This week we begin reading the last book of the Torah, Devarim. The book presents the discourses that Moses addressed to the children of Israel just outside the land of Cana'an. Like the other books, it takes its Hebrew name from one of its first words - d'varim, which means "words." It also means "things." And the connection between words and things is nowhere more clearly shown than in Bereishit, where God speaks the world into existence. Words spoken by humans are also important. I'm reading a book these days called Words that Hurt, Words that Heal, by Rabbi Joseph Telushkin. Words are powerful things; let's be careful how we use them.
The portion D'varim outlines the journey of the Israelites through the wilderness, mentioning various battles that took place during those forty years. It makes the point that a battle will go well for the children of Israel if God has commanded it and will fight with them, and that the people will be defeated if they choose to fight a battle that God has not commanded. Rebelling against God's command not to fight a battle is as sinful as disobeying a command to fight a battle. Neither response is a good idea.
The Haftarah for this week is the first chapter of Isaiah. It talks about the sorry state of Israelites who have forsaken God. All manner of misfortune comes to them, including the fact that there is no one to provide treatment for their illnesses: "Every head is ailing, and every heart is sick. From head to foot no spot is sound: all bruises, and welts, and festering sores--not pressed out, not bound up, not softened with oil."
Tonight I want to speak with you about the work of the San Francisco Organizing Project. SFOP is a faith-based group of congregations, schools, and community centers representing 40,000 families throughout San Francisco. The staff of SFOP works with these congregations to teach them how to organize to improve their communities. With their help, a year and a half ago, we at Sha’ar Zahav interviewed members of our community and discovered that the lack of affordable healthcare was a major concern. Congregants formed a local organizing committee with a mentor from SFOP. Last June we had a community meeting at Sha’ar Zahav that included members of the San Francisco Board of Supervisors. They heard our concerns and the next month, the supervisors unanimously approved groundbreaking legislation for universal, accessible healthcare in San Francisco, a program now called Healthy San Francisco. The program will provide actual health care, not insurance, through city clinics and other providers, and will be paid for through a combination of sliding scale fees, employer payments, and governmental funding. Three weeks ago, Healthy SF began at two clinics in Chinatown, and it is scheduled to be in full operation by the end of next year. We at Sha'ar Zahav helped make that happen; we made our voices heard, and the legislators listened.
But that was just the beginning. One of the goals of the congregation was to work for expanded health care access at the state and national levels. And now there is momentum in the country to work for better health care. The movie Sicko is eloquently making the points that the US healthcare system works primarily to create profits for the insurance companies, and that people in countries with free universal healthcare are healthier and live longer than Americans. Californians are starting to take action. The governor and several Democratic legislators have proposed bills for statewide healthcare programs. Now we have another opportunity to make our voices heard.
Sha'ar Zahav will be hosting a Town Hall Meeting for all the SFOP congregations on Wednesday, August First, at 6:30 P.M. In attendance will be State Assemblyman Mark Leno, State Assemblywoman Fiona Ma, State Senators Carol Migden and Leland Yee, State Senator Pro Tem Don Perata, and a representative from the office of Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger. We will let them know our concerns and priorities, and they will let us know what they are doing to fulfill them. Imagine their thoughts if only 40 people are in the audience. There is power in numbers. We need you to be there.
The Haftarah continues with a call for the people to engage in tikkun olam, to work towards healing this broken world. "Devote yourselves to justice; aid the wronged. Uphold the rights of the orphan; defend the cause of the widow." Since Isaiah has noted that untreated illness is not a good thing, I think he would agree that working for universal, accessible healthcare would be one way to uphold the rights and defend the cause of those who need help. Fighting for justice and health, we can be sure that God is fighting with us.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Friday, July 6, 2007
My Bat Mitzvah Drash
It seems that I never posted my bat mitzvah drash. Here it is:
My Catholic mother had me baptized as an infant. Nevertheless, I belonged to a Reform synagogue when I was in elementary school, because I was living with the Jewish parents of my atheist father. I studied Hebrew and ethics, and led children's services. But I went to live with my father at the end of the sixth grade, and my Jewish education ended.
Years later I became involved with a group of gay and lesbian Lutherans. Through them, in 1980 or so, I met Daniel Chesir, who invited me to Sha'ar Zahav. Here, I appreciated the familiar old prayers and the new liturgy that acknowledged and upheld me as gay and as a woman, not to mention all the nice Jewish lesbians. I joined the synagogue and the Ritual Committee, and started leading adult services.
Several months ago, I started to take these interesting classes that could lead to an adult B'nai Mitzvah ceremony. After some soul-searching, I decided to go for it; what with my Catholic mother and all, it seemed like a good idea to formalize my connection with Judaism. So far, my Bat Mitzvah experience is turning out as I recently read it described, "one step on the path to increasing community involvement." I've joined the Bikkur Cholim committee and my increased commitment to tikkun olam, as part of the B'nai Mitzvah requirements, has taken me as far as Sacramento to talk with my legislators about health care access.
From this week's Torah portion, I chose to chant the priestly benediction, because of my summers at Cazadero Music Camp. There I enjoyed the redwood trees and the music, and getting crushes on my counselors. I always choked up, though, when the counselors bade us farewell by singing a choral setting of the benediction, the one we played on recorders. Probably because it meant that our week in the woods was officially over, but also because the much-admired counselors were singing to us campers, praying for us.
