Closing out week two and I have already started compiling my list...
9/8/16:
- You eat salmon jerky, string cheese and a carrot for dinner.
- In a single night, you start following three different guinea pigs on instagram.
- You recite mishnah in the car while drinking Dunkin Donuts coffee.
'M'eimatai korin shema baravit?'
Thursday, September 8, 2016
Monday, September 21, 2015
Shofarot
Now is the time for turning.
The leaves are beginning to turn from green to red and orange.
The birds are beginning to turn
And are flying once more towards the south.
The animals are beginning to turn
To storing their food for the winter.
For leaves, birds, and animals
Turning comes instinctively,
But for us, turning does not come so easily.
It takes an act of will for us to make a turn.
It means breaking with old habits,
It means admitting that we have been wrong.
And it is never easy.
It means losing face.
It means starting all over again,
And this is always painful.
It means saying, "I am sorry."
It means recognizing that we have the ability to change,
And this is always embarassing.
These things are terribly hard to do.
But unless we turn, we will be trapped forever in yesterday's ways.
Therefore, may we find the strength to turn
From callousness to sensitivity,
From hostility to love,
From pettiness to purpose, from envy to contentment,
From carelessness to discipline, from fear to trust.
May we turn ourselves around and toward all that is noble,
true and life-affirming to revive our lives, as at the beginning.
Then may we turn toward on another,
For in isolation there is no life.
-Jack Riemer
The leaves are beginning to turn from green to red and orange.
The birds are beginning to turn
And are flying once more towards the south.
The animals are beginning to turn
To storing their food for the winter.
For leaves, birds, and animals
Turning comes instinctively,
But for us, turning does not come so easily.
It takes an act of will for us to make a turn.
It means breaking with old habits,
It means admitting that we have been wrong.
And it is never easy.
It means losing face.
It means starting all over again,
And this is always painful.
It means saying, "I am sorry."
It means recognizing that we have the ability to change,
And this is always embarassing.
These things are terribly hard to do.
But unless we turn, we will be trapped forever in yesterday's ways.
Therefore, may we find the strength to turn
From callousness to sensitivity,
From hostility to love,
From pettiness to purpose, from envy to contentment,
From carelessness to discipline, from fear to trust.
May we turn ourselves around and toward all that is noble,
true and life-affirming to revive our lives, as at the beginning.
Then may we turn toward on another,
For in isolation there is no life.
-Jack Riemer
Friday, March 6, 2015
A Bunnie Kaddish
Tonight, this first Shabbat without Marmie, I tried to wear bright red lipstick like she did when she was my age. In photos, when she smiled, her impeccable red lips made her teeth burn white like pearls. Tonight I smiled in the mirror and my red lipstick was smudged across my two front teeth.
Marmie, when you come to visit me, please help me wear lipstick better.
People ask me how I am feeling. I am feeling this poem...
Kaddish
(an excerpt)
BY ALLEN GINSBERG
New York, 1959
Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village.
downtown Manhattan, clear winter noon, and I’ve been up all night, talking, talking, reading the Kaddish aloud, listening to Ray Charles' blues shout blind on the phonograph
the rhythm the rhythm—and your memory in my head —And read Adonais’ last triumphant stanzas aloud—wept, realizing how we suffer—
And how Death is that remedy all singers dream of, sing, remember, prophesy as in the Hebrew Anthem, or the Buddhist Book of Answers—and my own imagination of a withered leaf—at dawn—
Dreaming back thru life, Your time—and mine accelerating toward Apocalypse, the final moment—the flower burning in the Day—and what comes after, looking back on the mind like a poem in the dark—escaped back to Oblivion—
No more to say, and nothing to weep for but the Beings in the Dream, trapped in its disappearance—while it lasts, a Vision—anything more?
It leaps about me, as I go out and walk the street, look back over my shoulder, Seventh Avenue, the battlements of window office buildings shouldering each other high, under a cloud, tall as the sky an instant—and the sky above—an old blue place.
or down the Avenue to the south, to—as I walk toward the Lower East Side—where you walked 50 years ago, little girl—from Russia, eating the first poisonous tomatoes of America—frightened on the dock—
then struggling in the crowds of Orchard Street toward what?—
toward candy store, first home-made sodas of the century, hand-churned ice cream in backroom on musty brown floor boards—
Toward education, marriage, nervous breakdown, operation, teaching school, and learning to be mad, in a dream—what is this life?
Toward the Key in the window—and the great Key lays its head of light on top of Manhattan, and over the floor, and lays down on the sidewalk—in a single vast beam, moving, as I walk down First toward the Yiddish Theater—and the place of poverty
you knew, and I know, but without caring now—Strange to have moved
thru Paterson, and the West, and Europe and here again, fire escapes old as you
-Tho you’re not old now, that’s left here with me—
Myself, anyhow, maybe as old as the universe—and I guess that dies with us—enough to cancel all that comes—What came is gone forever every time—
That’s good! That leaves it open for no regret—no fear, lacklove, torture even toothache in the end—
Though while it comes it is a lion that eats the soul—and the lamb, the soul, in us, alas, offering itself in sacrifice to change’s fierce hunger—hair and teeth—and the roar of bonepain, skull bare, break rib, rot-skin, braintricked Implacability.
