The 40%-50% statistic only works if I've spent substantial time with the individual, or if they throw in the occasional English word.
If I try and decipher a conversation in a restaurant, for example, I don't have the same success rate. I wish I were a quicker study when it comes to learning languages and retaining foreign words.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
40%-50% Some thoughts on understanding a foreign language
Entry 13: Wednesday July 9th
I don’t speak Hebrew—I know probably 20 words, and each day, I augment this arsenal a little bit. I would say, though, that 40%-50% of the time I get the gist of the conversation. The reason for this high success rate:
1. I’m good (in any language) at “reading” people’s energy / mood.
2. I can smell subtext (in any language) from a mile away. This trait of “getting” what people are saying without them really saying it, is the hallmark of a good playwright.
3. I’m a good empathizer: I know how I would feel in a given situation and thus I can transfer this knowledge and “get” how another person will feel. This gives me a head start in figuring out what a person will say before he/she even opens his/her mouth.
4. I’m an aware individual (in general), and I process the environment for cues that would be the catalyst for a person to make a comment or a reference.
5. The most obvious and in general the easiest: body language. I am the queen of body language—I talk with my body and totally understand when others do the same.
6. Intonation, expression, accentuation, and melody: if you listen to a (good) song, often you don’t need to know the words to get what the song is about.
7. Paying super close attention to words that I know that tumble out of the bag of unintelligible chaos. [I also like to press “pause” and digest words that I hear in quick conversation, which I think might have the same root as a word that I already know. Then I try to discern its meaning based on my limited knowledge. More often than not I make a wacky and unwarranted connection. It’s fun though. And then there are times that I make a successful connection! And then I often forget the word the next day. For me to remember a word, I need to hear it repeated anywhere from 3-7 times. Not the greatest track record. A visual and literary learner, seeing it and writing it has proven helpful. Association is good, of course, as well as putting it into my body. For example, I retained Yemen (Right) and Small (Left) the first time I heard those words because, while I was learning these words, I gestured with my right and left hands. (I have found that the best method for “memorizing” lines for a theatre production is to combine the words with a physical action score.) Thus far, I have not felt that language has been any kind of barrier. For the most part, this is because every Israeli I’ve met has a pretty, solid handle on conversational English (even when they in their typical self-effacing fashion, assert that they don’t.)].
I don’t speak Hebrew—I know probably 20 words, and each day, I augment this arsenal a little bit. I would say, though, that 40%-50% of the time I get the gist of the conversation. The reason for this high success rate:
1. I’m good (in any language) at “reading” people’s energy / mood.
2. I can smell subtext (in any language) from a mile away. This trait of “getting” what people are saying without them really saying it, is the hallmark of a good playwright.
3. I’m a good empathizer: I know how I would feel in a given situation and thus I can transfer this knowledge and “get” how another person will feel. This gives me a head start in figuring out what a person will say before he/she even opens his/her mouth.
4. I’m an aware individual (in general), and I process the environment for cues that would be the catalyst for a person to make a comment or a reference.
5. The most obvious and in general the easiest: body language. I am the queen of body language—I talk with my body and totally understand when others do the same.
6. Intonation, expression, accentuation, and melody: if you listen to a (good) song, often you don’t need to know the words to get what the song is about.
7. Paying super close attention to words that I know that tumble out of the bag of unintelligible chaos. [I also like to press “pause” and digest words that I hear in quick conversation, which I think might have the same root as a word that I already know. Then I try to discern its meaning based on my limited knowledge. More often than not I make a wacky and unwarranted connection. It’s fun though. And then there are times that I make a successful connection! And then I often forget the word the next day. For me to remember a word, I need to hear it repeated anywhere from 3-7 times. Not the greatest track record. A visual and literary learner, seeing it and writing it has proven helpful. Association is good, of course, as well as putting it into my body. For example, I retained Yemen (Right) and Small (Left) the first time I heard those words because, while I was learning these words, I gestured with my right and left hands. (I have found that the best method for “memorizing” lines for a theatre production is to combine the words with a physical action score.) Thus far, I have not felt that language has been any kind of barrier. For the most part, this is because every Israeli I’ve met has a pretty, solid handle on conversational English (even when they in their typical self-effacing fashion, assert that they don’t.)].
Some thoughts about my Dad
Entry 12: Tuesday July 8th
It’s so much fun to watch my Dad interact with his friends and his family. He’s so in his element. He is so much more himself than in the States. If you were to do an MRI of my Dad’s brain, I’m sure you would see a variety of areas lighting up at once, especially as he bounces from speaking Hebrew to French to English to Italian to Arabic to French to English and back to Hebrew again. (This really happened!). I watch him schmooz and send the room into laughter at one of his jokes (in any one of the above languages); I quietly observe him quietly observing the environment; I hear him, time and time again, yelping in excitement when he sees on the side of the road, yet another seemingly random archway, (which he calls a portal). I am convinced that the world (including said subject) underestimates him.
From this trip I want to remember my Dad’s
--ebullient curiosity and sense of humor. He has a
--jokester’s mind and poet’s sensitivity.
Earlier today, in his whimsical way, he said that he would move to Israel, then wait a few years before running for and being elected to the Knesset. I wouldn’t want my Dad to be a World Leader. I don’t think he’s cut out for it. And then I started thinking. The same way that my Dad is not cut out to be a World Leader, there must be some World Leader who is not cut out to be a Dad. I’m sure there is a man, more than one I bet, who can run the U.N. but not his own household; who has love for world peace, but not for his own child. Thank G-d my Dad is my Dad, perfect for me.
There is no other person I know that has his combination of unbridled and tender love for me, which I think he must check and balance, because I sense at times, that if he didn’t, his heart would burst from the magnitude of it all. This is just what I’ve picked up on after being his daughter for 24 years. How wonderful to be me, the daughter of such a Dad. During this trip I think that I have found a new depth of love for him. He’s so special to me.
It’s so much fun to watch my Dad interact with his friends and his family. He’s so in his element. He is so much more himself than in the States. If you were to do an MRI of my Dad’s brain, I’m sure you would see a variety of areas lighting up at once, especially as he bounces from speaking Hebrew to French to English to Italian to Arabic to French to English and back to Hebrew again. (This really happened!). I watch him schmooz and send the room into laughter at one of his jokes (in any one of the above languages); I quietly observe him quietly observing the environment; I hear him, time and time again, yelping in excitement when he sees on the side of the road, yet another seemingly random archway, (which he calls a portal). I am convinced that the world (including said subject) underestimates him.
From this trip I want to remember my Dad’s
--ebullient curiosity and sense of humor. He has a
--jokester’s mind and poet’s sensitivity.
Earlier today, in his whimsical way, he said that he would move to Israel, then wait a few years before running for and being elected to the Knesset. I wouldn’t want my Dad to be a World Leader. I don’t think he’s cut out for it. And then I started thinking. The same way that my Dad is not cut out to be a World Leader, there must be some World Leader who is not cut out to be a Dad. I’m sure there is a man, more than one I bet, who can run the U.N. but not his own household; who has love for world peace, but not for his own child. Thank G-d my Dad is my Dad, perfect for me.
There is no other person I know that has his combination of unbridled and tender love for me, which I think he must check and balance, because I sense at times, that if he didn’t, his heart would burst from the magnitude of it all. This is just what I’ve picked up on after being his daughter for 24 years. How wonderful to be me, the daughter of such a Dad. During this trip I think that I have found a new depth of love for him. He’s so special to me.
Tiberius, Family, and Hospitality
Entry 11: Tuesday, July 8th
TIBERIAS
After Tsfat, in the evening, we drive to Tiberius to visit more cousins: Robby, his sister Violet, and his wife Chava. I ask Dad how we’re related and he tries to explain/figure it out (something like second cousins), but then he sighs and says “Don’t ask me.” In this land, I learn that the important thing about relations is not how we’re related but simply that we are.
