Hands Again-Chicago, 2006

I watch my friend's hands
As he talks, smokes
Writes
Takes photographs
Folds a sweater
Fills a glass with water

I watch these hands
Perform every menial task
And I cannot understand

These hands have no equal

And yet, they have not grown proud and vain
They do not admire themselves
They demand nothing, seek no reward

My friend's hands are quiet and kind
Pleasingly efficient
Tireless and unaware of their beauty
Like the youngest daughter
In a fairy tale

Chicago's Millenium Park, 2006

Millenium Park

The boy
Pasty and blond
Soft and big-boned
Turquoise shirt, red shorts
Bends over awkwardly
Removing socks and shoes
Pale feet skim the shallow water

The boy
Skips and hops
Plays the warrior, karate chops the air
Heavy and flat footed
He races through the shallow water

Skirts around the others
His thick glasses are dirty and wet
Now he folds his hands across his round stomach
Uncertain and alone
The heavy blond boy kneels in the shallow water

The boy
Gazes out from his sticky skin
His face a mask of blank expectation
Dull eyes seek the others
But receive no comfort
Only the cool indifference of the shallow water

Not Forgetting

There are so many things in the world that can't be helped or controlled or made better or avoided, and I have to, have to, have to remember that and accept that and always keep it in my mind.

Other Things Hands Can Do

This summer, I went to Carl's house after visiting a family on Cape Cod. I brought him some stones and a hermit crab shell, the kind with a perfect logarithmic spiral, pale indigo. I told him he didn't have to take them if they were annoying, if he didn't really have a place to put them. He took them in his hand and said, "Well, if I put them here like this, the next time my daughter comes over, she'll run right over to them and start asking excited questions." As he was saying this, I watched his fingers deftly arrange the few stones in a small, carefully constructed pile, and artfully place the shell on top. This small group of objects suddenly became something beautiful, an unexpected treasure to be happened upon.

All Apologies

Recently, I wrote in my journal, "I have a lot to apologize for." Before my trip to LA, I had been feeling generally very discouraged and disconnected. I wasn't feeling open to the world, and felt like I was being a person that I didn't want to be. The past few weeks have been a concerted effort to go back and find my loving heart again, and expand back out. I had felt very contracted, pulled in, dark and flat.

In some ways, it feels appropriate to be doing this kind of thinking, as we have been led up to Rosh Hoshana and Yom Kippur, where we look back on what we have done wrong throughout the year and think about what we want to change. Sometimes I feel like there is no end to my failures as a human being. All the things I wanted to do, and all the ways I wanted to be present for people, and didn't, and wasn't. I have consistently been driven by a fear of failure, although I do understand on some conscious level that I am failing all the time, at everything. That's not necessarily something that I celebrate, but I also think that it's not necessarily a bad thing either. As painful as the process is, sifting through my failures in the past year is, I think, necessary to moving forward.

Some failures of the past year:

Being impatient or grumpy with my students when they needed and deserved patience and kindness
Forgetting to do things that I had agreed to do
Saying mean things about people, or being short with people I don't like
Not following through on promises or resolutions that I made to myself
Hurting others as a result of putting myself first
Speaking or acting without thinking of the ramifications
Not seeing or admitting when I am wrong
General arrogance and bossiness

And then there are the spectacular failures of my life that really stand out:

Failing my husband and my marriage
Failing to be a good mother

The interesting thing is where forgiveness of myself comes into the equation. When we are doing T'Shuvah, and going to other people and asking for forgiveness for those we have wronged, we are supposed to ask sincerely for forgiveness three times. If after the third time, we have still not been forgiven, the transgression is on the one we have wronged, because as transgressors, we have done all that we humanly can to make it right. OK, so that being said, what does that process look like if it is happening internally? Well, I think that it's one of the few situations where both the one who is asking for forgiveness, and the one who is refusing to forgive are both carrying the burden. Which is why, I think, the burden is much heavier when we don't forgive ourselves. Because, in my case, I am carrying both the wrong I have committed, and the inability to release it. But I wonder, have I properly sat down and asked myself for forgiveness? Sure, I have felt sorry, endlessly sorry, for the failures of my life, and for the ways that I have hurt people throughout the years. But even with that sorrow and regret, I am still bearing that guilt; I have not absolved myself of that at all. But I don't know that I have really asked myself to do that. And yet, it is clearly a vital part of moving forward.

So, I think, as part of my T'Shuvah this year, in addition to asking forgiveness from the people I know, I would also like to try to see what it is like to ask myself for forgiveness. Will the process work? Will I be able to ask sincerely? How will I know if I have really forgiven myself? Hmm...but I do love myself, so wouldn't that imply that I have forgiven myself? Isn't that a sign that someone forgives you, that they still love you? If this is the case, then what am I still carrying around? I need to think more about this.

Mr. Poon is Coming

This back by popular demand. Written in 2005ish, from the teenaged-boy year.

We adopted a boy from Ethiopia in October. We have no idea how old he really is. There are no birth certificates in Ethiopia, so everyone just kind of guesses and then the Ethiopian government sort of makes up a birth date so that you can have some kind of birth certificate to bring back to America to prove that your child exists. Our birth certificate says our son is "12," although all of us, including our son, think he is more like 13 or 14. But it's hard to say.

The first thing we had to do with C. when we came back to America was bring him to the doctor. A large quantity of blood was taken. Many tests were administered. Genitals were ogled in a professional manner. Toenail fungus was observed. Knees were tapped, questions were asked, although C. could not understand most of them and it was up to me to answer as best I could. Our child was found totally healthy, other than the toenail fungus. However, we still had to check for intestinal parasites. This meant a stool sample had to be taken. We were given a container for collection and instructions that the sample could not touch the toilet water, but had to be captured pristine and without contact with potential parasites.

How to solve this problem? We finally came upon the idea of newspaper, like with a puppy. It was quickly decided that, once deposited, the sample would be collected by Ross, as I have a notoriously weak stomach, and frequently gag at even the mention of something vaguely unpleasant. Just now as I am writing this, I am thinking of Eric Van Geisen's "long hair in the muffin" story from high school, and how, even now as I remember it, I feel the reflex coming on. I gag from pungent smells, gross stories, the idea of black licorice, and, on most mornings, brushing my teeth. Ross would be the poop collector. Agreed.

The larger problem still remained of how to explain this procedure to C, who spoke almost no English. How, using only broken English and gestures, do you explain to an adolescent boy that, rather than using the perfectly good toilet, he has to take a shit on a spread out newspaper? And how do we further explain that this only happens one time, and then he is supposed to go back to the toilet again? How arbitrary our rules must seem. His vocabularly did not simplify things. For some unknown reason, he insisted on calling it "poon," which of course means something entirely different to his snickering parents. You find yourself saying something like, "OK, so when poon is coming, no toilet sit. Tell Daddy, he put papers, you poop here on papers," and then acting it out, squatting over newspapers spread on your bathroom floor and pantomiming a pooping face, making your hands into fists, as though that's actually how you do it. As though we all make big straining faces and ball our hands into fists, as opposed to just quietly reading a magazine or doing sudoku.

The first time we explained, C said he understood. Then, he came out of the bathroom and proudly called Ross in, pointing to his poop floatly boldly in the toilet. Unflushed, yes, but, unfortunately flagrantly wallowing in the tainted and forbidden toilet water. Another day passed before we could try again. C is fiercly regular.

The next morning, Ross again explained what had to happen and showed C the newspapers. This time, Chernet had figured it out. When the time came, he called Ross in, and Ross spread out the newspapers and left the bathroom. A few minutes later, our son confidently left the bathroom, leaving the door wide open. Immediately, an unspeakable smell began to fill the apartment. I took one whiff and started to gag and fled as far from the bathroom as I could, still choking on the hideous stench. Ross and I started opening windows. I couldn't believe that anything could smell so bad. I couldn't help but peek down the long hallway to see what was causing all the trouble. I spied something long, snakey, and reddish-brown, lying perfectly centered on the newspaper square. Instantly the gag reflex returned. I hurried to the piano and started to play the most complicated pieces I could find, anything to avoid thinking about the horrible specimen that lay quietly in the bathroom, awaiting my intrepid husband.

Ross picked up the collection jar. I heard heavy footsteps start down the hallway, falter, then start again, hesitantly at first, but then picking up speed as he girded himself for the ordeal to come. The jar opened, and I immediately heard a loud, gagging cough. Then again. My piano playing grew louder. Selfishly, I thought, "Is he going to puke? Oh, God, how will we clean it up?" Ross rallied. I heard the jar close, then the rustling of paper and several plastic bags as he folded up what remained and brought it outside to the trash. Then the running of water as he washed his hand repeatedly in the sink. Just in case.

We hopped in the car to deliver the goods, and all Ross kept mumbling was, "Oh, and it was all snaking around and stuff!" Somehow, the fact that the poop had been deposited in a sort of swirl shape was more than he could handle. Well, that and the stench. But at least the stench was something we had experienced together.The horrid coil was his memory to carry alone.

When I really needed a place to live

Last week, in all my teary stress, I had to find an apartment. I was desperate and broke. I probably looked at over a dozen apartments, and none of them was quite right. There were a few that could have worked, but they just didn't feel right. Some were too small, too expensive, not dog-friendly, straight-up grim. As I said, I knew that I was looking for the impossible: an apartment that had access to a fenced yard, a good-sized kitchen, storage, sunshine, and enough room for a wild Irish dog to prance around and look out the windows while I was at work. What I was most worried about was finding a place where I could have Wesley and not worried that he was disturbing anyone or causing problems. He is not an easy dog. I wanted a landlord that I felt would be caring and understanding of my situation. Oh, and I needed to be able to afford it.

