HOLY DAYS PASS, BITTERSWEET TEARS LINGER

HOLY DAYS PASS, BITTERSWEET TEARS LINGER

Open for me the gates of righteousness;

I will enter and give thanks to the Lord.

This is the gate of the Lord,

Through which the righteous may enter.  (Psalm 118)

By nature, I’m not a crier.  That doesn’t mean that I am bereft of deep emotions, or at least I do not think so.  It’s just that my tears, of joy or of sadness, do not flow forth with ease.

Then why did I well up with tears when we chanted those verses in synagogue on the recent festival of Sukkot (Tabernacles)?  As meaningful as the Psalm is, I realize that it was the plaintive melody, even more than the words that tugged at my heart so compellingly.  The particular melody that Rabbi Julie sang, you see, is invested with bittersweet sentiments and memories that transport me back nearly a half-century to San Francisco, the Summer of Love, 1967, and a commune at the edge of Haight-Ashbury called The House of Love and Prayer.

That summer, home from Yeshiva, I was an on-and-off resident of The House of Love and Prayer.  In fact, they ordained me “Assistant Resident Messianic Prophet in Training.”  (For a yuk, check out the abbreviation!) 

The resident guru of the House was one Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach.  At that time there were other gurus in the world of New Age Judaism, but none had the renown of Sholmo.  He composed and sang beautifully exuberant and doleful melodies in hip coffee houses, folk festivals, and the like.  And he regaled his devotees and hangers-on with wonder-tales and parables from the mouths of saintly Chasidic Masters.  (For more, Google him or listen to his melodies on You Tube.)

The first time I heard Shlomo sing his melody for Psalm 118 was on a Saturday night after we bid the Sabbath farewell.  Fifty-or-so of us crowded into the living room of the House, sitting on the floor, singing, clapping, swaying, holding on to each other shoulder-to-shoulder, embracing Shlomo’s songs and stories.

I remember it well.  I recall most being surrounded by a feeling of all-wellness, wrapped in peace, welling up with love.  Vietnam, draft cards, and political intrigue would have to wait.  If only we could envelop the world in such a joyous, healing sensation.  For me, it was a coming of age, truly a Summer of Love.  And today, it is the taproot from which my bittersweet tears flow whenever we chant those holy words to Shlomo’s mystical melody.  I am back in San Francisco, the House, 1967, sweet and innocent times, a wisp of memory, a wistfulness born of yearning.

I cried once more on the holy days.  How ironic to be overwhelmed with tears on the very last day of the season, the day dedicated to rejoicing with the Torah.  I spent the holiday in Atlanta with my kids and grandchildren, worshiping at an orthodox synagogue overflowing with young families.  Men and women, most of them half my age, circled the Torah scrolls, dancing and whirling while they raised their voices in Hebrew songs that celebrated God and His Word.

As the dancing subsided, the little children, at least a hundred of them, crowded the pulpit to receive their special blessing, as is the custom.  They all huddled under a huge prayer shawl and we joyfully pronounced, “May the angel who redeemed me from all evil now bless these children!”  As I watched my grown children dancing and singing, and my grandchildren being led to the pulpit by their parents for their blessing, I could no longer restrain my tears.

Almost half a century has passed since the summer of Shlomo and the House.  What has happened to me, to us, during the intervening years is almost too much to fathom – birth and death, youth and old age, joy and regret, achievement and failure.  And so we shed a tear for what once was and another for the promise of what may yet be.  We take the bitter with the sweet, wonder how life has flown by, yearn for bygone days, marvel at our children having grown to adulthood, as their own children now huddle under the magical prayer shawl to receive their blessing.

How could one not look longingly back and hopefully forward without welling up with tears of the bitter and the sweet?

JUST DON’T CALL ME “SENIOR”!

I know I’m getting on in years . . . You just don’t have to remind me.  Society tells us that we are growing older more graciously.  Yet, those of us who are over 60 are bombarded by the inescapable truth that life is significantly more than half-over, and that now is time to start planning . . . before it is too late.  By 60, the appellation “senior” has become an indelible badge. 

