Whos' Fault?

  
   The story is said about R' Yoshe Ber Soloveitchik that he approached his son on his wedding day and said to him:

  "Do you see all the important guests that have come to celebrate? Don't think they came for you; they came because of me!"

   Said son to father: "If that's the case, why are there not more of them?"

   His father replied: "That's because of you, son."

   At a Farbrengen I recently attended, the Mashpia explained: All the good things that are accomplished by Lubavitch are a result of our Rebbe. As for all the negativity and turning-off that occurs, we can only blame ourselves. We are the humans who make mistakes and thereby have a negative impact on others.

   Either way, I thought it was a point worth mentioning.
        

Musings (13)

Many a flower,

Only at night,

Opens its petals;

Shines its light.

        

Daydreams

I was flying,

Free as can be,

Unconstrained.

No longer did my legs,

Carry my burden,

Groaning.

A taste of the unknown,

For a usually limited

Me.

T'was all good -

Till the crash;

I was no longer jumping -

I had landed.

Reality hurts.

  

Self-Blues

  
   I'm an actor. I wear masks. One for indoors, one for out. One for friends, one for strangers. But I can't fathom that the masks define me. That guy? That's just how I act when I'm confronted with certain situations. But that isn't the real me.

   But there is a problem with this. If all my masks don't define me, I am never my real self. There is a part of me that remains closed, possibly forever. I more and more get the notion that my real self can only be expressed to myself, and only myself.

   Honestly, it sucks. But what am I supposed to do?
        

Openness

 
   Being an open person is a notable trait, I believe. However, if you're an open person you should be open about everything, including the fact that you demand more of yourself. Therefore, in the same breath that you tell someone "I did wrong, and I'm not ashamed to speak about it", you should also be able to say "I hope not to do this again". If living a moral life means aspiring to higher standards, that should be a part of your openness.

   It seems to me that open people can be put into several categories:

   1) Someone who will be totally open about himself, but is not aspiring to become better. Such a person can be viewed as using openness as a way to make it easier for him to do what he wants; he doesn't have to hide it. I'd venture to say that this type of openness is a reflection of today's carefree society, where doing what you want is the norm. This should not be the case in Judaism; our religion tells us there is more to life than our desires.

   2) Someone who will be totally open about himself, but is not using his openness as an excuse; he still expects more of himself. This is an inspirational type of openness; speaking with such a person will leave you with the impression that "He's in the same boat as me", "If he can do it, so can I". Such a person realizes that he must aspire in order to achieve, and exudes this inspiration to others.

   3) This is the not-open person. Although he may be working on himself, he isn't open about it. This leaves others with a sour taste in their mouths, e.g. "He's really the same as me, he's just too proud to admit it", etc. Needless to say, this type of person doesn't inspire others .

   Looking at these three categories it's easy to conclude that the ideal form of openness is the the second one we have discussed. Such a person is living for real, and at the same time is able to speak about his shortcomings to everybody who is ready for serious conversation. This is the form of openness that I believe in the long run will inspire and astonish other not-so-open people.

   So do what's right and good luck.
    

Musings (12)

I may be a baker worthy of being a diamond merchant, 

but what can I do if I love the smell of fresh bread?

        

Avocado Ethics

  
   Put someone in a tight spot, and they'll fight over the most ridiculous things. So they say. But it's certainly different to see it in practice...

.   .   .

   In our school we are served avocados once a week. Real homemade avocado spread, not mixed with mayonnaise or anything, just real avocado. Understandably, this gives rise to somewhat of a battle of wills, you might say. Now it is weird to use avocados as a yardstick with which to measure peoples' egos, but it's all there in the open. Here, see for yourself...

   The session has just finished. Everyone knows that in the dining room there are fresh bagels, tuna, eggs, and of course avocados. So let's see: Who are the first five to finish the dash? I shan't go into more about those. Then there is the actual avocado taking. You see, for some reason they trust us with sharing this stuff. Mind you, there isn't even enough to go round in the first place. So it's first come first served. Eat or... don't eat. (Quite a dire prospect to some, apparently.) So now they're all in the dining room. But wait! The winners of the dash and their runner-ups got to the bowls first! Where does that leave the rest of us?
 
   Well, it's not actually that bad. In the end, most are content with what they do -or don't- have. Or at least their let's-fight-versus-it's-only-food struggle ended with the victory to the latter. And besides, with the first five already gone and the avocado with them, there is no use fighting. But it's still fun to see how peoples' worst and best traits are aroused by the should-be trivialities.

   Or maybe avocados really are worth fighting over?
               

