The most important thing right now: I got to blow shofar, with a dozen other shofar blowers (okay, some of them were children, to be fair) and I outblasted/outlasted ALL OF THEM.
Finally, it feels like chag.
9/23/2009
Seattle 67, or Poem Draft III
Union Daughter Peace Song
The day war goes on strike,
fighter jets will re-program themselves,
hijack their pilots and force them to skywrite words like
“yuckaputz” and “noodie kazoodie."
The day war goes on strike,
advancing enemies will only be allowed to bunny hop
or play mother may i. in unison.
Spoken commands will end with some term of endearment
so that every war cry matches the march:
mother may i please take two steps forward
(my darling cabbage patch of tenderness?)
no, but you may put your hand grenades down
and leave the pins where they are,
(my little field of cinnamon buns.)
The day war goes on strike
bombs will turn to pop rocks;
instead of dismemberment, the children will suffer
bad dental hygiene and a good sugar rush.
I will bicycle down California
flinging soft chocolate kisses
from a kindergarten backpack
and finally call you –
because war will be on strike,
and I’ve never crossed a picket line.
The day war goes on strike,
fighter jets will re-program themselves,
hijack their pilots and force them to skywrite words like
“yuckaputz” and “noodie kazoodie."
The day war goes on strike,
advancing enemies will only be allowed to bunny hop
or play mother may i. in unison.
Spoken commands will end with some term of endearment
so that every war cry matches the march:
mother may i please take two steps forward
(my darling cabbage patch of tenderness?)
no, but you may put your hand grenades down
and leave the pins where they are,
(my little field of cinnamon buns.)
The day war goes on strike
bombs will turn to pop rocks;
instead of dismemberment, the children will suffer
bad dental hygiene and a good sugar rush.
I will bicycle down California
flinging soft chocolate kisses
from a kindergarten backpack
and finally call you –
because war will be on strike,
and I’ve never crossed a picket line.
9/22/2009
Seattle 66, or A Gut Yor
Rosh Hashanna, erev: I didn't go to shul. Instead, I hosted dinner for close to 30 people, potluck. It was lovely, and full of challah. Special mention should go to Masha's apricot challah, which she delivered close to the end of the meal, piping hot and sweet as cake. People ate dal (a south Indian dish made of red lentils) with tomatoes, quinoa with dates and apricots and mint, a mashed potato pie with a bubbling crust of cheddar cheese, salads, good wine. I lit candles in the candlesticks I received as a Bat Mitzvah gift - only the second time I've ever used them. Using them makes me feel like an adult; no parent or grandparent's ritual objects take precedence. We drank wine out of teacups when we ran out of glasses.
Rosh Hashanna, day 1: I woke early, pulled on a skirt and long sleeved shirt, and thick-soled boots; it rained all night and I was walking to shul. Met Joel, Tamar, Asya and Carrie at house Bet. Carrie fixed me a bowl of steaming oatmeal with honey, which I gulped down while the others got ready. We walked to shul together, up a giant hill. Good morning exercise. The shul was small, with mixed seating and separate seating for men and women, for any who desired. I sat in the mixed section, the only woman with a tallis. The only woman who sang loud enough to be heard, to harmonize. The singing was minimal; it was an orthodox service. Though the amidot (silent prayers) were long and thoughtful, I felt restless and unfocused. There was no shofar; it was Shabbat. Only men were allowed to read Torah, lead prayers. Joel's singing was beautiful; he led Shachrit, the morning service.
We came home and had a cold lunch, after which I took a very long nap.
Rosh Hashanna, day 2: Decided against doing the orthodox thing again, and instead walked to the conservative shul around the corner. Marched up to the man holding the tickets and said "I don't have tickets, but can I daven anyway?" He shrugged. "Sure, it's not like we don't have room."
After the speed of Orthodox services, the Conservative one seemed agonizingly slow, covering half the material in the same amount of time, but oh, what singing! The service was mostly lay-led by different members of the congregation, each with seemingly more beautiful voices and tunes than the last. And not operatic voices either - clear, strong, songleading voices with good pitch. And women! I realized how important it is that I see women up on the bimah, carrying torahs, leading prayers.
As the service continued, I found myself relaxing into the familiarity of it, the tunes, the machzor (special prayer book for high holy days), the people in attendance - I'm used to medium-sized synagogues with lots of families, even though I don't fit that demographic right now. But by the time the amidah came around, I was calm, focused, really praying. Grateful.