Tell me that youth is a function of attitude.  One’s senior years can, with deference to Browning, be “the last of life for which the first was made.”  Many folks with 20, even 30, years seniority on me live vibrantly, productively.  And God knows the social resources are there to do it.  So call it my problem.  Despite any number of physical infirmities, I am simply not ready to be called a senior yet, not so soon.  My prime seems to have flashed by in a wink, and rather than philosophically acquiesce, I am hanging on for dear life.

The one glitch:  What to do about the ever present, ever welcome, senior discount?

I, like you, am most regularly confronted by my senior-dom in the checkout line.  I do not resist the idea of receiving a “senior discount” at the cash register, but I chafe when the clerk simply assumes that I am a senior and credits my tab accordingly.  Occasionally I will ask if I really look like I’m 60.   The most tactful among them will answer that they are giving me the benefit of the doubt.  The majority of them give you that “nobody’s home” look that has “a-duh” written all over it.

Nope, I won’t forego my five-percent discount.  But, I’d just appreciate a more subtle, discreet way to break it to me that I have crossed the threshold to old age.  How about “maturity discount,” or “hard knocks discount”?

I also won’t balk at taking advantage of the considerable pre-6:00 senior discount at the movies.  Regardless, they still cost way too much.  And what is the subtle message about grouping us with children in the sign about the reduced rate for tickets?  I tell you, when I was a kid, a quarter got you into the Northtown theater for an entire Saturday-afternoon of entertainment – two sci-fi flicks, a Little Rascal’s short, a pair of Roadrunner cartoons, and Mister McGoo!  [OK, OK, so I am showing my age.]

The early-bird discount at restaurants is another peeve.  It announces to the world that those of us over 60 would be best to eat our dinner before nightfall to (1) avoid driving after dark (2) digest our dinner before the onset of bedtime GERD (3) catch Wheel of Fortune at 7:00.

So here I am in the classical ambivalent position, grateful to reap every possible benefit from the so-called “senior” discount, just not carry the baggage that goes along with it.  How would it hurt, as I say, to call it a “maturity” discount, so that cranks like me can split the imaginary hair between being vitally mature and over-the-hill senior.

I probably would not have been moved to write any of this had it not been for a recent episode in the Greenville airport.  I was being transported to the elevator in a wheelchair, having a few weeks earlier fractured four vertebrae, now ready to board our flight.  The scene was sufficiently pathetic, when just to make sure, the desk clerk announced over her walkie-talkie to her downstairs counterpart, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Be ready by the elevator.  I’m sending down an old couple to you!”

Old??  Old?!

I may be a senior.  In someone’s mind I might even be old.  It’s just that I don’t plan to answer to either of them for the foreseeable future. 

So rev up my walker, Honey.  We can still catch the early show.  Better still, let’s head over to Publix.  It’s Wednesday, and we’ll get our . . er . . . maturity discount.  After all, every rule has its exceptions.

A SCHLIMAZAL REGAINS HIS FOOTING

A SCHLIMAZAL REGAINS HIS FOOTING


Good morning, class. Our Yiddish words for today are “schlemiel” and “schlemazal.” The schlemiel and schlemazal are tragedo-comic characters who are perennially down on their luck.

Are the schlemiel and schlemazal synonymous? Ask any Yiddish aficionado, and he will resort to a word-picture to drive home the distinction: The schlemiel is constantly spilling his bowl of hot soup. The schlemazal is the one who is always getting the soup spilled in his lap. Many of us have our own stories to be told. Take this personal example, a cautionary tale of my own, starring me in both roles of schlemiel and schlimazel:

I am taking Minnie the Dog for her morning constitutional on a particular dank and rainy day. I feel particularly virtuous, because Linda usually does the morning run. This morning I play daddy, so Linda can get to a meeting on time.

