This is 100% unaltered from the way it fell out of the camera
16 April 2012
Wedding out-of-town
This is Part II of the This is for the New Yorkers series.
The wedding was held in the JCC event hall with all of its partitions removed. The couple had planned to use our (plain cotton on PVC pipes) chuppah, but a tulle confection materialized from somewhere. The bride's co-worker sewed her wedding dress.
Unlike us, they did not forget to bring the wine. (At our wedding, we were rescued by the founder of the local Moishe House, who keeps a bottle in her trunk for emergencies.)
Both bride and groom are vegan, so the only kosher caterer in town made a vegan seuda, plus fish for the halacha.
(The bride and groom, who have a good sense of humor, cheerfully put up with a lot of vegan jokes over the week of sheva-brachos, as one family after another carefully prepared almost-vegan sheva-brachos.)
The JCC put out a floor mat better suited than the carpeting to dancing, and a crew of tummling NCSY boys brought over the mechitza from the shul. A CD player provided the dance music. We performed schtick with signs, table napkins, an umbrella, and some NCSY in-jokes -- not that the bride or groom ever attended NCSY, but the community is small enough that everyone is part of everything Jewish that happens in town. The non-Jewish guests from other states also got into performing antics to amuse the bride and groom.
The dancing in circles lasted for hours, and then the music ran out just when things were naturally winding down, at which point there was some more schtick with the gentlemen of the community singing into the microphone; and everyone went home, exclaiming to each other that they had never seen such a beautiful wedding.
Again, this is not so different from the way things are done in New York; but I suspect there are enough small differences that some will find it interesting.
The wedding was held in the JCC event hall with all of its partitions removed. The couple had planned to use our (plain cotton on PVC pipes) chuppah, but a tulle confection materialized from somewhere. The bride's co-worker sewed her wedding dress.
Unlike us, they did not forget to bring the wine. (At our wedding, we were rescued by the founder of the local Moishe House, who keeps a bottle in her trunk for emergencies.)
Both bride and groom are vegan, so the only kosher caterer in town made a vegan seuda, plus fish for the halacha.
(The bride and groom, who have a good sense of humor, cheerfully put up with a lot of vegan jokes over the week of sheva-brachos, as one family after another carefully prepared almost-vegan sheva-brachos.)
The JCC put out a floor mat better suited than the carpeting to dancing, and a crew of tummling NCSY boys brought over the mechitza from the shul. A CD player provided the dance music. We performed schtick with signs, table napkins, an umbrella, and some NCSY in-jokes -- not that the bride or groom ever attended NCSY, but the community is small enough that everyone is part of everything Jewish that happens in town. The non-Jewish guests from other states also got into performing antics to amuse the bride and groom.
The dancing in circles lasted for hours, and then the music ran out just when things were naturally winding down, at which point there was some more schtick with the gentlemen of the community singing into the microphone; and everyone went home, exclaiming to each other that they had never seen such a beautiful wedding.
Again, this is not so different from the way things are done in New York; but I suspect there are enough small differences that some will find it interesting.
Shabbos out-of-town
This post is for the New Yorkers.
Once, when I was living in a large and bustling Jewish community, I explained to a Shabbos host that I did not intend to stay forever. The conversation moved on to where I was living and what I was doing, and we were both a bit shocked by what a wonderful life I had.
"Why do you want to leave, then?" he asked.
"I miss having a kehilla," I said -- and he agreed that there was no answer to that one.
Here is what a Shabbos is like in a small kehilla (community) where everyone knows everyone else.
My toddler and I arrived in shul; all the women immediately pounced on us, and the little girls took turns clamoring for the privilege of distracting the toddler. The one-man "Announcement Committee" announced after services that we were in town.
It was a Shabbos aufruf, on which everyone throws candy at the groom-to-be. His bride - who is not supposed to see him all this week - was also in shul, to everyone's amusement (as we carefully hid her), because she had to hear Parshas Zachor.
After davening we went to someone's house for the seudah; and then we went to a Shabbos kallah -- where all the women and girls of the community sat in a circle, together with the bride (wearing a plastic tiara) -- and passed round a bag of toys; each woman or girl had to draw out a toy and make a pun on it to give the bride advice, and then there was singing &c.
The teenage girls repaired to their weekly hangout at the house of one of the Torah scholars of the community; a couple of women went back to shul for Mincha, which is followed by a communal shalosh seudos meal (in the ezras nashim, or in the courtyard if the weather is nice), Maariv, and Havdala; and then after Shabbos two of us walked to someone's house to call home for rides, because we live a bit far out - one of us lives three miles through a forest from shul, but that's nothing on the teenagers who walk nine miles from home every Shabbos.
I am not sure how to convey the sense of familial warmth that pervades a small Torah community. If you have never experienced it, it is worth checking out.
(like through Shabbat.com)
(This post comes late because I proofread it while still out-of-town, and set it aside, thinking, "Well, duh, Shabbos everywhere is like that." But I am posting anyway just in case it is not.)
