Sweet Tala,
What a year we are entering! This year is unique in the history of the whole wide world, because never before or again will it be TALA'S BAT MITZVAH YEAR !!!!!
And you are unique in the whole wide world, because the molecules and cells and ideas and songs that are inside you are only inside you and the kisses and kind words you will give can only come from you and from nobody else but you. In the months between Rosh Hashana and Tu B'Shevat I hope to give you some little glimpses of Eretz Yisrael, the land of Israel, and Am Yisrael, our people (did you know that "Am", the people, is a singular noun? There is one people of Israel. We don't all think alike, and that is a big part of being Am Yisrael, the Jewish people. In fact they say.......
more soon love! It's time for a swim!
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
When Tala Sings, the Angels Weep
Tala is earnestly learning and practicing for her Bat Mitzvah. Her teacher, the wonderful Morah Sandy Corenblum, wrote, "When Tala sings the words of Torah the angels are weeping I am sure." I've known and loved Tala's sweetness since the day she was born, and her mother Jayda has been an inspiration to me forever. Tala's Bat Mitzvah will be on Tu B'Shevat, the New Year of the Trees, a fitting time for a mother and daughter who so love flowers and trees and the beautiful things of this world. When Jayda told me her plan to bring Tala to Israel next summer, I knew immediately how we could have a happy and beautiful time, swimming at the Sachneh, splashing in the waterfalls at Ein Gedi, floating in the crazy bouyancy of the Dead Sea and jumping the waves at the beach beside our house. And Netanya has the best ice cream this side of Victoria. But I want to share with Tala the miracle significance of the land of Israel too. I have an idea. I will try, from now until Tu B'Shevat, to write a little note each day to her, about Israel and about Am Yisrael. It may be right here on To Life!, or it may become a separate blog called, "When Tala Sings".
To Tala! To the words spoken to Abraham when this land was first promised to him, "And you will be a blessing". Tala, you are a blessing.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
A Blessing for Sunny
My niece Sunny makes up her own new words, in a tradition begun by her mom. A Shana Tova to Sunny
New words! Shiny, fresh, never worn words! And the old ones too, each one carrying a story and a patina.
May we all be blessed with a year of good health, creative energy, delightful remembering and fervent hoping. May we hope with our hands, with our feet, with our actions, though sometimes words speak louder than actions.
A Good Year,
Love Nomi
New words! Shiny, fresh, never worn words! And the old ones too, each one carrying a story and a patina.
May we all be blessed with a year of good health, creative energy, delightful remembering and fervent hoping. May we hope with our hands, with our feet, with our actions, though sometimes words speak louder than actions.
A Good Year,
Love Nomi
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Pomegranate Seeds: A Year of Delight
And now is the season for gladness,
a time for embracing with courage all the changes in ourselves and in our world.
And at this time, it will be decided, and it will be sealed
Who will choose sadness, and who will hug life,
......
No. At this time, it will be decided, and it will be sealed,
Who will savour and live the sadness, giving it its time,
and who will try to pretend to send it away,
not knowing its power and its richness.
For sadness is where we grow,
and where we know the depth of our enduring love.
And at this time,
Let us decide, and let us seal,
That we'll feel to the heights and the depths each feel.
For texture is what makes this world, this world.
And sadness is a pomegranate seed, a ruby of potential,
whence beauty can grow.
Here's to feeling the feelings,
delighting in life,
to entering this new, clean year,
as the head, and not as the tail,
leading the way with our own clear direction,
and not just flapping along behind.
Here's to 613 sweet rubies in a pomegranate's orb.
May we delight in each one,
know that each is its own bright miracle.
Here's to looking optimistically
at how much needs to change,
knowing that anger, and disappointment
are the ruby pomegranate seeds
whence change can grow.
Here's to us!
to change!
to sadness!
to joy!
to song!
to hugs!
to life!
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Leaving Tigh Na Mara
That a project called "To Life"
is so much about endings,
is fitting. As we observed last week,
all parts of life are....parts of life.
Janie speaks of the thin membrane between this world and notthisworld. When any one of us is leaning on the membrane, and the waters may break, of course we are all more awake to the possibility that we all face. With or without a doula.
In an old old notebook, from 1992, almost a Chai ago, I find this. Tigh Na Mara is a spot on Vancouver Island, where at high tide the water laps right up to your cabin, and at low tide you can walk far far out on wet sand. I walked the tide in. 1,172 steps. One day I wrote the tide in, my feet continually getting wet as I stepped back and back towards shore. This is the actual moment by moment account, in my handwriting.