Regarding the Tiberius vistas: I’m sorry to say, that I have no really excellent photos of the terrain. Suffice it to say that the land is awe-inspiring. Visualize a combination between the Southwest, like Arizona and Utah and New Mexico, but with palm trees, and white rocks against the brown/red hill/mountains, and the sea of Galilee usually in sight, and pockets of settlements. An interesting observation-- the way to discern Israeli settlements from Arab settlements: Israeli settlements often have red roof tiles/shingles and the layout of the settlement is more spatially organized. Ronnie mentioned that it’s typical that one Arab household might need to enter their house by walking through the backyard of another’s. On a somewhat related note, I’d like to add that I cannot believe that the Jewish State is all that it is…in 60 years. Sixty years! Sixty years and Israel is top in technology know-how, military prowess, the performing arts (I say, especially with the representation of Bat Sheva Dance Company). The variety of successes in farming and kibbutzim, in the sprawling urban centers, in the relaxed and opulent suburban lifestyles…I cannot believe this state was made in 60 years; that’s less than a lifetime. Within my lifetime, I hope that I can accomplish (on an individual scale) a fraction of that of Israel. Now wouldn’t that be a full life! How was this possible, how has Israel birthed itself and grown and flourished and prospered? I think it can all be traced to two sources: the supreme leaders, like Theodore Hertzel, and David Ben-Gurion, and Golde Meir, and the exquisite spiritual and physical make-up of the Jewish people. During Birthright we visited Mt. Hertzel which included a visit to the tombs of the great Israeli leaders (see pictures!). I’d like to make a dance, inspired by and paying tribute to the great leaders.
Back to the Tiberius:
When I drive through the Tiberius, I wish could go back in time. At this moment in time, I have an uncanny desire to be a shepherd (or I guess a shepherdess), and spend my days alone with my thoughts, and the sheep and the rocks, along the Galilee.
When I look at the mountains both rising up and enfolding the Sea, I think that if I didn’t believe in G-d, viewing this vista would make me a believer. To think that this was the everyday, ho-hum scenery of the Jews of the past. I’m still unclear what to call the Jews of the past—Hebrews? Israelites? (Or is that just for the Passover, pre-Exodus period). I’ve been thoroughly enjoying the book, Jewish Literacy by Rabbi Joseph Telushkin (that my dear friend Cantor Riki Lippitz gave me), and I’ve discovered that Jewish history is fascinating. It’s such a page turner! So much inspiration for future plays!
Back to the Tiberius: Some thoughts on Family, Priorities, and Hospitality
Our friends, our family, all the homes that we go to, we are welcomed with such hospitality. Dad hasn’t seen or spoken to Robby for forty years. Dad called him yesterday to share that we would be in the area. Who knows what changes he and his wife and his sister made to their schedules. After forty years, and with mention of family it was like, “Of course you’re coming over and we can’t wait to see you!”
Everyone feeds us so well (See picture! of Chava’s hospitality!) You can see the overflowing bowl of Boikos, paddies with cheese, which aren’t Israeli I’m told, for the Boikos as do the Orchas, originate from Spain. I think to myself, as I smear on some Labané, which is a spreadable seasoned yogurt, perhaps my Grandfather Gabriel ate this same dish. Everywhere we go everyone feeds us so well!
It makes me excited for the time when I can host and feed travelers.
TIBERIAS
After Tsfat, in the evening, we drive to Tiberius to visit more cousins: Robby, his sister Violet, and his wife Chava. I ask Dad how we’re related and he tries to explain/figure it out (something like second cousins), but then he sighs and says “Don’t ask me.” In this land, I learn that the important thing about relations is not how we’re related but simply that we are.
Regarding the Tiberius vistas: I’m sorry to say, that I have no really excellent photos of the terrain. Suffice it to say that the land is awe-inspiring. Visualize a combination between the Southwest, like Arizona and Utah and New Mexico, but with palm trees, and white rocks against the brown/red hill/mountains, and the sea of Galilee usually in sight, and pockets of settlements. An interesting observation-- the way to discern Israeli settlements from Arab settlements: Israeli settlements often have red roof tiles/shingles and the layout of the settlement is more spatially organized. Ronnie mentioned that it’s typical that one Arab household might need to enter their house by walking through the backyard of another’s. On a somewhat related note, I’d like to add that I cannot believe that the Jewish State is all that it is…in 60 years. Sixty years! Sixty years and Israel is top in technology know-how, military prowess, the performing arts (I say, especially with the representation of Bat Sheva Dance Company). The variety of successes in farming and kibbutzim, in the sprawling urban centers, in the relaxed and opulent suburban lifestyles…I cannot believe this state was made in 60 years; that’s less than a lifetime. Within my lifetime, I hope that I can accomplish (on an individual scale) a fraction of that of Israel. Now wouldn’t that be a full life! How was this possible, how has Israel birthed itself and grown and flourished and prospered? I think it can all be traced to two sources: the supreme leaders, like Theodore Hertzel, and David Ben-Gurion, and Golde Meir, and the exquisite spiritual and physical make-up of the Jewish people. During Birthright we visited Mt. Hertzel which included a visit to the tombs of the great Israeli leaders (see pictures!). I’d like to make a dance, inspired by and paying tribute to the great leaders.
Back to the Tiberius:
When I drive through the Tiberius, I wish could go back in time. At this moment in time, I have an uncanny desire to be a shepherd (or I guess a shepherdess), and spend my days alone with my thoughts, and the sheep and the rocks, along the Galilee.
When I look at the mountains both rising up and enfolding the Sea, I think that if I didn’t believe in G-d, viewing this vista would make me a believer. To think that this was the everyday, ho-hum scenery of the Jews of the past. I’m still unclear what to call the Jews of the past—Hebrews? Israelites? (Or is that just for the Passover, pre-Exodus period). I’ve been thoroughly enjoying the book, Jewish Literacy by Rabbi Joseph Telushkin (that my dear friend Cantor Riki Lippitz gave me), and I’ve discovered that Jewish history is fascinating. It’s such a page turner! So much inspiration for future plays!
Back to the Tiberius: Some thoughts on Family, Priorities, and Hospitality
Our friends, our family, all the homes that we go to, we are welcomed with such hospitality. Dad hasn’t seen or spoken to Robby for forty years. Dad called him yesterday to share that we would be in the area. Who knows what changes he and his wife and his sister made to their schedules. After forty years, and with mention of family it was like, “Of course you’re coming over and we can’t wait to see you!”
Everyone feeds us so well (See picture! of Chava’s hospitality!) You can see the overflowing bowl of Boikos, paddies with cheese, which aren’t Israeli I’m told, for the Boikos as do the Orchas, originate from Spain. I think to myself, as I smear on some Labané, which is a spreadable seasoned yogurt, perhaps my Grandfather Gabriel ate this same dish. Everywhere we go everyone feeds us so well!
It makes me excited for the time when I can host and feed travelers.
Building a Theatre in Tsfat
Entry 10: Tuesday, July 8th
TSFAT, SECOND ROUND
I return to Tsfat with Ronnie and Ruthie and Dad and I fantasize about building my own theatre here. How cool would that be? I mean actually build it with rock and mortar and have a say in the design, and be able to draw on spiritual influences (at the Kabala center right down the street) when choreographing work, and the tourists would flock to my evening shows. I’d choreograph on my roof which would look out onto the ancient cemetery where many of the great medieval Rabbi’s are buried. I’d invite them to visit me in my dreams. I ask Ronnie, who built his own house in Haifa when land cost bubkes, how much land in Tsfat would cost today. He imagines over $40,000. I ask Avraham, the artist (see pictures I took)-- who came here from Detroit, and whose joy was contagious when he spoke to my Birthright group 2 weeks ago—how much a studio apartment space would cost and he said about $300 per month. What a deal! So I’m looking into doing a seasonal swap—my place in Cambridge for someone’s space in Tsfat for like 2-3 months per year. Who can put a price tag on Heaven on Earth?
