Written during the Hurricane Sandy indoor days, Oct. 2012, while studying at Yeshivat Hadar.
Sounds like you are really
journeying,
she said. I knew what she meant, but it still took me by surprise. Woke me up a bit. Hadn’t been thinking of my life like that, hadn’t designated these months as a time for personal development, for growth, for "discovering myself," none of that sort of stuff. I guess sometimes a journey takes long enough that you cease to remember that you're on one, that you're traveling across some sort of internal or external ground. It’s like riding the Trans-Siberian Railroad for three days straight. If you look out the windows you see the landscape scrolling past, but with the curtains shut you can forget you’re even moving, forget that there’s a life to live outside of your companions, your bed, the toilet, the aisle, the water dispenser, the instant soup. You’re stationary. In a space instead of traversing a space. The trip becomes everything that has ever existed—until you arrive, when all of a sudden, it’s like the trip never happened. Your journey, once its own lifetime, becomes some hazy recollection of happiness, a dream bookended by disparate realities, a dream severed from reality. As if you’re a Sorry! or Candyland or Chutes & Ladders game piece that landed on a square, slid along a squiggly path, and ended up on another square farther along the board. For a second you slide along, maybe accompanied by some sort of sound effect, but no one really cares about the squiggle after the fact, not really.
Except for in conversations about one’s "Jewish Journey." Then everyone’s fascinated. It’s suddenly all about the squiggle, about using calculus to tease out the discrete points and angles and velocities that form the curves of your increasing and decreasing levels of frumkeit. What were the seminal events and people that led you to be where you are today? How did you morph, silently, ponderously, to accept ideas and positions you once ridiculed?...
Showing posts with label Writings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writings. Show all posts
Saturday, October 25, 2014
Friday, January 11, 2013
Someday
When we sing and rock in our chairs your voice sounds louder then softer then louder again like the closeness of the ground with each whoosh downwards of the swing in the park where I contemplated the relative heights of trees and houses and thought I could live there for sure I could live in that house someday
There was that time you sat down next to me during services and I borrowed a siddur from you and then when I gave it back at the end I kissed it and then you kissed it before putting it away and I thought to myself that's the only kiss we'll ever know and I wrote down that line because it sounded like a good ending to a story
I want to whirl in my dresses in front of you pull them out of the closet toss them on my bed and put them on one by one so there would finally be someone to share in my childish vanity at which point it wouldn't really be vanity any more it would be something about glory and joy in a ridiculous way and maybe you'd even get up from where you'd be sitting in a chair and hug me
And then after hugging we could sit opposite each other on the floor or maybe on the couch if our backs were tired and look at each other for a while and I could tell you about the divinity school eye contact course description I had just read that said that no matter which culture you're talking about people only really look at each other for more than ten seconds at a time if they're about to fight or if they're lovers and then you'd hit me over the head with a pillow as a joke
It's best if you interpret all of my rambling about graduate school applications and the soda bottles lined up on my counter tonight that I took home from yeshiva because no one else took them although I don't even drink diet soda as serving the phatic function which means that those sentences can be described as fulfilling the requirement of "meein chatima samuch lchatima" which means that anything directly preceding With Love, Molly is just another way of saying the same thing
There was that time you sat down next to me during services and I borrowed a siddur from you and then when I gave it back at the end I kissed it and then you kissed it before putting it away and I thought to myself that's the only kiss we'll ever know and I wrote down that line because it sounded like a good ending to a story
I want to whirl in my dresses in front of you pull them out of the closet toss them on my bed and put them on one by one so there would finally be someone to share in my childish vanity at which point it wouldn't really be vanity any more it would be something about glory and joy in a ridiculous way and maybe you'd even get up from where you'd be sitting in a chair and hug me
And then after hugging we could sit opposite each other on the floor or maybe on the couch if our backs were tired and look at each other for a while and I could tell you about the divinity school eye contact course description I had just read that said that no matter which culture you're talking about people only really look at each other for more than ten seconds at a time if they're about to fight or if they're lovers and then you'd hit me over the head with a pillow as a joke
It's best if you interpret all of my rambling about graduate school applications and the soda bottles lined up on my counter tonight that I took home from yeshiva because no one else took them although I don't even drink diet soda as serving the phatic function which means that those sentences can be described as fulfilling the requirement of "meein chatima samuch lchatima" which means that anything directly preceding With Love, Molly is just another way of saying the same thing
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
A million tomorrows / Yeshivat Hadar #3
Today while the blossoms
still cling to the vines
I'll taste your strawberries
and drink your sweet wines
A million tomorrows
shall all pass away
'Ere I forget
all the joy that is mine
today
- lullaby my father sings
Jewish Home Lifecare. Listening to stories, bits of biographical information on repeat. Five or more times within a conversation. Where am I? What's your name? Then right back into the meager slideshow. A reflection on her parents. A story about her son. A statement about why people die. A description of her home city. A reflection on her parents. A story about her son. A story about her son.
If I were to someday lose my awareness of what I've said, what I've not yet said. If I were to someday lose most of my memories, to have my mind siphon off the things it decides are superfluous to my sense of self, my sense of narrative, my sense of meaning, of relationship, of connection. If I were to someday lose everything but that upon which I've dwelt, those hubs at the centers of thoughtwebs, those times that I circle back to, replaying, whether recapturing their happiness or seeing how things could have been different.
What would be the moments I would play over and over again to anyone who would listen?
What would I want to communicate? What would be the emotional tenor?
What can I do now to make sure that the dominant tropes are love, gratitude, meaning, joy, a sense of peace, and all of the ideas and landscapes and beliefs and people who give me these feelings? Are these what I want the dominant tropes to be? In any case, how much control do I have over which aspects of my being, my experiences, will demonstrate staying power?
Cleanse before sleep each night. Be passionate. Breathe in, breathe out, and live.
V'shavti b'veit Hashem l'orech yamim
(Ties in with this, written a little over a year ago.)
still cling to the vines
I'll taste your strawberries
and drink your sweet wines
A million tomorrows
shall all pass away
'Ere I forget
all the joy that is mine
today
- lullaby my father sings
Jewish Home Lifecare. Listening to stories, bits of biographical information on repeat. Five or more times within a conversation. Where am I? What's your name? Then right back into the meager slideshow. A reflection on her parents. A story about her son. A statement about why people die. A description of her home city. A reflection on her parents. A story about her son. A story about her son.
If I were to someday lose my awareness of what I've said, what I've not yet said. If I were to someday lose most of my memories, to have my mind siphon off the things it decides are superfluous to my sense of self, my sense of narrative, my sense of meaning, of relationship, of connection. If I were to someday lose everything but that upon which I've dwelt, those hubs at the centers of thoughtwebs, those times that I circle back to, replaying, whether recapturing their happiness or seeing how things could have been different.
What would be the moments I would play over and over again to anyone who would listen?
What would I want to communicate? What would be the emotional tenor?