The priestly benediction is as follows: Y'varechecha Adonai v'yishm'recha; Ya'eir Adonai panav eilecha vichuneka; yisa Adonai panav eilecha v'yaseim lecha shalom: May God bless you and keep you. May God deal kindly and graciously with you. May God bestow divine favor upon you and grant you peace.
The first verse is usually interpreted as a plea for material blessings, and for protection from any harm that might flow from that prosperity. The second verse asks that we experience the spiritual blessing of insight into the Torah; and the third verse asks for some combination of material and spiritual blessings. These 15 words have been hallowed by millenia of use, and they incorporate the hopes and prayers of millions of Jews. On top of which, they come with a money-back guarantee. Well, actually, a promise of response. At the end of my portion, God says, "My priests will use these words to link my name with the children of Israel, and I will bless them, va'ani avarecheim."
The priests traditionally pronounced the blessings at the High Holy Days and the three Pilgrimage Festivals. Nowadays, congregations use them on many happy occasions, including, as it happens, b'nai mitzvah. So, you'll be singing them for us soon.
Incidentally, the gesture for the Vulcan greeting "Live long and prosper" derives from the priestly benediction. I don't have time to explain it here; ask me about it after the service.
I expect to choke up when you folks sing the blessing for us, as I did at the end of summer camp. Not only because it will mark the end of my Bat Mitzvah classes, but also because all of you will be using the ancient words to ask blessings on us, on our path to increasing community involvement - with Congregation Sha'ar Zahav and with the Jewish people.
My Catholic mother had me baptized as an infant. Nevertheless, I belonged to a Reform synagogue when I was in elementary school, because I was living with the Jewish parents of my atheist father. I studied Hebrew and ethics, and led children's services. But I went to live with my father at the end of the sixth grade, and my Jewish education ended.
Years later I became involved with a group of gay and lesbian Lutherans. Through them, in 1980 or so, I met Daniel Chesir, who invited me to Sha'ar Zahav. Here, I appreciated the familiar old prayers and the new liturgy that acknowledged and upheld me as gay and as a woman, not to mention all the nice Jewish lesbians. I joined the synagogue and the Ritual Committee, and started leading adult services.
Several months ago, I started to take these interesting classes that could lead to an adult B'nai Mitzvah ceremony. After some soul-searching, I decided to go for it; what with my Catholic mother and all, it seemed like a good idea to formalize my connection with Judaism. So far, my Bat Mitzvah experience is turning out as I recently read it described, "one step on the path to increasing community involvement." I've joined the Bikkur Cholim committee and my increased commitment to tikkun olam, as part of the B'nai Mitzvah requirements, has taken me as far as Sacramento to talk with my legislators about health care access.
From this week's Torah portion, I chose to chant the priestly benediction, because of my summers at Cazadero Music Camp. There I enjoyed the redwood trees and the music, and getting crushes on my counselors. I always choked up, though, when the counselors bade us farewell by singing a choral setting of the benediction, the one we played on recorders. Probably because it meant that our week in the woods was officially over, but also because the much-admired counselors were singing to us campers, praying for us.
The priestly benediction is as follows: Y'varechecha Adonai v'yishm'recha; Ya'eir Adonai panav eilecha vichuneka; yisa Adonai panav eilecha v'yaseim lecha shalom: May God bless you and keep you. May God deal kindly and graciously with you. May God bestow divine favor upon you and grant you peace.
The first verse is usually interpreted as a plea for material blessings, and for protection from any harm that might flow from that prosperity. The second verse asks that we experience the spiritual blessing of insight into the Torah; and the third verse asks for some combination of material and spiritual blessings. These 15 words have been hallowed by millenia of use, and they incorporate the hopes and prayers of millions of Jews. On top of which, they come with a money-back guarantee. Well, actually, a promise of response. At the end of my portion, God says, "My priests will use these words to link my name with the children of Israel, and I will bless them, va'ani avarecheim."
The priests traditionally pronounced the blessings at the High Holy Days and the three Pilgrimage Festivals. Nowadays, congregations use them on many happy occasions, including, as it happens, b'nai mitzvah. So, you'll be singing them for us soon.
Incidentally, the gesture for the Vulcan greeting "Live long and prosper" derives from the priestly benediction. I don't have time to explain it here; ask me about it after the service.
I expect to choke up when you folks sing the blessing for us, as I did at the end of summer camp. Not only because it will mark the end of my Bat Mitzvah classes, but also because all of you will be using the ancient words to ask blessings on us, on our path to increasing community involvement - with Congregation Sha'ar Zahav and with the Jewish people.
Sunday, July 1, 2007
City Sightings
I've been meaning to pass on a few recently spotted vignettes:
I saw a woman knitting with four or five double-pointed needles as she walked across the street (while I was crossing in the opposite direction) near my office one afternoon. It takes a serious command of one's needles to have the confidence to maneuver them while standing, let alone walking, because the stitches will drop off the needles at the slightest provocation. Or the needle will simply fall out of the stitches. And if a needle drops into the storm drain, it's all over for that set of needles.