To be there while it happens. To plant my two feet feet on dry sand, and watch as thin watersheets envelope these two feet. To step back slowly and be enveloped again. 1,172 paces, from the ocean's edge at 2:00 to its 7:00 p.m. edge. Castles with moats, built over a day's hot sun time, decorated with clam shells and dry old crabs. Now the moat fills, and now the castle submerges. I step back, back, the water envelops me. I step back. Tracks of crabs, the holes where clams dug, small conical molluscs who have spent the day moving imperceptibly, covered maybe two inches in tiny pushes forward, now submerged. I looke around me, and notice I am now on a sand island, surrounded entirely by water, and I wade ankledeep to sand, and am again enveloped, and again move back. The water still moves in, filling the ebbs in each wave of dry sand. Sand dollars that poked curved segments out in the day, are now submerged. Looking out to where the water is now, it appears to have been always. It is sky blue, with small ripples. Tiny crabs croon through the shallow water, seaweed dry beomces submerged, looks more comfortable , waves green leaves in serene wave harmony. Ah! A white seagull flies over the water, as if it has always been there. The water moves in on me, surround me again on a sandy raised point, an ephemeral island. And now I am knee deep in warm water, water moving ever shoreward. The tide has come in.
Leaving Tigh Na Mara
We are leaving today.
Ripple waves sing to shore
and sing, and sing
up to right under our cabin.
The tide will creep out today
and we won't be here,
won't watch its slow retreat,
won't wade ankle deep cool
further, further,
won't stop at silent pools left
to watch the still shell animals who,
ir you slow yourself,
and truly watch,
are moving;
won't collect sand dollars
that feel just like sand in the hand,
but display fragile intricate flower design
on perfect circles.
Designer?
No designer?
Certainly design.
Shall I not marvel?
We are leaving Tigh Na Mara today,
and when we leave,
Tigh Na Mara will still be here.
When low tide comes
there will still be 1,172 of my paces
between the sea and the shore
although my bare feet
will not be there
to mark them,
or to dig delicious
into soft sponge sand.
The gulls will be here calling,
those tiny birds too,
with long straw beaks,
nature's perfect clam digger gadget.
The blue mountains,
blue on softer blue,
as they distance, silent,
will still be here,
though I'll be gone.
is so much about endings,
is fitting. As we observed last week,
all parts of life are....parts of life.
Janie speaks of the thin membrane between this world and notthisworld. When any one of us is leaning on the membrane, and the waters may break, of course we are all more awake to the possibility that we all face. With or without a doula.
In an old old notebook, from 1992, almost a Chai ago, I find this. Tigh Na Mara is a spot on Vancouver Island, where at high tide the water laps right up to your cabin, and at low tide you can walk far far out on wet sand. I walked the tide in. 1,172 steps. One day I wrote the tide in, my feet continually getting wet as I stepped back and back towards shore. This is the actual moment by moment account, in my handwriting.
To be there while it happens. To plant my two feet feet on dry sand, and watch as thin watersheets envelope these two feet. To step back slowly and be enveloped again. 1,172 paces, from the ocean's edge at 2:00 to its 7:00 p.m. edge. Castles with moats, built over a day's hot sun time, decorated with clam shells and dry old crabs. Now the moat fills, and now the castle submerges. I step back, back, the water envelops me. I step back. Tracks of crabs, the holes where clams dug, small conical molluscs who have spent the day moving imperceptibly, covered maybe two inches in tiny pushes forward, now submerged. I looke around me, and notice I am now on a sand island, surrounded entirely by water, and I wade ankledeep to sand, and am again enveloped, and again move back. The water still moves in, filling the ebbs in each wave of dry sand. Sand dollars that poked curved segments out in the day, are now submerged. Looking out to where the water is now, it appears to have been always. It is sky blue, with small ripples. Tiny crabs croon through the shallow water, seaweed dry beomces submerged, looks more comfortable , waves green leaves in serene wave harmony. Ah! A white seagull flies over the water, as if it has always been there. The water moves in on me, surround me again on a sandy raised point, an ephemeral island. And now I am knee deep in warm water, water moving ever shoreward. The tide has come in.
Leaving Tigh Na Mara
We are leaving today.
Ripple waves sing to shore
and sing, and sing
up to right under our cabin.
The tide will creep out today
and we won't be here,
won't watch its slow retreat,
won't wade ankle deep cool
further, further,
won't stop at silent pools left
to watch the still shell animals who,
ir you slow yourself,
and truly watch,
are moving;
won't collect sand dollars
that feel just like sand in the hand,
but display fragile intricate flower design
on perfect circles.
Designer?
No designer?
Certainly design.
Shall I not marvel?
We are leaving Tigh Na Mara today,
and when we leave,
Tigh Na Mara will still be here.
When low tide comes
there will still be 1,172 of my paces
between the sea and the shore
although my bare feet
will not be there
to mark them,
or to dig delicious
into soft sponge sand.
