Little Bright Light

Victorian Forfeits

2009-08-26T18:18:00.000-07:00

Victorians love to play parlor games, and when one loses a game, one pays some sort of forfeit. These "hilarious" forfeits are the driving force behind the games, as is explained in the forward of the "Ninety and Five Forfeits" from the book Evening Amusements, which was given as a Christmas gift from Mrs. J.P. Haller in 1889.

The forward explains:

The most enjoyable pleasure of an evening's entertainment, or nearly so, is "Crying the Forfeits," as it usually concludes the holiday evening's gambols. The previous portion of the evening, as respects the games, being generally looked upon as a means for the collection of this description of mirth and glee, or bearing about the same relation to the forfeits that a preliminary drama does to a pantomime.

Here are some of my favorites from the list:

15. To act the part of a dumb servant. The descriptions says, "...the gentleman then asks her...questions...How do you wash?...All these questions must be answered by the lady by dumb motions, which of course cause great laughter."

19. To lay your whole length on the floor, and after calling all the company round you, to say quite loud, "Here I lay, the length of a looby, the breadth of a booby, and three parts of a loggerhead."

30. To perform the deaf man. "The person on whom this temporary infirmity is imposed must stand out in the middle of the room, and to all that is said must answer, three times following, 'I am deaf; I can't hear.' The fourth time, however, the answer must be, 'I can hear.'"

33. Hobson's choice. "The debtor is blindfolded and seated on a chair. The operating holding a cork burnt at one end, asks him which end he will have rubbed to his face...he must put his finger on the end he selects, and trust to his luck as to whether his face is blackened or not. This is a gentleman's forfeit only."

38. The perform the parrot.

39. To act the mute.

40. To enact the Grecian statue.

41. To act the death of the King of Morocco.

Value

2009-08-04T13:51:00.001-07:00

I volunteered with a Hospice program shortly after graduating from college. I was connected with a family immediately after completing the training. My role was to help the oldest boy with his homework. He was nine. His younger brother was seven. Their little sister, the youngest in the family, was terminally ill.

I don't remember the name of the boy I tutored for over a year. I don't remember the parents' names, or the name of the younger boy either. I do remember the name of the little girl: Erin. When Erin was born, she was given only a few weeks to live. By the time I met her, she was almost four years old. Still the size of an infant, she could not see or hear or respond to most stimuli. She could not smile or stand on her own or roll over, and breathed only with the aid of equipment.

Erin's mother had gained over 100 points and developed diabetes as a result of the stress and of the sedentary lifestyle that caring for a terminally ill infant necessitates. With the type of equipment Erin needed, it was difficult to bring her places, and hiring a babysitter was out of the question. A Hospice nurse would come for several hours each day, and volunteers like me would arrive periodically to give the family a respite, too.

Shortly after Christmas, the older boy was showing me the family Christmas presents. "See," he said, showing me his new remote controlled car, "You can make it go around corners." As I praised his driving skills, I noticed a row of Barbies on one shelf, all in their original boxes.

"Whose are those?" I asked.

"Oh, those are Erin's. We give her presents every Christmas and birthday. Usually Barbies."

There is the family, carefully picking out Erin's Christmas Barbie. The trip to the toy store, the judicious examination of each sparkly dress before making the decision. The excitement on their faces as they slowly unwrap the package for Erin, holding it up to her half-closed eyes. "See? She's a ballerina. Like in Swan Lake! She's wearing little toe shoes."

One cold evening I arrived for my weekly visit, only to find that the mother had taken all three children out to have their pictures taken at Sears. Only the father was home. A tough, blue-collar guy, he hadn't said much the few times I had seen him. I knew that he was involved in the boys' sports, that he had worked at Safeway for years, and that he was good with his hands, having built a TV room addition onto the back of the house. We both apologized to one another for the miscommunication about the appointment. Then he invited me to have a seat in the shag-carpeted living room. Glass and china gleamed in the light from the Christmas tree that sat in the corner.

The sand-colored couch and the loveseat were set up in an L shape. We each sat, he on the smaller sofa, facing the sparkling tree. I could hear the TV in the background. "She wasn't always heavy, you know," he said suddenly. He walked across the room, picking up something from the shelf and handing it to me. He tapped a thin, blonde woman in the framed photo I was holding. The woman wore jeans and a white T-shirt. Her curly hair was pulled back into a ponytail, with puffy bangs brushing her forehead. She looked perky and fun. Someone who liked steamed crabs and beer, maybe, or going dancing with her girlfriends.

"It's been hard on us, her most of all. It's made her sad. Depressed, you know?" I murmured something and nodded, looking across the dim room. "She got real heavy," he continued. He sighed. "But you know, I still love her, as much as ever. She's still beautiful to me. It just makes me sad sometimes."

"Of course, of course," I said, uncertain of the polite response. My eyes roamed across the shelves to the other photos: a pretty blonde in a wedding dress, kissing her new husband's bristly moustache; two toddler boys holding Easter baskets; the family smiling in a formal portrait, the boys missing teeth, the mother holding a tiny, blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms.

"We heard about this home, once, a really great place, for kids like Erin. We decided it might be good for her. For us. We wouldn't worry so much." He looked down at his hands. "She has a real personality, you know. A strong will. We can tell when she's happy and when she's cranky. We know what she likes and doesn't like."

I laid the picture of the young blonde woman on the sofa beside me. My hands rested on my thighs.

Looking up, his eyes sought mine. "It's just that, when she was away, I couldn't stand it. I missed her. She's a part of our family. When she's not around I miss her."

When the Journey Began

2009-06-12T02:43:00.000-07:00

I wrote this on October 1, 2008, but forgot to post it. Tomorrow I leave for my new life in LA. I had decided to move out there last summer, sight unseen. This is from my first trip out there to make sure that I was making the right decision.

I am sitting in the LAX airport, waiting to board my plane back to Boston. I feel certain about some things after coming here, which is why I came here. So there’s a sense of accomplishment. One is that LA is the right place for me. I know that I will be happy here; I can feel it. I had lunch with an old college acquaintance yesterday, and once we sat down, he looked at me and said, “You love LA, don’t you. I can tell. You look really happy.” It suits me.
At the moment, I am looking to my right, at three women, all with short white hair. Two out of three of them have strong Texas accents, and all three of them are talking on their cell phones. The one with the strongest accent is the loudest. She is probably about 80 years old, short and stout. LA is just a place where she is changing planes to someplace else. She keeps scrolling down her contacts list on her phone, and calls one person after another. Over her green polka-dot blouse, she is wearing a safari vest. She is excited to be back, excited to tell about her trip.
For my trip to LA, I booked a little villa in Los Feliz; it’s basically a beautiful apartment with a door code that is programmed to my visit. It was in a perfect neighborhood, exactly where I want to live. I walked to the grocery store every day, cooked myself meals in the kitchen, and did laundry, listened to music and drank cocktails on the patio. Had people over, figured out how to get places, found an acupuncturist and got my nails done. Made it my home.
I thought a lot about what this trip was going to be for me. I knew I was going to get a feel for LA, and to start making connections. I was going to go alone, and then I wasn’t, and ultimately I went without any kind of plan or agenda at all. I had a few loose ideas of people I was going to see at different points, but it was mostly open time. I had to keep reminding myself to use this as an actual vacation and an opportunity to rest. This was my first vacation since I separated, and just being in a new environment with time to myself each day, warm weather, and sunshine was enough to focus on. I didn’t need to add to my sense of duty, which is already heavy enough most of the time. I tend to think of myself as a failure if I spend a day doing nothing.
Somehow, an agenda slowly formed itself and I had all kinds of interesting experiences, connecting with people I didn’t know well, and walking away feeling like I have friends here. Feeling like I was meeting good, good people out here.
I think I was really surprised by how different it felt to be in this new city. The whole pace of things, the way people carry themselves, it feels very different from Boston. People are friendly, and nobody is ever in a hurry. No sense of urgency, even on the roads. Sometimes I found myself sitting in the car, clapping my hands and saying, “Ok, this is business, people. Come on. Let’s make it happen,” as though my unseen speech and motivational clapping would somehow unconsciously inspire the other drivers to pick up the pace.
One highlight of my trip was going to a small stand-up show that a friend, Steve, was hosting. It was in a dark little club called The Room, in Santa Monica. One of the comics took the stage, kind of an angry guy whose jokes really weren’t funny, because the level of bitterness was way too present. For example, if the punchline of a joke is, “I’m glad you were molested,” I’m not quite sure I’m totally on board with that. But this guy went up, and he started his whole bit with “I tend to be seen as pretty negative, but if you don’t like my act, you’re perfectly free to move to some totalitarian country where there isn’t free speech,” and then suddenly this woman calls out, “Yeah, like America!” And then starts shouting out things like “AmeriKKKa,” and stuff like that, and the comic tells her to shut up, although I can’t remember if he called her a cunt right away, or whether that came a bit later. So he got into it with her, and she wouldn’t stop, and then the guy who was with her got involved, after the comic said things like, “I don’t care if your dad gave you herpes, or whatever your problem is,” and called her a stupid bitch and whatnot, and then the two people were yelling things back, sort of dumb and drunk things. However, they were pointing out the irony of the comic railing on about free speech, but then telling them to shut up. At first, it seemed like a bit, or part of an act, because the lines seemed so contrived. So everyone was sort of sitting and awkwardly looking back and forth between the comic and the hecklers, and wondering what would happen next. Eventually, the comic explained that this was not, in fact, a bit, but it was actually happening. Everyone felt surprised and at a loss of what to do. Eventually Steve and another of the show’s hosts decided to ask the hecklers to leave, since they wouldn’t stop, and the comic was starting to threaten to get involved physically, which also would have been interesting, some kind of brawl, or knifing, maybe. But they got hustled out with some protests, and then the guy tried to shake hands in an “all is forgiven” gesture with the comic, but he refused.
I think the difficult part is that I have very carefully told myself that I don’t want to spend the next nine months feeling that I’m not present in the life I am living now. I don’t want to feel like I’m in some kind of waiting room, or purgatory, just waiting to make it out west. I didn’t think that traveling to LA would make me feel like that, because I am actually happy in Boston. But that is how I ended up feeling, like I couldn’t wait to move out here, and really felt like I didn’t want to come back to Boston. In my mind, I am trying to think of the next possible time I can return to California. It felt sad to leave. I did a lot of sighing.

