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.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Israel: 6.27.08
It is my first day in Israel. It is interesting how a place can both meet your expectations and surprise you. The landscape looked how I expected it to look, but the feelings I have are what surprised me.
The buildup of the trip did a lot to lay the groundwork of a special experience. A long overnight flight to Rome that wasn't quite long enough to sleep, me in a middle seat surrounded by two strangers, and the person in front of me with her seat fully back so that I could barely move, much less reach my bag or use the tray table. I grew to hate her. All of this felt like something that had to be borne in order to reach this magical destination.
My Turkish seatmate was willing to befriend me, in spite of our political differences. (An awkward silence ensued when I revealed that I was headed to Israel.) I asked him many questions about Turkey, but his English was not great, so conversation was stilted. However, through various means of communication, involving both me and Keith, (who had traded seats with me for a bit), we discovered that our new friend from Turkey had never before left his country, but had traveled to the US to a work study program that was supposed to last six months. However, after two weeks he had decided that he couldn't take it and was returning to Turkey. Among some of the difficulties encountered here was that "food in colleges is very unkind, very unkind." To add an interesting twist, the work study program was apparently for some sort of carnival. Are there work-study carny programs?
We arrived in Rome at about 1:00 AM our time, but 8:00 AM Roman time. Now it was morning. I feel the Rome airport could have strived for more. Were I Leonardo da Vinci, I would not feel honored. Apparently, when in Rome, leave poop in or on any available toilet. It seemd almost like some kind of post-modern graffiti.
Unfortunate kosher meals were eaten. One woman saw Karen's meal and said, "Oh, kosher. Is that a special kidn of sauce?"
Arriving in Israel, landing on the plane, felt powerful. I teared up. It felt magical to arrive in a place I had invested so much time and thinking into. But what was interesting is that I did not feel connected, teh way I thought I would. I thought I would feel excited, like, "Oh, I am surrounded by my people!" In America, I feel connected to other Jews, because we are such a minority. It's almost like you can't help but seek one another out.
Interestingly, here I felt little connection to anyone. Everyone's Jewish, so it's no big deal. Plus, I felt like an outsider in many ways, because 1)I'm a foreigner who speaks almost no Hebrew 2)Ethnically, people do not share my background 3)I am not officially recognized as Jewish here because my conversion was not Orthodox. Not that Israelis know that, but it's more that I know, and feel somehow like an imposter, like it's not OK for me not to know a prayer or some part of Israeli or Jewish History. I feel like I somehow have to prove myself, even though I know it's just inside myself.
Our first stop was to Kabbalat Shabbat services in Haifa with the Leo Baeck community. Our flight was late, so we had to go straight to services, all sweaty and exhausted. I tried to take it all in, and really connect to the feeling of participating in Kabbalat Shabbat services in Israel, with Jews from al different parts of the world, all praying together. I had to keep repeating this to myself, though, because I kept nodding off. Especially when this old guy kept playing flute solos. The guy was awesome, for many reasons, including his cool drums, white gilligan hat, and general excitement level, but there was nothing I could do. I was simply too tired to appreciate him.
I was so tired after services, and felt they would never end. I almost killed one member of our group, because she wanted to keep asking questions, and all I wanted was a bed. My ankles were swollen and looked elderly. I saw an old woman at services with swollen, distorted ankles that seemed to hang over her feet like jowls. I felt terrified that I was looking into my future.
Finally, a shower, dinner, and a short walk. Everyone is walking together on Shabbat evening, enjoying a stroll in the evening breeze. Haifa is a port city, but it is also a mountain city, so it seems that no matter where you are standing, the views are stunning. It was wonderful to feel the night air, and to look down on the sparkling expanse of city, and the dark sea beyond.
The buildup of the trip did a lot to lay the groundwork of a special experience. A long overnight flight to Rome that wasn't quite long enough to sleep, me in a middle seat surrounded by two strangers, and the person in front of me with her seat fully back so that I could barely move, much less reach my bag or use the tray table. I grew to hate her. All of this felt like something that had to be borne in order to reach this magical destination.
My Turkish seatmate was willing to befriend me, in spite of our political differences. (An awkward silence ensued when I revealed that I was headed to Israel.) I asked him many questions about Turkey, but his English was not great, so conversation was stilted. However, through various means of communication, involving both me and Keith, (who had traded seats with me for a bit), we discovered that our new friend from Turkey had never before left his country, but had traveled to the US to a work study program that was supposed to last six months. However, after two weeks he had decided that he couldn't take it and was returning to Turkey. Among some of the difficulties encountered here was that "food in colleges is very unkind, very unkind." To add an interesting twist, the work study program was apparently for some sort of carnival. Are there work-study carny programs?