After services, I came home and led a shofar-blowing workshop, since I didn't get to blow shofar for a congregation - first time in ten years! My best student was a seven year old girl who took my shofar off to a corner, spent ten minutes huffing and puffing, then silenced the room with a strong, clear tekiah, looking quite red in the face, and absolutely pleased with herself.
Rosh Hashanna, day 1: I woke early, pulled on a skirt and long sleeved shirt, and thick-soled boots; it rained all night and I was walking to shul. Met Joel, Tamar, Asya and Carrie at house Bet. Carrie fixed me a bowl of steaming oatmeal with honey, which I gulped down while the others got ready. We walked to shul together, up a giant hill. Good morning exercise. The shul was small, with mixed seating and separate seating for men and women, for any who desired. I sat in the mixed section, the only woman with a tallis. The only woman who sang loud enough to be heard, to harmonize. The singing was minimal; it was an orthodox service. Though the amidot (silent prayers) were long and thoughtful, I felt restless and unfocused. There was no shofar; it was Shabbat. Only men were allowed to read Torah, lead prayers. Joel's singing was beautiful; he led Shachrit, the morning service.
We came home and had a cold lunch, after which I took a very long nap.
Rosh Hashanna, day 2: Decided against doing the orthodox thing again, and instead walked to the conservative shul around the corner. Marched up to the man holding the tickets and said "I don't have tickets, but can I daven anyway?" He shrugged. "Sure, it's not like we don't have room."
After the speed of Orthodox services, the Conservative one seemed agonizingly slow, covering half the material in the same amount of time, but oh, what singing! The service was mostly lay-led by different members of the congregation, each with seemingly more beautiful voices and tunes than the last. And not operatic voices either - clear, strong, songleading voices with good pitch. And women! I realized how important it is that I see women up on the bimah, carrying torahs, leading prayers.
As the service continued, I found myself relaxing into the familiarity of it, the tunes, the machzor (special prayer book for high holy days), the people in attendance - I'm used to medium-sized synagogues with lots of families, even though I don't fit that demographic right now. But by the time the amidah came around, I was calm, focused, really praying. Grateful.
After services, I came home and led a shofar-blowing workshop, since I didn't get to blow shofar for a congregation - first time in ten years! My best student was a seven year old girl who took my shofar off to a corner, spent ten minutes huffing and puffing, then silenced the room with a strong, clear tekiah, looking quite red in the face, and absolutely pleased with herself.
9/16/2009
Seattle 65, or Poem Draft
Union Daughter Peace Poem
The day war goes on strike,
the bombs will turn to pop rocks,*
and instead of dismemberment, the children will suffer
bad dental hygiene and a good sugar rush.
Fighter jets will re-program themselves,
hijack their pilots and force them to skywrite words like
“yuckaputz” and “noodie kazoodie,”
in cloudy pink flatulence.
The day war goes on strike,
spoken commands will end with some term of endearment
so that every war cry matches the march.
Advancing enemies will only be allowed to bunny hop.
or play mother may i. in unison.
mother may i please take two steps forward
(my darling cabbage patch of tenderness?)
no, but you may put down your hand grenades and leave the pins where they are,
(my little cinnamon bun.)
The day war goes on strike,
I will bicycle down California
flinging soft chocolate kisses
from a kindergarten backpack
and call you to say I’m sorry.
Because war is on strike today,
and I’ve never crossed a picket line.
*pop rocks: a candy popular with younger children that features small sour hard candies that make a popping sound when eaten
The day war goes on strike,
the bombs will turn to pop rocks,*
and instead of dismemberment, the children will suffer
bad dental hygiene and a good sugar rush.
Fighter jets will re-program themselves,
hijack their pilots and force them to skywrite words like
“yuckaputz” and “noodie kazoodie,”
in cloudy pink flatulence.
The day war goes on strike,
spoken commands will end with some term of endearment
so that every war cry matches the march.
Advancing enemies will only be allowed to bunny hop.
or play mother may i. in unison.
mother may i please take two steps forward
(my darling cabbage patch of tenderness?)
no, but you may put down your hand grenades and leave the pins where they are,
(my little cinnamon bun.)
The day war goes on strike,
I will bicycle down California
flinging soft chocolate kisses
from a kindergarten backpack
and call you to say I’m sorry.
Because war is on strike today,
and I’ve never crossed a picket line.
*pop rocks: a candy popular with younger children that features small sour hard candies that make a popping sound when eaten
9/12/2009
Seattle 64, or Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?