Confessions of a Mormon Missionary, Part 4: The Return

2009-03-03T17:20:00.000-08:00

After her mission, she returned to her family in Salt Lake, and ultimately decided to leave Utah and settle in Washington, DC.

After I returned home from my mission, I moved back into my parents' house and started in on my senior year of college. I stayed very involved with the Church, and went to the Temple there quite frequently. Through the Church I became good friends with a young man who had also been a missionary. One Sunday we were in the Celestial Room, which is a room that is symbolic of Heaven, and this man asked me to marry him. It was completely unexpected. The Celestial Room is supposed to be the most special, serene place on Earth, but upon his proposal, I felt nothing but ambiguity, uncertainty, and fear. I just did not feel comfortable. My brain works more slowly than my emotions, and I was so surprised, I think I must have said yes. I spent half an hour after the ceremony getting dressed, wondering, "What am I going to do?" And I felt in my heart that what I needed to tell him was that I wasn't ready, and I needed more time.

When I went back out, he was waiting for me, and he pulled out a ring, and I sort of lost my grip on reality for a minute. I saw the beautiful diamond and I saw his sweet eyes and I just couldn't say no. And so I said yes. I had been all prepared to say, "Let's wait on this, let's think about it," but when he pulled out the ring I thought, "Well, jeez, being engaged sounds like fun. Let's do it!" Because I thought, "Oh, this is happy, this is what I've wanted!" I mean it was hard in Utah to have your younger brother get married before you do. I can't say that I hadn't been jealous, because that's what you grew up wanting, your own husband and your own family. And here was my opportunity to achieve that.

Even though I had accepted the proposal, it was not free of doubts. I think it took about two months before I was able to break it off. I don't think I would have known for certain that it was wrong had I not said yes. I think sometimes you have to make a decision and go with it. I think, had I said no, I would have been left wondering. Looking back, I was glad that I made the commitment for that short period of time.

It was around this time that I really felt drawn to return to the East Coast. It took about a year until the timing was right, but I really felt that I needed to be there. I believed in my heart that I was capable of doing things and I believed in my heart that there was something wonderful out there waiting for me. I think I also felt like I needed to be further away from my family, in some ways. I am still, to this day, treated as a child with limitations by my parents. I grew up in a household that it was best to play it safe and not try for things. If there was a chance you could fail, then don't even try at all, because the hurt you would feel if you didn't make it would be worse than if you hadn't tried. And so I grew up with a lot of inhibitions.

Moving back to DC and living on my own for the first time, I mean really on my own without the rules and structure of a mission, it was like a whole new world opened up. To try and promote myself, to go out and get jobs at places that my name wasn't known by anyone, and to apply for promotions and things like that, it really took a lot of courage and a lot of guts, because I hadn't had the experience or help in doing those sorts of things. And so I can't help but feel a little bit pleased with myself and those opportunities, even though not all of them worked out. But some of them did, and it was wonderful.

I think I grew up with a tendency, because my hand was always held, to expect to be taken care of. When there wasn't anyone to do it anymore, it was a different feeling, and I think I kept wanting that hand-holding for a while. I remember one hideous snowstorm morning in Washington where I'd spend the night at the house of a girlfriend from work. I needed to get to work, but she didn't need to be in until a few hours after I did. She lived out in the middle of Virginia, and I remember that I had to take a bus to get to the metro to get into town, and I had no idea where I was going. It was a complete blizzard, and half of the city was shut down, yet I did it. It took me literally two-and-a-half hours of tramping through the snow and waiting at the bus stop and at the metro. I remember feeling like, "I did it!" I was happy to be able to tough it out and make it happen. And I just loved the little things like that, whether it was personal or work-related, because I had never had those kinds of experiences, where I was in control and really had to depend on myself like that.

It was hard, initially. Everything had been removed from me: my piano students, my job, my friends from school, my family. I was essentially alone and learning to provide for myself in a very expensive city, finding a place to live, really finding a place in my world. I felt really alone and discouraged, but even though I felt scared, I wasn't about to quit. I may be emotional and have my quirks, but underneath it I really feel that I have a decent amount of strength there that really helped me make it though the hard times. In addition, of course, to my faith in the Lord and being able to turn to Him.

I got to know the Church on another level, living in Washington. It was amazing to be in a congregation in Washington, DC, because it really was so much more diverse. It was very eclectic, and it was technically a singles ward, so there were all these people , mostly between 25 and 45, many with advanced degrees, who had just incredible intellect and things to offer. It was inspiring and invigorating, and, even though I wasn't perfectly living the gospel standards at that time in my life, I don't think I had ever felt more loved and more cared for by people of the Church. Coming from the head-planted-in-the-sand state, where you're judged and criticized for any possible misstep, I was really amazed. And as that happened and as I developed more friendships, my confidence grew, and I just really felt like it became my second home with my new friends and my new life. I felt like it was possible for me to be the person that I tried to be, growing up and on my mission, and with the same expectations, but in a completely different environment, and without having to change who I am. I sort of felt like I had really come home.

Confessions of a Mormon Missionary, Part 3: The Mission

2009-03-02T13:57:00.000-08:00

Newly finished with her training, she heads out on an 18-month mission.

Once I arrived on my mission, I was on a completely different schedule. You had to be up at 6:00 AM, and, of course, with some companions, they insisted on being up at 5:30! You'd have an hour of personal study, an hour of companion study. You had to be out the door, dressed, at 9:00 AM, on the streets proselytizing, teaching, working, whatever. And you would have one hour for lunch. Depending on the companion, you could come home, stay an hour. Otherwise, depending on the companion, you packed a lunch and you included your driving time to the park! And then you were right back at it. It was really rigid. The days were long, but at the same time, they went by really fast. You were always busy. I don't think I've ever worked as hard. You were grateful for bedtime. I didn't have insomnia on my mission at all.

The rules and the structure made it really easy to focus. Sometimes I would just get worn out and overwhelmed by it all, but it was impossible to lose focus. As a missionary, you were expected to baptize new members into the Church every month. There were minimum numbers of discussions that you were to teach, and so many hours spent tracting and so many hours spent studying, alone and with your companion. There were a certain number of scriptures to memorize. There was quota after quota. That was a struggle, because I just couldn't get into that. Every once in a while, I would think, "I just can't do this anymore," but only if I was feeling really down and depressed. You're in such a different state of mind. All you do is eat, sleep, drink, preach religion, and it's such a change of lifestyle.

Living the missionary lifestyle was a huge adjustment for me. I'm a little bit stubborn, and even though I was technically a "good girl," I still was a little bit of a nonconformist and liked to do things my own way and very much did not like being told what to do. It just so happened that my mission president was basically the strictest, most controlling man. He ran his mission field like a drill sergeant would, like an army. There were very rigid expectations and structures. There are standard mission rules world-wide, but in addition to that, mission presidents are able to add anything else that they feel is necessary. And not to be able to listen to music, classical music, that was my life...not to be able to listen to music was very hard. I'm very much a "spirit of the law" type of person, where the president was very much the "letter of the law." We clashed a lot.

