Change

The irony of my last post is that I no longer go through those motions. My schedule has changed and I no longer find myself passing the mirror man on Monday and Wednesdays. Instead, I now spend 10 hours at Pardes on Monday, and almost 15 hours at Pardes on Wednesday. I think it will take me another month before I find my rhythm again.


This is a time of change. The world watched Barack Hussein Obama become President Barack Hussein Obama; the recent war in Gaza killed many but may have some positive lasting effect; it's starting to feel like spring here (which is bizarre). On a more personal level, my dear roommate is leaving after a crazy and powerful 5 months. I'm going to miss her, and not just because it's been a pain in the butt to find someone to replace her in this apartment. The next four months, I believe, will be just as transformative as the past five. They will be difficult in different ways: I've found a community, but where do I fit in this community? What from all of these experiences will I take home with me? Now that I only have four months left, what do I want to focus on? Am I trying to live life in a "constant climax" )as many people my age are attempting to do)? Or am I trying to find a rhythm, a pattern, that allows me to experience a solidity that I've created? I want to think more about these questions; first, I must find a roommate. (If you know anyone who is looking for an apartment in J-lem, let me know!)

I've made friends with the new guard at Yad Byad (the bilingual school). Every morning I walk through the gate and smile at him (I learned today that his name is Guy). He asks me, "ma nishma?" (how are you?) and I respond appropriately, though I am occasionally caught off guard by his friendliness. Small talk isn't really an Israeli thing. Today I passed through the gate 6 times (the teachers at Yad Byad needed some things at the convenience store, "let's send the friar volunteer!" (trans. friar: a sucker)). Every time I walked by Guy, he was doing something different: smoking a pipe, playing saxophone, fixing a radio... The friendliness at Yad Byad is refreshing because it seems to radiate from every face and every classroom. I'm grateful to have such places in my life, even if they do send me on errands.

I started a new class this semester called "Spiritual Texts and Practices." Just so you know, if you rolled your eyes or giggled, I'm expecting that. I'm aware of the "granola crunchy" nature of my activities. Every week, we learn about, discuss and participate in a different Jewish spiritual practice. Last week, we began with quieting. One focuses on his or her breathing, attempting to clear the mind of any thought. During this stage of mental quietness, one begins to focus on a holy verse ("God is truth," or something of the kind). After binding the mind to this holy thought, one makes a bakasha, or request for some kind of character perfection. This request must be positive, not negative ("Let me have more energy" not "Make me not lazy"). After this request, one utters a holy phrase and end in singing the phrase: "הורני ה דרכיך," "Show me, Oh Gd, Your path."
After attempting this practice several times, I found that I was completely unable to focused. I was so unfocused, that I even forgot that I was meditating. I forgot the process and I could not, in any way, control my thoughts. I couldn't even sit still. I was encouraged by the fact that my mind began to clear when we began singing. Too bad the music ends the practice.

This week we are discussing love and spirituality in the community. We read Kabbalistic texts and the "Beit El Contract," both relating to the value of communal love. For our prayers to ascend to Heaven, says R. Hayyim Vital, we must concentrate on loving all of the members of our community so that our prayers "ascend, bound up with all the prayers of Israel. By this means his soul will be able to rise above and effect tikkun" (tikkun: repairing of the relationship between the lower realm and the upper realm). We refer to this communal love as "havurah," or fellowship. Reading these texts is both inspring and grounding: the beautiful words of the strong connection between a coherent and loving community and spirituality are a welcome reminder of my strongest core values and essentially why I continue to be a passionate Jew. Our homework this week is to try to incorporate the phrase "love they neighbor as yourself" "ואהבת לרעך כמוך" into our morning ritual as a reminder that we should try to love and appreciate all members of our community.

I am also taking a class on Hasidut. We learn about the great Hasidic masters and their teachings. Our spiritual homework this week: "The רג'נר rebbe knew what his function was in life and he knew how to do it. Do I know what my function is in this world? Do I know how to play that role? Am I working in that direction? Do I need to refocus? What is my function in this world? What wavelength am I broadcasting on (this is a Kabbalistic question, crazily enough)? What are my strenghts?

I hope I made you think a little bit. Or I gave you a way to clear your mind.
חודש טוב

Mirrors

I live so deeply in my life rhythm that I have begun to develop muscle memory.

This dent in the curb is where I jump onto the sidewalk after avoiding the ubiquitous dog poop.

This is where I duck to avoid the not-so-carefully trimmed bushes that slowly creep over the walls and into my path.

