Massachusetts 7, or The Sweetness of a New Year
Note: this entry contains lots of references to both religious and secular Jewish culture. Every year I do a freewrite on Rosh Hashannah, and on Yom Kippur, and this is a part of that exercise, so I'm not going to make explanations or treat it like a normal essay.
Jews are filling my world tonight.
Just now, from downstairs, I heard a quick Kiddush
flung into the stairwell like an old pair of boots,
"boreiiiii priiiii ha'gafen..."
except they're blessing beer, if I'm not mistaken.
This year, I want my actions to be
motivated by kindness. Not nice.
It is too easy to be nice without being kind.
I held the rabbi's youngest daughter in my arms
tonight and sang shehechianu to her soft seashell ears
while her mother fed her tiny bites of oatmeal - her first
solid food.
This year, I want to celebrate the newness of things.
To do this, I must create new things.
Like pottery, and poetry, and friendships.
Shana tovah u'metukah,
good and sweet year,
sweet with the neighbor's fresh honey
tasting home's flowers on my fingertips.
Normally, I prefer savory tastes to sweet ones.
This year, I want to savor all the sweetness.
To do this, I must create sweetness.
Sweetness is when people smile at a baby
from all the way across a room while she's
in my arms, eating oatmeal.
O, G-d,
notice my prayers
like you would smile at a baby,
eating.
9/12/2007
8/13/2007
Massachusetts 6, or A Letter
In my head, it was always spelled Tero.
Nor did I know it was Mme. Terrault who ran the five-and-dime, since my memory holds a grungy teenager, or maybe a middle-aged man taking my Canadian dollar in exchange for a box of Smarties. The guys who filled Monstro and the Zipper with gas didn't have names, and of course, in my head, the other boat place with a telephone was spelled Daygro for years.
Alice, I spent this week at the National Poetry Slam in Austin, Texas. For five days, I seemed to live in a city that was overrun by travelling preachers disguised as poets. Every day there were open mics, every night, competitions, and after each night, there were ciphers - small clusters of poets that formed randomly into a circle, taking turns in the middle to spit out old favorites, new creations, or the day's journaling.
This week, Alice, I heard a letter from a son to his murdered father - a young black jewish guy, whose father was the Holocaust survivor professor shot at Virginia Tech. I heard a poem about Sudanese mothers spinning fairy tales about American soldiers so their children would have something to rest their dreams on. I heard a mother's poem to her child, telling her to close her eyes and judge people by their voices, knowing that the ones with accents could be family. I left the competitions in such emotional whirlwinds that I often had to walk for miles through the city before I could bring myself to sleep. One night, on such a walk, I paused to write: "Please, somebody, give me a poem that is not three minutes of G-d so I might have the strength to keep praying."
Your father's brother taught me to cry at the most beautiful things without shame. We went to comedic operas and wiped each other's faces with the handkerchief he always has, not understanding the plot, characters, or language. The night I sang in Carnegie hall, I saw the white cuffs of his shirt as he prepared to clap twenty bars before the piece ended, and I only imagined that his tears matched mine that fell to the stage. After hearing poetry that left my newfound friends searching for shirtsleeves (who wears long sleeves in Texas in August?!) and tissues, I shook and stormed, but Alice -
I googled your name today, to find a picture of the book you've written, and instead found your articles about Labelle. And after an entire week of being wrenched across every emotion I never thought I had, I felt a few tears fall at your mention of Mme. Terrault and that wonderously clean air.
I'm crying in a library, Alice. Your father's brother would approve.
In my head, it was always spelled Tero.
Nor did I know it was Mme. Terrault who ran the five-and-dime, since my memory holds a grungy teenager, or maybe a middle-aged man taking my Canadian dollar in exchange for a box of Smarties. The guys who filled Monstro and the Zipper with gas didn't have names, and of course, in my head, the other boat place with a telephone was spelled Daygro for years.
Alice, I spent this week at the National Poetry Slam in Austin, Texas. For five days, I seemed to live in a city that was overrun by travelling preachers disguised as poets. Every day there were open mics, every night, competitions, and after each night, there were ciphers - small clusters of poets that formed randomly into a circle, taking turns in the middle to spit out old favorites, new creations, or the day's journaling.
This week, Alice, I heard a letter from a son to his murdered father - a young black jewish guy, whose father was the Holocaust survivor professor shot at Virginia Tech. I heard a poem about Sudanese mothers spinning fairy tales about American soldiers so their children would have something to rest their dreams on. I heard a mother's poem to her child, telling her to close her eyes and judge people by their voices, knowing that the ones with accents could be family. I left the competitions in such emotional whirlwinds that I often had to walk for miles through the city before I could bring myself to sleep. One night, on such a walk, I paused to write: "Please, somebody, give me a poem that is not three minutes of G-d so I might have the strength to keep praying."