We arrived in Rome at about 1:00 AM our time, but 8:00 AM Roman time. Now it was morning. I feel the Rome airport could have strived for more. Were I Leonardo da Vinci, I would not feel honored. Apparently, when in Rome, leave poop in or on any available toilet. It seemd almost like some kind of post-modern graffiti.
Unfortunate kosher meals were eaten. One woman saw Karen's meal and said, "Oh, kosher. Is that a special kidn of sauce?"
Arriving in Israel, landing on the plane, felt powerful. I teared up. It felt magical to arrive in a place I had invested so much time and thinking into. But what was interesting is that I did not feel connected, teh way I thought I would. I thought I would feel excited, like, "Oh, I am surrounded by my people!" In America, I feel connected to other Jews, because we are such a minority. It's almost like you can't help but seek one another out.
Interestingly, here I felt little connection to anyone. Everyone's Jewish, so it's no big deal. Plus, I felt like an outsider in many ways, because 1)I'm a foreigner who speaks almost no Hebrew 2)Ethnically, people do not share my background 3)I am not officially recognized as Jewish here because my conversion was not Orthodox. Not that Israelis know that, but it's more that I know, and feel somehow like an imposter, like it's not OK for me not to know a prayer or some part of Israeli or Jewish History. I feel like I somehow have to prove myself, even though I know it's just inside myself.
Our first stop was to Kabbalat Shabbat services in Haifa with the Leo Baeck community. Our flight was late, so we had to go straight to services, all sweaty and exhausted. I tried to take it all in, and really connect to the feeling of participating in Kabbalat Shabbat services in Israel, with Jews from al different parts of the world, all praying together. I had to keep repeating this to myself, though, because I kept nodding off. Especially when this old guy kept playing flute solos. The guy was awesome, for many reasons, including his cool drums, white gilligan hat, and general excitement level, but there was nothing I could do. I was simply too tired to appreciate him.
I was so tired after services, and felt they would never end. I almost killed one member of our group, because she wanted to keep asking questions, and all I wanted was a bed. My ankles were swollen and looked elderly. I saw an old woman at services with swollen, distorted ankles that seemed to hang over her feet like jowls. I felt terrified that I was looking into my future.
Finally, a shower, dinner, and a short walk. Everyone is walking together on Shabbat evening, enjoying a stroll in the evening breeze. Haifa is a port city, but it is also a mountain city, so it seems that no matter where you are standing, the views are stunning. It was wonderful to feel the night air, and to look down on the sparkling expanse of city, and the dark sea beyond.
Still Working it Out
This is from a letter that I wrote to my friend Andrew this week:
So, basically, I feel like, hmmm..OK, so I think there are certain points in other animal's lives where these cracks, minute stretches and changes happen. Maybe when some crustacean has to do this final expansion to molt out of its old shell? Or maybe when a rattlesnake gets a new ring on its tail, or maybe when a sapling finally finds a window of light when an old tree falls, and has to spurt up with growth in order to fill the empty spot. Like that. But I think that people have those times, sometimes really recognizable, and we do recognize them, you know, transitions. Bar mitzvahs, first communions, weddings, babies being born, significant birthdays. Normal times of growth. Expected times. Like the ring on the rattlesnake's tail. But there are also those unexpected times, like the sapling in the forest, where opportunity creates this growth. But then there are also small crackings and changes happening all the time that start to build up, like what happens with a lobster or a crab, I mean it's not sudden, really. It just seems sudden, but it's really all of these tiny steps leading up to that final crack. And all of these things happen to us, all the time, and start to shape who we are. And if we don't notice them, then we have no decision power over how we are shaped. Because we are shaped by what happens to us, a lot, I think. So we are obligated to notice.
But, then, I also see life as a decision tree, see it that way in my head. But more fluid. Because I think, equally, that the choices we make, including the choices we make about how to feel or how to react what happens to us, I think that shapes us, too. Maybe more. So it's like every choice we are making shapes the person we become. Not in a big, paralyzing way, but more like, I don't know, an opportunity? Because I think we would have to go very, very far down one part of the tree before we would lose the opportunity to explore other parts. I mean, I don't know if I think it's ever a done deal. You would have to make the same kind of choices, over and over again, in order for that to happen.
