life

Sunrises and October 7

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Sunrises and October 7

I wake early. Sometimes I struggle to stay in bed to push myself to sleep longer and I make a deal with myself that at 6:00 – I will give up. This time of year, I beat the sunrise. This morning that was a gift. I wish I could have captured the colors on my phone. I’m certain if I belonged to a different generation, I could have manipulated all the settings and got the hues. Believe me my image above is lacking. It was so powerful, I went out on the balcony with my laptop and just let the shades of aqua, mauve, pink, yellow and purple move my fingers around the keyboard.

When it was over and the sun began to peak its way above the horizon, chasing the colors of dawn to daylight, I went back to listening to an episode of a NY Times video called “Hard Fork.” The segment was called, “AI: Cute or Maybe Catastrophically Dangerous.” I have a few take aways from my time spent (wasted?) watching. One: I am overwhelmed by what I do not know. Two: I think I am clever using Claude. I am already behind the curve. It’s time to give my life over to “Muse”. Muse is described as your private personal agent. In its creator/publicist’s words: “For us, Muse gives us back the scarcest thing we have: time with the people we love.” (https://introducing.muse.ai) Three: From making reservations at the hottest new restaurants to managing your bills and expenses, you have to sacrifice a great deal of privacy although maybe that’s an old-fashioned word that exists only in my imagination. (They already know everything about us.) Four: And this one’s a question raised at the very end of the episode. When your girlfriend is recovering from surgery and you order her flowers – does it matter if Muse did it or you personally went to a florist or picked up the phone or clicked on a website.

I guess it’s all about intent and the amount of effort you are willing to exert and maybe how important your girlfriend is to you. I was in Costco on Friday morning and I walked by the floral display and thought, I should get some for Eileen which I did on the way out so they wouldn’t get mangled by the paper towels and Kleenex. More thoughtful than Muse? More touching?

This is the week we begin reading Torah all over again. This is the Shabbat of creation. The text begins with the words:  “When God began to create the heaven and the earth …”    The Rabbis wonder why God created. Why is there existence at all. Why humanity. Why life. One of their answers is that God was lonely. Another answer: We are here; we live; we exist. Stop arguing and do something about it.

I am finishing these words on October 7th. The darkness of that day with all its tragedy and all its pain is still with us. It is not to be forgotten. Neither the spiraling war that ensued with all its destruction and pain on all sides. But I can’t linger there. I need the sunrise and the human reaction to beauty and awe. I need the light that daily emerges from darkness. I need the hope and the faith that we are here: let’s do what we can to make it better. I’m not sure I have a good answer to the flower/girlfriend question. I just know it is good to buy flowers and it is good to notice the dawn. It is a prayer for tomorrow.

Another Beginning

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For some of you this is a surprise. It is to me as well. And some of you have asked me when I will start writing again or did they get removed from the mailing/subscription list. Truth is it is all on me. Too many reasons to list but some of them involve self-esteem and motivation. But it’s a New Year and every breath brings a new opportunity for growth.

We make choices from the moment we wake up until the time we close our eyes. We choose what to wear; what to have for breakfast; what route to take to work or the gym or the grocery store. Shortest? Least traffic? Most scenic? We choose what to listen to or pay attention to as we drive. (Hopefully the road is primary!) I usually tune in to CNN. That is until that guy with Ethos comes on and tells me how his dad died and how thankfully his father had the right life insurance. And I could have that too …. I often change the station, but I have learned that he is on multiple channels especially if you are listening through Sirius XM. I think it’s the fake attempt to be sincere that bothers/irritates me. Don’t tell me about your dad’s sudden death unless you are willing to listen to my mother’s slow and agonizing. (That’s not fair I know it’s only a commercial.)

But what emerges for me is how precious are the real moments when connection is immediate and natural. I went to visit a good friend of mine yesterday who is in Hospice Care at home and honestly is in the process of dying. He wasn’t communicating by the time Eileen and I got there and it seemed as though he was determined to allow the process to reach culmination. I hope he knows we were there. But his partner did, his daughter did, his brother did. Sometimes when nothing else seems like it is working, showing up is not only all you can do but also the best thing you can do. Especially at this time in my life, when my contact list would be much shorter if I had the courage to delete my dead.