Your father's brother taught me to cry at the most beautiful things without shame. We went to comedic operas and wiped each other's faces with the handkerchief he always has, not understanding the plot, characters, or language. The night I sang in Carnegie hall, I saw the white cuffs of his shirt as he prepared to clap twenty bars before the piece ended, and I only imagined that his tears matched mine that fell to the stage. After hearing poetry that left my newfound friends searching for shirtsleeves (who wears long sleeves in Texas in August?!) and tissues, I shook and stormed, but Alice -
I googled your name today, to find a picture of the book you've written, and instead found your articles about Labelle. And after an entire week of being wrenched across every emotion I never thought I had, I felt a few tears fall at your mention of Mme. Terrault and that wonderously clean air.
I'm crying in a library, Alice. Your father's brother would approve.
8/08/2007
Texas 1, or A Quick Postcard
I'm in Texas for the National Poetry Slam, and so far it's been hot - hot as in fantastic, and hot as in sun-beats-on-pavement-sweat-before-you're-out-the-door.
Today, I was the last poet called in the Jewish Open Mic, where I performed "The Importance of Dialogue" to wild success. I'm being recruited for the Five College Slam Team next year. :-)
Tonight, I get to see more bouts - rounds of competition among teams of poets. It's like dueling, only geekier and more verbose.
I'm in Texas for the National Poetry Slam, and so far it's been hot - hot as in fantastic, and hot as in sun-beats-on-pavement-sweat-before-you're-out-the-door.
Today, I was the last poet called in the Jewish Open Mic, where I performed "The Importance of Dialogue" to wild success. I'm being recruited for the Five College Slam Team next year. :-)
Tonight, I get to see more bouts - rounds of competition among teams of poets. It's like dueling, only geekier and more verbose.
8/01/2007
Massachusetts 5, or The Final Draft
Miraculous
A tiny duck is flying higher than his feathers should let him,
swooping down to swim faster than his tiny duck feet
should carry him in a perfectly
straight line across a river that is moving
so fast there should be no way he can fight it
while his mother sits on the other side, without
even a ruffled feather to show any kind of fear
for her week-old baby duck.
But here I am, on a cliff that should leave me too high
for my bare eyes to see the tiny
duck’s head zooming across the whitecaps, with too little
sun protection to keep my white-girl knees from
frying into blisters, too willing to dismiss
the blind faith of my blurry eyes
to admit that I think
I’m seeing a miracle.
Miracles are acts of desperation
turned beautiful, like the star that shoots
through the cloud cover
for its one last chance at glory before it dies, like
Merganser ducklings learning how to swim
in the middle of a rapid,
like the sun wrestling through the morning fog
to warm the ocean.
Miracles are accidents that allow
us to survive, like the tackle box that trips
the man who falls and lets his catch go free, like
the bullet that hits a soldier bad enough
to send him home alive, like the first time
poetry slammed into my faithless soul like a car crash
that left me twisted and burning, unable to look away. And today,
I know that one mother Merganser can teach me
more about faith than any house of prayer
and here I sit with my near-blind eyes
and realize that this
is worth more than a god to pray to
because mother Merganser miracles
are the kind that give me faith.
Miraculous
A tiny duck is flying higher than his feathers should let him,
swooping down to swim faster than his tiny duck feet
should carry him in a perfectly
straight line across a river that is moving
so fast there should be no way he can fight it
while his mother sits on the other side, without
even a ruffled feather to show any kind of fear
for her week-old baby duck.
But here I am, on a cliff that should leave me too high
for my bare eyes to see the tiny
duck’s head zooming across the whitecaps, with too little
sun protection to keep my white-girl knees from
frying into blisters, too willing to dismiss
the blind faith of my blurry eyes
to admit that I think
I’m seeing a miracle.
Miracles are acts of desperation
turned beautiful, like the star that shoots
through the cloud cover
for its one last chance at glory before it dies, like
Merganser ducklings learning how to swim
in the middle of a rapid,
like the sun wrestling through the morning fog
to warm the ocean.
Miracles are accidents that allow
us to survive, like the tackle box that trips
the man who falls and lets his catch go free, like
the bullet that hits a soldier bad enough
to send him home alive, like the first time
poetry slammed into my faithless soul like a car crash
that left me twisted and burning, unable to look away. And today,
I know that one mother Merganser can teach me
more about faith than any house of prayer
and here I sit with my near-blind eyes
and realize that this
is worth more than a god to pray to
because mother Merganser miracles
are the kind that give me faith.
7/14/2007
Massachusetts 4, or Now For Something Completely Different
"The Latin Mass, for instance, in which the priest celebrates the Eucharist with his back to the people, in a foreign language -- much of it said silently or at best whispered -- makes the congregation, the laity, observers of the rite rather than participants in it."
This is an excerpt from Sister Joan Chittister's article about the pope's decision to restore the Tridentine Latin Rite. It is being done, the pope explains, to make reconciliation easier with conservative groups.
The article made me pause and think about Jewish services - which are traditionally conducted in Hebrew, a language which has (until 60 years ago) been used traditionally to pray - and only to pray. Additionally, a good chunk of the service is conducted silently - the reader's Amidah leaves the entire shul completely silent, save for page turning, mumbling and coughing.