Once, when I was living in a large and bustling Jewish community, I explained to a Shabbos host that I did not intend to stay forever. The conversation moved on to where I was living and what I was doing, and we were both a bit shocked by what a wonderful life I had.
"Why do you want to leave, then?" he asked.
"I miss having a kehilla," I said -- and he agreed that there was no answer to that one.
Here is what a Shabbos is like in a small kehilla (community) where everyone knows everyone else.
My toddler and I arrived in shul; all the women immediately pounced on us, and the little girls took turns clamoring for the privilege of distracting the toddler. The one-man "Announcement Committee" announced after services that we were in town.
It was a Shabbos aufruf, on which everyone throws candy at the groom-to-be. His bride - who is not supposed to see him all this week - was also in shul, to everyone's amusement (as we carefully hid her), because she had to hear Parshas Zachor.
After davening we went to someone's house for the seudah; and then we went to a Shabbos kallah -- where all the women and girls of the community sat in a circle, together with the bride (wearing a plastic tiara) -- and passed round a bag of toys; each woman or girl had to draw out a toy and make a pun on it to give the bride advice, and then there was singing &c.
The teenage girls repaired to their weekly hangout at the house of one of the Torah scholars of the community; a couple of women went back to shul for Mincha, which is followed by a communal shalosh seudos meal (in the ezras nashim, or in the courtyard if the weather is nice), Maariv, and Havdala; and then after Shabbos two of us walked to someone's house to call home for rides, because we live a bit far out - one of us lives three miles through a forest from shul, but that's nothing on the teenagers who walk nine miles from home every Shabbos.
I am not sure how to convey the sense of familial warmth that pervades a small Torah community. If you have never experienced it, it is worth checking out.
(like through Shabbat.com)
(This post comes late because I proofread it while still out-of-town, and set it aside, thinking, "Well, duh, Shabbos everywhere is like that." But I am posting anyway just in case it is not.)
01 April 2012
Springtime for Cynics
When I was a terribly cynical middle-schooler, the choir director taught us a song in four-part harmony, which I could never sing like I meant it:
Now is the month of Maying, when merry lads are playing, fa la la la la la la la la - no, they're not, they're either in math class or doing its homework -
...a-dancing on the grass - what grass? we live in a city, where open spaces are rationed and landscaped,
fa la la la la la la la la. The Spring clad all in gladness/doth laugh at winter's sadness - Spring? Winter? I haven't noticed a change in seasons. I think I need to get out more,
and to the bagpipe's sound/ the nymphs tread out the ground - What era was this composed in, that people had time to frolic in unspoilt meadows, and the peace of mind to do so wholeheartedly?
fa la la la la, fa la la la la la la, la la la la la. Where is that legendary Spring?
And every Pesach, I get my answer.
The air warms up, the earth bursts into bloom, and where are the Jewish people?
Indoors or in the courtyard, scrubbing all the winter's crumbs out of the house, until G-d drags us by the ear out of Egypt, and says, "This month is for you!"
This month is for you the origin of all the months: you are a Spring nation, a people repeatedly revived from the dead.
Go and tell everyone, go demonstrate to all the despairing middle-schoolers (of any age or stage in life), that just as the earth is led each year out of winter, just as the Jewish nation was led out of the slavery of its body, mind, heart and soul in Egypt, so too humanity as a whole, and every individual, are given the Spring.
This month is not the exclusive provenance of things that bloom, creep, or fly; no matter how oppressive your circumstances, this Spring is for you!
Those with better things to read than this blog will recognize that this post is not original material - thank you Rav Hirsch.
And Rabbi Estuary, we'll see if I ever forgive the rav for making me try to paraphrase that :P
Kenneth Grahame on Cleaning for Pesach
Every Spring when I face the prospect of cleaning this apartment for Passover, the opening of Kenneth Grahame's The Wind in the Willows comes to mind:
...but once we crack out the pails of suds and set to work, I take exception to Mole.
The first step to Springtime liberation is to finish the whitewashing -- not only to begin, but also to finish, and then we can toss the buckets in the air, yell Hang Whitewashing! and run out of Egypt. I have been thinking this over, and I believe spring-cleaning is a universal instinct, not to hamper us from getting out into the Spring, but as an integral part of how we participate in it. Spring has got to reach into every corner of this house; it is not enough to fling the brush on the floor and leave it.
Rebbe Nachman miBreslov says to take the troubling feeling of not having quite finished preparing for Pesach and turn it into a yearning for the Divine -- that this, too, is an integral part of Pesach -- nun bau dein Tempel schiere!
So, no fair quitting in the middle of whitewashing.