I'm not really talking about life in terms of what kind of job you have, or where you live. That stuff doesn't really matter, I think. I think, when I'm talking about all of this stuff, it's about the kind of person you are, the kind of life you lead, like big L life. The extraordinary parts. What kind of parent you are, how you treat people. sense of fulfillment, the love you create, all that.
So there is all this thinking about life, and opportunities, and growing, and how sometimes you can feel the actual stretches and cracks. For me, mostly in my mind, it's like I feel it grow bigger to grasp some new idea, or I can almost feel another new wrinkle forming in the grey jelly. (Actually, it's more like tofu. I used to own a human brain, through a very strange set of circumstances). But then there is fitting all of this together with kind of putting together who you are in a way that makes sense. I think we all have some sense of who we are, the pieces, the contradictions. But I don't know that we have, or I least I don't know that I have, a big picture sense of how it all fits together. And I feel like it's really important to know that. Maybe it means everything to be able to know that. But it is probably something we won't know or can't know until we are very old. Because I think you need perspective. For example, I have a very strong sense of self. And although I am always striving, I really do like who I am, most of the time. I get why I crave perfection, I know how I work. I'm in this kind of comfortable, "Well, this is me," kind of part of my life. But I'm still so far from where I want to be, and I know there is a connection with the rest of the world that I am kind of getting involved in, but I'm not there yet. So I'm working on the big picture right now. Thinking about it. Figuring out which parts are pivotal, and which don't matter.
I see what you are saying, with your hobbies centering around crying, diapers, and blocks. So much of my life and energy is invested in loving and raising other people's children. We have to put them first. I understand why we have to. But even though our hearts don't always stay loving the same people, I do think they stay loving many of the same things and ideas, find fulfillment in ways that don't always change. So it seems sad to be giving those up, or always setting them aside. Biologically, it doesn't make sense for us to need these higher ideas. Is our evolution actually a means of subverting our true nature? Hmmm...and if that's true, then could that be true of other plants or animals?
So, basically, I feel like, hmmm..OK, so I think there are certain points in other animal's lives where these cracks, minute stretches and changes happen. Maybe when some crustacean has to do this final expansion to molt out of its old shell? Or maybe when a rattlesnake gets a new ring on its tail, or maybe when a sapling finally finds a window of light when an old tree falls, and has to spurt up with growth in order to fill the empty spot. Like that. But I think that people have those times, sometimes really recognizable, and we do recognize them, you know, transitions. Bar mitzvahs, first communions, weddings, babies being born, significant birthdays. Normal times of growth. Expected times. Like the ring on the rattlesnake's tail. But there are also those unexpected times, like the sapling in the forest, where opportunity creates this growth. But then there are also small crackings and changes happening all the time that start to build up, like what happens with a lobster or a crab, I mean it's not sudden, really. It just seems sudden, but it's really all of these tiny steps leading up to that final crack. And all of these things happen to us, all the time, and start to shape who we are. And if we don't notice them, then we have no decision power over how we are shaped. Because we are shaped by what happens to us, a lot, I think. So we are obligated to notice.
But, then, I also see life as a decision tree, see it that way in my head. But more fluid. Because I think, equally, that the choices we make, including the choices we make about how to feel or how to react what happens to us, I think that shapes us, too. Maybe more. So it's like every choice we are making shapes the person we become. Not in a big, paralyzing way, but more like, I don't know, an opportunity? Because I think we would have to go very, very far down one part of the tree before we would lose the opportunity to explore other parts. I mean, I don't know if I think it's ever a done deal. You would have to make the same kind of choices, over and over again, in order for that to happen.
I'm not really talking about life in terms of what kind of job you have, or where you live. That stuff doesn't really matter, I think. I think, when I'm talking about all of this stuff, it's about the kind of person you are, the kind of life you lead, like big L life. The extraordinary parts. What kind of parent you are, how you treat people. sense of fulfillment, the love you create, all that.
So there is all this thinking about life, and opportunities, and growing, and how sometimes you can feel the actual stretches and cracks. For me, mostly in my mind, it's like I feel it grow bigger to grasp some new idea, or I can almost feel another new wrinkle forming in the grey jelly. (Actually, it's more like tofu. I used to own a human brain, through a very strange set of circumstances). But then there is fitting all of this together with kind of putting together who you are in a way that makes sense. I think we all have some sense of who we are, the pieces, the contradictions. But I don't know that we have, or I least I don't know that I have, a big picture sense of how it all fits together. And I feel like it's really important to know that. Maybe it means everything to be able to know that. But it is probably something we won't know or can't know until we are very old. Because I think you need perspective. For example, I have a very strong sense of self. And although I am always striving, I really do like who I am, most of the time. I get why I crave perfection, I know how I work. I'm in this kind of comfortable, "Well, this is me," kind of part of my life. But I'm still so far from where I want to be, and I know there is a connection with the rest of the world that I am kind of getting involved in, but I'm not there yet. So I'm working on the big picture right now. Thinking about it. Figuring out which parts are pivotal, and which don't matter.