And yes, since many of the most important parts of the service (the barchu, call to worship being the most notable one) are chanted by the chazzan or rabbi with his or her back to the audience. Yet Judiasm discourages the kind of passivity Sister Chittister describes.
Perhaps it's an architectural thing - only in the late 1800s in central and eastern Europe did Jews begin to construct their shul with the bimah, the "stage", at the front. Up until that point (the rise of early Reform Judaism), the bimah was always in the center of the shul. And whoever stood on the bimah was facing the same way as everybody else; with his back to half the congregation, and half the congregations' backs to him. That layout suggests community, and active participation - the "clergy" praying among the congregation.
How has Judaism managed to retain its spirit of active engagement, even though Ashkenazi synagogues commonly have their bimah in the front? (Sephardic shuls, on the other hand, consistently keep their bimah in the center). I can't make much comparison to the Mass, as I've only attended a few (and several of those were technically concerts in which I was singing), but here are two things Judaism does by custom and by format to keep the congregation engaged:
1) Everybody has a book. Or every two people have a book, and share. Or the entire minyan, the entire gathering, has one photocopied siddur, prayerbook, and crowds around it with flashlights. Either way, the congregation is expected to follow the service because the rabbi is using an identical siddur.
2) Equality. Because everybody has the same book (or approximate copies of the same book), there is nothing that a rabbi can say in prayer that any other Jew is forbidden to say. The only actual power a rabbi has is in more life-related matters; for example, a rabbi can perform marriages, serve on a court of judges, etc. But when it comes to spiritual moments, a rabbi says nothing on behalf of the congregation.
Insert: there are a few specific occasions, such as on Yom Kippur, in which one person chants to the congregants, or on their behalf, such as the prayer that begins "hineini heani mimash". The person who does the chanting does not have to be a chazzan; their title is shaliach tzibur, or messenger to the public. This implies a different purpose than the one Sister Chittister describes for the Latin Mass.
But even with these built-in customs that encourage engagement, there are a number of synagogues that discourage this type of engagement by use of choirs, cantorial soloists (who usually sing in such ranges that are impossible for a congregation to sing along with), even organs. These devices can be found in early Reform synagogues from the late 1800s in central Europe (notably the Spanish Synagogue in Prague, as well as the Dohány shul in Budapest, mentioned in this entry. The synagogues that employ such devices were first built at a time during which wealthy Jews sought assimilation in their respective countries and built the biggest, fanciest, grandest synagogues they could afford.
In an effort to prove that Jews were just like any other Czech or Hungarian, they abandoned the traditional center-bimah format, and put it at the front like a church. In the Dohány synagogue, there is even a pulpit - with the traditional spiral staircase winding around one of the central columns of the synagogue. In fact, the Dohány shul contains two pulpits - just because they could build them! (They are each used once a year - on the first and second days of Rosh Hashannah. The rabbi gives one d'var torah, or sermon from the left hand pulpit on the first day, and from the right hand pulpit on the second day.)
I think what I set out to prove in this essay is that passivity doesn't necessarily come from praying in a different language, but from the assumption that someone else is doing the praying for you. I've been criticized for not understanding the Hebrew that I sometimes pray in, and ideologically, my critics are right: praying without understanding is a passive act, regardless of how well I'm harmonizing with the chazzan.
But, like many Catholics, those melodies and words were drilled into me as a child, and it took me a long time to figure out that praying can sound like something else. For me, prayer is the arm I use to reach out and hold on to spiritual things. And sometimes it's about the words, and sometimes it's about the melodies, and sometimes it's about harmonizing with the chazzan and hearing Mr. Shilsky's off-key blaring two rows behind me. And that choice is what determines my level of engagement. The right to choose keeps me - and all of us - from absolute passivity.
"The Latin Mass, for instance, in which the priest celebrates the Eucharist with his back to the people, in a foreign language -- much of it said silently or at best whispered -- makes the congregation, the laity, observers of the rite rather than participants in it."
This is an excerpt from Sister Joan Chittister's article about the pope's decision to restore the Tridentine Latin Rite. It is being done, the pope explains, to make reconciliation easier with conservative groups.
The article made me pause and think about Jewish services - which are traditionally conducted in Hebrew, a language which has (until 60 years ago) been used traditionally to pray - and only to pray. Additionally, a good chunk of the service is conducted silently - the reader's Amidah leaves the entire shul completely silent, save for page turning, mumbling and coughing.
And yes, since many of the most important parts of the service (the barchu, call to worship being the most notable one) are chanted by the chazzan or rabbi with his or her back to the audience. Yet Judiasm discourages the kind of passivity Sister Chittister describes.
