Flashes on trains (actually wrote this Dec 26th)

You know when you lose sight of yourself for a moment in time, like a reflection of a reflection, a glimpsed shadowy face flashing by in strobe lighting, framed in the stark subway window.
The way it happens really, when trains pass by in inky subterranean tunnels, with blurs of bathroom-tiled stations, brief burst of light, and faces..real or imagined on other passing trains... and you see the shape of a visage in the glass, but do not know quite which way to turn, to see the true bearer of the eyes...the face... and it is almost a loss...but not...

It is dizzying, but then again, so can reality be... on that same train, examining the reflections of words in the glass, can sort of show you which station you are at, if you concentrate on the letters enough.

This time of year is formidable at times for me. It is the commencement of the dying, of being a child and misplacing two precious things, which were never to be found again. It is the dismal sensation of having something important missing at all times, like missing ones eyeglasses, or one shoe in the snow... It is the forever empty chair at the table... especially in these months.

My Dad died on January 23rd, almost 24 years ago. My Nana died February 6th, about two years after that. One would think, it gets easier with time, and yet.. it doesn't.. My body seems haunted by the loss of these two cornerstones of my life, the feeling of being left behind.

I can still see him in those last weeks, slowly slipping away, fading, entirely ravaged by his illness. I remember visiting him in the hospital, the room, the whiteness and texture of the hospital sheets, the color of the IV, and him... there, but blurred around the edges-almost.

Still, when he never came back from that hospital bed, it was a shock. It took time to sink in, that I would never see his smile, never see his blue eyes, never be carried into the house while pretending to be asleep again. The gone-ness was so complete, so thorough, as to be entirely overwhelming. I will never get over that moment... I... knew... I would ...never... see him again.

My Nana, I have written about before... When I saw her slower fade and blur, I knew what was coming, and it was a mercy for her. She was suffering and as desperately as I loved her, I had to accept that I needed to let her go. I had lost her true, wise, warm, prickly self, long before, to the stroke...so it may have been a mite easier, I don't know... but when I saw her lying there, lifeless, the spirit inside her extinguished, it was a hollow, cold stone feeling inside me, which never, ever went away...

This was the very first year I celebrated any form of Christmas since my Nana had her stroke. It was quite magical and wonderful, the tree, the lights, the kids faces in the morning. The new friends and amazing hospitality and generosity they offered... There was very much joy in the day...
and then there was the ache, "Oh, Nana...I wish you could have been here. Nana, wherever you are.. have you forgotten me? Have you forgotten our time together? Do you still love me? What do you think of all of this? All I have said and done to get to this here place..."

I do believe grief although always there, comes in waves. Every once in awhile, a really big wave of it comes and knocks me over. This time of year truly is a bit of a Tsunami to the psyche.

It is difficult to regain my footing, find my bearings, especially when looking backwards for too long though. This life is far too precious, far too short to be spent in sadness over the lost.
I have so much to be grateful for. Children who are lovely and bright and strong (TG), Someone special in my life, friends and family who love me, as broken as I can be, nevertheless they care enough to hold my hand, and be there for me, as comforting and healing as a favorite sweater drawn around my shoulders on a chilly morning. I would do the same for any of you...any day...

Sara

Today was a day where everybody called out my name, and yet no one did.

"Sara" I turned instinctively at the sound of my name. I knew it could not have been for me, the bright little girl voice, calling to the friend she had spotted, amongst the sea of bobbled hats and fall weight jackets. She was standing on the painted postbox red steps of a brownstone, near her front door, clasping her Mothers hand, her wheat colored hair blowing in the wind, her cheeks rosy with cold.

I was walking my first-grade boy, to school. He was blissfully intent on picking up as many chamois yellow leaves as he could, holding them together in both hands, like a corsage, too large for any buttonhole. "They are for my art teacher," he said, his big brown eyes, serious.

Autumn was a lackadaisical lover, fading away like the first dreams of the night, long since muffled in layers of fresh thoughts and REM sleep, ever relegated to obscurity, except as a vague sigh of something just out of sight.
Winter's indrawn breath sucked the foliage dry and brittle. The yellow and brown leaves had turned sharp and flitted to earth as drifting projectiles, twisting into orderly whirlwinds like music notes in a well-worn song book.

As the breeze eddied and swirled around trees and buildings, I watched him walk into the building, his sweet face upturned as he turned and smiled to a classmate.

Walking back to my apartment took just a few minutes. In that time, I passed two European women holding court on the sidewalk, laughing and conversing in warm, husky voices, and there it was again, a guttural, drawn out Sarrra, Sarrra and I walked a little slower for a minute.

It was PTA today for the middle school. There we sat, various eclectic parents, waiting on plastic chairs, for our turn to talk to the teachers. The middle-schoolers themselves, presided over sign up sheets, where you had to sign your name and then wait until you were called. It was fairly chaotic. I am sure it would have all been better choreographed to music.
It was outside language arts, where I heard my name being called, only it wasn't. As I turned my head, I could see a boy tapping a girl named Sara on the shoulder.

Dusk falls so early once the clock changes, it is almost like having daylight stolen from under your feet, like a comfortable rug, which belongs next to the bed, disappearing overnight.
I was walking Dovi home, and he was asking for a drink, a snack, anything...and I was asking him to wait until we got home, when she called out "Sara", and I turned my head. A woman in a striped woolen hat was calling to her friend across the street, waving madly... She was the kind of woman I might one day have as a friend...but not yet...

I knew each time that it was not for me, but the weight of the name carried over to where I stood, and I turned my head to see... but it was not for me...




Records indicate that at least 402,155 girls have been named Sara since 1880 in the United States.
http://www.babynameshub.com/baby-names-girls/Sara.html

Oh the games people play...

Well, my thirteen-year-old daughter, got in trouble today. A guy she kind of liked, but with a bit of a reputation as a smooth operator, kept on flirting with her at lunch today in front of all her friends. She took her french fries and dumped them on his head.
The guidance counselor called and seemed mildly amused by all of this. So she didn't get into too much trouble, just a lecture at school, and she had to write how she should have handled it better...

Then we had a conversation at home, about deflecting or defusing uncomfortable situations, how there are verbal rituals people go through to settle such things. Oh the games people play...

It got me thinking about school in general, and the roles people assume, sometimes almost automatically in Kindergarten. These roles obviously have much to do with personality, birth order, and parenting style in the home . The more interesting thought, is the random luck of the draw, when these children are thrown together into a classroom and they seem to instinctively take on mantles.
(Which in itself should tip off those with socialist leanings just how unrealistic it is to assume everybody would ever be content to being treated exactly the same way.)

First mentioned, are the super children, who narrow their eyes to show displeasure The ones who are so sure they are singled out to be perfect and 'shining examples' of a boy or girl, and should be given their due respect. Often, they are tyrannical, even to their own parents, definitely to nannies or caregivers.
Their efforts to make sure they are not crossed are often subtle, after all, most schools 'no tolerance bullying policies' get in the way of creating martial law. So it is usually battery-acid comments, cloaked as humorous observations.

Then there are those who obediently plead allegiance to the super children, and thus gain some protection from the said 'shining examples'. They wear the same type of clothes, listen to the same music, and develop the narrowed eye expression as quickly as possible. They are required to agree with all their muse says or does, with eyes shining with adoration.

Then there are those, indifferent to it all, because they are busy with their own pursuits. If they are interesting or musical though, they may be loudly admired even by the 'shining examples', because actual talent is a real threat so should be kept close.

There are those who are different, and are teased and held up as being, non perfect. Those awkward or spotty or shy children are there to act as comparisons to 'shining examples' of what you shouldn't do. They may try to fit in, but don't quite fit the mold.
They are tormented to point out what can happen to you if you are not allied yourself with said 'shining examples' lest you default into undesirable mode.