After reading about this idea in Eat Pray Love, I decided to try writing a petition to God. Here is what I wrote:

Dear God,

I am writing to request that you send me a safe and welcoming place to live that I love and can afford. If I feel safe there, I will be able to have Wesley, thus easing the burden on Ross. I will have more energy to devote to doing my job, and will be more helpful to my students and to my teaching partner. Having a safe home in Boston will allow me to feel safe and comfortable, and open my heart to the world. It will help me to be better able to give goodness and kindness to the world, and to do the work that I know you have planned for me to do. Please accept my respectful request, and know that I appreciate all of the kindness, goodness, and beauty you have sent to me and allowed me to experience throughout my life...(then some private stuff)

Respectfully yours,

Katrina

Then, I imagined all of the people who would sign my petition for a warm, loving, and welcoming place to live where I felt safe. My parents signed it, of course, my brother and his family, my therapist, my close friends, my ex-husband and ex-boyfriend. Aunts, uncles, cousins, former students and their families. The list went on and on. I kept coming up with more and more people who care about me, and who would want to support me and see him happy. People who, if they knew about this situation, would want to help make it better. There were so many people who would sign my petition, so many people who felt that their lives were better in some small way, because of me. I could not contain my gratitude for all the love and kindness that I am blessed with in my life. So many people that I am connected to, who wish happiness and goodness to come to me. I cried tears of gratitude as I made that list in my mind of virtual signatures. Afterwards, I felt infinitely better. I was relaxed, and said to myself, "OK, I have done everything I can do. It's in someone else's hands, now." I also had this feeling that I was making the decision that was best for me, the one I knew I had to make, and since I had done that, the rest would have to just fall into place. I went out to lunch with my friend and just forgot about the rest.

Four hours later, I went to an open house at a 1 BR in Roslindale. The first thing I noticed was the fenced yard, which was mostly dirt, with some toys in it. "Hmm," I thought, "They obviously wouldn't be pissed at Wesley for running around and ripping up the yard." I walked up to the back deck, where I saw a couple of people standing and chatting. A tall man introduced himself as the owner of the house, who lived upstairs with his family. "I'm Scott," he said, "Sorry about the yard. See, I'm a dog trainer." A. Dog. Trainer. I practically clutched at him, "So, would it be OK if I lived here with a dog part time? He's a bit wild, but he's a really good dog, and I would make sure he was well behaved..." He cut me off: "Part time, he could live here all the time. The people here now have a dog. He's your dog." I almost didn't need to see the inside. But I went inside. Big kitchen. Lots of storage. Dining room. Free laundry in the basement. Warm, caring owners who lived upstairs. Pet-friendly. It was exactly what I had asked God for. And, I could afford it.

I called the family an hour after seeing the place to tell them that I was interested. They said I would talk it over and call me back. As I was waiting for the return call, I thought, "Maybe I should send Scott and Alison a copy of the petition." So, in my mind I sent it to them, adding a few more signatures. As I was doing this, the phone rang. It was Alison, telling me that she thought it was a good fit, and that they would just have to check my references. A few days later, when I went to sign the lease, broke, but knowing that somehow the money thing would work out, Alison informed me that they didn't do a security deposit, and that she and Scott had been planning to ask for last month's rent, but decided against it, because it was too much of a pain. "Hold onto your money," she said. "Pay us first month when you move it, and we'll go from there. As long as we can pay our mortgage by the 16th, we're OK." The money was taken care of.

This is what I'm dealing with on a regular basis. How can I ever express my gratitude adequately?

Radio Tower for the Universe

At the moment, I am feeling kind of like a radio antenna for the Universe. It’s hard to explain everything that is happening at the moment. Someone I know describes it as a sort of birth, and also confronting the ghost of grief.

The decision to leave my boyfriend and return to Boston was surprisingly painful. I sobbed for three days straight, could eat nothing, and was continuously gripped with panic. I had no idea where I was going to live, and I was supposed to be moving out of my apartment in less than a week. All I wanted to do was lie in my bed in my safe little house, hug my cat, and cry, but I had to be apartment hunting. I don’t know how many places I visited, my eyes red and almost swollen shut from weeping, looking like I had some kind of highly-contagious pinkeye. While making phone appointments to view apartments, I broke down in tears on several occasions, apologizing to my bewildered potential landlords. I even cried while dealing with Verizon customer service, canceling the change in service I had ordered.

At first, my angst had centered around this conflict: I didn’t know what to do. But then, the difficulty lay in the fact that I did know what to do, but didn’t know how, emotionally or physically, I would be able to do it. I was now in this almost impossible Boston situation: I needed a nice, affordable place to live in a safe neighborhood, with a fenced yard for my large, boisterous dog. And I was looking for September 1. Did I mention that I also wanted to live alone? Impossible. Dispiriting. Exhausting. Cue the panic.

Usually, when I have cried in the past, the emotion was more anger or frustration, but for the first time since my grandmothers died, I was crying from a place of deep, aching sadness and loss. I have written before about the bottomless well of sadness that I think sits in me, but that I rarely tap into. Now I was drawing from it by the bucketful. I was drowning in it. It was a relentless mix of intense grief, fear, and guilt. A friend told me that grief is a ghost that follows you around, tapping you on the shoulder until you finally turn around and say, “OK, what do you want?” This was me, turning around, and grief had decided that I had a lot to answer for. I knew that I wasn’t just grieving for the breakup; I was also grieving for the divorce, for the lost child, for the family I had never been able to create.

All of my life, I have always continued to push myself forward, feeling like this was what I had to do in order to survive. So many times I had told myself, “Don’t think about it. Just do it and don’t think about it. You can’t think about it.” Now it was time for me to think about it, to let all of this loss sink in. I had to own the terrible feelings of guilt and fear and loss and sadness. Otherwise I wasn’t going to be able to move forward.

In one therapy session, I sat there sobbing, and asked my therapist, “Is there going to be one day where I wake up, and just big sigh of relief, and don’t need to cry anymore? Is there a day when I will wake up and feel that the burden has been lifted?” Of course there would be. But I couldn’t imagine it. I had walked away from all of this love in my life, people who deeply loved me. I left them. I hurt them. I broke their hearts. What kind of person did this make me? What would my life be like without this love? Horrible, horrible. A horrible, selfish person living an empty, loveless life. Not really, she reminded me. Even though these two men had loved me, I hadn’t been happy with them. And if they can love me, so can other people. And I there are lots of other people in my life who love me, and I can love myself, too. She reminded me that I am a good person, and that it’s not wrong to want to live a life that makes me feel safe, happy, and fulfilled.

She feels like I am on the verge of something. Something huge is happening to me that she can feel. I feel it, too. I am finally on the path of the life I am meant to lead, and poised to take the first step off of a very large cliff. It's like a leap across the Grand Canyon, and ending this relationship and moving to Boston is only the tiniest little hop compared with what I am ultimately going to do. She describes this process as a kind of birth, and birth is very, very painful. But I am getting lots of little nudges and help along the way, if I only pay attention to it.

So here is the part where I feel like this spiritual radio tower. I am getting constant little signals here and there, supporting me, reminding me, nudging me one way or another. Some of them are small. For example, mentioning to some people that I am interested in finding work in LA. Two different people said they could get me work, as soon as I arrive, in the fields in which I expressed interest. Or I meet someone in some random, silly way, and he ends up offering me any kind of help I need, saying to me, “Listen, I know we are basically strangers. I don’t know you at all. But I can see that you are a kind, strong, intelligent woman who is in trouble right now, and I know that you will become a very good friend to me. So, whatever you need, let me know.” And some are much, much bigger. And it's addictive, in a way, this feeling of connection. It is the happiest, most fulfilling feeling in the world. And it's hard to remember to temper that feeling, or to allow it to fade and dissipate, as it will, naturally.

Israel 7.6 continued

Our day began with a trip to a site overlooking Jerusalem. There are a lot of these, apparently, because they are beautiful, and tourists love them, and Jerusalem is very large and very hilly, so each new overlook gives you a different vantage point. This one was part of the Hass promenade, and we were able to see all of th eareas that were part of Jordan from 1948 to 1967. During that time, Israel only had access to Western Jerusalem, and a small island of land on Mount Zion. We could see the difference between the Western and Eastern parts of Jerusalem. The western side was all built up and modern, and the eastern side is older, with lower buildings.

Immediately beyond Jerusalem to the east is the West Bank, marked by a fence that was sometimes a wall and sometimes a fence. Tall towers were spaced at intervals along the border. Again, it was just surprising how close the Israelis live to people who hate them and wish them harm.

We next headed to Mount Zion to see what is supposedly King David's tomb. It was the first time that th ewomen and men had to be separated. We covered up and walked in to the women's section, which was this tiny room in this synagogue which has been created around the tomb. There is no place to sit down, and barely enough room for six of us to stand. There in front of us was half of a sarcophagus covered in a blue velvet cloth. The mechitsa separated us from seeing the other half, which was on the men's side. Two women were praying in there and it was hard to figure out how the weren't praying to David himself. Less religous people tend to be skeptical that this is actually David's resting place, but this is what tradition dictates.

Equally worthy of skepticism is that on this EXACT spot, on the second floor of David's tomb, is where the Last Supper supposedly took place. Never mind that th ebulding was constructed by the Byzantines, supposedly 1000 years after Jesus died. BUt it was a pretty room, empty save for a sculpture of an olive tree and a snoozing feral cat.

Next we went to a roof, which had the dome of a mosque, and learned more about the border dispute, or at least the craziness of having a divided city. There is a famous story of a nun who lived in Israel, on the boundary line with Jordan. She accidentally dropped her false teeth out the window, where they landed directly below her, in Jordan. She had to go to an Israeli guard, how had to go to his superviser, etc, until officials from both countries had discussions and arranged a date and a checkpoint for the transfer of the dentures from Jordanian custody to Israeli custody. There is a famous picture of the nun with officials from both countries and the false teeth.

