Who Am I?

I am reading Tom Robbins' Skinny Legs and All

the way I like to read a book: slowly.

Sometimes one sentence in a day, and the sentence bounces around in my head, ricocheting off of the day's experiences, picking up layers of significance, unveiling truths, the fundamental truth being

that eveything
is like everything else.

I'm beginning to realize that Tom and I share a religion. A pure, unstructured truth.

How I cried when, in the book, a son who lived rich and arrogant fell from grace, and went to work long long hours in a kitchen. The mikveh of greasy suds was so purifying, he found his wholeness, came home to himself.

2010 had in it flights of illusory grandeur and a hard landing on sharp stones. Scraped, I purified by taking on all the hours offered to me, working with beautiful, holy, frenzied, hungry souls.

Often my work is one on one, and the sheer totality of my acceptance transforms each of them into the angel he really is.

Today, I had eight boys together. You see, the classroom teacher's husband surprised her with a special weekend trip, if she could get covered.

What a a rich day of learning it has been!

Eyes constantly on wiry brilliant D to make sure he didn't bolt suddenly from the school, as has happened. Daveedy can recite a whole movie in Hebrew and in English, but try asking him his name and where he is supposed to be.
D stayed with us today. That was my only concern. And he stayed with us.

But what I really want to process for myself was the morning meeting. I was intrigued that the boys weren't able to tell me the name of the school, and all the more, that they didn't know what Eretz, what country we live in. Can you imagine living in Israel, and not knowing it? It's time to work on a "Who Am I" Book for each boy, and a "We" book, establishing some sort of identity for this odd grouping of boys (to my view they should all be in regular classes with help, except for L. who can never, ever keep from singing, his open, pre-verbal voice vowelling loud through the thoughtscape until we all live in its power, without even hearing it, until I can still him for a brief moment and the silence is clear water.)

We took attendance, and stopped at the names of the two boys who were absent, to send , from our hearts to theirs, wishes for health and for a happy return to school when they are well. At each present boy's name, I mentioned a kindness, an act of helpfulness or sharing from the week.

A. was thrown off kilter by me talking with all the boys at once. He usually has me to himself. He started burping and putting his feet on the table and acting silly, and the aide made him go outside to think for awhile.

What a nice oppportunity, when he came back, to talk about the possibility of change. He went outside to think, and there he remembered who he is. He is A., a boy who takes part nicely in group meetings.
Let me too take time out when I need to, and remember who I am.

Later, during the kabbalat Shabbat, when we lit candles and blessed wine and challah, A offered me a piece of his cake. A pure act of friendship.
Throughout the morning we sang with the guitar, and especially as we welcomed Shabbat, we all sang Hine Ma Tov U Ma Naim Shevet Achim Gam Yachad.
And remembered who we are.
********************
Return again return again
return to the land of your soul
Return to who you are
Return to what you are
Return to where you are born
and reborn again
Return again return again
Return to the land of your soul

The Last Moments of 2010

Mmmmmm, I want to savour every drop. I want to save this day. 9:00 tonight dinner with the Uruguay Wolbromskis, the Netanya Wolbromskis that is.
Let me delight for a moment in the wondrous connection between Staszow, Poland, and Netanya Israel: that of Yerachmiel's children,
*Golda came to Netanya in 1930 to build Kibbutz Mitzpe Yam (Kibbutz Look-out-over-the-Sea) where they brought in refugees from boats in the dark of night, until they moved the whole kibbutz community to what's now Yad Mordecai.
*Ruchel had a store here in the 40's. Her granddaughter and family are at U of T, and visit with Mommy and Daddy in Toronto.
*Shimon went to Uruguay after surviving the war hiding in Staszow. All of his children, the gracious Yossi, Tola, and Flora, and their families, live in Netanya. And that's where we'll be dining tonight, bringing in 2011 with our mouths full of chocolate fondue with Israel's amazing red strawberries, our hearts full of gratitude.
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Tomorrow, Kibbutz Beit Alfa with Uncle Abchu's children, grandchildren and greatgrandchildren.
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A Post-Geographical Decade

It has grown upon us gradually,
fires on sequential hilltops
relaying news of the new moon,
terse telegrams I still have from our 1973 wedding,
and now
cozy Skype visits
right into the living rooms
of dear far friends.