'Shining examples', often need to always look good in front of teachers, so often they can be known as 'Goody Goodies'.

Then there are those which are totally non predictable, and have to be watched with caution by the 'shining examples' and their minions. These children, mostly refuse to ally themselves anywhere, just because it limits ones options of friends. Often nobody minds, but it can be regarded as 'unpatriotic' by the ruling social establishment. So being a free agent has its risks.

That would be me. If you ask me, the 'in crowd' was always overrated, just because you can't be yourself, ever.. not even the leaders, they know how tenuous their followers connection to them truly is.
I mean, how many times, did you have a classmate who would play with you, as long as the 'shining example' was nowhere to be seen?

Another terribly distasteful 'in crowd' reality, is the need to always have a finger on the pulse of gossip and rumors. In order to retain their superior status, all social changes need to be known and measured and disseminated to their best advantage.

Personally, I do not much like gossip. It is very much like a car accident, where people create traffic by slowing down in the hope of seeing the injured or even dead.

Then they discuss it like ghouls, saying how awful it was and wring their hands, while making sure to tell as many people as possible that they were there and saw everything.

The problem is, when such gossip and drama is required for conversation and effect, there will be the inevitable (and I consider it wonderfully peaceful) downtime in life. Then dramatics need to be stirred up for some excitement, creating sheer unhappiness for those chosen to be the designated drama du jour.

I would much rather discuss ideas and thoughts and have debates on current topics which affect our lives and the lives of others.
I would much rather gain insights into people I love and truly respect, discovering in layers how unique and wonderful they truly are.
I would much rather dream and create with a brush colored with notions, meanings, and perceptions of my world.

I think middle school might be the culmination of these social roles. In high school, they exist, but there is already a dawning awareness, that life is not all about these perfect children, athletes, or cheerleaders. A perfect child might be struck by terrible acne or just a dose of reality, and a jock might realize he isn't really as good as he should be at football, and he better do some homework.
Regular children often find they can accept themselves as they are, and they find a place. The former roles, are never entirely lost though. If you ask somebody who they were in school, they may not tell you, but you can see them shudder at the thought.

Middle school, might be a minefield of social navigation, and this just makes me so much more appreciative of those who are genuine, loyal, comrades, soul mates, sidekicks, friends and family.
How lucky we are, for all the genuine love we are being given in our lives.
Often, we can start to overlook what is there all the time, sitting right next to us, the noisy morning routines with children, the chaos of the evenings, the quiet of the nights, the simple moments. Parents, children, lovers, friends, family.... the threads that make up the comfortable jeans of our life. when we see something enough, we can stop seeing it entirely, but like having a thread pulled from fabric, if they somehow are lost, we are likely to be left with a gaping hole in our favorite pants...and our lives....

So hug them.

Love doesn't sit there like a stone, it has to be made, like bread; remade all of the time, made new. ~Ursula K. LeGuin

G'morning.

She hovered on the very edge of my peripheral vision, waiting for the clock to change before chiming "Mommmmmmy, its six-thirty". I had sensed her there earlier, but was waiting for it... eyes closed, unwillingly to officially wake up any earlier then I already had to.

She was going on a school trip today. We had a bus to catch. She was literally vibrating with excitement.

I stumbled out of bed only to see the cat attacking a bag of clean laundry ferociously. "hey, Ollie, stop that." But its adorable" chimed my two oldest. "Just don't try to pick up the bag."
I did, if only to move it to safety. Clean pillowcases descended on Ollie's head. He retreated to a safe distance and washed himself thoroughly.

They were ready, both of them, giggling at Ollie and looking expectantly at me.
I got dressed as fast as possible. Luckily in honor of the trip, I had just gotten the laundry done. So I could just slip on my new-favorite-heathered-purple-tee-shirt. My good jeans were clean too, that was excellent.
Dovi was still wandering around in underpants. "Hey Dovi, lets get you dressed." "But I was winning this level" he grumped frowning at me, picking up his Nintendo DS and starting to play. "Oh no you don't." I said. He let himself be dressed then went to brush his hair. Ollie danced around him, waiting to play.

We got ready in record time. "Mommy did you have your coffee yet?" said Adina her eyes sliding to the clock, like they had every two minutes for the past hour. "No, I'll have it right now." I said, sighing.

Just when we were ready to leave. I went and got Dovi a sweatshirt from the drawer under the bed. Inquisitive Ollie jumped into the drawer and disappeared into the bowels of the bed. "Ollie, where are you?" There was just quiet clunks and thuds. I rather bravely stuck my hand into the drawer with a possible-playful-cat but found nothing fuzzy in there anymore besides a few scarves and winter hats.

"Girls, wait a minute. Ollie is stuck under the bunk bed." They didn't even comment. I moved the bed with some difficulty and looked for him. There he was! He looked back at me, then sauntered out slowly and stretched.

We walked to school, fully appreciating the warm autumn day. It was going to be a beautiful sky today, clear and bright and blue as a fresh periwinkle crayon.
Adina was grinning like a Cheshire cat from ear to ear. She had a woolly Griffyndor-maroon hat jammed on her head. You don't need that hat, it's going to be so nice today.
"but I like it." she said swatting my hand away, and positioned it just right over her forehead.

Just as we turned into the school block, three large buses 45 degree-angled their way onto her street. "perfect timing" I said.

I have to admit, it was lovely, having a bit of an early start. Even if I did have to rush my coffee.

Match struck.

What if heaven and earth are mirror reflections of each other, and our human souls are bright flames, seen as stars to those who gaze down at the shadowed earth? What if we look up, and are really seeing souls? The inky blackness of the sky, could it be a mirrored quicksilver world in shadow?

Here on earth, we flicker in and out of each others lives, sometimes touching one another briefly, a barest flicker of acknowledgment between souls. Often these moments can be forgotten in an instant, or taken out and savored occasionally. Other moments, can cause deep impressions instantly, flaring like a newly struck match and dying out just as quickly, but leaving light spots in the vision that linger long after the light has passed on.

A few days ago, two strangers left deep impressions on me. I have been thinking about them both ever since.

The first, was in the Post Office. I walked in there, and got ready to address some envelopes, only to find the pens have long been yanked off their chains and been hijacked to new horizons.

I said aloud, mostly to myself (I do talk to myself occasionally)." Oh dear, I didn't bring my own pen."

She was right next to me trying to fill out her postal forms for a registered letter. Her English was broken and clumsy, but she smiled at me and offered me her pen. I said, "No wait, you need it, first check and see if you have another one." She produced another one from a bottomless Mary Poppins of a bag, and we both finished filling out the forms. She asked me to show her how to fill out the mail confirmation form and I showed her, then returned her pen and thanked her for her kindness.

We both reached the counter after a long wait. She gave the harassed Post Office worker her forms, but had not filled out one extra form she needed. She was told to go away and come back when the other form was filled out. She didn't understand, and just stood there, saying, "But I have waited so long, can you help me?".

The Postal worker was on her own, trying to handle the burgeoning lunch hour line, but she was unkind.

"Go away from my window, I can't deal with this."

When the woman did not comply, she moved herself to a different window and set up shop, pointedly ignoring the woman.

The woman was almost crying. I showed her and tried to explain what she needed to do, and she tried. She said, she was from Serbia, and just couldn't understand exactly what to do. She stood there for a few minutes, then shook her head sadly. Last I saw, she had slipped out and away.

The other encounter, was with a homeless lady, whom I first saw tucking her shirttails over a rather ample girth and trying to tuck it all into a pair of suit pants.

Something special must have been happening, she was wearing a suit and tie, and really was as clean and presentable as she could possibly be. As we passed her propped up suitcase of belongings, Adina pointed to something on the ground, a pair of glasses, broken, lying amongst the fall leaves littering the ground, the stems smashed. "Whose glasses are these?" Adina asked furrowing her brow. "They are mine," she said hurrying over. "but they are broken." said Adina.

she bent down with difficulty, "but I can't see!" her face was a picture of blank shock.