On the same walk to the Metro, I saw two (presumably Sikh) gentlemen in turbans. The first turban was a virulent shade of chartreusy green, and had no connection whatsoever to the other colors of his clothes. It just about hurt my eyes. I concluded that the man was color-blind or had no taste whatsoever. The next gentleman, however, was wearing a purple (my favorite color) turban, which eased my eyes. Moreover, it coordinated beautifully with his lavender shirt and the other clothes he was wearing. I said to myself - that guy has to be gay. However, suspecting that the Sikh religion is no more gay-friendly than other religions of a similar vintage, I revised my diagnosis, and now think that he was a metrosexual.
Finally, just the other day, I walked by a motor scooter that was Pepto Bismol pink. It was soooo girly looking. But the seat was covered with a black vinyl with a white pattern on it. A pattern that, on closer examination, turned out to be skulls and crossbones! Perhaps the owner is Anne Bonney?
I saw a woman knitting with four or five double-pointed needles as she walked across the street (while I was crossing in the opposite direction) near my office one afternoon. It takes a serious command of one's needles to have the confidence to maneuver them while standing, let alone walking, because the stitches will drop off the needles at the slightest provocation. Or the needle will simply fall out of the stitches. And if a needle drops into the storm drain, it's all over for that set of needles.
On the same walk to the Metro, I saw two (presumably Sikh) gentlemen in turbans. The first turban was a virulent shade of chartreusy green, and had no connection whatsoever to the other colors of his clothes. It just about hurt my eyes. I concluded that the man was color-blind or had no taste whatsoever. The next gentleman, however, was wearing a purple (my favorite color) turban, which eased my eyes. Moreover, it coordinated beautifully with his lavender shirt and the other clothes he was wearing. I said to myself - that guy has to be gay. However, suspecting that the Sikh religion is no more gay-friendly than other religions of a similar vintage, I revised my diagnosis, and now think that he was a metrosexual.
Finally, just the other day, I walked by a motor scooter that was Pepto Bismol pink. It was soooo girly looking. But the seat was covered with a black vinyl with a white pattern on it. A pattern that, on closer examination, turned out to be skulls and crossbones! Perhaps the owner is Anne Bonney?
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Last Writing Class of this Session
We had the last session of the creative writing class last Thursday, and were instructed to bring some entertaining readings. So, I revisited two of the pieces I wrote for the humor class two years ago, and read them at the class, to some acclaim. Here they are:
The Comet
Comets and meteors have rammed into Earth from time to time. In 1908, for example, a huge area of Siberia was devastated by a comet. But scientists are only made curious by such destruction.
In 2005, NASA launched an 820-pound slug of copper (with a camera and a propulsion system) into a neighboring comet, to see what it was made of. The "ejecta," the debris kicked up from the impact of the slug, are being analyzed to determine, in the words of one of the NASA scientists, whether comets are "dirty snowballs" or "snowy dirtballs."
What if they find out that comets aren't made of dirt and water, after all? Maybe they're made of palm trees, or pepperoni pizzas, or fur coats, or dolphins, or skis, or oboes, or old truck engines, or paper clips, or surveying rods, or old computers, or bus transfers, or clown makeup, or steel kettles, or brown paper shopping bags, or street signs, or Swiss watches, or acrylic paints, or tattered paperback books, or backhoes, or wrought iron railings, or Louis XIV armoires, or corn silos, or locomotive engines, or birchbark canoes, or threadbare sheets.
Flinging a huge chunk of metal at an object is not the most sophisticated method of studying it, I think. Also, it's just not a neighborly thing to do. How would we like it if somebody flung a heavy object at Earth to see what it's made of? Mm. I'm thinking of the crater in Siberia and wondering if maybe somebody did.
The Sea and Me
My bed sings a siren song to me, one that I can hear from miles away. But the song is not loud, just insistent. It lures me to my bed, wrapping me in sleepiness like a wonderfully soft bathrobe. It whispers to me of relaxation, release, and refreshment. It reminds me of the simple pleasure of sleep. I go gladly to its embrace. My bed becomes a conch shell of shimmering warmth; at once it is both large and protective, and cozy and comfortable.
In the morning, however, it's another story. Then my bed is a huge octopus. Its arms spring forth from the mattress and entangle me in their tentacles of sheets and pillows. The gigantic octopus grasps hold of me and refuses to let me go. (It seems to have woken up hungry.) I struggle to free myself from its grasp, but every time I lift my head from the pillow it drags me back down underwater. Not satisfied with just keeping me asleep, it keeps me in bed even when I don't actually get back to sleep. On weekends, when I don't try that hard to get up, it can keep me from leaving the bed until half the day is gone. On workdays, however, my need to earn a living gives extra strength to my struggles, and I break free of the long, suckered tentacles and swim off to work.
___________
Just before class, I dashed off the first scene of a recorder camp murder mystery. Since I'd already sketched out some characters and done a plot outline, I had no excuse not to - and if I didn't start it now, I probably never would.
Death by Recorder, scene 1
The recorders were playing a bit out of tune, but the dissonance troubling Harmony was not musical. She and the other students were playing in the opening session of the week-long Mendocino Early Music Festival. They had spent at least a thousand dollars to attend the workshop, and some had traveled halfway across the country. The room should be filled with the joy of music making, she thought.
But that wasn't what Harmony was feeling. Her shoulders were climbing towards her ears, and she wasn't getting good, deep breaths. "Could I be nervous about being here?" she asked herself. "This is hardly my first recorder workshop. No. I'm here, my luggage is here, I know how to get from my room to the dining hall to here. The weather suits my clothes. No, I'm not nervous. This must be someone else's feeling that I'm picking up on."