What can I do now to make sure that the dominant tropes are love, gratitude, meaning, joy, a sense of peace, and all of the ideas and landscapes and beliefs and people who give me these feelings? Are these what I want the dominant tropes to be? In any case, how much control do I have over which aspects of my being, my experiences, will demonstrate staying power?
Cleanse before sleep each night. Be passionate. Breathe in, breathe out, and live.
V'shavti b'veit Hashem l'orech yamim
(Ties in with this, written a little over a year ago.)
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Dry raincoat
(partly fiction)
The storm will strip away the last leaves. Throw them high in the air along with the plastic bags and cigarette butts and flatten them on the pavement. They were going to fall in the next few days anyway, and there’s nothing wrong with change coming a little sooner than expected. Like when you’re thinking of breaking up with someone and then find out they’re cheating on you, or moving across the country. You get a clean, fresh start, none of this gradual messy business, holding on to your milk past its expiration date, smelling it every now and then to see if it’s gone sour and then getting too scared to even open it so when you finally work up the courage you find that it’s curdled to the point where you can’t pour it down the drain, you have to throw the whole thing out, recycling be damned.
That’s what it was like with Mona. Recycling be damned. I always wondered what would’ve happened if we hadn’t waited for those final leaves to fall, if we’d cut things off before that point, if we’d left each other still able to imagine the green buds of spring, still able to locate the nubs on the branches where they would, could, appear. But instead we watched as we ground ourselves into the drenched pavement, as we stepped on ourselves, as we became the bare trees, haunted, unable to remember what it had been like before, in the good times.
A couple of hours until the subway and buses shut down, until each of us retreats into an apartment building full of people we have never had cause to address except to ask permission to scoot around each other in the laundry room. The mayor has declared the city comatose until further notice, aware that a body can’t function without proper circulation. With the exception, of course, of the emergency workers, those who pump blood slowly, slowly, who make the lungs swell and contract just enough to keep oxygen traveling to our communal brain. Emergency workers will go to work. Who knows who keeps their blood flowing.
I want to bend my head against the wind as I head down the street for my last essentials, to huddle my arms against my chest with my scarf flying out behind me and leaves skittering past, but the storm isn’t here yet, and the wind will probably blow in the other direction, leaving my hair and scarf to tangle unromantically in front of my face. So I walk with a straight back and a brisk step in my dry raincoat to purchase cans of peas and carrots at the grocery as well as some toiletries at the convenience store next door. Only back in the elevator do I realize I forgot to get tampons. Hopefully my uterus, in solidarity with the city, will decide to postpone my period’s start date until schools and libraries reopen. Although it’s more likely that it will get carried away by all of the reports of flooding.
Back in the apartment, my roommate and I stand on opposite sides of the kitchen island, hands on hips, mentally shaking our heads at the odd assortment of non-perishables and other counter-safe foodstuffs we have collected in our multiple shopping trips. Five oranges. Twelve donuts. Couscous. Prunes. Tomato sauce. We’re so clearly in our early twenties, so clearly unused to being the ones responsible for emergency preparation. We celebrate our last night of certain electricity by running the dishwasher and eating brie cheese and crackers. I revel in the ridiculousness while missing the power outages of my Baltimore childhood, with dogs crawling into my bed at night and seemingly endless cribbage games. Four thick candles stand sentry on the marble countertop, waiting to burn in the darkness.
Jay plays the vibraphone and I dick around on my computer as we wait for the storm to hit. The night progresses and I go out to the balcony every hour or so, stand by the railing and put my hand palm up over the edge, find the rain has not yet reached us, although the sky to our right, the western sky, bears some green among the clouds. The wind blows without howling. Maybe I’ll come spin around out here in a day or two, safe in my fourteen-story concrete birdhouse in the midst of God’s fury. I’ll dance a dance of exuberance, of giddiness, of cabin fever, of rain exhaustion, hyped up on donuts and prunes and tomato sauce. For now, though, I retreat each time from the limp breeze and dark sky, settling back onto the futon, drinking cup after cup of chamomile tea until my yawns and my roommate’s retreat into his bedroom convince me to shut down Facebook and go to sleep.
The storm will strip away the last leaves. Throw them high in the air along with the plastic bags and cigarette butts and flatten them on the pavement. They were going to fall in the next few days anyway, and there’s nothing wrong with change coming a little sooner than expected. Like when you’re thinking of breaking up with someone and then find out they’re cheating on you, or moving across the country. You get a clean, fresh start, none of this gradual messy business, holding on to your milk past its expiration date, smelling it every now and then to see if it’s gone sour and then getting too scared to even open it so when you finally work up the courage you find that it’s curdled to the point where you can’t pour it down the drain, you have to throw the whole thing out, recycling be damned.
That’s what it was like with Mona. Recycling be damned. I always wondered what would’ve happened if we hadn’t waited for those final leaves to fall, if we’d cut things off before that point, if we’d left each other still able to imagine the green buds of spring, still able to locate the nubs on the branches where they would, could, appear. But instead we watched as we ground ourselves into the drenched pavement, as we stepped on ourselves, as we became the bare trees, haunted, unable to remember what it had been like before, in the good times.
A couple of hours until the subway and buses shut down, until each of us retreats into an apartment building full of people we have never had cause to address except to ask permission to scoot around each other in the laundry room. The mayor has declared the city comatose until further notice, aware that a body can’t function without proper circulation. With the exception, of course, of the emergency workers, those who pump blood slowly, slowly, who make the lungs swell and contract just enough to keep oxygen traveling to our communal brain. Emergency workers will go to work. Who knows who keeps their blood flowing.
I want to bend my head against the wind as I head down the street for my last essentials, to huddle my arms against my chest with my scarf flying out behind me and leaves skittering past, but the storm isn’t here yet, and the wind will probably blow in the other direction, leaving my hair and scarf to tangle unromantically in front of my face. So I walk with a straight back and a brisk step in my dry raincoat to purchase cans of peas and carrots at the grocery as well as some toiletries at the convenience store next door. Only back in the elevator do I realize I forgot to get tampons. Hopefully my uterus, in solidarity with the city, will decide to postpone my period’s start date until schools and libraries reopen. Although it’s more likely that it will get carried away by all of the reports of flooding.
Back in the apartment, my roommate and I stand on opposite sides of the kitchen island, hands on hips, mentally shaking our heads at the odd assortment of non-perishables and other counter-safe foodstuffs we have collected in our multiple shopping trips. Five oranges. Twelve donuts. Couscous. Prunes. Tomato sauce. We’re so clearly in our early twenties, so clearly unused to being the ones responsible for emergency preparation. We celebrate our last night of certain electricity by running the dishwasher and eating brie cheese and crackers. I revel in the ridiculousness while missing the power outages of my Baltimore childhood, with dogs crawling into my bed at night and seemingly endless cribbage games. Four thick candles stand sentry on the marble countertop, waiting to burn in the darkness.