The steps down to the backyard are made of railroad ties, the kind that get mercilessly slippery in the rain. There had been plans to install railings along the stairway, but as you would expect, the project dropped to the bottom of a lengthy to-do list.

So, I take two steps, and a moment later, I become the prototype schlemazal. My feet fly out from under me, and I land flat on my back, like in a Road Runner cartoon.

You want to know about pain? Oy! Such a schlemazal! Details are irrelevant. After two sets of x-rays and a CAT scan, we determine that I have fractured four vertebrae.

“It could always be worse,” my Uncle Izzy would say. Broken vertebrae aside, it could always be worse. The spine, they reassured me, was stable, so l could resume activities and watchfully wait for two month for another series of x-rays and CAT scans. And new railings have already been installed.

What kind of transcendent lessons can be learned from a schlimazel who slips and breaks his back on the proverbial banana peel? I need not reach too far:

First, be careful! Mother and father usually knew best when they cautioned and re-cautioned us about the perils we might confront when we’re out on our own.

Second, cherish the moment. The scant moment when I was transformed from schlemiel to schlimazel, I did see my life pass before my eyes. For whatever reasons, my first response was to try to wiggle my toes. Upon succeeding, I knew by instinct that everything would be fine.

God looked down on me with undeserved providence. But how many of our brothers and sisters do not share the privilege of cherishing the moment when they knew all would work out? Then think of starvation, of disease, of torture and genocide, and their victims who are belittled into hopelessness. What might we do?

Finally, but foremost: Ordinary people doing ordinary things bring extraordinary gifts. People in the hospital – techs, cleaning staff, transporters, nurses – people who work at their jobs and collect their pay, leave behind a smile, a laugh, a sensitivity, a concern, a wish and a prayer. And, I discovered the same in airports that are notorious for indifference. They now seemed only too quick to accommodate with a wheelchair, and to assist getting over a step, and helping navigate the concourses. Just everyday people who will help bear a load that might be too much for you to maintain.

I know what you’re saying cynically: Sure, that’s the treatment you get when you are a well-dressed guy, gray hair, the other side of sixty, in a wheelchair. To this I have no refutation. But I have intuition. My intuition tells me that, over all, people are getting nicer, and if we push a little harder we might actually foment a revolution for niceness. It’s almost as if we could see the brokenness of a person and be led to basic niceness. Then we would recognize that every one of us carries his/her own bag of sadness, and fear, and insecurities. We all need a gift of compassion, understanding, of basic niceness. And then dare we dream that kindness will explode and rain its beloved fallout over all the earth?

Schlemiel, schlimazel . . . there’s a role for each of us to play. Think about it, train your sights on it, do not despair, be known by your niceness. Most of all, be careful. The path can be slippery, and you might take a fall now and again, but if you are careful, you will make it. What a reward awaits.

THE THREE-INCH CROSS

Ian came home for break, halfway through his first year of college. He had been my student, pensive, serious, inquisitive. His questions were deep, and our discussions were lively. They would often overflow class time and continue at the local IHOP.

What a pleasant surprise, then, that Ian wanted to visit with me during his brief visit home. Looking across the table at him at IHOP, I noticed something peeking out from below the left sleeve of his tee-shirt.

“Did you get a tattoo?” I asked him. At the still-tender age of 18, that in itself was disconcerting . . . and, conditioned by my mother’s pronouncements in my youth . . . very goyische, a Torah violation that many pious people consider with special gravitas, a mutilation of the body and the stuff from which idolatry is spawned.

OK, but it was Ian, serious, pensive Ian, so I conveyed a look of grief and consternation, and was ready for the heavier conversation to ensue.

“At least let me see it,” I requested.

“Er . . . you don’t want to see it.”

“If you don’t want to show it to me, that is all right. But little in this world still shocks me.”

Wrong. He tugged at his sleeve and sheepishly displayed an elaborate three-inch Gothic-style cross. Emblazoned in the middle was the word “Shema” in bold Hebrew letters.