I spend Sunday mornings at church. Actually, I spend Sunday mornings beneath church, taking care of cute babies while their parents and older siblings have church. Before church is brunch - this baffled me a little bit at first, because Jews don't typically do this. We eat after services.
I became the church babysitter because several members of the church saw the article in the Seattle times this past June and invited any interested Kibbutznikim out for drinks so they could pick our brains about living communally. They're interested in doing something similar.
Since they mentioned that there are a lot of kids in the church, I mentioned that I babysit, and they offered me the Sunday morning gig almost instantly. I found all the church members to be warm, friendly, kind and full of questions - what brought me to Seattle? What's it like living in a Jewish community? Do I pray? Do I go to synagogue? How do I reconcile the whole messiah thing?
I invited them to dinner. Not just any dinner - a special interfaith Shabbat dinner at the kibbutz.
About ten members of the church came, with a few more kibbutzniks and guests, which meant we kept having to add tables and chairs as the night went on. There were dozens of potluck dishes - quinoa and peas, pasta salads, pesto, casseroles, Israeli couscous, even vegetarian sushi and dumplings. The tables were long and narrow. Most of the churchgoers sat on one side, and the kibbutzniks on the other, but that turned out to be less confrontational than it sounds because it made for easier cross-conversation.
Everyone introduced themselves by saying "My name is______, and I come from_______, and the thing I like most about my religion/culture is ________" which is an exercise I picked up from Abby in college. It's a great one, because it lays some common ground (and grounds for passionate discussion) right away. Also, it gives some insight into the people at the table.
To say "My favorite thing about being Jewish" is not the same as "My favorite thing about Judaism" is not the same as "My favorite thing about being a Christian" is not the same as "My favorite thing about being a follower of Jesus" - see? It was neat to hear the variety of ways people identify.
I have to say, my favorite part of the night was also probably the most cheesy or hokey: I had everyone sing a quick grace-after-meals to the tune of Amazing Grace. I did it on purpose: so the churchgoers would have something familiar to sing, and so the kibbutzniks wouldn't feel like they were being coerced into doing the long version of grace-after-meals (which some folks really don't like to do.) Here's the thing: while the kibbutz has a lot of good, tuneful singers, the churchgoers really love to sing together. I knew they'd add some beautiful basslines and harmonies, and they didn't disappoint.
All in all: a highly successful, well-attended event (the six year old counted 84 people; I counted 26. Probably somewhere in the middle.) The six year old made me a thank-you card during dessert, which is now stuck to my refridgerator. And I'll see him Sunday morning, see if he remembers his night at the kibbutz, when the Jews and the Christians sang around the same table.
I became the church babysitter because several members of the church saw the article in the Seattle times this past June and invited any interested Kibbutznikim out for drinks so they could pick our brains about living communally. They're interested in doing something similar.
Since they mentioned that there are a lot of kids in the church, I mentioned that I babysit, and they offered me the Sunday morning gig almost instantly. I found all the church members to be warm, friendly, kind and full of questions - what brought me to Seattle? What's it like living in a Jewish community? Do I pray? Do I go to synagogue? How do I reconcile the whole messiah thing?
I invited them to dinner. Not just any dinner - a special interfaith Shabbat dinner at the kibbutz.
About ten members of the church came, with a few more kibbutzniks and guests, which meant we kept having to add tables and chairs as the night went on. There were dozens of potluck dishes - quinoa and peas, pasta salads, pesto, casseroles, Israeli couscous, even vegetarian sushi and dumplings. The tables were long and narrow. Most of the churchgoers sat on one side, and the kibbutzniks on the other, but that turned out to be less confrontational than it sounds because it made for easier cross-conversation.
Everyone introduced themselves by saying "My name is______, and I come from_______, and the thing I like most about my religion/culture is ________" which is an exercise I picked up from Abby in college. It's a great one, because it lays some common ground (and grounds for passionate discussion) right away. Also, it gives some insight into the people at the table.
To say "My favorite thing about being Jewish" is not the same as "My favorite thing about Judaism" is not the same as "My favorite thing about being a Christian" is not the same as "My favorite thing about being a follower of Jesus" - see? It was neat to hear the variety of ways people identify.