Jay plays the vibraphone and I dick around on my computer as we wait for the storm to hit. The night progresses and I go out to the balcony every hour or so, stand by the railing and put my hand palm up over the edge, find the rain has not yet reached us, although the sky to our right, the western sky, bears some green among the clouds. The wind blows without howling. Maybe I’ll come spin around out here in a day or two, safe in my fourteen-story concrete birdhouse in the midst of God’s fury. I’ll dance a dance of exuberance, of giddiness, of cabin fever, of rain exhaustion, hyped up on donuts and prunes and tomato sauce. For now, though, I retreat each time from the limp breeze and dark sky, settling back onto the futon, drinking cup after cup of chamomile tea until my yawns and my roommate’s retreat into his bedroom convince me to shut down Facebook and go to sleep.
Monday, October 15, 2012
Instinct
I untwist the connecting belt between two queue-marking poles, releasing the tension. The man in front of me says, "You must be a mother." I respond, "Someday, God willing." He says, as if I hadn't spoken, "That's something my mother would do."
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Yeshivat Hadar #2
The three-sided mobile hanging in my bedroom (a triptych of sorts, you could say) depicts a group of people (a kehila? an am?) standing on a cliff above a grassy land with a river running through it. I just realized while reattaching one of the chopsticks serving as a hanging post that I made the dirt of the cliff and the faces of the people out of the same sandpaper.
The first Hadar Shabbaton took place (took time?) in Washington Heights Sept. 7-8. That Shabbat already feels so long ago--I was still having "first conversations" with some of my fellow fellows. I guess it was technically last year. We talked Torah and life stories, caring for others and how we make decisions within and/or outside of a halakhic framework, Yiddish and interpersonal connection. We prayed and sang and ate and napped on various pieces of furniture. We learned. We were comfortable.
Fort Tryon is one of my favorite places to daven in New York, and I invited a friend to join me there after Shabbat to experience Selichot (a series of penitential prayers and verses that started, for Ashkenazim, the night of Sept. 8 and continued through this past Tuesday morning). We prayed in a small room, the same place we had inhabited for Friday night services, and the sound filled. I remembered the loudness from last year. A space and a group of people that invite you to sing out, to add harmonies that expand, that deepen and darken and create bells, vessels, simplicities of speech, communal speech, a community speaking.
There is a drawing or a poem I have been thinking about for months and months. A morning service at Fort Tryon. Silence, the Amidah. Silent figures wrapped in tallitot, tallitot over heads. Back and forth, the bending. Silent figures, upper bodies bend, back and forth. And young children weave around them, run around them, playing among the silent swathed benders, the ivory-swathed trees, the old trees, a forest of them and the children play, burbling water coursing around old old stones.
"I felt joy out of my fear and fear out of my joy"
Classes over the second and third weeks of yeshiva incorporated a mix of straightforward, philosophical, and personal discussions. Under Devorah Zlochower's guidance, we charted the ordering of sacrifices on Yom Kippur in the Temple. Rav Shai spoke of various ways of thinking about awe, including the connection between awe and humility--awareness of our own smallness and simultaneous internalization of grandeur (with significant input on this particular point from Laynie). He commented that the presence of God means that "all these things that seem private are not private." Dena Weiss led a discussion about mercy, judgment, fairness, showing favor, forgiveness, cleansing, restoration, reconciliation, vindication, etc. with specific attention to the phrases "nesiat panim" and "nesiat avon." (Is mercy fair? Is this a paradox? If so, how do we get out of it? What is the mechanism involved in "nesiat avon," the lifting/cleaning/concealing of guilt/sin/punishment of iniquity? When our punishments get lifted, what happens to our sins?) Rav Aviva helped us tease out an argument regarding the placement of declaration/remembrance of God's kingship within the Rosh Hashanah liturgy. Dori reminded us of what was beautiful in the cores of our conversations. Rav Jason challenged us to look more closely at the passage in the Torah that describes the 13 midot, the 13 attributes of God.
Rav Shai gave us the space to discuss whether or not--and in which cases--forgiveness is a moral as well as a religious obligation, reminding us that this involves "talking about some of the deepest hurts and wounds that people are carrying around." "Do we believe that emotional decisions are possible?" Is forgiving an act, a process, or both? When might it make sense to forgive but not reconcile? "The moment you condone you can no longer forgive....Excusing actually makes forgiving impossible...superfluous." Like the teasing out of knots.
Rav Eitan spoke about the need "to build...communities...that are radiant." His shiur on tefilah, prayer, delineated parameters and qualities to consider when constructing or fine-tuning a prayer community and its services: choreography, sustainability, constituency, and the balances between charisma and predictability, excellence and democracy, and poetry and prose.
I took pride and joy in the way that my classmates, having learned certain material in pairs together for an hour, then cited each other in the concluding shiur (group class) and resolved to bring observations made by my chevrutah to the larger group more often.
The other fellows continue to be one of the highlights of the year program. Each of us has introduced ourselves to the group through teaching something, or about something, dear to us:
An introductory--and immersive--Yiddish lesson
"The Six Steps of Nonviolence"
The prophetic nature of science fiction
Drumming patterns
Her family
The creative self
The Theater of the Oppressed
A poem she wrote
Three stories from her life
The importance of learning/knowing a foreign language
Silence and calm and the connection between Quaker Meeting and graphic novels (me)
Theater, including Shakespeare and directing/stage management
Rosenzweig
Awesomeness
Two yet to come!
On October 15 we will start our primary learning projects for the year. Soon, I will write Hadar #3 in order to elaborate upon the above, which currently contains too much listing and not enough thinking, and to share a few more experiences, such as our first visit to Jewish Home Lifecare.
The first Hadar Shabbaton took place (took time?) in Washington Heights Sept. 7-8. That Shabbat already feels so long ago--I was still having "first conversations" with some of my fellow fellows. I guess it was technically last year. We talked Torah and life stories, caring for others and how we make decisions within and/or outside of a halakhic framework, Yiddish and interpersonal connection. We prayed and sang and ate and napped on various pieces of furniture. We learned. We were comfortable.
Fort Tryon is one of my favorite places to daven in New York, and I invited a friend to join me there after Shabbat to experience Selichot (a series of penitential prayers and verses that started, for Ashkenazim, the night of Sept. 8 and continued through this past Tuesday morning). We prayed in a small room, the same place we had inhabited for Friday night services, and the sound filled. I remembered the loudness from last year. A space and a group of people that invite you to sing out, to add harmonies that expand, that deepen and darken and create bells, vessels, simplicities of speech, communal speech, a community speaking.
There is a drawing or a poem I have been thinking about for months and months. A morning service at Fort Tryon. Silence, the Amidah. Silent figures wrapped in tallitot, tallitot over heads. Back and forth, the bending. Silent figures, upper bodies bend, back and forth. And young children weave around them, run around them, playing among the silent swathed benders, the ivory-swathed trees, the old trees, a forest of them and the children play, burbling water coursing around old old stones.