My friend couldn’t talk but he had the following Mary Oliver poem sitting on his desk. Last night death came to him and he has passed through the door to eternity.

“When death comes

like the hungry bear in autumn

when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

when death comes

and I look upon time as no more than an idea,

like the measle-pox;

when death comes

like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering;

what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything

as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,

and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common

as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the moutho

tending as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something

precious to t h e earth.

When it’s over, I want to say: all my life

I w a s a bride married to amazement.

I was a bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder

if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened

or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.”

Freakin Amazing

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I take a yoga class about once a week and the teacher consistently ends the class with “In case no one has told you yet today, ‘You are freakin amazing. Namaste.’” 

I believe her. We all are.

To be living to this age; to be living in this age; to be able to look back and be proud of most of your yesterdays; to know that the work is far from done and to know that it might be getting harder and harder to believe that it every will be done. I take that back. It won’t ever be done. The art of being human takes a lot of effort, and we rise and fall and fall and rise almost as often as we breathe in and breathe out.

That’s an exaggeration of course. The art of being human is knowing that nothing seems to remain the same. On my way to Yoga, I was listening to NPR. They were discussing the Administration’s executive orders and their impact on graduate students who are studying and doing research here in some of our most prestigious universities.  Deportation orders; ICE arrests; threats of “defunding” grants and programs and tying so much of this to protecting Jewish students and being pro-Israel and anti-Hamas all were included the in conversation. Throwing all of this up against a wall painted red and black with the words “Free Speech”.

I am waiting for all of this to backfire. That means I am afraid the day will come when the tide will turn and resentment against the Jews will grow for having privileged and protected status. I know it isn’t logical and it’s probably a function of my generation. But I am very wary of the Administration’s motives. They can turn on a dime. Witness: Zalensky.

But enough. This is what I know (in Biblical parlance): Gird your loins. The fight is far from over. The walls of the city may be breached but with will and confidence and faith in each other we can rebuild – and believe that not only are we ‘freakin ‘ amazing but so is our country. In the words of Jewish tradiiton: may it come soon and in our days.

Living Between the Cracks

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As I was hiking the High Falls Loop in Dupont Forest this morning, I listened to one of my go-to podcasts about Israel. Produced by the Hartman Institute, it is called “For Heaven’s Sake” – Israel at War Day 284. The hosts were discussing what normalcy means at this time in Israel. Somewhere on the walk, they used the phrase “living between the cracks” and I thought this did not just apply to Israel. It is what we all are doing – living and making the most of what we have and who we are ignoring or skipping over the cracks in the sidewalk we call the world today.

I really don’t know where to begin – the former President who denies that he lost the election is running to become president again surviving an assassination attempt by inches; the sitting President who has a fifty-year record of public service is bowing out of the race to serve four more years and no one really knows the real story there. (Except I wouldn’t be fair or honest if I didn’t let you know that I am in awe of his willingness to let go of the reins of power and praise him for thinking of the country first. No matter what the motivation and forces that made this decision. I admire him and wish more politicians put country first. And yeah…. It wasn’t a quick or easy decision, and it did look like for a time that the trappings of power were too seductive to ever let go – but he did the right thing. And hopefully his legacy will reflect that.)

 The current Vice-President, a woman of color, seems to be on track to cement the Democratic presidential nomination. If successfully winning the presidency she will become the first woman president and it is probably about time. It’s not like all the kings’ men have been consistently effective. From my perspective, it is probably also the right time to celebrate the multi-cultural demographics of our country. From my perspective, we are not a White Christian Country. And there of course is the rub and the challenge and the pitfalls. Change is hard for us all and change is necessary – without change there is no growth.

When I came home from my hike I sat on the porch and put on my Spotify liked songs. One of them is “Try to Remember.” The lyrics are so another generation and a different world. Can you imagine someone writing a contemporary song with the line: “Try to remember when life was so tender that no one wept except the willow…”

No one wept except the willow. I weep for the callousness; I weep for the vitriol and violence; I weep for lies and I weep that it is hard to know who or whom to trust and what we call the news on one station is opinion on another. And I pray we can collectively come out of this whole – a united states – with a new face looking forward. And out of the cracks will grow a new tomorrow.