THE Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters; then on ladders and steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash; till he had dust in his throat and eyes, and splashes of whitewash all over his black fur, and an aching back and weary arms. Spring was moving in the air above and in the earth below and around him, penetrating even his dark and lowly little house with its spirit of divine discontent and longing. It was small wonder, then, that he suddenly flung down his brush on the floor, said, "Bother!" and "O blow!" and also "Hang spring-cleaning!" and bolted out of the house without even waiting to put on his coat. Something up above was calling him imperiously, and he made for the steep little tunnel which answered in his case to the gravelled carriage-drive owned by animals whose residences are nearer to the sun and air. So he scraped and scratched and scrabbled and scrooged, and then he scrooged again and scrabbled and scratched and scraped, working busily with his little paws and muttering to himself, "Up we go! Up we go!" till at last, pop! his snout came out into the sunlight and he found himself rolling in the warm grass of a great meadow.
"This is fine!" he said to himself. "This is better than whitewashing!" The sunshine struck hot on his fur, soft breezes caressed his heated brow, and after the seclusion of the cellarage he had lived in so long the carol of happy birds fell on his dulled hearing almost like a shout. Jumping off all his four legs at once, in the joy of living and the delight of spring without its cleaning, he pursued his way across the meadow....
"This is fine!" he said to himself. "This is better than whitewashing!" The sunshine struck hot on his fur, soft breezes caressed his heated brow, and after the seclusion of the cellarage he had lived in so long the carol of happy birds fell on his dulled hearing almost like a shout. Jumping off all his four legs at once, in the joy of living and the delight of spring without its cleaning, he pursued his way across the meadow....
...but once we crack out the pails of suds and set to work, I take exception to Mole.
The first step to Springtime liberation is to finish the whitewashing -- not only to begin, but also to finish, and then we can toss the buckets in the air, yell Hang Whitewashing! and run out of Egypt. I have been thinking this over, and I believe spring-cleaning is a universal instinct, not to hamper us from getting out into the Spring, but as an integral part of how we participate in it. Spring has got to reach into every corner of this house; it is not enough to fling the brush on the floor and leave it.
Rebbe Nachman miBreslov says to take the troubling feeling of not having quite finished preparing for Pesach and turn it into a yearning for the Divine -- that this, too, is an integral part of Pesach -- nun bau dein Tempel schiere!
So, no fair quitting in the middle of whitewashing.
Rav Scheinberg
I wish I knew a story about Rav Scheinberg's righteousness, but the only story that comes to mind is a spooky one.
A girl - I'll call her Bridget - had met a young man and wished to marry him. "Don't," said all her teachers. "Don't," said all his teachers -- which tells you something. But Bridget went ahead and married the fellow, and soon realized his true nature, and they divorced.
Every time Bridget looked in the mirror, she hated seeing her head covered, because it reminded her of her unfortunate decision. She asked Rebbetzin H. to take her to ask a rav whether it was really necessary for her to cover her hair now that she was divorced.
Rebbetzin H. (who told us this story) took her to a rav who spoke English: Rav Scheinberg.
"Why did you bring her to me?" asked Rav Scheinberg. "You know how I pasken."
He told Bridget that she did have to cover her hair. Bridget was displeased.
He suggested a way that she could do it prettily. Bridget would have none of it.
Ultimately, he gave her a blessing - what it was I can't remember; I think it was something like that her covering her hair should lead her to good things.
While in the Scheinbergs' apartment, Bridget struck up a conversation with Rebbetzin Shain, his sister-in-law, and in the end she wound up a regular companion of the Rebbetzin.
Fast forward.
A mother and a son - I'll call him Yitzchak - were sitting on a bus, having a conversation.
"You've met so many nice girls," said Yitzchak's mother. "Why can't you settle down and get married?"
"I want a very special girl," said Yitzchak. "See that married woman helping Rebbetzin Shain - how solicitous she is of the elderly rebbetzin's needs. I would like to marry a girl like that." This story takes place in a society in which Yitzchak would never look at an unmarried girl on a bus - he referenced the stranger only because her covered hair indicated that she was married.
"Rebbetzin?" asked Yitzchak's mother, some hours later. "That woman who accompanied you on the bus today -- does she have, perchance, a younger sister?"
"Why do you ask?" asked Rebbetzin Shain.
...and a few months later, there was a wedding.
And they all lived happily ever after.
A girl - I'll call her Bridget - had met a young man and wished to marry him. "Don't," said all her teachers. "Don't," said all his teachers -- which tells you something. But Bridget went ahead and married the fellow, and soon realized his true nature, and they divorced.
Every time Bridget looked in the mirror, she hated seeing her head covered, because it reminded her of her unfortunate decision. She asked Rebbetzin H. to take her to ask a rav whether it was really necessary for her to cover her hair now that she was divorced.
Rebbetzin H. (who told us this story) took her to a rav who spoke English: Rav Scheinberg.
"Why did you bring her to me?" asked Rav Scheinberg. "You know how I pasken."
He told Bridget that she did have to cover her hair. Bridget was displeased.
He suggested a way that she could do it prettily. Bridget would have none of it.