I must visit my next door neighbour one of these days.
But first, let me Skype with Jayda,
share coffee with her in her Calgary kitchen,
whisper soul to soul,
enjoy her eyes, her curls, the gentle music of her dear voice,
slip the surly bonds of place
in this new, post-geographic world.

Shareful Genes

Rosh Hashana is about mending our character, returning to our original ideal image, teshuva. But January 1's New Year's Resolutions have to do with being right here on this Earth, being fit, (which means letting just the right number of the universe's molecules be inside this skinny envelope), and apportionning time, letting our actual use of the hours match our spoken priorities. Often, we find out after the fact, what our priorities are: I discover that my dialogue with Mommy and Daddy, Susie, Janie and Randy takes priority over everything (not dialogue, my hexagolog, if you include me in the six, that jolly original six from 47 Bowman Street). And my dear, deep conversation with Adam and Yoni who are of me. Stephen Pinker notes that the prioritizing of empathy can be directly mapped onto the number of genes shared. I guess I just unintenionally illustrated that very notion, in the fact that I will drop any other activity in favour of connecting with these people who most closely share my genetic information. Shareful genes.

Becoming Semilingual: An Oreo Oratorio

In the literature on wordfinding, and tip-of-the-tongue phenomenon, we have the notion of plate-stackers. In a university cafeteria, the plates are stacked in one spot as they are cleaned, and you take the top plate, right? So students are always picking up the most recently washed plates. Plates at the bottom of the stack are rarely used. Ever thus with our vocabulary. Words we use often are easy to think up. But I'm trying to think of the word for a little musical advertisement song.

The post that comes after this, (since it was written before this one, for such is the sequence of blog posts; they grow taller each day like a plate stacker or tower of Oreo cookies, one on top of the other. The freshest one is on top) contains, perhaps for the first time in all the pages of all the blogs in human history, though I'd have to check, the terms "oratorio" and "oreo" in one sentence. These came together in my attempt to explain that there is no pure passive grammatical form in Hebrew. A (((((commercial ditty)))))) such as "Variety, nice in cereal, Variety, nice in a wife, Variety, nice at the breakfast table, Kellog's variety, spice of life". What is that called?

The words that come to mind are

slogan

chant

ditty

commercial

I'll keep you posted, as it were, as I think of the word.

caption? no

Three years away from the English speaking world, and I've become semilingual.

Mashiach from the pen of Handel

Does the language we speak affect the way we think? I haven't had a moment to read all the back and forth on this question in the New York Times Opinion pages, (though Shabbes-Christmas does not entail unusual preparation beyond other Shabbats, and I ran a barefoot Christmas-eve run along the warm sunny beach this afternoon, often dipping toes in the cool sea. We feasted on a whole fish from the Sea of Galilee tonight. And think about this. I am minutes away from Bethlehem right this moment.)
But here is my illustration of language colouring the way we think. There is no pure way of saying "by" in Hebrew, as in "we were brought out of Egypt by Moses", or "that fish was caught by Beno", or "a painting by Golda", or "The Messiah by Handel". You have to say, "at the hand of", or "from the pen of". You have to call this glorious music, "The Mashiach from the pen of Handel", as if to say the music is there, resonating through sea and palms, over forests and snowy mountains. The music was there from Creation (from the pen of Haydn, that one). Yes, the music surrounds us. The white noise of seawaves carries every Oratorio, every Oreo chant. The only question is, when will each of us hold our pen gently enough over blank, welcoming paper, and listen for it?
Now, does this humble quirk of the Hebrew language colour the way we think of human accomplishment? I hope so.

Toronto or Victoria? And the answer is: Yes!