It looked like they had been sitting on her suitcase and had been jostled and trampled by some unseen passerby's.

She hugged herself cradling the smashed pieces.

"I probably have a pair at home, you can get your lenses fitted into them, that should be good for awhile. When will you be here?" I said.

"I am here this time every day, she said. I had never seen her before, so I wondered.

"Well,", I said "I pick up my kids every day around now. but I can leave them at the library in an envelope."

she went through her pockets frenetically, papers spilling out and blowing on the wind and getting lost in the leaves. "I am trying to find a paper to write down my name."

"No, don't worry, I will remember your name." I said.

"It is Monique." she said, "and what's yours?" I told her.

and I hoped, the glasses would work out for her. to be unable to see in a world already so precarious seemed almost unbearable to me...

Last I checked, she had not picked them up from the library.

Little gestures mean so very much... and I cannot stop thinking of these two women.

Autumn

The sun was slow to come up, sluggish and distracted, as she moved away to cast her face on the other side of the planet, while winters bony fingers tightened on the scruff of New York.

I was wondering what kind of day it would be when I woke up, squinted at the clock, and tried to get my lenses in with the lights off, because the idea of putting on artificial lights that early, just seemed daunting.

Incidentally, lenses are quite invisible in the dark. Eventually I managed to figure out what I was doing, more by sheer instinct then anything else. The only thing worse then not seeing a lens, is trying to put lenses in with a band aid on ones finger.

Bed looked so warm and inviting. I got back in for another five cozy minutes, before Rikal barreled in looking for the mirror to check out her latest ensemble. Note to self -buy a full length mirror ASAP for the soon to be teenager, and put it in HER room-. Adina didn't care much, her uniform was jeans and tee. I just wanted them to be warm enough and reminded them to take sweatshirts.

By then, it was past time to get up and I knew I had better 'maak gou gou asseblief'.

(If I remember my Afrikaans correctly, that means to make haste -please.)

Better yet, to borrow a quote from "My fair Lady", like the good horse Dover, I needed to "move my blooming arse!"

Still, I got the girls off to school with time to spare, then ran back and got Dovi to his school.

As I ran, the faces of the people I passed flashed by, but I still got the sense of wary morning eyes and wet hair from brisk showers. Most had arms folded protectively over work clothing, holding coats closed, bracing against the cold.

Summer was fading fast, autumn had arrived by her bedside to claim her inheritance. The wind had a eyebrow-raising bite to it, like unexpected sarcasm in a eulogy.

It blustered suddenly, creeping in between buttons and down necks in gusts.

As the day wore on, it did not warm up too much. I went to pick up the kids. Dovi first, then the girls.

An old woman was gentling the sidewalk with her broom. I wondered if she spent all year waiting for fall so she could sweep up the leaves twice a day, like a devotional to the harvest Gods.

There was this sense of fall, of tired, mellow leaves slowly turning the trees into collective Rastafarians, holding onto their red, green and gold hats, their branches like heavy dreadlocks waving in the tugging, mischievous breezes.

On the ground were "helicopters', those leaves shaped like boomerangs that when they are thrown, act like propellers and spin. I showed the girls and Dovi how they worked. I remember being filled with wonder at their perfection. I still am full of wonder actually.

Like I had been before them, they were fascinated.

The wind caught them up, making them spin longer and further. Delighted, Dovi got on the floor and collected as many as he could in his little hands.

He threw them all up, watching them twirl in tandem, A young man sat on the steps of his house. He watched the kids, perhaps remembering what it was like to do that.

He looked like he wanted to get up and join them for a moment but remembered he was all grown up.

I hope when we moved on, he picked up a few and threw them for old times sake or better yet, because they still filled him with wonder on this early autumn day.

Bug vs Sara

He appeared out of nowhere, his bumbling buzzing reverberating in my ears, as he banged ponderously against the window with his meaty wings, raising my anxiety levels like the test of the emergency broadcasting signal, in the middle of my favorite show.

He was voluminous, for a bug at least, of dubious heritage, and I knew, without needing a prophecy, that like Voldemort and Harry Potter, one of us had to go... and he was the squatter.

Now, all my windows are properly screened, but he must have classified arthropod superpowers, either that or he had sneaked in via the tiny spaces around the air conditioner.

Note to self-take foam insulating strips away from Dovi, as they are not swords, and need to be stuffed back around the air conditioner to prevent further infiltrations-.

I just hoped Mr. Bug, didn't have a family somewhere, ready to move in as soon as he has scouted out the place. A thought which did not ease my mind in the slightest.

He could fly well too, my very worst kind of bug besides jumpers.

I do not like insects at all. If at all possible, I give them a wide berth. I was home alone, so not even my five year old son, or other knights in shining armor were there to help me kill the droning interloper.

The battle commenced, I threw my Doc marten at the window, quite accurately. The bug fell- or pretended to fall- He seemed quite contented to land gently straight on a throw pillow. There he sat comfortably while I threw another Doc marten at him, followed by a pair of sneakers, another pair of Doc Martens, and any other bad-ass heavy shoes I could possibly find.

He nestled under the pillow, probably laughing at me shrilly, as the shoes bounced off in all directions, their rubber molded soles increasing trajectory.

To get close enough to squish him, I needed to be within his flight zone.

Adrenaline rushed through my body like a cold shower, as I picked up the pillow and shook him off. He sidled lazily onto another pillow.
I cautiously threw it aside and as he landed on the floor. I threw my very last boot...and squashed him flat.

Yuk.

That showed him.

Then I cried.

The rain..today

Adina's alarm rings at 6.30 am, but I was already awake, waiting for it in my bed, quite content to be there for the moment, blanket tucked around me to ward off the morning chill.

I could see from the partly open blinds, that it was a dark, charcoal-gauze type morning, and from the open window, I could smell the rain.

As the alarm buzzed, the children practically levitated out of bed and the routine noises of clothes being gathered together, showers starting and cereal bowls clinking, began. It is still the first week of school, so they approach each day like knights, strapping on armor, helmet and silk vestments, and marching to school like it is the noblest quest. It should always be that way, shouldn't it?

By 7.30 am we were out of the house. The rain was the cold, thin, sneaky sort of rain which creeps down turned up collars and leaves pervasive dampness in its wake.

I still love the rain.

The children put their sweatshirt hoods on and we walked on to their school, where they waved goodbye and cheerily went inside.

I pulled out my ipod. Music in the rain is a phenomenon, and as the raindrops steadily fell, the music beat matched the rhythm of the falling drops rippling in puddles.
Rain, is such a blessing, and set to music, it takes on celestial dimensions.

The raindrops glazed the world like a loving potter sealing a terracotta vase. The buildings and streets, looked laundered, ready to be blow dried by dry gusts of wind. Shingles sparkled, and water pooled in high places, only to suddenly drop off awnings and down unsuspecting, vulnerable necks.

As the rain grew stilted, then steady again, I encountered small kids with umbrellas, many emblazoned with Disney princesses or superheroes. They were walking blindly into pedestrian midsections, vision obscured by the colorful eaves of their umbrellas. Bright eyes peeked out occasionally for some haphazard sort of navigation, as they were led by wet parents to school. To them, this rainy day was such an adventure.

My red sweatshirt was getting steadily darker as the rain stain spread across my shoulders, and I thought about 9/11. Eight years ago, so many people went to work, and never came home...and they have not truly built anything there yet to remember them all.

In Israel, there is this powerful memorial which is not obviously a memorial at all, until you come really close, and realize what you are truly seeing.