We are in a fix! And you’re out, Death let you out, Death had the Mercy, you’re done with your century, done with God, done with the path thru it—Done with yourself at last—Pure—Back to the Babe dark before your Father, before us all—before the world—
There, rest. No more suffering for you. I know where you’ve gone, it’s good.
No more flowers in the summer fields of New York, no joy now, no more fear, and no more of this sweetness, high school decades, debts, loves, telephone calls, relatives, hands—
All the accumulations of life, that wear us out—clocks, bodies, consciousness, shoes, breasts—begotten sons. Now I’ve got to cut through—to talk to you—as I didn’t when you had a mouth.
Forever. And we’re bound for that, Forever—like Emily Dickinson’s horses—headed to the End. They know the way—These Steeds—run faster than we think—it’s our own life they cross—and take with them.
Over and over—refrain—still haven’t written your history—leave it abstract—images run thru the mind like the saxophone chorus of houses and years.
Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village.
downtown Manhattan, clear winter noon, and I’ve been up all night, talking, talking, reading the Kaddish aloud, listening to Ray Charles' blues shout blind on the phonograph
the rhythm the rhythm—and your memory in my head —And read Adonais’ last triumphant stanzas aloud—wept, realizing how we suffer—
And how Death is that remedy all singers dream of, sing, remember, prophesy as in the Hebrew Anthem, or the Buddhist Book of Answers—and my own imagination of a withered leaf—at dawn—
Dreaming back thru life, Your time—and mine accelerating toward Apocalypse, the final moment—the flower burning in the Day—and what comes after, looking back on the mind like a poem in the dark—escaped back to Oblivion—
No more to say, and nothing to weep for but the Beings in the Dream, trapped in its disappearance—while it lasts, a Vision—anything more?
It leaps about me, as I go out and walk the street, look back over my shoulder, Seventh Avenue, the battlements of window office buildings shouldering each other high, under a cloud, tall as the sky an instant—and the sky above—an old blue place.
or down the Avenue to the south, to—as I walk toward the Lower East Side—where you walked 50 years ago, little girl—from Russia, eating the first poisonous tomatoes of America—frightened on the dock—
then struggling in the crowds of Orchard Street toward what?—
toward candy store, first home-made sodas of the century, hand-churned ice cream in backroom on musty brown floor boards—
Toward education, marriage, nervous breakdown, operation, teaching school, and learning to be mad, in a dream—what is this life?
Toward the Key in the window—and the great Key lays its head of light on top of Manhattan, and over the floor, and lays down on the sidewalk—in a single vast beam, moving, as I walk down First toward the Yiddish Theater—and the place of poverty
you knew, and I know, but without caring now—Strange to have moved
thru Paterson, and the West, and Europe and here again, fire escapes old as you
-Tho you’re not old now, that’s left here with me—
Myself, anyhow, maybe as old as the universe—and I guess that dies with us—enough to cancel all that comes—What came is gone forever every time—
That’s good! That leaves it open for no regret—no fear, lacklove, torture even toothache in the end—
Though while it comes it is a lion that eats the soul—and the lamb, the soul, in us, alas, offering itself in sacrifice to change’s fierce hunger—hair and teeth—and the roar of bonepain, skull bare, break rib, rot-skin, braintricked Implacability.
We are in a fix! And you’re out, Death let you out, Death had the Mercy, you’re done with your century, done with God, done with the path thru it—Done with yourself at last—Pure—Back to the Babe dark before your Father, before us all—before the world—
There, rest. No more suffering for you. I know where you’ve gone, it’s good.
No more flowers in the summer fields of New York, no joy now, no more fear, and no more of this sweetness, high school decades, debts, loves, telephone calls, relatives, hands—
All the accumulations of life, that wear us out—clocks, bodies, consciousness, shoes, breasts—begotten sons. Now I’ve got to cut through—to talk to you—as I didn’t when you had a mouth.
Forever. And we’re bound for that, Forever—like Emily Dickinson’s horses—headed to the End. They know the way—These Steeds—run faster than we think—it’s our own life they cross—and take with them.
Over and over—refrain—still haven’t written your history—leave it abstract—images run thru the mind like the saxophone chorus of houses and years.
Yisborach, v’yistabach, v’yispoar, v’yisroman, v’yisnaseh, v’yishador, v’yishalleh, v’yishallol, sh’meh d’kudsho, b’rich hu...
Thursday, November 27, 2014
Thanksgiving.