~ ~ ~
SHEVA
I met another wonderful artist, Sheva, (which is seven in Hebrew). She does glass blowing and “vibrant watercolor.” Her work is truly vibrant, and full of light and movement. My kind of style. I purchased two of her paintings, one for my mom, and one for my apartment. This is the first painting I’ve purchased for “my place.” So it was a special moment. The painting is called “Engagement,” and it’s of women dancing in a circle on one o the happiest days of the Jewish year, which is the day that follows the absolute saddest day. I will write more on this when I visit Sheva again during the Klezmer Festival in Tsfat from August 18th -20th. I’ll ask her to re-record her statements about the painting because her words about the “Engagement” are truly beautiful. Due to the exchange rate from sheckles to dollars, it turns out that the cost of the two paintings were $77.00, which is my lucky number, twice.
Avraham’s website: www.kabbalahart.com
Sheva’s website: www.shevachaya.com
~~~
ELI
While on the fringe of the Artist’s Quarters in Tsfat, I hollered to my Dad, in English of course. And that drew a secular Jewish man out of his stone store. He asked if I could help him with something. He was working on his computer, trying to explain in broken (though admirable) English a little bit about the work that he represented. So without skipping a beat, I pulled up a chair and got to work. How wonderful to be able to coach someone in writing half way around the world! I maintained his words, thoughts, and general phrases, helping only with grammar, precision of language, and flow. He was so grateful. He bought me a whole wheat pizza (for 3 sheckles, that’s 1 American dollar!) from a woman who came ‘round. (See picture)
His name is Eli and he’s a wonderfully generous man. When I whipped out my business card to exchange contact info, he was delighted to discover that I am a playwright. He thought our meeting was divinely orchestrated. (Here’s a picture of my business card which I put in a nook at the Kotel (Western Wall). I’d like to clarify: putting my business card at the Kotel is not about business or networking. It’s about placing within the Kotel the deepest part of myself, my essence, the things that I define myself as: choreographer/dancer playwright/director, the areas in which I feel I can contribute most to this world and the means in which I can connect with and positively affect people. This, my essence, I wished to place within the wall, so that I could tangibly be part of my 3.000 year old history. In a nutshell: the purpose is for me to unite with my heritage.)
TSFAT, SECOND ROUND
I return to Tsfat with Ronnie and Ruthie and Dad and I fantasize about building my own theatre here. How cool would that be? I mean actually build it with rock and mortar and have a say in the design, and be able to draw on spiritual influences (at the Kabala center right down the street) when choreographing work, and the tourists would flock to my evening shows. I’d choreograph on my roof which would look out onto the ancient cemetery where many of the great medieval Rabbi’s are buried. I’d invite them to visit me in my dreams. I ask Ronnie, who built his own house in Haifa when land cost bubkes, how much land in Tsfat would cost today. He imagines over $40,000. I ask Avraham, the artist (see pictures I took)-- who came here from Detroit, and whose joy was contagious when he spoke to my Birthright group 2 weeks ago—how much a studio apartment space would cost and he said about $300 per month. What a deal! So I’m looking into doing a seasonal swap—my place in Cambridge for someone’s space in Tsfat for like 2-3 months per year. Who can put a price tag on Heaven on Earth?
~ ~ ~
SHEVA
I met another wonderful artist, Sheva, (which is seven in Hebrew). She does glass blowing and “vibrant watercolor.” Her work is truly vibrant, and full of light and movement. My kind of style. I purchased two of her paintings, one for my mom, and one for my apartment. This is the first painting I’ve purchased for “my place.” So it was a special moment. The painting is called “Engagement,” and it’s of women dancing in a circle on one o the happiest days of the Jewish year, which is the day that follows the absolute saddest day. I will write more on this when I visit Sheva again during the Klezmer Festival in Tsfat from August 18th -20th. I’ll ask her to re-record her statements about the painting because her words about the “Engagement” are truly beautiful. Due to the exchange rate from sheckles to dollars, it turns out that the cost of the two paintings were $77.00, which is my lucky number, twice.
Avraham’s website: www.kabbalahart.com
Sheva’s website: www.shevachaya.com
~~~
ELI
While on the fringe of the Artist’s Quarters in Tsfat, I hollered to my Dad, in English of course. And that drew a secular Jewish man out of his stone store. He asked if I could help him with something. He was working on his computer, trying to explain in broken (though admirable) English a little bit about the work that he represented. So without skipping a beat, I pulled up a chair and got to work. How wonderful to be able to coach someone in writing half way around the world! I maintained his words, thoughts, and general phrases, helping only with grammar, precision of language, and flow. He was so grateful. He bought me a whole wheat pizza (for 3 sheckles, that’s 1 American dollar!) from a woman who came ‘round. (See picture)
His name is Eli and he’s a wonderfully generous man. When I whipped out my business card to exchange contact info, he was delighted to discover that I am a playwright. He thought our meeting was divinely orchestrated. (Here’s a picture of my business card which I put in a nook at the Kotel (Western Wall). I’d like to clarify: putting my business card at the Kotel is not about business or networking. It’s about placing within the Kotel the deepest part of myself, my essence, the things that I define myself as: choreographer/dancer playwright/director, the areas in which I feel I can contribute most to this world and the means in which I can connect with and positively affect people. This, my essence, I wished to place within the wall, so that I could tangibly be part of my 3.000 year old history. In a nutshell: the purpose is for me to unite with my heritage.)
Reuniting with Dad
Entry 9b: Thursday July 3, 2008
It was such a challenge organizing how I would meet Dad from the end of Birthright-- I didn’t have cell phone reception, then I ran out of telephone minutes, then because of a terrorist incident our timing and locations were changed…oy!
But when we finally arrived together, wow.
After talking to the tour bus driver at Zion Gate parking lot and after waiting 20 minutes, Dad decided to come to the restaurant which is inside the Old City in the Jewish quarter. Of course, as things go, we left, and he missed us, and so I arrived at the buses while he was at the restaurant. After I got my luggage from under the bus and approached a married couple who I believed to be Ronnie and Ruthie, my dad’s beloved friends from his early days in Israel, I looked to the stairs that ascend into the Old City. The more I think about this, the more I feel that this is so movie material. I stare at the stairs for about five seconds and see a shadow cast by the lamps. Behind the stairs rise the majestic walls of the city. My Dad emerges, descending the stairs, and off I fly, backpack bouncing, running on a freshly sprained ankle. “Dad!” “Daddy!” I shout, as I weave through and dodge the cars in the parking lot. He looks up and hurries down the stairs. We meet, we embrace on the threshold of the staircase leading to Jerusalem’s Old City. We start crying. I can’t believe I’m hugging my father in our homeland, that I’ve finally made it to him. That we are both here, after plane trips, after physical and financial sacrifices; we are here together, ready to begin our Israel journey, together.
P.S.: In the car ride to Haifa, the first song playing on the radio was from “2001: A Space Odyssey.” Read into it what you may.
It was such a challenge organizing how I would meet Dad from the end of Birthright-- I didn’t have cell phone reception, then I ran out of telephone minutes, then because of a terrorist incident our timing and locations were changed…oy!
But when we finally arrived together, wow.