Perhaps it's an architectural thing - only in the late 1800s in central and eastern Europe did Jews begin to construct their shul with the bimah, the "stage", at the front. Up until that point (the rise of early Reform Judaism), the bimah was always in the center of the shul. And whoever stood on the bimah was facing the same way as everybody else; with his back to half the congregation, and half the congregations' backs to him. That layout suggests community, and active participation - the "clergy" praying among the congregation.
How has Judaism managed to retain its spirit of active engagement, even though Ashkenazi synagogues commonly have their bimah in the front? (Sephardic shuls, on the other hand, consistently keep their bimah in the center). I can't make much comparison to the Mass, as I've only attended a few (and several of those were technically concerts in which I was singing), but here are two things Judaism does by custom and by format to keep the congregation engaged:
1) Everybody has a book. Or every two people have a book, and share. Or the entire minyan, the entire gathering, has one photocopied siddur, prayerbook, and crowds around it with flashlights. Either way, the congregation is expected to follow the service because the rabbi is using an identical siddur.
2) Equality. Because everybody has the same book (or approximate copies of the same book), there is nothing that a rabbi can say in prayer that any other Jew is forbidden to say. The only actual power a rabbi has is in more life-related matters; for example, a rabbi can perform marriages, serve on a court of judges, etc. But when it comes to spiritual moments, a rabbi says nothing on behalf of the congregation.
Insert: there are a few specific occasions, such as on Yom Kippur, in which one person chants to the congregants, or on their behalf, such as the prayer that begins "hineini heani mimash". The person who does the chanting does not have to be a chazzan; their title is shaliach tzibur, or messenger to the public. This implies a different purpose than the one Sister Chittister describes for the Latin Mass.
But even with these built-in customs that encourage engagement, there are a number of synagogues that discourage this type of engagement by use of choirs, cantorial soloists (who usually sing in such ranges that are impossible for a congregation to sing along with), even organs. These devices can be found in early Reform synagogues from the late 1800s in central Europe (notably the Spanish Synagogue in Prague, as well as the Dohány shul in Budapest, mentioned in this entry. The synagogues that employ such devices were first built at a time during which wealthy Jews sought assimilation in their respective countries and built the biggest, fanciest, grandest synagogues they could afford.
In an effort to prove that Jews were just like any other Czech or Hungarian, they abandoned the traditional center-bimah format, and put it at the front like a church. In the Dohány synagogue, there is even a pulpit - with the traditional spiral staircase winding around one of the central columns of the synagogue. In fact, the Dohány shul contains two pulpits - just because they could build them! (They are each used once a year - on the first and second days of Rosh Hashannah. The rabbi gives one d'var torah, or sermon from the left hand pulpit on the first day, and from the right hand pulpit on the second day.)
I think what I set out to prove in this essay is that passivity doesn't necessarily come from praying in a different language, but from the assumption that someone else is doing the praying for you. I've been criticized for not understanding the Hebrew that I sometimes pray in, and ideologically, my critics are right: praying without understanding is a passive act, regardless of how well I'm harmonizing with the chazzan.
But, like many Catholics, those melodies and words were drilled into me as a child, and it took me a long time to figure out that praying can sound like something else. For me, prayer is the arm I use to reach out and hold on to spiritual things. And sometimes it's about the words, and sometimes it's about the melodies, and sometimes it's about harmonizing with the chazzan and hearing Mr. Shilsky's off-key blaring two rows behind me. And that choice is what determines my level of engagement. The right to choose keeps me - and all of us - from absolute passivity.
7/13/2007
Massachusetts 3, or Further Upcoming Travels
Last night, while sitting on Town Patrol (a formidable duty that involves sitting guard at the ice-cream shop, waiting for students to approach me with questions about directions, scheduling, or medical emergencies), two good friends of mine swung in for a visit. I was so happy to see them - it felt like something out of a Archie comic, the three of us crammed into the ice cream shop booth with our various confections. Only I'm quite sure that none of Archie's friends ever had dreadlocks. Or more than one piercing. Or were Jewish.
In any case, it was at that booth that Mikey invited me to come with her to the National Poetry Slam in Austin, Texas this August.
I have never been to Texas for any longer than it takes to change flights, and certainly not in the middle of August. But her invitation sparked something really bright in me - the chance to be surrounded by poets for a week, competing and reading and reveling in the camaraderie. When I couldn't find any scheduling conflicts, or serious reasons why I shouldn't go, I started shaking. There's a good chance - an excellent chance - that I will really go.
I can't wait. Now, who knows of a good website from which to get cheap tickets from Hartford to Austin?
Last night, while sitting on Town Patrol (a formidable duty that involves sitting guard at the ice-cream shop, waiting for students to approach me with questions about directions, scheduling, or medical emergencies), two good friends of mine swung in for a visit. I was so happy to see them - it felt like something out of a Archie comic, the three of us crammed into the ice cream shop booth with our various confections. Only I'm quite sure that none of Archie's friends ever had dreadlocks. Or more than one piercing. Or were Jewish.
In any case, it was at that booth that Mikey invited me to come with her to the National Poetry Slam in Austin, Texas this August.
