Thursday, August 27, 2015

No Regrets This Summer

All we have is this moment
Tomorrow’s unspoken
Katy Perry

Before the start of every summer, as far back as I can remember, I make plans as to how I will spend my time. When I was still in school, last century, I planned around which books I would read, which ice cream flavours I would try, and I how I could get my father to take me miniature golfing. When my own kids were small, I planned which books I would read to them, which ice cream flavours I would hide from them, and how many times I could get to the beach/pool with them (there's no miniature golfing in Beer Sheva).

As we all know, מענטש טראכט און גאָט לאַוגהס [man (or mothers) plan, and G-d laughs]. Seldom did my plans come to fruition. There was always some good reason.
Last summer, I computerized my plans, so gung-ho was I! Nothing could stop me but all out war. And lo, an all out war started, and the plans were dashed.

This summer, I was determined to make every moment count.  My kids are mostly grown-up and I don't have to plan for them anymore. I arranged to take random days off work so I could take the time to visit with family, go to the beach, and take day trips to other places around the country. Things started out well. I spent a super lovely day with a cousin I hadn't seen in years. My sister came to visit on a Tuesday, and we partook of an authentic Beer Sheva Tuesday afternoon meal of couscous. I even managed to clean out a couple of drawers.

Due to the 'three weeks', which were during July, there were many things we couldn't do. Instead, I spent the time thinking of things we could do in August.
I planned shopping trips with my youngest. I looked up advanced craft projects to keep us occupied. I planned a trip to Tel Aviv to the Nachalat Binyamin Market (which is only open on Tuesdays and Fridays, and hence, needs LOTS of planning).

Instead of all that, though, I got sick. Man plans.....

First of all, I'm fine.

Much like rockets falling all around me, while the health incident was potentially life-threatening, at no time was I in danger. Also, staying overnight in the hospital was almost, but not quite, as much fun as having rockets fall all around me. I got less sleep in the hospital. But I did have to take it very easy for several weeks after.
So, no trips to the beach or to Tel Aviv. Instead, I sat around with the kid watching bad movies and reruns of worse TV shows.
It was great.

I was never on any deathbed, not even close, but my dashed summer plans help me to realize, yet again -and maybe, this time, decisively - how many things we regret doing or not doing much too late. And more importantly, I realized there are things I do, or want to do, and don't do because  not everyone everywhere thinks it's a good idea - some people downright disapprove - and yet, I would never regret.doing..

Everyone knows that no one, on their deathbed, regrets not spending more time in the office, or spending too much time with their family.

In my taking-it-easy time, for my own amusement, I thought of a few more regrets I'm NOT going to have and hope that no one has. Ever.

I wish I had cleaned the bathroom/pots/behind the kids' ears better.

I can't imagine ANYONE thinking that cleaning pots is an important part of life. Except, once, a long time ago, (and this is a true story) I worked with a young woman who had lost her mother at a young age. She told me that her mother had always spent a long time shining the pots after using them, sometimes with special cleaner so that they always looked like new. My young colleague thought that was the way things were supposed to be. But when her mother lay ill, she told her daughter that the pots were not important after all. I think of that story often, especially when I've just washed the floor on a Friday afternoon, and everyone comes in from an afternoon at the beach and brings the beach in with them....

I wish I had danced less.

Lately, I've been dancing A LOT. And I dance, as they say, as if no one is watching. That's mostly because no on is watching.

I wish I had spent less money.

Money seems so important, especially when you don't have much, and when you work so hard to get it. It's not fun being broke, and I understand the need for a budget.
But at the end of the day, if you receive happiness from some multicolor sneakers, but begrudge the 50 bucks or yen or shekel that it costs, maybe go for it anyway. Though I know people who get mad when anyone says this, but, really, it's only money. Happiness, in the form of multicoloured sneakers, is what keeps us alive.


I wish I had read fewer books. 

My mother often said that I was born with a book in my hand. I know that there have been times when those pots were left unattended, the kids' ears' were dirty, and the floor crunched beneath the feet of the dirty-eared kids, but I would be so engrossed in whatever book I was reading, I didn't notice. Who cares?

I wish I had fewer friends.

I can't describe how grateful I am to have so many friends, real, imaginary, or facebook (and a friend can be all three).

I wish I never acted so silly. 

'Nuf said.

We are now in the Jewish month of Elul, a time traditionally set aside by Jews for introspection, repentance, and forgiveness - a time to do and seek  tshuvah. I've never been very good at any of that, at least not in the formal practice of praying and saying selichot. (My mind wanders something terrible).
Elul is also the time to put your life on the right track, to seek out the important and positive qualities in you and act on them.. It's a time to stop regretting and move forward.

Wishing all my friends and family, and all of Am Yisrael, a sweet and healthy new year!

Monday, May 25, 2015

A Post-Shavuot Thought

Mother is the name for God in the lips and hearts of little children.
William Makepeace Thackeray

This is what we read from the Torah on Shavuot morning:

In the third month after the departing of the children of Israel out of the land of Egypt, this day they came into the wilderness of Sinai. And when they were departed from Rephidim and came into the wilderness of Sinal they encamped in the wilderness, and there Israel encamped before the mountain.
And Moshe ascended to G-d, and HASHEM called to him from the mountain, saying, “So shall you should say to Beit (the House of) Yaakov and tell to the Sons of Israel”
(Shemot 19:3).

