Change

 
   Everything around me seems to be changing. Everyone is running too fast for me. New occurrences are pushing moments I want to treasure to the back of my file cabinet, to be replaced by newer and less savory stuff. Now the older files will be harder to find. If only there would be a way to keep some time-confined moments truly timeless.

   Alas, I know that the path upon which I tread will soon be overtaken. Perhaps by many, perhaps by only one. But overtaken it will be; never again to be the same. I hear them saying: "Why give more to the present than a moments' notice? Let your eye casually pass over it; like vanilla to the chocolate lover. Just skip it. We live in the past and future; in the bliss of the unknown and unseen."

   To myself though, I'm unconvinced. I say to myself: "Take the strongest, the heaviest of those moments and freeze them; those that weigh upon the heart. At the very least freeze-dry them so they'll keep their smell longer. Tomorrows' unknown need not be a reason to forget today's sights, smells, and tears. Bottle them up inside you and only open them when the time is right. Do this and in the driest of deserts you'll always have the smell of the morning after the rain."
     

Soon To Be Gone

   He is soon to be gone. He'll almost vanish into thin air.

   But he's a good guy. I don't want to forget him. He's worth enough in friendship terms that I should want a place for him in my heart. You know, the place where all my good friends are stored, them and the good times we had.

   It doesn't come easy, though. A constant effort is needed to keep him alive in me, untill I see him again. Because for now he may be as good as non-existent. After all, all the good times we shared are not to be repeated. When I see him next it will be but for a moment; a day at most. Not a year. A year in which we lived, grew, shared - all together. So things  -as much as I wish to deny- will indeed be different. Vain thinking it would be to conjure a scenario where all this can be repeated. It just won't happen.

.   .   .

   But does that mean I should forget? Just because there seems to be no point in remembering?

   Let me tell you something: All these memories, times, and the spot in my heart for them, their benefit is only mine, only mine. They are there for me to be able to use them when the going gets rough. In the future I'll need to have what to reminisce about; something to pull my own heart with. And if I don't treasure these moments and store them now, I just won't have them; my loss.

   So he's a good guy. That's who he is. But for me, to remember him is a tool; a way to reach my emotions with my own bare hands. For that - he's in me, and he'll stay in me.
      

Contemplation

  
   A most used expression in Chassidus is 'Hisbonenus' - contemplation. Often we wonder: What does this mean? Can I really do this?

   Yes you can. We all have the mechanism in us to properly contemplate, it's just that we use it for other things. For example, if someone offends you, the natural instinct is to chew it over. Why did he say that? What did he mean? How can I teach him a lesson? Moreover, we speak about it to our friends to get more insight into the matter.

   If spiritual matters are as pertinent to us as the physical, we'd be able to contemplate about it. The problem only lies in the fact that it isn't as important.

   Now we've got homework.
 

Mivtzoim Musings

  
   On mivtzoim I go to Uffizi, a Jewish owned coffee shop. Though not especially a kosher place, it nonetheless attracts many Jews, and needless to say has Jewish workers. Today, upon entering, my partner and I met two Jews of the old school; Yiddish speakers.

   One of them says to me: "What are you doing here? This is not a kosher place!" To which I explained that we are only going in to leave some pamphlets for the two workers. He wasn't satisfied: "People like you should not be seen in a place like this!", he says to me.
  
    Now, since he was knowledgeable enough to ask me such a question, he obviously knows I wouldn't eat in such a place. Rather, he was asking me what I thought about other peoples' impressions of our being there, concerning which he raised a valid point. Can my well-meant actions be (in this case) taken by others in a negative way?
   

Musings

Silence - 

The one language we all speak.

  

Musing

"It's not you I don't trust; 

it's the people you tell that I don't trust."

(Just heard this from someone. Don't know if it's original. 

Either way I feel I could use this once in a while.)

  

Dunno

 
   He is a master shoulder shrugger. He does it all the time. To every question I ask, I know by now that I'll receive the same response: "I don't know".

   Just a second. Before you start chiding me for saying that being truthful is a bad trait, allow me the liberty of explanation. If he'd only tell me this when I asked him a thoughtful question, I'd understand. But when I ask him a question like 'How long will you take to finish your shower', or 'Do you want me to wait five minutes for you', it gets annoying to have someone who is unwilling to take the responsibility to keep his word and therefore shirks into the amazingly wide expanse of uncertainty. In a way I'm jealous; he can do whatever he wants. But is that the way to deal with a question posed to you by someone who wants an answer?