After talking to the tour bus driver at Zion Gate parking lot and after waiting 20 minutes, Dad decided to come to the restaurant which is inside the Old City in the Jewish quarter. Of course, as things go, we left, and he missed us, and so I arrived at the buses while he was at the restaurant. After I got my luggage from under the bus and approached a married couple who I believed to be Ronnie and Ruthie, my dad’s beloved friends from his early days in Israel, I looked to the stairs that ascend into the Old City. The more I think about this, the more I feel that this is so movie material. I stare at the stairs for about five seconds and see a shadow cast by the lamps. Behind the stairs rise the majestic walls of the city. My Dad emerges, descending the stairs, and off I fly, backpack bouncing, running on a freshly sprained ankle. “Dad!” “Daddy!” I shout, as I weave through and dodge the cars in the parking lot. He looks up and hurries down the stairs. We meet, we embrace on the threshold of the staircase leading to Jerusalem’s Old City. We start crying. I can’t believe I’m hugging my father in our homeland, that I’ve finally made it to him. That we are both here, after plane trips, after physical and financial sacrifices; we are here together, ready to begin our Israel journey, together.
P.S.: In the car ride to Haifa, the first song playing on the radio was from “2001: A Space Odyssey.” Read into it what you may.
Ronnie and Ruthie
Entry 9a: Thursday July 3, 2008
Finally in the car with Ronnie and Ruthie (dear friends of Dad’s during his early days in Israel). After the crazy whirlwind of Birthright, I feel like the dust has settled and I’m really here. I’m here! My trip to Israel is now beginning.
There’s something about seeing Israel from a car window as opposed to the height of a tour bus. In seconds, after almost two weeks of flightiness, I feel grounded. I feel like an active participant at this level, not an outside observer from on high. No longer a tourist but an explorer and a returning Jew to my land, my home.
Finally in the car with Ronnie and Ruthie (dear friends of Dad’s during his early days in Israel). After the crazy whirlwind of Birthright, I feel like the dust has settled and I’m really here. I’m here! My trip to Israel is now beginning.
There’s something about seeing Israel from a car window as opposed to the height of a tour bus. In seconds, after almost two weeks of flightiness, I feel grounded. I feel like an active participant at this level, not an outside observer from on high. No longer a tourist but an explorer and a returning Jew to my land, my home.
RECAP
Entry 8: Recorded on July 7th
There were lots of wonderfully cool things that happened on my Birthright trip, but it was such a whirlwind that I wasn’t able to chronicle it all. Some highlights: Masada—I think that there is a new play for me to write here; the time in Jerusalem when four strong men and myself moved a car with our bare hands because it was illegally parked and our tour bus needed to get through to the hotel—such is the Israeli traffic scene; when I was floating in the Dead Sea I could not stop laughing, for the effortless floating filled me with such joy and released some kind of kinesthetic exuberance deep in my body; an evening of Bedouin hospitality (see mp3 player music and pictures); when I went through the tunnels of the Western Wall (the Kotel) and got as close as humanly possible to the Holy of Holies, there I sang the Shema, up against the dividing wall, and I swear there was some kind of supernatural reverberation (I will write a whole entry on this); attending Yom Tov Glazer’s hip, pre Shabbat concert, he’s a Hassidic Jew into supreme sports and such (check out the mp3).
There were lots of wonderfully cool things that happened on my Birthright trip, but it was such a whirlwind that I wasn’t able to chronicle it all. Some highlights: Masada—I think that there is a new play for me to write here; the time in Jerusalem when four strong men and myself moved a car with our bare hands because it was illegally parked and our tour bus needed to get through to the hotel—such is the Israeli traffic scene; when I was floating in the Dead Sea I could not stop laughing, for the effortless floating filled me with such joy and released some kind of kinesthetic exuberance deep in my body; an evening of Bedouin hospitality (see mp3 player music and pictures); when I went through the tunnels of the Western Wall (the Kotel) and got as close as humanly possible to the Holy of Holies, there I sang the Shema, up against the dividing wall, and I swear there was some kind of supernatural reverberation (I will write a whole entry on this); attending Yom Tov Glazer’s hip, pre Shabbat concert, he’s a Hassidic Jew into supreme sports and such (check out the mp3).
Singing to the Holy of Holies in the Kotel Tunnels
Entry 7: Thursday June 26th
When I walked the underground passages of the Kotel, I stopped for a period of time at the Holy of Holies. There is no sign, no such pomp and circumstance, no neon arrow pointing to this truly awesome place (and consequently, many who are not “in the know” just walk right past). I stood underground, in a passageway, facing a wall, and on the other side, also underground, under the current mosque that is built on the platform of the ancient Kotel, is the foundation rock, the rock on which Abraham was going to sacrifice Isaac. This is how it works: Israel is the center of the Jewish world, and at the Center of Israel is Jerusalem, and at the Center of Jerusalem is the Kotel (the 2nd Temple which was destroyed in A.D. 70) and at the Center of the Kotel is the Holy of Holies where only one Cohain Priest would enter on Yom Kippur, with a rope tied around his leg so that, G-d forbid if anything were to happen to him, like if he were to combust from the intensity of communing with Hashem, then the other priests could drag him out) and AT THE CENTER OF THE HOLY OF HOLIES IS THE FOUNDATION ROCK. And I sang the Shema to the foundation rock. It’s not like anyone invited me to sing such a thing, I just intuitively decided. Well, first I sang the Ashrei, from a few feet distance (the tunnel is maybe only 6ft wide). Then I had the impulse to directly approach the wall and sing directly into it. I read the first line of the Shema silently. When I sang the second line aloud with my eyes closed, cradling the sedur, my lips inches from the stone wall separating me from the Holy of Holies I experienced something incredible. On certain words, actually on certain syllables, actually on certain unifications of word and melody, there was this other worldly resonance, a reverb, that COULD have been due to the angle of the sedur and the crannies of the rock, but it occurred only on these notes/words which I think is too perfect to be coincidence:
[The capitalized portion is where the incredible reverb occurred]
Shma YisraEL AdonAI EloHAYnu AdonAI Echad.
EL AI HAY
What does it all mean? I’m unsure, I should consult a scholar or Rabbi on this one. In passing, one of the knowledgeable trip organizers mentioned those were all names for G-d. And if you sing the Shema, you’ll notice that whoever composed the melody understood the importance of emphasizing those syllables because they all reach the highest note. Though I explained the importance of the Holy of Holies in terms of concentric circles (at the center of Israel is the Kotel…etc), one could also think of this three dimensionally as a kind of upward spiral, and when one makes Aliya (when one immigrates to Israel), one is actually ascending, because the translation is “going up.” And when one goes to the bema to read from the Torah or recite a blessing he/she is does an “Aliya” because though the bema is physically raised, he/she is ascending spiritually when doing this act. Ah, interconnectedness—the high notes, the altar of the Kotel, the bema, is essentially the Holy of Holies. And I got as high as physically possible. It was totally surreal. When I sang the Shema it sounded like angels, like two other divine voices were joining me. I felt the vibration in my head, in my heart, in the space surrounding my entire upper torso, I felt it behind my eyes, deep into the center of my skull. Yoffi!