"I felt joy out of my fear and fear out of my joy"
Classes over the second and third weeks of yeshiva incorporated a mix of straightforward, philosophical, and personal discussions. Under Devorah Zlochower's guidance, we charted the ordering of sacrifices on Yom Kippur in the Temple. Rav Shai spoke of various ways of thinking about awe, including the connection between awe and humility--awareness of our own smallness and simultaneous internalization of grandeur (with significant input on this particular point from Laynie). He commented that the presence of God means that "all these things that seem private are not private." Dena Weiss led a discussion about mercy, judgment, fairness, showing favor, forgiveness, cleansing, restoration, reconciliation, vindication, etc. with specific attention to the phrases "nesiat panim" and "nesiat avon." (Is mercy fair? Is this a paradox? If so, how do we get out of it? What is the mechanism involved in "nesiat avon," the lifting/cleaning/concealing of guilt/sin/punishment of iniquity? When our punishments get lifted, what happens to our sins?) Rav Aviva helped us tease out an argument regarding the placement of declaration/remembrance of God's kingship within the Rosh Hashanah liturgy. Dori reminded us of what was beautiful in the cores of our conversations. Rav Jason challenged us to look more closely at the passage in the Torah that describes the 13 midot, the 13 attributes of God.
Rav Shai gave us the space to discuss whether or not--and in which cases--forgiveness is a moral as well as a religious obligation, reminding us that this involves "talking about some of the deepest hurts and wounds that people are carrying around." "Do we believe that emotional decisions are possible?" Is forgiving an act, a process, or both? When might it make sense to forgive but not reconcile? "The moment you condone you can no longer forgive....Excusing actually makes forgiving impossible...superfluous." Like the teasing out of knots.
Rav Eitan spoke about the need "to build...communities...that are radiant." His shiur on tefilah, prayer, delineated parameters and qualities to consider when constructing or fine-tuning a prayer community and its services: choreography, sustainability, constituency, and the balances between charisma and predictability, excellence and democracy, and poetry and prose.
I took pride and joy in the way that my classmates, having learned certain material in pairs together for an hour, then cited each other in the concluding shiur (group class) and resolved to bring observations made by my chevrutah to the larger group more often.
The other fellows continue to be one of the highlights of the year program. Each of us has introduced ourselves to the group through teaching something, or about something, dear to us:
An introductory--and immersive--Yiddish lesson
"The Six Steps of Nonviolence"
The prophetic nature of science fiction
Drumming patterns
Her family
The creative self
The Theater of the Oppressed
A poem she wrote
Three stories from her life
The importance of learning/knowing a foreign language
Silence and calm and the connection between Quaker Meeting and graphic novels (me)
Theater, including Shakespeare and directing/stage management
Rosenzweig
Awesomeness
Two yet to come!
On October 15 we will start our primary learning projects for the year. Soon, I will write Hadar #3 in order to elaborate upon the above, which currently contains too much listing and not enough thinking, and to share a few more experiences, such as our first visit to Jewish Home Lifecare.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Rediscovery
Rediscovered the journal in which I recorded notes during the summer of 2010, when I was studying at Pardes. It has been sitting on my shelf in New York for months, but I did not take the time to look through it until I was preparing for my running-through-a-fountain-with-a-friend visit to Washington Heights this past Friday and decided it had enough blank pages to be appropriate notebook to carry along. There are some true journal entries, some email addresses that I was happy to remind myself of, some shuk grocery lists (at least one written by someone else who had a much better sense of menu and proportions), some thesis thoughts, many quotations from classes (generally marked by quotation marks), and the occasional prompted freewrite. Twice, our teachers asked us to write prayers. Or at least to start. To try, to see.
The cymbals hang in the stormy wind and they clang G-d! G-d! Let His name be part of everything! Bed squ[e]aks and rattling chains, the song of stars and the rustle of footsteps, let all praise G-d and be part of G-d's ways. How can You know all? But it is so. With every moment the universe rings; with every blink it all becomes clear. It is to G-d that we must turn our eyes; it is to G-d that we must turn our ears. How good it is, that melody in the air! Let us match it with our lips. G-d on high has released my lips, that I may sing of G-d's glory forever. How you shed light upon the world and unto the innermost parts of my soul! Knower of secrets, my light reaches to your light, aching to bask and rejoice in your presence.
July 12, 2010:
"Where do I begin?" "If you want to start somewhere...start with the one-line blessings....One word is important: Ata....the word that makes or breaks the blessing." -Mike Feuer/Tovah Leah [Perhaps I didn't remember who spoke this.]
"The essence of the words...the word to emphasize is Ata."
"Prayer is new every single day."
-relationships being new every single day
my life reaches out to you and the blue pen writes. the lines gray and straight dictating the forms of my praise. How to praise? I will tell you a story. This chair, right here, once an old man sat in it. He furrowed his brow and hrrumphed, then smiled, let his shoulders relax and his eyes open. In this moment he praised G-d. Where are the words? With what words can I praise you? What has not already been said, should I just switch into Russian, how can my words merit reaching you? do they need to reach you? Perhaps not. Ata ata ata ata ata
אתה
אתה
אתה פה
אתה
אתה
אתה
אתה
אתה
The cymbals hang in the stormy wind and they clang G-d! G-d! Let His name be part of everything! Bed squ[e]aks and rattling chains, the song of stars and the rustle of footsteps, let all praise G-d and be part of G-d's ways. How can You know all? But it is so. With every moment the universe rings; with every blink it all becomes clear. It is to G-d that we must turn our eyes; it is to G-d that we must turn our ears. How good it is, that melody in the air! Let us match it with our lips. G-d on high has released my lips, that I may sing of G-d's glory forever. How you shed light upon the world and unto the innermost parts of my soul! Knower of secrets, my light reaches to your light, aching to bask and rejoice in your presence.
July 12, 2010:
"Where do I begin?" "If you want to start somewhere...start with the one-line blessings....One word is important: Ata....the word that makes or breaks the blessing." -Mike Feuer/Tovah Leah [Perhaps I didn't remember who spoke this.]
"The essence of the words...the word to emphasize is Ata."
"Prayer is new every single day."
-relationships being new every single day
my life reaches out to you and the blue pen writes. the lines gray and straight dictating the forms of my praise. How to praise? I will tell you a story. This chair, right here, once an old man sat in it. He furrowed his brow and hrrumphed, then smiled, let his shoulders relax and his eyes open. In this moment he praised G-d. Where are the words? With what words can I praise you? What has not already been said, should I just switch into Russian, how can my words merit reaching you? do they need to reach you? Perhaps not. Ata ata ata ata ata
אתה
אתה
אתה פה
אתה
אתה
אתה
אתה
אתה
Thursday, September 6, 2012
Yeshivat Hadar #1
On Wednesday (i.e. yesterday), I started studying at Yeshivat Hadar, an egalitarian place of Jewish study on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. I will be there for the duration of a school year, studying traditional texts, engaging in communal prayer, and working to spread learning and kindness in the city.
