the noisy neighbors. How dare you! the sound exclaimed.

The vet brought D., still complaining loudly, back into the exam room. He crawled into my arms, and looked me straight in the eye. I tried to tell him that I heard him loud and clear, and I was sorry, and it would be OK. And after a minute or two he seemed to understand that he was safe and home once again, and lay down with his head against my hand to wait patiently for whatever came next.

986. #BlogElul 2015 6: Know

Here's something I do know: the moon over my dear cousins' house outside of a city is the same one I can barely see, obscured by twinkling apartment windows and myriad traffic lights, over mine. But it's the exact same moon, good to remember any time I feel far away from family, or people on the other side of the world who seem distant and disconnected from me. We have more in common than we often dare to think.

985. #BlogElul 2015 7: Be

(So much for post scheduling--this was supposed to appear on Sat. night. Better later than never!)

I'll catch up soon with "Know," which I missed yesterday because I was feeling like I didn't know anything. It was just one of those days. But how I aspire to Be is easier. See answer at left: there is no better teacher than a kitten when it comes to enjoying the sheer pleasure of existence. Just yawn, stretch, and claim the space, and (particularly if your belly is full) revel in the goodness of being alive. And then take a nap.

984. #BlogElul 2015 5: Accept

In junior high school I was neither super cool nor a dork, but somewhere in between. I had friends in each camp, although of course aspired to be popular--but also didn't want what came with that status, namely cigarettes and boys. The former, I concluded after one puff backstage at a school play, was disgusting, and I was in no way ready for the latter. Besides, in order to maintain my cred with the smart, nerdy, good girl camp, it would be unseemly to hang out with kids who were, you know, bad.

But there was this cute boy by the name of Eddie. He was the size of a linebacker, but soft-spoken, and with the face of a cherub. Rumor had it that he'd spent time in "juvie hall," whatever that was. We would smile shyly at each other as we passed in the hallway. I was confused, liking someone so obviously bad, and so never admitted my crush. I simultaneously hoped he'd talk to me and forget about me. The thought of me talking to him was utterly terrifying.

One day in the cafeteria at lunchtime as I was returning my tray, he came over. "Hi," he said, eyes twinkling. "This is for you." He held out a little white box. I opened it, and inside on a bed of cotton was a bracelet made of pretty plastic jewels. "Would you," he said, "go to a movie with me?"

I was astonished. "Um," I answered. "Um!" He smiled back. As if I were in a plummeting aircraft, my life flashed before my eyes. I imagined his cool friends making fun of my romantic inexperience. I imagined my nerdy friends making fun of his (I assumed) poor grades, and having to answer to my parents about dating someone not good enough for me. I saw myself in some distant future, listening to gasps from the crowd as I confessed that I once held hands with someone like him, someone bad.

"I can't accept this. I'm really sorry. I just... can't." His face fell, and then hardened, and he looked at the floor.

"OK. I understand." He turned around and walked away, and never spoke to to me again.

I wish I remembered his last name, so I could track him down and apologize for being such an ass. Yes, I can sort of blame youth and cluelessness for my rudeness, but not entirely. Those of us today who marginalize and shame the other don't have that excuse.

Who would I be now, I wonder, if I had accepted his gift?

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.