She looked around the classroom, once part of a military barracks, to see if she could spot someone who might be the source of her discomfort. The teacher, Meolody, stopped the music often enough that it didn't taker Harmony very long to survey her 30 fellow students.
She knew about half of them from earlier workshops. She had spoken with Hank, Melody, and Elizabeth earlier today, congratulating them on their good taste in choosing the same K&M purple folding music stand that she used (and that was used by nobody else in her local playing community).
She also knew Horace, Julie, and the other teacher, Heather. None of the players looked especially troubled, but nobody looked joyful, either. Harmony couldn't put her finger on it, but something was amiss in Mendocino.
The Comet
Comets and meteors have rammed into Earth from time to time. In 1908, for example, a huge area of Siberia was devastated by a comet. But scientists are only made curious by such destruction.
In 2005, NASA launched an 820-pound slug of copper (with a camera and a propulsion system) into a neighboring comet, to see what it was made of. The "ejecta," the debris kicked up from the impact of the slug, are being analyzed to determine, in the words of one of the NASA scientists, whether comets are "dirty snowballs" or "snowy dirtballs."
What if they find out that comets aren't made of dirt and water, after all? Maybe they're made of palm trees, or pepperoni pizzas, or fur coats, or dolphins, or skis, or oboes, or old truck engines, or paper clips, or surveying rods, or old computers, or bus transfers, or clown makeup, or steel kettles, or brown paper shopping bags, or street signs, or Swiss watches, or acrylic paints, or tattered paperback books, or backhoes, or wrought iron railings, or Louis XIV armoires, or corn silos, or locomotive engines, or birchbark canoes, or threadbare sheets.
Flinging a huge chunk of metal at an object is not the most sophisticated method of studying it, I think. Also, it's just not a neighborly thing to do. How would we like it if somebody flung a heavy object at Earth to see what it's made of? Mm. I'm thinking of the crater in Siberia and wondering if maybe somebody did.
The Sea and Me
My bed sings a siren song to me, one that I can hear from miles away. But the song is not loud, just insistent. It lures me to my bed, wrapping me in sleepiness like a wonderfully soft bathrobe. It whispers to me of relaxation, release, and refreshment. It reminds me of the simple pleasure of sleep. I go gladly to its embrace. My bed becomes a conch shell of shimmering warmth; at once it is both large and protective, and cozy and comfortable.
In the morning, however, it's another story. Then my bed is a huge octopus. Its arms spring forth from the mattress and entangle me in their tentacles of sheets and pillows. The gigantic octopus grasps hold of me and refuses to let me go. (It seems to have woken up hungry.) I struggle to free myself from its grasp, but every time I lift my head from the pillow it drags me back down underwater. Not satisfied with just keeping me asleep, it keeps me in bed even when I don't actually get back to sleep. On weekends, when I don't try that hard to get up, it can keep me from leaving the bed until half the day is gone. On workdays, however, my need to earn a living gives extra strength to my struggles, and I break free of the long, suckered tentacles and swim off to work.
___________
Just before class, I dashed off the first scene of a recorder camp murder mystery. Since I'd already sketched out some characters and done a plot outline, I had no excuse not to - and if I didn't start it now, I probably never would.
Death by Recorder, scene 1
The recorders were playing a bit out of tune, but the dissonance troubling Harmony was not musical. She and the other students were playing in the opening session of the week-long Mendocino Early Music Festival. They had spent at least a thousand dollars to attend the workshop, and some had traveled halfway across the country. The room should be filled with the joy of music making, she thought.
But that wasn't what Harmony was feeling. Her shoulders were climbing towards her ears, and she wasn't getting good, deep breaths. "Could I be nervous about being here?" she asked herself. "This is hardly my first recorder workshop. No. I'm here, my luggage is here, I know how to get from my room to the dining hall to here. The weather suits my clothes. No, I'm not nervous. This must be someone else's feeling that I'm picking up on."
She looked around the classroom, once part of a military barracks, to see if she could spot someone who might be the source of her discomfort. The teacher, Meolody, stopped the music often enough that it didn't taker Harmony very long to survey her 30 fellow students.
She knew about half of them from earlier workshops. She had spoken with Hank, Melody, and Elizabeth earlier today, congratulating them on their good taste in choosing the same K&M purple folding music stand that she used (and that was used by nobody else in her local playing community).
She also knew Horace, Julie, and the other teacher, Heather. None of the players looked especially troubled, but nobody looked joyful, either. Harmony couldn't put her finger on it, but something was amiss in Mendocino.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Color Me a Jewish Adult
The B'nai Mitzvah ceremony went smoothly for me and my three classmates. Our nerves seemed to be fairly quiet, most everyone was where they needed to be when they needed to be there, my Torah chanting was flawless (I was the only one who didn't need to be prompted), etc. I did puddle up as expected when the rabbi and our teacher laid hands upon us and chanted the priestly benediction, but the mood was swiftly broken when the rabbi accidentally removed one of my earrings along with her hands after the blessing. I found the backing afterwards, but not the earring itself. Oh well.
My friends took me out to a tapas bar for dinner afterwards -- I was too wired and busy to even look at the lavish oneg foods that I had helped sponsor -- and, even though it was very late for me to be eating, I very much enjoyed a full meal.