   I'd love to tell him what I think. I want to say to him: "If you give me an answer, you'll have a goal to attain. When you then keep your word, you will have checked another box in your minds' chart. You will have grown."

   But what can I do? If I give him a piece of my mind I'm scared I'll receive the response: "Maybe your right; I don't know".
   

My Dawn

 
   For a second I shudder. I wonder if you'll succeed again. After all, you seem today to be having a hard time. All the odds are against you. The clouds, rain, and sky itself bespeak prevailing darkness.

   Looking around me, the black clouds seem to cover the earth in a definitive fashion. Why, they seem to challenge me to a duel which they are sure they will win. And the rain - it's what makes this darkness hit home. In its drops it seems to carry the clouds' message into my face. Every drop says to me: "Just give up. It'll be dark forever."

   I'm not so easily convinced, though. I've known you for too long. You'd never succumb. But I still question myself: Where are you? Must you always test my trust in you? Do you really want me to fall off the cliff of doubt?

   My morbid thoughts notwithstanding, I look up at the sky above me, and behold - there is change. There is some light skirting the edge of the ominous clouds, making the rains' hue lighter too. I speak aloud, hoping you'll listen in: "I knew you'd make it. You were testing me, and I passed. All I need to do is see a drop of your light and I know that more will follow. Soon the air will carry a different tune. Brighter. More alive."

   And indeed, you succeed to the extent that later on in the day I am foolish enough to think that this was just another dawn; one oft repeated. But little do I know.
    

Musings

You tell me: "I respect that".

But it gets me thinking. 

Do you respect me although what I do is different 

or because in that way I'm the same as you?

        

Thanks, Cuz

 
   By a family Simcha a while back, I wandered outside the hall for some fresh air. Amidst the pseudo-smiling faces of the chatting women and several strollers, was my first cousin, some twenty years my senior. Holding her baby of several months as deftly as only a Shlucha could, she approached me.

   "Are you  ----?", she asked, calling me by my first name. "Yes, that's me", I replied with somewhat of a shy smile. (Let's just say I'm not famous for my small talk abilities...) "Oh", she said as she started what seemed to be a oft-repeated mantra: "I remember you! I flew in to help your mother when you were born..."

   Being that other than that tidbit we haven't much in common, the conversation ended soon afterward. (She must have also gone through the "Wow, you've grown so much since I've seen you last" stuff too, but I don't remember.) However, the casual recital of the sentence gave rise in my mind to several questions, which I shall now transcribe:

   What exactly do I owe you now that I know this? Do you want me to help you out next time?

   Is this a polite form of robbing me of my self-worth?

   Is there any way I can make amends for making you change my diaper?

   Do you think now that anything I'll do is to your credit, or can I take some of it for myself?

   Now, dear reader, please don't misinterpret me to mean I bear a grudge against this cousin of mine. I don't blame her for feeling impelled to reveal to me this rather unimportant fact. But just remember: there can be many implications to a simple statement, including ones you may not want there to be. Thankfully this time those implications exhibited themselves in a rather humorous way...
    

Musings (15)

"A picture is worth a thousand words."

It's easy to take such a picture.

It's much harder to paint a good picture with a thousand words...

      

Rain

What from others it takes,

To me it does give.

A time to to be myself,

My real me can live.

.   .   .

When it comes they shudder,

Hide behind a closing door,

And when it finally abates,

They hope it will - forevermore.

Why they so think I do not know,

These people of civility,

Can they not see the hand of G-d

Making green his tapestry?

Oh, now I can see their mistake,

They have not been doing their part;

Instead of framing what he made,

They're ruining his work of art:

Where he put grass they put cement,

And lots of other things like that,

So of course when it comes back,

They'll hate it - but it's tit for tat.

But you, for one - just go and see,

The way rain is supposed to be:

Clean, clear, pure and bright,

It's sure to bring you much delight,

Why, you may even feel like me,

Untied, and for the time being -

Free.

    

Musings (14)

Bravery seems easy when the consequences are not immediate.