Ultimately, he gave her a blessing - what it was I can't remember; I think it was something like that her covering her hair should lead her to good things.
While in the Scheinbergs' apartment, Bridget struck up a conversation with Rebbetzin Shain, his sister-in-law, and in the end she wound up a regular companion of the Rebbetzin.
Fast forward.
A mother and a son - I'll call him Yitzchak - were sitting on a bus, having a conversation.
"You've met so many nice girls," said Yitzchak's mother. "Why can't you settle down and get married?"
"I want a very special girl," said Yitzchak. "See that married woman helping Rebbetzin Shain - how solicitous she is of the elderly rebbetzin's needs. I would like to marry a girl like that." This story takes place in a society in which Yitzchak would never look at an unmarried girl on a bus - he referenced the stranger only because her covered hair indicated that she was married.
"Rebbetzin?" asked Yitzchak's mother, some hours later. "That woman who accompanied you on the bus today -- does she have, perchance, a younger sister?"
"Why do you ask?" asked Rebbetzin Shain.
...and a few months later, there was a wedding.
And they all lived happily ever after.
The 1912 Project, Titanic Fascination, Numenor, Murasaki, a Niggun and a Sigh.
One hundred years ago, 1,514 people drowned in the Atlantic, and many others were ruined financially.
In commemoration of this event, 400 dressmakers around the world are sewing themselves new outfits.
Does this strike anyone else as an odd memorial for the dead?
Titanic fascination is a very odd phenomenon, when you stop to think about it. It's not enough to say, "We love the glamour of the era." No -- you love the glamour of the era that sank to the bottom of the Atlantic.
It is glamour, depth, and tragedy all at once - like an opera! The clashier Western version of, the next best thing to, the sweet pain of Númenor (Where now are the Dúnedain, Elessar, Elessar?), or Elvish mourning over the swiftness of time, or the Japanese mono no aware (defined here)- which are subtler.
I have been trying to work out whether there is any similar idea in Judaism - that there is something lovely, lyrical, about entropy, the falling of the leaves, the passing of the generations. Sorrow is obviously not the same thing as depression, but I haven't found that we celebrate it in any way, any more than we celebrate any other characteristic of our relationship with the Eternal, knowing that it will eventually be turned inside-out to reveal joy.
Galus, galus, vie lang bist du...
...
!
The Vintage Pattern Lending Library has recruited 400 volunteer dressmakers to test vintage 1912 patterns. And all we have to do is sew and blog.
Although I doubt that this post is what they had in mind.
Free Edwardian patterns? Really? SIGN ME UP!
Thank you to the VPLL for coordinating the project.
In commemoration of this event, 400 dressmakers around the world are sewing themselves new outfits.
Does this strike anyone else as an odd memorial for the dead?
Titanic fascination is a very odd phenomenon, when you stop to think about it. It's not enough to say, "We love the glamour of the era." No -- you love the glamour of the era that sank to the bottom of the Atlantic.
It is glamour, depth, and tragedy all at once - like an opera! The clashier Western version of, the next best thing to, the sweet pain of Númenor (Where now are the Dúnedain, Elessar, Elessar?), or Elvish mourning over the swiftness of time, or the Japanese mono no aware (defined here)- which are subtler.
I have been trying to work out whether there is any similar idea in Judaism - that there is something lovely, lyrical, about entropy, the falling of the leaves, the passing of the generations. Sorrow is obviously not the same thing as depression, but I haven't found that we celebrate it in any way, any more than we celebrate any other characteristic of our relationship with the Eternal, knowing that it will eventually be turned inside-out to reveal joy.
Galus, galus, vie lang bist du...
...
!
The Vintage Pattern Lending Library has recruited 400 volunteer dressmakers to test vintage 1912 patterns. And all we have to do is sew and blog.
Although I doubt that this post is what they had in mind.
Free Edwardian patterns? Really? SIGN ME UP!
Thank you to the VPLL for coordinating the project.
26 March 2012
A Field Guide to Jewish Disputes
This post is based on something I heard from a rabbi I shall call Rabbi St. Helens, because he is ancient, majestic, and grey, and so always reminds me of the mountain by that name.
Rabbi St. Helens learnt from Rav Elya Lopian.
Torah distinguishes between two types of disputes. There is a machlokes leshem shamayim, a dispute for the sake of Heaven. And there is a machlokes shelo leshem shamayim, a dispute not for the sake of Heaven - by default, for the sake of someone's ego.
A machlokes shelo leshem shamayim, stay away from. Do not get involved.
As for a machlokes leshem shamayim...?
Rabbi St. Helens rumbled at us:
"Leave the machlokes leshem shamayim for someone else!"
Good advice.
Rabbi St. Helens learnt from Rav Elya Lopian.
Torah distinguishes between two types of disputes. There is a machlokes leshem shamayim, a dispute for the sake of Heaven. And there is a machlokes shelo leshem shamayim, a dispute not for the sake of Heaven - by default, for the sake of someone's ego.