Mt Sinai
A little background to the story:
After the children of Israel successfully escaped from slavery in Egypt, they traveled through the desert, eventually arriving at the mountain of Sinai. There they camped next to the mountain from which they were to receive the Torah. It says ‘this day (יום הזה) they came to Sinai’. Grammatically, it should say ‘that day’ (יום ההוא). This day is in the present, and that day is in the past, and the story takes place more than  3000 years ago. 

Rashi explains that it says this day, “so that the words of the Torah should be new to you as though today He gave them.” In other words, every day, when we learn Torah, we should come to it with the excitement, and the curiosity, and love that we feel when we receive something new. Every time you open a chumash you should feel like it’s your first time. 

That’s a difficult order. We are commanded to learn Torah every day. How do we keep the love of Torah fresh?

Rashi answers that too.

But first, let’s read this bit again: “So shall you should say to Beit (the House of) Yaakov and tell to the Sons of Israel”

Why does it say both Beit Yaakov and Bnei Yisrael? Essentially, they are the same thing. Rashi explains that Bait Yaakov are the women, and the sons of Yisrael are, well, the sons, i.e., the men.

Moshe is instructed to say (תאמר) to the women, and tell to the men (תגיד).

Both Rashi and Rav Shimshon Raphael Hirsch ask the question: why are the women mentioned first? Why does G-d tell Moshe to say to the women but to tell to the men. Why are two different words used, and what is the difference between them?

Rashi and Rav Hirsch both answer in the same way. G-d was about to give mankind His Laws. Through these laws, through the Torah, man would be redeemed. Peace would reign over the world. But G-d knows the Laws are not necessarily easy to keep. They are revolutionary. They are difficult. They require a certain amount of sacrifice of the self. And so, to get Bnei Yisrael – the men – to keep these laws, G-d had to go through the women.

To say לאמר:  Rashi says this means to speak with soft words. The way to learn Torah is softly, with love. While women are not required to actually teach (the Biblical meaning of  to tell [להגיד]) the Law, they are expected to set the atmosphere of the Law. Women have been entrusted to ‘set the atmosphere’ for Torah life. A child’s first encounter with Jewish life is through his/her mother, in the home. The home should exude an atmosphere of love and peace. The child should be taught to love G-d and to love his/her people with all his/her heart and all his soul; to cherish the Jewish way of life, so that later, the Laws are learned and practiced with love and awe. 

The home is considered to be the equivalent of the Aron Kodesh, the home of the Torah itself, a holy place. Whether the mother or grandmother, sister or daughter, it is the woman’s mission - her calling if you will - to ensure that love and peace flourish, that acts of kindness – chesed – abound, to make sure that the Torah is not just a book, but a life force, and that Torah life is exciting and fresh.

This mission; these responsibilities of living Torah are infinitely harder than simply learning or teaching Torah.

Bearing in mind this responsibility given to women, it is no wonder that the two books in the Tanach that are named after women – Esther and Ruth – deal with chesed, and with examples of baseless love (ahavat chinam). This is one of Ruth’s connections to Shavuot. If Shavuot is Chag Matan Torah, what better way to illustrate what the Torah is really about than to read a book dealing almost entirely with chesed, because that is the essence of the Torah.

Shalom – peace – one of the names of G-d – will only come to our people if it is first found in the home. And we can have peace in the home when a Torah life is allowed to flourish, if acts of chesed abound, if love of G-d and people and the Land is nurtured. 

Wednesday, March 4, 2015

Oh, for the Love of Esther

The Jews had light, and gladness, and joy, and honour.
The Book of Esther 8:16

As a person who hates being in the kitchen, I love Purim. It’s a short holiday with only one meal (as opposed to two on Shabbat or 4-6 on Rosh HaShana), you don’t have to turn the kitchen upsidedown (Pesach), or eat outside (Yom HaAzmaut). And mostly, it’s ok to eat junk ALL DAY LONG!! And the junk comes in present form. I don’t even have to buy it. 

The best part of Purim, of course, is that the story features women. No blurring names or faces here, 
no putting these women on the back of the bus, or behind a wall! The women in the story are front and center, named, described, and centuries later, dozens, if not hundreds, of little girls dress up as them (though there are more Queens of the Strawberries than Esthers). 

At first glance and first reading of Megillat Esther, the two women seem strikingly similar. Both are beautiful, both are of royal lineage, both stand up to a wicked drunken king.

The first of the two women to appear is Vashti. The Book of Esther opens at a party, and King Achashverosh orders his wife Vashti to appear and dance before the celebrants. It is understood that this is not just a simple dance, but that she is to appear in the nude. Vashti refuses. In what appears to be a noble and dignified gesture, Vashti refuses her husband's command to perform. She will not sacrifice her dignity on a stupid and drunken request. And so she sacrifices her life, as the king orders her executed[1].

But before we think of her as brave and tragic, let's take a quick but deeper look at Vashti.

We know that Vashti is the granddaughter of Nebuchadnezzar (of destruction of the Temple fame) and daughter of Belshazzar. Her father and family and household had been killed by Darius – father of Achashverosh. Vashti is the only survivor of the massacre (which is described in the Book of Daniel) and she was captured and given to the young Achashverosh as a prize.

The Talmud tells us that despite her capture and forced marriage, Vashti lives up to her grandfather's cruelty. She enslaves Jewish girls, stripping them and forcing them to work on Shabbat. When Achashverosh commands her to appear naked at his party, she was busy having a party of her own, probably with the Chippendales. She answered him "you were but a stable boy when my father was king of all Babylon!" (Esther Rabbah 3:14) It wasn't that Vashti wasn't willing to sacrifice her dignity and not dance; she was not willing to sacrifice her ego. She was a queen, and the daughter and granddaughter of conquerors. She didn't dance for some stable boy. 

