I have missed you, readers! (Especially those of you who write to me after reading my blog posts) I am back in Cincinnati after over a week on the road - staying in Southern Georgia, Port St Lucie Florida, Palm Beach Gardens, Northern Georgia before returning to rather less snow than we had anticipated on Christmas night. It was snowing so hard in Georgia on the way home that we would have stopped for the night, were it not for the fact that my sister and her kids were flying in from NYC that evening for the first time in TWO YEARS.
So, now, we are hosting my sister, Susan and her son, Julian, 8, and daughter Veronique, 4. Visiting is keeping me occupied and away from the keyboard, but I did want to check in and share one of the smoothies I invented in honor of their visit.
When I returned home, the crisper drawer in the fridge was full of slightly wilted veggies. Rather than toss them, I threw parts of them into the Blend Tech, with low expectations. What emerged looked like green sludge, but even Sam, 10, declared it delicious, and it disappeared in a flash:
four radishes
1/3 onion
handful spinach
handful kale
big pinch of parsley
one carrot
1/2 honeycrisp apple
1/2 cup cider
1/2 cup water
By the way, if you want to hide green veggies in smoothies for your kids, I highly recommend disguising them with a handful of blueberries. L'chaim; bottoms up!
Monday, December 27, 2010
Friday, December 17, 2010
Shabbos Wonderland
Later on today it will be shabbos,
a special holiday we have each week.
Mom works hard all day to get things ready;
when Dad comes home, he'll kiss her on the cheek
Later on, comes havdalah,
but for now, we all wanna
enjoy what G-d made,
what we'd never trade:
walking in a shabbos wonderland.
From the oven comes the fragrant challah,
at sundown, Mom is blessing sabbath lights.
Dad says kiddush and takes us to temple
and after oneg, tucks us in real tight.
Farther on is havdalah,
but for now, we all wanna
enjoy what G-d made,
what we'd never trade:
walking in a shabbos wonderland
[optional verses for frum families:
on other days we might drive to the city
on shabbos, the car stays in our garage
other people may think it's a pity
to see us walking as they're driving by
but you see, we're together,
as we brave any weather,
we embrace what God made
what we'd never trade:
walking in a shabbos wonderland]
Walking in a shabbos Wonderland
adapted from the song, "Winter Wonderland",
originally composed by Felix Bernard (n. Bernhart)
new lyrics by Nancy Illman c2010
a special holiday we have each week.
Mom works hard all day to get things ready;
when Dad comes home, he'll kiss her on the cheek
Later on, comes havdalah,
but for now, we all wanna
enjoy what G-d made,
what we'd never trade:
walking in a shabbos wonderland.
From the oven comes the fragrant challah,
at sundown, Mom is blessing sabbath lights.
Dad says kiddush and takes us to temple
and after oneg, tucks us in real tight.
Farther on is havdalah,
but for now, we all wanna
enjoy what G-d made,
what we'd never trade:
walking in a shabbos wonderland
[optional verses for frum families:
on other days we might drive to the city
on shabbos, the car stays in our garage
other people may think it's a pity
to see us walking as they're driving by
but you see, we're together,
as we brave any weather,
we embrace what God made
what we'd never trade:
walking in a shabbos wonderland]
Walking in a shabbos Wonderland
adapted from the song, "Winter Wonderland",
originally composed by Felix Bernard (n. Bernhart)
new lyrics by Nancy Illman c2010
Esther, baby (a song for Purim)
Esther, baby,
the king is looking for a new bride-
to-be.
You really are a beautiful girl.
Esther, baby,
hurry to the palace tonight!
Esther, baby,
the King is set for Queen number two,
it's true!
Queen Vashti really seems like she's through.
Esther, baby,
hurry down to Shushan tonight.
Now's not the time to tell the King
the names of all your relatives.
Now's the time simply to show
your beauty is superlative.
Esther, baby,
be a good, obedient wife
to him.
One day, it will pay off for you
and all of your kin.
So be a sweet, obedient wife!
Esther, cutie,
fast three days, then bend the King's ear,
be true.
He'll throw that Haman out on his rear,
for you.
So Esther,
won't you see him tonight?
Esther, sweetie,
look at all the good you can do.
You'll see.
When Haman tries to kill all the Jews,
ooh wee...
you'll save yourself and all of us, too.
Esther, baby,
you'll go down in history tonight!
based on "Santa Baby" by Jerry Herman
new lyrics by Nancy Illman c2010
the king is looking for a new bride-
to-be.
You really are a beautiful girl.
Esther, baby,
hurry to the palace tonight!
Esther, baby,
the King is set for Queen number two,
it's true!
Queen Vashti really seems like she's through.
Esther, baby,
hurry down to Shushan tonight.
Now's not the time to tell the King
the names of all your relatives.
Now's the time simply to show
your beauty is superlative.
Esther, baby,
be a good, obedient wife
to him.
One day, it will pay off for you
and all of your kin.
So be a sweet, obedient wife!
Esther, cutie,
fast three days, then bend the King's ear,
be true.
He'll throw that Haman out on his rear,
for you.
So Esther,
won't you see him tonight?
Esther, sweetie,
look at all the good you can do.
You'll see.
When Haman tries to kill all the Jews,
ooh wee...
you'll save yourself and all of us, too.
Esther, baby,
you'll go down in history tonight!
based on "Santa Baby" by Jerry Herman
new lyrics by Nancy Illman c2010
Thursday, December 16, 2010
breaking a parenting taboo
My friend, Michael, posted a link on facebook today to one of the marvelous TED lectures. (see www.TED.com/talks) This particular one was given by a married couple whose goal was to shatter 3 taboos of parenting. They say, and I agree, that new parents would feel less discouraged if we didn't observe the following prohibitions:
(1) don't discuss how lonely new parenting can be
(2) don't talk about "the invisible loss" of miscarriage
(3) don't admit that your "average happiness" has declined
If you are a parent, I'm sure you will agree that there is a lot of false advertising about parenting, and much of it is merely the result of omission, the very kind that we ourselves perpetuate when we fail to warn our friends or patients of the bleaker aspects, because we don't want to discourage them from doing their part to propagate the species. Or, as some might say, because misery loves company.
I'm half joking with that last remark. I love being a mom and I am quite sure it is the best thing that ever happened to me. At the same time, nothing is more humbling than pregnancy, childbirth and parenting, so I hope you will trust me that I am not bragging here. If you read my blog, you must already know that I'm mainly here - on Earth, as well as on Unburied Treasure - to share for the purpose of being helpful. But I know from (1) the number of parenting questions I get from friends (2) the number of inquiries about my summer and after school programs, and (3) the repeated suggestions that I write a book of parenting advice, that many people regard me as something of a parenting role model.
Like most people, I'm always flattered to be asked for advice, and eager to give it. But sometimes, I realize, even I do not try hard enough to be completely honest. I, too, am guiltly of glossing over some of the tough stuff. Because, of course, we all like to forget it, and quite frankly, forgetting helps us to carry on. Who among us would actually volunteer to have a second child, much less a third or fourth, if we carried around 100% vividly powerful memories of the pain and fear of delivering and nurturing that first newborn baby?
Consistent with these realizations, and inspired by the above mentioned TED lecture, I'm going to share a bit about one of the darker parts of my experience as a new parent. Not trying to be maudlin, just hoping that it holds some value for some of you out there. It's probably not what most of you would expect, but maybe it will help you better understand why I am so deeply grateful for my three healthy wonderful boys. And why, on their worst days, I still consider your kids to be such freaking miracles.
I became pregnant almost exactly halfway through law school, perhaps as a subconscious attempt to escape the process of being trained for the profession. (In which case, my instinct was correct.) I was living in Manhattan, surrounded by lifelong and college friends, less than a mile from my sister, a hike through central park to my aunt, just a commuter rail away from parents and grandparents.
About a third of the way through my pregnancy, my husband announced that we would be moving to Cincinnati, his hometown. He admitted that he had already secured a job there, reminded me how much he hated living in New York City, and stated besides, that it was not negotiable. I was terrified of leaving home and relocating to a place for which I felt little to no affinity, but evidently, even more afraid of being left behind to become a single mother. It seemed I had no choice. From hundreds of miles away, we commissioned my mother-in-law to commence house hunting on our behalf.
A few weeks later, I discovered that not only was I carrying twins, but that one of them, "Twin B", was so rife with multiple fetal anomalies so as to be incompatible with life. That is, were he to be born alive, he would never leave the NICU. He would never go home with us. He would suffer - quite expensively, mind you - without there being any point to the suffering. Furthermore, we were told, the longer he continued to develop, the more risk he posed to the healthy fetal development of "Twin A". We were advised by doctors and nurses alike to consider selective termination. Ever the researcher, I began investigating the options. I visited every doctor in New York who did this procedure, listened to their advice, studied the statistics. Of course, I was still attending class, preparing briefs for moot court competition, editing articles, and reading cases endlessly, while my husband continued negotiating the purchase of a four bedroom home in Cincinnati.
Prior to this point in my life, my five greatest traumas had been:
(1) being born
(2) getting a little sister
(3) joining second grade in October at the age of five
(4) getting kicked out of Harvard college and
(5) losing my virginity to a closeted homosexual.
The experience with my pregnancy surpassed several of these, rising rapidly toward the top of the list. Lying on a table, having a long needle inserted into my uterus and waiting for a lethal injection the heart of "Twin B" was surpassed only by being informed that it was impossible to get safely past "Twin A" to access "Twin B".
Even before he was born, my son, Max demonstrated an unrivaled degree of protectiveness toward a sibling.
I returned to the hospital, alone, on a cross town bus, every few days, to allow the doctor to attempt the procedure again. I felt I owed it to my unborn son, "Twin A" (whom I already called "Max"), to do everything I could to maximized his chance for a long, healthy gestation and safe birth. I knew that the sooner we stopped "Twin B" from developing, the greater chance there was of stabilizing the uterine environment. The goal was to maximize the time "Twin A" could spend growing inside me, as opposed to an incubator in the NICU, which is where he'd go if he was born too early. Each time, as I undressed my increasingly large body, the technician, doctor or nurse would remind me that perhaps they would discover on the sonogram that "Twin B"'s heart had stopped beating on its own, but it never had. Ultimately, the twin pregnancy reached 26 weeks, the outer limit, under Roe v Wade, for the legal termination of a fetus. That day, I knew I would have to stay on the table until they were able to push "Twin A", using the side of the needle, out of the way, and then inject the heart of "Twin B".
I do not recall how long I lay there. I do remember staring at the pale green painted cinder block wall, staying as still as I could, breathing as little as possible, and praying for "Twin B" to die and let his brother live. My husband told me he would have to be in Cincinnati that day, attending the closing on our house, but in an uncharacteristically rebellious moment, I had called the bank vice president, told my story, and secured an extension so that I could have him there to help me get home from the hospital.
Finally, the procedure was done, and on the taxi ride home there were only two hearts beating inside my skin, instead of three. I lay in bed for the next two days, studying for finals and trying not to cry.
I passed my exams, won an award for best brief, and best of all, found a doctor at the University of Cincinnati willing to accept me as an obstretric patient despite my high-risk status (most docs wouldn't touch us with a ten foot malpractice policy). Miraculously, I was able to sustain the pregnancy through the move and ultimately broke all records, staying pregnant for an unprecedented 39 1/2 weeks.
Max was already a survivor when he was born, and he has continued to be, not only surviving but thriving through his parents' divorce, both his parents' remarriages, the addition of three siblings and most recently, his father's second divorce. Now, he is a tall, strong, handsome, funny, kind, smart, talented, healthy teenager getting ready to apply to college. He is still the best big brother a person could ever hope to have.
I'm going to sign off because it is time for me to make another sacrifice for the sake of my kids. As much as I'd love to sit here in dry clothes, typing, the boys really want to go sledding.
(1) don't discuss how lonely new parenting can be
(2) don't talk about "the invisible loss" of miscarriage
(3) don't admit that your "average happiness" has declined
If you are a parent, I'm sure you will agree that there is a lot of false advertising about parenting, and much of it is merely the result of omission, the very kind that we ourselves perpetuate when we fail to warn our friends or patients of the bleaker aspects, because we don't want to discourage them from doing their part to propagate the species. Or, as some might say, because misery loves company.
I'm half joking with that last remark. I love being a mom and I am quite sure it is the best thing that ever happened to me. At the same time, nothing is more humbling than pregnancy, childbirth and parenting, so I hope you will trust me that I am not bragging here. If you read my blog, you must already know that I'm mainly here - on Earth, as well as on Unburied Treasure - to share for the purpose of being helpful. But I know from (1) the number of parenting questions I get from friends (2) the number of inquiries about my summer and after school programs, and (3) the repeated suggestions that I write a book of parenting advice, that many people regard me as something of a parenting role model.
Like most people, I'm always flattered to be asked for advice, and eager to give it. But sometimes, I realize, even I do not try hard enough to be completely honest. I, too, am guiltly of glossing over some of the tough stuff. Because, of course, we all like to forget it, and quite frankly, forgetting helps us to carry on. Who among us would actually volunteer to have a second child, much less a third or fourth, if we carried around 100% vividly powerful memories of the pain and fear of delivering and nurturing that first newborn baby?
Consistent with these realizations, and inspired by the above mentioned TED lecture, I'm going to share a bit about one of the darker parts of my experience as a new parent. Not trying to be maudlin, just hoping that it holds some value for some of you out there. It's probably not what most of you would expect, but maybe it will help you better understand why I am so deeply grateful for my three healthy wonderful boys. And why, on their worst days, I still consider your kids to be such freaking miracles.
I became pregnant almost exactly halfway through law school, perhaps as a subconscious attempt to escape the process of being trained for the profession. (In which case, my instinct was correct.) I was living in Manhattan, surrounded by lifelong and college friends, less than a mile from my sister, a hike through central park to my aunt, just a commuter rail away from parents and grandparents.
About a third of the way through my pregnancy, my husband announced that we would be moving to Cincinnati, his hometown. He admitted that he had already secured a job there, reminded me how much he hated living in New York City, and stated besides, that it was not negotiable. I was terrified of leaving home and relocating to a place for which I felt little to no affinity, but evidently, even more afraid of being left behind to become a single mother. It seemed I had no choice. From hundreds of miles away, we commissioned my mother-in-law to commence house hunting on our behalf.
A few weeks later, I discovered that not only was I carrying twins, but that one of them, "Twin B", was so rife with multiple fetal anomalies so as to be incompatible with life. That is, were he to be born alive, he would never leave the NICU. He would never go home with us. He would suffer - quite expensively, mind you - without there being any point to the suffering. Furthermore, we were told, the longer he continued to develop, the more risk he posed to the healthy fetal development of "Twin A". We were advised by doctors and nurses alike to consider selective termination. Ever the researcher, I began investigating the options. I visited every doctor in New York who did this procedure, listened to their advice, studied the statistics. Of course, I was still attending class, preparing briefs for moot court competition, editing articles, and reading cases endlessly, while my husband continued negotiating the purchase of a four bedroom home in Cincinnati.
Prior to this point in my life, my five greatest traumas had been:
(1) being born
(2) getting a little sister
(3) joining second grade in October at the age of five
(4) getting kicked out of Harvard college and
(5) losing my virginity to a closeted homosexual.
The experience with my pregnancy surpassed several of these, rising rapidly toward the top of the list. Lying on a table, having a long needle inserted into my uterus and waiting for a lethal injection the heart of "Twin B" was surpassed only by being informed that it was impossible to get safely past "Twin A" to access "Twin B".
Even before he was born, my son, Max demonstrated an unrivaled degree of protectiveness toward a sibling.
I returned to the hospital, alone, on a cross town bus, every few days, to allow the doctor to attempt the procedure again. I felt I owed it to my unborn son, "Twin A" (whom I already called "Max"), to do everything I could to maximized his chance for a long, healthy gestation and safe birth. I knew that the sooner we stopped "Twin B" from developing, the greater chance there was of stabilizing the uterine environment. The goal was to maximize the time "Twin A" could spend growing inside me, as opposed to an incubator in the NICU, which is where he'd go if he was born too early. Each time, as I undressed my increasingly large body, the technician, doctor or nurse would remind me that perhaps they would discover on the sonogram that "Twin B"'s heart had stopped beating on its own, but it never had. Ultimately, the twin pregnancy reached 26 weeks, the outer limit, under Roe v Wade, for the legal termination of a fetus. That day, I knew I would have to stay on the table until they were able to push "Twin A", using the side of the needle, out of the way, and then inject the heart of "Twin B".
I do not recall how long I lay there. I do remember staring at the pale green painted cinder block wall, staying as still as I could, breathing as little as possible, and praying for "Twin B" to die and let his brother live. My husband told me he would have to be in Cincinnati that day, attending the closing on our house, but in an uncharacteristically rebellious moment, I had called the bank vice president, told my story, and secured an extension so that I could have him there to help me get home from the hospital.
Finally, the procedure was done, and on the taxi ride home there were only two hearts beating inside my skin, instead of three. I lay in bed for the next two days, studying for finals and trying not to cry.
I passed my exams, won an award for best brief, and best of all, found a doctor at the University of Cincinnati willing to accept me as an obstretric patient despite my high-risk status (most docs wouldn't touch us with a ten foot malpractice policy). Miraculously, I was able to sustain the pregnancy through the move and ultimately broke all records, staying pregnant for an unprecedented 39 1/2 weeks.
Max was already a survivor when he was born, and he has continued to be, not only surviving but thriving through his parents' divorce, both his parents' remarriages, the addition of three siblings and most recently, his father's second divorce. Now, he is a tall, strong, handsome, funny, kind, smart, talented, healthy teenager getting ready to apply to college. He is still the best big brother a person could ever hope to have.
I'm going to sign off because it is time for me to make another sacrifice for the sake of my kids. As much as I'd love to sit here in dry clothes, typing, the boys really want to go sledding.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
I Need a Little Sukkos Now
(a Harvest Festival song, to the tune of "We Need a little Christmas")
Haul out the garlands!
Put up the sukkah before I get verklempt!
Unwrap the etrog!
I may be rushing things but Yom Kippur is done now.
For we need a little Sukkos
right this very minute,
gourds hanging from the ceiling,
corn stalks resting in it.
Yes, we need a little Sukkos
right this very minute.
(The dishes from the break fast aren't all done but don't have tsouris)
So, pile up the hay bales!
Hang the brightest string of autumn leaves I've ever seen!
Shake, shake that lulav!
It's time we tied some chili peppers up on these drab walls.
For I'm done with Rosh Hashanah,
done with dressing up for temple.
Done with all my fasting,
done with my repenting.
And I need a little bubbeleh
standing on my shoulders,
hanging mini pumpkins,
tying on dried roses.
Yes, I need a little bubbeleh
stringing beans and berries.