I kept flying for the next two days, and then came crashing down with post-performance depression, and the return of focus on my challenging real estate situation. Meanwhile, at least my writing classes continue to provide their own challenges and gratifications. Here are a humorous piece I wrote for my Thursday class and a couple of things I wrote at a daylong workshop yesterday:
Just My Luck
Some lesbians get a little action when they go out of town for a gay gathering. Not me. The closest I came was at a conference in Minnesota for a gay Lutheran group. I somehow caught the attention of a nice lesbian doctor. Unfortunately, she insisted on remaining true to her absent lover, and my best efforts got me only some very nice necking, a canoe ride, and sunburn.
A few years later, I went to a women's retreat house for a weekend of instruction in meditation and massage. One woman used techniques on my inner thighs that would have caused me great embarrassment were I a man. Although straight, she seemed to enjoy exerting that power over another woman. When I happened to mention that I belonged to a gay synagogue, she perked up, and asked me to spend some time alone with her. I asked my roommate to stay outside the room for a while, and enjoyed giving her a demonstration of lesbian kissing and cuddling, but she drew the line there.
Then I went to the West Coast Women's Music and Cultural Festival. Hundreds of dykes camping in the woods, Holly Near, bare breasts. Women hooking up to the left of me, kissing and caressing to the right of me. Into the valley of dykes I marched. But me, my gaydar was so bad that I wound up hanging out with one of the ten straight women at the festival.
Which brings me to the Transcendental Meditation retreat that was conducted by a fellow member of the Pacific Lesbian and Gay Singers. He talked lyrically of the beauty of the retreat center in the redwoods. He know that I was a lesbian, so I got my hopes up. But no. The retreat involved 47 gay men, two straight women, and me.
Writing Workshop pieces:
My sound and texture
I am the end of the Shostakovich Fugue in C Major on recorders, a cacophony of shrill, squawking, honking recorders being overblown. Then the players calm down, soften up, see the end approaching and they're not lost, and then it's here and they're right where they belong, on a beautifully in tune C major chord that shimmers with the victory of the conductor, who is making beautiful music to spite his AIDS.
I am corduroy, chamois, tender leaves of lamb's ears, cashmere and acrylic, velvet and velour, shag carpeting, and suede. I am all that is soft, fuzzy, warm, and inviting. But, there's a leftover pin in the new shirt, there's a burr in the sheepskin wheel cover. There's a stain in the cloth, or its nap is being worn off. All is not perfect.
Santa Monica Scenes
I was riding my new skateboard down the street, and slipped and skinned my knee, and ran home to Mother, and cried in her arms. Only when I was done did she look to see where my boo-boo was and deal with it.
The chaise longue in the sun room is a great place to hide out with a book, looking through the French doors at the greenery in the back yard. Looking words up in the Webster's Unabridged that lives on its own lectern, left open because it's too big to keep shut.
For some time I slept in the small room off Mother's upstairs bedroom. The only way in or out was through that bedroom I felt safe there. The windows looked West, and may have held some light when I was trying to sleep there on a summer evening.
There was a clawfoot tub in the upstairs bathroom, with water that came fitfully and weakly. I don't remember why I once or twice had to use a chamber pot at night or adventure down to the bathroom downstairs by the back door to pee -- maybe I was sleeping in the cabin or the pavilion (two converted chicken coops) in the back yard. The privilege of sleeping in one of them was rarely bestowed.
My brother and I were given a different toy each summer. One year it was Whammo tanks -- huge cardboard loops that you crawled into and propelled by crawling forward inside them. Other years it was hula hoops, pogo sticks, homemade stilts. I seem to remember jars of colored water, but not what we did with them.
I'd be reading away in one of my little rooms, and Grandma Mil would yell my name up the stairs. And it could be anything, a cream puff for me to eat, or time to practice piano, or time to polish the piano, or maybe she'd read to us kids from a book in the language she was studying that year.
We'd have big Christmas dinners with most of the aunts and uncles and cousins. Colored goblets on the huge, dark wooden table with all its leaves in. Huge leg of lamb, which I somehow came to enjoy eating with mayonnaise. Washing the dishes afterwards in the kitchen with the aunts and the other girl cousin, with the knitted washcloths and the fading food smells, and the dampness on the hands, and the fear of breaking something.
And then we'd all have to perform our set pieces -- I'd sing the Titanic duet with my brother or play Bach on the piano. And some cousin would play flute or recite a poem. And finally one of the adults, usually Uncle Malcolm, would read from Dickens, the Christmas at Dingley Dell.
Finally, a poem created by taking randomly chosen lines from other poems and writing freely after each line until the next one was read. Then we 'panned for gold' in the resulting melange and reassembled the best bits into a title and poem. I'll italicize the lines that were given to us. In retrospect, I think my bits make three poems:
Cool Feet
I throw the river my shoes.
My feet are hot
and
the water is cool.
And the river may
carry them off.
I don't care.
My soles are tough,
my feet are tan,
and I will happily
walk home barefoot.
The Pen and the Song
I write your name
with a pen made of wood,
and it cries your name silently.
I miss you.
We were close once,
but are now far apart.
What happened?
We sang in beautiful harmony then,
but the song died.
The unity failed.
What did it need
to survive in the holy quiet
of the space between two people
where the divine spirit rests?
Something it needed
that we failed to give it.
