"All is written". And "We choose our path".

How do you count these things?
We figure he could have lived another 15 years,
if he had just behaved.

If he had just quit smoking,
stayed put,
not wandered off into the hot sun
alone.

If he had had devoted children
waiting on him at all times
making sure he didn't fall.

If we encircled him constantly
as on that Tu B'Shvat night
When all of us surrounded him
and sang.

But if he were someone
who just behaved,
would he have,
at age 16 in 1941,
like our ancestor Abraham,
left his father's house,
his home,
his land,
and walked on foot
to a place he did not know,
a place where some voice told him
he would be a blessing?

If he were someone
who stayed put
would our people
have a modern day home
in Israel?

Arriving secretly in Israel
years before the state was declared ours,
he worked long hot hot hours
under sweltering sun
to build up this land.
And he, with other tireless youth,
after the working
would not go to sleep.
After the day's hot work,
late into the night
they would sing,
dance.

Yosef fought
to liberate Eilat,
the south of Israel.
He defended
the Galil,
served in the Golan.

If Yosef stayed put,
let hot sun keep him down,
who would he be?

Being alive, for Yosef
involved making strong sweet Turkish coffee
for other people,
not waiting to be served coffee
without sugar because it's no good for his health.

We offered him coffee
in the nursing home.
"No thanks. I can't drink coffee
without a cigarette".

Give me one cigarette.
What's the worst that could happen?
Come on,
one cigarette.
Whatever will happen will happen.
Give me a cigarette.
The hell with it.
This is living, for me.
Ah!

Rachel told me once
that all that we will become
is written at or birth
on the inside of our skull
in small writing
that we cannot read:
the squiggle of synapses,
the imprint of convolutions,
veins,
neural connections,
the configuration of cells,
the mapwork of thought patterns.

If they had not simply wrapped
Yosef's whole body in a white tallit,
and buried him gently beside Rachel,
if they had looked,
what would they have found written
on the inside of his skull?

He died as he lived,
did his last walk
as he did his 1941 walk to Israel,
defying hot sun,
choosing freedom.

The Direction of the Gift

A little girl was losing her motivation for the hugely arduous task of working on her speech. Of course I always try to make it fun with games and rewards, and by keeping the focus on her news, her interests, her specialness, her self esteem. Etcetera etcetera etcetera. Suddenly a few weeks ago, she started drawing a chart. She was making a daily schedule sheet for me, so I could see in colour all of my therapy sessions. What generous, focused, eager work she was doing, asking questions as clearly as she possibly could, repeating and rephrasing, working on her sounds with conviction so she get this gift right and useful for me. At the next session I told her I was packing for a trip to the Kibbutz, and needed to decide what to wear for swimming at the Sachneh, for supper, for the special Shavuot ceremony, for the drive. Well, she worked and she gave and she helped me decide on the yellow bathing suit with the turquoise and yellow coverup and flipflops, all the while practicing her speech sounds with vigour. And of course, this week, she helped me plan a trip to Israel for a niece of mine, complete with a two night stay at Herod's, the most expensive hotel in Eilat. I found out what I've often found out, that high motivation comes from the drive to be helpful and giving. That, as Rabbi Greiniman once said, the direction of the gift is not always the direction that the object passes. That the giver receives something priceless.