“You’ve got to be kidding!” I hissed out the words. “How could you have done that? Have you renounced Judaism at the tender age of 18? Do you know enough to know what you’re renouncing?”

No, he said. He hadn’t renounced Judaism; he was still proud to be Jewish.

“And do you believe that you have been saved?” I asked him.

“Saved is too strong a word. Let’s just say that I feel more comfortable.”

“Comfortable.” Not too Jewish an aspiration, especially when the prophets and teachers of old maintained that the role of faith was to afflict the comfortable even more than it is to comfort the afflicted.

“Do you go to church?”

“No, it’s all in my heart.”

We sparred a little more, and then I reminded him that a tattoo is indelible, that he will have to go through his life with a graphic symbol of an indiscretion he committed at the tender age of 18. Would teshuvah remain a possibility? How will it feel one day to wrap his tefillin over that garish cross? I reminded him, too, that tattoos on the arms of Holocaust victims were the embodiment of immeasurable tears and grief and suffering.

As Ian departed, I did the “Jewish” thing: self-recrimination. What had I done wrong? What had we collectively done wrong, so as to sustain the oxymoron of Ian’s Jewish pride at the same time as his Christian comfort? The answer might be “nothing.”

Even so, Ian’s story, like too many others, should be a cautionary note as to what we are, and are not, doing to strengthen Jewish ties – Sustain our day schools and religious schools, provide substantive youth activities and Jewish camping through high school and beyond. Foster the vibrancy of community centers, adult education and Israel opportunities. Encourage the outreach work of Chabad and Kollel.

In schules, let Shabbat services enlighten and stimulate the spirit through robust participation. In homes, a real Jewish feel and substance: everyone together for Shabbat dinner, kiddush, motzi, birkat ha-mazon, no bolting from the table, leave the TV off.

Ian did not have many of these opportunities in “little Greenville.” But he could have had more and better than he got. Stories like his should be a wake-up call to strengthen Yiddishkeit, not a denial that “Sometimes things like that just happen.”

Would all things working for the best prevent stories like Ian’s from happening? Not entirely. But, a Judaism that assertively touches the mind, heart, and muscle – in family and community – would minimize the opportunities. For Ian, I will klop an Al Chet for not reaching out sufficiently, for not being a sufficient role model and teacher. It awakens me to give my students more and better. If Ian’s story means anything to you, let it shake you, too, and give you the impetus to cherish each Jewish soul and somehow be the guarantor of its safety.

I'LL GO BALD FOR A GOOD CAUSE

I don't like going bald. In fact, good genes have given me bragging rights to not losing much hair whatsoever. In my sixties, I still have a full head of salt-and-pepper and a full ("too full," Linda would say) beard that is still tinged with the cayenne color of younger days.

So, the choice to voluntarily go bald and beardless is daunting to my vanity. Likewise is the thought of having a head that most closely resembles an oversized honeydew for the four or so months it takes my hair to grow back to fashionable length.

Why, then, tempt fate? The answer is empathy, solidarity. I look at a kid suffering from cancer, and I realize that his or her baldness is not some vain option. It is a price paid in tender years to be spared from a most sinister disease. Dare we even use the word "cured"? With the help of the Almighty and gifted, committed researchers and clinicians, cure is now a daily reality, not an elusive riddle.

I shave my head in unity with those kids for whom a head of hair is a deferred luxury. I shave my head as a conversation piece anytime a person asks a fool such as I why I have made myself look even more foolish. I shave my head because it is precious little I can do to draw complacent people not to avert their eyes, but to look with an open heart upon that suffering little kid.

But, I shave most of all to make money - lots of it. Along with 150+ other Greenvilleans, we will shave ourselves silly, because we find sponsors among benevolent people who know that our baldness is a trigger, a symbol, of deepest compassion for children who have already suffered too much.