I need a little Sukkos now.
By Jerry Herman
New Lyrics by Nancy Illman c2010
Haul out the garlands!
Put up the sukkah before I get verklempt!
Unwrap the etrog!
I may be rushing things but Yom Kippur is done now.
For we need a little Sukkos
right this very minute,
gourds hanging from the ceiling,
corn stalks resting in it.
Yes, we need a little Sukkos
right this very minute.
(The dishes from the break fast aren't all done but don't have tsouris)
So, pile up the hay bales!
Hang the brightest string of autumn leaves I've ever seen!
Shake, shake that lulav!
It's time we tied some chili peppers up on these drab walls.
For I'm done with Rosh Hashanah,
done with dressing up for temple.
Done with all my fasting,
done with my repenting.
And I need a little bubbeleh
standing on my shoulders,
hanging mini pumpkins,
tying on dried roses.
Yes, I need a little bubbeleh
stringing beans and berries.
I need a little Sukkos now.
By Jerry Herman
New Lyrics by Nancy Illman c2010
Monday, December 6, 2010
I'll be Home for Pesach (or, I'll be Home for Seders)
music by Kent Walter
revised lyrics by Nancy Illman
c2010
I'm dreaming tonight, of my mishpocha
even more than I usually do,
and although we both know it's a great big shlep,
Mama dear, I promise you...
I'll be home for Seder
You can count on me
Make brisket, please, and macaroons,
and brew some lemon tea...,
I may find the afikoman
but my true prize will be
after we bench and clear the table
and dry the silver 'til it gleams.
I'll be home for Pesach,
and we may stay up 'til two.
It's a mitzvah to tell the story,
so I'll be there with you.
revised lyrics by Nancy Illman
c2010
I'm dreaming tonight, of my mishpocha
even more than I usually do,
and although we both know it's a great big shlep,
Mama dear, I promise you...
I'll be home for Seder
You can count on me
Make brisket, please, and macaroons,
and brew some lemon tea...,
I may find the afikoman
but my true prize will be
after we bench and clear the table
and dry the silver 'til it gleams.
I'll be home for Pesach,
and we may stay up 'til two.
It's a mitzvah to tell the story,
so I'll be there with you.
Crowded Malls (formerly Silver Bells)
Busy side streets, busy highways,
jammed with huge SUVs,
in the air there's a feeling
of Chanukah.
Children whining, children kvetching,
cause their mom's still in line
and in each parking lot you will see
Crowded malls,
crowded malls,
it's Chanukah time in the suburbs.
Better valet park,
or you'll walk
a mile just to get in the door.
Sales and discounts, gift with purchase,
stores are desperate this year;
their numbers just have to top last year's.
Turn around, Mom,
look on amazon,
look on overstock.com,
but you will do well to avoid...
Crowded malls,
crowded malls,
it's Chanukah time in the suburbs.
Remember dear,
(oy vey iz mir),
Surely, you'll find it online,
Surely, you'll find it online.
music by Jay Livingston
lyrics by Nancy Illman
c2010
jammed with huge SUVs,
in the air there's a feeling
of Chanukah.
Children whining, children kvetching,
cause their mom's still in line
and in each parking lot you will see
Crowded malls,
crowded malls,
it's Chanukah time in the suburbs.
Better valet park,
or you'll walk
a mile just to get in the door.
Sales and discounts, gift with purchase,
stores are desperate this year;
their numbers just have to top last year's.
Turn around, Mom,
look on amazon,
look on overstock.com,
but you will do well to avoid...
Crowded malls,
crowded malls,
it's Chanukah time in the suburbs.
Remember dear,
(oy vey iz mir),
Surely, you'll find it online,
Surely, you'll find it online.
music by Jay Livingston
lyrics by Nancy Illman
c2010
White Chanukah
I'm dreaming of an all inclusive
resort for Chanukah this year,
where the palm trees beckon,
and there's no need to reckon
the gratuity for every round of (cheer/beer).
I'm dreaming of a tropical Chanukah,
with every batch of latkes that I fry.
The house smells like a diner
and my baby's got a shiner
from the neighborhood snowball fight outside.
I'm dreaming of white sand beaches,
and rows of bright cabanas by the shore.
While my sweetheart plays tennis,
I'll finish my breakfast and
then, do some pilates for my core.
I'm dreaming of a well equipped day camp
with counselors whom my kids will adore
They'll meet other kids their age there
from New York, Philly, London,
and other Jewish cities round the globe.
I'm dreaming of an all inclusive
resort at Channukah this year...
May your menorah glow brighter each night,
and may all your beach towels be bright.
music by Irving Berlin
lyrics by Nancy Illman c2010
resort for Chanukah this year,
where the palm trees beckon,
and there's no need to reckon
the gratuity for every round of (cheer/beer).
I'm dreaming of a tropical Chanukah,
with every batch of latkes that I fry.
The house smells like a diner
and my baby's got a shiner
from the neighborhood snowball fight outside.
I'm dreaming of white sand beaches,
and rows of bright cabanas by the shore.
While my sweetheart plays tennis,
I'll finish my breakfast and
then, do some pilates for my core.
I'm dreaming of a well equipped day camp
with counselors whom my kids will adore
They'll meet other kids their age there
from New York, Philly, London,
and other Jewish cities round the globe.
I'm dreaming of an all inclusive
resort at Channukah this year...
May your menorah glow brighter each night,
and may all your beach towels be bright.
music by Irving Berlin
lyrics by Nancy Illman c2010
Friday, December 3, 2010
accessing your inner calm
Last night, the night before Isaac's birthday, I was feeling a bit overwhelmed. I hadn't yet done the dishes, I still had to decorate the kitchen for breakfast, my husband was asking if I would take Sam to basketball practice the next day at 5pm (I also have rehearsal at 5pm) and the boys were asking me why their new sea turtle night light (which I bought at a bookfair in October, but saved for the first night of Hannukah) only stays lit for 30 seconds.
I had just changed the batteries on the nightlight and realized this was not the source of the problem, when a friend asked, on my facebook wall, if she would see me at yoga in the morning.
I replied "You know I WANT to go, but I'm afaid that if I wait until after lunch to return our Hannukah sea turtle nightlight (by the mall, without a receipt), I will regret it. I will have to see how I feel in the morning."
"Spoken like a yogi" she replied.
This made me smile. It reminded me that the overwhelm I was feeling was a choice. I could choose to stay with the feeling until the next morning, or I could decide to feel a different way, whenever I was ready.
Just then, Max walked in from rehearsal, and asked "can you do Latin vocab?"
Automatically, I said "Not right now, I have to decorate the kitchen."
His tone in response showed me that I had been unnecessarily sharp with mine.
That was the moment I decided my overwhelm was no longer welcome. I recognized that I could continue to let a mood rob me of the things I love to do (yoga, Latin flashcards) or I could subdue it and choose another way to be.
I put down the roll of tape, went to Max's room, picked up the stack of flash cards, and we had a great time making up goofy ways to remember new vocabulary.
Afterwards, I returned to the kitchen, festooned it with streamers and balloons, located the donuts, plates, candles and matches, set the table for breakfast and got ready for bed.
In the morning, we had a wonderfully joyful birthday breakfast with our eight year old, who was pleased as punch to have a day to get even more attention than he usually does, and to start it with a flaming Entenmann's chocolate crumb donut.
After dropping off the kids at school, and taking Suki for a brisk walk, I arrived at the yoga studio. When class time rolled around, there were only 6 of us there to practice, as compared with the usual 20 to 30 who ordinarily attend. As we marvelled at the small size of our group, I kept looking out for my facebook friend to appear.
The theme of today's practice was about our ability to locate the inner center of calm within ourselves and the particular importance of being able to do so consciously throughout this holiday season, when we are surrounded by crowds of frantic shoppers, faced with increased traffic and generally exposed to more stimuli than usual.
We were reminded of a variety of ways that this particular time of year can affect us. We even examined each other's neck, shoulders and trapezius muscles to see if and how we were letting stress affect our posture. We worked at being more conscious of how others' stress can impact upon us. We resolved to try to observe it, when possible, rather than react to it. To send a blessing to the driver who cuts us off, a wish that they too might find their inner calm. That sort of thing.
I left yoga feeling so happy and grateful that I had taken the time to check in with my favorite source of yogic wisdom. I raced home to grab Isaac's presents, the turtle nightlight, a birthday banner and a roll of tape, zoomed to the local cafe, claimed a table, decorated it, and dashed off again, to bounce Isaac out of school for an hour. Just as we arrived at the cafe, Paul was getting out of his car and approaching from the opposite direction. Isaac ran to him, and as they walked hand in hand toward the door, I went on in ahead. In the booth next to our table, I recognized four teenage girls who do theatre at the high school. I asked if they would sing "happy birthday" to Isaac when he appeared and then I went back outside. The three of us entered the restaurant together and Isaac deeply enjoyed the stereophonic musical escort to his seat.
After a very happy lunch, I returned Isaac to his classroom and whooshed off towards the mall, praying that I would not have to apply too much much of my new yogic strategy. I did not at all enjoy sitting, like a lame duck, in the right lane of the highway, waiting to get to the exit ramp while huge trucks swept past me in the center lane, but otherwise it wasn't so bad. The parking lot was full, but I went straight for a remote spot, reminding myself of the aerobic benefits of parking farther from the store, and cheerfully gathered up my turtle nightlight and began heading toward the entrance.
Just as I was crossing the red brick plaza dotted with dead shrubs and dry fountains, I heard someone call my name. I looked up and there was my facebook friend from last night.
"That's so funny!" I said "You knew I would be here after lunch, returning the turtle nightlight."
"Did you GO to yoga today?" she asked.
"Yes, and I looked for you!"
"Well, I didn't go because you made me feel guilty for taking all that time for msyelf when I had so many things to do."
"I didn't MAKE you feel guilty," I said, employing yogic wisdom, but this time, I'm afraid, it was lost on her. Which is a shame, because her comment the night before had really helped me get in touch with myself.
"It was strange - I kept looking for you and even telling the teacher I knew you were coming - because there were only 7 of us there, you see..."
"Well, that's because you made everyone feel too guilty to do anything but errands and shopping!"
As if.
I had.
That kind.
Of power.
But, thank goodness, I did have the wisdom to observe what stress was doing to my friend, rather than to react. Instead, I sent her a blessing. "Happy Hannukah!" I shouted, as I stepped onto the escalator on the way to return my broken turtle nightlight. And as I was lifted up, I heard her voice in response.
"Happy Hannukah, Nancy!"
I had just changed the batteries on the nightlight and realized this was not the source of the problem, when a friend asked, on my facebook wall, if she would see me at yoga in the morning.
I replied "You know I WANT to go, but I'm afaid that if I wait until after lunch to return our Hannukah sea turtle nightlight (by the mall, without a receipt), I will regret it. I will have to see how I feel in the morning."
"Spoken like a yogi" she replied.
This made me smile. It reminded me that the overwhelm I was feeling was a choice. I could choose to stay with the feeling until the next morning, or I could decide to feel a different way, whenever I was ready.
Just then, Max walked in from rehearsal, and asked "can you do Latin vocab?"
Automatically, I said "Not right now, I have to decorate the kitchen."
His tone in response showed me that I had been unnecessarily sharp with mine.
That was the moment I decided my overwhelm was no longer welcome. I recognized that I could continue to let a mood rob me of the things I love to do (yoga, Latin flashcards) or I could subdue it and choose another way to be.
I put down the roll of tape, went to Max's room, picked up the stack of flash cards, and we had a great time making up goofy ways to remember new vocabulary.
Afterwards, I returned to the kitchen, festooned it with streamers and balloons, located the donuts, plates, candles and matches, set the table for breakfast and got ready for bed.
In the morning, we had a wonderfully joyful birthday breakfast with our eight year old, who was pleased as punch to have a day to get even more attention than he usually does, and to start it with a flaming Entenmann's chocolate crumb donut.
After dropping off the kids at school, and taking Suki for a brisk walk, I arrived at the yoga studio. When class time rolled around, there were only 6 of us there to practice, as compared with the usual 20 to 30 who ordinarily attend. As we marvelled at the small size of our group, I kept looking out for my facebook friend to appear.
The theme of today's practice was about our ability to locate the inner center of calm within ourselves and the particular importance of being able to do so consciously throughout this holiday season, when we are surrounded by crowds of frantic shoppers, faced with increased traffic and generally exposed to more stimuli than usual.
We were reminded of a variety of ways that this particular time of year can affect us. We even examined each other's neck, shoulders and trapezius muscles to see if and how we were letting stress affect our posture. We worked at being more conscious of how others' stress can impact upon us. We resolved to try to observe it, when possible, rather than react to it. To send a blessing to the driver who cuts us off, a wish that they too might find their inner calm. That sort of thing.
I left yoga feeling so happy and grateful that I had taken the time to check in with my favorite source of yogic wisdom. I raced home to grab Isaac's presents, the turtle nightlight, a birthday banner and a roll of tape, zoomed to the local cafe, claimed a table, decorated it, and dashed off again, to bounce Isaac out of school for an hour. Just as we arrived at the cafe, Paul was getting out of his car and approaching from the opposite direction. Isaac ran to him, and as they walked hand in hand toward the door, I went on in ahead. In the booth next to our table, I recognized four teenage girls who do theatre at the high school. I asked if they would sing "happy birthday" to Isaac when he appeared and then I went back outside. The three of us entered the restaurant together and Isaac deeply enjoyed the stereophonic musical escort to his seat.
After a very happy lunch, I returned Isaac to his classroom and whooshed off towards the mall, praying that I would not have to apply too much much of my new yogic strategy. I did not at all enjoy sitting, like a lame duck, in the right lane of the highway, waiting to get to the exit ramp while huge trucks swept past me in the center lane, but otherwise it wasn't so bad. The parking lot was full, but I went straight for a remote spot, reminding myself of the aerobic benefits of parking farther from the store, and cheerfully gathered up my turtle nightlight and began heading toward the entrance.
Just as I was crossing the red brick plaza dotted with dead shrubs and dry fountains, I heard someone call my name. I looked up and there was my facebook friend from last night.
"That's so funny!" I said "You knew I would be here after lunch, returning the turtle nightlight."
"Did you GO to yoga today?" she asked.
"Yes, and I looked for you!"
"Well, I didn't go because you made me feel guilty for taking all that time for msyelf when I had so many things to do."
"I didn't MAKE you feel guilty," I said, employing yogic wisdom, but this time, I'm afraid, it was lost on her. Which is a shame, because her comment the night before had really helped me get in touch with myself.
"It was strange - I kept looking for you and even telling the teacher I knew you were coming - because there were only 7 of us there, you see..."
"Well, that's because you made everyone feel too guilty to do anything but errands and shopping!"
As if.
I had.
That kind.
Of power.
But, thank goodness, I did have the wisdom to observe what stress was doing to my friend, rather than to react. Instead, I sent her a blessing. "Happy Hannukah!" I shouted, as I stepped onto the escalator on the way to return my broken turtle nightlight. And as I was lifted up, I heard her voice in response.
"Happy Hannukah, Nancy!"
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
heartache
oh, how my heart aches
from hours of telling her
"I swear, it's not you"
from days of saying
"but this is how it's always been"
from years of saying
"you deserve to be treated better"
my heart does ache so
from feeling her pain
from speaking the truth
from listening to her cry
the most pain I feel though
is from hearing her say
"maybe I can still make it work"
and knowing that's her choice
a woman is allowed to sacrifice herself
to God knows what purpose or cause
there is nobody who can stop her
no one to save her from herself
why is it that we protect children,
even taking them from their mothers,
placing them to live with mercenary strangers,
and yet
when a woman isn't loved by her husband,
we encourage her to be kind,
patient, compassionate and understanding,
forgiving, selfless, and even optimistic?
at what age does a girl lose our protection
and stop being worthy of our compassion?
when is she no longer entitled to our care?
why does it no longer matter
that she also needs to be loved and cherished,
that she wants to feel secure in the present moment,
that she deserves to live with someone she can trust
with her heart?
from hours of telling her
"I swear, it's not you"
from days of saying
"but this is how it's always been"
from years of saying
"you deserve to be treated better"
my heart does ache so
from feeling her pain
from speaking the truth
from listening to her cry
the most pain I feel though
is from hearing her say
"maybe I can still make it work"
and knowing that's her choice
a woman is allowed to sacrifice herself
to God knows what purpose or cause
there is nobody who can stop her
no one to save her from herself
why is it that we protect children,
even taking them from their mothers,
placing them to live with mercenary strangers,
and yet
when a woman isn't loved by her husband,
we encourage her to be kind,
patient, compassionate and understanding,
forgiving, selfless, and even optimistic?
at what age does a girl lose our protection
and stop being worthy of our compassion?
when is she no longer entitled to our care?
why does it no longer matter
that she also needs to be loved and cherished,
that she wants to feel secure in the present moment,
that she deserves to live with someone she can trust
with her heart?
Thursday, November 25, 2010
thanksgiving
Those of you who knew our family was going downtown to share a Thanksgiving meal with some of our local homeless might be wondering how it went.
There were so many volunteers at the Duke Energy Center that I think we almost outnumbered the hungry folks who came for the free haircut, live music, turkey dinner and warm coat.
We sit down at a table to wait for homeless people to whom we could be friendly. The kids are very impatient and their anxiety is building rapidly, so I ask if they want me to go make friends with someone on the coat line and invite them to join us once they have chosen a coat. "Yes, please, mom!"
The last person in the long, snaking coat line is a tall, sturdily built man with deep lines carved across his broad, luminous, ebony face. I tell him we want to invite him to sit with us and have a meal together. He agrees, and I lean forward, about to invite the next person in line as well, when he stops me.
"I just want to have a conversation with one person," he said. "When you are homeless, that is really important."
OK, so we are going to be up front about this. All right, fine. Trying to pretend I am unfazed by that statement, I ask him his name and whether he is from Cincinnati. "It's Benny," he tells me, and "and no, ma'am, I'm from southern Georgia."
Benny says he moves around a lot but says he has been here since 2005, and that it is probably about time to move again. He needs to move to search for work. He's in the construction field, works as a day laborer, gets up every day at 4:30 in the morning, because the early bird catches the worm. He never has breakfast or lunch, but he looks forward to getting an evening meal at the City Gospel Mission. Later, afte having eaten, Benny mentions that he meets people all the time who haven't had a meal in days.
His voice is so low that I cannot help but remark upon it. I ask if he sings and Benny's face lights up. He volunteers that his singing voice is even lower than his speaking voice. "Wow. That must be something," I say, then ask, "Do you sing in Church?"
"Yes, ma'am," Benny says, "that is the best place to sing." and I get to see his smile. We talk about how our singing can be a way to connect with God and that it also can help others to feel closer to God. It is an instant connection. Now, we are friends.