The Midrash tells us that Vashti was stricken with one of two ailments. Either she had Tzora'at (badly translated as leprosy), which is a physical manifestation of Lashon Harah. Lashon Harah is committed when one thinks one is superior to others. Or, says the Midrash, Vashti had a tail. That would symbolize her bestiality, her inhumanity. Whatever the reason, Vashti refused to dance and was desposed, thus ending the line of Nebuchadnezzar and its wickedness.

We can now turn to Esther.

Esther is also of royal lineage. Her family was taken into captivity in the first exile (at the time of the above-mentioned Nebuchadnezzar)—that of the aristocracy.

However, unlike Vashti – who taunted Achashverosh at every opportunity at the difference in their status – Esther tells no one of her family, her heritage, or her history.

A question that has often come to my mind when I read the tragic story of Esther is why did she submit to her fate? Why did Esther allow herself to be so degraded by being imprisoned in the palace; being forced into a beauty contest, and ultimately being forced to marry an immoral, uncultured, drunken egomaniac? Wouldn't it have been better to have even killed herself rather than endure what must have been torture? Considering that the Holy Temple had just been destroyed because of rampant acts of murder, idolatry, and sexual immorality, Esther's rebellion would have been heralded as a small rectification for the destruction.

Yet, her cousin/uncle/guardian Mordecai does not allow her to take this course of action. Instead, he tells her to go with the king’s men when they come for her and submit, but to keep her identity a secret, both from the king and from her own people.

So, orphaned, separated from her people, Esther begins her lonely existence in the palace, forsaken it seems even by G-d, for no miracle comes to save her.

According to Jewish law, Mordecai is right in telling Esther to keep her origins a secret.

When Esther becomes queen, she becomes a public persona, a target of the press, a symbol to the people, a person always in the public eye. Everything she does is scrutinized. Every chair she buys is appraised, and every bottle she returns to the store is counted. Every move she makes is judged. 

If Esther's nationality and religion are known, then, as a public figure, any minor desecration would become a chilul HaShem – a desecration of the name of G-d. Publicly marrying a non-Jew – no matter the circumstances – would be a horrific desecration.

However, as a passive and unknown victim to the king's advances, Esther would not be considered guilty of sexual immorality.

It is for this reason that Mordecai insists that she keep her identity a secret. And so Esther, unlike Vashti, suppresses her own needs, her own ego, her own identity so that she should not ever be guilty of sexual immorality or any other sort of chilul HaShem.

Later in the story, when Haman's plan for the extermination of the Jews becomes known, Mordecai tells Esther to go to the king. At this point, she asks Mordecai to have the people fast and pray for her, thus having her identity disclosed. Why now? Why publicize her heritage now?

Because now, by going to the king of her accord, Esther is no longer a "passive victim" to the king's advances. By seducing the king, she will now be guilty of immorality. It doesn't matter anymore if she is a public figure or private citizen.

Sexual immorality is one of the three cardinal sins for which one loses his/her place in the next world.

When Esther hesitates before going to Achashverosh, when she asks her people to fast and pray for her, it was not because she was afraid for her physical life, but because she was about to sacrifice her soul.

What made Esther act in such a way? There was no need. No one knew who she was. She would have survived Haman's extermination program. She would not have to commit immorality and sacrifice her place in the next world. Mordecai even told her that if she didn't step up, deliverance would come from another place.

It is written that we must love G-d with all our hearts and all our souls and all our might. And this is what Esther does. Out of love for G-d and her people, Esther gives up all. Showing total chesed, total Ahavat Chinam (loving freely without judgment), Esther is willing to sacrifice her soul for her people. In the end, not only does Esther save her people, but her Ahavat Chinam paves the way for the rebuilding of the Beit HaMikdash.[2]
And therefore it's no wonder that the Beit HaMikdash, built on the basis of Ahavat Chinam cannot exist in a time of Sinat Chinam (baseless hatred)[3].

Unlike Vashti, Esther transcends her own personal tragedy – which continues on even after her people are saved – and gives her heart and her soul and her might to G-d and to the Jewish people.

May we be blessed this Purim and may our People be united with the Ahavat Chinam of Esther, that the way should be paved for the rebuilding of the Beit Hamikdash and the coming of the Masiach, bimheray be'yamenuh.


[1] The text here is rather vague. The Megillah says ‘That Vashti come no more before King Ahasverosh’ and not ‘off with her head’ or anything like that. But it has been interpreted that she was, in fact, killed, the Hollywood movie with Patrick Dempsey notwithstanding.

[2] It is her grandson Koresh, King of Persia, who allows the Jews, under the leadership of Ezra and Nechemia, to return to the Land of Israel and rebuilt the Holy Temple in Jerusalem.

[3] Our sages give the reason for the destruction of the Second Temple as baseless hatred. 

Tuesday, January 27, 2015

The Good of the Land

If you are willing and obedient, you shall eat the good of the land
-Isaiah 1:19

The almond tree is blooming 
A golden sun is shining
Birds from every rooftop call
To tell us of the day for all
Tu b'Shvat is coming,
A festival for trees
Tu b'Shvat is coming,
A festival for trees
-Yisrael Doshman

An almond tree in bloom is a beautiful sight. Here in Israel, it signals the beginning of the end of winter and the coming of the Tu B'Shvat—the Israeli festival of trees.