I have never been to Texas for any longer than it takes to change flights, and certainly not in the middle of August. But her invitation sparked something really bright in me - the chance to be surrounded by poets for a week, competing and reading and reveling in the camaraderie. When I couldn't find any scheduling conflicts, or serious reasons why I shouldn't go, I started shaking. There's a good chance - an excellent chance - that I will really go.
I can't wait. Now, who knows of a good website from which to get cheap tickets from Hartford to Austin?
7/04/2007
Massachusetts 2, or Poem draft 3
My grandfather says this poem illustrates the devout faith of atheists. It is a poem for him, and for my cousin Emily.
Miraculous
A tiny duck is flying higher than his feathers should let him,
swooping down to swim faster than his tiny duck feet
should carry him in a perfectly
straight line across a river that is moving
so fast there should be no way he can fight it.
And his mother sits on the other side, without
so much as a ruffled feather to show any kind of fear
for her week-old baby duck.
But here I am, on a cliff that should leave me too high
for my 20/60 bare-eyed vision to perceive this tiny
duck’s head zooming across the whitecaps, with too little
sun protection to keep my super-white-girl knees from
frying into blisters, too willing to dismiss my blurry
eyes from their blind faith
to admit that I think
I’m seeing a miracle.
And some think my cynicism keeps me from
finding the courage to have faith in a powerful G-d, but
miracles are not magical. They
don’t come from the hand their G-d’s magic wand,
and they’re hardly ever pretty or convenient.
Miracles are acts of desperation
turned beautiful, like the star that shoots through the cloud cover
for its one last chance at glory before it dies, like
Merganser ducklings learning how to swim in the middle of a rapid,
like the sun wrestling through the morning fog to warm the ocean.
Miracles are accidents that allow
us to survive, like the tackle box that trips
the man who falls and lets his catch go free, like
the bullet that hits a soldier bad enough
to send him home alive, like the first time
I felt poetry slamming into my faithless soul like a car crash
that left me twisted and burning, but unable to run away.
And today I know that one man’s miracle
is another man’s tragedy,
that one mother Merganser can teach me
more about faith than any house of prayer
and here I sit with my near-blind eyes
and understand that this kind of miracle
is worth more than a god to pray to because
these miracles have no selling point or point to sell.
They just give me faith.
My grandfather says this poem illustrates the devout faith of atheists. It is a poem for him, and for my cousin Emily.
Miraculous
A tiny duck is flying higher than his feathers should let him,
swooping down to swim faster than his tiny duck feet
should carry him in a perfectly
straight line across a river that is moving
so fast there should be no way he can fight it.
And his mother sits on the other side, without
so much as a ruffled feather to show any kind of fear
for her week-old baby duck.
But here I am, on a cliff that should leave me too high
for my 20/60 bare-eyed vision to perceive this tiny
duck’s head zooming across the whitecaps, with too little
sun protection to keep my super-white-girl knees from
frying into blisters, too willing to dismiss my blurry
eyes from their blind faith
to admit that I think
I’m seeing a miracle.
And some think my cynicism keeps me from
finding the courage to have faith in a powerful G-d, but
miracles are not magical. They
don’t come from the hand their G-d’s magic wand,
and they’re hardly ever pretty or convenient.
Miracles are acts of desperation
turned beautiful, like the star that shoots through the cloud cover
for its one last chance at glory before it dies, like
Merganser ducklings learning how to swim in the middle of a rapid,
like the sun wrestling through the morning fog to warm the ocean.
Miracles are accidents that allow
us to survive, like the tackle box that trips
the man who falls and lets his catch go free, like
the bullet that hits a soldier bad enough
to send him home alive, like the first time
I felt poetry slamming into my faithless soul like a car crash
that left me twisted and burning, but unable to run away.
And today I know that one man’s miracle
is another man’s tragedy,
that one mother Merganser can teach me
more about faith than any house of prayer
and here I sit with my near-blind eyes
and understand that this kind of miracle
is worth more than a god to pray to because
these miracles have no selling point or point to sell.
They just give me faith.
7/01/2007
Massachusetts 1, or Poem
Miraculous Things
Draft 2
A tiny duck is flying higher than his feathers should let him,
swooping down to swim faster than his tiny duck feet
should carry him in a perfectly
straight line across a river that is moving
so fast there should be no way he can fight it.
And his mother sits on the other side, without
so much as a ruffled feather to show any kind of fear
for her week-old baby duck.
But here I am, on a cliff that should leave me too high
for my 20/60 bare-eyed vision to perceive this tiny
duck’s head zooming across the whitecaps, with too little
sun protection to keep my super-white-girl knees from
frying into blistery crisps, and too little invested
in the commercialism of faith to admit that I think
I’m seeing a miracle.
And I imagine that you think my cynicism keeps me from
finding the courage to have faith in a powerful G-d, but
I don’t see miracles as magical. They
don’t come down straight from the hand your G-d’s magic wand,
and they’re hardly ever so pretty or convenient.