I tell Benny that my son had offered to bring his guitar and sing today but that they turned him down because they are full up with musical acts already. Benny tells me that Max should not to lose hope; he says that things change all the time, when you least expect it.
Isaac comes up to give me an hug and I introduce them. Isaac is impatient for me to come back and sit with him. Benny smiles, releasing me to my child, and I tell him that since I am really tall, he can watch me walk back to our table and that way, he can find us after he gets a coat.
"Are you 6'2"?" he asks.
"About 6'1"," I tell him, but then I lift one foot and look down at the sole of my shoe, and say "okay, you are right. Today, I am 6'2"," and Benny gives me a high five.
Then the guy next to us says "Man, those are awesome shoes!"
"Thank you" I say, "I made them myself."
"Really?" he asks.
"Well, yeah. I got a box of upholstery tacks from the hardware store and hammered them into the sole of some old boots."
"You did that yourself?" he asks again.
"Yeah."
"Well, let me shake your hand. That is truly creative." We shake hands and exchange a grin.
Then I raise my left hand and keep it extended up in the air as Isaac and I walk back to our table. After we sit down, I look back toward the coat line and Benny waves at me over the crowd. I wave back. Our table is full but I have a plan to add a chair from the adjacent table when Benny arrives.
When he comes over, a half hour later, he tells me he has found another place to sit. I tell Max I am so disappointed. I really wanted them to meet. Max decides to go over and sit next to Benny and get to know him on his own.
The people Paul, Sam, Isaac and I eat and chat with - about gratitude, prayer, drug addiction, 12 step programs, a higher power and faux finishes - eventually get up to leave and are replaced by another homeless family that refuses to make eye contact. The kids are both texting and the mom is working hard to avoid looking at us. The kids and I decide that it is becoming less likely by the minute that we are ever going to talk to each other. We declare it a fail and excuse ourselves, leaving our seats open for more people to come and eat.
We go over to Benny and Max's table and find that there are two empty chairs. Isaac sits down, I sit down, and Sam sits on my lap. I look across the table at a pregnant woman and say "we both have our laps full of baby". She beams at me and says "but mine fits better."
"He used to fit" I say, "ten years ago," and she says, "I hope ten years from now this baby will still be on my lap like that." Again, an instant connection is established and we launch into conversation with Sam about his favorite subjects in school (Math and Science).
Before Benny gets up to go he says this has been a really great holiday and that he has truly enjoyed himself. Later, Max tells me he is so glad he met Benny, and that before I came over they had a really good talk.
"My head is swimming with status updates from our conversation," he tells me, which I think is about as au courant as a mother son Thanksgiving conversation can get.
When I check Max's status later on facebook, I see this is what he has chosen to post:
Benny, a 51 year old construction worker and singer whom I just met told me "This is a great life; its okay if it's hard as long as you recognize the sweet parts..." Happy Thanksgiving!
There were so many volunteers at the Duke Energy Center that I think we almost outnumbered the hungry folks who came for the free haircut, live music, turkey dinner and warm coat.
We sit down at a table to wait for homeless people to whom we could be friendly. The kids are very impatient and their anxiety is building rapidly, so I ask if they want me to go make friends with someone on the coat line and invite them to join us once they have chosen a coat. "Yes, please, mom!"
The last person in the long, snaking coat line is a tall, sturdily built man with deep lines carved across his broad, luminous, ebony face. I tell him we want to invite him to sit with us and have a meal together. He agrees, and I lean forward, about to invite the next person in line as well, when he stops me.
"I just want to have a conversation with one person," he said. "When you are homeless, that is really important."
OK, so we are going to be up front about this. All right, fine. Trying to pretend I am unfazed by that statement, I ask him his name and whether he is from Cincinnati. "It's Benny," he tells me, and "and no, ma'am, I'm from southern Georgia."
Benny says he moves around a lot but says he has been here since 2005, and that it is probably about time to move again. He needs to move to search for work. He's in the construction field, works as a day laborer, gets up every day at 4:30 in the morning, because the early bird catches the worm. He never has breakfast or lunch, but he looks forward to getting an evening meal at the City Gospel Mission. Later, afte having eaten, Benny mentions that he meets people all the time who haven't had a meal in days.
His voice is so low that I cannot help but remark upon it. I ask if he sings and Benny's face lights up. He volunteers that his singing voice is even lower than his speaking voice. "Wow. That must be something," I say, then ask, "Do you sing in Church?"
"Yes, ma'am," Benny says, "that is the best place to sing." and I get to see his smile. We talk about how our singing can be a way to connect with God and that it also can help others to feel closer to God. It is an instant connection. Now, we are friends.
I tell Benny that my son had offered to bring his guitar and sing today but that they turned him down because they are full up with musical acts already. Benny tells me that Max should not to lose hope; he says that things change all the time, when you least expect it.
Isaac comes up to give me an hug and I introduce them. Isaac is impatient for me to come back and sit with him. Benny smiles, releasing me to my child, and I tell him that since I am really tall, he can watch me walk back to our table and that way, he can find us after he gets a coat.
"Are you 6'2"?" he asks.
"About 6'1"," I tell him, but then I lift one foot and look down at the sole of my shoe, and say "okay, you are right. Today, I am 6'2"," and Benny gives me a high five.
Then the guy next to us says "Man, those are awesome shoes!"
"Thank you" I say, "I made them myself."
"Really?" he asks.
"Well, yeah. I got a box of upholstery tacks from the hardware store and hammered them into the sole of some old boots."
"You did that yourself?" he asks again.
"Yeah."
"Well, let me shake your hand. That is truly creative." We shake hands and exchange a grin.
Then I raise my left hand and keep it extended up in the air as Isaac and I walk back to our table. After we sit down, I look back toward the coat line and Benny waves at me over the crowd. I wave back. Our table is full but I have a plan to add a chair from the adjacent table when Benny arrives.
When he comes over, a half hour later, he tells me he has found another place to sit. I tell Max I am so disappointed. I really wanted them to meet. Max decides to go over and sit next to Benny and get to know him on his own.
The people Paul, Sam, Isaac and I eat and chat with - about gratitude, prayer, drug addiction, 12 step programs, a higher power and faux finishes - eventually get up to leave and are replaced by another homeless family that refuses to make eye contact. The kids are both texting and the mom is working hard to avoid looking at us. The kids and I decide that it is becoming less likely by the minute that we are ever going to talk to each other. We declare it a fail and excuse ourselves, leaving our seats open for more people to come and eat.
We go over to Benny and Max's table and find that there are two empty chairs. Isaac sits down, I sit down, and Sam sits on my lap. I look across the table at a pregnant woman and say "we both have our laps full of baby". She beams at me and says "but mine fits better."
"He used to fit" I say, "ten years ago," and she says, "I hope ten years from now this baby will still be on my lap like that." Again, an instant connection is established and we launch into conversation with Sam about his favorite subjects in school (Math and Science).
Before Benny gets up to go he says this has been a really great holiday and that he has truly enjoyed himself. Later, Max tells me he is so glad he met Benny, and that before I came over they had a really good talk.
"My head is swimming with status updates from our conversation," he tells me, which I think is about as au courant as a mother son Thanksgiving conversation can get.
When I check Max's status later on facebook, I see this is what he has chosen to post:
Benny, a 51 year old construction worker and singer whom I just met told me "This is a great life; its okay if it's hard as long as you recognize the sweet parts..." Happy Thanksgiving!
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Two very strict Jews of the season
A new friend of mine told me yesterday that he spent last Christmas in a hospital battling kidney cancer, an all too common horror endured by Jews and gentiles alike. What struck me as unique though, while reading his account of his illness, was his reference to the hospital he was in as "the kind with a tortured Jew hanging on every wall". After considering whether or not that was funny or merely provocative, I started thinking about the Jews of the season: Jesus, Mattathias and Judah the Maccabee.
Lately, my kids have been talking about the true origins of Hannukah. It's funny, because my friend, David Bernard (conductor of the Park Avenue Chamber Symphony) just recently pointed out to me that the familiar story of the miracle of the oil is really a cover-up for Hannukah's militant origins. So, I'm grateful to David for spurring me to look into this a few weeks before my kids learned it at Hebrew school.
My local rabbi does not want me to write about Jesus and Mattathias (a hero of the Hannukah story) in the same blog post, for so many reasons, and I can really appreciate how he feels. I agree that, in theory, there should not be any link between Christmas and Hannukah. Hannukah is just about the least significant holiday on the Jewish calendar - actually, it is a festival rather than a holiday, a celebration of a war victory of a few (Mattathias and his sons) against an oppressive government (the Syrians) which had outlawed the practice of Judaism.
So, yes, in JEWISH REALITY, Hannukah is outranked by true holy days like Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and Shavuot, eclipsed by the festive, harvest beauty of Sukkot and the joyful, even ecstatic celebration of Simchat Torah, and it doesn't come close in significance and ritual to our other eight-day-long festival, Passover (Pesach). It is down quite near the bottom of our list, with Tu B'shevat and Purim, in terms of its importance, and if it weren't for its proximity to Christmas on the calendar, I am quite certain that practically no Christian would ever have heard of it.
HOWEVER. The fact is that whether or not I mention the two holidays in one blogpost
or not, every Christian friend of a Jew is going to wish that Jewish friend "Happy Hannukah" next month, even if they have never once heard of Shavuot and don't quite know how to pronounce Yom Kippur. Yes, we all have a tradition of kindling additional lights on the shortest days of the year, but the real reason that Christians equate the two holidays is because of us Jews. In America, even traditional Jews, including those who would never dream of having a decorated tree in our house, have assimilated to the point where instead of just baking jelly donuts, frying latkes and playing dreidl on the floor, almost all of us give our kids gifts on Hannukah, and not just on one night, like our goyim friends, but each of the eight nights. Oy. (It's no wonder so many Jewish kids end up unwrapping socks by the end of the week, feeding some people's impression that Jews are cheap, when the truth is that Jewish camps cost much more than the YMCA. But I digress.)
I can definitely see that these guys - Jesus and Mattathias - were very different. But they also are more alike than many people may have taken the time to think about. So, with apologies to my rabbi, I invite you to consider this, from www.VirtualJewishLibrary.org:
A perennially interesting, though probably unanswerable, question is how Jesus regarded himself. Did he see himself as the Messiah? Probably, although one must remember that in the first centuries of the Common Era the word "Messiah" had a different meaning than it has today. Contemporary believers usually think of the Messiah as a wholly spiritual figure. Then, it meant a military leader who would free the Jews from foreign (i.e., Roman) rule, bring them back from the four corners of the earth, and usher in an age of universal peace. Indeed, it was precisely because of the military association with the word "Messiah" that the occupying Roman authorities must have seen Jesus as dangerous and decided to crucify him. That the Romans hung over Jesus' body a sign proclaiming his crime, KING OF THE JEWS, again underscores the apparently militant and political direction of his activities.
I shared with my rabbi my observation that Jesus and Mattathias were both very strictly religious Jews, who judged Jews around them for not being Jewish enough.
My rabbi agreed with this.
"They were both Messianic, they both stood up to governmental authorities on behalf of Jews," I continued "and they both objected militantly to the assimilation of Jews in their community."
This is where my rabbi objected. Jesus was not militant; he was peaceful, which is how he wound up on a cross. Mattathias was a warrior who armed himself and his sons and did battle in reaction to an edict that Judaism could not be practiced.
And as always, I responded to my rabbi, "Yes, but..."
(No wonder he loves talking to me. That's just so Jewish!)
I agree that Jesus and Matthathias were very different. Mattathias was so militant that he killed a Jew who was, in his opinion, betraying his people and God by not following the laws of the Torah. But what did Jesus say about such Jews?
According to my erudite friends at virtualjewishlibrary.org:
The New Testament depiction of Jesus suggests that he was largely a law-abiding and highly nationalistic Jew, and a man with strong ethical concerns. Like many of Judaism's great rabbis, he saw love of neighbor as religion's central demand.
So, and this is me talking again, we all know that Jesus would not have killed a Jew who was not being Jewish enough, even though he had very strong feelings about it. In that way, Jesus was very different, i.e. less militant, than Mattathias.
But both Jesus and Mattathias were deeply concerned about Jews not following the laws of the Torah. Here is another scholarly passage on the matter:
Though many Christians are under the impression that he opposed Judaism's emphasis on law, in actuality Jesus criticized anyone who advocated dropping it. "Do not imagine that I have come to abolish the Law [the Torah] or the Prophets," he declared to his early disciples. I tell you solemnly, till heaven and earth disappear, not one dot, not one little stroke, shall disappear from the Law until its purpose is achieved." The law's "purpose," of course, is the universal recognition of God, a goal which neither Christianity nor Judaism believes was realized in Jesus' time, or since. Jesus concluded his message with a severe warning: "Therefore, the man who infringes even the least of these commandments and teaches others to do the same will be considered the least in the kingdom of heaven" (Matthew 5:17-19).
So, there you have it...more evidence that Jesus would not condone Mattathias' vigilante behavior. Jesus was every bit as disturbed by certain assimilated behaviors of his fellow Jews, but rather than getting violent, he went out and preached about it. He warned transgressors that they would pay for their sins, not on this earth, but in Heaven.
But I know that my rabbi's real concern is not that I conflate Jesus and another Jew from ancient times, but that I not conflate the holidays of Hannukah and Christmas. I can't take responsibility for the general confusion among the goyim, at least, not those beyond the reach of my blog anyway. But what we - both the rabbi and I - teach our children about the proximity of the holidays on the calendar is this:
If you are old enough to go to your friend's birthday party and appreciate that it is not your birthday that is being celebrated, then you are old enough to go to your friend's tree trimming and appreciate that it is not your holiday you are helping to celebrate. Likewise, our family has goyim night at our menorah, where we delight in hosting some of our non-Jewish friends during Hannukah, and sharing with them our tradition of lighting candles, singing songs, playing dreidl and eating greasy food -all to commemorate a story about oil that was created to distract from the fact that the origin of Hannukah is really about resisting assimilation and the use of military might to stand up to religious persecution.
Let me be very clear, after all of this: No matter how much two Jewish men may or may not have had in common, Hannukah has nothing to do with Christmas whatsoever.
Season's Greetings!
Lately, my kids have been talking about the true origins of Hannukah. It's funny, because my friend, David Bernard (conductor of the Park Avenue Chamber Symphony) just recently pointed out to me that the familiar story of the miracle of the oil is really a cover-up for Hannukah's militant origins. So, I'm grateful to David for spurring me to look into this a few weeks before my kids learned it at Hebrew school.
My local rabbi does not want me to write about Jesus and Mattathias (a hero of the Hannukah story) in the same blog post, for so many reasons, and I can really appreciate how he feels. I agree that, in theory, there should not be any link between Christmas and Hannukah. Hannukah is just about the least significant holiday on the Jewish calendar - actually, it is a festival rather than a holiday, a celebration of a war victory of a few (Mattathias and his sons) against an oppressive government (the Syrians) which had outlawed the practice of Judaism.
So, yes, in JEWISH REALITY, Hannukah is outranked by true holy days like Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and Shavuot, eclipsed by the festive, harvest beauty of Sukkot and the joyful, even ecstatic celebration of Simchat Torah, and it doesn't come close in significance and ritual to our other eight-day-long festival, Passover (Pesach). It is down quite near the bottom of our list, with Tu B'shevat and Purim, in terms of its importance, and if it weren't for its proximity to Christmas on the calendar, I am quite certain that practically no Christian would ever have heard of it.
HOWEVER. The fact is that whether or not I mention the two holidays in one blogpost
or not, every Christian friend of a Jew is going to wish that Jewish friend "Happy Hannukah" next month, even if they have never once heard of Shavuot and don't quite know how to pronounce Yom Kippur. Yes, we all have a tradition of kindling additional lights on the shortest days of the year, but the real reason that Christians equate the two holidays is because of us Jews. In America, even traditional Jews, including those who would never dream of having a decorated tree in our house, have assimilated to the point where instead of just baking jelly donuts, frying latkes and playing dreidl on the floor, almost all of us give our kids gifts on Hannukah, and not just on one night, like our goyim friends, but each of the eight nights. Oy. (It's no wonder so many Jewish kids end up unwrapping socks by the end of the week, feeding some people's impression that Jews are cheap, when the truth is that Jewish camps cost much more than the YMCA. But I digress.)
I can definitely see that these guys - Jesus and Mattathias - were very different. But they also are more alike than many people may have taken the time to think about. So, with apologies to my rabbi, I invite you to consider this, from www.VirtualJewishLibrary.org:
A perennially interesting, though probably unanswerable, question is how Jesus regarded himself. Did he see himself as the Messiah? Probably, although one must remember that in the first centuries of the Common Era the word "Messiah" had a different meaning than it has today. Contemporary believers usually think of the Messiah as a wholly spiritual figure. Then, it meant a military leader who would free the Jews from foreign (i.e., Roman) rule, bring them back from the four corners of the earth, and usher in an age of universal peace. Indeed, it was precisely because of the military association with the word "Messiah" that the occupying Roman authorities must have seen Jesus as dangerous and decided to crucify him. That the Romans hung over Jesus' body a sign proclaiming his crime, KING OF THE JEWS, again underscores the apparently militant and political direction of his activities.
I shared with my rabbi my observation that Jesus and Mattathias were both very strictly religious Jews, who judged Jews around them for not being Jewish enough.
My rabbi agreed with this.
"They were both Messianic, they both stood up to governmental authorities on behalf of Jews," I continued "and they both objected militantly to the assimilation of Jews in their community."
This is where my rabbi objected. Jesus was not militant; he was peaceful, which is how he wound up on a cross. Mattathias was a warrior who armed himself and his sons and did battle in reaction to an edict that Judaism could not be practiced.
And as always, I responded to my rabbi, "Yes, but..."
(No wonder he loves talking to me. That's just so Jewish!)
I agree that Jesus and Matthathias were very different. Mattathias was so militant that he killed a Jew who was, in his opinion, betraying his people and God by not following the laws of the Torah. But what did Jesus say about such Jews?
According to my erudite friends at virtualjewishlibrary.org:
The New Testament depiction of Jesus suggests that he was largely a law-abiding and highly nationalistic Jew, and a man with strong ethical concerns. Like many of Judaism's great rabbis, he saw love of neighbor as religion's central demand.
So, and this is me talking again, we all know that Jesus would not have killed a Jew who was not being Jewish enough, even though he had very strong feelings about it. In that way, Jesus was very different, i.e. less militant, than Mattathias.