It is a stepladder leading up to heaven, it reaches great arms upwards, the rungs literally going higher and higher into the endless sky... On it, are soldiers in uniform, climbing up, frozen in bronze forever in time..and the rungs suddenly end. The memorial is dedicated to young soldiers killed when a suicide bomber came into their lunch hall and blew himself up.


If there was a memorial like that to the men and women who died in 9/11, they would probably be dressed in suits and ties and be holding briefcases while climbing up that heavenly ladder. They would be doing their average, everyday pilgrimage to work, for their families, those who loved them, those who they loved. They were not doing anything particularly dangerous, just doing what they had to do. They were not soldiers, they were not fighters, they were parents and lovers. They were the quiet, every day heroes.

Then there are the rescuers, the firefighters and police and others who died trying to save lives. Their monument would have to be a firetruck ladder, or they could possibly be depicted bracing the other ladder and supporting the quiet heroes as they ascend, ever immortalized as those that 'saved'. They are the quintessential heroes because they knew the risks quite completely, and still had to help.

My mom called then, "I wanted you to hear this from me, but your friend DL passed away today."
She was right, I needed to hear it from her. Right there on the street, I began to cry.
Never mind the falling rain being likened to tears, I forgot what the leaden sky was doing and ached for her, for her Mom and Dad and siblings, for her husband and most of all, for her children.

DL had been very ill for a long time, no doubt God needed to call her home, but it is still so incomprehensible to fully understand that kind of tragedy.

She was younger then me. She was just 33 in July, and she had a husband who adored her and two tiny little children who she cherished beyond belief. She was warm, and bright and funny and lovely. We used to pass notes to each other in class. I still have some of them tucked away in an envelope.
Her loss leaves a deep crevice in my heart and soul. She was a good, true and honest friend. I valued her in my life. We did not need to talk every day, but when we did, it was meaningful and ...I loved her.

Maybe the skies are weeping madly today, maybe the rain is instead a blessing, sent from those in heaven, who want to see more growth and regeneration from us on earth.
Maybe it is just autumn rain.

Full five...

There used to be this cheesy camp song we used to sing about a beggar that is given money by a little girl. The little girl gives him money smiling hugely. Now, I bet the little girl was five; little kids of five do everything smiling hugely, showing all their newly wiggly teeth.

Anyway, the beggar says "the money may last for a while but I will always remember your smile." Everybody sang that part of the song twice, looking all wide eyed and pious, with furrowed brows. Of course the message of the song sailed completely over most of their heads, but their voices sure sounded pretty to themselves, as they all faded out in unison, and inevitably began a rousing version of "we are the best bunk yet...etc."

I of course, was lost in my own thoughts for awhile, as I considered those words and the nature of giving and kindness in general. Then, after a bit, the counselors would notice I was not singing, if you can call the campers yowling singing, poke me and remind me to have some camp spirit. I meanwhile still had tears in my eyes thinking about that fictitious cold and hungry beggar and the kind little girl who made his day. It reminded me strongly of the bird lady in Mary Poppins, feeding her pigeons endlessly for ‘tuppence a bag’.

Growing up under the teeming microscope of a religious community highlighted the idea of spirit of the law versus letter of the law. In a religious community where so many laws are externally obvious, I think the more subtle or less overt traits of kindness and Godliness are often overlooked in the important business of ‘looking like everyone else’.

After all, if you ‘walk the walk and talk the talk’, and have the right brand of shoes and the ‘it’ handbag, what is a little backstabbing, slander or gossip between friends, right? If you follow the religious modesty laws, have covered elbows and knees and nothing too tight fitting or provocative, anything goes. I have heard cruelty, sniggers and general verbal evisceration of others, so intense, I swear I smelt faint wafts of overbearing trendy teen salon shampoo and heard the echoing clang of high school hallway lockers in their speech.

Often the favorite topic of conversation is how wayward other people are, or even better, other people’s children are becoming. There is always a sense of ghoulish glee when somebody really fuck’s up royally. Gossip and other more socially acceptable form of sinning, is actually an undercover religious community sport.

There are others of course, both religious and not-so-much, who talk about thoughts and ideas and can’t be bothered to examine the minutiae of other people’s lives. They are hospitable, invite and inspire others at their tables. They are spiritual and deeply warm both to God and others, but somehow they offend religious sensibilities by not toeing the external community requirements, and are thereby somehow less acceptable. Often they themselves see the terrible irony in that, but it has long ceased to matter what people think, because kindness in thought, creates a profundity and awareness of others, that even extends to those who are least deserving of it, miserable cretins.

My Mom lectures in psycho-oncology to medical students. Her research indicates that cancer patients are much more likely to comply when they understood their treatments and were treated with kindness. Knowing the medicine would help them, was not enough to make them undergo harsh treatments, even if it would cost them their lives.

She stated in her lecture, that patients often say they look for a Doctor who truly listens to them, who is sympathetic and available.

One young Doctor, got up and asked, "How am I supposed to have any kind of bedside manner if I only have five minutes to spare per patient? That is barely enough time to examine them."

Mom said, "You do not only have five minutes, you have five minutes, i.e. be present in body and spirit, for a full five minutes. That means, take off your coat, or sit down on the chair, and be truly there for those moments in time and you will be surprised at what you can accomplish. Do not keep checking your watch. Set your phone alarm to vibrate after five minutes if necessary, but then forget time exists and be there wholly."

The Doctor came back, and reported that his patients were much happier now. They had commented on how well he was listening to them. They were more forthcoming and less resistant to new treatment ideas. Just five complete, present minutes made a big difference. Most patients never even realized it was only a short time he was there.

No more time was actually necessary, but the quality of the time most definitely was, the spirit of the time, the compassion imbued in the time, given to them for just minutes, but they felt it.

I have had difficulty with this idea sometimes. Sometimes it seems like the mere act of giving is effort enough. This can mean giving advice or having a conversation with a distraught friend; it can be money or clothes or simple time with a loved one, or just checking in. It can be a monologue from one of my children about a book character or comic strip involving animated pumpkins.

I honestly do not always have the energy or will to do it right, but I do understand that I should be doing better. I knew it as I did while listening to the camp song, that the full measure of kindness is what truly makes an impact. I need to be there. I especially need to be there for those that love me, need me and depend on me to love them wholly. I need to try do all that, with the unflagging sweet energy of a toothsome five year old.

‘Being there’ in whatever capacity, might seem enough on the surface, but it is the full measure of the giving, that truly creates the sense of love or care. It is the kernel, the soul, the spirit, the beating heart of all acts of kindness, and I want to do that.

Yes, being there, means, being exactly there for that moment… That means I need to work on not thinking of the next place I need to go, or mentally reviewing the shopping list, or texting nonstop. (Texting is really addictive by the way.) It means I need to care about where I am right now, in this lovely precious moment, with someone I care about, or even a stranger, but I can make a difference, why the hell not?

Drawing on the walls

How important is art and creativity in your life? To me, it is neccessary as life itself, of vital, visceral importance.
Any ideas, sparks, art, words we can imagine within ourselves, and then, manage to translate them into something tangible, pulling thread by glowing thread out of ourselves, is purely magical. In a sense, we can melt and attain the literal crucible of expression.

It is not surprising that I think this way, considering this story from my childhood. It seems, my father was very, very much like me.

Strains of my moms conversation drifted vaguely over into the corner where I was playing with my toys, but the word 'walk' caught my attention. Tuning in, I heard mom mention she was going for an afternoon walk to visit some friends.
A walk? A walk was always such potential for adventure.

"I want to go for a walk," I said jumping up and running up to her.
She was still talking to the others, telling them to get their shoes on and to wash their face and hands.
Riv was six, Debbie fourteen, and I was the baby, just stubborn, contrary, curly four.

"I want to go for a walk" I said louder tugging on her long formal shabbos skirt and looking up at her with soulful eyes.