There was one instance where my mother's boss was in Washington, DC, visiting with his daughter, and he wanted to come and visit me at the Visitors' Center. I had permission for that, that was no problem. Well, it worked out that he wasn't able to make it up there. He got in a time crunch and he called me and asked if I could come into DC with my companion and meet him, and he'd take us out to dinner. I couldn't go without permission, but the president was in meetings all day when I called, and so his assistant answered. Although I did have permission to see my mom's boss, I didn't have permission to go into DC, and if you went outside of your assigned area at all, which sometimes was quite small, you had to get permission from whomever above you. So I told the assistant that I had permission to see this guy and then I told him where I was going, as thought I had already been given permission. My companion and I drove to the metro, hopped into town, met him in Union Square, and had a wonderful time and a wonderful visit.

I was so afraid of getting into trouble, even though I had told the assistant where we were going. I didn't know exactly what the communication was, or how it was going to get back to the president. I was feeling so guilty that I basically blew it myself. The same assistant called me for another reason, and I assumed it was to chew me out because he had found out. He quickly realized something was up, and it just made me feel horrible. The president called me the next day and called me a liar and said, "I don't even know why you're out on a mission," just completely scolded me. I was devastated, absolutely heartbroken. He said, "Well, I hope you can go out and baptize some people!" Oh, it was so bad. That took weeks, maybe even months to get over, because I worked hard and really, for the most part, did what I was supposed to and enjoyed it very much. It's hard enough being in that environment and having to give up everything and having to be so perfect and to accomplish so much, and yet have an incident like that tear you down. We eventually made up and I ended up having a good relationship with the president, but it was not without struggles the whole way through. It was not easy.

THere were so many hundreds and hundreds of rules that it was just impossible to follow them all. So that was where being a "spirit of the law" kind of person really helped me. I remember the first few months of my mission, around Christmastime, my parents sent me and Andy Williams Christmas tape, which was my absolute favorite. We were forbidden to listen to music except on our preparation day. It was not my preparation day and I was just dying to listen to it. At that time my companion and I were living with a really sweet lady and I said something like, "Well, if you were to put this on and to turn it on, and if we were in the room, there's nothing I could really do about it!" So she put in the tape and I was just so happy.

Another time I had a companion that I just adored, and we were being transferred from one another and we were both really upset about it. We were supposed to be in our apartment and in bed by 9:30, but we just couldn't go to sleep. We were so upset and it was just a beautiful warm spring night, and so we just went out on a midnight walk. We just went for a walk in the middle of the night. We had a wonderful time.

You are with your companion, this same person, 24 hours a day, seven days a week, and oh, that was an experience. I'd never lived away from home. I'd never had college roommates or anything, and I was not quite prepared for that. Sometimes it was utter hell. I had three companions, all in the first half of my mission, that were horribly self-righteous and mean, critical and demeaning. They were the "letter of the law" type. My first companion wasn't so much that type, but she was just really tryping hard to be strict and obedient and set a good example because she was training me, and I was her last companion before she went home. The second one was like a drill sergeant, just a bitch. We clashed from the beginning and that was a horrible month. She would call the president and complain about me, and twice she dragged me up to his office. Looking back, I want to forget a lot of it. It was really hard. I prayed for transfers.

On companion I had was completely anorexic, and she would say how she loved being thin. This was at a point on my mission when I was at my heaviest, and she monitored everything I ate. She had all these mind tricks and mind games, and for someone like me, who doesn't think quickly on her feet, and is more emotional than rational, that was a really, really difficult time. I just really felt abandoned and forsaken by the Lord during that time. I felt like, "How can God even really be there if this is going on?" I just felt really disconnected from it. In a way, I was doubting, because I felt that the Lord wasn't helping me as much as He should.

After that time, I remember reading the Gospel Essentials Manual, which is what new members of the Church use in their Sunday school lessons. And I remember reading through the first lesson, and it was nothing more than that God lives and He loves us and He created this beautiful world. We're all brothers and sisters. And I just had this incredible sweet feeling of peace that He does, in fact, exist. And everything was OK>

I had other sources of help and support, too. After the incident with my mission president, when he called me a liar, he made me go to counseling, and it turned out great. And working in the Visitors' Center was helpful, too, because, if you didn't like your companion, you still could have affiliation with other friends, people who also worked in the Visitors' Center. That helped a lot, it was a break. It was hardest when you were out in the field 50 miles away from anyone. But there were always people that I felt drawn to or close to in the ward that were helpful and were nice. There were always people to connect with.

I really felt much closer to God as a result of my mission. It also ended up being an opportunity to really live the gospel and the Mormon lifestyle, which, it sounds silly, I didn't really think about when I decided to go on a mission. That wasn't my intent for going. My intent was that this was an opportunity to serve the Lord and to help people. I didn't go thinking, "This is really going to give me an incredible spiritual foundation," though that's what happened. It's weird, because when you grow up in a Mormon society, there's so much that you don't learn, that you take for granted. And much of what you're missing is really basic, the essence of the gospel. It really did give me a strong spiritual base, and I also felt much more confident in myself after I returned home to Salt Lake. And my mission is certainly what planted the seed for me to want to come back and settle on the East Coast.

Confessions of a Mormon Missionary: Part 2 MTC

2009-02-02T18:35:00.000-08:00

In this part, she describes her time at the Mission Training Center.

My brother and I went to the Mission Training Center together, and that was a wonderful experience. That's basically where the brainwashing begins! For whatever reason, good or bad, you certainly, as a missionary, are brainwashed. And it needs to be that way because you can't watch television, you can't watch the news, you can't read magazines or read newspapers or books. You could not call home with the exception of Mother's Day or Christmas. You could write letters home once a week. In the Mission Training Center is where you're instructed to teach missionary discussions. They're very structured and very set. They didn't want each missionary teaching their own variation, so there were great efforts made to keep things systematic and presentable in an organized way. Those that went on foreign-speaking missions were there for two months because they also learned a language. Those that served in English-speaking missions were there for two or three weeks.

Being at the Mission Training Center was hard, but it was also a party, because there were so many people. In addition to my brother, there were, at the time that I went, a lot of my girlfriends that also went on missions. There were so many connections and so many people that I knew that were friends. The Mission Training Center was really a party compared to the rest of my mission. I also had a sort of boyfriend at the time, and he would visit me at the MTC. He would sneak me diet coke, and bring me roses and sweet notes. I felt like a princess.

I don't think there was ever a time before or afterwards where women went on missions in that amount. Recently, women have been discouraged from going on missions again. The Church doesn't come right out and say it. I suspect that with the decline in family that we're seeing in society, with divorce rates being so high, I think that the Church more than ever is wanting its focus on family and motherhood. Before the time that I went, women only went on missions if they were old and not married or had no chance of marriage. It just wasn't common. But maybe about the two or three years when I went and about the two or three years after, that time was a really great opportunity to be a young woman and to be a missionary.

My brother left the Mission Training Center two days before I did, and oh, I bawled. I was a complete running faucet for about three days. But by the time I left, I think I had pulled it together, and I think I was excited. My boyfriend met me at the airport and kissed me goodbye a little bit extensively. My parents were having a fit and I was loving it!

Confessions of a Mormon Missionary: Part 1

2009-02-02T17:34:00.000-08:00

A few years ago, I interviewed a former Mormon missionary. I transcribed the tapes of our interviews, and then took it all apart and wove it back together so that it could be constructed in the form of a narrative, all told in her voice and in her own words. The interview process is mostly digging at first, because you don't really know what you are looking for. Eventually, you hone in on it and start to pick apart the thread of a story in all of it. Laborious, difficult work, but one of my favorite things to do. Here is the first part of her story.

Growing up in Salt Lake in my family was pretty sheltered. I grew up with parents that were very...not necessarily structured, but demanded obedience and what they expected was pretty much how it was. There wasn't a lot of undermining. It was a lifestyle, it was definitely a lifestyle. Sundays we did not go to movies, we did not go shopping. We went to church and we spent it with our families. We didn't drink alcohol in our family, we didn't watch R-rated movies. Monday nights were set aside for families to be together. And that was frequently a part of our growing up. We would always have family prayer and blessings on the food. Our family wasn't as diligent about daily scripture reading. In fact, we weren't diligent about that at all. Many, many families are and we did that on occasion, but that took a huge play.