I Am Lord of Memory*

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Eileen and I went to see Judy Collins the other night at the Brevard Music Center. She confidently walked on stage in a bright pink long dress with a black sequenced jacket. She proudly announced that she was 85 and from mid orchestra she was looking good. She peppered the concert with a lot of good stories and corny jokes. One of the many things I did not know about her was the relationship she and Leonard Cohen had. She credits him with “pushing” her to write her own songs and throughout the concert sang many of his more esoteric pieces. The concert was delayed for a half hour because of serious thunder and lightening but 2000 people still showed up even some June bugs or fireflies. They flashed in the dark as so many of us celebrated this night of memory.   

One of the Leonard Cohen songs she sang was “Priests”. It’s an elusive and mysterious song/poem about love, memory, loss – all that is holy. I went online to try and put the lyrics into one complete and cogent paragraph. I failed. For me it is the wedding of the haunting melody with the words; it is the marriage of the lyrics with the melody to my own memories.

This all came home to me yesterday when I learned that my friend and colleague, Rabbi Fred Pomerantz died. I knew he was having health issues, but he wasn’t supposed to die. I don’t know whether he loved being a jazz musician first and a Rabbi second or there was no way to separate the two. He was a drummer and the beat of his life and career were intermingled with great joy and deep pain. This is not the place to eulogize him, but it is the place to remember the intersection of our lives from Cincinnati to Closter. It was filled with laughter and tears, it was complete with searching and finding, questions about how to live so that the days of our lives didn’t become material for a soap opera. He was creative, funny and unique all in the service of our people and our Judaism.

Judy Collins isn’t that much older than Freddy or me. She stood on that stage for over an hour and a half and amazed me with her stamina. Sure, she had cliff notes; sure, she turned to her musical director to ask him for details she temporarily forgot; sure her voice has changed. But that’s life – it is all about change – nothing remains the same – and nothing can be taken for given or granted. And it was refreshing to be with her as she proudly celebrated who she was at this stage of living.

Between Judy and Fred it reminded me that no matter how old or how young, our challenge is to make a sacred noise, to sound the bells, to beat the drums, to hear the music of Divinity or the Universe pulsing through our cells. The challenge is to love it all; appreciate the moment; grow the good; minimize the bad; celebrate the remembered and forgotten. Be all you can be even when it isn’t all you were.

Right Freddy?

*From “Priests” by Leonard Cohen

Happy Anniversary

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Dear Gentle Reader,

(To borrow a phrase from Lady Witherspoon of Bridgerton fame.)

You might remember my finding a stack of sermons in our storage unit all typed (like on an electric typewriter) on 5 X 7 cards – mostly green, some blue, all of them pre-word processing days from the mid-70’s to the early 90’s. They are mostly High Holy Day sermons and tend to have some common themes.

Here are some general impressions. They are too long and tend to be repetitive. They are inconsistent but some are brave, and some are foolish, and all try really hard to be relevant, some succeed. They are also incredibly “chutzpadik”. Who am I to be saying these things? Who am I?

Take the one about “Love and Marriage.” I didn’t date a lot of these sermons but in researching the books or articles I quote I think this one is from the mid-70’s. That means I was in my mid-thirties and had been married for maybe ten years. What the ……. did I know about love or marriage?

But it did begin with a great Chasidic story about two boys who used to like playing Rebbe when their father (the Rebbe) was taking a Shabbat afternoon nap. They would take turns and critique each other’s ability to model their father when he counseled people who came for advice. This time the congregant was asking his Rebbe about marriage as he recounted the quality of his relationship with his spouse. At the end of the play acting, the son who was playing the Rebbe asked his brother to critique his “performance”. His brother said: “You did great, and you said all the right things, but you forgot the most important piece of any Chasidic session. Abba (dad) always began with a sigh – all Chasidic stories must begin with a long, slow, deeply felt sigh.

And so it is. Today is Eileen and my anniversary. And I think a sigh is appropriate – the sigh that slows us down and invites us to reflect on the days and years of our marriage. The sigh that admits not every day was perfect but year after year we turned our challenges into blessings. 

Sighs come in many variations. There is the sigh that says: here we go again. Life has a way of repeating lessons unlearned. And it is hard to change; it is easy to fall back on old habits and ways. It is easy to point your index finger at and forget that there are three others pointing back at you. It is easy to forget the word of the day in a marriage is “us”.