I see what you are saying, with your hobbies centering around crying, diapers, and blocks. So much of my life and energy is invested in loving and raising other people's children. We have to put them first. I understand why we have to. But even though our hearts don't always stay loving the same people, I do think they stay loving many of the same things and ideas, find fulfillment in ways that don't always change. So it seems sad to be giving those up, or always setting them aside. Biologically, it doesn't make sense for us to need these higher ideas. Is our evolution actually a means of subverting our true nature? Hmmm...and if that's true, then could that be true of other plants or animals?
But what if...
I was talking to one of my fifth graders yesterday about the theory from Criss Cross, and she was very interested in it. So we were talking about how all of these pieces of ourselves are kind of all there, somewhere in us, just waiting to be snapped together. And then she said, "But, do you think that maybe all of our pieces started out all together? Like when we were born?" Wow! She is clearly a genius. I love this idea. Maybe we are our Buddha selves when we are born, and when we are very old, and the rest of the time, we are striving to become what we were and what we hope to someday be again.
And then I started thinking about the idea of Tikkun Olam, how at one time the world was perfect, like a vase of light, I think is the midrash. But then it somehow got broken, and it is our job as Jews (and as beings of this planet) to find all of the scattered pieces of wholeness, and repair the world. And I love the saying that I associate with it: You are not obligated to complete the task; nor, are you free to abandon it. And then I also think about my favorite saying of all time, which is, God has no hands on Earth but our hands, which is the most inspiring and awe-producing thing I can even really think about, ever. Because it is probably most certainly true. (It makes me just want to run out and just, you know, get shit done, because God is counting on me! Quick! Animals aren't going to stop being endangered on their own, you know?)
So when I connect those two ideas, I came up with this theory: I think that the only people who really reach their whole selves, their Buddha selves, are people who spent their lives working to make the world whole again, in whatever way that is. I think of my friend, Yoko, who is in her seventies, and who spent her life helping the world in countless large and small ways, and I can't think of anyone else I know that seems as close to wholeness or goodness, who shows as much love and respect for all people. So, that is what I think. I think that it is only in working to restore the world that we can ever hope to restore our lost selves.
And then I started thinking about the idea of Tikkun Olam, how at one time the world was perfect, like a vase of light, I think is the midrash. But then it somehow got broken, and it is our job as Jews (and as beings of this planet) to find all of the scattered pieces of wholeness, and repair the world. And I love the saying that I associate with it: You are not obligated to complete the task; nor, are you free to abandon it. And then I also think about my favorite saying of all time, which is, God has no hands on Earth but our hands, which is the most inspiring and awe-producing thing I can even really think about, ever. Because it is probably most certainly true. (It makes me just want to run out and just, you know, get shit done, because God is counting on me! Quick! Animals aren't going to stop being endangered on their own, you know?)
So when I connect those two ideas, I came up with this theory: I think that the only people who really reach their whole selves, their Buddha selves, are people who spent their lives working to make the world whole again, in whatever way that is. I think of my friend, Yoko, who is in her seventies, and who spent her life helping the world in countless large and small ways, and I can't think of anyone else I know that seems as close to wholeness or goodness, who shows as much love and respect for all people. So, that is what I think. I think that it is only in working to restore the world that we can ever hope to restore our lost selves.
Buddha Puzzle Pieces
So this is a function of writing to think. To order my thoughts. I'm bursting with thinking, right now. I read this book yesterday, Criss Cross, by Lynne Rae Perkins. There was this particular part that I am still spending time thinking about:
It's a good thing to get out of your...surroundings. Because you find things out about yourself that you didn't know, or you forgot. And then you go back to your regular life and you're changed, you're a little bit different because you take those new things with you. Like a Hindu except all in one life: you sort of get reincarnated depending on what happened and what you figure out. And any one place can make you go forward, or backward, or neither, but gradually you find all your pieces, your important pieces, and they stay with you, so that you're your whole self no matter where you go. Your Buddha self.