One of the highlights of the my work year is receiving our annual Tu B’Shvat gift of a box full of dried fruits and nuts. People talk about it for weeks before, discuss recipes, which fruits they like, which are the most fattening, and how quickly their kids can scarf them down. We are receiving our boxes tomorrow. People cancelled vacations to be sure to get them.

The truth is that these days, everywhere you look, there are piles and piles of dried fruits for sale.

Really. This is what it looks like
Apricots, prunes, and raisins are old news.
Old news
Today’s cool buys are dried kiwis, bananas, and papayas. How cool is that!!

Cool new fruit
Tu B’Shvat is mentioned exactly zero times in the Torah, and one time in the Mishnah. That one mention is in relation to the four new years in the Jewish calendar. The first of Tishrei is the new year for the calculation of the calendar, sabbatical (shmita) years and the Jubilee (yovel), for planting and sowing. The first of Nisan is to the new year for kings and festivals.

They all get a new year

The first of Elul is the new year for animal tithes. The fourth new year is the new year of trees: According to the House of Shamai, it was to be the first of Shvat, but according to Hillel it was to be the fifteenth of Shevat (Rosh Hashana:2a).
The rabbis of the time ruled according to Hillel, as by the 15th of the month of Shevat it was decided that the majority of the winter rains had fallen, and the new agricultural season had begun.

And that is the only time we hear of Tu B’Shvat in Jewish Law.

There are three mitzvot that are indirectly associated with Tu B’Shvat:

  • Orlah is the prohibition on eating the fruit produced during the first three years after the tree is planted. 
  • Neta Reva'i refers to the biblical commandment to bring fourth-year fruit crops to Jerusalem as a tithe. 
  • Maaser Sheni and Maaser Ani were tithes, which was eaten in Jerusalem or given to the poor.  These tithes (or taxes if you will) were calculated by the amount of fruit that ripened from oner Tu B’Shvat to the next.

In simplest terms, Tu B’Shvat was, during Temple times, the end of the tax year. 10% of whatever fruit was grown (or the monetary value of it) was required to be given to the poor or to the Beit HaMikdash.
The only mitzvah of those three that is still relevant to us today is the mitzvah of Orla; to count three Tu B’Shvats before we are allowed to eat the fruit from a young tree. And even this mitzvah is relevant only here in Israel.

How then, did all these other customs - planting trees, eating dried fruit, having a ‘seder’ Tu B’Shvat - come about?

Well, I’ll tell you.

They were all made up.

Which isn't to say that it’s a bad thing.

After the destruction of our Holy Temple, and the exile and dispersal of our people, Tu B’Shvat ceased to have any meaning because the mitzvot associated with the date were  kept only in the Land.

Once the Jews were dispersed, all the festivals of the year took on different meanings, and all acquired new customs to take the place of the mitzvot that were kept in the Temple.

The festivals, which were originally agricultural in nature, took on more of a historical and religious nature in exile. Therefore, Pesach became the festival of freedom and celebrates our peoplehood; Shavuot celebrates the giving of the Torah; Succot is when we remember the miracles of G-d, and the hardships we suffered in the desert until we reached our Land.

Because the Land of Israel is an integral part of Judaism, and, while for the 2000 years of exile we remembered the Land in a myriad of ways, Tu B’Shvat slowly became THE day to remember the glory and the goodness of the Land.

It was in the Middle Ages that Tu B’Shvat began to be celebrated by eating the fruits of Eretz Yisrael. In the 16th century, the Kabbalists of Tsfat (who themselves were exiles from Spain) initiated the ‘Seder’ Tu B’Shvat where one eats several specific fruits and drinks four cups of wine. It was thought that this would bring the world closer to perfection.

(drinking four cups of wine can make anything seem pretty close to perfect).
The custom of eating dried fruits began only about 100-150 years ago, with the beginning of the return of the Jews to their Land. The Jews of Europe wished to partake of the bounty of the Land also, and asked the Jews who had returned to please send them fruit of the Land. Because it took so long to arrive by boat, the fruit was first dried and then sent. The Jews of Europe could eat the dried dates and figs and carobs of Israel.

I, myself, do not care for carobs.
As more Jews returned to the Land, they brought their old country customs with them, and the custom of eating dried fruits on Tu B’Shvat was one of those. But, here in Israel, most fruits are eaten fresh. Therefore, to meet demand, the National Importers Guild[1] decided to import dried fruit from abroad. Money is money.
As a consequence, today, to celebrate Tu B’Shvat, which is a celebration of the bounty of the Land, we import apricots from Belgium, pistachios from Greece, pecans from China, and raisins from California. In the Old Country, we ate dried fruit to remember the Land of Israel, and here in the Land of Israel we eat dried fruit to remember the Old Country. [2]

A bit of a slap in the face, if you ask me.

On the other hand, if you are going to make up customs, the custom of planting trees in Eretz Yisrael is certainly an excellent one. It is a great mitzva to plant trees (especially fruit trees) in the Land, any day. Setting aside Tu B’Shvat as a special day to plant is a lovely idea, and because of it, Israel was the only country in the world to end the 20th century with more trees than it had at the start of the century.

But this year is a shmittah year, when we do not plant and the Land lies fallow. So what should we do on Tu B’Shvat this year?

We should glory in the beauty and the bounty of the Land.

These flowers are Anemones, and grow in fields in the late winter 25 minutes from my house.