We next headed to the Jewish Quarter in the Old City for lunch and to explore. Keith, Lorena and I ate at the Burger Bar so that Keith could have a meal that he enjoyed. He and I were so impressed with the guy who made the burgers. He had a total burger-making mojo that was beyond impressive. Afterwards, we wandered around and looked at people and things, and poked around some alleys. We took a couple of turns, follwed a few stray kittens, and then were in the Arab market that everyone had visited on Shabbat. You could tell the difference immediately, because the Arab Quarter of the Old City hasn't changed, so the streets are much narrower, darker, and more twisty. They Jewish Quarter had been abandoned and destroyed by the Jordanians, so it was all rebuild after 1967, so it is much lighter, with lots of open space. When we went back to the meeting place, Lorena and Karen weren't there. They had gotten lost and needed Ido to walk them through where they needed to go via cell phones.

Once we were all together, we went up on another rooftop to get the best view of the Western Wall. We heard more about the history of the Temple Mount, and then headed down there to pray.

Andrew's Comment

Andrew D said...

a few of your comments remind me of the some of the strange things i encountered in asia. while not my native religion they had many temples that seemed to have these hundreds of years old religious manufactured "attractions". "budda slept here". "buddas ankle bone in a glass box". and so on.

all of the places felt spiritual and amazing in their right without these things. I mean if you have a Phalic Shrine do you really need to improve upon it to get people to come worship?

yet these religious addons have become parts of the local flavor of the religion. i guess it was somewhat unsettling for me to see that through the centuries that people felt they needed to add to the existing religion in a physical sense that doesnt seem to be at odds with faith.

I cant imagine being in the physical center of my own religion and seeing how some of these things may stand out.

anyway maybe im well off base with what you intended to say but it has been interesting reading so far.

Western Wall 7.6.08

Right now I am sitting at the Western Wall, or the Wailing Wall. In some ways ,it is kind of a letdown, because the women's section is very small and crowded, and you have to wait your turn to pray against the wall. There are also women begging for tzedakah while you are walking there. This is after you have gone through the X-ray machine and metal detector. So, there's all of that that seem to conspire to make this a vast disappointment, and you can't ever imagine focusing yourself enough to transcend the cell phones ringing, strollers blocking places where you can pray, women shaking cups of coins and shouting for money. Or even the men walking boldly into the section, shouting at one another or on their own cell phones.

It also feels strange to pray to or against a place. Are we putting some divine properties into a place? I had sort of felt that way with David's Tomb, like people there were praying to David, rather than God. Were people praying to the wall? The other interesting thing is that the wall was not part of the Temple, but instead part of a supporting wall that surrounded the Temple Mountain.

So, this is what I have to work with. I clutch my prayers, carefully written out on little slips of paper, and I just think, if I can just get these notes into the cracks of the wall, then it doesnt' really matter if I myself can pray or not. I have brought the prayers of my friends and loved ones here, and I have been a messenger for them. I stuff my notes into the cracks, and then put my hand on the wall and start to pray.

I start with the Shema, and then someone moves out of the way and I have a spot to myself. I press both palms and my forhead against the stone, adn I am almost instantly able to block out everything else. The stones feel warm and smooth against my hands, and I imagine all of those before me who have touched these same stones, for almost two-thousand years. I forget the heat of the day, and I am just in my own space, my own moment, talking to God. Holiness isn't something we happen upon. It can't be created for us. It is something we must create ourselves, by being present in that moment, or in that place. To me, the Wall isn't holy because of the Temple; it is holy because of the years of faith and hope that generations of Jews have put into it.

Forgotten Moment

When Keith and I were at the Jewish Market, we came upon a scene that could have taken place on the Lower East Side 100 years ago. A young boy, about 8, stood with his closed fist above a basket of roasted nuts. The proprietor of the stall stood, with his hand gripped firmly around the boy's wrist. They were engaged in a stand-off. The proprietor wasn't going to let go until the boy opened his fist and dropped the stolen nuts. They boy was counting on the business of the stall to distract the proprietor, who would eventually decide the effort wasn't worth it and let him go. The shopkeeper appeared to be winning, because as we walked away, we heard the boy begin to cry, "Abba! Abba!" calling to his father for help.

Israel 7.5

Today is very peaceful. The only scheduled activity was a political discussion with Amnon, the VP or Oranim. After that, many people went to the Christian and Arab quarters of the Old City to go shopping. That sounded fun and intriguing, but I really wanted to try to feel a sense of Shabbat. I am in Jerusalem, and I want Shabbat to feel like a different day.

Josh and I had goo conversations about God, Jesus, death, and the nature of Heaven. I think that Heaven is being reuinted with something that we have spent our whole lives longing for, without realizing it. As a child, I always imagined that I would have all of my pets and favorite people around me, but now I don't think so. I think that the perfect, welcoming love that we feel when we are reunited with God, that perfect happiness fills us up so much that there is no need for anything else. When we die, nothing in our lives matters anymore at all. All of the people we have loved, everything we have worked for and invested in is just shucked off. Like our bodies, the lives that we made for ourselves are no more important than a set of clothes.

I feel like I have such a fierce love for life and for my loved ones. It is crazy to really internalize the idea that I could just cast them off without a glance backward. Not because they weren't important, but because they will become part of something that is no longer relevant to me.

So, if all of that were true, when what and how much does one invest in this life? Well, a lot, I think. We shouldn't just spend it fucking off, obviously. We need to spend it trying to make the world better. I thin kthat helps us, helps our souls grow strong and ready for the journey we eventually make. But sometimes it's hard to say that th ereason that th eworld matters is because it's all that we have in this moment.

I wonder why this separation from God is necessary. Why do we need to spend a lifetime in exile? Obviously we have a job to do, to improve the world, but why does God choose to create an imperfect world? I don't think it's just to give us something to do. I think it must have something to do with free will. Being able to choose how our souls are shaped. God wants our choices to be authentic. God is only meaningful, goodness is only meaningful, if it is chosen. That is what I think.

I spent the rest of Shabbat afternoon napping. Lorena came back from her trip to the markets full of stories about all that they saw and did. The market is enormous, like a maze, and all enclosed. It is packed with poeple, and intermingled with all of these shops were holy Christian sites, including where Jesus was crucified and buried.

After dinner we went back to Ben Yehuda street to see how festive it is once Shabbat is over. People began filling the streets at around 9:30, as shops were opening up. The drummers and jugglers were back. A Korean Christian choir sang earnestly in harmony, eyes closed and hands outstretched or pressed to their hearts, apparently filled with the spirit of the lord.

When we first arrived in Ben Yehuda Street tonight we met a teacher from Romania here on vacation. We also saw an angry old man dressed in a white tunic, almost like a robe, and white pants and a white hat, maybe with some gold on it. He had a long, grey beard and shouted angrily into the night. We all tried to guess what he was shouting, but mostly we just did all that we could to avoid eye contact with him.

Israel 7.4.08

Last night we all went to Ben Yehuda Street. The shops are all open late and there are all kinds of people there. It's very festive. It has the feel of Harvard Square, only the whole street is closed to cars, so it stretches up for several blocks. In the open spaces, hippies had a drum circle, while one hippy piercingly and rhythmically blew his whistle, to the annoyance of everyone else. A harpist and violinist played Pachelbel's Canon, but they had difficulty staying together. A juggler juggled and made jokes. Two brilliant violinists played classical and modern music together. A lone guy with a guitar and harmonica sang and played "Gold Digger."

Tourists and local people wandered in and out of the shops that lined the street, or sat and had cofee in open air cafes. Groups of friends sat on benches, just hanging out talking. It felt very relaxed to wander around on my own. At one point I saw a giant cockroach, which they call chukim here. It ran past a girl's foot and she screamed. A man came out of the store with a straw broom and began to slam it down on the pavement in an attempt to kill the insect. I didn't stay around long enough to see the outcome.

I had a proud moment where I was trying to leave a shop and one of the proprietors was blocking my way. I said, "Slicha!" in the proper Israeli way, trying to sound sort of annoyed and aggressive. I did it so convincingly that the man started, and said, "Beva keshah," in an equally annoyed-sounding way. Then he turned and saw me and smiled sheepishly, and said, "Oh, sorry!" and jumped out of the way. I smiled back and answered, "Todah." Everything about that small interaction was wonderful.

The thing I like about the Israeli people is that, although (or perhaps because) they are so rude and direct, they are honest and you know what they really think. Also, they never seem to take offense if you disagree with them, or are direct right back. I like feeling like I know where I stand with the. They are, as a whole, much kinder and friendlier than I expected.

Today we went first to the Israel Museum, where we saw a scale model of the old city at its peak, around 66 CE, just before the rebellion that led to the destruction of the second Temple. Then we went inside to see the Shrine of the Holy Book, which is where the Dead Sea Scrolls are displayed. The story of how they were found was very interesting. A Bedoin Shepherd found them and sold them to a shoemaker, who sold them to some archaeologists. Then the archaeologists raced against the Bedoins to find more scrolls, becuas when the Bedoins found them they would essentially ransom them, sometimes tearing them into pieces, selling each piece for more money.

The Dead Sea Scrolls are a word-for-word copy of the Torah, with only one lamed missing. This was th eoldest version of the Torah found, written around 3000(?)years ago. In the same building was the story of the A_________ Codex, which contains all of the vowels and cantorial markings of the Torah. It had made its way to a synagogue in a Jewish community in Syria. It had been believed to have been destroyed during Syrian anti-Jewish riots after Israeli independence was declared, because the synagogue that had housed it had been burned to the ground. But it ended up that it had been smuggled out shortly before, and it resurfaced in the early 1950s and is now housed in the museum as well.