After teaching me so patiently
that borders are arbitrary
that shoreline, horizon
are notions,
not stone,
liquid meeting sky
in an infinity
of infinite, intricate,
infinitessimally minuscule
exchanges,
liquid meeting solid
in similar infinities,
now he tells me
that in real life
we have to come down
on one side or the other:
I will be here.
or
I will be there.
Until we get old,
he says.
The graying of hair
brings with it privileges.
Black or white decisions
recede
to the gracefulness of gray
the grace of gray
Victoria or Toronto?
Yes!
Let the reach of my spirit's hands
grow as I age
Let me grasp surely
and loving,
both horns.
Let dilemmas
be possibilities.
Let me step on the cracks.
Let me say
a liquid, formless Shehechiyanu
on this summery solstice day
of winter

Sunrise Beach Walks With Daddy in Bradenton

The miracle happened
in the sock department at Sears.
Wake up! Wake up Daddy!
They couldn't find a pulse.
Daddy on the shoescuffed
department store floor,
just after Thanksgiving,
that moment when giftshopping
becomes
"Shop 'til you drop".
Dropped to the floor
and they couldn't find a pulse.

Wake up! Wake up Daddy.
Little,
I used to shake him from sleep
for a walk before dawn
on perfect beach sand,
five-year-old child in slept-on braids,
and my Daddy, who always woke up for me.
Only the sandcrabs were up before us
and the waves tickling beach.
Together we studied the boundary
'tween sea and land,
discovered there was none,
really.

And the sun rose gentle
over sea's distant line,
and Daddy taught me
that horizon was just a word.
There is no line
and there is a line
and we call it horizon.
He told me that the sun
didn't really disappear at night.
It was just the angle of our view,
the limits of our sight.
That there was no sunrise,
and that there was.
Neither of us invoked the word
miracle.
We'd go back for papaya and waffles
with Albert and Jane
(each papaya is not formally a miracle.
nor even is a papaya seed)

Daddy and Mommy
bought a lovely pair of shoes
and had just arrived at the sock department
when he fell to the floor
and they couldn't find a pulse.

He didn't explain to the ambulance attendants
about the boundary between sand and sea
or about sunrises.
He didn't talk about papayas.
He just told them he's a doctor
and knows what he's talking about.
He didn't go to the hospital.
Daddy and Mommy walked home.
And this is the miracle:
That Daddy walked home.
That the sun doesn't rise.
And that the sun rises.
That there is no line
between sand and sea.
And that there is.
And that Daddy is lighting the Chanuka candles tonight.

The Dolphin's Waterproof Suitcase

Sura Ettele, my Bubbe,
where are your shtetl albums,
the poems you stitched
to the updown rhythm
of a footpulsed sewing machine,
your knee beating updown time
to the threading of dreams?

I have no photo, no poems,
no dainty yellowing lace,
only this:

That you escaped Poland
crossing a river to dry land,
two-year-old Izzie
at first in your arms,
then up on your shoulders,
and then, as the waters deepened,
Izzie swimming along

beside you.
That you and small Izzie
touched the other side,
not with the shirts on your backs,
for even these

had turned to mud.

There's no suitcase to look for.
You started again

with what you had.

And what you had was neat arrays

of double helix symmetry,
collective memories

of an earlier journey,
the crossing of the Red Sea;
a shared family faith
in the inventive, energetic
bringing on of miracles,
the body rhythms

of your sewing machine's poetry,
the pulse of the Song at the Sea.

And what did Miriam, sister of Moses,
pack
when she, before you,
left in haste? Skin of a lamb,
wrapped around

some precious memento?
One item I know she carried:
Her tambourine. Necessity of life:
a rhythm instrument
to stir the women to wonder, rejoice
in the energetic, inventive
bringing on of miracles.

They arrived, feet dry,
at the shores of the Red Sea.
And here I snorkel
this sunrise morning
in blue waves of the Red Sea.

I swim alongside a silvery fish
masked in brilliant blue,
a sunyellow circle
symmetric round each eye.

We swim in rhythm side by side
til my fish darts deep.
He swims to the future
without a suitcase.
The symmetries of sunyellow, blue,
the silver swishrhythm of his tailfin
are the stories he'll carry forward
to his children's children.
No suitcase,wheeled or otherwise.