You are probably getting the wrong impression here. Another sigh. We have and we are blessed. Not only with children and grandchildren who are a constant source of joy and pride. Not only with relatively good health given our years. Not only with affluence and influence and meaningful roles we played in society. Not only with people who love us and people we love. Not only with laughter and joy and even sorrow and loss – but most of all, we are blessed with each other in good times and bad times, in the work we do when we say: I love you.

 

                                                                                                   

 

Father’s Day

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I decided to get my walk in early this Father’s Day morning and let Spotify create a playlist for me. The computer decided “Forever Young” would be a good first song and did it know how ironic the choice was? This is the saying amongst my peer group: “Growing old isn’t for cissies.”  Ain’t that the truth, though I am blessed to be relatively healthy at this moment of my growing older. (Not that you would know it from the number of pills I count out each night and morning.) When I ended my hike, the algorithm had me at “Papa Was A Rollin Stone.” If you don’t know the song, it is about an absentee father, “wherever he laid his hat was his home and when he died, all he left us was alone,”

It got me to thinking about my father. His name was Charlie and when my mother and he were having a loving moment, she used to call him Sir Charles and he called her, Lady Marilyn (her middle name). In my memory, those moments weren’t as many as we would have liked them to be. My father worked hard all his life. He was a pharmacist who had his own drug store before I was born and then worked as a pharmaceutical rep and subbed several nights and weekend days in a drug store in Waltham, Mass. I remember him compounding meds and measuring potions with great care. I also remember him letting me play at being a soda jerk at the fountain where I made a great Lime Rickey. He catered to my mother during her illnesses. But after his car accident on the Maine Turnpike which put him in the hospital in a coma in Lewiston, Maine where we spent an upside-down Passover waiting to see if he would regain consciousness, there was an angry side of him that surfaced.

They say you are supposed to be slow to anger and quick to forgive. He struggled with that, and if I am honest, so do I (the quick to forgive part.) But I’m not going to talk about me – I’m going to remember the moment before my father’s funeral when we were alone in the chapel and Eileen took out three cigars from her pocketbook and placed them inside his coffin. You see my father never went anywhere without a cigar. The smell of cigar smoke, no matter what quality, brings me right back to him. And to the affable, personable salesman with a trunk full of samples that he felt were meant to be shared.

I took the picture above early in my walk this morning. The Lake is calm; the bullrushes (is that what you call them?) are straight and strong. The waters and the sky reflect each other in peace. So may it be with us.

Israel Diaries 4

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Our security guard put on Tefillen.

We are on our way to the Gaza Envelope. That means we are visiting the sites that were directly attacked by Hamas on October 7th. They are within miles of the Gaza border. We have Rafael (our security guard) with us today; we have helmets with us today; we have had a security briefing on what happens if there is a red alert. (Siren that warns of incoming mortar or missles). Perhaps I am totally naive, but I am not overly anxious.

Why are we going? To learn; to bear witness; to show solidarity; to understand what was and what is; to experience a small piece of the nightmare of 10.7. As we were driving down from Tel Aviv, Rafael put on a Kippah and Tefillin. My guess is that Rafael is in his twenties; when Eileen was introduced to him, she said, “You’re too cute to be a security guard.”  I am going to try and ask him how he identifies religiously.

It is many hours and many experiences and many tears, anger and laughter later. We are back at our hotel in Tel Aviv. I need time to process it all. Our first stop was Kibbitz Nir Oz and then the Nova Festival Site. Both were ground zero for the morning of October 7th and visiting them you mourn, remember, witness the pain and have too many unanswered questions.

At the end of the day, we visited an Army base, home of the engineer corps of the IDF. They asked us not to take pictures of their faces or parts of the base. They are responsible for exploring, discovering and clearing the tunnels in Gaza. We walked through one of their training facilities and provided and shared a barbecue dinner. The picture above is one of the volunteer cooks and me. Quite an experience and a better way to end our day – showing our appreciation and gratitude to these young men and women who are on the front line defending Israel and us.

There are signs all over Israel: We Are Stronger Together.

 






















































































































































 

 

Hello Again

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We were in New York a few weeks ago.  Saw two shows and went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art squeezing into two exhibits: Karl Lagerfeld: A Line of Beauty and Van Gogh’s Cypresses. The exhibits and the shows were radically different: Parade – about the Leo Frank lynching somewhere outside of Atlanta in 1915 and A Beautiful Noise – the story and music of Neil Diamond from Sweet Caroline to Coming to America. We can talk about Parade in a different post.