Some of my friends were in the Mormon Church, some were not. My family didn't discourage friendships with those that weren't of the same religion, in contrast to what is frequently the case [in Salt Lake]. There were always at least a couple of friends that weren't Mormon, and yet their values and their lives always seemed equally sheltered and equally similar.

My parents set a really wonderful example. They had both grown up in homes that were not particularly active in the Church. In fact, not at all active by Utah standards. They both drank and smoked and, even though they had many other family members that were active, it wasn't until my sisters were older that my parents decided that they really wanted to live the Gospel. They quit smoking and they prepared to get re-married in the Temple. When you're married in the Temple it's called a Sealing. That's a ceremony that seals a husband and wife together with their children under the covenants of the Temple. Children that are born after that are born under the covenant as well. There's not any need to go back with each new child as it's born. In fact, children are not permitted in the Temple; it's something intended for adults.

The covenants and promises you make in the Temple are permanent. They're forever. You promise to keep the commandments that are outlined in the Church, but to a higher level. For example, if you were to have premarital sex after going through the Temple, the consequences are going to be much graver than if you had not gone through the Temple. The covenants are similar to those you would make at baptism: that of following Jesus Christ, taking his name upon you, things like that. They all have ot do with just honoring the Lord. However, in the Temple, it's a higher commitment and higher expectations are made at that time. So you want to make sure that when you go through, that you're truly ready and it's not something you're fence-sitting about. Once you make that commitment, you never go back.

I went to the Temple just within a week of leaving for my mission. Going on a mission was not something that I had planned on. Women have to be at least 21 before they go and I had turned 21 early in my junior year of college. I had thought about going, but it just didn't feel right and I put the thoughts aside, since as you grow older in Utah, the expectation is that you get married and produce children, more or less, and so I didn't think that I would go if I didn't go right when I turned 21.

The summer after my junior year, literally out of the blue, I just started having very strong impressions that a mission was what I needed to do. I had some very strong promptings for the Lord that led me to that decision and everything fell into place very quickly. Usually it's something that young adults will prepare for all of their lives or at least for years, and I really hadn't done that. It had never been more than a few passing thoughts. Then one night I was praying and hand thought about it. The next evening, I went and spoke to my bishop, and just had this overwhelming peace in speaking with him, and just in feeling the spirit of the Lord, that that was what I needed to do.

When I decided to go, it just felt so incredibly right, and things fell into place so quickly that I just never questioned the decision. It worked really quite smoothly in the scheme of things. And it was nice to have my senior year of college to look forward to upon coming back from my mission. That way I wasn't faced with, "Oh, what am I going to do now?" There was still this place waiting for me, the social circles in the scholastic area where I was. And so it was very comfortable to leave and then to come back.

My parents were beside themselves. My brother was preparing to leave for his mission, and he had actually been called to go to Chile. My parents had planned on that and his date was set within the next couple of months to leave for the Mission Training Center (MTC). They had not prepared, however, for me to leave. First of all, they thought that they were going to have me at home alone and were looking forward to that. We had gotten to a point in our relationship that we were finally friends, after having quite a few turbulent years. So they were sad that I would be leaving, but also, financially, it was a shock to them. At that time, there wasn't a fixed monthly rate to support a missionary, and each mission was different financially. Washington DC, where I was called to serve, was about $400 a month, as opposed to a little less than $200 a month for my brother in South America. I had not saved for my mission, I had not prepared, so it put them in a really difficult situation financially to support both my brother and me at the same time.

Turtle Stove

2009-02-02T17:20:00.001-08:00

I had a plastic oven shaped like a turtle. Green, like a turtle. Except that turtles aren't green. Green like we think a turtle ought to be. Green, because turtles are green animals. Things without feathers or fur are always red or green. Lobsters: red. Crabs: red. Snakes: green. Turtles: green. The oven wasn't a real oven, which is probably why it went so well with the turtle. Why bother to have a realistic oven, if you aren't even bothering with the realism of the turtle in whom you have implanted the oven? And why put those two things together? Who thought, "Hey, I know! We'll make a plastic turtle, and have it sort of squatting on his haunches, rearing up, because that's what turtles do. Then, inside the belly of the turtle, we'll put a fake oven!" But someone did. The turtle squatted on his hind legs, displaying his aproned bellly with the door inside opening cozily into a plastic, non-functional oven. His chef's hat sat at a jaunty angle on his round green head, encouraging me to cram pans of fake cookies into his midsection. I do not know why my parents bought this stove. It was useless and taught me nothing. Nothing about turtles, and nothing about cooking. 0 for 2. And yet, I loved it. Perhaps I loved it because my brother, who loved real turtles, also loved setting fire to things. And he had set a small fire in the belly of the green turtle oven. And turned it black. And imperfect. Like a real turtle.

For my Mother

2009-02-02T17:08:00.000-08:00

I wrote this about my mother a few years ago. Also unrevised. She asked me to type it up for her, but I think I forgot to do it until now.

My parents' room
Had an alcove
Where my mother kept
Her sewing machine

My mother does not love to sew
But she likes things the way she likes them
And so she sews
When she wants to make something
That she wants
But doesn't want
The way she found it

The sound of my childhood
Is peppered with the sporadic whirring
Of the sewing machine
Like spatters of machine-gun fire
Ratta-tat-tat!
A Halloween costume
Ratta-tat-tat!
A bedspread
Ratta-tat-tat!
Curtains for the living room

Christmas Eve
Feverish reports from the alcove
Tommy guns
Epic battle
World War II

On Christmas morning
I padded down the stairs
Under the tree
The new doll
And the clothes
She had sewed
At night

Memory of my Father

2009-02-02T17:07:00.000-08:00

A short one about my dad:

My father wore suits
Hundreds of suits
Dark blue
Grey
Conservative
Pin-striped suits

The First

2009-02-02T16:56:00.000-08:00

This is a rough draft of a poem I was working on a few years ago, and never revised. I may get around to it someday.

Heather was an old dog, a red dog
Who stole my name
Long before I was born
The dog who named me
Red like the cello I played
Red like the hair of a long-ago girl

Heather was an old dog, a red dog
Irish like my ancestors
Irish and long-lived like my ancestors
An old dog, and patient
Outlived the disease
That withered in her strong and loyal heart

Heather was an old dog, and patient
Patient like my grandmother
A patient dog, veiny tumor on her leg
Patient with the cautious poking
Of my cringing finger
Daring to touch her age and imperfection

Heather was an old dog, a red dog
Old, like my grandmother, our Irish ancestors
Red like our front door, a cello, like long-ago hair
An old dog, and patient
Loyal and dignified
That I celebrated, and garlanded with flowers

The Procedure

2009-01-26T17:16:00.000-08:00

At St. Elizabeth's I had to fill out some paperwork and sit in the waiting room for a bit. I felt embarrassed about my outfit, as though people thought that is what I had chosen to wear for my colonoscopy. The socks, particularly in combination with my strange, loafer-like slippers, were particularly unfortunate. I tried to strike up a conversation with the people around me, but it didn't go far. People who are about to get colonoscopies are not, as a general rule, interested in talking about them or in making new friends. A teenager was starting at me while I was reading, in a sort of challenging or interested way. I looked back and he had on an iPod and had a white tube coming out of his nose that seemed attached to the iPod somehow. I was so confused by this that I looked away hurriedly. Then I felt bad that I had somehow dehumanized him by looking away, so I was super-friendly to his mother, like that somehow proved something. I tried to bring the conversation around to medical issues, in the hopes that one of them would bring up the Nose iPod and explain what it was. They did not take the bait.

The nurses finally called me well after my 8:30 appointment time, and I had to go into the bathroom and change into two hospital johnnies, one open in front, and the other put over it, and open in back. While I was changing, I noticed that I still had all of the EKG nipple stickers all over my chest and peeled them off, leaving little circled outlines spotted about my torso. I got to keep on my Faulkner Hospital socks, but they cut of my Faulkner Hospital bracelet and replaced it with a St. Elizabeth's bracelet, which I found slightly disappointing. All of my stuff was placed on a chair and I hung up my coat in the waiting room. Then I had to lie down on a gurney and the nurses got me all settled in with blankets and things and put up the little fences on either side of the gurney so I wouldn't roll around and fall out of bed while they were pushing me. In case they had to make a quick, sharp turn or whatever.

The room was full of people in gurneys, in various stages of prep or recovery, like a factory of colonoscopies. I liked pretending that we were sort of like a Chinese orphanage, only filled with aging Americans with bowel problems. While I was waiting for the nurses, I had fun imagining what kind of family would pick me to come and live with them, clasping their hands to their chests as they leaned over me, sighing with pleasure at my adorable IV bruises and sunken belly.