When I walked the underground passages of the Kotel, I stopped for a period of time at the Holy of Holies. There is no sign, no such pomp and circumstance, no neon arrow pointing to this truly awesome place (and consequently, many who are not “in the know” just walk right past). I stood underground, in a passageway, facing a wall, and on the other side, also underground, under the current mosque that is built on the platform of the ancient Kotel, is the foundation rock, the rock on which Abraham was going to sacrifice Isaac. This is how it works: Israel is the center of the Jewish world, and at the Center of Israel is Jerusalem, and at the Center of Jerusalem is the Kotel (the 2nd Temple which was destroyed in A.D. 70) and at the Center of the Kotel is the Holy of Holies where only one Cohain Priest would enter on Yom Kippur, with a rope tied around his leg so that, G-d forbid if anything were to happen to him, like if he were to combust from the intensity of communing with Hashem, then the other priests could drag him out) and AT THE CENTER OF THE HOLY OF HOLIES IS THE FOUNDATION ROCK. And I sang the Shema to the foundation rock. It’s not like anyone invited me to sing such a thing, I just intuitively decided. Well, first I sang the Ashrei, from a few feet distance (the tunnel is maybe only 6ft wide). Then I had the impulse to directly approach the wall and sing directly into it. I read the first line of the Shema silently. When I sang the second line aloud with my eyes closed, cradling the sedur, my lips inches from the stone wall separating me from the Holy of Holies I experienced something incredible. On certain words, actually on certain syllables, actually on certain unifications of word and melody, there was this other worldly resonance, a reverb, that COULD have been due to the angle of the sedur and the crannies of the rock, but it occurred only on these notes/words which I think is too perfect to be coincidence:
[The capitalized portion is where the incredible reverb occurred]
Shma YisraEL AdonAI EloHAYnu AdonAI Echad.
EL AI HAY
What does it all mean? I’m unsure, I should consult a scholar or Rabbi on this one. In passing, one of the knowledgeable trip organizers mentioned those were all names for G-d. And if you sing the Shema, you’ll notice that whoever composed the melody understood the importance of emphasizing those syllables because they all reach the highest note. Though I explained the importance of the Holy of Holies in terms of concentric circles (at the center of Israel is the Kotel…etc), one could also think of this three dimensionally as a kind of upward spiral, and when one makes Aliya (when one immigrates to Israel), one is actually ascending, because the translation is “going up.” And when one goes to the bema to read from the Torah or recite a blessing he/she is does an “Aliya” because though the bema is physically raised, he/she is ascending spiritually when doing this act. Ah, interconnectedness—the high notes, the altar of the Kotel, the bema, is essentially the Holy of Holies. And I got as high as physically possible. It was totally surreal. When I sang the Shema it sounded like angels, like two other divine voices were joining me. I felt the vibration in my head, in my heart, in the space surrounding my entire upper torso, I felt it behind my eyes, deep into the center of my skull. Yoffi!
Tsfat Poem
Wednesday June 25th
I absolutely love Tsfat. Below, a poem, by me.
Here is
children’s laughter
white washed stone
ruins and staircases and
Roads
to : from
the past
Stairwells
ascending/descending
Here is
a place where
Jacob and the Angels and
his ladder would call home.
Children’s laughter
running down the winding streets
bouncing off
rock made of cloud marble.
“Study the brickwork, study the fortification” of a city
built with
--the eyes of dreamers
--the hands of seekers
--the hearts of pious lovers.
It is me
swirling in the eye
of the Chamsa.
Here I grow wings—
Large ones, made of white clouds and cream marble.
And when I stand on the roof of
the Great Artist’s house,
I know
that I have returned
Home.
I absolutely love Tsfat. Below, a poem, by me.
Here is
children’s laughter
white washed stone
ruins and staircases and
Roads
to : from
the past
Stairwells
ascending/descending
Here is
a place where
Jacob and the Angels and
his ladder would call home.
Children’s laughter
running down the winding streets
bouncing off
rock made of cloud marble.
“Study the brickwork, study the fortification” of a city
built with
--the eyes of dreamers
--the hands of seekers
--the hearts of pious lovers.
It is me
swirling in the eye
of the Chamsa.
Here I grow wings—
Large ones, made of white clouds and cream marble.
And when I stand on the roof of
the Great Artist’s house,
I know
that I have returned
Home.
Background on Tsfat
From the Lonely Planet Travel Guide 2007 edition: “Tsfat was founded sometime in the 2nd century BC as a masu’of (beacon) village—one of a chain of hill-top fire sites stretching to Jerusalem. The beacons were lit to mark the beginning of a new month or holy day…During the 15th and 16th centuries the Jewish community of Safad, or Safat, as it was called, was enlarged by an influx of immigrants fleeing the inquisition and persecution in Spain. Many of the new arrivals were Kabbalists, or mystical truth seekers. The name comes from the Hebraic root kbl, meaning ‘to receive’…In the latter part of the 18th century Tsfat welcomed a further influx of Jewish Hasidism, this time from Russia. From 1951 the former Arab quarter became a flourishing artists’ colony.”
The Sacred and the Profane in Israel
Seeing graffiti in Hebrew on a cement wall is super wild. (See picture!) I associate the language (and the land and the state) with a sublime holiness, so to see the Hebrew letters, in what American and Israeli society would consider a profane context, is really cool.
Plane Musings During the Ten and a Half Hour Flight
Entry 4: Sunday June 21st, 3:30pm EST
PLANE MUSINGS DURING THE TEN AND A HALF HOUR FLIGHT TO ISRAEL
3:30 EST
The plane took off an hour late. Going through security was so insane. It was packed and intense and everyone’s desire to get on the plane was super strong. I got to my gate at 2:15pm and the plane was scheduled to depart at 2:30pm.
3:45pm EST
As soon as the fasten seatbelt sign went off, the aisles were flooded with men sporting peyote (the long ringlets that fall from the base of the temple), and they all were rushing towards me. (I am located fourth row from the back of this 500+ person plane). I thought, “Great, just when I was about to go to the bathroom.”
It turns out that the men weren’t rushing to the back of the plane to use the restroom, but rather were rushing to the back in order to doven (pray). They congregated in what I’ll call the back crossover “corridor,” which connects the two aisles. Instead of facing Jerusalem, which I suppose would be the front of the plane, they faced the emergency exit door—the pack was maybe 30 or so people deep.
As I headed towards the bathroom, a man emerged from the crossover corridor, took a few shuffling steps and then bowed, in my direction and then away, right as I opened the bathroom door. I realized that I , an American 20 something woman, dressed in madras shorts and a denim jacket, was about to use the bathroom, to pee, actually, a foot a way from an orthodox man, dressed in the traditional black and white garb, who was in the middle of reciting the most Holy prayer of all, the Shema. What a culture “clash,” but in the greatest possible way! Our respective cultures intersected, in the clouds, over the Atlantic, between NYC and Jerusalem. As I relieved myself, and I heard the man’s prayer above the plane’s motor, I thought, “We (the man and I) are One, for we are of One source, returning to the source (Eretz Yisrael), each honoring our own, individual yet equally impassioned reasons for journeying to this land of our beginnings.”
When I emerged from the bathroom, though, the poetic aura had evaporated somewhat and I viewed our encounter not as a “clash,” or of an “intersection” but, I guess, but a kind of unsentimental co-existence.
****
Let me share: the aisles are narr-ow!
I wonder: How do these men feel when they have to brush up against women in order to maneuver through these unbelievably narrow aisles? It is clear that the need to get a suitcase from the upper compartment trumps (again and again) the need to honor shomer negiya (the rule that observant men and women do not touch the opposite sex, except for spouse and family). Clearly the necessity of plane travel to Israel overrides these wacky physical negotiations, this reinterpretation of the game “twister.”
***
There is an orthodox man (it may be two men, I can’t tell because due to their dress and my haze of exhaustion, they look identical) who seems to have taken a billion carry-on bags and has put them all in the compartment above me, and this upper compartment is like a clown car for his luggage—more and more bags just keep coming out with no end in sight. To get at his luggage, he is forced to stand up against my aisle seat; his pelvis is the same level as my face, his crotch is the level of my eyes. I remain in profile, eyes straight ahead as he arranges and rearranges and takes down and returns, zipping and unzipping and zipping his numerous bags. It’s all about doing the best you can, and adapting within the given circumstances, I guess.