This is just a fun picture

dried fruit

the bounty of the Land!

Cool fruit


Baby tomatoes

An arial view of even more food

This is also the bounty of the Land!

[1] I don’t think that the National Importers Guild is actually a thing. I made it up, but you get the point.

[2] And yes, you can get Israeli produced dried fruit. I know. But two things: a) you have to look hard for it – about 90% of the dried fruits in the supermarkets are imported, and b) what’s wrong with fresh fruit??

Sunday, December 28, 2014


Untold suffering seldom is.
Franklin P. Jones

I met my friend E just one time, and despite the fact that I’m not 100% sure she would recognize me in the street, I consider her a good friend. She lifts me up when I am down, she gives me strength when I am weak, she entertains me when I am bored, and all without realizing it. And best of all, she laughs at my jokes.

E is a Facebook friend, and I read her posts avidly. She posts divrei Torah, uplifting stories, and, most importantly, different segulot.

Just over a month ago, E posted that Kislev, the month in which the holiday of Chanuka falls, is an especially propitious time for miracles.

E told us she had learned that to nudge a miracle into coming, on the Shabbat before the first day of Kislev, at candle lighting time, we should pray for something we seriously needed (i.e., not a mink coat or that pair of boots you've been ogling, but rather a job, health, or a partner) and then for the whole month – from the first day of Kislev to the last day of Chanuka – if we manage not to complain out loud, to not show ungratefulness, we will be a witness to the needed miracle.

Now, to be very very honest, I’m not one for segulot. To me, they smack – just a bit – of superstition. But I’ve followed some of E’s other segulot—most notably when I read a certain part of the Torah as a segula for a job, and lo and behold, extra hours were added on to my job, a mere hour after. Honest. (of course, I don't really like my job, but that's another story.)

But this one, well, I liked it. It would be a fun thing to see if I could go a whole month without complaining. I was quite confident, actually. I’m not a complainer. I never complain if I’m hot or cold like my colleagues at work do Every. Five. Minutes. I’m not a picky eater, I don’t complain if there are tomatoes in the salad, or onions in the kugel like my kids do Every. Single. Meal.

So what if I have nothing to wear, that there’s never anything good on TV, that Israeli politics are poison (I might not even vote this time round, they’re all a bunch of losers!).

I don’t get upset when someone puts a carton of milk back into the fridge with exactly one drop in it (can’t they just finish it, for heaven sakes!) or one noodle is left in a huge container (what does that mean, you’re too stuffed to eat one more noodle. Do me a favor). I don’t care mud is tracked all over my just-washed floor (oh, for heaven sakes), or the lights are left on (that wouldn't happen if they paid the bills).

Really. I don’t.

And so, I entered the month certain I would get my much needed miracle at the end.

I’ll put you out of your suspense now.
It turns out that I’m quite bad at not complaining.
In fact, I might become a professional complainer. I’m pretty darn good at it already.

Two separate things happened almost simultaneously and almost immediately, on that very first Shabbat.

The first was that I noticed how much other people complain:

“It’s hot in here, how can you stand it?”
“It’s cold in here, how can you stand it?”
“I don’t like tomatoes in the salad”
“Whoever left the lights on in their room can pay the electric bill!”
“Why is there an empty carton of milk in the fridge?”
Etc. etc.

It was a cacophony of noise. I stopped hearing words; all I heard was wah wah wah.

The second thing that happened was that I noticed that how much I complain.
I started out bravely. “How was work?” my husband would ask every day. I didn’t let out the five- and six-letter words (MUCH worse than four-letters) that were popping from my brain; lousy, yucky, crappy, icky (that’s only four).

“Just jim dandy”, I said the first day, even though it wasn’t. Great, fine, and ok followed on other days. I bit back the comments about the witchy boss, or how hot it was because everyone else was cold, or about the boring work, or the guy who yelled at me, or the stupid printer that ate my work, or, well, all the other things that make my day so super.

I bit my lips, then had to hold back complaining about how much my lips hurt.
Luckily, E never said anything about putting on a happy face.

Sometimes, I wasn’t all that successful at lip-biting. But I tried.

I came home from a colleague’s simcha one evening, and my daughter asked how it was. Without thinking, I said “food was ‘orrible”. (I’m Canadian, and there’s no earthly reason to drop my ‘aitches’, but I do it when I’m complaining). Then I stopped, and said ‘but it was lovely, really, it was a nice place and great people.’

Of course, I said the right words, but they sounded like wah wah wah.
After a few days of bleeding lips, I decided that if I didn't have anything nice to say, I would say nothing at all.

And that’s what I did. I didn’t say anything at all. I nodded a lot instead of answering 'NO!' (work ok?), 'yes, my favorite part of my day is unfolding your smelly socks!' (Did you wash my socks?) and 'yes, but make sure you eat the whole thing instead of throwing half away. Do you know how much apples cost these days and also there are children in Yemen who would die to have that apple, don’t tell me about it being bruised' (Can I have an apple?).

I shook my head instead of answering 'What, am I your secretary now?' (did anyone call), 'You think I have a cookie tree??' (anything I can menashnesh on?), 'it’s your friend, why do I have to spend my day running around looking for a present?' (did you buy a present for [fill in the blank]); sometimes I just pointed to the fridge instead of answering 'What, am I a restaurant?' (what’s for supper?).

The thing is, nobody noticed that I was only head shaking and pointing at the fridge and not talking.