I want to go for a walk. I said more determinedly. "Can I come with you? "

Mom paused in mid word, looking down at my small, sticky form distractedly. "Not this time, Sara. You won't be able to keep up, and I can't carry you if your legs get tired, because it is shabbos." said Mom flatly.
You will stay with Mavis. Tommorrow, we can all go out to the zoo."
"...but, I like walks" I frowned at her, eyes blazing. I thought about raising the ante and having a tantrum, but saw the firm set of her jaw and decided not to bother.

She did have a point. I clearly remember wailing loudly all the way home on long shabbos walks, like a faulty car siren, because I demanded to be picked up, and nobody would listen. Religious jews do not carry on shabbat for religious reasons, there is just no question of breaking the many shabbat laws, so it was always impossible to pick me up and carry me home. So it is hardly surprising that I was left at home, absolutely furious.

Logic aside, I... still... wanted... to... go...

Well, I did not have to worry about Mavis interrupting me. The very busy housekeeper was nowhere in sight, no doubt cleaning up the dishes and detrius of a shabbos lunch enjoyed with many guests. She was probably arm deep in warm soapy lemon, scented water, washing countless dishes, and gazing dreamily out of the window.

Hmmm, they would definitely regret leaving me at home, eyes narrowed I formulated a suitable reaction to show my total and utter displeasure.
I pulled out my tub of crayons. Drawing was my favourite pastime besides adventure, but it was also forbidden to draw on shabbos, it was another one of the shabbos laws.
Shabbos was the reason I could not go on the walk, so now, I was going to draw!

I had to be fully prepared for my undertaking. I went and got a sturdy wooden chair from the kitchen. I was right, Mavis was preoccupied, and I passed by without her looking up.
I pulled the chair into my bedroom with effort, and tugged it all the way over to the stark, white wall...

Climbing up onto the chair, I picked up a pine green crayon to start, and begain to draw faces. Five feet up...I stretched my small arms out and up as far as they could go and drew with bright, bold, slashed lines. I drew large, almost life sized people, they towered over me... I drew their heads and shoulders, adding hair and ears and earrings or hats. I got off the chair to continue each body, drawing their feet in line with the floor. I got on and off the chair, pulling it over as I covered the wall. I drew no less then nineteen or twenty people all over the room. When finished, the room was very crowded. Every single wall was occupied by my wonderous crayon scrawled friends. I had done a good job too, my best work yet, maybe.

There! Now I was not home practically alone anymore, I thought with satisfaction and a twinge of fear. Not only did I draw all over the walls, but I also was not allowed to be drawing on shabbat to begin with.
I was not sure I cared either way. I frowned again, and waited for them to return.

When mom and Abba walked back into the house, they came looking for me to make sure I was all right. The walked into my bedroom and just stood there, amazed and flabbergasted.
I had most definitely protested in spectacular fashion, and the message had been received.
I stood there, trepidation on my face.

I had been a very, very bad little girl.

Before mom could bring herself to speak, Abba moved forward, and began walking from picture to picture with sparkling eyes. He turned to Mom, "Can we keep these on the wall? These are amazing. look at those expressions, they are all different. Look at the details. Look at these eyes, eyebrows and hands."
Mom leaned against the doorframe and finally said weakly, "No, I don't think we should keep this. I do think we should take pictures after shabbos though, then we can try scrub it off."

Religious jews do not take pictures or use mechanical devices on shabbos. Nor do they scrub walls. So everything would have to wait until after shabbos. Until then, my mural would remain on the wall. Abba continued to examine it delightedly.

At that point, I thought I had better slip out of the room, before my parents paid more attention to the perpetrator of this art vandalism.

By the time shabbos ended at sundown, it was bedtime, so I went to sleep, tired out from all my drawing.
I woke up the next morning and the walls were scrubbed clean, as if the pictures had never been.

I knew a photograph had been taken, and wondered if the picture had been sucked right off the wall and into the camera, like magic.
When I asked Mom about this, she laughed wryly and said, "No, it was not magic. We took the picture first, but we were scrubbing the crayon off the wall for hours."


From a practical point of view, things like making a mess, while working, becomes peripheral noise to the act of creating or forming the art. I know that, Abba knew that, he appreciated an unfettered creative spirit, which was lucky for me.

I do believe he truly understood that art created with vibrant spirit, and hands willing to follow the ideas of a beating, hot-blood heart, are to be nurtured.
Creating satisfies the deepest recesses of the glowing soul, both for the artist, and those who love to see it, feel it, and be moved by it.

My children hopefully will be creative for their entire lives. All of them draw, and write a bit, but aside from the usual toddler scrawl on the walls, mostly confine themselves to paper.
I am glad for that...
I think.

Kettle

True superheroes do not wear spandex with itchy tags; instead they wear nondescript clothing over their soft skin and warm bones. Superheroes do not all have capes to give them a sense of presence, we need no such fanfare for those we love so much, they color the air with a sense of blush sweetness, no matter the weave or fabric of their vestments.
My very British Nana was all of that to me. She may have had jiggly arms in place of tight biceps, but they enfolded me so very well. For any doubters, she did have an official hero’s mark on her, a simple rendition of a flower tattooed forever on her inner forearm. She had gotten it when she was nine years old, from a sojourning cart at the end of the street. One could do those kinds of things if one were born in Colonial Calcutta, India, and had enough gumption, and a good dose of sass to carry out such mischief. She definitely had that and more…
Mona was the oldest of three girls, sent away to an orphanage when their father died and their mother could not afford to maintain the household. Despite this adversity, Nana grew up to become a nurse.
My Grandfather Ken, was riding his motorbike and got gored in the eye by a bull, when he was recovering in hospital, he met Nana. As a PE instructor in the army, he could bark out commands to hundreds of massive men and have them jump to action, but he adored his feisty wife and turned into a puddle of indelible softness where she was concerned. When he went off to war, it was she who slept atop a metal cage, where the children slept for safety, and the whistling of bombs tore the air to shreds.
When I met her, she was in the prime of life, the elemental British Nana. That involved amongst other things, skills as a quintessential bargain hunter. She made it a hunting sport. Nana walked around clutching her leather clasp handbag on the red bus to town, the strap settling into the crook of her arm, her tiny feet in sensible sandals. Her hair was always coiffed carefully into a little round halo of steely grey curls around her face.
We would catch the red city bus to Rosebank, to see the sales, marching in and out of stores, while she sometimes triumphantly found the very thing she needed. More often than not though, the hunt was good enough, and she would ask with her blue eyes twinkling, if we should just get some chocolate and go on home. South-African chocolate is a whole experience on its own. To me, it was worth its very own field trip, either that or she would take me for another haircut, and then some chocolate.
She liked to cut my hair really short, perhaps it was her time in the orphanage, but somehow an idea of a neat and tidy child (which was not bloody likely from me anyway) meant shorn hair. More likely it was my hairs' tendency to curl out of control with a will of its own, so it would be trimmed into submission more regularly then you may imagine.
We got along as compatriots. I was her youngest grandchild, her 'darling', and I loved everything about her in return.
We would listen to classical music together, watch Golden Girls on television and have tea with milk and condensed milk drizzled in. On weekend mornings, I got to drink the spilt coffee from her saucer, it was strong and hot and just slightly sweet.
I came home to Nana’s house every day, as Mom worked full time. Right after school, I could always go and get a glass of cold milk from the fridge, The way it created an opaque film as it moved inside the glass, was slightly mesmerizing, and made it even more delicious…
Even simple toast with butter was better when Nana made it. Her specialty however, was true farm fudge, which was crisp and square, with a bit of creamy resistance unlike the gooey, muddiness which is considered fudge here in America. It was hardened in trays and was always eaten within hours.
There would be a draw full of candy in her bedroom; I would open it, to the scent of chocolate and toffees wafting out of it. Next to it was the drawer with her cosmetics, her shell shaped soaps and her lavender perfume. Everything Nana owned was pretty. Her bridge pencils had tassels on them. She collected Little Bone China figurines, which I was allowed to play with if I was careful.
The porcelain had smoothness, a delicacy, and tiny detailed fingers and toes, or paws and whiskers. Play with these, involved less movement and more focus. I would sit them together on the end table polished to sheen, and they could then discourse freely in my vivid imagination.