Miracles are acts of desperation
turned beautiful, like the star that shoots through the cloud cover
for its one last chance at glory before it dies, like
Merganser ducklings learning how to swim in the middle of a rapid,
like the sun wrestling through the morning fog to warm the ocean.
Miracles are accidents that allow
us to survive, like the hand that should’ve slipped
from my life jacket
before it hauled me safely into the boat but didn’t, like
the bullet that hits a soldier bad enough
to send him home alive, and
today I know that one man’s miracle
is another man’s tragedy,
that one mother Merganser can teach me
more about faith than any house of prayer
and here I sit with my near-blind eyes
and understand that this kind of miracle
is safe because
these miracles will never sell you on a god.
They’ll just give you faith.
Miraculous Things
Draft 2
A tiny duck is flying higher than his feathers should let him,
swooping down to swim faster than his tiny duck feet
should carry him in a perfectly
straight line across a river that is moving
so fast there should be no way he can fight it.
And his mother sits on the other side, without
so much as a ruffled feather to show any kind of fear
for her week-old baby duck.
But here I am, on a cliff that should leave me too high
for my 20/60 bare-eyed vision to perceive this tiny
duck’s head zooming across the whitecaps, with too little
sun protection to keep my super-white-girl knees from
frying into blistery crisps, and too little invested
in the commercialism of faith to admit that I think
I’m seeing a miracle.
And I imagine that you think my cynicism keeps me from
finding the courage to have faith in a powerful G-d, but
I don’t see miracles as magical. They
don’t come down straight from the hand your G-d’s magic wand,
and they’re hardly ever so pretty or convenient.
Miracles are acts of desperation
turned beautiful, like the star that shoots through the cloud cover
for its one last chance at glory before it dies, like
Merganser ducklings learning how to swim in the middle of a rapid,
like the sun wrestling through the morning fog to warm the ocean.
Miracles are accidents that allow
us to survive, like the hand that should’ve slipped
from my life jacket
before it hauled me safely into the boat but didn’t, like
the bullet that hits a soldier bad enough
to send him home alive, and
today I know that one man’s miracle
is another man’s tragedy,
that one mother Merganser can teach me
more about faith than any house of prayer
and here I sit with my near-blind eyes
and understand that this kind of miracle
is safe because
these miracles will never sell you on a god.
They’ll just give you faith.
6/17/2007
New Jersey 4, or Silly Putty, and Other Things I Never Thought About While Traveling
Dear Max,
I attended a birthday party for an eleven-year-old girl several days ago.
Actually, I didn't just attend it, I was hired to work it. I planned and organized games for the kids, and made sure they didn't kill each other on the backyard trampoline. And, at the end of the party, I distributed the extra prizes from the games and contests, making sure every kid went home with some trinket. As I was doing this, I grabbed one of my favorite childhood toys: plastic egg filled with Silly Putty. I gazed at it with rapt fondness, and, before anyone could claim it, stuck it into my back pocket and took it home.
Before you berate me for stealing toys from children, let me assure you that nobody went home empty-handed and that these kids had put me through such a wringer (which included, among other things, trampling me on a water slide) that I thought I deserved a prize for having kept everyone (myself included) sane and alive.
I've been playing with the Silly Putty on my desk for the past couple of days, marveling at it each time - the stretchiness, the ability to pick up newspaper ink, the bounciness. Silly Putty is fun. And it makes me zone.
Zoning is the name I've given to the peculiar mental space I enter when I see something that I think I'd never see in the Czech Republic, even in Prague. When I zone out, I usually stare at something for far too long, with the incredulous intensity of one who is fairly intoxicated. It is the look that says "Whoa! Look at this neat stuff! Who the hell would think to make such a thing?"
I zone out in giant grocery stores a lot. Particularly in the organic/hippie food aisle. Firstly, because such an aisle exists, and secondly because I can read all the ingredients and organic logos and whatnots - so I do. Sometimes I remark aloud for the benefit of my fellow shoppers on the quantity and variety of available olive oils, or marvel rapturously about canned soup (have you noticed that soup only comes in dried mixes in Prague?). I once, very quietly, recited a spontaneous limerick that came to mind when I found some delicious-looking kale and threw it joyously into my shopping cart (for which I did not have to pay 10kc, or any other amount).
Granted, I've been zoning less and less over the past six weeks, which is a relief. But reading your blog, along with several other blogs, has made me think that most US citizens could use a little zoning. What if, for just two minutes, everyone zoned out at the US government? I mean, really zoned, and asked themselves incredulously:
"Whoa...government. How did they set that up?"
It might even lead to dangerous questions that I've entertained about Silly Putty.
"Is it really good for anything?"
"How flexible is it?"
"Is it really possible to make a clean break? Or will it just get less and less visible until I can't see it anymore but know it's still there?"
Anyway, Max, you might be entertained by my notions about government in this entry, but my family probably can't take much more of my political wanderings. Especially while I'm zoning. They don't really get the zoning thing.