I'm so sorry.
I was Still to be Born, but the World had Died, and There was no Room for Me
Clothed in leaves and wind,
comes the fall,
when seasons change
and masses of air move
from one home to another.
And in hundreds of seaports,
the rising oceans
cover the fading works of man.
Without flowers,
the death of the world will occur.
Without mourners,
for all will have gone before.
My friends took me out to a tapas bar for dinner afterwards -- I was too wired and busy to even look at the lavish oneg foods that I had helped sponsor -- and, even though it was very late for me to be eating, I very much enjoyed a full meal.
I kept flying for the next two days, and then came crashing down with post-performance depression, and the return of focus on my challenging real estate situation. Meanwhile, at least my writing classes continue to provide their own challenges and gratifications. Here are a humorous piece I wrote for my Thursday class and a couple of things I wrote at a daylong workshop yesterday:
Just My Luck
Some lesbians get a little action when they go out of town for a gay gathering. Not me. The closest I came was at a conference in Minnesota for a gay Lutheran group. I somehow caught the attention of a nice lesbian doctor. Unfortunately, she insisted on remaining true to her absent lover, and my best efforts got me only some very nice necking, a canoe ride, and sunburn.
A few years later, I went to a women's retreat house for a weekend of instruction in meditation and massage. One woman used techniques on my inner thighs that would have caused me great embarrassment were I a man. Although straight, she seemed to enjoy exerting that power over another woman. When I happened to mention that I belonged to a gay synagogue, she perked up, and asked me to spend some time alone with her. I asked my roommate to stay outside the room for a while, and enjoyed giving her a demonstration of lesbian kissing and cuddling, but she drew the line there.
Then I went to the West Coast Women's Music and Cultural Festival. Hundreds of dykes camping in the woods, Holly Near, bare breasts. Women hooking up to the left of me, kissing and caressing to the right of me. Into the valley of dykes I marched. But me, my gaydar was so bad that I wound up hanging out with one of the ten straight women at the festival.
Which brings me to the Transcendental Meditation retreat that was conducted by a fellow member of the Pacific Lesbian and Gay Singers. He talked lyrically of the beauty of the retreat center in the redwoods. He know that I was a lesbian, so I got my hopes up. But no. The retreat involved 47 gay men, two straight women, and me.
Writing Workshop pieces:
My sound and texture
I am the end of the Shostakovich Fugue in C Major on recorders, a cacophony of shrill, squawking, honking recorders being overblown. Then the players calm down, soften up, see the end approaching and they're not lost, and then it's here and they're right where they belong, on a beautifully in tune C major chord that shimmers with the victory of the conductor, who is making beautiful music to spite his AIDS.
I am corduroy, chamois, tender leaves of lamb's ears, cashmere and acrylic, velvet and velour, shag carpeting, and suede. I am all that is soft, fuzzy, warm, and inviting. But, there's a leftover pin in the new shirt, there's a burr in the sheepskin wheel cover. There's a stain in the cloth, or its nap is being worn off. All is not perfect.
Santa Monica Scenes
I was riding my new skateboard down the street, and slipped and skinned my knee, and ran home to Mother, and cried in her arms. Only when I was done did she look to see where my boo-boo was and deal with it.
The chaise longue in the sun room is a great place to hide out with a book, looking through the French doors at the greenery in the back yard. Looking words up in the Webster's Unabridged that lives on its own lectern, left open because it's too big to keep shut.
For some time I slept in the small room off Mother's upstairs bedroom. The only way in or out was through that bedroom I felt safe there. The windows looked West, and may have held some light when I was trying to sleep there on a summer evening.
There was a clawfoot tub in the upstairs bathroom, with water that came fitfully and weakly. I don't remember why I once or twice had to use a chamber pot at night or adventure down to the bathroom downstairs by the back door to pee -- maybe I was sleeping in the cabin or the pavilion (two converted chicken coops) in the back yard. The privilege of sleeping in one of them was rarely bestowed.
My brother and I were given a different toy each summer. One year it was Whammo tanks -- huge cardboard loops that you crawled into and propelled by crawling forward inside them. Other years it was hula hoops, pogo sticks, homemade stilts. I seem to remember jars of colored water, but not what we did with them.
I'd be reading away in one of my little rooms, and Grandma Mil would yell my name up the stairs. And it could be anything, a cream puff for me to eat, or time to practice piano, or time to polish the piano, or maybe she'd read to us kids from a book in the language she was studying that year.
We'd have big Christmas dinners with most of the aunts and uncles and cousins. Colored goblets on the huge, dark wooden table with all its leaves in. Huge leg of lamb, which I somehow came to enjoy eating with mayonnaise. Washing the dishes afterwards in the kitchen with the aunts and the other girl cousin, with the knitted washcloths and the fading food smells, and the dampness on the hands, and the fear of breaking something.
And then we'd all have to perform our set pieces -- I'd sing the Titanic duet with my brother or play Bach on the piano. And some cousin would play flute or recite a poem. And finally one of the adults, usually Uncle Malcolm, would read from Dickens, the Christmas at Dingley Dell.
Finally, a poem created by taking randomly chosen lines from other poems and writing freely after each line until the next one was read. Then we 'panned for gold' in the resulting melange and reassembled the best bits into a title and poem. I'll italicize the lines that were given to us. In retrospect, I think my bits make three poems:
Cool Feet
I throw the river my shoes.