This is where I turn my head and make eye contact with the bald man who works in the mirror shop.
Every Monday and Wednesday, I walk up the hill towards the prematurely setting sun, squinting my eyes and hearing my feet clap solidly, rhythmically with the stone sidewalks.
I duck under overhung bushes here, too. The Jerusalem stone apartments on my left end, and I reach a small store.
In the beginning, I turned my head to look at the seemingly precariously hung full-length mirrors that adorned the storefront. Now, my neck knows as the green fence ends that it must turn my head to the left. Mirror, door, mirror. My eyes dart twice. From my own eyes, reflected in the glass, to the eyes of the bald man, back to my own eyes. And then forward again. Every Monday and Wednesday for three months I have made eye contact with the man who hangs these mirrors.

I have had no other interaction with him other than our twice-weekly glance. Does he wonder who I am, too? Or does my face, often flushed from the cold, blur in with the school girls, the dog walkers, the yeshiva boys, the tired mothers, the hurried fathers…

I walk through the streets, absorbed in the rhythm of my steps synched with the beat of my music and I notice, only vaguely, the people who pass me; eyes peaking out over scarves, or staring ahead, intent but unfocused, leave only a small impression in my brain. But I’m starting to recognize, now. Six minutes away from school, the man on his bike weaves to the right to avoid me. Five minutes away, the girl with the shiny black hair looks up at me from her phone. Four minutes away, three, two…I arrive at a place I recognize. Eye contact here leads to conversation. There are smiles here, too.

Every brief connection I have with a person adds a small pebble onto the pile of memories that shape who I am. As I pass the mirrors, I have a tiny moment’s glance of how I appear to the people whose eyes I meet. They are all mirrors to me now. I am conscious of my body, my posture, my pace, and their eyes reflect my own expression. Hidden interest. We’ll keep walking. Every day I’ll pass them in the street.

It is odd to me that my daily rhythm, which stays the same, changes me with every step.

מי שברך לחילי צה''ל

Israel is once again at war. In this incredibly difficult time, I'd like to post this prayer for the soldiers of the IDF. I'm not usually one to post prayers on the internet, but I believe that it is important for the soldiers to know that people are thinking about them as human beings. People are dying on both sides.
At the same time that I am struggling with Israel's actions, I am living under the relative security that is protected for me and for everyone else living in these borders. I hope no one reads any politics into what I have written. I am writing out of concern and appreciation.
Below is the prayer for the soldiers of the IDF.
I hope everyone has a peaceful and happy new year.

Encounter

As I'm writing this, a crisis is escalating in Gaza. Reading about barrages of rockets and deadly air strikes, my thoughts go back a week when I spent two days in the West Bank. There are times in life when we must speak, and there are times when we must remain silent and listen to our fellow human beings. Even though I've spent almost four months listening (to teachers, students, children, adults, rabbis, myself etc.), I felt the listening I did during my two days in Bethlehem was different.
We began the program with a communication contract: we will listen respectfully, we will only ask questions that pertain to the expertise of the speaker...From the beginning, it was very clear that this experience would be about listening. We were about to hear personal narratives (and political narratives) from people we had only encountered through small words in newspapers and whispers brushed aside to avoid controversy and tension. I wanted to go to Bethlehem so I could begin an attempt to feel the situation, and not sit (literally) on the other side of a wall, fruitlessly trying to understand a massive and seemingly unresolvable conflict. My goal was to see a different way, not to change my mind.
We arrived in Bethlehem on a beautiful Thursday morning. Our first stop was to the Hope Flowers School, where Ibrahim Issa spoke to us about his personal story and the goals of the school. With the philosophy that "violence only yields more violence," Ibrahim's father (also named Ibrahim Issa) founded the Hope Flowers School on values of peace, democracy, and equality. His land confiscated, his home demolished, Ibrahim made a decision to focus on amal, hope. He wanted to raise a generation of Palestinians and Israelis who wanted to devote themselves to making peace. The school uses a "peace curriculum," to instill peaceful and democratic values in the students and the community.
Someone asked Ibrahim about his personal attitude toward the conflict and how he maintains hope. Ibrahim answered: "we are all one color; our color is humanity."

After our visit to the school, we took a brief driving tour of Bethlehem. We walked along the separation wall and saw graffiti left by internationals who had come to show solidarity or leave their mark on controversial landmark. "Freedom for Everyone." "Here is a wall at which to weep." "All kids deserve peace, safety, health, security, and life." "Justice is a collective effort, not a gift." Inspiring and angering slogans marked the walls, covered partially by advertisements for nearby restaurants, and great deals at the gas station across the street. It was bizarre to walk along the gray line I had seen from a distance, and see splashes of angry color.

We re-boarded the bus, drove past a 5 star hotel and refugee camps, and arrived at our home base for the trip, the Bethlehem Hotel. We heard from the Deputy Mayor of Bethlehem whose daughter was killed accidentally in an ambush by Israeli soldiers. He organized a group called "Bereaved Families" for families (Palestinians and Israelis, I believe) who had lost a loved one due to the conflict. "We are human beings like everyone else," he said. Faith, he emphasized, helps him through difficult times. He doesn't hate anyone, he believes in everyone's humanity and wants to work for justice and peace. While it was incredibly inspiring to hear him speak, we had to remember that he is one man, and was not speaking for his entire community. We had to remember this for every speaker we heard: left wing and right wing.