I have to say, my favorite part of the night was also probably the most cheesy or hokey: I had everyone sing a quick grace-after-meals to the tune of Amazing Grace. I did it on purpose: so the churchgoers would have something familiar to sing, and so the kibbutzniks wouldn't feel like they were being coerced into doing the long version of grace-after-meals (which some folks really don't like to do.) Here's the thing: while the kibbutz has a lot of good, tuneful singers, the churchgoers really love to sing together. I knew they'd add some beautiful basslines and harmonies, and they didn't disappoint.
All in all: a highly successful, well-attended event (the six year old counted 84 people; I counted 26. Probably somewhere in the middle.) The six year old made me a thank-you card during dessert, which is now stuck to my refridgerator. And I'll see him Sunday morning, see if he remembers his night at the kibbutz, when the Jews and the Christians sang around the same table.
9/08/2009
Seattle 63, or Camp Bet
There are three houses on the kibbutz: Aleph, Bet and Gimmel. Today, in honor of several of us being home from (or out of) work, Tamar threw us a lovely day of eating, crafting, and lazing about together.
I flipped pancakes and made scrambled eggs while others thawed some of the strawberries we froze over the summer to make sauce, whipped fresh cream, and sliced peaches. Plums, I had picked from the backyard on my way over. I love our little Italian plum trees. The fruits are such easy, three-bite things. I've eaten dozens of them in the last few weeks, laugh to see them for $3 a pound at the supermarket. They grow so fast we have to dry them, pie them and stew them just to keep up. And that's not counting the ones we nosh by the bowlful.
We ate breakfast together, sitting down. Azura showed up after her night shift, guzzled some coffee, and knit an endless hat, talking about her new beau. Joel helped himself to five pancakes right off the bat, listened to Neal's advice about what combination of toppings worked best (maple syrup, whipped cream, peaches and strawberry sauce). Carrie, a new one, just moved in yesterday, poured salsa on her eggs and munched contentedly. Asya, another new one, looked out the window and made plans to go shopping for things like pots, pans and pillows.
In the next several hours, Tamar tried to help me sew a patch onto my ripped jeans, but I only succeeded in jamming her sewing machine. I remembered how my grandmother gave up on me "as a hopeless case for knitting" when I was ten. I didn't mind then, and I don't really mind now - she promised I could trade her some other service, cooking or cleaning, in exchange for the two pairs of pants she mended for me. Lunch. Tamar fed us minestrone, with lots of cheese on top. Some people throw a pile of vegetables into a stew pot and call it ratatouille. Some call it chili. Some call it kitchen sink stew, some call it Mulligatawny. Tamar calls it minestrone. It's belly soul soup.
Joel finally got his stereo set up, and the soundtrack of the day was a mix of klezmer, shel silverstein (he made records! who knew?), paul simon...I lay on the couch for a long time and read Joe Sacco's Occupation, a graphic novel about Palestine circa 1991-1992. Later that night, we watch an Israeli movie about an army band, and I can't stop thinking the old thoughts: kids. The singers in this movie are eighteen year old kids, so many soldiers are eighteen year old kids. Why do we let a government draft kids into a war? Who the hell has any sense at eighteen? And we give them guns??
Deb and Ilana are home when I get there. Ilana says let's go out to the moon. the moon is so beautiful tonight, and we go, barefoot and a little shivery, we troop out into the cul-de-sac and watch that great bald beauty, settling in for the graveyard shift.
I flipped pancakes and made scrambled eggs while others thawed some of the strawberries we froze over the summer to make sauce, whipped fresh cream, and sliced peaches. Plums, I had picked from the backyard on my way over. I love our little Italian plum trees. The fruits are such easy, three-bite things. I've eaten dozens of them in the last few weeks, laugh to see them for $3 a pound at the supermarket. They grow so fast we have to dry them, pie them and stew them just to keep up. And that's not counting the ones we nosh by the bowlful.
We ate breakfast together, sitting down. Azura showed up after her night shift, guzzled some coffee, and knit an endless hat, talking about her new beau. Joel helped himself to five pancakes right off the bat, listened to Neal's advice about what combination of toppings worked best (maple syrup, whipped cream, peaches and strawberry sauce). Carrie, a new one, just moved in yesterday, poured salsa on her eggs and munched contentedly. Asya, another new one, looked out the window and made plans to go shopping for things like pots, pans and pillows.