(Dolphins did not need
to invent the wheel
or the suitcase.
There is nothing they need to carry
outside of their skin.)

Sura Ettele, my Bubbe,
I have no photoes of your early days,
your mother.
My heart stitches rhythmic connection
to our shared great great grandmother
Miriam.

But where is your tambourine?

In the back seat of the car,
me a little granddaughter in braids,
you would tap a rhythm on my knee
for me to guess the song.
And I always guessed the song.

It is Miriam's song, the Song at the Sea!
It is the story
that needs no photographs,
the narrative of my pulse,
a rhythmic, durable,
waterproof faith
in the inventive, energetic
bringing on of miracles.

Pictures and Letters from the Old Suitcase

Sura Ettele
my grandmother,
where are your shtetl albums,
your photoes,
the poems you stitched
to the updown rhythm
of your footpulsed sewing machine,
your knee beating updown time
to the threading of dreams?
What did you write about,
and what did you sew?

I have no photo, no poems,
no dainty yellowing lace,
only this:

That brides used to come to you
to sew for them.
That you escaped Poland
by crossing a river to dry land,
with two-year-old Izzie
at first in your arms,
then up on your shoulders,
and then
as the waters deepened,
Izzie swimming beside you.
That you and small Izzie
touched the other side,
not with the shirts on your backs,
for even these had turned to mud.

There is no suitcase to look for.
You started again
with what you had.
And what you had was
neat arrays
of double helix
symmetry,
collective memories
of an earlier journey,
the crossing of the Red Sea,
a shared family faith
in the inventive, energetic
bringing on of miracles,
the body rhythms
of your sewing machine's poetry,
the pulse of the Song at the Sea.


And what did Miriam,
sister of Moses,
pack
when she, before you,
left in haste?
Did she carry a backpack,
skin of a lamb,
wrapped around a few precious items?
What did a slave girl own?
One item I know she carried:
Her tambourine.
Necessity of life:
a rhythm instrument
to stir the women
to wonder and rejoice
in the energetic, inventive
bringing on of miracles,
and at the wondrous arrival,
feet dry,
on the other side
of the Red Sea,

the very Red Sea
where I snorkel
this sunrise morning.
I swim alongside
a silvery fish
masked in brilliant blue
a sunyellow circle
symmetric round each eye.
We swim in rhythm
side by side
until my fish darts deep.
He travels into the future
with no suitcase.
The symmetries of sunyellow and blue,
the silver swishrhythm of his tailfin
are the stories he'll carry forward
to his children's children.
No suitcase,
wheeled or otherwise.

(Dolphins did not need
to invent the wheel
or the suitcase.
There is nothing they need to carry
outside of their skin.)

Sura Ettele,
my grandmother,
I have no photoes
of your early days,
your mother.
My heart stitches
rhythmic connection
to our shared
great great grandmother
Miriam.

But where is your tambourine?

And suddenly I recall:
in the back seat of the car,
me a little granddaughter in braids,
you would tap a rhythm on my knee
for me to guess the song.
And I always guessed the song.

It is Miriam's song,
the Song at the Sea!
It is the story
that needs no photographs,
the narrative of my pulse,
a rhythmic, durable,
waterproof faith
in the inventive,
energetic
bringing on
of miracles.









,

Festival of Flame, and Flame Ravaging our Land

What then, is fire?
Blessing or curse?
One tiny flask of oil
lit the menorah
for eight nights.
A Miracle!
A flame is a blessing, a glow, a warmth, a gentle whisper that the Holy One is here amongst us, lighting our way.
And right at this same time, as we light the chanukiah and watch its sweet flames, three tonight plus the shamash,
flames rage through this beautiful land
destroying the trees
the trees planted by generations
of those who lived their hope
by sliding coins into a little blue box
that would plant trees in Israel.
What is fire? A blessing or a curse?
Yes

This helps us know,
there is not
"This thing is good"
"This thing is evil"
But
"To every thing there is a season
And a time to every purpose under Heaven"