A machlokes shelo leshem shamayim, stay away from. Do not get involved.
As for a machlokes leshem shamayim...?
Rabbi St. Helens rumbled at us:
"Leave the machlokes leshem shamayim for someone else!"
Good advice.
25 March 2012
If I can see only one thing in London...
A seven-hour stopover gives you just enough time to whizz out of Heathrow, see one thing, and return.
Buckminster Palace? The British Museum?
I went to have tea with Rav and Mrs. Baddiel.
They are most extraordinary people... the number one tourist attraction in London, in my book.
Rav Baddiel is much amused that a lecture of his has been put up on YouTube:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pzn4zdYd7sk
It is in English, despite the German title (he gave it in Berlin). Do check it out.
Levaya
A few days ago, Rav Scheinberg was niftar.
Rav Scheinberg was an American boy. He grew up playing stickball on the Lower East Side.
Then the legendary Rav Herman sent him off to yeshiva in New Haven, and he became one of the preeminent Torah sages of the generation.
He also became Rav Herman's son-in-law.
Rav Scheinberg
He made a seudas hodaah (thanksgiving meal) on the day that he was able to hear that "his" baseball team had won the World Series without getting excited.
I have never learnt his sefarim -- I know him mostly as an awesome presence in Mattersdorf, where on Friday nights all his neighbors (and seminary girls staying in the neighborhood) troop up to his apartment for a blessing.
("Doesn't it bother him to have to spend his time giving people blessings?" we asked our teacher. "He did the same thing to the Chofetz Chaim," answered Rabbi A.)
When people rattled off the names of the major rabbis in Jerusalem, it was always special to hear the name of Rav Scheinberg -- whom I met, who spoke to us in English.
I heard later that 150,000 people attended the funeral.
Rav Scheinberg was an American boy. He grew up playing stickball on the Lower East Side.
Then the legendary Rav Herman sent him off to yeshiva in New Haven, and he became one of the preeminent Torah sages of the generation.
He also became Rav Herman's son-in-law.
Rav Scheinberg
He made a seudas hodaah (thanksgiving meal) on the day that he was able to hear that "his" baseball team had won the World Series without getting excited.
I have never learnt his sefarim -- I know him mostly as an awesome presence in Mattersdorf, where on Friday nights all his neighbors (and seminary girls staying in the neighborhood) troop up to his apartment for a blessing.
("Doesn't it bother him to have to spend his time giving people blessings?" we asked our teacher. "He did the same thing to the Chofetz Chaim," answered Rabbi A.)
When people rattled off the names of the major rabbis in Jerusalem, it was always special to hear the name of Rav Scheinberg -- whom I met, who spoke to us in English.
I heard later that 150,000 people attended the funeral.
How tragic that he has left us.
Mind the Gap
Which gap?
The synaptic gap?
The gap between who you are and whom you want to be?
Pick your gap, and mind it.
Book Review: Last Child in the Woods
When I am in Israel, I imagine America to be a green place full of music, art, and forest.
Then I get there and remember that America is a paved place full of billboards, factoids, and vast shopping malls. I think Jerusalem is actually greener than pretty much any part of America.
Oh, well.
America does have nice public libraries. I checked out a book of which I had heard much: Last Child in the Woods, by Richard Louv.
I expected Last Child in the Woods to read like a New Yorker article, a thought-provoking treatise on why children no longer spend much time knocking about in the wilderness, and how to fix that. It turned out to contain more worry (campers in such-and-such a camp are not permitted to climb trees, can you believe it) and less analysis than I expected. The author does hint to some of the underlying questions -- What defines interacting with nature? what is the philosophical difference between building a treehouse and building a house? -- but instead of identifying and answering such questions, he gets stuck in dilemmas - e.g., he takes it as a given that treehouse-building is good for us; but he worries along with the government that in certain areas treehouses pose a fire hazard.
He also cites many statistics which may demonstrate correlation, but if they do demonstrate causation, he does not explain how. (Does using the Internet make people depressed, as he says? I could hear that. Or do depressed and lonely people turn to the Internet? Or is the culture responsible for Internet also responsible for depression?) I wound up skimming a lot of the book.
I did find fascinating his account of the planning of nature-saturated towns - in Scandinavia, naturally - in which nature is the given and the houses are arranged to fit into it, rather than the other way round. Why are the Swedes so much better at this sort of thing?
Then I get there and remember that America is a paved place full of billboards, factoids, and vast shopping malls. I think Jerusalem is actually greener than pretty much any part of America.
Oh, well.
America does have nice public libraries. I checked out a book of which I had heard much: Last Child in the Woods, by Richard Louv.