Topics so far have included teaching (in particular, the situations in which one does harm by teaching when not ready or by not teaching when ready), biblical passages relating to teshuvah (returning/repentance) and viduy (confession), obligations incumbent upon a community as well as upon the person/people making rulings for the community, and reflections upon the connections (and, it may feel, tensions) between what feels moral/ethical to an individual and what halakhah (normative Jewish law) seems to say. We have also discussed the mission of Mechon Hadar (the institution of which the Yeshiva is a part) in depth and distributed "toranut" roles--the tasks that we will complete in order to ensure that our space stays nice and that our meals take place.
Today felt great. I have not engaged in sustained chevruta study (i.e. with a partner) since the summer of 2011 at the Northwoods Kollel of Camp Ramah in Wisconsin, and I rediscovered how much I appreciate this particular method of exploring a text, giving voice to thoughts and feelings that arise, and considering the insights and connections the other person brings to the conversation. My chevruta and I both expressed appreciation for the other's comments and questions.
Which brings me to one of the aspects of my new learning environment that struck me as most definitive. On Wednesday, we sat in a circle while discussing the commentary on a passage in Mishlei/Proverbs that tied the passage to the harm caused by teaching or not teaching, and I realized at some point that I respected everyone else in the circle intellectually and personally. No matter who spoke, I found myself approaching their suggestions with curiosity and, every once in a while, a bit of admiration. This should be my general way of existing in the world--never being impatient with someone's reflections, never judging someone's character or output in a way that shuts off my ability to pay further attention. May it be so.
My favorite part of yeshiva so far, actually, has been communal prayer. We engage in whichever of the three daily prayer services we are present for; once our routine regularizes, there will be two days a week that we will be at Hadar for all three. Our voices meld well in a way that also keeps each one distinct, as if there were a river made of bright and pastel ribbons. The fact that the time is built into our schedule means that we do not rush through in order to get to something else; there is likewise no use in waiting for it to end. There is just the space to stand, to think, to speak, to bend, to nod. To raise noise. To put forehead on forearm. To breathe.
It was actually when attending a prayer service last spring at the yeshiva that I finally realized that this is where I belong.
I'll draw your attention to the first of many classes at Hadar that will be open to the public this fall:
"To Dwell in God's House All the Days of My Life:" Exploring the Psalm for Elul and the Days of Awe
Rabbi Shai Held
Over and over again during this season, we declare that God is our "light" and our "salvation," and pray for the ability to dwell in God's house. But what is Psalm 27 really about? In this session, we'll do a close literary and theological reading of the Psalm and uncover its deeper meanings.
The class will take place at 190 Amsterdam Avenue (69th Street), in the West End Synagogue building. Prayer services are also open to all; feel free to contact me for those times or check out Mechon Hadar's website.
Topics so far have included teaching (in particular, the situations in which one does harm by teaching when not ready or by not teaching when ready), biblical passages relating to teshuvah (returning/repentance) and viduy (confession), obligations incumbent upon a community as well as upon the person/people making rulings for the community, and reflections upon the connections (and, it may feel, tensions) between what feels moral/ethical to an individual and what halakhah (normative Jewish law) seems to say. We have also discussed the mission of Mechon Hadar (the institution of which the Yeshiva is a part) in depth and distributed "toranut" roles--the tasks that we will complete in order to ensure that our space stays nice and that our meals take place.
Today felt great. I have not engaged in sustained chevruta study (i.e. with a partner) since the summer of 2011 at the Northwoods Kollel of Camp Ramah in Wisconsin, and I rediscovered how much I appreciate this particular method of exploring a text, giving voice to thoughts and feelings that arise, and considering the insights and connections the other person brings to the conversation. My chevruta and I both expressed appreciation for the other's comments and questions.
Which brings me to one of the aspects of my new learning environment that struck me as most definitive. On Wednesday, we sat in a circle while discussing the commentary on a passage in Mishlei/Proverbs that tied the passage to the harm caused by teaching or not teaching, and I realized at some point that I respected everyone else in the circle intellectually and personally. No matter who spoke, I found myself approaching their suggestions with curiosity and, every once in a while, a bit of admiration. This should be my general way of existing in the world--never being impatient with someone's reflections, never judging someone's character or output in a way that shuts off my ability to pay further attention. May it be so.
My favorite part of yeshiva so far, actually, has been communal prayer. We engage in whichever of the three daily prayer services we are present for; once our routine regularizes, there will be two days a week that we will be at Hadar for all three. Our voices meld well in a way that also keeps each one distinct, as if there were a river made of bright and pastel ribbons. The fact that the time is built into our schedule means that we do not rush through in order to get to something else; there is likewise no use in waiting for it to end. There is just the space to stand, to think, to speak, to bend, to nod. To raise noise. To put forehead on forearm. To breathe.
It was actually when attending a prayer service last spring at the yeshiva that I finally realized that this is where I belong.
I'll draw your attention to the first of many classes at Hadar that will be open to the public this fall:
"To Dwell in God's House All the Days of My Life:" Exploring the Psalm for Elul and the Days of Awe
Rabbi Shai Held
Over and over again during this season, we declare that God is our "light" and our "salvation," and pray for the ability to dwell in God's house. But what is Psalm 27 really about? In this session, we'll do a close literary and theological reading of the Psalm and uncover its deeper meanings.
The class will take place at 190 Amsterdam Avenue (69th Street), in the West End Synagogue building. Prayer services are also open to all; feel free to contact me for those times or check out Mechon Hadar's website.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Hickory
A youngry girl wallows in her freckles with sunlight dappled on the leaves of her fingers and the blue blue white blue lilac shirt drapes cotton on her shoulders
The images pour through arms and the veins connect to stream in one direction only one direction ever only one
Monday, May 21, 2012
The Yonahs
A few years ago, I started writing a story about two different Yonahs from Tana"kh:
Yonah the dove, from Noah's Ark, and Yonah the Prophet, more commonly
known in English as Jonah. I thought Yonah the dove would have much
wisdom for Yonah the Prophet, but I have recently started thinking more
about unsettled feelings and thoughts that the dove--as well as the
dove-partner it presumably left behind--might have. And I realized that
another Yonah should enter the picture: one of the lovers from Shir
haShirim (The Song of Songs). The woman is called "yonati", but seeing
as doves seem to come in pairs (which poses an interesting question for
Yonah the Prophet), I figure that the woman's lover may also be
classified as such.
All three share a fleeing, a leaving, a come-and-go relationship. The dove leaves the Ark and comes back, leaves the Ark and comes back, leaves the Ark and never returns. Yonah the Prophet tries to escape God's mission for him with regard to the city of Nineveh. And the lovers in Shir haShirim tear each other's hearts when a brief coyness results in the other's withdrawal.