      

Strange Smiles

     
   Two stops after me, a thin man boards the tram. Glancing cautiously around him, he chooses to sit next to me. I shift - uncomfortably. He's not exactly my type of guy, you know. His breath smells of alcohol; he cuddles his hands as if they're cold. "Don't do anything foolish", I say to myself. "Just let him be".

   "Hi", he says to me. I uneasily reply with a hello, hoping he won't start a conversation. Seemingly content with my reply, he proceeds to occupy a little more of the bench space.

   I continue counting the number of stops left. Abruptly he turns to me and asks: "How was your day?", to which I -curtly enough- reply: "Good, thank G-d". Once again he's quiet.

   Who is this guy, I wonder. Bald, with a stylish but well-worn cap on his head, he looks to me like he's seen better days. I just hope he doesn't want anything from me. But he doesn't seem to. I get the impression that he's content just being next to me. Why, I don't know.

   After the next stop, he stands up and prepares to leave. He has kind of a spaced-out look to him, I notice. As though he has what to think about. Or maybe he's tired.

   A minute later the tram pulls up to the stop where he'll leave me. Exited enough at the prospect, I look his way as he departs. As he does, though, he looks my way again. Lifting his hand to resemble a wave, he smiles and says: "See ya later".

   After he was gone, I smiled back.
       

My Zaide

  
   He was a classic. Classic in the sense that he was old-fashioned. The house he lived in (for as long as I can remember) was probably older than him; so seemed to be everything in it.

   After a six hour drive with my siblings, we'd pull up to the large, square house with the slanted roof. As we happily (and me - nervously) climbed the stairs, we could already feel the other-worldliness of Zaides' house. The tall staircase and the carpets lining it soon gave way to an unused Singer sewing machine, a messy dining room, small kitchen, and living room.

   But what made the visits special for me was the sense of history. Visiting Zaide was like seeing life through my mothers eyes; seeing things the way they were when she was little. I can hear my mother chuckling aloud: "That's my old room", "That was my bed". That feeling was everywhere; the air itself was musty and smelled of antiquity. For a child like I was, this was a breeding ground for curiosity and good memories.

   I didn't visit Zaide once, though. Every so often we'd visit again. But as I grew older, my perception of him changed. Zaide for me was no longer a 'classic'; he was more human, more real. He was now someone who lived a life, I realized. He got up early, davened early, and actually did things with his time.

   But this change in my perception had a negative side effect; my Zaide had now become estranged from me. Of course I knew we were still related, but I felt uncomfortable visiting him; almost intrusive. The difference between us was too vast.

   Yet that phase passed too. I'd still feel uneasy talking to my Zaide or asking him to do me a favor, but I had begun to appreciate his age, his wisdom, his humor. On several occasions I was brave enough to "squeeze" Zaide for an anecdote of years gone by. And he was always compliant. Storytelling was always his forte. All I needed to do was prod.

   Thus the last few years passed for me.

   But then he was gone. Just like that. From right beneath me; from right beyond my grasp. I didn't have a say in the matter, neither a chance to say goodbye. His passing started me to thinking: Did I ever love this man? Did I know him? Will I ever be able to stroke my beard one day and recount a story from my Zaide? I don't know. And the thought makes me angry with myself.

   Of course I shouldn't feel so. But with the suddenness of the whole thing I can't help but feel like I did something wrong. Could I have enabled him to live one more day? Maybe if I would have written another letter or called him again he would have smiled one more time?

.   .   .

   Life goes on. But though it does, I can still take with me its lessons. I learned about my Zaide that he was a human. Like me. With faults and all. But that didn't stop him from acting to us as he acted to himself. A good man.

   Retrospectively I realize that his humanity and smile were not the result of being a Zaide; that's who he was. As a boy growing up all the way to seeing us off in the van for our journey home, he was just being himself.

    But curiously, this leaves me with a sweet taste in my mouth. Why, before I know it, I'll be a Zaide too. Will I be able to impart similar memories to my grandchildren?
     
   Becoming a classic starts now.
   

Please Don't Sue Me!

 
   I'm sure you've seen this before: "Warning: Do not leave burning candles unattended."

   Sensible enough, I'd say.

   But yesterday I saw it on a seven day candle. Now that's a whole new level.