Ah, Max, now I know why I'm writing this to you. Not just for your entertainment, or mine, although those are certainly benefits. But to say this: I don't miss Prague. Not yet, and maybe not ever. But I do feel a certain connection (dare I say kinship?) with you, if only because we lived in the same city, once. I recognize the maps you post on your blog, the picture of the Skalka bus, the descriptions of customer [dis]service and the few Czech names and words you slip into your entries.
As I adjust further and further into life here, I lose the loneliness of being a stranger in a foreign city. And with that, I lose some powers of observation. Zoning is one way of holding on to that - a way to remind myself of the constant ridiculous aspects of life. A reminder, you might say, to keep thinking independently. Others might say zoning keeps me from taking my life in the US for granted. In any case, it is one of the two biggest things keeping me connected to Prague.
The other, of course, is your blog.
Dear Max,
I attended a birthday party for an eleven-year-old girl several days ago.
Actually, I didn't just attend it, I was hired to work it. I planned and organized games for the kids, and made sure they didn't kill each other on the backyard trampoline. And, at the end of the party, I distributed the extra prizes from the games and contests, making sure every kid went home with some trinket. As I was doing this, I grabbed one of my favorite childhood toys: plastic egg filled with Silly Putty. I gazed at it with rapt fondness, and, before anyone could claim it, stuck it into my back pocket and took it home.Before you berate me for stealing toys from children, let me assure you that nobody went home empty-handed and that these kids had put me through such a wringer (which included, among other things, trampling me on a water slide) that I thought I deserved a prize for having kept everyone (myself included) sane and alive.
I've been playing with the Silly Putty on my desk for the past couple of days, marveling at it each time - the stretchiness, the ability to pick up newspaper ink, the bounciness. Silly Putty is fun. And it makes me zone.
Zoning is the name I've given to the peculiar mental space I enter when I see something that I think I'd never see in the Czech Republic, even in Prague. When I zone out, I usually stare at something for far too long, with the incredulous intensity of one who is fairly intoxicated. It is the look that says "Whoa! Look at this neat stuff! Who the hell would think to make such a thing?"
I zone out in giant grocery stores a lot. Particularly in the organic/hippie food aisle. Firstly, because such an aisle exists, and secondly because I can read all the ingredients and organic logos and whatnots - so I do. Sometimes I remark aloud for the benefit of my fellow shoppers on the quantity and variety of available olive oils, or marvel rapturously about canned soup (have you noticed that soup only comes in dried mixes in Prague?). I once, very quietly, recited a spontaneous limerick that came to mind when I found some delicious-looking kale and threw it joyously into my shopping cart (for which I did not have to pay 10kc, or any other amount).
Granted, I've been zoning less and less over the past six weeks, which is a relief. But reading your blog, along with several other blogs, has made me think that most US citizens could use a little zoning. What if, for just two minutes, everyone zoned out at the US government? I mean, really zoned, and asked themselves incredulously:
"Whoa...government. How did they set that up?"
It might even lead to dangerous questions that I've entertained about Silly Putty.
"Is it really good for anything?"
"How flexible is it?"
"Is it really possible to make a clean break? Or will it just get less and less visible until I can't see it anymore but know it's still there?"
Anyway, Max, you might be entertained by my notions about government in this entry, but my family probably can't take much more of my political wanderings. Especially while I'm zoning. They don't really get the zoning thing.
Ah, Max, now I know why I'm writing this to you. Not just for your entertainment, or mine, although those are certainly benefits. But to say this: I don't miss Prague. Not yet, and maybe not ever. But I do feel a certain connection (dare I say kinship?) with you, if only because we lived in the same city, once. I recognize the maps you post on your blog, the picture of the Skalka bus, the descriptions of customer [dis]service and the few Czech names and words you slip into your entries.
As I adjust further and further into life here, I lose the loneliness of being a stranger in a foreign city. And with that, I lose some powers of observation. Zoning is one way of holding on to that - a way to remind myself of the constant ridiculous aspects of life. A reminder, you might say, to keep thinking independently. Others might say zoning keeps me from taking my life in the US for granted. In any case, it is one of the two biggest things keeping me connected to Prague.
The other, of course, is your blog.
6/04/2007
Oregon 1, or Adventures In Family Travel
written 6/4/07-6/5/07
It started, as do many things, with my mother and a desperate phone call. My father's birthday was approaching too rapidly for comfort, and she had no gift ideas. It's virtually impossible to actually buy the man anything, since he doesn't pine for material things - he buys whatever he needs or really wants, and doesn't need or want anything else. The last time my mother tried to buy him a present, he put it in the opposite corner of the living room and went out and bought himself something he liked better. My mother and I kvetched for awhile about my father's gift impossibilities, and hung up with resolutions to brainstorm like mad.
The result of those brainstorms, and many months of planning was this: a 10-day vacation to the West Coast, with three components: a drive up the coast from San Francisco to Oregon, a whitewater rafting trip down the Rogue River, and a three-day digital photography class for my dad to attend.