But both Jesus and Mattathias were deeply concerned about Jews not following the laws of the Torah. Here is another scholarly passage on the matter:
Though many Christians are under the impression that he opposed Judaism's emphasis on law, in actuality Jesus criticized anyone who advocated dropping it. "Do not imagine that I have come to abolish the Law [the Torah] or the Prophets," he declared to his early disciples. I tell you solemnly, till heaven and earth disappear, not one dot, not one little stroke, shall disappear from the Law until its purpose is achieved." The law's "purpose," of course, is the universal recognition of God, a goal which neither Christianity nor Judaism believes was realized in Jesus' time, or since. Jesus concluded his message with a severe warning: "Therefore, the man who infringes even the least of these commandments and teaches others to do the same will be considered the least in the kingdom of heaven" (Matthew 5:17-19).
So, there you have it...more evidence that Jesus would not condone Mattathias' vigilante behavior. Jesus was every bit as disturbed by certain assimilated behaviors of his fellow Jews, but rather than getting violent, he went out and preached about it. He warned transgressors that they would pay for their sins, not on this earth, but in Heaven.
But I know that my rabbi's real concern is not that I conflate Jesus and another Jew from ancient times, but that I not conflate the holidays of Hannukah and Christmas. I can't take responsibility for the general confusion among the goyim, at least, not those beyond the reach of my blog anyway. But what we - both the rabbi and I - teach our children about the proximity of the holidays on the calendar is this:
If you are old enough to go to your friend's birthday party and appreciate that it is not your birthday that is being celebrated, then you are old enough to go to your friend's tree trimming and appreciate that it is not your holiday you are helping to celebrate. Likewise, our family has goyim night at our menorah, where we delight in hosting some of our non-Jewish friends during Hannukah, and sharing with them our tradition of lighting candles, singing songs, playing dreidl and eating greasy food -all to commemorate a story about oil that was created to distract from the fact that the origin of Hannukah is really about resisting assimilation and the use of military might to stand up to religious persecution.
Let me be very clear, after all of this: No matter how much two Jewish men may or may not have had in common, Hannukah has nothing to do with Christmas whatsoever.
Season's Greetings!
Monday, November 22, 2010
In Full Moon
I see your moon, friend,
and your moon sees me.
We are in our fullness
right now, you and I.
Luna teaches us
what will come next.
We will shine less brightly,
diminishing, but with grace.
Ah, but we will remain
eternally, in the heavens,
whether or not
we are seen by
the children below,
their noses pressed up
against minivan windows,
full of wonder.
and your moon sees me.
We are in our fullness
right now, you and I.
Luna teaches us
what will come next.
We will shine less brightly,
diminishing, but with grace.
Ah, but we will remain
eternally, in the heavens,
whether or not
we are seen by
the children below,
their noses pressed up
against minivan windows,
full of wonder.
Friday, November 19, 2010
a particular type of gratitude
I know my blog is often about gratitude, but this post is about a particular kind.
This is about the peculiar gratitude I hold for the people and events I might have not consciously chosen or invited into my life, but from which I have received so many hidden blessings. The events which were so traumatic, the personalities which chafed so much against my own, that they forced me to examine why, and in so doing, discover more of who and what I am about.
We never ENJOY this sort of blessing at the time, but when we look back and see how much they have propelled us into personal growth, into greater self-understanding, and toward a happier healthier, more fulfilled way of being, then we may feel the very richest sort of gratitude. Momentary pleasures can be spiritually cheap and thus rarely deliver any really valuable insight. But deeply, acutely painful experiences - if we have the strength to examine them honestly, rigorously and self critically - can be our greatest teachers.
It is important to understand that people and events do not piss us off in and of themselves. It is the tender part of us which they somehow touch that carries in it the emotional power which we perceive as pain, distress, anger or sorrow.
Some individuals I love are in severe emotional pain right now. Yesterday, I had the opportunity to discuss with one of them the nature of those experiences that have led me toward greater levels of self-awareness, and toward a more genuine happiness. All of them have, in a word, SUCKED. But suffering through trauma and conflict can be a bit like making steel from iron. As much as part of me wants to "fix" my loved ones' problems, to scoop them up in my arms, to banish their suffering, I must comfort myself with the reassurance that, like me, like most of us, they are strong enough to go through the fire of this difficult lesson.
When iron is heated to an extreme, its impurites unite with oxygen to form oxides that are burned away and it comes out stronger. Like so much iron and carbon put through a furnace, we flawed human beings so often do come out of our dark and painful periods stronger than before, better able to build a future of durable happiness.
In yoga class today, our teacher, the radiantly beautiful Karen Johns, suggested we close our eyes and give thanks for the person who may have greeted us with a cross word very early this morning. She suggested that we take a mental step back and thank the universe for bringing such a person into our lives, another soul with whom we have the opportunity to live and learn and grow. There were a lot of giggles around the room, but I hope we all understood the wisdom in her words.
Intimate relationships make us vulnerable. The love and passion we have for another person strips away all our protective layers so that we are touched, both positively and negatively, as deeply as we can be. Our greatest joys and sorrows come from these connections, and I do believe they are our very reason for being here. When these relationships end, when they fail to meet our expectations, as they so often do, we often say they (or we) have failed. But even as we grieve the pain and disappointment some past relationships may represent, let us try to celebrate what they have taught us, about love, about life, about ourselves.
And let us give thanks.
This is about the peculiar gratitude I hold for the people and events I might have not consciously chosen or invited into my life, but from which I have received so many hidden blessings. The events which were so traumatic, the personalities which chafed so much against my own, that they forced me to examine why, and in so doing, discover more of who and what I am about.
We never ENJOY this sort of blessing at the time, but when we look back and see how much they have propelled us into personal growth, into greater self-understanding, and toward a happier healthier, more fulfilled way of being, then we may feel the very richest sort of gratitude. Momentary pleasures can be spiritually cheap and thus rarely deliver any really valuable insight. But deeply, acutely painful experiences - if we have the strength to examine them honestly, rigorously and self critically - can be our greatest teachers.
It is important to understand that people and events do not piss us off in and of themselves. It is the tender part of us which they somehow touch that carries in it the emotional power which we perceive as pain, distress, anger or sorrow.
Some individuals I love are in severe emotional pain right now. Yesterday, I had the opportunity to discuss with one of them the nature of those experiences that have led me toward greater levels of self-awareness, and toward a more genuine happiness. All of them have, in a word, SUCKED. But suffering through trauma and conflict can be a bit like making steel from iron. As much as part of me wants to "fix" my loved ones' problems, to scoop them up in my arms, to banish their suffering, I must comfort myself with the reassurance that, like me, like most of us, they are strong enough to go through the fire of this difficult lesson.
When iron is heated to an extreme, its impurites unite with oxygen to form oxides that are burned away and it comes out stronger. Like so much iron and carbon put through a furnace, we flawed human beings so often do come out of our dark and painful periods stronger than before, better able to build a future of durable happiness.
In yoga class today, our teacher, the radiantly beautiful Karen Johns, suggested we close our eyes and give thanks for the person who may have greeted us with a cross word very early this morning. She suggested that we take a mental step back and thank the universe for bringing such a person into our lives, another soul with whom we have the opportunity to live and learn and grow. There were a lot of giggles around the room, but I hope we all understood the wisdom in her words.
Intimate relationships make us vulnerable. The love and passion we have for another person strips away all our protective layers so that we are touched, both positively and negatively, as deeply as we can be. Our greatest joys and sorrows come from these connections, and I do believe they are our very reason for being here. When these relationships end, when they fail to meet our expectations, as they so often do, we often say they (or we) have failed. But even as we grieve the pain and disappointment some past relationships may represent, let us try to celebrate what they have taught us, about love, about life, about ourselves.
And let us give thanks.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
celebrate yourself (take charge of your birthday)
When you were a kid, you just adored your birthday. Remember?
A lot of people grow up, move away from dear ol' mom, and wonder why their birthday doesn't feel as special as it used to.
If you have reached the stage in life where you (or your paid employee) are finally responsible for your own laundry (or dry cleaning), I have news for you: It's now up to you to make your birthday special!
Yes, you can be in charge of your own birthday and give yourself the gift of a gloriously self-indulgent day. You can design, execute and enjoy your own celebration. If you are a mom, trust me: your husband and kids will most likely be thrilled that you are taking care of yourself this way. You are much better at this sort of thing than they are.
Don't know where to begin? Look at it this way. You've probably had a hand in planning several other people's birthday celebrations. Think of yourself as a very special, treasured friend and plan some activities that would please that friend. What does that friend (you) love to do but lately hasn't made time for?
If you are still stumped, here are some suggestions gleaned from my past few self-planned fabulous birthday celebrations.
If you are female, or very in touch with your feminine side, consider picking up (or borrowing) a glittery tiara to wear while you plan and/or execute your birthday celebration. Like any decent theatrical costume, it really can help you get in the mood. Former brides are often delighted to get theirs out of the box and let it catch the light for a change, so ask around. Or go to the Hallmark store.
Perhaps you would enjoy receiving a spa service. Nothing makes some people feel more pampered than a facial, spa pedicure, or massage. If you have the time and inclination, you might purchase a package (including lunch) and spend your whole day at a spa. Make sure you pick a place that knows how to treat you like royalty and be certain to tell them it is your birthday when you call. If you think you can't afford it, check Costco for spafinders gift certificates and then visit www.spafinders.com for local day spas looking to increase traffic. In this economy, even the best ones are hurting for business. Also, check groupons and living social deals for great discounts on spa services. Often these are good for 6 months after the date of purchase.
Gather your friends together. If you are like most grown ups, having graduated from school means you don't get to hang out with your friends as often as you'd like. Plan ahead and try to get a group of people you really enjoy all together in one place, preferably for a meal or an extended cup of coffee in your favorite cafe. Last year, I insisted that guests at the dinner party I planned for myself NOT bring gifts. Knowing this would be a tough impulse to overcome, I suggested that those who absolutely felt compelled to pay tribute might do so in the form of a poem, limerick, sonnet, song or dance. Boy, did we have a good time. The restaurant manager finally asked us to tone it down after one of my friends climbed up on the bar for a dramatic recitation of Maya Angelou's Phenomenal Woman.
It can also be fun, at small gatherings of special friends, to make special place cards or distribute token gifties to show them how much their friendship enhances your life - kind of like grown up party favors. You might attach a picture of the two of you and a note about memories from the past year of your friendship, or farther back, if that's more appropriate.
Consider getting tickets or reservations to see or do something special. This is particularly fun if your birthday falls in the middle of the week, on a night when you would not normally dare to think of going out for anything other than someone else's soccer practice, piano lesson, Hebrew school, therapy session or youth orchestra rehearsal. Add a glass or two of champagne at intermission and any doubt that this is a very special occasion for a very special person will be gone in a rush of tiny bubbles. This year I attended a chamber music concert, but a group of friends around a pottery painting table is also quite enjoyable and can potentially produce a new set of casual dishes for the celebrant. Remember: not only limos but also boats, helicopters and hot air balloons can all be rented for special occasions.
There is a picture of me at age seven, standing just inside the front door of my house, adjusting a paper and glitter tiara as I wait for my party guests to arrive. I am wearing a quilted, floor length, floral skirt to my own party, paired with a ribbed lavender turtleneck and long, beaded necklace. Consider overdressing on your birthday, at any age. Wherever you may go, you have a good excuse: it's your party! So, if you have a tuxedo or favorite evening gown that doesn't get out often enough (ever) this might be the year's best excuse to wear it in public. For some people (like me) formal wear makes every occasion more festive.
So, for planning and enjoying your very own Birthday Party, in a nutshell:
1. Imagine (realize) that you are your most dear and special friend
2. Get in touch with your inner birthday girl/boy
3. Plan ahead (and search for deals)
4. Pull out all the stops
5. Review and tweak for the following year's celebration
6. Repeat
Happy Birthday to You! And many happy returns...
A lot of people grow up, move away from dear ol' mom, and wonder why their birthday doesn't feel as special as it used to.
If you have reached the stage in life where you (or your paid employee) are finally responsible for your own laundry (or dry cleaning), I have news for you: It's now up to you to make your birthday special!
Yes, you can be in charge of your own birthday and give yourself the gift of a gloriously self-indulgent day. You can design, execute and enjoy your own celebration. If you are a mom, trust me: your husband and kids will most likely be thrilled that you are taking care of yourself this way. You are much better at this sort of thing than they are.
Don't know where to begin? Look at it this way. You've probably had a hand in planning several other people's birthday celebrations. Think of yourself as a very special, treasured friend and plan some activities that would please that friend. What does that friend (you) love to do but lately hasn't made time for?
If you are still stumped, here are some suggestions gleaned from my past few self-planned fabulous birthday celebrations.
If you are female, or very in touch with your feminine side, consider picking up (or borrowing) a glittery tiara to wear while you plan and/or execute your birthday celebration. Like any decent theatrical costume, it really can help you get in the mood. Former brides are often delighted to get theirs out of the box and let it catch the light for a change, so ask around. Or go to the Hallmark store.
Perhaps you would enjoy receiving a spa service. Nothing makes some people feel more pampered than a facial, spa pedicure, or massage. If you have the time and inclination, you might purchase a package (including lunch) and spend your whole day at a spa. Make sure you pick a place that knows how to treat you like royalty and be certain to tell them it is your birthday when you call. If you think you can't afford it, check Costco for spafinders gift certificates and then visit www.spafinders.com for local day spas looking to increase traffic. In this economy, even the best ones are hurting for business. Also, check groupons and living social deals for great discounts on spa services. Often these are good for 6 months after the date of purchase.
Gather your friends together. If you are like most grown ups, having graduated from school means you don't get to hang out with your friends as often as you'd like. Plan ahead and try to get a group of people you really enjoy all together in one place, preferably for a meal or an extended cup of coffee in your favorite cafe. Last year, I insisted that guests at the dinner party I planned for myself NOT bring gifts. Knowing this would be a tough impulse to overcome, I suggested that those who absolutely felt compelled to pay tribute might do so in the form of a poem, limerick, sonnet, song or dance. Boy, did we have a good time. The restaurant manager finally asked us to tone it down after one of my friends climbed up on the bar for a dramatic recitation of Maya Angelou's Phenomenal Woman.
It can also be fun, at small gatherings of special friends, to make special place cards or distribute token gifties to show them how much their friendship enhances your life - kind of like grown up party favors. You might attach a picture of the two of you and a note about memories from the past year of your friendship, or farther back, if that's more appropriate.
Consider getting tickets or reservations to see or do something special. This is particularly fun if your birthday falls in the middle of the week, on a night when you would not normally dare to think of going out for anything other than someone else's soccer practice, piano lesson, Hebrew school, therapy session or youth orchestra rehearsal. Add a glass or two of champagne at intermission and any doubt that this is a very special occasion for a very special person will be gone in a rush of tiny bubbles. This year I attended a chamber music concert, but a group of friends around a pottery painting table is also quite enjoyable and can potentially produce a new set of casual dishes for the celebrant. Remember: not only limos but also boats, helicopters and hot air balloons can all be rented for special occasions.
There is a picture of me at age seven, standing just inside the front door of my house, adjusting a paper and glitter tiara as I wait for my party guests to arrive. I am wearing a quilted, floor length, floral skirt to my own party, paired with a ribbed lavender turtleneck and long, beaded necklace. Consider overdressing on your birthday, at any age. Wherever you may go, you have a good excuse: it's your party! So, if you have a tuxedo or favorite evening gown that doesn't get out often enough (ever) this might be the year's best excuse to wear it in public. For some people (like me) formal wear makes every occasion more festive.
So, for planning and enjoying your very own Birthday Party, in a nutshell:
1. Imagine (realize) that you are your most dear and special friend
2. Get in touch with your inner birthday girl/boy
3. Plan ahead (and search for deals)
4. Pull out all the stops
5. Review and tweak for the following year's celebration
6. Repeat
Happy Birthday to You! And many happy returns...
Friday, November 12, 2010
weekend formerly known as the trifecta
Back when I originally called my in-laws and invited them to come to Ohio for a little visit, we affectionately referred to this weekend as "the trifecta" because it contained (1) Max in a musical, (2) Sam turning ten, and (3) my orchestra performing a concert.
But I can never leave well enough alone, can I? No. A big weekend can always become bigger. Plus, what about Isaac? He deserves a performance venue, too!
The day before our orchestra's last concert, in June, we hosted a "living room recital" for child performers. For whatever reason, I don't feel perfectly happy performing for my children (i.e. dragging them to one of my concerts) unless they have chance to perform as well. Part of it is that I want then to understand how fun and exciting it is to perform music. Part of it is that I feel uncomfortable hogging the spotlight.
So, after I got home from our last dress rehearsal, I arranged the living room furniture into parallel rows, and pretty soon after, the place filled up. People brought grandparents and pastries; it was very festive. Each of my boys played the piano, as so did several of their friends. On one end of the spectrum, a 7 year old, who had been taking lessons for just six weeks got his very first chance to take a bow. Max sang some songs he was preparing for a wedding reception, one parent played somewhere over the rainbow, and oh, yes, the Conductor played Debussy.
So, this weekend, I went ahead and threw another kids' recital into the mix. We will have some returning performers as well as some new families joining in the fun. Among the lineup are a seven year old singer, a seven year old violiist, a 10 year old guitarist and several pianists. Possibly the best part is that my in-laws should arrive an hour or less before we begin.
After we listen, applaud, marvel, exclaim, and eat cookies, we will take ourselves back out to see Max on stage a second time in the outrageously comic character of Adolpho (the Latin Lover). Last night, I laughed harder at my eldest son than I ever have before. I woke up this morning recalling the first glimpse I ever had of his potential for a career in comedy. I know you will think I am exaggerating, but Max was just 16 months old.
I am quite sure of that fact because that is how old he was when I finished law school and packed up my diaper bag, along with the new red rolling suitcase my grandparents gave me as a divorce present, and moved us (me and the baby) back to Manhattan, where Max had been conceived. It lasted all of one month before we were hauled back to Cincinnati, so I know he was just 16 months old when I finished my workout at Crunch Gym on the Upper West Side and went to get Max from the child care room.
The babysitter did her thing in a room the size of a broom closet. Along with Max, there were three little girls approaching preschool age. I remember crouching down to collect Max and his belongings and hearing her say "he's quite the comedian!"
I had certainly noticed Max blossoming day by day as he soaked up the sights and sounds of the New York City sidewalks, but this was more precocity than I was expecting. I turned to her, quite baffled.
"Um...he doesn't speak yet, so, how...?"
"Well, talking or not, he worked awfully hard to get these girls to laugh," she told me, grinning.
Really. Well, well. I soon got used to this kind of report. Back in Cincinnati, I brought Max to child care at Midtown Fitness and heard the same thing over and over again. The staff all wanted to sit for Max at our house; he was that engaging.
How I wish they all could have seen him last night...
But I digress.
We are off to temple in a minute or two (if I ever stop typing) which means that I will have to get Sam and Isaac to stop playing with the new laser strategy game Sam just got for his birthday today.