So there's that. And along with that, there's this line that someone wrote, about what he learned from relationships, and it said, "Be calm, always." I think about that all the time. How I'm seeking that calm. Not in my life, because that would bore me. But in myself. I have all of these superficial ways of creating that calm, superficial, but they help. Creating an ordered space around me. That makes me feel calm. Reading and writing, too, are some of the only things that allow me to sit still. I am sure that yoga helps. But I have a hard time shutting my mind off, ever. So it's something that I'm striving for continuously, and I find myself thinking that sometimes, at difficult moments: Be calm, always. Like a meditation. Because I know that I am naturally restless and that's a part of me, and it's a productive, passionate part of me. But it isn't always productive. And it's only a part of me.
I think that right now, I have all of these puzzle pieces of my "Buddha self" floating around me. Different epiphanies and thoughts and big ideas and I'm trying to put them all together, or at least some of them. I don't even think I'm close to finding my Buddha self. I think it takes a lifetime. I think for me, part of that puzzle is being a mother, having children. If I never do that, I won't have that part of myself fit together, or figured out. Or I'll have to find it some other way. But I think that this is what I'm trying to do. Either waiting for the pieces to coalesce, or trying to do that actively, actively put them together.
I don't really know how active it can be, because you don't even really know what to snap together. I wouldn't even know how to try to draw a diagram, or what to label. So I think that you just have to let that happen. But I also remember in college, I had this sort of spurt where everything I read or watched was about paralysis--emotional paralysis. This inability to take action or move forward. That's what I was thinking about at the time, working through. Clerks, Judge on Trial, Hamlet. All kinds of things. But it wasn't on purpose, it wasn't like any of these professed to be about this theme. So either I was just drawn to them-- subconsciously snapping pieces together. Or, I was finding the themes there myself.
I have always said that the artist's intention doesn't matter. That once a piece of art is let out into the world, it becomes owned by anyone who sees it, hears it, reads it, feels moved by it. We regularly find themes and ideas that the author never dreamed of, because those themes are within ourselves.
When I ate lunch with Jack Gantos, I talked about how each of his stories in Jack on the Tracks is really about Jack deciding what kind of person he wants to be. That there is always this internal conflict along with the external conflict. And then it all kind of comes together, coalesces, in the last story, my favorite, Beauty and Order. Buddha pieces snapping together. It was so obvious to me, I was certain it was intentional. But it had never crossed the author's mind at all. So was he subconsciously snapping pieces together, or was I? Does it matter?
But I love this idea that every new experience we have is like living one tiny, entire life, in our quest for wholeness and enlightenment. Depending on how we do, what we make of it, it moves us forward, or backward, or we stay in the same place. There are some people who are moving backward more than forward. Some that get stuck, paralyzed in the same place. Some more forward relentlessly. But most of probably shift around between all three, hopefully always moving somehow forward, no matter how slowly. But I think that it is a long time before the outcome is determined, of you who you are, I mean. It isn't set for a very long time. Most of the time, it could go either way. I do think that the choices you make come to determine the person you are, over time, rather than the other way around.
When I think about the kind of person that I want to be, I want to be someone who, after you talked with me, walked away feeling good about yourself. I think I am a long way away from being that person, but that is who I want to be. I want to be a person who chooses to take risks in order to connect with people, who works to create a community, and who isn't afraid to be vulnerable. I think that I am much closer to this goal, although it still hurts a lot to reach out and not get so many people reaching back. I try not feel ashamed by this, or like it makes me an unlikeable person. I think that it's good that I try. I just feel like we can't all go around being cautious all the time about everything. I'm not going to give up that part of myself, that part that is trusting and open. I like that part. I think that is one of my puzzle pieces. A middle one, that connects a lot of the other ones together.
It's a good thing to get out of your...surroundings. Because you find things out about yourself that you didn't know, or you forgot. And then you go back to your regular life and you're changed, you're a little bit different because you take those new things with you. Like a Hindu except all in one life: you sort of get reincarnated depending on what happened and what you figure out. And any one place can make you go forward, or backward, or neither, but gradually you find all your pieces, your important pieces, and they stay with you, so that you're your whole self no matter where you go. Your Buddha self.
So there's that. And along with that, there's this line that someone wrote, about what he learned from relationships, and it said, "Be calm, always." I think about that all the time. How I'm seeking that calm. Not in my life, because that would bore me. But in myself. I have all of these superficial ways of creating that calm, superficial, but they help. Creating an ordered space around me. That makes me feel calm. Reading and writing, too, are some of the only things that allow me to sit still. I am sure that yoga helps. But I have a hard time shutting my mind off, ever. So it's something that I'm striving for continuously, and I find myself thinking that sometimes, at difficult moments: Be calm, always. Like a meditation. Because I know that I am naturally restless and that's a part of me, and it's a productive, passionate part of me. But it isn't always productive. And it's only a part of me.