The gulls will be here calling,
those tiny birds too,
with long straw beaks,
nature's perfect clam digger gadget.
The blue mountains,
blue on softer blue,
as they distance, silent,
will still be here,
though I'll be gone.
Friday, September 4, 2009
A Lullabye, a soft welcome to nonbeing
And then what happens?
I suppose, now, we untangle the tangles. An ancient and beloved prayer says, "Ana b'koach gdulat yemincha tatir tzrura" Untangle the tangles, let go.
I'm thinking of a sweet song,
"Tonight I want you to rock me to sleep
I want you to sing me a song
I'm tired of trying to do everything right
And I'm tired of being so strong."
How hard each cell must have worked, each system, these last few days. Stay alive. Stay alive. Don't give in. How must it feel, to let go to the becoming part of universe again, nonseparate from other molecules.
I suddenly, this moment, understand how death is a wedding.
With this sigh,
this release,
this last small energy,
we, the cells, the molecules,
the white blood cells,
the red,
the pains, the hurts,
the kindnesses,
the stories,
that held together loosely for so many years,
being a being:
with this letting go,
we give ourselves to universe
and become nonseparate.
We hereby let go.
**********************************
And now I see that death is a birth.
And that universe rocks the change in its timeless arms,
and sings it a soft lullabye
a welcome to nonbeing.
I suppose, now, we untangle the tangles. An ancient and beloved prayer says, "Ana b'koach gdulat yemincha tatir tzrura" Untangle the tangles, let go.
I'm thinking of a sweet song,
"Tonight I want you to rock me to sleep
I want you to sing me a song
I'm tired of trying to do everything right
And I'm tired of being so strong."
How hard each cell must have worked, each system, these last few days. Stay alive. Stay alive. Don't give in. How must it feel, to let go to the becoming part of universe again, nonseparate from other molecules.
I suddenly, this moment, understand how death is a wedding.
With this sigh,
this release,
this last small energy,
we, the cells, the molecules,
the white blood cells,
the red,
the pains, the hurts,
the kindnesses,
the stories,
that held together loosely for so many years,
being a being:
with this letting go,
we give ourselves to universe
and become nonseparate.
We hereby let go.
**********************************
And now I see that death is a birth.
And that universe rocks the change in its timeless arms,
and sings it a soft lullabye
a welcome to nonbeing.
Birthday Angels, Celebrating the Self
Check out www.birthday-angels.org. The original angel behind this deliciously pure project, Ruthie Sobel Luttenberg, celebrated her own birthday today with a board meeting of the people who make the magical Birthday Angels process a reality. It's sweet to think of a child who wouldn't otherwise have had birthday cake and a dance or two, receiving these from a donor in Canada or the states, perhaps from a Bat Mitzvah girl who chose Birthday Angels as her mitzvah project. But the Birthday Angels party kit isn't about cake. Each game in the kit celebrates the uniqueness and specialness of the birthday child. A small example is The Wishing Tree:
"You can really count your birthday blessings as you pick them off The Wishing Tree which is covered in leaves the children have filled in with their blessings and good wishes for the Birthday Child.
The Birthday Child later picks the leaves off the tree trying to guess who wrote them the blessing. and, get this… The Birthday Child has to say what s/he has to do to make it happen.
For example: when s/he picks a leaf that says:
"I hope you live till 120"
The Birthday Child translates that into concrete terms and says:
"I'll eat less junk food and do more sports"
This way the Birthday Child gets to think PROACTIVELY about his/her own life. S/he not only thinks what everyone can do for him/her, but what s/he can do for him/herself to make his/her dreams come true."
Here's to the blossoming of each of us, our sense of self, and our sense of direction. And here's to my aunt Sharon Enkin, who has dedicated such love to the project. And here's to Ruthie, with wishes for a happy, proud birthday and a sweet and productive year.
"You can really count your birthday blessings as you pick them off The Wishing Tree which is covered in leaves the children have filled in with their blessings and good wishes for the Birthday Child.
The Birthday Child later picks the leaves off the tree trying to guess who wrote them the blessing. and, get this… The Birthday Child has to say what s/he has to do to make it happen.
For example: when s/he picks a leaf that says:
"I hope you live till 120"
The Birthday Child translates that into concrete terms and says:
"I'll eat less junk food and do more sports"
This way the Birthday Child gets to think PROACTIVELY about his/her own life. S/he not only thinks what everyone can do for him/her, but what s/he can do for him/herself to make his/her dreams come true."
Here's to the blossoming of each of us, our sense of self, and our sense of direction. And here's to my aunt Sharon Enkin, who has dedicated such love to the project. And here's to Ruthie, with wishes for a happy, proud birthday and a sweet and productive year.
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