I want the three to meet. For now, though, a drawing related to the one whom I, for now, label Yonah 2.
All three share a fleeing, a leaving, a come-and-go relationship. The dove leaves the Ark and comes back, leaves the Ark and comes back, leaves the Ark and never returns. Yonah the Prophet tries to escape God's mission for him with regard to the city of Nineveh. And the lovers in Shir haShirim tear each other's hearts when a brief coyness results in the other's withdrawal.
I want the three to meet. For now, though, a drawing related to the one whom I, for now, label Yonah 2.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
A note to myself, 10/14/2009
life of a piano tuner
spending all the time making sure each individual key sounds good
and good in relation to all the others
but never playing.
each of us working on one note
preparing for our souls to be played
spending all the time making sure each individual key sounds good
and good in relation to all the others
but never playing.
each of us working on one note
preparing for our souls to be played
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Beat
Pale, pale hair, spiked hair, paler skin. A short black jacket bearing the word Corrupted.
Passed him as I walked to the spot that I had chosen.
He waited for the train a yard or two away. Waited behind me. Waited next to me again.
We walked toward the train when it came. I looked at his profile. His nose had a bump. Not as big of a bump as I remembered, but it was enough. We ended up next to each other, in the center, on either side of a pole, facing the same direction.
You remind me of someone I used to know, I say.
A couple seconds pass.
Where are you from? I ask.
Sweden, he says.
The train moves with us, and I look toward the window.
Was he a good person or a bad person? he asks.
Beat.
A good person.
Slight pause. He inclines his head toward me, leans closer. What?
A good person, I say louder, more distinctly.
Silence. I hook my arm around the pole, rest, one leg braced, the other bent, content, rocking forward and back. He holds on with one hand, above my elbow, below my head.
Passed him as I walked to the spot that I had chosen.
He waited for the train a yard or two away. Waited behind me. Waited next to me again.
We walked toward the train when it came. I looked at his profile. His nose had a bump. Not as big of a bump as I remembered, but it was enough. We ended up next to each other, in the center, on either side of a pole, facing the same direction.
You remind me of someone I used to know, I say.
A couple seconds pass.
Where are you from? I ask.
Sweden, he says.
The train moves with us, and I look toward the window.
Was he a good person or a bad person? he asks.
Beat.
A good person.
Slight pause. He inclines his head toward me, leans closer. What?
A good person, I say louder, more distinctly.
Silence. I hook my arm around the pole, rest, one leg braced, the other bent, content, rocking forward and back. He holds on with one hand, above my elbow, below my head.
Monday, January 30, 2012
I stood by
I stood by.
My Jewish sisters gathered at the Western Wall, and I stood by.
Stood by and watched as they sang their prayers on Rosh Chodesh Av, praising God and defying the shouts they provoked. I had written about these women, described and extolled their fight, their desire to be unmarked, undivided, uninhibited in speaking to God as they wished, where they wished. I believed in their mission, was personally distraught over the crowdedness of the women’s side of the mechitza, over the restrictions I felt upon my chanting, my expression, my being. I supported their call for religious freedom. I had come to see them, to maybe add my voice to theirs. But I found, that day, that I could not stand with them.
I was uncomfortable, afraid, agitated. Prayers were protests; what was meant for God was directed instead against detractors. The Torah became something to possess, to display. Hallel became a freedom march, a production for video cameras. Judaism became a battleground on the first day of the month dedicated to remembering the dangers of turning against each other. I did not come for battle. I came for worship. And so I stood by, watched as others fought my battle for me. But I am ashamed to say there was another reason I stood by.
I did not respect them. I did not respect myself.
These women were united in their struggle but somehow I saw them as motley, mismatched. Many were not Israeli. Many were not Orthodox. I did not believe that others would consider their claims or their methods traditional, within the bounds of the system. I did not want to be on camera with them; I did not want other Jews seeing me with them; I did not want to associate with these women, to have my face next to theirs. I shied away from allying with the subversive, the rag-tag, the eternally outside voices of change.
I wanted to be normative.
All of the labels that I had managed to accrue over the years – female, pacifist, bisexual, idealist, tallit-donner, kippah-wearer, storyteller, song singer – all of these liberal, freeing things boxed me in, made me a ‘type,’ made me feel I needed to prove myself in order to be respected. I might be egalitarian, but I better not play guitar on Shabbat. I might consider laying tefillin, but I better do so in my own bedroom. I might lead Neilah, but I better not make a fuss if a man is always chosen to lead Kiddush in my own home. I might feel the call to learn and counsel and teach and, gosh knows, even prophesy, but I better not become a Rabbi. I could not be a hippie, I could not be loud, I could not be joyful, I could not be defiant. I could not cut my hair. I could not be one of ‘those women.’ I needed to make myself generic, not cause a stir, not isolate myself. Of course, even in my most restricted moments, I was far from being a conformist. But I did not always broadcast the ways in which I did not quite fit in.
Only in that way would I be taken seriously. Only by operating within law and custom, only by dressing smartly, behaving modestly, studying sources earnestly, would I encourage others to respect me.
Only then, I reasoned, would my views ‘count.’
I reflect on that day, and I remember another time, a very different time, the first time I met with the Wall, about six months earlier. I had thought of wearing a skirt. Instead I approached the Wall as myself, in jeans and hiking boots. I walked closer, looked up, considered the division between light stone and dark sky, walked closer, closer. This is me, I declared. And I brought my ancestors with me, all of those who had not been privileged to reach the spot themselves. They did not mind my jeans, my boots. They did not mind my queerness, my silliness, my feminism, my doubts. They also did not care about my observance of Shabbat, my resolve not to show cleavage during services, my refusal to listen to music for three weeks out of the year. All that mattered was that I was finally bringing them to the Wall. I was their descendant, their passionate, devoted, intelligent, proud, questioning, fiery girl-child.
I think back on this earlier meeting between God, the Wall, my ancestors, and me, and I am suddenly tired of the struggle to be seen as authentic, to ally myself with those who are seen as authentic. I do not know what to make of my own dismissal of my kin that day in July. In my fear of ostracizing myself, I had ostracized them.
There are many ways in which I need to grow, many things I need to learn, many decisions I need to make. But I now know that I already have a place among those who matter. Maybe it is with the Women of the Wall. Maybe it is not.
But I will not stand by again.
I will simply stand.
My Jewish sisters gathered at the Western Wall, and I stood by.
Stood by and watched as they sang their prayers on Rosh Chodesh Av, praising God and defying the shouts they provoked. I had written about these women, described and extolled their fight, their desire to be unmarked, undivided, uninhibited in speaking to God as they wished, where they wished. I believed in their mission, was personally distraught over the crowdedness of the women’s side of the mechitza, over the restrictions I felt upon my chanting, my expression, my being. I supported their call for religious freedom. I had come to see them, to maybe add my voice to theirs. But I found, that day, that I could not stand with them.
