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?