***
It’s really special to be surrounded by all Jews. I’ve never been in an environment of all Jews, for an extended period of time, in my whole life…definitely my adult life. The 40 Birthright participants who I met during our five hour long wait—all Jews. The gigantic plane, full of Jews! 500 of us aboard! There is a palpable energy to this group that I’m not sure how to describe: Bustling energy. An energy that’s both robust and focused. And for me, there is such a sense of safety. I feel really safe—the safest maybe I’ve ever felt when in an environment that’s new and I know no one.
***
I’m looking at the reflection of my name tag in my personal movie screen—it reminds me of the reflection of the moon in the windows on the streets of the Upper West Side as I sailed into NYC without traffic at 3 in the morning earlier today. It was like the moon was accompanying me on my journey—a playful compass, darting from window to window; guiding the bus, and me, onwards to Israel.
***
9:30pm EST / 4:30am Israel
After eating a 5pm EST Kosher dinner of chicken and rice and warm pita bread and Sabra humus (which after seeing the movie Zohan I view in a totally different way—a bean dip with such versatility! I’ll report back regarding whether Israeli’s do indeed dip chocolate bars into the pureed chickpeas and if they stir it into their coffee.)
So after a plane meal that exceeded my expectations, and after a two hour nap, with my denim jacket wrapped around my head in order to block out light and sound, I remove my denim turban mask and peer out. One of my Birthright compatriots, who I just met hours before, stands over me, chatting to the guys in the row in front. He looks my way and with a smile and a charming French accent says, “Wow, you don’t really look too fresh.” “I don’t feel too fresh,” I reply, and decide after packing for a three month trip, moving all my belongings out of my apartment and into “storage” in my Sharon bedroom, taking a 5 hour bus ride to NYC in the wee hours of the morning, sleeping for a total of 70 minutes at my Aunt’s after a chit chat and cup of tea, getting dressed and heading to the airport for a 9am call when the plane doesn’t leave until 2:30pm, and then waiting and waiting and waiting some more, and then going through check-in, and then security, and then boarding a plane and then sitting for five hours straight, breathing in re-circulated air, I wonder who would be fresh, especially after doing all of my crazy packing and moving and transport in the course of 36 hours, 8:30am Saturday to 8:30pm Sunday. No mint julep here. Just a stiff, disoriented, dry mouthed, slightly stinky skunk cabbage.
So I get up and move.
Which for me, is a form of prayer.
Like dovening, it shifts my energy. It takes me from a small, place to a larger one, from a place of diffusion, to one of cohesion and groundedness. Movement, like prayer, uplifts me, especially on the glorious occasions when I dance and enter into the zone. (When the Hassidim doven they refer to this transcendental experience as “running”). Since movement, for me can be a form of prayer, it isn’t surprising that to recalibrate my Self (physical, emotional, etc.) I gravitate towards the back of the plane, where there was reasonable space, and entered into the crossover “corridor,” which I’ll rename the dovening passageway. This short and narrow hallway, 2ft by 8ft, is where many of the Orthodox men congregated for afternoon prayer. And here I congregate too, a congregation of one, to move and stretch and reconnect. (See pictures!)
Some of my favorite discoveries:
The limitations of the space provides an ideal venue to do laterals, which is a fundamental movement in modern dance typical of the Horton Technique. With arms raised, standing in turned-out second position, one bends or “breaks” at the waist, in one, board-like piece, moving laterally side, until one is parallel to the floor, then one returns to the neutral, upright position. My dance teacher, Micki Taylor-Pinney, would ask us, her dance students, to imagine that we were doing this movement between two plates of glass—and now on El Al, flight number Y0022, I found the perfect tool, the perfect space to enhance and facilitate laterals. As Motel, the bumbling tailor in “Fiddler on the Roof” would say, “The two [laterals and the dovening passageway] are a match made in heaven.” I also discovered how much fun it was to fold up, kind of like a lawn chair, letting the two walls support me. (See picture!)
Amazing how transmutable creative space like that can be—it can house 7 Jews shoulder to shoulder (shuckeling aka rocking) back and forth as they doven in the afternoon, and it can house me as I do my own form of shuckling. The Hassidic men bend at the hips in a forward/backward longitudinal motion. I, too, bend at the hips and “rocked,” but from side to side in a lateral fashion. All this in a 2 x 8ft thoroughfare which in essence connects the two sides: the right aisle of the plane to the left. And what does prayer and movement do but connect this world to another, the individual soul to G-d, the individual Self to community. I wonder how a dance would “read” in a space like this, performed by 2-4 dancers. Perhaps this could open my evening length performance. We begin shuckling in this passageway and it builds into full modern dance, all the while dancing to the prayers of a Mincha service, or maybe it is a Shaharit service, I can’t really tell since time is different when flying across time zones. And it can end with the airplane announcement that we have landed successfully. (See mp3 recording!)
Packing Builds Character
Entry 3: Saturday, June 21st 4:15am
As I’m sorting through my packing items (yes, it’s the early hours of the morning, the morning of the day in which I’m suppose to both move out of my apartment and travel to NYC for my Israel flight), I muster every ounce of discipline and willpower to achieve my goal—keep sight of what’s essential and pack only that which I truly need…so difficult for me, an individual who likes to have EVERYTHING at her disposal, who likes to be prepared for any and all situations. I turn my attention to my business supplies: pens, pencils, index cards, business cards (from Kinkos!), scotch tape, etc. splayed on my desk, and I reach for my standard calendar which I deem as too large to pack for this trip. This is no ordinary calendar, it’s a Taoist calendar—a calendar that my parents gave me for Chanukah, filled with wonderful quotes from Taoist philosophers. My life, though hectic, has been unscheduled these past two weeks, so, curious, I turn to the first section in July to see what is written for this month. The July 1st proverb reads:
“How much does a person lack himself,
who feels the need to have so many things.”
How perfect. ‘Nough said.
****
P.S.: The following I added on July 1st—
I did a fabulous job packing. I have just what I need, nothing more and nothing less. And I can maneuver my luggage with ease. Though I did forget my fish oil pills.
As I’m sorting through my packing items (yes, it’s the early hours of the morning, the morning of the day in which I’m suppose to both move out of my apartment and travel to NYC for my Israel flight), I muster every ounce of discipline and willpower to achieve my goal—keep sight of what’s essential and pack only that which I truly need…so difficult for me, an individual who likes to have EVERYTHING at her disposal, who likes to be prepared for any and all situations. I turn my attention to my business supplies: pens, pencils, index cards, business cards (from Kinkos!), scotch tape, etc. splayed on my desk, and I reach for my standard calendar which I deem as too large to pack for this trip. This is no ordinary calendar, it’s a Taoist calendar—a calendar that my parents gave me for Chanukah, filled with wonderful quotes from Taoist philosophers. My life, though hectic, has been unscheduled these past two weeks, so, curious, I turn to the first section in July to see what is written for this month. The July 1st proverb reads:
“How much does a person lack himself,
who feels the need to have so many things.”
How perfect. ‘Nough said.
****
P.S.: The following I added on July 1st—
I did a fabulous job packing. I have just what I need, nothing more and nothing less. And I can maneuver my luggage with ease. Though I did forget my fish oil pills.
My Date With the Idolator
Entry 2: MY DATE WITH THE IDOLATER (Recorded in writing July 5th)
I met the Indian Prince at the Ryles a few weeks ago during their Friday night salsa dancing. I call him the Indian Prince because of his big, beautiful eyes, lean frame, high cheekbones, full lips, dark, wavy hair. He knew how to dance, and had a penchant for twirling, and when he asked me for my number, I, of course, said yes.