I think that right now, I have all of these puzzle pieces of my "Buddha self" floating around me. Different epiphanies and thoughts and big ideas and I'm trying to put them all together, or at least some of them. I don't even think I'm close to finding my Buddha self. I think it takes a lifetime. I think for me, part of that puzzle is being a mother, having children. If I never do that, I won't have that part of myself fit together, or figured out. Or I'll have to find it some other way. But I think that this is what I'm trying to do. Either waiting for the pieces to coalesce, or trying to do that actively, actively put them together.
I don't really know how active it can be, because you don't even really know what to snap together. I wouldn't even know how to try to draw a diagram, or what to label. So I think that you just have to let that happen. But I also remember in college, I had this sort of spurt where everything I read or watched was about paralysis--emotional paralysis. This inability to take action or move forward. That's what I was thinking about at the time, working through. Clerks, Judge on Trial, Hamlet. All kinds of things. But it wasn't on purpose, it wasn't like any of these professed to be about this theme. So either I was just drawn to them-- subconsciously snapping pieces together. Or, I was finding the themes there myself.
I have always said that the artist's intention doesn't matter. That once a piece of art is let out into the world, it becomes owned by anyone who sees it, hears it, reads it, feels moved by it. We regularly find themes and ideas that the author never dreamed of, because those themes are within ourselves.
When I ate lunch with Jack Gantos, I talked about how each of his stories in Jack on the Tracks is really about Jack deciding what kind of person he wants to be. That there is always this internal conflict along with the external conflict. And then it all kind of comes together, coalesces, in the last story, my favorite, Beauty and Order. Buddha pieces snapping together. It was so obvious to me, I was certain it was intentional. But it had never crossed the author's mind at all. So was he subconsciously snapping pieces together, or was I? Does it matter?
But I love this idea that every new experience we have is like living one tiny, entire life, in our quest for wholeness and enlightenment. Depending on how we do, what we make of it, it moves us forward, or backward, or we stay in the same place. There are some people who are moving backward more than forward. Some that get stuck, paralyzed in the same place. Some more forward relentlessly. But most of probably shift around between all three, hopefully always moving somehow forward, no matter how slowly. But I think that it is a long time before the outcome is determined, of you who you are, I mean. It isn't set for a very long time. Most of the time, it could go either way. I do think that the choices you make come to determine the person you are, over time, rather than the other way around.
When I think about the kind of person that I want to be, I want to be someone who, after you talked with me, walked away feeling good about yourself. I think I am a long way away from being that person, but that is who I want to be. I want to be a person who chooses to take risks in order to connect with people, who works to create a community, and who isn't afraid to be vulnerable. I think that I am much closer to this goal, although it still hurts a lot to reach out and not get so many people reaching back. I try not feel ashamed by this, or like it makes me an unlikeable person. I think that it's good that I try. I just feel like we can't all go around being cautious all the time about everything. I'm not going to give up that part of myself, that part that is trusting and open. I like that part. I think that is one of my puzzle pieces. A middle one, that connects a lot of the other ones together.
USO for Mexican Cowboys
In June, 2007, my best friend Jane turned 30. We decided to spend a week in Florida, staying in my parents' winter house. Their house is beautiful, and they let us use the car they leave there, so it was a luxury vacation at rock bottom prices.
We knew that there were certain things that we wanted to do while we were down there. Although we love to sing karaoke in private, we had only sung it in public once before, and that was on our last trip to Florida, at Maria's Mexican restaurant. So we knew that we wanted to go back there. And we also knew that we wanted to swim, and that we wanted to look for shark's teeth on a certain beach that is known as The Shark Tooth Capital of the World. Other than that, we didn't have too many goals.
Our trips to Maria's were amazing. The staff remembered us from our last visit in February, probably because we are their only non-latino clientele. The first night we went there, people were singing in both Spanish and English, and it was a good mix of people. We made many friends. My favorite was probably Sunny, who was an elderly biker, who also did carpentry work and gave us his business card. His tattoos were faded to green blobs, and his teeth were crooked and nicotine-stained. There was also Jaun Carlos, who introduced himself as Charlie, and Ingrid, who we rememebered from our last trip. There was also this fantastic group of gay latino men, these huge muscular guys who cheered and sang along when we did Back Street Boys and songs from Grease.