That means that nobody ever listens to me. I work myself to the bone, and all they care about are their cookies and me doing errands for them. Ungrateful…
But I digress.
I live with several people of the male persuasion. I know that they have mouths and tongues because I’ve seen them eat, but otherwise one could be excused for thinking they had gills for all they use it to communicate. They only thing they say during the course of the day is to ask me for something (Can you fix my pants? Can I have the car? What’s for supper?). Is asking how I am too hard for them?? Or tell a funny story after an awful day of work? Is this too much to ask??

Anyway, meal time became pretty quiet. I was determined not to complain about anything. (Why can’t you use a knife??) I let someone else make conversation. (Who didn't put a serving spoon into the noodles?) Somebody else must have done something fun today, because if I mention anything about my day/job I’ll just complain (stop dropping crumbs on the floor, you have a plate RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU. Now I’m going to have to sweep AND wash dishes because nobody else sweeps in this house OR washes dishes. EVER), and I was desperately determined to stop complaining.

A week of the no-complaints experiment went by. I had lots of complaints, but most of them were left unsaid. Except in the car. I allowed myself to take out all the week’s complaints on unknowing drivers (aka jerks). “Why does this guy think he can take up THREE parking spaces, of all the nerve. Hey Jerk, don’t come crying to me if someone rams into you for going so slow. Whattasmatter with this jerk? He thinks he owns the whole road. AND he probably doesn’t use a KNIFE, and he puts back the milk WITH ONE DROP IN IT!! OR WORSE!!! he leaves it OUT!!!!!

After a week, I was feeling pretty miserable. Though I had thought that I didn't, half my life seemed to be made up of complaining, nobody noticed that I had stopped, and the kid still wasn't using his knife.
The second week was spent feeling pretty sorry for myself.
Why can’t anything ever go right for me?

It was only by the third week that I knew I had to do something. If you have nothing nice to say, don't say anything at all is a great axiom. I decided to take the first half of the sentence seriously. I would find nice things to say, instead of complaining. 

That's a nice shirt, I said to my son referring to the sweat shirt he has worn every day for two weeks.  He looked at me as if I had grown a beard. 
The table is set so nicely, I said of the mismatched cutlery and no glasses. My daughter thought I was talking in my sleep. 

It became a little easier as time went on. 
What a great supper! I said of the eggs and leftover challah that I had thrown on the table.  
Little by little, I began telling funny stories, reported on interesting articles I had read in the paper, and recommended the book I was reading.

The stories didn't always get a laugh, the articles weren't as interesting as I thought they were, and everyone had already seen the movie on their smartphone, but hey, nobody complained.

By the fourth week, Chanuka, I managed not to complain that the sufganiyot didn't have enough jam, that the latkes were too oily, and the candles made SUCH A MESS.  Because, y'know, who cares?

Instead, we sang songs, even though I'm completely tone-deaf, played with the grandkid, saw trains, and just had a good time.

Chanuka ended. I'm now allowed to complain again. 

But I'm going to see how it goes not complaining, at least not quite as much. Nobody listens anyway, it never changed anything (I guarantee that the carton of milk that is in my fridge has exactly one drop in it - I know this because I put it there myself, and the jerk driver still takes up three spots), and once in a while, somebody laughs at my jokes.

As for the needed miracle - well, I see miracles every day.
Can't complain.

Sunday, December 21, 2014

The Medic's Oath

"Save yourself" asked the wounded
"I'm staying here with you" replied the medic

From the Ballad of the Medic

I have lived in Israel for exactly two thirds of my life.
I have lived in four different areas of the country, had a dozen or so addresses and voted in way too many elections.
I have seen just about all there is to see.
But not everything, and last week, on the first day of Chanuka, I had the opportunity to visit a place in Israel that I have never been to, and probably will never see again.

The Yigal Yadin Army Training Base – better known as Tzrifin – was originally built by the British Army in 1917 during World War 1. Some of the original buildings are still there. Located between Rishon L’Zion and Ramle, and situated on prime real estate, Tzrifin is the largest army base in the country. It is what is known as a ‘container base’ in that it is actually made up of, amongst other things, about a dozen or so training bases known as Bahadim [sing. Bahad] (בה"דים), which is army slang for, well, training base (בסיס הדרכה). There is a Bahad for Logistics, one for Extraction and Rescue, a third for Computers and Telecommunications, a fourth for Medical Professions, and so on (i.e., NOT basic combat training). Each Bahad is an entity of its own, with its own hierarchy, chain of command, and all facilities. There are fast food places, banks, and even a small shopping area.
The largest military jail in the country is also in Tzrifin.
The place is, in essence, a small city.


Thousands of soldiers serve there, and just about everybody who has served in the army has been there at one time or another. But I never served in the army, so I've never been.

Bahad 10, aka the School for Medical Professions, trains army medics. These medics undergo a four-month intensive course on frontline first aid and trauma care. They learn how to put on tourniquets, how to stop bleeding, various bandaging methods, CPR, and more.
In the olden days, in far-away lands, medical personnel were not armed, and were labeled as non-combatants. They wore a distinguishing emblem on their uniforms (usually a red cross) so as not to be targeted by the enemy. However, in recent times, warfare has been waged against an enemy who does not respect – to put it mildly – the rules of the Geneva Convention, and targets - with absolutely no hesitation - combatants and non-combatants, women, children, and elderly alike. Israel medics are therefore armed and are also fully trained as combat soldiers. Besides a small pin they wear on their dress uniforms, they wear no distinguishing marks. That would make them a clear target to our illustrious enemies. 