There were also works of art at the museum, including a painting by Lesser Uri, called Potsdam Square by Night. I loved it, and kept going back to see it again. It was a of a rainy street, and had been stolen during the Holocaust and is part of over 100,000 reclaimed works of art. I was also surprised to see Jewish sarcophogi, which were made in 14-13th century BCE, and are over 3300 years old. They were found south of Gaza City and show Egyptian influence in their crossed arms and the faces on them. Unlike the Egyptians, these were pottery and more freeform, and the bodies inside were not embalmed. They reflected the Jewish idea at the time, that the soul is eternal and, at the time, the belief that the soul would have needs in the afterlife. The bodies were buried with jewelry, food, and bowls. There were 50 of these found.

After the Israel Museum we walked to the Ticho House, which is a gallery and cafe owned by a Rashi family. From there, we walked to the ultra-Orthodox neighborhood to see people getting ready for Shabbat. It was not a welcoming neighborhood, and perhaps the most foreign-feeling place I have ever been. All of the women in our group had to cover up in order to walk through there, and even then we received hostile stares and a few comments. I am happy to report that we were neither stoned nor spit upon, both of which I was worried about. I think that part of it is due to our guide, who seems to have a "Don't Fuck With Me" stamp plastered on his forehead. Although it was a negative experience overall, it was very interesting.

We also visited the Jewish open-air market. It was similar to the open-air market in Acco, although I didn't see any cats. Keith and I wandered around and watched people rushing from stall to stall, buying what they needed to prepare for Shabbat. It was so busy and crowded in most parts that you couldn't stop, and instead had to let the throng of people continue pushing you forward. Keith got some excellent pictures. There are so many wonderful faces in Israel.

We were home early to prepare for Shabbat ourselves. I took a swim in the pool and then showered and dressed carefully for services. We wanted to walk to services, but the Reform synagogue was too far away. The singing at the synagogue was beautiful, and it was a mostly American congregation. However, the service had Orthodox influences. For example, many times there were no page numbers given, and lots of times the prayers were semi-silent and mumble-y. I had to keep reminding myself, "You are sitting here welcoming Shabbat in a synagogue in Jerusalem!"

After dinner we met again with Lotem and some Leo Baeck students who will be living in the US for 4 months and wanted advice. It was terrific to connect with them, and to hear the kinds of questions they had, but we were all happy to fall into bed when we finally bid them goodnight.

Israel 7.3

Today began in the Golan Heights and ended in Jerusalem. First we drove to t hesite of an excavated and partially restored Roman city, which I think was called Beit She'An. I love dwalking among the ruins, trying to imagine what life was like. we learned the Hebrew word for whorehouse, when Ido was showing us the different sections of the city. It is Beit Boshet, which means House of Shame. I also learned the word for prostitute. It's zona. It's funny that these are the words that I remember, and not the names of the places I visit. I can't even give the name of my hotel, but I can call someone a whore.

We then went to an excavated synagogue floor that was tiled in th eGreek style, showing many influences of the Hellenic period. There were the zodiac symbols and human figures.

We had lunch at a kibbutz and then headed to a natural pool made from undergound springs. The water was deep, very cool, adn a vivid blue. It was a gorgeous day, but hot, and it was such a treat to have a break from the heat and from the tours. I love learning, but it is very tiring to stand and listen to someone explain things to you all day. I need to take a break and move around and do something.

I slept on the bus as we drove to Jerusalem, using my new patented technique of lying with my torso on my two seats, stretching my legs across the aisle, and resting my feet on the seats across the aisle. Highly effective for napping.

I did wake up at one point to see Jordan on the left, and the West Bank on the right, with just a narrow strip of land that is Israel proper. As we drove, we passed Bedoin tents and settlements, and saw children herding sheep or goats. There were also hills made of limestone that seemed to flow like dunes. I mentioned to Josh that the landscape reminded me of Tatooine from Star Wars.

We stopped at a rest stop along the way that was something you could only find in Israel. Israeli soldiers sat on tables, smoking cigarettes and drinking coke. All of them had M-16s casually slung over their shoulders, both men and women, with grenade launchers attached. Alongside them were Arab families, Droos people, adn a small open air market. A camel rested on a rug in th eparking lot. It wore a brightly-colored saddle for rides.

A large load of M-16s sat in a metal cargo crate attached to a military truck. Roasted nuts, sesame candy, fresh fruit were for sale, along with iced coffee which is more like a coffee-flavored slushee.

We arrived in Jerusalem shortly before sunset. We drove up to an overlook near Hebrew University, to gaze over the city. The first thing I noticed before I saw the view was the Alpert's family name on a wall that acknowledged donors. I knew that it was Nina's grandparents, and took a picture to send back to Aleph Bet.

It was impossible to gaze on Jerusalem and not notice its power and beauty. Most of the buildings are white, and the city rolls across several small mountains. We sang the shecheyanu together and had a toast. Some people teared up or cried. I spent some time by myself, just taking it all in, trying to figure out what this experience meant to me, and what makes Jerusalem a holy place to me.

Israel 7.2 continued

We next headed to an Israeli outpost right on the border with Syria. It is a place for tourists, but everything there is prepared so that it could immediately bcome a working bunker once more, if needed. We stood on the mountain and learned about both the 6-Day War in 1967, and then about the Yom Kippur war in 1973. As we listened, we gazed down on a Syrian ghost town that had been the capital of the Golan Heights. To the right of it stood UN buildings, which are there to keep peace between the two borders. To the left was the new Syrian city they built, busy and large. Damascus, the capital of Syria, is only 30 km from the outpost.

We ate lunch in a Droos village that is known for its felafel. Again, it was the Arab hospitality where we sat down and they just brought us food. The table was covered. The felafel was perhaps the most delicious thing I have ever eaten. After lunch was a tour of the Yarden Winery.

Interlude

I realize that I spent to much of the past few years just taking care of shit that I almost never have had the time or the luxury to think about what's beyond the next crisis, or the next task. There was no emotional energy left to worry much about what I wanted my life to look like, or what kind of person I wanted to be. I feel almost naive in my excitement about thinking and ideas, that most people have already thought about and dealt with years ago. But I have to be forgiving of this side of myself, because if I am ashamed, then I am less open to learning.

I do think about all that I have been through, and what I have lost and I do sometimes find it so hard to imagine that it happened to me, and that I survived all of it emotionally, and still manage to enjoy life and to be open and trusting and loving. I don't break down in tears, I don't fall into deep depressions. I have always gotten out of bed every day and done my job, and I still love life and feel excitement about where it will take me next. I feel very lucky that I get to have such an optimistic outlook on the world.

Sometimes I wonder if it's better to have a plan, or to be open and flexible. I did live life according to a plan, but that didn't seem to work for me. It's hard, though, because planning is my natural inclination.

Israel 7.2

Today was spent in the Golan Heights. This area use to belong to Syria, until the 6 day war in 1967. Israel needs the Golan Heights for many reasons, namely, water. From 1948 to 1967, Israel had the water from the Golan Heights (which is all from the Kineret, or Sea of Galilee), but all the land directly northeast of this belonged to Syria, adn in that 19 years, Syria bombed the north of Israel daily, with artillery and snipers. There was a settlement in the Israeli part of the Golan Heights where an entire generation of children grew up living in bomb shelters, running from place to place when they had to go outside, to avoid sniper fire.

The Syrians also tried to cut of Israel's water supply by digging a trench that would re-route the tributaries to the Kineret. Their attempts were sabotaged by Israel. Finally, in 1967, while Israel was fighting Egypt and Jordan, they attacked Syria as well and took the Golan Heights.

Today we went to a former Syrian outpost and saw their bunkers, rusted-out trucks, and trenches. We saw the settlement that the Syrians attacked. The outpost itself has been turned into a memorial for Israelis who were killed by Syrian attacks. All around it are mine fields. They are surrounded by barbed-wire fences with DANGER-LIVE MINES signs posted. The Israelis don't have the maps to the minefields and it's too difficult and expensive to remove them, so they are just there, forever.

We also passed destroyed Syrian settlements and many Israeli outposts and training grounds. The border between Israel and Syria is the most heavily-fortified border in the world, expect for possibly the one between North and South Korea. As we were driving through the area, we saw a group of Israeli soldiers cleaning and repairing about 5 or 6 tanks. They were cleaning the turrets of the guns, using long poles with cloth on the ends, sort of like giant Q-tips. Itzi stopped the bus and we waited while Ido got out and asked the commander if we could go over and look at the tanks. Then we all met the commander and looked at the tanks and watched the soldiers working. We were allowed to climb on a tank, and ask all the questions we wanted about the different parts, but we couldn't go inside it, or take pictures of the inside.

The dust around the tanks was intense. The soldiers' faces, lips, hands, ears, every part of them was dark and caked with it. As a truck drove by, clouds of dust rolled off of the ground, enveloping the truck and rolling off of it in waves.

Israel 7.1.08

Today was one of those powerful days where you feel like something is really happening inside yourself. For me, this happened in Tzfat.

Before Tzfat, we took a cable car up to the top of a mountain for a scenic overlook adn to learn more about th earea. We saw an IDF outpost and a ridge that was Lebanon. I found out that the two Israeli soldiers who were kidnapped two years ago are being returned next Wednesday. They are most likely dead, but Israel is committed to returning all Israeli soldiers, dead or alive, to Israeli soil. The soldiers are being exchanged for a Hezballah terrorist who murdered civilians and has been in an Israeli prison for something like 20 years. I wonder how all of this will play out while I am here. What will it be like to have them home at last? Will their families feel comfort? Would the soldiers have wanted their bodies to be traded for at terrorist's freedom?

I don't know quite how to describe what is at Tzfat, but ther eis definitely something there. I felt puzzle pieces strongly there, floating and starting to coalesce. It started with a visit to Avraham. He is originally from Michigan, and was on a spiritual journey in college, trying yoga, meditation, and lots of Eastern philosophies. Then he read a book called Jewish Meditation and it changed his life. He ended up reading more and more about Kabbalah and 13 years ago he moved to Tzfat to study there and to make art inpsired by what he was discovering.