This morning I woke up and Reuben was curled up in the blankets beside me. It was at this moment, exactly as I opened my eyes, that I realized how immeasurably grateful I am. I am thankful for my peaceful mornings and the day the lies ahead and for all the days behind. As Murakami said: "it's as though all these days were ingeniously programmed for the very purpose of bringing me here, where I am today." I am thankful for all the steps that have brought me to this place, for all the people who have entered my life, for the courage that I am learning, and for all the love that I have found while flying about in this world.
I never want to take anything for granted.
I am decidedly lucky.
I never want to take anything for granted.
I am decidedly lucky.
Tuesday, November 25, 2014
rocket science.
Strange is our situation here upon earth. Each of us comes for a short visit not knowing why, yet sometimes seeming to divine a purpose. From the standpoint of daily life, however, there is one thing we do know: that we are here for the sake of each other, above all, for those upon whose smile and well-being our own happiness depends, and also for the countless unknown souls with whose fate we are connected by a bond of sympathy. Many times a day I realize how much my own outer and inner life is built upon the labors of others, both living and dead, and how earnestly I must exert myself in order to give in return as much as I have recieved and am still receiving.
-Albert Einstein
-Albert Einstein
Friday, October 3, 2014
A Reflection:
As a new year starts rolling, gears get turning, and so it feels like a good time to return to my blogging. Hello again.
There are times when change within one's soul feels especially near to the surface - tangible shifts within an intangible entity. For me, now is one of those times. It is Yom Kippur. A checkpoint marking the turning of a year. Now is an opportunity to quiet the mind and to reflect honestly on how well we have been living our lives. How well do we nurture the goodness in ourselves? How can we improve? For me, it is an opportunity to acknowledge my wrongdoings as the first step in repairing and strengthening my character, in defining the person I want to be, and in molding the person I choose to be. Mistakes are part of our humanity. It is in how we respond to our errors, how we correct and learn from our mistakes, that reveals who we are and who we can become.
As I move forward into 5775 I aim for eyes that open wider. I aim to be more gentle with my heart and with my mind. I aim to be more patient with those around me and more patient with myself. I aim to put more energy into believing in magic and into pursuing a life full of sparkle. I aim to put my energy where energy is due and to understanding when it is not.
.אלהינו ואלחי אבותינו סלח לנו, מחל לנו, כפר לנו
May a sweet year, full of wonderment, lie ahead for us, for all of Israel, and for all of humanity. V'imeru Amen.
There are times when change within one's soul feels especially near to the surface - tangible shifts within an intangible entity. For me, now is one of those times. It is Yom Kippur. A checkpoint marking the turning of a year. Now is an opportunity to quiet the mind and to reflect honestly on how well we have been living our lives. How well do we nurture the goodness in ourselves? How can we improve? For me, it is an opportunity to acknowledge my wrongdoings as the first step in repairing and strengthening my character, in defining the person I want to be, and in molding the person I choose to be. Mistakes are part of our humanity. It is in how we respond to our errors, how we correct and learn from our mistakes, that reveals who we are and who we can become.
As I move forward into 5775 I aim for eyes that open wider. I aim to be more gentle with my heart and with my mind. I aim to be more patient with those around me and more patient with myself. I aim to put more energy into believing in magic and into pursuing a life full of sparkle. I aim to put my energy where energy is due and to understanding when it is not.
.אלהינו ואלחי אבותינו סלח לנו, מחל לנו, כפר לנו
May a sweet year, full of wonderment, lie ahead for us, for all of Israel, and for all of humanity. V'imeru Amen.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
guavas and war
Guava trees are in bloom. Everyday, we pass a very special guava tree and it makes my face tingly. My legs stop moving and I get stuck sniffing as hard as can as if the harder I sniff the more possible it is to store the smell deep in my mind to be pulled out and resmelled later. It is hard to believe that there are missiles being dropped when the world can stand still at the scent of a guava. I imagine heaven probably smells like a guava tree.
Although I know everyone at home is worried, which I can very much appreciate, my life continues as usual. I am learning how to knit. This morning I repotted my basil and we are rooting a sweet potato and an avocado seed. I am also eating cornflakes out of the box and remembering that I need to go throw our laundry. I feel very safe.
Still, things are different now. With a war so close you can very much feel the tension. I refuse to take sides or to contribute to the fear-mongering...except to say that I have a vested interest in Israeli success...and in peace.
I am a naive american who hates the thought that people are dying as a result of ignorance and fear. I was lucky to grow up in a place where conflict and war were not part of my day-to-day life. Thus, I don't feel that I am equipped to make statements about the politics of it all. What I do know is that peace would be better. I also know that Israelis are wise people. They are well-equipped, both in spirit and in strategy, to defend thier right to exist.
A few words of caution: Think for yourselves. Don't believe everything you see. Dont let the media feed your fears and don't chose sides when you don't really know. War and hatred are only fed by attention. Follow your heart and remember that there are bigger things going on on this planet than war.
The world was once purely complex, then came the ego of man and it became bitterly complicated.
With undying love for knitting needles the size of drumsticks, black coffee in the morning, Koko, and Gingies,
I respectfully remain,
J. Michael Hess Webber
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