I expected Last Child in the Woods to read like a New Yorker article, a thought-provoking treatise on why children no longer spend much time knocking about in the wilderness, and how to fix that. It turned out to contain more worry (campers in such-and-such a camp are not permitted to climb trees, can you believe it) and less analysis than I expected. The author does hint to some of the underlying questions -- What defines interacting with nature? what is the philosophical difference between building a treehouse and building a house? -- but instead of identifying and answering such questions, he gets stuck in dilemmas - e.g., he takes it as a given that treehouse-building is good for us; but he worries along with the government that in certain areas treehouses pose a fire hazard.
He also cites many statistics which may demonstrate correlation, but if they do demonstrate causation, he does not explain how. (Does using the Internet make people depressed, as he says? I could hear that. Or do depressed and lonely people turn to the Internet? Or is the culture responsible for Internet also responsible for depression?) I wound up skimming a lot of the book.
I did find fascinating his account of the planning of nature-saturated towns - in Scandinavia, naturally - in which nature is the given and the houses are arranged to fit into it, rather than the other way round. Why are the Swedes so much better at this sort of thing?
20 March 2012
The Other Interesting High School
The other interesting high school I wanted to visit on this trip is New Avenues, a high school (and everything-else center) for homeless teenagers.
My plan was foiled by an impressive rainstorm.
"We are swamped just now," the New Avenues staff apologized. "But we are a year-round program. If you can come in the summer, I promise we'll be much less busy then."
If you can attend high school for the purpose of acquiring an education, not to get out of the rain, say thank you.
My plan was foiled by an impressive rainstorm.
"We are swamped just now," the New Avenues staff apologized. "But we are a year-round program. If you can come in the summer, I promise we'll be much less busy then."
If you can attend high school for the purpose of acquiring an education, not to get out of the rain, say thank you.
So an Assyrian and a Jew walk into Lydda
Bifel I sat next to an Assyrian on the airplane.
Syrian?
No, Assyrian.
Really? I did not know that you still exist, I said, stupidly, looking at the woman sitting next to me and trying not to think of her as a bas-relief.
Yes -- there are some thousands, scattered round the world, she said. And we still fast for the three days that Nineveh fasted when Jonah told it to. The pious do not eat at all for three days and three nights running.
Do you have a tradition as to the identity of that king of Nineveh? We do.
Is that in the Bible? she asked, surprised, being conversant with the text.
No, I said, it is an oral tradition.
Oh. No, we don't have such a tradition. It is not clear that we are actually descended in a straight line from those ancient Assyrians, but we identify with them. We name our children Ashur and Sargon.
We then had a very interesting conversation about whether it is possible for religion and nationhood to overlap.
We did not discuss ancient history.
Syrian?
No, Assyrian.
Really? I did not know that you still exist, I said, stupidly, looking at the woman sitting next to me and trying not to think of her as a bas-relief.
Yes -- there are some thousands, scattered round the world, she said. And we still fast for the three days that Nineveh fasted when Jonah told it to. The pious do not eat at all for three days and three nights running.
Do you have a tradition as to the identity of that king of Nineveh? We do.
Is that in the Bible? she asked, surprised, being conversant with the text.
No, I said, it is an oral tradition.
Oh. No, we don't have such a tradition. It is not clear that we are actually descended in a straight line from those ancient Assyrians, but we identify with them. We name our children Ashur and Sargon.
We then had a very interesting conversation about whether it is possible for religion and nationhood to overlap.
We did not discuss ancient history.
To Engelond They Wende
London always strikes me as a dreamlike city -- perhaps because I always land in it in what is for me the middle of the night, and with just enough time to whizz out of Heathrow for tea and fly back into the night.
What little I see of London on the way is pleasing. If it has skyscrapers, I've never seen them -- only rows of brick houses with long yards (gardens, I am corrected, whether or not they've actually been planted with anything); and there is something about those houses - which are probably quite old - that always strikes me as beautiful. Is it the proportions? The windows? They are all more or less alike, but they do not have the monotony of the homes in a US suburb; each house appears to remember the people who designed and built it.
The people reinforce the dreamlike impression of the city: the many men I've seen walking down the street singing - one singing opera at the top of his lungs - and the chap who gave my daughter a present, just like that; and all the elderly men with professorial faces, wearing tweed suits - no one can look as professorial to an American as an elderly Englishman.
Perhaps it is the language barrier (what, if you please, is a slip road?), but it seems to me that signs in England require more thought than signs in America. On a US bus, there will be a line drawn in front of the door, and beside it the floor (and probably both walls and the lintel) will say in large letters DO NOT CROSS or DO NOT BLOCK. On the Tube, there is no line, and a single small sign says, gently, "Obstructing the door can be dangerous," and it is up to you to decide what you want to do about it.
Similarly, in a US train station, there will be large signs all over, and painted on the floor, saying DO NOT LITTER, and perhaps threatening you with the long string of numbers that signifies which law you break by littering, whereas in England there are small signs hung here and there making complex and humorous references to the problems that litter can cause, should you choose to leave it.
I also love the injunction to MIND THE GAP -- Americans watch and beware of a great deal, but they don't mind much besides children. One wonders what mischief the gap will get into if it is not well minded.
