Changing the Subject

It's a sacred, laden job to be given: teaching kids to communicate. Student clinicians who observed my therapy today asked me why I let the kids change the subject. I let them change the subject because their ideas are far more interesting to me than the ones I bring to the session. Yonatan wanted to talk about David Ben Gurion standing on his head. Shon brought a Tof Miriam, a simple tambourine, and planned a birthday party for it. All the kids knew it was pretend, and practiced their collaborating and conversation skills around the birthday party for Tof Miriam. Mem Fox, a teacher of children's writing, is quoted tirelessly, as wanting children's writing to "ache with caring". That is what I want for my children's conversations. I want them to move from topic to topic, touching upon this and that, until that sparked moment when they come upon something that lights them, flares within them and holds their interest in a heartdriven, real way. The way competent conversationalists chat, and suddently lean in towards each other with intent when they come to an issue that really matters to them. If I stick to my plan, the kids may learn the rules, I suppose. But if I loosen the reins, and let the conversation run free, I'll find out what their hearts are aching to share.

Radical Acceptance

For this fresh, incoming year, a hope, a small promise to myself, an intention: The waves at the beach threw me off balance today, hurled me salty into the waters, and I decided to laugh, take the salt along with the dear cradling waters, the serenity between crashing waves, the dialectic of calm and astounding, the ride. I decided to ride the rhythms, savour the extremes, accept. Mommy taught me, just this summer. It's waves, she said. Ride them. Yesterday's swim was glorious fun. After summer's warm waters, the cooling of the sea and the return of the big waves come just at the right time, as tonight we pass into a whole new year. We will mark the turning of the year at Kibbutz Beit Alfa, where pomegranates, dates and apples are ripe on the trees just in time for the blessings, May we enter the coming year taking the bitter with the better, the stinger and the honey. May we ride.

Omer, Day 1

Day One of the Omer is done. Day One celebrates boundless, overflowing lovingkindness in our boundless, overflowing lovingkindness. A world with no boundaries, no defining lines. A mother nursing her newborn babe, and the lasting sensation of this same entire love even when the mother and her babe are both grown old. Me and Mommy walking by the sea. Daddy and Mommy kissing me goodbye, and then kissing each other in the space above my head, when I set out to a faraway land. The way that kiss lasts with me. Chesed in Chesed today was about entire patience when someone didn't understand what I was saying; the patience to repeat and explain, with love and respect, until the words came through. Chesed in Chesed today was about taking in another person's point of view even if it was outrageous and against my values, entertaining their perspective for just long enough to see their world, stand in their shoes, walk their path. There will be time for gevurah, for taking a stand, for asserting our values, for boundaries. But today was to taste that aspect of ourselves which is chesed in chesed, boundless, overflowing lovingkindness in our boundless, overflowing lovingkindness.

And perhaps you wonder, What is it like To be in the land, At Seder time? To stand at the shores of the sea, To walk the longed-for sands? I rode my bike in wind today, Along much of Israel's coastline, Seeing the wildflowers that decorated The hagaddahs of my childhood. A mild haze at the sea's horizon, Blurred any line That might separate Sea from sky, Past from now, Promise from pipe dream, Blessing from curse. There are no lines, But the ones we etch On this earth's flowing cloud. Mirrors of mirrors, We vision and reminisce, Fight and believe. Still, here, The hills running down to the sea Bob with the wildflowers that decorated The hagaddahs of my childhood, Amongst the words Next year in Jerusalem! The young people won't sit at Seders here. They'll be guarding the borders, The entries to hotels, The gates to the city. We are here, And not here. The message, though blurred, Like today's sealine horizon, Mixing wave with sky, Above with below, Whispers to us, There is still work to do. Hoist the matzos to your back, Gather the little ones And don't forget to bring along Your timbrels, your tambourine! The time is here And we are here To lift our voices, Next year! Next year! Next year! The gates of the city.

If the Mantra Fits

A soft knit toque is what makes me stop the busyness for a moment and write. There is so much, so very much. I was sure I had lost it. It was not on the floor of the cafe where I stopped for a dreamy cappuccino with nice friends on the cold morning, mid-run in wind and drizzle. It was not in my pocket and not in my bag, not along the sidewalk. Lost. Oh well. I let go, made it feel okay that it was lost. And now, a day later, it is beside my jacket at home where I threw my jacket after coming inside toqueless at the end of my run. There is always a real world explanation. It was probably stuck in my jacket's collar. But the momentary joy that swept through my entire body upon seeing it there,was miracle. What is lost can come back. The haunting line in The Kiterunner, "Come back. It can be made right again". I held the toque to my chest. I'll wear it more thankfully on today's run. But before putting my soft knit toque on my head, I'll try to recreate Friday night. Adam and I seem to have, in our own quiet ways, found ourselves in positions here in Israel where we are called upon to make changes in the fabric of how people live their lives. Kids at summer camp used to nickname him Buddha. And now, his tools for focus and the bringing about of a sphere of calm around him, is both useful in his own work, and helping me in mine. His work needs pinpoint focus, detachment from ego, a quiet center, and stillness within. Just before Shabbat, a teacher reminded me by email that I had suggested we help our kids on the autism spectrum to take on phrases for calming themselves when they get out of control. I was in the middle of responding, when Adam arrived for Friday night. Yes, mantras, Adam said, and proceeded not simply to give me beautiful examples in Hebrew regarding calming the fire within, not putting out the fire, but mastering it. Don't forget to breathe. Adam took me further, showing me how I can help each child know the colour of his anger, the size of it, the location on his body where he feels the anger. He showed me how a person can cultivate mastery over the feeling, make it bigger or smaller at will. He showed me how to help each child find out their own power animal, and use this animal as a mentor. I realized that the mantra for calming will come from each child individually. I heard my own calming mantras from Mommy, "Don't worry", "you gotta take the bitter with the better", and most nurturing of all, "you look after my girl". Me weeks away from turning 60, and "You look after my girl, ya hear?" centres me. And so, I will help each child choose a project, calming cards, or a power animal to mentor them, a mantra, a mandala wheel of calming choices, a stoplight of red for stop, yellow for breathe and calm, green for plan a solution and do it. For now, I'll put on my soft knit toque. It's not that this is the best toque in the world. It is that it is my toque, the one that fits the shape of my head.