In the next several hours, Tamar tried to help me sew a patch onto my ripped jeans, but I only succeeded in jamming her sewing machine. I remembered how my grandmother gave up on me "as a hopeless case for knitting" when I was ten. I didn't mind then, and I don't really mind now - she promised I could trade her some other service, cooking or cleaning, in exchange for the two pairs of pants she mended for me. Lunch. Tamar fed us minestrone, with lots of cheese on top. Some people throw a pile of vegetables into a stew pot and call it ratatouille. Some call it chili. Some call it kitchen sink stew, some call it Mulligatawny. Tamar calls it minestrone. It's belly soul soup.
Joel finally got his stereo set up, and the soundtrack of the day was a mix of klezmer, shel silverstein (he made records! who knew?), paul simon...I lay on the couch for a long time and read Joe Sacco's Occupation, a graphic novel about Palestine circa 1991-1992. Later that night, we watch an Israeli movie about an army band, and I can't stop thinking the old thoughts: kids. The singers in this movie are eighteen year old kids, so many soldiers are eighteen year old kids. Why do we let a government draft kids into a war? Who the hell has any sense at eighteen? And we give them guns??
Deb and Ilana are home when I get there. Ilana says let's go out to the moon. the moon is so beautiful tonight, and we go, barefoot and a little shivery, we troop out into the cul-de-sac and watch that great bald beauty, settling in for the graveyard shift.
9/04/2009
Seattle 62, or Funk-town
When I was a kid, I loved the music of Blake Rowe, who had then recorded two cassette tapes of kids music. One of my favorite songs was a sort of musical version of Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Day. The chorus went like this:
Don't try to cheer me up
'cause I'm not in the mood.
And I don't really wanna
change my attitude.
I wanna feel rotten;
wanna feel bad.
So leave me alone -
because I'm happy I'm mad!
That's where I am right now - in a funk, and not very receptive to suggestions on how to get out of it. I'm convinced that my writing sucks, I'll never successfully connect with an audience from a stage, I'll never be Really Good with children, or even a very good cook. The synagogue I plan to attend for Rosh Hashannah and Yom Kippur services won't let a woman blow shofar for them, my bencher-compiling project is being thwarted at every page, and I really need to do laundry. Even my body's been cranky - my theories about lactose intolerance are being proven a little more each day. Harrumph.
My sense of perspective is on vacation with my genius (a genius is a disembodied spirit that influences the success of one's artistic work - see this talk by Elizabeth Gilbert for fabulously-delivered insight on that front). I'm sure they're in the mental equivalent of Tahiti, enjoying cocktails on the beach and yakking about how much they don't miss me, and in fact, how they'd like to perch on someone else's shoulder for a change. Someone a little less stubborn, someone a little less crazy. Maybe Howard Dean's in the market. Or Oscar the Grouch.
There's a still, small voice that comes from somewhere around my left knee that pipes up from time to time. I can barely hear it over the crazybrain, but today, while I was waiting for the bus, it said, loud and clear:
"Dane, you're in a funk. And you will get out of it. But only after you accept that you won't be able to yank yourself out of it with sheer stubbornness. So relax, okay?"
Harrumph.
Don't try to cheer me up
'cause I'm not in the mood.
And I don't really wanna
change my attitude.
I wanna feel rotten;
wanna feel bad.
So leave me alone -
because I'm happy I'm mad!
That's where I am right now - in a funk, and not very receptive to suggestions on how to get out of it. I'm convinced that my writing sucks, I'll never successfully connect with an audience from a stage, I'll never be Really Good with children, or even a very good cook. The synagogue I plan to attend for Rosh Hashannah and Yom Kippur services won't let a woman blow shofar for them, my bencher-compiling project is being thwarted at every page, and I really need to do laundry. Even my body's been cranky - my theories about lactose intolerance are being proven a little more each day. Harrumph.
My sense of perspective is on vacation with my genius (a genius is a disembodied spirit that influences the success of one's artistic work - see this talk by Elizabeth Gilbert for fabulously-delivered insight on that front). I'm sure they're in the mental equivalent of Tahiti, enjoying cocktails on the beach and yakking about how much they don't miss me, and in fact, how they'd like to perch on someone else's shoulder for a change. Someone a little less stubborn, someone a little less crazy. Maybe Howard Dean's in the market. Or Oscar the Grouch.
There's a still, small voice that comes from somewhere around my left knee that pipes up from time to time. I can barely hear it over the crazybrain, but today, while I was waiting for the bus, it said, loud and clear:
"Dane, you're in a funk. And you will get out of it. But only after you accept that you won't be able to yank yourself out of it with sheer stubbornness. So relax, okay?"
Harrumph.
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