We decided to go back a second time on Saturday night, out of a certain sense of loyalty. On Saturday night, in addition to being the sole non-latinos, we were also the only women in the entire bar. Jane counted, and it was the two of us and 41 Mexican men. At first, while we were waiting for the karaoke to start, it was like being on display. None of the men would look at us directly, but all of them were completely aware of everything we were doing at all times, watching us from the corners of their eyes, or glancing at us, and then hurriedly looking away. I think a few dares were made, because eventually men started ambling over and sitting at our table, introducing themselves: Rueben, Felipe, Juan, amd about a dozen others.
Something interesting happened when we started singing, though. The men all forgot about hitting on us, and kind of got kind of into it. They really loved the harmonies we sang. Pretty soon, they were asking us to dance, and were teaching us traditional Mexican two-stepping to the old songs the others were singing. A few guys were out to cop a feel, but most were respectful, and I could almost feel their homesickness, as they heard old songs from their homes, and missed their families, and just wanted someone to dance with. These were cowboys, migrant farm workers, country people. Some spoke no English. Many couldn't read. They sang along to the Spanish songs, crying out with their eyes closed. A few of the older guys, around 60, held court, dressed all in black with cowboy hats and boots, bolo ties and beaded belts. One young guy loved dancing so much he couldn't stay still, but danced by himself near the stage, in shorts, cowboy hat, beater, and engineer boots. Most of the men didn't know the songs were were singing, but they cheered whenever it was our turn, sometimes wiping the tears from their eyes if we had done something slow and pretty. Soon, each time I came off the stage, I walked along the bar, and each man sitting there would hold out his hand to me and kiss me on the cheek.
I have a lot of feelings about the power and importance of communities of people coming together to sing. I've always found it transformative. It's something about the risk of singing in front of people, something about music, and how it transcends language, race, and class. But that particular night at Maria's was, for me, one of the most powerful. I remember the evening with great tenderness, and I feel grateful to the men at Maria's for making me feel beautiful, and for making me feel like I had a shining little light inside of me that could bring them joy.
We knew that there were certain things that we wanted to do while we were down there. Although we love to sing karaoke in private, we had only sung it in public once before, and that was on our last trip to Florida, at Maria's Mexican restaurant. So we knew that we wanted to go back there. And we also knew that we wanted to swim, and that we wanted to look for shark's teeth on a certain beach that is known as The Shark Tooth Capital of the World. Other than that, we didn't have too many goals.
Our trips to Maria's were amazing. The staff remembered us from our last visit in February, probably because we are their only non-latino clientele. The first night we went there, people were singing in both Spanish and English, and it was a good mix of people. We made many friends. My favorite was probably Sunny, who was an elderly biker, who also did carpentry work and gave us his business card. His tattoos were faded to green blobs, and his teeth were crooked and nicotine-stained. There was also Jaun Carlos, who introduced himself as Charlie, and Ingrid, who we rememebered from our last trip. There was also this fantastic group of gay latino men, these huge muscular guys who cheered and sang along when we did Back Street Boys and songs from Grease.
We decided to go back a second time on Saturday night, out of a certain sense of loyalty. On Saturday night, in addition to being the sole non-latinos, we were also the only women in the entire bar. Jane counted, and it was the two of us and 41 Mexican men. At first, while we were waiting for the karaoke to start, it was like being on display. None of the men would look at us directly, but all of them were completely aware of everything we were doing at all times, watching us from the corners of their eyes, or glancing at us, and then hurriedly looking away. I think a few dares were made, because eventually men started ambling over and sitting at our table, introducing themselves: Rueben, Felipe, Juan, amd about a dozen others.
Something interesting happened when we started singing, though. The men all forgot about hitting on us, and kind of got kind of into it. They really loved the harmonies we sang. Pretty soon, they were asking us to dance, and were teaching us traditional Mexican two-stepping to the old songs the others were singing. A few guys were out to cop a feel, but most were respectful, and I could almost feel their homesickness, as they heard old songs from their homes, and missed their families, and just wanted someone to dance with. These were cowboys, migrant farm workers, country people. Some spoke no English. Many couldn't read. They sang along to the Spanish songs, crying out with their eyes closed. A few of the older guys, around 60, held court, dressed all in black with cowboy hats and boots, bolo ties and beaded belts. One young guy loved dancing so much he couldn't stay still, but danced by himself near the stage, in shorts, cowboy hat, beater, and engineer boots. Most of the men didn't know the songs were were singing, but they cheered whenever it was our turn, sometimes wiping the tears from their eyes if we had done something slow and pretty. Soon, each time I came off the stage, I walked along the bar, and each man sitting there would hold out his hand to me and kiss me on the cheek.