My feet are hot
and
the water is cool.
And the river may
carry them off.
I don't care.
My soles are tough,
my feet are tan,
and I will happily
walk home barefoot.
The Pen and the Song
I write your name
with a pen made of wood,
and it cries your name silently.
I miss you.
We were close once,
but are now far apart.
What happened?
We sang in beautiful harmony then,
but the song died.
The unity failed.
What did it need
to survive in the holy quiet
of the space between two people
where the divine spirit rests?
Something it needed
that we failed to give it.
I'm so sorry.
I was Still to be Born, but the World had Died, and There was no Room for Me
Clothed in leaves and wind,
comes the fall,
when seasons change
and masses of air move
from one home to another.
And in hundreds of seaports,
the rising oceans
cover the fading works of man.
Without flowers,
the death of the world will occur.
Without mourners,
for all will have gone before.
Friday, May 25, 2007
My Bat Mitzvah is Tonight
Today is the day I've been working towards since last October. But it wasn't until this week that it actually occurred to me to invite my brother and some of my closer friends (I had invited a few others earlier on). It surely was thoughtless of me to wait until this late. Possibly I didn't want to make a big deal of it because it was so hard for me to decide to do it in the first place, and I'm still not sure about the extent and nature of my commitment to this covenant. I was also a bit embarrassed that it had taken me so long to get around to it. And I wasn't sure that I wanted a lot of people there to watch this somewhat anticlimactic event (since I've read from Torah and conducted worship and delivered sermons many times over the years). And in part I didn't want to send out invitations and seem to be asking for presents.
I finally realized that it actually is something of a big deal - in fact, a once in a lifetime event - this week.
So, as usual before a state event, I started having some 'coming down with a cold' symptoms Sunday night. I started taking echinacea and stayed home Tuesday and Wednesday evenings, and the symptoms cleared up, but I went to my writing class Thursday night, and that tipped the scales the other way. I now have a sore throat, but will probably have most of my voice until after the service.
It's my prayer that we all will be healthy, calm, and present for the service. And our best efforts are good enough. I'm told there will be a videotape of the event. The presence of a camera may encourage me to watch my posture.
I finally realized that it actually is something of a big deal - in fact, a once in a lifetime event - this week.
So, as usual before a state event, I started having some 'coming down with a cold' symptoms Sunday night. I started taking echinacea and stayed home Tuesday and Wednesday evenings, and the symptoms cleared up, but I went to my writing class Thursday night, and that tipped the scales the other way. I now have a sore throat, but will probably have most of my voice until after the service.
It's my prayer that we all will be healthy, calm, and present for the service. And our best efforts are good enough. I'm told there will be a videotape of the event. The presence of a camera may encourage me to watch my posture.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Writing Exercises
So, here are a few writings from my latest classes.
When asked to describe one of several emotions that had been named by class members, I wrote:
She's sitting with about six others in the waiting area of Assemblyman Leno's office. Although they arrived about ten minutes late, he is not yet ready for them. She volunteered to make this trip only a week ago, and has barely grasped the question she has come to put to him. She was briefed in the van as they drove to Sacramento; she has developed a script. But still, her breathing is shallow; she pokes at tight muscles in her chest. Perhaps her face is pale, because a leader of the group asks her if she's all right. "I'll be fine once we get started," she says. "It's nothing a little Klonopin won't fix."
Then we were asked to develop a scene from our past, first by drawing a plan of a childhood home, then writing a description of a room therein, then writing descriptions of some of the characters of that period of our lives, and finally a scene in that room involving some conflict. I wrote the scene below, (using an opening line suggested by the teacher) but felt so inadequate for my inability to clearly imagine the house, room, and people, that I also wrote me a pep talk, which also follows.
The trouble began when Grandma came to tuck me into bed and found Grandpa there reading me a story. "The curtain goes up at 8," she said. "We don't have time for this." She had given me my medicine earlier in the day, so she could get dressed up for her evening at the theater. And I hadn't made that easy for her either. The huge antibiotic capsules that I took for my strep throat always felt like they were choking me, so I resisted taking them. We had worked out a compromise. I would choke down the capsule, and chase it with a cup of hot tea that she would, on such occasions only, let me drink while in bed.
So here she came, carrying her fur wrap and smelling of Chanel No. 5. And Grandpa was going to finish reading me the latest Nancy Drew mystery if I had anything to say about it. They debated the point in Yiddish, while I comforted myself with looking at the ballerinas painted on the doors of my jewelry box. Nothing was visible out the window, but I knew the backyard was there and that I would eventually be back outside, playing in it.
Grandma must have played some trump card, because Grandpa stood up handed me the book, kissed me on the forehead, and told me to finish reading the book myself, like a good girl.
Now my pep talk:
How am I going to learn to do new things if I hate doing them poorly so much that I never try? Or if I give up the first time I dislike what I've done or when someone suggests how I can do it better?
I do not have to do everything that I do perfectly in order to be entitled to live. Humans don't excel at everything. And some things, most things actually, that we do poorly at first, we can get better at doing.
I go to classes to learn, not to demonstrate excellence. I go to get guidance, to try, to stumble, to get some hints of how to improve. No one fails at a class, except one who doesn't go at all. My best effort is, by definition, good enough for right now.