He called me the next day. How lovely to be pursued! And we decided to go out on Monday.
I love getting ready for dates, and I often think of that well known song that Barbara Streisand sings, “Will he like me?” And then I think of that great mantra my mom taught me that flips the quote on its head. Instead of “will he like me?”—which is definitely part of the equation, what it’s really about, or rather, what I’d like to focus on as I put on my mascara is “Will I like him?”
***
I wear a black and red paisley print tailored skirt, which falls short of the knees, with black top, black heels, and a red pocketbook.
He picks me up in a red Honda Civic. I can’t remember the last time I was picked up for a date in a car—I think it was high school and the date’s parents were driving.
I scurry across the street in the dainty way women in heels do and open the door—there on the seat are freshly picked flowers that smell amazing. After lingering on the flowers, my eyes move to him. To my disappointment, he is wearing jeans and a grey t-shirt—freshly shaved though, and still looking handsome.
We drive to a Thai restaurant in Harvard Square (again with Harvard Square!), and suffice it to say, there is absolutely no chemistry. Nada. Zip. Zilch. We are as dynamic as the metal fork and spoon that we’ve abandoned on our plates with the leftover Pad Thai. Ever the conversationalist, I do my part, and to his credit he tries too, though I can barely understand him do to his accent, the terrible acoustics and the boisterous party of ten the table next to us.
Even though there were no sparks, no heat, not even a flint rock and a stick for us to work with, he is still a “touchy” guy.
What I mean by that: As we walk back to his car, he puts his arm around my waist. “Oh, what the hell!” I think, and so I put mine around his. (An aside: I should mention that I went into this date with a certain attitude which is: to “train,” to get additional experience for my Israel trip and to ready the soil for my numerous interactions that I plan on having with sexy Israeli men. I will divulge, this has occurred! With two beautiful men, Saturday night, June 28th on Ben Yehuda street in Jerusalem. My findings: like attracts like, more dating leads to more dating, more positive attention from men leads to additional positive attention. It’s like a man can smell the pheromones of another on a woman, and the woman becomes the object to win, to woo, to court…because she’s in demand! So, in summary, my attitude was such: this date serves many purposes - a fun way to spend an evening, an opportunity to improve dating skills, an appetizer training course to prep for delicious Israeli men, a means to bottle magical pheromones for later use.)
So, as we walked to his Honda Civic, arms around each other’s waist, I notice another couple, so comfortable in each other’s company, not touching but walking side by side. I make eye contact with them both; woman wears ¾ length sleeves and the man wears a yarmulke. It was at that point, with my arm still around the Indian Prince’s waist, that I realize I am so walking in the wrong direction.
The Indian Prince asks where I’d like to go next, and I offer some suggestions: continue in Harvard Square, go to Central, or Boston. And then he suggests “his place.” And when he says “his place,” I’m thinking, like coffee, because it’s a Monday night and a first date, and so, very curious about what his bachelor pad would look like, I say okay. I call a girlfriend, in his company, and tell her where I will be for the rest of the evening.
Why he wants to take me to his place, I have no idea, given the state that it is in. In the kitchen there are dishes in the sink and food on the counter and the rugs near the bathroom are wet because the washing machine pipes flooded the area; and he sleeps in the “living room” but the mattress that is usually there (on the floor) is out on the porch because this particular week in June, we are experiencing an incredible heat wave, and he hasn’t installed the air conditioner, which he informs me, takes only 20 minutes. Inside, it is broiling, and a little smelly—like pasta sauce and mildew-- and the fluorescent lights make my head hurt. On the walls, instead of shelves or paintings, are 4x5 rolls of grey paper with his random thoughts that he records in magic marker scrawl. In the living room, above his “bed,” or rather, where his mattress normally resides, is a grey page that reads in big writing “!I’m so lazy!” As you process all of this, dear reader, keep in mind that this man is 34 years old with a masters degree, a man who knew how to twirl me on the salsa dance floor.
He gives me a grand tour of his place—taking special pride in his weight room, which had 3-4 machines, and a hand written, Excel-inspired daily fitness schedule. Entering the last room, which he calls “the clothes room,” was the kicker. There is a rope extending kitty-corner that holds his drying shirts and pants. And around the room on hangers, not in a closet, but out in the open, on curtain rods, door knobs, and open draw corners, hang his clothes. As I try to take this all in, he says, “This, I call the clothes room…because it is filled with clothes…And this is G-d.”
And this is G-d.
First he introduces me to his clothes.
And then he introduces me to G-d.
My eyes rest on the shrine in front of me—there is the elephant statue I had seen on his cell phone at the salsa club a few days earlier.
“This is G-d?” I respond.
“Yes,” he says simply.
Imagine, entering the clothes room and being introduced to G-d.
Not a G-d.
Not my G-d.
But G-d.
Above the shrine, on the wall, painted in red, is something that makes my stomach spasm: a swastika. Though there is a slight variation in design: four dots in the spacing between the four arms. I am aware, then as now, that the Indian Prince did not paint that symbol with malicious intent, for I recognize that it has ancient, sacred significance within the Hindu religion. Yet I must say, seeing that shape, in red, against the white wall, without prior preparation, is quite a shock.
After a long time of silence, of staring…at the wall, at the shrine, the Indian Prince, cries “Oh! Please don’t be upset, this is not what you think it is…it’s a powerful sign for Hindus and it was also used in other cultures…”
--“Right,” I add. “Like the Native Americans before Hitler took it as a symbol for the Nazi Party.”
--“Right.”
[A Beat]
--Referring to the statue that looks to be part man, part elephant, I ask, “And this statue, this is…
--“G-d.”
--“How can G-d be manifested in an object,” I ask, as thousands of years of monotheistic white blood cells rush through my veins.
--“G-d comes to Earth as a human, you know like Jesus Christ. And a long time ago, G-d came to man as Ganasha.”
--“Who are they?” I ask pointing to the two, smaller statues on the shrine.
--“Vishnu and Shiva. Ganasha created the world. Vishnu preserves it, and Shiva destroys it.
--“So they are all gods?”
--“No, they are G-d.”
[Somewhere, in the far recess of my mind, a voice starts reciting the Shema. Seriously. Even as I speak I hear the Shema quietly playing in my brain.]
--“How is that possible?” I wonder aloud.
--The Indian Prince continues, “All three are G-d.”
--Earnestly, I try to understand: “So is it like three separate people in a room? Or is it like three facets of one individual?”
--“The second one,” he answers.
And though this is something that I can grasp, relating this idea to the Shekhina, the feminine face of G-d, a quality of the totality of G-d, I still don’t think we are on the same page…at all.
This concludes my date and theological session with the Indian Prince. Thank you! And good night!
Would you believe after all this, and when I say all this, please understand my tone: I experienced the event as emotionally jarring, yet also mentally expansive. In any case, you can see by my choice of language, and the fact that we are discussing philosophical ideas, that my focus is completely in my head and not in my body. You can imagine my surprise when, seconds after our theological session concluded, the Indian Prince tries to put the moves on.
Oh man, was the night over! Gabrielle has already left the building…with Ganasha, Lord of new beginnings, on one arm, and Shiva, Lord of destruction and transformation on the other. Or perhaps, Ganasha and I were walking out, embraced in Shiva’s many arms.
So now I’m off to Israel in search for, among many other things, a nice Jewish boy, with a big heart and brilliant mind, and a bright spirit who believes both in himself and in one, eternal, omnipotent G-d. Amen.