Someday, perhaps, I shall be able to spend some more time in Engelond, to get to know the city a bit better, and to stop trying to get into cars from the right, and to see what a moor and a heath look like off the page; but in the meantime, it is a nice dream to have between Seattle and Lod.
What little I see of London on the way is pleasing. If it has skyscrapers, I've never seen them -- only rows of brick houses with long yards (gardens, I am corrected, whether or not they've actually been planted with anything); and there is something about those houses - which are probably quite old - that always strikes me as beautiful. Is it the proportions? The windows? They are all more or less alike, but they do not have the monotony of the homes in a US suburb; each house appears to remember the people who designed and built it.
The people reinforce the dreamlike impression of the city: the many men I've seen walking down the street singing - one singing opera at the top of his lungs - and the chap who gave my daughter a present, just like that; and all the elderly men with professorial faces, wearing tweed suits - no one can look as professorial to an American as an elderly Englishman.
Perhaps it is the language barrier (what, if you please, is a slip road?), but it seems to me that signs in England require more thought than signs in America. On a US bus, there will be a line drawn in front of the door, and beside it the floor (and probably both walls and the lintel) will say in large letters DO NOT CROSS or DO NOT BLOCK. On the Tube, there is no line, and a single small sign says, gently, "Obstructing the door can be dangerous," and it is up to you to decide what you want to do about it.
Similarly, in a US train station, there will be large signs all over, and painted on the floor, saying DO NOT LITTER, and perhaps threatening you with the long string of numbers that signifies which law you break by littering, whereas in England there are small signs hung here and there making complex and humorous references to the problems that litter can cause, should you choose to leave it.
I also love the injunction to MIND THE GAP -- Americans watch and beware of a great deal, but they don't mind much besides children. One wonders what mischief the gap will get into if it is not well minded.
11 March 2012
Purim, Mishloach Manot, and Fear
One of my favorite insights from R' Shlomo Carlebach is this:
On a regular day, you never go up to a friend, let alone your teacher, and offer him an apple and a banana. Were you to do so, he would wonder, "Why are you giving me food?"
On Purim, however, you can go up to anyone and offer him an apple and a banana. You can bring an apple and a banana to the Queen of England.
The lesson of Purim is not to be afraid: you can do anything.
Every year before Purim, there is some flurry in the mishloach-manos making department: what should I put in them, so that they are nice enough to give out?
And then Purim actually arrives, and the day itself sweeps away the questions. I can send an apple and a banana to the rebbetzin who so intimidates me that I put on heels whenever I have to telephone her, just to feel like a grown-up. I can send an apple and a banana to our local Aikido master, to Ira Glass, and to the Queen of England. Why be afraid? You can do anything.
The story is told that Rav Shlomo Zalman's family, in the impoverished Jerusalem of yore, sent his fiancee's family dried fruit for Purim; and her family, being equally short on finances, baked it into a fruitcake and sent it back.
Don't be afraid; you can do anything.
On a regular day, you never go up to a friend, let alone your teacher, and offer him an apple and a banana. Were you to do so, he would wonder, "Why are you giving me food?"
On Purim, however, you can go up to anyone and offer him an apple and a banana. You can bring an apple and a banana to the Queen of England.
The lesson of Purim is not to be afraid: you can do anything.
Every year before Purim, there is some flurry in the mishloach-manos making department: what should I put in them, so that they are nice enough to give out?
And then Purim actually arrives, and the day itself sweeps away the questions. I can send an apple and a banana to the rebbetzin who so intimidates me that I put on heels whenever I have to telephone her, just to feel like a grown-up. I can send an apple and a banana to our local Aikido master, to Ira Glass, and to the Queen of England. Why be afraid? You can do anything.
The story is told that Rav Shlomo Zalman's family, in the impoverished Jerusalem of yore, sent his fiancee's family dried fruit for Purim; and her family, being equally short on finances, baked it into a fruitcake and sent it back.
Don't be afraid; you can do anything.
Pacific Crest Community School
I am on a quest to visit interesting high schools.
Last week, I visited Pacific Crest, a 6-12th grade school of 70-80 students, each of whom is free to design his or her own curriculum - within limits. Some forty courses are offered each term; students must take a certain number, and of those, a certain number must be math, or language arts, &c. The content is as original as the structure: it is not uncommon for courses to have curious titles like "Geometry of Gothic Windows" or "Physics of Superheroes" or "Take a Walk". (Just think, there is a high school - not a mussar yeshiva - that teaches how to take a walk... I'd like to know what the content of that course is.) A couple of classes are compulsory.
No grades are given; instead, students compile a portfolio, which they whittle down for the purpose of college applications, and submit in place of grades. By now the colleges are used to this.
Anyway, it was a pleasant and enlightening morning; and thanks to the Pacific Crest administration for allowing tours of their school.