Ode To a Tree

When I first saw you,

You were bare,

I thought

You're like the rest

Of them trees,

The limbs of yours

I could not see -

How high they stretch;

How worn they are.

But now,

It's all there,

In the open:

Better than the rest,

Taller,

Thicker,

Broader.

Had you a mouth,

You would speak,

Of all those,

Who you've had

Under your spell,

Of all those,

Who you sheltered

Under your leaves.

But since you're silent

I can't be sure,

So I think

I'm the first,

Whom your limbs

Seem to embrace;

Whom your leaves

Seem to shield,

From a burning sun.

But even so,

I say I'm different -

I saw you first

 In the dark.

     

Musings (11)

It was never a fixed one,

yet I've got a broken one anyways.

What is it?

My French.

      

                                                                                  

      

Arythmaahem...(2)

Like a river

Whose water flows

Ever so slowly,

Are my pens' letters

When I've time to think;

Like free speech

Emanating

In no hurry,

Is my quill

When I don't rhyme.

But when I rhyme

I have no time -

My pen and ink

Can't stop to think -

It must work,

It must go;

Like a stream,

It should flow;

I can't say

What I want,

I must fit

All my rant,

Into sentences exactly the same size,

Or they might think that I'm not very wise.

So I stop -

And start again,

My heart -

It speaks

Its own language -

Unconformed.

Then I feel 

Truly free -

My hand extends

The heart of me.
   

Where's your money?

   It seems like the International Banking System is (still) successfully pulling off the biggest display of irony, and us 'cultured' people are falling for it. Why, I just got  my  statement yesterday and they decided to spend fifty cents to tell me that I gained 1.34 over the last half a year. Now can you tell me why I trust them with my money? Would you spend fifty cents to tell someone something of so little importance? Why don't they just put the fifty cents into my account and not tell me anything?
                                                         

Musings (10)

If Grey hairs are a sign of old age,

Good - I'm young.

But if Grey hairs are a sign of wisdom...

          

'Honesty'

 
   Authors' note: Here's an issue I've been thinking about the last while. Feel free to retain your opinion on the subject. Please do not be offended by the harsh tone; I think I make my point better this way. For this reason I've also used the first person terminology.

.   .   .

   In the last few years I've been hearing it more and more. It's the argument of Honesty. Of Openness.

.   .   .

 
   You tell me you're being honest with yourself. You say: "If I feel a certain way or if I want a certain thing, I should have no problem being open about it". Sounds like a nice way to live a life, no?

   I say not. Though there may be good aspects to such an openness, it has a major flaw. Namely, it leaves the decision of right and wrong to the individual. People like you say "I must be open with myself; if I want it I must be able to have it".

   As humans, Jews, and believers, we ought to know that our wants are not necessarily in tune with the truth. We were given an incomplete nature to work with, and our job is to tame it. It follows therefore, that if you desire a certain thing, you must first be sure it is a correct desire before you pursue it. If you then do it anyways you should at least be open enough not to call it 'Honesty'.

   Moreover, there is a limit to this 'Honesty'. There is a boundary somewhere that you won't pass, saying: "I know I want to do this, but I can't. I just can't." Tell me now, what happens to your 'Honesty' then? If you want it, why can't you bring yourself to have it?

   No; everyone has a standard. It differs only in that some of us want an easier time, so we say that some things "I'll accept of myself doing, because I'm honest". Is that Honesty? Is that Openness?You're just too lazy to work hard! Living a truly honest life is about always raising your standard, not lowering it.

   Don't get me wrong. I've done wrong in the past, and will do again in the future. But since I'm raising my standard, I'll be (rightly) embarrassed of things I did that don't rise up to it. This is a good form of 'Dishonesty'.

   So go ahead; be honest. Don't let your own desires get in your way. Look objectively and realize that you were created to improve yourself.
      

Musings (9)

Good memories get better over time,

and bad memories get worse.

     

Arythmaahem...

Should poems rhyme

With meter and time?

Or are they good - even

If they don't?

A story I'll say:

T'was yesterday,

That Sam our poet,

Who did also know it,

Decided to recite,

For his sons' wedding night,

A poem -

So very bright.

Yes bright it was,

It was because,

Although it did not -

- Could not -

 - Would not -

Rhyme,

It was still genius -

But one thing at a time.

So Sam our poet,

Went to the stand,

And stand he did,

With paper in hand;

He stood some more,

Amid looks galore,

His eyes how they darted,

Before he started!

 Then start he did,

And the crowd went wild:

"He speaks like a child!"

"He speaks like a child!"

His eyes vainly looked,

For a friend which could,

Save him from the sitch,

With zero a hitch.