Right now, we're in the last stage of the trip, and my father seems to have enjoyed himself thus far. My sister and I have managed to share the backseat of a rented Chevy Impala without any major insults or injuries (we'll just forget that bit about my saying she couldn't harmonize for beans), the scenery has been beyond incredible, and - dare I say it - my family seems to be behaving functionally. We're traveling well.
Traveling with my family is completely in contrast with the travels I did in Europe. I noticed this immediately when we arrived at the airport and got to stand in the "Priority/Elite/FirstClass" baggage line. My first thought was this: the last time I was flying, I was nobody's "Priority" but my own. The baggage handlers at this airport were polite and friendly, called my mother "Ma'am" and laughed at my jokes about being a "Priority."
When my family travels, we stay in places that aren't just "nice". They're often beautiful and luxurious, like this house on the beach. When I traveled as a student, I traveled cheaply, with comfort as a secondary priority. But I still made decisions. It was more important for me to eat good food than stay in a hotel or a nicer hostel. I liked people-watching from street cafes better than art museums, although I did see some fantastic art museums. I jumped on a trampoline in a park in Budapest instead of going to one of its famous spas. I went to the London Gay Film Festival instead of the Tower of London. I think I'm pretty weird about traveling, actually. But that's an analysis for another entry.
At this point, I'm enjoying Oregon, a state I've never been to before. But I'd like to relate one more incident that really startled me. I think you all might find it amusing.
I had an experience several days ago in which my younger sister sent a pasta dish back to the kitchen at a restaurant. I almost stopped her. Why? Because two simultaneous thoughts went off in my head like fireworks:
1. Wait, you can’t do that! Who does that? They’ll never accept it - just eat what you can and you’ll eat at home.
2. You're complaining about a little too much cream on your pasta? Are you for real? They got your order right - what more do you want?
And then the waitress happily took the order back to the kitchen, apologized to my sister for not getting it right, and brought her back a steaming cream-less plate without charging her for the other one. I don’t think I spoke for whole minutes after that (which, for me, is generally a feat). Welcome back from the Czech Republic, Dane.
written 6/4/07-6/5/07
It started, as do many things, with my mother and a desperate phone call. My father's birthday was approaching too rapidly for comfort, and she had no gift ideas. It's virtually impossible to actually buy the man anything, since he doesn't pine for material things - he buys whatever he needs or really wants, and doesn't need or want anything else. The last time my mother tried to buy him a present, he put it in the opposite corner of the living room and went out and bought himself something he liked better. My mother and I kvetched for awhile about my father's gift impossibilities, and hung up with resolutions to brainstorm like mad.
The result of those brainstorms, and many months of planning was this: a 10-day vacation to the West Coast, with three components: a drive up the coast from San Francisco to Oregon, a whitewater rafting trip down the Rogue River, and a three-day digital photography class for my dad to attend.
Right now, we're in the last stage of the trip, and my father seems to have enjoyed himself thus far. My sister and I have managed to share the backseat of a rented Chevy Impala without any major insults or injuries (we'll just forget that bit about my saying she couldn't harmonize for beans), the scenery has been beyond incredible, and - dare I say it - my family seems to be behaving functionally. We're traveling well.
Traveling with my family is completely in contrast with the travels I did in Europe. I noticed this immediately when we arrived at the airport and got to stand in the "Priority/Elite/FirstClass" baggage line. My first thought was this: the last time I was flying, I was nobody's "Priority" but my own. The baggage handlers at this airport were polite and friendly, called my mother "Ma'am" and laughed at my jokes about being a "Priority."
When my family travels, we stay in places that aren't just "nice". They're often beautiful and luxurious, like this house on the beach. When I traveled as a student, I traveled cheaply, with comfort as a secondary priority. But I still made decisions. It was more important for me to eat good food than stay in a hotel or a nicer hostel. I liked people-watching from street cafes better than art museums, although I did see some fantastic art museums. I jumped on a trampoline in a park in Budapest instead of going to one of its famous spas. I went to the London Gay Film Festival instead of the Tower of London. I think I'm pretty weird about traveling, actually. But that's an analysis for another entry.
At this point, I'm enjoying Oregon, a state I've never been to before. But I'd like to relate one more incident that really startled me. I think you all might find it amusing.
I had an experience several days ago in which my younger sister sent a pasta dish back to the kitchen at a restaurant. I almost stopped her. Why? Because two simultaneous thoughts went off in my head like fireworks:
1. Wait, you can’t do that! Who does that? They’ll never accept it - just eat what you can and you’ll eat at home.
2. You're complaining about a little too much cream on your pasta? Are you for real? They got your order right - what more do you want?
And then the waitress happily took the order back to the kitchen, apologized to my sister for not getting it right, and brought her back a steaming cream-less plate without charging her for the other one. I don’t think I spoke for whole minutes after that (which, for me, is generally a feat). Welcome back from the Czech Republic, Dane.
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