Last week, I visited Pacific Crest, a 6-12th grade school of 70-80 students, each of whom is free to design his or her own curriculum - within limits. Some forty courses are offered each term; students must take a certain number, and of those, a certain number must be math, or language arts, &c. The content is as original as the structure: it is not uncommon for courses to have curious titles like "Geometry of Gothic Windows" or "Physics of Superheroes" or "Take a Walk". (Just think, there is a high school - not a mussar yeshiva - that teaches how to take a walk... I'd like to know what the content of that course is.) A couple of classes are compulsory.
No grades are given; instead, students compile a portfolio, which they whittle down for the purpose of college applications, and submit in place of grades. By now the colleges are used to this.
Pacific Crest is a 'democratic' school: students meet once a week, sitting on the auditorium stage, to nominate each other's heroic deeds for applause, to make announcements, to invite visitors to stand up and say "Your name and your favorite movie character", and to raise issues for discussion (how shall we get each other to stop leaving backpacks on the common room tables?) I had the sense that although some of the students were a bit weary of the proceedings, all were glad to belong to the community of which such meetings are an important characteristic. Teachers are not exempt from being treated as equals in this democracy -- which I think is a pity; if nothing else, they have greater life experience. The school has an open campus: students are free to wander the city whenever they do not have class.
Naturally -- this being the city it is -- half the students wore what would be recognized in any other school as costume: Robin Hood was the first I noticed, but not every costume was that of a recognizable era or world. What, don't you come to school in a cape and fuzzy ears on an ordinary Tuesday?
I think some of this is great (e.g., the diversity of curriculum). But it is one thing to incorporate flexibility into a school as a pedagogical technique, and quite another to assume that sixth graders know what is best for them, and can motivate themselves to pursue it; and I am not sure (should've asked) which is the idea underlying the Pacific Crest democracy.
Naturally -- this being the city it is -- half the students wore what would be recognized in any other school as costume: Robin Hood was the first I noticed, but not every costume was that of a recognizable era or world. What, don't you come to school in a cape and fuzzy ears on an ordinary Tuesday?
I think some of this is great (e.g., the diversity of curriculum). But it is one thing to incorporate flexibility into a school as a pedagogical technique, and quite another to assume that sixth graders know what is best for them, and can motivate themselves to pursue it; and I am not sure (should've asked) which is the idea underlying the Pacific Crest democracy.
Anyway, it was a pleasant and enlightening morning; and thanks to the Pacific Crest administration for allowing tours of their school.
The reason that Facebook is popular, I think, is that when one longs to see one of one's friends, it offers immediate gratification: your friend is here, and talking; come visit.
This is, of course, an illusion. Your friend is not there, and he is not talking. If you pay him a call, he will not recognize that you visited. You will not even have left footprints in his yard, or a card with the butler. You have, in fact, not interacted at all.
You would do better to think of a reason to telephone.
This is, of course, an illusion. Your friend is not there, and he is not talking. If you pay him a call, he will not recognize that you visited. You will not even have left footprints in his yard, or a card with the butler. You have, in fact, not interacted at all.
You would do better to think of a reason to telephone.
04 March 2012
Culture Shock
Visiting America is like having the top fall off a salt-shaker as you shake it: you can only stare and say, "Wow, that's a lot..."
America is a lot. A lot of foliage, a lot of denim, a lot of noise and art.
Israel is condensed. A wide land, but of condensed character. It has one miniature mountain, one miniature river, one miniature lake, one miniature ocean, one miniature capitol city -- and a high concentration of spiritual energy & holiness. No one I know in Israel ever has spare time, and most do not drive.
So whenever I come to America, where the day unfolds slowly, and much of it is spent in the car getting from here to there beneath the boughs of ornamental plum trees, which are content to grow without producing fruit, and the people I meet jest loosely, and banter loosely, and the houses (containing loose acquaintances) are loosely spaced by loosely growing willows that don't really care about what happens around them -- unlike the keen and insistent landscapes of Israel -- it is disorienting. Why, the rooms of the average apartment or house are so far from each other that it is possible to have different music playing in two of them simultaneously.
Not positive or negative -- just makes for a very different life.
America is a lot. A lot of foliage, a lot of denim, a lot of noise and art.
Israel is condensed. A wide land, but of condensed character. It has one miniature mountain, one miniature river, one miniature lake, one miniature ocean, one miniature capitol city -- and a high concentration of spiritual energy & holiness. No one I know in Israel ever has spare time, and most do not drive.
So whenever I come to America, where the day unfolds slowly, and much of it is spent in the car getting from here to there beneath the boughs of ornamental plum trees, which are content to grow without producing fruit, and the people I meet jest loosely, and banter loosely, and the houses (containing loose acquaintances) are loosely spaced by loosely growing willows that don't really care about what happens around them -- unlike the keen and insistent landscapes of Israel -- it is disorienting. Why, the rooms of the average apartment or house are so far from each other that it is possible to have different music playing in two of them simultaneously.
Not positive or negative -- just makes for a very different life.
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