After several more eloquent and passionate speakers, we began a more informal part of the program. We played games to break tension and lighten the mood. After several silly games, we formed a circle. The group leaders would read a statement, and everyone who it applied to would step into the circle without speaking. Statements included: "I am wearing blue jeans," "I have family in Jordan," "I have family in Israel," "I need a permit to visit my family," "I am an only child" (no one stepped in for this), "I sometimes feel afraid when I hear Arabic," "I sometimes feel afraid when I hear Hebrew," etc. The game was eye opening and conversation sparking.

With our minds whirring, we headed to dinner at the Tent Restaurant where we ate Mujadra and met our host families for the evening. A delicious meal ended, and dancing began. 11 year old Agnes showed us some moves, and then two young men stepped in to perform two folk dances. We finally headed home with our host families.

"These are my daughters!" And so Saud welcomed us into her home, her family, and her Palestine. She patted my back and held my hand and made sure I had ample time to talk to her 17 year old grandson. As we drove home, teenage boys (her grandson's friends) jumped on the car, racing us home. Saud guided us to couches, where she introduced us to her entire family: fifteen people total. They sat with us on the couches (and on each other), taught us words, and talked about their daily lives. They value education, respect, family...Their generosity and hospitality was incredibly moving.

I left Palestine in a bizarre state. I didn't know if I was depressed or inspired. A beautiful and relaxing shabbat gave way to a busy week and I have not had time to reflect on these powerful days until now. I don't expect revleations, but I'm grateful for new insights.

Brain overload

I feel like my brain has reached capacity. I look at my notes and the words dance around the page almost as happily as Jews do on simchat Torah. Yet even as my brain aches and the שכל (knowledge/wisdom/intellect) pushes against the limits of my capacity to hold it, I thirst for more. About a year ago, I read a beautiful passage in an equally beautiful book. The next day, as we discussed the poetic language, I had a sudden desire to feel the words. I hoped that some sort of synesthesia would allow me to physically experience the power of the language that my brain was processing.
I feel this longing so profoundly, so often, that my brain is exhausted. I read Rav Kook, Heschel, Soleveitchik, and I feel a collection of energy inside me that is both excitement and an unfulfillable craving for a more physical and clear experience of these words and ideas.
How wonderful that I have an exhausted and overstimulated brain as opposed to a bored and frustrated one.

I promise there will be some exciting posts to come:
Stay tuned for:
Thoughts on Existence
Beit Lechem
Turkey

Cultural Consciounsess

Last week, a very dynamic and well spoken Australian woman came to lead a workshop on cross-cultural interactions.
After shoving falafel into our mouths, we cleared the tables in the dining area to make room for a large circle of chairs. My first (subconscious) observation started when everyone sat down: deciding where to sit has always been a conscious and thought-out decision. I noticed this as I sat down in a chair that was pushed back a little, between two people who I did not know well.
We started with a game called, "As the Wind Blows," a criteria game:
"Everyone who has knit a hat!"
"Jewish women!"
"Everyone who likes snow!"
"Everyone who skis!"
"Everyone wearing jeans!"
As each statement was called, the people to whom it applied would jump up and frantically search for an open chair to sit in. After several rounds of this game, our facilitator called attention to the criteria we had invoked, and how each was indicative of how and where we grew up, and where we feel comfortable.
Throughout our activities, we talked a lot about judgment; how do we immediately judge people upon first impressions: friend or threat? We discussed the phenomenon in the context of being Anglos living in a balagan (crazy mess)(even using this word is a judgment...) of a Middle Eastern/Westernized culture. The facilitator divided the world into two kinds of cultures: warm climate cultures and coled climate cultures. As Anglos living in a warm-climate culture, we often notice (or feel uncomfortable with) the lack of a notion of personal space. To get on buses, no one waits in line; on buses, people smush together with no qualms; politeness or etiquitte seem to have little or no place in this culture (language implying judgment?); when having conversations, Israelis stand much closer than Americans do, etc. Our faciliator called attention to these things not to separate ourselves from Israelis, but to make us more conscious of our interactions. While we may feel bothered by a lack of respect for personal space, the people we interact with my feel disrespected by coldness or aloofness.

The Negev November 25-27

The Negev is a place of beauty and desolation, grandeur and silence, death and life. Three days walking the ridges of a crater, the valleys of rock, and ancient sea beds turned abstract sculpture garden, gave me a welcomed joi-de-vivre. Hiking through this desolate and beautiful expanse made me feel so human and so connected to nature.
I apologize for not having posted for a while. My schedule has filled up like I fill my bowl with delicious soup. I haven't had time to focus on telling all of you what I am learning! I hope to find some time later this week and give a complete update.