The way things looked, was quite important to Nana. I think creating her own sense of home and status gave her an appreciation for a sense of normal acceptance. I think she must have dreamed about bridge parties in the orphanage.
She was blissful when she entertained. She served delicate, wafer thin cumber sandwiches with the crusts trimmed off. (I ate all the crusts when nobody was looking, it’s the best part.) She had biscuits or Scottish shortbread arranged on a plate, and when the kettle whistled, brought forth steaming pots of tea, poured into rose painted teacups edged in gold leaf. Molly and Teddy, sisters apparently, were two of her closest friends, they all played bridge on special square, fuzzy, green tables.
Social issues galvanized her, or simply just any issues . She would type out letters on her little typewriter. Occasionally she sent a letter to the minister of education if she did not like what my school had done, and would get an answer from them too. The anxious principal would ask my Mother to intervene, pulling on his moustache nervously.
Nana had a sewing machine and on a whim, sometimes made me clothing. I did love what she made for me; it was never ugly or frilly, just comfortable and special to me.
This was my Nana; she was a lovely force of nature, determined as all hell, definitely not universally popular, a bit of a battle axe really, but just so wonderful.

The night my Father died, I was freshly ten years old. I had been sleeping over in her house , while my Mom stayed near the deathbed. It was 2.a.m. when I saw their light on in the dark hours.
“Why is Mommy coming home?”
“You know why… “
It was she who told me, and she was so right, I knew.

What I didn’t know was how precious Nana’s words were. How transient she herself was going to be... Within days, there was the wail of sirens, taking her away, the sliding, the stroke, the melting, the asymmetry. The way things tilted so suddenly, and never came perfectly right…
My sister Debbie got married weeks later. The wedding was a celebration laced in pain, without my father there; there was a glaring space in every picture, in every gesture and blessing. Debbie was so happy, she was glowing. Mom was holding it together somehow.
Then Nana arrived, and I saw her for the first time since her stroke. She was in a wheelchair, pushed by a blank faced nurse. I ran up to her with sheer joy on my face, this woman was just so important to me, and I had felt her absence like a constant dull ache behind my ribs and in my stomach.
The odor of hospital hung around her; she did not smell as she would have wanted to. A dull crochet blanket was on her knees and her once expressive mouth was slack on one side. She had lost a lot of weight, and had seemed to draw inwards, like a wooden puppet with tangled strings. Her right hand curled uselessly, and was cradled by her other hand, held close to her chest. Her hair was straight, nobody had curled her hair, not even for this wedding.

She could not return my greeting but looked at me with sad, blue eyes... which held me.

Oh Nana, what was it like when the words dried up?

Now coming home from school to her house, was quieter. I watched television, there was no conversation to be had, and I tried. Grandpa was silent, he would answer a question quietly and revert back to silence, a waiting, where Nana should have broken in and now there was just a void.
I bathed her sometimes, feeling it as a way to express the love we could no longer express in conversation, which were always so frustrating, because she wanted to say things, and just couldn’t. I could tell her about my day, but without her sharp insights and observations and wry humor, it was just not the same at all.
I would feed her ice cream, she was so thin now, and it had to be ice cream, because at least it had calcium and protein in it… I know, she did still have plenty of tea though. Grandpa tried his best to make her tea and something to eat regularly. In retrospect, even with a part time housekeeper cooking food for them, they were just no longer interested in surviving for much longer.
I tried to help her, desperately tried to communicate with her. I cut pictures out of magazines, pasting them in a book with categories like food, and other such mundane needs, so she could point and let me know what she needed. It sometimes worked, often not.
Sometimes, she could say a word, or part of a word after me. I would encourage her “Come on Nana,” you can do it. You can say it.” Sometimes she would try, then cry, we both would.

One day she managed to say the word “kettle”, in two parts Ket-ttle… and it was such a small victory, and she said it again then, while Grandpa got her another cup of tea, and my stomach began hurting.

What was it like saying kettle Nana, and delighting that your tongue could still form a word, and have that joy so laced with the horror of the very fact, the very act that forming a word had come to this…a bitter prize indeed.
And she had said it, forming the world clumsily on her tongue,
Ke-ttle.
And it was victory, a victory as raggedly sharp with pain as it was with joy, so it had come to this.
True horror is the inversion of potential, of what could have been, should have been, the knowing… that wrongness has prevailed for this moment… and yet… it hadn't, not here.

We are all such human, frail creatures and she lived her life with such incredible, bright tenacity, and she loved me. Her trying to say that word for me, involved such sheer bravery and love. She taught me so much about loving somebody properly, that dignity and suffering take a backseat to showing and trying, however we still can, to love... my superhero Nana.

Summer days

The lengthening shadows of the late summer day, seem to pull substance and spirit, out of the haze of New York's summer streets, like a sorcerers spell casting. Perhaps it flows like hot honey, into a simmering cauldron of syrupy alchemic absolution.
The warm winds randomly lift and disperse it again in ropey eddying waves, casting dark, gauzy veils under trees and around buildings, letting the threads go carelessly, where they settle down to roost heavily in clumped piles, on the muggy tar sidewalks.

The long, languid humid days of summer...Sticky sensuality settles over my bones like a spiderweb, and the venom of the sultry air, infuses my blood with dizzying, swirling wonder, like a child spinning in circles again and again, to see the world differently, to see the colors and shapes spiral into prisms.
The days and nights seem to take on the sharp, starkly soulful dreamscape of bright edges only to bleed and blur into smoke and dust.
It is these days and nights, scented with ripeness, fruits bursting from trees and falling on the ground in fermented piles, which stick to shoes and make one feel off kilter for a minute, until rectified, that call to me, on weighted wind.
The garbage cans are overflowing, because everyone is outside, celebrating light and warmth and liberty from school, the avenue's are busy, with people all going about their business, but as they leave their houses, they seem to walk more slowly, as they take in the wistful bright sky, and feel the sun brush their shoulders and the bridge of their noses.

Boys notice girls, girls notice boys, girls notice girls and boys notice boys, and they make eye contact then look away, or they make eye contact and hold it bravely ... and maybe even say hello... or whisper it in their minds...
Parents desperately hold gummy, sweaty little hands of evasive toddlers with ice cream, toy and pizza radar. The successful tots, have chocolate smeared faces or shirts, the less persuasive ones, just pout or whine. The truly uncooperative ones actually seem to levitate, their feet barely touching the ground as their caregivers try get their reluctant charges home. Dogs are all about, coats gleaming, their tongues lolling, but smiling all the while, with the joy of being outside for a walk.

The trees, with their sighing, heavy, curly heads, seem to turn their full, bright, green leaves towards the sun proudly, to bask in the scorching, raw countenance. They glow, with a faint aura of time passing, like Gorgeous Grandmothers' wearing all their beautiful jewelry at once, gifts given gladly to them in days gone by, in the name of truest love.

The flower gardens, perfume the air for the moment, a transitory sigh.
Like a hand opened wide, palm-up, feeding birds and beasts, flora and fauna burst in their absolute element, giving everything they can, for this festival of summertime.
Even in the city, they have been invited into tiny gardens. Their riot of color and bloom a defiant point of tiny contrary pride in a place of so much grey, brown and beige concrete.