I have never read anything about Kabbalah and when he spoke to us, he expressed almost the exact thoughts and philosophies that I have been thinking and writing about: that we ar eall working to resolve th econflict between our yetzer hara (selfish inclination) and our yetzer tov (loving, giving inclination). Both are important, but our goal in achieving our whole selves is, as much as possible, to dedicate ourselves to giving as much good to others as we possibly can.

Avraham spoke of a perfect happiness that is waiting for each of us, a perfect goodness that will make us "hysterical with laughter" when we experience it, because we wil not know how to express all of that joy. I have had that experience and I described it as perfect love, perfect happiness, perfect joy. It was a mystical, warm, and welcoming experience with something much bigger than myself.

So, if our goal is to experience this eternally, I assume this means after we die, which means that death will be wonderful. But there is also in Judaism the idea of reincarnation, according to Avraham, that th ebody is just like clothing that we wear over our eternal souls. Our soul is reborn over and over again, until we have achieved the level of goodness to others and have resolved this conflict between our yetzer hara and our yetzer tov. Then we achieve that state of perfect happiness.

So there is this theme in my own life of finding and repairing (re-collecting) my whole self, and it reinforces my belief that we achieve this through giving goodness and love to the world. Maybe it's in one life, and maybe it's in many lives, but in any case, this work means everything, and it's very difficult.

Avraham definitely had a gentleness to him, and such a warm and loving energy. It's clear that there is something deep and magical that is going on with him. I met other young men all with payes, kippot, and street clothes, and almost all of them seem to have ended up in Tzfat because they felt something in this city. None were religious when they came. All seemed to want to give goodness. One guy was from Montreal, and had been travelling with friends. When he got to Tzfat, he knew that he needed to be there. He's been there for 5 years now, and has become religious and is clearly a warm, loving, and very happy person with a generous heart, lots of loving spiritual energy. I know how that sounds. But you know that you can meet someone, and by their manner, their expressions, their body language, they give off something that makes you feel good, and makes you feel cared for, somehow. You can tell that they are happy people, or giving people. It was like that.

When I told this guy that I was only in Tzfat for the day, eh said, "Oh, one day is not enough. You have to stay longer to soak up some of the light of Tzfat." And I really do feel like I soaked up some light. There really is something magical and holy about this place. It as been a center of holiness for almost 2000 years. I felt it walking around the city, in the people, in theland. It's a place I want to understand better. I also feel a need to study, and to learn more about myself from this Jewish perspective.

One thing that Avraham said that was interesting was that a person can keep kosher, but can cheat people in business. Another person can be completely ethical in business dealings, but not keep kosher. Both are mitzvot, adn both can lead us to being more of ourselves. So why not try to do both? This is why so many of the men who come here become more observant. I still questino where women fit into this spiritual work. Are they permitted to study this in tradition Hassidism? Are they seen as capable of achieving this? Are women "allowed" to feel a fulfilled sense of self?

The rest of my day was full of conversations with different people about what we thougth about the ideas we heard about, and how it tied in with our own experiences and ideas about life. What I loved was that every person on the trip that I spoke to had a different perspective, ranging from skeptical to fully embracing, but each person had done a lot of thinking about it, and working to fit it into their own schema, either to accept or reject. We all had big questions that had no answers, but the important part isn't the answers. I would say that the answers are the least important part. Asking the questions is much more important, which is a very Jewish idea. And the sort of journey you take as you try to answer the questions. Whether it's conversation or study, or become more observant, or exploring weird sexual practices, it isn't really imporant HOW you do that. Just that you do it. It isn't the how. It's just that you're doing it.

The rest of the day, the kayak trip with Keith down the Jordan River, and the other sites we visited, were fun and peaceful and interesting. I loved being on th eJordan, and just doing something physical, like paddling, which we had to do often, becaus ethe water level was so low tha twe would often get stuck. Israel is experiencing a drought, no really good rainfall for four years. Even here in the Upper Galilee, which is supposed to be the greenest part of the country. The fields are still being irrigated, of course. Today we passed mroe fields of sunflowers, endless orchards of olive and fruit trees, carrots, bananas, avocados. I cannot believe how much food Israel produces. Kefar Gidaldi, the kibbutz where we are staying, as a dairy, along with an eyeglass factory, and each morning we have fresh milk, cheeses, cream, and cottage cheese. The fruit and the salads are beautiful. It may be important to point out that there are at least 5 different salads at every Israeli meal, of all types and descriptions.

Right now it just feels really good to be here. I am interested to see if I will continue to feel that way, or if that feeling will increase or decrease over time. I do think that this trip is changing me. (As any major experience would, I know that.) But how, how much, or into what, I don't know. I definitely feel a stronger connection to my Jewish identity and a desire to pursue and study and follow that more. I feel like I have been stuck in where I was Jewishly. I had hit a wall and needed to be rejuvenated and moved forward. So I think that one way that I am changing is being moved forward on that path.

One question that I have is how to move forward Jewishly with a partner who doesn't feel that and maybe doesn't support that. Is it possible to do that? If being Jewish is so important to me, as it has been since choosing to become Jewish, what does it mean to me to be with someone who doesn't share that with me? Would we be able to move forward together in some way?

Israel 6.30.08

Another long day, but much more active and interesting. First we went to the old city in Acco. We learned about the history of the city and saw its old fort, walls, and tunnels. We visited the Arab market and ate hummus at a restaurant where it is made by hand. Acco played a huge role during the crusades, and it was interesting to see the mix of Arab, Roman, and European architecture.

The Arab market was in a series of covered alleyways. Fish stalls, spice stalls, produce and dried beans shared space with scarves, belly-dancing costumes, Judaica, and Arab sweets. Both local people and tourists thronged the narrow walkways, while skinny stray cats slunk around the fish and meat stalls, begging or stealing scraps. The cobbled alleyways were damp. Mysterious doors led off to dark spaces.

We saw a young boy on a bicycle, delivering bread. He rode up to a building. On the top floor was an open window. A woman stood there and pulled up a dumbwaiter, which looked like a metal cage on a chain. She filled it with more bread and lowered it for the boy to put on his bicycle and deliver.

After Acco we visited Shlomit on her kibbutz, which was started by her parents about 60 years ago. We were all surprised at how impressive and large it was. Shlomit said that the kibbutz is changing a lot, and many things in it are becoming more privatized.

We then went on a hike in the Upper Galilee to see the ancient Israeli city of Dan. It was located on a tel, which is an artificial hill made from cities being built on top of one another. We saw the site of the ancient Temple that was built here, in a sort of competition with the Judean Temple in Jersusalem. I loved touching stones that people touched thousands of years ago, and wondering what the city was like then. The hike itself was beautiful. I can't believe how rich and diverse the landscape can be in such a dry country.

In the evening, we arrived at our hotel, which is on the Kefar Giladi kibbutz in an area near the Golan Heights, basically right on the border with Lebanon. In the evening, Josh, Keith, and I went for a walk. We saw the mountains, and talked about how strange it was to be looking at Lebanon, a country that is basically our enemy. Then we noticed trenches dug in the ground and lined with cement, with machine gun mounts on top. A dilapidated tower with what appeared to be bullet holes in it stood above. A fence lined the ground about 60 feet below. This area had been reached by Hezballah two years ago.

As we were taking all of this in, across the ridge we heard Muslim prayers being played over the loudspeaker of a city in Lebanon. It was haunting-beautiful and melancholy and frightening. We wondered if the Lebanese felt about us the way we do about them, that right over the ridge is an ominous enemy, just waiting to wipe them out. We tried to imagine living in a place that was so close to two countries who are considered enemies. We were struck by the fragility of peace between these nations.

Josh and I had an interesting discussion about our feelings of being here, our sense of place and of Israel as both an identity and as a holy place. Does it feel holy to us? What makes it so? Do we feel its holiness in our gut? I don't feel that yet, but I feel like I get the idea. Israel feels holy in an intellectual sense, because of the vastness and richness of its history. Also the miracle of this dry desert land producing so much agriculture. And the miracle of it even existing at all as a nation of Jews.

I feel the same sense of purpse that I felt after reading Treblinka, that this country must continue to exist and to thrive, adn that we, as Jews, have an obligation to support the state of Israel. I don't think that I felt that before coming here. The belief and hard work of the people here are theonly things that made this nation possible, and I think that that in itself is part of what makes this land feel holy. It is holy because of the intense faith and passion that has allowed it to survive in spite of seemingly insurmountable odds.

Israel 6.29 Continued

We had dinner with two teachers from Leo Beck. I particularly enjoyed talking to the biology teacher, whose name I don't remember. She sat across from me, and I asked her a lot of questions about her life. Like Shlomit, she grew up in a kibbutz and did not live with her parents as a child, but instead lived in the children's house. Children only spent about two hours a day with their parents. The rest of the time they were together. I was also very interested in talking with her about our shared teaching experiences. We both believe that students today are not being given enough opportunity to take responsibility for their own actions, or to learn from their mistakes through natural consequences. The teacher is coming to Rashi in January, and we are both looking forward to seeing one another again.

I think I have finally gotten to the bottom of secular Jews. It's like most Christians in the US. You celebrate Christmas and Easter with family, but you don't necessarily believe in them as religious holidays, nor do you go to church or follow other Christian rules.