Tonight, we will dine with other second grade families from the religious school, and then I might get to wrap up Sam's birthday by reading some Madeline L'Engle to him. Paul and I both dread the day when we are dismissed from the privileged position of bedtime story reader. It is just too much fun - the reason I currently only play in one orchestra and why I dropped out of a board I used to sit on.
Tomorrow morning I will drop Isaac at his acting class at CCM prep, then head to my dress rehearsal. Isaac is preparing an interpretive version of "The Mailman" that should bring the house down. Sam will play Joplin's The Entertainer, which he has been working on for an unprecedented length of time. I am also looking forward to hearing what everyone else has cooked up for the occasion.
The following day, after Sunday School and lunch, everyone in the house but Max will attend my orchestra concert. I wlll miss Max's supportive, loving presence in the front row, but I'm delighted to know that he'll be making people laugh - and his own heart sing - on another stage just down the street. Sam will have a keen eye on the viola section, as he is just a few weeks into the process of learning to play that instrument. And Isaac will be wondering "Hmm...am I meant to be a cellist or a trumpeter?"
I'm blogging, in the midst of all this, I suppose, because I always want to remember this time in my life. I simply don't know how it could get any sweeter. But time, it seems, will continue to carry us forward. Monday will be my first birthday without my grandmother. For 43 birthdays, I have either seen her face or heard her voice on the telephone. Today was also the first time Sam turned a year older without receiving a card from his "Gigi". Life is always changing. But as long as we keep celebrating birthdays, I know we will keep filling our weekends, and our years, with the sweet sounds of laughter, music, and applause.
But I can never leave well enough alone, can I? No. A big weekend can always become bigger. Plus, what about Isaac? He deserves a performance venue, too!
The day before our orchestra's last concert, in June, we hosted a "living room recital" for child performers. For whatever reason, I don't feel perfectly happy performing for my children (i.e. dragging them to one of my concerts) unless they have chance to perform as well. Part of it is that I want then to understand how fun and exciting it is to perform music. Part of it is that I feel uncomfortable hogging the spotlight.
So, after I got home from our last dress rehearsal, I arranged the living room furniture into parallel rows, and pretty soon after, the place filled up. People brought grandparents and pastries; it was very festive. Each of my boys played the piano, as so did several of their friends. On one end of the spectrum, a 7 year old, who had been taking lessons for just six weeks got his very first chance to take a bow. Max sang some songs he was preparing for a wedding reception, one parent played somewhere over the rainbow, and oh, yes, the Conductor played Debussy.
So, this weekend, I went ahead and threw another kids' recital into the mix. We will have some returning performers as well as some new families joining in the fun. Among the lineup are a seven year old singer, a seven year old violiist, a 10 year old guitarist and several pianists. Possibly the best part is that my in-laws should arrive an hour or less before we begin.
After we listen, applaud, marvel, exclaim, and eat cookies, we will take ourselves back out to see Max on stage a second time in the outrageously comic character of Adolpho (the Latin Lover). Last night, I laughed harder at my eldest son than I ever have before. I woke up this morning recalling the first glimpse I ever had of his potential for a career in comedy. I know you will think I am exaggerating, but Max was just 16 months old.
I am quite sure of that fact because that is how old he was when I finished law school and packed up my diaper bag, along with the new red rolling suitcase my grandparents gave me as a divorce present, and moved us (me and the baby) back to Manhattan, where Max had been conceived. It lasted all of one month before we were hauled back to Cincinnati, so I know he was just 16 months old when I finished my workout at Crunch Gym on the Upper West Side and went to get Max from the child care room.
The babysitter did her thing in a room the size of a broom closet. Along with Max, there were three little girls approaching preschool age. I remember crouching down to collect Max and his belongings and hearing her say "he's quite the comedian!"
I had certainly noticed Max blossoming day by day as he soaked up the sights and sounds of the New York City sidewalks, but this was more precocity than I was expecting. I turned to her, quite baffled.
"Um...he doesn't speak yet, so, how...?"
"Well, talking or not, he worked awfully hard to get these girls to laugh," she told me, grinning.
Really. Well, well. I soon got used to this kind of report. Back in Cincinnati, I brought Max to child care at Midtown Fitness and heard the same thing over and over again. The staff all wanted to sit for Max at our house; he was that engaging.
How I wish they all could have seen him last night...
But I digress.
We are off to temple in a minute or two (if I ever stop typing) which means that I will have to get Sam and Isaac to stop playing with the new laser strategy game Sam just got for his birthday today.
Tonight, we will dine with other second grade families from the religious school, and then I might get to wrap up Sam's birthday by reading some Madeline L'Engle to him. Paul and I both dread the day when we are dismissed from the privileged position of bedtime story reader. It is just too much fun - the reason I currently only play in one orchestra and why I dropped out of a board I used to sit on.
Tomorrow morning I will drop Isaac at his acting class at CCM prep, then head to my dress rehearsal. Isaac is preparing an interpretive version of "The Mailman" that should bring the house down. Sam will play Joplin's The Entertainer, which he has been working on for an unprecedented length of time. I am also looking forward to hearing what everyone else has cooked up for the occasion.
The following day, after Sunday School and lunch, everyone in the house but Max will attend my orchestra concert. I wlll miss Max's supportive, loving presence in the front row, but I'm delighted to know that he'll be making people laugh - and his own heart sing - on another stage just down the street. Sam will have a keen eye on the viola section, as he is just a few weeks into the process of learning to play that instrument. And Isaac will be wondering "Hmm...am I meant to be a cellist or a trumpeter?"
I'm blogging, in the midst of all this, I suppose, because I always want to remember this time in my life. I simply don't know how it could get any sweeter. But time, it seems, will continue to carry us forward. Monday will be my first birthday without my grandmother. For 43 birthdays, I have either seen her face or heard her voice on the telephone. Today was also the first time Sam turned a year older without receiving a card from his "Gigi". Life is always changing. But as long as we keep celebrating birthdays, I know we will keep filling our weekends, and our years, with the sweet sounds of laughter, music, and applause.
What we do not notice
In Washington , DC , at a Metro Station, on a cold January morning in 2007, a man with a violin played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time, approximately 2,000 people went through the station, most of them on their way to work.
After about 3 minutes:
A middle-aged man noticed that there was a musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds, and then he hurried on to meet his schedule.
About 4 minutes later:
The violinist received his first dollar. A woman threw money in the hat and, without stopping, continued to walk.
At 6 minutes:
A young man leaned against the wall to listen to him, then looked at his watch and started to walk again.
At 10 minutes:
A 3-year old boy stopped, but his mother tugged him along hurriedly. The child stopped to look at the violinist again, but the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk, turning his head the whole time. This action was repeated by several other children, but every parent - without exception - forced their children to move on quickly.
At 45 minutes:
The musician played continuously. Only 6 people stopped and listened for a short while. About 20 gave money but continued to walk at their normal pace. The man collected a total of $32.
After 1 hour:
He finished playing and silence took over. No one noticed and no one applauded.
There was no recognition at all.
No one knew this, but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the greatest musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written, with a violin worth $3.5 million dollars. Two days before, Joshua Bell had sold-out a theater in Boston where the seats averaged $100 each to sit and listen to him play the same music.
This is a true story. Joshua Bell, playing incognito in the D.C. Metro Station, was organized by the Washington Post as part of a social experiment about perception, taste and people's priorities.
This experiment raised several questions:
*In a common-place environment, at an inappropriate hour, do we perceive beauty?
*If so, do we stop to appreciate it?
*Do we recognize talent in an unexpected context?
One possible conclusion reached from this experiment could be this:
If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world, playing some of the finest music ever written, with one of the most beautiful instruments ever made . . .
How many other things are we missing as we rush through life?
Stop, hug a friend, and for a moment, try to see life through the eyes of a child, if you are lucky enough to know one.
Oh, and if you are in Cincinnati, attend the Seven Hills Sinfonietta's FREE concert 3PM this Sunday afternoon, at B'nai Tzedek on Kugler Mill Rd, in Kenwood.
After about 3 minutes:
A middle-aged man noticed that there was a musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds, and then he hurried on to meet his schedule.
About 4 minutes later:
The violinist received his first dollar. A woman threw money in the hat and, without stopping, continued to walk.
At 6 minutes:
A young man leaned against the wall to listen to him, then looked at his watch and started to walk again.
At 10 minutes:
A 3-year old boy stopped, but his mother tugged him along hurriedly. The child stopped to look at the violinist again, but the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk, turning his head the whole time. This action was repeated by several other children, but every parent - without exception - forced their children to move on quickly.
At 45 minutes:
The musician played continuously. Only 6 people stopped and listened for a short while. About 20 gave money but continued to walk at their normal pace. The man collected a total of $32.
After 1 hour:
He finished playing and silence took over. No one noticed and no one applauded.
There was no recognition at all.
No one knew this, but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the greatest musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written, with a violin worth $3.5 million dollars. Two days before, Joshua Bell had sold-out a theater in Boston where the seats averaged $100 each to sit and listen to him play the same music.
This is a true story. Joshua Bell, playing incognito in the D.C. Metro Station, was organized by the Washington Post as part of a social experiment about perception, taste and people's priorities.
This experiment raised several questions:
*In a common-place environment, at an inappropriate hour, do we perceive beauty?
*If so, do we stop to appreciate it?
*Do we recognize talent in an unexpected context?
One possible conclusion reached from this experiment could be this:
If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world, playing some of the finest music ever written, with one of the most beautiful instruments ever made . . .
How many other things are we missing as we rush through life?
Stop, hug a friend, and for a moment, try to see life through the eyes of a child, if you are lucky enough to know one.
Oh, and if you are in Cincinnati, attend the Seven Hills Sinfonietta's FREE concert 3PM this Sunday afternoon, at B'nai Tzedek on Kugler Mill Rd, in Kenwood.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Austria's Mona Lisa didn't live to see Kristallnacht
The beautiful golden painting with my face photoshopped onto it is the somewhat altered portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer, a Jewish lady who ran an elegant salon in Vienna at the turn of the twentieth century. She and her husband Ferdinand were great art collectors, and they commissioned two very grand portraits of Adele by Gustav Klimt, the great Austrian painter (1862-1918). This painting, done in 1907 (54" by 54") is historic artistically for its lavish use of gold leaf, but both potraits of Adele are significant in that they bear historical witness to the significance of Jewish patronage during the Golden Era of fin-de-siecle Vienna.
My neighbor recently watched The Rape of Europa, the PBS documentary about the aryanization of Europe's greatest art collections, including those stolen out of Jewish homes. In some way that I do not quite understand, Adele reminded him of me "in spirit" and so he created this photoshopped version of the painting. I'm sharing it with you, along with the story around it, as we prepare to mark the 72nd anniversary of Kristallnacht.
As you already know if you have been reading my blog this week, my aunt just returned from a European "vacation" that included touring a number of European Jewish ghettoes and hearing stories and seeing pictures about all that happened there 1000, 100, and 72 years ago. My aunt was was quite shaken to see the elegant, even patrician lifestyle of many Jews in Vienna before their lives were suddenly shattered and violently destroyed.
In Adele's time, Jews had become predominant in all spheres of life and contributed greatly to Austria's cultural and scientific achievements; three out of four Austrian Nobel Prize winners were Jewish, as were more than half the physicians, lawyers, professors and dentists. Jewish merchants, traders, entrepreneurs and businessmen all contributed to the city's prosperity at the turn of the century.
Adele's Viennese salon was attended by the major personalities of the time, which included prominent Jewish physicians Sigmund Freud, Alfred Adler, Wilhelm Reich and Theodor Reik. Jewish luminaries of music and theatre included Gustav Mahler, Arnold Schonberg, Oscar Straus, Emmerich Kalman, Max Reinhardt, Fritz Kortner, Lily Darvas and Elisabeth Berner, and also, the writers: Arthur Schnitzler, Franz Kafka, Stefan Zweig and Felix Salten.
Because of the atmosphere of economic, religious and social freedom, the Jewish population grew from 6,200 in 1860 to 40,200 in 1870 and, by the turn of the century, it reached 147,000. By 1938, the Jewish population of Vienna would peak at 185,000 members.
By dying suddenly of meningitis in 1925, Adele was spared what happened next.
While Jews were making great strides in Viennese society, a backlash of anti-Semitism developed. One famous anti-Semite was Georg Schonerer, who portrayed Jews as evil incarnate and was responsible for ransacking the office of Neuss Wiener Tagblatt (a Jewish-owned newspaper) and for hitting its Jewish employees. Schonerer was jailed for his actions, but after his release, 21 members of the anti-Semitic nationalist party (Alldeutsch Parti) were elected into the Austrian Parliament.
A second anti-Semite, Karl Leuger, had even more influence over the racist atmosphere in Vienna. Leuger was elected mayor of Austria five times between 1897 and 1910. At first, Emperor Franz Joseph refused to support him, however, after Leuger’s fifth reelection he accepted Leuger’s power. Leuger blamed the Jews for Vienna’s financial problems and roused the crowds with anti-Semitic fervor, while in private he still had a number of Jewish friends and dined at their houses. Both Leuger and Schnorer influenced Adolf Hiter, then a young man from Bravau on Inn, Austria. In Mein Kampf, Adolf Hitler claims he learned anti-Semitism from them.
In the 1930's increased anti-Semitism was directed at the Social Democrat party, which was mainly run by Jews.
In March 1938, Austria was annexed by Nazi Germany, the Anschluss. Following the annexation, Jews were chased through the streets, were forced to scrub the sidewalks and Jewish stores and apartments were pillaged. The Social Democratic party was crushed and thousands of Austrians who opposed Nazi rule were deported to concentration camps and murdered.
The Nazis enacted the Nuremberg Racial Laws in occupied Austria in May 1938. Within a short period, Jews had lost nearly all of their civil liberties, were unable to attend university, were excluded from most professions and forced to wear a yellow badge. All Jewish organizations and institutions were shut down. The Nazis encouraged emigration and nearly 130,000 Jews left Austria, including 30,000 who headed to the United States.
Many Jewish stores, factories and building were destroyed during Kristallnacht on November 9-10, 1938. Public displays of hatred commenced across the city and all of the city’s synagogues were ravaged. The only synagogue that remained untouched was the central synagogue, hidden because of a law that allowed only churches to be free standing - the building blended inconspicuously with its residential surroundings.
That night about 6,000 Jews were apprehended and sent to Dachau.
The situation further deteriorated after the Wanassee Conference in January 1942. The remaining Austrian Jews were killed or sent to concentration camps; more than 65,000 Viennese Jews were deported to concentration camps, and only 2,000 survived. About 800 Jews who managed to hide survived the war.
Here, from the Jewish Women's archives, is more information about Adele and her famous portrait.
In 1919, after the Bloch-Bauers moved to their new grand palace opposite the Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna, Adele erected a shrine dedicated to Klimt in her chambers. His paintings decorated the walls, while his photo stood on a side table.
In 1918, after the fall of the Austrian-Hungary monarchy, Ferdinand and Adele requested Czech citizenship with the address of their castle “Schloß Jungfern” near Prague. But, their home base remained in Vienna, where Adele continued her role as a salon lady. Julius Tandler, a prominent guest, also became her physician. It was possibly due to his influence that she began to support Socialist causes. In her will, she bequeathed her money to many charities, among them The Society of Children’s Friends. She donated her library to the Viennese Public and Workers’ Library.
On January 24, 1925 Bloch-Bauer died suddenly of meningitis, in Vienna. After her death, the “Klimt Hall” was turned into a “memorial room” for her. In her will she asked her husband to donate Klimt’s paintings to the Austrian Gallery after his death. In 1938, following the annexation of Austria to Nazi Germany, the paintings were aryanized. Ferdinand fled to Czechoslovakia and later continued to Zurich, where he died shortly after the end of the war. He is buried beside his wife in Vienna. His last request to recover the Klimt paintings and other artworks from their exquisite collection was not fulfilled in his lifetime. Maria Altmann, Adele’s California-based niece and the family heir, sued the Republic of Austria, demanding that the Klimt paintings be returned to her.
In May 2005 the Republic of Austria and Maria Altmann of Los Angeles agreed to end their litigation in U.S. District Court regarding five Gustav Klimt paintings and to submit the dispute to binding arbitration in Austria. In January 2006 the arbitration resulted in the award of the paintings to Maria Altmann. Soon afterwards, she had them displayed at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. In June 2006 the portrait entitled Adele Bloch-Bauer I was purchased for the Neve Galerie in Manhattan, where it hangs today, by Ronald Lauder, for the record sum of 135 million dollars.
(thanks to the Jewish Women's archives and the Jewish Virtual Library for all the detailed information used in writing my blog post on Adele and early 20th Vienna)
My neighbor recently watched The Rape of Europa, the PBS documentary about the aryanization of Europe's greatest art collections, including those stolen out of Jewish homes. In some way that I do not quite understand, Adele reminded him of me "in spirit" and so he created this photoshopped version of the painting. I'm sharing it with you, along with the story around it, as we prepare to mark the 72nd anniversary of Kristallnacht.
As you already know if you have been reading my blog this week, my aunt just returned from a European "vacation" that included touring a number of European Jewish ghettoes and hearing stories and seeing pictures about all that happened there 1000, 100, and 72 years ago. My aunt was was quite shaken to see the elegant, even patrician lifestyle of many Jews in Vienna before their lives were suddenly shattered and violently destroyed.
In Adele's time, Jews had become predominant in all spheres of life and contributed greatly to Austria's cultural and scientific achievements; three out of four Austrian Nobel Prize winners were Jewish, as were more than half the physicians, lawyers, professors and dentists. Jewish merchants, traders, entrepreneurs and businessmen all contributed to the city's prosperity at the turn of the century.
Adele's Viennese salon was attended by the major personalities of the time, which included prominent Jewish physicians Sigmund Freud, Alfred Adler, Wilhelm Reich and Theodor Reik. Jewish luminaries of music and theatre included Gustav Mahler, Arnold Schonberg, Oscar Straus, Emmerich Kalman, Max Reinhardt, Fritz Kortner, Lily Darvas and Elisabeth Berner, and also, the writers: Arthur Schnitzler, Franz Kafka, Stefan Zweig and Felix Salten.
Because of the atmosphere of economic, religious and social freedom, the Jewish population grew from 6,200 in 1860 to 40,200 in 1870 and, by the turn of the century, it reached 147,000. By 1938, the Jewish population of Vienna would peak at 185,000 members.
By dying suddenly of meningitis in 1925, Adele was spared what happened next.