The children play on the sidewalk close to home, periodically waiting anxiously for their balls, which have fallen into the street, to return and roll back into gutters where they can be retrieved safely. Their moms say every time "no, wait, don't get it" and the children already know the staccaco song and dance of "no" and "wait", and get down collectively on scratched up knees anyway, searching under the parked cars until they spot the ball rolling back, on their own trajectory, which it inevitably does.
Other children, scratch out dusty chalk pictures on the sidewalk or ride on small bikes or wobbly looking skates.
The adults sit on the steps, their cell phones by their side, just watching, enjoying the moments of relative city quiet. Some are itching to get back inside to their humming air conditioners and tv shows they just must catch up on. The thought of having their lovely, but vacationing children indoors for such an extended period of time though, keeps them rooted to the hardness of the sun warmed steps, until mealtime or bedtime.

These hot days, where the music is slightly plaintive and kinetically resistant, or breathy and husky like blue smoke tendrils seeping from sweet lips, are made for insight and complete illuminations.
The taste of the last insubstantial sip of beer from the very bottom of the bottle, lingers on the tongue for awhile, and thoughts and ideas, hover ever closer to the minds bright eye.
The night now, always settle on me, like a velvet swaddling cloth, hot and slurred, with a hint of breeze.

and I love these days... they have an awareness all their own. A whisper of gathering together, the ripening of the harvest, lovers finding eachother so they can hunker down for a cold winter, and this weighty sense of being in this very space, this very place...

Words

I grew up in a family of readers and writers, thinkers, dreamers and part-time philosophical chroniclers. We were all veritable word collectors faced with the spectre of lives lived largely, while simultaneously challenged to describe it with any sense of psychedelic clarity.

We all haunted flea markets and second-hand bookshops crammed with mysterious, dusty volumes.
Mismatched bookshelves leaned against one another heavily, weighed down like Atlas, groaning and creaking with the weight of books in various states of disrepair. We stepped into them stealthily, with the air of explorers or treasure hunters.

Other customers felt similarly mercenary too, because as we inched closer, they would huddle up territorially to the books they were closest to. The books themselves invited us to wiggle them out from their tightly packed resting places. They wanted to be opened, examined, read, experienced.

Cardboard boxes were shoved under tables stacked with still more books. Those half-concealed boxes were slightly illicit, since they had not been unpacked yet, but they might hold 'the one', the book of all books, it could be anything, it changed minute to minute. It was the book we picked up and instantly felt the warmth in our hands, the sentences transcending themselves as they showed the story, the words, mere symbols for the perfomance in an ampitheatre, that was being played out between the lines of the book. Those books were hugged to our chests, paid for and they never left our hands until completion.

Inside them, we found the treasures we sought, works of great gravity, non-fiction tomes on any conceivable subject, classics, pulp books with absolutely no literary value and stolid happy-endings, lurid bodice-ripping softcovers to be chewed through like junk food, sobering academic studies on hypnosis or war crimes, poetry and prose, all were found and purchased. Tolkein, Frankl, Hemingway, James Herriot, Agatha Christie, Erich Segal, Mark Twain, Poe, to name but a few, would all find out way into our reused, crumpled plastic shopping bags to be brought home, examined, pored over, read, studied, examined, consumed, even....

Like cats with a serious hairball problem, the words would thread their way into us, as we consumed vast shelves of books, tracts on every conceivable topic, we would then reformulate what we had assimilated, and suddenly regurgitate what we had picked up, oftentimes less then delicately.
We used to collect words from books, from each other, from strangers, and try them out, taste them on our tongue and used them experimentally, like a sip or scent of foreign beer. We then gauged effectiveness with a critical eye. Some wordage was discarded immediately, some were implemented into routine daily vocabulary.
Other words were sticky, stubborn. They were picked up like a bad case of poison ivy, spreading across our general conversations, overused, tainting our every communication, then cleared up after a time, with relief.

Other words were so unusual, so eclectic, so rarely appropriate, they grew indistinct and forgotten, only to be plucked out again out of memories darkest ochre recesses without forethought, shaped on lips, formed with tongue, brought to life on the flow of voice, like an ancient butterfly.

We, as a family truly believed in free speech. In South-African's apartheid era, that was slightly risky. We felt compelled to discuss everything at our dinner table. No matter how red our guests ears got, we conversed easily and freely. The only speech that was not truly perfectly free, was the illustrious set of expletives, garnered from Grandpa's driving vocabulary, and its effect on the 'establishment. Saying those cost a lecture in the very least.

Having a family who used words like weapons, like tools, like spices on exotic cuisine was wonderful.
My Mom actually published novels, my father published a bit of poetry and some psychiatric articles. I have no doubt my sister will publish as soon as she truly believes it herself, and I... am writing because I need to.
Like the hairball, the words tend to clump together, then threaten to overflow and spill. I hope to publish one day, share one of the many projects which draw words from me, but the writing itself will decide.

Discovering a new writer who seems to speak to my soul, is a heady occasion. A writer, with the right kind of penship, drawn from inside their own heart. They draw it out, like macabre tattoo artists, using their own blood ink, to bleed images directly into my spirit. Their words run totally through me, permeate in layers to reach me, teach me. Those vivid lines recalled from my favorite books, have burnt through so deeply, they scar me by their very starkness. Then there are my favourite writers, whose words melt directly into my skin, they feel so right, so purely written, so comfortable to me, they slide right through my flesh and blood and sink into my bones gently.They might be sad, intense, hurt, loving, beautiful, exquisitely simple, but they just have substance and soul.

As for others in this world who deal in the currency of words, I endlessly gravitate towards them, exchanging knowing kinship, just because we understand the same language.
I have never stopped loving bookstores. They have the feel of a sparkling dragon's cavern to me, the ambience of a soft treasure trove, brimming with the scent of blood-ink and sentient words on pages, freshly printed.
In bookstores, I have found all I am looking for.

My garden glows.

The one thing I have difficulty saying goodbye to, is my former back garden. Years ago, I actually bought the house based on this garden. I dug up an old tree stump myself and took out the spiny bushes that first summer, getting scratched up and sweaty, but my little girls needed a safe space, and I immersed in that garden, made it mine, made it ours.

It has a peace to it, a sense of serenity in suburbia, bordered by a haphazardly painted wooden fence. Its trees have sheltered me, soothed me, provided a backdrop to my thoughts and ideas. My children have played here in stages. They have been horrified by the idea of sitting on -something as foreign as- grass as babies. They have learnt to walk on the ground, eaten mud when they thought I was not looking, and build little deformed snowmen with little dark peering eyes and wide-gap smiles made of pebbles. They have unfurled, much like the trees and flowers and grass. The garden has been a space of lush, unfettered grass-stained growing.

During these last few weeks, I have stolen moments to sit on a chair in the yard, eyes closed. The sunlight a flickering red-haze, sensed through eyelids shut in spirit.
I am surrounded by the bright souls of my children sparkling in their element.

The gold light projects streaks of afternoon amber on the grass blades, sheared embers like the reflection of a bottle of cognac on a sunlit wall.
My trees lean in, draped casually in scarves of whispering, waving leaves, slurring slightly as the breeze licks through them tenderly.
Dirt, the soiled dust powder glows cleanly. Dovi's halfway down a hole he has dug, luxuriates in the earth coating his hands.
The wind blusters by, in wide open spirals like skywriting dreams, in gusts, remembered in fragments as they whirl away.
The white wooly whorls of smoky islands drifting endlessly, shedding and regenerating, the wise gray matter of the heavens neverland.
Rocks, stolidly squat, absorbing the warmth with slow sentience. They have always been there and always will, long after we are gone.

I sink into my chair, both more and less then what's sitting here. Something inside me, reaches out into the sunlight, and abstractly soul-kisses the source of it, and I can't help uncreasing like a flower, loosening, breaking the burning knots and aches, and becoming.
So much still to be determined, even for someone as determined as I. So much to do, but the stillness, the natural noise is healing, soothing. Everybody says it will all fall into place, and in these moments, I can see it keenly, tinted in gold leaf.