I have a lot of feelings about the power and importance of communities of people coming together to sing. I've always found it transformative. It's something about the risk of singing in front of people, something about music, and how it transcends language, race, and class. But that particular night at Maria's was, for me, one of the most powerful. I remember the evening with great tenderness, and I feel grateful to the men at Maria's for making me feel beautiful, and for making me feel like I had a shining little light inside of me that could bring them joy.
RIP Vanetha and Skinkus the Dinkus
Growing up, we were the sort of family that were allowed to keep any pet we could catch. My mom loved all animals, and had a special place in her heart for reptiles, so we always had a tank of something or another in our kitchen or up in our rooms. My brother, Kris, was a masterful capturer or animals; he could catch anything. His biggest coup was capturing a skink, a notoriously fast little lizard, slender and black, with elegant racing stripes along its back.
Skinus the Dinkus lived a long and presumably happy life in a tank that he shared with a fence lizard Kris had caught. The fence lizard was named Vanetha, in honor of a Kris's crush, a girl who was on his swim team. Vanetha (the person) was an Indian girl, tall and solid and strong, with long black wavy hair that she was not allowed to cut, due to her Sikh upbringing. Whenever she put on her swim cap for a race, she had to coil her ponytail on top of her head, and then pull the white rubber cap over top, giving the top of her head a long, cone-like shape. Sometimes other kids would tease her, but she didn't really seem to mind, and it almost came to be more of an affectionate teasing. I'm not sure if she ever knew of my brother's feelings, and as far as I know, she never returned them. In any case, her parents were strict, and certainly wouldn't have encouraged even a friendship between the two children. Vanetha the lizard far outlived the duration of the crush, and my brother had soon moved on to Katie Best who, although less exotic, was decidly more available for his attentions.
Vanetha (the lizard) and Skinkus the Dinkus lived in harmony for several years, dining on mealworms together, and sharing a favorite stick. Their friendship soon blossomed into a surprise romance, as Vanetha eventually laid one small pearly-white egg in the corner of the tank. Although we eagerly awaited a new member of the family, the egg never hatched and Vanetha and Skinkus the Dinkus continued on as if nothing had happened. Although it is difficult to tell with lizards, the two appeared devoted to one another, and we imagined the great comfort that Skinkus the Dinkus provided during what was understandably a difficult time for Vanetha. This could certainly be the only explanation for how the two were able to move on with their lives so quickly after this loss.
The lizards lived together like this for a number of years, and eventually died within a few weeks of each other, at a time when my brother was particularly interested in Ancient Egypt. Skinkus the Dinkus was wrapped in several layers of tissue and placed with great ceremony in an empty cardboard Kleenex Boutiques box. Vanetha died later, and therefore reaped the benefit of my brother's increased knowledge. She was placed in a black plastic coffin-shaped watch box, her body gently laid atop a layer of cotton that had been soaked in rubbing alcohol. A second layer of alcohol-soaked cotton was put on top of her corpse, and the lid to the box was put on tightly, to keep out any air.
Kris had found a perfect burial tomb for the two companions. He had noticed a small metal door on the outside of the chimney, where ashes can be swept out from the fireplace. The iron door opened into a small chamber, perhaps no larger than one cubic foot. My brother had carefully swept out the ashes when he had placed Skinkus the Dinkus's coffin, and when Vanetha's body had been properly prepared, he swept the chamber again, and gently placed the two side by side, closing the door with a small scraping sound as the metal latch moved against the brick of the chimney.
Although I know this not to be true, I would like to think that the great love affair between Vanetha and Skinkus the Dinkus had given my brother comfort. Here, these two species of lizard, so different in appearance and background, had somehow managed to find love. Their lizard love might have taboo out in the wild, but here in the tank in my brother's bedroom, there had been a place where their forbidden love could flourish, like the place that Tony and Maria had longed for. A place for them. It was like the place that Wesley Snipes and Annabella Scioria could never find in Jungle Fever. Or maybe what the open range was like for those gay cowboys in Brokeback Mountain. A lizard place, where they could express their passion for one another without fear of judgement or condemnation. A place where even after death, their love could be honored, where they could remain eternally side by side, there among the sifting ashes.
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.
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