And now some pieces from my current class. We were given a list of dozens of words and asked to choose seven that appealed to us. Then we were told to write a poem using all of them, in free verse. I got them all in, but was not really happy with it. Here's another take, using only three of them:
A magenta sunset
came to the megalopolis.
I examined the intricate flow of the light
around the buildings,
each piece connecting to the next
in an algebra of architecture.
Then we worked on writing the first and last lines of pieces, the hook or lead and the kicker:
1. A. The empty music stands were the only witnesses to Horace's death.
B. The viols and recorders, playing in perfect tune, gave witness that harmony had been restored to the early music workshop.
2. A. My idea of a workout is walking to a more distant Quiznos for lunch.
B. Sidewalks may not be all the gym I need, but they are all the gym I will use.
3. A. Do two notes imply a harmony the way that two points define a line?
B. The words and music together invoke a blessing of peace.
Then we were assigned to write something using a common daily form, e.g., invitation, personal ad, etc. I wrote product safety warnings for a recorder. They go on for a while, based largely on those in the manual for my cell phone. Here are a few that I adapted:
1. Overblowing can result in damaged hearing or a damaged instrument, and, possibly, fist-fights or lawsuits.
2. Although your recorder is fairly sturdy, it is a piece of wood, and can be cracked or broken. Avoid dropping, hitting, bending, or sitting on it.
3. Any changes or modifications to your recorder not performed by its maker will void your warranty for the instrument and could void your authority to play it.
When asked to describe one of several emotions that had been named by class members, I wrote:
She's sitting with about six others in the waiting area of Assemblyman Leno's office. Although they arrived about ten minutes late, he is not yet ready for them. She volunteered to make this trip only a week ago, and has barely grasped the question she has come to put to him. She was briefed in the van as they drove to Sacramento; she has developed a script. But still, her breathing is shallow; she pokes at tight muscles in her chest. Perhaps her face is pale, because a leader of the group asks her if she's all right. "I'll be fine once we get started," she says. "It's nothing a little Klonopin won't fix."
Then we were asked to develop a scene from our past, first by drawing a plan of a childhood home, then writing a description of a room therein, then writing descriptions of some of the characters of that period of our lives, and finally a scene in that room involving some conflict. I wrote the scene below, (using an opening line suggested by the teacher) but felt so inadequate for my inability to clearly imagine the house, room, and people, that I also wrote me a pep talk, which also follows.
The trouble began when Grandma came to tuck me into bed and found Grandpa there reading me a story. "The curtain goes up at 8," she said. "We don't have time for this." She had given me my medicine earlier in the day, so she could get dressed up for her evening at the theater. And I hadn't made that easy for her either. The huge antibiotic capsules that I took for my strep throat always felt like they were choking me, so I resisted taking them. We had worked out a compromise. I would choke down the capsule, and chase it with a cup of hot tea that she would, on such occasions only, let me drink while in bed.
So here she came, carrying her fur wrap and smelling of Chanel No. 5. And Grandpa was going to finish reading me the latest Nancy Drew mystery if I had anything to say about it. They debated the point in Yiddish, while I comforted myself with looking at the ballerinas painted on the doors of my jewelry box. Nothing was visible out the window, but I knew the backyard was there and that I would eventually be back outside, playing in it.
Grandma must have played some trump card, because Grandpa stood up handed me the book, kissed me on the forehead, and told me to finish reading the book myself, like a good girl.
Now my pep talk:
How am I going to learn to do new things if I hate doing them poorly so much that I never try? Or if I give up the first time I dislike what I've done or when someone suggests how I can do it better?
I do not have to do everything that I do perfectly in order to be entitled to live. Humans don't excel at everything. And some things, most things actually, that we do poorly at first, we can get better at doing.
I go to classes to learn, not to demonstrate excellence. I go to get guidance, to try, to stumble, to get some hints of how to improve. No one fails at a class, except one who doesn't go at all. My best effort is, by definition, good enough for right now.
And now some pieces from my current class. We were given a list of dozens of words and asked to choose seven that appealed to us. Then we were told to write a poem using all of them, in free verse. I got them all in, but was not really happy with it. Here's another take, using only three of them:
A magenta sunset
came to the megalopolis.
I examined the intricate flow of the light
around the buildings,
each piece connecting to the next
in an algebra of architecture.
Then we worked on writing the first and last lines of pieces, the hook or lead and the kicker:
1. A. The empty music stands were the only witnesses to Horace's death.
B. The viols and recorders, playing in perfect tune, gave witness that harmony had been restored to the early music workshop.
2. A. My idea of a workout is walking to a more distant Quiznos for lunch.
B. Sidewalks may not be all the gym I need, but they are all the gym I will use.
3. A. Do two notes imply a harmony the way that two points define a line?
B. The words and music together invoke a blessing of peace.
Then we were assigned to write something using a common daily form, e.g., invitation, personal ad, etc. I wrote product safety warnings for a recorder. They go on for a while, based largely on those in the manual for my cell phone. Here are a few that I adapted:
1. Overblowing can result in damaged hearing or a damaged instrument, and, possibly, fist-fights or lawsuits.
2. Although your recorder is fairly sturdy, it is a piece of wood, and can be cracked or broken. Avoid dropping, hitting, bending, or sitting on it.
3. Any changes or modifications to your recorder not performed by its maker will void your warranty for the instrument and could void your authority to play it.
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