While Jews were making great strides in Viennese society, a backlash of anti-Semitism developed. One famous anti-Semite was Georg Schonerer, who portrayed Jews as evil incarnate and was responsible for ransacking the office of Neuss Wiener Tagblatt (a Jewish-owned newspaper) and for hitting its Jewish employees. Schonerer was jailed for his actions, but after his release, 21 members of the anti-Semitic nationalist party (Alldeutsch Parti) were elected into the Austrian Parliament.
A second anti-Semite, Karl Leuger, had even more influence over the racist atmosphere in Vienna. Leuger was elected mayor of Austria five times between 1897 and 1910. At first, Emperor Franz Joseph refused to support him, however, after Leuger’s fifth reelection he accepted Leuger’s power. Leuger blamed the Jews for Vienna’s financial problems and roused the crowds with anti-Semitic fervor, while in private he still had a number of Jewish friends and dined at their houses. Both Leuger and Schnorer influenced Adolf Hiter, then a young man from Bravau on Inn, Austria. In Mein Kampf, Adolf Hitler claims he learned anti-Semitism from them.
In the 1930's increased anti-Semitism was directed at the Social Democrat party, which was mainly run by Jews.
In March 1938, Austria was annexed by Nazi Germany, the Anschluss. Following the annexation, Jews were chased through the streets, were forced to scrub the sidewalks and Jewish stores and apartments were pillaged. The Social Democratic party was crushed and thousands of Austrians who opposed Nazi rule were deported to concentration camps and murdered.
The Nazis enacted the Nuremberg Racial Laws in occupied Austria in May 1938. Within a short period, Jews had lost nearly all of their civil liberties, were unable to attend university, were excluded from most professions and forced to wear a yellow badge. All Jewish organizations and institutions were shut down. The Nazis encouraged emigration and nearly 130,000 Jews left Austria, including 30,000 who headed to the United States.
Many Jewish stores, factories and building were destroyed during Kristallnacht on November 9-10, 1938. Public displays of hatred commenced across the city and all of the city’s synagogues were ravaged. The only synagogue that remained untouched was the central synagogue, hidden because of a law that allowed only churches to be free standing - the building blended inconspicuously with its residential surroundings.
That night about 6,000 Jews were apprehended and sent to Dachau.
The situation further deteriorated after the Wanassee Conference in January 1942. The remaining Austrian Jews were killed or sent to concentration camps; more than 65,000 Viennese Jews were deported to concentration camps, and only 2,000 survived. About 800 Jews who managed to hide survived the war.
Here, from the Jewish Women's archives, is more information about Adele and her famous portrait.
In 1919, after the Bloch-Bauers moved to their new grand palace opposite the Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna, Adele erected a shrine dedicated to Klimt in her chambers. His paintings decorated the walls, while his photo stood on a side table.
In 1918, after the fall of the Austrian-Hungary monarchy, Ferdinand and Adele requested Czech citizenship with the address of their castle “Schloß Jungfern” near Prague. But, their home base remained in Vienna, where Adele continued her role as a salon lady. Julius Tandler, a prominent guest, also became her physician. It was possibly due to his influence that she began to support Socialist causes. In her will, she bequeathed her money to many charities, among them The Society of Children’s Friends. She donated her library to the Viennese Public and Workers’ Library.
On January 24, 1925 Bloch-Bauer died suddenly of meningitis, in Vienna. After her death, the “Klimt Hall” was turned into a “memorial room” for her. In her will she asked her husband to donate Klimt’s paintings to the Austrian Gallery after his death. In 1938, following the annexation of Austria to Nazi Germany, the paintings were aryanized. Ferdinand fled to Czechoslovakia and later continued to Zurich, where he died shortly after the end of the war. He is buried beside his wife in Vienna. His last request to recover the Klimt paintings and other artworks from their exquisite collection was not fulfilled in his lifetime. Maria Altmann, Adele’s California-based niece and the family heir, sued the Republic of Austria, demanding that the Klimt paintings be returned to her.
In May 2005 the Republic of Austria and Maria Altmann of Los Angeles agreed to end their litigation in U.S. District Court regarding five Gustav Klimt paintings and to submit the dispute to binding arbitration in Austria. In January 2006 the arbitration resulted in the award of the paintings to Maria Altmann. Soon afterwards, she had them displayed at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. In June 2006 the portrait entitled Adele Bloch-Bauer I was purchased for the Neve Galerie in Manhattan, where it hangs today, by Ronald Lauder, for the record sum of 135 million dollars.
(thanks to the Jewish Women's archives and the Jewish Virtual Library for all the detailed information used in writing my blog post on Adele and early 20th Vienna)
In support of Nerdy Apple Bottom and all true love
As many of you already know, a woman calling herself Cop's Wife writes a blog called Nerdy Apple Bottom. Recently, she wrote a wonderful piece about her five year old son and the troubling experience he had wearing his Hallowe'en costume to preschool.
I read today in Daily Mail (the same paper I quoted in my last post re: Holocaust survivors being shot at while holding a memorial) that a child advocacy group, Kidscape, is calling for this mother to contact her internet provider and have her child's image removed from the internet. People are furious with her.
First of all, once a picture has gone viral (like the one attached to the nerdy apple bottom's recent blog post bemoaning the intolerance in the hallways of her son's Christian church preschool) this is probably not possible. Critics say that by posting a picture of her adorable son "in drag" - that is, dressed as the cartoon character Daphne from Scooby Doo - she is endangering him FOR THE REST OF HIS LIFE.
I am proud to say that I was one of the mothers who applauded Cop's wife for her post and her parenting. I was appalled, but not surprised, by her account of the "concerned [judgmental] mothers at the preschool". I am further appalled, but again, not surprised to learn that some people are now in full flip out mode, busy minding another family's business.
The internet is indelible, they argue, so he is now at risk for attack. Nice logic. This assumes that a teen boy or man being outed as gay is will invite or lead to the eventual attack of that boy/man. Others worry that he will grow up to be straight but forever haunted and hsi reputation scandalously tainted by this picture of him wearing a skirt and wig. At age 5.
When I was in college, I learned that originally, all Shakespearean actors were men. Drag, at last for actors, was normal. In that spirit, the Hasty Pudding club staged romantics comedies casted entirely of men. From time immemorial, the officers of this club (the oldest theatrical club in North America) have proudly donned dresses and wigs to celebrate their Woman of the Year, and then, while surrounding her in a convertible, driven all around Harvard Square. This year, it was the actress Anne Hathway who had the honor and privilege to be escorted through town by a car full of young men (straight and gay) in drag, pictures of which are always published.
Zoom ahead a few years from my college graduation. I now live in the Midwest and have three sons, none yet old enough to be eligible for membership in the Hasty Pudding Club. My eldest son, 16, feels that he has always been clear about being straight, but knows it wasn't always so clear to other people. When he was a toddler and preschooler, and I was his single mom, he mainly spent time with me and his female caregivers. He loved watching me apply makeup and always asked for some. If I didn't give him some, I reasoned, he would find a way into my cabinet to help himself, as I had gone into my mother's, and so I would occasionally daub some blush, powder or liptick onto his face. Years later, he was spotted applying mascara in the boys' bathroom at the middle school, in anticipation of my zooming him downtown to a dress rehearsal for a show which (like most shows) required that he wear makeup. He was taunted afterwards at school for being gay. For years.
Other parents warned me not to let him study with this or that voice teacher or acting coach because "he is known to be gay and would be a dangerous influence" on Max. My own parents told me that if I kept encouraging him to be in the theatre, he would likely "turn gay". He has learned a lot about homophobia by being the target of it, and he is consequently very sensitive to how it affects other people. He goes out of his way to stand up for gay rights and tolerance. Nobody seems to think he is gay anymore, and he continues to be a role model of acceptance, sensitivity and righteous behavior...and I couldn't be more proud.
But I would not be ashamed if any of my sons were gay. They are Jews so they will already have to deal with being shunned and/or hated by bigots for no good reason. The only reason I would not wish for them to be gay is that they would have to be confronted with that much more bigotry. On the other hand, they each have such a strong sense of self and such healthy self esteem that they would likely be just "fine" in the face of homophobic bullying. But I wouldn't wish it on anyone, you know? It's horrible.
Many have told me I would be a great parent to a gay son and I take that as high praise, an observation of my utter acceptance of most people. I say most because try as I might, I am still not perfect in this regard. I will confess right here that I judge people for (1) being judgmental and (2) for using poor grammar. The first, I know, is hypocritical and the second is....well, it is what it is. But these are relatively minor handcaps in my ability to be loving towards almost everyone.
When my 2nd grader was in kindergarten, another mother at school approached me to become my friend. She said that anyone who let their son wear his hair as long as he liked had to be a cool mom and a good person. I was not only touched, but I agreed, and not just on my own behalf. I would never think to inhibit my children's self expression unless it hurt or threatened to hurt another person. But now, people are saying we should not allow self expression that will make a child being vulnerable to being hurt by bigotry. But the less people express themselves, the more bigotry will endure.
Isaac got plenty of flack for his long hair. One adult was so relentless in teasing him about it that Isaac broke down into tears and asked to be brought home rather than go into that person's home for a party. For every person who complimented his long locks, another person would make a judgmental comment. We laughed at all the oblivious, unseeing people who referred to him as a girl. Eventually, without any discussion, Isaac requested a short haircut. I don't know if he was fed up or just wanted a new look. Either way, he is handsome and a delightful and unique person and I wouldn't change a thing about him.
But I have to admit that I am not always able to indulge him according to my highest principles. Back in preschool, I did give in to societal pressure - to protect him from people's reaction, I discouraged him from wearing a skirt. He was so fascinated by skirts and I thought that made sense. Men and boys are supposed to appreciate beautiful dresses and skirts, after all. Isn't that part of the point of women and girls dressing up? Isaac was pretty girl crazy at the time, and I knew that could be a sign of one of two things: either he would remain that way for all his life long, or he would decide he wanted to be a girl. Time would tell. I did not panic, but I also never bought him a skirt. I did a couple of other things to make it up to him and to make sure he felt validated. I never exactly forbid his wearing a skirt, and I certainly never scolded or criticized him for wanting one. I just redirected the conversation.
We compared notes on the beautiful skirts his friends had worn to school that day, and then we would talk about patterns and butterflies and flowers and favorite colors. As a result, I ended up painting a bathroom ceiling pink purple blue turquoise green silver and gold, and affixing to it a large number of sparkly plastic gemstones. I needed a serious neck and shoulder massage after that project, but he was thrilled with it, and still is, about 4 years later. He has also worn for three years, the same manly pink v-neck sweater in size 6, then 7, and now, 8. Somehow, it is always still on the rack at Castle House, marked down 80% off retail at the end of their "goofy summer sale". That's one small benefit of shopping in a conservative neighborhood, where most women would never buy their son or grandson a pink sweater. But I know that is just one positive droplet in a sea of bigotry.
So, I am blogging today to let everyone know where I stand. I speak up against hatred and bigotry. I stand up and applaud tolerance and acceptance and nurturing each child as he becomes who he was born to be. I stand with Cop's Wife and her son.
I read today in Daily Mail (the same paper I quoted in my last post re: Holocaust survivors being shot at while holding a memorial) that a child advocacy group, Kidscape, is calling for this mother to contact her internet provider and have her child's image removed from the internet. People are furious with her.
First of all, once a picture has gone viral (like the one attached to the nerdy apple bottom's recent blog post bemoaning the intolerance in the hallways of her son's Christian church preschool) this is probably not possible. Critics say that by posting a picture of her adorable son "in drag" - that is, dressed as the cartoon character Daphne from Scooby Doo - she is endangering him FOR THE REST OF HIS LIFE.
I am proud to say that I was one of the mothers who applauded Cop's wife for her post and her parenting. I was appalled, but not surprised, by her account of the "concerned [judgmental] mothers at the preschool". I am further appalled, but again, not surprised to learn that some people are now in full flip out mode, busy minding another family's business.
The internet is indelible, they argue, so he is now at risk for attack. Nice logic. This assumes that a teen boy or man being outed as gay is will invite or lead to the eventual attack of that boy/man. Others worry that he will grow up to be straight but forever haunted and hsi reputation scandalously tainted by this picture of him wearing a skirt and wig. At age 5.
When I was in college, I learned that originally, all Shakespearean actors were men. Drag, at last for actors, was normal. In that spirit, the Hasty Pudding club staged romantics comedies casted entirely of men. From time immemorial, the officers of this club (the oldest theatrical club in North America) have proudly donned dresses and wigs to celebrate their Woman of the Year, and then, while surrounding her in a convertible, driven all around Harvard Square. This year, it was the actress Anne Hathway who had the honor and privilege to be escorted through town by a car full of young men (straight and gay) in drag, pictures of which are always published.
Zoom ahead a few years from my college graduation. I now live in the Midwest and have three sons, none yet old enough to be eligible for membership in the Hasty Pudding Club. My eldest son, 16, feels that he has always been clear about being straight, but knows it wasn't always so clear to other people. When he was a toddler and preschooler, and I was his single mom, he mainly spent time with me and his female caregivers. He loved watching me apply makeup and always asked for some. If I didn't give him some, I reasoned, he would find a way into my cabinet to help himself, as I had gone into my mother's, and so I would occasionally daub some blush, powder or liptick onto his face. Years later, he was spotted applying mascara in the boys' bathroom at the middle school, in anticipation of my zooming him downtown to a dress rehearsal for a show which (like most shows) required that he wear makeup. He was taunted afterwards at school for being gay. For years.
Other parents warned me not to let him study with this or that voice teacher or acting coach because "he is known to be gay and would be a dangerous influence" on Max. My own parents told me that if I kept encouraging him to be in the theatre, he would likely "turn gay". He has learned a lot about homophobia by being the target of it, and he is consequently very sensitive to how it affects other people. He goes out of his way to stand up for gay rights and tolerance. Nobody seems to think he is gay anymore, and he continues to be a role model of acceptance, sensitivity and righteous behavior...and I couldn't be more proud.
But I would not be ashamed if any of my sons were gay. They are Jews so they will already have to deal with being shunned and/or hated by bigots for no good reason. The only reason I would not wish for them to be gay is that they would have to be confronted with that much more bigotry. On the other hand, they each have such a strong sense of self and such healthy self esteem that they would likely be just "fine" in the face of homophobic bullying. But I wouldn't wish it on anyone, you know? It's horrible.
Many have told me I would be a great parent to a gay son and I take that as high praise, an observation of my utter acceptance of most people. I say most because try as I might, I am still not perfect in this regard. I will confess right here that I judge people for (1) being judgmental and (2) for using poor grammar. The first, I know, is hypocritical and the second is....well, it is what it is. But these are relatively minor handcaps in my ability to be loving towards almost everyone.
When my 2nd grader was in kindergarten, another mother at school approached me to become my friend. She said that anyone who let their son wear his hair as long as he liked had to be a cool mom and a good person. I was not only touched, but I agreed, and not just on my own behalf. I would never think to inhibit my children's self expression unless it hurt or threatened to hurt another person. But now, people are saying we should not allow self expression that will make a child being vulnerable to being hurt by bigotry. But the less people express themselves, the more bigotry will endure.
Isaac got plenty of flack for his long hair. One adult was so relentless in teasing him about it that Isaac broke down into tears and asked to be brought home rather than go into that person's home for a party. For every person who complimented his long locks, another person would make a judgmental comment. We laughed at all the oblivious, unseeing people who referred to him as a girl. Eventually, without any discussion, Isaac requested a short haircut. I don't know if he was fed up or just wanted a new look. Either way, he is handsome and a delightful and unique person and I wouldn't change a thing about him.
But I have to admit that I am not always able to indulge him according to my highest principles. Back in preschool, I did give in to societal pressure - to protect him from people's reaction, I discouraged him from wearing a skirt. He was so fascinated by skirts and I thought that made sense. Men and boys are supposed to appreciate beautiful dresses and skirts, after all. Isn't that part of the point of women and girls dressing up? Isaac was pretty girl crazy at the time, and I knew that could be a sign of one of two things: either he would remain that way for all his life long, or he would decide he wanted to be a girl. Time would tell. I did not panic, but I also never bought him a skirt. I did a couple of other things to make it up to him and to make sure he felt validated. I never exactly forbid his wearing a skirt, and I certainly never scolded or criticized him for wanting one. I just redirected the conversation.
We compared notes on the beautiful skirts his friends had worn to school that day, and then we would talk about patterns and butterflies and flowers and favorite colors. As a result, I ended up painting a bathroom ceiling pink purple blue turquoise green silver and gold, and affixing to it a large number of sparkly plastic gemstones. I needed a serious neck and shoulder massage after that project, but he was thrilled with it, and still is, about 4 years later. He has also worn for three years, the same manly pink v-neck sweater in size 6, then 7, and now, 8. Somehow, it is always still on the rack at Castle House, marked down 80% off retail at the end of their "goofy summer sale". That's one small benefit of shopping in a conservative neighborhood, where most women would never buy their son or grandson a pink sweater. But I know that is just one positive droplet in a sea of bigotry.
So, I am blogging today to let everyone know where I stand. I speak up against hatred and bigotry. I stand up and applaud tolerance and acceptance and nurturing each child as he becomes who he was born to be. I stand with Cop's Wife and her son.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
My aunt just got back from 2 1/2 weeks in Europe.
How nice!
Yes, she is delighted that she went. Budapest, Prague and Vienna are all beautiful and the classical music in Vienna was marvelous. Then she proceeded to tell me about their visit to the various Jewish ghettoes in these cities, filled with residents whose parents and/or grandparents had lived there before being taken away in 1938.
In each ghetto, as I saw for myself in Italy, there are museums full of photos of the local Jews before 1938 and descriptions of all their wonderful contributions to Austrian, Hungarian and Czech society. She looked at the elegant people in the photos and listened to accounts of how they were forcibly dragged from their beautiful homes, into the street, and boarded onto transports to the concentration camps, where most were murdered, their bones dumped into mass graves.
Then my aunt told me about the rise of Neo-Nazi party in Austria and Germany.
"But...I thought it was illegal!" I said.
"Don't kid yourself, Nancy," she said. "They are there under a different name, and they are growing."
It's amazing. Every time I think I understand how bad antisemitism is today, I take another look and realize I am still pretty naive.
The witnesses to the 20th century Holocaust are dying out. Their children are aging. And the denials of what went on are growing, spreading, insinuating themselves into European society and even American college campuses.
The Jews in these European cities cannot even imagine how we live here, insulated daily from antisemitism, completely unaware of it if we choose to be.
I did a quick search, and found this story in the London Daily Mail, about an event in Austria that took place last year:
Survivors of a Nazi death camp were shot at and abused as they gathered to remember their liberation.
Masked neo-Nazi thugs screamed 'Heil Hitler!' and 'This way for the gas!' at ten elderly Italian men and women, who returned to the site of the Mauthausen concentration camp in Austria.