Soon another nurse came over and took my blood pressure. She was surprised it was still so low, and was very sympathetic about my sad ER tale. She put the IV in my right arm, since my Faulkner IV arm was so badly bruised. She fussed around and did some other things and tucked the blanket around my feet. Then she left and I was lying there a bit, enjoying the delicious, life-giving fluids of the IV. Then a different nurse came and wheeled me away. She brought me to the room where the procedure was going to take place, and she asked me my name and birthdate, and why I was there, to make sure that I was the right person in the right place.

The little room I was in had some large machines and a different nurse. She asked me the same questions. She took my blood pressure, too and expressed further surprise at how low it was even after more than two full IV bags. She was friendly and warm, like all of the other nurses. Then my doctor came in. She was concerned about my ER visit, expressed sorrow over it, and assured me that it was not meant to happen. I clearly knew this, but I still felt reassured. She asked me the same questions the nurses had asked me, and as she was talking, she put on this yellow plastic smock and other kinds of protective gear, including a clear plastic catcher's mask-looking thing that made her voice sound muffled and hollow. At made me imagine a lot of violent spraying and squirting, but then I decided that it was just a precaution, as there didn't seem to be any stains anywhere, and it wasn't like the whole room was covered in porcelain tile or anything.

My doctor injected meds into my IV and told me I would start to feel woozy. She then asked me some questions, and I remember trying very hard to concentrate on the answers, and feeling a bit resentful that she was insisting on carrying on a conversation with me when she knew I was clearly losing consciousness. I felt dizzy and my eyes couldn't focus properly and I watched her fiddling with something on a large machine as I tried to answer. I wonder now how incoherent my responses were, and if they made any sense at all.

I remember almost waking up at one point, and not wanting the delicious sleepiness to be over. I thought, "Surely they've only done one of the two procedures. I don't want to wake up yet." I was all curled up and relaxed when I woke up in the recovery area. I didn't want to get up, but I had to pee. I remember the nurses were standing right there, but I couldn't seem to get their attention. I felt like I was calling loudly, "Hello? Excuse me? Help? I need to pee," but apparently I wasn't. Finally I did manage to call loudly enough to get their attention and I barely remember stumbling into the bathroom with my IV and peeing. On my way out I peeked into the trash can to see if my nipple stickers were still there. Outside the bathroom I saw Dien, who had come to pick me up. I greeted him warmly, but the nurses said I wasn't ready to go yet and they put me back to bed.

At one point I remember lying there and wanting to fart, but being afraid I would poop the bed. Then I remember not caring and just doing it anyway. I felt very pleased and relaxed to be farting at last and no longer pooping. Later I had to pee again and the nurses were all annoyed with me, saying, "But you just went!" like I could help it. I think I might have given them a little attitude, and said, "Well, sorry, but I have to go again." I wanted to go back to sleep after, but I think they determined that I was ready to go and had me stay sitting up. They brought me some cranberry juice, and when I had finished it, they unhooked me from the IV and helped me put on my slippers. I remember felt sad that I didn't get to finish the IV bag. My doctor came out to see me and talk to me about my results, but all I remember from the conversation was that she was kind of angry and frustrated, because I didn't have any of the diseases she had expected me to have. After that I put on my coat and the fleece Dien had brought for me to borrow, and padded out to the waiting room to find him.

I remember little of the car ride home, other than that I asked Dien to tell me about the time his mother put the cat in a trash bag in order to bring to the vet (it was fine) and about the haunted house he lived in in Hong Kong. Dien laughed long and loud when he remembered the cat story, and I laughed, too. Somehow, I was also able to give him directions, although sometimes I did it too slowly, so we had to keep making adjustments when I would tell him to take the turn he had just passed.

When I got home, I checked my email and started to do some work for school, then abruptly got up and crawled into bed, where I slept for three or four hours. I woke up to talk to my ex-husband, who called to tell me that when he plays the harmonica, our dog Lupe gets the blues and sings along. I told him about my adventures and misadventures of the past 24 hours, and he said that I could always call him if I needed a ride or help with anything. I felt appreciative, yet oddly guilty.

My landlord had picked up some food for me, and I got up to eat it around 5:30, my first solid food in 48 hours. Arielle, the other fifth-grade teacher called to tell me about some meeting at school she had attended, just as I was about to take my first bite. She wanted to talk for so long about this meeting and I could hardly bear it. I was drugged and starving and could not figure out why this woman wouldn't let me get off the phone.

A short time later I was playing Scrabble online, and felt that I had to fart, as I had been doing freely all day. I did, but instead, quite unexpectedly, I pooped my pants. Completely. Like a baby in a diaper. It felt like pudding. I stood up, hollering, "Aw, shit!" I was so angry about it. I waddled to the bathroom and had to sit, all soiled, on the toilet to finish. Then, naked and covered in my own excrement, I scampered past the uncurtained windows of the kitchen to throw my pants away, and hopped straight into the shower.

Immediately after my shower, I anticipated soon needing the toilet again, so, still nude, I put on rubber gloves and scrubbed both the toilet and the bathroom sink. This left me completely exhausted and I was ready to go to bed soon after.

The Preparation

2009-01-23T17:09:00.000-08:00

The morning of December 10 was my appointment for a colonoscopy/END. To prep for it, I had to fast all day Tuesday--only clear liquids. I followed this, and although I felt hungry and irritable, it went OK. Then, starting at 5:00 PM, I began my regimen of laxatives: 1 bottle magnesium citrate, 24 ounces of water. At 7:00 or so, I took 4 laxative tablets with more water. I started to shiver, so I made myself hot broth. At 9:00, I was still drinking water and broth and was pooping out water steadily, but I was still supposed to drink one more bottle of magnesium citrate. I didn't want to finish it, because I was already pooping so much, and it was all liquid, but I called my mom and asked her if I had to, and she said that I probably should. We Knudsons are raised to listen to doctors.

I felt very full and sick and was having a hard time forcing down any water, but I kept sipping water and juice until I had to stop at 11:30. I felt so full that I was convinced that water was actually filling up my esophagus. (It probably wasn't.) I was still pooping out water every 20 minutes or so. Squirty! I went to sleep around midnight, totally exhausted, but getting up to poop throughout the night.

Around 3:30 or 4:00 AM, I woke up feeling very, very ill. It was drenched in sweat, panting, and felt like I was going to vomit. I also felt light-headed, like I was going in and out of consciousness. I tried to tell myself that I just had to hold out until 7:00 AM, when Josh would pick me up and take me to my appointment. I could ignore the pain and extreme nausea and discomfort, sleep outside the covers so I would stop sweating. However, I quickly realized that this was not normal and that something was wrong. I had gotten up to poop, and was so lightheaded that I had to crawl and rest on the way back to bed.

Lying in bed, I called 911, because I knew I needed a hospital, and there was no way I could drive myself. I was initially incoherent and confused when the dispatcher came on the line. I didn't understand the questions she asked me, and at one point she even asked me how old I was and if I had called by mistake. I was panting and I kept apologizing. I was finally able to articulate my problem and she put me on the phone with someone else, a man.

During this time, I realized that I had to poop again, and stumbled into the bathroom. I was so slick with cold sweat that I was sliding all over the toilet seat. I hadn't peed for hours, and I had been pooping water constantly. At one point, I remember the man asking me if I was sitting down and I said, "Yes, I am sitting on the toilet." For some reason, he chose that time to tell me that he would send an ambulance.

Suddenly, I opened my eyes and woke up. I remember having heard a loud cracking or crashing sound. I knew I was lying on my back on the floor, but didn't know where. I thought maybe I had decided to rest on the bathroom floor, but I realized that I was actually in the dining room. I had no memory of how I had gotten there, and the back of my head was hurting from where it had hit the ground. I do remember that when I heard that sound, I thought, "Oh, I must have dropped the phone." I lay there for a while, feeling pleasantly cool and relaxed and thinking maybe I could just stay there, resting on the wooden floor of the dining room. However, this only lasted for a few moments, and then the feeling of faintness returned, and I rolled around on the floor, feeling weak and very ill, panting and clammy. I reached for the phone, which was on the ground beside me, and called Eddie, leaving him some kind of awful message. It went something like, "I passed out. I'm on the dining room floor. An ambulance is on its way." Not at all terrifying. Then I saw red lights flashing outside and knew it was the ambulance. I got myself together enough to find my purse and some slippers, which was a supreme effort. I remember feeling very worried about my insurance card, wanting to make sure I had it. I was less worried about proper clothing beyond my thin pajama pants and sweat-soaked T shirt. They seemed fine, and besides, it was much to far to walk all the way back to the bedroom to find proper clothes and shoes.