Lunch at Angus was another highlight of the day. It is an Arab restaurant in an Arab settlement. I was nervous that we would feel uncomfortable and that people would stare or hate us, like one might feel going into a black restaurant in a black neighborhood in the US (if one were white). But it wasn't like that. There was a security guard outside. Inside were Muslims, Droos, and Jews, all eating peacefully at tables. The staff were warm and friendly. Menus were in Hebrew, and Ido translated. We were shown enormous hospitality, in spite of our large and loud group. Keith was even joking with Lorena and one of the waiters, trying to get the waiter to take Lorena as a second wife. We all laughed together, and it was hard to believe that we were all supposed to hate each other. There was even a point where I had left my bag at the table, and the staff were going out of their way to find me and return it to me. The waiter touched my shoulder kindly as he returned my bag, and I felt oddly moved and grateful for that small courtesy.

Israel 6.29.

Today may have been the longest day on Earth. I was up late last night and then was up at 6:30 foran 8:00 AM departure. We went to the new Leo Beck/Lokey experimental elementary school to see their Havdallah and to visit a classroom. Then we drove all the way to the upper Galilee to visit another school, called the Golden Education Template. It was weird.

Then, back to Leo Beck to talk to the rabbi/head of primary school, then a long and heated discussion, then meeting and talking to two more teachers, then dinner with these same teachers, then finally back to the hotel around 8:30. Basically, all we did today was sit and listen and ask questions and talk. I can hardly bear it.

Highlights: lunch at an Arab restaurant called Angus. Finding common ground with one of the Leo Beck teachers. A scandalous statue. Feeling more Jewish, after hearing about how much we have inspired the non-Orthodox community of Jews in Israel.

The Golden Education Template school was part of this intentional community called Emin, which is also known as The Way. It's kind of cultish, and sort of like a kibbutz, only each person is financially independent. But you have to pay to live there.

The school had some interesting ideas, but I felt like it was kind of hippy-dippyish, and counter to some of my ideas about education and child-raising. The people were very dedicated and the community was beautiful. However, I felt like the children were given too much power and not enough structure. I also questioned the soundness of their curriculum. It seemed sort of ad-hoc.

Rabbi Offek of Lokey raised an interesting conversation among the Rashi staff. I am still formulating my thoughts about that. Many bright, thoughtful people on the strip feel strongly that our school is not Jewish enough,and needs to integrate Judaism more cohesively into our curriculum. I'm not sure that I agree. I feel that integration is good and important, but it needs to be done when it feels cohesive and natural, and not forced. Different curricula lend themselves more or less to that integration, depending on the content.

I do feel that our students need to be more knowledgeable about Torah and Halakha. They know almost nothing and I feel that it is important for Reform Jews to know the laws, so that they can make an informed decision about whether or not to follow them. Like Jazz music.

I do wish that we could require 5th graders to read at least part of each weekly portion and maybe students could take turns doing a short d'var Torah, after having it modelled by Arielle or me. I don't know if that would fly, but I think it could be amazing.

I am out of time on this rented computer, here in the Northern part of Israel. I will finish when I have some more time.

Israel 6.28.08

One thing that has struck me so far is how close everything is. As we were driving up route 6, the Meditteranean Sea and teh cities on it were to our left. To our right was the West Bank. We could have gotten out of the bus and walked right in. We asked Ido, our guide, what would happen if we did and he said we would be picked up immediately by Israeli police.

We saw the wall that was built to protect Israel from the West Bank. It was right there, fairly tall with barbed wire on top. It does not run continuously, only in places where it would be close enough for Palestinian fire to hit Israeli targets. At its narrowest point, Israel is only 9 miles across.

Our guide told us that since giving up Gaza, violence coming out of Gaza is much worse. Hamas will not make any peace agreements and have fired rockets into Israel. Right now there is a hesitant kind of cease-fire.

Shabbat in Israel has a very different feeling. It is both quiet and festive, because everyone is observing it on some level, even if that level is going to the beach for the day. You don't feel like you are missin gout on something. ALmost all shops are closed and the raods are almost empty. Everyone is home early Friday night, spending time with family. Later in the night, many people were out walking along the cliffs or in town. Some cafes were open, because Haifa is a more secular city. I learned that in Israel, being secular is basically the same as being Conservative, or possibly reform, in America. There are Jews in Israel who do not practice any aspect of Judaism, but I don't know what they would call themselves. Basically, you are either Orthodox or you are secular.

This morning, I slept strangly until 9:00 AM, with a bus departure at 9:30. I rushed around, made it on time, but had to skip breakfast. We picked up Lotem (who works at Leo Beck) and drove about half an hour northwest of Haifa. There we went to some kind of Carmelite Order Christian place, which was beautiful, but made us all curious about why we were there. Apparently, this was a place wehre the prophet Eliha did some great work that undermined the power of the Phoenicians, who were assholes. Elijah had 450 Phoenician prophets build altars to and put dead oxen on them and pray to their god to make a fire happen. No fire came. He had Israelites pour water all over his altar, prayed to God, adn the wet wood burst into flame. This apparently happened where we were, and he may have possibly hidden in some caves there as well. There was also a statue, possibly of him (It said Elias) with an upraised sword, standing with one foot on a prostrate man. There was a cross involved, so I was somewhat skeptical.

We learned about a city that in English is called Armageddon. This is, of course, wehre the final battle between Good and Evil will supposedly take place. We could see the city. Apparently, the leader of Evil will be called Gog, so look out for that.

I was surprised by how much farmland there is in Israel. It is a mostly agricultural place, although it is such a small, dry country. There is also, of course, a lot of high-tech industry there.

On the roofs of many buildings are solar panels that are attached to water tanks. This heats the water for people to use, so they don't have to use electricity for this. And yet, recycycling is new in Israel, and there is litter everywhere.

We drove through a Droos city. The Droos are a branch of Islam that is persecuted by the rest of the Muslim world. Nobody knows much about their practice or beliefs, except that it involves reincarnation. The Droos live in Israel wehre they are safer. There are even Droos members of the Israeli government. Traditional Droos men have moustaches and skullcaps and wear MC Hammer pants. Traditional Droos women wear all black, but do not have to cover wrists and ankles, and wear white scarves over their hair.

After lunch, we headed to the B'Hai gardnes. It is considered the holiest place in the B'hai faith, whcih came out of Iran in the 1840s. It is somehow connected to Islam, but I don't know exactly how. Interstingly, there are only 30 followers of B'hai allowed it live in Israel at any given time, because it is a missionary religion, and missionaries are not allowed to live in Israel. The holy site is in Israel because its leader saw Mount Carmel when he was imprisoned in Lebanon and it gave him hope.

The gardens are beautiful, very formal. It reminded me of Versailles or gardens at The Elms. Very elaborate. There was a minor scandal when we were there because the guards determined that Lorena's skirt was too short, although other women were in shorter shorts, or equally short skirts. Lorena and Ido were outraged. Lorena ultimately had to wrap her pareo around herself in order to go in.

After the gardens we went to the beach. It was not what I expected. It was like Venice Beach in that there were restaurants, shops, and arades along a paved area that ran parallel to the water. What was different was that most people on the beach were seated at tables and chairs and were waited on by a waitress who served beer. Everyone smoked and threw their cigarette butts in the sand. So, you are thinking, "Hmmm...OK, it's an outdoor bar at the beach. I get it." But then amongst the crowded bar tables were children playing in the sand, digging through the cigarette butts. They played happily. A favorite sight was an adolescent boy poking at a dead jellyfish with an empty Heinekin bottle.

We were surprised at how many people threw other trash in the sand. The people were awesomely tacky. Many speedos, many leathery women in gaudy bikinis, smoking and drinking. A group of older people pulled their bar chairs to the water's edge so they could stick their legs in the sea while sipping their beer.

The sea was considered somewhat dangerous that day, so you could only swim in small areas. It wasn't dangerous to those of us from the Atlantic, so we felt tough, scoffing at the waist-high bathwater. But then we started to notice how salty it was when our skin started to sting, and soon had to get out. Israelis may drown more easily, but there is a reason why they are so fearlessly leathery.

We later met Lotem for education and Havdallah. We continued our discussions about what being in Israel meant to us. This time we decorated boxes to reflect some of our thoughts and feelings. I decorated my box to reflect my own desire to find a place for myself here, and for my heart to open up and connect with the land of Israel.

Earlier in the day, we shared our feelings and interpretations of this place, using images from another artist. I chose an image of Israel as a fragile seedling, because it is a young country with little support from the rest of the world. Thsi also connects to my own sense of myself as a Jew, because I am so young Jewishly and I do feel a sense of fragility or uncertainty, or a lack of confidence in myself Jewishly. I haven't always felt this way, but I do feel less connected Jewishly than I have in the past. I think I want and need to spend more time and energy being observant, or at least somewhat more observant than I am now. Dating someone non-Jewish does make a difference, I have learned, because it's a piece that someone who has no religion doesn't really get. I feel kind of apologetic about it sometimes, even though it is such an important part of who I am; to me, raising Jewish children is a non-negotiable.

We did Havdallah overlooking Haifa and the sea, which was beautiful. It was wonderful to be doing this Jewish ritual in public, and nobody stared or thought we were strange, or wondered what we were doing.

After dinner we all went out. Lotem likes this Irish pub, so we went there. We laughed, coming from Boston. We had drinks and tried fried Mars bars, which were delicious. I liked getting to know people on the trip better and had terrific conversations. My default is often to spend time by myself to work, think, write, and reflect. A goal that I have this time is to say yes to whatever is suggested, and to participate. I have plenty of time in my life to spend alone, and this is a time for me to connect, not only with my Jewish identity, but also with who I am in other ways.

Israel: 6.27.08

It is my first day in Israel. It is interesting how a place can both meet your expectations and surprise you. The landscape looked how I expected it to look, but the feelings I have are what surprised me.

The buildup of the trip did a lot to lay the groundwork of a special experience. A long overnight flight to Rome that wasn't quite long enough to sleep, me in a middle seat surrounded by two strangers, and the person in front of me with her seat fully back so that I could barely move, much less reach my bag or use the tray table. I grew to hate her. All of this felt like something that had to be borne in order to reach this magical destination.