The gang also fired air guns at a group of 15 French survivors, many dressed in the striped pyjama-style uniforms they wore as inmates. One suffered a head wound while another was injured by a shot in the neck. The four thugs managed to escape.
Jewish leaders in Austria were appalled by the weekend scenes that marred events marking the 64th anniversary of the camp’s liberation by American troops.
I had to hang up the phone before I could ask my aunt this: what positive or constructive thing can one do when you come back from a traumatic trip like this?
What is there to be done here at home?
I have called her back and left that query on her answering machine.
I am pleading with you, readers, to tell me your ideas on this.
to read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/worldnews/article-1180599/Neo-Nazis-attack-concentration-camp-survivors-memorial-service-345-000-dead.html#ixzz0bEBW8P45
How nice!
Yes, she is delighted that she went. Budapest, Prague and Vienna are all beautiful and the classical music in Vienna was marvelous. Then she proceeded to tell me about their visit to the various Jewish ghettoes in these cities, filled with residents whose parents and/or grandparents had lived there before being taken away in 1938.
In each ghetto, as I saw for myself in Italy, there are museums full of photos of the local Jews before 1938 and descriptions of all their wonderful contributions to Austrian, Hungarian and Czech society. She looked at the elegant people in the photos and listened to accounts of how they were forcibly dragged from their beautiful homes, into the street, and boarded onto transports to the concentration camps, where most were murdered, their bones dumped into mass graves.
Then my aunt told me about the rise of Neo-Nazi party in Austria and Germany.
"But...I thought it was illegal!" I said.
"Don't kid yourself, Nancy," she said. "They are there under a different name, and they are growing."
It's amazing. Every time I think I understand how bad antisemitism is today, I take another look and realize I am still pretty naive.
The witnesses to the 20th century Holocaust are dying out. Their children are aging. And the denials of what went on are growing, spreading, insinuating themselves into European society and even American college campuses.
The Jews in these European cities cannot even imagine how we live here, insulated daily from antisemitism, completely unaware of it if we choose to be.
I did a quick search, and found this story in the London Daily Mail, about an event in Austria that took place last year:
Survivors of a Nazi death camp were shot at and abused as they gathered to remember their liberation.
Masked neo-Nazi thugs screamed 'Heil Hitler!' and 'This way for the gas!' at ten elderly Italian men and women, who returned to the site of the Mauthausen concentration camp in Austria.
The gang also fired air guns at a group of 15 French survivors, many dressed in the striped pyjama-style uniforms they wore as inmates. One suffered a head wound while another was injured by a shot in the neck. The four thugs managed to escape.
Jewish leaders in Austria were appalled by the weekend scenes that marred events marking the 64th anniversary of the camp’s liberation by American troops.
I had to hang up the phone before I could ask my aunt this: what positive or constructive thing can one do when you come back from a traumatic trip like this?
What is there to be done here at home?
I have called her back and left that query on her answering machine.
I am pleading with you, readers, to tell me your ideas on this.
to read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/worldnews/article-1180599/Neo-Nazis-attack-concentration-camp-survivors-memorial-service-345-000-dead.html#ixzz0bEBW8P45
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
children's hospital
Nothing makes me feel more deeply grateful than a stroll through the concourse of Children's hospital. I have been hospitalized with a sick infant and all three boys have needed surgical procedures and emergency room visits, yet it never fails. I feel so lucky every time I am there, because it is impossible not to notice how much worse it could be.
Escorting a healthy child who literally holds my hand and skips all the way from the elevator to the blood lab, I pass children in strollers and wheelchairs with conditions I can neither name nor imagine caring for on a daily basis.
Of course, if that was the card I were dealt, I would play it the best I could. But I am so thankful for the relatively minor challenges I have faced in my life.
"What was that?" my seven year old asks once we are out of earshot of the mother and child with whom we have just shared an elevator from the parking garage.
"Honey, I have no idea. And I am so glad I don't have to."
"What do you mean?"
"Many of the people here are dealing with situations more difficult than anything we can imagine. And it just makes me feel so lucky to have such healthy, wonderful children."
Big smile.
And even though he was nervous, I suspect that he felt lucky, too.
Escorting a healthy child who literally holds my hand and skips all the way from the elevator to the blood lab, I pass children in strollers and wheelchairs with conditions I can neither name nor imagine caring for on a daily basis.
Of course, if that was the card I were dealt, I would play it the best I could. But I am so thankful for the relatively minor challenges I have faced in my life.
"What was that?" my seven year old asks once we are out of earshot of the mother and child with whom we have just shared an elevator from the parking garage.
"Honey, I have no idea. And I am so glad I don't have to."
"What do you mean?"
"Many of the people here are dealing with situations more difficult than anything we can imagine. And it just makes me feel so lucky to have such healthy, wonderful children."
Big smile.
And even though he was nervous, I suspect that he felt lucky, too.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Consolation - a poem
My definition of hell is a loved one suffering & nothing I can do.
So much of me is in being helpful. I want to heal, at least, to soothe.
My Hebrew name, Nechama, defined my challenge, sealed my fate.
I learned it meant consolation. A booby prize, I thought. Just great.
Many other girls were given names meaning "pretty" and "dear"
Surely there is more value in offering a sympathetic ear.
What do you want most when it sucks to be you? a lovely new sweater?
No. You want a friend's words to reassure you: it will get better!
Remembering this, I listen, murmuring words of support and love.
Her pain will be endured, I tell myself, and will subside.
Someday, I must believe, we will celebrate, with pride,
all that we've learned, how much we've grown, how far we've come.
So much of me is in being helpful. I want to heal, at least, to soothe.
My Hebrew name, Nechama, defined my challenge, sealed my fate.
I learned it meant consolation. A booby prize, I thought. Just great.
Many other girls were given names meaning "pretty" and "dear"
Surely there is more value in offering a sympathetic ear.
What do you want most when it sucks to be you? a lovely new sweater?
No. You want a friend's words to reassure you: it will get better!
Remembering this, I listen, murmuring words of support and love.
Her pain will be endured, I tell myself, and will subside.
Someday, I must believe, we will celebrate, with pride,
all that we've learned, how much we've grown, how far we've come.
Friday, October 29, 2010
in which I attempt a greater degree of honesty
I do try to be positive here, on my blog.
In fact, I use this blog as a tool to help me see the world in a positive light.
The truth is that I have sometimes put an hour or more into typing a negative post and realize along the way that it doesn't fit with my purpose here. This is neither a memoir nor a place for my public whining. It's called Unburied Treasure, after all, not Flaunted Self-Pity. So, I try to access and share good thoughts.
I have learned, through my many adventures in therapy and self-help, that gratitude is a powerful tool for finding our happiness (for which we are solely responsible) and one of the ways I try to harness that power is by writing it.
I didn't realize until today that by editing out my negative thoughts and feelings from this, my only active blog, I have been painting a very distorted self portrait.
This morning, just after I'd criticized my teenage son too harshly for singing while I was trying to speak and be heard, so that he left the house actively not speaking to me, I received an email that included the following confession:
I sorta envy how happy and grounded you always appear to be. How committed to whatever you're in...I see myself as doing hysterical somersaults through life and I see you as sitting on a beach in groovy sunglasses soaking in the rays with a martini.
Well, she could not have gotten that more wrong. Where is this beach and how do I get there?
This email was a wake up call to me to be aware of how I present myself to my friends, especially those whom I have not see in years, with whom I mainly keep in touch through facebook. I care a lot about this; I am so not about the facade.
When I was in the process of gathering courage for my divorce, my therapist said to me "Well, at least your being divorced will make you more likeable."
I flipped out on him. What the hell was he talking about? He explained that from the outside, my life appeared to be perfect. The divorce would be reassuring evidence for other people to see that it's not. Nobody likes a perfect person. It would now be much easier for me, he predicted, to make friends in Cincinnati.
This was shattering. All I really wanted was to be loved, and I had just spent 29 years trying to be as perfect as possible in order to get love. And now, I was being told that I had gotten it all wrong.
I had thought I was open before, but since that day, I have tried to be much more consciously open with people - both in person and in correspondence - about what is going on with me, about how I really feel. I have learned that it is a great gift to share your struggles with others. We all have our struggles, and when you are deeply in one, it is incredibkly comforting and reassuring to know that someone else has stood in your shoes and climbed out of the hole. I think the greatest horror of adolescence is that we tend not to believe that our problems are not hideously unique. The antidote to this misperception - sharing stories of overcoming difficulties - has got to be the single greatest benefit of the recent wave of published memoirs.
Today, I arrived at yoga, telling myself I was really ready to dig deep and discover a new truth. I have been especially preoccupied lately by the pattern I find myself in with my teenage son, where I miss him terribly when we are apart and drive him further away almost as soon as we are together. When other people complain about their teenagers, I have found myself thinking. "No, my teenager is terrific. It's not him; it's me." It's been very troubling, and I haven't heard anyone speaking my struggle, at least not precisely.
Our lovely yoga teacher, Karen, announces that in honor of Hallowe'en we are going to make the class about facing our fears. She instructs us to stand in tadasana and silently identify a fear that is plaguing us and in that moment I instantly have clarity. I realize that I am afraid of losing my son, of losing the first true love I have really ever known. Karen proceeds to explain that the Universe is not such a good listener when we are negative. If we think about what we don't want, it only hears the thing we fear and thinks we want more of that. So, if we want the effective support of the Universe, we must reframe our fear into the affirmation with which we will overcome it.
Tears were streaming down my face and neck as I framed the affirmation that I will be kind, fair and loving with my son. I saw very clearly in the brightness of the moment that by focusing on what I feared happening, I was using the energy of the Universe to support a negative, self-fulfilling prophecy.
It's funny. I had just posted on facebook before walking into yoga that "I cannot wait to find what insights come up on the mat this morning." And the Universe didn't keep me waiting even a moment longer than it took me to find a pose in which to be still.
As I continued to wipe at the small river of tears and snot that were now emanating, I felt so grateful, once again, for the yoga community I have found at Shine. I can't help it. I really do feel deep gratitude for this safe supportive environment in which I can receive deep, powerful insights. The love and safety of the Shine community gives me the freedom to take them in fully, and respond fully, in the present moment.
At temple, by contrast, when, during silent prayer, or while singing a song of healing, I may suddenly get in touch with things that are laden with strong emotion, I immediately try to quell my emotional response. I'll take note of what comes up and try to save the power of it for later. Sometimes I cry in spite of this resolve, because I have a tendencey to be very liquid, but at Shine I don't even feel I need to make an effort to hold back.
My yoga mat at Shine is a miraculous place where I can deeply experience and express joy, power, strength, love, surrender, acceptance and serenity, both through the physical expression of the asanas and internally, while sitting still. Having been there for 90 minutes, I feel strengthened in my affirmation to turn over a new leaf with my son and to stop pushing him away in reaction to my fears. It may take a few tries, but I believe I will wrestle that leaf into submission. The pain and hopelessness I felt when he walked out the door this morning is gone. It feels great, and it's a whole lot less expensive than therapy. Not to be overly positive, or anything, but I do feel so much better now, full of gratitude and love.
But ask me again tomorrow. I'll try to be completely honest.
In fact, I use this blog as a tool to help me see the world in a positive light.
The truth is that I have sometimes put an hour or more into typing a negative post and realize along the way that it doesn't fit with my purpose here. This is neither a memoir nor a place for my public whining. It's called Unburied Treasure, after all, not Flaunted Self-Pity. So, I try to access and share good thoughts.
I have learned, through my many adventures in therapy and self-help, that gratitude is a powerful tool for finding our happiness (for which we are solely responsible) and one of the ways I try to harness that power is by writing it.
I didn't realize until today that by editing out my negative thoughts and feelings from this, my only active blog, I have been painting a very distorted self portrait.
This morning, just after I'd criticized my teenage son too harshly for singing while I was trying to speak and be heard, so that he left the house actively not speaking to me, I received an email that included the following confession:
I sorta envy how happy and grounded you always appear to be. How committed to whatever you're in...I see myself as doing hysterical somersaults through life and I see you as sitting on a beach in groovy sunglasses soaking in the rays with a martini.
Well, she could not have gotten that more wrong. Where is this beach and how do I get there?
This email was a wake up call to me to be aware of how I present myself to my friends, especially those whom I have not see in years, with whom I mainly keep in touch through facebook. I care a lot about this; I am so not about the facade.
When I was in the process of gathering courage for my divorce, my therapist said to me "Well, at least your being divorced will make you more likeable."
I flipped out on him. What the hell was he talking about? He explained that from the outside, my life appeared to be perfect. The divorce would be reassuring evidence for other people to see that it's not. Nobody likes a perfect person. It would now be much easier for me, he predicted, to make friends in Cincinnati.
This was shattering. All I really wanted was to be loved, and I had just spent 29 years trying to be as perfect as possible in order to get love. And now, I was being told that I had gotten it all wrong.
I had thought I was open before, but since that day, I have tried to be much more consciously open with people - both in person and in correspondence - about what is going on with me, about how I really feel. I have learned that it is a great gift to share your struggles with others. We all have our struggles, and when you are deeply in one, it is incredibkly comforting and reassuring to know that someone else has stood in your shoes and climbed out of the hole. I think the greatest horror of adolescence is that we tend not to believe that our problems are not hideously unique. The antidote to this misperception - sharing stories of overcoming difficulties - has got to be the single greatest benefit of the recent wave of published memoirs.
Today, I arrived at yoga, telling myself I was really ready to dig deep and discover a new truth. I have been especially preoccupied lately by the pattern I find myself in with my teenage son, where I miss him terribly when we are apart and drive him further away almost as soon as we are together. When other people complain about their teenagers, I have found myself thinking. "No, my teenager is terrific. It's not him; it's me." It's been very troubling, and I haven't heard anyone speaking my struggle, at least not precisely.
Our lovely yoga teacher, Karen, announces that in honor of Hallowe'en we are going to make the class about facing our fears. She instructs us to stand in tadasana and silently identify a fear that is plaguing us and in that moment I instantly have clarity. I realize that I am afraid of losing my son, of losing the first true love I have really ever known. Karen proceeds to explain that the Universe is not such a good listener when we are negative. If we think about what we don't want, it only hears the thing we fear and thinks we want more of that. So, if we want the effective support of the Universe, we must reframe our fear into the affirmation with which we will overcome it.
Tears were streaming down my face and neck as I framed the affirmation that I will be kind, fair and loving with my son. I saw very clearly in the brightness of the moment that by focusing on what I feared happening, I was using the energy of the Universe to support a negative, self-fulfilling prophecy.
It's funny. I had just posted on facebook before walking into yoga that "I cannot wait to find what insights come up on the mat this morning." And the Universe didn't keep me waiting even a moment longer than it took me to find a pose in which to be still.
As I continued to wipe at the small river of tears and snot that were now emanating, I felt so grateful, once again, for the yoga community I have found at Shine. I can't help it. I really do feel deep gratitude for this safe supportive environment in which I can receive deep, powerful insights. The love and safety of the Shine community gives me the freedom to take them in fully, and respond fully, in the present moment.
At temple, by contrast, when, during silent prayer, or while singing a song of healing, I may suddenly get in touch with things that are laden with strong emotion, I immediately try to quell my emotional response. I'll take note of what comes up and try to save the power of it for later. Sometimes I cry in spite of this resolve, because I have a tendencey to be very liquid, but at Shine I don't even feel I need to make an effort to hold back.
My yoga mat at Shine is a miraculous place where I can deeply experience and express joy, power, strength, love, surrender, acceptance and serenity, both through the physical expression of the asanas and internally, while sitting still. Having been there for 90 minutes, I feel strengthened in my affirmation to turn over a new leaf with my son and to stop pushing him away in reaction to my fears. It may take a few tries, but I believe I will wrestle that leaf into submission. The pain and hopelessness I felt when he walked out the door this morning is gone. It feels great, and it's a whole lot less expensive than therapy. Not to be overly positive, or anything, but I do feel so much better now, full of gratitude and love.
But ask me again tomorrow. I'll try to be completely honest.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Following your heart
I met with a local newspaper lady this morning about marketing this blog. Personally, the only "papers" I read are the Saturday and Sunday New York Times, with which she is not affiliated. Anyway, this lovely woman, who holds the very modern title of Lifestyles Digital Content Manager, explained that her paper can only market my blog if I want to change it to fit neatly into a distinct category. She observed that currently, the only one it fits is "intellectual/artsy memoir", which her paper doesn't know from. Performer/storyteller/personality Slashtipher Coleman recently described my blog as being about gratitude, which I loved reading and fully embrace. Today's description from the lifestyles digital content manager was not a big surprise, though, and it reminded me of why I have never had any interest in reading her paper. I had actually lowered my expectations of being a perfect blog match for her newspaper about twenty minutes after we were scheduled to meet, when I needed to telephone the lady at her home and remind her of our appointment.
She did compliment my writing style and ask to me to be a guest blogger when I want to share my experiences as a parent, and I may do that, if the current post doesn't completely alienate her. But as far as my morphing this blog into a service-oriented, easily marketable, single category blog, I may sooner be spotted shopping in the petites department of Macy*s. My spirit guides recently assured me that I have always marched to my own constantly changing drum beat in this lifetime, and that I always will. This knowledge is invaluable in that it helps me refrain from trying to fit into anyone else's categories, no matter how tempting it may seem at the moment. The same goes for this blog, because it is purely an extension of me. So, while of course I'd love to get paid to blog, I am not going to try to change how I blog, or who I am.
A friend of a new friend of mine recently posted a blog tribute to his late wife, Sarah Jean Linquist, who was also a muralist. Her legacy, as conveyed in his blog, was that if we are true to ourselves, if we follow our heart, and do what we REALLY want to do, then we will be doing what we are supposed to, and that will be enough. It was a great reminder for me, as I chronically struggle with perfectionism and tend, like many artists, toward harsh self-criticism. But I truly do believe that if we can listen to our innermost promptings, we will do what we are meant to. And what can be better than that? Nobody is put here on this earth to be the best at anything, except at being himself or herself.
So, that is what I will continue to strive to do, and what I urge each one of you to do as well. I've already spent plenty of time and energy attempting the alternative. I won't say I have wasted time, for so long as I can find and hold onto the lesson from each experience and use it to become more fully myself, no experience is a waste of time. Getting a law degree, training to be a retail executive, travelling alone to the USSR, working among a group of Chasidic men while inventorying an entire Brooklyn warehouse, interning at a Boston advertising agency, helping out at Legal Aid and at the ACLU, running my own mural business, teaching art to kids, getting kicked out of college and earning my way back in, writing a feminist thesis on fairy tales, struggling with an eating disorder and modeling as an adolescent, my first marriage - each adventure, each chapter of my life story helps me to move forward more deeply and consciously into the future only when I figure out what it lesson it contained, what it taught me about the world, about life, about myself.