I walked to the door and met the EMTs, both women. They refused to come inside, because of the dog. Just as I was about to leave, I realized that I had to poop again, and ran inside, begging them to wait while I went. They seemed annoyed, both by the dog and by the fact that I could walk. It was like it was some kind of rip-off that I called 911 for myself. If I wasn't dying, them I should damn well be driving myself to the hospital. When I explained that I couldn't drive (because I was worried I would pass out behind the wheel), they thought I was a child and asked me where my parents were, and how old I was. It took me a long time to remember, and I finally answered, "thirty.......four." It was difficult. The EMTs made me get my coat, even though it was at least ten miles from the door of my apartment to where my coat was hanging in the dining room, but they refused to help me, for fear of the dog, so I hobbled back, scrabbling at my coat with one hand and holding on to the furniture with the other. I told the EMTs that I was afraid that I would poop my pants in the ambulance, and asked them to tell me it was OK if I did. They didn't.

Because I had told the EMTs that I had hit my head when I had fainted, I had to be put on an orange backboard, all strapped and taped with a neck brace. I tried to tell them I was just dehydrated, but they said it was standard procedure. The backboard was very cold and hard, and I was shivering. At every bump in the road, I slammed up and down against the board. The women asked me to tell them what happened and I was so confused that I couldn't remember. I didn't know when I called 911, or why I had brought my phone to the bathroom with me. They were asking me questions the whole time, like were there children in the house, did I have a roommate, and how old I was. I asked if the ambulance could take me to St. Elizabeth's and they said they had to take me to the closest hospital, Faulkner. They kept me talking about my dog and different things and wouldn't let me rest. Probably in case I had some sort of concussion, which I didn't. I kept trying to give them my insurance card, and asking them to give me an IV on the ambulance. I do not think they liked me very much.

When we got the hospital, I opened my eyes and saw the ceiling as I was being wheeled in. I heard people talking about me as I was being pushed. Their voices seemed very loud, but echoey or muffled somehow. I was brought to a little cubicle, where it was much quieter.

People came to ask me questions, registering me and taking my insurance at last. The nurse put an IV in my arm and also took some blood. I'm not sure what they were testing with the blood. I started to feel better once the IV fluids started going in, and I could remember the sequence of events more clearly. I got all excited that I could sequence the events now, and wanted to tell the nurse properly what had happened. At this point, clearly, no one was interested.

I was shivering and my teeth were chattering, but no one offered me an extra blanket and I was afraid to ask. The liquid from the IV is room temperature, and it felt cold in my arm. I was given a pair of fuzzy blue socks with rubber on the bottom so I wouldn't slip on the floor. People came periodically to check my blood pressure and check my heart rate and stuff. They did some kind of EKG and stuck different kinds of things on my chest and other parts of my body, like my legs, to do different readings. The ones on my chest looked like nipples, but the ones on my legs were rectangular. Mostly the nurse did the readings, but there was a very kind doctor as well. I kept apologizing.

Sometimes the nurse seemed annoyed, and I wondered if I was annoying her, or if she was just tired. At some point they changed my IV bag, and she added a syringe of something to help with the nausea. I got good at slinging wires and tubes over my shoulder and dragging my IV with me as I padded to the bathroom to produce more diarrhea. At first it was just weird cloudy yellow stuff, almost like mucus, but eventually I started pooping out water again. I still wasn't peeing. I finally peed once, only once, and it felt like a triumph. I did not pee again.

The area I was in was mostly quiet. There was a big nurse's station surrounded by little cubicles where the patients were. It did not seem like there were many people, but I think that some were sleeping or just lying there quietly, like I was. Across from me, past the nurse's station, was a very old man with no teeth. He moaned plaintively on and off the whole time I was there. He did not speak English and this sometimes frustrated the nurses because I think they couldn't exactly tell what was wrong. The thing that was interesting about the old man was the way that he was moaning. There is an involuntary crying out from pain or distress, like the yelp I emitted during my first bikini wax. But this man's moans did not sound at all involuntary. They sounded more like a deliberate method of communicating his discomfort, like, "This hurts. I don't feel good. Do something." There was also an old woman who may have had a UTI.

I was there for several hours, just kind of lying there. I didn't sleep and I had nothing to read, but I wasn't really bored. I was content just to lie there and rest or look around. At one point I texted Eddie to reassure him, and I called to ask Scott to let Wesley out, and then I called Josh to ask him to pick me up at the hospital, instead of at my house.

They released me around 6:30, because they knew I had my appointment, so they just pointed the way to the waiting room and turned me loose. At first I accidentally walked into some private examination area, because the door to the waiting room had an eye chart on it, which didn't seem like the clearest way to indicate that this was the exit. I wandered out in my PJs, coat, slippers, and blue socks, feeling sheepish to be wearing this ensemble to my appointment. My diarrhea was back to yellow and small amounts, no more water. I waited on a bench outside for Josh, because the air was wet and warm, and I was afraid he would have difficulty finding me inside. It seemed odd to me that a woman in her coat and pajamas could just exit the hospital, no questions asked, but it worked out well for me, because I had somewhere to be. People needed to look at my spotless colon, and I could not be late for that.

Hands Again-Chicago, 2006

2008-10-26T20:00:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-26T19:52:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-07T19:00:00.001-07:00

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

2008-10-07T18:55:00.001-07:00

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

2008-10-07T16:49:00.000-07:00

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.

It’s kind of like planning a special party every month...

2008-08-22T20:12:00.000-07:00

The following conversation occurred at snack last year. To protect the identities of those involved, I will use the nicknames they selected for themselves.

Combustion Man: When were you born?

Me: 1974.

Combustion Man: So, that would make you...33, right?

Me: Yes, my birthday is in January, so I will soon be 34.

Combustion Man: That's useful information. When were you married?

Me: Leap Day, 2004.

Combustion Man: Any kids?

Me: No.

Combustion Man: Do you want kids?

Me: Someday.

Combustion Man: Are ya pregnant?

Me: Nope.

Combustion Man: Don't you want to be?

Me: Well, it's not as easy as you think.

Combustion Man: Well, you could always have an abortion!

Me: I'm sorry? What? But Combustion Man, an abortion is when you don't want to be pregnant.

Combustion Man: Yeah, but I'm saying, you know, if you didn't want to be pregnant...that's a pretty good way not to be pregnant.

Sugar Pie: Abortion is cruel! It's evil! It kills babies!

Combustion Man: No, it's not! It's the best way not to be pregnant!

Me: Everybody has different opinions about it, and we are all free to have those opinions. But in any case, abortion is probably not the best way not to be pregnant. It's a surgical procedure, and I would imagine that most women would not want to go through that unless they had to. It's much easier just not to get pregnant in the first place, if you don't want to have a child.

Combustion: Yeah, just not have sex!

Me: Sure. But if people are married, they probably want to have sex...

J: Yeah, yeah. Married people get married so they can have intercourse.

Me: ...so they can use other methods, like there is a pill the woman can take.

Sugar Pie: Oh, yeah! Birth control pills! There's also that patch! (quoting commercial) I can put it on my back, I can put it on my arm, I can put it on my stomach...

Me: Mmm-hmm. There are also these little sticks you can put in your arm. That's what they did with the lions at the zoo.

Sugar Pie: Oh, yeah! I've heard of those!

Combustion Man: Or there's Tampax!

Me: Wait. No.

J: Tampax is for periods. And it's not Tampax, that's a brand name.

Me: Yes, like calling tissues Kleenex.

J: They're called tampons!

Sugar Pie: (snickering and whispering to the other boys) A period is when a girl wets her pants!

Me: No, no. A period is NOT when a girl wets her pants. And tampons are NOT a method of birth control.

Combustion Man: So, what is a period then? When dogs have periods they have to wear diapers.

Me: Well, instead of wearing diapers, women wear tampons or pads.

Sugar Pie: Well, what is a period? What comes out? Why do girls have them?

Me: Well, once a girl reaches puberty, her body has changed inside, and she could have a baby if she wanted to. So, every month, her body gets ready for a baby, just in case. Then, if she hasn't gotten pregnant at the end of the month, then her body has to get rid of all of the extra stuff, and starts all over again.

Boys: Why does her body have to get ready for a baby?

Me: In order to grow, a baby needs to have a special home, so the woman's body has to get the home ready, just in case. It's like if you were planning a party. You would need streamers, and cake, and special table cloths, and everything. But then if the party didn't happen, then you would need to throw all of that away. So every month, the woman's body gets ready for the party, but then if it doesn't happen, she has to get rid of all of the extra stuff. Otherwise, you know, it would all build up.

Sugar Pie: So what comes out, then?