At the end of the four-month course, Bahad 10 holds a graduation ceremony, swearing the newbies into their new duties. Last week, about 150 young men aged 18-20 were so sworn in. One of those young medics was my youngest son.

When A was chosen to do the Medic’s course, he was a bit anxious. He would leave his unit, one month into basic training, and be with people he had never met before. He knew he would have to later catch up with their training. It would be difficult, but off he went.

For the four months of training, every weekend A was home, he spent a goodly amount of time tying tourniquets on every stuffed animal in the house, the legs of the tables, and for laughs, the necks of his sisters. Once, I caught him bandaging the perfectly healthy turtles that live in our back yard. He gave infusions to the teletubbies doll.

He would come home with blue gloves, infusion tubes, empty vials, and bruises on his arms where he had been practiced on for taking blood. He looked like a junky. I hate to think what the other guy looked like.

He would tell us funny stories, recite new words that he’d learn (hypothermia was one he especially liked, must be the Canadian in him), and demonstrate new skills. He did his homework meticulously and with an enthusiasm he never had in 12 years of school

On the day of his graduation, I packed a truckload full of food, as is the custom of mothers of  IDF soldiers, and off we went.

We arrived, the soldier son met us and we had a picnic. We ate the hamper of food – or some of it at least – took pictures, kvelled with nachas, and walked him to the grounds where the ceremony was to take place.

We sat in the bleachers and watched 150 enormously handsome young soldiers from all the different brigades march in and form lines. A few short speeches, a little bit of marching, and then each soldier was given his medic’s pin while ‘The Ballad to the Medic’ was played.

The pin. A nachas.
It was the first day of Chanuka and a time of miracles, and, indeed, one occurred right there.
I didn't cry.
At least, not until the soldiers took their oath.

When Israeli soldiers join the IDF, they swear that they will give everything, including their life, for the State and its people. The medics’ oath, much longer and more elaborate than the regular oath, states that they will treat everyone, ‘friend or foe’, in all conditions, and that, most importantly, they will never leave anyone in the field.

The morality of the oath struck me full force.
We teach our sons to heal, not to hate.

I later googled around online, looking for the medic’s oath of different armies. I found nothing. That’s not to say that they don’t exist, I just couldn't find it. Yet, the Israeli oath was relatively easy to find, in both English and Hebrew.

Our enemies do not train medics. They do not treat enemy soldiers who have fallen. They leave their own in the field, knowing that we will care for them.
Yet, the disapprovals and accusations and condemnations and hatred are reserved for the army who thoroughly trains soldiers to treat, not only their own soldiers and civilians, but also any enemy soldier and civilians at the risk of their own lives.

We teach our sons to heal, not to hate. 
We teach our sons to love life, not seek death.

We are in the middle of Chanuka; the holiday of light.

May the light of the Jewish nation spread ever outward, and chase the ever encroaching darkness away.

שבועת החובש

נשבע היום הזה
להושיט יד עוזרת לכל פצוע ולכל חולה
אם נקלה ואם נכבד, אם אוהב ואם אויב
ולכל אדם באשר הוא אדם

אני נשבע להביא מרפא וצרי לגוף ולנפש
לשמור סוד, אמונים וכבוד, ולשקול את מעשי
בתבונה, בתושיה, ובאהבת אנוש
שומר אחי אהיה תמיד - אם בקרב, אם באלונקה
ואם ליד מיטת החולי

אני נשבע כי על ליבי יהיה חרוט לעד
הדיבר העליון של ההקרבה
לא להשאיר פצוע בשדה
בזאת אני נשבע

The IDF Medic's Oath

I, a soldier in the Medical Corps of the IDF
This day, swear
to extend a helping hand to any who is injured or ill, 
be he lowly or venerable, friend or foe - to any fellow man.

I swear to bring healing and balm to body and soul, 
to maintain discretion, loyalty and honor, 
and to consider our actions with intelligence, resourcefulness and love of humanity.
I will always be my brother's keeper
Whether in battle, on a stretcher
Or at their bedside

I swear that my heart will be forever engraved
With the highest Commandment of sacrifice -
To never leave the wounded in the field.
I hereby swear!

Tuesday, December 16, 2014

A Wake Up Call

We are stuck with technology when what we really want is just stuff that works.
–Douglas Adams

According to legend, the 18th century Englishman Ned Ludd (aka Ned Ludlam aka Edward Ludlam) destroyed two modern knitting frames to protest the human price of progress. He was determined to keep to the ‘old ways’ and refused to accommodate ‘new-fangled contraptions’. Since that time, a Luddite has come to mean any opponent of industrial change or innovation

I can proudly say that I have never been a Luddite. My mother was the first of her friends to buy a microwave, and I was the one who read the manual and was able to warm up my own hot chocolate long before anyone else on the street.

I knew how to program a VCR, back in the days, to come on every day at the same time.

And today, I am especially proud that I can click and double click as fast and as accurately as anyone.

But cellular phones, for some mysterious reason, have eluded me.

In Israel, there are approximately 9,964,000 cell phone users. In a country of just over eight million, that’s…. well…. a lot. Everywhere you go, people are talking on their phones, watching movies, and playing Fruit Ninja. People seemingly talking to themselves, dancing to silent music, or just staring madly at their devices can be spotted in elevators, in supermarkets. in schools, on the roads, at clinics, at the supper table,

I was the last in my family (besides the then-3-year-old) to get a phone.

The first phone

At first I walked around with a MANGO.