I was uncomfortable, afraid, agitated. Prayers were protests; what was meant for God was directed instead against detractors. The Torah became something to possess, to display. Hallel became a freedom march, a production for video cameras. Judaism became a battleground on the first day of the month dedicated to remembering the dangers of turning against each other. I did not come for battle. I came for worship. And so I stood by, watched as others fought my battle for me. But I am ashamed to say there was another reason I stood by.
I did not respect them. I did not respect myself.
These women were united in their struggle but somehow I saw them as motley, mismatched. Many were not Israeli. Many were not Orthodox. I did not believe that others would consider their claims or their methods traditional, within the bounds of the system. I did not want to be on camera with them; I did not want other Jews seeing me with them; I did not want to associate with these women, to have my face next to theirs. I shied away from allying with the subversive, the rag-tag, the eternally outside voices of change.
I wanted to be normative.
All of the labels that I had managed to accrue over the years – female, pacifist, bisexual, idealist, tallit-donner, kippah-wearer, storyteller, song singer – all of these liberal, freeing things boxed me in, made me a ‘type,’ made me feel I needed to prove myself in order to be respected. I might be egalitarian, but I better not play guitar on Shabbat. I might consider laying tefillin, but I better do so in my own bedroom. I might lead Neilah, but I better not make a fuss if a man is always chosen to lead Kiddush in my own home. I might feel the call to learn and counsel and teach and, gosh knows, even prophesy, but I better not become a Rabbi. I could not be a hippie, I could not be loud, I could not be joyful, I could not be defiant. I could not cut my hair. I could not be one of ‘those women.’ I needed to make myself generic, not cause a stir, not isolate myself. Of course, even in my most restricted moments, I was far from being a conformist. But I did not always broadcast the ways in which I did not quite fit in.
Only in that way would I be taken seriously. Only by operating within law and custom, only by dressing smartly, behaving modestly, studying sources earnestly, would I encourage others to respect me.
Only then, I reasoned, would my views ‘count.’
I reflect on that day, and I remember another time, a very different time, the first time I met with the Wall, about six months earlier. I had thought of wearing a skirt. Instead I approached the Wall as myself, in jeans and hiking boots. I walked closer, looked up, considered the division between light stone and dark sky, walked closer, closer. This is me, I declared. And I brought my ancestors with me, all of those who had not been privileged to reach the spot themselves. They did not mind my jeans, my boots. They did not mind my queerness, my silliness, my feminism, my doubts. They also did not care about my observance of Shabbat, my resolve not to show cleavage during services, my refusal to listen to music for three weeks out of the year. All that mattered was that I was finally bringing them to the Wall. I was their descendant, their passionate, devoted, intelligent, proud, questioning, fiery girl-child.
I think back on this earlier meeting between God, the Wall, my ancestors, and me, and I am suddenly tired of the struggle to be seen as authentic, to ally myself with those who are seen as authentic. I do not know what to make of my own dismissal of my kin that day in July. In my fear of ostracizing myself, I had ostracized them.
There are many ways in which I need to grow, many things I need to learn, many decisions I need to make. But I now know that I already have a place among those who matter. Maybe it is with the Women of the Wall. Maybe it is not.
But I will not stand by again.
I will simply stand.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
I think I'm glad
I was riding the express train back up north. The 1 train started off going slightly faster than us, and I watched the people in the other car as they passed us by. Then their train slowed down to make a station stop, and we seemed to go faster and faster, and the people passed by me in the opposite direction, and I could see the outlines of the train cars, could see how strange it was that we were in these massive mechanical train cars, and I could also see bits of the station through three sets of windows, and then the people were gone and we were hurtling through the near darkness alone again.
We were already past 72nd Street. At one point I stumbled, caught myself, looked up at the man standing closest to me, hoped I hadn't run into him. Our coats were poofy enough that I might not have noticed. But he was not paying any mind.
He started singing ever so quietly. Humming, perhaps. Wordless, but I knew it.
Some...times in our lives...we all have pain...we all have sorrow....
Ever so quietly. I felt the need to connect, to acknowledge, to put myself into his awareness, his singing. If he had been playing the song on a saxophone in the middle of a train station, I would have stood there a bit and sung along, harmonized. It would have been fine. It would have been fun. As it was, I wasn't sure what to do. Things were too quiet, too personal.
But...if we are wise...we know that there's...always tomorrow....
I went ahead and harmonized. So, so softly. I wasn't sure whether or not I wanted him to notice. He did not, and I think I'm glad. But what would have been the issue?
We got to our stop. He hesitated in front of me, and I asked him if he was getting off there. He smiled faintly and said he was, and then he left the train, and I followed. I became happier with the smile, calmer, more comfortable.
I had been thinking about saying, "Good song." Just some sort of recognition. Some sort of bond. But for whose sake? I didn't say anything. We went up the stairs. One person was between us by the time we got to the turnstiles.
I had started singing again, melody this time, louder than before. With words. Why not, I figured. What was I afraid of? But he never heard, and I think I'm glad.
The song stayed in my head for a while. Maybe I'll pass it off to someone tomorrow.
We were already past 72nd Street. At one point I stumbled, caught myself, looked up at the man standing closest to me, hoped I hadn't run into him. Our coats were poofy enough that I might not have noticed. But he was not paying any mind.
He started singing ever so quietly. Humming, perhaps. Wordless, but I knew it.
Some...times in our lives...we all have pain...we all have sorrow....
Ever so quietly. I felt the need to connect, to acknowledge, to put myself into his awareness, his singing. If he had been playing the song on a saxophone in the middle of a train station, I would have stood there a bit and sung along, harmonized. It would have been fine. It would have been fun. As it was, I wasn't sure what to do. Things were too quiet, too personal.
But...if we are wise...we know that there's...always tomorrow....
I went ahead and harmonized. So, so softly. I wasn't sure whether or not I wanted him to notice. He did not, and I think I'm glad. But what would have been the issue?
We got to our stop. He hesitated in front of me, and I asked him if he was getting off there. He smiled faintly and said he was, and then he left the train, and I followed. I became happier with the smile, calmer, more comfortable.
I had been thinking about saying, "Good song." Just some sort of recognition. Some sort of bond. But for whose sake? I didn't say anything. We went up the stairs. One person was between us by the time we got to the turnstiles.
I had started singing again, melody this time, louder than before. With words. Why not, I figured. What was I afraid of? But he never heard, and I think I'm glad.
The song stayed in my head for a while. Maybe I'll pass it off to someone tomorrow.
Friday, January 20, 2012
Washing potatoes
I was washing potatoes
and a song came on iTunes
that I didn't think I wanted.
I went to skip the song
and instead started dancing.
I twirled so quickly
that my glasses flew off.
and a song came on iTunes
that I didn't think I wanted.
I went to skip the song
and instead started dancing.
I twirled so quickly
that my glasses flew off.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
That kind of hippie
Met new people tonight. The three of us sat in Whole Foods drinking coffee and hot chocolate.