Me: (not wanting to freak them out) Uh, tissue. Cells. Stuff that babies need to grow.

Sugar Pie: Yeah, but what is it, exactly? Is it like pee?

Me: No, it's not like pee.

Sugar Pie: So why do they need the tampons and dog diapers and stuff?

Me: Well, because it would be pretty messy and inconvenient to have stuff coming out when you're trying to work and do things. So, pads and tampons keep it from messing up your clothes.

Combustion Man: So, a period happens when a girl hits puberty?

Me: Mmm-hmm.

Combustion Man: Have you hit puberty, Mrs. F?

Me: Yes, I have. I'm a grown woman, so I hit puberty quite a while ago.

Combustion Man: So, do you have a period?

Me: Yes, Combustion Man. In fact, I have been having periods for about 18 years.

Combustion Man: You know, Mrs. F, I'm kind of coming into my puberty years myself. I've got a lot of puberty kind of stuff happening, here.

Me: I'll bet that's true. I know that you have grown a lot taller since last year.

Combustion Man: So, am I going to have, like, armpit hair and stuff, soon?

J: I want armpit hair so bad! That, and a moustache! (strokes upper lip) I can't wait to have armpit hair and a moustache.

The Art of Interpreting Swearing

2008-08-22T20:09:00.000-07:00

Alex, Alex, and Nathaniel were reading the dictionary in the hallway during our independent reading time. I went out there to check on them, and found them gleefully poring over the word, "fucus," which is, apparently, a type of seaweed. "Ha ha, fuck-us!" they crowed. But pretending, of course, that they weren't just trying to say "fuck" in front of me.

"Hang on, Nathaniel. Look at the pronunciation," I suggested, "It's actually pronounced 'fyoo-kus.'"

Nathaniel looked sheepish, but Alex wouldn't give up. "Fucus is a bad word, because it's two bad words together, the F-word, and the A-word."

"Alex, no it isn't. What are you talking about?"

"Yes, it is, it's the F-word, and A-S-S."

"Alex, do you not know how our English language works?" I was frustrated at this point. "The sounds are similar, but that doesn't mean that they are bad words. They are homophones."

Suddenly Alex began to list different curse words he knew, identifying them by their first letters: "I know that there are 3 S-words: the one that means poop, and then there's sex, but I know that's not really a a bad word, because you told me that it isn't, and then there's the other S-word that means to have sex with a prostitute."

The other Alex immediately grabbbed Alex, and wrestled him to the hallway floor, shouting, "Inappropriate! You can't say that to her, Alex, that's inappropriate!" I assured the boys that it was fine to ask me these kinds of questions, and then I asked a question of my own.

"Wait, what? Alex, what word means 'to have sex with a prostitute?' I don't know that word."

Alex looked uncomfortable. Finally, he mumbled, "Superman."

"Superman? I don't understand. That word does NOT mean 'to have sex with a prostitute.' There is no one verb that means that. Why do you think that?"

"I heard it in a song, and in the song it says, '...superman that 'ho.' I know that 'ho' means 'prostitute,'" Alex explained.

"Hmm...well, I can understand why you would think that, but I need to tell you that, as an adult and as a person who likes rap music, I don't think that you are understanding the lyrics correctly."

The boys were shocked, but intrigued, by my knowledge of rap music. I explained that the word 'ho' came from the word "whore," and that again, this wasn't a bad word, and in fact, we could find it in the Bible. I also explained that in hip hop music, the word 'ho' is used to describe many different types of women, not just prostitutes, just as we know that when we hear the word "bitch" in a hip-hop song, the singer is not talking about female dogs.

"But isn't that offensive to women?" Alex asked.

"Yes, it is," I answered.

Nathaniel becme distracted. "How much do prostitutes make?"

"Nathaniel, why are you so interested? This isn't a job that you would want for yourself or for someone you love. This is a job that women do because they have no other choices."

"Yeah, but how much do they make? Just ballpark. I mean, what do you think, Mrs. Fujita?"

"Nathaniel, I am not going to have this conversation with you."

"Do they make a lot, like hundreds of dollars?"

"Nathaniel, I am not going to have this conversation with you."

Alex chimed in: "Yeah, Nathaniel, that's not approriate! Prostitutes are gross!"

"Alex," I said softly, "I agree that this is not a job I would choose to have, or would want anyone I care about to have, but it's not fair to judge people or make them feel bad if this is the job that they have. Life is difficult and complicated, and, although we can all agree that this is not a job that would make us comfortable, I think we can also agree that we wouldn't want to make anyone feel bad if this were the job that they have. We don't know these people, or the kinds of choices they have had to make in life."

The boys got quiet. "Is it really that bad a job?" asked Nathaniel.

"I wouldn't know," I said after a minute. "I think it's probably a pretty dangerous one, and I think that most people who have the job wish they were doing something else instead."

"That's kind of sad," Alex said, "I think it's really mean that rap songs call women 'ho's."

"Yes," I answered., "A lot of women don't like that kind of music because they feel offended that rappers talk about them like that."

"I can understand why," the other Alex offered.

"Yeah." I nodded my head in agreement. "So, are you guys ready to come in from DEAR and read some folktales?"

The boys gathered up their dictionary and shuffled into the room.

Mr. Poon is Coming

2008-08-16T10:11:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-06T15:59:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-03T10:44:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-01T10:05:00.001-07:00

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

2008-08-01T10:04:00.001-07:00

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

2008-08-01T10:02:00.001-07:00

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

2008-08-01T10:01:00.001-07:00

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

2008-08-01T10:00:00.001-07:00

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

2008-08-01T09:58:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-01T09:57:00.001-07:00

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

2008-08-01T09:56:00.001-07:00

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

2008-08-01T09:55:00.000-07:00

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 magage 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

2008-08-01T09:54:00.001-07:00

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

2008-08-01T09:53:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-01T09:51:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-01T09:50:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-08-01T09:49:00.001-07:00

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

2008-08-01T09:46:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-01T09:44:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-01T09:43:00.001-07:00

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...

2008-08-01T09:42:00.001-07:00

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

2008-08-01T09:40:00.001-07:00

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

2008-08-01T09:38:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-01T09:37:00.000-07:00

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.

Taking Stock

2008-07-20T17:06:00.000-07:00

1. It's not worth the energy to try to change/convince/enlighten someone else. It's not going to happen.

2. I am allowed to "go through the motions" with parts of my life, and instead focus on my own growth and fulfillment outside of those parts.

3. Pleasing people and giving goodness are not the same things.

4. No matter what I do, no matter how loving or thoughtful I will try to be, there are always going to be people who won't like it, and they will make sure that someone hears about it. Because there is absolutely no way of avoiding that situation, (meaning , no matter what choice I make in any given situation, someone will always think it is the wrong one), it can't possibly be useful or important to pay much attention to that, or to take it personally.

5. I have overcome challenges before, and I will continue to overcome them throughout my life.

6. Nothing is ever as difficult as I think it is going to be.

7. It's time to stop feeling ashamed or embarrassed about my thoughts and feelings. I also don't need to feel ashamed when I do something with genuinely good intentions and it doesn't go well. Maybe I need to rethink something, or do it differently, but I don't need to feel ashamed for trying.

8. Just because someone doesn't like me, it doesn't make me unlikable. There will always by people who don't like me. Every person on Earth has people who don't like them.

9. Sometimes being different makes things harder, but that doesn't mean there is anything wrong with it.

10. I will never, ever be perfect, or have perfection in my life, so I should probably stop wasting time striving for it. Even if I were perfect, it wouldn't guarantee me perfect love, or it free me from disapproval.

11. I have a huge fear of disapproval, and I invest an enormous amount of energy into trying to avoid it, even though I know it is unavoidable. The same is obviously true of pain and death. But do I really want to live my life just trying to avoid unpleasant things? What a waste of a life.

12. This is the only life I am ever going to have.

13. Inspiration: "The whole world is a very narrow bridge and the main thing is not to fear at all." -Rabbi Nachman or Bratzlav

When I was in love with someone's hands

2008-07-15T10:51:00.000-07:00

I wrote this poem after a trip to Chicago in April, 2006.

The hands of my friend
Hover over his camera
Like hawks kettling over a small animal

The ripple of wrist and tendon
A deliberate caress
Of a heartbeat, a shadow
Of a second in my life
I have already discarded
And forgotten

This reclamation of my lost memories
Carelessly left
Half-formed expressions
At last made ancient and whole
Monuments to my inattention
Saved and constructed by his delicate hands

We live our lives greedily
Discarding each moment
As though confident
In the countless others
That will follow
But my loyal friend knows better

My friend's exquisite hands are never hungry
For anything beyond this moment
Beyond this story
Beyond this light, and this breath

All that we have lost is captured and kept safe
By his elegant hands

Witches

2008-07-15T10:49:00.000-07:00

I have this vision of creating a series of poems based on my family's stories. This poem comes from an old family story about when my grandmother and her sister were little girls.