So, darling readers, before I go to the living room to practice my violin, I will close today by sharing and endorsing some wonderful words from the aforementioned recently bereaved man, whom I have yet to meet, a blogger and creative entrepreneur named Robert Fishbone.
He writes:
The challenge is finding our own true voice and being courageous enough to embrace it. This will involve fearless exploration, where you cast aside self-doubt and self-criticism, where you love yourself unequivocally, where you realize each breath opens limitless possibilities. Then you act, not because others are watching, but because you know you are being true to yourself, you are following your heart.
She did compliment my writing style and ask to me to be a guest blogger when I want to share my experiences as a parent, and I may do that, if the current post doesn't completely alienate her. But as far as my morphing this blog into a service-oriented, easily marketable, single category blog, I may sooner be spotted shopping in the petites department of Macy*s. My spirit guides recently assured me that I have always marched to my own constantly changing drum beat in this lifetime, and that I always will. This knowledge is invaluable in that it helps me refrain from trying to fit into anyone else's categories, no matter how tempting it may seem at the moment. The same goes for this blog, because it is purely an extension of me. So, while of course I'd love to get paid to blog, I am not going to try to change how I blog, or who I am.
A friend of a new friend of mine recently posted a blog tribute to his late wife, Sarah Jean Linquist, who was also a muralist. Her legacy, as conveyed in his blog, was that if we are true to ourselves, if we follow our heart, and do what we REALLY want to do, then we will be doing what we are supposed to, and that will be enough. It was a great reminder for me, as I chronically struggle with perfectionism and tend, like many artists, toward harsh self-criticism. But I truly do believe that if we can listen to our innermost promptings, we will do what we are meant to. And what can be better than that? Nobody is put here on this earth to be the best at anything, except at being himself or herself.
So, that is what I will continue to strive to do, and what I urge each one of you to do as well. I've already spent plenty of time and energy attempting the alternative. I won't say I have wasted time, for so long as I can find and hold onto the lesson from each experience and use it to become more fully myself, no experience is a waste of time. Getting a law degree, training to be a retail executive, travelling alone to the USSR, working among a group of Chasidic men while inventorying an entire Brooklyn warehouse, interning at a Boston advertising agency, helping out at Legal Aid and at the ACLU, running my own mural business, teaching art to kids, getting kicked out of college and earning my way back in, writing a feminist thesis on fairy tales, struggling with an eating disorder and modeling as an adolescent, my first marriage - each adventure, each chapter of my life story helps me to move forward more deeply and consciously into the future only when I figure out what it lesson it contained, what it taught me about the world, about life, about myself.
So, darling readers, before I go to the living room to practice my violin, I will close today by sharing and endorsing some wonderful words from the aforementioned recently bereaved man, whom I have yet to meet, a blogger and creative entrepreneur named Robert Fishbone.
He writes:
The challenge is finding our own true voice and being courageous enough to embrace it. This will involve fearless exploration, where you cast aside self-doubt and self-criticism, where you love yourself unequivocally, where you realize each breath opens limitless possibilities. Then you act, not because others are watching, but because you know you are being true to yourself, you are following your heart.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
support the arts, save money, & give awesome gifts
It is my husband's birthday today. He tells me that he is feeling especially happy, celebrated and special. We didn't buy him anything this year, and we didn't spend nearly what we would have at the mall, Costco, or T.J. Maxx, but we DID shower him with useful gifts that will remind him every day of how very much he is loved.
Confused?
We made Dad his gifts this year, and I want to recommend this route to all of you with loved ones who may be expecting gifts anytime in the near or distant future.
Now, I know that when people find out that I have done a craft or art projects with my kids, many of you say something like "well, sure, but YOU'RE an artist!" as if this gives my kids an unfair advantage. If you know me well, you know that if neither of us is in a rush, I will respond to your protest by arguing that you are an artist, too, and trying to persuade you to read Julia Cameron's "The Artist's Way" and/or to come to my studio to unlock some of your dormant creativity. But the most practical and expedient advice I can give to those of you who stubbornly resist these suggestions is this: hire an artist to coach your kids to arts and craft success!
Most artists are underemployed and underpaid, especially in this economy. 99% of the artists and/or art teachers you know would jump at the chance to earn some money by spending time being creative with a few children. This is because children have not forgotten that they are artists, and are consequently really fun people with whom to be creative. As Pablo Picasso famously said, "Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist when we grow up."
So, for those of you who may have forgotten you are an artist, but love the idea of your kids making gifts to give to loved ones for birthdays, Christmas or Hannukah, take a moment and think of an artist you know at your children's school, church, or elsewhere in your community. You can engage an artist or art teacher to (1) come up with the gift idea, (2)procure the materials and (3) guide your kids through the project. You might arrange for your kids to visit the artist in his or her studio or invite them to a designated table (preferably with a nearby sink) in your home.
First of all, kids can make some truly amazing things. Whatever it looks like, every thing they make is uniquely an extension of their spirit, and a kind of time capsule of their development at that moment. Also, it's economical. The fees charged by artists for time and materials are generally less than what you would spend on an electronic gadget, which you know Dad prefers to pick out himself anyway.
My kids also have scores of teachers to whom we like to show our appreciation at the holidays. For teacher gifts, consider that everyday items can make a strong statement of appreciation when they are repackaged in a special, creative way. Again, a visit with an art teacher can help your kids express loads of affection and respect towards a great many teachers for very little dough. If you can't think up how yourself, or you don't want to bother buying a glue gun and other supplies you may never use again, an artist can come up with beautiful ways to make a special present out of an otherwise ordinary gift, such as cocoa, spiced coffee beans, candy, lotion, soap, bubble bath, lip balm, or even a gift card to the local mall.
Confused?
We made Dad his gifts this year, and I want to recommend this route to all of you with loved ones who may be expecting gifts anytime in the near or distant future.
Now, I know that when people find out that I have done a craft or art projects with my kids, many of you say something like "well, sure, but YOU'RE an artist!" as if this gives my kids an unfair advantage. If you know me well, you know that if neither of us is in a rush, I will respond to your protest by arguing that you are an artist, too, and trying to persuade you to read Julia Cameron's "The Artist's Way" and/or to come to my studio to unlock some of your dormant creativity. But the most practical and expedient advice I can give to those of you who stubbornly resist these suggestions is this: hire an artist to coach your kids to arts and craft success!
Most artists are underemployed and underpaid, especially in this economy. 99% of the artists and/or art teachers you know would jump at the chance to earn some money by spending time being creative with a few children. This is because children have not forgotten that they are artists, and are consequently really fun people with whom to be creative. As Pablo Picasso famously said, "Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist when we grow up."
So, for those of you who may have forgotten you are an artist, but love the idea of your kids making gifts to give to loved ones for birthdays, Christmas or Hannukah, take a moment and think of an artist you know at your children's school, church, or elsewhere in your community. You can engage an artist or art teacher to (1) come up with the gift idea, (2)procure the materials and (3) guide your kids through the project. You might arrange for your kids to visit the artist in his or her studio or invite them to a designated table (preferably with a nearby sink) in your home.
First of all, kids can make some truly amazing things. Whatever it looks like, every thing they make is uniquely an extension of their spirit, and a kind of time capsule of their development at that moment. Also, it's economical. The fees charged by artists for time and materials are generally less than what you would spend on an electronic gadget, which you know Dad prefers to pick out himself anyway.
My kids also have scores of teachers to whom we like to show our appreciation at the holidays. For teacher gifts, consider that everyday items can make a strong statement of appreciation when they are repackaged in a special, creative way. Again, a visit with an art teacher can help your kids express loads of affection and respect towards a great many teachers for very little dough. If you can't think up how yourself, or you don't want to bother buying a glue gun and other supplies you may never use again, an artist can come up with beautiful ways to make a special present out of an otherwise ordinary gift, such as cocoa, spiced coffee beans, candy, lotion, soap, bubble bath, lip balm, or even a gift card to the local mall.
Friday, October 22, 2010
toasty burrito boys
In an attempt to be kind to the planet and also reduce our fuel consumption, we are trying to postpone turning on our furnace for as long as possible this fall. The kids are enthusiastically invested in this plan, but we are also concerned for their comfort. Knowing that many of you are engaged in the same postponement, I want to share a couple of things that we do in our house to keep the boys cozy during the change of season.
The first is the blanket burrito. My boys tend to kick their covers off in the night, which of course is inconsequential when the indoor climate is temperate. But as the room temperature begins to plummet at night, this tendency could lead to a lot of lost sleep and discomfort. So, inspired by the bundling techniques demonstrated to me by nurses in a variety of maternity wards, each chilly mid-autumn evening at bedtime, I wrap my boys in what we like to call blanket burritos. The first layer is a down comforter inside a soft cover, and around that, thinner cotton blankets that are easier to wrap and tuck. It's fun and silly and feels great, like a warm hug that lasts all night.
The other fall treat happens right after coax them out of bed in the morning, which can be difficult in the dark frigid mornings that greet us this time of year, right before we change our clocks back. On the way to their bedrooms I turn on all the lights in the house, to make it seem more like daytime. Then, I gather up the outfits they have set out on their chairs the night before and toss them into the dryer for 3 minutes. By the time their bowls of instant oatmeal are on the table, their clothes are toasty warm. Trust me on this, if you haven't tried it: reliquishing warm pajamas is so much less difficult knowing that you can slip into very warm underwear, pants and shirts.
I don't know if this use of the clothes dryer is common practice because I personally thought of it on my own, but I realize many of you may have, too. Once we moved to this house, which has its own miniature sledding hill in the backyard, I first thought to use the dryer to warm up cold, wet mittens, hats and scarves during hot cocoa breaks mid-sledding, then extended the practice to make every cold morning a bit cozier for my not-so-little ones. Imagining that I may have just helped some of you to do the same gives me joy.
Warmly yours,
Nancy
The first is the blanket burrito. My boys tend to kick their covers off in the night, which of course is inconsequential when the indoor climate is temperate. But as the room temperature begins to plummet at night, this tendency could lead to a lot of lost sleep and discomfort. So, inspired by the bundling techniques demonstrated to me by nurses in a variety of maternity wards, each chilly mid-autumn evening at bedtime, I wrap my boys in what we like to call blanket burritos. The first layer is a down comforter inside a soft cover, and around that, thinner cotton blankets that are easier to wrap and tuck. It's fun and silly and feels great, like a warm hug that lasts all night.
The other fall treat happens right after coax them out of bed in the morning, which can be difficult in the dark frigid mornings that greet us this time of year, right before we change our clocks back. On the way to their bedrooms I turn on all the lights in the house, to make it seem more like daytime. Then, I gather up the outfits they have set out on their chairs the night before and toss them into the dryer for 3 minutes. By the time their bowls of instant oatmeal are on the table, their clothes are toasty warm. Trust me on this, if you haven't tried it: reliquishing warm pajamas is so much less difficult knowing that you can slip into very warm underwear, pants and shirts.
I don't know if this use of the clothes dryer is common practice because I personally thought of it on my own, but I realize many of you may have, too. Once we moved to this house, which has its own miniature sledding hill in the backyard, I first thought to use the dryer to warm up cold, wet mittens, hats and scarves during hot cocoa breaks mid-sledding, then extended the practice to make every cold morning a bit cozier for my not-so-little ones. Imagining that I may have just helped some of you to do the same gives me joy.
Warmly yours,
Nancy
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Am I being a diva?
My orchestra conductor, Michael Bohnert-Wheatley (aka The Conductor), also writes a blog, mostly about music. It just so happens that we read each other's blogs before we ever met in person. (I'll add a link to his blog on my home page, so you can check it out) Anyway, not too long ago, he posted an unabashedly unapologetic piece about his being picky, or demanding, in rehearsals with his orchestra. I took this post into account tonight when I decided to call him up and match him, picky for picky.
I am loathe to sound like a diva, I explained, but I have some ideas about how to make one very small part of our next performance better. I debated with my carpool on the way home from rehearsal whether or not I had legitimate criticism to share, and whether it would be well received. So there I am, soon after arriving home, on the phone, late at night, being all high maintenance with The Conductor, right after he's just spent two hours sweating it out on the podium, trying to help us play this piece better. But I am pretty sure (from reading his blog) that he won't mind my kvetching too terribly much because he is the same way. And as much as I find I care about this particular musical passage in our upcoming concert, I know he probably cares every bit as much as I do.
But you see, here's the thing. The reason that I care so very much, enough to call him up, is that I've got this violin solo, right at the spot in question. Yeah. So, right there, it's all about me. So, placing a call to The Conductor about this passage feels akin to demanding enough Evian from room service to fill my bathtub. But what can I do? It's bordering on obsession at this point, me and this solo.
It's a pretty well known violin solo in orchestral repetoire. In the 2nd movement of Dvorak's 8th Symphony. My professional violinist friends all have opinions about it. Some hate it; most seem to love it. I've been very busy these past few weeks investigating why this is. I started out thinking that I might hate the solo, too, because of the awful way it sounds just like a car crash, complete with horns blaring, when played poorly. But I have this teeny streak of perfectionism, so I have been working pretty hard on mastering it. So much so that, since I got the solo, I really have had no time to blog. Have you missed me? I've missed you, too.
But tonight, I feel I have earned a break, and I'm taking a moment to unwind after tonight's rehearsal by kicking back and just typing for a while...about my solo.
The good news is manifold: my solo keeps on getting better, and the performance is still not for another three weeks. The Conductor said that tonight was the best I have ever played it. But what he doesn't know (what I just told him) is that I can play it SO MUCH BETTER THAN THAT. The thing is, I have fallen in love with what this solo can be. It can be so very beautiful. And I have worked long enough and hard enough to have cracked the code, to feel like I have gotten inside the solo, so that I really understand it, and can actually play it beautifully, and I REALLY, REALLY want to play it that way in the concert.
Plus, earlier today I found out that my in-laws are coming in from Philadelphia for the weekend of the concert. It's what we call a Trifecta Weekend: Max is in a show and Sam is turning ten. I love my in-laws, and they have never seen or heard me perform before. Which is weird, and not at all their fault, but there it is. So, that's yet another reason I want to do my very best.
CAUTION: EXTENDED METAPHOR BELOW Please fasten your seatbelts EXTENDED METAPHOR BELOW
I have come up with a metaphor that helps me play the solo realy well, when I can keep it in mind as I am playing. I think about shoveling clouds. A heavenly job, if ever there was one, don't you agree?
As anyone who has tried to lift even the smallest cloud knows, they are extremely heavy. At the same time, they are also really soft and fluffy. So, there is only one way to shovel them well: very gently, but with strength, balance, and control.
You can't shovel clouds quickly. No matter how much you practice cloud shoveling, some bits of cloud are going to fall off the shovel, every time, if you rush it. We just can't have that.
The other thing is that you need to shovel clouds softly. If someone nearby is making too much noise, such as the WIND(s) BLOWING TOO HARD, then parts of the cloud are going to get away from you. Those bits of cloud will be lost forever.
So, I told the Conductor about the cloud shoveling, and now, he knows more of what I know, and I feel a bit better. I think that next time we all get together, when we get to rehearsal D, (yes, as in Diva) we are going to turn down the wind a notch and take it more slowly. And hopefully, I'll be able to shovel the clouds during our concert with all the strength and grace I have when I shovel clouds here at home, in my living room.
I am loathe to sound like a diva, I explained, but I have some ideas about how to make one very small part of our next performance better. I debated with my carpool on the way home from rehearsal whether or not I had legitimate criticism to share, and whether it would be well received. So there I am, soon after arriving home, on the phone, late at night, being all high maintenance with The Conductor, right after he's just spent two hours sweating it out on the podium, trying to help us play this piece better. But I am pretty sure (from reading his blog) that he won't mind my kvetching too terribly much because he is the same way. And as much as I find I care about this particular musical passage in our upcoming concert, I know he probably cares every bit as much as I do.
But you see, here's the thing. The reason that I care so very much, enough to call him up, is that I've got this violin solo, right at the spot in question. Yeah. So, right there, it's all about me. So, placing a call to The Conductor about this passage feels akin to demanding enough Evian from room service to fill my bathtub. But what can I do? It's bordering on obsession at this point, me and this solo.
It's a pretty well known violin solo in orchestral repetoire. In the 2nd movement of Dvorak's 8th Symphony. My professional violinist friends all have opinions about it. Some hate it; most seem to love it. I've been very busy these past few weeks investigating why this is. I started out thinking that I might hate the solo, too, because of the awful way it sounds just like a car crash, complete with horns blaring, when played poorly. But I have this teeny streak of perfectionism, so I have been working pretty hard on mastering it. So much so that, since I got the solo, I really have had no time to blog. Have you missed me? I've missed you, too.
But tonight, I feel I have earned a break, and I'm taking a moment to unwind after tonight's rehearsal by kicking back and just typing for a while...about my solo.
The good news is manifold: my solo keeps on getting better, and the performance is still not for another three weeks. The Conductor said that tonight was the best I have ever played it. But what he doesn't know (what I just told him) is that I can play it SO MUCH BETTER THAN THAT. The thing is, I have fallen in love with what this solo can be. It can be so very beautiful. And I have worked long enough and hard enough to have cracked the code, to feel like I have gotten inside the solo, so that I really understand it, and can actually play it beautifully, and I REALLY, REALLY want to play it that way in the concert.
Plus, earlier today I found out that my in-laws are coming in from Philadelphia for the weekend of the concert. It's what we call a Trifecta Weekend: Max is in a show and Sam is turning ten. I love my in-laws, and they have never seen or heard me perform before. Which is weird, and not at all their fault, but there it is. So, that's yet another reason I want to do my very best.
CAUTION: EXTENDED METAPHOR BELOW Please fasten your seatbelts EXTENDED METAPHOR BELOW
I have come up with a metaphor that helps me play the solo realy well, when I can keep it in mind as I am playing. I think about shoveling clouds. A heavenly job, if ever there was one, don't you agree?
As anyone who has tried to lift even the smallest cloud knows, they are extremely heavy. At the same time, they are also really soft and fluffy. So, there is only one way to shovel them well: very gently, but with strength, balance, and control.
You can't shovel clouds quickly. No matter how much you practice cloud shoveling, some bits of cloud are going to fall off the shovel, every time, if you rush it. We just can't have that.
The other thing is that you need to shovel clouds softly. If someone nearby is making too much noise, such as the WIND(s) BLOWING TOO HARD, then parts of the cloud are going to get away from you. Those bits of cloud will be lost forever.
So, I told the Conductor about the cloud shoveling, and now, he knows more of what I know, and I feel a bit better. I think that next time we all get together, when we get to rehearsal D, (yes, as in Diva) we are going to turn down the wind a notch and take it more slowly. And hopefully, I'll be able to shovel the clouds during our concert with all the strength and grace I have when I shovel clouds here at home, in my living room.
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