Eileen and I were captured by A Beautiful Noise; loved the music; you could sing it; loved the glitter and the sequins; felt so good, so good, so good. Things I did not know: unlike many contemporary actors and performers, Neil Diamond never changed his name. He was born Neil Diamond and still is. He didn’t pick up the guitar till he was 16. Many of his songs are deeply personal mirroring different stages of his life. And so much of it is about acceptance and loneliness. I hear his music differently now: self-reflective and even soul searching. You got to get past the façade of bright lights and shiny costumes. Just like when you love someone you love not only their persona but also the person they are within, with all the beauty marks and all the flaws, with all the strengths and weaknesses. You see, I am not a music critic, and I am not a psychoanalyst. “I am I said, to no one there and no one heard at all, not even the chair…” We all want to be heard, noticed, felt that this one life we have is impactful.

Some of us sing; some of us tell stories; some of us write; some of us nurture; some of us teach; some of us provide; some of us heal; some of us listen, some of us create; some of us grow things; some of us paint. And some of us struggle and can’t find the road back. It might be ridiculous or ludicrous to pair the two but the Van Gogh exhibit at the Met wants “in” to these words. The image at the top of this is Van Gogh’s “Country Road in Provence by Night”. He was obsessed with these cypress trees. He calls them “flame like” and even writes, “no one has yet done them as I see them.” Maybe it’s the loneliness theme. I often wondered do you have to be lonely or besieged to be creative. Is suffering the secret ingredient in the paint on the palate?

The painting isn’t as famous or as intense as Starry Nights, but it speaks to me about the life we have been given and the road we all are invited to take – one that winds through and by the trees. There are probably many paths, and they change as we grow, age, mature, become. The challenge is to recognize it, stay on it, celebrate it, affirm it, walk it with as much joy as we can muster no matter what God/Life/Chance/Luck bring us. Van Gogh died of suicide. Neal Diamond has Parkinson’s. What do we really know?

Memories & A Little Light

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The Yahrzeit candle is burning on the kitchen counter. It is the only light in the room on this pre-dawn morning. I remember when these candles of memory were taller and wider, and my Aunt Molly used to save them for drinking glasses. Aunt Molly was the queen of candles. She experienced many losses in her life and on Yom Kippur there was a tray full of these flickering lights, each one lit with a tear and a sigh. Her greatest loss was her daughter Barbara, who according to family legend, died on the operating table having an appendectomy when the hospital lost power during the 1938 Hurricane. (Hurricanes weren’t named until 1950).

We don’t grieve like Aunt Molly anymore. (Although in the Australian series, “A Place To Call Home”, that Eileen and I are addicted to Sarah lies down on her husband’s grave to talk and connect with him.) As a kid, visiting my grandparents’ graves with Aunt Molly I remember how they used to have to hold her up as she went to throw herself down wailing, “my Barbara”.

Morning has broken (I know: “like the first morning…”). The candle on the counter still flickers and the memory of my mother-in-law hovers to be inscribed and internalized in our goings and comings. Bea wasn’t a great sleeper, and neither was I. After we met at the refrigerator door in the middle of the night, she learned to wear a bathrobe as she came from her bedroom. We got to know each other there: she with her cornflakes, me with whatever I could scrounge. She was her Hebrew name: B’rachah – meaning blessing.

I am not sure what I think these compact candles do. The author of Proverbs said that “the human soul is the light (Hebrew: candle) of God.” I don’t know what that meant back then. I am not sure I know what it means now. I do know that last night when we lit the candle, Eileen brought her mother up to date with the goings and comings of the family.  She told her “I wish you could have lived longer to see the beauty and the joy of the last 30 years.” There is nothing terribly rational about that but there is everything that is true on so many levels. Life is about memories and we strive to make them sweet and meaningful. It’s been a tough few months to do that. And so my candle whispers:

To making new and better memories in the New Year: Shana Tovah

“Morning has broken

Like the first morning;

Blackbird has spoken

Like the first bird.

Praise for the singing

Praise for the morning

Praise for them springing fresh from the word.”

(Cat Stevens)

To making new memories in the New Year: Shana Tovah