The other kind of MANGO
It was as big as about 3 real mangoes and we had bought it when my husband started to do army reserve duty and I was pregnant. It received calls, but you could only dial out to one number. There was a feature that you could use a ‘calling card’ and by punching in about 72 numbers and then the phone number you wished to call, you could reach more people. The only problem was that by the time I punched in 135 digits, either a) I’d forgotten who I was calling, or b) it was the next day. When I was tired of being laughed at every time I hauled the MANGO out of my bag, I took an old discarded cell phone that didn’t have SMSs, or a SIM card. That one didn’t last very long either. I finally took ownership of my oldest kid’s cast-off model when she upgraded. (I got her phone number too, and to this day, I receive messages and calls from her friends around Rosh HaShana time, wishing me a Happy New Year. It’s lovely.)

That model did have a SIM and SMSs, though no camera. It had a memory that held about 10 phone numbers and six messages. It lasted a little while, until the buttons began to stick and I couldn’t punch in the number 5. Do you know how many phone numbers have a 5 in them? All of them, that’s how many.

I finally broke down and bought a little flip-open cell phone. I loved that phone. It was small and compact and fit in my pocket. It came with: a) a camera (though I couldn’t actually do anything with the pictures as there was no USB connection or, obviously, internet connection), b) a memory big enough to compensate my lack of one, c) a two click function to actually make a phone call, and most importantly d) the ability to make me feel like I was on Star Trek every time I flipped it open (unfortunately, my constant flipping and saying in my best Captain Kirk voice while holding the phone close to my mouth “Scotty, beam me up” was completely lost on my uneducated children. They would just say “Mom, don’t hold the phone so close, I can’t understand what you’re saying). The phone also made me feel technologically adequate enough to remain a non-Luddite. 
Sotty Beam Me Up
That phone lasted a long time. Though I spoke nicely to it and fed it and tucked it in at night, it finally gave up the ghost about six months ago and went to live in cell phone heaven, which is actually a drawer in the kitchen where small old non-usable gadgets congregate for some reason. At night, they probably exchange recipes and talk about the good old days. 

But I digress. 

As a stop gap, I used an old, but still usable, cell phone that used to be my son’s, daughter’s, mother-in-law’s and nephew’s. It wasn’t a good phone; it was all banged up, it took 5 buttons to make a phone call, and, most importantly, I emphatically DID NOT feel like James Kirk while using it.

I began, finally, to think of getting a smart phone.

I too would be able to take pictures and send them around the world to family and friends in real time.
I too would be able to listen to MY music while cleaning the kitchen and not anyone else’s (music, not kitchen).
I too would be able to watch movies while waiting at the post office.
I too would be able to walk down the street, deftly missing light poles while wildly texting and pretending to be important.
I too would be able to enjoy seeing the antics of cats on youtube videos anywhere and anytime. 

The first step was to do research: find out which phone was suitable to my needs. This involved asking family members “what phone should I get? I got the same answer from everybody: “take mine, I was going to upgrade anyway.”

But I stood fast, did not take anyone’s hand-me-downs, and went out (dragging the expert who actually knew what he was doing) and bought myself a brand new 2nd generation mini smartphone, which turned out to be not as smart as it looked.

In many places in our Holy Torah, the narrative suddenly shifts scenes and begins a completely different story, and then, that completed, returns to the original story. A classic example is the story of Yehuda and Tamar, which breaks off the story of the sale of Yosef, leaving Yosef to slavery in Egypt (about which we read  just a week or so ago). This is to teach us some relevant lesson of taking responsibility and manning up to mistakes and rectifying them.

So this is my scene shift, lesson learning story:

When I was a kid, about 10 or 11 years old, I wanted to go away to camp. All my friends went to camp, but I was unlucky enough to belong to a family that took car trips around the North American continent seeing such sites as Yellowstone National Park, Cape Kennedy, and Disneyland. Poor me. Every year, I would ask to go to camp crying why can’t we be more like other families and feeling very sorry for myself. One year, we weren’t able to go on a month-long car trip, so my parents sent me to camp. I was there for about 23 minutes, maybe less, when I realized that this really wasn’t for me and thought about walking the 100 miles home. (I didn't. I managed to stick out the three weeks and have a pretty lousy time.)

I’m sure you can guess where I’m going with this. 
In case you don't it's: Be careful what you wish for.

I’m not whining. I own a smartphone. What could be bad??

I joined the ranks of those glued to their phones, engaging in communications with people all over the world.

Nobody will pose for a picture.
I can’t seem to find any good music to download, and when I ask for help, they download their music (and I still have to clean the kitchen).
Who am I kidding? I can’t see movies on that itsy bitsy screen.
I find that, while I can wildly text and pretend to look important while walking down the street, I don’t actually miss the light poles.
I don’t like cats.

But the worst part of the phone (and it’s a LOVELY phone, really, I’m not whining) is that my fingers are apparently too burly/solid/hefty/fat. 

It takes me 45 minutes to type in “Im hpne”.

The first app (see, I know the lingo) I downloaded was whatsapp. Or, as I type it on the phone, wjatsioo.

This was my first message: Ho gyys. In pn wjatsioo tpp!

The hours my face glow in the reflected light of my 2x5 cm screen are spent typing out one message over and over until I get it right:

Arw ypi cpnunh Sgavvat?

Aee ypi vpmung Shannay?

Aew uoi xpmunf Sjabbar?

Are you coming Shabbat?

And then I send it to the wrong person.

I hope the electrician isn’t vegetarian.