We coalesce under the banner of "St. Baldrick's Day," part of an international effort which has raised more than $150 million in the last eleven years, including close to $250,000 right here in the Upstate in the last four. This year we will celebrate St. Baldrick's Day on Sunday, March 18, 1:00-4:00 PM, Downtown next to Larkin's on the River, part of the Peace Center complex. It will truly be a celebration, too. Activities for the kids, shock jocks to keep the party moving, food courtesy of Larkin's. And, of course, six barber chairs to accommodate the 150+ shavees, 15-20% of whom, by the way, are women!

How do you become involved? Become a shavee, of course. Assemble a team. Volunteer. Hold a fundraiser. Sponsor shavees. Don't give until it hurts; give until it feels good! You'll find all the information at www.stbaldricks.org or by calling 864-271-3715.

Shaving my head and beard does a trip on my vanity, I confess. But the price is negligible or less, compared to those precious little kids who lose their hair as the price of their cure. Join me, please, in balding-out for an honorable cause, or generously supporting someone who is.

TEACH US TO NUMBER OUR DAYS . . .

Elsie, Linda's mother, has just died. She had been under hospice care in a nursing home. We knew that the chemo and radiation had lost their efficacy, and that her comfort, "palliation" they call it, was our only priority until death had its way. Her mind had been sharp until the very last, recognizing people, saying "Hi!" and even laughing at an occasional joke. The last days of her life were tragic for the onlookers, but for Elsie they were relatively free of pain, even comforting, surrounded by the ones she loved most.

But, it is not so for everyone in the nursing home. The Alzheimer's unit faces Elsie's corridor. Day after day, the people most severely stricken by the disease are wheeled into the commons area in front of the nurses station. A majority of them stare vacantly into the ether. In a way, they are better off than those who scream or babble or wriggle to get out of their chairs -- still contending with the struggle between wholeness and vacuousness, or so it seems. Every once in a while, a devoted child or spouse comes by to visit a loved one. Most of them speak toward their mom or dad about "normal" everyday things, hoping against hope for a sign of recognition, looking for some awareness in the eyes of their beloved.

A "survivor's disease." That's what they call Alzheimer's. The victim is seemingly impervious, while those nearest and dearest suffer the grief brought about by memories of more vital days -- Dad as Dad. Mom as Mom. This is how we suffered for four years with my father, once upon a time an army colonel, a forensic scientist, a man of letters, relegated to diapers and spoon-feeding by my mother or me. How could a decent man be dealt such injustice?? How could such a devoted wife be put to suffering so much grief?? If any theologian proposes a one-size-fits-all answer to the questions, run in the opposite direction. The ways of God may be inscrutable, but sometimes they are just downright cruel.

Call me narcissistic, but having passed midlife, I do not so much think instinctively of the grief I might suffer at the illness of others. Instead, I have found myself increasingly contemplating how my own possible appointment with Alzheimer's might look. After all, my father and two grandfathers were senile by age 70, just a scant eight years away. I fear my lapses of memory, my inability to find the right word in conversation, the foolish gaffes I commit in doing some trivial task.

I look into their vacant stare and wonder whether that will be my fate a decade from now, their contorted posture in their wheelchairs, their incapacity to recall their children's names, or worse, not even recognize their progeny. I look at them, and I see myself in however many years from now, sapped of my vitality and purported wit, relegated to my own wheelchair and bib at mealtime.

I know what you will tell me: Cherish my days and use them wisely, you would admonish me. Show love and share wisdom before it is too late. Try not to contemplate eventualities over which you have no control. Look positively toward the future. And, of course, you would be right. And, of course, I will do my best. But, none of that diminishes the disquieting feeling that when I behold a person numbed by Alzheimer's, I am looking into a mirror of my own soul.

If there is any escape from that soul-shaking image, it must be in my determination to make today all-meaningful, living honorably, as if there were no more tomorrows to achieve a decent life. So begged the Psalmist, "O Lord, teach us to number our days that we might attain a heart of wisdom." That alone, I am sure, enables us to transcend the fear of senility or of death, itself.