We were witches, once.
We hid under our
Dining table cave and
Committed horrible, witchy acts.

Witches eat children
Everybody knows.
With scissors
We cut our baby dolls to
Pieces
Heaps of wide fleshy loops
In the empty pot
Like a soup made of band-aids
We imagined the cries of our babies
Of their mothers
As we cackled.

In the morning
We had
Nothing
To cradle.

New York Vignette

2008-07-14T16:08:00.001-07:00

I went to New York. "The City" as those assholes like to call it, like there's only one. I like to go down there because it wakes up this part of me that feels like it sleeps a lot of the time. I like the pigeon carcasses and the blistered feet and the yelling and the gray, predawn light as we are getting ready to go to sleep. Everybody's apartment is small and dirty; everyone has a fucked-up toilet or shower. I love to see what people are willing to sacrifice in order to live The Good Life of New York.

I sat next to this man at a bar on Bleecker Street. Handsome older guy, bald, thick New-York-Italian accent. It was five o'clock in the afternoon and he was shitfaced. Coral-pink shirt. In front of him, placed carefully in a row, was a gin and tonic, a cup of espresso, a glass of cognac, and his Blackberry. He welcomed me like an old friend, kept calling me baby. "Do you know who I am, baby? Do you know who I am? I have a lot of money, baby. Do you know who I am?" Faced me with a big smile. Passed his hand over his mouth. Smiled again, this time with his front tooth missing. Tooth in, tooth out. Showed me his Blackberry. "Do you know what this is?" I looked at him. "Yeah, it's a Blackberry." Asked me if I have one. I don't. He seemed disappointed in me, "Don't you know where we are right now? Do you know where we are? You need to get up on this high tech shit." My explanation that I don't need one was dissatisfying to him. He changed tactics: "How 'bout you give me a little kiss, baby? Huh? How 'bout a little kiss? No? Well, how 'bout just one on the cheek, then. Just one on the cheek, baby?" He rolled his eyes and muttered angrily under his breath when I refused. When I asked him, "If you were my husband, would you want me kissing strange men in bars?" he looked away, no longer hearing me. We sat side by side at the bar, not speaking or looking at each other. A few minutes later, I took a phone call. As I turned my head and began to speak, I felt a hand massage my thigh. "Inappropriate!" I scolded, turning my body away. The hand massaged my thigh again, creeping upward. Phone and drink in my hands, I slipped out of my seat and moved to a table, never looking at him again. About ten minutes later, he shouted angrily in Italian at my friend, Bill, and then left the bar.

Discovery of a Long-Lost Brother

2008-07-13T19:07:00.001-07:00

I almost never write about B, so I found this journal entry dated 7.25.04 and put it in here. This is where it all began.

I am in Utah. My parents came a day early so that we could have some family time. In a sense, it's nice to have the "whole" family together, at least what's traditionally the whole family. I felt a bit lost and alone, which is funny, because it's my family. But I sense the difference--no partner, no person on my team. And Kristine and Charlotte [my nieces] are so excited to see their grandparents that I feel sort of left in the dust.

At the moment I am hearing strange squeaking sounds. Are my brother and his wife having sex? Interesting. Well, it's stopped now, so if they were it didn't last very long.

Today when my parents came, they said they had something important to tell me and my brother. It was something life-changing, they said, but it didn't involve illness.

Yes, my brother and his wife were definitely having sex. I can hear them talking right now, and after the squeaking stopped, I heard my brother let out a big sigh. How awkward.

I was trying to figure out how my parents would be doing something life-changing, and whether it would be good or bad. My first guesses, all instantly rejected, were: moving or selling a house, getting divorced, changing religions or becoming vegetarian, or someone realizing s/he is gay. What else could it be?

My dad sat us down and had us read a series of emails, which essentially revealed that my dad has another son, or so we believe, that he didn't know about. The son was conceived with a girlfriend who my dad had briefly dated before he and my mom were exclusive, and who had moved away after a few months. I guess this woman called him at some point to say that she was pregnant, but then he didn't hear from her again. At the time, he wasn't sure that she really was pregnant at all, or if he was the father, or anything. She didn't contact him again or ask him for money or anything that he can remember, so I guess he figured she hadn't been pregnant, or maybe that she'd had an abortion. Apparently she hadn't. She had given her son up for adoption through Catholic Charities, and my dad's name is listed on the adoption certificate as the baby's father.

The son has met his birth mother and apparently has a good relationship with her. Now the son wants to meet my dad. His dad. The son is about 40 years old and he lives in Boston. We don't know his name or anything because his attorney is the one who contacted my father. The son could live in my neighborhood or I could have passed him on the street a hundred times. My mom and I are dying to know what he looks like and if he looks like Dad.

I wonder if my dad will cry when he meets his son. I wonder if it is really his son. I wonder if the son is a nice person. I hope he isn't trying to get something from my dad, or trying to trick him or hurt him in some way.

I can't believe that my father has an unacknowledged, illegitimate child. Just yesterday, Kris and I were sitting around wondering if either of our parents has ever had an affair. Also, I was recently saying that my dad should become a politician because he has not secret scandals or skeletons in his closet.

Portrait of a Dancer

2008-07-13T19:04:00.001-07:00

Velvet worked in a place called The Zodiac Lounge, and it looks probably exactly the way a person would imagine it. There were some bead curtains, and lots of wood paneling, and a dropped ceiling, painted black. A long, L-shaped stage with three poles along the edge, and mirrored wall behind. Formica-topped bar. Red leatherette chairs bordering the stage, and a few small tables. A couple of booths for lapdances, with a tall stool where the bouncer sat and supervised. Most of the girls working at the club were young, in college or college-aged, but Velvet was 36. She seemed to fancy herself a seasoned veteran, a mentor to the younger girls. The problem was that nobody liked her, and it was universally agreed that she was the worst dancer most of the patrons had ever seen.

Velvet had a large scar just under her left nipple, the result of a botched breast implant surgery. She had been born with breasts that were two different sizes: one size A and one size D. The surgery had been to correct the difference, years before. She wore magenta lipstick and you could always see the lip liner on the outside of her lips. Occasionally she had lipstick on her teeth. Velvet had eighties hair, sometimes dyed red, and sometimes dyed black. She thought she was really beautiful. She had black thigh-high boots, only flats, not with heels, that she had gotten from Goodwill. Sometimes she wore a bow-tie with a bra and bolero jacket. Velvet usually danced to "The W bands:" Warrant, Whitesnake, White Lion, Winger, and their close associates, Poison and Motley Crue. Sometimes she did what she referred to as her "beautiful, gorgeous veil show," which was really just her wearing a white bustier and g-string, with a piece of plain white net fabric that she would put over her face. She kind of kicked her feet out forward as she walked, almost like skipping. Her pale, sagging ass would jiggle a little as she did this. She wore elbow-length gloves sometimes, black ones, and she would do these rapid arm movements that looked like she was unwrapping a large present.

Velvet was in love with Mike, the bouncer, who happened to look exactly like Jon Bon Jovi, at the stage when he appeared in the movie Moonlight and Valentino. So it wasn't the totally long redneck hair, but it wasn't the short hair either. Velvet would give Mike longing looks as he walked by her. Mike found Velvet repellant, and the more she followed him around, the more disgusted he became with her. Sometimes Velvet would cook food for Mike and bring it into the club. He would thank her, and then throw it away when she wasn't looking.

Velvet was always talking about Mike in the dressing room. Sometimes she described her romantic wedding fantasy. She and Mike would get married, and she would be wearing a low-cut, puffy white dress and a veil. The song "The Love of a Lifetime," by Firehouse, would be their wedding song. After their wedding, they would lovingly and romantically... have sex in the back of the limousine. These were her words, "...and then we would fuck in the limousine." That was her one dream. It would be a white limousine, with a bottle of champagne in the back, and tinted windows.

In real life, Velvet lived in an apartment in Poughkeepsie with her mom, who was on disability. Velvet supported her mother and their 11 cats. It was a one-bedroom apartment, so Velvet slept on the couch. She fed all the stray cats in the neighborhood. She used to be a waitress in a diner, and she talked about a time she worked in the diner on Thanksgiving, and there was a snowstorm. It was a special memory for her, because that small group of people that were eating there alone that night, together in the diner and watching the snow fall, gave her a feeling of closeness, like a family.