-------------
I met the Indian Prince at the Ryles a few weeks ago during their Friday night salsa dancing. I call him the Indian Prince because of his big, beautiful eyes, lean frame, high cheekbones, full lips, dark, wavy hair. He knew how to dance, and had a penchant for twirling, and when he asked me for my number, I, of course, said yes.
He called me the next day. How lovely to be pursued! And we decided to go out on Monday.
I love getting ready for dates, and I often think of that well known song that Barbara Streisand sings, “Will he like me?” And then I think of that great mantra my mom taught me that flips the quote on its head. Instead of “will he like me?”—which is definitely part of the equation, what it’s really about, or rather, what I’d like to focus on as I put on my mascara is “Will I like him?”
***
I wear a black and red paisley print tailored skirt, which falls short of the knees, with black top, black heels, and a red pocketbook.
He picks me up in a red Honda Civic. I can’t remember the last time I was picked up for a date in a car—I think it was high school and the date’s parents were driving.
I scurry across the street in the dainty way women in heels do and open the door—there on the seat are freshly picked flowers that smell amazing. After lingering on the flowers, my eyes move to him. To my disappointment, he is wearing jeans and a grey t-shirt—freshly shaved though, and still looking handsome.
We drive to a Thai restaurant in Harvard Square (again with Harvard Square!), and suffice it to say, there is absolutely no chemistry. Nada. Zip. Zilch. We are as dynamic as the metal fork and spoon that we’ve abandoned on our plates with the leftover Pad Thai. Ever the conversationalist, I do my part, and to his credit he tries too, though I can barely understand him do to his accent, the terrible acoustics and the boisterous party of ten the table next to us.
Even though there were no sparks, no heat, not even a flint rock and a stick for us to work with, he is still a “touchy” guy.
What I mean by that: As we walk back to his car, he puts his arm around my waist. “Oh, what the hell!” I think, and so I put mine around his. (An aside: I should mention that I went into this date with a certain attitude which is: to “train,” to get additional experience for my Israel trip and to ready the soil for my numerous interactions that I plan on having with sexy Israeli men. I will divulge, this has occurred! With two beautiful men, Saturday night, June 28th on Ben Yehuda street in Jerusalem. My findings: like attracts like, more dating leads to more dating, more positive attention from men leads to additional positive attention. It’s like a man can smell the pheromones of another on a woman, and the woman becomes the object to win, to woo, to court…because she’s in demand! So, in summary, my attitude was such: this date serves many purposes - a fun way to spend an evening, an opportunity to improve dating skills, an appetizer training course to prep for delicious Israeli men, a means to bottle magical pheromones for later use.)
So, as we walked to his Honda Civic, arms around each other’s waist, I notice another couple, so comfortable in each other’s company, not touching but walking side by side. I make eye contact with them both; woman wears ¾ length sleeves and the man wears a yarmulke. It was at that point, with my arm still around the Indian Prince’s waist, that I realize I am so walking in the wrong direction.
The Indian Prince asks where I’d like to go next, and I offer some suggestions: continue in Harvard Square, go to Central, or Boston. And then he suggests “his place.” And when he says “his place,” I’m thinking, like coffee, because it’s a Monday night and a first date, and so, very curious about what his bachelor pad would look like, I say okay. I call a girlfriend, in his company, and tell her where I will be for the rest of the evening.
Why he wants to take me to his place, I have no idea, given the state that it is in. In the kitchen there are dishes in the sink and food on the counter and the rugs near the bathroom are wet because the washing machine pipes flooded the area; and he sleeps in the “living room” but the mattress that is usually there (on the floor) is out on the porch because this particular week in June, we are experiencing an incredible heat wave, and he hasn’t installed the air conditioner, which he informs me, takes only 20 minutes. Inside, it is broiling, and a little smelly—like pasta sauce and mildew-- and the fluorescent lights make my head hurt. On the walls, instead of shelves or paintings, are 4x5 rolls of grey paper with his random thoughts that he records in magic marker scrawl. In the living room, above his “bed,” or rather, where his mattress normally resides, is a grey page that reads in big writing “!I’m so lazy!” As you process all of this, dear reader, keep in mind that this man is 34 years old with a masters degree, a man who knew how to twirl me on the salsa dance floor.
He gives me a grand tour of his place—taking special pride in his weight room, which had 3-4 machines, and a hand written, Excel-inspired daily fitness schedule. Entering the last room, which he calls “the clothes room,” was the kicker. There is a rope extending kitty-corner that holds his drying shirts and pants. And around the room on hangers, not in a closet, but out in the open, on curtain rods, door knobs, and open draw corners, hang his clothes. As I try to take this all in, he says, “This, I call the clothes room…because it is filled with clothes…And this is G-d.”
And this is G-d.
First he introduces me to his clothes.
And then he introduces me to G-d.
My eyes rest on the shrine in front of me—there is the elephant statue I had seen on his cell phone at the salsa club a few days earlier.
“This is G-d?” I respond.
“Yes,” he says simply.
Imagine, entering the clothes room and being introduced to G-d.
Not a G-d.
Not my G-d.
But G-d.
Above the shrine, on the wall, painted in red, is something that makes my stomach spasm: a swastika. Though there is a slight variation in design: four dots in the spacing between the four arms. I am aware, then as now, that the Indian Prince did not paint that symbol with malicious intent, for I recognize that it has ancient, sacred significance within the Hindu religion. Yet I must say, seeing that shape, in red, against the white wall, without prior preparation, is quite a shock.
After a long time of silence, of staring…at the wall, at the shrine, the Indian Prince, cries “Oh! Please don’t be upset, this is not what you think it is…it’s a powerful sign for Hindus and it was also used in other cultures…”
--“Right,” I add. “Like the Native Americans before Hitler took it as a symbol for the Nazi Party.”
--“Right.”
[A Beat]
--Referring to the statue that looks to be part man, part elephant, I ask, “And this statue, this is…
--“G-d.”
--“How can G-d be manifested in an object,” I ask, as thousands of years of monotheistic white blood cells rush through my veins.
--“G-d comes to Earth as a human, you know like Jesus Christ. And a long time ago, G-d came to man as Ganasha.”
--“Who are they?” I ask pointing to the two, smaller statues on the shrine.
--“Vishnu and Shiva. Ganasha created the world. Vishnu preserves it, and Shiva destroys it.
--“So they are all gods?”
--“No, they are G-d.”
[Somewhere, in the far recess of my mind, a voice starts reciting the Shema. Seriously. Even as I speak I hear the Shema quietly playing in my brain.]
--“How is that possible?” I wonder aloud.
--The Indian Prince continues, “All three are G-d.”
--Earnestly, I try to understand: “So is it like three separate people in a room? Or is it like three facets of one individual?”
--“The second one,” he answers.
And though this is something that I can grasp, relating this idea to the Shekhina, the feminine face of G-d, a quality of the totality of G-d, I still don’t think we are on the same page…at all.
This concludes my date and theological session with the Indian Prince. Thank you! And good night!
Would you believe after all this, and when I say all this, please understand my tone: I experienced the event as emotionally jarring, yet also mentally expansive. In any case, you can see by my choice of language, and the fact that we are discussing philosophical ideas, that my focus is completely in my head and not in my body. You can imagine my surprise when, seconds after our theological session concluded, the Indian Prince tries to put the moves on.
Oh man, was the night over! Gabrielle has already left the building…with Ganasha, Lord of new beginnings, on one arm, and Shiva, Lord of destruction and transformation on the other. Or perhaps, Ganasha and I were walking out, embraced in Shiva’s many arms.
So now I’m off to Israel in search for, among many other things, a nice Jewish boy, with a big heart and brilliant mind, and a bright spirit who believes both in himself and in one, eternal, omnipotent G-d. Amen.
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