My Turkish seatmate was willing to befriend me, in spite of our political differences. (An awkward silence ensued when I revealed that I was headed to Israel.) I asked him many questions about Turkey, but his English was not great, so conversation was stilted. However, through various means of communication, involving both me and Keith, (who had traded seats with me for a bit), we discovered that our new friend from Turkey had never before left his country, but had traveled to the US to a work study program that was supposed to last six months. However, after two weeks he had decided that he couldn't take it and was returning to Turkey. Among some of the difficulties encountered here was that "food in colleges is very unkind, very unkind." To add an interesting twist, the work study program was apparently for some sort of carnival. Are there work-study carny programs?

We arrived in Rome at about 1:00 AM our time, but 8:00 AM Roman time. Now it was morning. I feel the Rome airport could have strived for more. Were I Leonardo da Vinci, I would not feel honored. Apparently, when in Rome, leave poop in or on any available toilet. It seemd almost like some kind of post-modern graffiti.

Unfortunate kosher meals were eaten. One woman saw Karen's meal and said, "Oh, kosher. Is that a special kidn of sauce?"
Arriving in Israel, landing on the plane, felt powerful. I teared up. It felt magical to arrive in a place I had invested so much time and thinking into. But what was interesting is that I did not feel connected, teh way I thought I would. I thought I would feel excited, like, "Oh, I am surrounded by my people!" In America, I feel connected to other Jews, because we are such a minority. It's almost like you can't help but seek one another out.

Interestingly, here I felt little connection to anyone. Everyone's Jewish, so it's no big deal. Plus, I felt like an outsider in many ways, because 1)I'm a foreigner who speaks almost no Hebrew 2)Ethnically, people do not share my background 3)I am not officially recognized as Jewish here because my conversion was not Orthodox. Not that Israelis know that, but it's more that I know, and feel somehow like an imposter, like it's not OK for me not to know a prayer or some part of Israeli or Jewish History. I feel like I somehow have to prove myself, even though I know it's just inside myself.

Our first stop was to Kabbalat Shabbat services in Haifa with the Leo Baeck community. Our flight was late, so we had to go straight to services, all sweaty and exhausted. I tried to take it all in, and really connect to the feeling of participating in Kabbalat Shabbat services in Israel, with Jews from al different parts of the world, all praying together. I had to keep repeating this to myself, though, because I kept nodding off. Especially when this old guy kept playing flute solos. The guy was awesome, for many reasons, including his cool drums, white gilligan hat, and general excitement level, but there was nothing I could do. I was simply too tired to appreciate him.

I was so tired after services, and felt they would never end. I almost killed one member of our group, because she wanted to keep asking questions, and all I wanted was a bed. My ankles were swollen and looked elderly. I saw an old woman at services with swollen, distorted ankles that seemed to hang over her feet like jowls. I felt terrified that I was looking into my future.

Finally, a shower, dinner, and a short walk. Everyone is walking together on Shabbat evening, enjoying a stroll in the evening breeze. Haifa is a port city, but it is also a mountain city, so it seems that no matter where you are standing, the views are stunning. It was wonderful to feel the night air, and to look down on the sparkling expanse of city, and the dark sea beyond.

Still Working it Out

This is from a letter that I wrote to my friend Andrew this week:

So, basically, I feel like, hmmm..OK, so I think there are certain points in other animal's lives where these cracks, minute stretches and changes happen. Maybe when some crustacean has to do this final expansion to molt out of its old shell? Or maybe when a rattlesnake gets a new ring on its tail, or maybe when a sapling finally finds a window of light when an old tree falls, and has to spurt up with growth in order to fill the empty spot. Like that. But I think that people have those times, sometimes really recognizable, and we do recognize them, you know, transitions. Bar mitzvahs, first communions, weddings, babies being born, significant birthdays. Normal times of growth. Expected times. Like the ring on the rattlesnake's tail. But there are also those unexpected times, like the sapling in the forest, where opportunity creates this growth. But then there are also small crackings and changes happening all the time that start to build up, like what happens with a lobster or a crab, I mean it's not sudden, really. It just seems sudden, but it's really all of these tiny steps leading up to that final crack. And all of these things happen to us, all the time, and start to shape who we are. And if we don't notice them, then we have no decision power over how we are shaped. Because we are shaped by what happens to us, a lot, I think. So we are obligated to notice.

But, then, I also see life as a decision tree, see it that way in my head. But more fluid. Because I think, equally, that the choices we make, including the choices we make about how to feel or how to react what happens to us, I think that shapes us, too. Maybe more. So it's like every choice we are making shapes the person we become. Not in a big, paralyzing way, but more like, I don't know, an opportunity? Because I think we would have to go very, very far down one part of the tree before we would lose the opportunity to explore other parts. I mean, I don't know if I think it's ever a done deal. You would have to make the same kind of choices, over and over again, in order for that to happen.

I'm not really talking about life in terms of what kind of job you have, or where you live. That stuff doesn't really matter, I think. I think, when I'm talking about all of this stuff, it's about the kind of person you are, the kind of life you lead, like big L life. The extraordinary parts. What kind of parent you are, how you treat people. sense of fulfillment, the love you create, all that.

So there is all this thinking about life, and opportunities, and growing, and how sometimes you can feel the actual stretches and cracks. For me, mostly in my mind, it's like I feel it grow bigger to grasp some new idea, or I can almost feel another new wrinkle forming in the grey jelly. (Actually, it's more like tofu. I used to own a human brain, through a very strange set of circumstances). But then there is fitting all of this together with kind of putting together who you are in a way that makes sense. I think we all have some sense of who we are, the pieces, the contradictions. But I don't know that we have, or I least I don't know that I have, a big picture sense of how it all fits together. And I feel like it's really important to know that. Maybe it means everything to be able to know that. But it is probably something we won't know or can't know until we are very old. Because I think you need perspective. For example, I have a very strong sense of self. And although I am always striving, I really do like who I am, most of the time. I get why I crave perfection, I know how I work. I'm in this kind of comfortable, "Well, this is me," kind of part of my life. But I'm still so far from where I want to be, and I know there is a connection with the rest of the world that I am kind of getting involved in, but I'm not there yet. So I'm working on the big picture right now. Thinking about it. Figuring out which parts are pivotal, and which don't matter.

I see what you are saying, with your hobbies centering around crying, diapers, and blocks. So much of my life and energy is invested in loving and raising other people's children. We have to put them first. I understand why we have to. But even though our hearts don't always stay loving the same people, I do think they stay loving many of the same things and ideas, find fulfillment in ways that don't always change. So it seems sad to be giving those up, or always setting them aside. Biologically, it doesn't make sense for us to need these higher ideas. Is our evolution actually a means of subverting our true nature? Hmmm...and if that's true, then could that be true of other plants or animals?

But what if...

I was talking to one of my fifth graders yesterday about the theory from Criss Cross, and she was very interested in it. So we were talking about how all of these pieces of ourselves are kind of all there, somewhere in us, just waiting to be snapped together. And then she said, "But, do you think that maybe all of our pieces started out all together? Like when we were born?" Wow! She is clearly a genius. I love this idea. Maybe we are our Buddha selves when we are born, and when we are very old, and the rest of the time, we are striving to become what we were and what we hope to someday be again.

And then I started thinking about the idea of Tikkun Olam, how at one time the world was perfect, like a vase of light, I think is the midrash. But then it somehow got broken, and it is our job as Jews (and as beings of this planet) to find all of the scattered pieces of wholeness, and repair the world. And I love the saying that I associate with it: You are not obligated to complete the task; nor, are you free to abandon it. And then I also think about my favorite saying of all time, which is, God has no hands on Earth but our hands, which is the most inspiring and awe-producing thing I can even really think about, ever. Because it is probably most certainly true. (It makes me just want to run out and just, you know, get shit done, because God is counting on me! Quick! Animals aren't going to stop being endangered on their own, you know?)

So when I connect those two ideas, I came up with this theory: I think that the only people who really reach their whole selves, their Buddha selves, are people who spent their lives working to make the world whole again, in whatever way that is. I think of my friend, Yoko, who is in her seventies, and who spent her life helping the world in countless large and small ways, and I can't think of anyone else I know that seems as close to wholeness or goodness, who shows as much love and respect for all people. So, that is what I think. I think that it is only in working to restore the world that we can ever hope to restore our lost selves.

Buddha Puzzle Pieces

So this is a function of writing to think. To order my thoughts. I'm bursting with thinking, right now. I read this book yesterday, Criss Cross, by Lynne Rae Perkins. There was this particular part that I am still spending time thinking about:

It's a good thing to get out of your...surroundings. Because you find things out about yourself that you didn't know, or you forgot. And then you go back to your regular life and you're changed, you're a little bit different because you take those new things with you. Like a Hindu except all in one life: you sort of get reincarnated depending on what happened and what you figure out. And any one place can make you go forward, or backward, or neither, but gradually you find all your pieces, your important pieces, and they stay with you, so that you're your whole self no matter where you go. Your Buddha self.

So there's that. And along with that, there's this line that someone wrote, about what he learned from relationships, and it said, "Be calm, always." I think about that all the time. How I'm seeking that calm. Not in my life, because that would bore me. But in myself. I have all of these superficial ways of creating that calm, superficial, but they help. Creating an ordered space around me. That makes me feel calm. Reading and writing, too, are some of the only things that allow me to sit still. I am sure that yoga helps. But I have a hard time shutting my mind off, ever. So it's something that I'm striving for continuously, and I find myself thinking that sometimes, at difficult moments: Be calm, always. Like a meditation. Because I know that I am naturally restless and that's a part of me, and it's a productive, passionate part of me. But it isn't always productive. And it's only a part of me.