One asked me what I wanted to do in my life. Didn't have an answer at the moment, so I gave one that I was pretty sure about a few days ago: to be a witness to the good in the world.
"So you're that kind of hippie," he said.
I got home and drew.
One asked me what I wanted to do in my life. Didn't have an answer at the moment, so I gave one that I was pretty sure about a few days ago: to be a witness to the good in the world.
"So you're that kind of hippie," he said.
I got home and drew.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Comrades of a sort
First it was just us two, me and the boy with unkempt dark hair, a backpack, and a slightly feminine face, at the first stop on the 1 train. We were uncertain that the train was running - only saw one person on it - and from that moment of shared uncertainty onwards we were comrades of a sort. An official-looking man assuaged our fears, and we started to settle a train car. He sat down, I sat down on the other side of the car doors, and he moved to sit across from me. We had a bit of a wait.
The boy asked me what I was reading. I said it was a prayer book. Praying is good in subways, I said. There's the time for it. He asked what it was - a "Tanaka"? A Torah? A siddur, I said. Are you Jewish? I asked. Yes, he said.
Before the train left the resting station, a man joined us a few seats down with a mustache and a book. I wanted to ask him what book it was, but I didn't. He was most of the way through it.
The boy had been visiting a friend and watching Nicholas Cage movies. I had been visiting a friend who was about to leave the country. He was going to take a train home from Penn Station.
Fifteen teenagers joined us. They described themselves as drunk. They sang Happy Birthday to two members of their group, adding a remix each time that changed up the rhythm. One girl spat on the floor a bit. A couple of them were quite acrobatic and made good use of the vertical and horizontal poles. The boy and I shared looks - some amiable, some shocked - and smiles. I laughed out loud once. I wondered what the others who joined us on the train thought of the teenagers. I wondered what the boy thought about teenage drinking.
We arrived at Penn Station. I was standing, leaning my back against a pole, facing down the length of the car. Have a good evening, I said. You're leaving? he asked. No, you are, I said.
He stood and said, I'm Matt. I'm Molly, I said, and he shook my hand. It was nice to meet me.
That's my brother's name, I said to Matt as he left the train.
The boy asked me what I was reading. I said it was a prayer book. Praying is good in subways, I said. There's the time for it. He asked what it was - a "Tanaka"? A Torah? A siddur, I said. Are you Jewish? I asked. Yes, he said.
Before the train left the resting station, a man joined us a few seats down with a mustache and a book. I wanted to ask him what book it was, but I didn't. He was most of the way through it.
The boy had been visiting a friend and watching Nicholas Cage movies. I had been visiting a friend who was about to leave the country. He was going to take a train home from Penn Station.
Fifteen teenagers joined us. They described themselves as drunk. They sang Happy Birthday to two members of their group, adding a remix each time that changed up the rhythm. One girl spat on the floor a bit. A couple of them were quite acrobatic and made good use of the vertical and horizontal poles. The boy and I shared looks - some amiable, some shocked - and smiles. I laughed out loud once. I wondered what the others who joined us on the train thought of the teenagers. I wondered what the boy thought about teenage drinking.
We arrived at Penn Station. I was standing, leaning my back against a pole, facing down the length of the car. Have a good evening, I said. You're leaving? he asked. No, you are, I said.
He stood and said, I'm Matt. I'm Molly, I said, and he shook my hand. It was nice to meet me.
That's my brother's name, I said to Matt as he left the train.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Stars
My mood improves dramatically when I eat.
This evening:
1. Dinner with friends
2. Phone calls with friends
3. Michaels arts and crafts store (the name does not bear an apostrophe!!)
4. Returning library books
5. Buying wine (I was called Sir! Because he was still thinking of the person he was last talking with. He was slightly mortified. I was cheerful. He calmed down.)
6. Buying fruits and challah
7.
This evening:
1. Dinner with friends
2. Phone calls with friends
3. Michaels arts and crafts store (the name does not bear an apostrophe!!)
4. Returning library books
5. Buying wine (I was called Sir! Because he was still thinking of the person he was last talking with. He was slightly mortified. I was cheerful. He calmed down.)
6. Buying fruits and challah
7.
Stars.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Whole Foods
I picked out tomatoes
and brought them to my face
and their vines smelled overpoweringly
of home.
and brought them to my face
and their vines smelled overpoweringly
of home.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Questions for Angels
הוא הולך פנימה. בחדר יושבים מלאכים. כמה מלאכים שומעים מוסיקה. כמה מדברים על הכוכבים ועל החלומות של אנשים. כולם מהר שקטים כשהם רואים את הילד. הוא לא מדבר שלוש דקות.פ
אז הוא אומר:פ
כמה דגים יש בים?"ד"
המלאכים לא אומרים שום דבר.פ
הילד אומר:ד
כמה דלתות יש לבית השם בשמײַם?"ד"
המלאכים לא אומרים שום דבר.ד
הילד אומר:פ
כמה דרכים יש לידידתי?"ד"
המלאכים לא אומרים שום דבר.ד
הילד מגיע לסוף השאלות שלו ופונה לצאת. אבל קרוב לדלת הוא פונה ואומר שאלה אחרונה:ס
על כמה שאלות אתם עונים?"ד"
מלאכה קמה מהכיסא שלה ונתנה תשובה:ד
על שאלה אחת."ד"
המלאכים יושבים בשקט והכנפײַם שלהם גדולות עם צבעים נוראים. המוסיקה שרה ורוקדת, צוחקת ומחײַכת....ד
המלאכים לא אומרים שום דבר.ד
הילד אומר:פ
כמה דרכים יש לידידתי?"ד"
המלאכים לא אומרים שום דבר.ד
הילד מגיע לסוף השאלות שלו ופונה לצאת. אבל קרוב לדלת הוא פונה ואומר שאלה אחרונה:ס
על כמה שאלות אתם עונים?"ד"
מלאכה קמה מהכיסא שלה ונתנה תשובה:ד
על שאלה אחת."ד"
המלאכים יושבים בשקט והכנפײַם שלהם גדולות עם צבעים נוראים. המוסיקה שרה ורוקדת, צוחקת ומחײַכת....ד
He walks in. Angels sit in the room. Some angels are listening to music. Others speak about the stars and the dreams of men. All hush quickly when they see the boy. He does not speak for three minutes.
Then he says:
"How many fish are in the sea?"
The angels do not say anything.
The boy says:
"How many doors are there to the house of God in the heavens?
The angels do not say anything.
The boy says:
"How many roads are there to my beloved?"
The angels do not say anything.
The boy reaches the end of his questions and turns to leave. But near the door he turns and says his last question:
"How many questions will you answer?"
An angel rises from her seat and gives an answer:
"One question."
The angels sit in quiet, and their wings are great with fearsome colors. The music sings and dances, laughs and smiles....
- Hebrew B, journal entry, fall 2009 (before I learned past tense).
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