What happened next,

I can't really say,

Because they threw

Chairs

Tables

Glasses

And the whole crowd left

And

Never came

Back again

To hear our 

[By now no longer poetic]

Sam speak.

So what do you think?
Is expended ink,
Only goodly spent,
If it has a flow,
Like a river so slow?
If it has taste,
And is not made in haste?

Or is it good even -

If it

Ends

Like this?
  

Musings (8)

The more you know about life,

the easier is it to die.

  

Saga Of A Birdie

 
   What's a bird? An easy question, I used to think. Ask anybody what a bird is and he'll tell you it's something that has feathers, wings, a beak, and all the other things that birds have in common. I still do think that a bird needs all those things to be considered a bird, but no-one would tell you that a bird is a bird even if it doesn't use its feet or wings, because it's just so unusual.

   But now I've officially changed my mind. A bird is a bird even if it can't use all the things G-d gave it. Moreover, I'd like to put it that a bird is a bird especially when it does not have these things. Here's why.

.   .   .

  
   Well, at first I didn't really notice it. I was too busy -on the run- and birds on the ground are a common sight to anybody. Neither was it of the type which I -as a nature lover- would take a second look at. Only after a few days I noticed that the same bird came every day to the berry bushes near the side door of the school, and looking to and fro to make sure there were no humans around, would quickly dart to that semi-open area where the berries were rotting, and make off with one.

   Then the question hit me: Why is there only one bird that is brazen enough to come collect some berries? Where are the others?

   The next time I saw it , I just stood there and watched. Its eyes were of the beseeching kind, like a beggar who asks for alms but is embarrassed to do so. After watching it snatch its' berry, I decided to follow it. And I did. I walked. It walked. I walked faster; it still walked. I ran; it ran. And then it hit me: Birds are supposed to fly!

   No longer did I feel a need to find out about the bird. It was all in that open, in one word: Crippled.

   Had I thought about it a little more, I probably would have realized that a flightless bird in its society is like a hand-less person in ours. Quite a handicap. And birds live in meaner world than us humans; there is no spoon-feeding you once you grow up. My bird would have to fend for itself. So much for the berry-eating manners of this bird - it was just not able to eat anything else.

   So fend for itself it did. It suffered humiliation from its more egotistic and soaring brothers, which was by now apparent to me by its ruffled feathers and stark eyes. But it was not discouraged, it would just have to take more drastic measures to survive.

   Now that I knew my birds predicament, I felt somewhat of a responsibility to help it out. But every time I'd approach, it would just run away to the nearest bush and hide. I felt for it, as it was not its fault; it had been taught to be scared of everything and everybody. It was alone. So I would try to leave it crumbs near the berry bush hoping it would eat them upon its next visit.

   After a while, a I stopped paying attention to my bird. Us humans can become insensitive to more emotional issues than this, and with time this too faded.

    Until one day I wondered: Where is that thing? Why didn't I see it make it make its dash for survival in already two weeks?

    Left to my own conclusions, it did not take long for me to surmise that it was not around anymore. It had battled the odds -for a while successfully- and then G-d must have said: "Good job, now it's time to take you back" - and then the cat got it.

    So now, when I think back at this strange event long gone, I wonder if I should have done more to help it out. Was watching nature unfold in its sometimes cruel form leave me stained as an accomplice of a villains deed? Or was it just providence that I witnessed what I did, and I am therefore not to blame?

    Say what you may, but to me one thing is certain: The one with the rusted feathers and defiant look, that's the bird I evermost loved; that's the bird I knew.

    And you can always tell me that maybe -just maybe- it learned to fly.
       

Musings (7)

Toilet paper is like Time.

The less of it you have,

the more precious it becomes.

   

Australia

Far away a land forlornly lies,
Well hidden it is from prying eyes,
"Down Under" they call it with a grin,
But me that fabled country did not win:

For while the duck-billed mammals' eggs it lays,
The big and arid hole centrally stays;
And while it breeds majestic kangaroos,
I've yet to see them other than in zoos;

For while its' people greet me with "G'day"s,
The laid-back culture me still does amaze;
And while they on the wrong side always cruise,
I've still to answer what I here did lose;

So as I leave all I'll do is say,
Happy - that far away,
I'll be - when it does lay.

   

Musings (6)

If variety is the spice of life,

does that mean your life is bland without it?

    

Annoying People

 
   Authors' note: I understand that some to whom this may apply may be reading this, so I therefore wish to state in advance that firstly I'm not aiming at the individual, rather at the idea, and secondly that I may exaggerate to bring out a point or make it funny.

   Also, it goes without saying (thanks to the Feminist Movement) that the feelings portrayed here can apply equally to either gender.