Candles

Candles, I love candles. I love the wick, the smokiness curling from them, the scented ones- the natural ones- not the harsh artificial flowers which are somewhat like plastic funeral flowers, but the ones that evoke pine needles, home baked goods, pumpkins or leafy sun- warmed trees drooping under the weight of luscious plums, blood oranges or passion fruit.
It is the basic candle though, that truly draws me in, its very perfectly imperfect waxen whiteness, not transparent, but a whisper of it implied in layers.

When we were children, Selwyn Segal hospital, in South-Africa, used to have sheltered employment for their mentally and physically disabled patients. They used to make candles which arrived in a blue cardboard box with the prayer for candle lighting on the side.
I would look at the slim, smooth wax candles, lined up in the box, like a box of cigar ghosts, and imagine those determined adults, who struggled to do things most people found simple, just carefully pouring candle after candle.
Religious families would light these candles on shabbat and holidays, one for every member of the family. So there would be a family of flames flickering on the sideboard while we had our shabbat meal. My Parents would invite many guests they collected like strays from all over the place. It was eclectic and warm and slightly, madly wonderful.

But candles truly gave meaning and comfort for me when my father died of brain cancer, it was just days before my tenth birthday, and he had fought bravely for every day he could remain with us, but in the end, the Angel of Death had gathered him up, right out of that hospital bed and held him, scooping up all that pain and suffering he had endured, setting it aside with his earthly body, and had taken him home.

There is a jewish tradition of lighting a candle in memory of the soul for an entire year after the death, and then each year on the anniversary of the death.
He was gone. The fight had gone on so long, there were scars of it everywhere. The house felt so strange, it was muffled in swathes of grief. Everything looked the same of course, his large bottles of stomach medicine its chalky sediment caked on the bottle, was still on the countertop. His well worn-in plaid couch, lay right by the window, with the yellow afternoon sun alighted through the fractured old fashioned windowpanes. The bereaved cat Panther sadly drooped on it.

One thing was not the same.... the lit candle on the sideboard flickered incessantly. Changes were to come, we were to move to an apartment, but the candles had already been lit, from the moment of death, and I approached it...warily, after all, playing with fire was somewhat frowned upon... But after a few days, I could sit up close, watch the flickering through the glass.. and would sit and wonder about the flame, how it was at once, not solid, nor liquid, nor air but its own element, and I could understand the concept of soul, and life without a body. We had to exist like flames elsewhere.
With time, I could cup the glass between my hands, warm them up, have them glow eerily, warmly, cupping the flame between them. There I stayed, for hours.

As the candles burnt down, day after day, week after week, month after month, another would be lit before the other went out. I took that as licence to experiment on the one still burning. I would pour hot wax onto my fingers, marvelling as the shape of my fingers took form in wax and solidified. It was brittle, white, slightly greasy and rarely lasted more then a few minutes, but it was changing form, and it was warm.

After awhile I could pour some hot wax and shape something beautiful, create a sculpture as it cooled in my hands. I had to do it quickly. I saved some of those for days, but most often relegated them back into the flames to be melted back into potential. I think Abba would have liked that, he loved a bit of mischievous creativity.

The other day I did it again, at a restaraunt, they left a candle on the table and as it melted down, and wax pooled into a tempting, clear, viscous puddle around the flame, I poured some out into my hands and without thinking too much about it, quickly molded a heart for someone I care about greatly.
I was instantly transported back into a quiet room, dark except for the dancing flickering candle through the glass and the feel and scent of hot wax on my skin, and the calm and comfort of knowing the soul was afire in some other realm, his soul was afire in some other space, we are but wax on fire.

My books

I knew packing up all of the books was going to be not only a physically formidable task, but also slightly gut wrenching.
My beloved books, my pages, in whose words and stories, I have hidden for hours, amongst dearest friends I know intimately. I gain strength and inspiration and courage from their pages. I cry, hot, sad tears over them, laugh loudly startling my children, shake my head in disgust at foolish characters, ignored the phone for the luxury of some pure, undiluted reading time...and accidentally scallop their pages in the bathtub one time too many.
As soon as was possible, I taught my girls to read them, then bought them books and shared my passion for reading, for writing, for loving words, with them. I read their books, we discussed them seriously together.

I had to look through them all now, the kids books especially, needed to be thinned out. It was a true rite of passage for my girls. Gone are the "My little pony books", along with "Care bears" and "hello Kitty" now designated for my nieces.
Gone are the first readers with ballerina or princess themes, books with jewel tones, in pepto bismol pinks and lurid purples, with an occasional ingrained gemstone or glitter cover. Not that I would not let Dovi read those glossy, pretty books. I would read them to my son, but he simply would be suitably disgusted and ask for his primary-colored, superhero tosterterone-laden fare...

Splitting up books, so they can read a few with Dad was more difficult.What connotes a primary book versus a secondary book? I decided to leave most of the massive, heavy, lovely coffee table books for paging through together, Chicken soup for the soul type books stayed too, as they can be indulged in small amounts, and they make me cry horribly.

My shelves, they are becoming bare, naked, this place is looking less and less like mine.

I am the book collector, the books are mostly mine. I can't seem to leave many behind. I need them...all.
I have about fifteen big boxes of books, I think, right after the beds are set up in my new apartment, the books will need to be put into shelves. then it will immediately feel like home.

What do you see?

You know what they say about living in a place, how it is so rare to truly tour and explore, in ones own city. There is no element of hurry to go and see the Empire state building or The Statue of Liberty, because they will be here tommorrow to see, if one feels the inclination to put forth that kind of effort, and so the days pass away.

Sightseeing is by default, left to those observant individuals who still love to see. Some are the children, unlucky enough to be without a DVD players in their cars cranking out the latest animated fare. Noses pressed to smudged car windows, their wiser eyes mark the passage of familiar routes, people and places, and they daydream richly in their own way.

It took me seventeen years and an 'out-of-towner' guest to finally go and visit Lady Liberty. We went to Battery Park and caught a ferry out to her. Standing at the base of her, we both looked up awestruck, stripped clean of all jaded illusions of being passe tourists, this moment was stark and significant. We showed our respective children, who had also never been, the immense weathered, green woman of New York Harbor, and her promise of freedom for all, and had tears of sheer wonder in our eyes.

It is difficult to not just get used to the Urban sprawl of streets, the landmarks flashing past the car window without ceremony.
The incongruous, ridiculous or stereotypical store signs that have simply always been there, and cease to be scenery are just words after all.
Generic, streets which could be in any city in the world, blend in with the startlingly beautiful handcarved architecture of times past.
Even the beat-up shuttered, tattoed husks of buildings squatting alongside laundromats become just color and form.
Symmetrical project blocks, scrabbly chic trees, with roots slyly coming through cracked sidewalk and copious fast food establishments all seem to form a continuous doodled scribble. It has all been seen one too many times, in one too many places, until it is mere blended background.

I consider myself relatively observant. I tend to notice things , sometimes because they are beautiful or wonderful or unusual, other times, because they are interesting in context. I like the stories of things, the oldness, oddness or gorgeousness of the mundane, projecting an atmospheric visual echo.

Driving through New York's upper west side at dusk last night, I watched the cars inching along the ascending grey-ribbon road. Rain washed the dust off the handsome skyscrapers and brownstones. It blurred the blinking of the traffic light sentinels, which winked ruby and jade like synchronised Christmas lights.
Two parallel rows of trees, stood strong, tightly flanking solid rows of brick and stone buildings. They leaned over the street protectively, tossing in the wind like archaic slaves waving feathery palm fronds over unruly children at play.

This New York street was for a moment, a masterpiece, but then again, what scene isn't? What do you see?