I think that right now, I have all of these puzzle pieces of my "Buddha self" floating around me. Different epiphanies and thoughts and big ideas and I'm trying to put them all together, or at least some of them. I don't even think I'm close to finding my Buddha self. I think it takes a lifetime. I think for me, part of that puzzle is being a mother, having children. If I never do that, I won't have that part of myself fit together, or figured out. Or I'll have to find it some other way. But I think that this is what I'm trying to do. Either waiting for the pieces to coalesce, or trying to do that actively, actively put them together.

I don't really know how active it can be, because you don't even really know what to snap together. I wouldn't even know how to try to draw a diagram, or what to label. So I think that you just have to let that happen. But I also remember in college, I had this sort of spurt where everything I read or watched was about paralysis--emotional paralysis. This inability to take action or move forward. That's what I was thinking about at the time, working through. Clerks, Judge on Trial, Hamlet. All kinds of things. But it wasn't on purpose, it wasn't like any of these professed to be about this theme. So either I was just drawn to them-- subconsciously snapping pieces together. Or, I was finding the themes there myself.

I have always said that the artist's intention doesn't matter. That once a piece of art is let out into the world, it becomes owned by anyone who sees it, hears it, reads it, feels moved by it. We regularly find themes and ideas that the author never dreamed of, because those themes are within ourselves.

When I ate lunch with Jack Gantos, I talked about how each of his stories in Jack on the Tracks is really about Jack deciding what kind of person he wants to be. That there is always this internal conflict along with the external conflict. And then it all kind of comes together, coalesces, in the last story, my favorite, Beauty and Order. Buddha pieces snapping together. It was so obvious to me, I was certain it was intentional. But it had never crossed the author's mind at all. So was he subconsciously snapping pieces together, or was I? Does it matter?

But I love this idea that every new experience we have is like living one tiny, entire life, in our quest for wholeness and enlightenment. Depending on how we do, what we make of it, it moves us forward, or backward, or we stay in the same place. There are some people who are moving backward more than forward. Some that get stuck, paralyzed in the same place. Some more forward relentlessly. But most of probably shift around between all three, hopefully always moving somehow forward, no matter how slowly. But I think that it is a long time before the outcome is determined, of you who you are, I mean. It isn't set for a very long time. Most of the time, it could go either way. I do think that the choices you make come to determine the person you are, over time, rather than the other way around.

When I think about the kind of person that I want to be, I want to be someone who, after you talked with me, walked away feeling good about yourself. I think I am a long way away from being that person, but that is who I want to be. I want to be a person who chooses to take risks in order to connect with people, who works to create a community, and who isn't afraid to be vulnerable. I think that I am much closer to this goal, although it still hurts a lot to reach out and not get so many people reaching back. I try not feel ashamed by this, or like it makes me an unlikeable person. I think that it's good that I try. I just feel like we can't all go around being cautious all the time about everything. I'm not going to give up that part of myself, that part that is trusting and open. I like that part. I think that is one of my puzzle pieces. A middle one, that connects a lot of the other ones together.

USO for Mexican Cowboys

In June, 2007, my best friend Jane turned 30. We decided to spend a week in Florida, staying in my parents' winter house. Their house is beautiful, and they let us use the car they leave there, so it was a luxury vacation at rock bottom prices.

We knew that there were certain things that we wanted to do while we were down there. Although we love to sing karaoke in private, we had only sung it in public once before, and that was on our last trip to Florida, at Maria's Mexican restaurant. So we knew that we wanted to go back there. And we also knew that we wanted to swim, and that we wanted to look for shark's teeth on a certain beach that is known as The Shark Tooth Capital of the World. Other than that, we didn't have too many goals.

Our trips to Maria's were amazing. The staff remembered us from our last visit in February, probably because we are their only non-latino clientele. The first night we went there, people were singing in both Spanish and English, and it was a good mix of people. We made many friends. My favorite was probably Sunny, who was an elderly biker, who also did carpentry work and gave us his business card. His tattoos were faded to green blobs, and his teeth were crooked and nicotine-stained. There was also Jaun Carlos, who introduced himself as Charlie, and Ingrid, who we rememebered from our last trip. There was also this fantastic group of gay latino men, these huge muscular guys who cheered and sang along when we did Back Street Boys and songs from Grease.

We decided to go back a second time on Saturday night, out of a certain sense of loyalty. On Saturday night, in addition to being the sole non-latinos, we were also the only women in the entire bar. Jane counted, and it was the two of us and 41 Mexican men. At first, while we were waiting for the karaoke to start, it was like being on display. None of the men would look at us directly, but all of them were completely aware of everything we were doing at all times, watching us from the corners of their eyes, or glancing at us, and then hurriedly looking away. I think a few dares were made, because eventually men started ambling over and sitting at our table, introducing themselves: Rueben, Felipe, Juan, amd about a dozen others.

Something interesting happened when we started singing, though. The men all forgot about hitting on us, and kind of got kind of into it. They really loved the harmonies we sang. Pretty soon, they were asking us to dance, and were teaching us traditional Mexican two-stepping to the old songs the others were singing. A few guys were out to cop a feel, but most were respectful, and I could almost feel their homesickness, as they heard old songs from their homes, and missed their families, and just wanted someone to dance with. These were cowboys, migrant farm workers, country people. Some spoke no English. Many couldn't read. They sang along to the Spanish songs, crying out with their eyes closed. A few of the older guys, around 60, held court, dressed all in black with cowboy hats and boots, bolo ties and beaded belts. One young guy loved dancing so much he couldn't stay still, but danced by himself near the stage, in shorts, cowboy hat, beater, and engineer boots. Most of the men didn't know the songs were were singing, but they cheered whenever it was our turn, sometimes wiping the tears from their eyes if we had done something slow and pretty. Soon, each time I came off the stage, I walked along the bar, and each man sitting there would hold out his hand to me and kiss me on the cheek.

I have a lot of feelings about the power and importance of communities of people coming together to sing. I've always found it transformative. It's something about the risk of singing in front of people, something about music, and how it transcends language, race, and class. But that particular night at Maria's was, for me, one of the most powerful. I remember the evening with great tenderness, and I feel grateful to the men at Maria's for making me feel beautiful, and for making me feel like I had a shining little light inside of me that could bring them joy.

RIP Vanetha and Skinkus the Dinkus

Growing up, we were the sort of family that were allowed to keep any pet we could catch. My mom loved all animals, and had a special place in her heart for reptiles, so we always had a tank of something or another in our kitchen or up in our rooms. My brother, Kris, was a masterful capturer or animals; he could catch anything. His biggest coup was capturing a skink, a notoriously fast little lizard, slender and black, with elegant racing stripes along its back.

Skinus the Dinkus lived a long and presumably happy life in a tank that he shared with a fence lizard Kris had caught. The fence lizard was named Vanetha, in honor of a Kris's crush, a girl who was on his swim team. Vanetha (the person) was an Indian girl, tall and solid and strong, with long black wavy hair that she was not allowed to cut, due to her Sikh upbringing. Whenever she put on her swim cap for a race, she had to coil her ponytail on top of her head, and then pull the white rubber cap over top, giving the top of her head a long, cone-like shape. Sometimes other kids would tease her, but she didn't really seem to mind, and it almost came to be more of an affectionate teasing. I'm not sure if she ever knew of my brother's feelings, and as far as I know, she never returned them. In any case, her parents were strict, and certainly wouldn't have encouraged even a friendship between the two children. Vanetha the lizard far outlived the duration of the crush, and my brother had soon moved on to Katie Best who, although less exotic, was decidly more available for his attentions.

Vanetha (the lizard) and Skinkus the Dinkus lived in harmony for several years, dining on mealworms together, and sharing a favorite stick. Their friendship soon blossomed into a surprise romance, as Vanetha eventually laid one small pearly-white egg in the corner of the tank. Although we eagerly awaited a new member of the family, the egg never hatched and Vanetha and Skinkus the Dinkus continued on as if nothing had happened. Although it is difficult to tell with lizards, the two appeared devoted to one another, and we imagined the great comfort that Skinkus the Dinkus provided during what was understandably a difficult time for Vanetha. This could certainly be the only explanation for how the two were able to move on with their lives so quickly after this loss.

The lizards lived together like this for a number of years, and eventually died within a few weeks of each other, at a time when my brother was particularly interested in Ancient Egypt. Skinkus the Dinkus was wrapped in several layers of tissue and placed with great ceremony in an empty cardboard Kleenex Boutiques box. Vanetha died later, and therefore reaped the benefit of my brother's increased knowledge. She was placed in a black plastic coffin-shaped watch box, her body gently laid atop a layer of cotton that had been soaked in rubbing alcohol. A second layer of alcohol-soaked cotton was put on top of her corpse, and the lid to the box was put on tightly, to keep out any air.

Kris had found a perfect burial tomb for the two companions. He had noticed a small metal door on the outside of the chimney, where ashes can be swept out from the fireplace. The iron door opened into a small chamber, perhaps no larger than one cubic foot. My brother had carefully swept out the ashes when he had placed Skinkus the Dinkus's coffin, and when Vanetha's body had been properly prepared, he swept the chamber again, and gently placed the two side by side, closing the door with a small scraping sound as the metal latch moved against the brick of the chimney.

Although I know this not to be true, I would like to think that the great love affair between Vanetha and Skinkus the Dinkus had given my brother comfort. Here, these two species of lizard, so different in appearance and background, had somehow managed to find love. Their lizard love might have taboo out in the wild, but here in the tank in my brother's bedroom, there had been a place where their forbidden love could flourish, like the place that Tony and Maria had longed for. A place for them. It was like the place that Wesley Snipes and Annabella Scioria could never find in Jungle Fever. Or maybe what the open range was like for those gay cowboys in Brokeback Mountain. A lizard place, where they could express their passion for one another without fear of judgement or condemnation. A place where even after death, their love could be honored, where they could remain eternally side by side, there among the sifting ashes.