.   .   .

   We sit back to back. No, no, we're good friends, it's just that we sit at different tables. The catch is that our backs almost touch - and there is supposed to be enough room for someone to pass between us. Still manageable, you say? Well, every time he stands up, the following happens: 1) The back of his chair knocks into mine, jolting it; and 2) he leaves his chair out and doesn't slide it back into its place.

   On the first issue I won't be the one to criticize him, as he probably miscalculates the space behind him, and I don't expect him to turn around every time with a caliper to ensure that he won't bump into me. But on the second count, there is no excuse. It often will get to the point (after I've stood up and fixed his chair 1001 times,) that I feel like sending his chair flying in such a way that he'll never be able to bump it into mine again, if that's at all possible.

   I just don't get how someone can do something like that so many times and not realize that (much as I may hide it) I get annoyed! He must have grown up in a society where chair-jolting and chair-stranding are time-honored customs, thus making them his societal norm. How else could he have learned the art? Why, at the brink of my patience he will suddenly put his chair back halfway, so I have just enough room to maneuver around him.

   That's that. Not that I think my particular issue is shared by you, reader, but this type of annoyance can take on more humble and subtler forms, with  which I'm sure you can associate.

   And do take a look next time, for like a million other things, you can tell alot about peoples' character by observing whether they slide their chair back into its place at all, and if they do - ponder this: Their mood can be determined as well: Is it "Clang-Blong-Bonk" or "Sss-Thonk"?
         

Bedsheets

My bed, my bed
It has no feet,
So in its' stead
There goes my sheet,

By night it's neat
By day it's not,
To stay still it
Was never taught,

How it walks
I do not know,
To new spots it
Will always go,

(I never thought
A thing like that,
Could have me brought
So off the bat,)

Why, one day
I might awake,
And have to give
A double take,

For I will see
A note for me:
"I do not mean
To let you down,
But 'till next week
I'm out of town!"

 

Musings (5)

"A penny saved is a penny earned"

Is only a penny

Whose value you learned.

What's So Good About Crocs?

They come in all colors and sizes, they're worn by the young, old, and everyone in between. It seems as if they entered the it's-now-in-fashion realm, and show no sign of leaving. Like many revolutions in our history, the Croc revolution seems to have forever altered the world the way we know it. 

But before I admit defeat, and bow my head in recognition of the greater forces around me, I'd like to dissect this disease a little, so as we may then move on to more important things.

The Croc wearing community can be divided into several categories:

  

  1) Those for whom it's become the ultimate piece of footwear, to be removed only for sleeping, (totally blown);

            2) Those who wear it pretty much instead of an ordinary pair of shoes, (extreme);

            3) Those for whom it replaces a pair of Flip-Flops, slippers, etc., (fair, but still under the influence);

            4) Those who own a pair, but don't use it, (must have found it uncomfortable, believe it or not);

And finally there are those who never bought a pair.

Now, as I launch my diatribe, let's just agree on one point: You're walking down the street, and approaching you is a(n otherwise) distinguished looking Rabbi, say of about fifty years of age, and everything seems to fit his bill other than that interesting pair of footwear that is somehow still on his feet. Now, even if the snow wasn't melting outside and the sidewalks weren't muddy, I'd still have a double take. Wouldn't you?

Say what you want, but what has gotten into his head? Does he really think that fitting into any of the abovementioned categories excuses him from his senselessness?

It's not like I have much to say on the subject anyway, but I'll give you some food for thought:

Anything that has 'made it' so well, across genders, cliques, communities, cultures, etc.. is bound to be considered the norm, or accepted, or plain. You're just not original, even if you have twenty of those thigimajjigis to try and make it look cool. Crocs are no longer fashionable. And comfort has gone -and will again go- out of style.

  

Nosson Deitch OBM

As if I knew

What was to come,

As if I knew -

My heart is numb.

As if I saw

What was to be,

As if I saw -

It could be me.

 

Musings (4)

   
Why is it that the simple people always come up with best stories?
   

Musings (3)

Maimonides says that mans wisdom is best gained in that night hours.

Ahh! that's the reason for Daylight Savings!

   

One More Step

His racing heartbeat tells him to slow down,

But something inside makes him continue.

"So much effort was already spent!

I can't give up now."

"I've been training for this for such a long time,

What will my sponsors say?"

On he runs, overcoming obstacles from without and within.

He still keeps his lead, our persistent hero.

But alas, the final blow is to come not from himself,

-When the track disappears from under his feet,

And he disappears with it.

Such is my feeling of a time

When my opportunities

Were taken.

A loss of life,

A loss of freedom.

But not by me,

 By them.

That's me for today.